Mary Oliver on How Differences Bring Couples Closer Together | Brain Pickings

“All of it, the differences and the maverick uprisings, are part of the richness of life. If you are too much like myself, what shall I learn of you, or you of me?”

Source: Mary Oliver on How Differences Bring Couples Closer Together | Brain Pickings

Brain pickings is one of my favourite sites. Maybe I will not always agree with everything being sad but I appreciate the amount of reading, organising and work being done. I also now like that the site has seemingly gotten a redesign. Looks great 😉

In this topic I both agree and disagree. Yet, my position is not aggressive rather it is something I can say that you need both similarities and differences, a sort of equanimity, a equity, a balance that work for you guys. Too much similarity becomes coercive and codependent or insecure at times. Too much difference becomes othering and all the consequences related to that but this line that is capitalised in the beginning:

“All of it, the differences and the maverick uprisings, are part of the richness of life. If you are too much like myself, what shall I learn of you, or you of me?”

I totally agree with that. It is great to know that you are being challenged and learning from the other person and synchronizing your own talents too and they too benefit from doing that.

an overabundance of scarcities

Sometimes, I do not wish to be  so energetic
it’s a flavour I do not think can  understandably  keep up with the  wide rooms  of the  world that prefer their camphor and marijuana and cannabis — the world that prefers its weight of gold to be a
perfect pitch of somnambulism.

I am a rockety, rocking chair that is unable to seize the day
because I am over a cliff that has transposed itself into  a  life
the pendulous cliff with its vertiginous gums and precipitous skin
has rubbed me raw as  a cold shower where water droplets become teeth — I have invested in energy, but was told to conserve for the sake of society which nimbly used bastardized fuel  but kept my own
into fossils  — I am  calcified in living and mating with boredom. ..

…now boredom is  a word that is quite crude and raw and primordial evi; lapses into tongues and calamity, into divides
into savage topographies; its nuanced with a nothingness that
has nullified the potency of seeds. It is the cocktail  of grievances
yet it is consumed at happy hours. Only a miracle embedded in consciousness can seemingly know its severance. Yet deliverance
is a scary thing for many. Once you  are exposed to the boredom disease its  syphilis  kills the joy in you.

I want to be happy
yet I am told happiness means excursions
and if all of  us hate that
told to be safe and treat the home as your favourite mauseoleum
then happiness is an energy feels unhappy to be had.▬

fighting and fight

tiddles of my expectations; ruptured like glass within glass, an imploding babushka-vortex
teeming is my rhythm of depression, like a knife that knows butter, knows the meat
sabotages the flesh, the artery, the blinking electrical impulses of a thing it corners as refuse
— it’s  my heart you bloody, selfish cancerous tumour that looks like an organic part of me
who refuses to shelter and instead makes bridges by my splintered bones; you capsized me
tore me from limb to node yet you refuse my simple, basic right to speak…you will now taste
my armageddon you tattered porcelain who preaches facetious causes I will cause you writhe
and rattle as the serpent you are — your apocalypse is not only salvation; I will know my sanctum
pure when you are purged from the altars of my consciousnesses;  my soul’s cathedral will know chimes.▬

isolation in quotes

what do “I” call myself? — a labyrinthine thinker, late bloomer prodigy,
a colloquial slut, a porn actor/actrice, a menagerie of moods, a glass fountain,
a granite slab of boredom, an equanimous person, likely to succeed/fail, tagger of
facebook slogans or pages, popular only in staying unpopular, a blood cycle, a sperm
cycle, a gestation of uneasy testosterones or a nest of comfy oestrogen — what am I?

