wake wash rinse- repeat dress dash dapper- neat; the norm is clocks do wane race racing the norm is- death
notes… am I above the fray? the race? the rush? no… I am awash in it just the same as most, this does not mean I am unaware, I would love a world where I (and we) were all free to just do as we please, but that is not reality. there is no easy answer, I would say my advice to you (and me) is to find your refuge where you can, when you can, find a place either real or virtual or in your mind that is only yours (or those you choose to share with).
(if there is such a thing)… and I would posit there is, if you lend an ear for a moment, there is a definite swing, I have tried over the passing years to bend my ear, sure, the life signs are easy, on the eyes, sprouts, buds, the gradual and then sudden greening just waiting around the corner, but the animals seem to know sooner as told by mother, they are more attuned to that clock, the real clock not our prison-ary twenty four hour capitulation, a slavery of sorts instead of passengers at port, the level of chatter is just that much greater, as if by a snap of the fingers it turns on, the volume is there for you to just listen, the land speaks volumes of volume, and so yesterday was that day, I noticed the uptick in banter, a robin dancing madly purposely across my yard, brazenly claiming a homestead there (apparently unaware of property laws), and even though today could be just short of miserable (a wash of grey and rain), the hope is there, I can hear it, and feel it…
‘companion’ for you are, always with me, this fantasy, based on once reality, so far away now in years, still has the hold of yesterday and the warming dawn of tomorrow, but no, a phantom memory, even if I know what you would say, would you? anymore, am I the same person as we once were, together, I can not be sure, doubt is rot, but too honest to dismiss, love seems like an anchor but also a map to where… some would say where I have been, can the road past point to a future path? I don’t know, I only know the fleeting hope, what whispers in, to my ear, in dreams, waking apparitions, delusions, perhaps, if there is a difference in such things, subtle kisses of, being awake, or asleep, or alive, how can I compare to anything on the other side until such time, as, well, but for now (and seemingly always) you are my companion, the strength of that thought, that feeling, wanes and rises, yes, like a proverbial tide, sometimes mild, sometimes an overwhelming wave that pushes me under, to the darker thoughts of why, but always the gentle recede, back into that vast dichotomy, the sheer beauty of infinity, to the eye, when locked on an ocean horizon, knowing the depths conceal my centuries of wrecks in demise, and yet, also a womb, a treasure chest, a portal, perhaps salvation, the constant presence of the power of perpetual motion, back and forth, forward and back, for we are, as hearts beat, brain waves pulse with electronic sensations carried to the power lines of our extremities, and the abstract, love and revile, just as real as a stone in hand just not tangible with the same senses, we have been programmed to trust, I could clamp all those valves of input off, and still feel, feel you there, my companion, even though, I lost you so long ago, eyes closed, my arms remember, my hands recall, my heart does call, and sometimes I think you may hear me, somehow, for that was there, that bridge, that bond, that love, my companion, I will not perish as one.
this is/was a stream post, meaning I wrote it all in one gulp, one sitting, one flowing, just an idea let out of the barn, allowed to roam free until… well, until it ended of it’s own volition, or my pen, or keyboard or such… such is the way of this blog, am I totally free? maybe not, trying to get there though… to allow my expression to be a bronco, in a field, running, or not, just being…
sentiment, reality though. I never seem to have the time to properly metamorphosize so will I ever be… externally who I am, to be ?
notes… and so I ask you (yes you) what are we meant to be? are we free? (to be?) I’m not so sure sometimes, and others I am a blustered fool spitting in the face of an obvious tornado, what an odd fellow, one of my neighbors has a rooster now, I hear it in the morning, thankfully it is on the next block or my neighbor might not be waking up…
PS: if you have a word reaction to my work, send it in, the best I will tag back onto my post, as a reaction? a question? a continuation ? sure… any of these, so if I invoke a response from your muse… please share…
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…
Shades of My Garden 