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I miss writing. I need to write. I need to write because if I don’t I will surely go mad, and yet and though every time I sit down I find I am clogged with myself, too full to know where to begin, and none of it intelligible, nor important. I miss writing and I have forgotten how.


There is something so oddly familiar about so many of the Asian-influenced spiritualities adopted by the supposedly post-religious, something so recognizably Western and Christian and ancient. Let us work, dear ones, to let go of ego! Let us dissolve our attachment to self! How is this just not one more manifestation of the guilt of original sin? How else to be absolved from the shame of being human? I do not think that this is what drives the heart of Buddhist thought, but it lies very much in my own.


It is unpleasant to admit, but I feel deliciously distant from everyone these days. I keep wanting to travel, but it is not so much because I want to see the world, or explore it, but so that I can remain at a distance, even when present; so that I can remain a stranger, even when settled; so that I can more easily explain this seemingly pregiven alienation.


The only human project that impresses me is that of dying.


Ever since I can remember I have felt trapped in a cage of human paradox. Every system, every philosophy, every metaphysic I’ve been presented with my mind has seized immediately as a possible key out. Today the keyring has become so heavy I can hardly drag it with me, and still I cannot even find the lock to try them on.


The Melancholy of Anatomy.


I am not thinking well, and only in fragments, or, I am finding my way, and in poetry.


5 Comments Post a comment
  1. My Dearest Siona,

    Yes, the mind can create isolation and if you believe it, you will be isolated. Yet, through the breath you will find a Presence of Love and of Life. It is through the regconition of the mind creating our misery and opening ourselves to what is possible that we may experience this beautiful existance called Life. While it may not always appear to us as beautful, just the fact that we are living is. If your soul is done, I respect that, however I hear your mind in your posts, not your soul. I AM here dear One, I do not think it was happenstance that our paths have crossed. Keep being alone, and you will be alone. Reach out for the Love which surrounds you – the Choice is up to you. That is the blessing and the curse. We, as humanity, have the choice to choose. For my path, I do hope you choose to extend a hand unto me. The beauty you possess and the depth of your soul is a gift which has barely been opened. My gift to you is the peace which passes all understanding, available in any given moment, when you are ready….

    Love to you my dear friend,

    Rev. Rosanne

    April 25, 2010
  2. Funny – for me it was always paradox that seemed like a key.

    April 26, 2010
  3. DiamondLil #

    Dear Siona,

    There are so many of us Gaians to remember and only one of you, so perhaps you will not remember a blog I wrote a few months back about a mystical experience I had in which I met God after being an atheist my whole life. I bring it up because for the last several months I’ve been in “discernment” about how this experience is changing my life. And your last several posts have made me wonder if you aren’t in “discernment” too. Not about God, maybe, but about “ultimate things”.

    What I will say about “discernment” is it’s the first time I’ve felt comfortable having all these questions for which I’ve no answer. The first time I’ve ever realized that things were unfolding — way slower than I want them to, for sure — and been ok with the unfolding. Been ok with not knowing because I had some sense that some day I would.

    All this rambling was evoked by your last line: “or, I am finding my way, and in poetry.” Poetry is not linear. Nor is life. Nor is the process of figuring out “purpose” — stupid word that haunts us all. Because these things are not linear, they are good companions.

    Maybe none of this has anything to do with your post but rather the sense of the blues that I feel hanging over your blog in general these days. I’m sending you cyber-love, which is the kind of affection we have for people we’ve never met but have seen only the smallest sliver of, whatever they allow us to see through a blog, and with whom we feel a kinship anyway, in this weird little world that doesn’t really exist. The kind of affection we feel for people who seem to speak straight to our souls.

    You are in my thoughts.

    April 26, 2010
  4. I have not read the other comments so that I can just put my first reaction. Yes, writing. Yes, travel. Yes, philosophy/religion. Yes, contemplation of death…but none of those things are a silver bullet. Even after death we go on living in the minds and hearts of our loved ones and the ones we did not even know might have been paying attention. We all extend further than we will ever realize, unfortunately.

    I try a patchwork quilt approach. It is not systematic so much as instinctual. There is a Kafka quote something along the lines of “literature unlocks the frozen seas within us.” I think this also applies to all things that make humans feel distanced and reconnected at the same time: literature, music, dance, travel, meditation, drug use, sports, painting, whatever. The problem is, all of those things happen in real time and cannot actually be contained for one measly second, except in memory.

    So, I travel until I get fed up. I write when it seems to make sense. I avoid people until I suddenly realize I want to talk to somebody. I take photos to capture moments in time until I realize it may somehow be stealing the soul of the present. So it goes. For me, it is just enough. Work plays in there too. Again, a touch and go base. I have know idea how it feels in your skin, however.

    Here is an interesting bit on death I recently read. It is from ‘The Bedside Book of Beasts’ which is a compilation of illustrations, prose and poetry all related to the relationship between humans and predatory animals. This little bit is from ‘The Conversation of Death’:

    “We are dealing with a different kind of death from the one men know. When the wolf ‘asks’ for the life of another animal he is responding to something in that animal that says, ‘My life is strong. It is worth asking for.’ A moose may be biologically constrained to die because he is old or injured, but the choice is there. The death is not tragic. It has dignity.

    …To illustrate, begin with a classic case that took place in Wood Buffalo National Park, Alberta, Canada, in 1951. Two buffalo bulls and two cows are lying in the grass ruminating. Three of them are in good health; one cow is lame. Wolves approach and withdraw a number of times, apparently pulled off by a human observer. At each approach, though, the lame cow becomes agitated and begins looking all around. Her three companions ignore the wolves. When one wolf comes within twenty-five feet, the lame cow gets up on shaking legs to face it alone. It seems clear that prey selection is something borh animals play a role in.”

    – Barrry Lopez (1945- ), United States

    And there is this bit later on in the book, this time coming from France and five hundred years earlier:

    “If you do not know how to die, never trouble yourself; nature will in a moment fully and sufficiently instruct you; she will exactly do that business for you, take no care for it.”

    Michel de Montaigne (1533-1592), France

    For me, reading these bits provided a fresh take on death. It is fearsome, it is natural, it happens to every person and animal and it is a conversation with nature.

    As far as the living part goes, I think it can be just as fearsome as death, but it is also a conversation with nature and therefore, in my opinion, beautiful for each human, plant and animal.

    Everything has its time.

    May 14, 2010
  5. Sharyn #

    slightly skewed
    as it clothes me
    like a garment sent from away
    or sails in my mind
    like music through my fingers
    when I am half-attention
    – it spirals up to the surface
    other truths I had not

    I write
    so straight lines
    go off the page
    someone dear asks
    what do you mean
    – suffocated by thoughts
    in the word-generator
    I am a stranger
    to what I knew before

    Some say
    singing comes first
    as the seeing
    swirls in tones
    clustered beyond description
    demand to be polished
    phrase by phrase
    – whose muse
    do I serve
    when the sounds are obscured
    from view?

    I write
    the writing that is
    yet to be born
    in me
    – let the words be filled
    with space
    that we may breathe


    May 22, 2010

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