for jemaya
casting or dividing
this truth comes through like a game
a riddle of metaphor and divination
hand's subtlety to soul's desperation
bridged by the look in our eyes
it is a quality of need
finding faith in a subconscious gamble
i will bet you your future you need me
i will bet you your past you will run
cast the coins.
roll the dice.
see who wins.
he is in a tent built so tall
he can only see the stars
when he looks at his door
there is nobody
stillness surrounds him and down
into his mind he buries, more and more
the hexagram comes out with demons and rightness
the sixth line, divided, shows you alone
the runes come out with joy opposing the gift
your mouth curves against your own orbit
if i dealt the cards would you even know me
would you even know
throw all the divinations aside
and show me the first line
undivided like myself
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Monday, September 7, 2009
Old Risa Poetry - Hunger
hunger
(inspired by "i wish i was a little girl," by brighter death now)
laughter comes first. i should have known.
once you've taken the draught of poison,
nothing else could hurt.
reality frees me from the bonds of pain,
but reality is pain. reality sits in my veins
and flays my skin away from the inside
leaving the dried crust of my muscles, moving,
recreating the scenes i lived back then.
no words can strike through anymore.
then comes rage, fiery bodyguard to a wish for
a blade's quick, soul-deep slash, bloodspill
into quiet. if i was blind instead of warned maybe
the words could hit deeper, carve my heart away...
instead the distorted phrases of the pedophile spatter
like blank black on white-painted walls,
screaming words i had to live, way back, child wishing
for death even when i did not die.
only laughter goes on - the unjoyed laughter of
all who know pain while the rest of humanity
goes floating on, unforgiving and unseeing,
and reality sizzles through our nerves,
smoking with the sick smell of sweetness,
akin to the scent of a prostitute's craving for love.
oh, to kill the desire for love. to burn out that craving.
writhing in the last knowledge of desolation. living
within the vast crippling of my life, because life
threw me from the nest without granting me wings.
and i sought this new poison out, this screaming
defilement, sought the trauma that would leave me
uncaring of what happened next, burn away the hunger
and the desire and leave only tatters of human
bound to move on until death.
but laughter comes. this poison is my own.
the wingless flight you gave me is the freedom
to see my past on the tongue of the predator.
that past goes beyond the song, beyond anything
but my own experience of pain, and love, and the evil of god
searing away hope
leaving only the hunger i sought to extinguish, the need,
and once again the tears that belong to you.
-written 1998, edited 2009
this has potential but needs help. feedback welcomed.
(inspired by "i wish i was a little girl," by brighter death now)
laughter comes first. i should have known.
once you've taken the draught of poison,
nothing else could hurt.
reality frees me from the bonds of pain,
but reality is pain. reality sits in my veins
and flays my skin away from the inside
leaving the dried crust of my muscles, moving,
recreating the scenes i lived back then.
no words can strike through anymore.
then comes rage, fiery bodyguard to a wish for
a blade's quick, soul-deep slash, bloodspill
into quiet. if i was blind instead of warned maybe
the words could hit deeper, carve my heart away...
instead the distorted phrases of the pedophile spatter
like blank black on white-painted walls,
screaming words i had to live, way back, child wishing
for death even when i did not die.
only laughter goes on - the unjoyed laughter of
all who know pain while the rest of humanity
goes floating on, unforgiving and unseeing,
and reality sizzles through our nerves,
smoking with the sick smell of sweetness,
akin to the scent of a prostitute's craving for love.
oh, to kill the desire for love. to burn out that craving.
writhing in the last knowledge of desolation. living
within the vast crippling of my life, because life
threw me from the nest without granting me wings.
and i sought this new poison out, this screaming
defilement, sought the trauma that would leave me
uncaring of what happened next, burn away the hunger
and the desire and leave only tatters of human
bound to move on until death.
but laughter comes. this poison is my own.
the wingless flight you gave me is the freedom
to see my past on the tongue of the predator.
that past goes beyond the song, beyond anything
but my own experience of pain, and love, and the evil of god
searing away hope
leaving only the hunger i sought to extinguish, the need,
and once again the tears that belong to you.
