Letter to the Young…

 

 

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One day, this world will break you

and when it does

you will never be ready

you will never be mended

and you will cease to believe;

in life,

love,

faith,

family,

god,

in everything,

although you may never admit it.

You will spend the rest of your days either in denial of the abyss at your center,

wearing a smile like paint poured out upon a sepulchre,

or

you will knowingly fall deeper into the squalor of existence,

embracing the black malevolence of your being,

casting light upon the cosmic joke of human consciousness,

gnashing your teeth at each new passing day,

cursing the insistence of the future,

and hoping for the sweet oblivion of pure nothingness.

But,

either way

you will never be whole,

you will never be well,

never at peace,

never at rest,

never at ease.

Selah.

 

 

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Smokestack

I just recently finished reading a book my therapist ‘prescribed’ to me; Healing Your Emotional SelfI won’t go into too much regarding its content here. I’m planning on writing a post regarding a few thoughts, considerations, and critiques of what I found in the text. Overall, however, I though the book was helpful and informative. As I was looking through my highlights and notes, I came across this short poem that I wrote in response to a mirror therapy exercise, an activity the book’s author is a prominent advocate of. In this particular exercise I was instructed to simply look and the mirror and describe what my face and body revealed. This is what I saw. I thought it might be good to share it. Let me know what you think.

 

I am tired,
worn,
exhausted,
weathered,
aged beyond my years,
weighed down,
hopeless.
I am a shell without occupancy,
empty,
hollow,
a fireplace without flame,
dark and foreboding,
full of nothing but soot and disuse…

What to do When Something You Love is Part of the Problem?

The past year and a half of my life has been tumultuous at best. It has been the epitome of what Shakespeare defined as the “winter of our discontent”. It has been a time marked almost exclusively by loss and misfortune. I’ve lost my job,having been laid off twice. I’ve lost my home. I’ve lost financial security. I’ve lost friends and relationships. I’m at the verge of losing my marriage. I’ve lost hope. I’ve lost belief in damn near everything. I’ve lost mental stability and above all, I’ve lost myself somewhere along the way, that is, if I had ever truly found myself to begin with. I’ve had to come to terms with what I’ve been denying for most of my life, the fact that I am clinically depressed. That diagnosis didn’t exactly come as a shock and it certainly is far from a new development. I’ve had bouts with dark periods and reoccurring instances of intense melancholy for almost as long as I can remember but, I had never been officially diagnosed, nor had I ever sought treatment until now. The maelstrom that has become my everyday life has simply exacerbated these already prevalent propensities.

I’ve recently started reading Jennifer Michael Hecht‘s book, The Happiness Myth, in it she gives an illustration that seems to all too accurately represent my experience here. She writes:

Consider that we all have an internal empty field at birth, and as we grow, we experience shocks in certain areas of the field, which we respond to by building up a great pile of stones in that spot, to protect ourselves from being hurt again. As time goes on, the inner field grows crowded with stone mounds. Moving around in such a field requires inventive choreography; and that dance is what a personality is. When life circumstances change, the situation turns worse, since none of your long-developed shortcuts and coping methods work now. You crash into walls. The crashing makes you go to therapy, but you go to therapy looking for new shortcuts that will allow you to navigate your city of rock piles under these different circumstances, and what the therapist wants to do is bring you to the pillars and help you unpile the stones. There is nothing in the mounds to be scared of anymore, so if you can just budge the rocks, you will come to have free reign of your mind, and of the world, again.

I conceded to therapy because, as Hecht explains, I have become claustrophobic in my ‘inner-field’ and all my coping maneuvers and mechanisms have failed me. It seems I can’t see the forest for the …pile of rocks. The horizon is blocked by the infinite burial mounds I’ve continually constructed. Underneath, something festers but, hasn’t died. I am full of the undead, things unresolved, a field of tell-tale hearts pounding, pulsing, beating, unceasingly under the floor boards of my psyche. And as Hecht illustrates, rather than providing me with the means to muffle the noise, to drown out the sound, or teaching a new methodology for avoiding the mound, my therapist is trying to give me the tools to pry up the floor boards and to unpile the rocks.

However, due to the previously mentioned financial instability I haven’t been able to afford to meet with my therapist frequently. In this regard, one of the things that has managed to bring me a bit of joy and grant me a welcomed and much needed distraction, as odd as it may sound, has been the World Cup matches. Within the 90 plus minutes of each match I can forgetfully sit in something closely resembling peace, blissfully ignorant, unaware, and mindful of the tragedy of where I am, temporarily pausing the sorrow and the pain of my context. Perhaps, even teleologically suspending my discontent, disdain, my regret, guilt, and my shame. Yet, even here there is something still being denied. Something dishonest.

