Diplomacy

All my life I have been accused of not being very diplomatic (as though this is a crime). So, I have given this "diplomacy" thing some thought. Here is what I have come to realize:



Diplomacy is a way of revealing only a small fraction of the truth while allowing those with whom one is being diplomatic to believe the whole truth is being revealed.



Examples





Irish diplomacy: (Wife) "John, ya didn't go out drinkin' again last night with Michael, did ya?" (Husband) "Of course not!" (He was out drinking with Patrick) (Wife again) "And ya were not at Paddy's Pub drunk again?" (Husband) "Of course not!" (He was drunk at Sean's Pub with James)



Husband diplomacy: (Wife) "Dear, does this dress make me look fat?" (Husband) "No dear, not at all" (His true thought, You are fat, so it is you making yourself look fat not the dress. The dress just reveals it.)



Political Diplomacy: (Journalist) "Mr. President, are we planning to go to war with Iran?" (President) "No, we are not." (What the president is really thinking, "Israel is planning to go to war with Iran and we will support them fully with our troops weapons, and money.")





I think I am quite happy not being very diplomatic!

P. Donovan

The Relationship

His train arrives at midnight

from a town you think you know.

He told you to meet him sharp at twelve

and you know you want to go.

So you take the dress you've been saving so long

from a closet of antique clothes.

You fix your hair and you paint your eyes 

and you wonder if he knows.

It's getting late and you're anxious now

so you hurry down to the door.

And you stop a moment to think about

all the times that went before.

Then you step outside and the night is cold

but you've already shut the door.

You've already shut the door.

Woman your road is a long way from home

and the night is so cold.

If you walk it tonight you will walk it alone

and just to be bold.

You arrive at the station before his train

and it's warm but so empty inside.

So you sit on a bench of hard wood and nails

and you wonder what you've done with your pride.

Now here comes his train like a stab in the dark

and you get up and walk to the door.

And then as a face appears in the dark

you wonder if maybe there's more.

Hello! How are you? And so forth is said

from a grin you can not defend.

Like a puppet, you lean on the strings too hard

and you know that this is the end.

Then he takes your hand and he leads you down

to the tracks where you've been to before.

But it's too late now cause' his train has come

and you've already shut the door.

© p. donovan

Cultural Autism and Intimacy Deficiency Disorder (IDD)

There is a fulminating deficiency disorder that is festering at the heart of our “high-tech” Western culture…  lack of deep, intimate and profound relating with one another.

According to latest statistics, approximately 70% of American cell phone users send at least 1 or more text messages every single day. More often than we would like, those messages are sent while driving or walking in a public place or in the presence of friends and family. This level was reached by the UK four years ago. Irish telecoms regulator reports an average of 5 messages sent per day across the whole subscriber base. UK reports 6. South Korea reports 10. Singapore reports 12 text messages and the Philippines report 15 text messages sent per day on average across the total subscriber base. There are over 250 million active users of Facebook with more than 120 million users logging on to Facebook at least once each day. More than 5 billion minutes are spent on Facebook each day (worldwide). According to the A.C. Nielsen Co., the average American watches 3 hours and 46 minutes of TV each day (more than 52 days of nonstop TV-watching per year). Forty percent of Americans always or often watch television while eating dinner, missing one of the best opportunities for a family to share in intimate conversation.

Where is the organic intimacy and deep connectedness established and nurtured by the sharing of meaningful facial expressions, body language, verbal intonations, scents, pheromones, and the preciousness of a gentle touch or caress? Are they fading away in the distant memory of the human psyche replaced by the cultural autism and intimate sensual sterility of Facebook-friendships and the text message masquerade?

 p. donovan

Crumbs

I woke this morning alone

without my lover.

In her place I found the crumbs

of what I lost.

She is gone to see her family

in the desert.

I am left to pay the price

for what it cost.

Love can be a crime

when its entangled

in the barter of a lifetime

for one night.

It’s a trade we make

to keep ourselves in business,

a contract with the shadow

and the light.

Sometimes we choose to leave

our bed uncovered.

