The Waiting

Familiar in your strangeness
a brighter blackness
emerges,
whetted by the sun
of your gaze.

I turn,
and slip into a maze.
You call
but I'm in a daze,
a haze, or maybe it's just
a phase.
Lend me your phrase?
"When will you make yourself awake inside me?"

I open my eyes to sleep
and see that the waiting
is only skin deep.

this poem has me a bit conflicted. one source of conflict is of course the dramatic shift in the third-to-last stanza, in which 'you' makes its first appearance. a second source of conflict is the language, which seems fresh and vital in many places, but drags in others. for example, the first line feels like Noah to me, full of bright imagery and a unique perspective. whereas the third line, "he is everywhere, nowhere" feels a bit familiar, but lacking in necessity. what i mean is that i feel i have heard that juxtaposition before, and that in order for it to fulfill the feeling of a Noah poem it must carry some new weight, it must be necessary. here it drags me a little.

anyway, the biggest source of conflict for me is the crow himself. he's like a zen master, yet he is temperamental and isolated -- now, these two things aren't necessarily at complete odds with one another, but here i find no resolution to this conflict. one may be zen master and temperamental at once, but i need to see or feel that complexity, and understand WHY and HOW it is existing. here i just feel the bare conflict-- how is it that he, while actively prolonging his isolation, also exists as 'light' in this way? i am not saying the poem is at fault for not resolving this conflict, nor am i saying this conflict is unresolvable-- i am merely saying that when i read this poem i feel this conflict, and it seems vague and void, and i am not quite able to engage with that which comes out of this conflict.

The crow in this poem feels to me to be an ideal master of the poetic word. "Ideal" in the sense that he seems to embody the kind of "crying" or cawing that would be, in the purity and bright blackness of his wait-lessness, a lover of silence whose form is the word itself, his own body as language and his body (like the crow) the embodiment of his poetry.

"he caws, waiting always, un-harried / by the commotion below. He knows silence. / He cries to it, a lover. We are alone / but I am never lonely when he is near."

His presence is companionship; in him the poet is learning of an ease in the stillness, centering himself in a commotion of desire; he is learning to sit in the sitting: "I wish I could sit and wait like him, / familiar to my strangeness. I don’t think / he waits for anything, only that he is / a kind of waiting."

The waiting of this crow is the crow itself; the poet begins to imagine that the crow is not waiting for anything but is "a kind of waiting," centered and suspended in his confident solitude, or identity as "crow/poet".

I am struck by how the crow seems to be above the viewer, the poet. In this too, I recognize the crow as "ideal", an idea that the poet is reaching towards, identifying with, desires. His tempermentalism is human and of necessity: he fights for his space, defends his solitude.

The "you" feels like an invocation of the poet to himself, to his poet-self, to the poetry, to his pennulated muse which comes and goes, concealing and revealing himself to himself.

I was going to write more “impressions” about Arnold’s photo (I love the sound of and saying `Arnold’s photo,’ it’s something I now share with him), but have noticed these other “text” photos—which, of course, because of the way they are grammatically framed, have neither the completeness or self-containment, nor the pure contingency of description that the photograph has. They seem to kinetically stream around each other but without touching, like reiki. The music and rhythm of Megan and Noah’s “pure fear; Megan says, “the moments of fear are somehow purer when you are dancing with nature.” A purer fear is a “fear without strings… that you can overcome “because there are no trick doors or surprise hazards waiting around the corner.” I love this formulation of fear because it is cradled in faith. I don’t know how I would have survived the violence, neglect and isolation of my childhood without faith, and the questioning that pushes up against it, like Lily in the doorway.

I would sit on the stairs outside our garden apartment when I was 8 and ask the Ineffable Unknown, “Why can’t we [my family] be like the Prestons?” In other words, why can’t we be normal? But, of course it wasn’t normalcy I needed, it was safety and nourishment, both literal and psychological. I knew very little other than fear, and so, like Megan, I had to begin transforming this fear into a “beautiful package.” And nature was crucial for that transformation, I think in much the same way that Wordsworth had to overcome the abject loss of his parents, but particularly his mother. No doubt, nature became his mother, as it did for Whitman. And I learned so much from nature, through the poets and through direct experience, the pure love energy of sky, bird and tree wrapping themselves around me:

It is now late August; the mind wavers
In and out of morning coolness, day's heat.
A birch drops three yellow leaves,
Two sumacs shine red against the light
Like aching breasts; a kingbird flits from oak
To goldenrod and back again, then again.
The air is silent and heavy, heavy with scent.

I wander in the incessant rise of moments
Through these fields, brown bulges of heat
From ground rising; the back and forth swing
Of eyes opening; the voice breaking with words
Like a bud billowing out of blackness;
And the word itself bearing down a birth,
Its dumb curls scraping against the seed's mouth.

Four years have hurriedly passed at Caumsett;
A hawk's wing dips into green death
Behind the oak; clouds rendered formless
In sun's sudden spear: sixteen deaths,
sixteen births, and the frail bindings of hope.

This pure fear you guys speak of, and for Megan, fostering an almost miraculous strength that “helps you to challenge yourself to reach beyond any potential you ever knew you had…[and] allows you a moment of clarity to see yourself relative to the world instead of the world relative to yourself.” Yes, this centering, what Caterina calls the “center of gravity,” fueled my desire to transform and transcend, even before language aligned itself with that center. But it took it seemed forever to taste the freedom that comes with it.

And I could feel, in Emily’s exquisite tantrums, the chaos of my inner world running and hiding from the danger, from without and within. And the within culminated in a fist fight I had with my father weeks before he died. He was drunk and heckling my mother. I punched him in his chest and yelled (the words still reverberate even now), “Leave my mother alone, I hope you die.” And I vanquished my Oedipal rival in what was to become a pyrrhic victory. I actually believed I killed him (the grist for analysis!). And so I lost the war and spiraled into a long (untreated!) adolescent depression, the kind that isn’t very pretty.

The isolation that Nico relates, and the closing in of space and not being able to connect (or breathe) that OuenBenning describes, was my entire adolescent and early adult existence. But, here’s the mystery, the alchemy of pain churning like a sufi, the faith of love, that burned through and nearly destroyed me. I swear, that burning that almost killed me, when I awoke, felt like it turned me into gold.

alchemy

it’s like an emptying… what crows caw to
tossing what was heaped out onto a pile
like compost, how it takes
what needs to burn
and works it with heat
water, air and earth;
and like a chocolate mouth
sucking it down whole
shitting out what something else can use;
the heap that once was turns to gold.

A few minutes ago I observed two young boys playing outside.. Their high energy was clearly just a prelude for the perpetual motion machines they will become as the afternoon progresses and mothers everywhere will declare their children insane. The two boys were busy turning plowshares into swords, buckets into cauldrons for their poisonous mush which they were stirring with their mother’s soup ladle and serving spoons. Their feet were kicking and mutilating the last bastion of yellowing leaves, their arms were raised into the air clutching baseball bats that came a bit to close to each other’s heads before they were blindsided by their mother who demanded their surrender or suffer the consequences: TIME OUT. The younger of the two boys continued whacking the air as if he had tin ears until his mother, who was by now frustrated by her own screaming, grabbed his arm. She counted to three by which time her son’s face turned round with rage. He looked her in the eye and said,“I hate you. I will kill you. I will cut your head off.” Then he started howling and screaming.
As an adult, I don’t really have the luxury of expressing myself in that way (at least I try to refrain in public!. But those emotions are so real, so unrepressed, that they are beautiful in the same way that a horse is before he is tamed.
When having my own internal tantrums I am aware of how possessed I feel and how silly it all is. Nevertheless, I play it out in my mind, completely convinced that I am as disgusting to you as I am to me. I am positive that you will reject me ( if you haven’t already). I am just waiting to say, “See! You never really liked me to begin with.” But alas, Om called my tantrums exquisite and squeezed, as I said in an earlier post, the juice from my orange. Kindly, he left a juicy pear in it’s place. . Then, although I didn’t think I wanted to go, I followed him on a walk in his garden and found myself joyful, despite myself.

I partly agree with you Carmen--the child (hopefully) isn't going to cut his mothers head off. But as an impulse, as a desire, I am not so sure that I believe it is untrue, or even mis expressed. I had tantrums just like that when I was a little kid, and I remember that the desire to destroy my parents was something that I knew I could never act upon (because it would amount to a destruction of myself) but boy was it for real.

Ah yes, he is frustrated, he has energy and he doesn't know what to do with it. But i think he is also really that angry. The anger turns ugly when it gets blocked (which it must) and becomes rage and shame.

Here he is with all this energy, this desire to break out and away, and his mother tells him to stop, and in the end, he has no choice but to listen--he is utterly dependent, emotionally, physically, mentally, he is just a little toddler without any freedom. Of course he must hate his mother (just as much as he Loves her), because he needs her so intensely that he must, finally, experience the suppression of his own will in order to remain in her care.

I can see why he is so resentful, and in that moment when there is only the now of his feelings, he feels such a pure hatred. It is so beautiful because he can say it without shame, without guilt--he can express his deep primal feelings of will, resentment and dependency without thinking twice about it.

If he cut off his mothers head, even in his mind, he would destroy the omnipotent life giver--its like killing god. I love this boy because he is so full of fire, and so willing to shout it out! I think the unmitigated brutality of his expression is beautiful--but then it quickly becomes shame because he cannot act on it, and he knows he cant, so he starts screaming and crying. The tantrum itself--the rage and shame of it--is not joyous, but his moment of expression is.

I happen to think that deep ambiguity towards ones family (and at times, pure hatred) is totally there and totally true. And little boys have such unrepressed access to it sometimes. How can you not love them for it (when you dont have to deal with it!)

In Greek tragedy everyone either kills their parents or gets killed by their parents. That wouldn't be nearly as horrifying if it didn't provide some sort of recognition.

