This isn't just a story, this is the Truth

we are only ever talking about ourselves

me too

of course, this talking
is forever intertwined with some plot
regarding what is going on out-there
but,
contrary to what we tell our audience
what is going on out-there
is really only a small part
of the more major plot
that is really
us
telling the story of ourselves

in an act that would make any illusionist envious
we employ the sleight of hand
that throws the gaze of our audience-of-others
away from
us
onto the world around
us

we distract them
from stories that we rarely tell directly
toward another telling of our stories
one that we feel is safer
and takes the limelight
from
us
....to
.......some
................where
...........................else

we make suitable stories
out of
social theories
and
political theories

we tell stories of
art and history
of
science and math
of
theology and philosophy

we tell dramatic stories
writing our own special histories
of the world
telling versions of happenings
that we sprinkle magic truth-dust over,
rendering them
far more correct
than any other story-on-the-go

and
these stories provide
us
with a paradoxical cloak
where we
simultaneously
hide ourselves
and
reveal ourselves

but,
we are only revealed in disguise
as if we had fooled ourselves
into thinking we were not
the subject
of the story that we tell
in the encounter
between
us and the other

and

this illusion of suspended space
created by this
all-too-human act of trickery
lulls us into
heated debates
loaded with vitriol and violence
and

fooled into thinking
we we were not talking
about ourselves,
we alchemy
our thoughts into opinions
our feelings into stances
our fears into meta-narratives

and we will fight the difference of opinion
as if we were gods
in the world-of-rights
we will rage and seethe
when the other

does not align
does not conform
does not agree
with
us

even more so
when we believe that
we
are defending
others

speaking on behalf
of others

even others who have never
asked
us
to speak for
them

while we sit in our
positions
where we are the god
in the world-of-right
assuming the needs
of others
guessing the desires
of others

blurring the line between
righteous indignation
and
self indulgence

Weighing it up

I used to
measure deeds
by right and wrong

your deeds...my deeds

measure words
by truth or lie
measure experiences
by good or bad
quality, 
or a waste of time

measure people by integrity
or pretense
measure myself
as clean
or dirty
by productivity
or laziness
as managing
or stupid

and by many other measures
that were not forged out
of the shit of this life
but,
were hammered out
of the illusions of heavens
where ideals
thrive in ethereal balloons
buoyed up on immutable illusions
that will never burst

fuck all the measures
that are born in heaven
fuck all the measures
that are born
in unearthly places
in inhumane wombs

for they are not for me
and
they are not for you
lest we curse ourselves
and others
with them

hanging grindstones
round our skinny necks
far too near the ocean
of our own humanity

let curiosity
break apart
our
measures

let curiosity
redeem us
from
our tethers

...and the Greatest of these is Love?

I love the way the golden light

glances of the earth below

when the sun is sinking

to rest elsewhere

and

I love walking in the autumn time

through the crunchy leaves

all rusted and rich

in their transience

but, Love?

I love seeing my breath

like little wisps of mist

on dark wintry nights

lit up under streetlights

and

I love listening to Dinah Washington

as I stroll melancholy through the streets

weighted down with longing

for all things lost and gone

but, Love?

I love watching the birds

flick among the naked branches

stripped by the season's change

oblivious and light

and

I love seeing children play

smiling and giddy

carefree and mischievous

abandoned to pleasure

but, Love?

Love is for junkies

free people can never love

You can never love and be free

for Love is the wax of your foolish wings

Love is nothing but a word

spewed out of drunk mouths

at three in the morning

brimming with big empty feelings


Love is a word for magicians

addicted to illusions

getting lost in smokescreens

trying to make the loneliness disappear

Loss and Loneliness

To forget what it is
to kiss
and
to be kissed

To forget what it is
to hold
and
to be held

we have all been born
and we have
all been left
out here

abandoned
god forsaken
alone

we all know what that feels like
don't we?

to forget what intimacy feels like
looking up at stars in the night sky
in their splendid isolation
weaving connections
that aren't there
except in our
drunken minds

After the Hurting

After the hurting,
after the pain of separation
the realisation of differentness
after the disillusionment
after the end of enchantment

the reality of our
aloneness
alone
isolated
in the world of our feelings

what next

do we build bigger, higher defences
reinforcing security
on our boundaries and borders
on our territories
attempting to guard
against the traumas
against the enemies

do we get more adept at avoiding
and distrusting
refusing to allow
closeness and proximity
in case the other gets
close enough to kill
or wound us

do we find complex ways
of pushing people away
making sure they keep their distance
making sure that those who get in
pledge allegiance to our constitutions
resound their patriotism
to our policies
and principles

or do we keep on loving
knowing that...

