daggers for eyes (who am I?)

daggers for eyes (who am I?)

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“this is who I am!”, how we have screamed into the face of the great abyss that is society at large, with great thrusting daggers in eyes I have raised the same tsunami sentiment in my mind, all in a rage against the factories of same-a-tude that dominate the landscape of this life, a perception at least, I wonder how much of the flock feels less than a part of said flock but does not speak up, but then again there is plenty that have no qualms with the calms that obedience and coherence provides, they are wired that way, maybe not you or I, and some more yet perhaps, that the modus operandi is terra firma, boy, is that arcane? maybe to say, there are plenty that are happy cruising forever in the middle lane, I suppose that is a simpler analogy, but there I am, modifying my own thought, among my own words, my own damn post, for whom? clearly I am not a super digested blog of the norm, I am not a franchise on every corner, a juicy burger or tasty spicy chicken sandwich to order (I am a fan of Chick-Fil-A, I must say, waffle fries… ya feel me?), anywho, even the guy labeled “he’ll say anything” at work guy (me) is not really that guy, at least not all the time, is it fear? or reality? that rejection in social morality will occur, or consequence will fall like a wrecking ball right to my balls, am I half-assing my own existence? I always say and actually think that my “filter”, as it were, is on the shrink, but to what extent (gone)? just enough to hold the waters of the dam back… just enough, just enough an arms length from vanquish, if I had all the money in the world (I would settle for 10% mind you, donations accepted) would I be the same jovial strange soul searching? or would the social context of being free of the complex allow my eccentricities to fully bloom into the garden of babylon I was meant to be? or at least thought myself to be? and would I need such resource to be one hundred percent anyway? is there not a niche, or a cavern, or a crevice I could wedge myself in, sheltered from the storm of the norm, to scratch out my own weird unicorn existence while still in the standard wilderness of the all… I suppose that is the line, the struggle, the game, mental and otherwise, am I really being myself? all the time? …are you?

thoughts from the porch…

thoughts from the porch…

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the box
a strange perception, the summer seems to have slipped away quietly, there were heat waves, sure, yes, but summer is like a pressure release valve, ingrained in the culture in these parts, maybe others, from a young age based on our educational setup, summer was a time of unbridled freedom, sunrise to sunset galloping like wild horses on the plains until the dinner yell was mounted (or shouted like an instant recall yo-yo pull string), but this feels different, the ‘Q’ word, quarantine, or just the stay in place and huddle orders seem to have bottled something up, the familiar forms of autumn are already taking shape, the days are shorter, I noticed a bachelor mosquito on the door and thought better of squashing him, thinking his time is up anyway, his friends certainly had plenty of fun at my expense as I sat around more, at home that is, no gatherings, no parties, no bar-bee-qs, a season of daisy chained similar days of avoiding the plague and human contact, is it possible to feel fenced in mentally by such restrictions? I feel walls closing in when I really grasp for the feel, things become normal, the abnormal routine becomes normal, the masks, the gloves, the hand sanitizer (which I was a fiend of beforehand anyway), not being able to pull up a chair at a local pub for some great local grub for even a minute, not one, getting take out from places that seemed more like hostage situations or hazmat containment units from movies done, as I sit here on this beautiful waning summer eve, leaves at my feet, first casualties, still plenty of green to admire and block the sun, enough, somewhat, I feel as if I missed out on something this year, something was stolen, or gone, I can not quite describe or point my finger to exactly the cause, I feel caged in some way, penned in, and now, with darkness closing in, the season of shorts and flip flops coming to an end, I feel robbed of the freedom that summer sparks in fourth of july fireworks, the consummate release of sorts, I am thankful I did not catch the disease or any for that matter (as far as I can tell) but that does not mean I can not feel flatter down than I might in a given year, knowing that winter is on the way, around the corner, surely, indoors will be more necessary than mandated, doors and layered clothing closing in, and that is coming soon, way too soon, so as best I can, I try to bottle this amazing moment and put it on the shelf with the rest of them, an elixir for a snowy day perhaps, I just hope they last me through the winter into the hopeful spring.

a thought on ‘harmony’…

a thought on ‘harmony’…

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I ponder such things, musing perhaps, what is the nature of harmony, how to achieve it, how to recognize it, how to capture it for even a time, how to recognize when you are off key – in life that is, I surely would not want to torture you with my singing voice, just trust me on that score, our lives have so very many congruent threads being pulled in all directions, fed by emotion and a flood of other stimuli, so what is this elusive elixir I seek? and the words just popped in there…

harmony is the reduction of variables

maybe that is the crux of my rain walks or stands as it were, just unplugging my self from the usual-verse and reconnecting with the most basic primal instinct mind, letting the wind whisk my worry, the rain wash my burdens, the night sky the blank slate to write dreams upon, to close my eyes and see nothing and listen to the subtle song of the earth moving through time, enjoying the ride, at least for a time, this time I have been allowed to be, in this harmony.

