A Thin, Desolate Silence

Saying Goodbye To Anselm

2007-07-08T16:30:23Z

A famous Taoist saying goes that as one travels through a forrest, one needs forrestry skills, a sharp knife, firm shoes, a knowledge of plant lore. But at the end of the forrest one finds oneself by the shores of a river. One cannot walk across a river or chop acroos a river so the forrest skills need to be tossed aside and one must make a canoe, boating skills are needed. But across that river is a desert, the canoe has to be abandoned, different skills are then needed. Many people fail in life because they continue to drag the canoe across the desert, or weep for the safety of the forrest which they knew all too well, never seeing the beauty and opportunity that is all around them in the desert. What lay at the end of the desert? A vineyard I would like to think.

Anselmthelost was meant to be a journal in transition. Transition has been attained.

I had deleted my first LJ account, darylmorazz, when Yale Divinity School discovered it and tried to use the information in it in order to transfer me to Harvard. The next LJ I created was Tsukitamahen (Japanese for "Moon King"...I did a random open Dictionary and pick a name search) but that LJ ended in so much drama between Wentworth and Theresa constantly infiltrating it and using it to flame me from afar. One day while doing one of those on-line "What is your Victorian novel chracter name thingys" my search gave me Anselm the Lost, which I thought was a great name. It had all the connotaions of a strong Theological name (as in Saint Anselm) but also a sort of outsider's view, which certainly reflected my point in my Theology degree at the time. At one point I did try and leave anselmthelost behind but I didn't feel ready to do so, the name was really who I was.

It has been a year-and-a-half of having this journal. When it started I wanted it to be a place for me to talk about academics, occasionally a creative piece, but never a psychological resting or self-destruction space, I didn't mean for this to be somewhere that I ranted and vented about my illusionary suffering or how miserable and helpless I seem to want to feel at times. I often ask myself, would I feel ashamed if my students read this, and the answer is YES I would be. Granted there have been some bright spots for this LJ, moments of strong philosophy or fine-tuning the existential process, animal rights advocacy, sharing some influential writings, but for the most part this LJ has been dribble at best, a psychodrama, a place for the Ego to take refuge and then rule. To have a voice in the world, especially as public as this and not do something great with it, that seems like the problems of the world in a nutshell, raging against nothing while everything else is on fire, while you should be doing something constructive and positive.

So this residency really matured me. I went into a HUGE depression prior to its start (it was the one year anniversary of both leaving my PhD behind and my last suicide attempt) because of what it reminded me of, and pretty much upon arrival I was just battling with staying afloat. I was so mired down in my own selfish suffering that I couldn't see past my nose. Also, I had dropped numerous hints that "someone" should come and visit me while I was there (I just didn't want to be alone during this time), and she never showed up nor took my hints, and I just didn't want to go through all that shit by myself (my Ego was so afraid I would face it).

All I knew was that I wanted to suffer, I needed to suffer, the pull to suffer was great, and I just had to follow the impulse where it lead me. Then the thing with my Mom happened, and then I just found myself looking through old LJ entries and wondering, what in the world have I been doing to myelf and my life? What started out being a very shitty mindset quickly led me to an important place of thinking-- what I will call the "Cut the Shit and Get a Life" moment.

What I found in going through this alone (never underestimate how important it is to be alone! If you can't be your own best company, if you need bodies to fuck with so that you feel like you still matter, if you constantly need people to hear you for the sake of your Ego being heard, you will never be happy!), what I found in tunneling through my depression and sadness was that as my mind started to settle down and be forced to submit, it had to listen to my heart. In dealing with my heart I heard so many things that I had forgotten about, I saw past so much Ego and want, I saw that I have been living on borrowed time, that I borrowed these last few years to make a monument to my own self-pity and self-hatred. I realized that sooner or later, you have to pay back on that debt, that is where I was now, with bills I could no longer pay and goods I certainly couldn't trade back in.

Over the last 10 days, I put all my healthy training from my years overcoming my nervous breakdown and research into existentialism into play.
* I used positive language whenever possible.
* I was humble when praised, but accepted the praise as someone who was worthy of being praised and loved. (my readings went over in a HUGE way!)
* I was social at all times. I interacted with people whenever the chance permitted itself, I did not closet myself into my room, I extended myself to anyone I could.
* I gave up lying or embellishing whenever possible. This is something I find myself doing a lot the last 3 years, trying to create a more interesting backstory for myself to cover up my huge sense of disappointment with life.
* I made myself a peacemaker (I even broke up a fight that was about to start!).
* I thought long and hard about the changes I wanted and needed to make in my life.
* I allowed myself room to grieve. (most people never take the time and stock in themselves to grieve, they don't allow one transition to pass before they hop onto the next thing in order to never really have to think or to change or to move forward. We constantly experience deaths, endings in life, and we rarely make room for the body to be burried and to heal from the passing. I had never given myself the space needed to heal from the disappointment of my PhD experiences nor a chance to meet the person who so badly wanted to get out of that world, to see what He, I wanted so badly that I decided moving forward was the best thing I could do in life. So many people are still so angry and so lost and so caught up on the dying of the thing, that they never move forward, and this was me in a nutshell. From the death of my relationship with Theresa to the death of my Maine friendships and relationships to the death of my Academic life, always slugging through it, never allowing the changes to occur, the snake to shed his skin.)
* I actually took the time to reconnect with who I was, and put aside who I was trying to be. I actually found I missed myself and enjoyed taking care of who I am, being that vulnerable and compassionate and creative person once again.
* And where grief left me, I listened to my heart for the first time in a while, to see how Joy could again be followed.

By the end of the residency I left with a whole new take on life, or at least, a strong plan for one.

I don't want to be miserable anymore.
I don't want to sit around and talk about my broken dreams anymore.
I don't want to wait around for some phantom lover that will never be real enough to replace the emptiness inside of me which cultivates the need for phantom love.
I don't want to harvest want/wanting (the Ego's "I Need It Now!") anymore as the only thing I can show for who I am.
I don't want to be a shadow anymore.

I deserve to be happy. And I will be.
I deserve to have real dreams again. And they will be.
I deserve to feel like I am worthy of being loved again, to love myself again, to have a beautiful and joyous life again. And I am.
I deserve to feel like I am moving closer to success again, like what I am sowing are the seeds of love and wonder. And I am.
I deserve to be real once more, and forever again. And so it is.

I also realize that wanting something and going after it are two VERY different things. So much of wanting leaves one wanting.
Here are the things I have decided to put my effort and care into:

* I am going to take my mandolin as a very serious extension of myself, meaning, daily practice and constant striving for masterful self-expression. This seemed like the best place to start for me.
* I will develop a daily writing practice and focus more energy into becoming a great writer, getting published, and completing my MFA program wirth authority.
* I will stick with one spiritual tradition (Goddess Worship) and cultivate a regular committed practice and study of the subject, and get my full credentials which are long since due.
* I will put myself in community whenever possible, whether it is going out with Jonna's friends, making new friends myself, meeting up with Shauna more often, going to Mandolin jam nights or open poetry reading nights or open mic nights or writer's readings or music camps retreats and seminars or even Pagan events, I will be out of the house and in community much more.
* I am going to take care of my mental and physical health (physically I will continue my strict vegetarianism, some form of physical discipline, and the elimination of junk and processed foods; mentally, I am going to go back into counseling and create safe places for healthy thought and reflection, be very mindful of my temper, my feelings, and the steps that I need to take in a positive and forward direction) and stop beating up my body.
* Surround myself with positive images and life-affirming things (flowers and plants and beautiful works of art and uplifting or complex sounds). What you feed your heart and soul is what your life starts to resemble. I am a Necropolis no more.

For example, I was thinking an average day might look like this:
6:30 wake up, morning prayer/devotion, shower, 30 minutes of Taoist stretching.
7:30-8:30 Free Write
9:00-9:30 Breakfast (high fiber, organic cereal with soy milk and fruit)
10:00-4:00 Bulk of the Day (which includes things like a salad for lunch, teaching, traveling to school and back, wandering around town, doing research or homework, maybe paint)
4:30-6:00 prepare and eat dinner (steamed vegetables, a sweat potato, lentils, black beans, tofu, tempeh, that sort of stuff)
6:00-6:45 Evening walk (maybe a Yoga class, I am still thinking about that one.)
7:00-7:30 Evening shower
8:00-9:00 Mandolin practice
9:00-10:00 Read, listen to music
10:00 In bed

This is just an example but it shows the sort of blueprint for what I am thinking.