-written 1998, edited 2009
this has potential but needs help. feedback welcomed.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Old Poetry - Revolutionary Suicide
1.
death wonders at its own tenacity
looks in the mirror and finds paradox -
the reflection of death
is which face of life
2.
our histories make us real.
time flows into itself -
the past becomes what is now,
no separation of stream
from each moment of shore.
the imaginary line between past and present
urges comparisons, contrasts;
seeks out definitions for
something once considered love
something broken called truth
3.
the lies are the ones that live forever
like fictions of angels who float
for eternity, beloved and uncomplicated
on their bright intangible star
it is the body of honesty
that digs itself from the swamp
with the stumps of its own fingers,
undead and staggering
one kiss unwraps the face of a corpse
buried
but not deep enough
4.
if i cast my blood upon the altar
of someone else's life
which reflection of death
becomes my own
5.
murder is sometimes merciful
and killing your own lies
sometimes a revolution of love
-written 1998
death wonders at its own tenacity
looks in the mirror and finds paradox -
the reflection of death
is which face of life
2.
our histories make us real.
time flows into itself -
the past becomes what is now,
no separation of stream
from each moment of shore.
the imaginary line between past and present
urges comparisons, contrasts;
seeks out definitions for
something once considered love
something broken called truth
3.
the lies are the ones that live forever
like fictions of angels who float
for eternity, beloved and uncomplicated
on their bright intangible star
it is the body of honesty
that digs itself from the swamp
with the stumps of its own fingers,
undead and staggering
one kiss unwraps the face of a corpse
buried
but not deep enough
4.
if i cast my blood upon the altar
of someone else's life
which reflection of death
becomes my own
5.
murder is sometimes merciful
and killing your own lies
sometimes a revolution of love
-written 1998
Only One Side of the Wing
A little less than 4 years ago, November 2005, I stopped journaling in LiveJournal and, while I still read other people's journals and a bunch of RSS feeds over there, I made a decision to only post journal entries as blog posts here.
As a general rule, I think it was a good move. I don't regret it and I won't go back, though I had a few flirtations with hidden journals that I abandoned very quickly. But it means that everyone who reads me only gets the public-consumption view, which is a short way of saying that I ain't tellin' tons of crap that goes on. No one who sees the entries in this journal ever reads anything about the depths of what's going on in my head, and the daily struggles that surround me. Only one side of my wing ever shows. I will sometimes mention issues with Amelia, as everyone can empathize with a sick animal, but sometimes even then I'll have prematurely said "oh all is well" and then something new happens and I won't mention it here.
If one wanted to be simplistic, one could boil this down to language. The reason why I stopped writing on LiveJournal is because it seemed like the vast majority of people weren't getting it, and of those, only a handful even made an effort. It wasn't merely that the recognition of "oh this is a continual thing that you struggle with" wasn't happening (something with which I think most people with long-term physical conditions and addiction struggles have to contend), but the basic definition of what I was going through never sunk in. The words available just weren't enough to explain it.
From another standpoint, however, and one to which I am increasingly leaning, it might be a matter of the places to which people are willing to jump. It requires a certain set of comparable experiences to bridge that gap, and if that doesn't exist, many people don't have the perceptive capacity to follow you there. The best metaphor I have for this state is the perception of the color indigo. It exists; it is its own color in the spectrum, yet most people will see indigo and go "purple!" or "blue!" Unlike the colors orange or green, indigo doesn't have its own universal color identity. Many of the old color wheels don't use the word indigo at all, as evidenced by images of old color diagrams which call it blue-violet. (Tangent: Newton is one of the few who does use the word indigo. However, Newton saw the world vastly differently than his contemporaries, which makes his use of the word not at all surprising.)
So say someone doesn't know that the word "indigo" exists, but they know the color exists. The inability of some people of the present to see indigo as its own color would render this person's attempt to describe the color useless; they would say "no, that's purple" or "I know what you mean; that's blue."
They would be wrong.
No matter what, indigo is its own color.
*
I know I am also prone to labeling people's experience or actions unfairly. This is not something that is reserved for just one type of person. We all have blind spots in varying places in ourselves. However, I tend to notice I'm a lot less likely to jump to conclusions for people who have patently significant differences from me. This is something I don't see this with certain other demographics. (And here I feel compelled to mention that racial differences have a LOT more impact upon how ppl listen and hear than class differences. There's a whole 'nother post about that.) I'm definitely not better than most, but I'm aware of the issue.
The question is, now - how do you make people acknowledge elements of human existence they can never understand, and mostly refuse to? Or do you not bother, and ... leave them behind?
