The Self-Masturbating Poet

It’s a shame some of my posts still hang out in “Draft” land. I stumbled across this one today. The story behind this post is as follows. I received a text one day (while leading a large writer’s group meeting) from a clergyman I’d decided to part ways with, along with the church he led. I’d been writing for a while under the freeing concept that writing one’s personal truth owns far more power than writing what others say one SHOULD write. Censorship comes in many forms. I’d grown weary of the portending avalanche of backlash and criticism if I chose to write my truth, the way in which I see, hear, taste, smell, and feel this world.

I’d also confided in a number of writer confidants my perception that if I wrote my personal truths, I would suffer the backlash of people who may observe this world differently. As I proceeded with the “writing from the heart” style, I noted that what I received rather than backlash, were ‘thank you’s’ for mustering the courage to write my truth.

Then, this fateful day at my writer’s group, the following “backlash” stormed my way. In the end, the attack was nothing more than a “tempest in a teacup” full of sound and fury, truly signifying nothing other than an end to holding back on my views of life. What follows is the original post written in July, 2012:

July, 2012

Isn’t it interesting what writing straight from your heart can elicit from others. A reader of my blog messaged me that, among other observations, he sees my writing on this site as “Your self serving, self glorifying and self masturbating (personal note: this ridiculous phrase is redundant…) word games are nothing more than clear evidence that you are moving farther and further into the darkness of a terribly self and family destroying solitude that is little different from merely wasting away again in your own tawdry version of Margaritaville.” 

(My father was an alcoholic. I’ve hardly ever touched the stuff, and I’ve never been drunk a day in my life. No matter the stretch, I do understand his poor attempt at analogy…)

I find even more interesting a later statement that “Your words reveal you. I have been reading them. They reveal a self- absorbed, angry, bitter man who is choosing every way and word except the words and ways of the one he professes to be his Savior to advance the issues of your life.”

The fact that the words I write so aptly “reveal” what is happening in my heart and my life IS the point. The understated accusation is that I am unaware that I’ve exposed these things to the world like some crouching, sneaky child trying to cover over his missteps.

I committed, some time ago, to write this blog real. It comes to you, the reader, unedited and straight off my views and emotional experiences. That I have a good bit of strife in my life and I have been surrounded by toxicity for decades AND the fact I write about it, is not self-serving, self-glorifying, or even self-masturbating (despite the ridiculous redundancy in this last adjective attack), but more a bold step into the world with the possibility to help others in the same state or similar issues.

Oh yes, I do not go shoving religious paradigms and belief systems off on my readers. I don’t ‘toe the company line’ on religion at all. The Sin Police are everywhere in organized religion. Last I saw, the only being capable of judging my faith, or lack thereof, is somewhat above the human plane.

Ultimately, the attempt at scathing criticism of my writing here validates the underbelly I’d been observing in the church for years. Truth, outside their blinders-laden doctrine, is not something they care to address. They flee an intelligent and deep observation of life like someone working to convince a mathematician that 1 + 1 = 3. If the pains and sorrows of this life do not meet their doctrine-driven criteria, there is nothing but scurrilous rhetoric pushing forth from their control-oriented mouthpiece. Give me a world where I possess the ability to observe and feel life as it is rather than tunneling underground to avoid backlash for thinking outside their closeted box. 

Today

As is my custom on this site, since this remains a poetry site, I now am required to conjure a poem. I must admit, this one is a bit difficult.

So Many Voices

They whisper fear
Fear the air
Fear the water
Fear your food
Fear what matters

They scream fear
Fear the weather
Fear your health
Fear your mind
Fear your wealth

Passive aggressive control in every broadcast
Manipulation of emotion and mind in every broadcast
Blatant restriction of basic freedoms in every edict
Ridiculous destruction of history and that which would condemn them…

…TRUTH

So many voices clamor for your ears
So many voices throughout the years
So many voices assault everything you once knew was right
So many voices block your life’s path and sight

So many voices with no ears to listen
So many voices need no ears to listen
So many voices desire only one action
So many voices demand capitulation

Truth will never be the dominate voice in this world
When the “world” speaks a “truth” BEWARE
TRUTH lies outside the people/entities/governments in control
TRUTH makes itself known to those who see through the rhetoric

So many voices but the one needed most.

