Does it appear and change so quickly?
A drop of lukewarm water that hits a heating cast iron skillet
Neutral screams, hisses, and is vaporized
It conveys a world of information, but only after its demise
What good is that drop of neutral falling through the air
Until it spits its secret at you and is gone?
Do you fight to be part of a club
Whose members scowl when they let you inside?
Do you stick out your chin and contribute
While ignored or quite pushed to the side?
Do you fight for adding a perspective
When packaging is all that is seen?
Can you hang just long enough to be heard
When epithets are much louder than words?
When words like feelings are altered
Bastardized for the sake of the cause,
They are meant to reveal that you’re less than
And to drown out all sounds but applause.
What is defeat, if there is such a thing?
Winning seems much less real than the blows.
Is it found when you keep yourself inside the brawl
Or when you stand up and say that is all?
Is inclusion for only those beings
Who share exact vocabulary and skill?
Or perhaps for us all who regardless of books
Can draw upon our experience at will.
I have been thinking a lot about intellectual dialogue and argument. Mainly in the realm of meditation practice. But I suppose it could extend to almost any area. While I see that it is extremely valuable, I am also seeing another side of it. When does intellectual dialogue, and the emphasis on the perfectly formed argument become exclusionary? Is there every really such a thing as perfect argument? Language is so tricky, especially on the blogosphere. Everyone contributes bringing their own intention, motivations, education, life experience to the table. But how easy is it to communicate these when it is distilled down to words on a screen? Some might argue (for lack of a better word) that this is precisely why you must perfect the very specific language of your discussion. I would say that perhaps these variables are exactly why that is NOT possible. We all have filters through which we write and read. We may think that we are capable of removing those filters. I would suggest that we are perhaps capable of being aware of some of these filters, but not capable of removing them entirely, and certainly NOT capable of predicting what filters another may be using, or how they will be applying them. So for me, it is not about the perfectly worded argument…but the participation and throwing around ideas and perspectives. It is about the act of the argument/dialogue, not necessarily JUST the dialogue itself. Otherwise the dialogue becomes so exclusionary that, even if you have a group with opposing viewpoints, certain segments of society that might have something valuable to contribute are weeded out of the group. When and where does a philosophical argument intersect with real/daily life? Must we exclude them from each other in order to make a perfect point? We all want to figure these things out, or at least wrestle with intellectual ideas, but we all also have to wash our underwear. And then where does the quirkiness of life find room? And who are we perhaps leaving out of a discussion that may actually have a few answers? Do we have to have a very specific level of education, and vocabulary, in order to be heard during a discussion? If that is the case then there may be a huge population of human beings left on the side of the road, while we are busy “figuring things out for them.” Personally I am not comfortable with that. I don’t know all the answers but this is just something that has been on my mind. For what it is worth.
The cold forced air stirs up
The hairs on my arms
Sympathetic soldiers
Compelling me to move
My entire being certain
That staying in this place
Will bring a frozen death.
My breath and posture
Para military sentries, alert
Unmoving in their guarding
Show me what trust must be
Compelling me in their stillness
To remain silent and watchful
I am duty bound to regard them.
I heard a clicking from my shoe, 
a googly eye had stuck like glue
between the treads as I walked about,
it watched me while I plucked it out.
Wish I could write but my day is too busy,
Keeping thoughts from the “paper” is making me dizzy.
I take a deep breath, connect, and sink into it. Shoulders down. Hold my frame just enough to be stable, but not so much that I am pulling one way or the other. Look down, eyes at a 45 degree angle, but feel the connection. Keep my core strong, my back straight, and find my center of balance. Begin the dance. Stay with each moment. Open up and let go. Try not to close in on myself. Breathe. Trust my teacher. Trust that I have absorbed some of each lesson. Trust in my own style. Know that there is a balance point between strict adherence to practice and letting my own variation show itself. Feel the change of tempo, sometimes fast and aggressive, sometimes slow and intimate. There are moments of linear balance and moments of twists and turns. Do not hold my breath. Thinking happens, but don’t get caught up in it. Keep my senses open. Use my ears and eyes…but not too much, just enough to be aware. Always go back to the breath. Be in THIS moment. When it is done, let it go. No matter how it went. Remind myself that I do it just to do it. It is in the very act of being in my own skin that I will find the purpose. Let go of expectations. And then go about the rest of my life. 
A moment while driving
I noticed a squirrel
His figure black and outline crisp
As the afternoon sun shone behind him
His back against a tree
Equally dark and haloed
Details blacked out like an eclipse
Except clearly his busy ears and hands
Feeding himself some morsel from the earth
I felt witness to something alive
I sighed deeply grateful for the beauty of the moment
While driving back an hour later
Near the same storied spot
I saw a freshly smeared squirrel in the road
In the light and full of detail
That perhaps I wouldn’t have asked to see
Same squirrel?
It seemed a lesson.
And the beauty was not dimmed because of it
What if I am
A solitary spirit
Only
Comfortable when despairing
Clawing at reality
Drawing blood that pulses
With life
Can I feel Life
If I am not
Bleeding
What if I need
The dirt and grit
Of the real
And what if
Living requires
The blood of others
Do I remorse
For them
Or Rejoice
For myself
Covered in the blood of my experience…
Overloaded
A cube of stainless steel and plastic
Enough wiring to spin and give notice
Made only to be filled and emptied
Filled with heat and stink that rises
Needed insides are useless now
Still caked with what was discarded
Our fault
We didn’t pay attention
Or perhaps we forced it anyway
Overloaded too
My morning cereal has been poured
The milk as well
Uh oh!
The silverware drawer has no spoons
Quickly check the washer
My breakfast is getting soggy
I can hear it crackling
Pull open the door
Wow!
It looks clean but still stinks
I can’t tell which are spoons or forks
Found a spoon
CRAP!
What is that still caked on it
Gummy and sticky and on my fingers
Stuffed full was a bad idea
Grab another and shut it
Whew!
Sigh…
I carry my soggy cereal and my clean spoon out of the kitchen.
sometimesihatemycat 