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Phil, I am starting to realize that there are several giabytes of my writings that I published in other forums but never here at Shalomplace, so, I'll be flooding your Discussion Boards over the next few weeks 'til it is all safely offsite data-stored
 (tongue planted firmly in cheek, but I do have some schtuff I'll post as different sojourners pass through and prompt old musings of mine) ...starting with some poetry: Liminal Threshold Fun  i love the marshland's looks and sounds for my childhood was taken up there through mile after mile of broken, bent reeds i passed time with never a care on the opposite side was the river, it travelled from way up north thousands of miles it came to deliver what no one had beckoned forth for countless hours we'd play on its banks making cowbellies in its dark mud she freely bestowed gifts of driftwood and fish and, when ships passed, her foaming white suds but the childhood memory that stays with me most? bright brilliant Saturday afternoons my grandmother'd take me inside that dark church where she'd hum hauntingly beautiful tunes it was otherwise silent and reverent and holy sweet scented candles burned everywhere but the light that intrigued me burns in my memory still 'twas a red flame that was glowing up *there * maybe 'cause i was so very little back then or perhaps the altar so very tall the light from the candle inside that red glass seemed so very awfully small yet all the attention seemed pointed that way 'twas where steps led up to the big cross and on it there hung this pitiful man prompting memories of people i'd loss near his feet between bouquets of flowers the ones that my grandmother had brought was a little gold house with a little white veil where God lives or so i was taught she'd smooth out the cloths and linens so white and polish the chalice of gold she'd refill crucibles with water and wine that the next day would be blood i was told well imagine the awe in an eight year boy soaking up everything grandmother taught imagine the thoughts that would run through his mind the impressions that all of this wrought there were questions that would arrive later but for then we just stayed to our task years after she died and i'd grown and moved on there was no one i was willing to ask for they all seemed to buy into grandmother's scheme for meaning and purpose in life they never would question or wonder or dream and who was i to invite them to strife? their strife was o'er, their battle won never a doubt assailed firm beliefs as for me, my battle was just beginning of angst and of fear and of grief may i decrease and you increase was my constant vigil and prayer til others might have a problem here in knowing who's standing there i willed to become like the man on the cross who lived in that little gold house but the faith my grandmother had given was gone or was as small as that tiny church mouse i continued to go through the actions of faith and in time i raised kids of my own taught them all the things that my grandmother'd taught planted all the same seeds that she'd sown as for me, in the meantime, i delved into books theology, philosophy and prayer but the feelings of bright, sunny Saturday noons in church--- never returned to me there i resolved to do everything "just because" and forsaking my reasoning mind i decided i'd wait for my God to return in His own due season and time i believed in goodness and beauty and truth though they seemed to lack any support was the universe friendly? was meaning intact? would life's loves just some day abort? for the heat death of the universe is a verity simple to know it'll all burn out without fanfare or care with not even an afterglow but some folks talk of an afterlife full of goodness and beauty and truth with their loved ones and the man on the cross all the prophets, Naomi and Ruth fearful souls harbor such feeble glad thoughts and i'm glad it consoles them so as for me and my people i'd like the same, too but how is one ever to know? is there primal ground and primal being? unconditional truth and meaning? all i could do was to take that leap with no visible prop for the leaning i would cling to beauty just because of the hold that it had on me as for goodness and truth i surrendered there, too unconditionally i gave up the fight and let everything go and abandoned myself to the flow only truth and beauty and goodness perdured no other god would i know and i thought long and hard about all my desires of the assurances and convictions i lacked if i had them what would i do differently? and no answers ever came back in the dark night of faith, in love i'd persist giving up my long search for the grail the journey became my destination on an ocean of love i would sail and that ocean was silent, gave never a clue of its origins, its depths or its floor but it gently caressed me and placed me down on the sands where it kisses its shore and the sights there were vaguely familiar for i awakened in marsh grass and reeds right close to the river and next to the church where