Sometimes we choose to leave it

not at all.

And other times we choose

to take the journey

hoping someone finds the crumbs

that we let fall.

©p. donovan

Through the great dance of relationship the “I” of self-awareness is born and nurtured into the “Thou” of unity and self-transcendence. The underlying motivation for this dance is twofold: self-realization through the reflection of one’s being in the eyes of “the other” and self-transcendence through the ultimate experience of love whereupon one realizes, as Joseph Campbell writes, “… beneath the illusion of two-ness dwells identity: 'each is both'.”
Through the reflection of your being in the eyes of your beloved, you behold the essential nature of your own existence. In so doing, you inform the world of that existence because you are “seen” and your life is witnessed through the eyes of love by your beloved. This is only a micro-personalized experience of the grander experience of “God beholding God.” For you and your beloved are one and the same. As you are witnessed, so do you witness. As you inform the world of your existence, so do you inform the world of the existence of your beloved. As the great Jewish mystic, Martin Buber, tells us, only through relationship can we know God and only through relationship can we know ourselves. I would add further, only through relationship can God know God and only through relationship can the lover know The Beloved.

© p. donovan

The nature of the creator of this universe is sexual. Everywhere in nature the erotic choreography of the courtship dance and the refrain of its melodic conversation can be witnessed, from the strutting of the peacock to the flowers of the field, from the croaking of the frog to the chirping of the crickets. Life is engaged in an ongoing conversation with itself; a sensual soliloquy of many tongues. The topic is self-discovery and self-transcendence through relationship. The language is sexual and sensual while the word spoken is seed and the seed given is word. The outcome is life’s continuous creation and the guidebook followed is love. But to love, you must become a lover and passionately engage the world in intimate and erotic conversation as though it were your beloved.

© p. donovan

“Dance me to your beauty
with a burning violin.
Dance me through the panic
till I’m gathered safely in.
Touch me with your naked hand,
touch me with your glove.
Dance me to the end of love.”

(From “Dance Me to the End of Love”
by Leonard Cohen © Stanger Music)

As I “check in” with my own experience of love and the many poets, mystics and lovers who have tasted of the sweetness of love’s sublime ecstasy and have been deeply wounded by the flame of love’s transformational fire, I can only conclude the following. To be a lover:
One must realize one’s worthiness to be loved and to love;
One must be willing to risk being wounded;
One must be willing to risk one’s self to be a part of something greater than one’s self;
One must be willing to be naked to The Beloved and witnessed by The Beloved in that nakedness and vulnerability at the risk of being judged;
One must have a vision of the heavenly perfection of profound relatedness;
One must have a burning, passionate desire to be totally immersed in the ecstasy of profound relatedness;
Because every being is the portal through which The Beloved is accessed, one must be able to recognize and erotically engage The Beloved living deep within the heart and essence of every being and enter into profound relatedness with that being and The Beloved within them;
Then one must dance!

© p. donovan

“The person who emerges from the act of pure relation that so involves his/her being has now in their being something more that has grown in themselves, of which they did not know before and whose origin he/she is not rightly able to indicate.” (Martin Buber, I And Thou)

Being in the sacred place of profound relatedness with another is a powerful experience, one that is either mortally devastating or spiritually transformative. When it is transformative, it leaves you with “something more that has grown in you” as Buber tells us.

However, to be a lover you must be willing to live in love’s world and be sacrificed on its alter of creativity for your beloved; “crucified”, “pruned” and “shaken” to your very roots if that is what it takes to be one with your beloved. You must be deeply centered within your own being and have a strong sense of who you are at your very core, however, to risk such wounding and survive. You must first know yourself or else all will be lost. The blade of profound relatedness cuts deep into the heart of your existence as it dissects away all denial, apathy, and resistance. If you are not prepared, it may cut too deeply leaving you mortally devastated, struggling to survive, struggling to be free from your pain.