Some of the other things that resonated with me were:
* Not turning the cable TV back on in the Fall. Right now we have no cable TV, and in my residency I had No TV. It was amazing how much I got done in a day when not having any TV. I am going to reduce my TV intake to 1-2 hours a day for the rest of the summer, if not try and eliminate it entirely. Put that energy into Music, Writing, and Art.
* Get rid of Anslemthelost. I am starting a new LJ which will be more thinking about the arts, about Animal Rights and vegetarianism, about Paganism, and about being healthy. No more drama or angst or crying or self-pity allowed.
* Start a professional Blog which will be used to help forward my writing career, develop some sort of audience who would be interested in writer's theory and my writing in general. (details will be posted soon)
* Be financially responsible and have a plan for greater financial independence, including an 8 Year Plan to move to France.
* Complete colour change in my wardrobe (greens and reds and light browns, more professional looking clothes, no more blacks and blacks and blacks).
* Learning to live on less, spend less, buy less, make less mess, and be 100 times happier as a result.

Minor considerations were given to:
* Learning French
* Learning to read music (I have some Music Theory in me, sure would be great to be able to site read though. This may get combined with my mandolin studies).
* Forming a New Grass or Alt-Folk band.
* Learning to Paint (oddly enough, water colours)
* Learning to read a Dead Language (I actually spent $120 on Akkadian books...not sure why, at the time, I was kicking around becoming a lay expert in the Ancient Near East, still sounds like a good idea to me but priorities wise, just no time for it.)
* Cultivating a study of medieval culture, philosophy,music, art, and history.
* Getting more into Hermetics, possibly Free Masonry, possibly sticking with Qaballah instead of Goddess studies (but my Love of the Goddess is just too strong). This choice would make my life much easier on many levels however.
* Having a definitive wedding plan by October 1st.
* Consideration did go into a PhD, but in Creative Writing or Mythology.
* Get very active again in Animal Rights, instead of just mildly active.

How much room these minor considerations get I am not sure, some can be combined into the things I am definitely going to change, some interest me greatly but really have no room in my life priority wise.

But, so ends the LJ of anselmthelost. I don't feel lost anymore and I certainly don't want to be lost anymore. Time to move forward in a positive and constructive and healthy manner, time to be happy to be me once more, to Love myself deeply, and to cultivate joy and wonder and beauty and compassion as my highest prorities.

Thank You for taking this journey with me so far.

If I don't see you on my next LJ incarnation, Best of Luck and Joy on Your Own Paths.

Peace!
D.

The End

2007-07-07T12:50:20Z

As of Sunday, July 14th, both Anselmthelost and my old journal Tsukitamahen will be wiped off of the LJ network.

I need to start anew.

Information on my potential new blogging home will be given as a FRIENDS ONLY message sometime prior.

Thank You for taking this journey with me.

Peace--
Dar

Latest On Michael Vick

2007-07-07T12:16:40Z

Feds detail alleged dogfighting operation at Vick property

By HANK KURZ JR. and MICHAEL FELBERBAUM, Associated Press Writers
July 7, 2007

SURRY, Va. (AP) -- There is no longer any doubt about what federal authorities contend took place on the property owned by Atlanta Falcons quarterback Michael Vick that is at the center of a dogfighting investigation.

Investigators said almost nothing to reporters who gathered at the property while agents conducted a second search on Friday, but documents filed in Richmond and obtained by The Associated Press detailed aspects of the case for the first time. Vick is not named in the documents.

The property was used as the "main staging area for housing and training the pit bulls involved" in a dogfighting operation, according to the court papers.

The documents contend prize money from the dogfighting climbed into the thousands of dollars, people came from as far away as Texas and sheepish pit bulls were killed.

As federal agents used a backhoe to dig in an area about 10 feet wide by 20 feet long behind the massive two-story home, then left at about 4:30 p.m., the documents shed some light on their investigation.

They allege that dogfights have been sponsored by "Bad Newz Kennels" at the property since at least 2002. For the events, participants and dogs traveled from South Carolina, North Carolina, Maryland, New York, Texas and other states.

Fifty-four pit bulls were recovered from the property during searches in April, along with a "rape stand," used to hold dogs in place for mating; an electric treadmill modified for dogs; and a bloodied piece of carpeting, the documents said.

The documents said the fights usually occurred late at night or in the early morning and would last several hours.

Before fights, the participating dogs of the same sex would be weighed and bathed, according to the filings. Opposing dogs would be washed to remove any poison or narcotic placed on the dog's coat that could affect the other dog's performance.

Sometimes, dogs weren't fed to "make it more hungry for the other dog."

Fights would end when one dog died or with the surrender of the losing dog, which was sometimes put to death by drowning, strangulation, hanging, gun shot, electrocution or some other method, according to the documents. The property has an aboveground swimming pool, and investigators were seen looking into its murky water Friday.

During a June search of the property, investigators uncovered the graves of seven pit bulls that were killed by members of "Bad Newz Kennels" following sessions to test whether the dogs would be good fighters, the documents alleged.

Members of "Bad Newz Kennels" also sponsored and exhibited fights in other parts of Virginia, North Carolina, South Carolina, Maryland, New Jersey and other states, according to the filings.

On Vick's Web site, he lists his birthplace as Newport News, "a.k.a. BadNews."

Friday, federal agents used shovels and heavy equipment to search the Vick property, where an informant told authorities as many as 30 dogs could be buried.

A backhoe-front loader was brought in and used to excavate a cleared area on the property. The material found to be of interest was transferred into numerous large, ice-filled coolers and loaded into a rental truck, which left the property.

An Associated Press reporter and photographer viewing the investigation from a helicopter could not clearly identify the evidence being collected.

Investigators were digging in an area about 50 yards behind a large white house. About 15 people could be seen on the property, which includes several kennels surrounded by pens made of metal fencing, other kennels and outbuildings.

Located in southeast Virginia, the expansive property has a metal gate at the entrance and a white plastic fence around the perimeter. The fence and a large two-story building painted black behind the home obscured the work of investigators.

More than 15 vehicles were on the property, including the rental truck and at least one Virginia State Police evidence collection truck.

Corinne Geller, a spokeswoman for the Virginia State Police, said state authorities were working with federal investigators in an "assistance capacity."

Vick has said he rarely visited the property. No charges have been filed.

During an April 25 raid at the property, about half the dogs were tethered to car axles with heavy chains that allowed them to get close to each other, but not to have contact, an arrangement typical for fighting dogs, according to an affidavit.

Later, Surry County officials secured a search warrant based on an informant's information about dogs being buried on the property, but never acted on it because prosecutor Gerald G. Poindexter said he had concerns with the wording of the document.

On June 7, the day that warrant expired, federal officials executed their own with the help of state police investigators.

Poindexter publicly questioned the federal government's interest in a dogfighting case. He suggested Vick's celebrity was the draw and raised race as a possible motivation. Poindexter and Vick are black, as is Surry County Sheriff Harold Brown.

Poindexter, on vacation in Louisiana, said by telephone he was unaware of Friday's search and was still pursuing what he called a parallel investigation. He said he assumed Surry County and federal officials eventually will share their evidence.

Vick initially said he had no idea the property might have been used in a criminal enterprise and blamed family members for taking advantage of his generosity. He also put the house up for sale and reportedly sold it quickly, although there is no record that the sale has closed. Vick has since declined to talk about the investigation.

Michael Felberbaum reported from Richmond.

In Recovery

2007-07-04T20:59:41Z

My mom survived her 3 hours of surgery, she is in recovery now and will be for some time.

Thank you to all those who wrote and wished me well. It really meant a lot.

Man I haven't drank that much in a 24 hour period in the last 10 years!

Misc Poems

2007-07-04T20:58:22Z

Fugitive

And you said to me, "tell me about the sun."

And I replied, “I shall tell you about the night.”

"tell me about its rays."
I shall tell you about the blackness.

"tell me about its warmth."
I shall tell you about the coldness.

"tell me about its illumination."
I shall tell you about shadow.

"tell me about how it gives life."
I shall tell you about passage.

"tell me about its story."
I shall recall for you the myth.

"tell me about its journey."
I shall tell you about its descent.

"tell me about its origins."
I shall recite for you a calling.

"tell me about its uplifting power."
I shall tell you about shaming.

"tell me about its medicinal quality."
I shall show you how to make the poisons.

"tell me about the solar cycle, father, tell me
about grandfather, sky, daylight, tell me
about my ancestors going back, tell me
about time immemorial, tell me, where I come from
tell me, tell me, tell me, how this came to be!"

I was a young boy, I was handed a shovel, I dug a large hole,

I made a two week journey, at the end I saw a crow feed from a corpse,
there was a massacre in a near-by village, the shamans had left the tribe,

the black-winged harbinger of the Hanged One left behind a feather,
I sought a cave to bury that feather, to enshrine the remains,
the sacred bag with its lunar herbs and solar charms,

the holy man’s pipe, drum, and shell rattle. At the edge

of the cave, from the inside looking out, townspeople
were looking for the body, they wished to defile it further.

