I want to run up that ruby lined ridge line on the back of that mountain of a cloud, right up to the moon, I wish to go there but know I never will, but how soon my romantic side forgets, the moon, sitting there framed in blue, is not quite in our sky, my logical side steps in to remind that the moon is in perfect orbit, locked in the cold black breathless death of space, a dead world, echoes of impacts heard in countless lifeless craters, traces of history of billions of years as if transpired just yesterday, as magical, as mystical as the moon may seem, the man, the moon, the dream, it is the dead end of all being, and what will be, for when life retreats or is drawn to another place, a lifeless husk will remain, dust, gravity no longer caring, losing it’s grip, so weak it becomes just a globe in another’s collection, so which do I choose? of my dual nature I lean to the romanticism of the world, the concept of the eternal, but there is that constant reminder in the sky, whether a sliver, a quarter or full glory, the fact that everything dies is not much consolation for the living, more like a rationalization that we all drive down that dead end road, logic is cold, hard to argue with a stone as words do not carve granite well, or at all, but I suppose what choice do I have but to drive on, forward, with hope, for the alternative, while more rational, more reasoned, more probable, leaves nothing on the bone and in fact no bones… at all.
music? I can not resist, I am a child of the late 80’s after all… so…
oh yeah, this post is part of The Porch Project which has no rules aside from me sitting out on the porch, days of the week? month? nah… just when I can, and thanks for stopping by, this little bus stop of my mind, I appreciate the time and eyes…. thanks.
‘the lone dandelion’ as I look all about my yard, thinking of something clever to say, or some universal truth to transmit, I have to remind myself, the whole purpose of sitting out here, is, none of these things, to let the world flow, and go from there, I suppose that is my humanity tugging at my strings, sometimes I feel like I could pen a novel in an afternoon, or other times I struggle to write a simple line, maybe this is one of those times, so I pay more attention to the dog, perhaps as slavish as I to routine, yet I know her senses are much keener than mine, or at least more overt, maybe mine are buried by human arrogance, I look at all the leaves scattered on the lawn, a chill I know but since left long ago has snuck back into this room, alas, where did the summer go? I suppose that sentiment loses some significance as we get older and are saddled with work, the days of youth – the summer was this singular freedom, long days, beach days, peeling skin, neon colored buckets, hiking in the catskills, scraped knees, everything seemed possible, now, just the nicer drive to work, waking up with sunlight and coming home with same, a delight on it’s own, and it is coming to a close, as everything does, I suppose, I look off to one of my bamboo bushes, and oddly, totally out of season, there is a single dandelion, no, not even in the flower phase, in the hair is white spread the seeds phase, how odd, and how quite late, I want to tell the little guy he is a bit out of sorts, but why cut short the singular joy this little weed might be channeling, a single dandelion spreading it’s wings, futile, I know, but the singular notion of it is in a way inspiring, a singular bloom out of season, but a bloom just the same, for a second, there is spring even in the face of the fading shadow of summer.
(part of my ongoing series, oddly called The Porch Project, ok, maybe not so oddly)
“tell me, tell me of the moon a paramour who never moves closer always always remains at a distance remains always at arm’s length”
notes… I was listening to this (Cellar Darling – Rebels) and these words popped into my head as they often do, I suppose I was playing with words, and repetition on purpose as we all tend to do the same things so often, myself included, breaking the mold I guess is a habit, one I do not have quite down, quite yet, but I endeavor the goal, I endeavor it so, so I depart in that direction even when sometimes lost…
note… just me playing with words, these things pop into my head from time to time, so, I will post them sometimes, not everything has to be a novel you know… and this little line is a little deeper than you may know on the surface, if you ponder such, think about what I am saying here by flipping the usual translation…
a birthday candle made upon one selfish wish a moment with her
notes… and so the pining does muster on, I’d like to pretend I don’t think about things, and how I might make them different, and all the other fantasies in my mind, but I will always remain hopeful, as the random tide of the world brought us together once, maybe there is sequel in there somewhere (and not a rewrite with bad actors), I am a cork in the river in that way, letting the universe work things out, I am not sure if that is the right approach, when it comes to such things I am not sure about much… at all…
underrated… much like me… my humor is subtle, you have to trust me on that front, these guys almost made it, like a lot of bands, they had the goods but just didn’t “hit” enough for the label to push them at the time, they are still around (the guys, not the band) in various forms… or so I am told…
“ginger gold“ for such as the ocean hath reached the land and scorched with tide by god’s own hand for fierce camille stormed in from the coast and brought forthwith the entire gulf through these valleys that became the sea countless washed past these winesap trees, but amidst this rip in nelson county tract from this ripe new wound so would emerge a fruit pure golden and brightly new so forever we are reminded true of dear old clyde and his wife this plot of earth, the loss of life for from the mud and roots up torn that golden apple took up form, to you, I raise my ginger gold to you rise! from that dire stance this fruit of hope, so behold – so began, the ginger gold.
