usaforklift

Some of the “Psychology” of Bipolar Disorder

I am in a place that I do not understand.

Well. That is normal, actually, because we do not understand all the infinite variables of life that brought us to where we are.

But this is different for me. I guess I realize that 99% of the time, I do not really question how I got to where I am, and I don’t care (in that sense). But I am hurting (suffering) right now, and I am scared.

I do not know how to get out of this place, and that makes me scared. Consequently I ask myself, “How did I get here?”

Normally, I don’t even care.

So I seek help, and we begin to try to put a label on my situation or condition, and then, worse than that, we try to put a label on me.

But why are labels what we seek? It is because we work within the concepts of thinking, most of which are developed from and interactive with language.

And language could be seen as a formula standardized by images or sounds, that we will agree, represents, or “means” that thing we try to conceptualize.

And so, those standardized images or sounds become our codes, our language.

So we throw out hypothesis after hypothesis regarding the unknown. It shall be called “manic-depression” we say.

But that sounds so terrible that we assume a more neutral (and descriptive) clinical wording, “bipolar disorder”. So does that help us?

Yes, it probably does, in many ways. (We will start to interact with our language constructs, and we will change them, and they will change us. They will become part of our new reality.)

So now, after seeking external (or “other person or entity or knowledge) help, I find this language applied to me. My first reaction is shock and horror, and I descend into despair.

The more they try to explain this concept to me, the worse it gets.

They tell me it is a “hereditary” condition. That makes it worse, because I am beginning to feel “doomed”, like there is no escape from it.

In fact, they even tell me that I must begin to “reconcile” myself to “it”, and that it is a “life-long” condition, and there is no “cure”, but it can be “managed”, and it may be possible for me to live a “somewhat normal” life”, but I will need to take medications forever.

In fact, I must not ever quit taking the medications that they prescribe for me, because, if I do, even if I am feeling well and don’t feel like I need them, I might have a “sudden relapse” or “episode” and become severely agitated, anxious, depressed, or something they call “manic”.

And I do not know what all these words mean. So they try to teach me (at $150 per hour, or, if I am in crisis, maybe $1000 per day in their hospitals).

And throughout this process, they try to, essentially, make me feel better.

And they seem to be confused or bewildered as to why continue to feel worse and worse.

But, in order to develop my story line, without losing you, the reader, I will jump to my conclusions (at least, the ”conclusions” that prompted me to sit down and start writing this).

They are this (and I say “conclusions” because I am searching for some “common denominators” for this “condition”. I have a strong feeling that I have caused my condition.

And that may sound bad, but I only say “caused” in a positive sense, in that it if I caused it I can also “uncause” it, i.e. “escape” it, or possibly even “eliminate” it from my life (i.e. make it stop bothering me).

We can debate all the causes later. My point for now (to you, and to myself!) is this: I caused it, and, partly though this “positive” realization, I also have the ability to escape it or make it go away.

But I want to just back up one step from “I caused it”. How did I cause it?

I caused it by losing control of part of my reality. And what does that mean? I probably caused it by somehow, some way, in some place in my life, I adopted a behavior of desperation.

I became desperate to, for example, succeed. And the flip side of succeed is fail.

I also, to varying degrees and intermixed with my desperation to succeed, became desperate not to fail.

Further, I did not realize I was doing this. It developed slowly inside me.

At first, my “psychology” was strong and resilient, and it did not hurt me.

But gradually, it became stronger and pervaded more and more of my mental and emotional landscape.

At some point, I kept “pushing on myself” so much to succeed and not to fail, that I affected myself physically.

I began to get nervous, tired and had an increasingly hard time sleeping.

My “breakdown” came when I had increasing trouble sleeping and, consequently began to be unable to get the rest my body, mind and emotions required to remain in a healthy balance (healthy ”circle” of behaviors).

I may have added to this downward spiral by assuming other ultimately harmful behaviors.

So now my life has become a complicated “mess”, and I feel miserable and hopeless.

Apsidal precession

Oh mark my words I never

Thought I'd come this way

My only chain and tether

Between the night and day

Was draw a line and find it

Or throw a chord about

My apsidal precession

Was surely not in doubt

I know your perturbation

A true anomaly

Can’t be the right rotation

And all in spite of me

And angling for your orbit

But I deviated much

You never knew I loved you

As you never felt my touch

Your periapsis argument

Your anomalistic year

The deviousness of your intent

That clever little sneer

Just tipped me off my lover

That you were not the one

I thought you were my true moon

But then you were the sun

You tried to change my apsis

You leaned upon my node

You juxtaposed your forces

And on my heart you rode

Hint: See http://answers.yahoo.com/question/index;_ylt=AtpfK... and http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Apsidal_precession

The Thrift Store

I only wear NEW CLOTHES Mommie.