asking is imperative; you cannot be classes you have to be a class, not a binomial variant,
but a simultaneous crack-whore who can easily be cancelled linear-wise and not charted
in graphs — and the graphs all mounted highs and lows like some floppy or quick erectile tissue
bounded by some bondage mechanism easily quacking or nervously fretting — yeah our so-called
civilized world transcribes to the sexual all too quickly yet will not transcribe to intimacy or a
reproduction of kisses because to the mythical layman fucking is as easy than typing 2+2=1

we are isolated by so much wave and wires — first by seas and mountains now the technical metaphors
of technology; it;s easy to build walls you just need crude, undisciplined yet disciplined, refined geometry:
we learn math in isolation was not Alice there telling the Queen that for to her a jabberwocky is a parable
not a persistent lover of existence. We learn languages in isolation, fruit of needs are supposedly tasted and
tested in a bedroom — when have we so easily conquered all human instincts and personality checks and put
them airtight into a bottle as though everything and anything was masturbation. If I am vulgar you were vulgar
by lacking vulgarity by never breaching or broaching subjects that could make me spill my coffee but be grateful
I had sipped and dined with you in a natural state — and by natural state I do not easily picture you in your
birthday suit happily playing the flute of your clitoral-erection or playing drums with your bosom-chest…yet
you want me to easily think that — when I am flawed will you not know my flaw and tell me so why wither
it as a flaccid beam of self-denial — yeah, I talked all innuendo-like; it’s a language we all easily adopt too
though I think millions never adapt nor else we wouldn’t cry in tissue papers hoping it was the tender skin of
a lover…

why are all our information and acts and knowledges isolated; even with modern precepts of civilization
we love playing colonial pipes, steal the lands of many, decrepit the food and bones of the different,
make outsiders more than insiders and treat wealth the money as though it was a concubine that gave us
all the frenzies our heart desired — we are training ourselves to think heights are step-ladders and all binaries
are trusted celebrities though we all aspire some balance in ourselves. When did we become consumers?  Merely
eaters? Not inventors or hunters or gatherers or builders? — Is only the daft eating the way f the world? Are we only
engineers of a time-stinking buffet or rather a potpourri of so many essences and open to the architecture of the many?
Should we not rinse our tongues and teeth to the palpable instead of the vacuous? I ask myself questions, even dumb stupid
ones that are trivial and exhaustive but only because I think I was born to be hunter not predator or prey. But a gatherer
of immutable gems parasailing in a mutable universe… the scents and dotages of those exquisite structures with their
non-structure and flexible narrations have made me both weep and be teem with adrenalin. I do not think the deforestation
of the mind with conformed categories can easily help. Core beliefs are beautiful but they inhabit more ample space than we
give them credit for; our bones are calcium arranged as leaves of variables…how lovely was this trail of stones and bread…

and because I have these thoughts I may be isolated called mad by peers and hated by equals in class, birth, jobs, counter tables
for I did not drink coffee with cream and sugar but wanted to try a honeyed mix and that made a different in the tongue-nectare
made me mongrel to the refined and I do not know what more I could do — did I not also taste that coffee republic, nod to a placebo,
in the world of narcotics and so much medicinal shots. When I meet others who liked coffee and tea like me would we recognize
each other skins, meats and marrows or has the narrow cubicles sealed that kiss? Wonder if isolation is the new economy of trade…▬

insomnia B sides

 

it is always a feeling of redundancy; coupling are two cheeks
pressed on a digital page or rather an arcane yet archaic-revolutionary
tree flesh and I am wondering if I am sleeping in posterity with a handshake
plus mouth to moth resuscitation with “waking”. My mind is no longer
a blank; not an orgasmic leftover nor orgasmic pilgrimage in process
yet the innocence of sleep or the experience of dreams heavily eaten
yet no excess lipid taken — this feeling of a nourishing sleep has left me —

from some placebo dreams I drift awake; shot red eyed or white marrowed
and get cravings from an insolent and belligerent craving that posits somnambulism
as a dietary peregrination.

hopelessly attracted to sleep: unrequited my love is now by a philandering sand
so you forgot you were an awkward desert without me and now you are an oasis
of cognition that laps on and have you forgotten me as some roadside cafe that
has strong but cheap coffee?  — clean hotel sheets of blankets and cuddling am
I only a family of one nights or cellular nights juxtaposed by some odd morning
ritual but someone to coddle and listen to with a matched heartbeat? Sleep, I love
you, earnestly, being friends is important. Why do you mock me? What now you
think of me only as a Lolita and not temptress as an adult that you shied away from
my bosom and bum and think it ok? I am not Lolita nor am I Aphrodite or Galatea —
why be a cheap role when I can be the only original me and your original sin is that
you left me thinking that our bond was sanctuary  and somewhat sacred then you
introduced some shifts and kinky brief crap that couldn’t even consummate a tired
heart a monarch’s journey in its little steps.

your conquest is inevitable insomnia; you may be the object now of sleep but believe
me sleep tires of many things especially being a pushover and a doormat for your
chilly jokes and domestic violences where you claim to profess poetic promise but
you are just fucking with everyone as you are a lonely depression in motion and I hate
you due to your ogling and fetishes that only is you, you and you and that is just
crude.

