ARTS: Poetry, fiction, and essay. Out of the maddness of Pain
From and out of Pain
My teachers all, Bill Hotchkiss, PhD, Bill Tremblay, MFA, Jundo Cohen, JD, I tried to become a Christian, I tried interbeing, both so similar. I cannot worship any man, Jesus and Thich Nhat Hanh included. The bible is the product of men AND women though often I believe the women are hidden. Jundo, I have read and read this New Testament, some books four or five times, some books, with the Psalms, four or five times less, parts, through something most beautiful, accepting the advice of clergy, some not finishing, but always with the eye toward the miraculous, that which never existed for me.
Jundo, sorrowfully, my so called faith is renewed with Honesty. I have worked diligently to understand the 10 Grave Precepts, and much like the New Testament, the writings of compassion, even what Christians call Agape, attempting to delve deeper. What frightened me about Dogen, well, it was not misunderstanding, for I understood "Be in the Now, as now I am in the now." I weep because the now holds me in its grip of pain.
I believe that death will liberate me from terror and bewilderment. I will not visit suicide again, but undergo the most devious, the pain of my disease, and with death so liberated. With death, I welcome shadows of gone. I welcome non-being for mine is a cure of reality ever present in death. Not so much is death real, as the blanket of snow not only from Ankylosing Spondylitis, but what I seldom speak of, bipolar disorder.
The reason I was granted full disability in the eyes of American law was because of dual diagnosis, both diseases, one tearing at my bones, my very sinew, the other tearing at my mental tissues, my brain, my very thought. With both diseases clashing into my soul, I have had no recourse but to hide in my words. As you have read both books, perhaps sought out poetry and essay on the internet, so I brag, and face several of our Grave Precepts, a facing of a wrath of a vengeful God,
Without words, my life would be empty, without words, I possess no music. At one time my dream was to become a musician. Yet, and even so, my hands cannot master even simple songs of piano, this the necessity of every musician, and my dreams dissolved into thoughtful words. My words first I sought in poetry, and thus, poetry, its musicality, its sheer beauty, ITS grandeur of gods own "shock foil," For these are my words, and now my dear teacher, as I talk, as I walk on paper, the beauty of my own reality was accepted, and this the sinew clutching, yes, mind bent on destruction, came alive, and I have lived with the greats, Eliot, Frost, Pound, Richard Wright, dear Emily Dickinson,; ah miss Emily, I have loved you as no man could come to understand, and even Virginia Wolf who did take the beauty of her own creation and crush it by her own hands, and dearest Sylvia Plath who I understand need, after need to escape the drear, division, the awful betrayal of men, as I was saved, continue to be saved by my Marjorie, as she is better than any Christ. for his reality is but fiction, and Buddha, for his is but history. These fictions and histories are but novice compared to my reality in Marjorie, and little Laurel Ann, that daughter who I continue to love though she be nearly one thousand miles from her room which I promised would always be there for her in Marjorie's house. I own, because of my beloved gave us home which no parent of the both of us ever owned in their lives, my father too stingy. Finally, Yeats who I paraphrase, "An old man is but a paltry thing unless soul clap and sing."
Marjorie's father stuck in the bottle, as Marjorie is the benefactor, her mother stuck in religion, my mother devoted to gruesome love. My father into his own fortunes never giving much, He gave a little. I gave up the gruesome, the bottle, the horde, the stinginess, and the religion, for I give the whole of life, three of us, the loyalty of love and friendship in my joy of living. If this be the reality of my life, I have found this reality far beyond those old friends of high school and college.
I went on for what they could never accomplish. I earned the MA in English writing and literature. I earned the Ed. S. in higher education teaching. Finally, I earned oh, my ultimate which they never in any way understood, the Master of Fine Arts My daughter far surpassed all of us, mother, father, even all of those friends who I left in pain, BA, MFA, now in the mid if her Ph. D. all in Japanese books, thought, criticism; she speaks the language as well as any native including professionals who have paid her for translation, and as runner-up for the Pen award, she flew to London, then fell because of timid presentation of her novel this for her MFA in Japanese translation from the University of Iowa, our school, and place of mother's 4.0, so how could one of those "Friends" who were none, "You and Marge were the bottom of the stack." They AND HIM DOC Jack, smoking dope dropping acid in med school, barely accepted into Med school.