Anger is desire, a gorgeous life-affirming energy, made harmful and distorted from its original telos (growth) through fear and shame. I believe anger is a natural reaction to shame and fear because the human senses that those other feelings are misaligned and wants to react against them. But the anger does not reveal, through anger's terms, the recognition so sought after.

It is one thing to recognize that one is angry and to begin to deal with that by getting under it, seeking its source. It is another thing to speak out angrily hoping that that same recognition will be felt. While it seems everyone here values the recognition of the feeling of one's anger as a means to fostering more awareness, we must not leave out the crucial component of doing so through awareness itself. We need education or guidance into the manner of "getting under the anger", getting closer to the true feelings expressing themselves through the rage.

I am thinking about the words this boy uses and the anger that is compounded by the expression itself, how the words of utter rage do not "hit the mark" but miss and one is left still feeling distorted, powerless, still in the shame and fear. While the expression of rage may seem "pure" (we might admire it for how clearly this boy expresses his rage and so indicates his feeling of rage, something as cultured beings in this culture we learn not to express and so bury deeper the trail back to the root feelings) it is still not the pure expression of the desire, the fear and the shame, all of which are under the anger. As Carmen says, they do not enlighten but continue to obscure, though to an enlightened parent (which we all become for ourselves when turning towards our feelings with compassion and awareness, with the desire to "get under" the anger) they might help enlighten as to the child's inner state of fear and shame.

I have been dying all day to get on this blog and share a piece of the irony of my life.

Today, a dear friend of mine came over to help me set up my new dsl and my new email account, all things that would have taken me about another century to figure out. He is a friend I do not see too often but when we hang out, our conversations are markedly intellectual, full of wit and banter, playfulness with language and ideas. We can spend hours walking through the forrest or sitting around a kitchen table, just talking, strolling through our thoughts, tangentially weaving an evening around conversations about nothing in particular and laughing a lot (and I often leave feeling quite delighted in our special sort of connecting), yet despite all of this, we never really land in the realm of "intimate".

Once, we had a terrible argument during one of our walks in the forrest that turned from a simple discussion and sharing of ideas into a full 180 of accusations of "you are like this" and "you always do this" (him accusing me). I had forgotten about this exchange which had happened over a year and a half ago, until today.

Again, today, we were sharing and discussing (the dangers of genetic selection and designer children for the weathy), when, after a comment I had made, he began to turn... the discussion began to veer off course into him wanting to make a particular point about my use of the word "reason" (or "rationalism" as he kept incorrectly quoting me), and my following his concerns with attempts at clarification but sensing something was not right. The energy had shifted. Then it came out, he was suddenly accusing me of being an "absolutist", of not leaving any space for anyone else to have a different opinion, and while I'll leave the details of the rest of his accusations out, it was clear that I was sitting in front of someone in the midst of a fierce transference.

Transference: I understand this term to refer to something we all do (because of the nature of mind) when we are no longer considering the person in front of us (or in our thoughts) as the person we know but they become someone else, and usually someone threatening. In this moment, we "trasfer" an old experience of a different (and formative) relationship onto the present person and cannot see the present person unless we are aware of the transference and can thus distinguish. Having a transference does not mean one's experience or feelings are invalid, but that they are coming up due to the transference itself and not from something the present person is actually doing or saying. While my saying or doing something may spark the transference, it is the transference itself that provides the fuel for the ensuing fire and the fire (fear/anger) is disproportionate to the original spark. The fear, the shame, and then the anger are tied to the old relationship. [I know I am not describing this perfectly, just seeking my own definition for it].

What is so frustrating about transference if you're having one, and I've had about a billion, is that you really trully see and experience this old threat. And it can be terrifying, because it feels like you cannot trust your friend anymore. [What is so refreshing about this blog is that I can pose this statement in the "you" form and you will understand I am only pontificating, really speaking about my own experience, from the "I"].

What is frustrating about transference if you are a friend of a person having one on you, is that you know that what this person is experiencing from you is not true! So you protest, but the protest seems to want to negate the other's feelings and they get even more angry. This happened today.

I re-read my post from last night and it feels to perfectly speak to what I experienced today when my friend had a transference on me: "It is one thing to recognize that one is angry and to begin to deal with that by getting under it, seeking its source. It is another thing to speak out angrily hoping that that same recognition will be felt." He went on an angry tirade, a full blown temper tantrum directed at me. Oh the things he said! (It was clear to me that the person he was talking to was a Narcissist of mythic proportions - I can recognize this because I too have had borderline expressions of fending off this very phantasm in my own especially terrifying transferences). It made me feel very uncomfortable, obviously. My heart was pounding and i was shaking.

Knowing that he was having a transference, knowing also that he does not have experience with psychological language, I knew also that he had no way of separating his experience of his transference from me. I tried to listen, to "reason" with him (since he has such a keen rational mind), but everything I did or said kept being "translated" (interesting that OM brought this up today) into more evidence of the way his horrible phantasm would speak, would act, indeed was acting and speaking before his very eyes! There was no more "Caterina" and only his transference, for him. In that moment, he was denying the relationship.

I should add that I did not "protest" or respond directly to his accusations in any defensive way (I did not FEEL defensive, though I felt entitled to defend my meanings and even our relationship from his desire to destroy it - i.e. reminding him of what he knows about me from experience). I was trying to listen deeper, though since we do not have a relationship of the more intimate kind (building trust in each other's ability to process our feelings together), I had no precedent for being able to offer a means for him to "get under" his anger.

He actually stormed out of my apartment, slamming the door, after shouting several fascinating, and revealing comments at me (his phantasm). I felt powerless towards my friend, like I couldn't help him to see that there was no danger with me, that none of the things he was accusing me of were true, and even if there are things that I do or ways that i say things that he might find annoying (I'm not perfect!), his rage at me was disproportiate and unjustified.

I can only hope he comes around, but I doubt he will. I am very sad about the loss of my friend today. (But you know what? I don't "do" friendships that walk out on our processing something and then slamming the door). I doubt he will come around because it would mean having to own the fact that he was having a transference and a tantrum, and how do I help him see this unless he can understand what this means? I don't think I would ever feel safe with him again unless he began the process of owning his projections.

ps. I told my director about what had happened and he said, "Do you think he's in love with you?" I know he was wanting a romantic relationship with me at one point. This may be the reason that I was so blind-sighted. I had been ignoring this as a possiblity since I wanted to have a friendship with him.

pps. I already feel better, btw. I am so grateful that I didn't take his words personally (how could I? They weren't about me!)

ppps. I would love your questions or challenges about anything I say in here. I am presenting some complex ideas rather simplistically so that I can go to bed (it's 4am).

I love this conversation unfolding here tonight about the messiness of relationships, transference (which I am not going to pretend I understand in its technical sense) recognition, etc.

But what you describe as transference, Caterina, I have most certainly experienced (at that level of intensity) from both sides. And in my experience, those intense "tantrum" moments of transference rise up from a place of profound fear and shame--"why don't you recognize me! you absolutist! You don't know me, you don't know whats inside of me! I will shock you with this anger! you will see me!" But it is shame, and inside that tantrum i feel ashamed. Fortunately, I don't need to do that anymore (but less than two years ago, I was still capable of it!) I am amazed how ashamed I feel when I try to identify with your friend.

The last time (and hopefully the last time ever) I allowed myself to be seduced by the tantrum transference was about two years ago. I was in a long term relationship which was turning from the idealized sort of "my other half" transference to something that felt more negative. This is not to say it is all either one or the other, but there certainly was a darker element growing beneath all the romance--I now realize that neither the euphoric highs or the enraged lows (or most awful, the violent silences) had any real recognition in them at all and this makes me very sad...gosh, even now its so hard to get out from the whole emotional chemical haze of those years and figure out what was really going on.

Anyway, this Last very controlled "loss of control:" we were having an argument about a movie and somehow the language of violence of the movie had become some kind of metonymy for something going on between us--and I remember so clearly this moment when I was struggling to defend something about the movie, and searching for words, and she said to me "I hate your words."

There was always some sort of conflict about our ways of relating and experiencing emotion--and as I was struggling to find my feelings with language, coming off medication and trying so desperately to locate myself in this new world or emotionality, she was telling me she rejected it.

And so I chose, willfully, to 'lose control' --: if you will not hear me, i will make you see me in this violent way, and if you want me back you will have to recognize me and nurture me. At least I knew what I wanted and why I was doing it, but I think I needed to find out the hard way that it had to fail.

I am sure that my expression was actually being rejected--my intellectualism, my history, my words, my very different cultural background, was very threatening to her. Her transference was, i think, that I was deliberately trying to shut her out, to shame her and her history. She saw my voice as a rejection of hers.

Oh, it turns into an awful spin of transference counter transference, as you describe Caterina. I feel like in some ways, we made each other into what we feared, what we hated. I felt: here I am, trying desperately to reach out of myself and she thinks I'm trying to humiliate and reject her. And there is no way to prove to her otherwise--my voice is a threat to her. Time for my own transference! She wont recognize me, so I am going to tantrum my way in. God, how hard it is to recognize something other than yourself (and how hard that makes it to recognize your self!) I am glad I am revisiting this now after all this growth, because I feel so much more compassion now :) There is real love underneath all the bullshit (yes!) so I am going to keep digging.

---

In all my relationships, small and large, I struggle to sort out the difference between my projections and yours. We are mirrors of each other, but I still need to learn to see you in the reflection (by seeing myself with acceptance and confidence!) The co-arising recognition of self and other--god I love that, because it means that relationship gives me subjectivity (and voice)--that I must recognize my subjectivity through recognizing yours, or vice versa, or all at the same time. The practice becoming of a subject is the practice of relationship--with awareness. This is my new faith, which continues to push me out even when the frustrated little boy inside of me says (with a wink) throw a tantrum. Disconnect and isolate yourself, or act out--its all withdrawing.

James, I love this: here is someone with whom i can move deeper into the cultivation of self-awareness-- someone with whom i can explore safely.

