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….
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…
“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… ?
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.
So, bear with me, I took the pause this morning (a brief respite to try and take things in before diving into my ‘meaningful’ daily life), and admittedly this morning was a much better view than last, an exceptional one perhaps, the frost was rightly appointed on the lawn begging for attention in the twenty seven degree nation, I just do not have some snappy metaphor on my tongue for the description this morning, the sun was as bright as can be in the winter, just barely peaking out over the crest of the house roof, right in my eyes but not blinding, the dog decides to do a barrel roll in the grass, something she does, always has, I never understood it, but she enjoys it, at least that is my perception, perception is reality, no, reality is reality, I call her inside and get in the car, the ice has formed some perfect snowflake structures on my windshield, not enough to obstruct my view and require scraping, just that nice frosting on the bottom half, the sky is real blue, that nearly singular screaming blue you tell yourself is a ‘perfect sky’, the type of blue you would book online if you could, but somehow, something is missing, at least today, I feel I am in that zone where all cliches seem to be failure, or at least pale platitudes, ignorance is bliss, no, it is just being unaware so you slip into bliss as the other options are not options available at the time, better to have loved and lost than never loved at all, so they say, file this in the bliss/ignorance category,I can feel it pulling, my emotional compass strongly points to her, just one of those things, regardless of the beauty of the day, am I forcing my mood or is this just a natural state, I choose to indulge my staircase downward, tune the tunes to tunes that make me reminisce, you can’t hug a photograph, you can’t caress a dream, but in my mind I wind up doing all these things, I just keep reliving that moment, a kiss to the forehead as I said that goodbye, frozen in time still, a singular moment I can not seem to escape but for forgetting for bits of times, I know I should not dwell there, but I do, I try to think of a see saw, the one side seems heavier down with regret, but to that end would have never led without the love and experience with her itself, every path has an end, we have to traverse the path, this is no linear equation though, there is always a slope downward, time is not a staircase upwards, always onward downward, just the way it works, I suppose my mood is not lifted by the industrial ugliness lining the jersey turnpike as I drive, all crowned by that ultra blue sky, cement dominant boundaries, oil containers, factories, foul smoke rising, that burning flame, drowning in the sameness, lost in thought, locked in a jail of my own thought in this tin box plodding the road along, the rational whispering to remember to savor being alive at all, true, but truth does not always tuck you in to calm, even if you know it should…
so, I am a big believer in taking that quick moment, a pause, a deep breath, before diving into the deep end of my day, just taking a peek at the world, right before I hop into my car in the morning, today was one of those where I remembered this exception, as I truly try, I fail to remember my mantra daily, even if it is my mantra, the rat race is a seductive thing, an all encompassing thing, a real beast of revelation, of distraction, it takes a moment of concentration to step off the running wheel now and again, so my observation, from this morning, was well… underwhelming, I mean, every morning can’t be some glorious spectacle of spectacular sunshine shining on my glib countenance, or even a resurgence of miraculous splendor to uplift and charge the soul with boundless energy, sometimes, well, often, things are, things are just, well, average, which is not to say that is a bad thing, beats the alternative, today could be one of those depressing gray days that, as a quasi-dramatic writing soul artistic type, I love to drone on and on about in some over exaggerated drippy gothic tones, but… it is not, the frost today, what there was of it, was sort of non impressive, sometimes frost can give a lawn silent dignity like a splash of grey on the periphery of aging hair, or it can provide a background for the glamorous glimmer of the sun’s refraction and reflections, no, not today, today it sort of just looks quite dull, tired, lazily waiting for the day’s rays to evaporate it out of it’s misery, the sky is much the same as I drive, there is the blue atmosphere up on top but not dominant, the clouds are more like ‘cloud’, one running into another into another, not pretty, or defined, sort of what I imagine the windy plains of the middle states are in winter, all the same for miles, sans buffalo of course, they can’t fly, well, at least not in this reality, I would quite imagine they would not be so graceful an avian vision anyway, their wings would have to be like an airliners outstretched just to maintain that bulk amongst the drafts, but since there is nothing so entertaining up there now I have to settle for this, an underwhelming mass of the familiar on a day not so peculiar, even the manhattan skyline approach seems bland, the empire state building looks dated compared to the gleaming rowdy neighbors that have moved in these decades, so modern, for now, but not iconic, at least to me, the sun cracks through just a bit right to left as I approach route 80, so I can see the reflection off the pools in the meadowlands, a tame swamp if there ever was, this isn’t so bad I think, how many ingredients go into this concoction of mood, and how we choose to stir the brew, perhaps a better steward I should be, for what I allow to influence the day, and little ole me…
so you grand tree does thee wait guard the dead and call them out *(1) in st dygain’s yard beyond the gate there you wait, date to date, on the promise, all hallows eve *(2) all the world’s ear leans towards that tree *(3) not wanting to hear that prophetic voice *(4) and bear witness to angelystor, no, not by choice for role is the call of the dead *(5) might your name, might be read do not be bold and curse the land for bear you will with Rhobert’s hand *(6) and know now that halloween has past your name not whispered cross those limbs from the depths of that ancient root you are not called back bound eternity under that shadow of Llangernyw Yew
First off the tree is perhaps 4,000-5,000 years old, pretty awesome to contemplate.
