This all transferred from my old blog.
The Human Choice
Change is painful. Change is life. Life is painful.
Change is fun. Change is Life. Life is fun.
As the game begins to dissolve I can only anticipate the empty playing field, or a field populated with younger strangers. I am prepared to pick up my glove and go home.
Today amid the cars and cold I learned that I, in truth, do not fear or loathe solitude, I love it. Solitude is a place for me, an accomplishment, a home. I stand in solitude at home, in my place. I love solitude. I love me.
Ready, Set, Shine
These life cycle events present multiple opportunities to shine. My turn, now.
You would like this, so I will write it.
The Bear and the Fisher
The bear and the fisher played and wrestled in the grass. They were glad to see each other. I was given a clue.
Chaos to Order
The I Ching states the transition from chaos to order complete once again. My job is done here. Who was that little, Jewish, bespectacled cyclist? I don’t know, but I know somebody wanted to thank him.
At a crossroads I decide, I ride, I confide. The footing seems unsure but I am confident, a confidante. I am good at falling. I land well. All will be well. Deep. Wet. Good.
Guided I Ride
Guided I ride. I’m hooked up. In tune. I see myself from above, a player on a kinetic chessboard of vehicles of which I am one, with which I am one. Sure I’ll take the left across two lanes. And they’ll all wait, too. But only now, during this moment, only, ever. Smile.
The rules are odd and squishy and behave badly when cornered. Things you think you know are false or unexpectedly true. Even this may be a lie. You are what you eat. A stitch in time is an abstract concept. Better late than yesterday. No time like the present, past or future.
Thank you for this odd and wonderful time where I am praised for things I enjoy. Thank you for the love and joy in my life. Thank you for abundance.
Enjoying my body and the physical experience while others suffer, I pause, wishing comfort and an end to their suffering, knowing that although suffering can be soothed or ended, it cannot be truly shared. I sense this as my loss, but as in all things, regard it with openness and receptiveness.
Invisibility is a superpower, overrated but nevertheless useful if one has the ego for it. You have to be able to let others get credit for your amazing accomplishments and marvelous insights. Using your invisibility you can perform wonders and effect change, but only if you are open and receptive to the opportunity. So, although no one can see you, you must keep your eyes open.
It’s nice to love someone. I have a nice life.
It is perilous both knowing and not knowing, doing and not doing, thinking and not thinking. Only not being is not perilous.
I was told today that women perceive differently than men. A woman’s thing is to feel unloved. I think I was just put in touch with my feminine side.
A man is just a man, a someone in a male body. A woman is just a woman, a someone in a female body. They are neither their desires nor their thoughts nor their deeds, but only that which lies within that cannot be truly shared. For that reason it is vital to love one’s own company.
I will breathe in and accept my small corner, my half line in the poem of your life, for what it is. If I did ink deeply of you in the past, I write you now as Polaris writes Earth. I will be the river, ever-changing, flowing away.
Wonderful and often perplexing, this journey in which each new step has the potential, every image like a mysteriously wrapped givt. Every person can deflect or be deflected, spin or be spun, or simply change the chemistry of the local ambience. Each thing can remind, instill, shape. This is a journey through the land of change, a delicious interlude in the endless expanse of the unchanging.
Meditating through my solar plexus I feel the pain. Elevating it to my third eye I feel nothing, but light suddenly crystallizes into a winter scene. I am in a place I know, about six miles from home, on foot on a paved road. I am looking into a small clearing where dead weeds and sumac are sticking up out of about a foot and a half of snow. The sky is cloudy, the color of milk, and it is just starting to snow. I know it is going to be a blizzard. I wish I had my bicycle.
I should tell someone that today I was introduced to my Chakras. So I’ll tell you. I found myself well attuned to my crown, third eye and solar plexus, the rest, not so much. Work to do, work to do.
The Most Powerful
You can sing and you can love. There is joy to be had. It is okay to remember, but remember without judgment. Love you first. There is a pure love beyond simple affection, infatuation or lust. You can find it. It lives within you. It is the most powerful thing in the universe.
It Is All Love
To have a friend, to keep a friend, to attact a friend – it is all love, and the price of love is loss, at least here. Yet the love continues forever, if you can dig down deep within yourself and really find it, underneath the jealousy, desire and fear. Even hope can get in the way. But deep inside you it is there as it is in all of us. I hope you find it. Your love is the most precious of all forces.
Loving What Is
Appreciation of the mundane is an art I aspire to master. Being present in the irritating moment is a skill I wish to acquire. Loving what is, I will succeed and progress.
