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…

pine soul…

pine soul…

Photo by Brandon Montrone on Pexels.com

(a spur of the moment / freeform post)

snow, -the weight, snow had broken the back of a tree, an old pine, not tall, but stout, the kind you could make a teapot song about, covered the view to the boring side of the neighbor’s house, taken for granted until now, now split in two from the sheer weight of snow more than a few weeks ago, so, even though the hour is late for such things, evening, the air is crisp, borderline cold, but just enough, enough to be a refreshing refreshment rather than an impediment to work, no breeze tonight, no breeze to chill the hairs on my arms to stand at arms, just the sharp clean air as an infusion and invitation to engage the evening, and then the pine, pine has such a distinct smell, how could I forget, as I clipped off the branches outward in, with large hand clippers, with almost bonsai-like detail, such a divine smell, one of those things a memory never forgets, a transportation to the first time in a forest, or touching the sap on cones thrown like footballs as a child, or cones laced with peanut butter and nuts strung up for a squirrels delight, pine, one of the only green statues to stand up to winter, even now as the season is changing, forsythia has shone golden light on the dulled lands, ramps have burst through like tufts of rebellious hair forts, here and there, daffodils round out the crew, even here, at night, trimming the branches down of this broken pine, soon will come the giving rains, and the explosion of life, the glory of spring, but now this sits a time, somewhere between dawn and full sunrise, ah, the smell of pine, as I trim and opine...

colander (if only)

colander (if only)

Photo by Takeshi Arai on Pexels.com

(stream of consciousness / thought post)

as per my usual musings, I was driving to work this morning, listening to some tunes, perhaps bopping along and singing, so if you saw a guy on the GSP kind of looking foolish this morning, that would have been me, most likely, so anyway, the word ‘strainer’ materialized in my upper ether realm, the idea, so simple, yet so impossible (or?), if I could only pour myself (metaphorically or perhaps spiritually speaking) into a strainer, to let the best parts settle in and let the rest strain out to escape down into the drain of forgotten past lives… why on earth did I think that I had to choose, between one of those old school metal mesh ones, the plastic ones or one that is flat out strange– I don’t know, but my inner voice was telling me so, and to choose wisely it seems, so I did, and for whatever reason (I told myself to myself it was ‘old school’), I picked the metal mesh type for this imagined realization, so I crammed in all of me to let the process begin, this seemed like a simple mental exercise, one to exorcize my demons or just feelings I no longer cared to have taking up space in my inner abode, the cracks in my what seemed to be a perfect argument started to unfold in the folds of my brainium, just like pouring in cooked pasta, what if there was overflow? you never pick up the bits that fall in the sink, perhaps you toss them to the dog, but does that make them less than the strained survivors? what if that is a piece of parchment that has the cypher to unlock the code in the remaining strands? panicked now, I thought I had such a simple elegant solution, instead I am being titanic-ed by minutia, also, when you strain some things, inevitably some gets through, perceptible or not, something is lost in the process, more than you might want, or more that you might not never know, besides, everything, all your stuff kind of gets mashed down, sure the top looks perfect and all the extraneous liquid is gone – but – the bottom thoughts or stands are being pushed up against the wall sort of like the crush at the stage in a concert hall… damn, my metaphor has faltered and failed me now, I suppose there is no quick solution for unpacking myself…

perhaps I need to approach this like going through an old closet, looking at each thing, making a determination, and travelling forward or backward from there, this takes more time, but perhaps offers less orphans, cast offs, miscreants, regrets, all of these, rather than examine flipping about a trapeze, on the ground, grounded, methodical with a giant magnifying lens, to relish the details, the flaws, live them once again, and then – perhaps, then fold them back up neatly or dispense of them.

the prospect of rain.

the prospect of rain.

