About jftoomey

I'm many things, among which is a linguist, a therapist, a scientist, a business owner, a student, a traveller, a dreamer, a poet, a friend, a dog lover, and I'm sure some other things that I'd rather not mention here.

The Goal and the Meaning of Life by Joseph Campbell

The goal of life is to make your heartbeat match the beat of the universe, to match your nature with Nature.

Life has no meaning. Each of us has meaning and we bring it to life. It is a waste to be asking the question when you are the answer.

People say that what we’re all seeking is a meaning for life. I don’t think that’s what we’re really seeking. I think that what we’re seeking is an experience of being alive, so that our life experiences on the purely physical plane will have resonances with our own innermost being and reality, so that we actually feel the rapture of being alive.

– Joseph Campbell was an American mythologist, writer and lecturer, best known for his work in comparative mythology and comparative religion. His work is vast, covering many aspects of the human experience.

Wanting

Wanting
is the problem.
it so often turns
into a no-holds-barred
– chase
to possess an itch
that cannot be scratched

Yet all the while

there is in fact
nothing ever
wanting.

Every object of our passions
– worthy of the effort
to seek it, touch it,
give it birth
lies within painless
ready reach, but

To clench it first
with mind
in jaw, in tooth, in fist
is to annihilate
the spirit of love
that lives within it.

Glimpsing
for an instant,
in the eyes a reflection

a sudden rush of the familiar
a sensation of home

self’s true nature

recognizing it
in another, then
thoughts of its possession

– a fleeting illusion

for love
will not have this.

Dry Ice

finally,
the cold hard facts!
burn
– like dry ice, but
set you free
like a moth to a flame
the cold hard facts!
burn
– like dry ice, but
set you free
like a moth to a flame
finally,
burn
– like dry ice, but
set you free
like a moth to a flame
finally,
the cold hard facts!

Her Tell

Eyes squinting like a cat’s
she stares glistening
icy daggers

with a hint of curiosity
in my direction
– as if my nose
had a bull’s eye
painted on its tip

knees crossed
pinched
like the ends of clothes pins

her right foot flails nervously
a twitching tell
from right to left
from left to right

in fast-moving nervous micro-fits
as if her traitorous ankle

had no anatomic connection
to its long silent leg
semi-concealed
by the old wooden desk
she stares a dare
to cross her

Leaving me spooked

I avert her glance
with a dry
painful smile
stretched tight across my teeth

Managing to mask my focus
on her mesmerized state

I ask myself:

What long stormy hair

could possibly have
triggered
this unworldly eerie
hypnotic
trance ?

Lately I feel Lost in Space

when it comes to making a decision.
it’s become a dizzying prospect
choosing from the cyber space
supply of options
in this labyrinthine
flash-buzzing
LED, blue light
wired-in
robotic world
– makes my head spin,
like that tunneling
black & white
holy commercial
bat-break!
hypno spiral
on the 4 o’clock
pre-dinner episode of the
intrepid, but closeted
red-breasted
silky black & yellow
caped crusading dynamic duo,
or that spinning
psychedelic
pie-sliced
prize wheel
on the 7 o’clock
postprandial episode
of Vanna White
Pat Sajak and their

Wheel-of-Fortune!

Giddy for Beachside Storm Surge Fun

must be some kind of

initiation right,

a hazing ritual when

tropical-storm-covering-

tv-journalists

Seavees cemented in place

tethered to a cord

in category 5

hurricane winds

don’t blow away,

or at least sideways

like the violently

undulating background

hair-on-fire royal palms

howling ¡mayday!

the laws of physics

seem suspended when

the singular results of

cyclonic centrifugal force

are simply sopping-nylon-

clinging-jackets,

messy manes on talking heads

filled with hot air

and unintelligible news-

worthless babbling like

drunken beachside

wet t-shirt

contestants

Violet Crocus Uprising

Like a springtime uprising
tiny violet crocuses
forge their firm
brave cup-shaped petals
through the ice-crusted
crevices of glistening
jagged rock

thawing
from the long, dark
frozen winters of arrogance
aggression
oppression & fear
a culture of regression
hidden

hidden, deeply
in the eerie
mischievous sweetness
of Cheshire grins
firm manly hand shakes
clever adages & the everyday
civilities of conscienceless
cowardly kapos
from unsuspecting
fair-minded
peace-loving
men

brave women
and queer folk
wanting justice
tired of the boys’ll
be boys’ club status quo
blooming resplendent
restoring hope
in radical colors of truth
respect, loving-kindness
inalienable to all

to all
that is sacred
to this tiny, spinning, star-lit
blue-island-orb
snatched savagely
from its heavenly course
into the sweaty, greedy
clutch of fear
and the shock
of a red-headed
cyclops’
vengeance