Moving to wordpress, to blog and share my journey:
see you there!
One of my favorites of the new manuscript,
The Saltwater Recollections
Today I learned
how to hold a breath
when someone punches you
in the pit of your stomach,
and how to smile
even when your pockets
are full of stones
and you’re drowning
in the lake
of your own agony.
Today I learned
that ships and anchors
are destined to sink,
and that I am not as beautiful
The moon is full and rising over the Raritan Bay. It is a luxurious egg white with touches of yellow craters that seem to glow like a night light. You once spoke about the moon and described it as a cold point on our journeys path. “The sun is the past, the earth is the present, the moon is the future” you wrote in June 1900, a month before your 57th birthday. You loved drinking a glass of whiskey at night, perhaps by moonlight. You said it was for your health and would help you live to 150. This July will be your 157th, and although whiskey only gave you 87 years, I feel in many ways you are still living amongst us.
It wasn’t until I began reading your writings that I saw past the veil of idealism that surrounds your image today. Every July 10th the alternative science and technology blogs hail your birthday. Facebook posts display your most quintessential quotes besides your intense and gleaming photo. Nikola Tesla. Even your name rings like that of a king, or a rare and precious gem.
But you are only human, not a god or even a king.
What I have found through your writings is that you are a revolutionary of the mind and of the heart, for in all your efforts of genius and ingenuity you wished never for money or power. At the end of it, you sacrificed your own identity just to bring to Earth new discoveries which may make life here a little easier.
And you are still needed Nikola, even after death. You believed we could harness electricity from the air and create free, wireless energy for every soul on the planet. A hundred years later and this technology still feels utopian. Perhaps progress itself has become gridlocked by the measure of the dollar. This world is not much changed then, and maybe it is all too familiar to you. I read how you lost your laboratory due to exploitative funding, and although you received over 800 different patents in your life, you still died penniless and alone in the New Yorker Hotel.
Affection from a woman never filled your desire as much as your own curiosity. Perhaps in those last ten years, alone in hotel room 3327, you had regretted turning away your many admirers. Or maybe you still imagined what your earlier experiments hadn’t revealed. Maybe you drew lines in the air mimicking those drawings you filled with amazing possibilities. I would love to sit for a moment in your lab, in the late hours of the night, where you made so many of them a reality. Only few eyes ever saw you illuminate a light bulb in your hands, or generate high voltage electricity wirelessly using your Tesla Coil.
It has been said you were a man placed out of time. I don’t believe any time is good for a person who wants to bring change to the world. Even now, we idealize about you, but were you alive today, what fate would our cruel judgmental minds give you, if not the one already dealt? We talk of you longingly perhaps because it is terrifying to accept this world is still ours to create.
And what a world we could create. You said all life is rhythmic. Birth, growth, old age, and death are nothing but a cadence which all universal laws obey. I believe all movement adheres here too, including our ideas. Your second coming tells me there is an unceasing drive to move forward. To discover every bit of our mysterious Earth before we become dust and ice, our efforts but a crater on the moon.
You have inspired us to keep imagining—to see the world through the eyes of a visionary, and believe there is a spark of within us, still capable of transforming itself into a great fire.
crematorium back to womb
dawn to noon
dusk to you
Today the snow reminded me
To love each moment
I am able to stand still
And see the importance of
Just one small breath
All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms.
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
Perhaps palms are better suited to be
Detached from arms, lying on hills under stars
I find fingers always slipping into coat pockets
Clutching seams and stroking crumbs
They might please a pen on paper, but instead
Lay like a moth dried up on the dashboard
My hands, once full of yarns and needles,
Sheets of paper and worn book covers
My hands as small and delicate as tissue
Resemble a petal preparing to slip away
Amongst white blankets perfectly crisp
And a restful yawn at sunrise
There are still walls sitting in the dunes,
Broken branches hanging off the roofs
And mud marking the wooden fence.
A yard for snow angels
And a napping cats
Lay where a living room stood.
Perhaps I’ll plant there a seed
An evergreen whose arm
Points towards the sea
A window and a chair (again I am here)
Carmel by a bare sycamore
A silent centipede of air
It’s arms could lift me from my chair
To view tiny people
Quietly foot stepping
Through the little day
That web sitting near windows all day
that rumor of a wave
that masks the light of sun
that melts the town to coral
that sets our souls spun
that rumor of a wave
that was written and sung
that legends living nor undone
that to me a prayer you gave
that from crimson glass hung
that water in my lung
that weight of my tongue
that wave has only become
if i could bloom in winter, id be only an evergreen
but so sensitive my flower grows
so till spring,
the great unfold
these wild seconds will be
a mere time lapse
Today I watched the curtains sway with the current of the air vents
I watched for the sun, which in the final hours of day, exposed itself
I watched as it lit the white fence posts and brown wicker chair
I watched five birds bathe in it upon a streetlight
In the morning the river was moving east, towards the ocean
Now it moves west, towards the sun, away, breaking open independence.
The reeds can’t stop shaking
The river won’t stop flowing
No nothing stays still
In this day no one sits watching the curtains shake in air vents like I do
If loneliness was to be my punishment for following the snow
Onto a frozen river
It has indeed become my gift
Nothing moves as slow and delicate
But if compared to rain
We would say
Not enough urgency