Attached - who me?

I've often spoken about attachments on this blog and how our attachments affect us because with attachments come inevitable loss. Kind of the way of life, including birth and death. This is a difficult process for everyone. I'd be the last to preach about attachments. I've also spoken in my poetry about how people places and things only have the meanings we attribute to them and the power we give them.
This is a story about a book, The Gospel Of Buddha by Paul Carus - copyrighted in 1894, that strangely came to be in my possession and led me this digression about a transgression.
Some 30 years ago I was attending Columbia University for my undergraduate degree and was in love with this young Hungarian bike messenger who moved in with me. We were both avid readers and he knew I'd studied and followed eastern philosophy.
One day on his bike messenger travels outside of a fancy mid town - east side office building he espied this book on top of a box of trash and took it. He said he'd imagined I'd love it and that he couldn't think of anyone else who would appreciate this text like me. And he put the book below in my hands. I carefully accepted the gift as the book cover was already worn. The cover feels like leather.

I began to go page through this book and above is what I saw. I was enthralled by the hand drawings illustrating the text.

Imagine my surprise and delight when I saw how old it was and that the illustrations were so lovely.
This is a 1917 edition by The Open Court Publishing Company and is only available in libraries and online pdf of this edition. If you'd like to read the entire book online with the drawings - click here!

Suddenly I realized this book was not only old, it was ancient in the publishing world. It doesn't even have an ISBN number. I searched for the copyright  and found 1894 on the preface above.

Occasionally I read the book. A while back I went to retrieve the book from my shelf and it wasn't there. I missed the comfort I feel when I handle this book. It's become imbibed with meaning.

I realized that my more recent ex had taken it with him when he moved out. I trusted he'd leave my things be when he moved but I was sadly wrong and I was unable to locate many items. It actually took me some time to discover that this book wasn't where I'd kept it.
After our break up I was overwhelmed with trying to get my place my life and my records back in order (and it's still not) and many things slipped by me, like my membership in the National Association of Social Workers lapsed and later it was very difficult to convince them to give me the retirement rate. Five months passed before I realized the book had gone missing. I contacted my ex and he paused before he said he "believed he could locate it," Another month passed before my beloved book was returned to my hands. Guess I'm lucky to get it back at all.
So now here I am with my lovely ancient leather bound volume with original illustrations so I decide to do an internet search to see if it has any value online but in my search for the monetary value (I figure I won't be here forever to enjoy it) I discover uncover Mr. Peter RF Brown and his amazing website, Inter-disciplinary Publications of Peace and Great Souls.

Underneath his title is the following greeting:

WELCOME YOU ARE! to this ... Small Island of Inner Space 

and to the right side of this little tidbit is the following:

"There is a mighty mountain pass,
the causeWay of the sun;
to whom all earth gives homage,
for whom the days began."

mountainman,
deep Himalaya,
1976-1977

Actually the way mountainman has the text from my book laid out on his site is how poetry is laid out which is nicer than my book but Carus' translation is untouched on both. My book also has wonderful hand drawn illustrations.

For those interested in reading reviewing or exploring - esotericism - this man's site would be an excellent place to browse about. His topic listing is extensive and ranges from Western Science to Western Mystics Poets and Religions to Eastern Mystics Poets and Relgions and much much more including but not limited to the Dalai Lama, Australian Aboriginal insights and the Universal Declaration Of Human Rights published by the United Nations General Assembly. I am impressed by the depth of the subjects offered and the quotes Peter R.F. Brown, the designer and everything person I assume, who maintains the site. It took me a second to find him.

For those wishing to know more about what I'm going on about - check these links below:

Inner Self: Esotericism - What Is It? Andrew Schneider

On Wikipedia 

Other online books by Paul Carus

Cambridge Centre for Western Esotericism

TUPELO HONEY

JoAnne is one tough broad,
Italian Irish descent
from the Northeast Bronx
Through sacrifice and dedication
JoAnne is now a nurse at
Presbyterian Medical Center

This is her story
bout a methadone baby
born addicted
on JoAnne’s ward
This boy had tupelo
honey colored skin,
and hazel brown,
almond eyes
Birth mama’s blond and curly haired
A blue eyed Nuyorican
Daddy is a dark skinned African

Mama named the baby Shonequon
The nurses called him “Sweet”
Sweet’s a boarder baby who
lived on the ward
for 2 and a half months
BCW tryin to decide
what to do with that tiny
methadone addicted baby

