Thursday, March 10, 2016

Reformed...

{Image credits: David Shrigley's Untitled [Gays] 2004 & Kaitlin Robbs' feelings wheel.}


I never really minded being gay;
I loved it when
he stretched/
filled up
the hole
inside
of me.
But
“It's
better
a top
than a
bottom,”
so they say –
for the tops have always written history.

Tuesday, March 8, 2016

Sort of terrifying ...

                 It's
             sort
           of
      terrifying
      to love life
                         like
                      I do.
      I didn't     used
         to mind   the
          thought
                 of
              letting
                 go.

A moment was so beautiful,
but was just another one:
enough, or one-too-many,
but never one-too-few.

I didn't care, meeting you,
whether you'd say 'yes' or 'no.'
Just asked because I needed
to keep asking—

to fill my moments up—
and hadn't failed with you yet.
But you liked me and, given
company, I didn't want to go:

I'd fall asleep in a laugh with
you; you, kissing me gapless,
would say, “you have to breathe,”
but I'd stay attached, anyway.

I'd imagine dying, again, as I do,
in a car crash or a stupid fight.
But as much as that used to make
me feel light, now I find it taxing.

I can't see growing tired of this; of
looking forward to moments I'll catch.
But if I do, I hope I'll be old and low –
a waxy wick, flagging blue and slow,
                                             remembering   its
                                                                             match.

Saturday, March 5, 2016

The last rally...


There is danger in this room.
Before the exit doors,
where beyond, in the night,
no one is listening.

I feel your tense intention
like a water bucket trembling –
opaque with agitation – if you hear
me through that noise,

I'll talk to you: killing me will
leave a hole on this stage, but
it will not make you stop trembling.
You. You have cares and softness

between your eyebrows,
tightened from squinting through
cross-hairs. Drop down the
barrel-end. Remember that I felt you;
That you are real and not alone.

These are dangerous times,
but I take that as a sign of successes.
we are not powerful here, but
I take that as a sign we are good.

Toward a thousand commands
“On the ground” “Shut up” “Disperse,”
a thousand audits and seizures,
using legal misquotes of social philosophies.

If we create a little joke a wall-painting
a kindness, then what becomes of
a hard statement a slogan a sanction ...but
a discussion a background a wall around a room?

Build up out of danger, up into daylight,
up to where the air rings. Use sticks
and mud that cost nothing, and pay
into them your beauty. Let that

Create your way home.{* bang.}

TEACHING TALK: the use of 'Belief & Doubt' (Peter Elbow spur)...

By belief you gain insight:
When you walk into a world (another person's culture; a working environment, a life)
with the thought, “There is something here
that is reasonable, is valuable, and is important,”
then that is what you will find.
Because every world sustains itself on something
touching true, that is valued, and that is useful.
Believing that
is the only way to open your heart, mind, and senses to
(A) perceive those distant objects and
(B) understand them in a way you can relate to your own objects.
So begin by believing.

Have you encountered a situation that made you pull back, where you thought,
“This is completely unreasonable, crazy, incoherent,”
“This is just wrong, stupid, pointless,”
or “This is so useless, boring, a waste of time and effort”?
We all have – because it takes so much energy and will to understand.
And the more new, or different, or subtle this object,
the more we have to give of ourselves in order to understand:
to let go, for a moment, from our own reasons and theories,
values and institutions,
polished methods and coping habits.
To let go and feel some other world,
to see a view out of someone else's eyes,
to explore another way toward getting something done.

{Examples:}
Perhaps it's strange to imagine the rationality
of witch-doctors and fortune-tellers and late-night infomercials,
but then you think about the placebo-effect in healing
or the therapeutic relief of a little reassuring hope
or the monetary savings if you did dry your own meat and vegetables.
Maybe it's hard to see the moral purpose
in bloody cage fights or polyamorous relationships,
but then you explore the history of pugilism and martial arts
as outlets for youthful aggression, arenas for turning that energy into self-control;
or you think about your own struggle to find one wholly fulfilling partner,
how maybe if you found the right combination of people...
Perhaps it's unintuitive for you to comprehend the use of
meditation or crossword puzzles or comic books,
until you see how swimming gives you a similar feeling
of mental clarity and calm,
or how arguing playfully with your friends
is its own kind of memory-sharpening puzzle,
or how watching farcical movies
provides you the same escapist relief and simple life lessons
that a comic book might, if you'd ever gotten into one.

