Wednesday, July 21, 2010

A Dangerous Fragility

Pablo is another poet. He wrote a poem with “dangerous fragility” as the translation of his phrase. I liked it. I will always favor this one too: “You hold the key to love and fear both in your trembling hand.”

I knew a girl who had a trailer at a nudist camp. I was nearly her boyfriend. I never went with her, but I was intrigued. She called herself a nudist Buddhist. I am no longer in the same spaces and this stuff doesn’t really call to me that much any more. However, I believe deeply in a profound transparency.

I want to live such that there are no more secrets. Remaining discreet is a part of civility. You don’t puke your stuff out on the shoes of others whether they want to know of it or not. On the other hand, how freeing is the thought there is no longer anything I must keep quiet. It is all too long ago, or they are dead, or so long gone that none of it matters anymore. Then all that stuff becomes grist for the sharing, to teach, or to establish rapport, or to comfort – to just touch base and share connection.

Me too, brother. I too used to stress out farm animals. Heh. Well that may be a bit of an exaggeration, but I do have my stories.

A Dangerous Fragility

I am low, broken,
ground down like the sand that's left
when you grind down glass.
I feel surrounded,
dangerous fragility.
(Pablo wrote that phrase)

Now you point it out.

The capacity for fear
and for love is one,
from the same deep place.

You say abandon my last
towel to the wind.
Vanquish the howling
complaints and open the shades.
No more ghosts today.

June 16, 2009 12:51 PM


  1. I'm not quite sure how this is done. It sure appeals to me but living alongside others who don't have any idea what any of this might mean - well, it makes it more of a challenge, that's for sure. And so I try. And fail. And try again.


  2. I think, my love, my very good friend, that your nearby people depend on you however they express it. It may be essential for you to do in this realm for them. They may not be grateful, but they still rely on the freedoms you contain for them.

    All the human ways, all the expressions of life, are not everyone's birthright. There is a thing called destiny. We are destined to a range of roles in the human drama. We come from somewhere specific and so we go as well.

    In all the gatherings we have different spaces to fill, or different instruments to play. Often there is only one of us to a role, where we may think that we are supposed to call the others home to us, but only we are near to home in this way. The others have other paths even while nearby.

    That means that you are painting in this neck of the woods and only you may be charged with that responsibility. I have noticed for my part that I walk a solitary path for the most part. When others of like casting come near, it is not long that we both see the need to part, not from each other but toward our destinies, our responsibilities.

    The people who stay nearby longer seem to have very different roles and also do not seem to care much about mine. I assume that the differences and the lack of concern are both essential. The differences and lack of concern don't feel that good much of the time. Tough shit.


The chicken crossed the road. That's poultry in motion.

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