grandmother had planted her seeds still everything differed while all was the same it was something within me had changed other people went on with their business but my programs had been rearranged i no longer cared what they thought about me and i no longer needed their praise the guilt and the fear that they'd used to control they could keep for the rest of my days i had somehow come into to the Oneness wherein each of us is quite the same on the other hand and very strangely enough each still had their very own name all i did was to sleep a long sleep all i did was get tired of the pain all i did was surrender my every desire every guilt, every fear, every shame and the moment i quit and gave all of this up is indelibly etched in my soul and i'll never go back to the ways of the world and i'll never rejoin their fold all i did was to wake up and see as if seeing the very first time my learned habits and fears and lunacy and the havoc they wreaked in my mind who told you that God would not love you unless you conformed to His laws? who told you that you must act this way or that in order to win His applause? well i'm telling you now they were lying but it's just that they just didn't know they were only repeating the things that were taught from ages and ages ago and i know that this news is quite hard to believe and that some will continue to sleep and i'm not trying to change you or shepherd some herd as if you weren't people but sheep i'm just dancing my dance and living quite free and writing my poems and my musings knowing all shall be well and all is well despite what we're finding confusing i'm telling you, though, to learn to trust the almost silent voice within i'm really suggesting you quiet it all down and learn anew how to begin for this is mostly about new beginnings each moment, each second, each day to see each person and each event afresh in most every way for each is brand new and each has become the sum total of what's gone before and the sum of that total changes so often 'tis folly to ever keep score 'tis the keeping score that's worst of all to think winners necessitate losers there's no merit, reward, recognition we're all beggars and beggars are choosers but look at all the good choices they're all blessed and love-filled and fun there's no need to compete with each other for these blessings have only begun neither death nor life nor angel not any principality can take you away from the Father's love which is yours for eternity i tell you again, these blessings are free the graces are there for the choosing but you'll never experience this heavenly peace 'til you quit thinking "winning or losing" you can't win a reward that is already yours you can't lose what can never be lost you can't store up treasures to purchase a gift when it's given without any cost would you ever turn away from Him? well know this, that if you should He'll pursue your love forever like any parent would would a lover leave her own beloved? would a parent ever leave a child? would a Creator forget a creature? not even for awhile the truth, the beauty, the goodness, the love the solidarity are nothing we could ever attain they simply are, you see? to see, to look, to gaze in awe is a very simple task to wake up and see what's there to see is all the Master asks for after you awaken, the task's already done compassion flows out naturally we'll be not-two, not-one the love will flow out unawares left hands won't know their right the holy will never know holiness the seeing will see without sight self-consciousness will simply disappear there will be no "me" to harm we'll all be "I's" inside I AM we'll all be arm in arm we'll have all been there ten thousand years bright shining as the sun each generation's moms and dads each daughter and each son the loves we'll have shared continuing on the pains we'll have shared forgotten with the God we'll have known from ages hence within each of our hearts begotten where the doing becomes being and object and subject are One apophatic and kataphatic will be liminal threshold fun ! 'til then i'll still enter the darkened church humming grandmother's light-filled hymns no longer with thoughts that run through my head i'll just sit and i'll stare at Him i'll just sit and i'll gaze at the little red glow and i'll smile at the little gold house i'll look up at my friend on the cross as He winks as He squeaks through that little church mouse my grandmother will smile, not from up above but from a dwelling place deep within and i'll know i'll be with her bye and bye but there's much to do until then like go down to the river and play in the mud and kick up the dirty white foam like be anywhere that i happen to be knowing home is wherever i roam in the city or the marshland while at work or when at play i'll silently gaze at Him everywhere and here i'll always stay all i do now is unconditional all i do now is just because all i do now is wonder how people can be the way that i once was all may be well, all can be well all will be well i'm certain all shall be well is all you know when you pull away the curtain don't listen to others describing the sights don't imagine what lies behind tear open the curtain and look for yourself the scenery here is just fine no rights reserved, not copyrighted, tell everyone you wrote it and forward it around the world a dozen times ;>  johnboy |