They have to be NEW Mommie.

EEOOUUU!! You mean somebody else has used them!!

EEOOUU!! How disgusting!!

Note: This person lives in a USED HOUSE because it was in a NICE NEIGHBORHOOD,

bought a USED car because they called it "PRE-OWNED and certified",

I will never buy, own or appreciate ANTIQUES, because they have all been

..... USED BY SOMEBODY BEFORE.

Well, used things are good enough for POOR PEOPLE, but I AM SPECIAL!

I only only only ever ever ever BUY NEW THINGS.and ...... we're RICH ...

aren't we Mommie?

So let me see. So what is this THING you have about U.S.E.D. things??

Well I don't like anything that has been touched by ANOTHER HUMAN BEING before!!

Hmmmmmm.... OK.

So like, unless it has been built by a ROBOT, you won't buy it, even NEW?

No, if it is NEW, then I will buy it.

Hmmmmm.

So like, you don't eat in reataurants then, right?

Because another HUMAN BEING has prepared thefood, right?

Yes, that's right. I don't like reataurants FOR THAT VERY REASON.

I just eat FAST FOOD, because it is prepared BY ROBOTS.

Hmmm ... that's interesting.

So how about at achool, did you ever sit in a USED DESK?

one that has been USED by another HUMAN being BEFORE?

Ooooh that's NOT FAIR!! You're trying to TRICK ME!!

Mommie!! This man is bad. He wants me GET SOMETHING USED.

Mommie!!

Just a minute Hunny,

there is a sales on Guchy, Eves San Laurent, Tommy Hilfiger,

and all my favorites.

They have the PERFECT Distressed Denim Jeans that I need to be IN STYLE.

Wait Hunny. Mommie need TO GO SHOPPING.

Those denim jeans that Mommie has been looking for FOREVER

ARE ON SALE.

They are marked down from $399 to only $99.

Limit two pairs per customer.

Mommie need to get up at 5:00 AM

and drive to the mall.

Mommie's tired Hunny.

Can we talk about this later, please ...

(to be continued ...

This message brought to you by you local THRIFT STORE.

Any resemblance between the characters in this script and any real persons, is purely coincidental.

Haha hoho hehe

Call for operating hours and/or operating hours.

We don't outsource out operators! Haha hehe

Shouldn't he or she be the attender, that is, the "one who attends", not as the word attendee seems to imply, that the person is the "one who gets attended"?

The definition does not seem to solve the problem:

attendee (plural attendees)

A person who is attended.

A person who attends (a function).

http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/attendee

OK, so what's with our language: are the rules consistenly applied, or do just make up words? Like, the plural of "mouse" was always "mice", until, of course, the mouse became part of the computer, now it appears as if the plural can be either "mice" or "mouses". But if I has said, "The mouses are in the houses" a while back, well, what do you think?

mouse (plural mice)

Any small rodent of the genus Mus (informal) A member of the many small rodent and marsupial species resembling such a rodent. A quiet or shy person. (computing) (plural mice or, rarely, mouses) An input device that is moved over a pad or other flat surface to produce a corresponding movement of a pointer on a graphical display. (boxing) hematoma

http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/mouse

Oh, just a couple more, while we're at it. Why do we always say, "The thing is, is that ..."? I even heard President Obama say that in a speech.

And why on earth do reporters always say "the alleged suspect"? Isn't that redundant? I mean, either the person is the suspect or not, right? Saying "alleged suspect" seems to question whether or not the person is considered a suspect or not.