That really is everything to me, everything I want I suppose. I don't really believe that a single relationship can achieve that ideal of complete 100% mutual recognition, of perfect clarity (not that I would know). I see it as an ongoing and messy dance of change and growth, of recession and resurgence--process wholly and utterly. I ask myself, how can I (we) embrace this process without fear and shame, open to it as change and evolution... Do we have the capacity? I've never seen so many people with so much capacity talking in once place. Ah!

I love that we can turn the static past into a dynamic, living entity, through which we interpret our present, embracing in order to let go.

and you hold the deck in one hand
and flick through by pushing gently
with your index finger while holding
the top with your thumb, watching
the pictures spin by you (and it sounds
like a baseball card poked in a spoke
of the wheel of your old stingray bike);
and the individual cards
spin until you get to the king
of hearts who is stabbing himself
with his sword. And I've noticed that thoughts
are like cards spinning by me,
except for that One big Other,
the one like Santa, compassionate,
generous and loving, that accepts
all those other blah blah blah thoughts,
spinning and flickering,
tickling and hurting, and often
hurting real bad. But the Other
knows they will eventually go
away; and the Other reminds
us of loftier thoughts like chance
confronts the unavailable,
and only what does not die can
oppose death; and yet we must, like
Buddha or Jesus experience
death in order to experience
the forces of life; and that
initiation of this fact
proceeds like a funeral through
a series of death moments
beyond which you will rise again
in a glorious resurrection
of knowing; and mind gathers through
its senses, like an urn of ashes,
not the emptiness of light, but
rather the dying out of that light;
and our gaze is a gaze of
reflection, like looking at
the sun rising, and seeing it
as the moment of world's appearing:
all of our suffering
is just this.

As I was about to post this (mostly theoretical post), I so happily read Emily's post: "An interesting discussion, but I am still wondering about how Caterina is feeling about what happened and if, revisiting the experience, would she see the events as they unfolded differently or take something valuable away from what happened or what was said. The theoretical can certainly help in understanding why what happened happened, but the feelings of that experience are still there, yes?"

Emily, thank you for two things: one, bringing the discussion back to Caterina and her (our) feelings and, two, embracing the theoretical in the process. Most people I think see theoretical discussions as ignoring or avoiding an emotional process, but it has been acknowledged here that OUR processing is just more complete or integrated, because it includes different ways (and many beautiful voices) of knowing, not one privileged in its own right. So, thank you. I love you in my garden!

With that said, and specifically thinking about Arnold's statement and James' response, I would like to present some thoughts on therapy, based on two assumptions, one, having to do with “problematized authority,” which we have briefly touched upon; an idea I presented in my last post, AUTHORITY VERSUS AUTHORING, where I said, “Even if one is in a socially-constructed role of authority, to use that role as an authoritarian project undermines the very mutuality that relationship represents. For some, there is fear of giving up their authoritarian role because it signifies a loss of power and domination. And this is a very male thing which, I have argued, fosters violence and destruction, fundamentally because it objectifies or dehumanizes subjectivity itself.”

The second assumption, related to the first, is that part of therapy’s objective (a result of cultivating self-awareness) is to dismantle authoritarian claims of knowledge and power, which, I believe, “inherently undermine true autonomy and community (intimacy).”

Therapy is embedded in culture, like every other artifact of life (including language itself), and is therefore susceptible to the same symptoms that reflect society’s fundamental pathology of dissociation, which results in a fractured community consciousness and severely imbalanced power relationships.

From this perspective, the way I see it, the problem isn’t therapy itself, for therapy is not an entity; the problem is how embedded or conditioned the therapist is in a particular authoritarian mindset. Authoritarianism means a form of social control characterized by strict obedience to the authority of an organized power structure. Control can be overt or more insidious, as found in less oppressive societies, like our own. In less oppressive cultures, we find power pervading the linguistic influences of images and media, as well as, in beliefs and institutions. Again, we’re talking about a spectrum, so the influences of authoritarian structures vary. What’s most important, I think, is whether the system, and the participants in the system, are questioning the linguistic and exchange structures that are in place. This is analogous to the therapeutic process itself. If you’re not questioning (challenging) yourself, you’re susceptible to unconscious conditioning.

This is why a constuctivist/existential/ hermeneutic approach to reality (in this case, the reality of therapy and the reality of self as embodied in the two people participating in the therapeutic process) is useful: it questions at every turn, through a dialogical process (dialogue), truth claims. “I think this is true.” “oh yeah, why do you think this is true?” “This is true because of blah blah blah.” “Oh yeah, well, I don’t see your blah blah blah, so say it differently.” “What do you mean?” “I disagree.” “why do you disagree?” And on and on, leaving the door of meaning constantly open, even after the oohs and ahhs and revelations and insights and “ah ha” moments of bliss. Though there is an authoritative voice, which shifts in and out of the foreground, there’s an openness which values and privileges the individual voice and subjectivity of autonomous thinking, and the life spaces or styles that support individuality.

Though it might appear as such, this isn’t an “anything goes” approach. To the contrary, in some ways it is more rigorous because there’s more to challenge, including the structure itself that defines the terms and sets the rules. With this approach, choice and responsibility are the premium features being questioned. And the intellectual tools are relational, constructive and contextual. How can there be any authoritarianism when self is seen as fluid and multifarious, to the point where the very extending of this fluidity leads to a self that dissolves. Extend it further, and you find "the dissolving of the dissolving itself. There is no self; neither is there no-self." But, this is going in another direction I’ll save for another post.

This approach to therapy resonates with me for a number of reasons. My own ideas have been spawned from my personal experiences of trauma and isolation in a constricted, insular (Cartesian) world. The massive empathic failures I endured provided for me an existential need (urgency!) to transcend such adversity through questioning the very reality I was subjected to. I rebelled against its oppressive and ultimate destructiveness.

Thus, my rebelliousness was fueled by a thriving need to grow beyond, to find my own voice amidst the many clamoring "other" feebly enmeshed voices. The galvanizing force was my precocity and, ironically, it was nurtured by my barely-present father. His (poetic)voice was reminiscent of Dylan Thomas: "Do not go gently unto the night." My father I came to learn was a progressive thinker. Although the war prevented him from pursuing higher education, his library was filled with French symbolist poets, Greek classics, Shakespeare, Dosteovsky and Tolstoy, Nabokov, Cervantes, etc. He was a well-read, albeit deeply troubled man (as I've shared) living in a very rigid, impoverished and economically poor world. His was truly a tragic life. It is no accident that Sophocles was most influential on him. When I was eleven and starting a band (ha!) with my friends, I came to him and asked what to name my group. He smiled and said, "How about The Oedipus Complex." True story.

Thus, intellectually, I was exposed to some of his world, and, through that exposure, found a path that intuitively felt true. At an early age, I knew the essence of the world was that of interconnectedness. Everything always seemed to me connected to everything else. This, of course, was a paradox, since I myself felt so isolated. But, I would find my connections. I would find the language and metaphors that spoke uniquely to me and, at the same time, spoke universally. Early on, paradox became truth, and I recall M. Scott Peck's wonderful opening: "Life is difficult. This is a great truth. It's a great truth, because once you realize it, it no longer is."

So, I sought out paradox and knew intuitively that at the heart of paradox was a doorway that opened up like a sphinxean riddle to liberation; that the suffering we experience in this world is born out of clinging to misguided and rigid beliefs about the world and, hence, about ourselves. I just knew this was my path. But, first I had to heal my deep wounds and, perhaps, the journey towards paradox was directly through my wounds. Again, another paradox. I found, as did Rilke and Gibran, that joy is in the center of sorrow, and that sorrow and joy are just two sides of one reality. I had deeply healing (and difficult) relationships, and read and read a lot of literature depicting this same human dilemma: that choice itself was the warp and woof of this great tapestry called the human condition; that we must choose; and that not choosing is itself a choice and, thus, we are destined to face ourselves, in a cloud, again and again and again. How painful, but how potentially joyful the awareness.

arity of the feeling/thought opposition you emphasized in your post. This FEELS integral to me:

“the very fact that Caterina, Om, and i each came up with varying interpretive modes through which to understand the experience of what we have been calling 'transference' offers a beautiful model for the way that each 'theory' can be particular to the individual, and yet each can be shared with others (and even brought into a more universal mode through which we can each share in that theory.)”

At the same time, Emily’s post FEELS good and necessary and right. You both FEEL so good to me, in exactly the way inversely I felt really bad as a kid. No one had the capacity to UNDERSTAND. Not even my shrink (my mentor!) ultimately understood-- one of the greatest losses of my life. Hey Jesus Buddhaman, what you say? "Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted." I never really understood the depth of that statement until an (Eastern) teacher pointed out that through a nihilistic journey into the inherent despair of the human condition, freedom will be found, and freedom is the comfort.

Loss is the condition of life.

And in my early twenties I read many masters, for example, O'Neill, Williams (Tennessee), Nabokov, Miller (Arthur), Whitman, Keats, Wordsworth, Plato and Freud and was shaking with excitement. They led me to existentialism and a deeper kind of psychoanalytic thought. I found my world being deconstructed before me, challenged and destroyed. I found the golden nuggets. I found more failed relationships, analysis, despair and isolation. And I found hope and faith. I was in an open field and the excitement was boundless-- Words. Language. Clarity. Confusion. Conflict. Relationships. And Paradox.

On an early spring morning at Walden
Kicking crystals of hanging blades, Thoreau
Found the Trace on the path that Frost, too, spent
Always on alert for divine things, though
There were some that yanked hard at the mind's mood.

They said meaning could be found on the path,
Freedom from one's fate, there in the wood
Below the battered and withered green grass.

Frost found in the thorn of Rilke's sleep, joy.
Rilke found nothing but some burnt petals,
But the ashes retained their scent.

And as Descartes got lost in the blinding smoke,
Out of the smoulder sprouted crocus and lilac.

