Tigresa Cover by a kiddo

 

Mood of late, and damn if it doesn't embody some parts of mine that keep coming up, rather too often at this point

Low key loving the vibes of late. Making the most of it

 

On Living

 I

Living is no laughing matter:

you must live with great seriousness

like a squirrel, for example—

   I mean without looking for something beyond and above living,

I mean living must be your whole occupation.

Living is no laughing matter:

you must take it seriously,

so much so and to such a degree

   that, for example, your hands tied behind your back,

                                            your back to the wall,

   or else in a laboratory

in your white coat and safety glasses,

you can die for people—

   even for people whose faces you’ve never seen,

   even though you know living

is the most real, the most beautiful thing.

I mean, you must take living so seriously

   that even at seventy, for example, you’ll plant olive trees—

   and not for your children, either,

   but because although you fear death you don’t believe it,

   because living, I mean, weighs heavier.

II

Let’s say we’re seriously ill, need surgery—

which is to say we might not get up

from the white table.

Even though it’s impossible not to feel sad

about going a little too soon,

we’ll still laugh at the jokes being told,

we’ll look out the window to see if it’s raining,

or still wait anxiously

for the latest newscast. . . 

Let’s say we’re at the front—

for something worth fighting for, say.

There, in the first offensive, on that very day,

we might fall on our face, dead.

We’ll know this with a curious anger,

        but we’ll still worry ourselves to death

        about the outcome of the war, which could last years.

Let’s say we’re in prison

and close to fifty,

and we have eighteen more years, say,

                        before the iron doors will open.

We’ll still live with the outside,

with its people and animals, struggle and wind—

                                I  mean with the outside beyond the walls.

I mean, however and wherever we are,

        we must live as if we will never die.

III

This earth will grow cold,

a star among stars

               and one of the smallest,

a gilded mote on blue velvet—

  I mean this, our great earth.

This earth will grow cold one day,

not like a block of ice

or a dead cloud even 

but like an empty walnut it will roll along

  in pitch-black space . . . 

You must grieve for this right now

—you have to feel this sorrow now—

for the world must be loved this much

                               if you’re going to say “I lived”. . .

Eh Corto Maltese, tu dors?

 

Price of Freedom

 As time passes in the US, this track makes more and more poignant sense.

Re-reading the Myth of Normal is not helping either.

What is it Zack said again?

"Boy oh boy, the price of freedom is steep."

He also said:

"Embrace your dreams... And whatever happens, protect your honor."

A Beatles Dive

     Didn't grow up to them, not a fan.

But here is the thing: When one of the so very few good friends you have in a hell hole is a fanatic, the least you can do is mindfully check out their stuff.

He sent me a selection and there were few that resonated with me.

But then again, I don't know whether it's because of them or 20th Century Boy's Bob Lennon

Monkey Boy

 I haven't had that rough of a morning in forever. And boy was it excruciating.

By cosmic grace, J. was dropping by the rescue to help with feeding/cleaning AM shift. She saw me, waited until we were done, just knew, hugged me authentically, let me cry the waters of my body in her shoulder, took me to the park with coffee and a big plush toy that, cosmic grace had it, was in her car.

-He needs a name.

-A powerful name.

B. named him Monkey Boy. Monkey boy is now with me. The pain was debilitating but after spending that time with J. I was able to function, but I took Monkey boy to the coffee bar with me, dozed off, tried to be a bit productive or bring alleviation, went to the apartment, dozed off, roomie made food, Monkey boy with me.

I left for the evening in better spirits, came back to Monkey boy

I told B. during my Baltimore trip that my achievement for the day was that I went to bed without intentionally hurting anybody. Mediocre shitty achievement I thought back then. Seeing how Americans (most of those I deal with, especially in the white midwest that is) blatantly canonized and normalized using each other, hurting others along the way, having such a self-absorbed and huge ego image, makes me realize it is actually achievement.

Initially, Monkey boy was here to remind me that at least, I'm hugging a plush toy, using one for soothing and comfort, and not an actual human being.

With time hopefully, Monkey boy would remind me of J and that cosmic grace.

Because people like her, like B., like P., with every passing day in this hell hole, I come to realize how fucking rare it is to find them and be granted the gift of their care and/or compassion.