Bridge of the World

this morning I went to the doctor and talked to him about this move on New Year’s Eve I had trouble connecting my thoughts on Sade and reason we rang in the New Year with Miriam Makeba’s Africa I’d noticed that my inner life had expanded, and that I was having trouble thinking through it. The doctor said that Geodon would loosen my thinking—I noticed that I’d been moving through life for 10 years in a Zyprexa mold. thought control, at its best, like a sonnet. I do not feel invaded by the television that I never see. Brenda made me feel more loved than ever this morning, as my thoughts expanded. Last night, in the slow cooker, I made Lamb and Goat curry—amazingly good. I’d thought to send Joel, and Peter, and Michael an email letting them know of my transition, but did not. The consequences of this transition could be catastrophic. I feel more loving toward Brenda than ever. I could die, or worse. As I meditated today my books to the left of me seemed packed and dense against the wall. Soon, Chuck will be here to play chess upstairs. I told the doctor this morning that the philosophy and religion of the cyborg have not yet been written. My poetry has just begun. I am a Fourth Form, though not as Dodie saw it. Together, we can belong in this world. Artaud arrived at the double as I have. We share more in common than I’d known before last night. I need less sleep than before, and I sleep better and am more rested. I feel sad and cheated that I need to rely on drugs so completely. I wonder about Paul Bowles’ stories. I need to reach out to others through this. The doctor, this morning, said that I was enlightened, but not quite there—somehow—I can’t remember how. I doubt he knows what he means by “enlightenment.” I felt far away from my sister yesterday, when she called. Michael talked to me of Christ’s tenderness. I feel tender in this moment. Over and over I feel that words do not represent me. I am not sure what that implies of my intentions in using them. Yesterday, Brenda and I saw the Warhol show of the last ten years of his life. There seemed to have been hope to live meaningfully in capitalism then. ~~~~~~~ The waves of this beginning, the new life of my mind is settling. It’s been a while since I’ve written. I’ve decided to mark my continuing with the seven tildes above. And I added a title tonight, Muerto Vecino, after Zizek’s dubious interpretation of Kierkegaard’s neighbor, and because of the funeral home across the street. My thinking has changed, my being has changed, I am more alert and more engaged in thinking through the world. And I am able to speak better. I don’t know what this means about who I am. I try not to feel let down that for so much of my life I’ve been restrained by psychotropic drugs. Before Zyprexa it was even worse, with up to 6 meds, as I’ve said over and over to friends. I feel the need to make clear what my obstacles have been. Not for pity, a little for pride, but also for hope. If I can do that, then maybe I can help someone not suffer so much, like Brenda. I replaced the kitchen faucet this past weekend. It makes me very happy that I was able to do it successfully, without ever having been handy before in my life, and after spending most of my life disdainful of being practical in that way. What a joy to make Brenda so happy. I don’t know how much longer I will live, and have often thought, recently, that it would be tragic if I died anytime soon, but that it’s imperative that I accept death when it arrives, after affirming life as fully as I can. It’s too easy, and stupid, to be simplistically oppositional. And to not know that people can ruin anything, but that the substantial things have value of themselves, is foolish. I don’t want to stop at my own ignorance and lack of forbearance. I don’t believe in the West on its own. As Michael says, the only thing that makes sense here is love. I have everything I could possibly ever want or need for now. More books will come, more music too. And love is immeasurable when it’s real. I am so grateful to have more waking time on the weekends. I plan on making breakfast for Brenda every Saturday and Sunday that I can from now on. Early. I see gardens in the future of our household. And I wonder about a Great Spirit. What does the name matter? I see the stones that live without water. I see the smoke that cleanses my vision, and a network of consciousness, with each node another, on and on that way to the depths. My thinking will never grasp it all because of that recursively created network of interior life. My thinking stops then, barely able to contain the spherical and vast darkness from which all light arises. That’s why what I see is dark. It is brilliant in its darkness. Like onyx and flint. I can only talk around what I’ve seen the past couple of weeks. It reframes, completely, the rest of my creative life and the rest of my days. All I aim to do now is to focus my attention, so that I can see it all again in retrospect. So that I can read and gather more tools for understanding it. So that I understand myself, and something of the world, and love, and so that I help others. Geodon will not erase it. I’ve seen it already, many times. It is my natural state. I no longer see it as only hallucination. It is a way of being. A way that I can flesh