Signed: Confusee

Trout

High mountains

cold and dark against night

Shuffling feet

along heavy planks of pier

Pulling ropes of bow and stern

Tiny boat undulating

to currents of moon-lit waters

Fishing tackle stowed

poles boxes bait

livelings wriggling in sawdust

cheese balls in oil

and dancing metal lures

to sparkle feint and run

Casting off by oar

Pulling at the tiny motor

Rope and crank rope and crank

Choke and rope

Chug sputter chug adjust

sputter whirr

Clanking of metal against metal

Cutting straight toward the deep

into the quiet

A muffled skimming

Waves slapping prow

Ball caps life preservers

coffee soft drinks sandwiches

They are off for the game

of fishing

before sun rising

to drop enticers into deep

running spinners in shallows

They play the game

of reading trout

father and son

and being quite possibly

as close as they

can ever be

The Weasel was wheezing one day

perhaps it seems odd to say

The sun went into a hole in my hand

and the moon came out to play

A very big Nerf strode up just then

just as the Air came out

I was holding Wendell upside down

to see if the Bug would come out

I thought it would help to warm him

He sipped at the Hot Choc-a-rumpus

He must have recovered completely

as he left with nary a thump-us

Oh whistle me, whittle me every way

down to the Lazy Old Sea

I'll have to go fishing or swishing or wishing

and see what I have to see

Patty fat, porky fork, ribble de do

when my work is almost through

I have to attend to my own affairs

and only the daytime will do

So Wendell, he's my soft, fat friend

His nose is pink and moist

His whiskers twitch at every move

He's pound for pound Top-choice

The day the Great Rock fell

it shook us all around

I fell out of the tree and plunk

I met a very new friend on the ground

Pardon me, I'm Terwiler, a Fosfit

in case you didn't know

I'm probably quite a bit too fat

on top, as well as below

You see, the Light split open the Air

and Rock Wumps must take their chances

So then I'm off, I almost forgot

to the river, by happenstances

I probably couldn't explain to you

why we find our affairs this way

It must seem odd to you, as you're

from the Land of Night and Day

And I know you can't speak Woofie

but we speak it with native tongue

If I say grab-o-lilly-o-lip

the words can be spoken or sung

So welcome! Come along with us

I've got no place to go

You're free to visit us any old time

but your Real Things call, we know

And we know you are the Humans

We have you all on our List

and you know us: we're your Daydreams

We're here, then we're gone like the mist

I, er I

I, er I

(Can you follow this? Try)

I, er I

I, oh I

You, yes you

Oh you

If you, and I

Er, we

Oh, we

Ah, we

Yes, we

Ah well, you know, if we

that is

you and I

could, well

sometime?

Yes?

No?

You think?

You think that we

could (perhaps?)

that is, sometime, ever?

If you could ever see

that is, see

what I see

I see you

when I close my eyes

We’re standing there

together

there standing

in my mind’s eye

where I see

what I see

So now

you know

(you know?)

about me

And I

well, I

(I’ll get this or die!)

would just like to know

(you know?)

about you

the Conversations

… and the best thing

would be to perform

One spoke as the two men sat

at the small table in the corner

amidst the clutter of dishes and voices

A single flower long-stemmed and fine

tipped to one side in the slender glass vase

And the waiters came and went

in their judicious haste

Outside the air well into spring

the sky a high dove's egg

pale blue and speckled across the center

The wine rich and earthy

and their chairs on the uneven boards

the voices mixed and melting

into a kind of foliage

in the room reserved for the foreigners

The two men sat in their business suits

learning to wear their disguises

and how to place the cup to the side

And the one man said

he would be a performer

and the other thought he's too intense

It isn't played that way

It's an accident he thought

And the soufflés came

and the salt and peppers went around

And the fans turned slowly overhead

like the twisting prop of a dying airplane

So when did you come here?

It was long ago

I came here for love

Didn't you?

Oh yes, in a manner

yes, the other said

nodding his head

I just have to find a way to express it

These things happen incidentally, don't they?

Yes, that is, if you pursue them

And it's best to know people

who speak in a foreign language

You can understand them more clearly

when you don't know

what they are saying

There once was a young boy named Ned

who wouldn't say put in his bed.

His mother had kissed him at eight,

tucked him in and pulled the sheets straight.

And darkness filled all the room 'round,

so that Ned could hear nary a sound.

He should have been sleepy, he knew,

but outside the winter wind blew.

And how could the day end just so?

Poor Ned still had places to go!

And even if destined to sleep,

there were wishes and dreams he must keep

They played and built castles all day,

then at night had to put them away

They could never grow tired of tag,

nor could a puppy's tail wag its last wag!

It's hard saying goodnight to friends.

Little boys prefer beginnings to ends.

Ned still had some growing to do,

and each day he started anew.

And these were the usual things,

that made up his summers and springs!

=============================

Tonight was a cold night in winter.

They had stacked wood and made the logs splinter.

