lights

I can't believe it's been 9 days since my last post. As the holidays approach my depression has been clawing at me a bit more than usual...but I can't give up my writing again. This is what I love the most...using words to express thoughts and emotions and hopefully to connect with you, the reader...to bring you some of my experience, to share my soul as much as these words will allow. Anyway, please accept my apology for not writing these last 9 days. I promise to try to do better.

So I saw this thing from ABC Los Angeles today...it was an aerial shot of the holiday traffic. There was one huge band of red dots (brake lights) and one huge band of white lights (headlights). Both bands looked to be about eight lanes wide...I'm not sure which highway it was, as I'm not familiar at all with the City of the Angels. But what struck me was the fact that each of those tiny lights represented at least one life, and probably more, since many of the cars I'm sure held more than one human being (and probably not a few animals as well). As an empath, I had a sort of epiphany while watching these bands of light.

I realized that each red or white dot represented at least one human life. There were literally thousands of cars in my view, and as the helicopter panned out further and further, the bands of dots stretched for miles. I was overcome by the fact that each dot had a story. Each dot represents a struggle of some kind, a joy, a conflict, perhaps someone falling in love. Each dot containing the hopes and dreams of at least one human being. All those lives. It just overwhelmed me...and I'm still overwhelmed just thinking about it.

I feel like I'm not conveying the enormity of what I felt/saw, so I will now borrow from an old friend, Kurt Vonnegut. In his masterpiece "Breakfast Of Champions" (given to me at 13 to read by my brother Jim, and one of the finest things I ever received from him), Vonnegut introduces us to the Modern Artist Rabo Karabekian. The artist has come under fire at a display of his work -- a canvas with one lone strip of paint (I don't remember the color, alas) on an otherwise blank canvas. Rising courageously and righteously, Karabekian explains his work. He tells the assembled crowd of art connoisseurs that the band on his canvas represents the sum of the life force of a single being. Were there two people, there would be two bands, and so on.

I recall what Karabekian described...that each soul was an "unwavering band of light". I find that such an elegant description of the force that animates us all. Call it the Force, call it a spirit, call it a soul...every living being is at base an unwavering band of light. I recalled Vonnegut's words as I stared at the rows upon rows of light, red and white, and the way they morphed together into bands of red and white light as the chopper rose and rose. All those stories. All those souls. All those unwavering bands of light.

The way the bands solidified gave me hope, for just a moment, that perhaps one day we can harness ourselves one to another to create those awesome bands of light. Imagine what peace we could wield with our souls blended together in this way. The hippie in me (still very much alive) thought of the John Lennon song "Imagine"..."Imagine all the people living life in peace". With that, I find myself running out of words, so I will conclude. I've added a link to the YouTube of this song...my hope for you all, friends, is peace on this Thanksgiving day, and in your lives in general. May your bands of light be forever unwavering and true.



https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DVg2EJvvlF8

kush

Almost a year ago, we adopted a cat named Kush. Named by his previous owner, he is a handsome orange tabby cat, a little over a year old. If brought into my bedroom at night, and the space heater is on, Kush will settle onto my chest for some sleep and some love. After a time, he warbles and gets up to lie elsewhere on the bed, usually ending up right next to me. He will stay all night.

This means a lot to me, but meant even more during the first difficult weeks and months of my separation. Kush was more than a cat to me: he was (and is) a friend to me, and I'd like to think I am to him. He is our only cat who is allowed out of doors (since that's the way he was raised) but doesn't generally like the cold, and looks at us like we're crazy when we go out there. Perhaps we are.

My friend Matt says Kush's fur feels like that of a stuffed animal...and after I thought about it, I agree. I have constructed a children's story/fable around that idea, whereupon a small stuffed animal (perhaps a tiger) is magically transformed into a living thing. Of course, since it is only a little tiger, it is converted into a mini-tiger: Kush.

And of course he is fierce in real life...more than once he has paid tribute to us by leaving the evidence of various small animals he has slain. A mighty warrior is our Kush-kitty...but also a warm ball of orange fur (and purr) to help me keep vigil through the long nights. I owe him a great deal, but all he asks for is food, water, and love.