My analysis was at an impasse after seven years (and three years more to rub it in!-- I give great couch (LOL!). My thinking no longer mirrored my analyst's, and he was furious. Seriously. I ironically felt the same mechanization and reductionism in his thinly-veiled authoritarianism that I experienced growing up. There is no one truth! Theories are metaphors, dagnabbit! beautifully wrought constructions that help to explain human phenomena. This is why I love intersubjectivity.

Intersubjectivity is this self-reflective, self-corrective seamless web guiding individual consciousness conceptually through reality in such an all-encompassing way. It’s sort of another paradox for me because, though it refers to two people, it is not about two SEPARATE people. And the reason is that a so-called two-person model "continues to embody an atomistic, isolated-mind philosophy in that two separated minds...are seen to bump into each other. Such a conception fails to recognize the constitutive role of relatedness in the making of all experience. We ought to speak instead of a contextual psychology." What is different from older systems theories, I believe, is that this model is a nonlinear systems theory where subjective worlds form and evolve within a nexus of living systems. "The subject-object split is mended, and inner and outer are seen to interweave seamlessly." Wow!

To go one step further, if intersubjectivity extends itself across Buddhist philosophical thought (to see its roots in “emptiness” or interconnectedness), through the intersubjective lens will be revealed that every theory, every idea includes every other theory and idea in some subtle or more obvious way! And so, we are climbing out of ourselves, mind the ladder and ideas the rungs and the whole goddam thing fueled by feelings, and the One Big feeling of desire!

My desire explains the day
the way leaves spin out from
sheathes of older leaves
as sun rolls its finger
over the globe, the way
her body forms around
my eyes like moonlight
the way light’s roundness
opens like recollection
towards completeness :)

And so, I always say that “thought and feeling are two sides of one understanding.” It’s thinking feeling and feeling thought. James expressed, “the first thing is that i feel all of the 'theoretical.'”

“i understand by virtue of my ability to recognize myself and my friend…. then i share this understanding with you through language…. now-- this sharing will be theoretical in nature, because i am sort-of making sense of the experience, and putting into words--by which you may grasp my meaning-- what i believe happened. this is rooted in the subjective experience, in my own feelings. .. if i had not the capacity to theoretically determine the situation i would likely be clueless about both what we were feeling and what was happening…if i couldn't offer myself an account for the cruel remarks being hurled in my direction, i would be helplessly confused, without clarity or direction.”

Emily, I actually heard this from your post, if I did not read it directly. Your shift was a very cool one for me, and I felt it as a little finger tickling my ear (as if Caterina was sitting inside my ear), saying, “What are you feeling?” Correct me if I’m wrong but you seemed to be asking for balance rather than throwing the theoretical baby out (Who throws babies out of the bath, anyway?). As much theory as I can accumulate, and James, you have said this yourself on a number of occasions, it will never taste the level of intimacy as the question, “What are you feeling?”

Let me make it clear, I am not saying or suggesting that James meant this at all. My point here is that there are exact times for different expressions, and timing is everything. Timing is the music of intimacy, the deep listening that flows through the rhythm our bodies and our eyes and our gestures and our words. We ARE dance.

Good afternoon, boys and girls, do you know what today is? It’s Sunday, and Sunday is Wu day! I love Dr. Wu. Dr. Wu is my Chinese physician (an orthopedic surgeon in China who defected to the US in the 70’s). Most people see Wu as an acupuncturist, which he is, as well. But, that is only part of this healer's bag of tricks.

As you enter Wu’s office in Chinatown, you are likely to hear, behind one of the three treatment room doors, a light-hearted, lilting voice, saying ah mi tuo fuo, part of a Buddhist chant in China, which approximately means God Bless You. He will hear the chime of the door and come greet you with a most warm and benevolent smile and welcoming reassurance unusual for a medical office in New York City. He might even present you with a cup of green tea.

Each time I visit Dr. Wu’s office I find myself immediately transported to another place and time. The energy and sensations feel more like an exotic Chinese apothecary with its suffused fragrance of medicinal herbs. And I feel so safe.

Listening carefully to him in his broken English, I am cognizant of the interwoven philosophical Taoist and Buddhist strains inherent in his description of Chinese Medicine; its overarching ideas are interconnectedness and harmony. Wu over and again emphasizes the need to consciously experience ourselves as part of the unity of life. It’s built into his tradition that unity is accomplished first and foremost by non-interfering [intrusive], and attentive observing and listening, both to one’s own inner voice, and to the voices of the world around us. This inclusiveness of observation requires not only the use of the logical mind but, perhaps even more importantly, the intuitive mind cultivated by many years of experience and knowledge. This means that, in Chinese Medicine, the information gathered is through a greater, more comprehensive wisdom of how the human being “fits” harmoniously in the world, and thus in relationship; that is, through the sharing of consciousness between practitioner and patient. For example, recently, I heard Dr. Wu reassure a frightened patient about her condition. He said, “You will be okay. You listen to me, one hundred percent.” And the American woman, somewhat wary, asserted, “And you listen to me, right?” Dr. Wu smiled and said, “Yes, I listen to you, one hundred percent; together two hundred per cent.”

Chinese Medicine asserts subtle energy bodies existing in fields co-extensive with the physical body and its associated electromagnetic field. These subtle “fields” are more diffuse and less constrained than our particular physiological bodies, reinforcing the idea that consciousness is nonlocated (not located anywhere in space). Thus, as Wu knows, the mind can have access to information not limited to the physical body. This is perhaps the most essential area of Chinese Medicine's philosophical thought. Within the conceptual framework of Taoism, there is an exquisite, deeply spiritual—- I would even say, aesthetically complete—- principle of Qi (pronounced “chee”), or Life force. From this principle comes an elaborate, highly comprehensive energetic field, or system, known as body/mind.

Wu can also a pain in the ass and a bit rigid. He "needles" me in his pointed and oblique ways. But I love Wu. I am a dart board and he a master dartsman. Wu brings out my wu wei nature, round and balanced and blue like the sky. Wu is like a great poem, he hurts and sometimes real bad. This almost 60 year old diminutive man picks my 180 pound frame off the chair by my head and suddenly twists to the right until my neck cracks. The sound is so loud, I began to laugh uncontrollably, knowing the wrong movement would kill me. This is trust. Real trust. And this is compassion, true compassion that’s so precise, so brilliantly efficient in its touch and awareness that it knows exactly when and at what angle to caress a heart or, like a samurai’s sword, remove with speed the head of pride or rage.

As the body lays comfortably face down on the cot, the needles point outward from the back like sun rays, and mind drifts off into another time, when I am 10 and very sick. My father, the once young medic whose heart could only beat for others, holds me in his arms as he sticks a spoon down my throat to help me breathe. I had never seen him so steady and yet warm and loving, my father. I love his hands and I gaze and run my fingers over them. It’s the last time I will touch those hands.

They were soft and almost translucent
like cloth held up to light
a dove cooing across my cheek
on cold winter nights
its feathers tickling my ears
with poems of words
before sleep
before the notes
of winter night
pecked against the pane
by the creaking tree
and into my dream
where I was the bird
nestling into my father
lying there
unconscious
before the croaking old world
buried him deep
beneath the dream
beneath the wind and soft
hands cooing on winter nights
against my cheek.

And I go deeper still, and there’s Adeline, my massage therapist leaning over me as I completely surrender to her. The oils, music, fragrance and the strength and softness of her touch break through the fear and isolation of a frightened boy hiding in the closet or peeing in his bed after nightmares many many years before. I am safe now and no longer need walls to barricade nor mend. I am a body of fluid flowing in and out of consciousness flowing in and out of body: mind is body, mind is nothing but body; body is mind, body is nothing but mind.

And I am now in my mother’s womb, her presence profoundly felt, and her tenderness so palpable; her warmth envelopes my whole being. She will feed me in ways that I cannot know. I am a seed in the depths of my mother. Each moment I recreate evolution as my cells multiply, as they become fingers and lips and hair. I am a fish swimming upstream, and soon a seal with half-arms. My mother's breath is my breath, her blood my blood. I can only wait with patience, as my heart awaits her touch. She will catch me as I enter into the world surround, as she now protects me in my liquid world. There is much to learn....

Ah mi tuo fuo, he sings, as he pulls out the needles and begins massaging my back in the most tender and firm touch I have ever known. And, as he pushes down with a 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, and almost makes me cry, he smiles, “No pain, no gain.” And I laugh from the pain, as I get up to get my neck twisted into shape.

Oh, yeah, today is Sunday and I am getting Wu'ed.

after leaving the station I
gazed at the hills and valleys and
waved to all those people who
had gone by so long ago.

music, caffeine, chocolate; I
am a woman, after all.

a touch of avoidance, a
quick nap, and
intermittently some real
work.
so no one gets suspicious.
guess I ought to cut and
run. pick up in the morning.

these nights in limbo, torn
between that perfect brush stroke and
total calamity.

what is it that they say? nothing
good happens after 2am.

I doff my cap to the conductor. same
time tomorrow? safe
travels ma'am.

and settle down to sleep.

-MCB

...I like this place

How pain can be carved into such beauty, this poem. Yet, even as you seem to be saying here to me, language in and of itself, when cut off from feelings outside the poem, goes undercover, "so no one gets suspicious."

God, I love this poem for many reasons, for its brutality and longing and tough truth, "between that perfect brush stroke and calamity."

If only our strokes didn't have to be so goddam perfect, perhaps waking would be as settling as sleep.

Thank you for this gem, Ceili!