if we avoid feeling hurt, we avoid love
if we avoid feeling pain, we avoid life
if we avoid feeling afraid, we avoid abundance
if we avoid feeling angry, we avoid intimacy
if we avoid feeling loss, we avoid truly holding anything

and, I know in the midst of this which will bring me more joy
but, sometimes it seems that we don't allow joy into our lives
either because we feel we don't deserve it
resolute in our need for eternal punishment
or because we are so hooked on the tragic rendition of our lives
that we fear we will fade into obscurity if we choose happiness
or that if we stopped picking these old wounds,
and found resolution and closure
we would lose something far too precious
even when that precious thing is slowly killing us

or maybe we just feign recovery
and fuck the pain away
keeping the past alive
in our behaviours
in our museum of forgetting

Your Love is like a Strangle Hold

I am a little Midas
touching things, and turning them into gold

the curse of one who attaches too much meaning
to the world he lives in
and the people he shares it with

this is not to say
that we ought not care for those around us
but, we are oftentimes investing far more
than we would like to admit
and far more than we ought
in the hidden economies of the heart

under the influence of our desires
we can
reduce the others we love,
down to our idealised visions of them
we relate to them as
trinkets, amulets and charms
rather than as the ordinary people that they are

flesh and blood and neuroses

we dehumanise them by
scripting them into our secret stories

the dynamics of needing
can be visible from the very outset of relationship
and needing strangles the life out of relationship
for no-one needs any specific other person

When we write stories, of how we couldn't survive
without that special someone
we are writing painful stories for ourselves
and stories that are radically disempowering to ourselves
and the more we live out narratives of disempowerment,
the more we drain the emotional reserves
of the others we are in relationship with.

our symptoms are evident in our participations,
evident in the energy of our togetherness

our secret stories are evident in our participation
even if not evident to us
for the last thing we would want to do
is acknowledge the naked emperor of our own making

the story of our participation, is also the story of our withdrawal

want to know why we withdraw,
look at how we participate

want to know the history of the separateness,
look for the energy in the togetherness

Midas Touch

He wanted things to be so valuable to him, for life to be abounding in meaning. He either hated people, or loved them, and ignored everyone in between. Life was a goldmine. Well, that was, until he received the gift, that whatever he touched would be turned to gold.

Meaning quickly went out the window, for he realised, that the value he had put on things, had far exceeded what had already been there. He touched things he liked, and they became gold. He touched things he loved, and they became gold. When things turned to gold...they died. There could be no life in things of gold. They could just be trinkets; lifeless trinkets, and amulets...but nothing of worth. Well, worth, that is a whole conundrum, and meaning; well, that is can of worms one ought not open.

Anything that had value to Midas, he had to let go off. He had to surrender the very things he viewed as most worthy, because, as soon as he ascribed it more meaning than it ought to have had, if became golden. It became dead and lifeless. The more it meant to him, the more likely it was that this thing or person, would be become dead to him.

And so, he learnt to love the ordinary things in this life, with out clinging to them. Without ascribing them too much meaning, lest they become gold. He learnt to touch gently, in a way that kept the other alive and animate.

He redeemed flesh, and blood, and let go of value and meaning, or at least allowed them to become rich and ordinary.

But, how did he keep his friends, when they meant so much to him? How did he keep lovers, when they meant so much to him? How did he live with other people, when they meant so much to him?

He had to learn to navigate this world, loving, but not clinging....finding value, but not attaching too heavily. Touching lightly. Light enough, to avoid the Midas Curse.

Thrown-ness

Thrown into the world
but
not quite thrown
forced into the world:
from safety into chaos

into a world of separateness
of others
separate-others
a world,
terrifying with possibilities,
of possible outcomes

and most of them
radically beyond our control

we feel vulnerable
at the mercy of the world
and yet, in many ways,
we long to be at the mercy again
but, the mercy of that
dark tranquil sea
where
we are radically dependent
but looked after
where everything is looked after
where we are held

and as we tentatively grow
we find temporary places
like
refuge shelters
safer places
to evoke the memory
of that once-sacred union
so intensely together

that time when there was no separateness
the time of radical dependence
when we were powerless,
but we were looked after
by a raw chemistry

