The women are walking
to work, in shoes they bought
this past weekend, at the store
on the infamous boulevard/platform
of the aristocracy, knowing the click of their
heels sounds more like the victory ring of a cash
register than something (not) seen in their eyes.
The women are walking
on sidewalks in their neighborhoods
where they peer into the windows of
houses not their own, where families
not their own look different and somehow
the same.
The women are walking
in the morning, trying to lose the baby fat
they accumulated last year that their husbands
can’t help but comment on even though they
know it’s “messed up.”
The women are walking
too close to the charcoal colored pavement, also known
as the street, in hope that a drunk
driver will lose control and side swipe them, which
everyone would say “was such a tragic accident,” which
appears much easier for people to live with than
the curiosities post-suicide(s).
The women are walking
with headphones on so they can hear a chorus line
or simple ballad that makes more sense than
the morning headlines (sitting there, back on the coffee
table at home just waiting to depress the hell out of anyone
and everyone).
The women are walking
on hiking trails in the forest, instead of aisles in church
because g*d in the trees and on the moss is more accessible
these days than God at the altar, in the cup and bread, or living
vicariously through some middle age priest who fucks women
half his age while preaching grace.
The women are walking
in the downtowns, with signs in their hands that display
the word “NO!” all over them: no to war, no to reproductive
regulation, no to companies that deny a living wage, no to rape,
no to environmental degradation.
The women are walking
into the arms of each other, because there’s nowhere else
to go, nor would they want to go anywhere else because
these arms hold the whole world up while the sky is falling.
The women are walking
a way.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Love In Color
I recognize:
strands of hair,
a baby grand that sits on the south side,
marble walls with diamond tiles,
a woman in the portrait that hangs next to the clock,
husband's jacket slumped over the dining room chair,
the eyes of her, that peer at me, allways, even if only in my head,
a semi crumpled lunch bag, on the counter, in the kitchen,
the skirts and blouses, the earrings and eyebrow toners,
sun spots on her hands, more wrinkled now than before,
dead leaves, layering the sidewalk on Lee Avenue,
leather seats in an Acura on highways too long from home,
picture frames
framed pictures
thick, desiring soil, in the back yard where she plays,
the afghan throw, on the couch, pleated gold,
my prayer beads, both aesthetic and pragmatic,
layers behind and beneath the blonde,
the time keeper that tocks and ticks, on the west side and in my secret spots,
book shelves covering the white-washed walls, in berkeley, in Cofoid,
sweaters, holding me when she is not (t)here
all these things
my mother's brown
strands of hair,
a baby grand that sits on the south side,
marble walls with diamond tiles,
a woman in the portrait that hangs next to the clock,
husband's jacket slumped over the dining room chair,
the eyes of her, that peer at me, allways, even if only in my head,
a semi crumpled lunch bag, on the counter, in the kitchen,
the skirts and blouses, the earrings and eyebrow toners,
sun spots on her hands, more wrinkled now than before,
dead leaves, layering the sidewalk on Lee Avenue,
leather seats in an Acura on highways too long from home,
picture frames
framed pictures
thick, desiring soil, in the back yard where she plays,
the afghan throw, on the couch, pleated gold,
my prayer beads, both aesthetic and pragmatic,
layers behind and beneath the blonde,
the time keeper that tocks and ticks, on the west side and in my secret spots,
book shelves covering the white-washed walls, in berkeley, in Cofoid,
sweaters, holding me when she is not (t)here
all these things
my mother's brown
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Nebuchadnezzar
Sent soaring in the sky,
after being dropped off
at eight fifty eight a.m.,
he arrives at eleven forty a.m.,
--barely--he says.
Because the Santa Ana Winds are
raging in the South, where fires
blaze and occupants vacate, where
the vulnerability of thirsty hillsides
actually become of interest to folks
not in the real estate business.
"The plane cheered when we landed safely"
he says, trying to communicate how scary
the whole thing was without losing his
masculine edge.
"I could see all of the fires from the sky"
he says, warning me about the issues of
proximity: my mother, his mother, our childhood
homes, schools, play-spaces, and memory lanes.
