thoughts from the porch… (lost. love. letters. edition)

thoughts from the porch… (lost. love. letters. edition)

Photo by paul voie on Pexels.com

a wash of nature’
humans, above the animals we place ourselves, perhaps, but instinct, still an unseen force coursing through our being, and maybe, maybe that is what drew me outside, my own subconscious need to survive, or at least better my now
sometimes the days feel crushing, as if bricks are piling on and you have no choice but to take the tension, the tension
of pushing back to not snap in half like a twig, and every minute seems to make the ground softer, the weight larger, until you are just a witch ditched under the corner of a house in a tale on some small CRT
so I venture outside, the banal but rewarding task of watering my bamboo plants, they don’t talk back, or at least not yet, they do not have names but certainly have faces I have come to recognize, and then I notice to the west, the breeze hits, the type of breeze that just might be carrying a parcel as a portent to some distant traveling storm, but the clouds they stay quaint, without a word the breeze speaks to me, washing over me, not like water, like only wind can, touching but not, invading but cordial, intimate but not intrusive, I stop – arms out just to bathe in this, a wash of nature, so I sit down on my concrete steps, trying to capture the breath in, watching the water drip from pots just wetted, the drops out-slowing with every moment of age, as all things, trying to bask in the last embers thrown of day, fading, not dying for I know the world is spin, just resting, just sleeping while I sleep
and I think of you, of all the lips have mine have touched none have been as yours, nerve endings are only the beginning, the vessel, a means, I remember peering and curling up in your eyes, so I could immerse myself in every inch of you, to be one, and now I am just one, I dream of you here, even now, all these years later, I still wish you to be here, quiet in this moment, together, what else is better? I’ve not known, I’ve not found a mere sustainable sliver since, a key, a door, no – just rambling wilderness guided by the faded scribblings of a once fierce cartographer, no mo
re, a meandering nomad yearning for mirages to appear, something so intense even if pure hallucination might mend, at least for a moment, I wish you were here right now so I could tell you everything and nothing, just to feel your gentleness once more, just once more, I slide into what was, what could have been, but no, these silent moments in a comforting summer breeze relent, the soft tin-din of seasonal locusts in chorus, crickets chiming in as the light dims, in my mind I reach for your hand – to know it is gone, so I sit within the phrase-waves of this somber summer song, stripped away of all the world around, my focus has but only sound, I whisper in the most warming tone, as if lost in your sight-line, if only once more…
“I will always love you”

notes… stream of my consciousness, all rivers bleed into the sea, or at least they do… for me, sometimes.

thoughts from the porch… (a hope of light)

thoughts from the porch… (a hope of light)

(my actual vantage as I was inspired to write)

“a hope of light”
and reminders, signs, talismans, so obvious as to be screaming whispers vibrating in obedient corners, all there – hidden in the plainest of sight, a hope of light…
as today I was a wheelbarrow more than a man, drawn out like a mule, to drag payloads back and forth, never in balance like once was new, and gravity has a way of multiplying the trade pay, the yoke, the wear, and there is less lubrication these days between the ground pounding and my bearings, even I would admit the tread is worn from sun and toil, but I would argue there is still good rubber there, but after the day the wheelbarrow must go back in storage, to the garage home, bringing dings, dirt and memories caked on, reminded, nothing is ever new again once out of the box, certainly not now these years of use altered… so arrives home…
the patience I might have left the house with a full tank, that has now been spent, every inch of me ready to pounce at every little non-event, of words, of even good intent, even though I know, I am a porcupine wound, can’t everyone just see, just read, the glaring signs, and make no sound, shall I pass by, until at least I may come on down, or let the tension un-bound, I manage not to wreck the crew… somehow…
so, not wanting to tie myself into a fight or fits, I park myself outside, look upward for some guidance, to what is left of the fleeting day sky, and to be entranced by – the hope of light, that promise, the next morning, another glory yearning, and the next, until there is none, the rest seems to slip away, the tension locked in my jaw starts to fade, the pressure in my temples begins to contract, a breeze comes along to rest on my cheek, a family of deer creep along my yard, unaware of me being disarmed, for maybe a minute ago they might have sensed the will of a frothing hunter out for blood, but that base urge has melted down and gone, replaced with thankful tranquility, a cure for humanity, or perhaps just the elixir to wash away the non-humanity we engage in every day, so I bathe in – a hope of light…