In creative writing poetry where I slaved, relented, grew, divided my coat of purple with the soldiers of my own cross, that cross which was but a fiction, and all these histories of all the religions, the Tao, the Koran, the Sūtra, oh, the Scriptures, and those fictions of promises to write my own true love, poetry of joy and understanding, and returned into acceptance of Sūtra, verse, and koan, and symbol oh so great my ultimate generosity in my giving of friendship, of love of family, of ideal which I have obtained in my own sobriety, and finally all my "Things," for I drink no beer, no liquor, I am free of my old friends, as my acquaintances, as my relatives, I am free of the material, my last rock into the lack of fire, of ripples, of self-indulgence, have never been free of avers want, claim, and acquisition, now am free to be the next inheritors of this world, which is the word.
Out of the dungeon of Caucasian, I walked, scratched, and climbed as those People of Color in a White world will be next be free as in Love of Marjorie who circumvented jab, bag of prejudice, sling of hate of ignorance and want, and little Laurel who will climb from our shoulders, from Marjorie's Phi Beta Kappa, the highest distinction, 4.0 all in her BA, then 3.95 in her MA all cultural anthropology to study alcoholism, to understand her husband and family, the dysfunction, then leading on to 30 years of government service so that her little family might survive the onslaught of a world seldom caring. She earned more than just freedom, for she earned her car, her gift of home to husband and daughter, now looks on as old friends already die of old age, even at her beginning into senior years of her own making unlike any friend, won in a verity of the old universalized and sing of the human heart, providing gift of survival, knowledge in stamina to our daughter, and final health to her husband as her own body begins to thread toward the sense of his on Rakusu cover sewn to perfection in just one night, her sense of an ending finally will she outlive her husband who she saw damn his own body. Who says she will not live on in the pain of her husbands bones, sinew, mind and emotion, care of daughters tumor ridden foot which she overcomes daily, of her daughters wish to give up that ultimate perseverance and practice yoga her meditation, and when I asked, she said, "Your sitting is not better than my breath meditation which you never before asked about!", Her own daughter's own accolades of dignity like mother, in the BA Japanese studies, MFA in Japanese translation, PhD in Japanese literature/ comprehensive literature every one like "mom." She depends with every willingness she says ever "Yes go beyond father and mother, daughter who will survive after me." My teacher, Jundo, to give me freedom to find in myself true compassion, as I give to three other alcoholics, one ungrateful, one fearful, one brain-damaged, the brain-damaged the ultimate, for though free of alcohol, his greatest addiction to nicotine which even now destroys his body He finally has decided an attempt even to give up cigarettes to limit himself to vaping, but not cannibals in the onslaught of his final drug in the smoke that will most likely kill him. BUT maybe not!
Jundo, thank you for this heavy weight of compassion which brings me to Tony, Jeremy, and most to dear, dear Shawn who may be the first to die. Jundo this heavy weight for my young brain-damaged friend, Shawn who in drunk mindlessness slammed a tree at 60 miles (ca. 97 km) an hour. Shawn fought for life for two weeks in Intensive Care. He tells the story of deciding to live after one week of hell, a hell unlike Christ of Buddha, a hell out of which he climbed. Then one day at three months of total sobriety, like me some 32 years before, decided he too would like to be 32-years sober to help other alcoholics like I am helping him. Oh, Buddha!, Oh, Jesus! Give me knowledge, love, compassion to help Shawn our most willing to come to his own 32 years, far beyond my years then to give up cigarettes as I did at age 50, and then to give up vaping which may kill him. Jundo, I have shed tears for Shawn, now point me toward understanding, understanding to help all three, and Shawn, for I love all three, Tony who ignores me but not now, yesterday we met over lunch! This to speak of working the steps. Jeremy who so often filled with fear turns to return, AND Jeremy whose little daughter now becomes woman, for she is his ultimate reason, as my Laurel was my daughter, and I stayed sober.
The youngest who nearly cut life short, whose mother doles out a little money, so he can live with his own upkeep of which he has so little, and friends see that I seek liberation in my own eyes because of what others have given me.
Tai Shi
sat/lah
Gassho
Poetry, fiction, and essay. Out of the maddness of Pain
Anna, you are carefully praising, thank you for praise!!!
Tai Shi
sat
Gassho
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