puddles as pools as footsteps, the oddity of being on the dividing line on a map, always the corridor, wintry mix so they say, so it is, snowing one minute, raining the next, the pure white of barely an inch, devolves into ice walled pools that retain some structure, captured capsized footprints, preserved perfectly, for at least a moment, until the eventual slide into full on water, a frozen tide, lines that outline where I was just a second ago, proof of life I suppose, if however temporary, even those footprints on the moon will go away someday, I suppose, would I treasure those more, if I could ? more permanent than my little frozen steps across the temporary pond hopping in my driveway, all just a matter of the scope of time, the lens of passing, time, time has all the time in the world, and then some, mine just a fleeting trail of steps, melting into the ether, succumbing to the inevitable.
;fault bucket- I wonder what brigade might save as I pass hand to hand so I might learn to trust again for at the end may empty my burdens;
notes…. form in a way here, flow, like water rhythm wise, and also I meant this to look like a tipped bucket if you can see my visual clues (punctuation and it leans to one side if weighed on a scale perhaps)… sometimes I do things such as this… the funny thing is that the genesis of this thought, this poem ? researching an error in windows… seriously what more of a dork could I be… but always the muse she is guiding me, on a shoulder, in a vein… who knows? maybe I am insane… all the same, we all are to some degree, depends on the influences we listen to I suppose, I will stick by the mystery of the muse, I will… especially if it really is Selma Hayek...
Rome was not built in a day… So why am I trying to finish it all today?
So is the way we are, eyes on the prize, the charge of momentum stirring in our skin, when we are set out on the path to what we want to reach we want to sprint, when walking (or at least a decent jog) is in order, but that gleaming trophy is all encompassing, enticing, enchanting, you can feel it manifesting in your hands, so you rush toward that horizon, and maybe stumble because you are not paying attention to the rubble in the road, because rarely is there a road of pure paved perfection, trust me, I have travelled many, and many a mirage of such perfection has seduced my seeking soul, I’m not one to proclaim new year’s resolutions, but mid year ones? OK, color me guilty, but just the same, the fever, the fervor burn you feel in those first hours and first days completing those tasks that propel your mind to dream of the end of the toil, as if a field of crops to chop is all laid out before you in a flash mob instant, but- the real field, just to bare the blazing sun, the heavy sweat, breaking hands from the engage-reset equation, and you want to get it all done – in an instant, but that is the trick, the false deity at wit, you must deny your own temptation, conflagration, intoxication, for the feeling of progress truly can be a trance, so you must learn to slow this dance, to a waltz, to a halt, or even a rest, a breath, a step, a realization that a yard is full of inches, a mile full of yards laid foot by shadow, you did not arrive at the where you are in one day’s travel, nor will you get to the over there you want in just a moon shot’s sojourn travel, plodding might seem downright like… well, plodding, and so it is, focus on the steps, a one, a two, a four, but not more, soon enough you will arrive at the prized station of the horizon, your destination, it may just take some time more, so ponder in that direction, write yourself a note of discretion, goals, with morsels and meals between, so that penultimate banquet will that be much better received, when, and you will, have built your Rome, your home, in a time that suits your will – and the satisfaction will.
notes… for those in the know, well, stop reading, for those not this is stream of consciousness, me riffing on a topic in one take… of course your thoughts and comments are always appreciated, as well as any tips on growing hot peppers in my climate… and when I mean hot I am talking habanero plus… and if anyone wants bamboo tips for northern climates… I have 6 types currently on my property – and I am expanding… I love the stuff, bamboo is an evergreen and there are many varieties that can survive here in north new jersey, lawns are boring… go exotic and more natural.