(1) This is all about the Legend of Angelystor (“The Recording Angel” inspired by St Peter perhaps?), which, according to the Welsh tradition twice a year (once on halloween (2), so I thought emphasizing that was best) the spirit would announce the names of those from the parish who would perish that coming year, the legend stipulates that those who cared or dared to hear the angel’s decree would gather under the east window of the church to hear the proclamation (3,4,5), of course someone does not believe in the legend and fiercely denies it (Sion Ap Rhobert), well, you can figure out what happened to that guy (6). So, basically this is a poem about some tree…
the whimsy and agony of traffic, I got off at a relatively early time (for me), had to fill up the tank, no problem, on my way back toward the GSP, NJ Transit bus in front, pulls over for a stop, I can not pass (double yellow) so I chill out for a moment, then a minute, I am barely past the intersection, the light turns, I feel it pulsing in my rear view mirror, the pressure is mounting up lining up behind me, three minutes now, weighing breaking traffic laws and scooting around, “eh, how much longer could it be?” I think, foolishly, indeed, three now stretches past five, I can hear the people’s thoughts behind me screaming WTF inside my mind, a couple of cars in back tuck turn tail around as they have routes of escape, not me, right behind the big silver sardine barge wondering what the hell is going on, so, just as I am ready to make an illegal K turn (or maybe more like an F), the bus lurches forward, and then I see the cause of my torture, a man, in a strange colored rain parka (it was not raining), the hood tightly on framing his gaunt face, the same weird gray beige as his rain gear and boots made for flooding, or wading, either way, not boots made for asphalt pavement, at least not tonight, he was surrounded, quite literally by a circular fortress of bags, plastic grocery bags, all double bagged, had to be about thirty, I can not imagine how tedious that would be to board and un-board a bus with that cargo, how nicely cramped his bus neighbors must have been, the man, and his force-field of bags was also quite in the road, so I had to tiptoe (ahem, break) across the double yellow lines as to not smash his carefully placed bag telemetry, ah, the irony, anyway, that was not the first stop, next was only one hundred feet up the block, but this was no bus stop, I know where all those are, being this is the town where I work, the next one is quite far, farther down past the overpass at least, I can barely make out the lights trying to bend around the bus, something is amiss, an accident? ya’ gotta’ be kiddin’ me now what (in my not so strong more north jersey accent)?? (another few minutes now pass as I stew in my own juices), I notice the bus looks confused, I mean, by the driver’s actions I can sense that the driver does not know what to do or what is up, either do I, but after Mr. Bags back there I was not getting stuck, this time, while I did not cross a double yellow, I did the worse and ducked to the right, a bit of daylight to a street I knew I could escape to, for a moment I thought the bus was going to turn right as well, right into me, he hinted a turn, but I slipped by, unscathed, took a look down the street back, yep, emergency construction or something, the road was closed totally the way I was going, what luck! so, down the escape path I sped, happy to wind through back to route 46 and the GSP…
…of course there was traffic on the GSP, why wouldn’t there be? was the world conspiring against me ? certainly feels that way, I put on the classical station to soothe the savage beast looking to burst forth, tchaikovsky, and a number I am familiar with, one that brings me back to a day when I had the previn driven nutcracker suite on tape, the one thing about tape is it made you mostly listen to the whole thing, fast forward and reverse were not exactly convenient, or exact, until they came up with that thing where they stopped at gaps in sound, which was a revelation at the time, oh how the little things satisfied, not the one button at our fingertips convenience of the now, or even voice commands, so anyway, this put me in a better place to deal, with the bumper to bumper ordeal laid out before me this night, I almost wish the parkway was not so exact, when you are speeding along you hardly notice, when you are limping along it is hard not to notice the mile markers…