Your own.

TRUTH will never TRULY ride the propaganda machines

Curtains and Tapestries

Tags

Alzheimer's, love, pain of life

Driving south on US1 one evening, “Stories of the Painted Desert” by the Rippingtons came up on my Pandora account. Instantaneously I was transported back to my early grade school self. I was lying in bed, about to fall asleep. I was staring, smiling, and losing myself in the curtains my mother had just made for the window in my room.

To call this a room is quite a stretch. It was actually a breakfast nook converted to my bedroom. The room consisted of my bed and a bar that served as a depository for clothes hangers at the foot of my bed. My window was at the head of my bed, so I was lying with my head near the makeshift closet.

If I stepped off my bed, I had one foot of room before I reached a curtain that shrouded my room from the kitchen. There as a small end table at the head of the bed which held my alarm clock and any number of young boy paraphernalia.

The window curtain popped up in the midst of this beautiful melody because the curtain design was a western scene. Cactus’. Cowboy hats. Boots, Desert. I adored these curtains. My imagination could run wild. I had been to the Painted desert when I was five years old. I’d seen cactus’ and deserts like Death Valley. These curtains became a portal for a mind ready to go places and do things.

Tears streamed my cheeks as I drove home that night. My mother’s Alzheimer’s has all but robbed me of her wonderful self. Memories like this are truly all I have of her now. While she is a sweet woman with no ability to remember much of anything now, the vibrant, intelligent woman has faded into the darkening gray areas of one of the cruelest of diseases.

I work hard to avoid these moments of loss, these moments of painful memory. I would think if Mom were dead these memories would be more cherished. Don’t get me wrong, the reason I’m crying is that I deeply cherish the memory. She made those curtains special. Just for me. The fact that over a half century later I can feel the joy and excitement and wonder of those curtains is a testament to my wonderful mother.

Like many of us, I’ve had much too much pain in my life. My sense is that this will never end. Pain is interwoven into everything we do. See. Taste. Smell Hear.

I’m not being morbid. This is truth. Pie-in-the-sky is not true. I love my mother. I love the little things she did for me throughout my life. I love the fact that I had her as a mother. A son could not ask for better.

But I drive four hours to visit her. I spend hours with her. I take her to lunch. Five minutes after I leave, I was never there. No recollection. She will even tell you she has not seen or heard from me in months.

The tears well up from this reality. I love those curtains. I wish to God I still had them today. They remind me of goodness and joy in life. They remind me that I am special. They remind me that all is not dark. Yet, the tether remains between that mom of long ago and the mom of today. I don’t know how to separate the two emotionally.

I can do this intellectually. I can deny the pain of my mother’s current condition, but then I cannot revel in the wonder of those moments when I felt so awesome my skin tingled. I seldom allow myself to feel these deep emotions regarding Mom because the disease interferes a delivers tears without fail. The loss is too much to bear.

This one was worth it, however. I hadn’t thought of those curtains for decades. Literally for a half century. The feelings which flooded my soul were worth the tears and the pain. I was able to talk to my sister about the curtains. She remembered them well. Mom even remembered them because her long term memory is not shot all to hell yet.

Everyone deserves to feel special. Everyone deserves the opportunity to dream and to imagine and to enjoy a gift. I listen to this song often. The music does the Painted Desert justice. I’ve revisited that wonder place a number of times since I was six.

Isn’t this how life truly goes? Everything is intertwined in a tapestry of experiences. Good. Bad. Joyful. Painful. The song is lovely. The memory of my curtains a joy. The room I treasured in the little breakfast nook makes me smile. The pain of virtually, but not totally, losing my mother cuts to my core like a jagged, rusty blade.