I interpret his codified language
and know
the layers of smoke, piles of ash,
fire truck sirens, relief workers,
and fearful inhabitants of my home-land
are proliferating by the second.
I recite the most over/under rated prayer:
"Oh my God"
because something burns
in here too.
At once a visitor and native,
I'll be back tomorrow, to see,
if the fourth one, unbound and unharmed
will show up, again, to walk with us,
in these e(x)ternal flames.
after being dropped off
at eight fifty eight a.m.,
he arrives at eleven forty a.m.,
--barely--he says.
Because the Santa Ana Winds are
raging in the South, where fires
blaze and occupants vacate, where
the vulnerability of thirsty hillsides
actually become of interest to folks
not in the real estate business.
"The plane cheered when we landed safely"
he says, trying to communicate how scary
the whole thing was without losing his
masculine edge.
"I could see all of the fires from the sky"
he says, warning me about the issues of
proximity: my mother, his mother, our childhood
homes, schools, play-spaces, and memory lanes.
I interpret his codified language
and know
the layers of smoke, piles of ash,
fire truck sirens, relief workers,
and fearful inhabitants of my home-land
are proliferating by the second.
I recite the most over/under rated prayer:
"Oh my God"
because something burns
in here too.
At once a visitor and native,
I'll be back tomorrow, to see,
if the fourth one, unbound and unharmed
will show up, again, to walk with us,
in these e(x)ternal flames.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
For the Sake of the Shine
if you are found wanting, still,
after having stood barefoot on wet grass
when the dawn surrenders its last hopes of illumination
(because it forgets the stars are coming,
because it forgets the stars always come)
just before it takes that long, resigned--yet courageous--breath of
its own made-up death, then interrogate and iconoclastically confront
the measuring apparati you have been instructed to love,
and the myth of uniqueness that locks you in mental quarantine.
Remember, the stars always come
without any invitation, for the sake of the shine.
after having stood barefoot on wet grass
when the dawn surrenders its last hopes of illumination
(because it forgets the stars are coming,
because it forgets the stars always come)
just before it takes that long, resigned--yet courageous--breath of
its own made-up death, then interrogate and iconoclastically confront
the measuring apparati you have been instructed to love,
and the myth of uniqueness that locks you in mental quarantine.
Remember, the stars always come
without any invitation, for the sake of the shine.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Glory
General Commentary on Things
I would just like to say, during this brief pause between classes on the hump-est of hump days, that my Hermeneutics course with Marion Grau kicks ass. I've never been so comfortable and humbled in the face of my own ignorance as I am at CDSP on Wednesday mornings. My student colleagues bring the heat, and Dr. Grau is...well, see my title. The entire thing is a beautiful collision course.
Secondly, the clouds in the sky @ 6:45pm on Tuesday October 9th, 2007 were beyond belief. I just happened to be driving over the Bay Bridge at a time when I could see them--in all their multi-colored/multi-shaped bliss--descending over the canvas-like skyline of hills, houses & water, which confirmed for me yet again that the industrial spread has NOTHING on the spontaneity of nature. And yet the confirmation was only possible via contrast. Agh yes, the spaces in-between the in-between places...
Lastly: I love my mother and all the ways she shows up in the arrival of autumn. If you don't know her, you should. So proud to be her product. Read that theologically and (somehow) not...
I would just like to say, during this brief pause between classes on the hump-est of hump days, that my Hermeneutics course with Marion Grau kicks ass. I've never been so comfortable and humbled in the face of my own ignorance as I am at CDSP on Wednesday mornings. My student colleagues bring the heat, and Dr. Grau is...well, see my title. The entire thing is a beautiful collision course.
Secondly, the clouds in the sky @ 6:45pm on Tuesday October 9th, 2007 were beyond belief. I just happened to be driving over the Bay Bridge at a time when I could see them--in all their multi-colored/multi-shaped bliss--descending over the canvas-like skyline of hills, houses & water, which confirmed for me yet again that the industrial spread has NOTHING on the spontaneity of nature. And yet the confirmation was only possible via contrast. Agh yes, the spaces in-between the in-between places...
Lastly: I love my mother and all the ways she shows up in the arrival of autumn. If you don't know her, you should. So proud to be her product. Read that theologically and (somehow) not...
