Today I am grateful that:
I have the opportunity to help in a way that others can't.
I have the choice to say No or I can't do that.
I have the day off tomorrow, to more or less do as I wish.
I have a place to work, then I have another place to work.
My teacher application is 'pending review'.
I have the ability to change my mind and open myself to alternative ideas.
I have someone in life that hugs me and let's me hug her.
My car started today. A house? You have a place to live?
I want to pray. I want to see as many parts of myself that can be useful.
I have a family that loves me, I have friends who care.
My hands are warm most of the time. My hands show the evidence of the life I've lived.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Everyone seems to have their own spin on Obama. He is now the 44th President of the United States and in good health. Didn't need the bulletproof glass and so far as we've heard Trav Bickle didn't show up with sunglasses and a mohawk to the inauguration. High hopes. Everyone seems to have high hopes great expectations. I should be hopeful too. And am. I believe this is a great man we have in our midst. More than just a politician but a great man. So help him God. WE say again and again. So help him God. Tonight he gets to glitz and glam above all the bright lights that shine his way but a tenacious task ahead of him. He admits it. He points to the probabilities of all that lies ahead. Time to deliver on the promise of change.
I was sitting at my phone job desk, hooked into the system when he was swon in to office. I saw quite clearly as he repeated the oath word for word. I was chewing over my own uncertainties, my own shortcomings and there was a man who had stepped into a place of greatness, an inspiration to all Americans that anything is possible. Anything is possible. So it's no coincidence that as I sat on my couch in my apartment, getting tired and thinking about sleep, that instead of watching more nightly news and other crap, I thought of all the innovators, people of change, who instead of doing what they always do so easily, I got off the couch and came back to this laptop and decided to write a little... out of the need to write. The freedom that it brings the soul to just think about what's really going on right now. What's going on right now is quite good. Options are still open status. I'm working my second job tomorrow, an orientation, but for which I get paid. I remember it being pretty much a snow job but that's okay. It's my second job on top of the one that I have lined up for overtime. My girlfriend made me good soup for dinner and expected very little in return. Just to cuddle a little while before we went to bed. I still have this roof over my head and I got a number from a guy at my Tuesday night group. A guy that I gthink wants to keep his head straight like mine.
Shawn talked about anger in a way that made me almost cry it was so close to my own story. One of the things he talked about was putting pen on the paper and talking things out with a friend, weighing the pros and cons of his situation and the importance of just trying to be nice. Just trying to be pleasant. I almsot lost that chance once because I was too tied up in my head to know that you could just be quiet, serene at the dinner table. Nothing had to mean anything. It just was what it was. Dinner. Eating. Unwinding fom the day. And my day needed unwinding for some reason. About 2:30 I realized how tense I was. Haven't really equated anything with not smoking at all for three days. I've had one bad day of it in about nine days. I always make sure to set the clock to zero if I have more than a few. You have to. You have to be rigorously honest about that very thing. Shawn stopped for a while I think, and so far as I know keeps going. But the emotions keep going with you and before you know it you're either not getting what you think you deserve or losing something you already have and don't want to. Then, suddenly, it's an outrage. Someone has made a major mistake and they should pay for what they've done. But did anyone have to die over what was done or what happened? Usually not. Usually it's nothing more than a minor infraction.
What would Obama do? There's a guy who can get downright fiery without completely losing his cool. He's a wonder to watch because he can't swear. He has to be a powerful rhetorician without getting terribly emotional. He just knows when to lay down the gavel and when to palm it in his hand, like Morgan Freeman in Lean On me. Forget that I just compared him to Morgan Freeman. Anyway, I think there is an importance to putting stuff down on paper as much as possible. To get it out of the cranial echo chamber. The echo chamber. It is late. Sometimes tthe answer is sit. Lie still. Sleep on it-- save the rest of what;s lingering for another day.
I was sitting at my phone job desk, hooked into the system when he was swon in to office. I saw quite clearly as he repeated the oath word for word. I was chewing over my own uncertainties, my own shortcomings and there was a man who had stepped into a place of greatness, an inspiration to all Americans that anything is possible. Anything is possible. So it's no coincidence that as I sat on my couch in my apartment, getting tired and thinking about sleep, that instead of watching more nightly news and other crap, I thought of all the innovators, people of change, who instead of doing what they always do so easily, I got off the couch and came back to this laptop and decided to write a little... out of the need to write. The freedom that it brings the soul to just think about what's really going on right now. What's going on right now is quite good. Options are still open status. I'm working my second job tomorrow, an orientation, but for which I get paid. I remember it being pretty much a snow job but that's okay. It's my second job on top of the one that I have lined up for overtime. My girlfriend made me good soup for dinner and expected very little in return. Just to cuddle a little while before we went to bed. I still have this roof over my head and I got a number from a guy at my Tuesday night group. A guy that I gthink wants to keep his head straight like mine.
Shawn talked about anger in a way that made me almost cry it was so close to my own story. One of the things he talked about was putting pen on the paper and talking things out with a friend, weighing the pros and cons of his situation and the importance of just trying to be nice. Just trying to be pleasant. I almsot lost that chance once because I was too tied up in my head to know that you could just be quiet, serene at the dinner table. Nothing had to mean anything. It just was what it was. Dinner. Eating. Unwinding fom the day. And my day needed unwinding for some reason. About 2:30 I realized how tense I was. Haven't really equated anything with not smoking at all for three days. I've had one bad day of it in about nine days. I always make sure to set the clock to zero if I have more than a few. You have to. You have to be rigorously honest about that very thing. Shawn stopped for a while I think, and so far as I know keeps going. But the emotions keep going with you and before you know it you're either not getting what you think you deserve or losing something you already have and don't want to. Then, suddenly, it's an outrage. Someone has made a major mistake and they should pay for what they've done. But did anyone have to die over what was done or what happened? Usually not. Usually it's nothing more than a minor infraction.