I am tired now. I think I will go to sleep.

Grains of psyche

And when we are putting things in bay forgetting what we want to say
and the nocturnal flecks of fire ignites and perishes beyond restraint
what is balm may be dust, God given dust and I am sure
that dusts earth, sky, star, moon and watery sand all have their purposes
for seeing grains eases a tortured construct in the psyche

like a wire in the lung

 

there is hardly a chronology of abuse
not with the precepts given that is
it can be tender as a balm to a wound
like a hair slowly fondled back and forth
or cloth; soon manifesting in a jerking
the slap is not fully open palm, nor back hand notoriety
it is as though the abuser revels in the egomania of invention
of this picture of you and attempts to polish it with your blood
and bone; catapult it to some sinister trap.

Yet then the blame is all you, you and you
it feels as though as a virus fucked your immunology
and then put WBC as the scapegoats and the cold
as the final slice into your still breathing cadaver

like a wire in the lung perplexed in the ruse
traumatized in the cell; abused by the jaw that
favoured and caressed you choke and the choke some more
your experience of mere living in mind and body tattered to a bitter
fettered to the smack of a druglord that gives chemical overdose

no matter how punctured you are you make it out
with bruises and itches and scratches and scrapped arteries
and like the shedding of a cocoon you cast out the cloth of sin
and though you recover in mosaics of embroidered networks

You recover
By God, you do…▬

More info; enlightenment and things that changed

Well, I am afraid that I didn’t read that portion of my old post that well because then I would wrote something larger but truthfully it is good some things are best said well in longer after-posts.

In my last post there is a mention of a family. Of children and how there were cuts and bruises on their kid. I want that family to starve, be humiliated and possibly end up totally ruined.  Yes, the so-called “mom” and “dad” are a bunch of professional actors. It seems my brother married a girl who actually has a history of four or three previous marriages (which she never told us) and she never told us because that is her profession. Apparently, she prostitutes herself this way and her family is in on it.

For a while, like for two years they made my brother’s life hell. My poor brother may get angry but he is not abusive but they were. That Bitch claimed once how bad my brother was at times like screaming at her and I thought maybe she is right but guess what? Her family are the ones who are mentally and physically abusive. They did not let my brother eat properly; they would torture him by starving him and giving him small amounts of money after stealing the money my Dad gave him for the trip. And they did that ingeniously too. Bitch wife forced him to buy them “presents” like expensive stuff. I won’t forget how happy my Mom got when she thought my brother was buying her jewelry because it is a sweet gesture — he called asking about jewelry — my Mom said it was not needed but he never bought her that kind of thing before. Well, it wasn’t for her, it was for “mom”.

Can you imagine my Mom’s face after that? My brother not buying her things but buying expensive things for a woman who didn’t have the courtesy to even feed him properly?

Then they would always threaten police arrests if my brother got angry at their rude behaviour and made him bike long distances because well they wouldn’t even give him bus fare to go places. Bitch wife in their bedroom slapped and kicked my brother and he had to hold her hands and pin them so that she didn’t get more violent. And it was always on little differences she would get mad or if he didn’t agree something for her or family. Bitch wife had rabies and my brother was the vet stuck with her bitchy self and her entire rabid family because, unfortunately, my brother was naive to think if he stuck around it would work out. Yeah, she also forced him at times to write “romantic” comments of facebook wall and when a friend of my brother’s said that sounded (the comments)  a bit weird she snapped as said he shouldn’t talk to him because he is a “bad” friend (those kind of disagreements).

There are other horror stories but I cannot write them because I have to keep my brother’s privacy but when he finally had enough he came back and yeah he was very sad.

