Thursday, December 30, 2010
Nice 10 km barefoot on the seawall. Crisp, sunny, with just a *hint* of rocksalt.
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Goodbye, friend. Long may you run.
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Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
RIP Emma, one big hearted, love-filled golden retriever. We'll miss you.
wtf
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"Can I use the washroom in my socks? ... Errr...yes...just avoid anything...liquidy..."
BC Ferries must be taking logistics lessons from winterized European air carriers
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Monday, December 27, 2010
I normally have 362 'aha' moments a day. This was #19.5
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To the adults, 'A Mess.' To the kids and Jerry, 'The Fort'
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Bought Left to Tell by Immacule Ilibagiza yday afternoon and just finished it. Horror, beauty, and ultimately grace. What a story.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Today's balanced Chapter's buys: Richards, Running, Rwanda: genius-soaked-in-excess; evolution-thru-movement; spirit-in-the-midst-of-hell
Pizza, coffee, reading about light in Rwanda's dark past.
Integrity
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Thursday, December 23, 2010
Awesome
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Later today, in a show of restained disregard for The Man, I will polish my shoes. On company time. #shoe-based-ahisma
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Dante would have added a few levels if he had ventured into Future Shop's 'festive' bass-laden techno hock-fest.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
I have outsourced the housework to the kids. #bestorworst10bucksieverspenttimewilltell
Monday, December 20, 2010
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Another wonderful Parker Mesner Christmas put to bed. #hotoshelleycathyjerryandkids
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Just asked the cashier if the gift soap I bought needs batteries. #spreadinglaughterthroughmakinganassoutofmyself
Friday, December 17, 2010
Is there anything as sad as a poor pic of an abandoned espresso maker?
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Bagpiper in a kilt and santa hat wandering the halls. #walkingmixedmetaphor
Stairway to Baker
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Thursday, December 16, 2010
Actually shocked a telemarketer into silence. Involved a story of why my personal hygiene failings make me a poor credit risk. #seriously
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
There are 17.4 things that I would like to do less than smoke test a production deploy in the witching hours. #justdontknowwhattheyare
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Monday, December 13, 2010
Sunday, December 12, 2010
10 km transmogrified into a pleasant, easy 5km bf on the track.
No problem, officer
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Saturday, December 11, 2010
Friday, December 10, 2010
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
"The dinner we eat tonite was part of the sun but a few months ago" -W. Price
Sunday, December 5, 2010
IMG01435.jpg
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Saturday, December 4, 2010
Thursday, December 2, 2010
The bible paradox
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Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Monday, November 29, 2010
If you ever need an aural example of 'continuous learning', spend time with strevie ray vaughn's canon.
Thank god for excel macros. She really knew what she was doing when she created those.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Listening with the I's
A Z of city blocks away from the other nexus that draws strange carnates
I saw you shoveling
Black on white
Balaclava'd, scarved, hooded
Hidden in plain site
I was following the safety line
Anchored in the yesterdays collected and dropped like seeds
from the mountain to the tower
But you
You interrupted the assumptions and currents
Charged with my safe and unchallenged arrival
At the stale-idea exchange
With a glance that wouldn't register until Otis delivered me through the corporate womb:
The snow arced its delivery and landing
Stretched back to the shovel and naked hands
Misted out, ridiculing space's conventions
Becoming a 70's icon
Flew into a gray cotton morning
Thick gathering over a lonely looking sky
Revealing the miracle
for all willing to listen
with their I's
Labels:
carnate,
I-I,
incarnate,
jonathan livingstone seagull,
Neil Diamond,
seagull
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Time for another -4 6 km toe-tingler to the 9:00 oclock gun and back. #barefoot
I like the fact that a CFO of a 900 employee company will engage me in waxing poetic about barefoot running. #eventhoughhethingksI'mcrazy
Lucky
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Monday, November 22, 2010
17% of those surveyed think a barefoot jog in -3 would be a good excercise in detachment. Ok then.
