the drugs don't work they just make you worse
a woman was in a large crowd of desparate people squeezing onto a bus to escape new orleans. They were separated at the I-10 cloverleaf. When Williams tried to reach for her baby so he could ride in her lap, she says, a state trooper sprayed mace in her face to keep her from getting off the bus. "They maced my mother and my daughter," she said. "Then the door slammed shut."
oh my god, says mind, that's terrible, and keeps reading. the next story is about a conversation between the sherriff and the city councilman.
wait, says heart, hold on just a minute! "They maced my mother and my daughter," she said. "Then the door slammed shut." she can't find her baby. her baby was left in the crowd on the highway. she is in another city.
what would you do next?
who would you call? how would you bear it? what would you do? how would you find your baby? how would you identify your baby? what if it was a year from now, how would you even recognize your baby? how would you accomodate the fact that your baby is... just... out there somewhere?
heart can't let go of it. "worry" is the word we use for gnawing and shaking and chewing on a thing. how can mind let go of this story, let alone the many stories like this one?
the monotheism that smacks me in the face any time i raise my eyes from my own immediate environs seems to offer mainly ways of letting mind return to complacency. big brother will provide. god doesn't give us more than we can bear. remember when there was only one set of footprints in the sand? whatever.
I rose up to open to my beloved; and my hands dropped with myrrh, and my fingers with sweet smelling myrrh, upon the handles of the lock. I opened to my beloved; but my beloved had withdrawn himself, and was gone: my soul failed when he spake: I sought him, but I could not find him; I called him, but he gave me no answer. The watchmen that went about the city found me, they smote me, they wounded me; the keepers of the walls took away my veil from me. I charge you, O daughters of Jerusalem, if ye find my beloved, that ye tell him, that I am sick of love.
mind is not intimate enough with the divine to have a decent conversation about this matter. and heart just mainly worries the astonishment, the immensity of such loss.
heart states categorically that the only commensurate response is to change your life entirely. mind states that's unrealistic and excessive. heart insists that there cannot be too many rededications in this life, this is in fact the only full reality, every other regard is partial. and mind says, why are you always so damn over-the-top? and heart thinks again about the I-10 cloverleaf and says, if ye find my beloved, tell him I am sick of love.
oh my god, says mind, that's terrible, and keeps reading. the next story is about a conversation between the sherriff and the city councilman.
wait, says heart, hold on just a minute! "They maced my mother and my daughter," she said. "Then the door slammed shut." she can't find her baby. her baby was left in the crowd on the highway. she is in another city.
what would you do next?
who would you call? how would you bear it? what would you do? how would you find your baby? how would you identify your baby? what if it was a year from now, how would you even recognize your baby? how would you accomodate the fact that your baby is... just... out there somewhere?
heart can't let go of it. "worry" is the word we use for gnawing and shaking and chewing on a thing. how can mind let go of this story, let alone the many stories like this one?
the monotheism that smacks me in the face any time i raise my eyes from my own immediate environs seems to offer mainly ways of letting mind return to complacency. big brother will provide. god doesn't give us more than we can bear. remember when there was only one set of footprints in the sand? whatever.
I rose up to open to my beloved; and my hands dropped with myrrh, and my fingers with sweet smelling myrrh, upon the handles of the lock. I opened to my beloved; but my beloved had withdrawn himself, and was gone: my soul failed when he spake: I sought him, but I could not find him; I called him, but he gave me no answer. The watchmen that went about the city found me, they smote me, they wounded me; the keepers of the walls took away my veil from me. I charge you, O daughters of Jerusalem, if ye find my beloved, that ye tell him, that I am sick of love.
mind is not intimate enough with the divine to have a decent conversation about this matter. and heart just mainly worries the astonishment, the immensity of such loss.
heart states categorically that the only commensurate response is to change your life entirely. mind states that's unrealistic and excessive. heart insists that there cannot be too many rededications in this life, this is in fact the only full reality, every other regard is partial. and mind says, why are you always so damn over-the-top? and heart thinks again about the I-10 cloverleaf and says, if ye find my beloved, tell him I am sick of love.
1 Comments:
Agh...agony. heart, no extreme is too extreme. nothing can unite the divided but love. may lover and beloved be reunited. in actuality, they are one and the same.
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