Thursday, October 11, 2012

Adi Shakti

Adi Shakti, Adi Shakti, Adi Shakti, Namo, Namo

Sarab a Shakti, Sarab a Shakti, Sarab a Shakti, Namo, Namo

Prithum Bhagvatee, Prithum Bhagvatee, Prithum Bhagvatee, Namo Namo

Kundalini Mata Shakti, 
Kundalini Mata Shakti, Namo, Namo

Jai Ma Durga!

Maha Navaratri begins the day after the new moon, the 16th.

Thursday, September 27, 2012

"The Truth About Daisy"

is that she
never was
your girl.

She is betrothed
to chaos, the

bride of the
wasteland, and

she will take you in motor cars
through the ash piles to the place


is rendered from earnest
hearts and body parts seen

by wild eyes
and granite minds
unfocused and
ravenous and

here you learn
what they all
know but you

the light
on the
shore is
the pier

-Josh Whitt

Friday, September 21, 2012

It seems simple enough....

My true immediate aim should not be the development of a new career or the like, but a stronger inherent confidence in the manner of living that I have chosen for myself, however that may be outwardly manifest at any dynamic moment in time. That is, I need to overcome this pervasive urge to impress upon others the full extent of my being. If folks fail to appreciate my intellect, talent, and/or wisdom simply as a consequence of my annual earnings or the crookedness of my teeth, then I merely need to cease to value their judgment. The error is theirs and hence the onus is solely on them. Finis.
You are the amorphous god that transcends.
You are not kept by any loyalty.

You are not kept.

-excerpted from my dearest friend's harangue of adulation

Wednesday, September 19, 2012

Free Contra Yogini (Part III)

I talked to my new psychologist today. She was accommodating, kind, and resourceful. Research shows that the number one indicator of positive therapeutic outcome is client/therapist rapport and already I have a very good feeling about her. Our first appointment is next week.

I am quite excited and ready to begin this work!

Monday, September 17, 2012

When I am willing to be eaten

Once upon a time there lived a mystical star-worshiping maiden. One fateful evening, she found herself exploring a wild and dark fireswamp of online dating where she chanced upon an abstruse quest-bound Prince....

In all probability, if not for my plenary preoccupation with veracity, I never would have known The German. I can state this with relative certainty because he resided and worked in the same small neighborhood where I lived (or frequented) for an entire decade without our ever having met. Thus, despite space and time, the opportunity for a connection was ultimately born of a menial error I noticed while browsing his OkC profile; namely, his attribution of "Scarlet Begonias" to Sublime. In lieu of the wonted flowery prelude, I shot off a brief communiqué of correction and then promptly forgot him. Curiously, my impersonal dispatch alit a trifling, yet enduring, flame of intrigue. Following multiple declined invitations over the course of several months, he eventually addressed me in one of his solicitous messages as "my Ruca" and I, charmed by his facetious familiarity, agreed to a date.

On the afternoon of our introduction, I first encountered The German while stationed atop a mountainous stone tortoise. My expectations in advance of meeting him were remarkably low and so when I glanced down to discover him quizzically half-smiling up at me -- all lunisolar blue eyes and exponentially more handsome than his online photographs had suggested -- I sorely regretted the utilitarian Russian potato farmer getup (complete with black wool shawl) that I'd haplessly donned for our chilly, late winter trip to the zoo. Essentially from the moment of our acquaintance, I suspected that I’d truly met my familiar and, as our winsome date progressed, I was increasingly taken aback, existentially thrown, and joyfully unsettled by how thoroughly I enjoyed this stranger's easy company.

After our extrodinary day at the zoo, I returned home and began exaltantly beautifying myself for a second date with my German-- this one scheduled for the very evening of the original. My best friend recently recalled that I'd phoned her following date number one to enthusiastically rant and rave at length regarding how much I positively relished this man; she concluded that my fervor for him was absolutely unparalleled and, given that we've been friends for longer than I've been dating, she would certainly know.

Needless to say, date number two was comparably spectacular and unforeseen. I could easily compose an entire blog entry about the events of that night. Suffice to say, it featured a stately well-to-do professional in a stunningly tailored suit who decorously requested the use of my lighter so that he could smoke his marijuana cigarette on the porch of the wine bar where we were lounging. I, of course, readily agreed to the favor and the look on The German's face when he subsequently returned from the restroom of this bourgeois establishment to find me enveloped in tendrils of sweetly miasmatic smoke was arguably more priceless than the extravagant vino that the other patrons were heartily imbibing.