"Faith is what is left when your beliefs have all been blown to hell" -Ram Dass
Sunday, November 21, 2010
"Love is the emotional color of the soul. Unconditional love is the color of enlightenment." -Ram Dass
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Just asked for an eggnog latte without eggnog or coffee to see what the reaction would be: incredulity, then laughter.
I give nuanced replies to questions posed by vapid radio commercials.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
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Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Sublimation train
High without the height
Surrounded? by boundary-less space
This is grace
Euphoric body buzz
Mind expanding because there are no thoughts to fence it in
Love, because there is no me, us,you
Emptiness is full-overspilling
Dissolving obstacles tension lines and apprehension
Dissolving judgement and sex and seeking
Into this warm bath of all
I will drift on the dimensionless wings of drows and hope to awaken
Here, without hope, or anyThing else.
Surrounded? by boundary-less space
This is grace
Euphoric body buzz
Mind expanding because there are no thoughts to fence it in
Love, because there is no me, us,you
Emptiness is full-overspilling
Dissolving obstacles tension lines and apprehension
Dissolving judgement and sex and seeking
Into this warm bath of all
I will drift on the dimensionless wings of drows and hope to awaken
Here, without hope, or anyThing else.
Maha dev
Ram ram
Sent on the TELUS Mobility network with BlackBerry
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Monday, November 15, 2010
Great day for a run, if you like the meteorlogical equivalent of Mordor. Glad I brought my mandana.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
600 meter swim and 4 km woods jalk with Wilson the Nova Scotia duck toller
Saturday, November 13, 2010
When loss rips off the doors of the heart, or sadness veils your vision with despair, practice becomes simply bearing the truth- Dana Faulds
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Friday, November 12, 2010
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Fugue
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The i in IKEA
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Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Quadriped and I in a quiet northshore lane under the stars
Off to memphis blues with kriscalmarcirodkerriloisandkids
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Living Meditation
But wonder how long this can last
Just answered myself
...and started the engine again
I have no idea
*And* wonder how long this can last
Just answered myself
...and started the engine again
There is no idea
Wonder at this
Answer myself?
started the engine again
no idea
wonder
myself
started the engine again
no idea
no myself
wonder
engine in neutral
Wonder
engine stalled
I am
Labels:
engine,
I,
I AM,
meditation,
non-duality,
wonder
These results from a spiritual site's web search just now
Monday, November 8, 2010
Verticalo 17 Opus 4
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That pretty well sums it up
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Terror-firma
Grizzled cheek in hand
Eyes caught between a gaze and fixation
Analysis floating just above fear's cold fingers
I see you.
One became two by four
Lumbered bread of relationship
Building material that could be held
*and* checked for faults
Wood cannot build itself
So I step back
I can stack and add
But the cutting is beyond me.
Still, I try
With the grain;
Against the vein
My sap hot and dripping
Congealing into flumes and parapets
That naked feet crush
and are cut by
Blood and sap and sawdust
Hardened resined mosaic that I pick up
And fashion into a broach for the three of you
Wondering if it will light up with your heart;
Or ice over with rejection
or, worst of wall-
Sit unchanged
I sit cross legged and try to connect
with terror-firma.
Eyes caught between a gaze and fixation
Analysis floating just above fear's cold fingers
I see you.
One became two by four
Lumbered bread of relationship
Building material that could be held
*and* checked for faults
Wood cannot build itself
So I step back
I can stack and add
But the cutting is beyond me.
Still, I try
With the grain;
Against the vein
My sap hot and dripping
Congealing into flumes and parapets
That naked feet crush
and are cut by
Blood and sap and sawdust
Hardened resined mosaic that I pick up
And fashion into a broach for the three of you
Wondering if it will light up with your heart;
Or ice over with rejection
or, worst of wall-
Sit unchanged
I sit cross legged and try to connect
with terror-firma.
