Friday, November 8, 2013

"A book melts and shifts in the memory."


"To grasp the shadowy & phantasmal form of a book,
to hold it fast, to turn it over and survey it at leisure--
that is the effort of a critic of books, and it is perpetually
defeated.

Nothing, no power, will keep a book steady & motionless
before us, so that we may have time to examine its shape
& design. As quickly as we read, it melts & shifts in
the memory.

Even at the moment when the last page is turned,
a great part of the book, its finer detail, is already
vague and doubtful.

A little later, after a few days or months, how much
is really left of it? A cluster of impressions, some
clear points emerging from a mist of uncertainty, this
is all we can hope to possess . . . in the name of a book."

-Percy Lubbock, The Craft of Fiction (1931)

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Friday, August 9, 2013

On the Impossibility of Making Amends.


Whenever I reach into the past,
or whenever I'm dragged back there
kicking & screaming, I discover
again how impossible it is to make full
& complete amends to all the people I hurt.

I'm not bringing this up in a woe is me way.
I'm not bringing it up to absolve myself
or anybody else of doing all we can to find
those we hurt & make amends, which involves
not only apology but finding out what we can do
to make things as right as we can.

I am all for all that & I urge anybody in recovery or
not to go for the amends whole-heartedly, as long
as it doesn't lead to more pain for those we
would make amends to.

Still, it's impossible, for anybody who drank
as long as most recovering alcoholics drank,
10, 20, 30 years, to even remember everybody
we hurt and how we hurt them, and how badly,
even cruelly.

I just had a reach into the past with an old
friend and was reminded of a person and an incident
in which I hurt that man awfully. I never thought
of the man when I was making my step 8 list,
never crossed my mind, and if it had I wouldn't
have ever thought I did anything to him which would
call for amends.

On the one hand, I got a new amends from fifty years
ago to make, which is a good thing.

On the other hand, it's disheartening to realize,
again, how much damage I did back then that I
don't even remember.

I'm not bemoaning my own situation, or not too much.
I'm mostly trying to see, in terms of the present,
the unamended damage I did. How can I make amends for
so many wrongs I did that I'll probably never even remember?

Here's the good part. Long-time sober that I am, and
a better man and human that I may be compared to that
guy pre-1986, I am still self-centered as hell & it is not
my nature to go out of my way to be of service to my
fellow human, suffering or alcoholic or not.

I've battled lately with feeling I'm sick of trying to
help others, especially fellow alcoholics, because, well,
you know, what the hell good does it do and besides I'm
underappreciated, don't you know.

Then I run into the past again, get reminded of all
the damage I did, so much forgotten, in blackouts and
not in blackouts, and how try as I may I'll never make
amends for it all.

And that painful reminder makes me realize the importance
and spiritual meaning of LIVING AMENDS.

Which means to me remembering that when I'm kind to
the people in my life today, even when I don't feel like it,
even when I think they haven't "earned" it, even when I feel
that they have wronged me,

when I try to be there for others, alcoholics or otherwise,
even when it feels pointless and hopeless and I'd rather
be pursuing selfish pursuits,

what I'm doing then is in a kind of a way making amends
somehow for the wrongs I did others, for the hurt I brought
others, even though I can't even remember them or the wrong
or the hurt that I caused.

I just sighed with gratitude for living amends, and resolve
again to appreciate the chance to be kind & patient & loving
& compassionate to others today who are in my life,
partly because I was not kind or patient or loving or compassionate
to so many people in my past who I cannot reach or even remember.

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Sunday, June 9, 2013

Three Newcomers at a Meeting Last Night, Two Had No Resentments


which gave me two more resentments.

I'm beginning to suspect
that people may not know
what a resentment is.

It's a very simple
natural thing.
Here, have one.
Have another, they're small
at first.

A person at another meeting
with decades of time
actually asked for a definition.
She didn't think she'd any
since she did her fifth step
in 1970.

I believe they're the raw material
of serenity, spiritual
alarm clocks, welcome
resentment! let's discuss!
let's burrow to the root!
get sunshine's agony in there!

I believe if you hung
with the Dalai Lama a while
you'd see resentment
in action, building soul.

Although it's possible
it's just me
& everybody else
is rigorously honest, shrugging
at the whole idea & truly
finished & resentment free.

