i realize that last entry makes it sound like i’m a witch. it’s just that he’s been crying for 40 minutes & is not responding to anything i do to comfort him: rocking, singing, nursing (just kidding). But i’m at a breaking point. i put a dvd in the player & retreated to the bathroom with my laptop, where a door and running water gave me a enough piece of mind to write this out.
Category: Uncategorized
A Drama Queen
The Pipsqueak had another of those screaming terror crying jags (I think he keeps reliving his circumcision, heretofore known as That Horrid Medical Procedure). I massaged him and sang to him, and he finally calmed down. All in all, we had a nice dinner.
He’s been having really strange crying jags recently. About every other night, out of the blue, he cries really hard for 4 or 5 seconds, then it goes away. Bizarre. I’m curious what it means.
Of course, he’s just as much a drama queen as me, and has never been shy about his emotions. He reminds me of R. Kelly, mixing soft-porn come-ons with crying jags about his mother, ex-girlfriends and professional failures.
I did a google search of his symptoms and I think he’s pregnant.
Sorrow Without a Cause
Krishnamurti asks:
Is there a relationship between sorrow and passion? Is there such a thing as sorrow without a cause? We know the sorrow which is cause and effect. My son dies; in that is involved my identification with my son: my wanting him to be something which I am not, my seeking continuity through him. When he dies all that is denied, and I find myself completely emptied of all hope. In that there is self-pity, fear; in that there is pain which is the cause of sorrow. This is the lot of everyone. This is what we mean by sorrow.
Then there is also the sorrow of time, the sorrow of ignorance, the ignorance of one’s own destructive conditioning; the sorrow of not knowing oneself, the sorrow of not knowing the beauty that lies at the depth of one’s being and the going beyond.
Do we see that when we escape from sorrow through various forms of explanation, we are really frittering away an extraordinary happening?
….
When there is no movement of escape from sorrow, then love is. Passion is the flame of sorrow, and that flame can only be awakened when there is no escape, no resistance — which means, sorrow has in it no quality of division.
“Do you ever get tired of being yourself?”
“Of course. That’s when I stop.”
SILK FLOWERS (for Bernadette)
faint for lack of food
Cold! cold! My thread is small, it
gleamed like odorous
fire She ceased her spin-
ning heavy and uniform
sore with the frost cheek
with her prey She Bear
is gone O Stranger, strain! be
She beheld and laugh’d
She heart-reviving
arrow-plumes were iced The song
I thank thee, thank thee
Arose, commixt with
flush bright thread The youth sate low
and sweet the silkworm’s
Sister! Sister! hear
A lock of his raven hair
And yet her hair ask’d
grey. his languid limbs
took the quiver from his neck
The woman answer’d
wondrously thin ob-
served thy strength By magic hands
binding in the chain
SILK FLOWERS (for Drew)
pierce windless ivy
cloud of dew through which its mate
bends, and then fades frail
music-panting bliss
till some new strain of feeling
is anemone
That climbs and wanders
another swinging blossom
blown anew; from high
those depths Is curtained
interwoven bowers aught
along earth-creeping
melody The sweet
weak wings And all the woods are
Sick through mossy air
Down streams made strong awe
lake-surrounded listener’s
brain So sweet, that joy
echoes impels them
eddies talk sucked fatal flute
soft emotion grew
Nor sun, nor moon
sadness fails voluptuous
cedar, pine, and yew,
Brenda Iijima writes in:
yo!
waz up dah down side gal or girl?
yr marguez waz affected or effecting someting ’cause this nucleic blog stuf is rocked with hardSHIPPING. Did this fellow Curtis prepare the dinner or somthin’? Kick him in his papaya asszzzz.
get on that orange girl
don’t hate yorsellllf, it’s bad for the curls!
B
really now!
If the blog world were a commune, who would be cooking tonight? Who would be doing the dishes?
My guess:
Cooking: Joshua. Fast food metaphors for his students but fancy recipes for friends. No, maybe it ought to be someone with a stronger sense of equality. This is, after all, a commune. Katie to the rescue.
Dishes: Jim.He’s much sweeter than he lets on.
Eileen is also onto the Language Poets’ lack of artifice.
Rereading
Here is a stanza that I find myself rereading:
Oh never weep for love that’s dead
Since love is seldom true
But changes his fashion from blue to red,
From brightest red to blue,
And love was born to an early death
And is so seldom true.
If we’re true to fashion, it doesn’t matter whether red flare bright or blue turn all. I wonder, though, if I am true to fashion or true to color?
“I can love you for your blue and red, for your seasonal change, and find each color true to me, and never weep for love that’s dead.”
“I can weep for your colors and love each one in turn.”
Oh Love was born and is so seldom, truly. But never weep for love that’s dead, only love that’s born.
SILK FLOWERS (for Nick)
Give to gold its weight
Regent of dewy night, Fawn-
spotted cooling stream
Unite, impel, di-
late th’ effulgent whole he
sparkling daughters crown’d
of stern Eluding
mortal sight, He fades; he dis-
appears And silence
lulls the sky we court
nor sings nor many-tinted
rays concoct, refine,
And hymn, concentrick
orbs struggling to impair bless’d
quaffing nectar Rob’d
Till twitter moving
lancer of the golden keen
by green-hair’d Ocean’s
gem-bespangled shore
charm’d Gocul’s od’rous cleft head
sandal-breathing flow’r
attesting secret
deeds, skirts, robes, charm, form, and stain
load the tortoise bore
Otohime 