(stream of consciousness posted prompted by a spike to 70 degrees today)
a taste of spring, a little bird on a twig, a series of chirps evolves into song, the sun, not quit strong enough to completely thaw, nor to make my face have the brooding fear of a tan, but a blue sky and a bright sun can lighten the disposition of gravity, still snow survives, around the edges, under the hedges, melting tides reveal masks strewn about in the gutters, a grim reminder of the times we are emerging from, less a tunnel and more a moratorium, a pause, a break in the norm, all holidays vanished along with those lost, a year seems gone, lost, like this never happened, but I do sense this, a taste of spring, seventy degrees seems like the last mile marker on the road to a vacation destination, a little finch, just inches above me, I swear he is dancing a jig, or at least bouncing around, and the snow’s retreat, even the dull green of the lawn is a treat, a feast for the eyes, lonely stark dirtied snow has a toll, like walls, the glow of the setting sun, behind the everyday house across the street, somehow looks more regal, so I will soak this in for now, into my skin, trigger memories of better days, of hope, of waves gently rolling over my toes as a I stroll down my favorite sandy venue soon enough, I have not come out of this time as whole as I once was, but I still am, so hope is resolve, in this – a taste of spring.
Is this really me, completely? I feel like a pilot, in a suit, in pursuit of… I’m not so sure anymore, more days, more time, for what? I speak of, I think of, lives past, no, not in the reincarnation sense, although it would seem I have had my cycles passed, I am in my current life, or phase, not defined by decades, no, more or less my surround, what is around, my circumstance, a stanza in time, in a sense, not clearly defined by lines, at least not as strict as haiku, but definitely with form, I have not learned, or grown to, or allowed myself to be myself completely without the forms of norm, does anyone? there were the early years, the carefree, the cage-free, the free range days, certainly, but, my memory is so sparse, was the freedom just a way to breeze through those times, not wanting to sit down in my mind and record such things? I barely remember anything prior to the age of ten, or maybe even twelve, a dozen or so things that stand the time, like perfect ruins, snapshots really, I recall my teens more well, but such a twisting-morphing-growing age, from day camp to college all in a daze, no… college was the third phase, maybe I am getting ahead of myself, that short span at rutgers, was definitely it’s own thing, as I remember those dorm days better than most prior, coed dorms the norm, cohosts at late night soirees, the grease trucks (specifically Mr C’s) near dawn, slapping together forty page papers in a storm of no-doze and jolt cola, one friend in particular whom I wished I maintained contact all these years, that was it’s own time, separate from the rest as I recall those moments best, even now, strangely, and then phase three, my florida years, the pinnacle of hope, early twenties when everything is there, so much fruit flowing that one could never imagine an orchard bare, or even such a place in winter, there was always sun, like some bad analogy or pun, christmas lights on palm trees, and her, my love, the anchor on my heart all these years, but also the picture of a perfect flower, smiling – undeterred by the cracked earth of a dessert planted, no, that much has not faded, a dualogy that haunts me to this day, some would say, don’t let it, for yes I have tried to travel that forgetful path, I have, but it has done me no good or lifted the cargo, now phase five, in life, just seems as if I am on a ride, just riding out the time, pushing forward in a circle, all advice on paper, print and speech says move on, and I have, as much as I can, but I can not shake the past, no matter what I do, sometimes I think why bother, and accept the way, I can refurnish the room, paint the walls, change the carpet, but the room remains, I just have to see if in the next phase things will change, I’m not so sure as this has been the longest phase to date, but one never knows, will I find the providence to lead me to elysian pastures, and they might just be around the next corner bend, so I go, so I go.