Our acquaintance blossomed swiftly thereafter. Several additional dates were enjoyed that first week and the weeks developed into months of conversing, exploring, kissing, quiping, singing, fucking, playing, drinking, listening, dreaming.... With him, I engaged in activities previously unthinkable like plucking my nocturnal sleep-worshiping self, voluntarily and routinely, out of bed early so that we had ample opportunity to walk the dog and eat breakfast together before work. He taught me myriads about how to live well; how to patiently take things as they come; and how to avoid reducing anyone or anything to inane black and white presuppositions. In illustration, after having quixotically avoided ever handling a gun, he showed me how to safely hold, fathom, and even shoot them.

Speaking of guns, my dearest-held remembrance of our romance was of observing him ethereally bathed in a many-colored pool of late afternoon sunlight as he quietly and methodically serviced his revolver. The meditative steps involved in breaking down this prized silvery pistol into its composite elements and his careful utilization of the various maintenance accoutrements thereof was perversly serene to behold. More significantly, I was struck by his profound lack of self-regard. It felt as though I was wholly with him and that I intuitively knew who he was-- unfiltered, unadorned, and unguarded. I was grateful to be absolutely in his element, reading one of his well-worn paperbacks, with his dog plopped lazily on my feet and his cat blithely lounging to my right. His milieu was humble, compelling, and beautiful.

Roughly nine weeks after having met this man, I imprudently revealed that I was tremendously in love with him. He pulled me to his chest and, instinctively stroking my cheek, he asked, “…but isn’t this a little soon?” I laughed and unabashedly confirmed, “Yes! Actually, I strongly suspect that I loved you within the first month of our dating, though I couldn’t conceive of telling you so at the time" – so ludicrous it seemed --and so ludicrous it still seemed. But love it was nonetheless. And I loved him copiously. I adored his intellect, his worldview, his ethics, his elucidations, his self-direction, his voice and manner of speaking, his seemingly limitless devotion to his loved ones, his work ethic, his storytelling, his sense of humor, his body language, his kindness and innumerable scores more.

But, the thing is, he didn’t want my love. For reasons that are his own, The German most assuredly did not. So loveblind, so pure, so mystical was my faith in the sanctity of this love that I could not even begin to apprehend his lack of reciprocity. And, lest you somehow wish to fault him for misleading me, be advised that I’ve known him for a year and a half now and he has directly informed me of his insouciance on a number of occassions:  he did so when he cleanly broke off the amourette only a few months after it had begun; when I hotheadedly kissed him eight months later; and again about a month ago. Indeed, even when we were still dating- within weeks of our meeting- he told me unequivocally that he was content with being single and that he had no intention of settling down with me or anyone else anytime soon. But I fatalistically and obstinately declined to give up.

To be sure, I genuinely tried to abstain from him (we ceased all communication for three uninterrupted miserable months following the breakup), but failed to appreciably benefit from the effort. Upon learning of my unvanquished feelings, a friend sagaciously warned, "Unrequited love is a prison of one’s own making. Don't be so foolish." Another friend admonished, “You can’t make him love you and, even if you could, it would be a bitter, unsatisfying venture.” True. All of that was true, but I remained unpersuaded.

What did pierce this tenacious illusion was an inchoate notion that my lover put forth. She said, "No matter how fantastic and luminous he may seem to you; no matter how infallible and abiding your love for him may be; no matter the strength and tenacity of your hope; still, one fatal flaw remains: he fails to comprehend how incredible you are and if he can't understand that much, if he isn't running into your arms with sheer jubilation, than he clearly isn't worthy of you. It is just that simple." Looking into her eyes, I intuited that I was missing something fundamental. I felt the love she freely gave me juxtaposed against the witholding I received from The German and languorously my self-constructed deceit began to collapse around me.

I've been struggling for some time to understand why I've continuously subjected myself to this soporific, oozing leporacy of lovesickness. It wasn't as though I didn't know what to rightfully expect. Yet, I have repeatedly smashed heart first into that same steel reinforced palisade and thereby bloodied my soul over and over again. When folks asked how on Earth I could persist in this excrutiating vein, I half-jokingly replied, "Well, I am a masochist...." But that is clearly a shallow pay-no-attention-to-the-woman-behind-the-curtain reading of the underlying mechanisms involved. Moreover, I'm crippling a friendship that I value immensely. The German is one of my favorite people in this world, I admire him, and he is a good friend to me. It is awful to know that I am paining this person whom I love and that my love itself is a source of malcontent for the both of us.

