the act of creation…

the act of creation…

blue and purple sky with stars
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I would like to think I am the genesis of the wellspring of everything that flows through me, an independent force unseen in this ancient universe, but am I? is the act of creation, of this writing, a whisper in my ear from some nearby spirit, when I dream of sailing upon the sea is that some ancient mariner’s lingering energy passing through me, a temporary vessel for a ribbon of life’s energy crossing the branched rivers of time and crossing me, does science yet tell us things are so, creation as a bang, that sudden instant of inspiration that bursts on the scene like a never ending inferno, except this inferno, this heat, builds rather than consumes, the only thing destroyed is the once empty space the fire now occupies with thought of mind, what if I am simply a conduit, but yet a pen with own purpose, for even liquid poured through different devices produces different results, surely these molecules were part of some other part of the universe, tracing back to the beginning, my origin, your origin, was within the big bang and we have been recombining in mysterious a million ways ever since, matter can not be destroyed or created, we are told, but thought ? endless combinations to our minds, but there is no endless information, an event horizon of knowledge, is there an edge to all this, a cliff that keeps running outward but still exists, a dive off into the before that was utter nothingness but something has to be there, sense says so, but how will we ever know, that land exists outside of all we know, touch, feel, once we expire in our combination in this time we are broken back down and recombined into something else, a kite, a comet, a frog, a goblet, who knows, maybe we have been all these things and they inform our dreams, whispers in our ear of all the things we have been, down to the molecules we hold together in these bodies, run by electricity and plumbing to temporarily give us this human vehicle to interact with the everything, the everything from which we all sprang, those billions of years ago, every spin of every star, every nova and black hole far, those billions of years, the result is you and I… 

thoughts from the porch…

thoughts from the porch…

close up clover dewdrops droplets
Photo by Phong Nguyen on Pexels.com

just cleaning up the yard, gathering up the victims of the wind that whipped through here the other day, they say 50 mph gusts, I don’t know, I just know it was windy and my bamboo was thwacking against the bedroom window, bamboo is great for privacy, tall, thick, elegant, and a whipping knock knocker during a storm, who knew, plants don’t come with a guide book, but I suppose a little forethought could have prevented this, but visually I love the darn plant, so in it stays and my sleep will went… I wheel the old trash can out to the designated curb spot area, and something grabs fishhook my eye… so I look down, bend the knee, and examine…
‘winter clovers’, well, that might not be the scientific name, probably is not, but anyway, that is what these little very green clumps in a mulch mound looked like, with all the trees bare, and a nice warm winter sun out there, these types of things tend to  jump out to the eye, I bend over to try and find a four leafer, shouldn’t I, don’t we all look for that lotto ticket or magic moment regardless of odds or logic, that wellspring of hope just tingles your soul, we all do it, dna? instinct? fool’s gold? perhaps, perhaps all these, to witness how life fights to break in regardless of season, terrain, the odds, the same odds that made me possible, a contemporary to these little plants, sometimes called weeds, not to me, not today at least, I wonder if I have that same innate desire to survive, breed and keep the whole assembly line moving along at pace, or do worldly distractions shield me from the most basic of things, perhaps, my friend, I should recall you, and the lesson spent, from a little patch, of seemingly insignificant plant-life, life, I must remember the humble nature of the winter clovers, they sure are braver than me, at least this day… but at least I noticed so I must remember…

(part of my porch series, it is not as advantageous during the winter, but today, today was OK, 45 degrees seems like summer with a breeze compared to 20 degrees just the other day), music… well, Yvette is insanely talented… I bow to her talent.

orphans…

orphans…

something I do from time to time, I post works I have abandoned or not finished (to be honest I just am not good at going back, I like to create in the moment)… maybe they will spark upon the mind of someone else, or maybe they were actually finished unto themselves… so, here are a few, snippets, if you will… thoughts? always appreciated.

silhouette photography of mountain range during nighttime
Photo by José Luis Photographer on Pexels.com

(1) “jumbled”
for-give
for-get
to-give
to-get
the words have lost all meaning

(2) pure and incorruptible
true love and children
the fuel that ignites the soul
the hope
the future
all within