Thoughts from the porch… (stream of consciousness)

Thoughts from the porch… (stream of consciousness)

caught-in between

this was not a day of summer, this was not a day of spring, this is not a day of well, anything… like a dew drop in a spider’s web, a captive but not the intention, I can see the trees swaying to a breeze that seems to be ignoring me, as if I am not here, as if I didn’t matter, or I didn’t get the part to this play, or a ticket to the audience even, like watching a performance in an aquarium, all the action on one side of the glass, not the one I’m on, the sky, no the sky to the ground, the air herself has been grey all day, not a hope, not a peek, not a sliver of anything other than, a stagnant lukewarm humidity hangs like a mildewed coat on a nail in a dingy forgotten corner of the garage, stale, not sure if this is drizzle, or just fog a little more organized, waiting for the break, rain or shine, but none comes, not a promise or even a hint, a rut, somewhere-in between, the day drags as hours run backwards toward dawn, for eve and morn seem one long sordid line, is this lunch or dinner time? am I vain? or a vane of the weather, a bell-weather, drawn into the consciousness of this local universe I call my locale, my home, my square yard carved out, my dome, this globe, a drone, and I am lulled into the zone, so many things to do, of such little importance, but the engine must go on, so I am told, by some soothsayer or taskmaster inside my soul, for even optimism sometimes spills a glass, milk perhaps, not to shed a tear but to prove a point over a pint, lacrimonius harmony, so here I am feeling yet left outside of all but clearly in the web – like a ad-hoc-hammock for those passing through…

notes… the photo is mine, proof positive you need to pause at times, this morning was strange, and the day, as I said, but I allowed my eye, or the world hooked me, to see the webs catching dew just outside my front door, a walk I take at least two times a day or mostly more, so today, I did not look for the spiders, because why? I know they are there by the traps they provide…

blue skies… and the dreams they engender…

blue skies… and the dreams they engender…

can it be all blue skies?
so dare I dream, and even consider such things, to know better, but wanting to forget that sentiment in the all-together, even if in the temporary transmission of that delusion, there I may seek to dwell, my perfect self, my perfect body, my perfect mind – all aligned, even if for a brief-breath, can whisk me away to dream land, a sunset over easy on the ocean, the temperature just right, the kiss of the sun just warming on cheek, water curling up on toes just cooling on feet perched in soft moist sand, for a minute for a mile, might I stretch into this thought island of mine, a breeze that wraps all around, not a sound but the steady heartbeat of soft fading waves slipping into the shoreline as far as this mind’s eye can see, to this blue sky, a photograph, to live in, to escape to, a postcard never mailed far from my soul, a destination for only me to know, held inside those most inner gates, an escape, from the every day, in plain sight, might I take this flight, to regain the trust, my trust, in the beauty of this world, unfurled, a collection learned from reality, to build brick by brick this fantasy, so may I endure and stay a minute more...

the temporal fragility (of you)

the temporal fragility (of you)