a nature that knew our needs
and responded instantly
like a benevolent God
who answered prayers
before they were even known
in the heart of the believer

places of focus
places of concentration
places of fixation
places of fascination
places of forgetfulness
places of letting go

to offset the terror of this harsh world
a world too harsh for the likes of me and you

we learnt to dream
of magic wands
and
fantasies of control
of moving things, changing things
rearranging things, altering things
making things different
than they are
different
than they were

and as we grow,
we can find ourselves longing to have control over
other people in our worlds
desiring
to change feelings, to make things better
longing to have more control
to know what we cannot know
to be where we cannot be
to do what we cannot do

because this life is far too harsh
far too harsh
for the likes of you and me

Master of this Ship

The child within is at the helm of this ship

charting a course toward its own satisfaction

this is why I am not master of my own ship

for the I is the created ego

the creation, the facade,

the presentation, the public face.

There are much more primary things

hidden things

that go on under the presentation

that go on under the mask of civilisation

and sociability

there is a hidden economy

we will meet our needs

any which way but lose

The child at the helm, is not vulnerable

not like we make out

the child is not innocent

innocence is a nostalgic projection made by

the adulterated children, we call adults

we were never innocent

we are need-meeters

and play whatever role we can to do this

we always did

we are highly skilled at it

we just like to kid ourselves into thinking otherwise

we have always tried to meet our needs

even at the expense of others

even in the womb we were doing this

and nothing much has changed

and we hate it when the world

does not dance around our needs and desires,

like a servant to our whims.

We desire reciprocity

We want people to want what we want, when we want it, and how we want it

The reciprocation of desire

the desire for synchronicity

the longing for the world to dance with us

but, often it feels like the world is sitting out the dance

when you desire something, and reality isn't obliging,

we can feel dejected, as the myth crumbles

reality stands in the way

life is a competition of needs

relationships are a competition of needs

we just play the game

of plausible deniability

denying how involved we are

in playing roles

playing innocent

but, we were never innocent...and that is ok

we were never innocent,

and that does not make us worse human beings

we were always foraging around in the world around us, 

trying to get our needs met

even as children, we were very clever, 

and learnt to manipulate people and circumstances

it is just that somewhere along the journey, 

we forgot that we were doing it

we became blind-spotted to it.

but, it is ok...it is nothing to be ashamed of

it is ok to meet your needs...it is ok to do what you need to do

even if that pisses off other people

even if you meeting your needs triggers difficult feelings in others.

it is ok to do what you need to do.

the trick is, knowing what it is we need to do

that is the greater conundrum by far

The Strength to Fall Apart

when all things seem stacked against you
when the world seems to have a vendetta against you
and is not letting up
when it all mounts up
and you cannot bear it anymore

may you find the strength to fall apart

when obligations are weighing heavy on you
when you feel like you cannot do anything more to please
and you can't take it anymore
can't bear the expectations
and the disappointments

may you find the strength to give up

and I will be there with you

fallen apart
and
given up

for sometimes what we need to do is let go

Economy of Feelings

Happiness: what a fucking conundrum. 

You would think that happiness should just come by virtue of being a human being. I don't even know where the idea of happiness came from, or the idea that we ought to be happy. It is only one of a myriad of feelings that we get to experience in our lives. In the midst of different feelings, there are of course some that we prefer more than others.

For the most part, we lean toward the more preferable feelings, which are often the more pleasant feelings. We, for the most part, avoid difficult feelings, feelings that cause discomfort. I think this creates some tension in us. For some this is a minimal tension, for others it is an intense conflict. 

I find it interesting, however, when we talk about feelings as being better than others; putting value judgements on feelings. Raising up the value of happiness, and invalidating other feelings altogether. There is an intimate language-feeling relationship that we learn to employ. We glue particular behaviours and feelings together with our words. Words are therefore vital; these words we use to describe ourselves and our experiences. 

I wonder, if we valued all of our feelings equally, what our lives would look like

For those with Hearing Difficulties

I believe that we rarely truly listen to eachother
I believe that listening is an essential part of a healthy relationship
Yet, if we rarely do it, then I wonder what impact it has on our valued relationships

I think that most people, when they are "talking to eachother",
are simply encountering eachother, and bouncing off eachother
in a messy exchange,
of linguistic habits
that, at best, meets our need for connectedness,
in a very basic way;
regardless of what was said;
regardless of what was communicated.

