Humans are by nature searchers, whether it’s for shelter or love, it’s what we do. I have searched far and wide for these human things. Along the way I have found many things, and these are the most noteworthy.

I found grace on a mountain. My first impression of her was “This is too good to be true”. She humored me for a while and I enjoyed her immensely, she was briefly on the same path as I but only accidentally. One moment she was there, and the next she wasn’t. I look for her still in anything and everything and she still roams the old places in my mind. But now she is only a shadow that periodically haunts me and tells me I am not worthy.

I found light next, bitter light to be precise, and she was nothing like grace. Instead of filling me with feelings of guilty pleasure and unworthiness, she filled my dreams with beautiful insanity. Her light was mesmerizing and lulling and it burned deep and true. I was choked by her golden curls and her distrustful eyes swallowed me. We both felt our own pain deeply but she would not let go of hers and I could not help her with mine. Just as grace and I shared a joy for life this bitter light and I shared despair, but not with each other, for despair can only be felt alone; it comes before and above the other person. And now it feels like she is at the bottom of the sea, whenever I think of her I feel this deep pain, and I love it; she is my despair, my masochistic love.

Next I found fire, and there was much to manage. My only dream of her was that of her hand driving deep into my chest. For that is the nature of fire, she consumes what is most precious and tries to change the rest. In this fire I found grace once more but not as before, not as a dirty friend but rather a pure relic too holy for me to hold. This newfound grace made me sick, she was too good for me, although she said she wasn’t, perhaps she was right and I was sick for other reasons, maybe this fire reminded me of who I used to be; a person I snuffed out because I didn’t want to see myself as pure, holy, innocent, and naïve. Or maybe I didn’t like this new form of grace. It makes no difference now, this fire meant to consume all of me, or at least that’s what it felt like. I had to let her go against all my will, my heart was too small and my mind too large or the other way around. Nothing is clear in fire and it hurts too much to wait.

Now that I have found and lost all of this and more, I still am searching but I look now for joy or happiness; I do not know her name. But I do know that I seek not distant moons nor fires nor light. I seek a place to burry myself and not be consumed. A place to till and strip my hands of lust and pride and have it flourish and give me peace. A place of trust, where my heart can be free to roam and always welcome to return. A place to embrace the curse I am and the love left over. I seek one of the earth to walk with and hard enough to hold. She will not be afraid of my brooding or insanity that carries me away from her into the dark, for it always passes with a laugh and a smile and I come crashing down back into the light. It is wrong of me yes to be such a manic but it is who I am and I will not be judged for it, I am still worthy of love. And this horrible pain of separateness, I know she will feel because of me, but she will not make me feel weak or ill for it; in fact this separateness I require will fill our lives with life. It will give us the freedom to step across to the other when necessary and speak till all is said, then once again step back into ourselves while the other is left to rest. Then once rest is done and truth has taken root, growth will show and she the earth and I the sun will touch each other through space and light.