"One day, while I was playing with my new doll, Miss Sullivan put my big rag doll into my lap also, spelled d-o-l-l and tried to make me understand that d-o-l-l applied to both. Earlier in the day we had a tussle over the words m-u-g and w-a-t-e-r. Miss Sullivan had tried to impress it upon me that m-u-g is mug and that w-a-t-e-r is water, but I persisted in confounding the two. In despair she had dropped the subject for the tme, only to renew it at the first opportunity. I became impatient at her repeated attempts and, seizing the new doll, I dashed it upon the floor. I was keenly delighted when I felt the fragments of the broken doll at my feet. Neither sorrow nor regret followed my passionate outburst. I had not loved the doll. In the still, dark world in which I lived there was no strong sentiment or tenderness.... We walked down the path to the well-house, attracted by the fragrance of the honeysuckle with which it was covered. Someone was drawing water and my teacher placed my hand under the spout. As the cool stream gushed over one hand she spelled into the other the word water, first slowly, then rapidly. I stood still, my whole attention fixed upon the motions of her fingers. Suddenly I felt a misty consciousness as of something forgotten--a thrill of returning thought; and somehow the mystery of language was revealed to me. I knew then that w-a-t-e-r meant the wonderful cool something that was flowing over my hand. That living word awakened my soul, gave it light, hope, joy, set it free! There were still barriers, it is true, but barriers that could in time be wept away. I left the well-house eager to learn. Everything had a name, and each name gave birth to a new thought. As we returned to the house every object which I touched seemed to quiver with life. That was because I saw everything with the strange, new sight that had come to me. On entering the door, I remembered the doll I had broken. I felt my way to the hearth and picked up the pieces. I tried in vain to put them together. Then my eyes filled with tears; for I realized what I had done, and for the first time I felt repentance and sorrow."

“And how the acquisition of language (beginning with naming) allowed human beings to move from the concrete realm of perceptions, sensations, objects and images (the dimension of body) to the dimension of concepts and symbolic thought” (mind). As the analyst Joseph Jones brilliantly points out in his critique of Freud’s paper, `Negation,’ Freud’s line of inquiry stopped short of clarifying the distinction between drive (Trieb—pulsion, impulse, the pressure to act) and affects [feelings]. We might think of drives as “the moving force behind the second biobehavioral reorganization (I poetically call “drive” desire!). Defined this way, the term drives becomes an important conceptual tool in describing “the epigenetic [evolutionaryl] push toward the divided-mind organization of affects and thought.” The polarization between positive (excitement, joy) and negative (disgust, anger, fear) affects seems to explain the process of categorization, that is, language emerging out of affects.

And so, meaning (including the very complex “theory”!) is not a feature of the world itself, but a property of the complex matrix of thought AND feeling we construct to describe reality.

Yes, this is true. Frankly, for me, this is the most true, the most important question of all. And yet, this is the most difficult question for many, if not most, people. And I scratch my head and ask why this is so. What are you thinking? Now, that seems to be an easy one. “Well, I was just thinking about this and that,” and a thousand and one images inundate a space once empty. Thoughts thoughts thoughts images images images. But, where are you feeling? Please, tell me, what are you feeling? I want to reach you, I want to know. I know you're in there somewhere.

…and that which really matters
can be, at first, unheard,
burrowed deep in the dense brush
of doubt, without a word.

Yet, that which really matters,
matters because it’s lost,
locked away in the voiceless
hush of fear,
without what's needed most.

Attention must be paid,

because that which really matters,
that which laid away
without a voice, tear, or touch,

at its core is life,

a life that locked away
without word, tear, or touch
is a life gone, betrayed.

The existentialists would call this an “ultimate concern.” And for good reason. “Self-awareness.” “Sense of self.” “Who am I?” “Self-recognition.” “Self-love.” “True compassion.” None of these can be achieved, known without understanding one’s feelings. An affective life, a life richly textured in feeling, and with a wide affective range. Notice the metaphors of painting and music. This is no accident. Painting and music are are feelings in their most aesthetically evolved form, for they inspire, breathe life into the body and draw out what is divine. Is this not the link to God, Pure Awareness? Is this not the way, from within, (through)out? Transcendence, literally, from embodiment?

In the film, `Amadeus,’ the composer Salieri speaks of Mozart: “I heard the music of true forgiveness filling the theater, conferring on all who sat there, perfect absolution. God was singing through this little man to all the world, unstoppable, making my defeat more bitter with every passing bar…. On the page it looked nothing. The beginning simple, almost comic. Just a pulse - bassoons and basset horns - like a rusty squeezebox. Then suddenly - high above it - an oboe, a single note, hanging there unwavering, till a clarinet took over and sweetened it into a phrase of such delight! This was no composition by a performing monkey! This was a music I'd never heard. Filled with such longing, such unfulfillable longing, it had me trembling. It seemed to me that I was hearing a voice of God.”

I love music and music loves me.

When I listen to Francois Couperin’s Leçon de Ténèbres 3, For 2 Treble Voices & Continuo, there is something in the sopranic vibrato that goes so deep into the body as to pull out what the mind refuses or is unable to name. Of course, my association is totally French (Couperin/French Baroque) and feminine (French/Soprano). These `Lessons in the shadow of darkness' (literally at 3 AM) are intimate, introverted vocals, melismatic, and with that deep feminine vibrato whispering in a meditative soliloquy as if internalizing the text of silence, yet through song. I literally leave myself. Exstasis.

But, this flowing outward stream of feeling, when drawn to a poem, a musical composition, a painting or sculpture, can it be achieved in relationship? Why does it get clogged?

but all I ask is for my intimate relationships to be real and true, where real means embracing each other's reality, and true, meaning being true to each other's words. But, there's that tricky part again-- words. People don't seem to know how to use words or, at best, the words are somehow disconnected from their inner states, like some kind of road block on a highway, or like heaven never really making its way down to earth; or words don't come out, like a watering hose that has a ball in it; and I don't really understand it, though I really understand it; and it kills me that I spend my entire existence trying to understand that in the beginning was the Word and the Word is with God and the Word is God; but God, though being All and Everything, somehow forgot to be All and Everything because He left out the meaning when He gave out the words. And I'm frightened because I realize that you, the other, any person I try to create intimacy with, cannot see more in me than you could see in yourself and my fear is that you cannot see yourself, which is nothing more than the illusions that compose mind, and the Love, Beauty, Good and Emptiness left when the illusions that compose mind are blown away, like snow off a walk when the wind gusts clear it. And mind is nothing more than its images regurgitated and recycled through memory; and if that memory is one of pain, then fear will form your vision because only the love of deep awareness can dissolve that fear and only feelings can reveal the mind's illusions, and perhaps the biggest illusion, that I can be known.

And now some theory :) The brilliant Joseph Jones tells us (and I am posting here an extended quote which I think everyone should print out and read again and again—- it’s quite extraordinary in its clarity, comprehensiveness and implications!):

“Although the central neurophysiological control mechanisms that are common to all sentient species form the biologic substrate for the self, the sense of self begins with attempts to translate into conceptual form this experience of oneself as a person. Inasmuch as all of the infant’s presymbolic experience is mediated by affects, it follows that the sense of self crystallizes around recurrent affect states. What complicates the situation is that, prior to the acquisition of the ability to use symbols, he infant is subject to behavioral shaping processes that can either facilitate or interfere with his ability to be in contact with his affective life. As Stolorow and Stolorow point out, this shaping constitutes an important selfobject function on the part of the parents—one that begins even before the “seal” has emerged. Among the things that the parents can do before the infant begins to use symbols is to help the child separate and differentiate his affective responses; facilitate the experience of positive affect states such as interest and joy; help the infant master, and thus endure, the potentially disorganizing impact of negative affects such as fear and rage; and protect the child from affective overload, which may be the prelude to a disorganized traumatic state. After the child acquires the ability to use language, the parents can not only help the toddler identify the discrete affect states and put them into words, but also convey to the child that affects, even the painful ones, are not to be avoided, as they are an extremely necessary part of life. A key part of helping the child acquire a sense of self is for the parents to cherish the child’s independent mind, even if they strongly disagree with the child. If the parents are good enough at this task, then the various parts coalesce into a cohesive sense of self.

It is how one uses the capacity for thought in relationship to affects to create meaning that results in the sense of self. The emergence of a sense of self requires the ability to synthesize the various components of the mind—experience, affects, thoughts, hopes and aspirations—into a cohesive whole.”

Now, following is what I’ve been getting to all along, the answer to the question as to why feelings are so inaccessible:

“More than any other single factor, it is the capacity to use symbols to blockade affective experience that creates a lost sense of I-ness.

Conversely, it is affective-symbolic integration that creates what most people mean by self.”

ahhhhhh....

My brain is on high gear. All kinds of thoughts (many of them unnecessary) racing around and around on roller blades inside my head. Kind of giddy - yeah, yeah, vacation time is here; I've wrapped some gifts that I really want to give and looking forward to having my family in one place. But those Rollerbladers just careen through trying to make me feel guilty

It's 4 in the afternoon and I jumped back into bed fully clothed and burrowed under the guilt. The computer is on my lap. A cat in curled up in a ball by my feet. Out the window the world is Grey, monotone, as the light falls away. A holly tree in the distance is fully dressed with red berries. One dim light is on in my room behind me. I could imagine someone coming up the stairs with a brightly colored tray with a cup of hot tea (ginger lemon sounds good) and a plain vanilla biscuit.

All the things I could or should be doing...... they are waiting.
The skaters are rounding the corner. I am just going to step out of the way.

Are you ever in a fog?

... I have believed this about sadness for a while but never really heard it expressed so clearly. I was sad today when I read a number of news articles in the NY Times, first about an 80-year old man who committed a suicide bombing in Algiers against a UN office, secondly a story about New Orleans displacement which interviewed many different people who have resigned themselves not to living in New Orleans anymore.. and the 3,195 American soldiers who have died in Iraq. There are more stories, one about gay and lesbian Iraqis who say that they have been at risk of being killed since the beginning of the Iraq war (due to increased persecution from religious extremists) and they said that in 2003 when the Americans came they were ecstatic, thinking that democracy would bring more tolerance for Iraqis (gays and lesbians were accepted for the most part under Saddam Hussein, according to the article), but this gay man says that an American solider came in his house and harassed him for his feminine appearance. I sat in the coffee shop thinking how fucking awful it was for Americans to do this shit. Although I have not participated in the anti-war movement since a couple years ago (I felt that it was more important at the moment to stop an impending civil war), I think it is becoming more clear to me that I should still support the removal of the U.S. from Iraq (though what that means for Iraqi civilians, I still don't really know.) The reason why I am talking about world events like Iraq in this way is that one of the reasons why I find political action to be so gray and not black and white, is that I sometimes do not follow what I am feeling and understand things from what they make me feel. Feelings are cognitive processes as well as thoughts are. If I don't integrate what I am feeling into what am thinking, my thoughts all end up in shades of gray which I am unable to process.