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Thursday, June 6, 2013

Jesus the Carpenter & the Unfinished Add-On.


Knock-Knock.

Yes?

Is Jesus home?

He's out.

You know when he'll be back?

I suspect it could be a while. To what is this pertaining to?

Well, he started a project for me, an add-on to my place over here on Via Way, and he's half-done and it's holding up the other guys.

Did you pay him?

Yeah, I paid him.

Before he finished? Tsk tsk. How much more does he have to do?

Maybe two, three days. He's doing a hell of a job, I hate to have to hire another guy.

Well, I'm sure he'll finish it.

Yeah, but when?

Well, as I say, he's out right now.

Where?

He's wandering around the general vicinity.

Doing what?

Saving the world, etc.

Saving the-- Oh! That's this Jesus? I heard about that! That's our Jesus?

Yes.

Miracles, Son of God, so on?

Yes, sir.

Well, I'll be. Hmm. I must say I'm rather surprised. He kept to himself on the job. Had very little to say actually. Of course, you could tell he was thinking.

Yes, always thinking.

Huh! Well, I'll be darned. Okay. Of course this doesn't exactly solve my problem, does it?

Perhaps not, but it puts it into context.

How's that?

Well, he's saving the world, and you're worried about your add-on.

You trivialize my house being in an uproar with an unfinished room? Bare drywall, dust everywhere. And it's not just a room, it's the den slash home office I've always dreamed about. You don't think these rather extreme suggestions he's making about himself might be called into serious question if it gets around that he's left my add-on half-done? And who knows how many other projects he's left in the lurch. There could be three-legged tables and unhung doors all over Nazareth. You can't up and start a new profession without tying your loose ends up first. No, ma'am, I don't think he'd want this to get around. Bad for business.

I hope you're not talking about blackmailing the Son of God.

No, but I am considering small claims court. My goodness, the Son of God. Such a quiet fella on the job. Although he talked to himself a lot, come to think of it. Working something out. Well, tell him I came by. I really think he could knock it off in two, three days. Maybe he could just come over on the weekend. I'll gladly pay overtime.

I'll tell him. I'll let him know.


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Thursday, May 30, 2013

Understanding Is a City of Sand


Understanding is "figuring out."

Understanding is "words."

I heard a rumor:
understanding a person
will give me peace of mind.

"Ask not to be understood,
but to understand."
Ask for neither.

When I look you in the eye,
when I say good morning, I forget
you're a universe of mysteries
upon a universe of mysteries
even unto yourself, even when you
look yourself in the eye.

"If something is not hidden
it cannot be found."

Understanding is a cripple.

I am talking about the person I cherish,
I am talking about a stranger, a man with a face
made to annoy me, to sandpaper my brain
every time I think of him, a woman in a scarf
I pass on the street & am sure is the one, a woman
I never saw before & will never see again,
though we both live to 95.

I will understand none of them.

Understanding is a city of sand.

Understanding is blind, deaf, mute, lost,
meandering the sandy cliff.

No, it's going to take something way way beyond
understanding, one of those impossible things
that make understanding look like a drooling idiot
in a sandbox in the rain.

Going out among human beings
believing that understanding
will get my soul where she needs to be
is like
going out to build a house
with a sackful of tools made of sand.

Please love understanding.
It cannot help itself.
Have compassion for understanding.
It is doing the best it can.
Have mercy on understanding.
It is not the one saying all those
impossible things about itself,
about what it is, and what it can do,
and what it can bring.

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Monday, April 15, 2013

My story is out in The Greensboro Review...


It's not online. Please support this fine long-established journal
if you can. If you absolutely positively unequivocababally
can't afford to buy the Spring issue ...
($8 for the issue, inc. shipping) here:

The Greensboro Review

... or maybe even subscribe, then please make a case for
how much you long to read it and my cold cold heart
may be moved to send you a PDF of the story, "Could You, Bob Hill."



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Sunday, February 10, 2013

The Greensboro Review is publishing my story in Spring 2013 issue.


"Could You, Bob Hill" coming in mid-March.

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Friday, December 28, 2012

Bathrobe Enlightenment, 3 am


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



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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.

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Monday, December 10, 2012

A man, a white hat on his face


naps on the hill alongside
the freeway, a patch
of sun lighting him
like a sign, one knee up.
Bright winter grass springs
all around him three days
after the rains.

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