Now me amiga esta sin ninos
she has no children
e quiere uno mucho
she wants one very badly
so she fell in love with Sweet
talked about him constantly

JoAnne said,
Sweet is cryin all the time
He holds his body rigid
his cryin is so fitful
Kindled by the pain
cause Sweet’s addicted to meth
and this is how he sounds
eeehhhhhh
eeeehhhhhh
eeeehhhhhh
eeehhhhhh

Sweet’s tiny fists
are always clenched
his spindly arms crossing
his scrawny chest
This baby can’t relax!
He’s got a monkey on his back
Sweet’s addicted to meth

The Doctor confides
he wishes he could
keep Sweet tranquilized
cause he’s screamin so fretfully
eeehhhhhh
eeehhhhhh
eeehhhhhh

JoAnne loves to nurture Sweet
She embraces him reverently
comforts him with
the rhythm of her heart
she whispers soothing sounds
cajolingly,

her voice falls like soft waves
caresses tender hollows
of his frail anatomy
her soft warm breath
glides down his velvet neck
Sweet responds with purring sounds

JoAnne’s gentle devotions
linger on
like a mango blossom’s scent
fragrant on a breeze
Sweet watches her giddily
clinging with his
tightly gripped fists

Yesterday Sweet smiled for the
very first time
JoAnne bragged
as though he were her own
Sweet, my boarder baby
is delayed in his response
yesterday was the
first day
God graced me with his smile

Her eyes rimmed with blurring droplets
Dewdrops silhouette
I love him, she said
I want him to be mine
Even though he’s HIV
Even though he surely won’t survive
I want him to be mine

Child Welfare lets his Mama visit
she hardly came at all
Daddy was there
every day
he was always drunk

Today they let her come and
take my Sweet away
Honey, JoAnne said,
This baby’s in a lot of pain
he suffers from anxiety

You don’t have to hold him
24 / 7,
but you need to let him
see your face
smiling, talking
into his

Sweet’s Mama answered
I know mucho more than you do
let me tell you somethin’
You don’t know what I been through
All my kids are born on meth
and that’s the way it’s always been


The baby started fussin’ then
his spindly arms
clenched across
his scrawny chest
eeehhhhhh
eeehhhhh
eeehhhhhh

Sweet opened his eyes
he focused on JoAnne
reached out to her with open scrawny arms

His Mama reached the baby first
and took him from his crib
Esta te quieto, nino
she said as she rocked him
dispiritedly
to her methadone beat
Esta te quieto, nino

It’s gonna be okay Mama said
Grandma said she’s gonna help,
She’s carin’ for my other five
My oldest girl’s gonna be there too
And like I told ya,
All my kids are born on meth
And that’s the way it’s always been,
but we know how to get by.

First published (where it can be viewed in its original format) GRIST ON LINE, 1995, an online edited web publication http://www.thing.net/~grist/golpub/golmag/gol7/gleftow2.htm

Friends awarding me too

And I would like to pass the awards on to the list of THIRTEEN random awesome poets below, who can choose either or both awards. Some of these multi-talented bloggers also publish other creative fare –  so get all their goodness at their one-stop shopping locales!
The following recipients may fling these awards with joy to the moon, or wherever!
1.  Joaquin
2. Joy Leftow
3. Paige
4. Talon
5. Snaggletooth
6. Davina
7. Ana Goncalves
8. Glenn
9. Fireblossom
10. Sara Healy
11. Mama Zen
12. Thomma Lyn
13. Mad Cat Lady
I look forward to meeting more poets and reading great poems over this weekend!!  And maybe even to linking up new poets in future posts, if I do the Thursday Poetry Rally again.   Thank you.

