Sunday, October 30, 2011
Saturday, October 29, 2011
Friday, October 28, 2011
The Muse is Dead, Long Live the Muse
Sunlight - the color of birdsong; touch - the feel of umami.
This synaesthetic puzzle was all that was provided and yet I found you, Lady, high up in the barren tree, looking to the horizon, apparently waiting for my return.
Yet I'm not sure what you want.
Coaxing has never worked - the only times it came close I was left with stillborn ideas, shivering in evanescent light.
Innocent lookarounds through your houses? Two of them have disappeared completely off the map - god help them - and the third was locked tight, although I knew you were in there. (I could hear footsteps from the piano to the kettle, your tells are not as airtight as they once were).
So, here we are, needing a Vince Ready - or the idea of the idea of a Vince Ready, able to at least ladder me up to eye level so we could talk.
Instead, I open my mind to you:
Green, undulating hills; ladders everywhere, dancing under the criss-cross-criss-cross of high wires over head. Connections made, sparks flying and hitting the ground. More often than not they sizzle out with the sound of sad confusion, but other times, a new ladder, a new connection.
Moons launching from the closest valley; or sound and vibration; or a crack where I can see the universe spinning wildly out (in) control.
A spark of interest there - you've let your hair down, but you're still way out of reach.
I knew it would come to this, but you of all people have to know the heart is sacred space, and I have as much chance of opening it as you would of releasing night-terrors in a kindergarten.
You're not buying it.
And as hard as it is to say, I'm ok with that. I'm tired of hiding behind the metaphors and layered images and text-trickery. I just want to weep.
For misunderstandings, lack of connection, fear, doubt, hurt, anger, neuroses, barren lovelessness and demons born of synaptic pathology - all the illusions that spawn from the apparent-ness of other-ness.
The trick here is - like breath - you straddle the I Am and I Am That. The causal and the manifest.
That, plus the honest tears, seem to have done it. Thanks for coming down.
I'll follow your lead for a while.
Namaste.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
#winning Michele Bachmann Team Hits Back At Press Release Detailing 2012 Campaign Dysfunction http://ping.fm/yEzR2
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Friday, October 21, 2011
Gods ATM
I trusted you, always have at the root level, but some part of me couldn't help go looking for it anyways. At first I thought it was God, then the lack of God, then the lack of the lack of God I was looking for. Years in the making, and only describable by double-double negatives, metaphors, and things that take you to the edge of the infinite diving board and make you cannonball in.
Then, the dark nite of the soul, surrender, and a dog paddle through the absolute. I had my hit, and starting jonesing for more. Seeking and Finding and Finding the Seeker 101.
The peaks and values of the relabsolutive continued to get closer together, and on one starry nite, I spotted something on the next mountain over. I decided to jump and there - dusty but ready for business - Gods ATM.
There's no point in dishonesty, it was spiritual mainlining. No card needed, just a touch screen display to dispense any God I wanted. And I wanted them all. Great Monotheistic Pillars, Pantheistic Gardens populated with Fairies and Bearded Beaded Bodhisattvas, even an Arena I could put them all in and let them do battle.
What I didn't notice of course, was that there was a payment system involved here; for every path explored, every guru pedestal-ed, every I-centered prayer offered to the God du-jour, there was a lessening of me. The ultimate debit and credit system.
Ever the addict, I played to my last id-bit, put that in, fell back and watched the watcher take it all in:
Tradition and culture and systems and love and compassion and mantras and devotionals and intellect all dissolved back into the ATM, which tumbled down the mountain into that from which it - and everything else - had come from. Lot of other swimmers there tonite - some holding their breath, some diving deep, some half in and half out, and some just...being.
So thanks for your words, they were part of the impetus that helped me discover that no amount of trying could ever get me here, but that I would never get here without trying.
And since I AM here now, I think I'll go for dip.
Namaste.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Life is Mandatory
"Life is Mandatory"
Words embed themselves in me; often they will be forgotten and reappear months later, unbidden but in context. These words though, didn’t embed; they manacled themselves around my neck like a slave yoke, and refused the quiet subconscious intake. These words came with baggage, and it was clear the only way to lighten my load was to porter the bags where they belonged.
I spent days in the chair by the window manacled up; on this side of the melted sandsheet Time put its feet up in front of the fire, lit a pipe, and played solitaire whilst I busied and bruised myself with the invention of That Which Would Remove the Yoke and deliver the baggage: The Great Post Modern Deconstruction Machine. © On that side of the melted sandsheet, weather systems and daylight and stars and moons and suns circled and hummed continuously.
Hunger went on strike.
The machine I invented stretched from my third eye across the Canadian Shield, dissolving up and back, up and back into the Northern Lights. From its brass base, crystal word-spires numbering *exactly* one less than infinity held court, and a huge hydraulic arm endlessly lifted, shuffled, pushed and fitted the landscape into caricatures of itself.
The idea was that once constructed, I would simply let 'Life is Mandatory' thought marbles roll down from my third eye and shatter any spires that found themselves in the path. Then a simple reading of the deconstructed would give me the insight I needed for freedom.
I ended up shredding my hands on the shards.
