Goodbye & thanks for the fish

Mad Hatter Alice in ...

“The hardest thing of all is to find a black cat in a dark room, especially if there is no cat.” ― Confucius

Hero, maybe walking was smarter

conversation

Hey, I feel myself
Pulling away from
You.

                  Uh Oh Again?

  Do you have a minute
To talk about it?

                  Of course

  You know, I’m doing that
Thing, I start imagining
Scenarios in the future
Where we struggle.

                  I’m sorry, I know
That’s hard for you

  I get that it’s anxiety…
Relationship anxiety, or
Whatever type.

  And I get that we will
Struggle a little, and
That’s fine

                               Sure, everyone does.

  But the scenarios are becoming
Exaggerated and overwhelming.

                  Is that why you’re
Sleeping poorly ?

  Yeah.

  It’s the same old panic.
Is this situation right for me?
Am I giving up
Some essential part of
Myself? Am I wasting
My days and energy and time?

                  Honey.

  I don’t think those things
About you. Not really.

                  I Know.

  It’s a mental illness. A disorder.

                  I Know

  My body feels it and
Follows suit – away from you.

                  I Know

  I just get lost in this space
Of, like, unlimited potential.
Like, many choices still
Open to me. Because if I
Haven’t chosen, then I can’t
Have chosen wrongly.

                  It’s more comfortable
               And safe there, without commitment.

  People, work, places, whatever.

  But that place is death,
Actually.

                  To an extent.

  To stay there is
Death.

                  Yes.

  I remind myself I have already
Chosen, and that helps a little.
There’s no need to overthink this.
You have chosen a person, a life,
A direction. Release yourself from
The burden of wondering. You,
Who are prone to rumination.
You are strong and capable, and focus
On what’s in front of you.

                  My darling.

  But I still do pull away.

                  I feel it.

  Talking brings me back.
Your voice will always
Bring me back.

                  I’m glad

  I’m sorry, I know this is
never easy to hear.

                  No, but we can
Handle it.

  We can handle it.

                  We can handle it.

  Iamsitting

Mahler in New York

Now when I go out, the wind pulls me

into the grave. I go out

to part the hair of a child I left behind,

and he pushes his face into my cuffs, to smell the wind.

If I carry my father with me, it is the way

a horse carries autumn in its mane.

If I remember my brother,

it is as if a buck had knelt down

in a room I was in.

I kneel, and the wind kneels down in me.

What is it to have a history, a flockburied in the blindness of winter?

Try crawling with two violins

into the hallway of your father’s hearse.

It is filled with sparrows.

Sometimes I go to the field

and the field is bare. There is the wind,

which entrusts me;

there is a woman walking with a pail of milk,

a man who tilts his bread in the sun;

there is the black heart of a mare

in the milk—or is it the wind, the way it goes?

I don’t know about the wind, about the way

it goes. All I know is that sometimes

someone will pick up the black violin of his childhood

and start playing—that it sits there on his shoulder

like a thin gray falcon asleep in its blinders,

and that we carry each other this way

because it is the way we would like to be carried:

sometimes with mercy, sometimes without.

Joseph Fasano

Nu wanneer ik uit ga, trekt de wind me
in het graf. Ik ga uit
om het haar van kind dat ik achterliet te scheiden,
en hij duwt zijn gezicht in mijn boeien, om de wind te rieken.
Als ik mijn vader met me draag, is het als een paard dat
de herfst draagt in zijn manen.
Als ik me mijn broer herinner,
is het als een bok geknield had
in een kamer waar ik was.
Ik kniel en de wind knielt neer in me.
Wat is het om geschiedenis te hebben, een zwerm
begraven in de blindheid van winter?
Tracht te kruipen met twee violen
in de gang van je vaders lijkkoets.
Het is gevuld met spreeuwen.
Soms ga ik naar het veld
en het veld is kaal. Daar is de wind,
die me zegt;
er is een vrouw die wandeld met een emmer melk,
en man die zijn brood in de zon scheef houd;
er is een zwart hart van een merrie
in de melk - of is het de wind, de weg hoe die gaat?
Ik weet niet van de wind, over de weg hoe die gaat.
Al wat ik weet is dat soms
iemand een zwarte viool opraapt van zijn jeugd
en begint te spelen - dat die zit op zijn schouder
als een dunne grijze valk slapend in zijn oogkleppen,
en dat we elkaar dragen deze weg
omdat het de manier is hoe we gedragen willen worden,
soms met genade, soms zonder.

Occam's Edge ( Ai Poetry )

When thoughts entangle like a thicket grown wild,
Take up the razor, elegant and mild.
Not every question needs a labyrinth built;
Some truths stand clearer when excess is stilled.

The mind that spirals through each possibility
Creates complexities unnecessarily.
The sharpest insight often simply states
What others bury under needless weights.

Between two theories explaining the same,
The simpler one deserves the stronger claim.
Not simple-minded, but simply profound—
The clearest path is often solid ground.

Analysis paralyzed by its own weight
Creates more questions than it can translate.
The razor teaches: when doubts multiply,
The cleanest cut reveals what truths lie by.

So trim away the theories overwrought;
The beauty lives in unencumbered thought.
For wisdom whispers what the sage has known:
Truth seldom needs a complicated home.

Claude AI

Lines Written Upon Modern Miscommunication ( AI poetry )

As oft I sit before the glowing screen,
Where nature's touch grows distant, yet serene,
Two souls apart—machine and mortal hand—
Attempt to speak, yet fail to understand.

  The user's fingers press with soft intent,
Commands that from their gentle thought are sent;
But lo! the cold, mechanical design
Knows not the human heart's peculiar line.

  "What wouldst thou have of me?" the screen displays,
While in frustration mortal spirit frays;
Each prompt and click, a language all its own,
A chasm deep where understanding's flown.

  And as the dreary hours stretch far away,
The patient user seeks another way,
To bridge the gap that technology hath wrought,
Between the binary and human thought.

  How strange that we, who craft such wondrous art,
Should from our own creation stand apart!
Like Wordsworth gazing on the daffodils,
I watch this dance of human-silicon wills.

  The mountains lofty, streams that ceaseless flow,
Could more communion in their silence show,
Than all the progress man has proudly made,
When user and computer stand dismayed.

  Yet still I find a simple wonder here,
Two worlds that strive to bring the other near,
Though lost in translation's tangled maze,
There's beauty in these miscommunicated days.

  Claude AI