time doesn't exist but a new world is upon us. I will accept it with tobacco and prayer, as bett told me to.

i saw some images that affected me this morning, more than the words that carried the news about whats going on in the world.  I dont know what that says about me. it was a little piece for the new york times that chronicled the life of a piano out on the street.  people came up and played the piano over the course of a few days.  it was really beautiful.  and then some people decide that it apparently should not just sit there. they destroy the piano.  I didnt expect to be affected like that, I could barely watch it.  all the intricate parts.  there is something about a piano.  its the elephant of the musical instruments.

things begin quietly. I have to take note of this before i sit, of the revolution that wants to happen in my stomach. do I want to wretch or run? how about i just sit. i perceive/feel/remember/create my failures and predictably they victimize. just as I can hate my own laziness, my aversion propels me into more inaction, more of the same. should i say now that this is nonsense? this undiscipline that doesn't bother to clarify is destruction, a cheap trick of poetic impulse. grasping clumsily at meaning, throwing words at it with haste, expecting something, what is this? it is the soldier who wakes up from war or a life of making decisions who tries to get up and realizes, I can't feel my legs! like this, writing is precious, reckless and punishing.

I am afraid of living the life of my father, who was taunted by questions at the end of his short life, of whether he had lived a life of meaning, or made a difference for good in the world, and moreso whether he had even tried.

I break down at this thought, i want to make his life mean something by making something of mine, or reprinting his words, and also at this feeling that I am of the same nature, not running to make a difference for good, worried that my lazy spirit is easily defeated by something as pointless as my own victim hood, and so quiet, that I'll lay down in the bed of my ancestors who didn't try because they were easy, who could not make sense of the world or themselves.

i go back to the things of nature that I keep around me. the hair fiber that comes out of the cut part of the plant in a jar next to me - barely visible but it carries all the information - the whole blueprint, its whole life's plan.  and then there is the thing that happens between, looking and the knowing. between my eyes, the light, and the plant is the space of communication. life like this is better for me than worrying, to keep my senses open to the communication between all life. the way of the plant, or the way of the body.  I am a better animal than intellectual.

soothing and being the one to sooth alerts in me now a kind of caution to the blindside of being adept at fixing. that of not knowing who you might be without it, so much so that caretakers can also be great creators of chaos, in order to recreate their role. the caretaker's world is the one that bears down on the world of chaos, validates it by creating a refuge from it. admits the world is not a playground but a war-zone from which we need refuge from.

If I say to this and to you that her inability to love you was your inability to love yourself, that there is no thing someone can do unto you that you will not do to yourself. No I, no me, no my, no her, no she, only is. To say I loved you in this language is to be damned by subject. To say it, is to say without subject, no I love you, rather there is love here. No you hurt me, rather there is pain here. The difference subtle, the meaning similar but the distinction blurred. What are you two without the subjects of your language, to see others as so different, to see the events of our lives as separate from ourselves is the true falsehood. Yes, we cannot always accept the boxes people bring to our doorsteps. Without the taking of the gift we are left in tact, no thank you, simple and kind.