River

When I speak, I ask questions, while some
continue to babble; I always hear

like clear water: a look
on the face like a stream

which cannot be dammed. It says
be tranquil, dearest, as shade

over deep water; you are
clearer to us, as dear

as the river stones, as smooth
as the voice of the river.

We are in this place again; I only know how to swim with ice.
Heat is as painful as light creeping through closed lids--
my hands haven't moved in a year.

you left, as did the Sun; do I hide now from dawn
or is a momentary thaw simply a deeper night,
ice melting to freeze again.

_____________________


I have taken to watching you sit at an outdoor table. You threw kindness
at me -- at least, your smile, though it could have been as ordinary

as a good lunch. I am pasting kindness over a sandwich, because
the heart is starved, looking for a place to alight Her wings, where

She may flit and jibber and enjoy crumbs. I have great need
of solitude, for I have been trampled under foot, shooed away.

I count on those who feed the birds, because love has died
(again, or still dead since the last time) and nothing can sustain me.

So I watch, nobody
other than a kind mystery, a flattering smile, a crust of bread.

How do you think this book helps you fathom the relationship between "religion" and "literature" and between the stories we hear and the ones we live?

When reading The World is Made of Stories, I couldn't help but think that all literature is written on moral premise, and therefore, religious premise. We are inherently religious creatures, as moral and ethical ideology spills into almost every facet of our existence (and every facet of our existence, according to this book, is a story.) The stories we live by are moral stories, ethical stories, questions of "Why do bad things happen to good people?" and "Why am I suffering? Do I deserve to? What is the meaning of my life?" In this sense, the stories of others help to shape our own story; the stories we are told growing up are what create the stories of our lives, our relationships, what we value and what we expect to achieve. Likewise, the stories we read in books as adults or as children can also change our experience of reality, the "story of our life."

It would appear that we are all spiritual beings searching for a spiritual realm of truth; an understanding within ourselves, a liberation from the stories that tie us to our roles and to the identities of others. Literature reflects this, as most literature is an exploration of the human experience, questioning the purpose of our lives, the way we effect others and history, and the collective truths that transcend history. Literature draws attention to the less apparent stories that dictate our lives, allowing us to view these stories at a certain distance so we can analyze them. However, the stories that we live by every day are invisible to us, a clear lens that we see through without realizing its own color or texture. Much of literature reflects history, and history itself is a story. Rewrite the story, rewrite history, rewrite literature, rewrite the lens, rewrite the self....

But what of the self outside the story? If our experience of the world is our own narrative, and we can change those narratives by changing our ideology and values, then what remains cohesive and constant? This is where questions of nothingness and Nirvana enter the picture (nothingness and Nirvana being, of course, another story.) As The World is Made of Stories says, "For identity to change, there must be something other than that narrative, something that is not bound by it."

After reading the text, I agree with the premise that we are coauthors of our lives, with the ability to direct our own stories, at least to a certain extent. However, I believe this only happens after Nirvana, after an essential realization of the permanent self. Nirvana is an inherent "knowing" of reality and an interconnectedness with the true Author, the Self that is in all things, and the transient emptiness of all things in relation to that Self. Perhaps Nirvana is our own innate ability to create of ourselves the perfect story, one that we can predict, which we feel is already written because we are instinctively awakened to the causality in all things. One doesn't need to understand the rings in a pond when one has become the rings in the pond.

I always feel that there is too much emphasis on emptiness and nothingness in many discussions on Nirvana... it is not that Nirvana is "empty" or "nothing," but rather, that all other things become "empty" and "nothing" in relation to it. "It is not understood by those who understand It. It is understood by those who understand It not." This is the difference between concept and experience. You can describe bondage, but one does not consciously experience one's own bondage when one has only ever been bound. In the same way, one can conceptualize liberation until one is liberated, when it becomes a state of being, and then all description and explanation becomes meaningless. You can only know freedom; you can only live freedom; you cannot draw it or set rules to it or describe it to others.

As Nirvana is an ineffable experience, can that experience be "Storied"? Not the results of the experience, or the path leading to it, but the experience in and of itself, one that is self contained, yet transcends all causal reality. Is Nirvana therefore the Self that is beyond narrative? Is Nirvana the Self that began all narrative? Or is Nirvana the ability to see all life as narrative, and to detach from it, observing all things with an impartial eye? These questions are largely unanswerable, but I would like to write into my own life's narrative that yes, Nirvana is the Author beyond the story, which writes the story according to the events prescribed in our hearts, which, given an honest understanding of our Selves, allow us to know the reason for our lives, our own significance, and our own fragile transience. In this sense, literature and Nirvana serve the same purpose: to allow us the impartiality to examine our own narratives and perhaps coauthor new ones.

