“tell me, tell me of the moon a paramour who never moves closer always always remains at a distance remains always at arm’s length”
notes… I was listening to this (Cellar Darling – Rebels) and these words popped into my head as they often do, I suppose I was playing with words, and repetition on purpose as we all tend to do the same things so often, myself included, breaking the mold I guess is a habit, one I do not have quite down, quite yet, but I endeavor the goal, I endeavor it so, so I depart in that direction even when sometimes lost…
So… this park was built originally as a work project after the great depression, it was designed by the same architects as Central Park NYC, and oddly it is like an oasis in the middle of bustle, just like Central Park (it stretches miles along) , I have been trying to show off my state, my home, and honestly explore all the nooks and crannies here in New Jersey that I don’t know, so this was one of those days, I figured the hurricane would have cleared out most of the weather, not so much as it was a mixed day but… a good one, just the same, great walking park, great for families at the southernmost end with tons to do and a dog park !!!
post script: I did bring my trusty journal but no inspiration, which is typical, sometimes, ok, many times when I am out and about in nature I am absorbed by it, so I rarely write when I am on vacation or exploring, I must have looked like quite the odd duck, all dressed up in my work clothes hiking all along and peeking over the brook banks for those perfect duck shots, one woman asked if I was with the survey team (for the trees) and another asked if I was that nice young man who took the photos for the newspaper, I was neither, just someone determined to show that New Jersey is many things, yes, we have our down areas but for a small state we have more than people know, and being a homegrown joizee boy I should highlight all that because even I am unfamiliar with all the amazing things here, but I will show them off, or that is the plan, and maybe write some interesting things in the process…
note… just me playing with words, these things pop into my head from time to time, so, I will post them sometimes, not everything has to be a novel you know… and this little line is a little deeper than you may know on the surface, if you ponder such, think about what I am saying here by flipping the usual translation…
a birthday candle made upon one selfish wish a moment with her
notes… and so the pining does muster on, I’d like to pretend I don’t think about things, and how I might make them different, and all the other fantasies in my mind, but I will always remain hopeful, as the random tide of the world brought us together once, maybe there is sequel in there somewhere (and not a rewrite with bad actors), I am a cork in the river in that way, letting the universe work things out, I am not sure if that is the right approach, when it comes to such things I am not sure about much… at all…
underrated… much like me… my humor is subtle, you have to trust me on that front, these guys almost made it, like a lot of bands, they had the goods but just didn’t “hit” enough for the label to push them at the time, they are still around (the guys, not the band) in various forms… or so I am told…
“ginger gold“ for such as the ocean hath reached the land and scorched with tide by god’s own hand for fierce camille stormed in from the coast and brought forthwith the entire gulf through these valleys that became the sea countless washed past these winesap trees, but amidst this rip in nelson county tract from this ripe new wound so would emerge a fruit pure golden and brightly new so forever we are reminded true of dear old clyde and his wife this plot of earth, the loss of life for from the mud and roots up torn that golden apple took up form, to you, I raise my ginger gold to you rise! from that dire stance this fruit of hope, so behold – so began, the ginger gold.
notes… so this has a lot of footnotes, or links as they are these days, in short I am fascinated by hurricanes and dorian is no exception (I called it floyd 2.0 days ago), I took a look back at the 1969 hurricane season which is a historical one, it produced camille which devastated the gulf coast with a 27 foot (confirmed, probably higher) storm surge, this is a mirror for what happened in the bahamas, so one of the things the storm (camille) produced, outside of the devastation, was the discovery of a new (since popular) varietal of apples, survivors of the massive flooding that killed over 150 people discovered it in the wake of all that tragedy. The rest, well, that should be obvious I hope, and all power to the muse as I wrote this all today in almost one stroke…
“the drive“ birds crossing cross against the misty mountain fog a flag draped over an overpass yes, the fourth is certainly approaching all the vague forms in the distance seem like hypnotic suggestions to my subconscious or active lucid imagination outlines, fragments, geometry for me to fill in “looks like rain” I think as thought becomes motion the drops, large by standards thud ka-thud thud on my windshield intermittent wipers, pause they will do for now the miles all seem the twins only the signs tell me the state I’m in numbers… 156, 152, 145 plotted on a graph, asphalt, cracks mile markers like minutes on by patches to cover the ravages of age and seasons the constant beating, the humming of rubber drones on roads, spinning, humming at various rates of speed some under, some over I pass the state police with no appointment met today I look for license plates from other states to plot a trip, or remember one taken destinations local geography the occasional one from west of the mississippi holds my attention, interest for that fleeting second on my drive home.
