intellectual properties

Two English Poems – Borges

I

The useless dawn finds me in a deserted street-
corner; I have outlived the night.
Nights are proud waves; darkblue topheavy waves
laden with all the hues of deep spoil, laden with
things unlikely and desirable.
Nights have a habit of mysterious gifts and refusals,
of things half given away, half withheld,
of joys with a dark hemisphere. Nights act
that way, I tell you.
The surge, that night, left me the customary shreds
and odd ends: some hated friends to chat
with, music for dreams, and the smoking of
bitter ashes. The things my hungry heart
has no use for.
The big wave brought you.
Words, any words, your laughter; and you so lazily
and incessantly beautiful. We talked and you
have forgotten the words.
The shattering dawn finds me in a deserted street
of my city.
Your profile turned away, the sounds that go to
make your name, the lilt of your laughter:
these are the illustrious toys you have left me.
I turn them over in the dawn, I lose them, I find
them; I tell them to the few stray dogs and
to the few stray stars of the dawn.
Your dark rich life …
I must get at you, somehow; I put away those
illustrious toys you have left me, I want your
hidden look, your real smile — that lonely,
mocking smile your cool mirror knows.

II

What can I hold you with?
I offer you lean streets, desperate sunsets, the
moon of the jagged suburbs.
I offer you the bitterness of a man who has looked
long and long at the lonely moon.
I offer you my ancestors, my dead men, the ghosts
that living men have honoured in bronze:
my father’s father killed in the frontier of
Buenos Aires, two bullets through his lungs,
bearded and dead, wrapped by his soldiers in
the hide of a cow; my mother’s grandfather
–just twentyfour– heading a charge of
three hundred men in Peru, now ghosts on
vanished horses.
I offer you whatever insight my books may hold,
whatever manliness or humour my life.
I offer you the loyalty of a man who has never
been loyal.
I offer you that kernel of myself that I have saved,
somehow –the central heart that deals not
in words, traffics not with dreams, and is
untouched by time, by joy, by adversities.
I offer you the memory of a yellow rose seen at
sunset, years before you were born.
I offer you explanations of yourself, theories about
yourself, authentic and surprising news of
yourself.
I can give you my loneliness, my darkness, the
hunger of my heart; I am trying to bribe you
with uncertainty, with danger, with defeat.

- Jorge Luis Borges (1934)

spherical

the cold fog blocked the city and the sun this morning

a down blanket hovering overhead

creating another world – softer, slower,

muffled and enveloped inside its own visibility

a sphere of birds and slight wind through trees,

the light diffused and traffic just faintly on the other side

there’s right and there’s wrong and somewhere in between there’s life

Out beyond ideas of wrong and right,
there is a field. I will meet you there.
When the soul lies down in that grass,
the world is too full to talk about
language, ideas, even the phrase each other
doesn’t make any sense.

.::.rumi

the language of words

not every emptiness is meant to be filled

(i hope i got that right, Eve LadyApples)

last night i stood shivering with a small group on the edges of the san francisco bay. first, we looked west from the industrial edge of the oakland shipyards, and then, looking east from yerba buena island, the bright lights of the new bay bridge illuminated us and the water like a permanent full moon. we listened as brave poetic souls got up and shared their previously unsharable words under a broken sky.

it was right.

.::.

(the next time transportedsf announces a literary roving literary salon, you shouldn’t miss it.)

it holds the light in

black silk (so much better than a scratchy sweater)
+
black tea (pu-erh as dark as espresso)
+
black sabbath (remixed)

= to keep warm on a wintery morning

sorting through the sordid

sorted
sordid

working through

all of the things

hidden in the darkness,

under the pillows.

i can’t confess

all of the times i lay awake….

keep these feelings like secrets

wait for the moment to unwrap

wait.

no matter how hollow or cold

the yearning

the time always comes.

i had a really good title in mind but now it’s gone

(it’s National Blog Posting Month aka NaBloPoMo again, and so i will be posting all kinds of things, polished and unpolished, long and short, meaningful and silly, every day for the next 30 days.)

moving through
slowly

sometimes my bike commute takes forever in a bad way: headwinds, cold rain, traffic lights. sometimes it takes forever in a good way: floating through sunshine, out of time. i forget where i am as i pedal into the day

taking time

give in to
give into
fake plastic trees
it wears her out

plea to a muse (Yoga for Writers workshop report)

The thing I always wonder, on all those websites and in all those books and in all those workshops and speeches, the ones tell you to stop right now, to make your life the life you want and how to make your dreams come true one step at a time, that it’s hard but you can do it, is this:

What if you don’t know what your dream is?

