bundle of wires

( pbase )

I've been terribly busy lately, rushing around, trying to 

be with the people I care about but also trying to fulfill

the demands of my job.  Trying to live life, I guess.

I hadn't been home too much, and was beginning to feel

very frazzled.  I felt I'd begun to lose sight of the 

essential stuff that makes me me.

That happens when I'm busy.  I suspect it happens to all of us.

The other day I got home after a short trip away, tossed my 

packed stuff into their respective closets and hiding places, and went on 

with trying to sort out my life and house.  When I went to charge

my phone, I couldn't find the charger.  Looked everywhere

that it could be -- in the bookcase where I sometimes store it,

in my suitcase, in my purse, in my computer bag.  It was gone.

I knew I had taken it with me on my trip.

I remembered winding it around my hand, packing it and thinking how inconvenient

it would be if I lost it.  I decided I'd lost it, somewhere along the way.

I went to sleep, resigned to the fact that I had one more errand

to run the following errand-full day -- to the cellphone store, where I hoped

I would be able to get a charger. 

The next morning, when I woke up, wired 

to get moving, I took a shower, then

went to take out the hair dryer that I had,

only the day before,

put back into its respective cupboard, and there

tangled amid the hairdryer wires,

was my cell-phone charger.

A minor incident, but it caused me to pause

and write a poem,

a simple poem,

but a poem nonetheless.

and as soon as the words bled onto the page,

I knew the day would be alright.

Here it is:

( thisoldsailboat )

Look for the wires within the wires,

they nestle there

unawares

that they are hiding from you.  Look

for the bears

among the bears;

                  they, too, have no clue

that you

find them threatening 

                  or stealthy.

Look for yourself

               inside yourself--

             not in a book

          or in a car

            or in a bank

                   account

                                or a glamour magazine--

you are hiding there,

your good and your bad,

in the den of your soul,

your lost part

             tangled

'round other parts like it,

stored inside, hastily

.

Unravel it all.

Look closely:

every night before you sleep

take stock

of what you put away that day --

no sense in losing every

vital clue

of you

.

Excavating The Heart

( roadblues )

Just when you think

all its fields 

have been plundered,

all its valleys

have been rendered 

fallow, and all

it mountains stripped

of their precious hold,

you'll discover

there are hidden places there -- 

subtle coves, rich

with luscious, newborn

vegetation waiting for the sun.

The heart is a boundless planet,

regenerative and full,

waiting to reward you

if you treat it with respect and love.

Stand

at the threshold,

in the glittering priceless rubble

of memory, past happinesses, pains

and lost opportunities

and behold

the new vistas there.

Tred gently there,

speak softly, using

only words that mean

what they say,

and be silent

when the words are not enough.

Listen

to the heart's native tongue

that speaks in birdsong,

rustling leaves,

distant chimes,

and gentle surf.

Be still and allow

amazement.

( samuelatgilgal )

heart song

Every time a heart goes forth

on a journey to join

with another,

                         it risks a pain

                                 no body can bear;

                     it risks the 

                        burning tear

of remembering

that true union is impossible

                                                          in the land of the living.

Our hearts/Our souls

are the entity

             full;

our bodies are vessels that demand

division.

My heart

           Your heart

Seek to be whole,

but the walls of our skin

imprison.

Be still and listen

to the voice that is you,

that voice that has no body.

It is the voice of God,

                      and God

is the juncture

at which we all meet.

Just a Cakepan

( kenoath )

Each personality has

two sides:

a good side and a bad side

or

a bad side and a good side

(everything's relative, eh?)

This is what happened:

When God created man

and woman

in his own image,

each was given the miserable task

of containing both

sides of God,

while also

being both sides of God.

 The good side is                    The bad side is

the side that                                           the side of inadequacies

has done goodness                       and insufficiencies.

it is the side of                   Of Guilt and

completeness               jealousy

But you see, both of these sides

are the two sides of The God;

for - don't forget - God had

to divide itself

in order to be able to

see itself.

It had to produce

its negative.

( meijer )

Think of it: it's like a 

cakepan; I saw one today;

it was shaped like a football

stadium - but as you know,

for a cake pan to produce 

a cake that looks like

a football stadium, it

has to be the inverse,

so too the creation:

what

God made was the inverse

of God -- God's opposite,

and that's what the universe

is.

Like a cake pan.

( meijer )

The thing is --

the problem with being human,

is we are created

in God's image,

which means

we have the unfortunate

task of containing two

sides, both good & bad

- the outverse & the inverse -

in our own psyches.

Each one of us has a good;

each one of us has a bad.

( cosmomagazine )

The thing that keeps us from

going crazy

over the fact

we have both a good and a bad

is a thing called

conscience.

Conscience,

of course,

is an abstraction;

it pushes us 

into the realm of that

which is not

physical.

We contain it in our

avatars.

It is

the location where

the energy from the brain

and 

the energy from the heart

meet;

if we must give it a location:

it's in the heart.

~ ~ ~

You see, we're just giant

multiband

radio beacons:

we negotiate frequencies

on different sites 

of our bodies.

If everything

is working,

we produce harmony --

better known as

love.

( scientificamerican )

People who have brain

damage

cannot do this,

because

the brain is the seat

of the master cylinder,

so to speak,

the apparatus

that helps us

maintain this balance

of frequences

and likewise produces

love.