© p. donovan

To The Salmon People And The Salmon Eaters From Mack

Last night I attended a presentation given in Seattle by wisdom-keeper storyteller Michael Meade. I went because I am in a bit of a doldrum, and wisdom (so rare in our world) tends to pick me up. It was an uplifting experience.

In oration and storytelling and song and drumming, he told of how our souls come to this life with a purpose, aimed in a certain direction, although we are sometimes unaware of that purpose. He said that usually there is a wounding experience in our childhood that stimulates and enlivens that purpose, turning fate into destiny. As he spoke I thought of how his words might apply to me. My wound was in being lied to, first by alcoholic parents who could not admit their alcoholism, then by a religious cult and complicit family members, and finally, on escaping that cult, by a world culture which does not know itself. Each time the lies sought to conceal the character of the very air we breathed day to day.

The storyteller said that initiation is a process of separation, ordeal, and reunion with a welcoming community that recognizes a rebirth of the soul and welcomes the initiate back into a place of belonging. How might this apply to me? My separation occurred at age 3, when I was fitted with a leather and steel leg brace to keep my right leg bones straight despite a disease which threatened to make the bones bend and then harden again in a disfigured state. The brace was mostly successful, as my lasting disfigurement is very minor, and could have been much worse. It is literally in my hip, as Jacob (another who asked for a gift as I did) was said to have been touched in his hip by an angel to teach him humility. I wonder if this is a reminder of humility to me.

But my bone disease was not the real wound, only an initiatory separation. For wearing the leg brace during my early years of socialization, three to six, created social separation, which Michael Meade says is a signal to the soul that initiation has begun.

My wound of fate is also my initiatory ordeal. Being lied to massively and intricately, more convoluted than the most complex Celtic knot you have ever seen or imagined. He says that next to our wound is our gift to the world, and that we have to go completely through the wound in order to find our gift and let it shine. My cult recovery process is now in it's second decade and counting. During this time I have completely reclaimed my mind from the web of lies, and am, more than anyone else I know, quite immune to them now. Since reclaiming one's mind is the greatest sin that one can possibly commit as per some of my siblings still in the cult, they count me a heretic worthy of death. This thought is wounding too, for my family was supposed to be my foundation in this life. There is no home to return to, even if I ever would.

But I have gone all the way through this wound. Some days I am even free of anger about it. Each day I try to deliver my gift by means of clarity and sincerety and alignment with the Nature of what is, and vibrating in the electricity and beauty of it, and I don't know if it is of benefit to anyone but myself, but I keep trying, for that is all I have to give. I hope some day it can benefit my unborn grandchildren so that they can enjoy the pure beauty that I have loved. My golden ball is certainly a treasure to me. Perhaps that is enough.

The storyteller related a Celtic story about the tree of life and the salmon of wisdom who became wise by eating nuts that fell from the tree of life into the pool where the salmon was swimming. He suggested that a life of wisdom means swimming against the current, as salmon do, because wisdom is rare in our world. So wisdom means struggle? I can relate. I have had to swim against the current for most of my life because I love and pursue wisdom, although I may not define it as Michael Meade does. He also said that wisdom varies for each individual, that it is creative and dynamic and infinitely malleable. I don't know if that is so. Perhaps.

But there is also another wisdom, and there must be another wisdom that we can share, at least long enough to solve our collective planetary problems. I suspect private creative wisdom, no matter how essential and helpful, may not be enough without a collective wisdom based on the Nature of what is, because collective solutions are required in order to survive these times. Somehow I can't help wondering if my golden ball is involved, but I don't quite know how.

To me, wisdom means the capacity to solve problems, like Solomon is said to have done when two mothers came before him, one with a living baby and one with a dead baby. When I first heard this story about age 3, there was a quickening in my soul. Something moved inside me as if I had swallowed a live salmon. I knew I had a difficult problem too, my parents' alcoholism, and I very much wanted the capacity to overcome my problem like Solomon did his. So that day I prayed to God for wisdom, the capacity to solve problems, because that is what Solomon did. I thought if it worked for him, it might work for me. (Hmm. Salmon~Solomon.) That was the day the eyes of my soul opened and my initiatory ordeal began. Had I known the ordeal would last so long, I might not have asked for it.

