Saturday, May 30, 2009

~Gravity Rose

Originally written in May, 2004, rev May 2009

My pricked and bleeding flesh
from a thorn's rosey afront…
Betray beauty in a brutal flora.
Tears flush the burnt coral I smell.

The fault and pain made mine...
remains of innocent opposition
buried by collapse, bad recoil that
pride did need, denying the darkness.

Love infatuated ruins the innocent,
just like water negates the fire of flames.
Neither life, nor innocence, contest
the inevitable demise, of romance.

Until then, you and I, dance
the tragic heartbreak tango
wounded by stakes lost in storm.
Our steps now soaked on flooded floor.

With a saving grace, context
teaches mobius tricks exist
whereby openings are closures,
revealing sources beyond sublime.

My sadness grows with regards
to tender nostalgia over the worst
requited release in the evil of love.
A soul destroyer, with noisey word rattle.

Her articulation of my failure, now
years passed, razes just as bad.
And any hope of change betrays
the word pricks that remain.

Grown up, a better man,
her words struck in scars.
How I live feeling that wrong
keeps me up late still, injurious.

Our life's blooming rose path
some are lucky just to hear
of, grave my warnings, if lame
as I gravitate this read anyway.

Of her earlier thorns...
I never understood her pain
only later, when I was safe
from our demonic side-effects.

I cut her off in a pass, so my bad
she decides, and our world ended.
Plain and simple, in a boy slamfest
better maimed than roadkill she said.

My anger was exchange of discredit.
A word assault to strike and probe.
That layer is groundwork of challenge.
Tomorrow's sober stories will tell.

Copyright © 5/17/04, RJDuberg
Revised 5/30/09

Friday, May 29, 2009

Zen Insight

The zen master, pouring tea, says to his student, "Your mind is like this tea cup, unless you master the art of emptiness, there will be no room for anything new." And, with that, the teacup began to overflow with the tea from the master's pot, falling to the ground.

I love this analogy because I have lots of personal experience of having a mind running in so many different ways that focusing has become less and less defined and possible in my estimation as my ability to skillfully energize its presence increases. The best way to describe it is watching a continual skipping from track to track creating a flow of life analogous to the sound such actions produce on a turntable when one plays their favorite LP.

Creating emptiness then is fundamental to receiving anything. This must then be the first step towards attaining reality and a complete being.

Following Artists

Don't have a writer to speak of. Listening to Dave Matthews right now, thinking of JLightner, a roommate, who just flew to see him thousands of miles away, play in New York. Tonight, I had fun watching/listening to comedic stand-up.  Ellen DeGeneres, P. Oneal, Craig F, even Tom Hanks was entertaining on cue with David Letterman.

The real story here remains the international economical crisis. There just doesn't seem to be any end to the limits our plans find pertinent and real. The machine doesn't exist anywhere except in our minds along with varying instructional accounts for its operation. Except here, under democratic rule, such social flaws were supposed to stop. Actually, we only succeeded in shining a light into our bottomless capacity to live the machine when our freedom has been attained.

I'm still thinking about how to channel my anger towards my family situation. So far, I've only succeeded in echoing the dysfunction and lived a series of intimate relationships designed to break my heart and create a feeling of being abandoned. I've got that one down, and I no longer am surprised when this demon raises its ugly head in my world and life anymore.

So it goes...

Along with this media swarm, there is the instinct to choke on all the dirt. Let me just say that without acknowledging my responsibility for the amount of dirt in close proximity to my person as being equal or greater, I would not be honest in speaking about that beyond my reach.

Oh yeah, I almost forgot to note a recent observation regarding the value this personal blog actually has for me. There's something empowering about writing one's internal story out when one stays conscious of public access to its read. The focus and the result is completely different than identical literary aims I've had lacking this readership dimension. What is that difference?

In my head the difference has to do with something being read, and my influence over that event. Now with respect, I find this takes work, and I often seem less than competent or skilled in the task, but regardless.

I speak to love and listen for it, and yet my life fails to unfold in any sensible manner or reason. The answers exist but believe me when I say they do not make any difference with respect to the experience of one's being this way. This jumbled and unfocused thing is all I have and all I get, and this knowledge as well was supposed to be of great influence in some transformational context, but biting only resulted in my being hauled out of my flow. What is outside of one's flow is no less as valid and yet being outside the flow it remains foreign and insubstantial to life within the flow.

And, finding myself unable to carry anything else into this entry, I close. Hootie's Blowfish makes timeless into music for me now.

Thursday, May 28, 2009

Family Remains

While my father's previous wife to my mother's marriage and my birth has been problematic for me due to her insane and disruptive behaviors, the reality for me in the larger perspective has been no less crazy and broken down. She has over the years done some truly heinous evil deeds and I could attach all responsibility, at least for the most part, on her. Thinking about my value for my father however, I can imagine how his infidelity to her with my mother, conceiving me with my mom while he was still married to his previous wife could cause that woman the worst even unimaginable kind of female wrath. Reasonable at least where without such understanding I've only suffered the dregs of confusion and resentment against all manner and type of target, credited with guilt by simple association, imagined or real.