Monday, October 8, 2007
Leaves on the Ground
There was one death--
a loud determining death--
that etched itself into my consciousness
so flagrantly
some years ago
that now, every time something dies,
it's just the loud determining death happening again,
only this time, I am different: older & more reflexive,
yet somehow incapable,
amidst all my psychoanalytic verbosity,
to separate my father from all the others.
Fall cracks itself wide open
by allowing things to die.
I want to be like that.
a loud determining death--
that etched itself into my consciousness
so flagrantly
some years ago
that now, every time something dies,
it's just the loud determining death happening again,
only this time, I am different: older & more reflexive,
yet somehow incapable,
amidst all my psychoanalytic verbosity,
to separate my father from all the others.
Fall cracks itself wide open
by allowing things to die.
I want to be like that.
Thursday, October 4, 2007
Sabbath
Stop.
To know you haven't ended in a while.
Stop.
To regain the place in you that doesn't run.
Stop.
To collect your breath.
Stop.
To give others a chance to touch you.
Stop.
To be still and know.
To know you haven't ended in a while.
Stop.
To regain the place in you that doesn't run.
Stop.
To collect your breath.
Stop.
To give others a chance to touch you.
Stop.
To be still and know.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Mic and Dim
I have been missing A Mic and Dim Lights lately. So I bring a few of them back, for you and for me. Enjoye.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Spiritual Autobiography
An assignment I did for class...
To My Future Children:
The imagination is a paradoxical thing: endless and somewhat limited. Endless in that we can conceive of anything and everything and limited in that our imaginations often fail to affect reality in all the helpful ways we think it should. The problem with humanity, once eloquently stated to me by my Professor of Christian History Randi Walker, is that we can imagine perfection yet our personhood is such that we cannot ever attain it. And this, my ones to come, is the story of my experience with(in)/of/for God. Theology and faith are like the imagination, paradoxical things: endless and frustratingly limited.
I wanted to write to you about “the question of God” being central in all my endeavors, yet this nomenclature doesn’t fulfill the communicative task at hand. Although theological questioning colors a majority of my personal religiosity, it does not constitute my faith entirely. My father, a minister, theologian, and institutional skeptic encouraged me from infancy to question everything. My mother on the other hand, when realizing what an extremist, intellectually inexhaustible child she had produced, encouraged me to live a life of balance. These encouragements to question and balance have been at odds with each other from day one. I am much better at the former; hence when I say “the question of God” doesn’t fulfill the communicative task at hand it is because much of my energy has also been spent trying (and failing) to decelerate the questioning process in a pursuit of balance. I believe this quieting of the mind falls under the category of faithful action, contemplativeness, or spiritual discipline. It is a somewhat problematic distinction, this ‘mind’ and ‘spirit’ thing, though I must admit in theory and praxis I have not been able to overcome or integrate it. Perhaps you will be the first in a lineage of Type A personalities to do so. May it be so, dear God.
The communicative task at hand is (near) complete with the concept of ‘orientation.’ That is: I have been theologically and faithfully oriented from the womb. Though I have no conscious recollection of my experience in the womb, I bring forth this metaphor to hammer home two points: 1) I believe the cosmos are situated in the womb of God therefore I could never have been dis-oriented from her; 2) I cannot imagine my life without the questions, pursuits, doubts, relations and language of religion/theology. The metaphor serves to illustrate this constitutive element of my identity. And speaking of metaphor, I want to pass on to you one of the most important things I have ever read, that strikes me as Truth (if any such capitalizing or pronouncements are permissible by the time you are born).
This comes to you from Adrienne Rich, one who often prophecies to my little helpless heart when the confines of language threaten to annihilate the planet and those trying to describe it with their stupid religions:
Of course, like the consciousness behind it, behind any art, a poem can be deep or shallow, visionary or glib, prescient or stuck in an already lagging trendiness. What’s pushing the grammar and syntax, the sounds, the images—is it the constriction of literalism, fundamentalism, professionalism—a stunted language? Or is it the great muscle of metaphor, drawing strength from resemblance in difference? The great muscle of the unconstricted throat? I’d like to suggest this: If there’s a line to be drawn, it’s not so much between secularism and belief as between those for whom language has metaphoric density and those for whom it is merely formulaic—to be used for repression, manipulation, empty certitudes to ensure obedience. And such a line can also be drawn between ideologically obedient hack verse and an engaged poetics that endures the weight of the unknown, the untracked, the unrealized, along with its urgencies for and against.
