The Mountain in Her Eyes

There is a mountain in her eyes

That I am afraid to climb.

Running down is a river I drink from

That tastes like tears.

I hear a flute playing at the summit

As if calling me near.

But every time I begin to climb,

I am disabled by doubt and fear.

To climb is to emote the truth.

Take the first step with humility.
She will greet you with a song.

Essay on (the Lack of) Free Will

Free will does not really exist. If it did then every desire we had would be able to be actualized. If I were to say, “I want to fly to Sirius,” according to the premise that free will exists, I would be able to do so right then and there. We are bound by natural laws that constrict our will such that we do only what we are bound to do at any given point in time. There are certainly windows in which we are able to do what we want, but I would say those windows are actually the reward we receive for following the laws, and may be more apt to be a product of what one might call “fate” than free will.

            There are an infinite number of factors which drive us to make the choices we make, and only an infinitesimal portion of those factors relate to desire (unless you are talking about the desire to survive). If there really was such a thing as free will, then no one would feel bound by anything, no one would suffer, and then what would life be like? It would be chaos. Even before we can think, we are bound by the laws of nature. From our very conception, our genetic makeup is set beyond our control, as is our environment, so where does that leave room for free will? Every instant that we are alive, we are absorbing information. This information is interpreted in a way that is predetermined by the information we received in moments prior, according to our own predispositions and genetic makeup. As soon as we are conceived, we are set on a trajectory that we have absolutely no knowledge of and no control over. To say that we have free will is like saying that magic is real, that we have the power to warp nature according to our own desires. But it simply is not so. Everything is predetermined, or rather, everything is determined beyond what one might call “will.”

            It is true that at any given instant there are an infinitude of choices one can make. But one will always make the choice that reflects their genetics and their prior experiences with their environment, whether it be the “right” choice or the “wrong” choice. The fact is, there is no “choice” at all.

            For instance, this essay—I had no choice but to set out to write it, and I will explain what I mean. I live in a group home, and the house manager is a young, attractive female whom I have developed feelings for (certainly I didn’t choose to develop feelings for her, but that is a whole other matter altogether). Recently, due to the COVID-19 virus (which I also have no control over), instead of the usual policy where the residents are required to be out of the house from 10 to 2, we have been holding groups in the house from 10 to 12. Today, Missy, the house manager, had an appointment with Gerty, the director of the program, and therefore she left us to our own devices. Normally, she assigns us an activity to do during the times which she goes to these meetings, but today she is allowing us to do “whatever we want.” I was outside smoking a cigarette when she made this announcement, so when I came back in, she told me that I could either, A. write a syllabus for a group for the following week B. do an online class or, C. “do nothing.” And then she said, “because, you know, you have free will.” “I didn’t realize,” I replied. And then she said, “It’s nice to be reminded of that, isn’t it?”

            Now, it should be stated that yesterday, I made a flirtatious remark to Missy. This fact impacted the way I initially interpreted her comment about free will. I thought to myself, “She wants me to act on my desire.” But then I remembered the fact that she had already told me that there would be no relationship between us, so my interpretation changed into: “She wants me to stop making flirtatious remarks to her.” But then I was finally resigned to the fact that I had no idea what her remark was inferring, and that, actually, it probably wasn’t inferring anything at all, but was just actually, like most things, a meaningless turn of a phrase. But because of who I am—because of my genetic makeup and my past experiences—I could not come to terms with the fact that it was an empty phrase and that it had no deeper meaning. And it was this unfulfilled desire to understand—this inability to will myself to understand—that drove me to think, “There is no such thing as free will, and I must set out to prove it.” Naturally, I have proven nothing, but that fact altogether seems to support my claim all the more. If I had free will, I would be able to prove that free will does not exist, for that is what I set out to do. But have I done it? Have I accomplished this monumental feat, when so many writers in the past have set out such wonderful arguments in favor of the existence of free will? Probably not, and thus, I prove my point. There is no such thing as free will, because if there was, I would come off as an omnipotent being and my claim would seem unobjectionable, but I am not an omnipotent being and my claim is not unobjectionable. And even if I were wrong, and I do come across that way, where is your own free will? Are you not my captive, forced to believe as I do?