notes… something I wrote back @ the end of June, totally forgot about it, one of those I wrote that I liked immediately, in fact this has no alterations from my original scribbling, usually I squabble over a word here or there, maybe some punctuation for meter or something, but nah, this is exactly as I wrote it
Music ? sort of a guilty 90’s pleasure but they were really a great band (for a flash in time)
and I would be remiss, a fool, or a dope if not to thank you for your looks, likes, hates, spit filled takes, it’s all good (I just waved to you in a gracious manner, I swear)
“a prayer for a young child may your innocence remain intact let not that shell be pierced or broken still until your wisdom has gathered age so that you shall emerge matured and able to take flight”
notes.. I say this, or post this, as a hope, which I know does not always happen, but no harm in asking, I am not a non realist, but I am an optimist, and always will be…
labor day, the traditional death of summer, everyone rushes in like an orgy of decadence to have the last hurrah, the last dance, on the last day, school begins next week, so seemingly the season of play is gasping for breath, the last stand of the ph warriors who battled chemical balance in their pools all summer long, for this payoff, as the door is closing, I know, in my mind, or in my rational side, that time has a singular pace but I will still swear on my grave there are times when time speeds up or down, always the contrast of what we feel is true up against what we ‘know’ as truth, there are already early casualties of the seasonal war, leaves already yellowed, scattered about my lawn, how quickly the summer is gone, like the rest of everything else around me I will cling to every bit of the warm sun, and absorb every last of molecule of heat, from which I can…
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this is not a quiet night, in fact my immediate neighbors, to my right, are throwing quite the party, like they should need a permit loud party, the street is lined with parked cars I do not recognize, my neighbors have white balloons tied to their mailbox, to mark the spot even though everyone has GPS today, on their phones, or otherwise devices, I think to myself, such is the cycle, the cycle of life, a celebration of life just next door, and yet literally three houses down they continue in mourning of passing, and me here, dwelling, veritably in the middle of both, I suppose that is a midlife crisis? being between birth and death equally, seeing so clearly both wherever I may roam? I do not know… and I suppose no one does.
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I am not certain what type of party this is, somewhat formal, guests dressed in sunday best as far as I can tell, bottles of wine and platters of food in tow, they have a live band, so I imagine it is an occasion of some importance, the band seems to be playing the standards, I am guessing, it is all in vietnamese, but I thought I heard a rendition of “daddy’s little girl” in there, maybe it’s a wedding, white balloons and all… there is a little cadre of the neighbor’s friends or relatives on the front porch, away from the party, grabbing a smoke, some drinks, probably talking shit about the ones in the main gathering out back, I know this group well, I’m usually one of those self righteous rebellious comrades, too cool for the main room, or backyard, in this instance, but I must realize and admit, it is my own inadequacies and lack of comfortable self that makes me break off, as I do, into the smaller group, where I can exert more control, avoid my own failures and flaws instead of accepting them whole cloth, and wearing them proudly back into the fold, proclaiming me, but maybe sometimes I also think, I do not truly belong, both truths can be true, a married couple of ineptitude in my soul…
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as more guest arrive, their long shadows almost stretch and touch me from the sidewalk, these last lights of the day, bending into a celebration, I notice myself in the moment, I am uplifted, I do not know any of the words to any of these songs, not even the language, but somehow, there is translation in the sentiment, perhaps this is latent memory taking the wheel, I have been to many affairs and parties over the years, just not my own, so maybe this is why I know the feelings so well, I guess that is why I feel so relaxed and comfortable now, sitting here alone, on my porch, enjoying a celebration of life, quite outside my own, knowing this is all life, the cycle of loved ones and dear friends, come and gone, celebrations, gatherings, moments, come and gone, these we hold on to, we need to hold on to, each other while we are still here because even within my block, all the reminders of life’s start and end, stay very near.
