Friday, April 15, 2011
snap shot reality
Hi, It is embrassing. A man takes the insult personal, cuts a blade through his heart. Rises from the floor. Promises himself, he would never make the same mistake again, being sacred. God Damn. Anger is such a relief. I feel freedom. A late day Vulture surfing the curvautre of a south facing mountain side. Not afraid to fail. Being sacred. Hoping I don't screw up again and kill the life around me. peace, ken
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Thursday, March 31, 2011
gratitude and a dream...
Hi, There are a handful of men who i know a little about besides just their name. Bill told me once, said, "you will experience some anxiety before you begin to write. I have the anxiety before I paint." "Surely the anxiety goes away after you feel like you know what your doing, doesn't it?" "Probably not. Your using a different part of your brain, the creative side of your of your brain doesn't understand anxiety." Does love operate the same way? Love doesn't understand anxiety. Love seeks creativity. How I forget the simple things; Goodness has a timing, water from the sky, the phone call to a worried friend. The moment in a day where I am alone long enough to hear what love wants to say. Show me, don't tell me, Change with me, today... peace, ken
Monday, March 28, 2011
knocked back down to realtiy.
hi, Declaration continues to be difficult. Today's frustration doesn't help. Under snow skies I drove to Barnes and Noble. Spent a couple of hours on a revision. The work tedioius and unknowing. It felt as if I were trying to build a garden out of rock. I'd read over the same paragraph a dozen times before creating a new sentence, only to delte and look around the cafe, wondering what the hell was I doing on a work day, pretending I can write. Time here has been kind. Been a long time since I felt the feeling of inadequency as I did today. Days like this I wish I had a telescope. It'd be nice to peer into the future and see how I managed to get through this wall. Even being sick the last three years, the spirit still picks me up. Shows me how to believe, the spirit telling me to hang in there. The spirit telling me not to quit. Been running with Amy agian. Unfathomable to image the last 19 months. The air filling my lungs has been missed. Takes me a mile to warm but once my joints are oiled and there is a rythmn of flow, my strength and endurance has surprised me as the pace picks up. Allowing the down emotions there time. Find no comfort in attempting to talk mself out of this mood. Looking forward to the rest of the week. Today is day 37 of our 44 day cleanse. Amazing what insights arrive by changing up worn out patterns. Amazing the power in habits. Amazing how weak my mind can be when spewing speculation about what I can or can not do. Who is in charge, here. Peace be with you, ken
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Digging towards the light.
Hi,
I've been staring at the blankness on this screen for a long time. Thoughts have hung around; the demon inside my head appears to be aging. The burns lasting not as long or frequent. Three years of suffering and maybe, just maybe this time around recovery will last. This battle of head pain and fatigue has turned into a silent crusade. Friends and family ask about it lesss and less. I don't blame them. All of us have a limited amount of empathy and we all seem spread, pretty thin.
So, I'm a guard in a watch tower, looking down upon myself, noticing what I feel, how I feel and then linking my current state of being to the back-log of black memories. It is this contast that holds hope.
ken
I've been staring at the blankness on this screen for a long time. Thoughts have hung around; the demon inside my head appears to be aging. The burns lasting not as long or frequent. Three years of suffering and maybe, just maybe this time around recovery will last. This battle of head pain and fatigue has turned into a silent crusade. Friends and family ask about it lesss and less. I don't blame them. All of us have a limited amount of empathy and we all seem spread, pretty thin.
So, I'm a guard in a watch tower, looking down upon myself, noticing what I feel, how I feel and then linking my current state of being to the back-log of black memories. It is this contast that holds hope.
ken
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Hard on the boy.
hi,
On the last day of February I picked up the spade and chopped through our well drained soil. Our pup, Boone looked at me with a curious gaze. He's been exploring, digging, chewing, pulling, biting, gnawing, clawing our backyard for five months and this is his first time since last years first hard freeze that I'd been standing over our vegetable beds. As i mixed in some nutrients and took the smaller spade and carved out a straight cut for seeds I said, "Boone, this is the garden, no digging. No digging." He understands the word dig. He understand the tone of my voice when I mean business. He turns real still, lifts his snout a little as if to say, I can't quite hear or see what your saying. But it's obvious he's listening.
The sight of the mixed green seeds continue to amaze me. Tiny spear like seeds, small as a minute sliver in the finger. And how they sprout to provide leaves by the hundreds for on the spot salads still mystifies. I guess if I really want to blow away myself, I can envision the miracle of the sequoia seed to those galatic behemoths swallowing up the sky.
