All the lighters I’ve pocketed.
All the pens I’ve taken.
All the yellow lights I’ve gunned.
All the plastic. Lord God(dess)(es) Almighty, all the plastic.
All the clothes left unworn in the closet. Transferred and transferred and dumped.
All the extra bites of food for taste, not energy, with the plastic forks.
All the space taken up by doubt.
All the drags I've taken in a drag of judgment.
All the gestures to seemingly heal longing, all the halts to truly seal it away.
All the scrolling. The damn scrolling.
Oh yeah- and the hoping. Sheer desperate hoping.
Stealing from the future:
How do we pay back, seven generations ahead? Behind? How can we repair? We talk about restorative justice amongst our species, and I am drawn to it- to heal the society. That lays on top of the ecosystem, that lays upon the land. And I wonder about the land. How do we restore all that has been stolen and returned, dead on arrival?
Stealing from love:
When you are starving, in the face of all the past lives, past judgments, and you can't produce it in a way that is transferrable to contemporary experience (oh, you know what I'm talking about... if you do, which I suspect we all do because it's so blasphemously unachievable) - literally, a romantic film - and we witness those with less than what we have with sincere pity, and relief for ourselves.
I have been on the side of pity. I have been the one the pitied. But I missed the whole thing. That doubt. That beautiful space with nuance and spectral light and dark - where all that is possible, and I hang onto the fence for dear life with a low-hanging judgement ripe for the picking. Well, that is starting to prune itself.
As my dear teacher of the cosmos of clay, Tom Spleth, told me ten years ago in North Carolina, as we hustled heavy molds into ratchet straps- "No hope. No fear. Take Responsibility." Just moments ago, I was dancing in my kitchen like a fucking glorious fruitcake. And again, Tasmai Sri Guruve Namaha. You've been with me a long time, Tom.
Comments