“tell me about what happened when they found the body.”

They are still looking for me.

When You Find I Have Gone

If I feel any less for you today
know that it’s not an error in my thinking,
the multiplication has been checked
and I've gone over all the proofs
but in the end, this is what it adds up to.

If you find you don’t see me in the morning
know that it's not my wanting,
that I have looked into a longer stay
but the rates are astronomical
and I believe checkout is earlier than we both would like.

If you find that I do not feel for you
then understand I have felt too much,
and looking at the hole inside of me
I have found a new place to live
utilities are included, and the neighbors are rather quiet.

If you find that I don't touch you anymore
then realize that we have touched enough,
for two objects which pass in the night
and suddenly collide, will began to sink
when the bow has been twisted, and the keel has been broken.

If you find that I would rather be alone
then find yourself someone else to be concerned for
or concern yourself with someone else
or let someone else be concerned for you
either way it doesn't concern me anymore.

If you find that in the morning I am gone
then press snooze on the alarm and sleep in,
the middle of the bed is now fair game
and my lines have receded beyond slumber's tomb
the sheets are cool with less body heat.

If I feel any less for you today then look into a blackened mirror
or stare into the river or the back of a spoon
or the flat of a black stone or a dish of water by candle light
or the TV when it is off or a finely polished marble stone
or the ring which now sits in a box or the shine of the kitchen table
or the bottom of your coffee cup or the rear view mirror,
If you ever wonder why I am gone.

Long Night

because I am in need of the company

of my own kind

and I hear that the locals can survive

on the slightest of things

potatoes, paprika, lard, the crucifix, the living,

I am enroute to Borgo Pass

because I am hoping that the stagnant air

will do my lungs good

and I can speak like the locals

with eyes that have lived with fear

for as long as they can recall.

I am suffering through Borgo Pass

while my coach makes little noise

against the rugged trail

it has either been broken in

or finally given in

to the road in which it is best well-suited.

I am traveling to Borgo Pass

although the noble hoarse is on his last hoof

and only the driver compels the ignoble hoarse forward

all three know how long my passion has cried to be excited

set loose from these mortal chains

or so I again want to believe.

I am a passenger to Borgo Pass

because ancient philosophers, heretics, and madmen,

a favorite haunted story or mythic tale,

long since forgotten

have been the best friends I have ever known

and now I seek my own company.

I am escaping to Borgo Pass

because this is as close as I get to Being

sneaking through these cold mountains in the night

into this place where nothing dreams

and nothing dares to live

in fear of being touched

and having to admit that blood is life.…

I don't ever want to be that vulnerable again.

Between a Star and an Astronomer

Was I bright
Before
I knew you?
Or,
Was I
Dull,
Merely
A shadow’s last repose
Sullen and Sunken
Unexposed--
Unrevealed--
Uncharted--
A point without
Plot,
Alone
There beyond myself
Worse
Away from You
Millennia traveled
Light’s speed
In desperation
Searching
Reaching
Longing
In advance of all my design, Words,
Whispers against a cold solar wind:
“Find Me, Just Find Me!”
Was I bright
Before
I knew you?
How could I have been?

Letter From a Darkling to a Once Sufi (prose poem)

My Dear Rose,

               Thank you so much for your letter. I feel the same as well. Not that I regret introducing this Vampire lifestyle to you—I think it is what I’ve always wished for you—which you believe robbed you of your Sufi practice, but that I wish  you had seen me for what I really was back then

               I wish you had seen what I was back then, how you could never be more than an exquisite corpse to me (and her lips are blue!). Whether it was my own Ego's sickening need, real want or the desire of a soul as possessed as my own to know this Victorian tale, I wanted you and I took you. If someone got hurt, all I was concerned with was service, I cared little for the sacrifice, of these assaults have we been teacher and student, student and teacher, have we shared, will we share, will we be, reborn.

             We have tasted each other’s blood and that’s a connection not so easy to broken, forever will I be in your thoughts like some seasonal ghost that wants you to be aware of just how present I am within this dwelling, like Ivy creeping up an old abandoned house slowly strangling the romantic cottage that was once conceived as a dream home.

               And like that house, there is this thin, desolate voice drifting through, whenever the wind blows, whenever the trees outside shudder from the cold, a voice calling out from ages past, scraping against the back of your neck as you sit prone at the bedside all pseudo-Victorian and Wollstonecraft, lost away in the mountains, tapping out the hate-song I left inside your pink and purple cauldron on our nights of wild heathen ravaging, wanting deep penetrating hate-filled flesh, that is something which never dies. No matter this vast normalcy you do your best to fit into, no matter the bland collage longing for the Beloved poems you try to surrender yourself to, no matter the villain you make of me—the dark sorcerer harboring dark thoughts and blackened words, hiding them at times under mumbled words and murmured kisses, stepping out of the shadows long enough to take his hemlock and belladonna brew, to live off the barest soups and stews and then poison his blood as a matter of liberation with a tincture two parts madness and one part whore—nothing fades the bond we share.

              I too mourn the lover you wanted me to be, but I enjoy all too well the darkling who decorated your once unblemished skin, who left his bloody name enshrined on your thighs, behind your ears, on the top of your mouth—It was once believed that Vampires drew blood through a barb on the tip of their tongue, maybe you finally understand me a little bit better now. I praise with chilling cold the jackal's sexuality, the pain that was sweet enough to conceive a need for revenge, the careful charting of rising moon, the falling of your morningstar at the approach of Autumn, sharing bottles of Vampire Vinyards, coiled up like snakes, Samekh, the eternal letter S, always protecting its young yet wanting nothing but fuck and fight, a serpent’s tongue like a life raft in the vast blackness of the human condition, adrift, staring into your eyes, while you were falling for me, falling, falling in love, falling, over and over again, falling in Love with Shams.

               And I understand that you now hate me enough no longer love me, I see how that is so essential for you now, I see how hatred and Love so darling twin each other, like a candle's flame hissing and cracking for life once it has drawn to its wicked ends, dancing like a snake charmer or an Ishtar-kissed sacred whore, within a red votive glass where-in a drop of lover's blood or un-hallowed water has fallen-and that wick, that flame, screams to be alive before it fades, leaping up and down, casting lover's shadows upon the wall, making the simplest forms of our chamber come back to life, to bless us with the reflection of our indecent movements, “Unclean!” you suddenly screamed one night, when you saw yourself dance upon the walls below me. This is how closely love and hatred twine and I Love that about you, I Love that about us, this hatred we share, for what we are, the infernal encounters we shared, I the Incubus urging his eight inches inside of you, while you were screaming for God, Allaha, Mercy, Perdition long into the night and then before sunrise running for the door half-naked and in despair, like a thief who wanted nothing but to know they could still pick locks and open windows, never realizing you would be the one who would be robbed, stuck standing by, as if frozen by the hand of glory, waiting and watching, praying for the first time in your life the sun doesn’t come up and you would find yourself so vulnerable, revealed, murdered. When do we ever cease dying in this way? Love like dying, perhaps, a bit more appropriate than a Love like bleeding, a love like hating.

               Do not pretend that your attempted distance will change me, us, you. This is a land of ghouls and ghasts, where the daily requiem songs are danced to with joy, and the more macabre, the better the waltz. My best friends these days are remnants and shadows, only occasionally does a Witch fly across my sky, longing for one last spell, my most trusted charms, my ability to unveil omens, to conceal inner vision. I entertain few guests, the dining table is overrun by dust, not of wax, there is but one lantern lit within the castle, shining on a grey-fresh space, 6 feet deep, which has been carved from the cold earth, just in case consumption finally overcomes. I have grown quite comfortable to live this Gothic Tale.

               I wonder when I will see you next.... such profound grief to once have been a Lover, such intense and broken grief. It is beautiful, is it not? This grief? This despair? Weeping angels weep for all eternity and now we are two more, all the more, fallen, and weeping and falling, over and over, once more; now you know why Rumi broke in grief!

               And as for those of us who bleed because of love, who mourn because of our love, who shiver in fear and wanting, who, so overcome by this all-consuming grief that despair is not only the longest, but, noblest road for authenticity: this world of sweet darkness is richly beautiful, and all the rest, is false romantics. Maybe now you see.

Write back soon.

Sincerely,

Your Darkling

And Yet Another Stumble of Loneliness......

2007-07-03T15:08:39Z

Just as I was pushing through this feeling of loneliness, a new topic of consideration has arisen.

My mother was brought to the hospital last night, she needs emergency surgery, her pituitary gland needs to be removed immediately. She is in surgery as we speak, I am told it is a 2 hour surgery.