Labels:
broach,
firma,
relationship,
resin,
sadness,
terror,
terror-firma
New York City Marathon̢۪s Medical Director Brings a New Philosophy to Patient Care - NYTimes.com http://ping.fm/pIo0B
Sunday, November 7, 2010
"In all the universe, is there one single thing of value? Yes, the power of love" -Sri Nisargadatta Maharaj
YouTube - "Turn Back Your Clocks" Daylight Savings Awareness sung by Dads http://ping.fm/LVOfs
Effing the Ineffable | Big Questions Online http://ping.fm/D02VY
14 Amazing Marathon Locations (PHOTOS) http://ping.fm/Pett1
Saturday, November 6, 2010
I see you-
Holding the blindfold; shirt rippled on roots and vines
Walking patterns
Our intersections carved out of the sandalwood hills
Holding the blindfold; shirt rippled on roots and vines
Walking patterns
Our intersections carved out of the sandalwood hills
Sandalwood Charnel
It's possible
That I never gave you a ticket for the charnel ground
Yet you're here
Holding your blindfold, nightshirt rippled on roots and vines;
Walking the patterns
Our intersections carved out of the sandalwood hills
I, as always, ankle deep in water, looking for sustenance
Greedily grabbing the pieces of flesh and spirit that hurry by
Putting together my golem and not understanding why it won't
Simply meld into what I need
Need, distance, time
Feed the emesis coming from my throat and sternum
Pushing the golem towards shore and your trajectory
Foot into clay
You're a part of what I need
But can never have
Love, as a creation, as *my* creation
It's better the blindfold is on
I don't want you to see me weep.
That I never gave you a ticket for the charnel ground
Yet you're here
Holding your blindfold, nightshirt rippled on roots and vines;
Walking the patterns
Our intersections carved out of the sandalwood hills
I, as always, ankle deep in water, looking for sustenance
Greedily grabbing the pieces of flesh and spirit that hurry by
Putting together my golem and not understanding why it won't
Simply meld into what I need
Need, distance, time
Feed the emesis coming from my throat and sternum
Pushing the golem towards shore and your trajectory
Foot into clay
You're a part of what I need
But can never have
Love, as a creation, as *my* creation
It's better the blindfold is on
I don't want you to see me weep.
That's funny
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I'm not sure about living with uncertainty. -Me, just now.
Friday, November 5, 2010
Two rainbows today, this one train-side
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Nice start to the weekend
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In looking out reaching in
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Facilitating a webcallpresentation with 18 people. #nodisasterssofar
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Quiet delicious awareness
Sad today, then ineplicably immersed in grace. Aware, awake, not-separate. Everything awash in not-visible golden nectar or bright skin glowing buzzing awareness
Sent on the TELUS Mobility network with BlackBerry
Sent on the TELUS Mobility network with BlackBerry
Filling the bucket at Banyen; off to spill and soak in it with friends and silence shortly.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Enter
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Tuesday, November 2, 2010
â€Å“If there are no dogs in heaven, I want to go where they go.†http://ping.fm/UG9LF
Lonely looking sky
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God's follow-spot
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Love currents and conundrums the stars and the moons; iridescence runs errands from the Absolute
and dissolves in love's laughter-silence.
and dissolves in love's laughter-silence.
Love's Laughter - Silence
Lots of coalescing.
Nights on the couch watching TV before I slip the surly bonds of consciousness; walks in the morning in; swimming in something that is nothing.
The relative memory - which dances between poor and poorer - plays with the absolute memory - and a garden of fingers comes up from the verdant ground. Busy, too. Plucking memories from the lifespan to date and bringing them forth - even the worst of them not too full of foreboding because they are all just a part of the fabric.
The fabric that is paradox incarnate - the place between the objects that were never there to begin with. It's illusion, but not the illusion I think it is.
The fabric is the always present hum in my head that can be heard but is not aural.
The fabric is the shimmering space I look into that is both and not ocular simultaneously.
The fabric is *THAT* which I walk through; more like a walking *in*; and as the temperature becomes more and more familiar, the delineation between the fabric and I dissolves.
Like floating in a pool, feeling the water around my body, then realizing that there is no discernible point where my body ends and the water starts.
