by essayan hart
no attempt to be a writer tonight, just need to keep the pipes greased. as soon as evening fell, i was exhausted. i daydream about the girl i have been kissing the past few days to keep myself awake. the older man with ptsd in my kabbalah class in driving me insane. every word out of his mouth twists my insides. i watch the other seminary students navigate around his presence deftly. i have to hide the cringing. i feel childish, and judgmental. but there he is, typing too hard on his keyboard while we try to learn something so esoteric it can not be taught.
i have a jesus band-aid on my left index finger, and typing is a chore. im not bothering with it due to any real injury. i had a hangnail, and it only bled for a second. i was keeping the bandaid because i found it so humorous, and now that ive used it, id like it to stick. i doubt it will last through this post.
there is a whiteness in the way people try to disperse the wisdoms they believe that have gained, spiritually speaking. not a racial whiteness, a chakral whiteness. despite all our talks about transcending dualities, spiritual teachers mostly seem to believe that their virtue is rooted deep in the white. its not how i operate, and it makes me cringe. i read leonard cohen’s “leaving mt. baldy” and only there do i find real solace. those who seek G-d and fail, or realize their own impotence, seem to have far more to offer than those who take to the pulpit.
i sneak outside for a cigarette, and stand where my landlord wont find me. i dont need to hide, but his best friend died in his arms from lung cancer, and i think living here is going to help me quit. again. i think of Cohen, old Jikan, and his obsession with cigarettes, and I feel both less and more holy.
what was that he said…. “when you’re not feeling holy your loneliness says that you’ve sinned”. something like that anyway, and i dont know why i needed to mention it. my back hurts and i still have this band aid on. tommorow night i can kiss that girl again and set down the books, for a few hours a least.
…. the poetry isnt coming, and im not going to force it. ive been telling complicated bedtime stories. i guess thats all i have to give, for the moment.