the casual calamity of the common clamshell; back in the day an ashtray an art project finger-painted adornments to elevate the rock garden once whole with life two halves are just a shell of the former self
notes… sometimes I am whimsical but still philosophical …this would be one of those times, don’t deny your inner loki if you have one, care to indulge, just don’t extend to hurt, that’s all
maybe not their best tune, but a good one, and one that reminds me, of a another time, another life, really, talk about out of body experiences, I feel like I am watching a documentary of my own self within these memories flashing, what is this? The time was all, all potential, I was supposed to be the next big thing, in my family at least, I had the brains, the grades, all the accolades I strove for because I was told those are the things to strive for, but… I had not found the me, not the what I wanted to be, not what I was slipped prescriptions for, or told are the best professions, no, nothing spoke to my core, I was really lost in the forest of the voices of others, but I plodded onward anyway, happily on the outward face, outside forces had their nearly complete sway, I was more a passenger, sailor, not the captain I should have been, sure, it is easy to look back now, and see all this, in reverse, clear as day in my written history book, but I was never pushed to seek my true engagement, my pure, it was all about the wrap of perception, which, obviously, in retrospect, such as this is, manifested into my subversive objection via the actions of my life in circumspect, clearly, I was not ready, not ready for the pre-prescribed life I was ‘supposed’ to lead, why the push? and to some degree, did I exacerbate the push because that is the direction that the positive energy was flowing in (and by dousing myself in such glowing in)? instead of being… or finding… me? I can not say this is regret, maybe a cousin of such, but these feels like a different animal, I think regret has more ownership than that, there are second chances, I just have to make sure when I look back next time I have paid more attention – to myself.
for into the arms of god go I divine guided path with a fulfilled heart and calm mind, for into the bosom of god am I for my ego shall fade to rest as I have arrived home for all time.
notes… am I not dying anytime soon (I hope) but if I do I hope for more, I am not religious, I do not prescribe to any particular belief, and I do not have any angst against those that do, I have to believe something else is out there, our life on this world is truly a miracle, it could all be random and what not, I accept that, but I hope for more, I yearn for more, and if I am wrong ? I will never know anyway, so I plant my flag in the camp of hope on that end, and may I see those I love once again… somewhere, someway, maybe in a dream that is a parallel reality…
hello my old friend, been awhile since we spent some time… the relentless tide of cold has relented, and the world seems to be stirring from her slumber, some number of months now since I sat here, for this simple pleasure, inhaling and sampling the entirety of my immediate native surroundings, to sit and unpack my thoughts, a bird burst from a box, here I am again, alone, outside, starry night, full moon bright stained with a wisp of haze, a furrowed cloud line struck at a twenty degree angle beneath the face from right to left, as if to add an underline to the moon itself, “what a silly thing to do” I quip to myself, in a voice only I have ever heard, yes though, sound has slowly found a way back in to this since empty hall, as the blanket of snow retreats, lawns revealed peeking groggy gates, “ten more minutes mom”, “well, you have ’til march” (which is coming soon, certainly the next number to come up at the deli counter for order), what a strange year this has been, could I have prophesied such an entangled ride? no, for surely not, but here we are, on the promising precipice of another spring, as my family still mourns the king, and there is no natural ascension to the throne known, no writ of delegation, time will take care of that coronation, I suppose, so I wait, I have learned to have more patience these days but time still seems to roll over at break-neck pace, I can feel the itch and twitch of the hand moving, listening closely I can hear the gears turning in ever-forward motion, there is no pause, no rest, save that- one, there is no pause, just little valleys like these moments, like these when I sit among the trees pretending to be, waiting for them to bloom again, to show me the way, as ever seasons to better days – ahead. and this brings the calms of psalms, to the house of my residing soul.
(stream of consciousness freeform post, me sitting in my office with music and then… this.)
as bolero plays I am inextricably drawn, no, transported to a transformation, into the dawn of seasons, to spring, to observe the saplings, the probing buds, all the green things, the rise of life from fallow-dead-white fields, months shallow now filled eyes out to the horizon brim, plum blossoms sun-bursting in celestial parades, off carried by a gentle hand – a tender breeze, seed stars dance like human figurines, in this glorious ballroom of renewal, yes, bolero, more so than vivaldi’s reckoning, I do not know why, but that reminds me of spring in full swing, not this, not the uprising whistling just past the thaw, the burgeoning tide of dawn, where bird’s chatter is that much more amplified – melody, more – harmony, epiphany, the perfect score for the painted landscape being re-born, yes, bolero, tickles my ear, punches the ticket when I am on board, elucidates a dreaming dream to sweep away the doldrums of this daily day, for I see snow, and the icy remains, but no, bolero has brought me the inspired warmth of spring – if only for a moment as graces my auditorium.