Except here it's:
'The world' coming in through my senses to my mind
My mind parsing and connecting
A remembering that there is something aware of the world and my mind
A realization that there is no separation between that which is aware and that which it is aware of
The collapse of the 'world' and that which is aware of the world into
Seamless, non conceptual fabric
Which allows me to navigate
Distances - because there are none
Relationships - because in context they are just the absolute creating and dancing with itself
Worries dissolve more quickly
Because this magic fabric continually
Pendulums me into and out of the absolute
Magnets the memories that I can walk through the day with
Or mesh in the night with
That's the image:
I'm wearing clothes
Made of of the fabric of the Kosmos
Love currents and conundrums the stars and moons; It rivers and snakes around the jacket and the pants
Iridescence running errands from the absolute
Pastels and erases itself in This,
Love's laughter; silence.
Nights on the couch watching TV before I slip the surly bonds of consciousness; walks in the morning in; swimming in something that is nothing.
The relative memory - which dances between poor and poorer - plays with the absolute memory - and a garden of fingers comes up from the verdant ground. Busy, too. Plucking memories from the lifespan to date and bringing them forth - even the worst of them not too full of foreboding because they are all just a part of the fabric.
The fabric that is paradox incarnate - the place between the objects that were never there to begin with. It's illusion, but not the illusion I think it is.
The fabric is the always present hum in my head that can be heard but is not aural.
The fabric is the shimmering space I look into that is both and not ocular simultaneously.
The fabric is *THAT* which I walk through; more like a walking *in*; and as the temperature becomes more and more familiar, the delineation between the fabric and I dissolves.
Like floating in a pool, feeling the water around my body, then realizing that there is no discernible point where my body ends and the water starts.
Except here it's:
'The world' coming in through my senses to my mind
My mind parsing and connecting
A remembering that there is something aware of the world and my mind
A realization that there is no separation between that which is aware and that which it is aware of
The collapse of the 'world' and that which is aware of the world into
Seamless, non conceptual fabric
Which allows me to navigate
Distances - because there are none
Relationships - because in context they are just the absolute creating and dancing with itself
Worries dissolve more quickly
Because this magic fabric continually
Pendulums me into and out of the absolute
Magnets the memories that I can walk through the day with
Or mesh in the night with
That's the image:
I'm wearing clothes
Made of of the fabric of the Kosmos
Love currents and conundrums the stars and moons; It rivers and snakes around the jacket and the pants
Iridescence running errands from the absolute
Pastels and erases itself in This,
Love's laughter; silence.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Not to worry, he has his hazards on
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Saturday, October 30, 2010
Say aaahhhh
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Fwd...nap
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Friday, October 29, 2010
Green commute tip 17: leave your car at home in favor of coasting in on your filing cabinet. That is all.
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Ignorance is only found in the 'I' of the beholder. - Charles Hillig
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
God's Origami
Hard to know what the trigger will be.
Smells have a good track record; touch too. Sometime it will be a visual prodding, others, music.
This morning, those abstract tetris pieces slotted with a thousand more un-named but just-as-important sisters and brothers and voila...
A person.
Somewhere between a friend and a colleague. Top of the escalator, we launched into war-stories and biographies fished from fifteen years ago. *He* was the trigger, and the effect, as always, was magical.
Eye contact, uncomplicated handshake and shoulder squeeze; when I retracted my hand, he came with it - or part of him. Paper now, his shoulder; used to being covered in identity management garb - skytrain attendant; double breasted Mossimo suit purchased for pleasure (and baptisms); road trainer hugging the pecs and landscape of a middle aged body. This though, was the shoulder. Clothing agnostic. Wasn't that it was garbed or ungarbed; that layer was simply irrelevant.
Stepped back with the paper shoulder between my thumb and forefinger and pulled, like unwrapping a Christmas present, where the gift is space.
Made a crease and brought the shoulder down to his left foot, then pinched the foot and brought it back up to the head. He kept talking, and I; replying.
Next, the other shoulder, then two final folds up till just the head was there. Finally, tucked the head into the envelope I had created, popped it into my Goretex jacket, and was off.