And so the once guileless maiden came to understand that, despite what fairy tales may portray, unconditional love is not a grace-filled enchantment. Indeed, in the end, it can treacherously fail to serve both the lover and the beloved....


The truth is that the stories that I tell myself about The German (such as the one above) are only a distraction from my much larger reality. As unpleasant as unrequited love can be, still more unpleasant is a deeply disturbed home-life. Fortunately, I'm an autonomous adult, but I've a stupifying worry and concern for my youngest siblings who remain in the care of my parents. Though I know that my mother and father try to love their children and that they strive for goodness, they very rarely have the emotional and financial resources necessary to realize their aims. Thus, they too often prove themselves to be a force more collectively destructive than constructive.

As an adolescent, I desperately sought security. But my parents were like angels of certain doom. Any thread of normalicy to which I clung they forcibly, purposefully, even maliciously cut down. My friends have taken supported risks and grown up to become editors at big publishing houses, doctors, PhDs and so forth. I, however, remain at a dead end job, in a dead end city because I've carved out a safe and secure place for myself. I've chosen personal security over professional satisfaction and I made this choice both for myself and for my sisters. I cannot bear the prospect of them feeling as helpless and groundless as I once felt. I want these girls to have the space and permission to grow that I didn't have when I was their age. And I believe that we are accomplishing this together. They've both acknowledged that I am a hugely influential and helpful person in their lives.

Perhaps this peripheral, almost unconscious, seeking of security is why I persisted with The German- even when it was to no avail. Like me, he is the oldest of five children. However, his parents were much older when they conceived him. They were financially, mentally, and emotionally stable-- complete people and effective parents. On some level, I wanted to live vicariously through The German. I wanted to hear all of his happy stories about this large charismatic group and learn what it was like to have a healthy family life. Being with him helped me to gain insight into how I could model confidence, patience, and strength for my sisters. It is terrifically difficult to admit, but deep, deep down - buried under all sorts of weird shit - I must have dreamed that I could be a part of his family. And that must have been an exceptionally difficult dream to relinquish....


In addendum, I've come to realize, particularly since I began drafting this piece, that I must return to therapy. Financial security only provides a foundation (frequently transient). I need to now build self-confidence so that I can take the risks necessary to progress toward a truly fulfilling life. In addition, I need to home in on the ways that I create sustaining romantic distractions rather than directly confronting life's challenges. I've a superabundance of life to live and I refuse to continue to exhaust myself on infecund dead-ends. Happily, a friend was kind enough to refer me to a therapist who takes my insurance and who will likely be an outstanding therapeutic fit for me. I look forward to working with her in the near future. I have faith that, in time, we will be able to meet these goals and, thanks to The German, my patience is now damn near impeccable.

...I would love to tell you that all
of this has a certain ending but...
The path goes on and on. The road keeps forking,
splitting like an endless atom, splitting 
like a lip, and the globe is on fire. As many
times as the book is read, the pages continue 
to grow, multiply...

I run from the story that is faster than me,
the words shatter and pant to outchase me.
The story catches my heels when I turn
to love its hungry face, when I am willing
to be eaten to understand my fate.

-from Tina Chang's "The Future is an Animal" 

Tuesday, September 11, 2012

I am Archimedes

I know. 

(More later, gypsies.)

Free Contra Yogini (Part II)

A continuous stream of information
Broadcast by the insects:

At the sound of the tone,
Please leave a message.

Ah, they will think.
No one home.
It's good for them to think—
Don't do it for them.

Feel free to shout at the screen.
Feel as free as possible.
Feel freer.

-excerpted from Jordan Davis' "The Man Who Rode the Mule Around the World"

I've devoted a good ten hours or more to writing a piece that I may or may not post here. It essentially chronicles my relationship (small R) with the German, though I'm feeling increasing more reticent about the subject. How do you write about a "nonrelationship"? Moreover, how do you write about a nonrelationship that culminated in the most intense feeling of love that you've heretofore known? How do you write about it in a way that preserves the privacy and dignity of your beloved while targeting the still beating heart of your own story? And how can anyone stomach one more single solitary sentimental word about this damned German anyway? 

"Feel freer" is my motto. Free to leave myself open. Free to tell the truth to myself. Free to come to my own conclusions. Free to move on. Free to hang up.

Feel it, Jen. 

Feel freer.

Monday, September 10, 2012

"I am myself, take it or leave it."