(3) do I reach the bottom wave
and feel the beach
upon my brow
succumb
until I drown

(4) sapling in a frisbee
just being this form
does not mean
you were meant to fly

yeah, I have posted it before… but man I love this album to pieces, it is a mental exercise, no, a relief, it checks all the boxes and guides me to interesting dreams…

erosion.

erosion.

horseshoe bend arizona
Photo by Ian Beckley on Pexels.com

…and the river rages, at times calm as a picture perfect glass pond, but always moving, erosion, time, the invisible taskmaster, ever pulling, ever moving, ever forward, the river carves, the wind bares down, edges begin to dull regardless of their noble origin, time bends all wills all walls, the longer you survive the more experience you accumulate, to navigate within this flow, the change happens cosmically in a blink, but for you this is a slow tide rising, a lifetime, you do not notice, or maybe do, rough edges invariably fade, hair runs grey or runs completely, slowly you are rounded out, becoming grains of sand, for you will, but in the midst of all, erosion of the body and the mind, until… until you are just a soul outside of time…

I wait, I pause, close my eyes, I can’t feel it, I think I can picture it… my consciousness glowing pulsing inside the shell.

and she devastates me so effortlessly…

and she devastates me so effortlessly…

photography of a woman holding lights
Photo by Matheus Bertelli on Pexels.com

‘rogue’
lies with the eyes
if only I was so talented
she levels me without speech
destroys all my reasons
shatters my walls
crumbling
knees buckling
not literally but underneath, she knows
consciousness wrecked
suave turned sweat

notes… you’ve been there, helpless and stopped cold in your usual bullshit, the bullshit that works with everyone else but not her but she likes you anyway, it is more a perception, a feeling, a tingling, that “ah ha” moment, she gets it, you, THE YOU, you can stop pretending…. but you don’t… to a point, you should…

 

lost.love.letter.

lost.love.letter.

fire in fire pit
Photo by Rijan Hamidovic on Pexels.com

dearest,
I can not wash, forget, forgive or absolve my mistakes, sins and regrets. They wear on me like a poison, an eventual death, certain. But even with that – you must know, I must tell you, with desperation, as life fades with every moment passed, that I will love you – always, time and distance has not healed nor forgotten nor dulled, and now may you know this, you will be the last name on these lips, the last gasp of my air shall be yours, the last sound I hear, my last thought on this earth, will all, all be of you, as I pass, my love, you will be all.

notes: in some strange or even perverse manner I am speaking to her, in my mind, like she can hear me, if she is even the same person anymore, or am I even, or does it matter, maybe I am speaking to a memory only, I just need to speak to something, maybe somehow in the mysterious ways of the universe, maybe she can hear me or feel my sentiment if in even just in the evening breeze for a brief moment upon her skin…

aberration…

aberration…

aroma art bean black
Photo by Lukas on Pexels.com

change. the constant. the irony is, we are literally hurtling through space, spinning around but we manage to normalize this insane fact by twisting about in our lives, making familiar in this fishbowl, and believe you me I am as guilty as most or more, the comfort of routine even as we careen into that end, our own sunset, sometimes it feels like a cruel trick, all the people I will never have met, all the stories never said, all the lives, I was driving to pick up thai for lunch today, saw a woman walking with her child (ok, that is an assumption, I hope it was hers), pregnant with another, just two more souls on this merry go round, who will remember, even with that single strand, that common bond, to be created and torn down all in time, this time, as these words write, we share this fate, this space, this air, this dirt under our feet, unseen rays and forces pulling us in unseen ways, hurtling through space on a routine, our planet lulls us to sleep with cradle consistency, sure, the weather changes, we even have disasters and tragedy, but mostly we can gauge these things, and the longer we inhabit this terra firma we are reading them better, not very long ago a trip to Europe would have been quite the endeavor, these days the equivalent might be the moon or better, we have made a tourist attraction of one of the highest peaks around, and even travel deep underground in crystal caverns, the deepest of depths are being measured, and life, life finds the crevices, the will, the stubbornness in all these places, the will to be, and to turn the miracle into routine, round and round we go, summer, spring and fall, winter now but only up here, tilt-a-wheel, hard to wrap my head around the whole ball, I try to imagine watching it from the outside, an eye in the sky, casual observer, space is numb, quiet, cold, silent, I am missing everything, even if within the sphere I miss a ton, at least I am hearing some, some of those stories, tales, wonders, trails, smiles, laughs, lives…

whether I be a volume, a chapter, a paragraph, a word, a single letter, or a footnote to a citation, at least, in the very least I have been part of the story, of humanity.