Photo by Nashwan Guherzi on Pexels.com

a blink and a wink
and summer will be gone
am I just dragging me (and be extension you) down? to think of such things… for it is not ‘officially’ summer yet but who relies on such things? to me, this is summer already, or at least the flavor has dropped in enough days to accompany me to that place of actualization, relation, maybe I learned a little more this year, for some reason, like a dumb or stubborn squirrel I would save up my personal days like acorns made of gold, a fool’s errand to be told, so this year I took a dart board approach, looked at the big board calendar in all scope, and shot for random gaps in these coming and current months of warm, and so far things have turned up for the better, two days off three weeks in a row now… I am pacing the walls of the asylum with free time, and also (more importantly I can tell you) my days have aligned with the weather, mostly, the odd day of rain, good pounding thunder rain does lull me into a sleep, I would not equate to sleeping beauty, just the sleeping end of it, but mostly, and I am jinxing myself here, the climate has smiled on me, allowing me to traipse the wilds of new jersey (yes, there are wilds of new jersey) in pursuit of one of my passions, fossil hunting, not only are we graced with superior pizza and bagels here in the garden state, not far from my domicile lies in wait an open park where you are allowed to scavenge the brook bed (‘river bed’ sounds so much better but I don’t want to cast illusions as to me braving rapids, where I am braving perhaps my knee getting splashed), so you can actively look for fossils, yes, actual fossils, I have made a plethora of finds over the years, and even a piece I donated to a local museum due to it’s rarity and importance, but just being out there makes me wonder, among the nature a conundrum, where is the line between hobby and calling, or is there a line at all? this is my tuning fork or a place, we resonate, I feel at home, ankle deep in silty mud, spying a tray of gravel looking for millions year old treasure that is only really worth as much as stone, the exhilaration of the find, regardless of size, smaller than a dime, or smaller but still the thrill, or is this juxtaposition merely glaring to my position, here in my office, banging out the service calls and sorting through code, I can see out the window the sun, and how green the leaves have become, and I know I will blink, and the leaves will be gone, what about me?

notes… this is more of a diary post, still stream of consciousness about being… in a stream… go figure…

thoughts… from the porch “coming thunder rain”

thoughts… from the porch “coming thunder rain”

Photo by Alex Conchillos on Pexels.com

There is something romantic about an approaching summer-esque storm, ok, maybe romantic is not the right word, maybe a marriage, a marriage of awe, anticipation and relief, relief in breaking the yoke of humidity descended down upon my neck, a little yard work after work has me dripping condensation down the sides like a cold bottle of water sitting in a hot car, even at this late hour – near sunset, I think, but I can not know from the cloud cover pulled over my sight eyes, a photo flash of distant lightning, a gentle rumble-roll dash of far off thunder, and I wait, will this be a furious tempest pitching a fit or a methodic super-soaker waterfall event, or maybe the red-headed unpredictable step child of both, who knows, as many of these as I have seen this world has seen far more, but she is not taking questions from the press pool at the moment, the battle seems on between good and evil, darkness and light, day and night, cats and dogs, all this painted with portions of perfection upon the sky, or is this just simply symbiosis in plain disguise, the give and take of the land, for I can almost hear the mutters of exhaustion from the plants holding steady tall (but suppressing inner rumors of the will to wilt under the weight of a soaked heavy-hot blanket of a ninety degree day), or maybe that is me projecting, cells vibrating, pacing in circles inside my skin, just as anxious to feel nature’s faucet turned on to unleash a sweet-cool torrent pour, how utterly amazing the whole process really is, sometimes travelling on this bullet train we don’t stop at the familiar stops anymore to admire the old sights, take the time to take a natural inventory of what we know and the startling nature of well, everything, everything we are granted is often taken for granted, all the dressing: electricity, carpeting, TV, internet, down to our very breath, a ladder rungs so high we climb until the ground becomes a tale we were once told, the sky lurks darker, moves closer, a slight cool breeze walks over, introduces itself and has a seat next to me, I guess to also enjoy the festivities and fireworks just as me, and I might thought to have this moment alone, not so, there is so much around, we just do not speak the same tongue (but perhaps share the same thoughts and experience in moments like this), from mole to mammal to avian residents, we will all feel the initial droplets bombarding fall, and huddle in our homes, wherever they are until all is done, some masters of the planet we are, the breeze is a bit restless now as his friends from out of town are arriving, a constant shuffle now of leaves tremble-shaking, and like a slow-motion scripted movie scene thhttps://youtu.be/liwZrALrwBMat first drop smacks me dead center in my brow (could be because I was looking straight up), the ground flexes and sighs as the pores of the landscape gape open to accept the gilded prize, and as the pace quickens, the wind thickens, too many drops to get an accurate count now, this is refreshing though… so I linger, for a few seconds, and now I am fetching to duck inside, after all, I don’t want to get soaked…

notes… for those in the know (thanks), for those not, this is total stream of consciousness from my, um, porch silly ! real life, real prose, no pose… just me, and if you get me… awesome, if not, well.. somehow I will get over it and wish you well anyway…

thoughts… from the porch.

thoughts… from the porch.