He grew roots on the walkcommute in, papering the interior with translucent onion paper that allowed all of our shared history to leach through and be relived;
smells of a pantry; choppy waters and heaving hulls; safety instructions and seasick fares; tap dancing gone wrong, and above all: laughter
now, computer-side, the interior paperwork has been enveloped as well and tucked inside his.
Later, tonite, I will stand in front of the mirror and fold myself in and over, over and in, till I'm pellet sized; perfect for ingestion inside *that* sheath, where I will be the fodder for dreamscapes and almost forgotten grass sidewalks and wolves and music and other dispensations.
There will be some reticence, of course, to take this in, take this *all* in, until I review the day through the lens of my monogrammed serotonic conundrum, and realize that he was folding me, as I folded him.
And that all That, came from THIS:
borders without boundaries; meanings without context; ghosts of ghosts of space.
Smells have a good track record; touch too. Sometime it will be a visual prodding, others, music.
This morning, those abstract tetris pieces slotted with a thousand more un-named but just-as-important sisters and brothers and voila...
A person.
Somewhere between a friend and a colleague. Top of the escalator, we launched into war-stories and biographies fished from fifteen years ago. *He* was the trigger, and the effect, as always, was magical.
Eye contact, uncomplicated handshake and shoulder squeeze; when I retracted my hand, he came with it - or part of him. Paper now, his shoulder; used to being covered in identity management garb - skytrain attendant; double breasted Mossimo suit purchased for pleasure (and baptisms); road trainer hugging the pecs and landscape of a middle aged body. This though, was the shoulder. Clothing agnostic. Wasn't that it was garbed or ungarbed; that layer was simply irrelevant.
Stepped back with the paper shoulder between my thumb and forefinger and pulled, like unwrapping a Christmas present, where the gift is space.
Made a crease and brought the shoulder down to his left foot, then pinched the foot and brought it back up to the head. He kept talking, and I; replying.
Next, the other shoulder, then two final folds up till just the head was there. Finally, tucked the head into the envelope I had created, popped it into my Goretex jacket, and was off.
He grew roots on the walkcommute in, papering the interior with translucent onion paper that allowed all of our shared history to leach through and be relived;
smells of a pantry; choppy waters and heaving hulls; safety instructions and seasick fares; tap dancing gone wrong, and above all: laughter
now, computer-side, the interior paperwork has been enveloped as well and tucked inside his.
Later, tonite, I will stand in front of the mirror and fold myself in and over, over and in, till I'm pellet sized; perfect for ingestion inside *that* sheath, where I will be the fodder for dreamscapes and almost forgotten grass sidewalks and wolves and music and other dispensations.
There will be some reticence, of course, to take this in, take this *all* in, until I review the day through the lens of my monogrammed serotonic conundrum, and realize that he was folding me, as I folded him.
And that all That, came from THIS:
borders without boundaries; meanings without context; ghosts of ghosts of space.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Wild and wide-eyed; grinning like a fool. Wind so strong it kissed the Crowes in my ears. Fresh seawall asphalt and naked feet: I ran. #10km
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Hoto's dirty heart
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Hoto in Pumpkinland
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Visiting with hoto shell steph charlie and christina. Next stop Laity pumpkin patch.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Friday, October 22, 2010
Take your busy heart to the art museum and the chamber of commerce but take it also to the forest. - Mary Oliver
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Muscle Memory
Blood sugar dropped like a bomb yesterday; blazed out the first 5 kms in 24 minutes, and then it hit:
Hint from the back of the mind that something was amiss, a twinge in the right leg fed back into the loop and then some more urgency.
Tried dropping the bottom out of my breath, but this just opened the gates to the white-gray sheet of weakness, radiating from the center up towards the chest, then dissipating and blanketing the shoulders arms and fingers at the same time.
Ghost had arrived and checked in; now in the driver seat, he slowed the system to a walk, and propogated.
Walk-run now, watching the banked time rubber band out of my control: Breathed so much fire in and out to tired muscles to gain those ten seconds in the bank; and now watch helplessly as they are wrested away from me.
Walk-run-run now, trying to de-contract from the little me that is holding onto this experience and being strangled by it.