The spinach seeds look like badly dented bowling balls for Praying Mantis. And the pea seeds the same but for a blue belly lizard. Boone sat tall, watching as I repeated, "Boone. Boone, no dig. no digging." He'd half acted like he was already in trouble. I know the new rule of thumb is focusing on postive reinforcement. And unlike my early twenties and even eight years ago with Jessie, I have learned to temper my anger for the most part. Yet just as middle earth is molten lava, there is still a fiery side that rises from old memories.
The last couple of days I've found big paw prints indented into the rows. "Boone, this is no dig. This is the garden. No dig." He'd assume his stanch pose. I'd walk over and give him an equally stern look into his dark eys.
Two days ago, I bought a new sliver watering pail. Walked up and down the rows, watching the water vanish before it had a chance to pool, wondering how the seed knows what its purpose is.
Tonight as I sat in front of our six foot aquarium, the ocean fish thriving in this land locked state, i had one of those trained by fire thoughts, Boones been out back a long time and I have not heard a bark or a whine. I stayed immersed with the moment surrounding me and after another lost track of time, finally stood and walked to the back window door and peered out.
Usually after this long, Boone would be sitting on the top step, his back towards the door, looking out, patiently waiting. He wasn't clawing in the huge foxhole he had dug in the lawn. Or the other two varment holes in the lawn he'd burrowed into.
Then out of the darkness he came. Without me saying a word, he had a low hunching gait, his tail curled under his hind legs, he angled away from me the way a spooked coyote does.
I had already made my mind up. I quit thinking about compassion or the way my father came at me with that rage in his eyes. I walked out towards the garden and into the shadows and in the dim light I could see huge holes in the rows of peas I had planted. Then another one and a thrid.
Boone was sitting on the top stair as he does waiting to be let in, but the door was open. Of course I was not thinking. There is no time to think when you turn into a monster from some terrified memory. I stomped over, up the steps and grabbed Booned by his collar.
I gave the collar a twist and a jerk and in a determined rush, ushered him down the stairs and accross the pot holed lawn and to the garden beds. "No digging, Boone. No dig!!" I lowered his nose into the hole. God he is strong for seven months. "No Boone. No dig." Boone doesn:t whine, he doesn't push back. We lock into a frozen confortation, me neither adding fuel or him jerking.
I let go and he comes to a sitting postion between my legs. I stand above him, not ashamed, but sad to have scared Boone as much as I did. Standing over him, he remained between my legs.
We shared a confused silence.
Tomorrow, If I find the time, I will reseed the bombed out areas. Tomorrow I will kneel over the garden and ask Boone to come over. I hope he still trusts me. I will stand over him, with his solid black body between my legs like the night before. This time, I will bend myself at the knees and put my arm around his neck and hold him. Boone is very bright. The silence tomorrow will be my words.
The moment shared, the lesson.
To evolution,
ken
On the last day of February I picked up the spade and chopped through our well drained soil. Our pup, Boone looked at me with a curious gaze. He's been exploring, digging, chewing, pulling, biting, gnawing, clawing our backyard for five months and this is his first time since last years first hard freeze that I'd been standing over our vegetable beds. As i mixed in some nutrients and took the smaller spade and carved out a straight cut for seeds I said, "Boone, this is the garden, no digging. No digging." He understands the word dig. He understand the tone of my voice when I mean business. He turns real still, lifts his snout a little as if to say, I can't quite hear or see what your saying. But it's obvious he's listening.
The sight of the mixed green seeds continue to amaze me. Tiny spear like seeds, small as a minute sliver in the finger. And how they sprout to provide leaves by the hundreds for on the spot salads still mystifies. I guess if I really want to blow away myself, I can envision the miracle of the sequoia seed to those galatic behemoths swallowing up the sky.
The spinach seeds look like badly dented bowling balls for Praying Mantis. And the pea seeds the same but for a blue belly lizard. Boone sat tall, watching as I repeated, "Boone. Boone, no dig. no digging." He'd half acted like he was already in trouble. I know the new rule of thumb is focusing on postive reinforcement. And unlike my early twenties and even eight years ago with Jessie, I have learned to temper my anger for the most part. Yet just as middle earth is molten lava, there is still a fiery side that rises from old memories.
The last couple of days I've found big paw prints indented into the rows. "Boone, this is no dig. This is the garden. No dig." He'd assume his stanch pose. I'd walk over and give him an equally stern look into his dark eys.
Two days ago, I bought a new sliver watering pail. Walked up and down the rows, watching the water vanish before it had a chance to pool, wondering how the seed knows what its purpose is.
Tonight as I sat in front of our six foot aquarium, the ocean fish thriving in this land locked state, i had one of those trained by fire thoughts, Boones been out back a long time and I have not heard a bark or a whine. I stayed immersed with the moment surrounding me and after another lost track of time, finally stood and walked to the back window door and peered out.