Crimson rain from my fingertips turned to crimson rivers, filled the canyons and spaces of the Machine, and I surfed till I was I either dead or exhausted.
All was dark, and silent. You know: the light before the light, the sound before the sound:
Peace.
The understanding was borne beyond the gross, the subtle, and the causal:
Life truly *was* mandatory. Trying *not* to be was like trying to sit and stand at the same time and railing against the impossibility by trying even harder.
With that, the machine folded back neatly into my third eye, and I pondered the strange emancipation proclamation that - however briefly - set me free.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Run Sami Run! Blind Lexington athlete making history with dog | Mansfield News Journal | mansfieldnewsjournal.com http://ping.fm/jpHds
Monday, October 17, 2011
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Douggs and his friends BASE jumping from the elevator of Hotel Bali from Benidorm in Spain - YouTube http://ping.fm/oCWya
Saturday, October 15, 2011
Friday, October 14, 2011
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Wow: The Marathon Man: 365 Marathons in 365 Days For Asthma Sufferer - TIME NewsFeed http://ping.fm/6C4LH
Fail: Marathon Runner Admits to Taking a Bus to the Finish Line - TIME NewsFeed http://ping.fm/xDQqO
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
The Forgotten Places
And here
The forgotten places
Have been carefully gathered and curated
behind the velvet rope
words, rooms, visions and books
people, places things
20 questions with no answer
Your curiosity excites them
the rope drops
and a dusty English Garden forms for your review
Organic monstrosities for the most part
but at their feet
pointers to desires so strong
they make your body ache
leave the rope down when you leave
there's a line waiting to get in
it seems it only takes one to cascade
the forgotten into memories
the memories into thoughts
and thoughts into action
Remember.
Apart from compassion
all will be relegated to this place
in the end.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Next
There's this kid that hung out on a corner that I had to pass by several times a week, and it's clear he was either a sorcerer of the highest order or a brat.
Striped shirt, a little pudgy, and Di Caprio eyes - set back, sharp, radiating intelligence.
The first time I saw him, he was donning a sandwich board, advertising a 2-for-1 pizza deal. Rocking it with headphones on, dancing back and forth on the sidewalk, waving people in and trying to pipe up his commission with as many new arrivals as he could sally forth.
The second time I saw him; no sandwhich board - just a handheld sign and the headphones. Different business; didn't catch the name but I did catch his eyes as he rocked out again.
The third time there was just the kid, standing there; no headphones on, and apparently waiting for me. On the sign, one word: Next, with an arrow pointing to a tethered balloon just down the street from me.
Each time I saw him it was impossible to stop. While my actions were reasonable - I was delivering 10 year old dance students to or from their classes - he was clearly chagrined and decided to step it up a notch, and started painting the night visits.
Enter the dreams: always the same:
A field of metaphors; towering monoliths and quivering, febrile Polaroids
Shimmering or shivering from the heat of the ground
Translucent blue glass concaving over the surface
of the sun.
At the end of the path, the balloon
And my Id-bits, filthy little beggars
Seven holding the tethering cord;
Three scrambling up it
and ten dancing on it in a windless vibration that permeated the All.
This, of course, was The Metaphor. His. He sat in a New England deck chair, looking up from his script now and again as I got closer. Then, as I shuffled the id-bits away from the cord and grasped it, he stood up; threw off his beret and stood arms akimbo. On his shirt, the single word: Next.
The dreams continued night after night, until I got it: the longer I held onto what I was after, the more directions he would shout to the id-bits: stage left! stage right! Mind the fourth wall! Project!
Maybe two dreams after getting it - that that which pushed me towards my wants was exactly that which would prevent me from ever getting them - the dreams stopped.
He's gone now, of course; lesson learned, turn the page.
I still wonder if he was a sorcerer or a brat.
Next.
Monday, October 10, 2011
Sunday, October 9, 2011
Elizabeth Eckford and Hazel Bryan: the story behind the photograph that shamed America - Telegraph http://ping.fm/qROIi
Twitter Analysis: Massive Global Mourning for Steve Jobs (Infographic) | Epicenter | Wired.com http://ping.fm/UzqS7
Saturday, October 8, 2011
Friday, October 7, 2011
Photo Gallery: Occupy Wall Street Ignites Political Hackathon | Raw File | Wired.com http://ping.fm/2fKIn
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Pixie
||: In a fit I stared at you
My moons to your stars
No negative space
us
between
Because the negative cannot define
Rather a tangerine and lilac nest
Where we rested
eye-to-I
Breath within breath
Immanence and transcendence
Spiraling up and out into
Indra's net
I harvested the jewels
halfway to infinity stopping
to see that each was replaced
by your tears
And within your tears
mirrors within mirrors
a lilac nest
and your moons
to my stars :||
My moons to your stars
No negative space
us
between
Because the negative cannot define
Rather a tangerine and lilac nest
Where we rested
eye-to-I
Breath within breath
Immanence and transcendence
Spiraling up and out into
Indra's net
I harvested the jewels
halfway to infinity stopping
to see that each was replaced
by your tears
And within your tears
mirrors within mirrors
a lilac nest
and your moons
to my stars :||
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Monday, October 3, 2011
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