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.
Monday, December 10, 2012
A man, a white hat on his face
Friday, November 2, 2012
I INHERITED A MIXED ANIMAL FROM UNCLE LIVING IN WOODS, Chapter 1.
In Rusty Barnes' Fried Chicken and Coffee...
I Inherited a Mixed Animal, Chapter the First
My Uncle Leonard was a hermit who lived alone in the Unconscious Forest his entire life. Unc had a sack of money stashed away, and when he went to meet his Maker he left every penny to my little sister Shane. He left me, a full grown man, a rusty bicycle and a busted set of drums. I don’t mean he left me a full grown man, I mean I am a full grown man. So why would he leave me a load of childish junk instead of cold hard adult cash?...
Wednesday, October 10, 2012
JUST SIT (2 ways to meditate).
There are a million ways
but I find I use two
First, of course, I sit
Then:
1. I let my mind go where it wants,
where it will
It journeys many many places
big & small
& then
after ten minutes
or so, it returns & goes,
"Oh, that was nice,
here I am"
2. I use a technique, say, focusing
on my breathing,
to corral my thoughts by controlling
my body
& then
after ten minutes or so
the technique relaxes
by itself & goes
"Here you are"
Whichever way I choose for that morning
either freedom from technique
(unless freedom is a technique)
or technique
I find myself
after ten minutes
or so
in the same exact place
of peace, gatheredness, quiet,
stillness, clearness
Hmmm
So, it must be the sitting
Just sit
Kafka said something about
if you just stay in one place
just sit
the whole world will come to your door
will pass by
I believe meditation is like that
& one day
I will pass me by
& go "Hi"
& nod
Monday, October 1, 2012
I wish I could be as innocent a writer now as I was in the beginning...
...but I can't
Which doesn't mean I have no innocence
only that it's hiding from my wisdom
from my experience, my knowledge
my skills, my certainty...
I wonder if there's a way...
First comes the urge to write the story
A hook emotional & spiritual
that snags me
gets my blood going
wakes my soul
It moves me & it matters
I get enough down to see
a living blueprint
ragged, messy, wild tangled shape
It's entered the world
more unformed than formed
but breathing
It's a freak
I tell myself
I know this freak
I know where it needs to go
to be a good fine story
to represent me well
Don't be so sure of what i am
says the story
what i mean
what i want
where i'm going
why these people have come together
you are my writer
but the mystery belongs to me
Then something gets stuck
goes dry, dull, dead
on the page
Don't force me
says the story
i will help you...
Once I have a good little chunk of it on the page
my best ally,
most powerful, clear, knowing
ruthlessly loyal ally
is the story itself
but it's asleep in its own skin
talking to me in its sleep
All it cares about
is itself
It doesn't care about me
The only thing in the universe it wants
is to get itself told
clear & true
except
it can't write itself, can't tell itself
it needs me
whereas I have all kinds of nonsense
desires & reasons
to satisfy
that are laughably meaningless
to the story
I go to the story
& read it as if somebody else, a stranger
was writing it
How many clues & hints & turns in it
I had never noticed before
Why, it's a living thing
Who wrote this?
I slow down to no speed
The more sure I am
that I know all about the story
the more the story
will hide & be too shy
& sullen to help me
It doesn't tell me
it doesn't like what I'm doing
It just clams up
It doesn't care about respect
it only knows when I relax & listen & see
& then my best ally
will help me
perfectly
I read it
as if I just found it on a seat on the bus
& I trust the unknown writer implicitly
as if she knew exactly what she was doing
& hid perfect clues in plain sight
where to go from there, where
to make connections
but had to leave it behind for me
not clues to what the story means,
but where it means
to go & who
it's about & what
they must do
together
She has left me this story, the stranger who
got off the bus before I got on,
who I know nothing about
& don't need to know
I'm not the one who started the story
but a new one, carrying the torch
& now it's mine
as long as I observe with abandon
love its frightening
dull & dead & lost spots
as true as the original fiery urge
Its secret course is a light under water, strange
guiding light I must get in the water
& go under to follow
& lose myself or lose
the story
Writing the story
is breathing underwater
following deeper than I can go
the faith-like light
If it works
I won't not forget it
If this is working
you won't have to remember it
If the story is working
you'll know when something is wrong
Just because something feels wrong
doesn't mean it's wrong
I'm not afraid to discuss the story
with the story
I used to think I would lose the story
that way but that's the way
the story sheds me
& becomes itself
I need to work on the story
at different times of the day
and night in order to keep up
with the strange guiding light
I am writing a story
& a relationship, against my will
keeps not changing
not getting better or worse
I think I am trying to make
some point of how you have to get out
of a bad relationship
or make it better
but finally I was trying to go to sleep
frustrated, restless, petulant
about the misbehaving story
when it shyly entered my dream
like a monster in a tutu
unself-conscious, pollen & ESP-laden
& let me know
stop resisting
that it was about the other relationship
the friends
not the lovers
i don't love you
i'm your friend, your ally
it said
because the lovers will love
& then not love or love
& there's nothing you can do
but the friends that hated each other
that had no respect
loathed
despised
each other
they are the ones
i am about
Well damn
Who will care about that?
i don't care if they care
says the monster, chewing its fingernails
that's what i'm about
why i am
i gotta go
The entire story
& I really didn't have to change much of anything
except relax & disappear & perceive
It was there all along, writing itself
under my best intentions
I think I know where I am in my life
where I'm going
& I think I know where the story is going
but I am almost always going somewhere else
& the story is almost always
going somewhere else
I can force it, break it
or I can listen to it
& care more about the story
than myself or anybody else
who might happen to read it
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
Take no pride in your writing.