            As I have shown, the factors that led me to write this essay were all beyond my control. Is it not the same for the case of you reading this essay? Perhaps you have long since stopped reading it. Perhaps it came off as paltry and ill-founded. But why did you think that? Perhaps your IQ is higher than mine. Perhaps you have had experiences that have led you to firmly believe in the existence of free-will. Perhaps you simply don’t like me or my style of writing. But are any of these factors under your control? No, and that is because free will does not exist.

            Time is progressing at a steady rate, and space is limited. I cannot travel to Sirius because time has not progressed enough for the technology that would allow me to get to Sirius to be developed. And, I cannot prove that free will does not exist because there is a limited amount of space in my brain for information that might support my claim. These two factors, the steady progression of time, and the limits of space, are the other factors that support my claim. And as genetics and environmental conditions determine what a person will and will not do in any given point, time and space determine what a person can and cannot do. They are the factors that determine one’s genetics and one’s environment. Both forms are forms of law, and within their four-cornered structure, we as individuals, as human beings, are bound. One may certainly bang one’s head against the wall of this structure, but that will lead only to insanity. And I would say that for some, insanity is indeed inevitable, as all things are inevitable. Some would also say that free will is an alternative to divine intervention. I would say that, divine intervention and free will are actually two sides of the same coin. For if we truly have free will, that would mean that we have the power to transcend natural law, which would make us divine. But if you study the human body—including the brain—you will see that we are anything but divine. We have a limited number of cells, and therefore are limited in our potential. Even the universe has a limited number of cells, and therefore is limited. It is easy for one to quibble with the idea that we have no free will, and say that I am a defeatist and a cynic. But that fact has already been proven to me thousands of times. The question is, will I change? It is certainly a possibility, for who am I to say whether the events of my future coincident with my genetic makeup won’t change me into something other than a cynic and self-defeatist? Anything is possible. I certainly won’t argue that.

            But I won’t make it to Sirius. And chances are I won’t ever form a relationship with my house manager, either. And because the majority of desires on my long list of desires won’t be realized, I am content to think that it has nothing to do with will, and completely to do with reality, that reality being one without free will, a reality of laws that constrict our will and sometimes open up a window of fate.

Suites

Speculative moon
With its eye on the river.
So many stars treading water.
Long silver canoe
Rupturing time,
Rupturing space.
Speculative moon
With its eye on the river.

             *

Ocean of glory,
What is your nature?
"Ask the moon.
She is my master."
Moon! Oh moon!
What is the nature of the Ocean of Glory?
"To serve me."
The tide runs in,
The tide runs out.

            *

Invidious shadow
Of the ancient palm.
Is that blood leaking from the ground?
The storm-shattered country permits no exile.
The strange funk of this southern clay.

            *

Vestibule of light.
Mad woman!
She dances the tarantella.
Who is she?
Where did she come from?
Full moon shows through
Pale in the blue sky.
"We're expecting more of her kind."

2 Haiku

Nectar for my soul:
The sight of bumble bees
Collecting nectar.

The Wrath of the Father

The wrath of the father latches on to one’s spine and never lets go. One senses its presence in ones’ shadow, it deems one unworthy of every undertaking, shuns one like a road block from seeing one’s true potential, makes a sacrifice of ones’ life entire, as if, wherever one travels, whatever one dreams, one is bound by the terrible roots of memory to that moment when, with gnashed teeth and fiery eyes, your father took your will and smashed it to bits before your weeping eyes. And yet your father is now old and soft-hearted, and all he wants to do is put his hand on your back. When he does, you feel the wrath flowing painfully down your spine.