Photo by Sourav Mishra on Pexels.com

(a stream of consciousness post)

on the prospect of rain, and mood, and timing, I guess this is like all things, glass half empty, glass half full, deciding which side you are on, as a rule, or as the wind blows they say, ‘they’ who always remain unnamed but seem to have so much sway on the every day being referenced constantly and all, rain – rain in march calling for the coming may, of course the old glory april showers, but today, straddling the boundary between winter and neigh, I am enamored with the prospect of rain, a cleanse, not quite the divinity of a baptism, more like an old school car wash with a bucket and hose, just to wash down this last bit of snow, well, what was once snow, more like a sullied mass of garbage rolled cotton swabs swiped with black shoe polish, maybe the world is always this dirty, just we didn’t notice until the white magnet of snow stuck around on the ground for a week or more, even surviving a temperature soar into the seventies, damn snow, damn snow is stubborn indeed, a seed of the wretched winter itself, a snarling old man in the beat up house down the block by this time in it’s life cycle, without a care, in some withering chair fibers bent and spent, trying to snatch every bit of breath and air until the time has come to move out, in time for a sunny condo to sprout up into the summer dance, yes, I am wishing for rain, on this somewhat dreary day, a grey day, a nice soaking rain, a gateway to that next phase, to see a curbside tide racing toward the corner drain, somedays, most days, I might wish for sun – not today.

a taste of spring…

a taste of spring…

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

(stream of consciousness posted prompted by a spike to 70 degrees today)

a taste of spring, a little bird on a twig, a series of chirps evolves into song, the sun, not quit strong enough to completely thaw, nor to make my face have the brooding fear of a tan, but a blue sky and a bright sun can lighten the disposition of gravity, still snow survives, around the edges, under the hedges, melting tides reveal masks strewn about in the gutters, a grim reminder of the times we are emerging from, less a tunnel and more a moratorium, a pause, a break in the norm, all holidays vanished along with those lost, a year seems gone, lost, like this never happened, but I do sense this, a taste of spring, seventy degrees seems like the last mile marker on the road to a vacation destination, a little finch, just inches above me, I swear he is dancing a jig, or at least bouncing around, and the snow’s retreat, even the dull green of the lawn is a treat, a feast for the eyes, lonely stark dirtied snow has a toll, like walls, the glow of the setting sun, behind the everyday house across the street, somehow looks more regal, so I will soak this in for now, into my skin, trigger memories of better days, of hope, of waves gently rolling over my toes as a I stroll down my favorite sandy venue soon enough, I have not come out of this time as whole as I once was, but I still am, so hope is resolve, in this – a taste of spring.

thoughts… from the porch.

thoughts… from the porch.

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

hello my old friend, been awhile since we spent some time…
the relentless tide of cold has relented, and the world seems to be stirring from her slumber, some number of months now since I sat here, for this simple pleasure, inhaling and sampling the entirety of my immediate native surroundings, to sit and unpack my thoughts, a bird burst from a box, here I am again, alone, outside, starry night, full moon bright stained with a wisp of haze, a furrowed cloud line struck at a twenty degree angle beneath the face from right to left, as if to add an underline to the moon itself, “what a silly thing to do” I quip to myself, in a voice only I have ever heard, yes though, sound has slowly found a way back in to this since empty hall, as the blanket of snow retreats, lawns revealed peeking groggy gates, “ten more minutes mom”, “well, you have ’til march” (which is coming soon, certainly the next number to come up at the deli counter for order), what a strange year this has been, could I have prophesied such an entangled ride? no, for surely not, but here we are, on the promising precipice of another spring, as my family still mourns the king, and there is no natural ascension to the throne known, no writ of delegation, time will take care of that coronation, I suppose, so I wait, I have learned to have more patience these days but time still seems to roll over at break-neck pace, I can feel the itch and twitch of the hand moving, listening closely I can hear the gears turning in ever-forward motion, there is no pause, no rest, save that- one, there is no pause, just little valleys like these moments, like these when I sit among the trees pretending to be, waiting for them to bloom again, to show me the way, as ever seasons to better days – ahead. and this brings the calms of psalms, to the house of my residing soul.