Like dominoes falling in succession, knowledge (the possession of accurate information) can lead to understanding (an overview of how things fit together), which in turn can lead to wisdom (the capacity to solve problems by employing understanding). But this succession requires intellectual honesty which becomes disrupted by cultural error. Since culture permeates, like the air we breathe, intellectual dishonesty within individual minds is somewhat proportional to the errors of world culture, and unfortunately they are many.

I pursue wisdom like the scent of a distant spawning ground because I wish to clear away the problems that inhibit the elusive thing I love which I can barely describe. I love the purest beauty imaginable, that pure innocence, pure alignment with the Nature of what is, free of artificial contrivance, which vibrates in the electricity of being, standing toe to toe, seeing eye to eye, free of the need for any contrived device, stronger because of it, steadfast and unmoveable like the trunk of the great tree of life, flowing with the limitless qi of the universe because of essential alignment with the Nature of what is. This is what this indescribable golden ball means to me.

Some might call it "truth", but that does not quite convey it, particularly where that word has been painted a different color through abuse. This thing I love is not some abstract invented doctrine from a hypocritical cleric, oversimplified for spiritual babes, yet masquerading as universal light. It is the ability to recognize and celebrate the beingness of our own Nature, to tune into a universal frequency that can free and empower us to reach our magnificent potential. Although I no longer allow myself to be chained by doctrine, I do still believe parts of my scriptural upbringing, including John 8:44, "The Devil is a liar and the father of lies". This is consistent with my experience, for this golden ball, "truth" or "innocence" or "alignment" or "sincerety" or however one might attempt to label it (despite the fact that labels usually fail), is that which connects us to our limitless power and divinity. Any oppressor would first seek to disconnect us from that, would they not? I don't know what the Devil is, but some unseen force or person has certainly taken this oppressive role in our world. Who?

Sincerety, above all else, is not allowed in my world, and particularly not for adult males. Instead, now and throughout this lifetime which extends along the road behind me, I am expected to be stoic and accomplished and contrive an image of stoicism and prowess, for this artificial image is what a man "should" be. And this is my deep emotional ground, being prohibited by the world in which I live from openly being and celebrating who I am, a world which, on the one hand pays lip service to honesty, but on the other hand rewards artificial contrivance and punishes sincerety in every conceivable way. We are not allowed to be who we really are, much less celebrate it. Shame, projection, and artificial contrivance are everywhere.

I have not yet gone all the way through this wound, and I wonder if there will be yet time to do so in this lifetime. It is, needless to say, no mystery to me why so many of my fellow men, likewise expected to be artificially stoic for the benefit of others, or artificially accomplished in order to receive a modicum of respect, more now in our gender "enlightened" society than ever, without a thought for their own humanity, do accede to contrivance and even exploitation in order to gain some sort of satisfaction, for there is no reward in this world for those who hold to nobility of character and sincerety of word and deed. Because of my "innocence" or creative maladjustment, I am sometimes thought of as weak, where in reality I am strong because of it, yet no one knows it. I admit it's not polished, but it really is gold.

The storyteller also said that the third stage of initiation, a reunion with a welcoming community that recognizes a rebirth of the soul, is rare in our world. Even though I discovered this soul journey he describes back in my teens, and have been pursuing it ever since, having been through three formal indigenous-style initiations, and many informal ones, that third stage still eludes me. For I live in a world in which community has dissolved, and humankind recognizes very little of what is real. And so even the most fundamental human needs that we all share, having a place of belonging and being seen and accepted for who we really are, eludes most all of us, because most all of us are too blind to see each other or recognize our common destiny.

I have at times been angry over this, but in this moment I am sad for my race, and I hold out a hand tenderly upon the shoulder of those who have never held out anything for me. We are all potentially so much more than we have been. May we move toward our beautiful potential.