Locking Eyes

To look into the eyes of a stranger on the street, or, even one’s neighbor’s whom one has never spoken to before, is a foolish, dangerous endeavor that leaves one breathless and consumed by fear. You reach down deep into your self, search for justification and meaning, but find only emptiness, while the eyes of the stranger seem to be pregnant with meaning and force, as if the entire world were inflicting itself upon you, filling your lungs with an overabundance of air, such that you cannot exhale or inhale; you feel that you should say something, but intense fear and compunction keeps you from doing so. It is like being lost in the middle of a giant labyrinth—the land around you is endless and flat, the wind blows through the tall grass—and coming to the conclusion that you will die there alone beneath the dark cloudy skies, even as you are being watched, but by whom? You can never say. For the eyes you are looking into are a stranger’s eyes, and they very well might be the eyes of a dead man, or a spirit, or a god walking upon the earth. In any event, you quickly look away, and punish yourself with shameful thoughts for the rest of the day.

Scene 1 of Play

ZACH is in his early thirties. He is not unattractive, but overweight, and melancholy-looking.

He lives alone in a crumby apartment which he rarely leaves—just for food, psychiatry appointments, and to the library. He talks to himself, puts himself down when alone. When among people, he thinks everyone is talking him down.

Scene: Psychiatrist’s office. Dr. RITA Roberson, attractive, in early forties, sits across from ZACH.

Rita and Zach sit in silence for a spell.

Rita: Have you been doing your walks still?

Zach: No.

Rita: Why not?

Zach: It’s like torture.

Rita: The paranoia?

Zach: If you want to call it that.

Rita: Well, what would you call it?

Zach: Torture.

Rita: What have they been saying recently?

Zach: The voices? Just the same things, only with different word choices.

Rita: Like?

Zach: They say…that I’m ugly, and I should be put away.

Rita: Put away?

Zach: Yes, put away. As opposed to “sent to the loony bin,” which I suppose is an improvement.

(Rita laughs)

Rita: What about the positive affirmations? Have you been trying those?

Zach: I do try.

Rita: Want to try now?

Zach: No. (Pause) I am ugly, you know.

Rita: Why do you say that?

Zach: Isn’t it obvious?

Rita: No.

Zach: You’re going to sit there and say that I am not ugly?

Rita: Yes, and I’ll mean it, too. You are not ugly. But it doesn’t matter what I think. It’s what you think that matters. Or, rather, it’s what you tell yourself that matters.

Zach (Pensively): It’s funny…

Rita: What?

Zach: I just had a thought. It’s ridiculous…

Rita: Tell me.

Zach: Well, I thought, what if it were possible for an ugly person to will himself into becoming good looking?

Rita: That’s interesting. Tell me more.

Zach: Well, let’s say I were to tell myself a hundred times a day that I was handsome, maybe I would start positioning my facial muscles in such a way that…oh, it’s ridiculous!

Rita: No! It’s a very interesting, very good idea!

Zach: You think so?

Rita: I do! You should try it.

Zach: Oh, so you do think I am ugly.

Rita (annoyed): No. I don’t. But I think everyone has the potential to be ugly, if they think they are ugly, and everyone has the potential to be beautiful, if they think they are.

Zach: It is an interesting concept.

Rita: I told you, you have the mind of a great scientist.

Zach: Hah! That’s a joke.

Rita: Well I think you should try this out. As an experiment of sorts.

Zach: It is interesting. Though, isn’t it the same thing as a person with an IQ of 70 telling himself that he is a genius?

Rita: Why can’t a person with an IQ of 70 be a genius?

Zach: Hmph. I see your point. I guess Mugsy Bogues managed to play in the NBA.

Rita: I never heard of him.

Zach: Not important. Maybe I will give it a shot.

Rita: You should! What do you have to lose?

Zach: My sanity, maybe.

Rita (laughing): Telling yourself you are handsome won’t make you insane.

Zach (softly): Maybe only if I believe it.

Rita: What was that?

Zach: Nothing.

Rita looks at him importunately.

Zach: I said, “Maybe only if I believe it.”

Rita: So believing yourself to be handsome would make you insane?

Zach: Maybe not insane. Just ignorant.

Rita: What if you are really ignorant for thinking you’re ugly, though?

Zach: Point taken.

Rita: The fact is, it doesn’t matter what everyone else thinks. Don’t you know that?