However,
in times when our needs are more acute,
when there are things that are important to us
or things that we are anxious about
we might want something a little more
than just spending time with someone
we might actually want someone to listen to us
someone to lean their ear toward us

there are not many who are good at this

many of us hear trigger-words
at which point we interject
unable to surrender our own narcissism
unable to let the other speak
still longing to hear our own echo in the other
to hear our own view of the world coming out of their mouths

my best guess is this:
that we are too quick to give
our answers to their problems
to give our understandings
to their situations
to prescribe our advice
rather than listen fully to them

my best guess is this:
that we have blindspots to how poor we are
at listening to the valued-others in our lives
whether they are
our friends,
our children,
our parents, or
our partners.

when we see others struggling;
with their own feelings
or
with indecision,
we all-too-often jump in with
parenting words...caring words...advising words...loving words

words

not listening

words

filling in the blank,
plastering over the discomfort
avoiding the silence of struggling

too quick to speak...slow to listen
not still enough to listen
brimming over with nervous words
eager to parent
to reassure ourselves
reassured that we are
helping; doing good; caring; being loving
assuming that if we don't say anything
we will cease to be those things
as if to be silent were to be heartless

we rarely allow the other the dignity of their own feelings
we just use it as an opportunity to reveal our own discomfort with difficult feelings
or to share the mantras that we use to parent ourselves

I am fascinated by how parents respond to their children's difficult feelings
I see attempts to change the feeling of the child
[of course not if they are playing out happy feelings]
as if it were not a good thing to be crying
not a good thing to be sad.
I think that this is common
and I think that it has bred in us an allergy to difficult feelings,
and that instead of listening to what is going on with the other;
letting them feel what they feel,
we jump in hastily with answers
and solutions
and remedies
and advice
and happiness
and anything, other than just being there

just being there

listening

a companion rather than a parent

I wish you could have stayed forever

nothing lasts
god knows
nothing lasts

not even god lasted

not even love lasted

not even beauty lasted

not even the ecstasy lasted

not even the drunken haze lasted

not even the dream lasted

nothing lasts
god knows
nothing lasts

not even your smile

not the warm feeling in my stomach

not the butterflies that came when I saw you

not the feeling of your hand in mine, my hand in yours

not even the memories of our feet kicking through autumn leaves

not even the taste of your kisses on those wintry nights
when we could see eachother's breath, until our lips met
then parted

not a thing
no
not a thing

not a hatred

not a jealousy

not a lie

not a betrayal

not a grief

not a pain

not a thing
not a feeling
not a thought

nothing

nothing lasts

everything passes

and yet
we cling on tight as fuck
in case we lose it
lose something

but, we lose everything - don't we?

Messiah Complex

He sat on that hillside.
It was a hillside that overlooked the city.
He could see the lights glimmering
through the darkness

The lights were
static
only moving
with each shuddered movement
of his eyes
of his body

the city lights trembled
as he cried
as he wept
for it
for the city

they were
arrogant tears
tears born out of a sense
of having more than them
having more
knowing more
as if, in him
were all abundance
as if he knew
what the fuck he was doing
and
where the fuck he was going

arrogant tears
that dare to care

arrogant tears
that dare to say
I do this because
I love you

As if he had something to give
that they didn't already have

tears for them
as if he could save them
as if he knew how to save himself

and, as these thoughts dawned on him
with the dawn
he packed up his meagre belongings
and thought about
the tears he cried
and he cried
for himself
and for his
own
feelings of
lostness
and his own longing
for direction and salvation.

Prayers from No-man's Land

The idea that another person
can be a medicine for
feeling alone
is merely
a quick-fix fantasy
born out the hunger

to be somewhere other
than here
someone other
than me
to have something other
than what I have got

plastering over the cracks
in who we are

chronic hunger
for an intimacy;
the keys to which
are secreted
in the deep folds
and recesses
of our
esoteric private histories
and not even
love or
companionship
will find them

I am alone
I am a stranger
to myself

I will remain alone
as long as I remain a stranger
to myself

Time for Mutiny

I am out at sea

I am on a voyage

I did not choose to go on this voyage

Someone else chose for me

I don't have a memory of how I got here. I awoke onboard.
when I came round, I just watched and learned
and adapted, and conformed
I got along with ship-life .
I did what the others did.
I slipped myself into the hierarchy of power onboard this ship

But, when seas became rough, and the waves seemed bigger than the ship
I began to question why I was here
I no longer trusted the system
I no longer trusted the captain

Should I jump ship?
Should I instigate a mutiny?
Should I kill the captain?