In the end, we either decide the experience (of actual events as well as the memory) are worth the emotions they draw forth. These days I work hard at finding them worthwhile. Otherwise, the pain of life overwhelms me. All becomes dark. Hope scurries into the shadows. Love weeps for all the losses. Dreams wither and die on their fragile vines.

Or, the bittersweet aspects of life get cherished. The fact that I can feel this deeply signals my inner emotional health is good. I enjoy the flavor of a song even more. I revel in the memory of kindness and a gift from my beloved mother with more zeal. I cry deeper tears from the pain of losing her while she still yet lives. And I call it all good as this represents the fullness, the Yin and Yang of life.

I love you, Mom. Thank you for giving that ability to love to me through your life and how you lived it… And as with all my visits with you these days, they are no longer for you any more than this writing is for you. If you could read this and retain it, that would be another story. This is for me. I get to cry these tears again and they feel right and true and good. I get to feel your love again, especially in the loss of you, and this is good for I am able to cherish you more deeply.

As with anyone who’s lost an incredible, loving parent, I will miss you all the days of my life. I will keep your memory alive in me as long as I possibly can. If I should ever fail at this, my words will have to suffice to carry this all forward.

Speaking of Curtains, every time I think of that word (curtains) I immediately think of this song from Elton John’s “Captain Fantastic and the Brown Dirt Cowboy” album. Always my favorite song on the album, I remember spinning the tune on my various turntables and CD players over the years.

Such a beautifully written song. I love live music and having Ann and Nancy Wilson of Heart cover it is amazing to me. They do a wonderful job of carrying the tune forward and staying true to its essence and power.

If you listen closely to the lyrics they reflect what I wrote above about my Curtains. Especially the part where the song says “Just like us, you must have had, a once upon a time.” My mother’s curtains gave me one of those once upon a time era’s in my life. There is so much beauty in life. So much connectivity. So much to be grateful for.

Life is truly the tapestry many have spoken of throughout the existence of man. We should step back more often and take a look at the beauty woven into our lives. When we do, we see the pain and suffering are as much a part of the beauty as the joys and exhilaration. We miss our truest connection to life when all we focus upon is the positive, or in my case, deny the negative or the painful.

Love your life. Love the tapestry you’ve woven throughout your years. Accept all the flaws and revel in them for they define who you are, whether you like it or not. I recommend liking your foibles and flaws, whether you get them corrected or cleaned up because you throw away an integral slice of yourself every time you deny who you are.

Own your life. Live it. Feel it. Connect to it. Find the threads of your tapestry and admire the entire story it tells.

The Gift

Tags

Christmas, gift giving, love

What is a gift?

I’ve struggled with Christmas for many years. For that matter, I’ve struggled with gift-giving in general. I have no problem giving gifts. I thoroughly enjoy doing that. It’s the identification of the gift and the heart behind it with which I struggle.

Unfortunately, I’ve been with people who need gifts showered on them. On the surface, this is not such a bad thing. Yet, their emphasis on gifts becomes a judgment. They measure life and love by volume and price. They give lip service to “it’s the thought that counts” philosophy. Some of these people I’ve given so many gifts of my time, my assistance, my love, my energy, my commitment, and a host of other gifts which I deem of highest value. Often, the material gift stands as simply a physical reminder of the love and affection behind the gift.

This Christmas, for the first time in far too many years, I’ve been touched by something far more valuable than any physical totem. I’ve been moved to re-understand who I once was and aspire to be again from gifts given me over the course of my lifetime. More specifically, the gifts I’ve received for the past few months have taken a glorious toll on my sadness and despair.

The gifts have been simple. My car cleaned and vacuumed. Dishes are done when I walk in from work. My bathroom cleaned. Smiles. Hugs. Time shared.

The gestures of these gifts mean far more than the surface description. I’ve not opened one single gift as yet. There’s truly nothing I could receive which I don’t already possess in spades.

There are so many views on how to get stuff done in a household. So many rules laid down. So many punishments meted out over the course of a lifetime to force children to step in and take responsibility. Yet I’ve found that leading by example, loving and communicating, works far better. I’ve taken so much heat in my life for not ruling on high with a heavy, discipline-first mentality.

