does it make me strange to have an almost romantic affinity for summer thunderstorms?
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
the sound of distant thunder on the evening, no, not menacing, or foreboding, a promised release from the iron grip of summer’s heat, a most welcome visitor to this house in this hour, peak of summer thunderstorms have a different feel than other times of year, with sharpened brash fury they also bring comforting relief, there is the slow approach as the sound grows closer, the ground shakes slightly and then ever more slight, leaves tremble, forearm hairs begin cross conversation and stand on end at attention, every inch of air, every pound of ground knows what is coming, anticipation swells in all the land, then, without notice, without a proper introduction, the drops come, first, single file mostly, marking circular targets near my feet, then multiplying, uncontrollably, as if to color rain by number every square inch of space, soon all the ground is a tapestry of water either falling or catching or running, a thousand drummers pouring down aloud, no, now the sound of ten thousand drums exploding at once, and instantly the break, a crack of back, broken grip, snap the whip against the humidity’s oppressive lock, that stranglehold fades from the neck of day, freed chains drop with heft, relief, nature bringing balance back onto itself, in an instant, all the world revels in the scene, and I observer the cocoon broken to luscious butterfly.
the sound of distant thunder on the evening carriage and main approaching kicked up dust double barrel loaded the crash of thor’s hammer electrical power to break the sky open to shake – the very ground bathed in streaming rivers the world begins to drink in sweet glory the world will drink her fill
summer rain water droplets suspended on a spiders web
notes… so, I like haiku, in theory that is… I like the blunt tone but focus on nature/truth revealed (traditionally), however I just can’t keep myself to the norm forms, so this is 3/7/5 kind of a blend, I was out checking out my new bamboo plants after the rain (giant leaf and houzeau proud horticultural nerd papa that I am), I saw a spider’s web near the house anchored at the end of my siding to the ground, almost like a teepee, it was like a freeze-frame of rain, various size droplets in suspended animation, and these words popped into my head… there is more layers to this but I will let you contemplate that my friends…
I don’t endorse products or push links that make me money, so with no incentive I tell you that Lewis Bamboo is awesome, they know what they are doing and have great support, so that is why I linked to them specifically.
is the price of life forgetting your past existence
for memories are energy, and there is only a finite amount, sure, the universe is larger than what we can wrap our current head around but everything has bounds, everything has limits, what if there is only so much to go around, kind of a more physics way of approaching the idea of the Guf, a universal recycling program if you will, less ashes to ashes more us to us, obviously you were meant to be, you are here reading this, so that is proof positive, matter is not destroyed but relived or reworked, energy is the same, there is only a finite amount of material, and then pause on the cosmic odds, your life, my life, so strange to consider that stars actually did align for all this, the entirety of all existence is culminated in your consciousness, the grooming of billions of years, bodies in motion, the cosmos endless ocean, to produce that note, that wonderful sound of you, you were meant to be born and live right now.
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
Outstretched cupped hands of woman on white background
why this popped into my head? I have no idea, the whim of the universe I suppose… but go with me and maybe you will reveal something to yourself as I did, so… take your hands, turn them inwards, so your palms and wrists are facing towards your face, connect your pinky tips together and then bring your hands together in the middle seam (top to bottom) like they are sewn together, all the while keeping your palms up in your line of sight… and look, examine, the lines, all those inexplicable lines come together in some sort of crazy jigsaw map of YOU, not a perfect mirror but certainly remnants of that one cell that divided to become two… is the natural state of our hands? a basin, a cup, a vessel, to remind us of the vessel from which we were brought from, I suppose I have noticed this before but for some reason missed the wonder, putting my hands side by side so the lines collide and become one – running outward to the coasts of the palms, a pause of earnest humble, …supplication… when two become one for the greater outcome or goal, this is not prayer with palms together, no, this is asking to receive, a willing flag of good surrender of one’s self to believe, to place faith in a higher fate, and for some reason, this pose, this slight of hands, makes me think of a fetus in the womb, our purest existence untainted and not stained by the outer world as yet, the womb may be the palms themselves cradling life, sheltering in a shell this ultimate gift, the most sacred Matryoska doll inside, do we actually realize we spent nearly a year inside someone else? such a strange and foreign thought that we were very much alive but not breathing as we have done every day since, a semi-aquatic being in world of such all encompassing warmth and yet all darkness but not the darkness of fear, but not absence of light – the light of life inside, an egg in a shell floating within an amazing protective harness, an incubation of our coming self forward, from a couple of cells to this moment, all those years ago and I have no memory – as if, as if I was meant to forget the start of the journey, perhaps like a lotus flower, I was meant to bloom, but archaeological human remnants remain, in this… a basin of hands… so I say thanks in my inner way and stare at my hands once again… with great wonder, I could never have built this alone.