Perhaps she is the fire that must become the earth, for I am the fire longing for the earth, not to consume but to enlighten, not to pain but to replenish. But perhaps I too must become the earth for a time and divest my molten mantel. Perhaps the sun must die before it can truly shine, it must become the earth and give up it’s life to creatures great and small. But it’s easy to get lost in analogy, who is the fire and who is the earth and what are their places in life? Who should I be and who should she? It’s all very unknowable to me, or at least I would like it to be. It’s hard to know what she needs and let her hurt me continually. Who am I to tell the fire to become the earth? Who am I to tell the sun to loose her golden stare and deepen her soul with mounds of black earth? How could ever I explain that I am not the problem, nor am I the solution? How does one take responsibility by breaking commitment? How does one show love without being selfish, when love is selfish? Doesn’t goodness come out of, but reach beyond evil? But philosophy is no help in these matters; it only quells our emotions by busying our minds so that we may sleep at night. The only thing that can explain love is life, and the explanation is connected not by logic but by hope, not by stars but by empty space, not by reading but by reaching, not by words but by wonder. There is no magic potion number nine or twelve steps to love or understanding that I can impart to the fire that so deeply burned my soul. I can only screech and yelp when pain is incurred not for my sake alone, but to tell the fire to stop it’s course. For she is blind in ways that I have been but she is also blind in ways that I will never be, and it’s hard to know which is causing me pain; for I am a weak man, only newly acquainted with words made not of ink or fantasy, but words of the earth and not the sun. These words are heavy words and by nature I prefer those that come and go with the wind, words of subtle implication and broad interpretation. I do not want to be buried with my father or those before me, but I must be guilty in order to be human. I must truly fall before I can truly stand. A generation must die for a generation to come. There is nothing more frightening to me then doing what I think I should and failing again. My heart is foolish but not as foolish as my mind. But both are foolish; the first for confusing the second, and the second for allowing the first to confuse it. Fire destroys the earth but never completely, the earth is too deep and fire too quick. Perhaps that is why I prefer to live by water, so that I can betray both. But why would she, the fire, seek my shelter? She knows she must change, she must know she must change. How little I know, how little I’ve known. Youth is wasted on the youth and age is wasted on the aged. Knowledge brings not happiness but suffering, and through suffering comes happiness or at least room for it. Happiness oh happiness why have you hid in my shelter when I am not there? You think it yours too? I suppose it is, I have no dominion over it. You are just as free as I, but it is true that you are more reckless. Reckless with me! Why have you been so reckless with me? I wish it were easier for you to love me but you know yourself so little. I am not being patronizing. It is true whether you like it or not. Two plus two is not five, my dear. But what is the use in speaking any of this? Are you the fire, seeking to be my earth? Will you be that for me? Or is this only stupidity on my part? Maybe both, I am SO sardonic, look at me! You will not understand this nor will anyone. I keep the key for myself. But if you have the spare what are you waiting for? Come home! Yes, it’s easy to say. And beautiful to say. The ring of it, the sound of it…Home! But it’s Hell! Why must it be hell? Why must I be hell? I am home and I am hell. I am to blame! Look at me, I am SO self-pitying! How honest and pious of me! How easy it is to turn what is true and authentic into what is false. What does it take to keep things straight? Not beer that’s for sure! Nor a ruler! Not a heart! Not a mind! Nothing! Nothing will keep things straight! Not for me at least! I will make nothing but exclamations! Forever and ever! But I can’t. I am not that prolific. I am not that genius. I am not that man. I am not that. I am nothing. See how there is no clear direction at all? See how I can go anywhere by using the same word twice… using the same word thrice!? Look! I can go on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on…and on……………..and on………………..and on……………………………………………………………………………………………………forever…..until I fill up this goddamn blog………….never ending……………just like me…….vacuous……empty……..meaningless words……………….how maladroit……how magnificent…how full of “m’s”! How self aware and self critical this all is. How could anyone beat me? how could anyone see where this is going? How could I be wrong? I don’t miss a thing…I don’t miss a thing……..Except for everything good that you did for me. I can’t remember it now. What did you do for me? What did you give me? Just pain? Just joy? Who cares about those things? Who cares about money? Who cares about anything?! You can’t give me anything I don’t already have. What,… Attention? Love? Care? Can you give me these? But what if I don’t feel them? Did you fail? Did you try? Maybe you can’t love. Maybe I can’t love myself. Maybe God doesn’t want us to love. Maybe that would be obscene to Him… That capital “H”, Him! How horribly human all of this is! Exclamation mark! Period… Who gives a shit!? No voice! No talent! Nothing! Nothing! Nothing! Who does this? Who am I? Will anyone actually read this? Does anyone actually care? Do I care? Is this just diarrhea? Maybe it is, maybe Diarrhea is good every now and then. Maybe not. I am also a very good contrarian! I am good at everything and nothing, and also logic!

Love yourself

Look then

There

No not there

There

In between this and that

The place you and I went

Remember back then

When we were one

Or rather we were one inside

Those days those were the days

But I think we both agree it’s better this way

Two ways now back and forward

Recalling and calling are no longer optional they are basic

They come with the spare tire in the trunk

The trunk you kept forgetting the blankets or towels in

It’s been too long now I can’t remember

Two times, the last was a dream I had one night where you stabbed me in the chest

I woke up afraid actually afraid

My chest hurt

I pass that room now

Those trees

Those places

Those expected places

Those places we filled with our flesh, our minds

Our reckless hearts filled with fledgling hopes

Our eyes blind to the future and the past

I should have bought a flashlight

Just you and me.

It was a note for your parents

And it wasn’t in the trunk.