My eleven-year-old daughter delivers Christmas to me every day. Does she ALWAYS to dishes? No. Does she ALWAYS clean my bathroom and wash my car? No. Does she ALWAYS clean her room? No.

What she always does is show love. I wash dishes. She washes dishes. I wash clothes. She washes clothes. The measure of a person’s heart is not how many times and what schedule they use, the measure for me is that, in her case, she does these things because she has a heart and a desire to help. She has a heart and a desire to be responsible.

I could truly not care less if I do the dishes or her. What I cannot care for more is the fact that she joyously does dishes. Cleans house. Helps out. She does this out of her heart, not some regimented schedule laden with background threats.

I got home late from work Christmas Eve. The whole arrangement of tree and presents and furniture was rearranged into a beautiful scene. The barstools I’d purchased for a “family gift” were assembled (I didn’t know she could even do that! See them there in the first pic below?), and decorations like origami snowflakes were hung with pride and joy.

In case the thought is tickling your mind, this is who my daughter has been her entire life. She’s in a positive environment and she’s thriving.

And I am humbled.

My emotions overwhelm me. The sadness of life pushed away. The hollow feeling of overwhelming responsibility is lifted. I appreciate gift-giving again. This is how I’ve always desired to give. Too many times I’ve allowed myself to be trapped by other peoples’ rules and views on gifts. When I fix a faucet for someone and I know nothing about plumbing but I learn how and I do it from my heart, this is not about the faucet. It’s about me stepping into my heart and giving a true gift.

When my daughter gives even the tiniest of gifts, they cannot be wrapped. There is not enough wrapping paper in the world to enclose the thought and love behind her gift. THAT is what Christmas is all about. THAT is what I allowed to be stolen from me by people who run off of checklists and make gift-giving a chore or a measurement. A true gift, no matter the monetary value or timing, embodies all that is good and right in life. When the smallest of gestures and gifts touch your soul with love, truly the measurements of others mean nothing. The gentle touch on the heart becomes more powerful than all the hate, unhappiness, negativity, and all that ilk combined.

I love all my children. Each of them possesses a desire to give and to share themselves to lift others. In these days, when I need it most, I continue to be taught about life or at least reminded of something valuable I’d allowed to slip into darkness. I’ve never stopped giving from my heart, but I have listened to the harshness of judgment as to how and what I give. My gift this year is the gift of myself, handed gently to me on a daily basis by my children. I could receive no greater gift than the tears dropping on my desk and the love I feel in my heart. Yes, the love I have for them, but in a true world, my greatest gift is the love I receive from them.

It’s not about the physical gift. Never has been. It’s not about its value. Never has been. It’s not about the gifts frequency. Never has been. It’s not about anything measurable. Never has been.

A true gift is always about love.

Always has been.

Overcomer

Love stabs warm and lethal
Pain roiled in a bowl of external and self-infliction
Thrills and exhilarations notwithstanding
Trust the only avenue for longevity

Trust requires conscious effort against experience
Flies in the face of most all logic
Yet without communication trust withers
Sadness storms the heart, a siege laid long and painful…

Life is a struggle for and against love…

Finding answers is not as important as asking the questions…

Revel in this day!

What are you doing while you read this!

Revel!

Revel in your sadness

Your pain

You joy

Your love

Your life

For this is our lot

To feel anger and ecstasy

To feel loss an lavish reward

To experience everything in between

And die.

Revel in all things

Overcome lies and betrayals

Overcome abuse and tyranny

Revel in your life

Notice the breath escaping your lips this very moment

Revel in the fact you owned that breath, even for the briefest of moments

For your life will become but the merest of sighs one day

Let these days be where you overcame.

