Insert here

27 09 2010

at about 10 am

at noon

at 3:15 am

sometime in the early hours of the day

the plane, the car, the oven, the child

People who climb here are always getting scared

If I could anchor each piece (emotional upwelling, fortunate or unfortunate event) with a number.  Like 5:52:48 am.  Like 10:53:23 am.  Like 2:00 pm.

do you think this is for your own good?

I could at least log all this stuff and gain a sort of traction.

I even have the gridded field notebooks

I do indeed.


Fragment 3141*

18 09 2010

If you



well, now


I come

The question I cannot let go Part 2 (but not really)

9 09 2010

A Wounded Deer–/leaps highest/I’ve heard the Hunter tell

But who is the hunter and who is the tell? Or better yet, what is the tell?

one of the numerous artificial mounds

This is my second entry about the self.  Or, it was originally meant to be.  However, just typing/thinking that sentence feels incredibly so presumptuous.  I feel [almost] silenced.

sometimes sepulchral, sometimes heaps of ruin

This is the fact, however: I do not mean to be presumptuous.  I mean to express, (and here I nearly wrote tell), my own anxiety/confusion. Everything I write, everything I post on this blog, also has its truth for me in its opposite.  When I write it, know I am also undercutting each word, I am marrying each word with its antonym.

Though I say/think I do not want ambiguity, that I want transparency, I seem to be constantly engaging ambiguity in order to find my way to a place where language no longer exists.

There was neither the realm of space nor the sky beyond

Of course, there is an army of people searching for that place beyond language.  And the weight of life (that that has been, all that will be) exists outside of language, even after we try to trap it with our words.  It slithers or flits or creeps away.  Or simply grows out of our reach, toward the sun.

I ask you about the farthest end of the earth; I ask you about the navel of the universe

But I digress.  It was not my intent to wander about the corridors of language.

I ask you about the final abode of Speech

it just happened.

Originally, I planned this entry to be…

not much

Originally, I planned this entry to be the second part of my investigation of why I couldn’t let the question of Everest, the self, and life/death go.

I do not know just what it is that I am like

But maybe I am done with that for now.

I wander about concealed and wrapped in thought.

I don’t mean to go on and on and to be so argumentative and angry.

I won a share of this Speech

It’s been a rough summer and I still feel off balance.  Perhaps you will come and show me the path through thickets.  Or perhaps I’ll find it myself, without the smoke and mirrors and the climbing equipment.  Maybe if I’m just quiet for a moment, it will come to me.

the beautiful embryo of the waters

I call to /// for help


Quotes are from Dickinson, Ainsworth, the Rig Veda (Doniger trans.),

The question I cannot let go: about life/death and the true self–first part

7 09 2010

We do not wish to understand you, and yet we do not misunderstand you

There was a question posted several months ago on Facebook* and I cannot seem to let it go.

And if the darkness just got darker?

It was about whether a person reveals her true nature when faced with real life/death situations.

And then you were dead?  What would you care?

Part of what I’ve been stuck on, with respect to this question, is the issue of context.  The question itself was posed with respect  to climbing Everest.  And my reaction, to the idea of someone climbing Everest, today, flying to Nepal from, perhaps, LAX, for example and hiring locals and climbing up and nearly dying, is, essentially, irritation.

How would you even know the difference?

It is even at this point, at the very beginning of thinking about the question, that I get all tangled up.  This is what I think:  why the fuck does anyone have to spend the money, use the fuel, carry the specialized equipment, climb, risk their lives and the lives of the sherpas they hire and trash the shit out the place to “find out who they really are.”

My mind strains up, into the distance

But.  First.  I have not seen the documentary.  I do not know the facts.  From where do I gather my conclusions?  And, more importantly, from where comes my anger?

What shall I say?

Here:  Where shall I find it?  Or, perhaps, how?

What shall I think?

Does a person have to engage in an utterly selfish pursuit to find the self?  Is that the only way to strip everything else away?   Or, is the self revealed, as some suggested on the conversation, through a diversity of activites–through the life and death one self is revealed whereas through the quotidian another.  Is each of these selves only a part of the whole?

it’ll be fine

Does it even matter.

I know it’ll be fine

I once had a yoga teacher say that those who had children were still playing with toys and only when all of this was gone would they be in the life that would lead them to enlightenment.  Of course, that is assuming they’d ever reach that life.

The wind has churned it up, prepared it for him

This has ever echoed in my head because I, of course, have children.  So immediately I am excluded from enlightenment (and kundalini, which honestly I wasn’t really looking for anyway, but that’s another story).  And this pisses me off.  But not because I want enlightenment, though I do, or at least I want compassionate detachment, which I suppose is different, more immediate and perhaps more possible; it is because I want to push myself to the furthest point possible.  If I’m going to run, I want to run 100 miles and if I’m going to have children I want to have them without pain relief and if I’m going to practice yoga, I want to go as far as possible into the practice.  And in this situation I was told that I could not go that far, because all the intensity, all the beauty, all the pain arising out of my choice to have children closes the door on my chance to go the final distance.

they ride with the rush of the wind

But here, directly, is the problem.  I practice yoga because I am trying to transcend my ego. I am trying to find that place and that way to move through the world without being hamstrung by my desires and fears.  And that means I cannot define an “as far as possible” in yoga because by doing so I set up a goal.  And for me, when I set up a goal, it becomes all about my desire to reach that goal and my fear that I will not reach it.

it is very loud, here, alongside, life, life, so glad to be in it

And what does this have to do with Everest and facing that self?

no?, unprotected, thank you

It is that thing that is my ego that cannot stand the idea that the way to find what I am and to find the self, or peace or detachment or whatever the fuck it is, which I cannot even articulate, is through something I will never do, either through choices already made, or a reluctance. or something else.

and when I write this,

followed at two in the morning in the dark streets of the border town

by a man, in the dark, calling but not my name and me, lost

faced with the choice between a knife and blade of glass

stepping into the footsteps of a mountain lion

the lion stepping into my footsteps

asking that the deer, hung up in the barbed wire, please please be shot

hearing the gun turning on the car

I still feel something is not quite right


*FB is a strange place–in it my privacy is stripped, contacts are strange and unreal, but somehow sometimes connection is as intimate as anything else, in an odd, electronic, fleshless way.

quotes are from the Rig Veda, Denis Johnson and Jorie Graham