The times that I came closest to the promise of being known and accepted for who I really am, that is when I was most alive; but it took huge expenditures of energy to reach those peaks in a cultural environment that either cannot glimpse my golden ball or projects familiar stereotypes as an overlay upon an unfamiliar sight. But even those peaks were a false promise, for no one around me whom I trusted with this risk, could really see or even wanted to, even though I tried over and over again. And now I am old and tired, and perhaps unlikely to spend that much energy trying such a difficult quest that holds so little promise in the current climate.

However the beautiful thing I came here to celebrate, I still do and always will. I love a thing that I have only tasted in the briefest possible glimpse (like Finn who touched the skin of the salmon before tasting his thumb) many years ago and now nearly forgotten. To love and pursue that pure and beautiful thing, now a wisp of a distant memory, which I can barely describe and even so doing, I describe poorly at best, my indescribable golden ball, is my purpose in this life. I wonder if my purpose is entirely futile, and hope it is not.

It is the beauty for which I live. Well although I have little evidence of accomplishment, my life is well spent still.

© Mack

Segments of Antiquity

Segments of antiquity,
relics of antiquated memories,
like hand-carved figurines
on crumbled alters
of weathered stone,
pose motionless,
silent,
stilled
by the
paganistic, pantheistic, hedonistic hands
of analytical divinity
and the blood-borne sacrifice
of loves lost
only to be discovered again
in the metamorphic ruins
of tomorrow
by the virgin hands
of an archeological dream.

© p. donovan

I’ve Known Love

I’ve known love
when it was cold,
when it was warm
and when it was sharp enough
to amputate my limbs
when I needed to be whole.

I’ve known flesh
when it was warm,
when it was cold
and when it was soft enough
to capture me in pain
when I needed to be free.

And I’ve known you
when you were sharp,
when you were soft
and when you were mine enough
to teach my limbs
their pain would never be free.

© p. donovan

Where Is The Open Door?

Where is the open door
I used to know so well
who’s latch was never closed to me
who’s path was always known?

Where are the satin sheets
that tasted of our sweat
on those nights of reckless passion
when our bodies heaved and flowed with love?

Where are the eyes of fire
that begged me to come in
and gazed into my soul
the moment we became as one?

The door is locked.
The sheets are put away.
Your eyes no longer see me now.

Love is such a strange agreement.

© p. donovan

The Circle

In western mystical tradition the point contained at the center of the circle is “aleph,” the first letter of the Hebrew alphabet and the I AM of self-awareness… the seed of life and self-aware consciousness that is defined by the circle to eventually expand to fulfill itself within the womb of the circle. The circle is “beth.” Beth is the second letter of the Hebrew alphabet and according to Western mystical tradition, is the letter from which creation began in the original Hebrew biblical text, because it is the first letter of the first word (“B’rashit”) of Biblical Genesis. It represents the container or maternal womb within which creation takes place.

The circle presents the maximal contrast of inside and outside, finite and infinite. It intimates the ultimate paradox: It is simultaneously limiting in its ability to contain and define, yet unlimiting and endless in its dimensions (π = 3.1415926…) and its expansive, recursive nature. Perceived as the uroboros (the ancient symbol of the serpent swallowing its tail), the circle is the symbol of unity and eternity, the union of masculine and feminine opposites as the mythological “World Parents” joined in perpetual embrace. As Michael Schneider states, “… a circle implies the mysterious generation from nothing to everything.” While the circle accommodates all of the fundamental two-dimensional shapes within itself and the sphere accommodates all of the fundamental three-dimensional forms (Platonic solids) within itself, the spiral accommodates the primary creative process from which all the fundamental shapes and forms evolve.

All forms and organizing patterns of life arise from the circle. Within it lies the identity of the Creator. Understanding it allows one to understand one’s self because it is from the circle one was born. As the great mythologist and psychologist Eric Neumann states:

“So long as man shall exist, perfection will continue to appear as the circle, the sphere, and the round; and the Primal Deity who is sufficient unto Itself, and the self who has gone beyond the opposites, will reappear in the image of the round, the mandala.”

© p. donovan

The War, In Twelve Words

"It is with great remorse

that we inform you

of your loss."

