a talk with

James sat across from Dr. Marvin, quiet at first as he usually was, taking some time before the plunge into his inner world. He had talked to Dr. Marvin for a while now, though he couldn't quite shake the fear of being judged and the question of what to say and what to withhold. He was finding it challenging as of late, growing as a young adult, looking to the generations that came before him and yet knowing that most of it didn't apply anymore. As he sat there looking at Dr. Marvin, he wondered if the sayings were true. Is he just as fucked up as I am? Perhaps you had to be in order to help those who were. The mind is a tempestuous place at times. Perhaps it is the real black hole that we are looking for out in space. Except that we'll never find it because it's a place we go to get lost, and there's nothing to be found there.

Life is some strange balance of being honest and humble, while honoring what we think is the self. That line of identity and letting it go, looking to our past so as to see it differently, and always carting along that small child who's still somehow along for the ride, knocking. 

"Well, James, why don't you just talk for a bit so I can see where you're at."

James said, "Yeah sure." 

"Um ..." James stuttered.

He was always amazed, not surprised, by how incoherent some of it seemed to come out. That even though he planned on talking about certain things or touching on certain points, they were like plans gone awry, working of their own accord. He talked and talked as Dr. Marvin listened quietly. James was unsure if he felt better after following his own rampant train of thought or if somehow it still left him feeling sticky and unclear, as if intent and precision might help him arrive more slowly into the station.

It is often said that what we give thought to becomes of us, and yet what we ignore comes beating us over the head, so we can’t fully align to that which entices us and yet we cannot deny that which we entice. James did enjoy speaking to another, face to face. There was something grounding about it. He could feel his feet, see the body in front of him, watch as the room grew darker and then lighter again as if changing in his mind. Even here, where letting it all go was the game, James found himself aware of how he sat, composed himself, the feel of his back arching as a slight pang. He found himself perplexed by the complexity he used to circle around the simplicity that was his always problem. A contrast and comparison, the man in the mirror and the way he saw him. Could he really think it to be true? That a way of looking at would change the thing being looked at, as if he could just surrender all that paranoia of concern with others so easily. 

Sometimes it was hard to tell what was challenging but good for the spirit, what was hard and unnecessarily so, how much laziness was innate and how much drive was conditioned. He often wondered of such things, of himself, of the world. Of why he was carved so flawed, that an inside could be twisted and yet appear smooth on the surface. 

As if an intelligent tree, he stopped talking. He felt better, and was for a moment relieved, a transmitter along the network working in a web that wound not only him to Dr. Marvin but him to the entity of his mind itself, touching the leaves and the wind that blows them, as if in a blink called to question ~ is it even real?

esteemed

wherein the steam of its still,

found forage, the anvil of its glint

 

life, alive as a rock, or a tree petrified into rock

the air and its waves,

sound traveled into

 

the old man sat sounding ~ "what will be of your esteemable acts"

- esteem,

able and esteeming 

 

in giving and getting, the tug of a life's shore and tide

.. the arms spread and waving, there, what brings alive as its esteem to rise

 

"what will be of your esteemable acts?"

 
 
 

sayd yes

what did you say yes 

 

the other side of yourself  

 

 

  inactive infinity

 

 

wait only for the well, digging deeper

sterling

"sterling, will you open that window a little more? it's so hot in here." sterling turned to his sister sitting on the other side of the room. she was engrossed in a magazine, cutting bits out and piling them on the table. he was immersed in a book, sitting by the window, wanting quiet, yet still, he opened the window a little more.

the wind blew, his hair against his eyes and the papers making a sound of flying. she grunted, “actually, can you close that?” 

there were the few things of string that tie together, the torn table, or rather what spins and always sees before you the ones that are born of blood or of a breast, the beating underneath it, and it’s wind of words.

sterling and sister, an unremarked friendship bidden by the hidden once love of two, the thrown together tide of romance now, where only windows open still blowing but never fully seen through screen, or the ones shattered that are easier pieces to pick, or toss. 

in the heat of a summer, sweating bodies found only under the cool places, digging with hands into the earth, a deep attempt, clawing and wild, the beasts that would go underground, finding water, to drink not of what pours from the mountain’s side.

sterling & silver, his platter of tarnished metal, uncared for but holding the set of beauty, a tea from a time ago, green lawns and manicures, but now the heat of a city summer, of writing and crafting the twine of skin that awakens early to alarms to “grind” grit of paychecks that in it, the felt sense of alive or what other must be feeling so too to feel it for self, sweating, the detox of a city summer. 

”sterling, order us some food. i can’t talk on the phone right now, sweat smearing screens.” sterling took the phone from her as it fell, dialing something without knowing what. a number to a name, sometimes overcome by something without control and the after thought of choice that said face implanted hand, the sigh of why. 

yet still, unremarked, the awareness of the bees that still, may sting, that still, a bee’s buzz, that still, a human, and may hear, that still, the choices of paths and bridges that pull together the large breasts of the earth and its caves deep dwelling, and all that pierces it, like an echo.  

 

 

.. going to come

it is perhaps the things we most often hear about, write on, reflect within that leave some bread crumb into the mark up of a being that strands itself to one called "human,"

as an old friend, or sometimes a new, we grow closer to time, the ways a once thought appears or an evaded seeing steps before our eyes, not out of a blink's ignorance but a way of knowing, intimately, the life cycle of a flower, sown and sprouted to then one day wilt and fall

.. perhaps the flower grows closer to the sun, and as so, awakens to its fondness each morning, where after a time, it may part, in not of need or want, only as equals

there is only the face of staring back, each morning of messy heads and stilled eyes waking that spray of dreams lingered and not yet liminal, though of infant to sun rayed wrinkle, there are eyes that drift slightly farther and back, the same, where threads sift and yet only lighten or darken the same based on the wear of the sun

as the world expands, we see less of it, and as we see more of it, we come to either question or confirm that we know

as human of heart, in lifetimes of love, worlds that start and then end, people passing and pausing, the questions we never know & the still moments of hearing the rain fall, when the world is quiet, and the hands that hold together grip tightly more 

copyright 2018 ⓒ / forrest gallagher