Like a PTSD soldier he would feel lost and depressed. At times he would get angry for small issues or large ones but then slump into a depression that was really severe. Sometimes, he would just lie down and refuse to walk around or eat or do anything. Other times he would just eat and eat uncontrollably showing his  starvation. Well, his body showed starvation too and it was a brutal sight seeing my very tall brother emaciated and feeling dizzy as if fatigued and dehydrated and famished and well starved for affection, love and understanding.

They kept the gold jewelry my Mom gave. All of it. By tradition and even any cultural standards you don’t keep what your ex gave to you if its like a wedding ring or more. No, those shameless bastards kept everything. Bitch wife claimed, when my brother was there, that she lost her diamond wedding ring.  Bitch wife actually pawned it. That’s not the only thing she pawned. All the gifts, jewelry and all she kept so she can sell at her convenience.  Bitch wife also kept my brother’s entire DVD collection and might be selling that too. Bitch wife also kept a beautifully illustrated copy of a book I gave to my brother as a present that I wrote a personal message inside  for him to read.

This desecration of personal and intimate artefacts coupled with the desecration a human life is grave robbing and life robbing mixed into one. I cannot believe how these people even keep on breathing. I bet their lungs and other organs are a bunch of rotten crap. (Did I mention “mom” has a pacemaker?).  They are as dangerous as serial killers. They deserve to suffer. Why? I usually try to be quite empathetic to people who even have been rude to me or torturous to me but a Bully and a Sadist with capitals I cannot forgive especially when they are comfortably living not at all economically challenged and have gotten so much love and attention from my family!

In our culture, the jewelry given at marriage are like a maternal or at times paternal lineage or legacy. Like from my father as he was given by his mother or father and their parents. It spans like 3 or 4 generations or even more at times. You can imagine my Mother’s feeling of devastation when her family heirlooms where stolen by these abusive people. And also all her prized possessions. You can imagine my Father’s heartache at also losing so much money and support that were being parasitically taken like a tapeworm glued to their asses by these people.

Obviously, their largest Sorrow and Misery and Pain was that their son came back upset and depressed with PTSD type symptoms at the psychological bullshit they mustered up for him. The full extent is not even known obviously as pain like that cannot be cataloged like an Argos magazine item priced and fully tagged. Bro just kept some things to himself and decided to just well try to get better.

You hear it and you understand more when it happens to you and usually this kind of domestic violence and psychological afflictions and mayhem happen with children or women but truth is those are the stories we hear or want to hear. Men also go through such events by other men or women. Our societies have also a lease, a law on the parameters of domestic violence and what type of violences can be talked about. Once a close friend of mine, Sania, talked about how an aunt of hers was remarrying — after ten years. Last husband was schizophrenic and she was unaware of that (many marriages happen where people involved don’t know about their so called significant others’ background; it is purposefully hid) and she was in shock and misery for that 10 years because it was a very traumatic experience. It took her such a long time to get over that kind of relationship.  And my own aunt was duped into marrying a sick man who died while she was pregnant.

Her marriage was a forceful one. It happened a long time ago and she was lost in village weirdness.  Her parents thought they were doing the so-called right thing. Well she started screaming and swearing at them that thy are fucked up and that they ruined her life. They did. That man, my uncle, was suffering from a cardiovascular disease that disallowed him any sexual activity. But he did it anyway. Resulting in him always ending up in the hospital afterwards. My aunt always wondered what was happening. At that time my maternal Grandfather seriously objected to this wedding but no one listened to him. My aunt did not even know her husband had such a problem.  Then he died. Leaving her pregnant and alone. After she gave birth her in-laws and their family were so crude to her that she had to go back living with her own family.

Sixteen, with a child, and not very educated and at that time though she was a city girl this had been a village affair. She couldn’t remarry. Men those times and even now do not like to marry girls who have children. Maybe times are changing and men do change but in those days men had a serious problem marrying a girl with a kid — oh, they could fuck around but a women who has a child from a previous marriage and legally by many rules and standards is not fit to marry. Not to mention her son is a total ass at times and she had do a lot to keep him at least semi-happy. At times she was very mean to him and that is what that ungrateful child remembers and doesn’t remember how she tried and tried so hard to keep him happy. Not to mention that brat also hated her getting re-married if she could because he loves his dad too much and knowing everything that is very unfair to his own mom. I can understand that his father is totally a bad guy and that to his child he probably would be A quality and any child has the right to reminiscence their father. But they must also take into account the other factors involved. Yes, she shouldn’t have been mean but she told me truthfully it was out of helplessness. She couldn’t buy him pretty things and she didn’t know how to handle him asking for them. She is strong but I know she is heartbroken and lonely at times too.