And while the pillow tousled his hair,

outside a storm blustered the air.

Big tree branches scratched the night air.

Ned was glad that his parents were there!

Ned knew that the fire still burned

in the big room. Alone his heart yearned.

He knew that the embers still glow.

If he waited, then no one would know!

As he lay, his awareness was heightened.

To his eyes, the room gradually lightened.

So Ned said his prayers and he waited

His plan was still there, just belated!

=============================

Ned listened for sounds in the house,

but his parents were quiet as a mouse.

They tip-toed about without sound,

but Ned knew they were up and around.

At long last the steps made a CREEK!

Ned could tell there were two sets of feet.

He lay stone-still, his heart pounding,

his thoughts and his visions abounding!

Ascending, the sounds turned to the right.

Ned could hear his parent's door shut tight.

The light from the crack in the door

was flicked off and then was no more.

=============================

So now was the time for decision.

Ned's plan would require precision!

His plan was to make it downstairs,

but before him lay pitfalls and snares.

And the first was the sound of his feet,

he knew, as he slipped from the sheet.

Little boys know how to make the door CLICK

but just when the big clock went TICK

He knew how to hold to the rails

and step where the boards had no nails

And bundled from head to tip-toe

Ned set out for the big room below

Ned stood at the foot of the stair

The fire tinged the chill in the air

=============================

A flame flickered and the embers glowed bright

Ned stepped forward his feet feeling light

Then he lay down and drew up his feet

it felt good to lie close by the heat

Darkness deepened and cast its long palls

and shapes great and small danced the walls

Ned's eyelids grew heavy and then fell

but there's more to our story to tell!

=============================

Day came now to visit the boy

but now the Real Things were a toy

His school was a great stone-built castle

The guards wore a steel helmet and tassel

The spires of the castle rose high

past the clouds and far into the sky

Ned's teachers were all dressed up as knights

on big stallions, could give you a fright!

And somehow the boy was the King

which was not the only strange thing

His mommy and daddy weren't 'round

and he as the one that they'd crowned

A fair princess was imprisoned up where

a great dragon had captured here there

In this land where time had stood still

Young Ned found a test for his will

=============================

Well, there wasn't so much he could do

So he set out to see the thing through

Ned started to climb the tall spire

step by step, and it seemed to grow higher

He could hear then that someone was calling

and he climbed on with no thought of falling

When he finally came to the top

two big bolts on a door made him stop

And poor Ned spoke as brave as he could

“Never fear! This door is just wood!”

And then from the shadows, a great roar!

The great dragon rose from the floor

A terrible green monster in scales

His huge claws were sharper than nails

He blew clouds of black smoke all around

belched hot fire and shook the whole ground

Then he spoke, and he said, "I'm to dine!

And you'd make a fine morsel, with wine!"

=============================

The mean old dragon took aim

and shot directly at Ned with his flame

But Ned saw it and jumped to the side

There was still no place he could hide

And the flame burnt the locks off the door

Ned leaped in and lit on the floor

"We have only one hope," the princess said

Quick! Or we'll both wind up dead!

"Cut a lock from my hair, and count three,

and we'll sail from this place, be set free!"

So Ned scattered her hair like a sail,

and they landed safely, though shaken and pale

The dragon had set the place burning

It was

The Place of Writing

I have journeyed to a place

From which I find there’s no escape

The essence of my arteries

Tells me my blood unlikely frees

Me from this so unlively spot

Til I have ground the perfect dot

Upon the table of the writing

Through the fuss, the fury, fighting

Just to state my meager effort

Sprout the wings a bird of feather

Grind my snout into the dirt

A grunt a huff no proper word

Can come to me in moment now

I might as well become a cow

Or moss upon a shining rock

The way I sing the way I talk

What sense of mine can I convey

But pass the feelings on the way?

Through awkward script and jotted note

The fasted form the formless bloat

The efforts I have taken measure

Distance of my pain and pleasure

Mark my spot no more than dung

Which turns to earth reborn unsung

The brave Skipper Nelson would sail up

To the dock in his leaky old boat

And step off into the twilight

In his thick fisherman’s sweater and coat.

He called Nancy his belle his sweetheart, she

Came to greet him and see what he caught, and

She was so young and so pretty

That her honor could never be bought!

Oh sail away, won’t you sail away?

It’s a sailor’s life for me.

The ocean is rolling with beckon and call,

And only a sailor is free, is free.

Only a sailor is free!