for this meditation, mediation, consternation I choose one of my favorite ambient masters… just listen, and ponder the universe, look up at the sky and  enjoy….

stitches, musing, and the day moon (I know, does not exactly roll off the tongue)…

stitches, musing, and the day moon (I know, does not exactly roll off the tongue)…

sky clouds blue half moon
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

days like today are a welcome respite, the thermometer taking a break from the grasp of winter (albeit a mild one so far, I must admit), the temperature reaching up spring heights, the sun blazing down more like June, the sky that lovely shade of  absolute pure blue, ah yes, today should be different, will it ? I doubt it… Monday… glorious Monday… we dance… our dance…
I take my lunch break at the apportioned time, and begin to muse, or doze off, or both… head fades back into the pillow, or head rest, which is not as poetic…
so I bend to inner thought, are stitches just stitches or paths for where the fabric should go, all the arrows, the lines, the signs, all around us guiding the chaos, in this, this petri dish of our existence, from the smallest germ, up through the grass, into the trees, to humans walking these streets, to the birds that rule the air, sharing space with massive water vapor arrangements, up to the brink, the clink of glass, the sky ceiling, space and the companion nothingness, suffocation beyond the gate, now onward, up there, the lack of anything, the possibility of everything, a juxta-pose, all out there that lies beyond, and days like this, the breed of hope, the seed of new thought, just overlooking, you, day-moon, so out of reach, a silent observer, a constant distant friend, a constant reminder, for night is your usual domain, or so we perceive that haunt to be, but to you, locked in circles, lock stepped in orbit in orbits, a procession dance, at a glance, caress the tides as you have watched as very continents divide, the rise and fall, from molecules to dinosaurs, and to these eyes, upon close examination, your face, shaped by the memories of universal sojourners across the wake and landed, impacted, and even we, this tiny race have spent time on your domicile, our, you, our closest neighbor just that far beyond our life cocoon cradle, left dead staring as a reminder, or to inspire, as your one face faces us un-tired, stranger in the blue, day-moon, I feel as if I can hold you in my hand, up to my ear, and listen carefully to unveil your memory, and know of all things that happened here, watching life spin, just, out of reach…

random thought as I folded laundry…

random thought as I folded laundry…

person wearing pair of white girls rule text printed socks
Photo by CoWomen on Pexels.com

“I believe in the afterlife, my socks have to be going somewhere all these years, some stranded laundry dimension”

notes… sometimes quotes just pop in my head, this is one of those, folding my laundry after the superbowl, most weeks I only have one day off (ahem, today) so regardless of what is going on in the world I have to do what I have to do when I have the time, this may be a silly thought but yet also an interesting musing… where the hell do all those socks go… ?

just a musical suggestion tonight…

just a musical suggestion tonight…

Lovely soft acoustic and technical, it tickles all my niches… Yvette is an immense talent.

Am I going to pretend that big football game is not tomorrow ? nah… I am a fan of the NFL so I will be watching, I don’t love the SB though, bloated half time with musicians I could care less about, not snobby, it is fine for the masses to like what they like, there is clearly more of them than me, but I like the game and it can be exciting, I was raised a NY Giants fan (ahem, they play in Jersey) so I have seen my share of winning which other franchises have not (even though the G-Men have completely sucked as of late), I do not refer to the team as “we”, I am a fan, I go to games sometimes, I would not pay for a license to buy tickets, that’s insane to me, but what other people do with their money is not my domain, make your own choices, do your own thing.