[writersrelief-deactivated202404]

There are, it seems, two muses: the Muse of Inspiration, who gives us inarticulate visions and desires, and the Muse of Realization, who returns again and again to say “It is yet more difficult than you thought.” This is the muse of form. It may be then that form serves us best when it works as an obstruction, to baffle us and deflect our intended course. It may be that when we no longer know what to do, we have come to our real work and when we no longer know which way to go, we have begun our real journey. The mind that is not baffled is not employed. The impeded stream is the one that sings.

Wendell Berry (via writersrelief)

[ohsailme]

Really into krishnamurti, these days...

[ohsailme]

[thearmlessambidextrian-blog]

Bonobo with Chet Faker & Szjerdene in Dallas :)

[ohsailme]

[ohsailme]

To be continued... revised & edited & whatnot.

[ohsailme]

Let the lover be disgraceful, clumsy, absentminded. Someone sober will worry about things going badly. Let the lover be.

-Rumi

[ohsailme]

Physics

You want a physicist to speak at your funeral. You want the physicist to talk to your grieving family about the conservation of energy, so they will understand that your energy has not died. You want the physicist to remind your sobbing mother about the first law of thermodynamics; that no energy gets created in the universe, and none is destroyed. You want your mother to know that all your energy, every vibration, every Btu of heat, every wave of every particle that was her beloved child remains with her in this world. You want the physicist to tell your weeping father that amid energies of the cosmos, you gave as good as you got. And at one point you'd hope that the physicist would step down from the pulpit and walk to your brokenhearted spouse there in the pew and tell him that all the photons that ever bounced off your face, all the particles whose paths were interrupted by your smile, by the touch of your hair, hundreds of trillions of particles, have raced off like children, their ways forever changed by you. And as your widow rocks in the arms of a loving family, may the physicist let her know that all the photons that bounced from you were gathered in the particle detectors that are her eyes, that those photons created within her constellations of electromagnetically charged neurons whose energy will go on forever. And the physicist will remind the congregation of how much of all our energy is given off as heat. There may be a few fanning themselves with their programs as he says it. And he will tell them that the warmth that flowed through you in life is still here, still part of all that we are, even as we who mourn continue the heat of our own lives. And you'll want the physicist to explain to those who loved you that they need not have faith; indeed, they should not have faith. Let them know that they can measure, that scientists have measured precisely the conservation of energy and found it accurate, verifiable and consistent across space and time. You can hope your family will examine the evidence and satisfy themselves that the science is sound and that they'll be comforted to know your energy's still around. According to the law of the conservation of energy, not a bit of you is gone; you're just less orderly. Amen. -Aaron Freeman.

[ohsailme]

An old piece I never named. Go figure.

[ohsailme]

[ohsailme]

Love love love this one.

Every word = irresistible. 

[thetalltwig]

I honestly like this poem just because of the cheeky title. *fist pump* (Also, I am going to be signing my poems with my full name now as there have been some problems with only signing with my quite common initials. Thank you for understanding!)

[ohsailme]

[ohsailme]

[ohsailme]

A collection of little notes, ideas, & sweet nothings whispered long ago.

[ohsailme]

[ohsailme]

Foiled

Summer scenes & tightrope dreams

no more than nostalgia seem. 

Sunlight eclipsed amber glass

mimicked Midas’ golden grasp.

Tightrope walk, meet in the middle

you told me that you loved my giggle. 

I missed the signs, blind to the cues,

had a rather tough time believing that you,

Prince Charming, could ever be charmed by me

as I struggle to take myself seriously.

With one who flows beautifully, waltzing up walls,

I’ve regrettably made quite the mess of it all.

Clumsy fingers, clumsy words

dropped the paintbrush – scared the birds

that sang to me on brightest days

serenading stress away.

“You don’t understand,” I’ve been told before,

“you’re far too young to unlock that door.”

Words I have whispered, poorly considered.

“Who says that?” you asked, “Kids, I guess. Later.”

That moment, that change, like a drop of black paint

casting sad shadows of ebony rain.

Darkness brings forth fog & gloom

poisoning palettes & altering moods.

So I retreated, defeated, & watched you grow distant

eternally wishing to rewind that instant.

Hit the nail on the head, my only fear,

that you were unsettled by distance in years.

Still, I built it up beneath my feet – 

this pedestal of fantasies.

Naivety, I failed to see

‘till it collapsed from under me. 

Imprisoned myself in the rubble, the mess

surrounded by thoughts too afraid to confess.

Connection, the key to be freed from my cell

the rope to help me climb out of the well.

Though perhaps I have hung far too much on this peg

as I stand here, cliff-side, on trembling legs. 

I’ve tried, for some time now, to write you a lovesong

but the melodies always just seem to come out wrong

‘cause I worry with words & I doddle with diction

resulting in nothing to label nonfiction.

Rhetoric, rhyme; they’re aesthetically pleasing

but beautiful nonsense should not be believed in.

So I pace back & forth on my risky rock ledge

ever mindful of the crumbling edge.

The trouble is, we assume we still have time. 

& I, if anyone, am guilty of this crime.

I’d been hoping perhaps I could figure you out

when I realized that’s not really what it’s about.

I am no puppeteer, & I hold no ones strings

as everyone knows the caged bird won’t sing.

I’ve truly tried not to be inconsistent.

I’ve been indecisive for all my existence.

& I’ve come to see that time waits for no man

the hourglass continues to drop grains of sand

& even though time is merely illusion

it’s still just as real as the rest of confusion

I’ve been told if I let you slip through my fingers

I’ll find that forever the questions will linger.

It’s just that I feel very strongly for you

& sometimes it seems you are fond of me, too.

& well, 

this tale is really quite tough to conclude,

to pinpoint that which I’m asking of you.

As you wander the world, you will surely be missed

& I’ve wondered before if I might could come with.

Yet I know that no matter my worldly desires

when it all really comes down to the wire

I’ve a long list of dreams & things to do 

& you’ve got your own dreams to pursue.

I need nothing from you but to know that you know

even if you decide to go on alone

someone, somewhere, some place far away

will smile at sunflowers for all of her days.

True stories have no beginning or end

the sequels hide beyond the bend

& I’m sure one day we shall meet again,

If not this life, perhaps the next.

-Kelby Rae Langevin