All three of which he gets in abundance. Last night he slept on my chest as he drowsed, the space heater on and the room pleasantly warm. I thought I could feel his cool green eyes on my face as mine were closed, but when I opened them, it was to Kush dreaming, perhaps of his past life as a fierce (if stuffed) tiger. His ears and paws twitched gently. The heater hummed. Kush roared and purred.

various haiku

Today I present a few haiku written at various points in my life from 1988 on, when I first began practicing them. I find the haiku spare yet elegant, conveying a single idea or emotion within the confines of seventeen syllables. Hope you enjoy.


death of innocence
like a spray of cut flowers
browning in the sun

galaxies of stars
eternities away -- each
diamond burns for you

crescent moon sickle
the sky herself as brittle
as a broken glass

the human race is
God's biggest practical joke --
the laughs are on us

insubstantial, yet
real like a hammered steel blade --
tears of a woman

Laurel Lake (for Jonathan)

Today is the 1 year anniversary of my wife leaving me and the family. Strangely, I am not a bucket of tears, am not rending my garment, and so on...you get the idea. Actually, I feel no different than any other day, good or bad. Perhaps a bit to the good, actually...I know that despite all my faults, I have become a better man during the past year.

Anyway, here is a poem I literally just found this morning, in a book of Ellen Bryant Voigt poetry (a wonderful author, by the way). I wote it on September 6, 2011, during my separation from Tracy and the family when I was living in a homeless shelter (a story for another day). I had spent the day with my family at a place called Laurel Lake. The poem describes one of those perfect, idyllic moments that are sometimes referred to as "flashbulb memories" (for you younger folks, Google what a "flashbulb" is, if necessary). The term refers to moments that are so lovely,so perfect, that they are embedded permanently in our minds, memories, and souls. Anyway, come time travel with me to a sunny afternoon just about five years ago.



Laurel Lake (for Jonathan)

Not an extraordinary day in the long view --
the air is hot, the trees a deep majestic green, the sky
summerblue. My son and I splash in Laurel Lake
on a family afternoon. He is almost eleven,
living in the between that separates
childhood from everything after. The late afternoon
sunlight makes his face, for just a moment,
too beautiful for me to bear.

So I pick him up, hold him tightly to my chest,
look over his shoulder to hide my sudden, unbidden tears.
I tell him I love him, love him, love him --
three times for a blessing, and I have never
doubted my love less. He tells me
that he loves me too, and for a moment we are all
there is in the world, Alpha and Omega, father and son,
and my heart, beating hard only inches from his,
is reborn like Lazarus rising from the grave.
Holding him this way, I realize, amazed,
and perhaps for the first time,
how much of my life
I have wasted on grief.



Kevin Robert Mills
September 6, 2011

prayer to the Girl

This is a poem I wrote back in 2000. At that point I considered it my finest poem...and upon re-reading it, I still feel that way. It has been dedicated to every woman I have ever met, every woman I have yet to meet, and God. I hope you like it, friends. Comment what you think...have a great day. Peace.



prayer to the Girl

i have been grieving in my way
since before you were born

longing to see you form:
random molecules of dna
tossed on the wind in a
particular gemlike fashion
to fuse your soul and mine,
fragments shared throughout time
shocking my gray and still heart
to early life,
still overcome by heaven's passion

we need more time. put down
your gun, i will hurt you no more

as i'm drawn through the door
of your soul, through the forest
of pain in your eyes --
i am amazed, sometimes,
that you have ever been allowed
to rise.