Of course, some are made to walk the plank before they get a chance to do any of these. Left to fend for themselves.

So much of who we are, was formed in times when we had no understanding, no words, only rudimentary cognition. We were born into the gravity of family [or other institutions]. So much of our character and personality is an effect of our upbringing: a response to the dynamics of living with parents, siblings. Even when we are not with them, we are playing out the rudimentary dramas of relationship, that were scripted before we even learnt to think for ourselves.

I am on this ship. I cannot swim. I do not like how the ship was made, nor the country from which it set sail. I do not like the flag it flies under, nor the crest emblazoned on its sails. I detest the rule of the captain.

Our very existence is an act of disempowerment. We never chose to be alive. Someone else chose these things for us.

How much of who we are is beyond our control? How much of our personality, and our repertoire of emotional habits that we play out compulsively, are merely products of, and responses to, our parent's relational dynamics? To be honest, I don't know if there is anything in me that isn't. If this is true, then what does freedom look like, if not like a mirage in a desert?

Footprints in the Sand

There is a difference between finding footprints in the sand, and saying, there is an invisible man walking about...than finding footprints in the sand, and saying, I imagine someone was walking here before me. The difference between a person interpreting a stranger's laughter, as being laughed at, as opposed to seeing it as an unrelated shared joke. There are nuanced differences in the million ways we can say things, in the million ways we could interpret things, in the million statements we could make. What is interesting then, is which ones we choose, and which ones we don't.

Our experience of events and encounters, is heavily laced with our own history, of the perception of our experiences. I say, perception of our experiences, as opposed to what we would more readily refer to as experiences, because I believe how we join the dots of our existence, deeply edits our reading of our experience. 

In other words, we already have a script that we are squeezing our experiences into. We will do this consistently and determinedly, even when the script becomes entirely inadequate. So, when people say I saw it with my own eyes, or something to that effect, I am not utterly convinced by what is said, though I won't entirely dismiss it; but I wonder instead what the script was. The script that the seen was being filtered through.

What is the risk in admitting, that the way we see the world, is just that. To speak about the way we see the world, or the way we feel the world; as opposed to, attempting to speak about the way the world is. We are hooked to the is-ness, to wanting to makes statements about reality like compulsive hecklers, with a case of ontological tourettes. We would rather this than be left alone in our worlds of feeling, and having to work those out, and having to make decisions about what we do with them. 
 

This becomes a dialogue about what is going on inside our heads, and why we are behaving in particular ways when we could be behaving in another; or why we are interpreting in a particular way and not in another. 

We are all interpreting, and once we have owned up to that, we can begin the journey of finding out how much of that interpretation is based on fantasy, wishes and fears. How much of what we say is just ontological tourettes, that says everything about our compulsion to make statements about external reality, and maybe not much more than that.

At what point do we try to reinforce the scripts we have already written? Do we glue those understandings together, in order to protect our own penmanship? Do we find communities of people, where our understandings can be maintained, and remain unquestioned? Do we keep ourselves separate from the encounters that might threaten our original account, our understanding of reality, our understanding of who we are?

Safe and Unsated in Limbo

I am sometimes find myself
in the limbo
between the Eden
of self-acceptance
and the longing
for a heaven
where dreams are fulfilled.

held here
in a stasis of longings
and
maybe if I let go
the gravity of indecision
would land me
firmly in one or the other
and in entry
into its atmosphere
my awareness
of the other world's existence
would burn up
just the way
endless possibilities
burn up in the air of the real.

In the Shadow of Men

you can try all you can
to squeeze into
the gaze
of her interestedness
to leave
the shadows
cast
by
the walls that keep her safe,
to be seen

found in the light.

and if you do
there may be tears
and an old look in her
temporarily unglazed eyes
as if she were
remembering
nostalgically
her buried desires
for a life
that she could claim as her own

not puppeted by the men
in whose shadow
she often found herself
lost
and
obsolete
and
unheard

The Happy-police

watch out
for the happy-police
they'll try to animate you
taser you into feeling
as if they were
terrorised
by your depression
unsettled
by your separateness.

the happy-police
don't want to lock you up
they want to set you free
into that candy-floss prison
of happier endings
and
enchanted beginnings.

romantically
edited
memories.

accounts that sound more
like fairytales
than anything
that resembles
this.