I have found the “muscle of metaphor” to be essential in the religious quest. This quest is one that depends on and deepens as a result of non-narrow communication. If one is talking about God or attempting to deconstruct the idolatrous gods of our culture, the biggest mistake is to employ literal language. I hope you come to know and be a part of the poetic enterprise; it will certainly enliven your time here on earth. May it be so, dear God.
There is a place where God cannot be known, a place where humans cannot even understand what they “know,” and a place where the limits of language obstruct humans from saying what they mean and meaning what they say. As a theologian, this is the place that I yearn to visit. As a worshipper, this is the place I praise for its majesty. As a person, this place reveals my finitude and serves as the great equalizer between me and my human family. I suppose this place is the “unknown, untracked, unrealized” that Rich writes about. Perhaps it’s the space that swims and swirls “for us”: a pool of messy and neat, soft and rigid, birthing and dying all the time. Perhaps it’s the great ontological enabler, our God. Who knows.
This is less autobiographical than I had anticipated, but to know your mother, is to know her thoughts about the great mystery. So in a sense, this is my autobiography. Just know that every move I have made, relationship I have formed, prayer I have said, fit I have thrown, atheism I have adopted, music I have played, body I have touched, or career path I have chosen, it was because that thing kept my orientation in tact.
And so I end as I began: with paradox. The more I pursue theology/religion, the less I grasp. The questions usually get me off balance. The balance, when it comes, often leads to new insights which bring about more questions. I have no answers and very little balance, only metaphors, paradoxes, and infinite hope that as Adrienne Rich says, I am on the side of the line that is capable of “enduring the weight of the unknown.” May it be so, dear God.
Actually: there is one last thing I want to say. I love you already, even before you are 'materialized'/born/here/alive. This is, without a doubt, the greatest illumination of faith and hope I can bring you. This world is an ugly place a lot of the time. People get hurt and then they get angry and punish people for their hurt. Then those people get angry and punish other people for their hurt. The cycle is on-going, some might say 'hopelessly' so. There are acts of horrific violence and violation that testify to this worldly ugliness every minute of the day. And yet...I still want you to 'be here,' to know the smell of morning time, the breath of the ocean on your skin, the secrets of standing alone after you've hiked a hillside, the give-it-as-you-go spirit of compassion, the grief of love lost, the beauty of your bodies...all these things. I have faith and hope, for you, for everyone but especially for you, that forgiveness and grace somehow infiltrate this world in ways that make life worth loving.
To My Future Children:
The imagination is a paradoxical thing: endless and somewhat limited. Endless in that we can conceive of anything and everything and limited in that our imaginations often fail to affect reality in all the helpful ways we think it should. The problem with humanity, once eloquently stated to me by my Professor of Christian History Randi Walker, is that we can imagine perfection yet our personhood is such that we cannot ever attain it. And this, my ones to come, is the story of my experience with(in)/of/for God. Theology and faith are like the imagination, paradoxical things: endless and frustratingly limited.
I wanted to write to you about “the question of God” being central in all my endeavors, yet this nomenclature doesn’t fulfill the communicative task at hand. Although theological questioning colors a majority of my personal religiosity, it does not constitute my faith entirely. My father, a minister, theologian, and institutional skeptic encouraged me from infancy to question everything. My mother on the other hand, when realizing what an extremist, intellectually inexhaustible child she had produced, encouraged me to live a life of balance. These encouragements to question and balance have been at odds with each other from day one. I am much better at the former; hence when I say “the question of God” doesn’t fulfill the communicative task at hand it is because much of my energy has also been spent trying (and failing) to decelerate the questioning process in a pursuit of balance. I believe this quieting of the mind falls under the category of faithful action, contemplativeness, or spiritual discipline. It is a somewhat problematic distinction, this ‘mind’ and ‘spirit’ thing, though I must admit in theory and praxis I have not been able to overcome or integrate it. Perhaps you will be the first in a lineage of Type A personalities to do so. May it be so, dear God.
