Sanity Drive…

Sanity Drive…

(stream of consciousness)

although admittedly I might succumb, I feel more numb, not depressed, in some strange way, refreshed, yes, I unzipped the lining out of my once beefy winter coat so I might feel the winter more, on my face, a brace, somehow, in these days where darkness seems the norm, upon dreary storm days, ice roads snarl, ice roads tease out the common sense or little good sense from fellow travelers, and I am at there dispense, or scowls, but feel no road rage back into their mirrored fallow, no, happy warrior ? hardly, detached ? maybe, not sure why I am so non plussed getting cut off by a commuter bus that is not even supposed to be in my lane, I guess I am ‘staying in my lane‘, as they say, regardless of the cars flying up my butt, to go where? I suppose that nano-second apparition of the space of a square two cars in front of me, the anatomy of the shuffling, no checkered flag, no trophy, just wake up, wind up, do it all again for no sake, no, not today, not for this one, not dropping my ten cents of sanity for a little ball of gum dispensed by the machine, I have no real reason to complain, my life remains all the same, even with the turn of a new year page, unless I grab the pen, and compose something utterly inspiring, maybe tomorrow, or the next, today I am ok with just cruising along, the little twenty-odd six miles long, I probably could close my eyes and count the mile markers in thought by thump, my display, my care, or lack thereof, is probably pissing the other ragers off, some, I am sure, want to bump me off, but today, I am just not engaged, I should be like so everyday, for my own mental health I guess, but the temptation, the titillation, the adrenaline mainlined to a higher octane is such a draw, I hate to admit it is even sometimes fun, but the act of burning is a dangerous one to engage in constant, fire is a hard beast to tame, if ever, I wonder if the fuel is at a higher cost than it seems for the slight thrill retained, but then again, aren’t all guilty pleasures built of the same seductive flame?

going old school with my musical pick this evening, I am sure most people only know Smoke on the Water… and yeah, from a simplicity stand point that riff is gold… but this is pretty cool and really demonstrates the sound bridge of the era (arcing between the 60’s/70’s before real metal). I don’t know why I broke into a music lesson tonight… but I did…

dawn of a new year… (s.o.c.)

dawn of a new year… (s.o.c.)

gateway into a new dawn, or just another calendar to begin, a promise mixed in with the cracked confections of fortune, to you my friends, a toast, a glass, a raised hand, enlightened spirit, with a spirit in hand perhaps, just the gesture, an upward thrust, trust enough to not break the pane on another glass, for that glorious ding, that clarion belt, a countdown to hail resolutions heart felt, the optimism of a full glass soon downed empty, to be refilled, a night to reflect on the act of a closing play, to pick up the newly minted playbill to see what may be coming attractions, all hope and no bad reviews, a stellar cast, some new, some familiar, some left behind, some gone to pasture, the stage remains vaguely the same, the entrance and exit clearly marked, those do not seem to change by any age, so what will this host year bring? comedy? tragedy? drama? or a rom-com unseen? probably all of these, and we hoist a glass for the best of these, for days to come, nights to pass, every waking moment a miracle until the last.

notes… so yeah, I am doing the hack new year’s thing… it only happens when I am actually inspired, and so I was, so the sentiment was real even if it seems obvious to make a new year’s post.. I do have hope for the new year… don’t we all? the swell is so obvious as you watch the ball… but should it take that? why not turn your life around january 15th? or august 8th ? well… it doesn’t matter really, all that matters is how you travel down the road from now, pause at a rest area, take a deep breath, a little inventory of things, and go on, weather or circumstance be damned… we need to just plow ahead… life, truly is short, in the throes of youth it is ignored, but as time goes on… it goes on… so get on with it…

(s.o.c.) is stream of consciousness for those new to my little corner of the universe…

the consequence of bile… (s.o.c.)

the consequence of bile… (s.o.c.)

