They say it's hatred
of yourself but
it feels like love
of emptiness
I don't get depressed 
compared to 
the old days,
younger foolish days,
drinking days
waking up in hell days
I have no reason to
I have friends now
Love, sobriety, better habits, so
I have no reason to
The person who calls himself
by my name
has no reason to
after all 
he has a story out soon
I have people who know
many sides of me
My friends & people 
who are sleeping now
It's probably only
existential, hour 
of the wolf stuff
I'm calm, in my bathrobe,
looking for a sliver  
of light in the block 
of black ice continents 
& centuries thick
Out the window white 
dots in the block,
stars & planes
satellite maybe
brand new or burned out
move across the sky,
far ones slow,
near ones faster,
somebody in them
driving somewhere
at this deep hour
in the dark sky
keeping me company
unbeknownst
I have no reason
It's only been a few days
I don't even wonder if I
should be concerned
Everything is smooth
on the surface
everything is smoother
underneath
smoother the deeper
you go
There's nothing wrong
with feeling
sorry for yourself
once in a while
I am looking
for the compassionate one
is dreaming of brushing his hair
the compassionate one
It will pass
one way or the other
dots in the black sky
someone driving
someone not
I am all right but
there are times when
you face your fears
and there is
nothing there after all
the plainest of enlightenment
oh, hmm, so
can surprise be still
as the clock ticks,
the dots pass silently
all night & morning
comes & I'll find this
& wonder what
I was talking about
wonder what
I meant, thinking
already
now of the pancake place
where I may look
deeper in the eyes
of someone to see 
what I've been missing
Friday, December 28, 2012
Bathrobe Enlightenment, 3 am
Sunday, December 16, 2012
Spiritual Update & the Unformed Parts of a Story.
By Spiritual I mean intuitive, human, vision, voice,
psychology, psychic, empathy, insight, wisdom, love, 
and so on.
By Update I mean the growth that an individual undergoes
every day. The man I am yesterday is not the man I am 
today. I see more, slightly yes, but when I look into 
the work today I see things I didn’t see yesterday, 
some things are clear and simple suddenly, what to 
put in, what to take out.
By Unformed Parts I mean those scenes or chapters where
you know what you want in general and have written some
of it down, but the whole is not clear, neither are 
the specifics, the thing is blurry, you’re on the surface. 
The layers are thin and watery, it hasn’t gelled, etc.
By Story I mean story, novel, etc.
So the main idea is that these unformed parts I see 
as a "problem." But they are no more a problem than 
a patch of weedy ground I'm looking at from above 
and beginning to imagine a garden, vegetable, zen, 
cactus, rose garden, but I haven’t entered it yet,
I’m looking still from above, from outside.  
Spiritual is to enter, to swim within, to be 
the pure animal that belongs in that ecology. 
Brer Rabbit in the briar patch.
When I think of these unformed parts I subconsciously,
or habitually is probably a better word, I habitually 
shy away from them, put them off, fear them slightly, 
just enough, suspect that I won’t be able to grow them 
as I have grown such unformed parts hundreds and hundreds 
of times before. But the old mind kicks in, the old
mind whose job it is to doubt. 
But I don’t want to overcome the doubt, waste time 
and energy wrestling it, battling, nor do I want 
to build false confidence, unnecessary confidence 
that becomes itself a burden, a weight.
I want neither doubt nor confidence. I want the middle 
ground, the broad highway of many choices and opportunities, 
where the fitting path for this particular unformed scene, 
or conversation, in the case of the particular thing I 
happen to be thinking of, is laid out.
A conversation between two realms, as a matter of fact. 
Characters from two realms, and it is outlandish, between 
a man and the ghost of a woman, and so that causes me 
to doubt and want to rely on my confidence to blot out 
the doubt, but to do so is to doubt the story, the 
characters, this bridge or plain or crossing in the story 
that these two have been led to by all that has come
before.
I want to be free even of confidence in joining with 
the story to bring forth this scene, this conversation 
between unlikelys. Confidence is the flipside to doubt, 
it cannot be relied upon to find the truth any more than 
doubt can be relied upon to find lies.
So I’m thinking, fearing, that I can’t do it. But I know 
I can and will. But I want to learn something now about 
that state, not write the scene, although this will free 
me up anyway to do so.
The reason that I feel, fear, that I won’t be able to do 
it is because I cannot do it. Not at once anyway. Not in 
one day, no matter if I worked 16 hours on it. This is me. 
Because it requires spiritual growth, and spiritual growth 
happens from day to day, slowly and surely, often upon waking,
from sleep, from dreams, when they are rich and effective.
That's the most important part of writing—-the spiritual growth 
that happens in the writing of a story, the spiritual waking
that's clarified and expressed in the writing.
This is evident when, on waking, I look upon a scene, or 
paragraph, sentence, line of dialogue, piece of story 
I'd looked on many times before, but now it is clear 
and simple and undeniable how it is supposed to be, 
what is supposed to be put in and what needs to be taken 
out. The change from day to day, from going to sleep and
waking up, is subtle, but it is there, and cumulative, a 
gathering meant to be spent.
We grow day by day, and writing is the way to see this.
No, I cannot write this important conversation today, 
perhaps, but it is being written anyway, by the many selves 
that approach it day by day, understanding more myself, 
the characters, the work, the ecology of the scene, and 
this is the effortless way, because I know it is meant to be 
effortless, at its best, writing, at its sweetest, at its most 
spiritual.
So the conversation will come, but layer by layer, and 
patch by patch, line by line, connection by tightening by 
loosening, and so on.
Writing is the way to grow, and growing is the way to write.
Forgive me if this is obvious or vague or mad.
I’m writing it to be a more free writer, enjoy writing
more, in new ways, and may it help others do the same.