In Commemoration of 9/11

I have to tell you
Nothing’s changed from 7 years ago or even 15 or 20 years, many more
A cockcrows, pseudo psychos run our town, our entire country betrayed by nationality
Threats weighed in all around
We stand our ground
Another bomb can drop anytime
No more Hiroshima mon amor
We never know how long
Victims never expect the expected
We destroy ourselves again and again
A full course in humanity
Educators told to slow the word holocaust
Like if they don’t use the word holocaust that means it never happened
It happened again tell me your ancestors didn’t get here by slave ship
I hope it’s a different
new nation under god
9/11 is different
We never knew
They knew and had ideas but hid it from the populace
We never know exactly when a bomb will drop
Isn’t that the point of terrorism
Only those dropping it know when the bomb goes KA – BoOM!
They claim millions didn’t die and we helped them pretend we didn’t make it worse
Our World Trade victims shut in from escape
Sent back from exit doors to their deaths
Why did we do that why why I cry over and over
The first estimated death toll was over
6000 reported they didn’t match any lists
why then did they find 10,000 unidentified bone and tissue fragments
now they say 3000 more unmatched to any dead or missing list
Our brothers, our sisters, our mothers, our people told to stay put to prevent a rampage –
not good or sage advice – it’s our government right or wrong
kept my brother caged to die inside the world trade center
Killed by accident – friendly fire – at least half would have made it had we let them descend and exit the building
How many dead at Hiroshima
How many lost to the gas chambers in the holocaust that never was
Besides 6 million jews, homosexuals now called gays, Romani citizens, soviet civilians, prisoners of war, Poles, Jehovah witnesses, so many more
Pushed to the brink of extinction
and now they say there’s no more holocaust
no more prisoners of war

* Written to commemorate 9/11 last anniversary 2009 and I didn't post then - guess I should've & would do if I had it to do over again.

I Want Some Tanqueray

Tantalize me tranquilize abnormalize my soul to eternity
Eyes on the prize no more lies scrumptious skies
revise and improvise a nobel peace prize
Before I crumble away and decompose I want to weigh less
Portray the prepaid finance for a valet in France
A strawberry soufflé sorbet to lighten the ash gray drab day
Morosely foreboding forbidding decay on a field day
Make a bad thing worse
It’s not a fucking curse
Amy Winehouse is coming back as black as she wanna be her white is right she’s got the blight but she’s gonna make it through to you
I have faith in Amy – she’ll make it through her blue day in spite of the cockamamie
I still reminisce on JonBenet - pray her killer will find judgment day
Lost and found is not the same as a red river running flowing
Amber to red hysteria widespread another unwed mother
no area Lumeria Manchuria maria listeria peoria
It’s dangerous out there advantageous ambidextrous ambiguous and amorphous.
Not a shred of evidence analogous barbarous
Hypochondria indicanuria
She said he wants to be disabled and not work only because he sees how much fun it is to be around you
Hmmm… Interesting theory
I wish I believed that
cabled fabled labeled and tabled enabled and mislabeled then unlabeled
Poetry controls me inside my head

Perception and Misconception

Ur so stabile she inquired so where does all this
Anti-establishment rage & anger come from
If she only knew what we’d been through
Starting six weeks ago she wouldn’t stand there
Asking the same silly questions over and over again
Holding the mic under his nose
As though I didn’t exist
And I know for her I didn’t
Even though I’d already answered her question
About how we’d found the reading
She asked the same question again
the mic steady under his nose
When music man deferred camera girl to my response
She then repeated her question a third time
Pointing the mic at his mouth
Not realizing we’d already given her the answers twice

Where Did the Day Go?

My morning begins with a whirlwind I start a poem and leave it in mid construction
I make coffee, wash cat dishes, my plates, saucers and cups, clean some Tupperware
Do a wash - separate Cleo from Magic pass the litter box remind myself to clean it and continue on my way to pee I’m busier than five buzzing bees
Then I spy some jewelry and figure out a way to reconstruct it to a different form
I conduct a search for the missing parts
I look outside at budding trees raise the window and stick my head outside to try to feel a breeze and see a blue bird nearby
I look for my glasses then remember to search for those movie theatre passes and hang my keys
I return to the poem to find the word and discover I’m lost in my mind confined and in a bind it’s totally intertwined I have to unwind
I clean the litter box listen to my neighbor play the sitar I think maybe I should make some apple fritters to kick the day off
I pick up my see through blouse think about sewing it tighter I’ve got to get out of the house by two to make that deposit I hang the blouse in the closet
take out my new dress I guess it’s time to rhyme I pin the hem to make the dress more feminine what’s the crime in that
I want to mend everything seems to blend I think the stress is getting to me
I return to the computer to try to find the word I was looking for before but forget what it was or what it meant I need roto-rooter in my brain to stay sane
Continuing to look for the word I search the net betting I can find that set of dishes
I light some incense the smell is intense and I get the foot cream intending to rub it on my feet but place it on the countertop as I pass by
I pick up and eat a sweet on my way to feed the cats and take a shower
five minutes later keeping neat I scrub the tub and try to remember where I put the feet cream down I search all around clean the toilet seat, I’m a bit over heated and overwhelmed I remind myself to put the clean sheet on the bed instead
I pull a pair of white panties from the drawer and stare at them in disgust and decide to go bleach them in the sink on my way to the kitchen to get water for the plants
I just can’t seem to get things in order so many chores before I get myself out the door
I dry myself off and put the towels in the washer the wet wash in the dryer and scramble around like I’m running from fire
I vacuum the bathroom floor clean the second litter box
on my way back to the bedroom to get dressed I pour bleach in the toilet and sink and remember to sip my coffee
Run the vacuum over the living room rug and the word returns to haunt me
So I run back to the computer picking my glasses up from the counter when the phone rings disturbing my linguistic delight and the word takes flight I see the light
I keep moving until the middle of the night
Maybe some adderall will solve it all