the consequence of bile, the hoarding of poison, the purpose of same, in actuality I am not painting myself as some viper or venomous snake, or perhaps I am, for the sake of this context, certain things annoy me, let’s say, push my buttons so to speak, but who is in real control of such things, do I lie in wait like an ambush predator ready to strike when given the predicted stimuli, yes, I must admit I do, but why? should I just let the rain swipe off my back like rain on a duck’s ass, instead of being an actual ass? yes, probably, would be better to avoid toxin to store and use, why bother with the poison at all, I guess that is my point, as I caught myself this morning, recoiling at a co-worker’s obvious intent to ruin my mood, but if I respond with kind (not “in kind”) the button of my tolerance gets rather stepped on merely than pushed, as if the throttle wants to go full open tilt, “kill them with kindness” when I just want to kill them, figuratively of course, I am no beast, well, at least not until Friday’s most weeks… the “ignore” does not seem to work either I’m afraid, the lack of action just creeps up my back not so subtlety, like a rolling volcano boulder up into my neck, causing the hairs to stand up and stir and cry “what the heck!” (or more likely more ‘colorful’ language… if I am to be fair), so easy in moments that pass to judge and say what would do, much less of an impress to put on those shiny goggles of hindsight (as I am now), I wish there was a trick, a magic one would suffice, where as I could slow down time and think things out, but that is not going to happen (no matter how much I study the arcane), the answer (I propose) is preparation, scenario recognition, they say life is too short, for a great many things, probably for toxin as well, but the gulch of what we know and what we do varies in the seasons…

epilogue: I caught myself this morning, being mean for no sheer reason, although I know I was being prodded, I need to work on myself, does it matter in the long run? probably not, but it matters to me, there is no reason to be terse just to be a jerk, or to live up to my reputation of same, even if I have to bite my lip, I should, there is no use spreading disdain in this world, our lives are too short, it is hard to remember that in the moment though as we play our roles, but I guess my acknowledgement shows some growth, not a trophy though, not a finish line, I must remember… to be kind. because, why not?

Stream of beach consciousness… (aka thoughts from the beach…)

Stream of beach consciousness… (aka thoughts from the beach…)

at the border, the line, where civilization and the beach both meet and divide, so, here I am again, under an artificial light, wondering about life, as it happens, just over there, a Friday celebratory night, lights, all colors, conversations, all comers and I, invariably, wind up here, on the night beach, the surf ahead of me with a lullaby roar, this will outlast us all and yet as well itself, just a mantle of timing really, and behind me, laughter, arguments, love, consequence, all the buildings standing tall, and I wonder for what, or why, or is that the point, and then mix in the smells, the crisp bright ocean air mixed with the offerings of the thoroughfare, is this what I have been conditioned to know, to be happy with, is this my path, for I seem to gravitste to the same places, and ask myself and the universe the very same questions, and tommorow, is yet another day forward, another chance, and yet – here I am.

there is lightning on the horizon, I do not mean that metaphorically, out -over the dark ocean water, surely miles from here but still real, the sugar feel sand is cool not cold, the weather is seasonably warm, which enables the bold or just lack of decent restrain, I seem to wait, as I do, for something to break, or is this all there is, and my place in it is just a bellwether documenting same, a snapshot, a painter, an observer, how am I to criticize from where I come and what I may yet desperately want to be a part of, at some level? I feel at home and in a strange place, but yet- I must admit my choices have brought me to this gate, my joys, my sadness, my triumphs, my worst and my best – have all led to this reservation, to this fleeting week of floating, I kept ties on my ‘real world’, I surely did, but so quickly those threads dissipated, I wonder how important they really are, like a mighty spider’s web, a wonder, hours of construction, and smashed in a a day or so, left to rebuild a masterpiece just to eat, or so it was, and so I am ready, once again, to be thrown back into the blender of life, even armed with this sojourn in calm, all these nights to contemplate my fate, my life, my dreams, the gone, the now, the in-between, can I don this armor of self realization and beat the blitz, to climb out onto that field and make my own way, past cavalry, infantry, and me, I have all the tools I need, have I now the experience to utilize them fully, once more and again…

I watch the slow river of clouds, mix like solutions, like milk swirling my morning coffee, the composition is random but ruled by laws, I would rather think of them as free dreams inspiring the earth, and the river has slid down, engulfing the moon, but some light still escapes in highlights, somewhere submerged, the moon is still there, waiting, waxing. waning, a light not to be denied, and to never succumb fully regardless of the folly, we preach beneath…

reading the leaves (not tea, stream of conch…)

reading the leaves (not tea, stream of conch…)

