Stupid asshole is glad to be alive part 1

[fallingleaves]

To be continued

"He said it doesn't look good
he said it looks bad in fact real bad
he said I counted thirty-two of them on one lung before
I quit counting them
I said I'm glad I wouldn't want to know
about any more being there than that
he said are you a religious man do you kneel down
in forest groves and let yourself ask for help
when you come to a waterfall
mist blowing against your face and arms
do you stop and ask for understanding at those moments
I said not yet but I intend to start today
he said I'm real sorry he said
I wish I had some other kind of news to give you
I said Amen and he said something else
I didn't catch and not knowing what else to do
and not wanting him to have to repeat it
and me to have to fully digest it
I just looked at him
for a minute and he looked back it was then
I jumped up and shook hands with this man who'd just given me
something no one else on earth had ever given me
I may have even thanked him habit being so strong"

— Raymond Carver, What the Doctor Said

I think my favourite line here is "not yet but I intend to start today". So hopeful.

I may have even thanked him

 

[timf]

I see in the poem a man facing the end of one life considering a bridge to a new life by making a transition which is seen hopefully.

The metaphor seems to use a religious or spiritual context. Is this what you are considering exploring or the direction in which you see hope. Or does this represent a general desire to make some kind of change in life?

 

[fallingleaves]

I see in the poem a man facing the end of one life considering a bridge to a new life by making a transition which is seen hopefully.

The metaphor seems to use a religious or spiritual context. Is this what you are considering exploring or the direction in which you see hope. Or does this represent a general desire to make some kind of change in life?

In this poem I see a man who might have ignored his mortality in the past, who is suddenly confronted with the reality of his death and who has a reaction to it which could lead him to a greater appreciation of his life if he chooses to pursue it. I consider myself a spiritual but not religious person. I am not facing terminal illness, so I see this poem as a call to action for making changes in my life. I don't think the specifics are important, or embracing any particular spiritual perspective. I think that as suicidal people, many of us have a unique opportunity to appreciate the value of life in ways that others don't.

I actually discovered this poem many years ago— my brain likes to remind me of it from time to time.

"You tell me that silence
is nearer to peace than poems
but if for my gift
I brought you silence
(for I know silence)
you would say
This is not silence
this is another poem
and you would hand it back to me"

— Leonard Cohen

 

[fallingleaves]

"If I must die,
you must live
to tell my story
to sell my things
to buy a piece of cloth
and some strings,
(make it white with a long tail)
so that a child, somewhere in Gaza
while looking heaven in the eye
awaiting his dad who left in a blaze–
and bid no one farewell
not even to his flesh
not even to himself–
sees the kite, my kite you made, flying up above
and thinks for a moment an angel is there
bringing back love
If I must die
let it bring hope
let it be a tale"

— Refaat Alareer

 

[fallingleaves]

It's all pretty dumb. Today I washed my bath mat but due to various factors it took me five hours instead of 1½ to 2 hours. Very frustrating. Very manageable. By the end my mood was in the gutter and I lost my appetite but I'll live.


"Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not soe,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill mee.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and souls deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better than thy stroake; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die."

— John Donne

"Make of yourself a light,"
said the Buddha,
before he died.
I think of this every morning
as the east begins
to tear off its many clouds
of darkness, to send up the first
signal — a white fan
streaked with pink and violet,
even green.
An old man, he lay down
between two sala trees,
and he might have said anything,
knowing it was his final hour.
The light burns upward,
it thickens and settles over the fields.
Around him, the villagers gathered
and stretched forward to listen.
Even before the sun itself
hangs, disattached, in the blue air,
I am touched everywhere
by its ocean of yellow waves.
No doubt he thought of everything
that had happened in his difficult life.
And then I feel the sun itself
as it blazes over the hills,
like a million flowers on fire --
clearly I'm not needed,
yet I feel myself turning
into something of inexplicable value.
Slowly, beneath the branches,
he raised his head.
He looked into the faces of that frightened crowd."

— Mary Oliver

 

[fallingleaves]

I told you all that I would live and I did, I am, here I am. I think that coming here and seriously evaluating my options for death has helped me to recommit to life. I hate it sometimes but I'm here. I have fewer impulsive suicidal thoughts since I took the time to seriously consider my options. So thank you.

 

[fallingleaves]

I want to be good. I want to have a life that I can be proud of. Right now I just feel so broken.

 

[fallingleaves]

"If I must die,
you must live
to tell my story
to sell my things
to buy a piece of cloth
and some strings,
(make it white with a long tail)
so that a child, somewhere in Gaza
while looking heaven in the eye
awaiting his dad who left in a blaze–
and bid no one farewell
not even to his flesh
not even to himself–
sees the kite, my kite you made, flying up above
and thinks for a moment an angel is there
bringing back love
If I must die
let it bring hope
let it be a tale"

— Refaat Alareer

"If I must die
let it bring hope
let it be a tale."

 

[fallingleaves]

"You begin this way:
this is your hand,
this is your eye,
that is a fish, blue and flat
on the paper, almost
the shape of an eye.
This is your mouth, this is an O
or a moon, whichever
you like. This is yellow.

Outside the window
is the rain, green
because it is summer, and beyond that
the trees and then the world,
which is round and has only
the colors of these nine crayons.

This is the world, which is fuller
and more difficult to learn than I have said.
You are right to smudge it that way
with the red and then
the orange: the world burns.

Once you have learned these words
you will learn that there are more
words than you can ever learn.
The word hand floats above your hand
like a small cloud over a lake.
The word hand anchors
your hand to this table,
your hand is a warm stone
I hold between two words.

This is your hand, these are my hands, this is the world,
which is round but not flat and has more colors
than we can see.

It begins, it has an end,
this is what you will
come back to, this is your hand."

— Margaret Atwood

 

[fallingleaves]

"They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself."

— Philip Larkin

 

[fallingleaves]

Time for more Mary Oliver.

The Pond

August of another summer, and once again
I am drinking in the sun
and the lilies are spreading across the water.
I know now what they want is to touch each other.
I have not been here for many years
during which time I kept living my life.
Like the heron, who can only croak, who wishes he could sing,
I wish I could sing.
A little thanks from every throat would be appropriate.
This is how it has been, and this is how it is:
All my life I have been able to feel happiness,
except whatever was not happiness,
which I also remember.
Each of us wears a shadow.
But just now it is summer again
and I am watching the lilies bow to each other,
then slide on the wind and the tug of desire,
close, close to one another.
Soon now, I'll start to turn for home.
And who knows, maybe I'll be singing.



Everything That Was Broken

Everything that was broken has
forgotten its brokenness. I live
now in a sky-house, through every
window the sun. Also your presence.
Our touching, our stories. Earthy
and holy both. How can this be, but
it is. Every day has something in
it whose name is Forever.



I Have Just Said

I have just said
something
ridiculous to you
and in response,

your glorious laughter.
These are the days
the sun
is swimming back

to the east
and the light on the water
gleams
as never, it seems, before.

I can't remember
every spring,
I can't remember
everything–

so many years!
Are the morning kisses
the sweetest
or the evenings

or the inbetweens?
All I know
is that "thank you" should appear
somewhere.

So, just in case
I can't find
the perfect place—
"Thank you, thank you."