Loneliness and Aloneness
by Michael Hurley
(Michael Hurley has passed on a copy of his poem that
was a highlight of
the keynote address at the 1997 Kingston Men's Conference.)
The heart of this poem that Iíve entitled ìLoneliness
and Alonenessî emerged within
hours of receiving an invitation from Harvey Schachter and Steve Rush to
participate in tonight's program. It embodies my first immediate, knee-jerk
responses to this
conferenceís theme. And it strikes me now as a pretty basic black-and-white
photograph that renders Aloneness and Loneliness as virtuous twin and evil
twin, good cop and bad cop. Now, I
see myself as an ironic, shades of grey kinda guy, so this melodramatic
pairing of opposites goes
somewhat against the grain--yet Iím not about to turn any poem away
from my door, and I suppose
such a simplistic portrait may help flush out some stock responses and flesh
out the skeleton
of our little presentation tonight.
Loneliness & Aloneness
Loneliness gnaws.
It eats away
flesh and blood
and soul
slowly, inexorably, relentlessly.
At 3:00 in the morning
Iíve felt its little ratís teeth
needle-sharp and merciless.
Perpetually hungry
itís stalked me
cornered and gutted me
bent and warped me.
Loneliness is famine.
And when itís picked my bones clean
it still comes back for more,
starved for spirit.
Some say it takes a slice of your soul
leaving a ragged, bleeding hole
no amount of future company
can fill with laughter or talk
workshops or conferences.
Part of you ends up like Draculaís Un-Dead--
always in darkness,
cold to the touch,
howling at the moon.
In short,
Loneliness sucks.
Itís a vampire
that goes right for your heartís blood.
I feel it here
in my breathing--
every breath a sigh
resigned, laboured,
drained of life,
a wave that never quite makes it
to shore
that never knows the effervescent thunder
of release and renewal
that just gets turned back in upon itself
with a sort of dull dead thud.
Loneliness is an arrow that penetrates flesh
to the bone and beyond,
one that can`t be pushed thru
nor withdrawn,
a wounded Fisher King too ill to live
but unable to die.
In the Kingdom of Loneliness
crops are meagre,
knights disheartened, maidens bereaved,
children orphaned.
Loneliness looks on,
as wounds fester,
inner work is abandoned,
ghosts outnumber the living.
Loneliness is being haunted
by someone who`s not there
until you become ghostly yourself,
porous to all sorts of unrealities.
At such times, you feel driven
to do idiotic things
to ease the desperation.
At such times, I notice only
the signs pointing toward town,
someone else`s bed or head.
I refuse to look in mirrors or rivers
or open books.
I lose track of what I want
to do for the rest of my day or my life.
I `m devoured by a naive greed
to seek out novelty, excitement, numbness.
I crave frequent sleepovers at Comfort Inns
while confirming my reservations
at Heartbreak Hotel.
I blunder about in the snow,
put out the fire of purpose and passion,
and crawl into a black mood
as into a hole.
Floundering about, I let the air out
of any remaining enthusiasms,
corral any wild horses,
muzzle my dog.
Trying to pull in faraway exotic stations
I go deaf to soul concerns
and hear only vacuum.
Loneliness echoes
in the weird cavernous spaces
the unsuspected fissures and cracks
riddling each precarious moment
of an aching inertia
that spreads like mold
that leaches the life out of me.
Loneliness endures.
It stretches across the hollow empty hours
that droop and wilt
and weigh the world down
to a stand-still.
Loneliness is distance
you canít overcome
or outrun
a sterile vastness that swallows
all horizons
engulfs sun and moon
in a whirlpool of fog and dust
and the debris kicked up by death
that always lurks at the dark centre
of any labyrinth.
Aloneness--
aloneness stands apart
from this withered corpse
Sends up shoots and fresh stems
beckoning the sun
perfuming the moon
Sends down roots to the luminous heart
of this spacious moment
here and now
Aloneness is a well
I can drink from,
a garden I can grow in
a sacred space where I can move beyond
who they think I am
who I think I am
Aloneness is a relationship
with myself, my deep self
that I need as much as I need anyone else.
Iíve got to be able to be
with my self
fully and completely
before, in some sense, I can be others
Aloneness is togetherness
If Iím not together when Iím alone
Iím not together when Iím together
If Iím not accessible to myself
Iím not available to you.
This is the politics of Aloneness.
Making strange bedfellows
of being alone and being in community.
One nourishes and enriches the other.
One is the other
one and the same.
Aloneness replenishes.
Solitude--beautiful word.
Soulitude.
That sacred space I vow to honour
and cherish and protect,
that, like all things sacred,
I can fear and flee from
desecrate and violate and betray
to avoid the encounter with someone
some stranger
Iíve never really met
whom Iím never then really able to introduce
to others
though Iím always ready to claim
we bear the same name.
Aloneness is a monastery, a meditation room,
the philosopher`s study, the alchemist`s vessel.
It`s a magician`s hat to pull rabbits out of:
wounds once investigated, not avoided,
become magic doors to wholeness
and to others
become sacred wounds
out of which come poems and powers,
gifts to self and community.
Aloneness homes me in on my self
even as it hones the capacity for relationship.
Aloneness can be the lost and found
department of the soul
It restores me to myself
and takes me out of myself.
Leave me alone
and I return to you
greater than when we parted
--I need to say this
every now and then
to my work, partner, family, friends
to my own guilt over withdrawing
from the fray, over living my own life,
to my own shrill insistence
that I caretake the world 25 hours a day
And this heats up
the paradox and politics
of aloneness.
Aloneness is silence
that utters my name
speaks my own voice
lets me overhear my own thoughts
and touch my own feelings
get untangled from everything
that masquerades and advertises itself
as who I am
that would sell me
a clever facsimile,
a culturally-approved clone
of myself.
Aloneness is time-out
from such mask-making
male makeovers pullovers put-ons hand-me-downs
Enough already!
Aloneness purifies
like a mountain stream or a belly-laugh or a good fuck.
It strips you down to basics
warts and all
lets it all hang out
Slows you down enough to see
a civilization of hurry
scurrying about from triviality
to banality
too speed-crazed to recognize
to everything thereís a season
Aloneness has rhythm. It can dance
and show you where the good times roll.
Itís a river you can swim in
that can take you to the sea
(if thatís where you want to go.)
And aloneness comes bearing gifts-
awareness of boundaries,
of entrances and exits,
ups and downs, ins and outs.
You can take the imprint
of your own fingertips
in aloneness.
It can be that kind of mirror,
or sounding-board,
a place to hang your hat
or call home.
Aloneness befriends me
brings me into the company
of good books, films,
old photograph albums,
a memory or a dream, a drum or a disc,
a canoe and a wilderness growing round it
a garden I can meander down
an empty house I can putter around
in silence or in song
a poem I can play about in
a meditation that can allow me
to go out of my mind
and come to my senses.
.
Aloneness pays attention
to the little things,
the tiny desires and dreams
lost in the noisey shuffle
or bartered for 30 pieces of silver.
It cultivates magical enclosed gardens
hardly noticeable in the busy glare
of public spotlights
where the lover of sunlight on a leaf
or of a necklace of water droplets
gracing a paddle
can learn the universe by heart
and curl up with it
like a willow leaf nestled in the curve
left by a deer`s hoof on a riverbank.
Aloneness grows the world back into our senses,
lets it pour forth afresh out of our spirit
lets it breathe
and lets it enter the timeless space
between breaths...
.
Loneliness and Aloneness...
If in loneliness I lose my identity
being alone can help me regain it
Itís OK to be lonely
itís OK to be alone
--thatís what I feel--
though in this I may not be alone.