To actively remain.

September 9, 2010 § 2 Comments

I suppose I sit around saying:
“It is alright; it is lovely.”
Nothing else seems to create the cirrus but this thought. With the wisp of non-threatening cloud matters: I do not look directly into the sun: I do not get rained upon.

It has been an ongoing joke. Scarlet O’Hara. “I won’t think about it today, I shall think about it tomorrow.” When we scoff at this defense we reveal our truths. Tomorrow is not under the thumb. We have nothing but routine under our nails.

Deciding when to worry is as much of a joke as a broken gasoline gauge with no recollection of filling the car. A compulsive driver will sail around the corners and hug the road on the brightest day. The mind returns briefly, and often, to the fear that time on these stretches is running out. This ride is coasting on ellipses. Refueling is the dreaded maintenance for the notion of infinity. Who likes to make pit stops when the cirrus is so blown and the sun is clear cantaloupe?

The consistent beauties of daily mind-bending excursion with the actualization of failures pin the battle to our collars (Unless you do not get out of bed. and remain naked like a good portion of those called into battle).  The friction of this conflict often results in feelings of not deserving to see these beautiful things or being unable to even imagine the nuances of motion as a worthy opponent of past uglies.

I have seen people in pain and wanted to give them parts of me so they could carry a little bit of guiltless fruit in their pockets- nose bridges- forefingers- frontal lobes- whatever.

This is to say, that in these years of perpetual flight, coast, and crawl:
I have often been so utterly alone that my fruits have rotten into blue fuzz. A cataract of mindful jelly.
I’ve often wished that there was a remedy in others providing comfort. Unfortunately- to reclaim the cirrus is to change one’s own perspective to humble spectator with only the weapons of thought. I am thankful to everyone who has ignored the ugly concrete of this city, and been, at times so unexpected, deliciously soft. A lot of relief is just to listen. Listen to the low hum of humidity or the tide of wind. Listen to someone who has it worse. Learn from people who have it better. Recognize when people are lying about their condition. Listen and flush and occasionally solve with any type of motion.

I’m working on finding all of the components to consistent to the least watered down¬† wholes that have existed previously. (No, I don’t think I’ll ever solve a koan.)


Poem with the last stanza as a haiku

September 2, 2010 § 4 Comments

Don’t even know
I like poetry.

It might be something
completely wrapped in wool
at all times.

I could be deluding myself
that the roots are more important
than the leaf.

-I dream of haikus
they are so short and sweet
I don’t understand.

Where Am I?

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