The Skipper held a dream down deep in his heart,

And behind his scraggly white fisherman’s beard,

And under a kindly manner, his mind was set

To go after and conquer the fish that he feared.

So one night the Skipper came not to the shore,

Nor did the light find his boat in the mooring,

But the high walls of water and the bright sea sun

Held the secret of the Skipper’s sail and oar.

The Skipper drove straight for the open seas

With tiller clasped in a firm skipper’s stand.

Every article of his ship ware had yielded

Once at least to his time-toughened hand.

And he knew his boat well, or ne’er would he sail

More an extension of his will than his hand.

He merged, becoming one with the motion and mist

And passed far beyond the sight of the land.

And blackness of night on the sea was intense.

In clearings of weather, he found bearings above.

The shining stars formed his beacons of passage,

And he read them as one puts a hand in a glove.

On that dread day, daybreak came red and clear

In the stillness, the chilled boatman wiped his brow.

The silence above and beyond earth and sky

Bode ill of a force lurking deep ‘neath the prow.

Hours passed, the heat rose, the time dwindled on.

The Skipper shielded his eyes and yielded a yawn.

Sleep came upon him, as the day trickled by,

And the visitor came between darkness and dawn.

Feeling it, he jumped, the boat seized to the side.

Both oars rose from the water to fly,

A gale tore the mainsail and toppled the pole.

The poor man knew not if he’d live or he’d die.

In midday, the sky came in darkness again.

A spiral fountain swirled up and took him inside,

The fish in the water rose high up above him,

And the curtain of heaven fell down to the land.

Brave Skipper, sure! He’d faced nature before.

He had strength in his forearms and steel in his oar.

He feared not commotion, the wholesale uproar.

He took the fierce lashing and came back for more.

Yet this day stung him down deep in his heart.

His long journey had somehow taken him here.

He had driven his life for this one awful moment,

And now he would know the extent of his fear.

A necklace of emeralds, the islands lie scattered,

Where children crack coconuts burnt brown by the sun,

Play water games and collect fishes’ teeth for trinkets.

Their land is for play, and the sea is their fun.

Oh sail away, won’t you sail away?

It’s a sailor’s life for me.

The ocean is rolling with beckon and call,

And only a sailor is free, is free.

Only a sailor is free!

Another Day

I find what you have written here to be very interesting.

You have written from the heart

and with some style.

You have told a story

and painted a picture with your words.

You have brought to mind things

And the thoughts of things,

And the very thing of thought itself.

You have entertained me, in a way.

I would have read your piece of my own choosing.

In your writing, you depict people,

and I can believe in them.

The cry and laugh, and other things happen.

You are quick to point out the irony.

You float glibly across our sensibilities,

while prodding us to think the more.

But most of all, you have a gift,

Which you have given us here,

That is, yourself,

Which is, of course, most pleasing.

And I can see that you are a moral person,

But you avoid trouncing us with your morality.

A light touch, you question more than answer

And leave it to us to decide for ourselves.

You almost speak a voice universal,

one we all can feel,

if only we could express it,

and a feeling of the yearning to reach farther,

to see what is on the other side,

and perhaps, just for an instant,

to touch it.

And in all these senses,

You have written a very interesting work.

Your audience would applaud you

for your artistry.

And it is therefore with much chagrin

that I must tell you

that, with regard to the publication of your poem,

it surely will be published

and be read, with much appreciation.

And while we are pleased that you would contact our establishment,

we are not in a position

to take on your project

at this time.

I therefore find myself forced to offer you

This perhaps small consolation,

That there will be, indeed

Another day

Very sincerely yours

What?What?What?