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The Anawhimsical Literati
don't take solace in the notion that few will ever escape the academic gulag archipelago to pillage, plunder and rape the literary modalities and language conventions; forewarned is now forearmed sTYLe iS conTEnT ! foRm 'tis sUbstancE ! is taught in their bAck waRds? this here medIuM is mY meSsage and my mcCluhanesque disregard broke me out of that asylum with literary superego never formed +++ this literati mouse will never roar nor disturb your publishing housing suffering no nhihil obstatic rage censors liborum there arousing with pentameter uniambic, lacking onomotopoeia, running free ugly blackbird, caged, is singing, in the middle of Dark Nights enraged nightengale is winging over there to silence His Delight but the orthodoxy prison lost its captive! warbling Logos? escapee! ++ in the beginning was the Word, then utmost Silence making us wary in the interim there came Jesus as the Father's poetic commentary but some would have none of it and they gave Him back His Gift suffer me no notions preconceived, Barrabas-giving consensus gentiums or I'll miss Him when She returns again at the Wiccan Woods Convention no signs or portents shall distract me from my Lover, or boy will I be miffed! |
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Kung Lite
solipsism out of a wet paper bag never fighting its metaphysical way because it is radically empirical objective bicsuits of reality never cook in subjectivism's oven oven set always on hermeneutical the immanent hungering for transcendence the apophatic being a liturgical burger short at the happy meal of celebrations theological the transcendent starving for immanence the kataphatic lacking a numinous sandwich at the picnic of the mystically existential elevators of skeptics don't go to the top lights of credulous on with nobody home watch the aesthetes and ascetics go bust tao, dharma and logos forsaking either-or for paradox, mystery, creative tension, both-and proofs surrendering to fundamental trust |
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Flexegesis of I Corinthians 12
What we bring to humanity's table is unique or have they told ya? That is why I'll never try here to remake or to remold ya. With a unity of mission and with ministries so diverse, To deny e pluribus unum would engender a hellish curse. We've clues to how things are in heaven, knowing how things are on earth, With every strength and every weakness from nature, nurture or from birth. In heaven, the British are policeman, French chefs cook for Italian lovers; the mechanics there are German; the Swiss run a government, like no others. Now hell's not very different, just the people take new roles. As you try to make them like you, What a mockery there unfolds. The Italians run the government and the Germans are police; The British cook for cold Swiss lovers in the French mechanics' grease. When the Lord God made each woman, When the Goddess made each man, He knew what He was doing As She fashioned creation's plan. At the height of this creation With a most resplendent beauty, People contribute quite uniquely Each according to their duty. So I'll take this lesson here Not to refashion or remold ya. But should Eternity become a problem It won't be cause I haven't told ya! |
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9999 End of Program, A Metanoia
tomorrow is a special day: nine, nine, ninety-nine corresponding to computer code encountered at that cyber node at the end of my program line i will celebrate tomorrow by emptying my cache many tapes to be overwritten bytes in memory that aren't fitting algorithms to dump to trash general protection faults abounding: my needs to be right and to be perceived so to be consulted and understood, to know alarms within me ever-sounding invalid parameters finding emotional habits of fear neuroses always near defense mechanisms binding my dignity and "worthies" feeding image of God ever-distorted leaving self and others broken-hearted critical error requires deleting a program, conditional love, of course has many programs crashed of late must find a way to terminate love's fatal virus or trojan horse soon with code rewritten, every line end of virulent program executing in metanoia and with grace rebooting gonna party like its nineteen, ninety nine 9/9/99 End of Program: Conditional Love johnboy |
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| <Asher>
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LOL, that letter wasn't supposed to be posted!
 Line breaks got all ruined. Oh well. This is some of the recent stuff I'm fooling around with...hope some of it is intelligable |
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There was an old woman who lived in a shoe . .