By belief you gain insight.
*

But how do you explain this to others?
Once you start understanding
some new situation,
or another person's views,
or alternate paths for achieving a goal,
you may want to share these insights with others in your group—
others who, as we all do, sometimes resist or deny
something that seems strange to our standard intuition.
So when you go back to your own perspective,
preparing to explain witch-doctors or cage fights or comic books,
remember your initial doubts
and the reasons, values, importance behind them:

{Examples:}
Sometimes a sick person needs surgery
or careful diagnosis and preventative measures,
and in that case thoughtful prayers and hope-filled potions
will be less than enough to heal;
Sometimes fighters are ungentlemanly and rude,
uncontrolled and selfish and just violent,
and when pugilism lets go of its art and philosophy thus,
it likewise undermines its potential benefits for youth and society;
Sometimes writers rely on stereotypes and spectacle
as shortcuts to social commentary and human insight,
or their fans become so deeply involved in the stories
that they pull away from developing themselves in their own lives,
attitudes and actions.
These doubts, questions and concerns,
bring out a fuller view
by brighting the shadows that believers sometimes overlook.
And by giving voice to these doubts,
you invite more distant doubters to look at those strange worlds more closely—
despite their possible feelings of resistance or discomfort—
because you have just placed into that world
something that is familiar to them:
by doubt, you gain credibility.


{A Quote, mapped in space:}

As teachers and students
we are in a good position to learn
the ability
to see things differently
from how we usually see them,
and the willingness
to risk doing it.
If we want to learn
those skills,
it helps to notice
the inner stances—
the cognitive and psychological dispositions—
we need for doubting and believing:

If we want to doubt or find flaws in
ideas that we are tempted to accept or believe
(perhaps they are ideas that “everyone knows are true”),
we need to work at
extricating or distancing ourselves
from those ideas.
There’s a kind of language that helps here:
clear, impersonal sentences
that lay bare the logic or lack of logic
in them.

If, on the other hand, we want to believe
ideas that we are tempted to reject
(“Anyone can see that’s a crazy idea”)—
if we are trying to enter in or experience
or dwell in those ideas—
we benefit from the language of
imagination, narrative, and
the personal experience.
Peter Elbow1
|
|
V
Stances → … …                                               … … ← Skills
→ … …                             … … ←
→                          ←
Learning
(2 languages that support this:
reason, experience)

*
1“The believing game and how to make conflicting opinions more fruitful,” in Chris Weber's (Ed.) Nurturing the Peacemakers in Our Students: A Guide to Teaching Peace, Empathy, and Understanding (Heinemann, 2006)

Wednesday, February 24, 2016

Killer comes home ...



      I'll lie to you
    because I love you too
      much to brush off your disapproval
    as I've made a mistake again;
  I resolve to tell you
  nothing – because
   we circulate.

                        I'll hold
                      to saying my day
                          was “fine” and show you
                     that you're beautiful,
                    and fine, so right
                       for me;

       I refuse
      to burden your
          good grace with my
       mechanical
        twitch.

                         “What's
                            wrong?” Oh, just
                           an itch.

                  Just
                   {scritch-
                  ch}.

Down the road, across the street ...


She thought about the club she was joining
while she cut her wrists—used
the three fingers not pinching the blade
to open her laptop, to read
one final online collections list.

Poets, musicians, writers, and
athletes, congressmen, generals;
also actors, activists, porn stars,
one mythic Pohnpeian who
slingshot'd off his genitals,

and an unlisted consortium
of only-in-deaths (who were
second-string citizens, sidelined kids,
bullied teens and barely-liveds,
blood-brighting corners we secretly knew about

but tried to ignore for their sadness)
convinced into self-hate or
drug-fed into run-away rolls, jailed
by debt or cornered into no-way
walls where there's only one “freedom” to

take hold of. “What will yours be?”
she asked herself. “Will I self-stop
my illness (too many pills, and rest)
or my fear (a quick syringe in the neck,
some cleaner off the shelf)?

Do it for my values (just stop consuming,
fade) or for some service (share my life
insurance, calm those shaking heads
with this tin-strip blade).” Thinking
this far, her hand shook {oooh, darl-},

Imagining she might wait a while. “Not yet.”
And God, this taboo is unromantic –
curdles and bullet caves, meat clumps and
vomit graves. Messy pops and twitching
foam and slow drains away.

She started reading Cobain's note (“That care!
Such waste...”), and Phoebe's memorial page
(“Kids still bullied her, after she was dead?”)
and Nearing's memoir (“lived four times my age,
before he left...”), and felt a blend of awe and rage.

Now she needed all ten fingers, and
started searching in a spurt
for words off that list: Ariel, Nylon, empathy, pacifist,
Arbus portraits... a mindless toe slid
over the razor, caught on the carpet, “Shhhit! that hurts.”