Zach: It’s something they tried to teach me in kindergarten, I think. Had I been graded on it I would have failed.

Rita (laughs): Well now’s your chance to earn a passing grade.

(Pause)

Zach: OK. I will do it. A hundred times a day.

Rita: Great! What are you going to say?

Zach: I am a handsome man.

Rita: Good! And when will you say it?

Zach: Whenever I can. That is, whenever I can get away with it without coming across as a complete lunatic.

Rita (laughing): OK. Great. Well, our time is up. I’ll see you next week?

Zach: Sure.

Rita: And you’ll let me know how your experiment goes?

Zach nods.

Rita: OK. Bye Zach! I’m excited about this!

Zach leaves. Rita is radiant. She begins writing notes in her computer jovially.

Space Dust

Perhaps, before the Big Bang, there was some matter which was so far afield that it did not condense into the singularity—a piece of dust perhaps that was floating in the far reaches of the universe. And perhaps this little piece of space dust is still floating, unchanged since before the “beginning.” Perhaps it is about to land in my tea, this incomparably ancient piece of matter, completely unaware that I am about to take a drink, and transmute it into a form that for trillions of eons, it has never taken.

On Ideals

A nation cannot have ideals. Only people can have ideals. The ideal that all men are created equal is not a "national ideal." It was an ideal shared by a particular group of men at a particular point in history. After centuries have passed, it is up to us as individuals to interpret this statement as either a valid principle, or a flawed one, and to decide whether it agrees or conflicts with our own ideals, whatever they might be. But we should not base our interpretation of the statement on the qualities and character of the men who wrote it, but rather the validity and accuracy of the words themselves. Stalin himself is famous for saying, "You cannot make a revolution with silk gloves." Is this statement any less true on account of what we know of Stalin's character? Not in the least. Look to the words themselves if you want the truth. While educating one's self, one must forget politics. Politics comes later, and is actually very arbitrary when considering the overall course of human values and morality. If one finds himself on the wrong side of history, at least he may absolve himself in God's eyes by holding to a moral and ethical code. In other words, if he attempts to do no harm, he is justified no matter what his political beliefs are. Indeed, there have been many men who have been on the "right" side of history who have done a great deal of harm. For example, the man who wrote the quote, "All men are created equal"--Thomas Jefferson--was in fact a great hypocrite, for he owned many slaves. Judge the words for the words, and the man for the man, rather than the man for the words and the words for the man. It is not easy, but it is the only just approach to morality that there is.

A Drunkard

A drunkard swaying like a tree in the wind
Asked me for change.
"What kind of change are you asking for?"
I said. "The kind that comes only with time
Or the kind that comes in the form of metal?"
"You are a confusing BASTARD!" he spat.
"My guess is," I said, "you are hoping for the latter."

An Incident With a Vagrant

Late one night, as often seems to be the case, I had run out of cigarettes and—out of compulsion, not choice—I walked the few blocks from my apartment to the convenience store to buy a new pack. Standing outside the store, and greeting me as I passed, was an old vagrant I had come to be acquainted with somehow. It isn’t necessary to explain how I became acquainted with the vagrant. Suffice it to say that I am friendly by nature, and open-minded. I said hello to the vagrant and went into the store, where I purchased a pack of cool Pall Malls, the cheapest brand they had. On my way out, again the vagrant greeted me. It seemed like he wanted to talk, but, I thought to myself, these vagrants are dubious sorts. You never can know what state they might be in, especially considering that they are liable to be under the influence of any sort of illicit substance. I waved at the vagrant and carried on my way. But after walking a block in the direction of my apartment, my conscience—was it my conscience, or rather my innate sense of guilt in regards to my privilege?—got the better of me.

            “Yes,” I thought. “I will go back and talk to him. For is he not actually my brother? We have been on good terms in the past, and unlike most vagrants I have come across, he seems like a peace-loving man.”

            So, I turned around and walked back, smoking a cigarette as I went.