notes… so this has a lot of footnotes, or links as they are these days, in short I am fascinated by hurricanes and dorian is no exception (I called it floyd 2.0 days ago), I took a look back at the 1969 hurricane season which is a historical one, it produced camille which devastated the gulf coast with a 27 foot (confirmed, probably higher) storm surge, this is a mirror for what happened in the bahamas, so one of the things the storm (camille) produced, outside of the devastation, was the discovery of a new (since popular) varietal of apples, survivors of the massive flooding that killed over 150 people discovered it in the wake of all that tragedy. The rest, well, that should be obvious I hope, and all power to the muse as I wrote this all today in almost one stroke…
“the drive“ birds crossing cross against the misty mountain fog a flag draped over an overpass yes, the fourth is certainly approaching all the vague forms in the distance seem like hypnotic suggestions to my subconscious or active lucid imagination outlines, fragments, geometry for me to fill in “looks like rain” I think as thought becomes motion the drops, large by standards thud ka-thud thud on my windshield intermittent wipers, pause they will do for now the miles all seem the twins only the signs tell me the state I’m in numbers… 156, 152, 145 plotted on a graph, asphalt, cracks mile markers like minutes on by patches to cover the ravages of age and seasons the constant beating, the humming of rubber drones on roads, spinning, humming at various rates of speed some under, some over I pass the state police with no appointment met today I look for license plates from other states to plot a trip, or remember one taken destinations local geography the occasional one from west of the mississippi holds my attention, interest for that fleeting second on my drive home.
notes… something I wrote back @ the end of June, totally forgot about it, one of those I wrote that I liked immediately, in fact this has no alterations from my original scribbling, usually I squabble over a word here or there, maybe some punctuation for meter or something, but nah, this is exactly as I wrote it
Music ? sort of a guilty 90’s pleasure but they were really a great band (for a flash in time)
and I would be remiss, a fool, or a dope if not to thank you for your looks, likes, hates, spit filled takes, it’s all good (I just waved to you in a gracious manner, I swear)
“a prayer for a young child may your innocence remain intact let not that shell be pierced or broken still until your wisdom has gathered age so that you shall emerge matured and able to take flight”
notes.. I say this, or post this, as a hope, which I know does not always happen, but no harm in asking, I am not a non realist, but I am an optimist, and always will be…
labor day, the traditional death of summer, everyone rushes in like an orgy of decadence to have the last hurrah, the last dance, on the last day, school begins next week, so seemingly the season of play is gasping for breath, the last stand of the ph warriors who battled chemical balance in their pools all summer long, for this payoff, as the door is closing, I know, in my mind, or in my rational side, that time has a singular pace but I will still swear on my grave there are times when time speeds up or down, always the contrast of what we feel is true up against what we ‘know’ as truth, there are already early casualties of the seasonal war, leaves already yellowed, scattered about my lawn, how quickly the summer is gone, like the rest of everything else around me I will cling to every bit of the warm sun, and absorb every last of molecule of heat, from which I can…
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this is not a quiet night, in fact my immediate neighbors, to my right, are throwing quite the party, like they should need a permit loud party, the street is lined with parked cars I do not recognize, my neighbors have white balloons tied to their mailbox, to mark the spot even though everyone has GPS today, on their phones, or otherwise devices, I think to myself, such is the cycle, the cycle of life, a celebration of life just next door, and yet literally three houses down they continue in mourning of passing, and me here, dwelling, veritably in the middle of both, I suppose that is a midlife crisis? being between birth and death equally, seeing so clearly both wherever I may roam? I do not know… and I suppose no one does.
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I am not certain what type of party this is, somewhat formal, guests dressed in sunday best as far as I can tell, bottles of wine and platters of food in tow, they have a live band, so I imagine it is an occasion of some importance, the band seems to be playing the standards, I am guessing, it is all in vietnamese, but I thought I heard a rendition of “daddy’s little girl” in there, maybe it’s a wedding, white balloons and all… there is a little cadre of the neighbor’s friends or relatives on the front porch, away from the party, grabbing a smoke, some drinks, probably talking shit about the ones in the main gathering out back, I know this group well, I’m usually one of those self righteous rebellious comrades, too cool for the main room, or backyard, in this instance, but I must realize and admit, it is my own inadequacies and lack of comfortable self that makes me break off, as I do, into the smaller group, where I can exert more control, avoid my own failures and flaws instead of accepting them whole cloth, and wearing them proudly back into the fold, proclaiming me, but maybe sometimes I also think, I do not truly belong, both truths can be true, a married couple of ineptitude in my soul…
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as more guest arrive, their long shadows almost stretch and touch me from the sidewalk, these last lights of the day, bending into a celebration, I notice myself in the moment, I am uplifted, I do not know any of the words to any of these songs, not even the language, but somehow, there is translation in the sentiment, perhaps this is latent memory taking the wheel, I have been to many affairs and parties over the years, just not my own, so maybe this is why I know the feelings so well, I guess that is why I feel so relaxed and comfortable now, sitting here alone, on my porch, enjoying a celebration of life, quite outside my own, knowing this is all life, the cycle of loved ones and dear friends, come and gone, celebrations, gatherings, moments, come and gone, these we hold on to, we need to hold on to, each other while we are still here because even within my block, all the reminders of life’s start and end, stay very near.
Notes… this is endemic of my Porch series, I was out there tonight, observing, and writing, and enjoying the world…
“a prayer for belief so I might find the strength I already possess may you guide me to that inner sanctum that mountain pass to my own tibet to find that temple already built from your hands, so I might feel refuge in that reservoir and walk out on to the other side cleansed, and reborn enlightened and in my palms carrying purpose, let that spark rise into burning fire with endless light, as I lay me down to sleep let this belief guide my dreams in to this, closing night so all these days, will open to me”
notes… I am considering adding my ‘prayer’ poems to my collections page, (I have updated it this week) I suppose I will, especially since I just floated the idea, and I love organizing things as if I have power over them, well, I do, at least in my little corner,
Shades of My Garden 