Thoughts from the porch…

Thoughts from the porch…

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listen to the rain
I wonder, what do my neighbors think, do they see me there, standing out in the rain at night, I can not equate the feeling, it is not a symphony but soothing, I hear something in the drops, a feeling, a calming, a washing, tonight the world aligned and I knew a storm was coming, and on the appointed hour, give or take, the rain came to town, and I was drawn outside, away from the tv, slipped on my crocs which are not that comfortable at times as my second toe is quite longer than the supposed big toe, I am sure there is some name for the phenomena, but I don’t care to search for it at present, I turn off my exterior lights, and just listen, listen to what this particular rain is trying to say, or convey, let my mind wander or empty of the daily costs, let thoughts drift in and out at whim, is this meditation? I suppose, a label does not matter, why analyze assassinate and lose sight of the actual prize, turn the damn brain off you fool, just be, the puddles on the driveway have bubbles, like reverse boiling, there is a mixture of bamboo leaves that look like little green canoes, and then next to them the iconic forms of maple leaves in various states of brown, for the fall has begun, for some at least, what a strange mix I think, bamboo and maple, pandas and pancakes, the rain begins to intensify, but this is not a raging storm, in fact there is not a trace of wind, the rain drops are literally in lines driving down straight, rain seems to make everything go away or at least hibernate temporary, just outside my house by a mere foot or two and it is like I have stepped into another universe of sound, the randomness of everything so perfectly embodied in the rain, the drops, try to identify out and listen to each one on it’s own, each drop a possible story, from the hills of great mountains, or some hidden lake, a tropical pond or more cosmic, maybe the sweat of a comet that landed here eons ago, all these experiences pass through my mind effortlessly, each imparting a sweet kiss of possibility, and me, one of those, those random rain drops of what could be, no, random drops of what is, as this is happening, in real time, my time, a performance of storm just for me, as my eyes are literally at this moment the only pair seeing exactly this, in all the universe, that is truly miraculous, rain is not mundane, this is the reflection of millions of miracles in the very day.

.beacon.

.beacon.

gray scale photography of lighthouse
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there is a deep rooted romantic notion, a call, an ancient instinct, at least felt in the ancestral bones of the northeast here, the coast, the ghosts of mariners and those lost to the great open maw of the ocean lapping, tapping, rapping at our doors for eons, the idea of a singular light, stranded purposefully on an outcrop, a rock, a place of no softness, like an iron anvil itself placed in the corner common of waves, forever to spend days piercing out, a beam of light, into deep dreary days and summoned blackest nights, crashing, thrashing, lashing winds, salty air to breathe, leather skin to dry, the ultimate test of man against nature even if nature always wins, we plant our flag there anyway, as a monument to defiance incarnate, can I summon the same strength and fortitude, and brave out toward that known view, to battle even the stars themselves, to scream my name into the heavens and be known for a time, to stand up to what can not be stopped, to grin in the face of grasping eternal teeth wrought, for our ends are the same, but can I be that beacon upon the land, calling others from the sea, with sacrifice and scars stand above the spray, guide to divinity, hope, and safety, rather than to call a flock for worship but light the way, to inspire the lowest thread of humanity to find the path, might I muster up from the earth, the strength to grasp onto that mantle, and spend my soul as a beam of light, a way, a path, a vigil, one thousand candles focused onto one, that may catch the eye of the troubled, and bring them home to those they love, throw comfort over a tempest, guided to a cove, hear my horn and heed my light, I will bring you home, for may I be a lighthouse, let that be my call.

/drive

/drive

dog on concrete road
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the random photo
in the bathroom
the frame is a bit crooked
or is the line of white tile beneath
something is off
someone is wrong

running into the sunrise
a neighbor
directly
black suit
neon shoes

the sun looks more like a gestating star
with all the gases orbiting round
converging into the core

a pure black cat
sitting on a lawn
like a silhouette
prone, ears up
back to me
my luck
I suppose

an accident
on the southbound side
tarp over the car, meaning
mile marker 96 I notice
no, more distance has passed since
I am supposed to feel something
aren’t I?
should I meet such an end
at any time
not the fairy tale sleep I promise myself
traffic is backed up for miles south

over the snake mountain bridge
the sun has burned through now
a jewel nestled in swirls of mist
the empire state building stands the middle piece
the land between
quite unremarkable
but the skyline –
as you might imagine
on a day like this

notes… this was an experiment of sorts, kind of stream of my consciousness in shorts, literally the bombardment of rampart in my mind as I woke and drove to work this am… I don’t record myself I write these in my mind as I drive and repeat them like a mantra, I lose some lines here and there, sure, but I really hate my voice on recordings, it does not match the voice in my mind, the voice I speak to myself always in is not what I hear in there, if you know what I mean…