supply chain (poem 021-2021)

We supply the want

Who the chains?

And who the need

Most unchained?

Supply chain disruptions

Meaning heart attacks?

Meditation mantras?

Falling in love

Or out of

Fasting or slowing

Tugging or pulling

Most of all

Waiting

To

Wait

Let

Wait

Go

increasingly disappearing

oxymoron of love or whatever you call it Leonard Cohen called it room service to disappear increasingly meaning the apex of detachment the antithesis of attachment currying favor with the healthy self opposite the poisonous spice of obsequious pandering apposite the embrace of fullness of time other side of waning decrease withering wallowing Joyce is dead nobody does this crap anymore this fancy tapdance this diamond studded diversion increasingly disappearing into equanimity tempered balance buoyant serenity unfathomable steadiness floating oceans of oh-my-this  

biopsy epiphany

I expected the worst. I'm not even referring to the results. Worst, as in bend over to be probed, inserted, navigated, manhandled. A conjured image of discomfort, humiliation, breathe-through-it pain, tension, and fear. I was given a needle in each butt cheek: an antibiotic as a preventive measure. The left needle was barely felt; the right one hurt. I was escorted to the room for the euphemistically called procedure. Lie on your left side, facing the wall. So that was better than the on-your-elbows position I had pictured. Plus, they "numbed me up" down there. Another aspect better than I had envisioned. (In 2002, I was not given an anesthetic.) Before you know it, during my rambling dialogue with the doctor, they're in there. Ultrasound images on a screen. Colorful computer simulations, like you see in the movies. Numeric designations on the screens. To the left, or the right, up or down, closer or farther. Lunar landscape. Gentle landing. Inner clenchings like staplings but duller, internal pings -- except for one of twenty, not painful, more like an annoyance, a tangible split-second thump within-the-inner-of-the-inner inwardness. To harpoon and retrieve the tissue samples. The conversation and the screens distractions. The doctor said I'd probably want to watch. I said I rarely do, such as during a colonoscopy, which I wouldn't remember anyway because of the Versed anesthesia. He said, oh, you'll watch. And I did. An observer of my innermost self, physically. Not afraid or anxious. Almost amused. A detachment as if it were somebody else being represented up there on the screens. A curiosity, an observation, an objective assessment. Oh, that. Watching some kind of sci fi episode, without the popcorn. A metaphysical shrug of the shoulders.

Would that such detachment were granted to me for any day's probings, any day's pricks and prods, any day's pleasures or pains.

burying the dead, and others

this interment no death dirt tossed the blue yellow butterfly flowers curlicued on the tabled urn her hard-earned urn beside the appointed Book of Common Prayer petitions we recite in common we mouth to the wind her uncommon age virtues demeanor generosity laughter tears we leave these severed maternal ashes for others for strangers to plant no not ashes cremains into the ground it is not her and it is not the ground yet the table the surrogate altar and it is not her here not quite do not look here said the angels at the tomb the gardener a simple hole in the ground a pale rose on the table an alstroemeria bouquet on the gravestone ashes to ashes burying the dead burying this dead engraving her memory what remains

let the dead bury the dead let the dead bury their own dead Jesus snapped hurried harried not my problem as if to say more urgent matters burn at hand such as now and the living above the dirt those of us still born still breathing

bury as in hide conceal protect shelter preserve

others

as for others entomb their reckless ecstasies those exalted maelstroms we loved to call love singing o happy fault o happy day night

bury it all bury it cheap or dear bury it deep

where every singed seed 

stalks the grave ground's readiness

where watered ripeness raves

Twelve Commandments of So What - Do Nothing

I once heard someone say: “So what. Do nothing.”

The “so what” was said to mean: whether you are addled, rattled, depressed, ecstatic, thrilled, terrified, despairing, or discontented, you are not the leading actor in your idiosyncratic, spotlighted melodrama. It’ll pass. You’re a speck of dust on an orbiting pebble in the cosmos. This reminded me of an off-the-cuff bit of wisdom a mentor breezily passed on to me decades ago: “Nothing matters very much; most things not at all.”

The “do nothing” part was said to mean: face it, feel it, suffer it, humor it, ride it out, don’t escape it. Otherwise, it will sneak up on you anyway when you least expect it. What is “it”? Any tide of emotion. Anything.

With all that in mind, here are my Twelve Commandments of So What - Do Nothing:

1. You shall pause, reflect, and shrug your shoulders.
2. You shall look at where your feet are.
3. You shall look up into the sky at midnight on a cloudless night in a deep forest.
4. You shall follow your breath, in and out, in a quiet space.
5. You shall accept and honor your self, with all your diamonds and all your rust.
6. Remember this day as holy, fleeting, and precious.
7. Restrain your tongue, pen, and Send button. 
8. Don't do the next right thing — not yet.
9. You shall let it come.
10. You shall let it be.
11. You shall let it go.
12. You shall smile.