What would Obama do? There's a guy who can get downright fiery without completely losing his cool. He's a wonder to watch because he can't swear. He has to be a powerful rhetorician without getting terribly emotional. He just knows when to lay down the gavel and when to palm it in his hand, like Morgan Freeman in Lean On me. Forget that I just compared him to Morgan Freeman. Anyway, I think there is an importance to putting stuff down on paper as much as possible. To get it out of the cranial echo chamber. The echo chamber. It is late. Sometimes tthe answer is sit. Lie still. Sleep on it-- save the rest of what;s lingering for another day.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
He smelled like an old car. American. A Mercury Grand Marquis.
Or perhaps a Plymouth Valiant. I have ridden in both in more
desparate times. I am ashamed to admit that this is true.
I sometimes wonder if it is the truth to this date.
But this is not about me. I need to my own truths by saying anything.
He smelled like an old American car, once owned by a smoker,
someone who drove often, long distances. The upholstery
ground out by strange passengers, self-doubt, complacency.
The windows would seem to have never been opened,
the anger, self-depracation, held in, the years alone scarring the interior.
Friday, January 09, 2009
I dedicate this to the one who made me leave
one morning because she needed her juice.
I must have needed her warmth that badly,
but walking back, I began hating her the most,
the only one I can remember. May she live as she decides, though she’ll leave trails
of lust and possibility if she decides.
OK, Mother, I’ll say it so they’ll know:I did not have to freeze that winter.
Sickness did not have to enter those rooms.
-From "freezing" , Langan
Before you begin again, remember your last words to me
How light they were, spoken in weakness,
how they played the odds, how they always played the odds,
John said, the word was in the beginning, take it or leave it.
Off and on, for the rest of eternity. Pass the buck, though
we may like to do so, the word is still there, patient,
but immovable, even more so than an obelisk, statues,
thunderclouds, a seated devotee.
The last words spoken before the thunder,
which merely clapped like the judgement of reception
into heaven or hell, the champagne light or the wine, wicked.
I knew what was said, in that time, I wasn't dumb or deaf,
but the proof was stacked against me, you.
X would not be defined any other way than how the calculists
have always determined that X could be defined.
No regrets, no regrets, just a hope to be good again.
How light they were, spoken in weakness,
how they played the odds, how they always played the odds,
John said, the word was in the beginning, take it or leave it.
Off and on, for the rest of eternity. Pass the buck, though
we may like to do so, the word is still there, patient,
but immovable, even more so than an obelisk, statues,
thunderclouds, a seated devotee.
The last words spoken before the thunder,
which merely clapped like the judgement of reception
into heaven or hell, the champagne light or the wine, wicked.
I knew what was said, in that time, I wasn't dumb or deaf,
but the proof was stacked against me, you.
X would not be defined any other way than how the calculists
have always determined that X could be defined.
No regrets, no regrets, just a hope to be good again.
Tuesday, January 06, 2009
My friend offered me wisdom about discipline
But I only half-heard
the way people---like me---do,
when we are distracted from the focus,
we are interested in so many other things aside
from the threat of the focus.
The color of our oxfords, the speed of our cars,
the weather, the financial report, robbery,
forging documents, the dog's hair, adultery,
picnics, lightning.
Discipline was the key to reopened doors , he said,
discipline was a portal to the cold glass of hope,
discipline was keeping the spine stacked one bone
upon the next corresponding bone.
discipline was steadying muscle, nerve & breath:
it is not parading with fire,
it is making a narrow entrance, unnanounced salvation.
For discipline to work, all that is necessary is:
assume the position. Fold hands.
Smile inwardly and wait for the image of something
to enter your heart and smile back.
There should be no gala, only contained celebration.
But I only half-heard
the way people---like me---do,
when we are distracted from the focus,
we are interested in so many other things aside
from the threat of the focus.
The color of our oxfords, the speed of our cars,
the weather, the financial report, robbery,
forging documents, the dog's hair, adultery,
picnics, lightning.
Discipline was the key to reopened doors , he said,
discipline was a portal to the cold glass of hope,
discipline was keeping the spine stacked one bone
upon the next corresponding bone.
discipline was steadying muscle, nerve & breath:
it is not parading with fire,
it is making a narrow entrance, unnanounced salvation.
For discipline to work, all that is necessary is:
assume the position. Fold hands.
Smile inwardly and wait for the image of something
to enter your heart and smile back.
There should be no gala, only contained celebration.
A quite conversation in the alley behind the building.
Because sometimes, upon further inspection,
disciplined work does not pass the eye of the judges.
Where does self-punishment fall within the gambit?
Other than consequences for poor choices,
waking up in the rain, underneath a capsized tent,
or the one thousand mornings I had to look at
myself over in the mirror, and wonder who looked back
Or is it more: shouting at the seagulls again,
their irreverence at our gravity, our being land-locked.
Because sometimes, upon further inspection,
disciplined work does not pass the eye of the judges.
Where does self-punishment fall within the gambit?
Other than consequences for poor choices,
waking up in the rain, underneath a capsized tent,
or the one thousand mornings I had to look at
myself over in the mirror, and wonder who looked back
Or is it more: shouting at the seagulls again,
their irreverence at our gravity, our being land-locked.
The questions come, they warm, they soothe, they adhere.
But they also bond to the many spirits which gather:
such as wormwood, Aziel, the bunch whom Milton met,
Mammon, Baal, hanging around the door waiting for your exit.
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