Youth of the body can be revisited from time to time, like a favorite vacation spot. Yet when you return, the porch swing seems so small – not grand as it did before. You look upon your former self with a tolerant love not unlike that you have for your child. And so you are.
The difficult home is still a home.
Revisiting a Deep Wound
She came to let me know that your earliest, deepest hurt goes with you and never really leaves. Though I cried, I bested my shame and did what I had to do. Still, it’s there. Best befriend it, love it, be one with it.
I rode west, the wind in my face, rode northeast, the wind was still in my face. Some days are like that. The only answer: shift down and keep pedaling. You want poetry, but everywhere you turn there’s only hardware? Just keep on. The wind’s gotta change sooner or later.
She said that if you keep pulling yourself back into the present moment, eventually you’ll learn to live there. That’s where I’m going.
Though surrounded I will persevere. I will not wilt or decay. I will resolutely remain detached, open and receptive. I will connect with faster energy and manifest change.
I have pledged to remain detached, to observe the pain of my detachment objectively, meditatively. Grateful for all the wonderful people who comfort me, I strive for the ideal.
Some people will not tell you what they want. Some people cannot tell you what they want. Some people don’t know what they want. Some people know exactly what they want and have no problem telling you.
Which are you?
Thoughts become. Think them and see, but you cannot just expect them usually to just (poof). Patience, positivism and faith. Then you won’t need charity. Hope? Maybe.
There was time and glory, glorious time stretching away into a luxuriously distant future. But the future arrived in many small, disappointing packages for a long time. Learning to see these small disappointments as precious was perhaps my most important lesson.
Thank you for your order. Thank you for bringing order. Let order be brought. I am only an ear for your voice, a mirror and a recording device. See you in me? There you are. Reflecting, I see only myself. I am the Universe. Ask me anything. Three out of five? Okay, so sue me. Sue was my friend, anyway. Remember, if you sue, you’ll be the sue-er. Of course, I’ll be the sue-ee.
Doors closed, closing, I close them, they are closed. I am enclosed. Resisting only shrinks my space. I wait peacefully for the Creative to loose my bonds. Inside, I quiet the raging storm. Inside, I turn aside from grief.
The screw, the inclined plane, simple machine: the ramp, climbing every upward in a circular path, reaches its destination in tightness. Tightly screwed, tension keeps it from coming undone. How contrary!
The Sound of Expectancy
An illusion, ill used, elusive, a loose sieve, sifting, shifting, gone: so it goes, so it went. Within the event nonexistent time neither passes nor stands still. My ageless face smiles forever. You are there, unknown, untracked and intractable, a tractor of machinery clanking with expectancy. Give it up. Expect nothing and everything will come.
Searching for the missing, the survivors, I dart in circles grasping air. What was I looking for? Why did I come here? How deep is this hole? Shall I talk more to this wall?
Location Location Location
I found myself. I was at work, ironically. Somehow I turned the corner and there I was. As I am fond of saying, no matter where you go, there you are. Here and there are relative to nothing, so I was never lost or found. I was never anywhere and always everywhere. I accept this without understanding, like relativity.
Raining in my Soul
In these moments as I am upbraided like a rag against a floor I withdraw to my borders and look within. In a while I must upbraid a rag against a floor, or some such.
The baby on his daddy’s tummy, facing outward toward the world, regards me with a gently flailing curiosity. I smile. The daddy is getting his turn carrying, now that pregnancy has fulfilled its promise. Outside, shielded by the dad’s vast umbrella, everything must look so wonderful and strange. I know it does to me.
Roll and Wake
At night a zoetrope of experience flashes in rapid-fire images. I roll and wake, shift, and wake; rise believing it is time to rise, only to find a single digit hour noted on the LED; lie down, roll and wake, wake and shift. The alarm sounds a single beep and I silence it silently in a single motion, rising wondering if this is reality. I wash my face. It is. Forced to the whole distance, I arrive refreshed and glad. Meant to be.
In my miles there are no smiles for me today, only for others. Sometimes I’m in the smile crossfire and get a vicarious smile. One lady looks at me like, “How dare you be riding your bicycle where I want to jay walk?” I’m sorry. There is a flow someplace they say. I remember it. The vortex will draw me. Yet now I can only coast down this hill and pedal up the next, waiting. I try to be at peace. I imagine a poet who rides a bike, like me, likes me, and in me sees more of what they want than what they do not. I wish to go camping alone, far away in the anonymous woods, where not a word will pass my lips all day.
