[name redacted]

 

Used to crush fourteen hour days—
now I rely on machines

We’d all be sittin’ or standin’
there under fluorescent lights

Would wear my headphones most of
the time in my own world of techno

Snipping away at the moment meditating
smoking charas constantly for weeks

I noticed you looked young for your
age, a mother, late-thirties—you were
jealous of my speed—

Like a modern witch with your skinny
short dark hair, black hoody and pale skin—

They’d come and go maybe twelve in all—
but it was your intense energy

That stood out to me the most—
we had something in common

You were beyond me in some ways—
we had feet on both sides

Hands that had reached through other
worlds and everybody knew it—

How long we spent in this room was
irrelevant for we were somewhere
else entirely all along—

Seeing you livid on the phone brought me
some strange hope that I was not alone—

/ / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / / 


It was pure automata—one evening
you approached me from behind—

Scissors no longer in hand
you worked your way into my shoulders

My neck—my back straightened out—
you shifted something biomechanical
on the right side of my throat—

We both felt it move as I was subsequently
propelled from reality into an all-too-familiar
neon vortex of light—

Fuck I must be dead—just like that!
There goes my aorta!

Yet through the timeless persistence it became
apparent that back there I was still living—

You were still pressing
while I was still flying—

You were still standing
I was still sitting—

And no one else in the room
had any idea what was happening

///////////////////////////////////////////////////

When I came back I told you
and everyone else

In endogenous ecstasy and disbelief
all was fiery—aglow and reassembling—

The dynamics of possibility may reveal itself
as gifts you can receive only once—

What was this that set us apart—brought us together—
and is it that which makes us just like everybody else

 

 

 

 

Advertisements

32 thoughts on “[name redacted]

  1. pseudonymous Post author

    This is a true story about an instance that happened to me in 2012 in a house I spent about a month in the redwood forest outside of Santa Cruz, California. The poem was originally written a few years ago. Cringing at it’s raw form in my manuscript but still in awe at the memory—I felt like it needed to be edited and revived here for my readers.

    Her name has been redacted for what I think is obvious reasons. I would change that if I ever got permission but it has been a while.

    When I fully came to I asked her first what drove her to do it in the first place to which she implied it was unconscious or automatic. Then I asked if she could ever remember doing that to anyone else—as she was also a massage therapist and called herself a reiki practitioner [among other things]—which I admit at the time the skeptic, scientist part of me sort-of struggled to understand, like you may be right now, but—

    In fact while doing body work on someone they got up and said to her very startled “you shouldn’t be able to do things like that to people!” and stormed off. She hadn’t pieced together what had happened and made the connection with me. If I wasn’t who I am I wouldn’t be surprised if I felt similar!

    When I say endogenous ecstacy I mean it. I felt drugged all night—I had to lay down and just trip out at what happened and the state I was in. I’ve yet to meet another person that can send people flying through wormholes* with the touch of their hands. I know now that it is as possible as anything else is in this world though.

    *P.S. I hesitate to call it anything at all but feel like that’s about as good as it’s ever going to get.

    Also I apologize if anyone got bombarded by notifications with this post—wordpress just fucked up harder than I’ve ever seen before…

    Reply
      1. pseudonymous Post author

        I still don’t understand this at all, it’s never happened to me before or since (although lots of other phenomenal things have). Mostly just sitting around smoking hash…hardly anything laborous, or out of the ordinary. Although focus and meditation was definitely needed. Harvest is a big part of the culture here in the fall. People participate on their own schedules and speeds when done by hand.

      2. pseudonymous Post author

        I like maintaining a small degree of mystery while still divulging details from my life and work as a writer. I won’t come out and say it even though I feel like it’s obvious. Things have evolved since back then.

    1. pseudonymous Post author

      Thanks boozilla. Possible—yes indeed for sure. I’ve been given many single instances of possibility. They’ve left me with a bigger picture but more questions than I had before if anything. Many thoughts running thru my mind at the moment but I’ll leave it at that… I think life gives you these things to see what you do with them.