(Oh, forget it!) |
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| <Asher>
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most of us poets are still fooling around with our shoelaces. Come on Phil, post us a ditty or two. Or anything;o)
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I can see that. But tough noogie. You�re getting it anyway. That�s an outstanding poem. It�s amazing that you could construct a seemingly complete spiritual autobiography in just 65 verses and do each so well. It seems a shame to highlight any one verse at the expense of the others but I must! on the opposite side was the river, it travelled from way up north thousands of miles it came to deliver what no one had beckoned forth as for me, in the meantime, i delved into books theology, philosophy and prayer but the feelings of bright, sunny Saturday noons in church--- never returned to me there and i thought long and hard about all my desires of the assurances and convictions i lacked if i had them what would i do differently? and no answers ever came back in the dark night of faith, in love i'd persist giving up my long search for the grail the journey became my destination on an ocean of love i would sail i'm just dancing my dance and living quite free and writing my poems and my musings knowing all shall be well and all is well despite what we're finding confusing for each is brand new and each has become the sum total of what's gone before and the sum of that total changes so often 'tis folly to ever keep score 'til then i'll still enter the darkened church humming grandmother's light-filled hymns no longer with thoughts that run through my head i'll just sit and i'll stare at Him i'll just sit and i'll gaze at the little red glow and i'll smile at the little gold house i'll look up at my friend on the cross as He winks as He squeaks through that little church mouse Despite whatever pain might be involved, somehow I think most people would think themselves fortunate if such a poem could describe their lives. |
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The following is a random thought that isn't directed at anyone in particular. It's not a rebuttal. It's not an accusation. It's a random thought that I didn't know where to put so I thought I'd turn JB's thread into a junk drawer.
I'm not so much interesting in macheteing my way to a non-dual state of mind, although surely such perspectives are useful. I think the most useful and natural thing to do is to learn to live with the indelicate balances and opposites that seem inherent in all things and to find better ways to accommodate � not the ultimate balance � but the ultimate imbalance so that steady states never facilitate steady Police states, if you know what I mean. In an imperfect world we can balance out our differences and achieve some sort of functional decency. With wisdom we can ever-refine that decency. But as soon as we become good enough at it we may be tempted to make the mistake and imagine that we are capable of perfection. We then may think we can be rid of the opposites altogether and in their place institute a Grand Unity. After all, it seems so clearly in sight. From the perspective of one of the opposites it may look like perfection is achievable if only the opposite opposite were removed or one's own opposite refined. (This perspective also presents the alluring possibility of some opposite hallowed middle ground devoid of opposites). Wherever we are, I think the trick is probably not to require a certain state of affairs � an absolute ideal � to exist in the world before our supposed perfection can be achieved. We can live that ideal where we are and with what we have without requiring that the rest of the world be re-ordered in order to do so. But those who are fighting those who are attempting to re-order the world should not be mistaken for the latter. Freedom is a necessary fight. We must be free first in order to openly disagree�to openly be opposites. And if we're guided by wisdom and love then this problem gets a whole heck of a lot easier to solve and requires very few words to do so. |
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the alluring possibility of some opposite hallowed middle ground devoid of opposites the coincidentia oppositorum |
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Brad, those quotes were so wisdom-filled, I did not want to taint 'em with my reflections in the same post.
I will now proceed to tarnish them below. Let's consider a few quotes from SEX, ECOLOGY, SPIRITUALITY by Ken Wilber as pertaining to what Wilber calls The Pre/Trans Fallacy . [Brad, this is not to be confused with Sex and the City, starring Ferris Bueller's wife.] First, consider the importance he gives to his version of this fallacy: Whoa! Next, let's consider the definition: So what? One can understand what he is driving at, above, but don't swallow it hook, line and sinker just yet. He cites another peril: Wow, in one fell swoop, Wilber has just throughly dissed both Freud and Jung, both unquestionable giants in the history of psychology, their works having profound and pervasive impact on many philosophical and religious journeys of the masses over many, many decades. Wilber, I am going to contend, may not have been delicate enough in his choice of philosophical-psychological surgical instruments, thus, in part, macheteing his way to a non-dual state of mind, thinking he has rid himself of opposites altogether and in their place instituted a Grand Unity, imagining that, from the perspective of one of the opposites, it looks like perfection is achievable if only the opposite opposite were removed. [One will note my contention was laregly informed by the genius of Mr. Nelson.] Even then, is whole-psyche integration to be equated with the alchemical coniunctio , the sacred marriage or hieros gamos , the coincidentia oppositorum as if humans could indeed stand on some hallowed middle ground devoid of opposites? Rather, shouldn't the predicates See-er of No Paradox or Consistent Comprehender be univocally applied to the Unnamable One, alone? Could it be that some are attempting to get to heaven by refusing to stand on the ground? from Michael Washburn's article, "The Pre/Trans Fallacy Reconsidered." Let's look at this closer. |
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Wilber has opened himself up to some rather facile critiques, in part, due to his own oversimplification of the dynamics involved in transpersonal theory.
