The Eye: 10 for today

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I’m having a life that’s whipping me all about, inside and out of the eye of the hurricane. The eye’s stillness eludes me. I’ve always aimed for the eye, that stillness inside of the chaotic destruction and creation around me. Some call that spectating.

But I don’t merely spectate. I activate and create too. My many jobs require it. When I write, I create something from nothing or nothing from many somethings. Mostly I spin what I research around inside my head until something—a notion, experience, memory, a line, or story—attaches itself to the research and the point of the thing, the blog, article, essay, poem, or whatever.

The process appears hapless on paper but there’s method and madness, kind of like that eye of the storm. I know what I’m doing; I just don’t know how everything will turn out until I’m there, writing that last pithy line, witty, provocative, or simply tied up finished.

There’s an indestructible, spun strand, taut with vibration so speedy the hum is silent, that runs through it all, that directs the writing and me.

But this life now, with its many moving parts and fits and starts, tunnels and bridges, I just don’t know what to think. I’ve challenged myself to do something—to sell love in a box–foreign to my natural instincts and trajectory thus far. I cast myself long ago as the exiled extrovert in the back of bars and coffee shops. What am I doing in everyone’s face, prying?

It’s as if I’m trapped inside the writing process, floating, attaching to random bits strewn about a feverish brain of what ifs and what nots—and I’m supposed to come up with something not only coherent but valuable to someone else. It’s loud. It’s jarring. Where’s the unspoken, voiceless name only I can hear?

The calm. It’s what I’ve practiced all my life. Find the core, the stillness. Be the eye.

Crowded in Bars


Sit in a crowded bar.

Hear the roar of intelligible volume.

Music bass beats disrupting cardiac rhyme.

Shouts, whispers and laugher, all a boom.

Fist bumps and swaying good cheer.

Love and loneliness conflate, swill in beer glass

Bottoms, oh where can I feel this good again?

And why the price to pay bankrupts me.

Write in a thumping pub.

Stool side bar lined drinkers and snackers,

I buzz along the page, noting the din, 

An elf pit padding by, no a child.

A child? 

Bar strip invisible barriers to the dining room,

No walls, balloons, kids and family, clinking wine

Glasses and frosted mugs, steins, clicks, smiles, shouts

Above the music, lyrics swallowed in the mêlée of 

Motion and shoveled appetizers and gin, hospitality

And bused trays of bitten bits, refuse, waste, prolifligate

Posterity to posh sea and salt surroundings, spirits and

Song and gathering grand mirrored cheer, happiness

In a thin stemmed crystal–and you, out there somewhere

Celebrating your birth, the wonder of survival,

without me, alone with all of your friends

And family, a beer or so inside your belly, thinking of us,

Being with them, and both alone in our own movies.
————————————————–

Food’s here–finally.
 
And so it is, writing in a bar.
Biting at words.
 
Buzzed.
Sculpin IPA on tap.
 
Broke.
Payday a week away.
 
Fed.
Summer squash in fall, I had to.
 
And
No more, no reason.
 
Ready to say,
Write:
 
“I’ve been out this Friday night.”
 
Every day’s sameness.
 
Writing at my desk,
The confines of my chested blues.
 
Like a cliché gone staler.
Need.to.Reinvent.
 
But after just one. More.
 

Pub: pixabay

Pratyahara

  
Cogs turn, whistles blow

feet shuffle, flee apace as

riders jump, arms akimbo;

leaves tremble, windswept 

ciliated born sussuration 

summersaulting walkways

of pavements steam, misty 

chlorophyl wafts green

lungful chunky clumps; 

engines hiss, track clacks

spine smacking clamor,

light beams rip clouds,

shredding skyward eyes,

tossing the bustle by

yard by yard, square on,

as chorus-ful chaos blooms

in the stillness of notice,

as I thread a hurricane’s eye.