      Reply
      1. pseudonymous Post author

        For example, in regards to it being possible for anyone, a notion also brought up by the poem—why have I met only one person who can? I don’t know the answer but the implications are god damn interesting as hell.

  2. boozilla

    WELL. Firstly, YOU have to be able to make the shift that the other person is contacting and setting in motion within you. Not clutching the matched set of bags to you, sort of thing. Secondly, the person who’s doing the setting in motion has to be committed to what they’re doing in a totally non-egoic way. It’s like applying jumper cables to a battery, as my teacher used to say. It takes a certain commitment and co-incident non attachment…but truly anyone can do it- if they want and truly choose to. And of course that sort of zinger doesn’t happen every single time….then again sometimes the incremental movements have the most effect in the long run. Anyway what a great description of something that many don’t even think is “real” but for sure is, and is probably the basis for most real healing…largely because it involves the recipient in the process in a very primary and pivotal way…nobody’s doing anything to anybody. Sort of…….it’s all those heart waves and brain waves and water waves and tree waves and…….you know…..
    .

    Reply
    1. pseudonymous Post author

      Thank you so much for taking the time to articulate that. I sort-of thought something similar—it’s also close to what another one of my friends said as well. I was curious what you would think. I think you hit the nail on the head with that though. It’s some real food for thought. I make that distinction with every healer type person who I meet, which are mostly medical ‘professionals’. There’s a huge difference between the one who actually wants to help and the one that just wants to help their mercedes benz monthly payment. I refuse to have anything to do with the latter at this point…can spot it from a mile away.

      Reply
      1. boozilla

        Thank you! (shucks) So true. And I would still pick the person who’s helping their mercedes benz payment over someone who’s stoking their elephant in the room ego. I’ve been thinking about all this a lot lately, and it’s got something to do with interceding without interfering…..so often the reverse happens….

  3. Donna J Snyder

    I enjoyed some intense experiences with body workers in decades past, particularly in the three main cities of New Mexico. Some of the workers themselves also had extreme reactions to me, my body and my energy. If I could find another worker like the one you describe here, I would be a happier person with far less chronic pain.

    Very interesting story.

    Reply
  4. Pablo Cuzco

    I get how you turned an everyday event – working on an assembly line – though the reiki moment you describe was understandably outside the ordinary, into a poem steeped in vivid symbolism. I recently tried this concept in my own The Love Bomb of J. Prufrock and its companions, These American Boulevards, and The Road to Damascus, inspired by T. S. Eliot’s The Waste Land. I like the style and how you’ve used it in this piece. I’m looking forward to reading more!

    Reply
    1. pseudonymous Post author

      Lol @ assembly line, that is funny. I still hesitate to call this anything other than what it is. Thanks so much! Been a while, like a decade, since I read wastelands…and I’m not sure if I’ve read those other two—into the notebook they go!

      Reply
      1. Pablo Cuzco

        What made The Waste Land so eye opening is his self written explanation of the poem, verse by verse, that I found in a library edition. The other two are part of my Love Bomb suite. I haven’t joined them together yet. I use WordPress for Beta testing my stuff before I send it out.
        I got a hint of an agricultural processing plant in your comments. Keeping the setting mysterious is a great way to entertain while you write. As a famous author put it: A writer’s job is, above all else, to entertain. I can’t remember the source, but it was someone like Steinbeck.

      2. pseudonymous Post author

        I see that now [that I am awake], the library edition sounds cool, and you’re spot on with that quote. I get people wondering all the time who I am. It may be the only reason I haven’t moved from pseudonymous yet. What’s the fun in knowing? Although, in reverse—what’s the fun in not telling? Fine lines I walk…

  5. tmezpoetry

    Mmmm yes I know this full well. It’s a very strange phenomenon yet mine was at the hand of a lover. Touch is extremely powerful, even the suggestion of it. Not only is it my love language, it is at the conscience center (metaphorically or not) in poetry to me because touch releases emotions… and emotions that needed permission to be touched~

    Reply
    1. pseudonymous Post author

      Very interesting and well said thanks for taking the time to reply—it’s always good to hear about relative instances like this especially from outside sources

      Reply

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s