poems for people, and notes on love

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May 13 by The Running Son


thanks to the creator of this image who ever u r

some of you are honesty junkies. i like that. others, not so much. that’s ok. welcome to honesty anyways.

there are posts on this blog where i ruminate shamelessly about honesty and ego and open lives, and timing, and just being me, and finding it very difficult to bypass my fears to reach my dreams or the meaning of life. this isn’t that.


I believe that since February of this year, and well recorded here, i have undergone a full blown catharsis of thought and creative expression.

illustrating this in as much color as my writing can, is some 130 poems published since april 14th, of many different styles while finding my voice, which i hope i haven’t found yet. I have writings on here written during what, I have to considerto be, a mild psychotic break, or mystical experience, if any of the literature on mysticism or mental-health/psychosis has anything to say.

I still don’t understand the term catharsis, but that is a large point in my journey– that I don’t understand things completely, like i always felt, in the face of competition, that i didn’t know enough, or worse, never could.

but also, I think another point is, that the rudimentary understandings we all have are enough, and the life we live is enough to supply the raw materials for transformation.

I am writing terribly self-consciously, feeling like narcissus himself staring in lakes and gettin all happy. but i move on. that’s been my battle here, my great bi-polar war of identities. ego and essence, or spirit and flesh, the unified division between us and ourselves, and the moveing past them, or through them, or up.

it’s all there. terrble Bi-grammar and nonspelling. imperfect lives. mistakes. shame, and hopelessness and seeing no way out, and late nights and discarded dreams. or meaning to connect with friends, old plans, and forgotten places we would have liked to have seen.

or being bad when we know the right way to act with people. yelling, and insisting we get respect. or hating our own poetry. or hating period. many of these are part of my life, but the worst of them include the things i did to people, how i treated these other beings, justifying myself all the way in to a living-space where no light peaks.

I was a failure. i don’t feel ashamed of that right now. maybe tomorrow again. I was a bad son to my parents, and have tried to over-make-up for it until it’s almost funny, and have strayed in every way a well education son could, including without going to college (as they expected i would).

but this is a story crafting a tale, one that illustrates something very important for me, and everyone frankly.

Every.single.thing in life is precious, including mistakes and failure, because all activity is the raw material that, upon propelling us forward, promises richer and deeper tones, and higher and more divine tones, like lives spiraling up the octaves of the music scale, each level dependent upon the imprint and direction of the one that trailed.

learning depends on blocks of building material, or the previous octave’s notes, to reproduce it’s variations and build. Values are blocks, and notes and keys, to unlocking the true path of our lives, our essential and long journeys home to god, or truth, or feeling good about living, i dont know exactly. but remember, i dont have to know perfectly.

but, musicians know, tones can go dissonant. animals know when something is off. people sometimes know too, when someone else is “off”, or not all that they seem.

These off tones vibrate differently. my limited understanding here, as i said, forces me to use what i do know, the basics. just the raw necessary information to produce ideas, not so different from life itself, the way we select our particular path to the exclusion of ideas, or people, or dreams we’re afraid to penetrate further. sometimes its just because it’s the way we are led to go.

and when the dissonant tones ring, animals and people, and many things stop somehow. in small ways, subtly perceiving that something has acted in a way that is against natural flows or processes, or something non-process. an event has taken place that stops angels and babies alike, and stops the trusting easy flow of a child’s eyes always seeing. they see eve.ryth.ing

a series of events has brought me here now. i went through them, as traveling on a spiral necessarily means we pass by and thru things. but familiar things, all of them, memories and impressions since deep into childhood when the spiral began, with first “rings“.

even now while i type this, i stop and do things. i am exited about explaining all i see and feel, sure, but cali-boy gotta take a break. but i dont fret; i trust, and when i return i generally jump back in with refreshed vision of my idea or poem, and sometimes with added illumination, or ways to expand the audience that can “get it” in the poem.

Ive been lonely, and alone. i don’t really know what the difference is between the two, but i’ve been them both, im sure of it. And i’ve worried about how we avoid loneliness in others, like it’s a vacuum in people. its as if, they were spiraling down the octaves, or a vortex, backwards and reaching out, but threatening to pull us in and down.

i hate that. i hate not having a hand. this magnetic push i’d like to “get” myself, to understand. maybe knowing that common loves and damaged lives and imperfect ones, for which we all qualify, are the beginning we all need.. to stop being stupid, and doing stupid things to people we love, or hardly know.

There is so much more to say. dam. but after all, this isn’t a manifesto. or at least the whole thing.

this beginning of an effort at explaining the unifying of the ego and the true self, is dedicated to Dr. Claudio Naranjo, a teacher, who I have no reason to believe is less than a gentle human being, a man. he has helped me see my dreams.


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RFB editor Jim Aldrich, Joshua Tree CA 2013

RunningSon aka Jim Aldrich, Joshua Tree CA 2013 | This site is dedicated with the deepest gratitude to Dr. Cláudio Naranjo, whose writings gave me life.

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