It's not what you see is what you get––that doesn't even come close to it. What you see is interpreted by your vision of what you're looking at––look a little deeper inside yourself, tell me what’s inside there and don't consider me a reflection or rejection of what you wish I was. It's pretty fucking simple.

-Lydia Lunch

I'm not fucking around

As of today's date, I am two months cigarette free.

Tuesday, September 4, 2012

The something behind the nothing

Following his intemperate orgasm, I said, "I feel like a vessel and I don't think this is going to work out between us." Flabbergasted and tearful, he concluded that I was purposefully sabotaging our relationship because I was afraid of emotional intimacy. The next day, he was texting in apology to see if I'd reconsider.

I felt nothing.

Two days later, I found myself impetuously fucking a beautiful woman who loved me. Who has loved me for some time. After a splendid evening, I awoke the next morning in her arms. She bid me farewell and hoped we'd soon see each other again.

I felt nothing.

Four days later, I found myself warmly holding hands with my giddy m-t-f friend while he (not yet transitioned to she) made goo-goo eyes, sexted me, and tried to negotiate a farewell kiss. As he said goodbye, he told me he'd text later and that he'd like to meet me anon.

I felt nothing.

Five days later, I found myself at the bottom of a bottle of Scotch, tightly hugging my sometime lover as he cried in anticipation of his upcoming out-of-state move. The next day, who approached me outside a neighborhood coffeehouse with a delighted grin and feeling so very happy to see me?


Six days later, I am the entertainment at my extended family gathering. Why don't you tell us all about your love life, Jen? Why, I'm happy to oblige. Let me present this to you in the most ludicrous manner possible. We'll laugh. Because

I feel nothing.

Seven days later, today, I am reading an email from a hapless musician whom I had agreed to go out with this evening. He was expressing his confusion at my having canceled. Said he'd enjoy going out some other time, if I changed my mind. I did not reply. Rather, I proceeded directly to my online dating profile to deactivate that as well.


A week or so ago, I was talking with my best friend and telling her that I'd finally given up on my ever being with the German. Repeatedly she queried, "Is this good? Are you happy about this?" I couldn't rightly answer. Indeed, I felt nothing and, at the time, I presumed the German was the impetus for this nothing. A self-defense through sheer numbness.

When discussing the situation with my family, it was suggested that even in relation to the German I was replete with sabotage. Logically, all of my actions were antithetical to my ever being with him. So, even then, something was holding me emotionally distant.

Something is behind this nothing.

I need only find it.

Wednesday, July 11, 2012


You paint yourself white
And fill up with noise
But there'll be something missing

Free Contra Yogini

I quit smoking yesterday and I am now thirty-six hours tobacco-free. My focus this time (and o how I've guilelessly tried before!) is on freedom. Freedom from profit-driven, amoral tobacco companies. Freedom from chemically induced non-decisions. Freedom from breathlessness (unless it is the good sort of breathlessness born of kissing and titilation). Freedom to delight in my pranayama. Freedom to run unfettered. Freedom to smell and taste exhaustively. Freedom to manifest beauty.

"The only way to deal with an unfree world is to become so absolutely free that your very existence is an act of rebellion." - Camus

I'm free.

[I'm re-posting this here for my non-facebook friends; you know who you are.]

Tuesday, July 10, 2012

Opening Gambit

COME until you are godsmacked:

until you are unable to discern

if the world trembles before you

or you. tremble. before. the world. 

Friday, June 29, 2012

Mellifluous Masochism

I suffered a significant fall while blading on the trail yesterday. In so doing, my entire left side body met with a barbarous blacktop impact. Consequently, I sustained contusions and/or lacerations at my shoulder, hip, tummy, arms, and a hand-sized road-rash hematoma brilliantly arose like Jesus Christ from my upper thigh.

Afterward, I crawled gingerly to my knees, whimperingly brushed the rocky pavement from my sticky, sweaty body, and doggedly skated the final ten miles in honeyed elation. At every stoplight, I took a long moment to admire the hot red damage. Overnight, while turning onto my left side, I awoke to white searing pain and grinned to myself in sheer glory. Following the fall, kniflets of wanton dolor cascaded satisfactorily down my leg wherever I seated myself.

Naturally, I was sure to select my shortest skirt while dressing this morning so that I could gain unfettered access to my injuries, which have already elicited gasping, mouth-covering reactions from gazers-on. The aforementioned bruises haven’t begun to ripen and aren’t yet photograph-worthy, but I hope to soon capture for posterity a souvenir image of the anticipated purpling-green wonder that only a raging masochist could unequivocally cherish.