Another story that made me sad, was on the 13th when I left, NY times had a story about the Bronx courthouse where usually one to three elevators were out of service, so people were routinely waiting in line for two hours or so... in the freezing rain. So, people routinely have their Bronx Family Court hearings pushed back for months because they cannot get to the courtroom on time, due to a broken elevator! This is a textbook case of institutional racism.

Similarly, when I look at a heartbreaking story like that of New Orleans, where it is obvious where the government's priorities lie, unless I allow myself to see my feelings, and imagine myself in the position of people who lost their homes and their communities, I can only think of the costs and benefits of rebuilding New Orleans in a rational, functional process--there is nothing about what New Orleans as a city actually MEANS to the people who lived there...

The devastation of Iraq is the same thing. I have always wanted to ask the question to the anti-war movement, "We didn't stop the war, and now our government totally destroyed the country, so now the Shi'ites and Sunnis are killing each other. What is our responsibility?" But, I am beginning to realize that our country will never allow the Iraqis to be their own nation, and we will never allow Iraq to control its own resources, and it is far from the government's mind to repair the damage we've done. If I was an Iraqi then I probably would want to blow up the United States military. If there are a lot of people moving towards extremism, it would make sense to find out what is influencing them to move to extremism and stop it or remove the influence (which is the U.S. military). This requires acceptance and understanding of the feelings and realities behind their context. This is so basic I don't know why I didn't understand this before. Maybe this is simplifying a very complex issue -- there are ethnic conflicts between the different sects of Islam. What should the the international "community" (states) do about it? Whatever we do, it won't help to be another party in the conflict, when to be "moderate" in Iraq is seen as collaborating with the U.S. imperialists.

Feelings are so disparaged in reasoning that we consider a process of decision making "reasonable" or "logical" when they are not considered, or when the reasoning is "objective."

I can see what you mean about depression "...where the fog is the mind's numbness unable to open to the light of clarity (integration)." Numbness is going through the world without being aware of your existence in the present. Everyone is numb to an extent, but too long being numb and the self starts to feel fragmented and therefore incomplete. Incompleteness that feels like pain or emptiness that one longs to replace with merging or oblivion. That's why so many lonely people turn to alcohol or try to seek out affection from others, in order to replace the pain of being separated.

Like you said, depression is about holding on. If you lose someone or he/she abandons you, then you have lost them. You can just be sad about this, and continue being sad, accepting your sadness, at the same time you can be present in the depth of the sadness, and accept the uncertainty of the future. I know my future is going to remain connected to the past, but with enough experiencing the present, I can "let go" of it, and it may not occupy such a defining significance in my life.

... I just finished this book called "Trauma and Recovery -- the aftermath of violence"... by Judith Herman. She talks about rape, combat trauma and child abuse... so, though the subject matter is more intense than ordinary "depression"-- she talks about integration of memories of the past just like Om does. The people who go to group therapy sessions experience these stages. Usually, they experience something called "dissociation" -- where the mind separates the traumatic event from their consciousness, but it resurfaces in a different manifestation unknown to them. After through an initial period where they begin to trust others, they start uncovering some of their buried memories. There's a period in which they may feel their post-traumatic stress more acutely. They gradually integrate what they are presently experiencing and what they had experienced during the trauma. Eventually, it is evident that they are reliving past trauma in the present through various unconscious roles... And the end (hopefully) is that they can "integrate" the knowledge of what occurred in the past with their present understanding, which is still experienced with the trust and mutual support of the group. Therefore, they begin to see themselves not as victims but survivors. They stop blaming themselves and begin to be empowered to make meaning of the event that is beyond themselves...

One part of the quote was interesting and poignant to me: "A key part of helping the child acquire a sense of self is for the parents to cherish the child's independent mind, even if they strongly disagree with the child. If the parents are good enough at this task, then the various parts coalesce into a cohesive sense of self." I never experienced being encouraged for being independent. I blamed my parents for many years for their neglectful / accusatory / emotionally retarding / condescending style of parenting. In response, I became extremely independent, yet also yearning for approval and ego-boosting from my parents. I became emotionally independent because I felt that my emotions were so unacceptable to my parents that I could not express them anymore. I came into my own sense of self during my adolescence despite the feeling of losing my parents. I moved away when I was 18, but in reality I seemed to move away from them much earlier, when I stopped feeling like they were people I could relate to, or count on for more than my material needs.

[as an adolescent] I was a very confused person... Whether my feelings are justified or not is irrelevant. What I felt was real, but my parents were only doing what they could.

[I am currently on vacation and staying at my parents' house...]
My mom came home from work the other day from her job as a school nurse. She takes care of a kid who has a degenerative muscle disease, who can only move his left arm slightly and cannot speak... he is in a wheelchair and needs assistance for almost everything. he is also expected to die soon. So, when she came home she pulled out some stuff for dinner and told us to fix our own dinner. I started doing that, and she snapped at me for some reason (I started unwrapping something that she wanted to save). I just shrugged, but my brother just came up to her and defused the situation by hugging her...

It's obvious she was unhappy. I wasn't recognizing her unhappiness. But more importantly, because she never seemed to be able to hug me when I was unhappy in the past, I didn't understand that she needed a hug now. The problem is not just my problem. It's both our problems. We both need to be aware of when we are in need of a hug, and secondly, we need to be able to take the risk to do it, even though, in my experience, I have been rejected for my efforts at showing my love for my parents. It's not enough that I am aware that she's unhappy.... but also that I have the capacity to hug, and that I can break out of the past patterns that we have imprisoned ourselves in...

Homo Sacer, Thank you for sharing with us. It is amazing that a group of strangers can be such a close likeness of each other. It is a little bit scary, I could have written your post.

I too left home at a young age and although I thought I set myself free when I left and had the power to define a new reality and feelings; I’ve realized that all I have been doing for the last 18 years is running in fear of the memory of the pain that I experienced.

Emily, Thanks for asking everyone how they are feeling.

I am feeling conflicted. Most days I am feeling strong and thoughtful; hopeful and full of life. And yet, I woke up this morning and wanted to just climb back into my warm bed. I want to sleep off the rest of the year. I just need a couple weeks, a break from life and myself...I'll be strong enough to work on it again when I emerge. I'd just like to "shut off the lights and go into a cave." as Om says.

But the potential inside (I think I need to give this desire/drive a name and empower her)knows better and although today I won't go to work and trudge through meetings, deadlines and emails I will give myself permission to feel this sadness and understand its roots, its meaning and purpose. Om, Thanks for sharing the difference between depression and sadness in your post to Oubenning. "I actually see sadness and depression existing on opposite sides of the affective spectrum. Sadness is about letting go and depression about holding on. I love sadness because it surrenders to loss and empties out the dense murky fog that protects a fantasied ideal self-image."

Today I will try to learn to love sadness so that it might bring me closer to the person I am. Because I owe it to myself to do so. I have no choice the alternative, living in fear is not really the life I want.

I noticed the other day how often I let my mind wander without realizing how the time is passing. One moment I am absent mindedly walking down the street and another I am browsing in a bookstore, and another I am eating food... and none of those moments are significant to me. Yet I feel "stressed.." It is showing up in the way I my shoulders are aching and I can't sleep.

since my "vacation" from this stress isn't really turning out to be such a vacation, I am thinking of using this time to make something of it. First, I am going to see if I can keep a feelings and thoughts diary... whenever I have a thought connected to a feeling, or a feeling connected to a thought, I will write it down.

I'll see if anything comes of it and maybe I'll come back to tell about the results.

“Reality is that which cannot be subrated by any other experience. Appearance is that which can be subrated by other experience. Unreality is that which neither can nor cannot be subrated by other experience.”

Subration. "Refers to the disvaluing a previously appraised object or content of consciousness because it is contradicted by a new experience. A judgment about something is contradicted by a new experience when it is impossible (as a psychological state of one’s being—as opposed to a logical state of one’s mind) to affirm both the previous judgment and what is learned or acquired in the new experience. Through subration, the subject undergoes a radical shift—practical, intellectual, spiritual—in one’s judgment about something."

I have a (I won’t say, “bad”) habit of needing to carry a thought process to its very logical end, which is always and ultimately the end of me. That is, the end of a self identified as me, my clinging lady going underneath all the furniture and in the crannies of my mind. I am a subrater and belong to SA (Subraters Anonymous). Hopefully, this will be the end of my subration blues.

Enough said about my flaws. In light of our very smoothflowingfluid discussions over the past few weeks, I would like to throw (not hurl!) a word out there tonight: Alexithymia.

Alexithymia is psych term, described on Wikepedia “as a state of deficiency in understanding, processing, or describing emotions, and defined by

(i) difficulty identifying feelings and distinguishing between feelings and the bodily sensations of emotional arousal

(ii) difficulty describing feelings to other people

(iii) constricted imaginal processes, as evidenced by a paucity of fantasies

(iv) a stimulus-bound, externally oriented cognitive style.

The distinguishing factor for the alexithymic is her “inability to elaborate beyond a few limited adjectives such as "happy" or "unhappy" when describing these feelings.” One theory explains that the alexithymic, or “disaffected individual had at some point "experienced overwhelming emotion that threatened to attack their sense of integrity and identity," to which they applied psychological defenses to pulverize and eject all emotional representations from consciousness.”

