if you see something wrong with the person, something incorrect in what they do, even something that makes you uncomfortable with the possible outcome – you are not in love with that person.

I have these rose-colored glasses. I don’t see anything but perfection in you.  Only rose:

From Hafiz

Watch out for spiritual la la land , where you might end up comatose Some early warning signs are:
…..
C. You start believing some basically regular guy or gal with dreamy eyes – who parrots wisdom – is a saint.

Your love lifts me higher

We have the same values. Don’t laugh. In my heart and in your heart is the same room. A room with a window. The window looks out on meadow. We both go the same room to look at that meadow through the window. Looking at the meadow gives us each the same feeling. So tangible, so in tact, so traceable by your finger, that it could even be named. But we need not name the feeling.

How could you be fooled by the trappings of societal interpretation ? How can words like democrat and alcoholic even enter our world? All of that. All is. Veneer. Covering.

We ate the same. We are one. Forget the rest. You do know how.

Alice Coltrane had John Coltrane inside of her. The ontogeny of her music followed his phylogeny – the creatures he had been, along the way. Beast bodies he had chosen to blow through to make the hollow sound on the saxophone. The organs he had had.

She took his love his body his soul and she carried them on inside her, for him. For his sake. But he had lived and breathed of our sakes. She became, and chose to remain, a vessel for his creatures. His ark.

Embryo with horn to embryo with hoof to embryo with tail and wing. She was a black winged horse, and a black fox bat.

She took his seed inside her ad grew it. She took his seed inside her and, when it was bigger, freer, doper, flyer she launched it out. The seed of plutonium yields a uranium child inside this woman’s head, and it made her wail. Listen. She leapt off the pianoscape and landed on a reedy Hindu organscape. He had howled for her to wail. And if his were cries of sadness in the world, hers became another kind of sadness in another world. And otherworldly crying of disconsolation. On a reed organ.

 

has anyone ever told you “you can’t know my life?”  well, that could be true, and it could be false. it’s ambiguous, actually, because of the word “know” in English.

some people are quite complex, and quite mysterious.  these are the ones that are pretty sure they are unknowable.  and , in fact, I agree – those mysterious people can have their mysteries.  it would take a combination of delving into their histories, plus havign had your own experience, similar to theirs.

which brings me to the point: no one can ever feel what you feel.  ok, there are probably a few gifted empathetic people out there.  but in general, empathy, at its best is, like method acting: you imagine a similar situation from your past, really dig down, and then, when you are deep in it, open your eyes and look at the other person.

another confusing word is “understand.”  I say, “I understand”, and you yell “you can’t possibly understand.”  here’s where it gets sensitive: it turns out that much of what goes down in the human story is exactly the same for every human. every been divorced?  ever had cancer? nowadays, there are a lot of “yes”‘s to these and other questions.

the good news is: you’re not alone!  your biggest problem, actually, is that you think you’re alone. you think no one understands you.  but, your not, and they do.  the older you get, the more it strikes you how all these situations are not just similar – they are exactly the same.  once again, I am NOT saying that you can feel the other person’s pain – there is the conundrum: understanding is not feeling. and so, while we are all together, we are also all alone.

so why struggle to be unknowable?  really. you are still fathomless in terms of the wonder of your being, even if you do have brown hair, green eyes, and thin hair. and the goal then is not to see, to understand – it is to feel, feel together.  not apart.

My great friend and mentor, Jeff Smith, once said “I wonder just what other people mean when they say ‘I love you. ‘ because it has nothing to do with what I mean when I say it. ”

I was in Japan, freshly broken (up). Jeff had been deeply in love with this girl, and se with him. Or so it seemed every time I saw them.

He got her pregnant (not so sure it was him ). She kept the baby and broke up with him, pretty quick. She put a restraining order on him , pretty quick. Her mom was a judge. At this juncture he said to me ” this makes me a sperm donor. We aren’t boyfriends anymore. Men are the sperm donor on the relationship.

How many times has the
Modern woman slapped a restraining order on her man? It’s pretty common. Oh and jot on the cases where it is truly necessary – those poor women never make it to he restraining order. No, it’s just an awesome mechanism for control, which makes a controller very happy.

What inspire supposed to feel like ? After the short stint of wonder, does it just become inconvenient.?

Sperm donor. Restraining order. Love is gotten weird.