            When I approached the vagrant, I noticed something that I hadn’t noticed initially: there was a woman with him, and she was smoking crack out of a clear glass pipe. She seemed to be totally absorbed in the act of smoking, and was oblivious to my presence.

            The vagrant greeted me warmly, calling me his “man.” I naturally took up the most casual mien I could muster, and I asked him how he was.

            “Ah, you know. Feeling good. Can’t complain.”

            I noticed that his eyes were bloodshot red. He had a rather frazzled look about him that was unfamiliar.

            “Is that crack she is smoking?” I asked, watching the woman as, with eyes practically closed, she inhaled the white smoke.

            “Yeah. Why? You never seen somebody smoke crack or something?” His tone was rather aggressive, and I felt a sudden tinge of anxiety and a tightening of my chest.

            “No, I have.”

            “You ain’t got no problem with it, do you?” It suddenly dawned on me that the vagrant was taller and broader of shoulder than I remembered him. He stood firmly and resolutely on his own two feet. For some reason, I had gotten the impression from our past meetings that he was not sturdy at all, and could hardly stand on his own two feet. He was actually rather imposing.

            “No,” I said. “I don’t have a problem with it. I wouldn’t do it, myself, though.”

            “Why not? What? You think you’re too good for it or something?”

            Suddenly I began to feel afraid. I needed a way out of this situation. The vagrant was becoming more and more worked up.

            “You look like a pedophile to me,” he said abruptly, and pointed at my chest.

            Naturally, I was offended, but I could not allow myself to show it. I simply smiled, as if I understood the vagrant’s comment to be facetious, when in all actuality, I knew deep down that he had meant it seriously.

            “You a pedophile?” he asked, so loudly that it seemed it could be heard the entire length of the city block.

            “No,” I said, shaking my head modestly, and smiling meekly and dejectedly.

            The vagrant walked closer to me, and put his face directly up to mine. His eyes were bouncing around, as if he weren’t seeing me at all, but some phantom that was surrounding me. “Prove it,” he said.

            Tears were beginning to form in my eyes. I did my best to smile through them. “Rita,” the vagrant said in a commanding voice. “Give the man the pipe. He gonna’ smoke some crack tonight.”

            I was speechless. But though I said nothing, I knew there was no possibility that I would smoke crack.

            Rita stood up and approached me with the pipe. I stood looking at it. “Go ahead, pedophile,” said the vagrant. “That’s good crack.”

            “Ain’t you gonna’ smoke it or what?” Rita asked in a cackled voice that grated on my ear drums like the cry of a banshee.

            I looked at the vagrant. How could I have misjudged this man so incalculably? At that moment, I felt like weeping, and I almost did. I must have painted a pathetic picture. My shoulders were hunched, and I could barely look the vagrant in his wild, darting eyes. Then, I stood upright, squaring my shoulders and tightening my abdomen. Suddenly I was the same height as the vagrant, and I no longer feared him.

            “I’m going home,” I said, and with the utmost confidence and self-awareness, I pivoted, turned, and walked away.

            “Bitch!”

            I didn’t so much as flinch, but I felt a pang in my heart as if someone had reached into my chest and squeezed with the utmost force. I was certainly on the verge of tears, but I did not cry. That word echoed inside my brain long after I had arrived at my apartment and lay in my bed. I rationalized, I justified, but the sound of the word lingered. Eventually, I decided that the vagrant and I actually spoke two different languages altogether. What he called a “bitch,” I called “a sensible, rational human being.” It had nothing to do with weakness. Only fear—but a justified fear. What was wrong with being afraid of the situation I had been put in? Nothing was wrong with it. Any sensible, rational human being would have been afraid. And yet, I concluded, I had inflicted terror upon the vagrant myself. I had most certainly judged him for smoking crack, and he had recognized this, and therefore had become afraid. I spent the entire night, smoking cigarette after cigarette, deliberating this in my mind. In the end, though I knew them to be rationalizations, I was satisfied with them. By morning, my anger and anxiety were gone, and I had vowed never to approach the vagrant again, even if he were starving and needed a dollar to buy the least bit of food.