This is right in line with our conversation about trauma, dissociation and thought dysfunction (and even acting out transferadventurers). For me, these thoughts were inspired from our beginning debate on theoretical statements and personal statements, if you remember. Emily’s concern was that the expressed writing of theoretical statements “is opaque,” that “how some of the analysis feels like a wall and not an opening. Some of your posts that have meant the most to me have been your personal stories and reflections.” She was concerned that the “blog has become academic discourse. Words like dialogical, and intersubjective are technical terms, language that keeps people away. These are not words that I would whisper to my lover.” And Arnold, “I am not opposed to abstract ideas, but I take seriously the stated intent of this blog to sponsor intimate conversation and communication among individuals who may only know one another through their written words.”

We weren’t sure exactly how to approach this, but what was clear was James’ compassion and generosity, as he shared with Emily,

“so if your needs are not being met by some of the posts we all must take care to meet your needs! this is a community, after all, and it would be lovely to share a common unity.” And he continued, “if a certain kind of interpretation makes you feel forced out of discussion then we can all gain a deeper understanding of who you are, now, and move towards a more intimate mode of discussion with you.” He was actually addressing Carmen here, but I think Emily, as well. “and in the meantime i will continue to approach Om's posts and offer my own interpretive responses: i may not respond to you in such a way, because that would be a denial of you and not very intimate or attentive of me, but this doesn't mean it is simply anti-intimate in general.”

And Nico chimed in with a most memorable statement for me personally (I cherish his words to this day!). He says, “Theoretical statements are based on feelings too. They are not abstract thoughts that are disconnected from us. Even the ones that seem disconnected say a lot about a person’s disconnect and thereby provides an opening into that person’s disconnectedness. So even if another person feels disconnected and shuts me out, I can be intimate with them by recognizing and witnessing their disconnect and their suffering. I become the witness and voice they lack.”

Understanding is never static and we keep creating meanings and associations every moment of our lives. A theory that may feel dry and lifeless to me could be the richest and most vibrant of thought/spiritual experiences to another. I read OM’s posts and I recognize the care and passion that has gone into writing them. I may not understand the theories right away, and I may not ever understand them like OM does. But at the same time something from it breaks into my thoughts. It stays there for awhile as I begin to assimilate it into my thoughts. Now here is the choice I have to make: Do I dismiss OM’s posts because I can’t reach them and because I don’t connect to them, or do I make the effort to understand them in the context of my experiences?

Do I choose to invest some feeling into the theories?”

And Noah also pushed for integration: “I find that that theoretical statement, when I begin to integrate it into my experience, to assimilate its language into my understanding of the world, offers me choices I didn't know I had. The theory, as a language of abstraction, is not all that useful by itself. But when I integrate it with my experience, when I use it not to construct false categories but to give my understanding of experience greater perspective and depth, I find that am no longer subjugated by my experience. I become its creator.” And James, once more, also attempting to embrace the dialectical tension and seek integration: “and no matter how much i might feel theoretical discourse fits into my intimate relationships, that you don't feel the same way must be of deep importance to me -- since we're in this together, after all!

i wonder, though, if it would be possible for you to see one particular statement of yours as a question -- just in case there is the possibility of embracing theory a little more, since it seems to me to be a big part of our collective experience on the blog. i wouldn't suggest that you ought to dig the theory, or that finding it inappropriate and out-of-place is bad or wrong-- of course not! that would be very silly of me! in fact, when Carmen and Emily voiced a concern about the language being used in some corners of the blog we all found it to be a terrific spark from which to move forward in our group relationship. i take it this wonderful post of yours -- in this ongoing conversation you have begun -- will do something similar.

so since i do think there will still be some theory on here, i'm wondering, as i said, if i can switch one or your statements into a question, and if you would be willing to give it a little reflection (after reading all the other beautiful posts) -- just in case there is the possibility for you to integrate this theoretical discourse into your experience enough to find something satisfying about it on the blog.”

So long to get to the point, but here it is: Is there need for, or room for, theoretical discourse? May there be need for, or room for, theoretical discourse?”

From these exquisite posts, I wanted to go deeper into the issue from the broader theoretical/personal opposition to the thought/feeling dialectic and analyze the difficulties we all seem to face integrating thought and feeling, an analysis, by the way, which might reveal some of the discomfort with either theoretical exploration or personal exploration and expression. What it comes down to is this: understanding. Understanding is the remedy for all suffering.

Nico, through Donnell Stern, tells us, "What we understand is not separate from us. The truth cannot be located and uncovered. Rather, says Gadamer, we must recognize that we already are the truth, that the problem is formulating the relevant aspects of our being. All we can do is to make a dialogue with another person in which we engage our prejudices in such a way that they become clear to us, and understanding emerges."

My two posts, THE MOST DIFFICULT QUESTION OF ALL: WHAT ARE YOU FEELING? and BEING PRESENT IN THE DEPTH OF SADNESS, specifically address the relationship of thought to feelings, and the relationship of thought and feeling to the evolution of the self, beginning in infancy. Following, again, is a quote from Joseph Jones:

“Inasmuch as all of the infant’s presymbolic experience is mediated by affects, it follows that the sense of self crystallizes around recurrent affect states. What complicates the situation is that, prior to the acquisition of the ability to use symbols, the infant is subject to behavioral shaping processes that can either facilitate or interfere with his ability to be in contact with his affective life. As Stolorow and Stolorow point out, this shaping constitutes an important selfobject function on the part of the parents—one that begins even before the “seal” has emerged. Among the things that the parents can do before the infant begins to use symbols is to help the child separate and differentiate his affective responses; facilitate the experience of positive affect states such as interest and joy; help the infant master, and thus endure, the potentially disorganizing impact of negative affects such as fear and rage; and protect the child from affective overload, which may be the prelude to a disorganized traumatic state.

After the child acquires the ability to use language, the parents can not only help the toddler identify the discrete affect states and put them into words, but also convey to the child that affects, even the painful ones, are not to be avoided, as they are an extremely necessary part of life. A key part of helping the child acquire a sense of self is for the parents to cherish the child’s independent mind, even if they strongly disagree with the child. If the parents are good enough at this task, then the various parts coalesce into a cohesive sense of self.

It is how one uses the capacity for thought in relationship to affects to create meaning that results in the sense of self. The emergence of a sense of self requires the ability to synthesize the various components of the mind—experience, affects, thoughts, hopes and aspirations—into a cohesive whole.”

I then pointed out, very specifically, how the necessary integration of thought and feeling is obviated by thought dysfunction: “Now, following is what I’ve been getting to all along, the answer to the question as to why feelings are so inaccessible:”

“More than any other single factor, it is the capacity to use symbols to blockade affective experience that creates a lost sense of I-ness.

Conversely, it is affective-symbolic integration that creates what most people mean by self.”

Sorry for the redundancy, it’s just so aesthetically (and meaningfully) beautiful to me as a whole, like a painting or classical composition; I just needed to pull it all together and share. And there are probably tons of questions that can come out of this, such as, how independent minds are inadvertently squashed in childhood which lead, for example, to a whole host of problems-- dependency, dissociation, massive accommodation, depression, anxiety, impulse disorders, addictions, etc.-- all inhibitions that interfere, to some significant degree, with our ability to think and integrate and feel whole and well and fluidly flowing through the ups and downs and ins and outs of life.

I love personal notes, they’re so… personal. After completing my mini-synthesis of theoretical thinking, I felt excited, a bit high. It was as if I had just participated in something extravagant (from the Latin, extravagari "wander outside or beyond"), like the way I feel when I’m writing a poem or being intimate in a particular way, where I or my partner experiences a deep insight of recognition. Yes, that’s it, I wandered outside the perimeter of mind’s conditioned perceptions and conceptions, the line around fate, so to speak, because these ideas never existed in my parents’ minds and so were not taught to me. I learned from my parents something smaller, much smaller, almost too small for me to wrap my mind around, and so my heart shrunk as a result; it almost petered out. I never learned that the content of ideas, in truth, represent the context of some higher understanding, the wisdom of which ultimately dissolves the contents of thought that contain me, that box me in. I am not the content of my appearance nor name, not the content of my history, nor the string of contents that I once believe defined me. Nor the content of poverty and provincialism and neglect and the “isms” of labels stuck to my child’s mind like refrigerator magnets.

It’s an energy, a feeling of openness and clarity that refuses to let the fear engendered in attachment and identification seduce me. I know that experience only too well, it’s an addiction. As the fear or dread arises, mind wants to give in to it, for the fantasy of mergeance drives it. The primary way I felt connected to my mother and father was through their pain. And so the depression seduces me into believing (and the belief is very very deep preverbal memory) my mother and I are one, that she will magically return (and it’s always about returning!) and repair the rupture that keeps us irreparably apart. Without understanding this delusion, I will foreclose any possibility of seeing the light of joy that I am, the rays of compassion that radiate through me, and the intense love opening as the dying out of light gives way to the real Light of Being.

Om mani padme hum

I agree. Sadness is not a constant state, but depression is. Guess I just wanted to give my parents a little wiggle room - rewrite history a little - but the truth is the truth. They were so profoundly depressed. Depression sucks all the life out of the party and I just want to dance.

Caterina! I am so happy you are back and with a cache of the most precious pearls! So many things to reflect on here, but what’s clear is how coherently they string together into a most exquisite aesthetic of understanding. I agree that having feelings is not equal to reflecting on feelings, yet the integration of feeling with the mental introspective process of reflection is exactly what health strives for (including healthy relationship). Indeed, it is a perfect definition of (mental) health, in the same way the integration of physical and physiological activity with proper nutritional practice is a definition of physical health.

I also don’t think you can say enough about what you refer to as the capacity for containment of feeling as an integral activity in reflection and its by-product or aim, understanding. “When reflection is cognizant of feelings, it is very responsible towards them and to the whole endeavor of understanding.”