Dwelling Places

there is a body eroding inside of me, rotting
out my mouth

i have a taste for death; it has cracked two of my teeth,
but i do not think, no matter how many times
my internal dwelling collapses, that death ever leaves

nor do i ever

(how could i, with our bodies entwined,
fingers clasping fingers; when i reach
for love with this heart of our hearts
does death love through me? or in me? or of me?)

leave it

because we both must walk
with clubbed feet, black lungs; we live
in our lipless love, grinning

Dwelling Places

there is a body eroding inside of me
worms eating out my mouth

i have a taste for death
it has killed me at least twice
but i do not think, no matter how many times
my internal dwelling collapses
that death ever leaves, nor do i ever leave it

(how could i, with our bodies entwined
and our voices combined to create one voice;
when i speak, or love with this heart of our hearts
does death love through me? or in me? or of me?
what is love but a thousand chips of bone;
a collection on our mantle, trophies of solitude
and eternal winters kept tightly confined)

a season is drowning inside of me
i keep choking up snow
i know i am a vessel, a harbinger, a black lung
sick with the love of decay

I am ready to move beyond the blank flurries,
the voice of solitude, which banks next to me
and sails over my neighbor's roof --

I am ready for a forecast, for a simple weather drop,
but this is my sixth season remembering you
and as I count back days, it would seem that daylight
no longer keeps time; you are at a distance

i could never reach

somewhere between my watch tower and my neighbor's roof.
there is the sound of water in the back of my mind,
it reminds me of the clack of your teeth and rolling eyes.

i released you into the darkness of a sleet-gray night.
your brother was on the phone, hanging onto each absence;
you were dead on arrival and i died

with the wind

OMG... you're dating a vampire too??

[As seen on the Wild West Coconut Show.]

I think we've all been a little horrified and fascinated by the spike in vampire media over the last decade. Twilight aside, the vampire theme is nothing new and has been haunting the Romance section of your local B&N for a good twenty years (at least). Vampire sex is hot, bloody, and apparently common, especially in the state of Louisiana, which is where Anne Rice's Interview with a Vampire and the HBO series True Blood take place. But why vampires? And why so much gender bending, fetish-defying sex?

Vampires as a Sexual Symbol

Obviously something is lacking in our everyday relationships if we need to fantasize about the undead. Why else would women all across the US be devouring gory romance novels like chocolate? This could very well be due to the drastic change in gender roles that has encapsulated the last fifty years. Today's family life is a dim reflection of the nuclear family of the 50's. Women work full time and usually raise their children as divorced, single mothers. Whereas the role of women in the workplace has changed drastically, the role of women as homemakers has not, giving women a double-role in most households. The role of men, on the other hand, has hardly changed at all. Women are looking for something from men, and they're not finding it. What is this elusive trait that women hunger for, which men seem unable to supply? Is it emotional stability? Comfort? Longevity? Sexual prowess? Perhaps all of the above.

So what's the solution? Write lots and lots of books about immortal, stable, and dependable men who will love you unconditionally, and who also happen to be inhuman, which implies that they are capable of going over and beyond the limitations of what is "expected" of men. Strange that the responsibilities of most single young mothers also demand the "superhuman," the "impossible," the complete sacrifice of a young woman's personal life in order to create a family. Women still want men -- they just want stronger, smarter, sexier, and more emotionally secure men, also known as vampires.

But vampires aren't just a symbol in literature for men's failing role in the family; it's also a symbol for those lonely, conflicted individuals who long to enact their suppressed sexual urges, yet have not the courage to come out of the closet (or the basement.) Since vampires are so old, it's easy to imagine that they've slept with just about everything in every possible way. They've killed, plundered, and raped in every society throughout history. However, because they're undead "monsters" that "don't really exist" (unless you live in Louisiana), it's okay to fantasize about two gay vampires drinking each others blood as they kill innocent bystanders, and then having incredible sex, the likes of which you can never have with a "living" (or straight) person.

The Social Implications

So what is with the rise of fantasy and forbidden sex? What's with our fascination with a race of human-like creatures that have, literally, no boundaries? I am going to make a bold statement and say that American society is trying to reinvent itself. We are playing with the idea of being gay and trying to embrace a higher level of sexual tolerance, but it's too much to think about in real life, so we project it into fantasy novels, especially very sexy and bloody fantasy novels. Gender roles are unbalanced, and women are crying out to men for something more; bisexuals run rampant, and are afraid to admit it, even to themselves. As society upheaves itself and searches for a new norm, we have vampire novels to give us some sense of pleasure and freedom, and an arena in which to consider the hypothetical "release of boundaries" that the 21st century is demanding. Fantasy is not only socially engaged, but reinventing societal ideals as we speak, and the entire Harry Potter generation is here to testify. We like fantasy because we want something more than what we've been given: more opportunity, more idealism, more sexual self expression. Will we get it? Who knows -- but until then, I have a hot date with Eric Northman tonight, and I'm hoping to get a little bloody in his backseat, if you know what I mean.