gcast up front again

G Cast doesn't work or exist anymore. It was a recorder that played my music and poetry. Now you can hear that right on my front page - click here.

Steig Larrson and me

Steig Larrson, the man behind the stories that gave him his name fame glory posthumously led a fascinating life. Larrson could be one of the characters he became famous for writing about in his millennium series. Fighting to right Nazi wrongs in Sweden, he was a well known journalist who founded Expo, an antifascist magazine. Here in the states people don't usually think much about the Nazis but in Europe people give more importance to World War II and the havoc it created in history. In Sweden, its importance is even more meaningful. According to Lev Grossman in Time Magazine, "Fascism is a live issue in Sweden, and fascist groups have been known to attack reporters who investigate them." This makes me wonder if someone stuck him with a needle to produce the heart attack, especially as he was a well known Nazi hunter and Sweden is known to have sheltered Nazis seeking refuge and places to keep their bounty. And who would have known?
Larrson was a known target as the founder of Expo, the antifascist magazine he published. Larrson had built himself quite a reputation as a dragon slayer and his daily life and that of his life-long companion, Eva Gabrielsson, were affected by the backlash. Since Larrson was well known as a journalist and a political activist, most of his writing was reporting. His life was quite stressful because of his political affiliations his widespread writings of unpopular subjects. He was a feminist before men were allowed to be defined as one.
Now another drama ensues from his untimely death:  inheritance issues complicated issues of control surrounding other things in his estate, including his writings. Because Gabrielsson and Larrson never married in spite of being together over thirty years, the Swedish government has given his birth family all rights in spite of the fact that Larrson had very rare contact with them. Not a good situation for the bereaved partner. What deepens the suspense is Eva has a copy of the number 4 book on his computer in her possession. I watched her speak about this in a recorded television interview. Apparently they've always worked together and she edited most of his work.
I first felt compelled to read The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo because of the colorful cover plus all I'd heard and read about it and the author. Then after I'd read, I became enthralled with the mysterious powerful heroine. Larrson's gone and passed on but I love his shit!
Larrson wrote fiction to relax and he loved detective stories. I guess it gave him a break from the harsh reality he faced daily. Strangely even the aftermath of his life reminds us how life is often as strange as fiction.
Larrson proves that writers can create anything. Like my friend Anthony Whyte recently said over coffee, you can take a usual situation where people are sitting at a table drinking coffee and all you need to do is put a gun on the table and boom - the center of attention changes drastically and you can do what you want with your characters. All one has to do is let things fall into place and put things where they should be to add a little drama and spice.
Hooked on Lisbeth, the heroine whose intelligence and resourcefulness never fails her, I sped read the entire book submerged in the characters and events. Little Lisbeth, my heroine, is barely 4 feet 9 inches and 94 pounds soaking wet, is an exceptionally skilled computer hacker who survives impossible circumstances. She is lithe, super strong and can kick karate ass as well as Sarah Michelle Geller plus can defeat any enemy intellectually as well. I also love "Kalle fucking Blomkvist" another main character in the trilogy who could be Larrson's alter ego. Together he and Lisbeth could solve any mystery.
The wording is sometimes a bit dry but according to Grossman, that may be due to the translators facility with subtleties but it didn't damage my attention span or interfere with the excitement. This fast paced thriller kept me spellbound like a movie playing in my head.
After this I was compelled to read number two of the Millennium trilogy, The Girl Who Played With Fire, the perfect mix of action and expository to drive its thrust. Now I'm going to read number three next.
It is fine writers like Mr. Larrson who excite me to write. His characters are so finely tuned and defined that we know them as intimately as our closest friends. For those who don't know the series, I wasn't surprised to see Lisbeth buried alive at the end of part two of the trilogy. Lucky for me the first chapter of part three is included at the end of part two. I can't wait. I'll keep you updated!