the way to calm the mind, we all have our buttons, as much as I try, as much as I know myself, I still slide down that path to frustration and anger, mostly with the way other people deal with world, anathema is the word, and regardless of my self control, of my trying to accept and understand, slide, but how far is the goal I’ve found, this is not a fight you can actually win, you are the culprit within, but there is a tool for your reprisal, realization, to float back and observe the situation, focus on something bright, something other, something light, pause, the proverbial deep breath to brave the storm (as it shall pass). slide… so I step outside, literally and figuratively, find something else to focus on, to center on, to bring back myself to center being, and yes, even in this smothering cold winterness of near silence, providence shall provide, if you just look, and not nearly long did I spy, my own private glacier does flow, in front of my eyes, or at least a sculpture made in the random ways of the world, for four billion years this took, and here it is, presented, just for me, to remark inside at the wonder, I know the chemistry, but the random miracal-ity is what overflows within me, joy rising, now my trance, tracing down the droplets as they travel methodically down the form, around the horns, the strange angles, the sound of the drips that make their way to the ground off ends, tapping on the backs of others of their kind they have now found, and those that froze, to become those delicate tips, mocking gravity herself – for now, and all the little rays of light, bouncing in and around, suddenly my slide, the slide… is no where to be found.
in the house of the dying sun, a knock on the door an uncle a cousin a brother and I forgot to remember- that he is gone for father has traveled on into the land beyond (our senses). the wife, a sister, my mother left with the charge for every crack and nook imbued with the marriage of years strolling through photobooks slow motion silent cinema tales snapshots of a life no longer in motion told and closed, the deacon of my being struggles struggles for reason for faith to believe in our fates for a reason, for a meaning, I yearn for the voice of dominion for guidance, for wisdom for the power to accept as we must, and accept there is no choice no choice in the matter for soon enough I will join you father and once more be of your manor.
notes… been mired in the weather so not posting too much, I have been writing however, just not posting, sometimes life gets in the way, you know ? Thanks for all the looks and comments, I appreciate your time and stopping by.
I felt an uncomfortable sensation, like I was some where I did not belong, sure, the air is still and calm, and the sounds I hear are more like a glacier’s song, but here?? on a standard street in new jersey suburbia, I was awaiting the proverbial jumping cat to normalize the scene with banality, no luck there, sudden subtle whooshing water sounds, creaks and cracks, little pops, especially when the wind played cover for the under, fog, on a cold winter night? I can taste the moisture on my tongue somewhat, something is thawing, something is coming, that slight frozen fog suspended in air… or my eyes, I am not sure if I am in the dream state between or this is some parallel I have stepped into between worlds, I look to my neighbor’s house, all the lights are out, except those landscape domes buried in half a foot of snow, a semi circle, almost like a buried ufo, or proof of roswell is buried there, prints, prints across the white ‘scape, evidence, a trace, things have been skulking about but the melt makes a succinct inspection impossible, a cat, a dog, a fox, who knows, a person lost in the storm, probably not on that score, but these are written stories on the temporary ice canvas laid out, soon to become a book and flow into a stream, into the ocean, and off into the vast consciousness of the world continued and forgotten, all twined together like our daily lives, just these frozen at this one time, inextricably linked by binds of time and circumstance, and I can not decipher them before this alexandria burns into the ground, such is the way of the world, but I do not have to like it, and again, I hear more strange sounds, the closer I walk towards the more silence raises up to block my ears, the wind, a loki, shakes the tree above me raining down perfect droplet bombs of sub chill local tree rain, not from a cloud, at least not now, they hit me to distract from the creeping doom I imagine is out there… or I know is out there, but not tonight, not here, I return to the warmth of my hearth and home, to the domain of my screen, and these words, a survivor as long as fate may grant me, able to write my words at night so faintly, I hope my echo can carry in this chasm and catch the wind on the other side.
notes… as usual, all thoughts and comments are appreciated. good, bad, indifferent, did you read this? I wonder. did you experience?
Shades of My Garden 