I spoke to her for like 15 minutes last night. Our relationship is still a wreck, and though I wished her well and good health and I pray she survives this surgery and recovery, her chances are not good because she is so obese, in poor health, has so many other things wrong with her (for real and in her head). This morning before her surgery I left a quick message on her voice mail to wish her luck an d then I had to run off to school stuff.

When doing a Low-Residency MFA you CANNOT leave your residency or else it gets disqualified, meaning, I would lose 6 months of study toward my degree, the money I spent paying for this residency, and then another 6 months of my life in limbo.....I've had enough limbo for one life. I could leave here and go be with her, but that hurts me schooling, career, life wise, plus it downplays that the best we know people is during our lives, not the 5 minutes before they pass on. I don't want to change this relationship into "light and Love and forgiveness" if it hasn't been earned as such so far, that's existentially irresponsible on my part and I rob her of her ability to deal with me as she is in all her complexity.

I haven't seen her in nearly 2 years, last few times I made plans with her she blew me off, last month actually, and I so HATE it when people blow me off.....I have serious abandonment issues.....guess who from?

So here I am, my mother is in bad shape, who knows if she is even alive right now, I'm sure I wont find out anything for a couple more hours, if anyone from the family calls me at all. If my mom pulls through she will be in the hospital for a few days, followed by 2 months of out-patient care and recovery. We even argued about how involved I can be in her recovery, being that as soon as I return to Boston I have to teach summer college on Thursdays and Saturdays for the next 6 weeks, and then we have plain tickets to go to Ohio for a week, we come home, then Fall semester starts, I teach 5 classes Mon-Fri, OH and I have to work on my MFA degree and my critical thesis! URGH!

If I didn't feel alone, uncertain, very by myself yet, I certainly do now.

The feeling of loneliness just increased a 1000 times for me.

Letter to My New Writing Advisor

2007-07-03T00:33:05Z

Dear Phyllis,

Greetings!

Thank you for writing me from Slovenia! No worries about the strange (but fun) spelt words. :-)

First off, I am so sorry they stuck you with me ::laughing:: but I think we are going to do some great work together. I still wanted to apologize in case no one has done that yet.

But, HEY! I am excited to work with you this next semester. I firmly believe the universe is watching over me in hooking us together.

We actually met last residency. I was the big fat guy with the beard who left his Comparative Theology program to come here. We actually had lunch and talked about religion and writing, Sufism. Maybe you remember me? I just ran the Faith In Ink salon here with Lavon today, it went really well.

So, I am in my 3rd semester, which means Critical Thesis time. Before I talk about the thesis I just wanted to fill you in on what I've been writing and reading the last two semesters.

My first semester (with Larry Sutin) we read a lot of Gothic literature, and then half way through we read a lot of Hasidic literature and Kabbalism. The major focus of the writing then was looking at my weaknesses as far as the flow of a story goes, learning to cut back on all the philosophy and theology in my head, which I tend to just brow beat my readers with. By the end I was writing much tighter work.

Second semester (with Chris Noel) was my experimentation semester. I read lots of Sufi literature, quite a bit of Buddhist literature, and I experimented a great deal with voice and consciousness (and my hatred of grammar) in most of my works, which ended in a larger work on uncommon Jewish experiences I have had.

So this semester I had originally planned to start writing about my abusive childhood. It is something I haven’t really written about the last 6 years because I got tired as an undergrad being called, "that guy who always writes about being physically, emotionally, and sexually abused during his childhood." What I am most interested in here is writing about how this experience (these experiences) really pushed me into a world of solitude and alienation, given me a stigma, a waking nightmare, that always keeps me separated from people, happiness, a sense of wholeness. I fear it may be pretty terrible stuff to write about. If this is a problem please tell me upfront and I can keep working on my uncommon Jewish stuff, some Sufi experiences, explorations in Ancient Assyrian Paganism, this semester...but I really feel that this abuse material is going to be the mine where my Magnum Opus will take root for my fourth semester.

As far as the Critical Thesis, the idea is similar. I would like to write about Solitude and Alienation. This may be too broad a topic to examine, but I was thinking of looking at stuff by Thomas Merton, Friedrich Nietzsche, the Medieval Christian female mystics, maybe even some prophetic writings or Sufi writings, maybe maybe even some work by abuse survivors (again, I'm throwing lots of material out there, we can cut back on it as needs be, I think Merton and Nietzsche are my best material) and look at how something powerful in one's life sends them into solitude, or leaves them feeling alienated from the world, and how that pushes them into writing, how they write from that solitude. Any ideas or feelings on this would be wonderful.

How does this sound?

As far as your questions go, I think my strengths are:

1. I can generate lots of paper, lots of stories; I have a strong ability to really PRODUCE large volumes of material.

2. I have so much theology, philosophy, mysticism, religious training in my head that my stories are usually very theological, mystical, loaded with a complex, if not cryptic at times, language, so I tend to write deeply, which to me is a strength (although it can be a weakness).

3. I am VERY passionate, and my stories are really driven, they really want to go someplace (something I think a lot of writers miss these days)....again, if not too much so (as you can see, most of my strengths are actually my weaknesses as well).

4. I pick up craft issues and quickly, and am not afraid to work them into my search for style and voice.

My weaknesses include:

1. I HATE grammar. I can do it when I need to (I worked as an editor at the Maine Scholar for 3 years and had it driven into me), but I tend to want to experiment with the boundaries of grammar, even break the rules casually if I think it best represents a character's presentation on the paper, or even to push the boundaries of what writing should look like (too much Hiedegger, Proust, Nietzsche, Prophetic Lit as an undergrad...I just want to stay as breathless and lucid and possessed--for lack of a better word--as possible. So I already know you are going to yell at me for these things, although, as I move away from experimentation this semester, I think I will be more friendly on taming that in.)

2. I tend to bleed all over my writing (not literally....ick!) and learning how to best shape that is something I really need to do. I like pushing the emotional and mystical voice in things and I really do need to work on making that work as opposed to attacking my readers with it).

3. I am really learning about pacing, about the Aristotelian idea of how a story rises and comes to completion and I need to keep an eye on that. I was frontloading my stories and then dragging my readers through tons of discourse and philosophy, deep within my head, to just continue talking about what I've already shown.

4. I kinda dislike revision, making hundreds of copies and changes of something, I tend to just want to generate ideas and then return to them a year or two later to revise, but Chris had me do lots of revision this last semester, so I am getting much better at this.

On my last two reviews, both advisors said I did well on picking up on all my weaknesses and working on them, only weakness #1 remained a problem. I am sure whatever you have heard about me, I am quite easy to work with, very appreciative to work with a great teacher, and very respectful. I have great relationships with both of my past advisors, and even still contact with my old Grad School advisors.

As far as a reading list goes, are we doing one? I didn't think we did one for 3rd semester. I am wide open for anything you want to recommend to me for my Critical Thesis.

I will be home by Saturday morning, but to be honest, I really am going to need a day with my cats when I come home...OH! And my fiancé' as well. Maybe we could talk on that Sunday? (and of course keep in e-mail contact). My phone number is 203-645----, I only own a cell phone, no home phone, but I live in Boston.

As far as personal stuff goes, I could add you to my MySpace site so you can read and see all about me, see pictures, see my friends, and know more about me. If not than I will send you a picture when I get home, maybe a brief autobio and personal survey so you can learn more about me.

Okay, this e-mail is really long. Sorry about that.

I will let you go.

Please feel free to ask any questions you may have. I really am an open book.

Peace & Blessings!

Daryl

Welcome, Kentucky Slim

2007-07-02T13:43:07Z

Some say he eased out of the Blue Mountains like an angry bear waking from a long hibernation. He had a great hunger in his belly.

Some say he was first seen by the crossroads, scaling down an old withered sycamore tree, like a fallen angel, simultaneously slipping and climbing down to earth.

Some say there was an Eastern storm that rolled into town one day, bringing with it all the dust and debris from all the towns and valleys it had passed through before, an old storm, where you could see the tablets of old Babylon brushes through in its midst, and that he brushed out from behind.

Others tell the tale of there be howling desolate wind, the sound of glass breaking, a newborn babe crying in the night, an owl screeched as it soared down in the distance to grasp a helpless pray, a large oil picture of simple farm folk fell off of the wall, lightning struck an old telephone poll, everyone froze, the front door blew open, there was a distinct growling sound, and then he walked into the room. They say he was covered in black from head to toe, not a slickened city black but a ghostly coalish funerary black, like he had just walked out of his own grave. His hands were massive and barely formed fingers, more like large claws, something meant for tunneling out of a jail, a sort of stilling desperation in the palms. He carried a black case, from Hades did that casket emerge, smoking with night and already ringing, like a moan from deep in the earth, the instrument inside which he would soon unveil, like an undertaker unveils a corpse to best prepare it for the afterlife, was already singing. But there was no life from the case, more a kind of un-life, if you reckon what I am saying.