a friend, a co-worker (whom I always meant to hang out with more), is sailing off to another port, quite literally, a foreign shore, her departure has deposited me in a destination of regret, I must admit, for time always disappears when you operate under the easy assumption of unending days, days that run into days and into months… which breeds and feeds the beast inside known as complacency, ‘tommorow, the sun will…’ ah you know, no, time can not be tidied up and put back in the tube, we all know this intrinsically but do not put this in practice most days, we get lost in the germane no-name insane idiosyncrasies of the every-day, a moment gone is spent, and then there is nothing left, nothing left that is – but a side dish of regret, I could blame covid, I could blame a thousand things more, or I could just look in the mirror, I used to believe in fate, maybe I will never be the type to go full-tempt with such a fire, but a little push now and again might help… moments not had, are just utterly gone, out of grasp, we hear the advice “live like there is no tomorrow”… but how many of us really do, and how do I move my consciousness into that space, permanently, that is, not a rental, on the outside I seem like the most confident person you may have seen, a peacock head about, and I am to some extent on the common grid, but only on that little patch of known I call my own, my island, my temperate comfort time zone, a boat tied to the dock that dare strides outward into the water, right there, right there in reach, seaworthy, for I am always over prepared, enough rations for ten men, water supply for twenty, let alone enough for a simple tour on the bay for a day, to check out the other sights and lands so familiar on the periphery, perhaps, or I can step-back-nap further, into my hammock, in this space, my cut out paradise, alone but not lonely, this becomes a self-fulfilling mantra after-all, and the more you whisper in your own ear or to your own heart, like breathing air that contagion spreads and takes over the essential blood in your veins, reinforcing domains, self set fences, like an attraction at the zoo, exotic at a distance, but at the base level, nothing more this world has not seen before, I wear the coat of confidence, so well these days, so well none can tell at times that the material might be cut from hole cloth, sometimes I feel like a 3 sided house, hoping no one will peek in the backyard – and what they might find there, I feel like Truman in the storm, without the fortitude, or the script deciding my destination in the right direction, but worse yet, I am the man in the moon pulling the strings, I have the keys, hell, I made the locks, the doors, the walls, all of it, but still some part of me remains institutionalized to myself, I can not fly, I don’t have wings, but I can break free, not just try, to go forth and walk out on that dock, untie my own creation, have faith in my preparation, I can always return here, or retreat here, but I am tired of just dwelling here. Surely, I will miss her, no doubt, she will never know, or maybe she does. The internet allows interaction, to be sure, crosses oceans, but nothing is like the experience of face to face with the instant reaction, there is energy there, an exchange from one life form of now to another, so now there will be one less patron @ my local bar, just a soon dusty photo on the wall, of the gone by that have passed through, pleasant memories, but not of now, the most important of time, lost, the now. so, with that, bon voyage…
notes: sometimes I get personal, this is my blog right ? I am not some mysterious artist, I am not trying to fake you or trick you, this is me, bleeding me, blind me, dumb me, flawed me… just me, but still this was all stream of c, duly noted in c.
along the morning commute, I usually see them lined up by the dozens, in their usual spot, erm… row, actually, on a line that crosses above a particular side road I use to get to the ole turnpike, but this morning, they were on a lawn feasting, a bit early for thanksgiving I thought, apparently someone laid out some feed and the pigeons were doing what any upstanding pigeon citizen would be doing with such a bountiful opportunity, then there is me, in all my armor complexity, wrapped neatly in this breathing metal skinned beast, a cocoon of technology separating me at almost every instance from simplicity, I wondered, wandered, for a moment… -to be a pigeon, the pure simplicity of the thing, just being, unaware of things that do not matter, like who won the bachelor, I wonder if pigeon’s have real house wives? I suppose not, no town names, street names, house numbers, interstate monikers, none of it, all falls away, would I be happy this way, a mental exercise with no destination as I surely can not make that determination reality, but I can dream, or retrograde I think, how would I begin? strip? strip down from this onion, mantle to core? or more, start from the ground up, scratch, I’m not sure, but I must admit, I felt a moment of calm contemplating the whole scenario as it whizzed through my mind like a bullet train, the simplicity is alluring, but how much do I really know, maybe I should park, stick my beak on the ground and give it a go, I might find there are more complexities to this quick puddle toe, nothing is ever as it seems on first glance, but I do wonder sometimes and try to mold some of that into my own experience, essence, being or what have you, for I did have that moment, nature punting a lesson in my direction, sometimes you just need to stop and listen.