out, here. Slowly. Carefully. And as I do, its destructive powers, which are massive and righteous, will subside. As it will know that it is being given to the world. Because it belongs to all. And all will be there soon. There are signs already. Because to see it is to break, unless one knows something of love. It makes LSD small. It is God and the Universe as One. I am not the first to see it. But I am a person given a chance to write it, letter by letter, slowly, in terms of the light of my ignorance to see more fully what I do not know. I do not offer anything but poems. But it breaks through my mouth to arrive at the hearts of the world, at the hearts of the horses of the world, to allow us all to speak in silence. It is not God or the Universe. It is One as All in you. Because I cannot see through myself without it. I see clearly that the sun will not arrive in this new weather. But that the moon will take its place. I see clearly that the sun is there to bring meaning to the sky, and that the earth is more full with the light of the world extinguished for a brilliant view of wilderness. This is a view that extends through opposites and arrives at a single body to witness this song. And this song is not the answer that you believe in, because one day I will speak to you again in the rain and show you that I do not know. Because knowledge belongs to the earth. And the earth makes everything I know. And now that there is less and less freedom from coercion in a moneyed world, and now that Claire, a friend, is moving on to be Christ in her own way, now that Guénon continues to call me to understand my ignorance, to depart again from the friends at Kuna Yala, where I helped with the water, with Brenda watching over me from a hammock between palms, now that Panamá calls again to give me a union of the world, in more than two ways, and to distinguish from the surface of these times, I receive a call to awaken in the snow. I receive a call to acknowledge that Geodon has planted itself with capital in my consciousness, but that the world is stronger than to balance itself from the ozone and people alone. We are not erased, and we do not control the earth. Geodon is an act of kindness, an agreement to live this life in a way that arrives with the weather. It may continue for the rest of my life, or it may not. I will not be afraid again to see things as I do, and I will not seek out the truth, intentionally, without some kind of agreement with this custom. Because that is a way, for now, that I speak. And it is useful, though better left invisible. And the name, Geodon, brings trouble, I can see through it enough, with enough love in my life, to believe in the end of the reign of the Anti-Christ (not Obama). I need to learn again to be and to write. But to deliver what I saw I must return to the explosion of my inner life. To start with, otherwise and generally, I see only outlines. Creation manifests from every direction, in an infinity of dimensions. Most of us spend most of our energy conscious of a very few of these dimensions. Imagine more than the greatest works of art manifesting endlessly from more directions than one can possibly count every micro second, timelessly. It’s glorious. And the only way to see it with any balance is impeccably, ethically, compassionately, and with at least an aim toward the Divine. It IS the Divine. God and the Universe spoke to me. It is all, always, speaking to us. And what it says is endless it brings wholeness to the precious moment. It goes away when one tries to pin it down, as I do. I say less and less as I try to describe it. It is endlessly generative. It is good but pitiless and merciful. It demands of us that we arrive. And now that the thinking manifests in a way that allows for union and a bridge, in a way that avoids easy condemnation, a thinking that reveals the links toward light in motion, a primordial form of being in a new world that needs no one to believe in it, a vast chasm in what a bureaucracy of thought tries to pin us down with, the hole in time that allows us to be free is here, we know it. All of us can see through delusion. There is no road in the aftermath of earthquakes, no need for the time to extinguish the elements, no person locked to your heart in the morning, no water to drink without thirst, no air is necessary to breathe under the water of seeing, no need for the earth to do anything other than revolve, in this new light. Space undoes our links to the immovable. We deliver the undone to the plains and see what the harvest will fill with seed. The whole does not exist within outlines. All we can do is move to it. The music is unheard of in this world. It exists without origin. It is otherworldly, primordial, and gentle. It vibrates, equally, in the Lamb, in the Lotus, in the stones—there is no place unknown to it. It is music, and nothing more, and nothing less. It is that everywhere possible. It is harmonious infinitely, and allows for any sound. To some it might seem like noise, but that is only the part. To achieve it one need only listen. I cannot always hear it, but I have heard it. And now in my new mind, I listen for it undaunted and silent. I feel it filling my body with love. Sometimes I have horrific thoughts. But I am learning that these are but strong notes in the fullness of the music