Walk-run-run-run now, and my muscles are splayed out in arcs from my body and rooting themselves in the seawall to both sides
Run Run Run and I am running through the arcs with more being created behind and ahead of me
And dropping like a fine mist from each of these muscles arcs are the memories that sparked the arcs
And I'm in the space between the footsteps now, and back; and in the space, and back, and the continuity is the memories that I'm running through
Cigarette smoke and Barardi and guitars and helplessness and love and purpose, telos and pathos, and now
It's one big sheet
non-local running on the seawall
condundrum eating its own tail
and depositing me at the crosswalk from where i started, and where I will be pieced together...at least until the next run.
hsah!
Hint from the back of the mind that something was amiss, a twinge in the right leg fed back into the loop and then some more urgency.
Tried dropping the bottom out of my breath, but this just opened the gates to the white-gray sheet of weakness, radiating from the center up towards the chest, then dissipating and blanketing the shoulders arms and fingers at the same time.
Ghost had arrived and checked in; now in the driver seat, he slowed the system to a walk, and propogated.
Walk-run now, watching the banked time rubber band out of my control: Breathed so much fire in and out to tired muscles to gain those ten seconds in the bank; and now watch helplessly as they are wrested away from me.
Walk-run-run now, trying to de-contract from the little me that is holding onto this experience and being strangled by it.
Walk-run-run-run now, and my muscles are splayed out in arcs from my body and rooting themselves in the seawall to both sides
Run Run Run and I am running through the arcs with more being created behind and ahead of me
And dropping like a fine mist from each of these muscles arcs are the memories that sparked the arcs
And I'm in the space between the footsteps now, and back; and in the space, and back, and the continuity is the memories that I'm running through
Cigarette smoke and Barardi and guitars and helplessness and love and purpose, telos and pathos, and now
It's one big sheet
non-local running on the seawall
condundrum eating its own tail
and depositing me at the crosswalk from where i started, and where I will be pieced together...at least until the next run.
hsah!
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Newly formed township of Excellence-in-Mediocrity, you've got yourself a mayor.
In Bieber We Trust
They all looked the same last nite . Ironically, suiting up in their battle gear - In Bieber we trust tshirts, make-up and attitude - actually dressed them down. They became the tribe, thinking, but at a purple-meme level, collectively, primitively.
And yet,
yet
There was something beautiful in the narcissism. It was, after all, unaffected by all the trappings and nuances of full-borne adult narcissism. It was simply doing for feeling; being like the other. A coarse but completely recognizable call-to-come home. Sometimes it's at an ashram, sometimes a tent-revival, sometimes in a concert hawking $50 tshirts and concert chattel whose brief lifespan arcs from a third world shop to middle-class hands to a union bulldozer at the dump.
Beautiful and pure.
Synchronized movement as 40,000 feet jump up and down to the bass; vibration - clothing and penetrating my heart and mind and bringing me to the place where I can watch sidewalks of laser-light crisscrossing the air
Hearts riding them out and back again; sometimes being met with sickness, sometimes solitude, and always, eventually silence.
The silence that the purple tribe came from, and will return to.
The place from which "I" came from, and will return to.
the place from which the I is watched
and fevers are dissolved
at the root.
Namaste
And yet,
yet
There was something beautiful in the narcissism. It was, after all, unaffected by all the trappings and nuances of full-borne adult narcissism. It was simply doing for feeling; being like the other. A coarse but completely recognizable call-to-come home. Sometimes it's at an ashram, sometimes a tent-revival, sometimes in a concert hawking $50 tshirts and concert chattel whose brief lifespan arcs from a third world shop to middle-class hands to a union bulldozer at the dump.
Beautiful and pure.
Synchronized movement as 40,000 feet jump up and down to the bass; vibration - clothing and penetrating my heart and mind and bringing me to the place where I can watch sidewalks of laser-light crisscrossing the air
Hearts riding them out and back again; sometimes being met with sickness, sometimes solitude, and always, eventually silence.
The silence that the purple tribe came from, and will return to.