Usually after this long, Boone would be sitting on the top step, his back towards the door, looking out, patiently waiting. He wasn't clawing in the huge foxhole he had dug in the lawn. Or the other two varment holes in the lawn he'd burrowed into.
Then out of the darkness he came. Without me saying a word, he had a low hunching gait, his tail curled under his hind legs, he angled away from me the way a spooked coyote does.
I had already made my mind up. I quit thinking about compassion or the way my father came at me with that rage in his eyes. I walked out towards the garden and into the shadows and in the dim light I could see huge holes in the rows of peas I had planted. Then another one and a thrid.
Boone was sitting on the top stair as he does waiting to be let in, but the door was open. Of course I was not thinking. There is no time to think when you turn into a monster from some terrified memory. I stomped over, up the steps and grabbed Booned by his collar.
I gave the collar a twist and a jerk and in a determined rush, ushered him down the stairs and accross the pot holed lawn and to the garden beds. "No digging, Boone. No dig!!" I lowered his nose into the hole. God he is strong for seven months. "No Boone. No dig." Boone doesn:t whine, he doesn't push back. We lock into a frozen confortation, me neither adding fuel or him jerking.
I let go and he comes to a sitting postion between my legs. I stand above him, not ashamed, but sad to have scared Boone as much as I did. Standing over him, he remained between my legs.
We shared a confused silence.
Tomorrow, If I find the time, I will reseed the bombed out areas. Tomorrow I will kneel over the garden and ask Boone to come over. I hope he still trusts me. I will stand over him, with his solid black body between my legs like the night before. This time, I will bend myself at the knees and put my arm around his neck and hold him. Boone is very bright. The silence tomorrow will be my words.
The moment shared, the lesson.
To evolution,
ken
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
There is a fork in the road...
Hi,
There are many fears that I have managed to stand tall with and look directly in the eye.
The days I were strapped into a harness and launched backward off a cliff. The billowing para-gliding wing, above my head, buffeting to gain stability as my feet were yanked from the ground.
So many years ago, yet in some region of my brain the image breathing of me walking into my fathers basement work shop as his table saw screamed. The height of my head about as level as the invisible vibrating blade and saying to his stern face, saying in a quiet way, how his drinking is hurting him.
The times I stumbled, dazed and confused and fell into the fire of two broken hearts. Watching the life inside me be burned alive. And years later and both meltdowns, walking out of the smoking embers a better man.
Being a tortured slave to the beast who whips and chains me for almost three years now and everyone who has been beatin by chronic pain knows if they get lucky and can escape, how they'll beg and say, "I don't want to go back. Please don't take me back there." Despite the suffering my resolve, though sometimes tired, remains vital and alive.
The fear that towers over me. The fear I have yet to look into the eye. The force that keeps me under his thumb is the idea that I can not write a long piece that I am incapable of staying with any project long enough to see through to completion.
And time means more to me now. Sometimes in brief moments, I can see myself moving around with the stiffness of an old man. I can see my future path is not as far away as it use to be. That time is becoming like gold coins in the palms of my hands. And If I want to die rich, I will learn how to stare down this demon, and this time with the heart of courage walk through the wall of fire again, this time, the effort, serving the yearnings of my soul.
I'll die rich when I serve my souls dream. Gold coins, eternal...
peace,
ken
There are many fears that I have managed to stand tall with and look directly in the eye.
The days I were strapped into a harness and launched backward off a cliff. The billowing para-gliding wing, above my head, buffeting to gain stability as my feet were yanked from the ground.
So many years ago, yet in some region of my brain the image breathing of me walking into my fathers basement work shop as his table saw screamed. The height of my head about as level as the invisible vibrating blade and saying to his stern face, saying in a quiet way, how his drinking is hurting him.
The times I stumbled, dazed and confused and fell into the fire of two broken hearts. Watching the life inside me be burned alive. And years later and both meltdowns, walking out of the smoking embers a better man.
Being a tortured slave to the beast who whips and chains me for almost three years now and everyone who has been beatin by chronic pain knows if they get lucky and can escape, how they'll beg and say, "I don't want to go back. Please don't take me back there." Despite the suffering my resolve, though sometimes tired, remains vital and alive.
The fear that towers over me. The fear I have yet to look into the eye. The force that keeps me under his thumb is the idea that I can not write a long piece that I am incapable of staying with any project long enough to see through to completion.
And time means more to me now. Sometimes in brief moments, I can see myself moving around with the stiffness of an old man. I can see my future path is not as far away as it use to be. That time is becoming like gold coins in the palms of my hands. And If I want to die rich, I will learn how to stare down this demon, and this time with the heart of courage walk through the wall of fire again, this time, the effort, serving the yearnings of my soul.
I'll die rich when I serve my souls dream. Gold coins, eternal...
peace,
ken
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