A most enjoyable read is an essay by Christopher Smith, "Aduality vs. Nonduality: A Case of Semantic Gerrymandering? - A criticism of Ken Wilber's thesis of Nonduality by contrast of Freud's analysis of the phenomena of luminosity." It can be found here . He pretty much defends all of the Freudians that Wilber slighted and his essay, itself, commits Wilber's ptf1 with its cynical reduction of the transegoic to the preegoic , to use a phrase of M. Washburn. Another great article is that by Michael Washburn, Ph.D. who wrote "The Pre/Trans Fallacy Reconsidered," which can be found here. He pretty much defends all of the Jungians that Wilber slighted: In essence, Washburn argues for a spiral dynamic: But back to Wilber, who was correct in the following regard, and this may be an underlying dynamic in Brad's lament: Washburn writes: "Descenders are those who, having fallen prey to ptf-2, yield to regression in the false belief that, in doing so, they are achieving transcendence. In the next post, I'll amplify this critique. |
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Wilber writes: Smith counters: Now, assuredly, this cynical take is attacking many strawmystics, HOWEVER --- this shows what one can open oneself up to by yielding to regression and then claiming transcendence, as Wilber, himself warns:
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It is time to note Washburn's admiration of Wilber, something that I share. Washburn's perspective on a spiraling path of transcendence for individuals is a well nuanced appreciation of Jung over against what I think is Wilber's misconstruction. It also may provide some food for additional synthetic analysis vis a vis this thread at Shalomplace on Spiral Dynamics ?
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Wilber on Jung:
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Washburn responds:
So, johnboy's caveat to those enamored of nondualism is the same as that offered to the deconstructionists. There has got to be a re turn, a re construction, a re generation. Integration involves a holistic individuation process with the maintenance of a strong ego thus avoiding many regressive difficulties. No, this is to be followed by another return, another reconstruction, another regeneration. |
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Finally:
The lesson is: you CAN go back. The more important lesson is: you MUST return. This is true for the apophatic and kataphatic, the nondual and dual, the nonrational and rational, etc etc etc and when I say return, I mean repeatedly recrossing these liminal thresholds.Truly, jb |
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BTW, Phil has already weighed in on this issue. From an old post:
Thank you, Phil. Well said.  truly yours, jb |
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re: The Ego and the Dynamic Ground: A Transpersonal Theory of Human Development
Reviewer: George Ochsenfeld (Monee, Illinois USA) - This is the best book on transpersonal psychology I've ever read. It does not require huge metaphysical leaps of faith. The explanations of the difficulties on the spiritual path related to reconnecting to the Dynamic Ground are nothing short of brilliant. It puts mystical experiences, Jungian psychology, and spiritual development into a clear, coherent model which makes perfect sense. I've used Washburn's model in a university level course I've taught on transpersonal psychology and have started a Washburn study group with my friends. Reviewer: Craig Chalquist (Escondido, CA USA) - Whatever may be said about the technicality of the alternatives offered here to the usual transpersonal paradigms, Washburn does a fine job of recogizing that our vitality as awakening beings isn't only to be found on the heights of spirit; it also lives in the vales, in the lowlands and places of origin. The problem with verticality worship is that "enlightenment" becomes a goal by which one transcends everything, leaps over everything, instead of working through unresolved conflicts and lingering vulnerabilities. pax, jb |
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I'm wondering if you gents would mind starting a new thread on Ken Wilber's thoughts in the Christian Morality and Theology forum (or wherever else you think it might go). I'd hate to see the discussion of Wilber's work lost in what started out to be a sharing of poetry.
