Self Analysis in the SipEasy

28 11 2010

“The roads of ‘if” litter our joy of ‘now’” said the new age counselor. Nori Pi never smiled between her sentences causing Jim to wonder about her authority on happiness.

Jim, a son of an ex-diplomat father and artist mother was disillusioned with societal expectations. His persistent search of friends and partners who questioned the world as he was not promising. While waiting for his omlet at the Sip Easy bar, a coffee stained ad from his local newspaper headlined “Connecting you to us” caught his attention.

And now, Jim was doubting– not Nori but his own choice to listen to such nonsense. As Nori continued to spout overly interpreted clichés frosted with hope, Jim sunk into a painfully penetrating self analysis.

Where was his desperation for connection originating? Perhaps a newly formed mental chemical imbalance had pushed him towards obtaining more intimacy before he reached age 30? Was his 29 years devoid of authentic relationships or were the premise of such relationships spinning away from his own authenticity? If he had been born to other parents, how would his motivations and values match those of his today? And then there were those nagging insecurities that multiplied as soon as he received a compliment…

How had his desperation for connection led him to a conference that was providing little solace? Jim decided it was a path that he’d been programmed to follow for many years and this path had created this desperate need.

The listless days since Jim’s private school education had compounded to a very bold period at the end of his summer prior to entering Davidson College. Once courses began, he became like an exclamation mark refusing to settle for textbook answers to his inquiries into the persistent injustices of the world. Soon enough, graduation was upon him and with degree in hand, Jim began to live in a short comatose consciousness that was focused on obtaining a job.

Although now with a job, Jim did not know the purpose of having one. He deeply felt making a living was not synonymous for having a job. Making a living led one to revelations, personal growth, and benefited society. In his schooling, no one ever discussed the difference between living and working. Maybe this desperation arose from this conflict.

After the conference, Jim headed towards the Sip Easy and observed the characters slipping into the bar’s darkness.

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In the mine

13 10 2010

33 souls lingered, longed, and lived through 69 dark and dank days. Rescue uncertain. A restless rest the only option. Their plight began at one of earth’s secret mouths. Hungrily they –without will –obeyed and fed their freedom to the darkness of the mine. To live without light—like lost moles-so post apocalyptic. Memories feed. Hunger sustains before despair fulfills the hearts of those who sleep on pillows of piled excrement. That which is dark is no longer. A community forged and forced among rocks. Space is fragile. 33 unsynchronized breaths beat against the damp walls—playing the keys of persistence. Overriding the body’s slow rot, the breath plays on taunting and teasing the body as it molds. Putrid fungi covered flesh demands to unite itself with its sibling of soil. Eyelashes become mushroom umbrellas shading souls from eternal rotting. In their eyes, light of life before the collapse shimmers briefly—like morning light in their untidy kitchens—wives waiting, children playing, and jobs demanding. Routine a comfort and a curse. An endless and frantic musical composition. Now the longest pause and fattest comma punctuates their opus. Like muffled mole steps, their lives hope never to see a period fill the hole above their heads.

Mines,
the mind of the masses.

Commitments and currencies
depend upon these sacred ores.

We thieves
steal earth’s children.

We cradle our extractions
and band
them to our egos and excessive needs.

The belly aches
from its unwilled c-section
political, communicative, and emotional energies travel
along highways
constructed from earth’s fetuses.

The bellies of the earth
are hungry hollow shells.
Collapse-able.





A Whitman Why

8 03 2010

Beyond yearning for stability and clear purpose, souls seeks solace in creativity. But how far does one gain acceptance of themselves through such pursuits? A cartoon, sketch, or poem can only carry one to depths discovered through visual or reflective considerations. Does continuation of one pursuit leave one more satisfied than pecking at many? Oh such is my conundrum. Being in the now is oh so difficult.

Whitman asks us to be patient when he says:
All truths wait in all things,
They neither hasten their own delivery nor resist it
(Song of Myself, 30:650)

But we do hasten and we do resist. And if such truths are dependent upon our rediscovery of them, how do we effect them with our impatience and denial? Where does this leave truth? Naked and disfigured? Our habits also camouflage truth in exhaustion. So much of humanity struggles between breakfast and dinner. I fear they only live at night in their dreams. But if we don’t hold a respectable position in society’s hive, we receive criticism.

How I wish to love, live, and create without habit, haste, or denial.