Friday, June 15, 2012


Since early adolescence, a precarious and perilous bridge was featured in one of my reoccurring dreams. The form of the bridge itself changes with the dream: sometimes it is antebellum, wooden, and headless horsemanesque; other times it is an obsolete rail bridge with gaping holes between the ties; perhaps it is a modern, nondescript, concrete beam bridge; and on still other occasions it is a bridge under construction, incomplete and absent guard rails.

What does not change is the relative location, width, and height of my dream bridge. Always, it passes over water (rivers- particularly the Mississippi, the great lakes, bays, etcetera); always, it’s extremely, exceptionally narrow (like those heart-stopping, hair’s-breadth, Rocky Mountain passes); and always it’s of a tremendous, vertigo-inducing height. No bridge in my waking life is even remotely as sky-scraping as the one in my dreams -- it is sensational and fantastic -- more of a cloud bridge, than a land bridge and, often, with an incline comparable to the lift hill of a roller coaster.

The most nightmarish form of the dream occurred many years ago. At that time, the bridge was of unknown building material, as it was wholly coated in an impenetrable layer of mud. Moreover, the dream was set on a moonless night and frequent, bilateral flash-flooding made traffic matters exponentially worse. There was a beleaguered, stumbling crowd of unfortunates who were attempting to pass over this bridge on foot, but precious few succeeded. Indeed, most were washed away into the white-capped, malicious water underlying and swiftly dismissed as dead by the survivors. Rescue parties were laughably out of our purview. Truly, every man, woman, and child was exclusively for themselves. I recollect making the attempt, on my hands and knees, to cross this monstrosity several times, but invariably turning back at the threshold out of profound, mortal fear. Someone was on the other side of the bridge, someone whom I loved and whom needed my help, but I couldn’t cross over to them and rightfully expect to remain among the living.

Last night, I again dreamed of my stratospheric bridge, but in a manner unlike any I’d ever dreamed before. On this occasion, the dream took place on a brilliant sunny day; the sky was an impossibly stunning and rich electric blue. I wasn’t on foot, but in a comfortable car and I was not the one driving. Instead, I traveled carefree in the passenger seat. My driver was The Girl’s roommate, close friend, and former love of her life. Despite its smooth, unblemished pavement and readily apparent structural soundness, he knew that I was terrified of this bridge. Somehow, he intuitively understood that I had a labyrinthine relationship to this monument. In an attempt to diffuse my trepidation, he teased and playfully distracted me from the supposed danger involved. I smiled Mona Lisa’s smile and kept my eyes meditatively trained on the horizon as he goofed off beside me. And then my dream winked out of existence. I do not know if we made it across or from whence we came, but I do know that I felt safe and that I trusted him without reservation.

After having transversed this serene blue zenith, it seems that I’ve arrived at a significant point of departure in my dreamscape. And I’m curious to know if I’ll ever encounter this obstacle again. 

Om shanti,
la Contra Yogini

Thursday, June 14, 2012

Kundalini Midwestern Hospitality

Moments ago, in a half-hearted attempt to get energized, I tried to cajole a friend into smacking me around our office. She flat out refused. Coiling a long sun-kissed lock of her blond hair around her pinkie finger and with a slight widening of her bright blue eyes, she drawled:
You know, if I had a penis, it'd be a big one {gestures to her entire forearm for a size comparison} and I'd be thick, too. I would do you right here {vehemently points to the floor for emphasis} and I'd say, "Bend over and grab your toes, bitch." In fact, I'd even spank you (and you know I don't like violence). If I had a penis, I'd be everything you wanted in a man and a woman--
Clinging to the counter in front of me for support, I was forced to cut her monologue short. Dreamily, I swooned, "You have no idea what you're doing for me right now. No idea...."

Smiling sanguinely, she asked if I felt like I could now make it through the rest of my day.

Friday, May 25, 2012

My Poetess

"And I dream your love washes over all of me, like the surf does gently roll over the beach, leaving a little bit of you and taking a little bit of me."
- The Girl
She wrote this for us. I'm speechless with admiration and saturated with dulcoration....