Learning, the Eternal learns. Teaching, the Eternal teaches. So we, internal dialog of the Eternal, are the voices in our head, the Universal consciousness. Apply your lessons learned. Alive, the Eternal grows, changes. Change is the flow of life, the very stuff, that sweet marshmallow filling, sensual delight or pain in the tooth. We are in a sense wounded, the gaps between us true illusion, like imaginary wounds, ghost pain. Merging souls leave some soul-ular matter mixed in each other and when separating in this physical existence there is a tearing sensation felt keenly in the heart; merging in this existence is a healing, mending wholeness also felt keenly. This is what I mean when I say my heart is yours.
There is a demon that lives in my knee. It’s name is anger. The commute is familiar roads and sometimes the gray matter will wander.
My anger is my child. I love my anger. I hold it in my arms and comfort it. It quiets.
I’m sure my knee will feel better in a couple of days.
On the beach the tide comes in. Beneath the water crabs sleep. Seaweed washes up on shore, tangled with life. Later the tide recedes and the crabs clean up. My canoe sits in the yard upside down. Still the river, never still, a surface on which to float, blown by the wind like a giant leaf, or locomotive paddling, a gentle gurgle of motion, skating fluidly, slow progress with a duck’s eye view. Turtles keep lookout. Herons glide or wade on stilts, the graceful curve of neck and spear-like beak. On the bridge, cyclists pass overhead as we glide beneath their tires.
What does water remind me of? You know.
Bike the Hell
I will bike like hell home tonight to make a meeting, bike so that my lungs burn and my legs scream for mercy, but none will come for I have none to give. I know what they’ve got and I need it all today, single-minded concentration navigating traffic, dodging, weaving, sneaking, sprinting, watching the road surface, watching out, and ignoring my watch. Meanwhile I race in this timeline, turning tight, quick and agile, adrenal rush. I am an animal, one purpose, one goal, no extraneous thought. Somewhere sometime I sit among the trees in contemplation, the longevity of their procreation by the thousands, the rare child surviving the parent’s shade to conquer all and supplant, usurp, thrive. By opportunity I run the red light, I clip in, I shift, pedal, breathe. Other cyclists pass me, I pass them, it does not matter. I have nothing to prove.
Actually it didn’t happen like that. I went out all psyched, but it was about 45 degrees with a head wind of about 15 mph, so it occurred to me I was just in time for the train with about two minutes to spare. Still, I got to ride through Kenmore Square at rush hour. What a rush!
My Name Is Forgotten
Invisible yet not completely inaudible I have my say in my inimitable way, a small way, a word. Earthly delights abound. Bounding, I cover ground. Grounded, I fold my wings. These things I sense with a physicality mock my immobility, a stationary nobility, a rose of prose, economy of motion. To shun joy in unfitted self sacrifice suffices only to insult the resultantly exultant from revelation. I revel in fun, a disheveled pun, a shelved gun. Discarded I can no longer find my cards. My name is ‘forgotten.’ What’s yours?
Regarding the Permutations
Regarding the permutations of surviving this, for a time I was “The Hardware Weasel, ferreting out that hard-to-find-hardware for you.” I actually built a kind of national presence within the incestuous confines of the hardware industry, my only competition being some guy in Texas known as, “The Weasel.” But I was “The Hardware Weasel,” special and unique, sort of. I added “The Hardware Weasel, ferreting out that hard-to-find-hardware for you” to my e-mail signature. It was my new identity, a kind of confession: “Hello. I’m Tom Rubenoff. I’m a weasel.” I looked into a twelve step program for weasels, but there was none that I could find. Eventually I grew bored with the whole weasel thing and moved on, but a nickname will crop up here and there unbidden nevertheless. There is still at least one or two hardware guys who refer to me as “Weasel.” I take it as a compliment.
Where you are is a step on your path, an eternal moment in that fiction called time wherein we count the nonexistent and create the imaginary. Do it now. You want. Why? An electrical impulse sparks in that gray slush inside your skull and ricochets down your spinal cord firing off muscular contractions that maintain balance and move your foot forward, taking the next step. Want is the spark. Want and move, wantonly. Want only what you love. Love only what you want. Propelled forward on this mystery voyage by something ethereal and untouchable, touch and feel, taste and smell, enjoy and experience the next step. Take it.
I will not say there was a time. Time is a construct, an invention, sleight of mind. We invented it to define ourselves because we can. There will not be a time. There will be. We will be. You and I are one, were one, will be one. How can we turn a weapon upon ourselves? How can we, when our dearest love is us? The sky beckons, I follow. This is no place to be. Only with you is the only place, with you and not without. Hold me round, a circle in your arms and eye, a contained thing for an instant so that in being separate for this moment we can be together. We cannot be both one and together. Yet perhaps we can.