Pain travels & travails ...

OK I did expect a play about mental illness - that's how it's advertised after all. I've known Dan Berkey for many years, since 1993 to be exact when we met at a poetry reading. We've been in touch on and off since then and more often now that we've discovered the pleasures of email.

I am Dan Berkey a schizophrenic actor in remission he announces as though we were all together at an AA meeting. Hi I'm Joy and I'm crazy too which most of us are but how many of us have spent time in the psych ward being evaluated and treated and let go again and come in again and again. Some of us slip by this maneuver by the hairs in our nose - we manage not to be there, but somehow this play makes me feel like I signed up for a degree in craziness please, which in some ways I feel I have but not purposefully or at least consciously. I just am crazy enough to be a magnet for people who need help and seem to have a natural ease to understanding their dilemma.

Berkey jumps through so many hoops and has so much energy it unnerves the audience, puts us on edge as he sits on the ledge ready to hedge through the next interlude minus the quaaludes that used to be so popular in the 60's. He leads us through his life showing us what it's like to hear voices and drink to suppress the voices but instead in Berkey's head - alcohol only serves to make the voices more rambunctious. I sat on the edge of my seat as Berkey announced he "would touch" us which he clearly intended to do physically mentally and emotionally. I longed for his touch and dreaded it in the same breath just as he predicted I would.

He exposes his childhood calamities and what appears to be a childhood rape but it's unclear as to whether the rape is real or imagined. He lies on the ground humping the floor and speaking to someone asking them to stop then threatening to tell mommy. The other voice threatens back and his resistance to tell is quelled. In my head I'll go for this is real and the culprit is obviously someone very close - family or close friend. How do I know this? Because I've spoken to over a hundred abused kids, many of them sexually abused by their step dads, uncles, or mom's trusted boyfriend. This particular issue is enough to make me cram my fingers down my throat. While working I got so I could just meet a teen and know she'd been sexually abused. Eventually this work became too painful for me and to make it through my last five years at the Department of Education I had to switch to pre-k - 3 to 5 year olds. Not that they aren't abused but not to the same extent as older children nor are they as verbal as their teen counterparts.

Why did I want to see this play? Because all my life I've worked with and helped people with problems. Forget about the diagnosis - Diagnosis -shmiagnosis. I can talk about that too but that is never what interested me. What always did interest me was motivation and introspection. I find the I in others and examine myself there and there's the rub and fascination. If we can find the whys of our behavior we have a chance of understanding the whys of others.

We were brought full circle as Berkey finally let his pain go along with his medication and alcohol abuse. He chose to be alive be healthy and to be in remission. If he had kept drinking he would've been dead by now. Not only was his liver fucked but he had pancreatitis too and we can't live without those two organs.

Does that mean one chooses to be ill or chooses to be schizophrenic? I think not but I think Dan Berkey has a point about it being in the best interest of the medical profession to keep the ill ill because that is what maintains them - not recovery. I asked Dan if he thought stress had anything to do with his remission and as far as he is concerned it's a mystery where recovery comes from and where illness goes, but his healthy lifestyle combined with clean intent with meditation and yoga practice are certainly factors that help reduce stress. Another factor that influenced his remission is his attitude of letting the pain go, letting the illness go, letting the voices go ... well if you let go of things - those things can no longer influence or control you.

Riveted to Berkey's voice as he took us through his adventures, his sex addiction his alcoholism his bike messengering job and through his successful acting career, I watched him fly through the air, do somersaults, share his inner tumult, and swing right back into the rhythm of himself as naturally as a dog shakes off snow from the winter storm and curls up by a warm fire inside himself. His props are quite creative and strangely believable, especially the bike I imagine I saw him riding, but it's actually strapped to his head and chest as he runs around the stage - showing us another page in the life of ... whoever is running inside my or your head, please make them stop - it's getting sore from being trampled on. His message is loud and clear. We do need to be our brother's keeper.

I know, I'll go do some yoga eat a double nut fudge sundae and watch the fringe while contemplating on the me in me and the me in you and the you in me and us together in society.

Seriously folks, there's only one show left this coming Tuesday and if you're in New York or plan to be and have any interest in the subject matter - go see Dan Berkey in Remission at PS 122. When you're through you can visit Enchantments across the street and pick up some candles and incense like I did.