Photo by KML on Pexels.com
they seem stuck on numbers for miles, the thump thump thump of the road on the tires, it is like a cruel parody of those wheels at the boardwalk where you never win anything cool anyway, why do the hosts on classical radio all sound like they are americans trying to sound like british royalty? sometimes it is annoying, sometimes soothing, but it just is, finally, I near my exit, I can see it, that guy is going to cut me off, that jeep, two lanes over, here it comes, yep, darts in front of me as if there is some emergency, or the four car lengths behind me were inadequate compared to the space between the forward lexus just ahead of me, since I am expecting all manner of bad luck or dumb luck or no luck this does not phase me, or irk me, or even bring me to a rousing boil like it might on some days, no, I am accepting my beating by the gods today, might as well take it on the chin than scream into a hurricane, Mr. Cutmeoff is going to also realize he is in the wrong lane and jerk back into this turning lane, yep, I’m a traffic psychic in a sea of psychos this evening, I should buy a lotto ticket but there would probably be a long line at the local krauszer’s, finally I am on the road home, good old route 27, I figure I deserve a treat, so I decide to travel a little further up the street, maybe whet my beak at the local irish pub, or better yet pick up some tasty latin grub, I opt for option two, so I head towards Metuchen, which is really the belly button, well, donut hole of Edison, a little main street nugget of idyllic Americana if there was such a representation in New Jersey, this can’t be… I see those ominous flashing lights ahead, I was in the clear for so long now, I should have just packed it in on the final stretch, apparently I do not learn my lessons well, as I approach the lights, I realize (exhale with glee)… not on my side, of the road, and a cop is literally standing there with his hand out stopping traffic without warning, I feel for you my poor fellow souls over there, I really do, but for now I slip by, I just chuckle to myself, there is no way traffic, this ambiguous thing, this idea, there is no way Traffic has a sense of humor… or vengeance… is there?
“All the ways into this grot were then sealed against the entry of water or aught else, all save one.” — J. R. R. Tolkien, The Two Towers, 1954
I think about this often, no matter how clever I am, no matter how smart, I am human, and subject to fault, regardless of how many thousands of times I have done things right, and how I can pull results from thin air at times, I am not a robot nor a computer, although my coworkers might accuse me of either, I am well aware of my fallibility, my humanity, my mortality, we all reflect on it in days like these, Kobe Bryant is just another person, a very talented one in his field, I want no one to die but I mourn more for his young daughter that had not the chance to live, he lived, he had an amazing life, cut short, as are so many given history, but a 10 year old boy was shot in Newburgh NY today as well, those are the ones I mourn for, the ones that didn’t have the chance to reflect on life like I can and have, I feel a guilt and a shame for not being everything every minute I could be, I am not sure where to take it, if life matters at all, I have made it this far, I will continue on but have I squandered it all…. so I question, so I breathe… so I try to be that better person even if the end is the same…
in the dawn of man in the first of light our ancestors looked up towards the sun from there imagined past this life and now with all our knowledge since we look outward to the stars to find life past our own
notes… to me we always and still look to the sun, the light is a dominant force in our life, and yet we are just a little system out on the fringe arm of a galaxy among millions, we can see past our little neighborhood cosmically, how often do we really think about it in our daily life? perspective is an endless lens that asks questions. poem wise I was going for pace and syllables, seems silly playing among the stars… but it is what I do, to be me, or am me….
Shades of My Garden 