Anyone moderately aware of current world events knows of the mass protests surrounding the World Cup and its oppressive presence within the country of Brazil. The Brazilian government’s involvement with FIFA has been nothing short of corrupt. They have torn down whole villages, wrongfully evicted families already impoverished by the injustices of an uncaring bureaucracy. People force-ably removed from their homes, thrown out into the streets with nothing and nowhere to go., weeping as they watch the demolition, witnessing the conversion, the transformation of what was once their neighborhood become stadium parking. All this done for the benefit of a sport that will line the pockets of those already bloated with wealth exploitatively acquired from the plight of the poor. And yet I tune in to every match. I watch religiously, all the while sweeping under the rug the terror and trauma of thousands of dislocated Brazilians grieving and mourning losses far greater than my own.

Does my loss justify my viewership?

Last week was the fourth of July and I was involved in a social media discussion regarding the compatibility/incompatibility of Christianity, the 4th of July, and the declaration of  Independence. I wrote the following:

I must greatly question the legitimacy of an an equality defined by a group of rich, white men who rose to prominence on the backs of slave labor. That fact must be recognized and addressed, to gloss over instances of hypocrisy that maintain oppression, would itself seem to be perpetuation of oppressive injustice. We can commemorate the accomplishments of the founding fathers and the biblical cannon but, equally we must exercise a radical honesty about the immensity of their faults, where they have fallen, and where they have unavoidably failed to live up to their own standards.

This, then, is my confession. My recognition of radical honesty. I am the oppressor. I am the 1%. I am one with the ones I propose to stand against. This is my apology. I am sorry that I tore down your homes so that my own pleasures could be served. I am sorry I took everything from you for my own entertainment. I am sorry that I destroyed everything you’ve worked for, everything you’ve earned, everything you’ve scraped together and scraped by on. I am sorry that I am part of the problem. I am sorry that I will still watch the next match. I am sorry that my apology isn’t enough. I am sorry that “I’m sorry” will never do, never make amends. I am sorry that I don’t know what else to do. I’m sorry…

Night Shift

Here’s another poem I’ve been working on. It still needs work but, let me know what you think.

 

With each new day I awake to the dawning of a brand new yesterday.

Tomorrow never arrives.

No hope on the horizon, just the eternal recurrence of all that has already been.

I am haunted by the ghost of tragedies past

 

Blessed are the Angry…

This is a new poem. It’s still a work in progress. I’m still tweeking it but, I thought I’d post it anyway. I’d love to hear your thoughts, suggestions, or critiques. Enjoy!

 

Blessed are the angry, for now that God is dead vengeance shall be ours.
We shall rise up and revolt in resistance to the priests, kings, and every oppressively exploitative structure that they have erected, which has grown rich and bloated on the backs of our efforts and the sweat of our brow.
We shall take back seven fold what has been unjustly stolen from us; our labor, our dignity, our hope, what we have built, what we have created.

Blessed are those filled with righteous indignation. In bitterness and rage we shall strike back on behalf of our soiled waters, our scorched earth, our cracked sky, and our beaten and broken species brethren. These are our neighbors. These are the ‘least of these’.

Blessed are those overwhelmed with hatred and disdain.

Blessed are those who retaliate

Blessed are those consumed by rage and wrath for they shall have the calmness of a bomb, ticking with an anxious fervency, laying in wait for the moment of detonation, wreaking havoc and desolation upon the houses of the gluttonous who are fattened by impotent power.

Blessed are the peace-breakers, the disturbers of the peace for they are unwilling to compromise or make amends with those who have ravaged land, sea, and air, orphan, widow, and stranger. We come to bring a sword instead.

Blessed are the jaded and scarred for the memories of pain and suffering are never far from them.

Never forgive.
Never forget.

A Centerless Mandala…

There is no quiet at my center.

There is no calm at my core. There is no peace in my being.
 I am inundated by anguish and turmoil.
Chaos permeates to the very marrow of my bones and it cannot be silenced…
In the tumult of where I am found there is no space,
no escape,
no safety,
no reprieve
There is no area that is not tainted by desperation, urgency, despair, and anxiety.
…come visit…

A Prayer of Perhaps ( To the God I Don’t Believe In)

I pray to you…but, who is the “you” to whom I pray?

Who are “you”?
Perhaps I pray to no one
that isn’t so hard to believe.
Infinite pages could be filled by the desperate cries and the wounded words shouted to an empty sky.
Perhaps I pray to myself,
as I’m sure Feuerbach would agree.
Perhaps I pray to the best of me, alienated and disenfranchised from myself,
fallaciously separated from my own flesh and set up beneath a transcendent crown upon an immaterial thrown of the heavenly lie I’d like to believe.
Perhaps…I pray to God?…
If you are God…I don’t believe in you.
You do not exist.
You are dead.
You have died.
I witnessed your last breathe escaping, never to return.
Your blood is still dripping from my hands,
my fingers still tight and clinging to the hilt of the blade.
But…
If “you” are God…
although I cannot set aside the atheist for which I rightly pass for
I will speak and, perhaps, even listen to “you” if you will listen and, perhaps, even speak to me