Monday, August 6, 2012
FIFTY SHADES OF GREY: A Completely Objective Review.
I had heard two things that people are saying about this book, one about content and one about the writing itself, the style, quality, etc.
The content is about sex, people had said, and the detail that I had heard was that it involved somebody being tied up, or somebody tying somebody up, and what proceeds from there.
About the style I had heard that it was not very good, that it was poorly written in some way or other.
I have not read the book in its full entirety, to be candid, but I am sure that it is about sex, and that it does indeed involve somebody being tied up and somebody doing the tying, which may or may not be the same person (I don't want to give away any more spoilers than I must, in case you haven't read it and plan to).
I am also sure that it is not written as badly as some people are saying. Perhaps these critics have been unduly influenced by its popularity, for it has sold untold hundreds and hundreds of books.
Some people simply assume that any popular book is not well written, but there are many popular books about which that is simply not true, as we all know.
On the other hand, there are books which are indeed poorly written, and they may have sold hundreds of copies, and those sales are certainly not because it is not well written, but because it has likely tapped into the zeitgeist of the time, which Fifty Shades of Grey appears to have done.
It is certainly written well enough to be understood by its multitude of readers, for they have bought it and I have not heard of crowds of hundreds of people pounding on bookstores to return the book because they could not understand it.
So we can say that much.
And I have not heard anybody who liked the book saying that they liked it because it was poorly written. I think I remember one person who liked it saying something about "Maybe it's not War and Peace, but I haven't read War and Peace."
As I say, I have not read too much of the book, but that it has tapped into the zeitgeist is clear.
Having not read the entire book, it is difficult for me to say what part of the zeitgeist it has tapped into, but it either may have something to do with the sexual aspect of the book, or something to do with the many things that underlie sex or a book about sex, such as communication, social conflict, power relationships, gender questions, childhood issues, or many other related or even unrelated issues.
It is the strangest of times that we live in, so it is likely that anything that is extremely popular taps into that strangeness, either as a means for people to enter more deeply into that strangeness, or as a way, perhaps, to avoid that basic strangeness by entering into another parallel or non-parallel strangeness.
That there is nothing wrong or bad about sex is one thing that perhaps the book has tapped into, even sex of what was once considered a questionable variety, behind closed doors or not. That facet of the book's popularity is neither good nor bad itself, but merely the way that it is, although we ought to keep an open mind even about that.
Sex is almost always interesting, but there has to be something about this particular book which reaches beyond even the general popularity of the topic. There is almost always a moral aspect of books about sex, or perhaps all books, so that this book may tap into that, but in a way that is not obvious but rather subtly suggests morality as a consideration, or transcends it by immersing it in the characters' non-consideration of it.
So, it cannot be as badly written as some say, and it is about sex, and it is extremely popular among those who bought it and like it, and it taps into something about the zeitgeist of our time and place---we can safely say all these things about it, with complete objectivity.
As I say, I have not personally read it, or bought it, or even seen it laying around on a table, but I wonder about the title. It doesn't sound like a book about sex, or if it does, I would think it would treat the subject with moroseness, from the title. It conjures up somebody on an ocean liner in the fog, having had tied-up sex and then perhaps jumping or falling off the ship, accidentally, in the afterglow perhaps.
However, I have not heard anybody say that it is morose, or anything about any scenario akin to the above ship scene. I'm sure that the title makes much more sense once a person reads the book, which I, unfortunately, have not.
If I did see it laying around on a table, I would certainly pick it up and look into it and see for myself, which I always like to do, rather than take anybody else's word for anything, especially with that title. There are many many books about sex, and about tied-up sex, I would imagine, but which of them has accomplished what this book has accomplished?
Therefore, I think it is the strange and mysterious title that is the secret behind the book's popularity and success. If it had been called "Fifty Shades of Tied-Up Sex," or "Zeitgeist Sex," or "Fifty Shades of Orange," I don't believe it would have achieved what it has achieved.
As I have stated, I have not read a word of the book itself, not by choice but by circumstances, for I read very little to start with, although I have nothing against sex or even tied-up sex, per se, but the title is certainly well-written and evocative, in and of itself, and suggests something profound about the spirit of our age and time. Whether the book attached to the title lives up to that title, I cannot objectively say, from what I have heard.
Friday, July 6, 2012
"Please stop being mean please."
"He was mean first, why don't you tell him to
stop being mean. I wasn't being mean anyway, I
was just telling it like it is. You must think
being honest is mean. Besides, it's a mean world
and it sounds like you're too sensitive for
your own good. In fact, you're being mean by
accusing me of being mean. Who asked you anyway.
It's not only mean but rude to just butt in where
you weren't invited and give somebody unwanted
advice on how they should behave. Maybe you ought
to try moving to Russia, if you think I'm mean,
because they could show you a thing or two when
the secret police drag you into a basement. Is this
America or not? Is there a new law that I haven't
heard about where it's illegal to be honest and not
sugarcoat things when you're forced to deal with a
bunch of idiots and imbeciles? Since you're so big
on telling people what to do and how to live, let
me tell you to grow a thicker skin and stop being a
baby riding around in a waaaaambulance. If you don't
like the kitchen, find a cooler place to hawk your
wares, Goody Two-Shoes. So just grow up and stop
acting like a spoiled brat king that thinks they run
the world, Miss Manners. Besides, it was just a joke,
so you might want to find a sense of humor."
"Please stop being mean please."