The crowd was hushed and silent as the stranger took stage, strapped a wreath of skulls across his back, and then popping open the case, as if he was prying open a tomb, drew forth the mandolin as if he were drawing forth the damned at the Day of Judgment. There was a strangeness to his pale face, a kind of smile even, trying to break to the surface, but not a happy smile, nor a loven' smile, no, none of that. It was the smile of the Lion staring down the herds of antelope that he was about to pounce upon, the predator before the pray. He put his hands to the mandolin, a thousand souls screamed in terror, and I knew right then and there......there was no turning back. And that was the first time anyone had ever seen...Kentucky Slim.

***

So last night was my debut on the Mandolin. I am sure someone took pictures or has video so I will get it up as soon as it becomes available to me. I played a couple of friends here, a guitar player and another mandolin player. The guitarist named our makeshift band, The Frozen Convulsion Boys, and then gave each of us a name. I was named Kentucky Slim.

As far as the performance went we did a few Blues Songs, two Muddy Waters songs actually. I don’t know the names, only that they were in G and were pretty much 4 chords. I did get a chance to solo though and I was horrendous, such serious stage fright not being all that comfortable on the mandolin yet, but still, I played. We definitely should have practiced more, but still, I guess we were okay, not bad for 3 guys with VERY different tastes in music and who had only practiced for less than 4 hours together. It wasn’t all that bad of an experience, and if anything it turned out to be a real confidence booster for me, a sort of sense of Loving self that I haven't felt in 7 years, I feel really close to these guys here and we are definitely going to work together over the next year to put on a top notch show for next year, not just 3 fat and drunk guys farting their way through 2 songs they don't know all that well, even though, the other two guys were/are actually pretty damn good.

So, I get yet ANOTHER identity to add to my schizophrenic persona and list of characters floating around in my head.

Welcome everyone, Kentucky Slim. Blue-Grass, Blues, Cajun, and Folk musician....spawned from another world.

Terracotta Tomb

2007-07-02T13:05:44Z

China's terracotta tomb site hides mystery building

Sun Jul 1, 1:44 AM ET

The tomb of China's first emperor, guarded for more than 2,000 years by 8,000 terracotta warriors and horses, has yielded up another archaeological secret.

After five years of research, archaeologists have confirmed that a 30-meter-high building is buried in the vast mausoleum of Emperor Qinshihuang near the former capital, Xian, in the northwestern province of Shaanxi, Xinhua news agency said on Sunday.

Duan Qingbo, a researcher with Shaanxi Institute of Archaeology, said the building might have been constructed for the soul of the emperor to depart.

Archaeologists have been using remote sensing technology since 2002 to study the internal structure of the unexcavated mausoleum.

They concluded that the building, buried above the main tomb, had four surrounding stair-like walls with nine steps each, Xinhua said.

Qinshihuang unified China in 221 BC.

The life-size terracotta army, buried in pits near the mausoleum to guard the emperor in the afterlife, was accidentally unearthed in 1974 by farmers who were digging a well.

Where I've Been

2007-07-01T20:34:18Z

Unsure

2007-07-01T15:26:49Z

For some reason, whenever I post one of those survey things that comes with a picture, my LJ will not post them. It just literally posts the information for the image that I drop in. Like this:

<img src="http://www.world66.com/myworld66/visitedStates/statemap?visited=CACTDCDEFLGAHIILINMEMDMAMINHNJNYNCOHPARISCTXVTVAWV"><br/>
<a href="http://douweosinga.com/projects/visitedstates">create your own visited states map</a>
or <a href="http://douweosinga.com/projects/googlehacks">check out these Google Hacks.</a>

Any idea why?

Trust the Process

2007-07-01T15:23:05Z

Yesterday felt like falling into a hole. I felt that the eye of the storm was passing, which of course means the second half of the storm had to hit. I secluded myself away from people, had just the worst luck yesterday, and found myself in my room, really lonely, crying, for most of the night. I prayed to the Goddess to get me out of this situation I found myself in and went to sleep around 11:00pm.

This morning I struggled to get up, to shower, to go get breakfast. I just told myself, "Okay D. it is time to get going, time to push forward, don't let anyone or anything defeat you. You've been through harder shit than this. Acknowledge and persist!"

Still I found myself a nice spot alone in the cafeteria and planned to eat my breakfast alone and angry. It was just then that someone came and rescued me, just sat down with me and started talking, and just talking about politics in general got me talking. The person mentioned how they had traveled the world and how now they are involved with Amnesty International, how they can no longer sit back and allow racism, bigotry, hatred, and injustice to dominate the world. Another person joined into our conversation, and just talking in general (which was quickly pulled from me) felt good.....really good.

Then, I had to go to a lecture this morning. Guess what the topic was? The Sacred Journey. It was such a GREAT lecture about how when we open up to the Divine, when we leave a lot of the junk behind and really listen to it, really move with it, IT takes us into the most wonderous places (not always pleasant ones, but always with a purpose for our growth and healing...ultimately, it takes us into peace and forgiveness). It was such an amazingly rewarding lecture, I felt "tuned up." The best things I got out of it were:
1. Pray for wonder, not faith.
2. Trust the process, the universe/divine gives you everything you need when you need it.
3. The journey starts in fear and uncertainity, but ends in peace and forgiveness.

After this I walked to the computer lab, where I am typing now, and it was oddly closed. I decided that I would go look for someone who was interested in getting coffee, try and be a bit more social. I ended up stumbling upon the person who rescued me at breakfast and along with another person we went to his room to drink coffee and talk. What followed was an amazing session of 3 men (although for a short time 3 other men stopped in and then left) talking about overcoming their rough childhoods, struggling to be accepted and loved in a world that great distrusts big scarey looking men (which we all are), what it means to become an artist when you struggle to even believe in yourself, and oddly enough, how important it is to allow yourself the room to cry. If you can imagine at one point a room with five men, all over 260 pounds, with thick goat-Ts and beards, just big spooky dudes in general, from Iowa, Texas, Upper State New York, Boston, and Cleveland, talking about how much they needed to cry and how important crying was to dealing with life in a world were men in general, especially big men, are not supposed to cry........it was the best therapy session I have had in a long time. It was exactly what I needed. We all left with a deeper bond than before, made lots of plans, and I just feel very validated with all I seem to be going through.

So here I am now at the computer lab. I have some free time before I really have to be anywhere, and I think I am going to order some books from Amazon to treat myself to something nice.

I still feel a little lonely, although, I feel far less abandoned. If anything, I am sure, no matter how dark or how brilliant or how lost or how found I may ever feel, that the process is working.....I just have to trust it.

Learning to Speak Again....Again.

2007-06-30T20:17:03Z

I have some special perspective today. It is nearly 10 years now that I stumbled upon Sue William Silverman's book, Because I Remember Terror, Father, I Remember You. I stumbled upon it while she was reading at USM's Stonecoast Writer's Conference, and her reading of the book, as well as her wonderful friendly easy to approach demeanor really shook me up. I wrote before that point, after meeting her and reading her book, I became a writer.

It was this book that gave me the courage to end my silence and to start healing.....nearly 4 years later, it only took Theresa to get me to do the oppositte again. Amazing.....this book has again awoken within me the desire to heal.

Sue teaches here now in Vermont. She is an author, a lecturer, an amazing teacher, and most importantly a powerful human being who just inspires me each time I see her again, each time I read something new that she wrote. The last two days of seeing her and talking to her again, it has really hit me what is at stake with my writing and how I need to go back to writing about my life, and less about this ghost story I seem to want to collapse into.

Sue writes on her website:
"From about 1980 to 1992, I tried to tell my story as fiction. Looking back, I realize that the five or six (unpublished) novels I wrote during this time lacked an authentic voice. It was my therapist, ironically, who finally suggested I write my own story. At first I resisted. I had never considered nonfiction and thought I had nothing to say about myself. Finally, just to humor him (I told myself), I acquiesced, even though I believed I'd only be able to write a paragraph at the most. Maybe a page. The moment I began to write "Terror, Father," however, I felt as if I'd just learned to speak, that I heard my real voice for the first time. I completed the manuscript in three months. "

Rereading this, interacting with her, I feel like I am waking up again. Perhaps this is what the dying I have been doing as of late, has been seeking.