Fireworks

The children in my neighborhood have been setting off fireworks every night now since the fourth. The same simple poppers. Not to send out any kind of message--for what could they actually have to say?--but simply for the sake of watching something explode. And yet this too is a message of sorts. These children, shut in because of the virus, have grown frustrated with the slow pace of the world, and therefore want to see and feel the rush of some sort of action. They get this rush vicariously through the explosion of the fireworks. But what happens when these same children are presented with a book--Moby Dick, say--and are asked to read it and study it? Their eyes will skip about the page, searching for explosions, but won't be able to find any. Not only won't they be able to comprehend the words in the book, they won't be able to look at the words at all. They don't want to study, these children. They want to make things explode. Ah, but therein lies the irony. For in order to truly make the kinds of explosions that would overshadow those of the fireworks, they must study. Or else, become angry and blow up at the world themselves.

Unsure of Foot

And what does it mean to be not sure of foot? It means, quite simply, that one is holding so fast to a delusion in one’s mind, that one is incapable of transferring any assurance into the simplest of physical actions—namely, putting one’s foot down and taking a step. And perhaps one can look at this “taking a step” in the metaphorical sense as well. One who is not sure of foot is actually incapable of taking a step toward anything that is reasonable or beneficial. He is like a man who has vertigo and is climbing a ladder for some altogether necessary reason, and yet cannot move because of his terror. He can neither take a step up toward his required goal, nor a step down away from it. Why? Because he is transfixed by the possibility of death, and the necessity of life. It does not matter that he is stuck on this ladder, so long as he is alive—for to be alive is essentially to be terrified of death, whether consciously or unconsciously. The deeper within the unconscious this fear exists, the more power it wields over the one who possesses it. One who is sure of foot is conscious of death on a very shallow level, and therefore he is not necessarily drowning in his fear. His feet are solidly planted, and his head is above water. But, inevitably, even those who are sure of foot must confront death, for the water is rising. Meanwhile, those who are not sure of foot are flailing about wildly, completely unaware that should he put his feet down, his head would still be above water…

Man and Master

As I am a homeless man, but not unsophisticated in the least, I prefer to spend my days in the public library, doing research on the computer. It isn’t important what I research, but I can assure you, it is all quite necessary to my own well-being and, more importantly, the well-being of the society I live in. For, considering what I have been through in my life, I could very well be a raging maniac. Thus, it is necessary for me to keep my mind sharp and well systematized. My days spent in this way are usually peaceful and uneventful—at least they are uneventful outside of my own researching ventures. However, one day a while back, I found myself put out of comfort in the most unusual way.

I was seated at my usual spot in the library, doing my research on one of the many computers they have there, when a gigantic man sat down at the computer next to me. Normally, I don’t pay any heed to the people around me. Being homeless, I am used to strange people and I have no qualms about their eccentricities or foibles, so long as they leave me in peace. But as soon as this man sat down I felt there was something wrong. For one, he smelled like old cheese. The smell, though awful, I felt I could tolerate. But then, I noticed he was muttering to himself. I had my headphones on, so I do not know what he was saying. It was starting to get under my skin, but again, as a homeless man, I felt that I should tolerate this foible. He probably had a mental illness of some kind, and as a man of the times, I feel it is only right that we should put up with behaviors that seem inappropriate if they are coming from people who are actually sick. And yet, what happened next I could simply not tolerate. The man turned to me, smiled goofily, and…licked my cheek. I took off my headphones and then…he licked my nose. I stood up. He was still smiling the same goofy smile.

“What is the matter with you?” I asked him, though I was certain I knew already that he was insane.

“Can’t a dog lick his master?” he said.

I glared at him. I stood for a moment, utterly baffled, then turned around and went to the security desk to report him. He followed me.

I told the security officer, a big, burly man with a crew cut, what had happened. He looked at the fat man, who was still smiling. “Is this true?” the security officer asked him. His mouth wide open, his tongue sticking out, he started panting and nodded his head several times.

“He’s my master,” he said.

