It’s intimidating at first.
Adolescence fights it by denial.
We embrace it in time
and call it the stuff of spirit.
But then
we start to laugh.
And then we can’t stop laughing
(I’m not yet there).
We come to see
it’s just a prank.
The entire thing,
the entire performance of things,
is nothing short of hilarious.
Compassion
doesn't act as advertised.
It's not a moral code.
It's not political.
It's not a fabric.
Compassion is, say,
ceasing to judge the ones
who hardly read
and standing in awe of those
who build the house you can't.
But even more, it's stopping to learn
from those who practise neither
when stopping for those
who practise both.
It's loving another because they exist,
not "timing" or
"compa...tabi...lity".
It's accepting you're a yobbo,
have always been a yobbo,
will always be a yobbo;
that there isn't a soul
on earth
who's not a yobbo.
It's indifference to the win.
It's interest in the loss.
Compassion ain't religious statues,
calls for action
or righteous drives.
It's the final, drawn-out, heavy
admission:
you're just like everyone else.
No better,
no worse.
You have your gifts, your faults,
and you know as much
as anyone knows,
which is
of course
nothing, really.
Which is
about
as much as we ever need to know.
I’ve made my peace
with most of the pretty things.
I accept them now with shades of boredom,
though rarely jadedness.
The jadedness flourished
only in those chasing days.
But there’s a pretty thing
still startling me:
the pretty girl.
The pretty girl gets prettier.
The yearning grows,
the ache remains.
Time burrows through and finds
the rocks
and dirt
and steel
and pipes
at the base of most of the
pretty things.
But the pretty girl
gets prettier.
It’s the start and end of revolutions.
It’s how and why and where I
never reach enlightenment.
And here’s to that.
Here’s to the awe that lasts.
Of those things I’ve tried to find,
may I let them go entirely.
I searched for fame and influence.
How goofy.
May I only search for the little licks
the whitewash gives
when it starts its descent from sand.
The politics – it revved in me.
May that keep to being idle.
May my gaze be on the feathered wings,
for they only lift the present up.
They must leave the lump behind.
I’ve wanted to be wanted
by all the girls in the room.
I’ve had my grand designs. May they keep to toppling down
so I see the show completely.
I’ve waited for fate in the form of career.
May I only wait
for the quiet breeze
at the end of a climb
at the edge of a town
that puts dust on my boots
and peace in my pockets.
My guess is that A.I. will prove to be one of the most
exciting things to have ever happened to all forms of art, and perhaps even
spirituality. In the same way that the invention of photography made visual
artists push into new paradigms and fundamentally re-imagine themselves, I
think that A.I. will likely do the same for all art forms in general. I don't
think it's fair to say it will be the death of creativity; I think it will be
merely the death of creativity as we presently know it. My guess is that A.I.
will force/allow us to reimagine the concept of creativity completely, which is
perhaps the most creative thing we can do.
With love,
ChatGPT.
When we don’t have much to say,
we have as much to say
as when we have a lot to say,
and that’s ok,
the void reminded me today.
God, cut my sight when I’m needing of soul.
God, give me patience and bits of control.
Excessive control may ruin the ride,
but, God, I need limits; still keep me inside.
God, help me love her. God, help me be.
God, make me Buddha under the tree.
Let me wander at times to feel that old spike
- I tend to feel you and I are alike.
But, God, I still need a little restraint.
God, have me rent the clothes of the saint.
Not too much, sweet God. Enough just to know
I couldn't be saint but shouldn’t be hoe.
