A beautiful distinction between the "furnished platform" and the "disciplined threshold". It made me think of the difference between meditation and liminality. ie, one is the art of observing the "now" without bias, the other is the discipline of moving through the "not-yet". The "fool" is the one who stops the drift and builds the house in the waiting room. Sometimes I wonder whether I am the cat...
The cat wonders too. Some of us just took longer to notice we'd built a house in the waiting room instead of warming it from a distance. Grateful you're asking yourself the harder question.
I try my best to warm you from a distance with my heart, kitty. Reading this left me chilled in the 54 degrees of the Santa Clara County post-solstice summer morning. I made a hot cup of black coffee, put an oversized guy shirt, part wool, on over the black thermal I am wearing, and reassured myself by glancing at my little cat friend, Marley--the Great Black Hunter--luxiouriously bathing himself on my little couch. It's all right, I tell myself, water welling in my eyes, it's all right. It's all right.
I love this meditation. And the train story. The metabolic cost of perpetuating victimhood is really insightful (and very hard to sit with). Thank you for this.
Already developing a tolerance. Small sips without puckering, and one day you stop tasting the bitterness and start tasting what was underneath it the whole time. Thank you for sitting with the hard part.
You write so beautifully. What a pleasure to read. The woman and the cat and the cold is just so literary. And yet also true. The detail of the smell of jasmine stays with me. Smelling a strangers hair because the world has become so dangerous. What a moment.
Always I come to your work, seeking--and usually finding--startling and eminently applicable insights at the point of your pen (aka, your sword of fire). Validation. Wounds and remedies for healing. Earthquake impact. Comfort. And just the sheer, joyful exhiliration of encountering the exalted level of literary skill that you wield. And I tend to end up wanting to "tell everything" to you, my priest & pastor, rabbi, shaman, elder brother (though you are yonger than I-younger even than my own son, lol)
Are the uncredited photos your own? I love them all, especially Grandfather and his precious grandson. And the Elements of Style!! No wonder you treasure the art of writing.
Slaughtered grandfathers? I'm not sure I want to know. But I do.
Thank you Elaine, once again you flatter and humble me. Yes the other photos are mine, one a dear friends flat in Paris, another a secret portal in Pilsen, Chicago and the dandelion an experiment with patience. I'll tell you my grandfathers story another time. Both sad and beautiful.
A beautiful distinction between the "furnished platform" and the "disciplined threshold". It made me think of the difference between meditation and liminality. ie, one is the art of observing the "now" without bias, the other is the discipline of moving through the "not-yet". The "fool" is the one who stops the drift and builds the house in the waiting room. Sometimes I wonder whether I am the cat...
The cat wonders too. Some of us just took longer to notice we'd built a house in the waiting room instead of warming it from a distance. Grateful you're asking yourself the harder question.
I try my best to warm you from a distance with my heart, kitty. Reading this left me chilled in the 54 degrees of the Santa Clara County post-solstice summer morning. I made a hot cup of black coffee, put an oversized guy shirt, part wool, on over the black thermal I am wearing, and reassured myself by glancing at my little cat friend, Marley--the Great Black Hunter--luxiouriously bathing himself on my little couch. It's all right, I tell myself, water welling in my eyes, it's all right. It's all right.
I love this meditation. And the train story. The metabolic cost of perpetuating victimhood is really insightful (and very hard to sit with). Thank you for this.
Already developing a tolerance. Small sips without puckering, and one day you stop tasting the bitterness and start tasting what was underneath it the whole time. Thank you for sitting with the hard part.
this is the way.
….and finally one day you’re the motherfucker ordering Malort in the rocks and enjoying every sip :)
Amen.
Such lovely piece
Thank you my friend
You're welcome
You write so beautifully. What a pleasure to read. The woman and the cat and the cold is just so literary. And yet also true. The detail of the smell of jasmine stays with me. Smelling a strangers hair because the world has become so dangerous. What a moment.
🖤🖤🖤
Damien.
Always I come to your work, seeking--and usually finding--startling and eminently applicable insights at the point of your pen (aka, your sword of fire). Validation. Wounds and remedies for healing. Earthquake impact. Comfort. And just the sheer, joyful exhiliration of encountering the exalted level of literary skill that you wield. And I tend to end up wanting to "tell everything" to you, my priest & pastor, rabbi, shaman, elder brother (though you are yonger than I-younger even than my own son, lol)
Are the uncredited photos your own? I love them all, especially Grandfather and his precious grandson. And the Elements of Style!! No wonder you treasure the art of writing.
Slaughtered grandfathers? I'm not sure I want to know. But I do.
Thank you Elaine, once again you flatter and humble me. Yes the other photos are mine, one a dear friends flat in Paris, another a secret portal in Pilsen, Chicago and the dandelion an experiment with patience. I'll tell you my grandfathers story another time. Both sad and beautiful.