Bolero… an inspired post…

Bolero… an inspired post…

Photo by Mat Kedzia on Pexels.com

(stream of consciousness freeform post, me sitting in my office with music and then… this.)

as bolero plays I am inextricably drawn, no, transported to a transformation, into the dawn of seasons, to spring, to observe the saplings, the probing buds, all the green things, the rise of life from fallow-dead-white fields, months shallow now filled eyes out to the horizon brim, plum blossoms sun-bursting in celestial parades, off carried by a gentle hand – a tender breeze, seed stars dance like human figurines, in this glorious ballroom of renewal, yes, bolero, more so than vivaldi’s reckoning, I do not know why, but that reminds me of spring in full swing, not this, not the uprising whistling just past the thaw, the burgeoning tide of dawn, where bird’s chatter is that much more amplified – melody, more – harmony, epiphany, the perfect score for the painted landscape being re-born, yes, bolero, tickles my ear, punches the ticket when I am on board, elucidates a dreaming dream to sweep away the doldrums of this daily day, for I see snow, and the icy remains, but no, bolero has brought me the inspired warmth of spring – if only for a moment as graces my auditorium.

slide…

slide…

(a stream of consciousness post)

slide…

the way to calm the mind, we all have our buttons, as much as I try, as much as I know myself, I still slide down that path to frustration and anger, mostly with the way other people deal with world, anathema is the word, and regardless of my self control, of my trying to accept and understand, slide, but how far is the goal I’ve found, this is not a fight you can actually win, you are the culprit within, but there is a tool for your reprisal, realization, to float back and observe the situation, focus on something bright, something other, something light, pause, the proverbial deep breath to brave the storm (as it shall pass).
slide…
so I step outside, literally and figuratively, find something else to focus on, to center on, to bring back myself to center being, and yes, even in this smothering cold winterness of near silence, providence shall provide, if you just look, and not nearly long did I spy, my own private glacier does flow, in front of my eyes, or at least a sculpture made in the random ways of the world, for four billion years this took, and here it is, presented, just for me, to remark inside at the wonder, I know the chemistry, but the random miracal-ity is what overflows within me, joy rising, now my trance, tracing down the droplets as they travel methodically down the form, around the horns, the strange angles, the sound of the drips that make their way to the ground off ends, tapping on the backs of others of their kind they have now found, and those that froze, to become those delicate tips, mocking gravity herself – for now, and all the little rays of light, bouncing in and around, suddenly my slide, the slide… is no where to be found.

outside in the cold…

outside in the cold…

Photo by Tomu00e1u0161 Malu00edk on Pexels.com

(a stream of consciousness post)

I felt an uncomfortable sensation, like I was some where I did not belong, sure, the air is still and calm, and the sounds I hear are more like a glacier’s song, but here?? on a standard street in new jersey suburbia, I was awaiting the proverbial jumping cat to normalize the scene with banality, no luck there, sudden subtle whooshing water sounds, creaks and cracks, little pops, especially when the wind played cover for the under, fog, on a cold winter night? I can taste the moisture on my tongue somewhat, something is thawing, something is coming, that slight frozen fog suspended in air… or my eyes, I am not sure if I am in the dream state between or this is some parallel I have stepped into between worlds, I look to my neighbor’s house, all the lights are out, except those landscape domes buried in half a foot of snow, a semi circle, almost like a buried ufo, or proof of roswell is buried there, prints, prints across the white ‘scape, evidence, a trace, things have been skulking about but the melt makes a succinct inspection impossible, a cat, a dog, a fox, who knows, a person lost in the storm, probably not on that score, but these are written stories on the temporary ice canvas laid out, soon to become a book and flow into a stream, into the ocean, and off into the vast consciousness of the world continued and forgotten, all twined together like our daily lives, just these frozen at this one time, inextricably linked by binds of time and circumstance, and I can not decipher them before this alexandria burns into the ground, such is the way of the world, but I do not have to like it, and again, I hear more strange sounds, the closer I walk towards the more silence raises up to block my ears, the wind, a loki, shakes the tree above me raining down perfect droplet bombs of sub chill local tree rain, not from a cloud, at least not now, they hit me to distract from the creeping doom I imagine is out there… or I know is out there, but not tonight, not here, I return to the warmth of my hearth and home, to the domain of my screen, and these words, a survivor as long as fate may grant me, able to write my words at night so faintly, I hope my echo can carry in this chasm and catch the wind on the other side.

notes… as usual, all thoughts and comments are appreciated. good, bad, indifferent, did you read this? I wonder. did you experience?