If you are interested in her book that I mentioned, her writing, her teaching, or just some related resources, click here:

What I am reading for tonight

2007-06-30T15:02:32Z

(Selections From) Perdition

“God is sleeping.” I say, exhausted and tired, sweating and scared as I find myself behind Saint Thomas Catholic Church at 3:30am. A church at night is a terrifying thing when you consider it. As Nietzsche once asked, “Wither does God go?” I feel that Churches are meant to be filled, children are supposed to be dressed in their Sunday best, the choir should be heard singing praise, the pipe organ bellowing its somber love song, frankincense burning, drifting, candles blinking eternal twilight, priests delivering homilies, the stations of the cross on the walls are supposed to be a shield against the tides of darkness and fallenness, a shelter from the storms of fear and terror that ravage souls young and old alike, a reminding that suffering leads to redemption.

The stained glass windows are dark. No light shines inside of them. The presence of the Lord is asleep. God is tired, his eyes are shut, or maybe, once again, he just doesn’t want to see me..

“I HATE you!” I scream into the night. “I HATE you as much as YOU HATE ME!” My words quickly vanish into the concrete borders of the urban landscape.

I have not cried in twenty years, tonight will be no different. I pick up a brick, and hurl it at a window depicting Jesus as a Sheppard over a flock of ivory-white lambs. The brittle glass shatters and erupts into a thousand shards of flickering blue and red sparks, and then quickly vanish. There is no answer. Maybe I need to speak louder?

“I just want to come home. Is it over yet? Is this sentence, this damnation over yet? I swear, I will never rebel again. I just want to come home.” No response. Even I don’t know the difference anymore between myself and my Miltonian Luciferian sentence. God and I have an understanding. I know the rules of Perdition.

***

As a child I was terrified of the basement. It was filled with sharp objects, blunt instruments, hammers and saws and sanders and nails and axes and fresh pine boards broken, their saw-innards splayed across the ground. It was a slaughterhouse for ripe white flesh. My stepfather could fashion a piece of wood into a dinner table, a chair, a bench, a coffee table, he even had plans of someday building a house. “The wood reveals itself as to what it wants to be made into.“ He would say. I know this applied to anything he put his hands on. Anything that found its way into the basement, upon his workbench, on his horse, behind the water heater, anything pliable could be plied and twisted and reshaped. He sometimes broke things, flung his hammer across the room in anger, but then would reapply himself to what he had done and restore the object to working utilitarian function. Only if you had a keen eye and looked closely could you see the marks, the scratches, scrapes, sudden strikes, forced violations and scars that would reveal the real story of what occurred within his firm hands in private. At first I made a noise, and then I learned the virtues of silence.

***

The Catholic theologian Karl Rahner said that damnation just occurred to people, it had no rise, no way to prevent it from happening, it was just that some people were chosen, he uses the word “election.” Some people are elected to be damned, it is part of God’s plan, and only God’s grace can save us from being born to be a member of the damned or remove our damned status. While Rahner didn’t entirely rule out universal salvation, that all souls, no matter what their state in life will be saved, he did make sure that perdition remained a central feature of election theology.

***

The basement is cold. The floor a sickening puke-gray, a cover-up discount paint. In the left corner is a blackened water heater the size of a small mausoleum. Five feet behind the water heater is a homemade plywood workbench, adorned with saws, and chisels, and pieces of wood, hammers, half-opened cans of stain, and an old radio with WNEW rocking out the classics of 70’s Rock & Roll. Blue Oyster Cult’s Don’t Fear the Reaper is halfway through, Buck Darma, the band‘s lead singer is moaning his haunted underworld call, the water heater sparks on and begins death rattle its job, and in the space between the bench and the heater, my eight-year-old pants are at my ankles, my Iron Man Underoos are down below my knees, and my little penis is being suckled for its very foresakenness.

“No daddy, I don’t like this!”

His hand squeezes hard on my left arm, the pain shatters through me, it is like I have been put on the vice which rests upon the bench. He stands up. He slaps me, not hard, but enough to enforce his will.

“Shut the fuck up!”

He fumbles with the worn-out leather on his belt, the buckle’s marijuana insignia snaps up and slinks down, like a snake creeping from a high branch, bringing his faded denim pants to the floor, there is nothing beneath but a viper, and it bites my tongue.

“Just take it. Good boy. Good boy. That’s my boy. Just take it.”

I look up at him. He smiles down on me. I love him.

“That’s it. You’re doing good. You know what I like. Just like I told you. You know how I taught you. Do as I taught you. That’s good.”

I love him. Only the bible on the shelf above the workbench distracts me from his attention, from his direction, if I could only reach it, if HE could only reach me down here.

***

The church’s alarm goes off, a painful screaming siren of alarm. There is a rage in heaven, angels take your guard. The authorities will be coming soon, it is time to flee once more.

Shhhhhh…..God is watching.

Thoughts In Solitude

2007-06-30T14:10:49Z

The following quotes from Nietzsche have been a guiding and comforting source this last week.
Enjoy...if you can.
---------

He who fights with monsters should look to it that in the process he himself does not become a monster.

The thought of suicide is a powerful solace: by means of it one gets through many a bad night.

He who would learn to fly one day must first learn to stand and walk and run and climb and dance; one cannot fly into flying.

It is true that there are men who, on the approach of severe pain, hear the very opposite call of command, and never appear more proud, more martial, or more happy than when the storm is brewing; indeed, pain itself provides them with their supreme moments! These are the heroic men, the great pain-bringers of mankind: those few and rare ones who need just the same apology as pain generally-and verily, it should not be denied them. They are the forces of the greatest importance for preserving and advancing the species, be it only because they are opposed to smug ease, and do not conceal their disgust at this kind of happiness.

Two great European narcotics, alcohol and Christianity.

Who can attain to anything great if he does not feel in himself the force and will to inflict great pain upon himself? The ability to suffer is a small matter: in that line, weak women and even slaves often attain masterliness. But not to perish from internal distress and doubt when one inflicts great suffering and hears the cry of all-that is great, that belongs to greatness.

One must pay dearly for immortality; one has to die several times while still alive.

And when you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.

Become who you are!

To this end we now need many preparatory courageous human beings who cannot very well leap out of nothing—any more than out of the sand and slime of present-day civilization and metropolitanism: human beings who know how to be silent, lonely, resolute, and content and constant in invisible activities; human beings who are bent on seeking in all things for what in them must be overcome; human beings distinguished as much by cheerfulness, patience, unpretentiousness, and contempt for all great vanities as by magnanimity in victory and forbearance regarding the small vanities of the vanquished; human beings whose judgment concerning all victors and the share of chance in every victory and fame is sharp and free; human beings with their own festivals, their own working days, and their own periods of mourning, accustomed to command with assurance but instantly ready to obey when that is called for, equally proud, equally serving their own cause in both cases; more endangered human beings, more fruitful human beings, happier beings!

The surest way to corrupt a youth is to instruct him to hold in higher esteem those who think alike than those who think differently.

The value of a thing sometimes does not lie in that which one attains by it, but in what one pays for it.

For believe me!—the secret for harvesting from existence the greatest fruitfulness and the greatest enjoyment is: to live dangerously! Build your cities on the slopes of Vesuvius! Send your ships into uncharted seas! Live at war with your peers and yourselves! Be robbers and conquerors as long as you cannot be rulers and possessors, you seekers of knowledge! Soon the age will be past when you could be content to live hidden in forests like shy deer! At long last the search for knowledge will reach out for its due:—it will want to rule and possess, and you with it!

I tell you: one must have chaos in one’s self, to give birth to a dancing star.

Was mich nicht umbringt, macht mich stärker.

What does not destroy me, makes me stronger.

Smiling

2007-06-29T20:37:59Z

What an amazing journey these last few days have been and this whole experience continues to be (the school, the existential searching, the religious understanding, my experiements in voice and consciousness, etc.). This is a REALLY powerful and important place that I am in now, and of course you know me, I am never afraid to push the boundaries so that I can be where I need to be, even if this means deep trips into the heart of depression. In all actuallity, I am really blessed right now.

I am well here.

Thank You everyone for your care and concern.

Love--
Dar

Exile

2007-06-29T14:52:45Z

"Take and eat!" The first anointing into the dark mysteries of the Goddess.

Drinking Irish Whiskey until 3:00 in the morning while sitting in a dark corner across from a host of prose writers each one out-doing the other with tales of graphic anal sex and accidental defecation while Stevie Wonder longs for higher ground I am exhausted and ever so rarely I am alive.

3:30 and my ass is under a pile of pillows my feet are reaching up to Mars and I note how amazingly larger my cock has gotten with only 4 days of veganism under my belt how much less bloated my enormous gut is how much harder my stomach and hip muscles are clenching clenching and I am cumming cumming and my muscles are overtaking me in a vast stoniness racing across my body all is locking and frozen accept this shoot this great branch to the north sky extending and thickening clenching and cumming and brilliant death-repose release sends ghost-like comets through the air and into oblivion. And I am beautiful once again.