You

you are no blank page in my life

No love to be written like its new and fresh

You are the dream of every perfection a woman possesses 

My love for you culled from every love song, poem, experience I ever longed for

Our story has been written in countless lives throughout history 

Every great romance passion, tenderness, amazement ever known

The fact this is foreign and new to me should never be misconstrued

For in you, every dream, fantasy, laugh and smile known

Come soft and loving into my heart with the mere thought of you

Love like this is primal, pure as love’s best intention

I am beyond thankful each morning as I awake to the thought of you

all I was meant to be

She’s the first thought in waking moments

My misty morning loving dream

She flows through my early slumber

Patient. Kind. Waiting it seems.
Years lend her power, subtle, strong.

I miss her breathe on my bare chest.

Yet smiles abound in knowing she loves me,

This knowledge a foreign concept in Past’s review
To wake each day in hope and love

A standard never to be discounted

Changes my life into something real

My heart more positive, more free, more secure.
Love like this feels unfettered. Thrilling.

Her thought the ever-present support I desire

She strolls free through the love within me

Stirring all I was meant to be…

I Love You as You Lie There Sleeping

Yes I love you as you lie there sleeping

Miles away, I can’t see your face

But I know each soft curve and contour 

I trace your imaginary brow with my loving thumb
Yes, I love you as you lie there sleeping

One A.M. no hinderance here

While your voice is my desire

I must be satisfied with our last “I love you.”
I do love you as you lie there sleeping

We should not be so far apart

I miss you wrapped all around me

Us tangled lovers in loves sweet mix
So I love you as you lie there sleeping

I hope you know how you inhabit my soul

May the day come that finds us melded as one

As I finger-trace your lovely sleeping face…

…and How Could I Breathe?

…and how could I breathe

Not knowing she walked this earth?

We’ve seen the same stars,

The same news

Heard the same music…

Before, I never knew kindred hearts

Only disjointed attempts at making things work

No connection.

No unspoken understanding.

No sense of what it feels like to be truly loved by someone other than blood.

No free laughter.

No midnight peace in my heart.

No hope for a love that heals.

…and how could I sigh without her?

…and how could I wake, smiling, to a new day?

…and how could we walk this same planet apart for so long?

…and how could fate not bring us together sooner?

…and how could I have breathed without her?

As now, I know her touch.

As now I know her peace.

As now I feel her love.

As now my life finally begins…

.

Explorations

BalmyEvening’s sun falls silent behind me

Night’s horizon creeps the glassy sea

Lovers’ footsteps corrupted, 

insatiable waves erase their immediate past
Lines drawn from yesterday’s myriad lives

Somehow connected to tomorrow’s breath

Yet now, only grayed and faded vectors

Lost in an endless lavender sky
Definitions. Life. Love. Wars. Meanings. 

All merely phantom pastimes 

Chased by those invigorated

Pontificated by those nestled in apathy’s slumber
Dreams, the buzzword of charlatans

Truths, abundant to everyone, known by none

Yet chards, embraced to a cacaphonic squeeze

Severing and dividing even as they’re wielded
What remains?
Balmy,

New moon’s mystery lies silent on he sky

Horizon vanished in the haze of its nonexistent truth

Much the same as death eradicates our espoused truths

We all, children, who never grow up nor learn the one lesson we need…

How May You Love an Angel

  How May You Love an Angel

Love will never forget you

For as I live and breathe and walk this earth

You will be danced

You will be caressed

You will be loved

You will be adored
How may you love an angel

Better asked how may you not?

Eyes careened by sparkles

Heart engulfed with love
How may you love an angel

Smiles free, enchanting, real

Compassion, integrity, gentleness

Her breath fills my life with joy
How may you love an angel

When all you own falls earthily short

When all you know becomes hypothesis and conjecture

When her presence thrills your soul
How may you love an angel

Lovely in spirit as a soft morning breeze

Beauty in all manner woman

Kind in every forwarded thought and deed
All I know in loving an angel

Falls to basic, immutable truths

Life’s hat to be hung on these principles

My Angel, My Heart, My Love:
Love will never forget you

For as I live and breathe and walk this earth

You will be danced

You will be caressed

You will be loved

You will be adored