True Agency

Despite my natural propensity toward exhibitionism, I often feel unsafe and uncomfortable being publicly affectionate with The Girl* in certain straight, heteronormative bars in St. Louis County. The remarkable lack of minorities, the vapid uniformity of the people, the lone leering drunken men, the desolate strip mall isolation of the buildings-- these locales can be tremendously creepy and pointedly reminiscent of that opprobrious bar where Jodie Foster’s character was brutally gang raped in “The Accused.”

Yesterday evening, I went to one such bar with The Girl and she was all dolled up– a splendiferous looking creature - I wanted to kiss her; stroke her hair; hold her hand; but I could not bear these people’s eyes crawling over us. Even when we went outside and we were ostensibly alone, I kept glancing around, as though some miscreant was certain to magic himself from the shadows, in order to summarily attack us. This prejudicial attitude of mine is particularly incredible considering that I have no qualms whatsoever with making out with a woman in a low down, dirty, South City hoosier establishment. I don’t even find the drunken leering particularly unsettling in such places-- indeed, it's somewhat charming as a flatteringly unmitigated lustful display...but I digress.

Last night, all of my knee-jerk, stereotypical thinking about the patrons of these county bars was eradicated when I made the acquaintance of a group of domestic beer drinking, stadium rock loving, Cardinals t-shirt wearing regulars. Initially, they were a bit hostile with me and made some thinly veiled disparaging remarks. But, after they were able to discern that (despite my flamboyant eccentricities) I’m not a wholly effete city dweller, they began to warm up to me. One of the women ultimately befriended me and enthusiastically talked up her beloved kickball league that plays in the park near my home. By the conclusion of our conversation, she’d invited me on a float trip with her group of friends; she was also hoping to set me up with a lady friend of hers! I was dumbfounded at this turn of events--that I could be so blindly ignorant to the easygoing humanity of this community. Further, that I'd allowed my baseless apprehension to ruin my enjoyment of otherwise fantastic and rarefied nights out with The Girl.

Overall, it was a highly surreal, entertaining, and enlightening evening. I doubt that I’ll ever return to that bar again, but I also doubt that I’ll ever be so fearful about being publicly bisexual in St. Louis County again.

It seems that one of my tasks in this life is to learn (and relearn) that true agency is a gift born of open-mindedness.

*given moniker of the lovely woman I'm dating

Wednesday, March 14, 2012

Collected Quotes

I'm on a quote collecting spree. Some new; some old--

I assure you: there is no beginning, and we are not afraid; we aren't sentimental. We are like a raging wind that rips up the clothes of clouds and prayers.
-Tristan Tzara

But there came a time when I could not protect myself, and indeed I did not wish to protect myself, from the onslaught of reality.

Ālīs volat propriīs.
(She flies with her own wings.)
-Hon. Jesse Quinn Thornton

Dance, when you're broken open
Dance, if you've torn the bandage off
Dance in the middle of the fighting
Dance in your blood

Die Stimme der Vernunft ist leise.
(The voice of reason isn´t loud.)
-Friedrich Nietzsche

mon petit vulcan
you're eruptions and disasters
I keep calm
admiring the lava : I keep calm
-Bjork, "Possibly Maybe"

Power concedes nothing without a demand. It never did and it never will.
-Frederick Douglass, 1857

O shaken flowers, o shimmering trees,
O sunlit white & blue,
Wound me, that I, through endless sleep,
May bear the scar of you.

I love luxury, but freedom and independence better.
-Louisa May Alcott

One good thing about music,
when it hits you, you feel no pain.
-Bob Marley

(roughly: Birth, Life, Death, Rebirth;
alternatively, "Sat Nam": To honor truth)
-Kirtin Kriya

Tolerance of intolerance is cowardice.
-Ayaan Hirsi Ali

He learned incessantly from the river. Above all, it taught him how to listen, to listen with a silent heart, with a waiting, open soul, without passion, without desire, without judgement, without opinion.
-Herman Hesse, "Siddhartha"

Love's arms around death is the point
-K. Curtis Lyle

Monday, March 5, 2012

For these leaves, and me, you will not understand...

Or, if you will, thrusting me beneath your
Where I may feel the throbs of your heart, or
     rest upon your hip,
Carry me when you go forth over land or sea;
For thus, merely touching you, is enough—
     is best,
And thus, touching you, would I silently sleep
     and be carried eternally. 

But these leaves conning, you con at peril,
For these leaves, and me, you will not understand,
They will elude you at first, and still more
     afterward—I will certainly elude you,
Even while you should think you had unquestionably
     caught me, behold!
Already you see I have escaped from you.

- Walt Whitman, "Whoever You Are Holding Me Now in Hand"