Photo by eberhard grossgasteiger on Pexels.com

I suppose I could tell you of the clouds, perfectly farmed rows of smoke pillows, so arranged you would swear they were arranged, and not randomness hiding in plain sight symmetric lines, one large one quite looks like a dirigible, passenger car and all, I pause to listen to the birds, only shadow figures now, I only know them by their words, this is slowly becoming my favorite time of night, past the hoopla, sans the fanfare, the sun has long set sail for tomorrow, or at least is quite out of this view, like a concert where the band has exited stage left, and here I am soaking in the afterglow, as if all the good feelings have mellowed and settled in, ready to rest to slumber with a day behind them, a couple walks across the street, I have seen them before, they live not too far, I see them almost every day, but yet, they might as well be the person next to me in my car, in random morning traffic, ‘was this always like this?’ I think to myself or is the past the ever gilded pony of times passed glory, like a monument marking a time but not actual circumstance of moment, a couple walking, distinct because their little one likes to run up and down the street with heavy feet for such a small frame, as if he is hitting puddles in the sidewalk concrete, all these stories walking up and down and around, sometimes colliding and making new chapters, sometimes never even seeing the cover properly, or even the insert to see the summary to see if there is interest, but I shouldn’t dwell, I feel myself melting into the landscape, human sounds and all, a train in the distance is chugging along, train, seems like such an ancient word, almost noble, my mind conjures the smoke and steam breathing machines from turns of past, not a sad lumbering parade of abused cargo containers, such that it is, but in some strange wonderful way, hypnotic, a dim earthly hum with thumps, primitive ambient grooves, there is a palpable feel to the sound, like a mechanical heart, cathartic, in the repetition, I wonder if any passer bys wonder about this guy, sitting there (here), contemplating them, or am I just another piece of the landscape, unmoving, a citizen of the background, maybe, maybe too often.

notes… this is my continuing series, just sitting outside and riffing, whatever comes to mind, hopefully coherent… hopefully… I was in a calm, after transplanting some new bamboo plants, I am up to 8 varieties now, is that weird ? beats collecting stamps in my mind and there is something calming about gardening, at least for me, maybe it is getting my hands dirty, literally feeling the earth, seeing my brood grow in fits and spurts, they all survived the winter… barely, maybe I will start a bamboo blog, and have even less views, lol or with my luck that will be the new niche of the new century… ah, maybe I will just keep being me, seems ok for now…

the symbiosis of fear and sameness…

the symbiosis of fear and sameness…

Photo by Jess Vide on Pexels.com

(this would be a stream of consciousness thought piece)

fear and sameness

I have admitted to, in the past, being very much a creature of habit, gladly trading in the tunic of uncertain discovery for the comforting blanket of normality, is this laziness? or just my contention in content that I like the similar, the familiar, I like to go on vacation to a known quantity, almost like a second home where I know the ins and outs, no surprises, I think perhaps some, I think perhaps not, sure, I should now how I am wired by this bend of my life, but have I just built adequate defenses fueled by the prescient architectural knowledge of my subconscious, am I the tide turtle that can only return to that one beach, in the cover of night, to procreate, and if said beach is gone so is my whole existence, where I would rather drown than find some other dawn? but it would be nice to compare evolutionary impulse to the fabled foibles of mankind I guess, a noble gesture that I am somehow not in charge of this whole neat mess, so, yes I tend to vacation in the same spots over and over if you have followed my little life story, even those places were new once but I researched them to the point of being paralyzed, these are my machinations, my demons, the little silent suckers that seem to drive me into directions from behind the scenes, but if the end result makes me happy… why proceed? microcosm, flash tonight, I had placed my keys somewhere other than I might, if ever would, I am a particular beast in that regard, things go places, the same places, so in a bind or a moment’s itch I don’t have to think as to where to grab and go, but no, not tonight, something is amiss, I missed where I placed my keys, and was ready to bolt out the door to grab whatever sushi bowl might be left @ the local store, my mind raced, my heart paced – upwards, I was home all day, where can they be, I searched the should be places multiple times, as if the key elves, in their divine wisdom, would magically deliver my keys, no, but I re-checked anyway, what the heck did I do different today? I visited all the places I had been in the house, not exactly too many locales, besides today my central AC was out, and the temp hit 90 – and I was working so I had to be @ my laptop checking out the call board, first world problems, I know… then I finally recalled, after almost getting my dizzy self into a tizzy, I shot some video about what I pack for fossil digging, being a nut for detail I even included my keys and wallet, damn authenticity… so, wound up with a salad instead of sushi, the full moon was out before the sun crossed the down, all so perfect looking, sitting out on my deck, low sweat from walking through the hot house, nipping at my sorbet, the neighbor’s new fence half made, playing badminton I think, life is not so bad, but perhaps I lean on my shelter, not just physical ones, fear of losing a precious day off or vacation time to a lousy cause or draw, I think my inclinations have hampered my destinations, emotionally and physically, because I am afraid of bad outcomes, even if the fall is not such a bad one, falling back into the arms of what I know, a quantifiable conclusion that I know satisfies my urges and concreted infusions, I have forgotten a simple thing, perhaps one of the most simple things… so I forced to ask myself ‘what have you really got to lose?’