there is humid, and then there is HUMID, some wise man said sometime or something… yesterday was one of those days, the kind of weighty yoke that slows the world down to near motionless, every effort seems an affront to good sense, sweat is not an option just a nod to how much and how swept, you can see the air frying and understand how mirages work, adding to this physical dissonance is that strange sound, some might describe this as a buzzing sound but yet to me the truth lies somewhere on the spectrum elsewhere, maybe the union of a common snake’s hiss and a raged rattlesnake’s rattle, and like the waves of heat that seem to break upon your face that sound is much the same, rising and falling in some strangely robotic chorus of the natural world, is this displeasure? a warning? of course the mystery is gone, we know cicadas are the cause, but as I regularly do (and I do) I wonder about the time before these things were plain and easy to find out (in the palm of your hand if you will), if you close your eyes and listen to the sound, what mysterious creatures or demons abound? I imagine trees dripping with perfectly camouflagedpit vipers, curled around the branches like leaves among leaves, ready to strike at any passer by who’s senses are worn down by the withering heat, or maybe these are the sirens of lore, just land born, lulling you with their waves of song into a desperate shore, to what end? only they know, so they sing some more bars…
you know, maybe I am overthinking this, the actuality, the reality, the actual cause of the noise is something one might not believe, little bugs, critters, supposed dwellers in the cellar of the hierarchy of life, cicadas, vibrating a membrane to the point of insane, a coital chorus of love, I suppose we all dance to a different song, but that sound, my mind is instantly tied and kidnapped to the end of summer, the lazy hazy days of late summer, is this August yet? no… not quite, but this sure feels like it, the end of summer, the closing of the funhouse is around the corner, but yet I want more, but as many years pass, so do the chances, so heed the song, and remember this is all, passing.
My home state gets a bad rap, ok, some of it IS warranted (we have more superfund sites than any other state and considering the size of the state that is embarrassing), but, but… BUT I tell you, there are gems here, one of which is Big Brook Park which goes across parts of Monmouth County (which has a rich history itself), Big Brook is one of the few (rare) places in the entire country where you can openly dig for fossils (and it is a rich trove at that), personally I habit the Colts Neck section, NJ horse country… yes, you read that correctly, NJ has a horse country section, tons of farms, all of twenty to thirty minutes from the more urban areas like Newark, how odd to be able to hop in your car for 15 minutes and feel like you are in the middle of nowhere… that is where this video is, a park nestled in the backyards of a very affluent area actually, the reeds are a playground for the local deer, and there is just something about the sound of the wind on the reeds section, an instant recognizable sound, one you just want to close your eyes and let your ears bathe in, like the wind brushing the earth’s hair, all this surrounded by the various trappings of New Jersey, a special place, and yes, I always find some interesting things back there…
If anyone is interested or in my general area I will gladly give you directions and tips, I see more families down there this year, a great place for kids to explore and learn, and the cost? free… how does that grab you. I have met plenty of people in my travels there from Delaware to Pennsylvania, it is worth the drive if you plan it out.