at times i stagger beneath the weight
of my love for you
but i no longer mind
my fatigue flies, i am blind
to the agony
at the sound of your soul
the touch of your voice
the breath of your hand
my soul grows weak with the beauty
of things i no longer understand

the emptiness, the long years
the uncountable miles
placed between your soul and mine
my heart clings
to a vine of hope,
stretched thin but glimmering
in the cobalt blue night of my soul

and your love makes me whole,
the pieces fly together, fitting,
the long suffering ends,
another night begins -- eternal summer
blooming in your cheeks,
sighing through your hair,
dancing gracefully and ever
in the unkillable beauty of you

my soul changes hue. black,
replaced by red,
replaced by blue.
paralyzed by the morning sun
at night, the eagle at ease
in his golden flight, the naked truth
of you -- i fight to breathe,
unwilling to surrender this life.
the promises of paradise
hold nothing
beside even the thought of you

you speak to me at the times you please
and i am at rest, lying on the pillow that is
my portion, listening for you, drinking
every word, wasting nothing.
your least utterance
shakes my shattered soul down
to its knees

and the weight of years,
the grieving, the hurts committed,
the wounds gored and scarred,
the falls suffered through, the agony
of those loved, dead and gone --
the words and thoughts go on
but meaningless, meaningless
in the bright and utter glow
of you

we draw near the end.
impasse, immaterial
is time in the face of love.
my soul waits for you
in the green hills,
in the far lands,
across the cold, dark oceans,
in the dank and desolate cities,
the deep brown valleys,
the antiseptic hospital corridors,
the soaring, lighted archways,
the peaks of mountains
yet unformed -- i await
the union of our souls,
the sacred intersection of our hearts,
the mingling of our beings
to be born.

do you love?

The title of this post is a direct quote from the poignant Stephen King short story entitled "The Reach", concerning an elderly woman who was born on an island near New England and had never been to the mainland in her life. As the story unfolds, she begins to see and hear her long-dead husband. Answering the question near story's end, saying "Oh yes I did, yes I do, yes I will", she takes her husband's hand and walks with him across the frozen "reach" to the mainland (and, one would assume, into paradise).

This entry is simply about courage. Especially today, many Americans (and many throughout the world) are stunned at the result of yesterday's Presidential election. Today, it took courage simply for me to get out of bed and begin writing. I'm sure it took courage for a lot of people today just to get up, to go to work, to go on. But go on we must, regardless of what life throws at us. Going on is the very definition of life in a sense...to stop is, in many ways, to die. I know. I was part of the real "walking dead" for so long it pains me...but today I can feel that pain, absorb those blows, and go on.

Do I love? Has it broken my heart? Does it frighten me? Yes, yes, and yes. But to push love aside or drift through it like a dream is not really living. I'd rather get my heart broken again than hide it away in an emotional lockbox where no one -- not even I -- knows where it is or whether it still even beats.

So if you should ask me, friends...do I love? Yes I did, yes I do, yes I will...for I believe, as Leonard Cohen has said in his song "The Future", that love really is "the only engine of survival". Push aside your fear and climb aboard. Who knows where we will end up, or what divides we may cross on the way?

you want it darker

I suppose I should elaborate a bit on the blog's title...it is the title of a Leonard Cohen song off of his latest (and possibly last, due to age and declining health) album of the same title. It is a very deep song, fraught with meaning as most of Cohen's work is, and seems to be a discussion between him and his creator. I get chills when he recites the line "I'm ready, my Lord"...it's as if he is declaring that he is ready whenever he is called. The sincerity in his voice is quite strong. Anyway, do yourselves a favor and give it a listen:


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v0nmHymgM7Y

the human heart

All I have today so far is a haiku I've been working on composed from the poetry fragments in my last post. I may be a little busy the next few days as my beloved daughter Emily has come to stay with us until Wednesday. She flew in from Standing Rock, North Dakota where last week she was arrested along with 120 others, for nothing more than peacefully, legally protesting. I could not be more proud of her...she is a young lady who stands up for her beliefs and those of others in need and I have so much respect for that.

Anyway, without further ado, here is my poem:

this fragile construct /
that is called the human heart /
is watered by tears.

