this self afflicted veil of darkness; when the light hits these eyes, this skin. emerging from my cave I know the feeling, always have the warming, the inner joy of temporary reprieve, how soon my dna seems to forget however, so, waiver, to slink back to that dying comfort to the slow killing- all paths lead to death yes, but would I rather know the land a bit more before, does such meandering matter, perhaps not, does that make me dig my own plot however that much sooner.
I might rather then, burn my feet in the light on that unforgiving exposed plot of sand than reduce down into a heap of still dust a huddled cold mass, all that lies between, is will.
notes… maybe my thoughts are a diary, of my inner self, or not so inner, just my self… sometimes there is rain. “but it can’t rain all the time”…
so part of my daily commute is to pass over the snake hill bridge which gives me an excellent view of the NYC skyline, perhaps one of the most famous in the world I suppose, but when it is exposed out your window daily, the luster tends to wear off, I suppose the same can be said if you woke up in a Cairo high-rise and there are those silly triangles again, seems impossible but there is a truth worming around in there, in our nature, human nature, this morning though, the way the sky was, the way the clouds were stacked, nearly drawn, like a Bob Ross painting, happy little clouds perched perfectly in stacks that defied my ability for proper perception, for they ran nearly as far back and then met with the large fingers of the NYC skyline, so skyscrapers actually met, and touched the sky, there was interaction there in the outline, from the billowing white grey mass there were cracks, windows, doorways, and light was pouring through in direct beams as if directed by an unseen artist’s hand, like each cloud was trying to contain their own sun, like grabbing a light bulb with your palm, light does escape, just enough to highlight or even create the shadows that gave all this depth, when in the dense jungle that is the streets of NY, the massive buildings lose some majesty, just abother block, just another façade of windows and stone so many stories fold on fold, but from this distance the word skyscraper really feels at home, for the buildings literally rise up into the horizon, like mist covered mountains, rising from the ground up into the sky, seems almost impossible, not just a postcard, a backdrop of our human will to stand tall, and our arrogance to think this will last… but at least for now, our hand has touched the sky as one.
for the night never does truly escape the sun there is only that veiled curtain drawn the pause of night- the time to sleep, between the exhale then, the awakening of the dawn that always comes always, until, well, not. but the sun is never vanquished only turned from our eyes for a time forgotten for a time in the spin gravity’s fond trick holds our feet strong humanity, tethered to the earth the agreed bond of our birth until that release- when our sight may cease as dawn becomes all days and then all nights become all, all light.
notes… this post is based on my last post, sort of… just musing on the same topic and really enjoying the music this time out, sometimes I get it right, even if only for myself, welcome to my world folks, your thoughts and comments are appreciated but not vital, this is my thing, just throwing my art onto the shores of the world, so let it be and let each other be well… trust me on that…
(stream of consciousness post, written in one swipe) perspective, the things we take for granted, no, the things we take for normal everyday reality, the sun rising and falling, when in fact this is not the case at all, but how often do we notice, is gravity cheating us or treating us? for there is no real night, there is just the lack of sun in our sight, as if we ducked underground into a cave for some hours, that would be more the real experience, if we were to have to force such things, in a land that did not spin, as ours does, with our feet tethered to this ground, to this earth, anchored in the crust-harbor of our birth, able to roam the globe but never truly escape the motion, the spin, the dance, the do-see-do of our solar system, an orbital religion for we have faith this will always remain, truly in our lifetimes this will not change, we have developed a whole circadian system surrounding this almost artificial circumstance, what if by chance the world was not a top? would we have all flocked to the light side or live on the marginal borders deciding when to indulge night? or perhaps odder still might some of our ancestors lost all sight, too live in the cool darkness of perpetual night, or would our eyes become accustomed to the slightest light, from other stars, and what of the moon? would that young sibling remain clipped at our hip in the same way, a moon rising and falling in a night sky, a mere reflection of the sun’s rays, would the heat of perpetual day force the oceans to sway, to bend and flow to where there is less ambient heat? the non perception, that is in a way baffling to the logical me, how we are just used to this most unusual circumstance, hurtling through space, spinning, tethered by unknown bands to the sun and other planets, driving about, walking around, jumping, flying, lying down, but all the while in perpetual motion, even if I close my eyes I can not feel the sensation, but here I am sitting still at my desk, writing, but I am traveling right now – flying through space on a rotating clock, maybe that is the force that ages us, the same one that hold us close – prevents us from ever real rest, as I breath in one breath and out the next, my breath has traveled through space and time, I close my eyes and try to visualize the the trail, with each exhale, I think I can almost feel the motion now…
notes… and we are a spinning… what do you think ? did this piece at least make you sit and spin on your own thing ?