The responsibility, or ability to respond, is, first and foremost, the ability to contain. Without containment, there is no reflection and, without containment, there is no (cohesive) sense of self. In a vicious spin cycle, thought dysfunction both causes and is caused by the inability to contain one’s feelings. Your friend’s “poopfest” was exactly this: a splitting off of feeling from thought, which resulted in an implosive, impulsive and explosive acting out.
Transference clearly explains the dynamic of his behavior and also points to the motivation for his behavior. The beauty of the “theory” in your reflection is that your intuition and inferential reasoning created for you a frame from which to gain sufficient understanding to decenter your own emotional response to his outburst. As you say, “Listening to him meant listening and recognizing what was misaligned between his words and actions and my deeds.” It enabled you to protect yourself and find deep compassion for yourself and for him, even if that compassion meant setting limits, sending him on his way, or dissolving the friendship.

“Now, I know that I cannot abide in a friendship with him unless he were able to recognize that his accusations and hurtful remarks towards me were unfounded, that he was indeed having a transference. This would really be the only way for us to "find each other" again. I don't think he'll realize these things though because he has nothing to counter them against (except his own experience, which has proved not to be of much use in seeing me as other than that projection of the other day).”

The usefulness of this “theory” was in how it gave your (self) reflection process priority to a deeper and more comprehensive (self) understanding: “The "theory" which I wrote about here (and had reflected on for many years prior to my friend's explosion, and continue to reflect on), was active in my thinking in the moment my friend was yelling at me - though not in a detached way…. Try as I might, I couldn't find in the history of my relating to him or in the words i had spoken (I knew it was certainly not in my intention) anything that could have reasonably caused him so much fear and thus anger.”

What I also love is that you emphasized the process aspect of introspection, that is, that it requires effort and work to adequately metabolize or integrate feelings with its reflective counterpart: ”sort of like watching an apple fall to the ground, having heard about and tested and retested the theory of gravity and then when you watch the apple fall you understand you are witnessing a force of gravity at work.” What I would like to add is that the process of introspection itself can only occur within a relationship, for we can’t look into our own eyes.

Relationships are the most beautiful and difficult of yogas, Caterina, and tonight you have given us an amazing gift of your friendship and wisdom. As painful as it was and is, I think your friend gave you (and us through you) an enormous gift and teaching, as loss is the greatest of teachers. Thank you for this wonderful insight and, again, welcome back!

Emily, if language is a true conveyance (something that serves as a means of transportation) of action, then you are clearly dancing, and what a dancer you are! Yes, dancing is an apt metaphor for your posts; your words, a pas de deux, always bring joy and transport, even when they reflect painful things. There is never depression in your dance. Even if you are talking about depression, I am singing in the rain. This is the paradox of language, this is the paradox of love. Love is the desire to create joy, but love is also the desire to create understanding out of messy feelings and murky thoughts because there is so much joy in understanding. Ahhh... Aha!... I see!... I get it!.... There is so much joy in understanding because I feel intimate when I understand you and, Oh god do I feel so close to you when I feel you understand me, I mean really understand. The tears leap off my heart; they pass go, collect $200, and boogie around the board until they find Park Place, where I have a shiny new red hotel.

It’s like a space in my ear, not the one Rilke’s bird plunges through, nor the one he makes a bed in; there’s more life in it, it’s animated, exuberant, jazzy and filled with play and extravangance:

It starts with a trickle then a ripple then a roll
the toe drops then taps a tap from the brain's
back door flappin' open as the wave moves in
The synaptic thrust of chord against spondeed air
Against night's dingy dark flare for ruffin' it
Through the helix and drum and window
Of that motion and pitch and play
Punchin' out that sound, pinching notes
Up and down that rooted scale
Like loons hooting the high wind
Yodeling the spill, gliding the whale
And teasing in tremelos of love
Like twisting hips against glowing ground
She sat still
On one of those large boulders
Up at Bash Bish, by the falls
Sat there like a snowy egret
Looking gracefully at the pool
Foaming and rippling out
In rolls in small quakes
Over and around jutting rocks
In thumps and flutters
Of improvising sound
Seeking the flow
Finding the rush
Against pant and gasp
And heave
Finding breath in the brume
In the slam and shutter
The stop and choke
The pause the retarding
Obstruction of restraint.

the fall swelled then bellowed high
above as jets of stream cascaded
like bursting clouds too full to hold
one more drop; no sky could claim
the rush of stream not even at Bash Bish

where the path so steep and curled
like her hair after the rain
after making love on those dripping
summer nights after telling
stories of school days when we sat
at opposite sides of the learning

curve, me with the bad boys and she
with the smart girls, stiff and swanky
and muzzled to the path of A's and
repressed surges of heat hiding inside
their draws. After the stories we'd jump

and splash into the lake off the dock
off her father's boat off of time's
cadence her hair wet and curled
like the path slippery and steep
at Bash Bish where there on that day.

I am grateful to be alive, so I can cultivate compassion for all beings, without exception.

As I was saying, I’m philosophizing you and you me, and we’re talking about happiness and misery. I think misery is stuck in the body, which is loss, and happiness is in mind, which is free. Mind is open, body closed. Negative thoughts are the body and positive thoughts are the mind. Misery focuses on bodily (dys)functions and the vanity (as opposed to the aesthetics) of looks; mind focuses on joy, compassion, love, emptiness and freedom. Misery is speech talking about body or material things or events; happiness is language focusing on intimacy and spirit. Yes, the body can open too. But, you can’t open body through body. And even if I use a word that has body in it, it comes through mind. Happiness is seeing body through mind and therefore not getting attached to it. Anything negative is body because negativity is death and only body dies. So, breathe deeply, open your mind to love, and love your body.

Gate gate Paragate Parasamgate Boddhi Svaha

Good Morning, friends. I am grateful to be alive, so I can cultivate compassion for all sentient beings, and Lars, without exception.

Before I comment on Lars, for some strange reason, I just heard yesterday morning that the beautifully gifted and romantic and tender musician, Dan Fogelberg, died last Sunday, and I am crushed. He was only 56! I was meditating and reminiscing and praying for Dan all day and will say more about my relationship to him and his music when I'm ready. Please send Dan a little light for his next, I'm sure, exquisite journey. He joins the Angels of song lullabying us to sleep and love and dream.

I am happy that Caterina mentioned Lars (and the Real Girl’) and Juno in one breath. I saw Lars three times. I have seen a number of other films more than twice and even three time, for example, the schmaltsy `It’s a Wonderful Life’ and `The Best Years of Our Lives,’ which I think are masterpieces for their particular genre of film (I have my own categories, Schmaltsy being one-- the Love Love Me Do and I Want to Hold Your Hand romantic in me :). I loved Juno but I don’t think I’ll see it twice, at least, not on the large screen. Not because it isn’t a wonderful film (in both relative terms—God, the drech out there, how many children can we feed with that wasted money-- and in terms of the film’s aesthetic itself). Juno is the real girl, another little miss sunshine of slang, and she deserves all your attention (especially if you’re a so-called adult who has been invaded by cultural body-snatchers and you have lost your authenticity).

So, why did I see Lars three times (and counting)? The question to myself is, “Why is it getting better each time?” It obviously goes beyond the film’s overall aesthetic value. I’m not thinking of this film qua film as to whether it’s a masterpiece or not; it’s a masterpiece to me. I don’t know whether it will contribute to the development of the medium of film in its lasting importance, but, it has influenced me and I’m in love with Lars.

Now, why Lars is from Mars is something you guys will have to figure out. But, I’ll tell you this: from everything I know about everyone on this Martian blog, you will all get it! And you might even be singing along with Alanis Morrisette, “Isn’t It Ironic?”

www.youtube.com/watch?v=M4j1paMC5SM&feature=related

self-delusion is the sower of mind's creation,
love its dissolution; judgment its own hell.

We rush to Riverhead Hospital Saturday evening
your ankle swollen, a turkey’s throat in heat.
You are only five, thirty-five years my junior,
but braver than me. Your mother tells us to be careful
as we bike away down the road, you on the handlebars
of my old stingray. Your feet dangle in the air
as if hanging from a puppeteer’s strings. I don’t
recall what we are singing as we coast from hill
to hill through beach roads salted with oaks, but
the music of your little Polish voice rolls with
in an untangled sound, your mouth opening

to the stiffening wind. We race in the ignorance
of play and, as fate will have it, I slow the bike
at a crossing and your feet poke into the spokes
like a baseball card; we fall to the ground. I cry
in the choking air inside my breath, as I hold you
and realize in this moment we often betray what we
are blind to, the spheres of consequence and forbidden
roads niggling their way towards nothingness in indeterminate
space. Here you are now as I still carry you in my mind
above the light, unapproachable and distant as sky.

Claudia

self-delusion is the sower of mind's creation, love

       its dissolution; judgment its own hell.

We rush to the Riverhead hospital Saturday evening

Your ankle swollen, a turkey’s throat in heat.

You are only five, thirty-five years my junior,

but braver than me.  Your mother tells us to be careful

as we bike away down the road, you on the handlebars

of my old stingray,.  Your feet dangle in the air

as if hanging from a  puppeteer’s strings.  I don’t

recall what we are singing as we coast from road

to hill through the beach roads salted with oaks, but the music

of your little Polish voice rolls with the hills in an untangled

sound, your mouth opens to the stiffening wind.

We race in the ignorance of play and as fate will have it

I slow the bike at a crossing and your feet poke

Into the spokes like a baseball card; we fall to the ground.

I cry in the choking air inside my breath, as I hold you.

And I realize in this moment we often betray what we

Are blind to, the spheres of consequence and forbidden

Roads niggling their way towards nothingness in indeterminate

Space.  Here you are now as I still carry you in my mind

Above the light, unapproachable and distant as sky.

So far, and as far as I can go, i love what I am reading, and the pictures I am seeing...just alttle stuck for words for now...thankyou Nico for telling me about this, i like it !

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