Publishers & Bookiers

New York, NY

cooking in the kitchen

my poetry lies folded in the wrappers

marked for value sifted sorted folded filed

rejected accepted a line of strenuous dispositions

stretching from the keyboard to the kitchen counter top

and there the toaster pops up nouns

the pot bubbles with a verbal sauce

to my left some crusty prepositions browning nicely

i have some lightly steaming adjectives

mixed in with some adverbs for flavor

but a rattle heard a u tips over and pours out his contents

all over his neighbor poor l he stands up like a v

next the i shoots his rocket pellet into outer space

and trenchant t tips over and stabs nubile n right in the head

and this letter goes and another comes

on this notion of mine

and the poetry comes and goes and flows across the room

from the kitchen to the eventual reward

placement into the new material file

and while the keyboard's still humming

and the waste paper basket 's filled with crumpled corn pops

some crazy-wire insects crawl over the top

scrambling to regain their original designs

before they were so contorted

and pressed upon my page

always stranger the truth

than i can say

always stranger the truth

than i can know

the truth lives in approximations

we imagine though we live it

the truth

fixed deeply within our rest and motion

the truth

nestled down next to fantasy and delusion

pure and simple the truth

raw and winsome

keen and fearsome the truth

sharp and winsome

direct

elusive

drawn effusive the truth

is only what you make of it

is nice so long as you can use it

i was speaking the truth one day

in the mental hospital

and no one was listening

boy stands easily on the smooth flat rock

pond shines around like his first set of teeth

and the mountains of sky

and the razors of conifers surround

sunbeams press his skin and drown

the phantoms of a sleepless night in winter

for a moment he thinks i am whole

he looks from a thin rutted trail looping their campfire

to the girl. he smiles for the thin black glass

she holds she cradles in slender fingers

she snaps the shutter flies across the light

he shifts his stance i am your baby you married me

come step over the moss in fumbling hands

and faces rounder smoother wetter

pressing sunbeams from the corners

now the plastic rectangle pressed in plastic

strangles memories of him and her

and half the photos discarded

and half and half again the scenery

then hands and feet

at the hands of unknown strangers

boy opens again the large slick binder

a long time ago and far away

she holds the camera

short version

breezes speak in the rustling leaves

bathe my skin with a thousand flowers

i see myself in the distance

beckoning come to me

oh lost stranger

I am saying

will you awaken too soon

to know of heaven in the distance?

your shining hair

extending hand

me to me

across the heavy distance

and through the infinite space

palm to palm you say

the loneliness needn’t be

the universe is spoken

through the hearts of lovers

all time and space

and earth and sky and God

are passing here

within the breath of angels

i hear the music of the grasses

alone in this meadow of the sun

sweet pasture of light

as evening comes

the world turns

long version

in the golden rods of twilight

in the gleaming air of dusk

the gentling hews of nightfall as i walk

the song of little sparrows

floats off in time immemorial

across the universe

and to the farthest places

we shall never know

they sing to raise me in my stumbling step

my feet bathed and brushed in the gentle grasses

the giant walks staunchly by

across the tips and spears

just one of us

one spear speaks to another

yes, but heavy-set, or rather, isn’t he?

the breezes speak in the rustling leaves

bathe my skin with the scent of a thousand flowers

i see myself approaching in the distance

beckoning come to me

oh lost stranger

boy here i am

will you awaken too soon

to know of heaven in the distance?

your shining hair

extending hand

me to me

across the heavy distance

and through the infinite space

palm to palm you say

the loneliness needn’t be

the universe is spoken

through the hearts of lovers

all time and space

and earth and sky and God

are passing here

within the breath of angels

i hear the music of the grasses

alone in this meadow of the sun

sweet pasture of dandelion and flower

as evening takes the greens and limes away

and brings the grays and golden browns

of rest

and the soon-to-be grasses-of-tomorrow

are quick

to erase the memory of my heavy shoe

in the passing

dalai lama

we westerners know a lot of dollies

not the least of whom showed up in l.a. to speak

the dalai lama

of all the dollies of all the dollies

from hello to ms parton to salvador

and the two-wheeled dollie to the two-eyed

plastic wind-up dollie that speaks in rhymes

of all the dollies

who should show up at our door?

the dalai lama

of all the lamas of all the lamas

fernando and the bushy four-legged argentineans

that breathe that high air

of all the lama’s

making his presence known – the dalai lama

and i read about it in the l.a. weekly

after passing so many opportunities

to press into his subject

in comparative religions

as an undergraduate

or in some musty corner of papa bach’s

where exotic religions hang-out

with politics and philosophy

all reaching out for an audience

all encompassing our human entities

speaking from the depths with discipline and truth

wisdom compassion and self-control

for all of us materialists hedonists and pagans

blasting about in high-tech civilization

meek and humble voices declaring what virtues?