a hesitation, if there is before the moment ‘too soon, too soon’ but the blue tone comforts in surely at the end when faced with the reality and all horror falls away when faced with the certainty and all doubt fades away; if only, we could recall the singular moment of our birth that first light on first eyes from the emergence a transition from womb-night to this waking dawn and here with this- the mystic the last stop for us to visit in this instance not too soon, in fact as meant not pre-ordained but locked in the hand there is no struggle or even if there were to lay eyes on the mystic for one grand last time and give thanks for time passed.
notes.. I post as I write, rarely do I edit my work, so it is not as perfect as I would like…. so neither am I… so enjoy, or not, either outcome is fine, all thoughts are welcome, I post the art for eyes, let them pry let them gauge.
on the hollow steps of ghosts am I wondering if my part in this play remains even in this spotlight life- as a dandelion seed cast up-out upon the winds seeing, fortunes rise and fall great, empires crest into decay so I may – wondering if my played part remains never touching the ground to fully sprout nor meant to be regardless of this known form on out spawn cast out among the living sea (of air) leaving no discernable trail nor chapters verse hardly laid a mark upon for that seems to be the course for that seems to be my curse steered by those foul tradewinds of my birth.
on glan day oh eudmhor gh’st on wind doe haunt on gales doe ride cross’t o’er beinns cross’t o’er sruth as heart of t’land as souls of t’earth bound by past t’and future’s know
note: so this came to me, in words in my head, to write this in somewhat gaelic. yes, that is strange as I really do not know my true lineage being adopted… but I don’t care or question things anymore when they pop into my head, I mean, hey, I am not a psycho I think, I just have a different input to the muse to amuse and paint my art with words, so here they are so, unfold… all thoughts are always welcome.
from afar a cold blank stare for generations the bright capture’s the eye then with robotic lens aimed – (I see now, for myself)– ice the sky is your upper atmosphere but the ceiling painted with cracks like ice on here firing sky scrape plumes out into space plummeting down to the surface and beyond in rings for below this dead frozen mane a great sea does froth and move gravity squeezes and bends the dome all inside this hidden domain does life? does life… begin or remain? the answer will come to us one day but until then … ? let an octopus dream – in a her own pen
notes: I am of the belief there is life in our solar system beyond the Earth, and even more wonders out there beyond our tiny solar system… so there is many layers to this poem in that respect… but make of it what you will, I can only write and let other eyes and minds decide.
notes… just a snippet of mine, when those we love pass away, they leave our every day, but sometimes the best things remain, a saying, a voice, a time, a memory, an ice cream on the boardwalk on the jersey shore, a beat up beach chair, the smell of a cheap white owl cigar, shooting the shit with neighbors long gone on a rock on the lawn, the white grilled cheese at the port royal with a breeze by the pool, the wicker plate from a stripper’s place with the best damn hamburger you ever had, sure, some of these are foreign to you but are canon to me… you have your own, you know the feeling, so what’s your baubles, what are your memories that recall… those that are gone, with a smile, for a mile, that recall the best of things in this messed up world… ?
I have referred to this in the past as a feeling (mine in this case) of being a pilot in my own body, our body is more machine than we might suppose, even if we know, think about piloting a machine, all the things around that happen automatically, for this case, heart beating, lungs breathing, little red internal postman hemoglobin vehicles making numerous deliveries and pick ups, but then the conscious decision to push a button, lifting your arm, a totally different revelation, and sensations, the clusters of nerves sending intel back to your hq, you don’t tell them what to do they just send the information on through and your mind decides the course of action, or sometimes there is just immediate reaction, thusly a marriage of the two, a binary system, which leads me to think, if we do move on from this plane of existence, where would we go? and why is there scant evidence of this journey? I suppose that is why I am pondering our evolution from this dimension is to escape to our true selves, apart from the machine, just the energy of our creation, the end all be all of the human equation, for the universe saw fit to create us (me, you), of all the concoctions that could have been and all the possibilities in the multi/multi billions (incalculable really), but in that transference to another realm our learning would start again from that od a newborn for the familiar shawl of the physics of this world would be ripped from us and we would once again be cast naked into a void, how long would it take to attain speech and such things again? and the term “long” might not matter if we are then existing outside of the bounds of time, in fact time might be something we can look at like a book, whimsically picking a story on which to partake, out of order, or backwards, would it matter from a different dimensional perspective? and perhaps this is why ones can not communicate with those who moved on, the world we are in might not be capable at all or compatible or both, perhaps the next dimension this one we are in will be like a TV where we can flip channels and watch all of history from the dawn of time to end if we are not bound by such constraints as we only know here and now, but is there comfort in that? is that existence, will we know and interact, or be part of the undercurrent consciousness of the universe itself? could our existence now be the same, one link in the chain, as memory would be a different mechanism when the rules of the game are changed so drastically, with so many possibilities who is to say? but I rather like the idea…
Shades of My Garden 