So many things I might have done...

I wrote a poem. I didn't realize that, on my quest to match blog titles to the lyrics of "Both Sides Now", I came to the perfect one today. This poem is, in essence, about the things I might have done (but clouds got in my way). It tries to tell me "why" from my own perspective, a futile effort. Its not beautifully written or perfectly wonderful, or probably even half decent, but you know what, I am rather proud of getting my own point across to myself. Sometimes I'm a hard person to get a point across to, so if I get it, I figure its gettable.

Also, I'm taking this opportunity to mention that i have defined the human condition to my satisfaction. Probably an unsuitable definition to the rest of the world, but a peaceful one for me.

Human beings, for whatever reason, crave two things more than anything else. We wish to know WHY things are the way they are, and WHAT IF things were different? That is, we want to understand the reason we are here, and what things would be like if something in events that shaped the present had not happened the way it did.
However, WHY and WHAT IF are elements of the portion of our consciousness we perceive as "the past", which simply means that they no longer exist in our current mental frame but we are still aware that they may have once existed. Because they are no longer a part of our active perception, they are unchangeable, and any dissatisfaction with the world that we actively perceive may be thought about in terms of alterations to this “past” without actually having an actual effect on anything but our outlook on the present.

Anyway. Below, you will find a poem. Enjoy it, if you can. It is a first draft, and as such, I wrote it an hour ago and have only read it a very few times. That means that your opinion is as informed as mine, and would be much appreciated.

<3


I picked up a handful of dirt
(a bit of earth)
for you today.
I held it in my hand for a moment.
Jostled it, like a handful of coins.
Hefted it in my palm.
I could smell the ground
The outdoors
Like that second date, in the park
At the end of summer
(my favorite time)
In the woods, by a river
(my favorite place)
Bound, without touching, to your side.

I can see your face there, too,
In the dirt.
The brown of your eyes
(now don’t be offended…
…I prefer them to any other eyes, you know…
they’ve ruined me, so,
for other men).

It clings, a bit, to the lines in my hand
Settles in, more than adheres
Gradually filling in the empty places
And every move I make,
Though the move be to dislodge,
to leave the dirt as it was,
(to keep my hands clean)
It is the deeper settled.

Like a fog between the mountains
Where we spent our days
Or dust filling in spaces between pages
On a library shelf
It sifts, it sits, and becomes commonplace.
And suddenly, a clean hand seems
Unintentionally incorrect.
Could I wash this hand empty,
Now that it is made different by
is Defined by
is Touched by
This little bit of earth?

But I am young, irresponsible
And so set
On following the rules
On keeping to the code
On pleasing my grandmother
(with my clean hands and polished nails).
Can’t keep dirt in my hand when they all want me
To clutch wildly at diamonds.

I see so much life
In this fistful of dirt.
And a diamond is dead, compressed, cold.

I want to tell them
That you can't make things grow
In a fistful of diamonds.
And things that glitter
Also tarnish, with age.
If you show me a potato that grew from a gemstone
I’ll eat it, and my hat.

But they won’t abide dirty hands,
(unpopular choices)
or a simple life
(without artificial sparkle)
in the mountains.

So I ball my fist around my little bit of earth
Of life
(of you)
I close my eyes,
And whisper a prayer that something beautiful will grow from it.
And, unceremoniously
fling it into the air.