as once the sphinx asleep in the sands so clear now upon excavation my mind wanders a, lone, last, resident, heart incoherent, time travel to a place, a palace of emptiness a tomb, once resplendent in the adornments of love a blooming garden in the sun, long gone – dilapidated ruins, strewn columns, passing uncaring tourist feet wanton blind, I travel the path, to the lost oasis, armed, with no reason a fool’s journey of temporary reprieve or warm habit had but old empty hands itch for anything to grasp and so this goes my fantasy, once reality, my past a proud worn marker once, leans down broken, half buried in dirt once mud, discarded, on a side road forgotten by some haunted by others tethered by one
notes… Of course I am fascinated by the pyramids and such… the sphinx was buried until pretty recently, so imagine the sphinx sleeping for a time, where the meaning maybe was forgotten, but have I made a monument in my mind? to my love… yes, maybe, and then the years pass and you forget, for a time, but then maybe revisit that monument, that love, buried a bit, worn, but never gone, that is what I was feeling here, and the gist of the thrust of the poem… as usual it came up upon me and just wrote, the first few lines just popped into my head.
blogging is a strange and wondrous thing, I like to sit back and reassess things from time to time, try and look through another looking glass as best I can guess, examine what my motivations are, the paths, the pushers, the markers, the maps, the blind stumbling into something in the night, in those corners I do see a pair of eyes, not red glowing ones like you might expect in some horror movie, more like intensely Mona Lisa eyes following my route, knowing it before I chart the very lines, as if steering me somehow and soaking in the satisfaction of pulling puppet strings, always there, staring intently with mal-intent, or maybe not, just being what nature made this creature to be, a role fulfilled, a perfect part in a Shakespearean play, who am I to judge, this has been around far longer than me anyway, the eyes you say? that spy? that sneak thief of the night? fear. Sometimes just a hint, ‘should I post this?’, ‘what will people think?’, ‘will anyone care at all about this?’ and the usual litany, I have to say most off these wash on by me down river, not that I am impervious to such doubt darts, but I didn’t start my blog for such things as clout or monetization (if you do, that’s fine, to each his own, no worries there), perhaps more of what bothers me at times is when I pour myself into something or feel that ultra bright hot inspiration strike, the feeling is so unique, a fire inside that gears the factory into the production of your creation, exhilaration, and then expectation that the rest of the world will see this brilliant shiny thing you just made, and it is met with virtual silence, or a comment generator looking to sell you viagra (I’m good for now, thanks), I am always amazed at what does catch fire as opposed to what I think should, I think about the prospect of re-posting some of my faves but never do, that was ‘that’ time I always tell myself, other people re-post sometimes like it is a new post, I can always tell as I have a near photographic memory when it comes to things I have read, but as always everyone is not me, hard to step into those other shoes unless you do the exercise to excise yourself from the time sometimes, and even then you are always a little biased toward yourself, I mean, how could you not be, we’re not robots as of yet. I think the one ghost of any real substance hanging in the back-end of my closet would be a drought, the sudden realization I had nothing to write about, it seems absurd when I look at the sheer volume of my work, but those times when the words seem out of reach, hanging off a ledge by just my fingertips, the thoughts creep in like a cold wind under a usually stout door, and go right for my feet, sending that chill right up my prime meridian like an instant freezing spell, the doubt turns on itself, like sharks in a frenzy, muddling up the water, with blood and bits, a slaughter, a tornado does never seem to end when you are in the middle of one, but you must learn to let things settle, one breath at a time, time always moves on, just let the dust settle, things will become clear, but always those eyes, that fear, never truly retreats, you just have to accept the beast as part of your tapestry.
(irony: I wrote three other pieces when I wrote this and some I posted before this… I should learn to turn my internal thermostat better)
notes… hey, sometimes I have to flash my metal street cred (and decades of knowledge in the realm), the original fear factory album was insane killer but this remix EP was fierce, a great mix of metal and techno, and rhys (front line assembly) is just an unrecognized genius who never got his due like Trent Rez (NIN) has… my opinion, and heck, this is my blog so my opinion rules here…
she is the calm in at once the womb of death herself
how many times a stone washed before the surface is no longer itself but round
notes… I am not going to over analyze this one to death, I am playing with a few ideas here, and of course, I would be remiss if I did not say thanks for the looks, likes, hot chile recipes and such… we are all stuck on this globe right now together for some reason, when someone figures it out, text me, will ya?
Shades of My Garden 