Made of Stone, Thinking, Choices, Identification of Behavior

The thing with this is, due to true experience, I can smell it sooner. This is good. This is also bad, reacting, while it can save my life, can also have me seeing zebras when all that is present is white and black. Maybe this is all still me on the inside when I am screaming and I think that expression is making it to the outside and being erased, I am wrong. Sometimes keeping my side of the street clean looks a LOT like giving others excuses for their own behavior, a lot like enabling abuse. I wish for strong people around me who can handle when I need to blow up and use music to speak more loudly for me and to forgive me when I am mistaken.

I wonder how many times someone makes a choice to give up a thing they wish to express to me because they do not wish to weigh upon me. I am quite sure that it happens. The thought makes me glad and full of sorrow at once that I might inflict what has me feeling like nothing, upon another who is giving me the gift of them.

I wonder if this too, is just life. If the process isn’t to an end, how is there balance? I’ll be rather angry and laugh if the answer is like what I hear in my head. It’s like the law of large numbers.

I REALLY HATE BEING INVISIBLE. and yet, I really like being invisible. If I cannot work that out, how the hell can I expect someone else to do so. Bad, bad form Elisa!

Morning Trip (97)

“A man is walking in a field
and everywhere at his feet
in the short grass of April
the small purple violets
are in bloom. As the man walks
the ground drops away,
the sunlight of day becomes
a sort of darkness in which
the lights of the flowers rise
up around him like
fireflies or stars in a sort
of sky through which he walks.”
– Wendell Berry, IV Leavings

Morning Trip (60)

“I think we are well advised to keep on nodding terms with the people we used to be, whether we find them attractive company or not. Otherwise they turn up unannounced and surprise us, come hammering on the mind’s door at 4 a.m. of a bad night and demand to know who deserted them, who betrayed them, who is going to make amends.”
— Joan Didion (Slouching Towards Bethlehem: Essays)

Morning Trip (33) Butterfly, Bread, and Rumi


“A Year With Rumi by Coleman Barks

A Basket of Fresh Bread (2)

There is a basket of fresh bread on your head,

yet you go door to door asking for crusts.

Knock on the inner door. No other.

Sloshing knee-deep in clear streamwater,

you keep wanting a drink from other poeple’s waterbags.

Water is everywhere around you,

but you see only barriers that keep you from water.

A horse is moving beneath the rider’s thighs,

yet still he asks, Where is my horse?

Right there, under you. Yes, this is a horse,

but where’s the horse? Can’t you see? Yes,

I can see, but whoever saw such a horse?

Mad with thirst, he cannot drink from the stream

running so close by his face.

He is like a pearl on the deep bottom

wondering, inside the shell, Where is the ocean?

His mental questionings form the barrier.

HIs physical eyesight bandages his knowing.

Self-consciousness plugs his ears.

Stay bewildered in God and only that.”

Morning Trip

“The Midnight Club

The gifted have told us for years
that they want to be loved
For what they are, that they,
in whatever fullness is theirs,
Are perishable in twilight,
just like us. So they work all night
in rooms that are cold and
webbed with the moon’s light;
Sometimes, during the day,
they lean on their cars,
And stare into the blistering
valley, glassy and golden,
But mainly they sit, hunched
in the dark, feet on the floor,
Hands on the table, shirts with a
bloodstain over the heart.”
– Mark Strand, The Continuous Life