The security officer looked at me as if to confirm what the man said. Then he looked back at the man, who was still smiling. The security officer picked up his phone. “We have an emergency,” he said…

The man was taken away, not without a struggle. He kept calling out to me: “Master! Master! Don’t let them take me!” I watched, stupefied, as he was dragged by security outside and into the ambulance.

About a month later, I saw the man on the street. He passed me and narrowed his eyes at me in bitterness, as if resentful. I still see the man often, sometimes on the street and sometimes in the library. He now lowers his head when he sees me, and avoids me to what seems to be the best of his ability. It actually makes me sad. Perhaps this man really thought he was a dog, and that I was his master. Or maybe it was all a very sick game he was playing just to get under my skin. Perhaps, even, he had been envious of me all along from afar. Anyway, he failed at taking vengeance. And perhaps even now he is planning an even more extreme form of vengeance, not just toward me, but toward everyone, or, at least everyone that has a master they needn’t cower from.

2 Haiku

The rabbit, chewing on a hasta leaf,

Watches me unconcerned

From behind the iron fence.

The starling pokes around the park

Aimlessly. Is it mad?
No, just bird-brained.

The Question

I bask in the mad ovation of the trees

And drink the blue tonic of the sky.

The sword-thrust of afternoon rays

leaves me doggedly weeping through my eyes.

My soul, in a free-fall

Toward the horizon, has no response

To the manifold echoes of existence

But to shout pell-mell and create

Its own unintelligible echo.

Yes, this soul longs to return

To the friction of its fire,

To the first photon of its radiation.

The enigma it seeks to solve

Is its own creation. Where does one begin

When the universe is so vast

And the soul, like an arrow from the bow

Punctures everything, from the blades

Of grass beneath my feet

To the distant stars?

Oh, who, and with what tools,

Spun this wondrous mystery?

It wasn’t me. I was not present at the beginning.

Yet there is a mad inkling that says to me

That what lay inside—the ever-watchful protector

That knows death awaits my flesh

But keeps me yearning for more life anyway,

That sleepless mass of peace and understanding

That has no fear and answers to nothing,

Not even death—knows that what I am and what

I will become is all that ever was

And all that ever needed to be.

Such an answer makes me silent,

And grateful, and the great mad cacophony

Of echoes resonate as one

And bring me peace.

4 Haiku

My heart lifts, and I sigh.
How innocent!
The little white daisies.


Birds circling--so majestic!
Down below,
We have gnats.


Listening for a line,
I hear a blue jay call.
I'll write tomorrow.


To the touch,
So soft, so delicate:
The daylillies.

Essay on Evil

How does one deal with evil? There are three options. The first option is to embrace evil entirely. The second is to try and integrate evil into one’s life in a way such that it does not consume one entirely. And the third is to try and stamp it out completely. Each has its own perils, advantages, and disadvantages.

            The first type—the type that embraces evil entirely—will find a great deal of pleasure in expressing their evil, in whatever form that may take. Inevitably they will chosoe a particular scapegoat. But, also inevitably, they will feel an intense backlash and will have to suffer incredible pains for their evil. And, also inevitably, their legacy will be one of evil.

            The second type—the type who integrates evil into their lives in a way such that it does not consume them entirely—is perhaps the most sophisticated option. They will find sly ways of expressing their evil. They may even garner a certain respect and notoriety for it. However, they will rarely taste the fruit of self-actualization. Because they are so concerned with towing the line, they will never know what it means to fall freely.

            And finally, the third type—those who try and stamp evil out of themselves entirely—these are perhaps the bravest, most radical souls of all. They will suffer immensely, but not at the hands of others, but by the hand of God. For there is much vanity in this approach to evil. In a sense, it is an attempt to make one’s self like God, and therefore God will inevitably be jealous of him. But the reward will be a legacy of good. Perhaps nothing else is guaranteed this type. And in a sense, this is very tragic, if not very noble.

            Evil can certainly be a source of strength, but more often it is a weakness. And in reality, it is never objective. One man’s good is another man’s evil. It’s as arbitrary as the meaning of one man’s life in relation to the universe. But it is still a choice that one must make over and over again.