The communicative task at hand is (near) complete with the concept of ‘orientation.’ That is: I have been theologically and faithfully oriented from the womb. Though I have no conscious recollection of my experience in the womb, I bring forth this metaphor to hammer home two points: 1) I believe the cosmos are situated in the womb of God therefore I could never have been dis-oriented from her; 2) I cannot imagine my life without the questions, pursuits, doubts, relations and language of religion/theology. The metaphor serves to illustrate this constitutive element of my identity. And speaking of metaphor, I want to pass on to you one of the most important things I have ever read, that strikes me as Truth (if any such capitalizing or pronouncements are permissible by the time you are born).
This comes to you from Adrienne Rich, one who often prophecies to my little helpless heart when the confines of language threaten to annihilate the planet and those trying to describe it with their stupid religions:
Of course, like the consciousness behind it, behind any art, a poem can be deep or shallow, visionary or glib, prescient or stuck in an already lagging trendiness. What’s pushing the grammar and syntax, the sounds, the images—is it the constriction of literalism, fundamentalism, professionalism—a stunted language? Or is it the great muscle of metaphor, drawing strength from resemblance in difference? The great muscle of the unconstricted throat? I’d like to suggest this: If there’s a line to be drawn, it’s not so much between secularism and belief as between those for whom language has metaphoric density and those for whom it is merely formulaic—to be used for repression, manipulation, empty certitudes to ensure obedience. And such a line can also be drawn between ideologically obedient hack verse and an engaged poetics that endures the weight of the unknown, the untracked, the unrealized, along with its urgencies for and against.
I have found the “muscle of metaphor” to be essential in the religious quest. This quest is one that depends on and deepens as a result of non-narrow communication. If one is talking about God or attempting to deconstruct the idolatrous gods of our culture, the biggest mistake is to employ literal language. I hope you come to know and be a part of the poetic enterprise; it will certainly enliven your time here on earth. May it be so, dear God.
There is a place where God cannot be known, a place where humans cannot even understand what they “know,” and a place where the limits of language obstruct humans from saying what they mean and meaning what they say. As a theologian, this is the place that I yearn to visit. As a worshipper, this is the place I praise for its majesty. As a person, this place reveals my finitude and serves as the great equalizer between me and my human family. I suppose this place is the “unknown, untracked, unrealized” that Rich writes about. Perhaps it’s the space that swims and swirls “for us”: a pool of messy and neat, soft and rigid, birthing and dying all the time. Perhaps it’s the great ontological enabler, our God. Who knows.
This is less autobiographical than I had anticipated, but to know your mother, is to know her thoughts about the great mystery. So in a sense, this is my autobiography. Just know that every move I have made, relationship I have formed, prayer I have said, fit I have thrown, atheism I have adopted, music I have played, body I have touched, or career path I have chosen, it was because that thing kept my orientation in tact.
And so I end as I began: with paradox. The more I pursue theology/religion, the less I grasp. The questions usually get me off balance. The balance, when it comes, often leads to new insights which bring about more questions. I have no answers and very little balance, only metaphors, paradoxes, and infinite hope that as Adrienne Rich says, I am on the side of the line that is capable of “enduring the weight of the unknown.” May it be so, dear God.
Actually: there is one last thing I want to say. I love you already, even before you are 'materialized'/born/here/alive. This is, without a doubt, the greatest illumination of faith and hope I can bring you. This world is an ugly place a lot of the time. People get hurt and then they get angry and punish people for their hurt. Then those people get angry and punish other people for their hurt. The cycle is on-going, some might say 'hopelessly' so. There are acts of horrific violence and violation that testify to this worldly ugliness every minute of the day. And yet...I still want you to 'be here,' to know the smell of morning time, the breath of the ocean on your skin, the secrets of standing alone after you've hiked a hillside, the give-it-as-you-go spirit of compassion, the grief of love lost, the beauty of your bodies...all these things. I have faith and hope, for you, for everyone but especially for you, that forgiveness and grace somehow infiltrate this world in ways that make life worth loving.
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