Flowers forgiveness forgetting foam on the beach that one time

The sky was amazing! It was so cold! But you did it anyway

Like the sun

New now day room bed carpet, I had a cat for awhile

It pooped everywhere I let it go out the door one day

It never came back. I thought I saw her once but it wasn’t her.

I keep expecting to hear her some night at the door

But I can’t remember her eyes now

What color were they? Why did she leave why did I want her to go?

Is it wrong to feel better about things?

Is it wrong to wish she would return with her shit

She needed more then I could give

On the back I give myself a pat

What else is there I have done everything else, its just a little pat

This is where you can find my new blog.

I don’t know if I will continue writting

in “a sorrowful countenance”, but for now

“open both eyes”.

is there anything better?

Looking for questions, maybe?

Not really, that’s just another way of looking for answers.

But what else is there other then questions and answers?

That itself is a question, and if I were to answer it I would begin again

that which I do not seek right now. I do not seek questions or answers right now.

Maybe I just want some stories.

That isn’t a question or an answer.

It’s more like a suggestion, somewhere between a question and an answer.

I don’t think I will continue this blog.

I don’t know what I will continue with or for.

I heard a good poem the other day.

I wish you could have heard it too.

It was sad and true and real and I wished it was mine.

i wished i was the poem.

the poem had colors and lines and shapes and movement.

It was balanced and careful and fragil and broken.

it was complete but it made me feel incomplete,

just as a poem should.

it opened and closed just like I wish I could.

maybe my next blog will be like this more.

I don’t want to make beautiful things anymore.

I am just going to make things.

I heard tiny dancer twice today.

I am going to open a bottle of red burgundy later.

I might accidentally make something beautiful but it won’t be me.

It will be some other me. Like the old skin of a snake but will never shed.

I was working on the roof today when I realized that children are not lazy.

Of course they can be lazy but sometimes when adults think children are being lazy

they aren’t being lazy they are just enjoying the moment they are in.

They aren’t looking forward

they aren’t looking backward

they are just looking.

I suppose it’s good to look forward and backward,

but it’s also good just to look.

Both eyes, open.

Maybe that will be the name of my next blog.

“Both eyes, open”

My anatomy professor told me in class

that we humans don’t want to know ourselves.

Bullshit! I have read Shakespeare

“To thine ownself be true”,

I know myself so well

I am practically a narcissist.

I once had a picture of myself as my screen saver

and when someone made fun of me, I told them it was Art.

After class I was walking down the street

with the woman of my dreams,

The kind of dream that you fight against

The kind of dream with beautiful eyes

The kind of dream that you surrender to

when I saw a 500 pound woman on her smoke break.

I told my love that I wanted to slap that woman in the face.

My love, annoyed and offended, asked me to explain…

I said,

“When I was a kid, my grandmother died

Bill the drunk brought us our mail that day,

expecting a token of appreciation.

My father slapped him verbally like a child,

a 60 year old child.

Told him he was wasting a precious thing.

Bill the drunk just hung his head,

My stomach was in knots.

Years later my dad told the story of his mother’s death.

It was the first time I heard the story

he said my grandmother had cancer

at the end she was breathing through a tube

or maybe the tube was breathing through her

my father and uncle were with her

She said she had had enough

She looked at my father with a fragile glance

and said, “a las uno, a las dose…”

and pulled the tube out

she never got to three.

Bill the drunk died 15 years later

his liver did what he never could,

it both lived and died;

his body was found by a stranger.

A stranger found by a stranger.

My love then explained something to me…

She said, My father suggested I learn to play the cello

and when I asked him why he said, ‘Because it will deepen you’.

Then she looked at me with her eyes of pure grace, like clouds floating in a

hemisphere of brilliance, and she vividly communicated to me the pain of a

deepening person. I dropped my gaze ashamed, as if it were a scalpel.

Too deep perhaps

Too reckless

Too real

Two plus Two is too much sometimes.

Maybe the professor was right we don’t want to know ourselves,

But as desperately as I try to hide behind

my indignation of the world

and the beauty of my love,

She is my Mirror, Mirror on the wall

And She is the fairest of them all.

What is the point at which all things converge?

Where is the place at which the seas submerge?

When is time?

Why does it stay… away… from me?

And why does no body,

not even the Pope,

know

how

all this

mish mash

unfolds?

Who says that up is up?

Who says blue is blue?

Who says the sky is falling?

Who told you?

Who told you the truth?