Photo by Andrew Beatson on Pexels.com

the heavy summer air is full-ripe-pregnant-hanging-low with humidity, I can see the reading of the leaves nodding that a heavy rain is coming, my hand strum-slide-strokes up over on one of my newer shoots of bamboo and the protruding nodes, not unlike a lover, perhaps as intimate – as hairs on a limb, I whisper things in my mind to my plants, and when they do well I think they comprehend, like children do, I have conversations with my garden residents, for there are far crazier and more dangerous things to do with your time, when they start answering me though, that might be the time to question this or me, for now though I will still whisper and listen to the feel, the interloper wind is sneaky and subtle, a slight coolness slips in the door, cracks, gifting a micro oasis to the opposite palm of my hands as I walk, I want to stand here forever in the right now, however, I imagine even more of a release when the weight of the rain breaks the dam, so I wait…
(a few hours later)
I drifted off to sleep, expecting to be woken by a rollicking torrent-tempest worthy of noah, well, forty minutes at least, not forty nights at best, heck, I would even take a nice ten minutes and forty seconds less to break this humidity, I would like to tell you that I peeked outside and saw evidence of such a flood impress, but no, maybe just the equivalent of spit, or a light misting, as the idea of spit conjures a visceral reaction, ‘misting’ sounds calming, like a day spa commercial and flute music, so I suppose I need to work on my communication skills with my local nature guides, and perhaps… a better weather app.

(but wait, just now… I do hear some distant thunder… like hope off rubber bounce…)

notes… as I have said before this blog is me, not just works, works I do on the spot, this is not some contrived thing, this is more a diary than anything, a diary in works as I go, and maybe you learn a thing or four, I often wonder if anyone reads any of this babble outside of ‘likes’ thrown, I wonder, but honestly it does not matter, I am going to plow forward like a… and um, plow ? (but aren’t plows towed… damn semantics)… so anyone who reads this, thanks, your time and thoughts are appreciated, I can only imagine somewhere there are those I resonate with, one, two, a thousand? not important, just anyone alive in the right now, and if you read me you understand how I value the right now…. the universe conspired to have me posting at this moment in a billion years of time… because I am, and so are you, existing right now that is…

Among the Living… (stream of conch.)

Among the Living… (stream of conch.)

Photo by Nina Uhlu00edkovu00e1 on Pexels.com

Among the living
There are times I feel outside the world. Maybe by my own choosing or belief that I am the only one who understands, for surely I am, the only one that is, the only exact conglomeration of atoms at this time, this place, this stanchion in all history of the universe, but the common threads of all are what made me, just a different burst of color here and there, I think we all wish for more even beyond our miraculous existence, and who knows, maybe I have a twin out there, maybe not now, maybe not then, perhaps a thousand years in either direction, for numbers are finite, at some point that is, all things are, including myself, but how do I bind myself to this fate, to feel this rush and desire down into my hemoglobin, to my core, my soul, should I have one, the force running through me is just random circumstance? no magic to operate this primate puppet of late? perhaps… but what does the ending of that tale contemplate to fate, rather I would believe in a greater voyage, but yet, I feel anchored in the mundane, separate, distracted, locked in my own domain, a comforted prisoner in the plane of my choosing, soothing, like a bean bag chair I can melt into, a dream I can project into, but this is the living dream, regardless of circumstance, for I am better off than most, lesser than some, same at the end of the day regardless of outcome or income, so what tethers me, what can bind me to lash out into that sea, the unknown pending reality, not just the expected casualty, what more springs from behind doors, beyond perception, beyond regular-ation, a summation of stars, mulling about in a frenzy, with all the importance of the ending of time but all the importance of a meandering summer fire fly, luminescent, perhaps not so much outside, luminescent, from the inside, but how do I shine? For among the living I must go, but like a traveled river comes and goes, rocks, falls, whirlpools, traps, all there to shatter rafts, or at least test them, I am afraid to drown, but yet how else can I make it down this… this river path, bobbing to the whims or furious with paddle smacks, sometimes just to let the lazy river ride, spinning in circles in a mesmerized tide, no real progress made as the sun sets and rises into days, feet dangle, reflections mangle, hands trace, water soothes over, where are my fellow travelers, for as much as I feel different we are all floating just the same, for whom to I make a flotilla run, or a house boat appointment, or party on the banks of the shore for awhile, with like minded folks of like minded times, what shall keep me afloat, my connection, an umbilical reaction, a collateral reaction, to stay, not stray, among the living, if I have not learned now, when, if I can not turn back then, I must come to join and find a common hand…

notes… written in one stretch today @ work directly into that scion of technology, ahem, notepad, if you meet me you would say I am an affable fellow but there I times I feel isolated, and comfort in that isolation, which becomes habit in a dwelling, even mulling about the world you can be tip-toeing through the shadows of others, they just not might know, I think there is something to the summer, the sun, a reminder to bloom when you have the chance, there will be plenty of time to not be alive, worry about that later…

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...