It’s the creepy but brilliant lights in your own soul
that make you nauseous. The urge to retch them up
is primal,
yet the need to keep them swallowed is equally vital.
At worst, each is so foreign that lovers will brush it off like cat hair,
and your enemies will dance around its light
with brief remorseless glee.
At best,
it’s the light
that blinds,
and by blinding,
shatters knowing.
Here are two more images taken with the one-meter telescope. Seeing was quite good on the night these images were taken, down around the arc-second level (for you non-astronomers, that’s enviably steady air, that leads to tiny, sharp stars and lots of details in the images). Continue reading »
Although the one-meter telescope we are working on at the Tzec Maun Foundation is still a long way from performing as it should, it’s still capable of taking some very nice images. We have had a chance over the last week to step away from the work of testing and documenting the current issues, and simply take some great images. Continue reading »
It’s often said that you learn to write by writing. This is true and this is false. You learn to write by writing with your eyes wide open. This is how you keep your eyes open:
The world starts every day in sadness.
The taste of love is seldom in my mouth.
I dare not touch my finger to my lips:
the memories of poison and kisses
are unbearable.
I cannot reach the chair,
so I sit on the floor.
The sun moves like the lifetime of an emotion
that I cannot touch.
The door opened onto a street in Paris that he didn’t recognize. There was an office building directly across; the cobbles were well worn, and the evening was that shade of Parisian blue that speckles the heart with romance.
He spotted a patisserie a few doors down on the same side of the street. He noticed for the first time that his clothes were paper thin, that his beard was so long that it impeded his ability to see his feet.
He sat at an outside table; the air was cool, and a little damp. He ordered a double espresso macchiato, which he sipped and let the waves of intense flavor-pleasure ripple down to his toes. I should see if they have any pastries left, he thought, but the blue was fading to black. It made him remember the sun, the awkward questions, and finally it was his crumbled reputation that pushed him up out of the iron chair, back along the street, and he tugged at the door.
This time it really was locked; he was stuck outside now, and he sat on the stoop of his prison of twenty years certain he’d erred in coming outside. He didn’t hear the barista hollering at him to pay his bill. She put her hands on her hips and stared at him, then gave him that dismissive wave that knowledgeable and sensitive service people give to clients who have fallen over the edge: a bit of pity, a large dose of having been there, and a little wish for better luck.
He didn’t cry; he’d already lost everything. How was he to know that getting it back was the worst that could happen?
The city’s lights became brighter around him; a single star visible between buildings suggested to him that reality was simply too beautiful for sadness to comprehend.
ire
interrogates the soul
it’s not easy
to see the questions,
and ignore the demands.
It is the sea that burns,
but only the air that is fire.
Diving deep saves the soul
but leather lungs
are better tools
for those who would fly.
It takes honest effort;
hell is asking why.
LIberation is the fractionation
of living bodies:
a stack of crises,
a succession of surrendering cries,
the ketchup on life’s fries.
Trust is always misgiven,
it forges the trusted.
Fire accepts and destroys,
to be among the charred
is a badge
of faith
in faithless truth.
Sing with fire,
breathe like a whale.
The gate itself, courtesy of Esmé Ann.
Children are huddled up behind
the faded wooden slats.
Excited, intense,
ladybugs crawling from wood to finger—
They scatter when I lean too close.
It’s an ugly gate
but the ferns touch it tenderly
fireweed and foxglove
reclaim and diffuse
Passion must hide
what intimacy reveals;
splinters stick in my fingers,
the gate is stuck
and heaven, and horses,
and dreams,
all on the other side.
Here is a link to the full-size photo on Google+ by Esmé Ann that this poem is based on. You must be a Google+ member to see; ask in a comment if you’d like an invitation to join.
I read a great article on research into cognition and performance today. The part that resonated for me was at the top of page 2, the paragraph that ends with this conclusion:
“A highly skilled writer can simultaneously be a writer, editor, and audience.”
I have had better and worse success with this in different forms of writing. My most complete writing was in journalism, particularly for radio. It took a while, but I was able to get all three of those going simultaneously. The fact that journalism is deadline-driven, and has specific styles and standards, greatly facilitated development of that skill.
Picking madness out of my life
like a hiker in bad country
legs festering with nettles;
there’s a moment that divides
the pain from the acceptance;
the desire for wide open country
from laying down to die;
madness draws the boundary of the possible
closer and closer
until the hope of relief,
of even a place to sit,
and commit to picking those bastards out of my flesh
is too—
Clouds in the country of madness
still whoosh,
still poof,
still rain
on the pain
of shame.
