meditations for a savage child; the breaking parts.  

rm_xsaturnine 30F
23 posts
6/26/2006 6:49 pm

Last Read:
7/18/2006 4:17 pm

meditations for a savage child; the breaking parts.


I.

but here we are, still colliding like it ever even made a difference

II.

I embrace my desire to
feel the rhythm, to feel connected
enough to step aside and weep like a widow
to feel inspired, to fathom the power,
to witness the beauty, to bathe in the fountain,
to swing on the spiral
of our divinity and still be a human.

With my feet upon the ground I lose myself
between the sounds and open wide to suck it in,
I feel it move across my skin.


- - lateralus - - tool

it's like the sound and the feel of the drum was inside you already, it just needed a guy to show you a down beat and a roll, and then the bass comes to wind itself through your bones and you can finally make sense of those parts of your body you thought you'd misplaced. You move and the whole room moves with you and every sound is a new sound and no one leaves empty-handed, empty-hearted, because this fills you up, it does, this puts a ringing in your ears and a shake in your breath and you go home satiated, satisfied.

III.

it's a lot like faith, this breaking with bare hands

IV.

“Well maybe it’s that love is a fluid thing, and a cyclical thing, so if you think that no one loves you at the moment it’s because it’s not time and you just have to wait it out. Love will come back. Maybe, you know, love is like water - attracted to the edges of the things that contain it. If you spread yourself too thinly, if you open yourself up too far the love that’s there seems like it’s less because the edges of you are so far away. Love will come back, though. I’m sure of it.”

“You know? That doesn’t make me feel better. That doesn’t make me feel a god damn bit better.”

V.

holding on to you the way you hold on to lightning,

the way you imagine that it would burn if you could just figure out a way to wrap your fingers tight enough,

the way it burns anyway because your skin knows how much you need those scars.

Because your body just knows

VI.

"after the war," we said

love would come back, after the war. We would sweep up the crumbs of bombed buildings like we were sweeping the porch - giant, sure movements to welcome back the things we had misplaced; come in, make yourself at home, again. Love would come back to us, and we would be arms wide proud parents, adoring patient family. We would stand in our freshly swept doorways with shining eyes and faces, opening for the return of our brave, our wounded, our returning soldiers.

VII.

red right ankle
burn

VIII.

Stepping into the garden,
and suddenly the light that is supposed to great you there
does not click on
(‘suddenly’ because a lack can be as much of a shock,
can happen as quickly, as any unprecedented thing),
and you wave your arms in the air as if you’re signalling a plane, a rescue
from your island heart.
You wonder at the ridiculousness of it:
You, standing in your bare feet and old
pyjamas, with frantic hands in the air
to let someone know that you need to be saved from the shipwreck
of a darkness that was unexpected
and remains unwelcome.
You wonder if you could drown in it,
and suddenly you do
(‘suddenly’ because your body refuses to answer
your questions, because any darkness could be solitude
or heavy water,
but most of the time
it is both.)

IX.

To the way it fits, the way it is, the way it seems
to be: let me bash out praises -- pass the tambourine.


- - from The Way We Live - - Kathleen Jamie

rm_813guy727 42M

6/26/2006 8:23 pm

Life is like water. Fluid and always moving and flowing. If you allow it, it will wash over you.


LilJohn670 43M

6/27/2006 5:34 am

Love is fluid, liquid, easily spilled, impossible to absorb.
Yet, it is to our existence the most necessary drink.

Love is the fire by which our heart is warmed from the bitter cold. However, do not stand too closely, you know, love is too hot to tightly hold.

Love: No other word, no emotion or condition has more power to bring unspeakable joy or unbearable sorrow; too often, it brings both to the heart of its guest.

Yet, Love in its purest most perfect form never fails; but always accomplishes the purpose for which it was sent.

Ramblings of a bad-man - Not that you asked


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