As a general rule, I think it was a good move. I don't regret it and I won't go back, though I had a few flirtations with hidden journals that I abandoned very quickly. But it means that everyone who reads me only gets the public-consumption view, which is a short way of saying that I ain't tellin' tons of crap that goes on. No one who sees the entries in this journal ever reads anything about the depths of what's going on in my head, and the daily struggles that surround me. Only one side of my wing ever shows. I will sometimes mention issues with Amelia, as everyone can empathize with a sick animal, but sometimes even then I'll have prematurely said "oh all is well" and then something new happens and I won't mention it here.
If one wanted to be simplistic, one could boil this down to language. The reason why I stopped writing on LiveJournal is because it seemed like the vast majority of people weren't getting it, and of those, only a handful even made an effort. It wasn't merely that the recognition of "oh this is a continual thing that you struggle with" wasn't happening (something with which I think most people with long-term physical conditions and addiction struggles have to contend), but the basic definition of what I was going through never sunk in. The words available just weren't enough to explain it.
From another standpoint, however, and one to which I am increasingly leaning, it might be a matter of the places to which people are willing to jump. It requires a certain set of comparable experiences to bridge that gap, and if that doesn't exist, many people don't have the perceptive capacity to follow you there. The best metaphor I have for this state is the perception of the color indigo. It exists; it is its own color in the spectrum, yet most people will see indigo and go "purple!" or "blue!" Unlike the colors orange or green, indigo doesn't have its own universal color identity. Many of the old color wheels don't use the word indigo at all, as evidenced by images of old color diagrams which call it blue-violet. (Tangent: Newton is one of the few who does use the word indigo. However, Newton saw the world vastly differently than his contemporaries, which makes his use of the word not at all surprising.)
So say someone doesn't know that the word "indigo" exists, but they know the color exists. The inability of some people of the present to see indigo as its own color would render this person's attempt to describe the color useless; they would say "no, that's purple" or "I know what you mean; that's blue."
They would be wrong.
No matter what, indigo is its own color.
*
I know I am also prone to labeling people's experience or actions unfairly. This is not something that is reserved for just one type of person. We all have blind spots in varying places in ourselves. However, I tend to notice I'm a lot less likely to jump to conclusions for people who have patently significant differences from me. This is something I don't see this with certain other demographics. (And here I feel compelled to mention that racial differences have a LOT more impact upon how ppl listen and hear than class differences. There's a whole 'nother post about that.) I'm definitely not better than most, but I'm aware of the issue.
The question is, now - how do you make people acknowledge elements of human existence they can never understand, and mostly refuse to? Or do you not bother, and ... leave them behind?
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Beyond what is Ever Expected.
Today I was heading from the Columbia campus to my office in midtown, a budding migraine threatening, when it happened.
You never really know what "the worst that could happen" is.
No, really, you don't. And that's a good thing.
If you are sitting here, reading this, I'll bet that 80% of you wouldn't have known what to do with the gentleman I met today.
From one end of the subway car, without seeing his face or body, he sounded like a crack addict. Begging on the subway in a near-incoherent voice, I heard him stumble past one of the poles on the subway car.
And then I saw him.
Oh ye gods of all hells.
I've never seen a burn victim like this one. It looked as though his right eyelid had been sewn to the bridge of his nose, and his left eyelid looked like a mass of white, ridged scar tissue. He was obviously blind, and while his nose was still well-formed and paid tribute to the beautiful man he once was, his mouth had been burned away and grafts had made his mouth a brick-like mockery of what it once was.
He gently spoke to me, when I told him he was facing the wrong door. His voice was lovely. He told me he knew where he was facing, but thanks anyway, and then he greeted me and asked me how I was. I replied in kind, thanking him for the courtesy.
What else could I do? (And to those of you who would suggest it, no, ignoring him wasn't an option.) I wanted to do more, but had nothing else to give.
If this was a fake it was an intensely professional fake of epic proportions. It was the type of fake where someone should be a professional horror makeup person. The burns on his shoulders were enough to make me shiver - his face made me terrified.
Because *this could happen to a human being.*
This man's wounds weren't completely out of the pale. The burn started clearly at his shoulders. This could happen to anyone with a really faulty stove. I felt bad for having nothing to give, yet I heard a pleasure in his voice.
Almost as though being spoken to, addressed like a human, meant more at that moment than any money he could get. Maybe after I left that feeling changed, but having me care about which door he was facing seemed to make an impact.
Such a small, small, small thing.
I am SO grateful he showed me.