metrics

One measure (the hip and already worn out word is metric or metrics) of my well being and well bearing today is to succeed in avoiding metrics. By that I mean, I will have achieved some measure of serenity if I have enough spiritual stamina to AVOID going to the Createspace website or the Kindle Direct Publishing (KDP) website, both tentacles of Amazon.com, to feel the pulse of my paperback or e-book sales, more typically, lack of sales. It does me no good whatsoever to gauge the financial or egotistical temperatures of these ventures. It costs me too much in the wages of attachment. I do better to ignore such empty calculi, laden with expectation and self-validation. And stuff like that.

assignations

The mind has a thought. You assign meaning to it. The meaning may be so-called positive or so-called negative. You attach significance to a cluster of electrons passing through your brain and central nervous system. love. hatred. loss. gain. joy. anger. pain. comfort. the list is endless, not infinite but innumerable, beyond the known words in any given language or all languages. You assign and attach meaning in this way, and you let it determine your happiness or unhappiness (again, mere notions, mere words) at any given moment. Reading this, you figure, gee, that's kind of crazy to surrender such power to "thoughts," pulsations in the brain, the nervous system, the emotional-cognitive network.

hunger games, the questions

• What do I hunger for?
• Why?
• What appetites drive my hunger?
• What satisfies my hunger?
• Do I know what makes me so hungry?
• Am I more hungry tha others are? Or less? Or about the same?
• Why are you, dear reader, reading these 'hunger games' questions?
• And how would you answer them?
• Are they not challenging queries?
• And, like me, does a taste of 'speaker's remorse' tempt you to erase all these questions, to dodge them, dislodge them, evade them, eviscerate them, escape them, divert the conversation away from them, and on and on?

zero

You see the stickers on vehicles.

26.2. 

70.3.

Designations of marathon or triathlon mileage, they are the proclamations of The Saved, the self-aggrandizing evangelism of The Fit and The Wholesome.

"I am better than you are," they all but shout.

"I will outlive you and your lazy ways."

"Take that," is the challenge to the reader adrift in the vehicular wake of the message.

0.

As in zero.

You are invited to steal this concept and bumpersticker or T-shirt it.

You are invited to proselytize on behalf of no-thing.

Zero.

As in non-attainment, here and now, acceptance, mindfulness, emptiness, detachment, resignation, awakening.

Go for it.

Naming the Cows

Continuing with yesterday's post on the Releasing Our Cows theme, I would like to note that Thich Nhat Hanh goes on to say,

"One practice we can do is to take a piece of paper and write down the names of our cows. Then we can look deeply to see whether we're capable of releasing some of them. We may have thought these things were crucial to our well-being, but if we look deeply, we may realize that they are the obstacles to our true joy and happiness."

I cannot do this.

Yet.

But I can pray for the willingness to be willing.

I know what some of the cows' names are (you share some of those traditional, "civilized," "normal" cow names, the hallmarks of sanity, probity, and stability, don't you?).

Notice that we are asked to see if we can release "some" of these cows of attachment. Not "all."

I know, might as well start somewhere.

As in here.

And now.

Moo.

Moo.

till the cows come home, or don't

Today is the 79th day of the year.

Meditation Number 79 in Your True Home: the everyday wisdom of Thich Nhat Hanh is titled "Releasing Our Cows." It relates a story of the Buddha. A farmer comes upon the Buddha and his followers sitting in the forest. The peasant inquires about some cows he has lost. The farmer is distressed. He can't find his cows.

"When the farmer had gone, the Buddha turned to his monks, smiled, and said, 'Dear friends, you should be veryhappy. You don't have any cows to lose.' "

This struck me. I struggle with this. As a matter of fact, I am missing some cherished items. I lost them a few weeks ago. I value them. It was (is?) driving me crazy. I've inquired at places where I had been, even though I know I neurotically check for my belongings upon leaving, say, a coffee shop. I've searched pockets and notebooks and my car and nooks and crannies and pants and shirts and coats and jackets and sheets and floors and bureaus and desks and bathrobe and pajamas and drawers and street and sidewalks and pockets and pockets and tables and chairs over and over and over again, and then did it again.

I can't find them.

I've lost my cows.

And this does not even talk about my real "cows."

 

leaf it alone

As I watched Onondaga Creek swirl before me, after heavy rains, the waters muddy and leaf-laden, over by Plum Street, standing near those gorgeous, black industrial pedestrian bridges, I fixated on one greenish-yellow maple leaf, caught in the stream, carried along, floating, twirling. And I thought: why that leaf? What about the other leaves and twigs? And for how long do they pass before me?

turn the page

The turned page I am referring to is the calendar, the one on the wall with images of sunlit vineyards and the darker one in my head and along my veins. I welcome its turning, its flip into September, with promises of cooler weather, falling leaves, lighter branches. My August was stormy, tempestuous, and laden with hollow anxiety. (How was yours?) August is gone. It is so yesterday. Its self-inflicted wounds are already scabbing over, hardening, waiting to fall off so that new skin can be brightly born. September song: shed, shed, let go, let go, tweet, tweet. Say farewell to thunder and rain and prepare for wind and snow and sleet. Welcome the gently falling leaf floating in the dusk offering Vesper prayers with no incense but weary sighs. Hello, curled redbud leaf now yellowed still partly heart-shaped settled on yesterday's lawn tomorrow. Greetings, September.