Inversely,

some people 

have an excess of that capacity;

and on this earthly plain,

those people 

have their exact opposite

among those

who are depleted.

There is an extraordinary

uncanny

link

between two entities that are

absolute opposites.

They feel they are supposed to be

together,

because

they are like God together,

and there is a point

in their psyches

where they meet

precisely.

)(

Ideally, two exact opposites should meet

in order to find

absolute happinesss

)(

But don't despair;

if you have not found your exact opposite:

we are all linked;

we are linked

by something stronger

if we let that something stronger

be.

( kevinsblog )

Forgiving

Compassionate

Unselfish

If we could use that capacity,

which we are all 

capable of doing,

we could adhere

our oppositions

and be

the perfection

God wants us to be.

3.

You see,

when they ate that old

tomato,

Adam and Eve

came to realize

they were two

and this was complicated

by tthe two-ness they both

contained within

and both their bad sides

felt guilty,

but didn't know how to tell

each other.

That

was the nature 

of the fall  --

it's been our tasks

ever since

to rectify it.

4.

Cakepans:

we have to recognize

that opposition

is integral to

our 

identity.

and forgive

and forget

and to never

do

again.

( wildweather )

Makropolis is a diva, remember

. . . . and in that sense

I am all divas

who have lived over the past

400 years or so

Whenever I hear a woman singing

from her heart and from her soul

reflecting in her words

her torment,

coupled with her dreams of a

beautiful

world,

I hear myself.

For instance,

here I am,

singing a song that is all about my life:

Planned Obsolescence

It makes only sense that Makropoulos should use a Macintosh.  The other day, I went to turn on my iBook G4, and was writing away when the screen went blank.

Now some might call this their trusty old friend, but honestly, it's only four years old.  When you've lived as long as I have, four years is equivalent of the amount of time it takes to squeeze a pimple.

I remember when I brought the thing: I was very proud and excited.  This world of computers has long struck me as a esthetically very functional, until I really started paying attention to Macs.  I mean, let's consider it, now: as I've said here already somewhere, and countless others have observed, every new advancement in technology has served to extend some part of the human body, and the computer is the extension of our brain.  We don't think much about what our brains look like; luckily they're stored within heads, which, for the most part, are pleasant to look at.  If we were to walk around with exposed brains, we would find a way to adorn them.   Of course, if our brains were exposed, they might even become yet another measure of our appeal, or even our sexual prowess, so we may find ways to make them look extraordinarily erotic.  Glitter, perhaps, or fishnet coverings.

But I digress.

Computers, as I say, are extensions of our brains; they are our brains made visible.  Until fairly recently, the only computer company that made any attempt to make the brain sexy was Macintosh.  So of course I had to have one.

When I got it, I had to pay over a period of time, a practice that makes me very uneasy.  I was raised in an era in which if you couldn't pay on the spot, or trade something for your desired object, then you couldn't have it.  The world was a much happier place then, and most people, for the most part, had what they needed and were happy with it.  But I paid for my Macintosh over a year's time.  The saleswoman said I could even do it over two year's time, and I just shook my head.  She continued: "and then you'll be getting another."  As if that was expected.

So I have stubbornly resisted the planned obsolescence of my iBook, until this morning.  Of course, in the meantime, I went and got another Mac - a Mac Mini, which I attached to my un-Mac TV, and than of course my iPod, and then my iPhone, not necessarily acquired in that order.  Macs are a bit like M&M's - you can't eat just one.

When the iBook took a dive, though, I began to come to terms with the fact it was literally built to do that.  Indeed, all really high technology is built to be obsolete, because designers who design high technology know that in a few years, they'll come up with a better model, and this one will be passe.  And whoever buys high technology will no doubt want to the newer one in a few years.  And I guess it's true; I do.

Strangely, the same day my Mac began to sputter, so too did a part of my body.  After all these centuries, I detect that there may be something in my body that is tiring, something that is longing to be part of a newer model.

It was not my legs, which are divine, nor was it my lips, which out lip the most botoxed of beauties.  It was not my breasts, which aren't too big, or too small; it was not my eyes, which still make men cry.  And it wasn't my hair, which is still a lovely golden shade, or my teeth, which have never seen a scrap of metal to straighten them.  No, these things are just as they have always been, to a point where they really bore me. 

No, it was nothing visible that gave me a reminder of the fact that perhaps even I would become obsolete.

It was my heart.  Such a poorly planned organ, with such a huge job.  It is the motor to the machine we all travel in.  And it is also the physical seat of our emotions, of our love.

To hold our love in such a fleshy thing is just absurd.  Because love is so large, and hearts are only tissue.

Planned obsolescence.

I look forward to seeing, and knowing, what the next better model will be for the human heart; the model that will be able to hold love, even through the most tumultuous times.  But even that will be designed with one eye towards the fact that there will be a better model, still, in four more years. 

I wonder if Apple will design it, that new heart.   Perhaps it will be a piece of technology, programmed to love on command.  And not remember, and not hurt.  That might be far more efficient than the current state of affairs.

For now, I'll start thinking about getting a new MacBook, though I really can't afford one right now.  Like this old heart, I'll see how long I can make the iBook endure.

I need it to work for me, a little while longer.