I've also been grateful, insanely grateful at offers of help I did not take. 57th st Carnegie Hall yellow line - a place I'd normally discard as higherclass, uncaring. When I was in the depths of my herniated disk, I had 5 people of varying socioeconomic and racial backgrounds offer to help. I recognize it is not the same, but it gives me a different perspective on my response, and to this gentleman's response to me.
No matter what, New Yorkers will end up sharing random pieces of joy with you. Real New Yorkers care in the middle of a commute. Real New Yorkers have volunteered their time, their love, their hope, their dogs, and their inherent love of this place to make life easier for others. They might not see it that way, but this gentleman volunteered for me as much as I volunteered what tiny little piece of self I had for him, at the time.
New York in its many forms will reach for you.
Since I could not give what I wanted to, I dearly hope this man, this poor, burnt man, has as many people or more to reach for him.
You never really know what "the worst that could happen" is.
No, really, you don't. And that's a good thing.
If you are sitting here, reading this, I'll bet that 80% of you wouldn't have known what to do with the gentleman I met today.
From one end of the subway car, without seeing his face or body, he sounded like a crack addict. Begging on the subway in a near-incoherent voice, I heard him stumble past one of the poles on the subway car.
And then I saw him.
Oh ye gods of all hells.
I've never seen a burn victim like this one. It looked as though his right eyelid had been sewn to the bridge of his nose, and his left eyelid looked like a mass of white, ridged scar tissue. He was obviously blind, and while his nose was still well-formed and paid tribute to the beautiful man he once was, his mouth had been burned away and grafts had made his mouth a brick-like mockery of what it once was.
He gently spoke to me, when I told him he was facing the wrong door. His voice was lovely. He told me he knew where he was facing, but thanks anyway, and then he greeted me and asked me how I was. I replied in kind, thanking him for the courtesy.
What else could I do? (And to those of you who would suggest it, no, ignoring him wasn't an option.) I wanted to do more, but had nothing else to give.
If this was a fake it was an intensely professional fake of epic proportions. It was the type of fake where someone should be a professional horror makeup person. The burns on his shoulders were enough to make me shiver - his face made me terrified.
Because *this could happen to a human being.*
This man's wounds weren't completely out of the pale. The burn started clearly at his shoulders. This could happen to anyone with a really faulty stove. I felt bad for having nothing to give, yet I heard a pleasure in his voice.
Almost as though being spoken to, addressed like a human, meant more at that moment than any money he could get. Maybe after I left that feeling changed, but having me care about which door he was facing seemed to make an impact.
Such a small, small, small thing.
I am SO grateful he showed me.
I've also been grateful, insanely grateful at offers of help I did not take. 57th st Carnegie Hall yellow line - a place I'd normally discard as higherclass, uncaring. When I was in the depths of my herniated disk, I had 5 people of varying socioeconomic and racial backgrounds offer to help. I recognize it is not the same, but it gives me a different perspective on my response, and to this gentleman's response to me.
No matter what, New Yorkers will end up sharing random pieces of joy with you. Real New Yorkers care in the middle of a commute. Real New Yorkers have volunteered their time, their love, their hope, their dogs, and their inherent love of this place to make life easier for others. They might not see it that way, but this gentleman volunteered for me as much as I volunteered what tiny little piece of self I had for him, at the time.
New York in its many forms will reach for you.
Since I could not give what I wanted to, I dearly hope this man, this poor, burnt man, has as many people or more to reach for him.
Cruel. Not for everyone. "Ode to a Migraine"
How do I Hate thee? Let me count the ways.
I Hate thee to the depth and breadth and height
My rage can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of seeing and ideal face.
I Hate thee to the level of every day's
Most vengeful need, by sun and fluoro-light.
I Hate thee freely, as men strive to fight.
I Hate thee purely, as they falsely praise.
I Hate thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my unholy faith.
I Hate thee with a Hate I seemed to gain
With my murdered saints. I Hate thee with breath,
Gasps, tears, of all my crying, and, if God claim
I shall but Hate thee better after death.
With many, many apologies to Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
I Hate thee to the depth and breadth and height
My rage can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of seeing and ideal face.
I Hate thee to the level of every day's
Most vengeful need, by sun and fluoro-light.
I Hate thee freely, as men strive to fight.
I Hate thee purely, as they falsely praise.
I Hate thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my unholy faith.
I Hate thee with a Hate I seemed to gain
With my murdered saints. I Hate thee with breath,
Gasps, tears, of all my crying, and, if God claim
I shall but Hate thee better after death.
With many, many apologies to Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
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