Letting Go of Letting Go

I've posted before of losing things. Things like what? Objects, objets d'art, detritus, money, talismans, omens, flotsam, jetsam, effluvia, phylacteries, memorabilia, memory, vice, virtue, navel lint, connection, magnetism, mass, thinness, agility, and gravity; not to mention love and loved ones.

I can't find my Obama campaign button.

Bothers the hell out of me.

For weeks and weeks, I know precisely where I had kept it: on my bureau (actually my wife's but I've been using part of the top of it since I've lived here), right next to my deodorant. That is a rock-solid certainty.

Then several days ago, I retrieved the button. Why? I guess to wear it for the inaugural events. A badge of pride.

But I didn't wear it. I kept it in my coat pocket, the pocket of my winter coat, fingering it like a novitiate telling his beads, keeping track of the button's whereabouts so I would not misplace it.

Then I extracted it at some point out of my coat pocket for, um, safekeeping.

Gawd!

Right.

Where?

God knows (presumably) (is it not presumptuous of us to assign the metaphysical boundaries of omnipotent knowledge? Maybe I've placed this mere object beyond the verge?).

It's not just the fetshistic and ritualistic attachments I am prone to, not just the neurotic-obsessive -compulsive mania; it's also the abject despair of: This Is It. This Is What the Sunset Years Will Consist Of. This And So Much Painfully More.

Plus, the shame of knowing that no one believes me when I say I know exactly where it was (past tense being operative here).

Spare us, O Lord.

Isn't that the refrain of many a litany?

The Litany of the Lost?

Look, Ma, No Hands! I'm Freecycling!

I've blogged about freegans, so why not freecycling?

I'm free to say, "Sounds okay to me."

Isn't this exchange of words and thoughts and feelings we call blogging a bit of spiritual freecycling?

But is anything free?

What is the cost of letting go?

What is the price of too many feckless fruitless fecking questions?


Alliteration Alert:

Polymorphous-perverse polycyclic pedantry pulsates pompously, puerilely.

Cyclic consumerism cascades communities corrosively.

Farewell to July, and my record number of posturing, postulant, petty, petulant, piscine, postliterate postiche of Pawline posts.

(Speaking of verbal blow-ups, wasn't it strange that filmmaker Michelangelo Antonioni died right after filmmaker Ingmar Bergman? Maybe not strange at all. Pretty much all I remember about the former is that FirstSpouse fell asleep in the theater watching "The Passenger." Jack Nicholson either talked too slowly, or not at all. So, of course, I declared I liked the movie, it was high art, how could you?! etc. But no one gets blown up in "Blow-up," right?)

Articles Found and Lost

It has been said, "Wear the world like a loose garment." Good advice, especially when it's hot and sticky. It's often wise to avoid chafing, with clothes or demeanor. I sometimes chafe, as word that sounds like "chase" with a lisp. Whoever came up with the loose-garment theory may have been thinking of saris or Hawaiian shirts or dashikis. This will sound strange, but I carry a piece of fabric in my right pants pocket. not a security blanket, no. It has to do with my glasses. They said don't use tissues to clean them. I believed them. The glasses makers provided me with a black silkish microfiber cloth, 6.5 inches by 6.5 inches, I just measured it, centimeters not listed on the ruler, with "DKNY Donna Karan New York" imprinted in silverish. But sometimes I lose it. So as back-up I cut up some old white T-shirts into pieces (smaller than the DKNY official issue). Mind you, I'm lucky if I clean my glasses twice a week. But they cost me a considerable expense so I must be terrified of scratching the lenses. I even bought a little bottle of spray cleaner for the glasses. I rarely use it. Well, I lost the black DKNY cloth, feeling like Leopold Bloom without Molly's panties in his pocket. I looked in all my pants. Again. And again. No success. I pretty much surrendered, gave up. Then this morning, panty cloth shows up in the right pocket of my green pants, one of the collection of pants I had checked repeatedly while they were hanging in the closet. The thought that maybe I really hadn't checked as thoroughly as I had presumed nearly sent me into manic and neurotic and compulsive searching for that recently lost money. Almost.

After all, it's just an article of would-be clothing.

Letting go is hard.

Letting go of people, places, or things. Articles. Article. It's a pleasant-sounding word, as if it were the smaller second cousin of art. In grammar, we have definite articles (the) and indefinite articles (a, an) (as well as partitive and zero articles).

Let me amend that earlier declaration: Letting go of people, places, things, and animals is hard.

My beloved Rosie, our faithful Golden Retriever, is becoming a zero article.

We learned today she has liver and spleen cancer.

Today, after a slow but pleasing walk (yesterday, she spooked a deer in the brush, in the city! and the deer pranced away across a field), I lay down with her, on the grass besides the women's softball game in Burnet Park. An overly warm May sunset. She was panting. I hypnotically caressed her; she moved her paw if I stopped, urging me to continue. I tearfully and softly told her I loved her and kissed her on her snout, the bridge of her thinning frame, her brown deep eyes sad and vacant. And trusting.

Those same eyes replied to me, "I know," and when the game abruptly ended we got up and walked home.

Articles? Rosie's the real article.

And this precious garment I surrender not readily.