The breakthrough in this change of perspective puts responsibility to a degree on my father's immoral act, and forces me to accept my existence as cursed karmically from being a direct result of his lack of integrity. While my mother and he declared me their love child, I am not so easily convinced in the righteousness of that reason.

However, my existence, to have meaning requires that I reconcile the betrayal somehow. That my conscious awareness regarding my suffering and its source relative to my lack of family support and security is maturing to the point of helping me calm my roll and eliminate inappropriate action and emotion(drama), existence remains an unanswered call for me, a void only a genuine purpose will fill.

Raising a family and enjoying the special reality and love a good family milieu provides seems entirely impossible for me at this time. That leaves me alone, I am what's left. From my father's early betrayal, all that is left for me is me, and I ask you, what can possibly exist for me in this life when all that might have been is lost? Even my luck is ruined by that karmic nightmare. I can't even have a decent time playing a simple game because luck is always against me.

Finding something I love to do occurs as a possibility only because there are things I like to do, like write. But, once again the karma card trumps everything else. I'm quite sure nobody cares or wants to read what I have to write or say.

Thus, I understand how the gravity of my life has favored instinctive levels of satisfaction. Eating, sleeping, mind altering substances, all manner of masturbations, etc.  Well, get some help you might say. Did all that, and yet, I know I have nothing else, so I must try again.

Things are never the way they seem

Eminem article in this weeks Entertainment Weekly reports that his post recovery performance and productivity is characterized by him knowing what he wants and how do go about getting it, and most importantly keeping a focus on what's needed and making it happen. I believe that's an oversimplification and worse a gross misrepresentation, designed and paid for by his managers in a behind the scenes conspiracy with the publication.

Or am I just biased by a skewed point of view regarding my own lack of being relative to that? One can and does know quite a lot about what they want. I think for most, underneath their states of denial and distraction, this much can be said to be true if not readily so. It's the knowledge of how to achieve those objectives and the report of an irresistable approach and effort, without error or failure, which I find a bit ridiculous.

Such statements I believe to be at best gross exaggerations and in truth idealizations which turn on dishonesty when presented otherwise.

What a good plan feels like...

It's amazing how much effort I waste planning because I don't create the appropriate feeling necessary to have a plan succeed. A good plan is one felt with confidence to work. Genuinely felt, ego has no part in this assessment, and such plans that are constructed by ego inevitably fail with the exception of abuses of power. That's another subject however for now, the main idea is a simple test one may verify regarding their plans which has to do with conscious awareness of their level of confidence in its success. Often, such plans arrive in our minds rather than get constructed, at least for  myself. I believe it would be a great evolution of my intellect if I could in fact construct such plans consistently.

This kind of reality check during construction, I'm hoping will help me develop more sensitivity towards planning successfully by choice rather by accident for the time being.

The Eocene Era

The question that comes to mind after watching some new Palentology about this age is this...

Does function follow form or not? Or, does form follow function? From what I'm hearing the functionality which emerged at this period in our history OWES its characters to the level and gestalt of the environment/world which was present, the specific ecological DNA of that moment. Not only is this the primary constraint to evolution as we so far have been able to observe and detect it, nothing really has changed and yet everything has changed. Now, is this because our world changes constantly. The answer to this question is about the essence of time.

Time is a series with no two moments being equal yet referring to a unity, two concepts which are mutually exclusive. And as much as I've left this paradox at bay behind the mysteries of irrational modes of thinking, the damn question deserves a rational door or point of access, don't you think?

Therefore what can we say regrarding the original or even originality itself?

Wednesday, May 13, 2009

Father's Resolve and lyrics by Sheryl Crow, Always on Your Side

"Always On Your Side"

My yesterdays are all boxed up and neatly put away
But every now and then you come to mind
Cause you were always waiting to be picked to play the game
But when your name was called, you found a place to hide
When you knew that I was always on your side

Well everything was easy then, so sweet and innocent
My demons and my angels reappear
Leavin' only traces of the man you thought I'd be
Too afraid to hear the words I always feared
Leavin' you with only questions all these years

But is there someplace far away, someplace where all is clear
Easy to start over with the ones you hold so dear
Or are you left to wonder, all alone, eternally
This isn't how it's really meant to be
No it isn't how it's really meant to be

Well they say that love is in the air, never is it clear,
How to pull it close and make it stay
Butterflies are free to fly, and so they fly away
And I'm left to carry on and wonder why
Even through it all, I'm always on your side

But is there someplace far away, someplace where all is clear
Easy to start over with the ones you hold so dear
Or are you left to wonder, all alone, eternally
This isn't how it's really meant to be
No it isn't how it's really meant to be

Well they say that love is in the air, never is it clear
How to pull it close and make it stay
Butterflies are free to fly, why do they fly away
Leavin' me to carry on and wonder why
Was it you that kept me wondering through this life
When you know that I was always on your side

-RIP Dad, I can't help but still weep for you even today, especially after listening to this.

RIP Maryland

Maryland is the name of a very old soul who died two days ago, a 15 year old cainine, all white, adorable bitch. She belonged to a friend and roommate, but too all of us who lived at Elkwood near the Pacific in Imperial Beach, she was our guardian master. She will be so very missed, may she rest in peace. Goodbye girl.