My chin is in oblivion.

The theme of last night's readers was "That Thing We Do," and I eloquently stated, "the thing I do best is that I am an unlovable bastard when it comes to that thing we do with the heart. Meaning, break it" I was seated in the closing position, the last of the evening's 10 reader, and after my benediction I launched into a piece entitled, "Letter I Wrote to an Ex-Lover." A lyrical attack on the simplistic notions of Love and Light, I tunneled deep into a criticism of Rumi, into a criticism of all those who hold the New Age blasphemy of positively=Love=holiness, and at the other end I brought my listeners into the gaze of real deep thick eternal night, into the adulterous wasteland of the human condition and its great longing for facesitting agendum and thigh-tonguing vaginal homecomings, seminal birthday-smile mouthful eruptions, lost within the absence of light and hope and to leave not even a marker to dedicate the corpse they were being forced to abandon, I brought them to true sensuality, true physico-ontology, I brought them to the crossroads of fear and devastation....and then I invited them to join me. After the standing applause, I have become uncomfortable by how many people are seeking me out today to tell me how much they loved the reading. Either my words have become tighter or my darkness is finally wearing off on them. I would never close a door I had to kick open, even if it was a leap into a dreadful abyss.

Something someone said to me in the hallway today:

"I love your work because it is so fallen"
"You don't mind falling?" I replied.
"I find the more I fall the happier I am."
"A person is most beautiful when they are falling, only then do we understand the value of innocence, and the quickening of the eternal 'YES!' "

I have been handed a manuscript to edit.

There is some talk that I should try and double degree in poetry. I am unsure, the stakes are great for me. But at least hearing another rejection would again remind me of the value of being alive.

I danced under the full moon midnight sky for the second evening in a row.

I am disappointed by the lack of existential discourse from most people.

The only holy people are the ones willing to burn their temples to the ground. You idolaters venerate ghost houses!

I have sought him in the earth, he is far deeper than I ever imagined.

Never underestimate the lengths someone will go in self-mutilation in order to prove how very lost the person they can't face--themselves--has become.

Never underestimate the lengths someone will go in self-mummification in order to prove how very lost the person they can't face--themselves--has become.

There is a sponsored writer's retreat in Provance next Spring. I can't wait to return to France.

From a lecture I heard today:
"All sacred journeys require new language."
"Real language is a battle between what has changed and what will never be the same."
"There is no language without a change in consciousness, a change in consciousness requires complete destruction."

I have heard two lectures now refer to the practice of magick, especially the shamanistic applications of magick. The connection between magick and language has never been clearer to me and I have raised strong points to push these ideas even further--for the first time, I actually comprehend the taste of the breath of the hymns of Sumer.

From my written journal a year ago:
"a non-repenter recants.
a recanter repents.
When something is at stake it has to push on the floor of every page."

A week of joy, a lifetime of joy, I have never been happier to be a Pagan than I am right now.

Johnette Napolitano's new CD is my best Diving Tool in this retreat. Between Amazing and Scarred do I have a deeper understanding at the ravages of war, rescue mission underway, and the urgency to re-engage in genocide once again.

I am hoping to walk into town tonight, get some tofu, a tub of Vaseline, a long soft feather, enough rope to shorten my breath, more alcohol to repay all the alcohol I keep swiping off of other people, so that I can keep on swiping more alcohol at the end, more breath so I can keep swiping it from myself as orgasm and death dance their beautiful waltz.

I found out my advisor from last semester is having marriage problems, his wife has left. Strange, I have never met a man more loving, more needing to be loved than he, and then I heard this from him. I pray it doesn't destroy him. Further proof that a loving heart is true terrorism.

I discovered that another name for one's chode is "grendal." Come slay my grendal!

Falling asleep at 3:52am naked and cum-covered sweaty drunk abused defiled and finally liberated listening to Johnette weep about "angels are not so far above us" the thumping electric bass and tight high-hat march needing to wake up at 6:00am to begin another day of artistic self-introspection-degradation-destruction-obliteration-obfuscation-ontological dissonance- I couldn't be happier.....unless you were here.

Who is the exile from Eden now?

My heart is in oblivion.

About Last Night

2007-06-28T13:21:21Z

Beneath the full moon,
naked in the midnight air,
a rose candle,
sandalwood drifting upward,
a circle on the ground,
a circle all around,
urged forward by tales of the morningstar,
the doorpost marker of my Near Eastern soul,
.....she was there to hear my praryers.

Positive thinking and self-help are a lie.
If you want light,
if you want to be whole,
you must be willing to be devestated.

There are no card tricks to life.
The only true magicians are the ones
who first drown in the milk crates,
and then raise up from the dead.

I am rising.

anselmthelost @ 2007-06-27T19:40:00

2007-06-27T23:41:37Z

Priestess/Priest of Ereshkigal Vows

I walk the Fearless Path, called as sacred Witness.

There is nothing I will not Witness, no image or vision I will not see and touch with you. There is nothing that will make me look away.

I will not challenge, defeat, or protect you from the demons that are yours. But I will stand with you and offer you my courage, while you face them yourself.

I carry the tragedies I have witnessed in my life with me. They are no longer wounds that define me, they are scars that shape me, giving form and strength that I would not have otherwise.

There are no Fears I will not face with you.

The Gift of Surrender to the Beloved

2007-06-27T23:40:06Z

Erra took to heart the speech of Namtar.
He donned the horned crown, he oiled his strap and slung his bow.
Nergal went down the long stairway of heaven.
When he arrived at the gate of Ereshkigal he said,
"Gatekeeper, open to me!"

He struck down Nedu, the doorman of the first gate, and did not let him grapple with him.
He struck down the second doorman, and did not let him grapple with him.
He struck down the third doorman, and did not let him grapple with him.
He struck down the fourth doorman, and did not let him grapple with him.
He struck down the fifth doorman, and did not let him grapple with him.
He struck down the sixth doorman, and did not let him grapple with him.
He struck down the seventh doorman, and did not let him grapple with him.
He entered her wide courtyard,
And went up to her and laughed.
He seized her by her hairdo,
And pulled her from the throne.
He seized her by her tresses
His hands pulling Her to him, meeting Her as equal.

The two embraced each other
And went passionately to bed.
They lay there, queen Ereshkigal and Erra, for a first day and a second day.
They lay there, queen Ereshkigal and Erra, for a third day.
They lay there, queen Ereshkigal and Erra, for a fourth day.
They lay there, queen Ereshkigal and Erra, for a fifth day.
They lay there, queen Ereshkigal and Erra, for a sixth day.

When the seventh day arrived,
Anu made his voice heard and spoke,
Addressed his words to Kakka, his vizier,
"Kakka, I shall send you to Kurnugi,
To the home of Ereshkigal who dwells within Erkalla,
To say, "That god, whom I sent you,
Forever may you find peace together
Those above may we find peace
Those below may we find peace
Those between, may we find peace.
The gift of the table of Heaven, of the table of the months
The gift of the table of the rites of Time, the gift of Peace
Is the gift of surrender
To the Beloved.
May peace be with queen Ereshkigal
May peace be with Her husband
May peace be with us in accepting our gifts.”

--from the Ancient Babylonian. approx. 1400 BCE.

Nearness

2007-06-27T18:25:34Z

Call of ERESHKIGAL
--From Ancient Sumeria

It's been a long time now.
Up there,
I hear the din.

I live below.
Transparent velvet, coiled and waiting.
Cool and dim.

My lunar eye is lit with old memory.
My huge hips hold caverns of souls.

Cold the void, the in-between, the liminal life.
Cruel heavy waters roil around my heart.
Bitter seeds spit from my widow's mouth.

I am ancient.
I am slow.
Slower than the rocks, slower than the ocean floor.
Ages go by, stars spiral on my belly.

The O, and the Oh! The nothingness I know.
This eye of death is quinine clear.
Your secrets murmur, they are deafening.

My birthing time is near.

Scraps from the Manifesto Infernal.

2007-06-27T17:31:51Z

Andwithinhimaburningrageaputridmouthcameandwassetablaze.

abandoned
or so
it screamed
bitter swallow
a hateful shrill-"LOVE ME!"
abandoned
to the
fist-fuck-convergenece
of hallowness
and the obscene
abandoned

I will not look upon beauty anymore.I will not look upon beauty anymore.I will not look upon beauty anymore.I will not look upon beauty anymore.I will not look upon beauty anymore.I will not look upon beauty anymore.I will not look upon beauty anymore.I will not look upon beauty anymore.I will not look upon beauty anymore.I will not look upon beauty anymore.I will not look upon beauty anymore.I will not look upon beauty anymoreI will not look upon beauty anymore.I will not look upon beauty anymore.I will not look upon beauty anymore.

