Little Bill

i have found what you are like
the rain

               (Who feathers frightened fields
with the superior dust-of-sleep. wields

easily the pale club of the wind
and swirled justly souls of flower strike

the air in utterable coolness

deeds of gren thrilling light
                                    with thinned
newfragile yellows

                           lurch and.press
–in the woods
                        which
                                  stutter
                                           and
                                                 sing
And the coolness of your smile is
stirringofbirds between my arms;but
i should rather than anything
have(almost when hugeness will shut
quietly)almost,
                   your kiss

— e.e. cummings

Everywhere I turn another sign points to unsettlement. One event collapsed dominoes which resulted in the disturbance of my harmony. The Japanese and Chinese call this concept Wa, referring to inner balance and peace.

This disruption has most recently taken form in the concept of "home." My recent visit to my parents revealed that the house where I was raised no longer felt like home. I went seeking a comfort that turned out not to be there. Instead I felt as if I were trespassing upon the new lives my parents have constructed now that their nest is empty.

I don’t know if I can comfortably refer to that town, or house, as home ever again.

Even here, in my larger-than-average New York bedroom, I feel detached; no longer identifying with the possessions which define me. I am no longer pacified by my music, nor by the familiar books on the shelves. Are these all clues which point to something larger on the horizon? Perhaps foreshadowing a new incubation?

The sense of home must come from within. I must feel at one with myself first. Then perhaps I shall find my Wa.

I sit here in silence. The same clock has been ticking; it’s been counting away the seconds for as long as I’ve lived. And though it hangs on a different wall in another room, still it remains a constant. Familiar voices that ring through the rooms are a bit more worn, a bit more weary. Everything here, including our own bodies, are a bit more lived in.

I look around while typing this and my mind comes back to the clock. Its click, click, clicking is both comforting and inspiring. I need one in my own home. Its very purpose is to serve as a reminder to move forward.

Here is where you are, and already it has passed.

Remember the past but do not linger upon it. It cannot be changed. Revsit, recall, recharge. And move on.

New opportunities on the horizon threaten to disrupt my status quo. It is welcome. I need a new challenge. Something to inspire me.

My real muse is life, and the experiences it brings.

And I am richer for it.

There have been times when I’ve needed a second reading to catch an author’s subtext. If a photograph has a word count then our eyes must have been novels. Mine told the same story while yours, well they had a surprise twist ending.

Perhaps this is my punishment. For loving so blindly that I fail to see the obvious and even worse, act upon it. And perhaps we are frauds, you and I. Accusations lobbed back and forth, all of which are justified. Harm may not have been meant but the actions spoke for themselves.

And now here we are. Where there was one thing, only distrust, disdain and dismissal remain. I’m man enough to admit my mistakes. Without penitence how can there be forgiveness? Bridges were built to span distances. They certainly weren’t meant to be burnt.

reach, stretch,
twist and bathe,
back to sleep.

Lately I’ve noticed that I have lost sight of who I am. Life has been a big ball of anxiety and stress, and has reduced me to a pale comparison of the man I know I’ve come to be. Nearly three years ago, in the previous incarnation of this blog, I gave myself a mantra: "I’m going to make New York my bitch."

She’s become more to me than my bitch. She’s become my muse, my lover. My best friend. That trial has ended. Quite a long time ago, in fact.

I think it’s time to rediscover myself. I’ve ceased doing the things that I love in favor of the things I feel I must do. I must strike a balance.

You live life. Life cannot live you.

"No." she said. Plenty of times. It rings in my ear like the incessant buzz my alarm clock made this morning when I didn’t want to wake up. I never want to wake up anymore. Not that dreaming is any better.

I dreamed that I had someone to point a finger at, someone who pulled at my strings. Someone other than me to blame. It was the Devil. Really. And what you could see, in this abstracted gap between two perfect surfaces, was this black muddy sludge that we dug out. It was my corruption, the residue of the effects the Devil had had on me. And with it I could say, "Look! Here is the source of my actions!" I could point a finger at something else.

But I woke up. And there was no one else to blame. Not even my cats were beside me this morning. I was alone.

It’s comforting, I have to admit, to think of the world and those who inhabit it in terms of black and white. To think that there is only right and only wrong and never the twain shall meet. Even this analogy, which desires to embrace the grey area, neglects it. I know there’s no black and white, and she knows it too.

I wronged. She wronged. No one means any harm. It doesn’t mean harm isn’t caused. How do you atone for that? When your actions clearly hurt those you care about? You’ve done it. Everyone’s done it. You tell me. I’ve got nothing. It just goes against my grain for me to walk away.

I am the pot. And I’ve met the kettle plenty of times.

In feudal Japan it was customary to prepare a poem before death. The Death Poem. It was to be a person’s final moment of creativity; the pinnacle of their lives expressed in verse. If there’s one thing to be admired for that culture it would be their drive to find perfection in every action, and in every thought.

One day I hope to find that too, in even one aspect of my life. I hope that aspect will be peace of mind, and the tranquility of my soul.

I may not be a perfect man. But I try. And that’s what counts.

with every breath, life.
stillness invites purity
exhalation, death

Perhaps one day I will write Death Poem worthy of the life I have lived.

Sometimes, with all your bouncing around, making friends, building your army, I wonder if you feel the loss that I feel. They all love you, and well they should. You’re worth loving. That was the first thing I noticed about you.

Everyone around me can see something’s missing. I told my best friend about my weight loss and asked him if I look any different. "You look sad." he replied.

They all try to drag me out of the house, out of bed to get my mind off of you, off of what’s happened. Part of me wants to go, to release you. Part of me thinks it would betray the gravity with which i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

And here is the deepest secret nobody knows: I’m not ready. I’m not ready for this to end. You stole me, and made your dreams mine own. I was sold, through and through. But they would all frown at me, and tell me I’m being stupid. They don’t know the you that I know.

It was short. It was very brief. It was intense. But it was true. It was honest. It was real. And for that short time, you were my companion, even a million miles away. I slept to you, I awoke to you. You slept to me, you awoke to me.

And now I wonder if you feel the loss I feel. Because I’d go through hell and back to have it all again. I just don’t know if you would.

Assignment: don’t hold back. We belong to each other. Be the ocean. I will be the moon.