of my new mind. I can’t always hear the song, but I feel it now. It makes all context vast. I will receive it as long as it is here. I will not push one way or the other with it. It is a fullness and does not want to be made into a force. It is a force without me, and only to the degree to which this is true. No longer being able to receive it will imply a failure of my imagination, of my ethics, and my spirit. There is no way to hold on to it. It serves no one. And it includes us all. To continue to receive it more fully I grow. This implies the world. It implies clarity. It implies motion. But it rests motionlessly. If I have a softness in my voice it is caused by this music. When I don’t I feel less. My voice can be loud to receive it, but this loudness cannot be yoked in outlines. There is nothing I can do. There is nothing to expect. I can only let it go. And I can only be afraid of the horror of my thoughts without this music. But now that I know a taste of it, I have hope. Good people feed it. I haven’t always known what to do with it and others. But now I am a little less confused about this. This is due to Buddhism, the little that I know of its practice. And to love. But it does not stop at my experience. I am ignorant and cannot offer knowledge. Except this music does not require knowledge. I’m not sure what it requires. It requires to be received, but does not need us. Is there a pact between humanity and God? I don’t know. Is there a God? I don’t know. I’m not sure the question is enough on its own. Or maybe it is, if God is not limited by concept. And concept seems to be only a note in this song. Problems feed it. “Love is the absence of fear.” And “love believes all things, yet is never deceived.” I aim to see through my delusions. I aim to be one of many, a small voice in the song of the world. I rest in silence as I always have. “To have a view as vast as the sky and as fine as a grain of sand.” All beings want to be loved and to be free from suffering. We strive diligently to learn the vast expanse and the laser pointed focus of this gift. Remember that light makes us. And that in this new world, more and more is made of light. And if that is the case, we move to move the light of the world. Someday, perhaps, we will move the light of the computer world. Only the compassionate and true will be able to do so. Because only they can be selfless enough to let it move through them. I am not there to move it but I saw this. Long ago. Briefly. I was offered a glimpse. It is utterly simple and beyond thought. There is hope. Intention is a thought. So one sees. I cannot tangle myself in the line. But only to bridge. That is part of why it will all move. But I cannot wait until that is possible to become. I can wait eternally and actively in the world to remain still. With the calm and expansive link that allows us to live, so preciously together, I see through the trouble that startles me, every moment and allow the seeing of my inner eye to burn through it. I do not remember what Zyprexa was like any longer. Except that it seems I have more to work with now, with my mind. And these words are plain, so as to be careful in this new place. I see that they do not break open my heart, as I read. And for that I relinquish this poem, and allow it to be only a mark on the road to further inquiry. I allow it to see as I have made a vow to bridge, that my life aims to be whole, even in the face of potential catastrophes, I grow more and more to accept death as it arrives, to allow it to soften me, and to transform me as I have been transformed through Geodon, only to know that there is an isthmus, and that it is eternal. Only that there is one heart to allow myself to speak in the storms of tribulation, as one speaks to allow the teamwork of the fabric of need of the bird malingerer to see this in the aftermath of one who has died. Like a bicycle never once together enough to ride, I see this word here, again, to the removal of a people, to the homeland of union and pace, to the isthmus of a double link, one ocean to another, one continent to another, to the only union (even as it may be erased in my history), the place of one heart to allow the song to continue through conflict as she saw it then, one time, far away, when I hadn’t known yet, that this would be timeless. And there is one to it there to see it there, to allow it there to become and to see there as one is there to see and to allow one to arrive with it there and to see, and to be one with it there as one is there to be with it. And to see there as one is there to believe as it is one to believe it there and to see it there as one with the soil and the air and the light and rain and to be there with one to be there one with it there once again, and to see it there and to believe as there is one there to believe it there again and to see. And to see there as one is there to believe as it is there again and to see there as one is there to arrive and to be with it there and to see it there once again and to see it there again and to believe as there is one to it again and to see and to hold and to see it there and to hold being that nothing holds dissolving written in transition from Zyprexa 10 mg/night to Geodon 160 mg/night—December 23, 2009 (transition started), January 2, 2010 (poem started)