Maybe the wind can wash away our stories.

That’s what I want because

Even the stories I tell you aren’t true

And I know that

Despite that I’m being honest


But as the wind gusts

And tinkers with small leaves

I know the story I told you would be better off dead,

Like those leaves will die soon:

Dry, crinkle up, fall to the ground

And each season have the chance

To let the past years’ story

Of birth, growth, and changing colors

die off,

fall to the ground, blow away

and get rained on

to compost and rot


so new stories can eventually

tell themselves

all wet with anticipation

and Spring

so many months away.


Rot, rot, rot,

That’s all stories ever do.

They sink into the ground, all wet

And having lived too long already,

Told in all their forms

(except all the others).


But even as they rot

They were once tiny leaflets,

All thin and delicate with hope and beginning.

We didn’t know for sure they’d rot,

Though of course we should have.

How is it we didn’t know?

After all these years living alongside creation,

Pretending we are other

And our stories last forever.


Only the strongest of winds can remind us

How thin and frail they are,

How little we even know of their past,

Their processes, their origins,

And projected futures.


So sturdy we are though

So sturdy in our telling

Of all the things that have happened to us,

Of all the ways we’ve known color, shape

and decay


All the ways we’ve been pretty,

All the ways we’ve smelled rot,

Been blown off,

Been taken to and from where we belong.


Life is like that, whatever you are,

Wherever you go

And each time around

You know it less

In the telling

But more

In the blowing away.





I was talking to an old friend

And what do old friends do but discuss the characters

They both know

Make a shared story of mutual acquaintances

Who’ve blown away

Or even who’ve died


And leaves do that too,

But leaves don’t do that.


How else are we to know ourselves?

How else are we to grow alongside each other?


Or blow away one after another in the next windstorm,

Or in this very one.


It’s our turn to fall sometimes,

When the wind whistles our name

In leaf language

Which we’ve come to know how to hear


And blows us away on a trajectory

We’ve learned how to bear


Barren and dry

All crinkled up


Soggy like mustard

Heavy and free once we’ve fallen

And stuck to the ground


There was never anywhere to go but down


Despite gusts of wind blowing us every which way

In attempt to convince us

We were lost or temporary.


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National expansion

Will you help Corinna West get the word out about this?
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Billy Joel New York state of mind

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Fed up with the industry’s ‘insane’ gender problem, these filmmakers are giving their funding to women

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How Psychiatry Almost Stopped Burning Man: A Story of Hell and Liberation

Further, while Law’s dad was articulate and courageous when confronting obvious corruption, he was not adept at talking about deeper contradictions of the conventional society that he was part of and which he encouraged his son to join. So there really wasn’t a forum within his family or with anyone else he knew at the time for talking about the contradictory pressures he was experiencing. Unfortunately, a bind becomes a double bind when one can’t talk about it. There is no longer any conscious way out of the mess: instead, the existing order has to break down if there is going to be any relief.

For Law, this meant entering “hell.” From the point of view of psychiatry, the problem was that he thought he was in hell when he wasn’t, but from a more humanistic point of view, the problem was that his life was indeed turning into hell. To get out, he first needed to experience that consciously, then he needed to let the fixed beliefs about his life that he had previously identified with “burn away” so that he could resolve the contradictions and find a new path.

From the point of view of many traditional cultures, this is all very understandable. Shamans routinely understood they would have to go through things like experiences of dismemberment and destruction in order to explore new forms of existence and experience. But psychiatry focuses only on the suffering involved in “breakdown” and ignores the possibility of “breakthrough” and renewal that can follow, if only people get the support they need to allow their psyche to reorganize into something new.

When I think of Law’s story, I find the image of the “pygmy rebellion” to be especially interesting. One reason madness can be so terrifying is that parts of our mind with which we were previously barely familiar can be suddenly doing things that throw our whole system out of control. This “rebellion” of the less conscious parts of our mind can be understood to happen as an attempt to free us from the ways we are stuck, but if we then feel too threatened by its actions and just focus on attempts to “put down the rebellion and restore order” then the end result can be getting stuck in struggle, or what Eleanor Longden called a “psychic civil war.”
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Being Single Is Hard

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Life-Hacks of the Poor and Aimless

“…those who went through the student and Occupy uprisings of 2010–2012 and experienced, briefly, what it meant to live a different sort of life. What it meant to be part of a community with common goals of which mutual aid and support were not the least. What it meant to experience that sudden, brief respite from individual striving and build a prefigurative society together. The lonely work of taking basic care of yourself as you wait for the world to change is a poor substitute. When you’re washed up and burned out from putting your body on the line to fight the state, it’s especially galling to be told to share a smile and eat more whole grains.

…Anxious millennials now seem to have a choice between desperate narcissism and crushing misery.

…When feminist, queer, and anti-racist work that involves sharing our feelings, our hurt and grief, recognizing that power gets right to the bone, is called neoliberalism, we have to hear what is not being heard. . . . A world against you can be experienced as your body turning against you. You might be worn down, worn out, by what you are required to take in.”

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