(the dalai speaks)

happiness – a man and a woman is meant to exude it

and he laughs

he jostles with the press

he gives it and takes it with wit

and yes a fair share of charisma

with due respect

a bum has his own brand of charisma

but the dalai

is he not merely another religious man?

and are we not so deeply wounded

and now forewarned

that religious men come asking

and the price be paid in advance

that salvation is obtainable

if you can only see things my way?

and of all the dollies

of all the lamas

is this one going to ease my personal burden?

is this one going to clean up the filthy streets?

can this one mend the broken heart?

or heal the crippled hand?

is he the one to give us what we want

or what it is we really need?

or is this dalai going to show us a better way

of seeing the reality before us?

how to change what we can

and live with what we cannot change?

at least for our time?

and is this dalai not more a point of perspective

in a world of ever-shifting sands?

a pope? representing the things we believe in

whether or not we can live them?

do you know this dalai from the high castle?

his temple never far from the menacing teeth

of powerful ideology and ignorance?

he’s had a healthy dose of trouble

in his time

and if he can come to teach

lend us a method

inspire or symbolize

stimulate or even intrigue

the praise dalai

sock him on the back

hand him the microphone

look at and listen to this dalai

at least consider this lama

because after all

he could do a lot worse

and you think you know what politics is

and you think politics is all about voter registration and issues

war, abortion, taxes, global warming, and medicare

you think politics is all those candidates running for office

and you think you know what politics is

let me tell you what politics is

politics is a dollar in my pocket and a rock in my head

politics is a glass eye, shell shock, and schizophrenia

an impenetrable wall that eludes your touch

politics is a big advertisement for coca-cola classic

and the drum beat of the daily news

and just as history is the chronology of war

politics is the seismic movement of power

you feel it and they tell you everything about it that is

of no possible value

politics is two guys slam drunk in some local dive

not knowing what society they live in or who they're talking to

because politics is not what you see on the six o'clock news

politics is all the reasons it got all fouled up in the first place

politics is why they misappropriated your money

politics is all of t. s. eliot's "arguments of insidious intent"

where words are cast about like frisbees in the air

words like liberty equality freedom justice patriotism

the meanings bleached out by the sun

and contorted by misunderstanding and abuse

illiterate we are in our native tongues

politics is the mish and the mash of compromise

it' s the give and take of his opinion and hers

politics is the confluence of the "is"

with the "what ought to be"

real-politick is the reality of life as opposed to the dream

it is life's approximations instead of the ideal

and there come a man and woman of the caves and jungles

displaced just a little

to occupy the high rise office structures and condominiums

they have shed the mask of thickened hide and heavy fur

and don the satin sheen of this new hairless breed

clinking cocktails

sliding loosely into believing in ideologies

politics is the enaction of survival of the fittest

politics is the play of those best equipped for this world

with all the tools endowed by God

and played-out without any knowledge of His existence

politics is getting along with life

while watching those less fortunate fall by the wayside

and you watch and pray

to save your guilty soul

and spare yourself the others' fate

politics is not a two party game

structured opposition democracy and government in the making

politics is the color of our lives

politics is what we settle for

politics is the yin and the yang of our work and our play

of life and its introspection

politics is a stale joke in a smoke-filled room

oh! i lost my wallet on the other street corner!

but the light is so much better over here

politics is a lighthouse beacon shining far out

into the fog-shrouded night

and politics is a baby-blue tinted disposable contact lens

on the eye of a potato

things we say

life goes on

i’ve seen it all before

people come and people go

perhaps i am more fortunate

the crisis passes

all the funny pieces all the segments all the pain

i was too frightened to go insane

fear welds the scattered pieces of the spirit

and pain brings the mind into focus

looking now at the wide white walls

i see the long thin cracks in the plaster

and read the names of the presidents

administrators and the donors

they gave their lives

so we could live

I’m all right

i’ll be well again soon

i’m getting better, really

I am

i am

breath of sea

come and take a walk with me

down to the raging boundless sea

down to the surf-torn tides and sand

beyond the cliffs to the edge of land

come to the sea horizon-bent

carved by the weight of sight and sound

to this pool of life we scarcely know

take my hand and come, let’s go

dawn breaks the gray-cast wilderness

time moves this restless space beyond

we – two simple creatures stand

to share the mysteries of our bond

deep in sleep the sea meets sky

where rain is torn with relentless cry

where heavens open unto the night

the source of life beckons the light

we are too of ages told

our first and last meet here as one

oh sea of whispers cry and moan

your pirouette awaits the sun

i clasp your hand in wonderment

the bursting bells and tinkling light

this vast unceasing churning form

is truest true and rightest right

i speak in silence hollow sound

i yearn to cry out – draw you near

I think your mist will be my strength

my love will last another year