Thanks again for reading...and again, please feel free to leave comments of any nature. I read everything and sometimes I find it quite helpful.

workings of the heart

This was one of those days when work lasted nonstop from the time I clocked in until the time I left. All I was left with is a fragment of a poem I'm going to try to recall here. these fragile constructs/of flesh and dreams/are watered only by blood and tears/that rust the heart/and bring us near/to heaven and hell/and all realms in between/we reach for one another's hearts/only to find ours/is the most unclean. That's about all I have for now...it may work itself into a decent haiku at some point. Or not. In any case, thanks for stopping by...peace.

buttons

His death was what really sent me over the edge. Buttons was a five-year-old cat we had who died suddenly and unexpectedly. He had two seizures and then died in my son's arms...rough on Jon, to be sure, but he agreed with me that nothing and no one should die alone. To the end, Buttons was well-loved and well cared for. We got him as the tiniest kitten you could imagine (a story for another day) and upon his death he weighed in at close to twenty pounds. I used to ask him (lovingly, of course) where the little kitten I knew went and why Buttons had eaten him. He liked his food, his sleep, and being petted...in other words, like most indoor (or outdoor) felines everywhere. His loss left me feeling bereft...a word that would often occur to me as I stared at my bare ring finger, bare body, or bare life. Barring one forced attempt that felt uncomfortable and forced and lasted only a few minutes, I had not cried since my wife of twenty-four years (and steady companion for thirty) left me and the children on November 13, 2015...a Friday the 13th, no less, and the bitch-mother of them all. I thought I was processing my sorrow when really I was just storing it up, little by little, like rain filling up a rain barrel. That dam broke when I pulled back the sheet to stroke his soft, still-warm fur. "Hey, buddy" I said. And that was when I broke, the rain barrel fell apart under its own weight, and the tears came. They came in an all-consuming flood, washing over me wave upon wave. That was the beginning of my mourning...it ended (well, not ended, precisely, but begun) a process of mourning which ended up with me locked in a psych ward two days later. I had always pulled back from suicide because of my children. They mattered to me in more ways than I could count. Leaving them with a legacy of suicide was unthinkable. Suddenly, however, that reason began to hold less water (and more tears) than I could ever imagine. It started to matter less and less to me. Terrified that one day the scales would balance at a perfect zero and I would take the same bloody and well-trodden path which Kurt Cobain had, I signed a 72 hour admission to my local psychiatric ward, where I gained some inspiration, some perspective, and some adjustments to my medication. All these things aside, I think the most therapeutic thing I did was allow that wave of sadness overwhelm me. I swam along that stream of tears for almost an hour -- the "ugly cry", as it is called -- mourning not just the loss of Buttons, but the loss of my marriage, my self-respect, my everything...even the years-ago deaths of my parents. I mourned out all that I could, and was left with simply me...still bereft of all these things, but clearer, somehow...as if my copious tears washed the dirt and grime of denial clear and I could once again see through the window of my soul. And that, my friends, is all I can bear to write for now. So long, Buttons, and thank you for that final gift. Rest easy, buddy. I know I'll see you again one day.

Introductions

I have never usually liked these, so we'll keep it short. If you're reading this, you already know my name and my other profile fun facts. The way you will actually get to know me is in these pages (what I choose to show you, anyway). I really do not know what exactly is going to wind up here. I just got out of the local psych hospital for severe depression and suicidal ideation, so I'm kinda rough around the edges still. But I feel much better than I have...that's something. You may find poetry here, like this haiku from December, 1988: my chest cavity/ fill it up with flowers, then --/ now my heart is gone You may find rants on all sorts of things...Donald Trump, the military/industrial complex, the prison industry (and yes, that's what it is, an industry the same as agriculture or entertainment...when in doubt, always follow the money, kids), and personal stories of my life. You may also find short fiction, like this idea which came to me a few days ago concerning death, the afterworld, and Samuel L. Jackson (motherfucker). Yes, I swear and relate adult content a lot of the time...so don't come here if you are not of age and don't have Mommy or Daddy's approval (which we all seek, all our lives, right?). Otherwise I can't be responsible for what happens to your kids...they may end up being pot-smoking Socialists. Anyway, that's enough for now. To my Facebook friends (to which I am going to shamelessly pimp this on my FB wall), thank you for stopping by and do return if this seems your cup of me. If not, don't...it's a free country for the next five days at least. And please feel free to share with your friends, should you be so inclined. Have a lovely day. Peace.