Notes… this is endemic of my Porch series, I was out there tonight, observing, and writing, and enjoying the world…
“a prayer for belief so I might find the strength I already possess may you guide me to that inner sanctum that mountain pass to my own tibet to find that temple already built from your hands, so I might feel refuge in that reservoir and walk out on to the other side cleansed, and reborn enlightened and in my palms carrying purpose, let that spark rise into burning fire with endless light, as I lay me down to sleep let this belief guide my dreams in to this, closing night so all these days, will open to me”
notes… I am considering adding my ‘prayer’ poems to my collections page, (I have updated it this week) I suppose I will, especially since I just floated the idea, and I love organizing things as if I have power over them, well, I do, at least in my little corner,
there are these moments, tiny flakes of time space, hours of days, one of these, these times when I feel like I am living in past tense, moments that have happened before seem intensely ‘now’, or directly directing the now, overwhelmingly, a feeling floods me as if I have been running in place for years waiting for the past to change, or worse yet sitting in place as the world spins around me, past me, passing by, waiting for something, something that will never come, and the ability to rewrite – a wrong…
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the day started out so nicely, with the starch definitely taken out of summer, a cool morning, barely 70 degrees, mail order blue sky, someone must have paid to have all the clouds removed for there are none, at least for now, the sun is warming instead of broiling, a barely noticeable ball playing hide and seek in between the full taller trees behind the house, everything is green, with a little tired at the edges brown, I take a moment to look around, take it all in as it were, mornings like these, makes you want to be rich beyond your wildest dreams so you could just stop, stay in place and experience every ounce, then, with your hands squeeze-twist the very confines of time to get every last drop out, but, like most of us, most of any who have ever walked this earth, I have to take what I can take, in this fleeting passing moment, with a shallow deep breath I take in what I can, trying to commit to memory this little slice of near perfection for later recall, knowing soon enough I will be back in the reality of the race, the pace, cars lining up like ants in an artery, all with our destinations and routines, all under the umbrella of such a perfect day, bills to pay, obligations to meet.
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so I am driving, the traffic is a bit lighter today, you never know when a holiday approaches how said holiday will encroach on your day, so perhaps my mind is off in another place, not distracted by the constant foot race to my brakes and then go stop go stop base routine, I wonder about things, the circumstances of a life, if they would have changed, would I be right here now wondering the same? these are times I wish my memories were not so vivid or clear, or perhaps to be so vapid as to not care, maybe ignorance is bliss, but I can not know of this, I wish for amnesia, will I be happy… or just unaware? I try and tell myself, comfort myself, convince myself, that I would rather have full awareness, to have clarion clarity, but at once I might still want to be an ostrich, and bury my head in the sands of time, how my life might have been different if this or that, the mental exercise, the gymnastics of a foolish mind and lost heart, and her, would we have changed our opinion on having children, and where has all the time gone as that decision now seems past any comprehension or contemplation… from where I am situated I do not remember the sand escaping my palms, slipping from my grasp if I grasped at all, blown scattered by the winds to the four corners of no recompense, and my hands feel empty, youth is fullness, youth is an overgrown garden of possibility inculcated with weeds, and as the years go, some flowers die, others are planted, some bushes manicured, others upgraded to fancier exotics, and not so suddenly the once wild jungle of opportunity has been whittled down quite nicely, quite on purpose, with purpose, at least at the time, no longer allowed to grow wild, everything has order now, the paving stones, the path all neatly appointed, and I look back, am I satisfied with what I have? or who I am? but there is no magic elixir in the face of time, no amount of thought or determination can catch even a second in a bottle, or snare a minute in a net, my thoughts seem shackled by the past, tension on the chains, my own doing, but there is no instructions how to steer this ship, how to set the sails of life into the headwinds of success, for as I cross the trade-routes and circumnavigate, like the great explorers, I come to know, to sail around, this earthly globe, I arrive back here, in past tense, all the same, but years now spent.
Music to read by… (when will you just trust me and click the links?)
Shades of My Garden 