Tag Archive: struggle


Darkness. It’s among us.

oily
insinuating
lie
clings
skin, pores
each breath
I cry
I pant
I pray

The world

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the world tells me | day after day | it’s not okay to be me | to
be loved, to be accepted, to be sought | I need to become all I
‘ought’ to be but no template is free | form free fall | free for
all | this is the land of the free, or the brave | you think you
can save someone | maybe it’s you

when you’re drowning
a cry for help might kill you.

 

Talitha Fraser

Powerless to do something

staying in bed mental health day wellbeing sunshine outside for other people but not for me loneliness

Powerless to do something
about this
you do nothing
about anything.

The loneliness
is eating you
from the inside, out.
You must not doubt
there is room for you
at the table.

 

Talitha Fraser

Get out. Get it out.

Newell's Paddock wetlands reserve footscray Melbourne stormy sky

 

Get out. Get it out. Toxic darkness enveloping/tendrils tying me down/tie me down/tie me up/what choice do I have?/I choose you. I chose you/look how well that turned out/turn up/turn it up so I don’t have to hear my own thoughts/Loving isn’t enough. Why does it keep coming back to that?/ I have to follow the road that’s in front of me to walk/Choice. Choose. Chosen/ Chosen? Who says? How can you ever know?/Is it happening to us or do we make it happen?/Hallowed and hollow. Hallowed and hollow/Gravid and grave/Beginning and end bound together in the same ritual, the same act/What will you choose?/I’m sorry. I’m already on my knees… I don’t know which way to fall now the fall feels inevitable/ The King quote says ‘you only need a heart full of grace. A soul generated by love’ but I gave all of mine away.

 

Dec 378

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In July a friend posted a link to this article “Against Self-Criticism: Adam Phillips on How Our Internal Critics Enslave Us, the Stockholm Syndrome of the Superego, and the Power of Multiple Interpretations” – it’s one of those rabbit hole things where you follow links within links to whole other articles… in a good way.  I think I experience some intersectionality in self-criticism being female and having a spirituality that calls me to try and live as a “good” person. Parking tidbits here so I keep thinking about them.

  • what kind of person would your critic be if you met them in person?
    boring? cruel? bully? abusive? would you keep them in your life?
  • if the critic mutilates, deforms, distorts our character… whose voices do you trust to speak to your character? what would you say if it were happening to someone else? what does it look like to defend yourself the way you would defend someone else against this kind of negativity? what techniques do you have for combating the critic when it’s a voice that feels loud?
  • the article refers to this critic as a mechanism of “unrelenting internal violence”. As an advocate of non-violence what tools and techniques are available to you to respond to, engage with and mitigate the impact of the critic?

 

“…in our capacity for merciless self-criticism. We tend to go far beyond the self-corrective lucidity necessary for improving our shortcomings, instead berating and belittling ourselves for our foibles with a special kind of masochism.”

“In Freud’s vision of things we are, above all, ambivalent animals: wherever we hate, we love; wherever we love, we hate. If someone can satisfy us, they can also frustrate us; and if someone can frustrate us, we always believe that they can satisfy us. We criticize when we are frustrated — or when we are trying to describe our frustration, however obliquely — and praise when we are more satisfied, and vice versa. Ambivalence does not, in the Freudian story, mean mixed feelings, it means opposing feelings… these contradictory feelings are our ‘common source’ they enter into everything we do. They are the medium in which we do everything. We are ambivalent, in Freud’s view, about anything and everything that matters to us; indeed, ambivalence is the way we recognize that someone or something has become significant to us… Where there is devotion there is always protest… where there is trust there is suspicion.”

“You can only understand anything that matters — dreams, neurotic symptoms, literature — by overinterpreting it; by seeing it from different aspects as the product of multiple impulses. Overinterpretation here means not settling for one interpretation, however apparently compelling it is. Indeed, the implication is — and here is Freud’s ongoing suspicion, or ambivalence, about psychoanalysis — that the more persuasive, the more compelling, the more authoritative, the interpretation is, the less credible it is, or should be. The interpretation might be the violent attempt to presume to set a limit where no limit can be set.”

 

 

To Xia

My dear,
I’ll never give up the struggle for freedom from the oppressors’
jail, but I’ll be your willing prisoner for life.

I’m your lifelong prisoner, my love
I want to live in your dark insides
surviving on the dregs in your blood

inspired by the flow of your estrogen

I hear your constant heartbeat
drop by drop, like melted snow from a mountain stream
if I were a stubborn, million-year rock
you’d bore right through me
drop by drop

day and night

Inside you
I grope in the dark
and use the wine you’ve drunk
to write poems looking for you
I plead like a deaf man begging for sound
Let the dance of love intoxicate your body

I always feel
your lungs rise and fall when you smoke
in an amazing rhythm
you exhale my toxins
I inhale fresh air to nourish my soul

I’m your lifelong prisoner, my love
like a baby loath to be born
clinging to your warm uterus
you provide all my oxygen
all my serenity

A baby prisoner
in the depths of your being
unafraid of alcohol and nicotine
the poisons of your loneliness
I need your poisons
need them too much

Maybe as your prisoner
I’ll never see the light of day
but I believe
darkness is my destiny
inside you
all is well

The glitter of the outside world
scares me
exhausts me
I focus on
your darkness –
simple and impenetrable

 

The poem was written by Liu Xiaobo, anti communist, writer, poet, activist, for his wife Xia from prison.

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“It must be our prayer. In spite of the fact that the prayer is denied, reviled, contradicted, made sport of, mistranslated every hour of every day – by the powers and dominations, by Church and State, by law courts and schools and think tanks. Yet, the prayer needs to be verified, insisted on, repeated, persisted in, learned by heart, shouted in unison, enacted, pondered. It exists indeed only to the degree that it makes sense to Christians, that they stretch their wills and voices to its understanding. To make of it their credo; to make of eternity their native ground.

…At every hour his angel of deliverance comes to us. In noise and stench and foolish anger, and the ever-flowing spate of damaged lives. In the evidence of breakup all around – broken bones, broken hopes, splayed carcasses of sound beginnings. In this jail. Where we must dwell. Not a lake of glass, you understand. But in a desert of fire. The ever present demons within. enticements. Despair. Depression of spirit. Disabused hopes. And even with one another; a certain paralysis, outreach cut short.

…The prayer would deny it.  “All manner of things shall be well.”  We must, by sheer grit of faith, live in that future, live it until it is as vividly present as any beloved possession, any loved one, could well be.  We join those for whom all manner of things is well; they join with us, for whom all manner of things is intolerably unwell. The future and the present join hands – barely, but truly. The meeting is incandescent, an ecstasy in the midst of torment.
You can understand the prayer, its audacious character, only if you understand this: the prayer is everywhere and at all times denied.”

 

An excerpt from Beside the Sea of Glass by Daniel Berrigan

 

Cut, cut, cut, cut…

rusted iron train tracks footscray station

Cut, cut, cut, cut…

I thought death by a thousand cuts
was a good way to live but
it may merely be that’s
a bad way to die.
This is my blood poured out for you.
I want it to count for something.
I’m sorry I can’t be everything you need.
I’m sorry I can’t be everything I want.

Talitha Fraser

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