My brother, Thanks To Allah Almighty (God), recovered and has a girlfriend; someone new he can love and trust. But it wasn’t easy. There were lots of sad moments between them  because she too was betrayed and both of them had trust issues. But you know it was also a heart issue. How can you navigate your feelings and emotions when someone has brutally sawed them, left them tactless and even scarred and bruised your entire body just for some money or ego trip? It becomes hard at times. You survived a major ordeal. But at this moment they love and need each other. They  shouldgrow and be strong from and for each other. And at this moment, Thank God, they are; they are trying.

I heard Bitch wife sold some of our jewelry and bought herself a shiny new car. Now I know why Hell exists. People like them deserve all kinds of reprimand. All types of executions and punishments earthly and otherwise. My brother suffered. His wounds were deep. They isolated him from us and even made him stop talking to us; limit or delete his facebook so that he can’t talk to us.  That is violence and abuse. Not to mention she referred to me as a slut and retard to him at every turn though I never wrongfully spoke to her in my life. These kind of people advertise empathy but then steal and they are classic sociopaths and raising their kids as ones too. The biggest “mystery” is that the youngest sister may be actually Bitch Wife’s daughter from a previous affair that they advertise as her sister. Ironically, my brother named her.

So, yes, this is the tale or tales of some tragedies. The enlightenment I got was that some people are perverse and are strange sadist fetishists who prefer looking at parts of people (their body, breasts, genitals, hair, wealth, connections) and just abuse that. Sure, we all have made friends or contacts based on some categories but we treated them as human beings, we were humble when they offered any aid and we remembered that they had other things to do as they are not only two dimensional they are more.

I think the line between serial killer and serial abuser is sometimes very thin because once you have wounded a person so deep and then laughed and snorted at their misery as it was your coke fetish, haven’t you done something that equals to murder?

Your comments are welcomed. If you have faced this, going through it, or survived this I want to know. Or just know of someone or just plainly want to say something about it go right ahead though if you are going to make fun of the pain of the people involved here saying my brother is not a man and aunts are bitches or what not then don’t dare write anything. You are not the man and you are the bitch because you do not know how a situation like that is. Haven’t there been people in your life who were mean or really gross. You can’t solve every problem by punching a person unless you are on an equivalent turf. For everyone else: What do you think about all of this ?

nutshell boredom

 

my life, my life, where are you hiding oh my life?
cut the crap — fuck, you oh fuck you and cut the crap!

it hurts when I swear for no valid reason and that in turn becomes
a valid monstrous reason — I am  a shell, like an abandoned crustacean’s home —=— like the crust that Gaea abandoned or some spirit abandoned because God said it’s time for you to be all supernovae or just some scheduled apocalypse on that street of a system and I am a raging pulsar fighting a battle that has already been
scheduled to end — only, I feel God did not schedule this random catastrophe this apostrophe that has made bed and bedlam with destruction and a bedfellow of ennui and a particle dark matter of elusive nimblings like some erotic orgasm you had while asleep with
lovers a and b gone into a recess shrapnel of ‘I will explode later’ or “inappropriate gag sex reflex’ or something and I am hoping to understand what the fuck did I do to deserve this ragdoll of a boredom to hump and fuck and then just feel the humping and fucking again…. what poised poetry of a life do I have?

I can breathe well. Good. God Bless. But I want to breathe in too. To know aromas here exotic and away familiar and that is bombarded by a barricade of ‘no friends’, ‘no good job or preferred job’ or  ‘pure classic paranoia’ — I am hating it feeding boredom and lethargy when I should forever be moving; gravity’s center has laid me as its egg — I told you an apostrophe was involved —

— and here I am venting to a venting system where rage will be broken down even if its heard because people prefer the cool, indifferent, ignorant air than realizing the capsizing of an individual madness….