–ohheygreat

DING DING DING DING DING

follow your bliss.  do what you love, love what you do. etc etc etc.

sure, if you’ve been dancing ballet since you were 4 or always dreamed of writing a novel or reeeeally love woodworking,  i can see how this kind of advice is useful for people who have passions. real passions.  things they dedicate themselves to. things they lose sleep over, get up at dawn for, give up everything else for, cash out their 401ks to fund.

i am now 35 years old and after attempts at various endeavors in business and the arts, i still have no idea what my “bliss” is, which makes it difficult to follow.

last sunday morning, i attended a 3-hour Yoga for Writers (Y4W) workshop with one of my longtime favorite irreverent SF columnists, Mark Morford (so much so that i’ve had a blog category devoted to him since 2004. god i’m such a fangirl.) Mark is also a yoga instructor, and after many years of regarding them separately in his life, he recently learned that combining them is double the pleasure, double the fun. so when i saw the workshop announcement i thought hey! i’ve been doing lots of yoga and writing for over a decade too! so i should go -  this is for me! maybe this will unlock some of my confusion around what AM i doing with my life??

prior to, my mind had totally been occupied with all the Occupy stuff all week. endless reading about economics and tax models and discussions about consensus and active democracy and rights and all kinds of dense things.  so i hadn’t really thought much beforehand about the workshop or what i was going to work on, writing wise. so i was a little mentally exhausted and a little unprepared.

in the opening minutes of the workshop, Mark talked about reasons why we might all be there, as writers, and how the physical and mental practice of yoga can be used as a tool to unblock our creative energy and really let go of our egos in order to write freely, fluidly.  and i immediately recoiled, because, as far as i can tell, i don’t have that problem. i’ve never really had ‘writers block’.  in fact,  i have the opposite problem: SO MUCH TO SAY SO LITTLE TIME.  i wasn’t quite sure how to reframe what he was talking about to fit that problem, and so i was like “oh, shit.  this workshop is not for me.”

and then he talked about how so many writers live too much in their heads and neglect their bodies, these pale weaklings who never leave their basements and spend days in their sweatpants. um, also not me.  see: the 2+ hours of exercise i get most days, and all the dancing i do.  i am WELL AWARE of how much body movement affects my mind: my best blog posts are written while biking/dancing/yoga-ing.

so what was i doing there?? i started to fret.

the thing is, i am trying to figure out WHY i write. and whether i should be trying to channel it into something more productive than blog posts and facebook screeds. the idea of “monetizing” my blog has always caused me to wince, and writing under deadlines for someone else’s umbrella also seems painful. to date, my writing has been purely CATHARTIC. and i have always been happy with that.  it gets things out of my head. and occasionally, someone else tells me that they appreciate it too, that something i wrote really resonated, or they were glad i wrote about something they were too scared to say.  and that has always been enough.

but right now i am going through what some might consider a “transition” phase in my life, and one of the ideas embedded in that is i am considering *gasp* graduate school.  and one of the programs i have been looking at is Writing focused.  so, this means i really do need to consider the question:  do i want to be a Writer, and how?

and so it was that i found myself in a writing workshop, not so much trying to be a better writer as trying to figure out What The Hell I Was Doing There.

one of the pieces that Mark handed out was this, from Teachings of Rumi:

There is one thing in this world that you must never forget to do. If you forget everything else and not this, there’s nothing to worry about; but if you remember everything else and forget this, then you will have done nothing in your life.

It’s as if a king has sent you to some country to do a task, and you perform a hundred other services, but not the one he sent you to do. So human beings come to this world to do particular work. That work is the purpose, and each is specific to the person. If you don’t do it, it’s as though a priceless Indian sword were used to slice rotten meat. It’s a golden bowl being used to cook turnips, when one filing from the bowl could buy a hundred suitable pots. It’s a knife of the finest tempering nailed into a wall to hang things on.

You say, “But look, I’m using the dagger. It’s not lying idle.” Do you hear how ludicrous that sounds? For a penny, an iron nail could be bought to serve the purpose. You say, “But I spend my energies on lofty enterprises. I study jurisprudence and philosophy and logic and astronomy and medicine and all the rest.” But consider why you do those things. They are all branches of yourself.

Remember the deep root of your being, the presence of your lord. Give your life to the one who already owns your breath and your moments. If you don’t, you will be exactly like the man who takes a precious dagger and hammers it into his kitchen wall for a peg to hold his dipper gourd. You’ll be wasting valuable keenness and foolishly ignoring your dignity and your purpose.

and my God if that didn’t make me immediately anxious and depressed. IT’S TRUE. I AM DOING A THOUSAND THINGS BUT NOT THE ONE THING.  FUCK. WHAT IS IT???

in the end, i still don’t really know. when i walked out, i felt like the balance was definitely tipped more in favor of Yoga than Writing in terms of things i am really into doing right now. would the workshop have been different for me if it were framed as Writing for Yogis instead of Yoga for Writers?  maybe.

anyway, i have no conclusions, but in the spirit of the workshop, letting go of your ego and not caring what anyone thinks about what you write and letting it just come out, here are the (mostly unedited) things i wrote in the workshop for the 3 writing sessions we did in between bouts of yoga. i’m not too personally impressed with them, but here you go:

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poem of the day

i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite new a thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh… And eyes big love-crumbs,

and possibly i like the thrill

of under me you so quite new

-e.e.cummings

your apocalypse was fab

telempathy fully dialed

exposing minority selves in a climax community

regression into stoned: immaculate : impeccable

the future willfully ignored;

phoenix philosophers waiting for everything to burn

and then rebirth at dawn:

5 a.m., july, new york city

7 a.m., september, black rock city -

sweat, dust, heat, atmosphere: utterly visceral, hedonistic.

romantic utilitarians, existential humanists,

shape shifters, line walkers, sliders, shadow selves

move through liminal space.

relative morality dependent on audience and a lack of absolutes,

the element-ary complicated by emotion,

disassociate and be grateful.

when I was an alien
cultures weren’t opinions