the passing of these blessed hours for I have failed you
I can not recall the original station where I got on, they all seem the same, various configurations of brick and tile, metal bars framing stairs, all leading to quaint towns and their common squares, I can not recall how long this ride has been, as long as I have been, time pulls forward, always in motion, a frame not unlike an old airstream trailer I imagine, from the outside, the lulling rhythmic sound kha chunk kha chunk kha chunk kha chunk, the gentle up and down glide riding the waves over land and rail, a strobe light effect, yes, like flickering, but not like flame, mechanical, a robotic toddler playing with a light switch, on off on again, billboards and advertisements plastered with memories, some graffiti, some show ragged worn edges that have succumb to weather, there is only one destination and that is never back, there is never a moment grasp just a string of them, and all those who have passed through this particular car, for a conversation, a meal, perhaps more, but in the end I am here standing holding the strap myself, I suppose my legs will tire, eventually, and retire to the uncomfortable looking seats, but, the racing pacing scenes fly by, like movies marquee in my eye, a lullaby, waking sleep as to the passage of time, for surely passed, even if this is mine, flashing bulbs pop with cut scenes, cities, forests, oceans vast, landscapes familiar and foreign, laughter, tears, and the warm indifference of fear, the dream of love to transform this form sometimes a visitor here, the sweet songs that have been sung and those not yet composed, I wonder about the conductor, never seen nor heard, but clearly there is something steering, lines laid had to be built by some purpose, by some hands, by some means, but I am a mere passenger riding out my days, as best I can.
time is not sacred but a master love is not blind that has no eyes a feeling a knowing like a tide gathering to caress the shore
a train rambling on the lines station to station with no stops scenes from a life in between flashes flashes of the lights like snapshots flashing bulbs the highlights and the nots rambling rambling on down the line
hope not for omens preparing dinner a thud, a dull glass thud I have heard this before but why today since many long I can not even say since I heard that sound so distinct a missile, a blind kamikaze mistake and there she is delicate little bird curled up on the planks outside my kitchen window lying lifeless, I know this this was an ending note with hope I throw on my coat anyway slip on my outside slippers and gently cradle the little hoping for a twitch wishing a miracle but no, a head tossed to and fro in the tide of past life now so little bird I lay you down may you rest upon this ground
notes… just sometimes things happen, and you are no longer an observer but the recounter of a story, of a life, and so it was…
the twin lives of selfishness and selflessness truly a world divided, a yin and yang, chang and eng, the tried, true and classic black and white cookie, still the two could not be more distinct but should they be? or more symbiotic than you might think, poor ole selfishness seems languished in reputation while selflessness is bathed glowingly in the perpetual limelight of hero worship, however, as with a book and it’s cover it pays to look under the surface, the subterranean is always harder to explore, you need the guiding light of the mind and a dash of some adventurous spirit (and perhaps a good pair of boots and sturdy rope), so let me make a case in the defense of selfishness, at some point you must have a drop of this, or a dollop of it added to your bloodstream, think of this infusion as a valid component of the prescription for self preservation, you are being carried away by raging waters, you must find a tree limb or other outcrop to hold onto, and from there, perhaps, you can furnish the rescue of others, but blind loyalty to selflessness may lead to needless death, for yourself, and those you might mean to save, all an equation, but one that must be mastered by the mind as instinct in a framework in which to act when called upon or needed, I have unfortunately read many an account where someone has jumped into a certain situation only to perish themselves, so, at least in this instance selfish was a bridge to selfless, complete and utter selflessness would have lead to further tragedy and served no one well, brief #2, a selfishness on the stand, if you do not take the time to keep your house in order how can you honor others? cross examine that for a spell, for the young knight who charges off into the battle in full shining armor, with gleaming honor, perfect edge to a shining blinding sword, and all the best intent ringing in his spurs, or consider the aged knight, war weary, battled in spirit, no less noble, perhaps a bit more selfish in the past as it has gotten him this far, and the poor young night now has the distinct experience with his head upon a spike, glorious helmet quite upright, chivalry may die quickly upon the shields of the young, and then perhaps there is the knight that only knows the love of gold, for he will truly die fat, happy, and quite alone, because in the realm of coin there are no citizens, only denizens of no self, a desert land of the self less, there seems to be some merit resident in selfishness to consider, when used as a tool to build and not a house to hold.
music to ponder the universe to: (ambient space goodness)