Was it the wind sweeping down through the grass?

Was it the sun warming up the earth?

Was it the waters bubbling?

Was it the rains fall?

Or maybe it was Man:

Hammering down the iron

Pulling up the gold

Building barriers

Blocking briars

Smelting silver

Sheltering sinners.

Perhaps, but perhaps not.

“Perhaps” is a funny word.

Perhaps the sun will set and never rise.

Perhaps the ocean will finally be filled.

Perhaps the birds forget to fly.

Perhaps this is all a lie,

a beautiful lie.

But perhaps not.

Perhaps it’s all true.

Perhaps me and you.

Perhaps it’s true.

True, me and you.

True, my heart is blue.

True, I love you.

True, that roses are red

True, that I am a fool.

True, that trust has bleed-

Out,

True, out into a small pool

Beneath your pillow

Waiting all wet and tired

For a final billow

Of fire

A fire to steam up

A fire to stream out

A fire to burn through

A fire to melt down

A fire to meld together

Our fallen flesh and fate forever.

Where is Honest Time when you need him?

Rounding the bend on a winding road

Stop the engine pull on your coat

we’re looking for a way on the Oregon Coast.

First, the wind

Greets as it freshens my face and

moistens my eyes

Coming from a place that is wild and wide.

Sand meets feet with a plea to play

A ploy of great plot I cannot disobey

Shoe and sock free, I’m released as just me.

Water and waves are the call to the deep

Transfix my eyes on that line

And transcend with a reach.

Out to the impossible?

Or into the real?

Is the ocean of change actually even keeled?

Always the same body

but ever the motion of change

Surprised yet again by the ocean which explains.

To start is to make a wager

To wager is to believe something

Either about oneself or about some other

To lose is to be wrong

To win is to be right

I am neither

Because I am both

I am both guilty and free

Guilty of death

And Free to life

But beyond these

I am honest

Therefore I cannot win nor lose

Because honesty is not a game

It is not a wager

It is not even a start

It is a complete movement

It is a beginning middle end

And it is both permanent and fleeting

It’s existence does not change

But it’s vessel does

The instrument in which honesty abides

Is a shamefully organic thing

It’s words and it’s actions are unsound

It’s thoughts and it’s emotions are betraying

They betray because they are not real

And because they are not real

they can only be used as evidence of growth

Towards something good

Because this good already is

This is the essence of it’s being

This is the Telos and is the Word

This can-is-will be

This is what I believe

This is what I want

And this is all that I am

Do you want this?

Because if you do then take it

And do not disbelieve but believe

I am who I am

My Subjective Eternal Infinite

Ethical love and I fight

We suffer each others plight

Each others non-secure

Freedom fleeting suture

It tears and tears us apart

And waits for us to start

Then tears some more

All the while licking up the time we pour

Out into each others hate

Anger fear spite and all too late

Nothing left but red faces filled with our pain and love

Filled with a void

Filled with a heart of elastic points leading to leap

Out into that darkness we call light

Into the wretched abyss of acceptance

And the ephemeral waters of repentance

We do this with our lives

Because there is nothing else worth to do

Our emotions sag

Our reason will fail and a stag

Will hail us with his song

And bring us home to each other

In the night

The night of temptation

The night of replacement

The night of withering heights

So great is the fall

Into those familiar arms

Into those eyes

Into those legs

Into those breasts

Into those…into those…into those emotions and reasons and material and spirit and self

The self that I love

The self that I need

The self that is and is not me

The self that I wish to be and wish to have

The self that is curling up like smoke above my shoulder

The self that is a stranger

And even though I told you when I came I was a stranger

I take it all back

I take it and drown it in a sack

Infanticide is my road to Faith

Abraham Issac and Jesus Christ my Wraith

The weight of it is gone

It is diffused now into air

Wrapping around my mind

And my heart intertwined

There are differences now

The grass is greener on the other side

The light is lower as it turns to fly

Through my windowpane

Away and away and away

I wish it would flee far

From this man

From this soul

From this empty thing that is left

From ashes to ashes

To golden dust, which will never be

Which maybe never was

Which returned to the Sierra Madre

From whence it was taken

And as I watch it return into sand

I tell myself that:

Bogart could not have done better himself,

That maybe we do need some stinkin’ badges,

That I am Gold rising up into eternal life,

And that Vanity is my middle name

Followed by Death