© p. donovan

Copulating With The Scalpel Blade Of Desire

I have copulated with

the scalpel blade

of desire

as it caressed

the warm, hot flesh

of my safety and security

severing

the calcified umbilicus

of my arrogant despair

and the intimate possibilities

that border

this threshold of love.

I spilled upon

the septic sheets

of my sibylline surrender

singly, wholly,

desperately

alone

with unending pulsations

of emptiness

until there was nothing left

but the stillborn vestige

of my freedom

and the silent cry

of my

singularity!

© p. donovan

Your Eyes, My Gaze

I'd stare into your eyes forever;

deep, endless pits

of beauty and despair,

of passion and sorrow,

of life and death,

of gray and green.

I'd get lost forever

as my gaze meets yours,

even when I look away

my gaze will stay lost

in your eyes forever.

Slowly we will move closer.

Mentally our souls will meet.

Using our eyes as a passage,

I will stay lost

in your eyes forever.

© Connor Donovan

So Far From Doe Bay

So far from Doe Bay we’ve come
since that dusky, July evening
when I first stared transfixed
into your fiery green eyes
while your slender, naked, nubile body
slipped seductively into the hot tub of my anticipation
on that secluded Northwest Island.

Within minutes, all else melted away
except those green eyes
and a familiar conversation
begun so long ago;
(absent of word and voice)
interrupted only by the splashing of your son
as he played periodically with your attention.

Even before our introduction,
I knew why
I had come to this place.

So far from Doe Bay we’ve come;
through nights of fiery passion
entangled as one
(the taste of your body, the sent of your heat)
to Sunday night dinners of garlic and wine
and olive oil kisses with basil and thyme.

So far from Doe Bay we’ve gone
since that dusky, July evening
when I first stared transfixed
into your fiery green eyes.

So far from Doe Bay we’ve gone.
We’ve gone so far away.
On two separate ferries.
In two separate cars.
As two separate lives.
Forever entwined in the moment of
one unforgettable hello
and
one
everlasting
goodbye.

© p. donovan

The Man Massacres The Concept Of Time

The man massacres the concept of time
as he sees it slowly
creeping through his lover's veins.

He cries out angrily
at the feeling of hate.
He sings out joyfully
at the knowledge of love.

He reaps and sows
the fact of evolution.
But drowns the myth
of revolution.

© Connor Donovan

SQUATTER

A squatter squats inside my house,

I give him shelter, bread, and wine,

I give him everything that is mine.

He spends the night and that's just fine.

I let him stay because he shows

that he is safe, and that I know.

I give him everything I sow

all my sheets and all my clothes.

And then the next morning comes.

He awakes, and then he's gone.

Just as he leaves another comes.

This one's family, a close friend.

No, I know it's not the end,

so I let him come in.

No, the bell doesn't toll for him.

As I greet this friend with hi,

he says "hello" and then he sighs.

What's wrong my friend, I must ask.

He says he's done and gone to die.

I say I am surprised, although I'm not,

it's in his eyes.

He says "farewell" and "I must go."

I say "goodbye, I loved you so."

The last time I see him go.

A stranger comes to my door,

not a squatter, not a whore.

This man, I know him well,

yet he is a stranger still.

I shut the door in his face.

He says, "That won't do, your a disgrace."

I open up the door to see,

the man has become me.

I shut the door and run away.

Things collapse and fadeaway.

I've run into another day.

© Connor Donovan, 9/11

Solstice Supplication

In the dark,
the night,
of late December,
as the sun hid his countenance from human view,
I sat with my father beneath the scented boughs
cracking the shells of walnuts, almonds, and their kin.

His hands,
rough, muscled, and calloused,
held the precious seeds within their firm and gentle grasp
“nothing so strong as gentleness”
and released the life enhancing substance that formed my
young and forming soul.

Oh, Light of light; Oh, Seed of seeds!
Wherein lies my path?
Let Janus show his faces forward,
set me down, let your book be known to me,
let your word be spoken and mine ears be worthy.

Show me his face again.

© Dan Cicora