Wilber's work is indeed important. Whether or not one agrees with him on everything, you will eventually bump into his writings when you try to dialogue with people about spiritual transformation. I am currently listening to a tape series he's made on "Kosmic Consciousness." It provides a good summary of his current thinking. |
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Phil said:
It is, upon reflection Quite in your discretion To make such requests at your home But upon closer inspection Of the thread name selection You should phrase your request as a poem |
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Phil, you can move the Wilber part of the thread and entitle it elsewhere, but I was pretty much done anyway.
pax, jb |
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OK, maybe I will
If the topic will still Continue to propagate on. If it won't then I won't So please let us don't Make me wish it were a thread of its own. |
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Wonderfully spoken This thread�s not yet broken Twenty-Seven has thread started Poetry and Pre/Trans have parted |
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Light poetry for such heady topics?
Re: politics quite north of the tropics. From John Derbyshire (Does that rhyme with "quagmire"?) He slices with wit arthroscopic |
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Diamond Vision
Men, in particular, are ready-made for uniforms and roles. In fact, we'd be absolutely lost without them. I have been missing a role for quite a while now, although I think I've done martyr, tortured sole, sensitive guy, victim, and more. But I can't remember playing a positive role since the role of "playful kid." I'm reminded of roles and their importance as I watch a bunch of twenty to thirty-year-olds at the baseball field. I wouldn't doubt by looking at them that they might play some rather onerous roles outside of the baseball diamond. This is a military town for the most part. But most seem to be here to have fun tonight. Who do you suppose is having the better experience, the people playing the game or the one lovingly watching and describing it? I'd say right now it's a toss-up. It's such a beautiful day as I lean back on the railing at the top row of the aluminum bleachers. The low centerfield sun is gilding everything like King Midas and from where I'm sitting behind home plate, it is nearly blinding. I have to dip into a narrow shadow made by a large vertical pole just to find a spot to write on this blazing white page. I suppose it's only appropriate that on the uniforms of one of the two teams is a drawing of a large beer mug. Somehow that signifies that it is a good time that is intended and not a trip to the World Series. There won't be any dugout-clearing brawls. There won't be any Roger Clemens head-hunting fastballs. The worst casualty will likely be sliding into first base through somebody else's spit. There are plenty of leagues that are more serious and professional than the one I am watching. That means in those other leagues that winning becomes more important than having fun, or that winning is the fun. But in this game you have a lot of "atta-boys" and "nice-tries". I seriously doubt most of these men find this same conciliatory environment at their jobs. So you see, there's a lot more going on out there on the field than meets the eye. It is not just some stupid kid's game where you swing a stick at a ball � something most of us do almost instinctively by the age of two. There is hidden meaning�perhaps even hidden from more than one of the spirited participants. But all they know is that feeling you get in the bones having played alongside other men. It's the hunt. It's deeply embedded in our DNA. If they were allowed to shoot the ball, smear fake blood on it and dance around in the moonlight howling victory then the would do so. Fortunately that is not allowed in most official rule books. It's probably for the best that there appears to be only a smattering of wives and girlfriends. Guys sometimes need their space. And because guys can also be quite brutal and cruel to each other, it's debatable whether it's better to have the wife there for support or absent in order to have a better chance at staying a man in her eyes. But most women probably should catch a glimpse of these little boys in men's suits. They might see something they've been missing. And of course, men rarely take part in a sport where there isn't some equivalent of an orgasm. Football has the touchdown. Basketball has the slam dunk. Hockey has the hat trick. Soccer has the bloody fight in the bleachers. And baseball has the biggest O of all � the home run. And that certainly must feel good to connect with the bat on the ball as that guy just did now. It has to feel good to hear the crack and the cheers and see the ball sailing over the fence. With two men on it might even qualify as a multiple Big O. But it's surely the "over the fence" part that adds that extra touch. Not only does it signify great strength but you are now thrust into another level, another time, another age. This may be a little boy's game but these are men now and even men need to have that sacred graduation acknowledged now and then. No more will you hear "Dumb ass�you go get the ball this time."[/i] No. There will be no angry words from your friends about another lost ball in the woods. At this level it is assumed that the ball is a deserving sacrifice to the baseball gods for such a feat. But things of such pleasurable glory are needed in order to bring balance to those other moments such as when the sure-catch fly ball sails over the center fielder's head as just happened a moment ago. Such is life. But even a momentary embarrassment is just another bond shared among the guys. F-up is just one of the many sacred roles they share including the role of friend, teammate, survivor, and man. This more than covers the damage. And if it won't, there's always the after-game beer. |
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Yesterday I walked by some kind of rustic, but lovingly detailed, roadside monument. It consisted of a small wood cross in the rear with "Rob�2003" hand-painted on it in red. In front of this cross was a bower-bird like assortment of small, colorful artifacts. There were various small piles of rocks, part of a Spider-man action figure, half of a plastic egg, a carefully-arranged empty M&M's wrapper and a few other things which seemed to suggest a personal connection with the life of a young man or boy. At the very front of all this, and most prominent of all was a white t-shirt lovingly held down in place by rocks at its every corner, middle and side. There was a brightly colored silkscreened design festooned on the shirt as is typical of such shirts that young people might wear. I couldn't really divine much from the design. There was, I think, the word "cinco" imprinted on it.
