Gray Haskins

The most attractive kind of person

not only

gives the impression

that for nothing

in their control

could they feel embarrassed,

put them

in any clothes

or any company,

and it’s clear

they’re there

themselves,

self-respecting

and loving

in a human and decent way,

nothing overdone

or forced,

their self-respect

naturally

in consequence

rebounding on others

whoever they are

and wherever they find themselves,

feeling strong in themselves

and making you feel strong

by their strength…

A lot of things go sterile

without our realizing it.

I am not who I was a year ago, or two.

Not exactly.

What excited me then

doesn’t excite me anymore,

or to a lesser degree, perhaps.

The relationship changes.

But inevitably we end up with habits and

sometimes it takes a good long time

to realize that you’re not enjoying yourself anymore,

or finding any real pleasure

in what you used to.

*

Sometimes I get the sense

(not very original)

that my life is without meaning

or purpose,

and this idea,

unsurprisingly,

makes me feel pretty sad.

Because, I think,

what work can I point to?

or look at myself

with my own eyes

to prove to myself

that, Yes,

I’ve worked and, voilà,

there’s the proof.

(I just reread

what I’ve written so far

two or three times

and I’m losing steam here.

I don’t know where to go.)

*

The courage

and patience

to keep to my path

as I find it

each hour

each day,

giving

and acting

wherever I am,

the best I can,

true to myself

and to what

and to who

I love,

amen.

There is something in the room.

The weight of the past hour at my back, on my eyes.

In images I wade and choke,

and struggle.

There is something in the air.

The weight of the past week — the screaming, the long hours, what was swallowed.

Something pulls you onward.

The tree and its leaves sway in the reflection of the screen, behind me.

I wait for the next act.

I am not my thoughts… I am perpetual change, motion: like you and all the rest.

Written by hands, a body,

Written by some hours in bed,

Saturday afternoon and a plane overhead,

Light headache,

and the hours behind.

The sky?

A fly at the window,

and the clouds that I look for…

The sky is what frames

every day of every life.

*

What you beat you gain,

if only for that moment;

now there’s rest

or another combat.

*

Are you happy?

No.

I’m writing in bed,

I am at war with myself,

the part of me that,

finding itself alone

and weak

and unsatisfied

with so much,

would go to pieces

again.

I write

because I would win,

if only for this hour,

some peace.

*

Social media

as consumer

is poison;

as action,

as means to an end,

that of giving, serving,

as good

as what we give.

*

This is true elsewhere too, of course.

Less what is true

(about yourself, or others, or the world)

or useful

(for yourself, or others, or the world)

but what is good,

for yourself and for others,

where and how you are right now.

A sufficient contentment

just to live

wherever you are right now

and however you find yourself

without seeking to understand

or to put yourself anywhere else.

Not a life or state

other than the life and state

that are yours right now,

your own in this moment

right where you are,

alone in your room

seated in your armchair,

with the hum of the noise-canceling machine,

and your feet propped up on the wooden slant board,

and your sniffling nose,

and the worries that flit by in your mind,

and the small aches in your body,

and your wonderings what to write…

To love life as you find it where you are

and ask for no more,

be it not easy or pleasant or fun

(and however briefly

you are capable of this,

as much as you can,

at least,

to try

to tend towards this).

Life in any case

nothing other than movement,

a going from now

to now,

along the way

of the eternal present…

Most of the time

if you stop

and let your mind go

silently

and suddenly

it’s taken

by your fear

of the moment

and falls

downhill.

To not sink in sadness

but to write:

“I am the one who writes,

the one who chooses

once again

to survive.”

And,

the song being cried,

I once again

begin to describe

the path I can’t help

but make,

give life.

*

There is something to be said

and something to refuse; —

we are how we say

and refuse,

the words that move

and ache

in us.

*

You have to write

though

it’s true

that what comes

doesn’t suit you,

you who read and judge

the lines.

No, you’re not Stevens,

nor qui que ce soit,

but you write who you are

as you are

and that

no one else

may write.

*

We are not what

but how.

How we say,

how we meet,

how we try,

how we think,

how we know,

how we suffer

and fail

and take

the inevitable defeats

and trials

of everyday life.

We are not

however

what we say,

what we think,

what we do,

what we know.

How is the key to our being,

and our choices,

our yeses and noes…

Every hour every day

you build it, 

decide it, your life.

For good and for bad —

(& the good needs the bad —

to work off from, 

to learn from,

the one not existing 

without the other:

our strength

grows out

of our weakness,

our good

out of 

our bad). 

So. —. 

*

[Mom recounting her dream last night:]

Adam Sandler was excited I was making bacon…

*

La peur 

est un mouvement animal 

bien redoutable.

Et qui nous apporte 

quoi ? 

Une croyance 

tout de suite.

La peur est

tyranniquement

affirmative.

Je crains le loup, 

je le vois,

je me sauve

à toutes jambes ; 

plus je cours, 

plus je crois ;

ma fuite vaut preuve. 

*

[Fear

is a formidable

animal movement.

And what

does it bring us?

A belief,

immediately.

Fear

is tyrannically

affirmative.

I fear the wolf,

I see it,

I save myself

as fast as I can,

and the more I run,

the more I believe;

my flight

proves it

[is worth (a) proof].

On devrait bien 

enseigner 

aux enfants

l’art d’être heureux. 

Non pas 

l’art d’être heureux 

quand le malheur 

vous tombe sur la tête, 

je laisse cela 

aux stoïciens, 

mais l’art d’être heureux 

quand les circonstances 

sont passables 

et que toute l’amertume 

de la vie 

se réduit 

à de petits ennuis 

et à de petits malaises.

*

[Children really should be taught

the art of being happy.

Not the art of being happy

when misfortune strikes out of nowhere,

I leave that to the stoics,

but the art of being happy

when circumstances are okay

and all the bitterness of life

is reduced

to little boredoms

and little discomforts.] 

[My journal so far today.]

*

Morning pressure;

The weight tap-taps,

Knocks and says:

“Why, well, you’re back.

Back and older,

More stupider, less

Innocent, simple:

You look a mess!”

A mess I make

My bed and take

A shower, drink

A cup and think

A million thoughts

Insane, and not

Remembered but

Like flies shooed off

And I, a mess,

Fall back to work,

Fall back to thoughts

Insane and not

Pursued but dropped; —

The feeling though

Does not let go

And I, alone,

Fall back home

A little older,

Less certain, no

Thoughts but evening

Pressure, wonder

Dumb and tired,

Blows me under

Cover, books and

Completely…

*

“You’re the next Jim Carrey.” –Mom, this morning.

*

10:07 am. Crazy, filled with bad and mean and cowardly thoughts.

Very difficult morning. Miserable at times.

Looking out of the window of my room, the thought:

“It’s like I’m on an island, stranded…”

*

Easy now, or easier, that I’m -here-, in my journal.

My attention’s focused.

But when I turn away, chaos.

Hm.

*

“Dès qu’on a la foi,

l’expérience répond. [Alain]

*

[As soon as there’s faith,

experience responds.]

*

By understanding -first-

the simpler.

I have my traps.

And hope. –.