Tuesday, April 14, 2015


Are we concentric circles with God as our common focus?
Are we loci in ellipses with a constant motion around the foci of God and the other, with predictable patterns of apodeus and perideus?
Are we squiggles lacking pattern, looking for the point that is God?
Are we parabolas coming from nothingness, approaching God, maybe even touching God, and returning to nothingness?
Are we spirals beginning at the point that is God and slowly and infinitely leaving God's presence?
Are we individual points, infinite and unmoving, with or without a point that is God?
Is God infinite, individual points, with us the points lost among God?
Are we nothingness, with God as the only point?
Are we at right angles to God, connected by a knowable line?
Are we so close that God and we are the same point?
Are there points?

Tuesday, April 7, 2015


Life feels like a jigsaw puzzle done by a little kid who is just figuring out how to do jigsaw puzzles.  You get crammed together with the other pieces, put into position, whether you fit or not.  It’s uncomfortable, even painful, as one of those pieces.  You feel as if this omnipotent, demonic little one will never manage to snap you into your proper place.

I moved recently, from one town to a smaller one right by it.  I was happy to leave the house where I lived, on a rutted, hard dirt road that jarred the tailbone when biking.  Housemates were intrusive, the live-in landlord was unpredictable, everything was a steep hill (and occasional asthma attack) away.  I left for an apartment on an in-town farm, with nice flat roads, no roommates, and a landlady who should be cast in bronze.  I was happy when moving day came around, despite loathing the process of moving.  As I left my old place for the final time, I looked out over an incredible view of the Sandias floating above the Albuquerque nightline.  I breathed in and out and headed off.  

It hit me as I turned from my road.  Where I was going and where I wanted to be were so close to each other, and where I wanted to be wasn’t where I was going.  I could have turned one way and been one place in a couple of minutes, but I wasn’t welcome.  I could have turned another way, and gone someplace at least interesting, but it was a ways away, and I was using someone else’s means of movement.  It’s a feeling that’s lingered.  I’ve said this before in a different context--you rarely get what you want.  I’m being just a little vague here, but I feel directionless, so it seems appropriate.

This is melancholy.  It combines elements of wistfulness, longing, regret, depression, and doubt.  You’re not supposed to be here, but you’ve nowhere else to go.  You haven’t given up hope, but you don’t know what to hope for.  Others can’t read you, because you can’t read yourself.  The old is tiresome, the new is unpromising.  You’re at a loss.

I’m here, and I probably should be here, at least right now.  Meanwhile, I need to find a way to move--in some direction.

Tuesday, March 31, 2015


I'm writing this to see if I'll like it.
I don't know if you'll like it,
so why should your feelings
be a consideration?

I'm writing this to find out
if there's a reason to expose myself
to your base adjudications.

I'm writing this because
there's nothing better I can do.

I'm asking you a question.

Tuesday, March 17, 2015


It's an odd day,
snow-shaped and sunny,
the quarters are cramped,
the water is foul,
there's a relic, a relict
swimming on the ground,
the leftover,
steaming in place,
a clinger,
and it's all hopeless,
but for the close-minded.
Just smile and grimace
here at the end.

Saturday, March 7, 2015


I'm here in my bedroom.
There's a spider next to my head.
I think it's a brown recluse.
I don't know what to do.
On the one hand,
I don't like killing.
On the other hand,
I don't like mass necrosis.
But I kind of like spiders.
But I don't like pain.
And I don't like dying.
I have a lot to think about.
Her name is Dulcelina.

Monday, March 2, 2015

World Religions

I read a book once,
an encyclopedia
of the religions of the world.
It didn't mention my religion;
I must not exist in the world.
So while I'm floating in space
or something,
don't forget me.
I'm around,
looking for a way.
I think I'm alive.

Thursday, February 12, 2015

Something Bigger

I should never feel comfortable with where I am.  I should always try for something bigger.  But what does that mean?  I recently spent a Sunday working in my church's nursery.  I sat on the floor.  I played with toys.  The little kids played with me.  I was more or less another toy to them.  At that moment I was happy.  At that moment I felt the closest I have in years to breaking through, to no longer being captive to anxiety.  At that moment I was in the moment.  Was that something bigger?

I see grand things in my future.  I always have, even in the depths of self-loathing, even in my learned helplessness.  The problem is I keep looking for some magic to put together the pieces.  I don't easily make or follow my own rules.  I can't do steps.  I see the pieces, I see the final machine, but I can't make the machine out of those pieces.  The work doesn't scare me; the certainty of failure does, even though I know somewhere in my mind that failures inevitably precede success.

I'm trying to slow down, to train my mind to focus on where it is instead of where it has been or should be or will be.  I'm in the process of moving to my own little apartment on a small farm in a neighboring town.  I will rake leaves and pick apples and plant seedlings.  I will write.  I will be aware of what I'm writing.  I will be aware of what I'm writing here and now.  I will be aware of the raking, the picking, the planting, here and now.  I will be aware of the art, the music, the cranes, the geese, the wind, the water, the horses, the coyotes, the brush, the trees, the mountains, here and now.  I will be aware of sleeping, waking, walking, sitting, breathing, eating, bathing, dressing, cleaning, here and now.  I will be aware of what I read (in the present tense) more than what I'm reading.  I will be aware of what I sense more than what I'm sensing.  I will be aware of myself.  Here and now.  And maybe, just maybe, these little pieces will fit together, will form my something bigger.