I have cut him in ways he has never dreamed;
dare to believe,
but I rule,
a loveless land,
so that I can see him bleed.

"If you touch," a rabbinic saying goes,
you will be touched."
In Love do we reach out
and with Divine retribution
are we answered in reply.
Proof further,
that God never wanted us to be whole.

And I only longed to swallow.
And thus, was swallowed.

Mutiny In Heaven

2007-06-27T17:18:02Z

MUTINY IN HEAVEN
--by Nick Cave

well ah jumpt! and fled this fucken heap on doctored wings
mah flailin pinions, with splints and rags and crutches!
(damn things nearly hardly flap)
canker upon canker upon one million tiny punctures
that look like...
long thin red ribbons draped across the arms of a lil mortal girl
(like a ground -plan of Hell)
curse these smartin strings! these fucken ruptures!
enough! enough is enough!
(if this is Heaven ah'm bailin out)
if this is Heaven ah'm bailin out
ah caint tolerate this ol tin-tub
so fulla trash and rats! Felt one crawl across mah soul
for a seckon there , as thought as wassa back down in the ghetto!
(rats in Paradise! rats in Paradise!)
ah'm bailin out! there's a mutiny in Heaven!

ah wassa born...
and Lord shakin, even then was dumpt into some icy font,
like some great stinky unclean!
from slum-chuch to slum-church, ah spilt mah heart
to some fat cunt behind a screen...

evil poppin eye presst up to the opening
he'd slide shut the lil perforated hatch...at night mah body
blusht
to the whistle of the birch
with a lil practice ah soon learnt to use in on mahself
punishment?! reward!! punishment?! reward!!
well, ah tied on...percht on mah bed ah was...
sticken a needle in mah arm...

ah tied off! fucken wings burst out mah back
(like ah was cuttin teeth!!)
ah took off!!!
(rats in Paradise! rats in Paradise!)
there's a mutiny in Heaven!

oh lord, ah git down on mah knees
(ah git down on mah knees and start to pray)

wrapped in mah mongrel wings, ah nearly freeze
in the howlin wind and drivin rain
(all the trash blowin round 'n' round)
from slum-heaven into town
ah take mah tiny pain and rollin back mah sleeve
(roll anna roll anna roll anna roll)
ah yank the drip outa mah vein! UTOPIATE! ah'm bailin out!
UTOPIATE!
if this is Heaven ah'm bailin out!
mah threadbare soul teems with vermin and louse
thoughts come like a plague to the head...in god's house!
mutiny in Heaven!
(ars infectio forco Dio)
to the plank!
(rats in Paradise! rats in Paradise!)
ah'm bailin out!
(hail Hypuss Dermio Vita Rex!)
hole inna ghetto! hole inna ghetto!
(Scabio Murem per Sanctum...Dio, Dio, Dio)

If This Is Heaven Then I Am Bailing Out

2007-06-27T12:54:20Z

His eyes open, the alarm clock sounds, he stumbles off to shower, he goes to pack the rest of his bags, he decides to write, he spends his last 2 hours in Boston writing, he says goodbye to the Polska, he grabs his bags, he boards the local transportation, the T is overcrowded he gets motion sick, he is dreadfully ill by the time he gets to the bus terminal, he discovers his backpack weighs 87 pounds, his carry-on weighs 33 pounds, he also has a mandolin, he fears the bus ride, he overdoses on dramamine, he boards the bus, he listens to Kevin Smith podcasts the entire trip, he gets a large order of fries at McDonadls at the bus stop, he flirts with a pink-haired Goth girl, he gets back on the bus, his bus goes through Dartmouth, his anger swells, he arrives in Montpelier, he does not find any taxi cabs, he walks all the way to the college with nearly 120 pounds of baggage while dressed in all black while it is 97 degrees outside, he nearly faints twice, he gets to his school, he checks in, he sees his friends from the Winter residency, they are impressed he is learning mandolin, they are forming a New Grass band for the talent show, he is unsure he can pull it off, he makes up his room, his room is on the first floor this time, his room has two beds, he discovers there is a 3-1 ration of women to men this time which is why all men have been secluded to the first floor, he knows he will still not get laid, he considers the idea of sneaking an escort into the room, he hears his neighbor fucking someone already, he less than a man, he goes outside to get some fresh air, he meets more friends, they talk about Hegelian philosophy in terms of literary criticism, he enters a discourse on the subject, he sees more friends, they go into town for alchol, he buys a bigger fan, they return up the hill, they eat dinner, his food is worse than ever before, he is on day two of no flesh eating, he hears regailing stories about raccoon hunting, everyone asks him why he shaved his beard off, he goes outside, he is asked to get his mandolin, he learns 3 songs, he follows his friends inside as the bugs get aggressive outside, he spends time talking about music he knows nothing about, he agrees to drink a beer, one beer becomes 14 beers in 3 hours, he tries gin for the first time, he thinks it tastes horrible, he continues to drink, he stays up 'til 2:30 with 3 other drunk friends, he hasn't been this drunk in 6 years, he feels horrible, he goes back to his room, he gets naked, he falls asleep trying to jerk off while laying upside down off of his bed, he awakens with the worst headache, he gets up to pee every hour, he continues to try and jerk off but has no energy, he forgot to buy porn in Boston, his alarm goes off at 6:00 am, he gets up at 7:00am, he feels like gobshite, he showers in the small first floor showers and feels uncertain he enjoys it due to the fact everyone can see his fat hairy ass, he dresses in all black again, he goes off to breakfast, the food is even worse, he vows to journey into town today, he vows to find porn somehow and somewhere in this uber-liberal town where no porn can be found, he goes to the computer lab, he pouts on Life Less Lived on his IPod, he is still recovering from alcohol, he dreads the daylight, he feels alone, he hasn't had sex in almost 7 months, he fears the coming meals there, his school schedule starts at 3:00pm, he decided to bring books on the Ancient Near East with him, he is dedicated to embracing the Goddess once more, ever more, he longs to run to her, be embraced by her, he finds himself trapped in the natural setting and beauty of a writer's paradise, he quotes Nick Cave: "If this is heaven then I am bailing out," he is nauseous, he doesn't have much to say, he has a lot to read before the sessions start, he barely animates a body, he surrendered himself to his voices, he no longer wants to be here existentiall, he is a wanton fugitive from himself, he is a liar, he is a mystic, he is a martyr, he is a lunatic, he now has lemon fresh scent, he was voted most likely to be un-loved to death, he is a ghost, he wants to be a spirit, he is far too dramatic for the tragedy of his life, he is least enjoyed when most engrossed, he longs to be a pyromaniac of the soul, he pushes himself from the table, he walks away, we look at each other to decide who will run this crowded house he has just abandoned, one asks if he playing with matches, another sinks his teeth deep into the flesh of his arms, another one hides his head and weeps--we are tired of caring for him, one is still sleeping deep in the earth, by his virture of his virtueless absence night becomes eternal, we will not see his kind again, a kindred is chosen.

I have taken his place.

I'm Off

2007-06-26T10:47:23Z

I am off to Vermont for my second summer residency. I hate this.

This is not who I was supposed to be or what I was suspposed to be doing with my life.

Each day of this life, my anger at life grows, and I do not enjoy being here all that much.

I live in the shadow of my potential.

It was a year ago, at this residency, that I last attempted to take my life. If I only had the courage....

I don't know when I was more spiritually lost in my life.

Thank you everyone for NOT filling out my spirituality survey. The feeling of being damned has never been more clear to me.

I still have not decided what I am bringing to read. I am torn between 3 books on the Ancient Near East or Nietzsche.

The ANE books I hope will restart my spiritual/Pagan/Goddess life.

Nobody understands heartbreak and solitude and loneliness more than Nietzsche.

I am so utterly, utterly, utterly alone.

This vast emptiness is consuming me.

I just don't want the existential responsibility of being this-thing-here anymore.

Time to crawl into my shell and give someone else the reigns.

If I never felt another human emotion again. I would be.......

Do not praise loneliness, praise the last dream before the fall.

I am in the earth, look for me in the earth.

*********
"We are alien to each other, and their virtues are even more distateful to me than their falsensess and their loaded dice. And when I lived with them, I lived above them. That is why they developed a grudge against me. They did not want to hear how someone was living over their heads; and so they put wood and earth and filth between me and their heads. Thus they muffled the sound of my steps: and so far I have been heard least by the most scholarly....for men are NOT equal: thus speaks justice. And what I want, they would have no right to want!"
--Nietzsche. On Scholars. from Thus Spoke Zarathustra.