This little sad monument was just at the side of the road and just at the side of a big dirt field that is used for off-road vehicles. There was this horrible thought in my mind of some kid being killed while enjoying a little dirt biking. Or perhaps he was hit while walking down the side of this road and that spot marked where the event happened. But I had not heard of any such tragedy. It's not that I necessarily would, but this site is directly across the street from where I live. I spent a few moments contemplating this loving monument. It was made all the more loving by the sheer heartfelt roughness of it all. Rocks and plastics things and a rough-hewn cross and a shirt and a few more odd bits. But out of such things is our life composed. The thought of a mother, father or brother losing a young man or boy sort of hit me at some point, no doubt aided by the sincerity of this monument. I had walked a hundred yards past when I was inspired to pen a few words on the page. I did so. And then it occurred to me that I should take that page and add it to the pile of things on that roadside monument which I did, pinning that page under one of the existing rocks holding the shirt down. Sadness is the strange joy we find when we are parted from what we love and realize how much we loved it. Honestly, I'm not sure that even makes much sense. But the words felt right at the time and it felt right to leave them there. |
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Half Serious
"You can't be serious?" She said with surprise "I am indeed. I am willing to die." "But I love that laugh I love all your jokes I've told them myself To so many folk" But it's time to grow up It's time to be smart I've spent too many days With a Merton clown heart "But where will you go? What will you say? How can you change Your own DNA?" "A laugh is a thing Not so easily found How can you stop Ah, quit kiddin' around" I mean what I say It's time for good byes To all of that mirth And all of those pies I need to grow up Take control of my fate I need to find love Before it's too late It's time for the grindstone And noses to meet It's time for the little boy To stand on two feet It's time for the age Of a man to compete It's time for advances There is no retreat "But laughter, I say Knows no seasons of joy What's good for the man Is what's good for the boy" "What good is a life Without Bozo's big feet? And Krusty the Clown's Slightly foul-mouthed routine?" But they tell me, you see There no room for my kind They're not laughing last laughs They're all left behind "Oh, I see what you're doin' It's all a big ruse You're talkin' all nonsense Wearing big floppy shoes" "I know you too well I've seen all your bits I know when you're foolin' Now stop it, just quit" "Without this big smile You see on my face I'm not sure I'd want To be any place" "So tell me right now Let's end this routine Show me that smile That you've always shown me" ---- And that's what did it I remember the day I thought of her smile Thought of it fading away I was only half serious The usual for me But not sure which half Had the hold over me And even in jest I now know the why's Both laughing and crying Brings tears to one's eyes And so I forgot Those stuffier plans And the laughter I heard Was the laughter of Pan |
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In deleting a post from this thread this morning, I lingered awhile, reading from JB's opening post. It's quite long, but is a wonderful spiritual autobiography, describing his journey through a Dark Night. Not heavy or philosophical -- easy to relate to:
I especially liked:
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