The place from which "I" came from, and will return to.
the place from which the I is watched
and fevers are dissolved
at the root.
Namaste
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Dear god, it's me, Jerry. Jonesing for earplugs. Please let guest services hear my voice. Amen.
I am about to brave 20k fever-addled Bieber-ites for the love of my daughter. #newlevelsofpopmediocrity
Monday, October 18, 2010
Little Gods Everywhere
Little gods everywhere.
That's what they called themselves, and yes, I was a little suspicious to start.
Rockjar's audacity was the tipping point though, making me wonder how close to the truth their pronouncements were.
Tuesday, and the rain. Always easier to see the doors in the rain.
I approached the crosswalk, half asleep as always through the commute, and slammed on the breaks as a grandmotherly figure stepped into the street. She looked up and over me, then turned her face and rain bonnet downwind and pushed across.
First door opened and closed beneath her foot; sliver of light prismed by the rain extended and retracted like a switchblade in the time it took her to complete the footstep.
Next one swung around her head as she turned into the rain now *this* is a revolving door, same amount of light but will to cut into the rain cut short by the centrifugal force of her turn.
Lightening next, and a rippling grid of doors from ground to sky. They opened simultaneously, light diffusing instead of cutting, boundaries los;t just one big sheet of light and then to the left one singular door frame and from that
from that
Rockjar made his appearance.
Made eye contact with me and laughed as my stupor dissolved into amazement.
Took a seat beside me, adjusted the heat (little gods are quite particular about the room temperature) and pulled off his greek fisherman's hat.
He waited in silence until the next stoplight, then touched my chin and turned me to look into the hat
17 steps led down, Shamanic spirals of grass and glass and cinammon earth and wolves and finally another door
With a pendulum on the other side
And with it's long arc towards me, visions marrying blood and spirit, and with its timeless pause (revelling in its impossibility) no-thing; rest; simplicity; and with its arc away from me
Traffic, an empty passenger seat, and a fickle weather system.
That's what they called themselves, and yes, I was a little suspicious to start.
Rockjar's audacity was the tipping point though, making me wonder how close to the truth their pronouncements were.
Tuesday, and the rain. Always easier to see the doors in the rain.
I approached the crosswalk, half asleep as always through the commute, and slammed on the breaks as a grandmotherly figure stepped into the street. She looked up and over me, then turned her face and rain bonnet downwind and pushed across.
First door opened and closed beneath her foot; sliver of light prismed by the rain extended and retracted like a switchblade in the time it took her to complete the footstep.
Next one swung around her head as she turned into the rain now *this* is a revolving door, same amount of light but will to cut into the rain cut short by the centrifugal force of her turn.
Lightening next, and a rippling grid of doors from ground to sky. They opened simultaneously, light diffusing instead of cutting, boundaries los;t just one big sheet of light and then to the left one singular door frame and from that
from that
Rockjar made his appearance.
Made eye contact with me and laughed as my stupor dissolved into amazement.
Took a seat beside me, adjusted the heat (little gods are quite particular about the room temperature) and pulled off his greek fisherman's hat.
He waited in silence until the next stoplight, then touched my chin and turned me to look into the hat
17 steps led down, Shamanic spirals of grass and glass and cinammon earth and wolves and finally another door
With a pendulum on the other side
And with it's long arc towards me, visions marrying blood and spirit, and with its timeless pause (revelling in its impossibility) no-thing; rest; simplicity; and with its arc away from me
Traffic, an empty passenger seat, and a fickle weather system.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Thai ala Cal, then an excursion into politics, cosmology, cultural revolution, and god. #inlovewithcalsmind
There is a great disturbance in the force which will be rectified shortly by 400 calories delivered on the gossamer wings of saturated fat.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Stanley Park Ghost train VIP tix. Yes, the air does smell better up here.
Dance 'remixes' of all Pink Floyd songs should be illegal.
Holy lack-of-upper-body-strength batman #shaking_like_a_scared_kitten_aftergymweights
Friday, October 15, 2010
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- Not to worry, he has his hazards on
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