all roads lead to… wherever I may…

all roads lead to… wherever I may…

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

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.

thoughts… from the porch…

thoughts… from the porch…

Photo by David Bartus on Pexels.com

(a stream of consciousness experiment going on four years now…)

this is, well was, the first truly day of spring, no, not the first nice day, but one that seems to announce the semi-permanent arrival, I’d love to paint you some ethereal picture of beautiful perfections, but that is not to be today turning into night, the air, is a soothing temperature though, a soft flow, however, in one direction I pick up the heavy scent of lawn chemicals like a teen with too much drakar doused on, I almost feel for the pests and grubs that must absorb that cruel gruel, I used to think a wonderous sparkling lawn was a wonderous thing, no more, I loathe such a faux carpet as more of a waste of resources these days, and a desert of imagination, not half as alluring as a mix of exotic and native plants that change like chameleons with the seasons, the pandemic must be slowing a bit, just from the sounds of the world, or the ones drowned now out, for there is a not so subtle undertow roar of cars in the distance, emanating from the local four lane road, oak tree road – as if that name imparts some gravitas of nature to course pavement and the sounds thereof, of course, there is the delightful, occasional throttle mash dash, a bugle call for ego small down our town’s little famous stretch, a couple of robins are chattering, not some euphony as you might think, the sound more like a cantankerous old married couple arguing, knowing there is no point in this dos-e-doe, knowing they have an audience’s ear for their nonsense, besides their own (and they are the only ones enjoying this show), robins are not songbirds I tell you, at least not those of this local herd, well… at least my various bamboo plants are blooming, in actuality shooting up new spikes left and right – which does not sound as nice or flowery, but a new generation looking to take a place in the some-day-ending parade, this past winter was very harsh on my crop, they look like a blonde wig that has been tossed about the mall parking lot floor for a few weeks or more, you can clearly see the glory that once was, like an outline, or a memory, but you surely would not pick it up to wear it; a commercial airliner is roaring out there somewhere, horizon-ish, hidden by the darkened clouds, not quite dark enough to see the beacons blinking indicating and exact location, a lone goose passes by, one honk, no formation to amaze by, this only confirms the underwhelming litany of this night, yet… even with all this, and that damn dog barking it’s head off some blocks away, the people walking by yapping loudly on their important calls, the last blasts of the mating calls of leaf-blowers in landscaper hands, somewhere, even in this, this imperfection, my eye is taken, to a small broken branch, barely more than a mere twig, I watch as it swings back and forth like some hypnotic pendulum, am I getting sleepy? no, just the back and forth and the back and forth, breathing in… and breathing out… and I am found, all of time, all of history, have brought me right here, the enemies of my revelation send various types of gas chariots down the street to distract me, but they only make me realize, and crack a wry smile, I found peace in place, the subtle trick, the wave, a fractured stick, sometimes… is all it takes.

notes… I wanted something dissonant… and probably something you never heard, I have eclectic tastes to be sure… but this evening felt like an immersion and birthing all in one…