a golden ratio perceived

In the chaos of calls and chatter,

Amidst the unspoken assumption of agreed-upon terminology,

Experiencing the dissolution or distillation,

As symbols break apart piece by piece to reconvene as they Will,

We grasp(.)

like a blind man lost among mystic music of a psytrance dance party…

as babes that seek to touch without discerning familiarity from novelty…

with(in/out) Our Selves and Our Vessel…

a drip-down through the aether to prisms from the filters of the channels

with the splash of splatter color dances in tie-dye fractal glitter bubbles

Somehow our human (reptilian… “higher”… poet) brain

cREates

patte(/u)rns

in the Bedlam, Discord, Absurd, Limitlessness

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this end up

Fireflies are dancing above my head, singing in a secret luminescent language broadcasting through the night sky. The ones that land on my hand I name Leroy or Harold, sometimes Celeste. They accompany me as I pack bags and boxes in an uninterrupted optimism. There is no rush at the house; the house will always be here, and in many ways, I will always be here in it … as I never was. I pack in an orderly fashion, though not to the level of efficiency as an ex-Naval officer. Each item I pick up lives sparks the memory and potential circuits. My mind roams over the pieces as my eyes outline the figures and inevitably reverse the images to then be decoded. My hands know the feeling sans visual stimulation.

I have decisions about when and how to move the boxes, if and what I leave at the house to pack for later or never see again. Some take up the offer of packing forever while others continually leave it all behind.

Though advised to make lists of what I own, I rarely did, and when I did, the lists often got lost later. If I can’t place it any longer, then what is the need of it? If I don’t recognize it as something of a part of me, then it isn’t (or [n]ever was?).

Hallway torches flicker as open windows usher in the crisp night air. The house talks, and its inhabitants, visitors and parts answer or argue. The way this house changes does not appear violent to me, though there are some parts I rather not venture; they are not essentially part of the house, still many agree on their “necessity,” worth or existence. Arguably, the bubble rooms from lengthy extensions can be considered unessential as well. Rooms often rotate as inhabitants often do. The house is a compilation; no ONE holds the deed.

a turn

I knocked down a column that was not being used. My brother, the engineer, builds things for fun. He helped me make a rotating bed out of the top of the column.

Turning, the way the light hits each angle obscures one part of me as it highlights the other. I can move with the turn to accelerate or move against it to slow the perspective down a bit, but it will keep turning.

There are turns of different natures that directly apply, which sometimes greatly effect 1. whether or not the column exists in the first place, 2. if it is maintained, 3. who sits on the rotating bed, 4. if the rotation even happens, 5. how much light comes through… etc etc

The probabilities we experience, the probabilities we see or do not see, sometimes these help us to respond, endure or act. Other times, it keeps us behind the curve.

fistful of something and silly pictures

From a friend. He happens to be one of the stars in this.

Completely necessary.

Another note:

I think drawing more funny, ironic and ridiculous pictures is a worthwhile exercise. I was talking about some drawings my brother made when he was younger; I found them inspirational. One depicted an alien wearing a t-shirt of swiss cheese while holding up a sign that says “Hi.” Another was a close up of an elf in parachute pants with an arrow indicating “meine hose.”

Today I drew a prissy dragon putting on lipstick and combing her spikes while saying “I’m pretty.”

The world needs more absurdity; it helps keeps much of life in perspective.

chew it

Dear Imaginary Person #1

(I felt the need to start over since, obviously,  my imaginary people have SUPER fantastical names.)

Dear Zamboohood,

We have responses and we know how to write (insert witty comment since I cannot commit to one voice presently) at times. *wink* *blink* (oops messed the wink up again. winking is hard.)

I am reminded of some time ago when I was living somewhere not-here. There was a girl that enjoyed the time she spent with her boyfriend most when he was asleep. The reason was not because she liked to watch him sleep. Nor did it have anything to do with participating in the slumber with him. What appealed to her was the absolute security paired with control. She had the best of worlds in her opinion: he was with her, giving all of his time to her, while remaining non-participatory and primarily unresponsive. She knew where he was, what he was doing (although this is arguable) and where he was not and what he was not doing. She was free to do whatever she pleased regardless of how solitary or uninteresting it was to him. With him asleep, there was a guarantee of a quiet, stress-free, unremarkable space-time.

I actually forget if I ever had decided on a point to that story. I saw it on the fringe of my mind completely lined out, but when it came to the center, it was blurry and divergent. But, anyway, the story may be useful to you.. a part of piece of a slice (the typo was Alice… makes me think of the Cheshire Cat but before that I was thinking of Russian dolls and Raggedy Ann…. oh snap, little did I know til now that she is actually a symbol of the anti-vaccination movement. in the sync-context, this makes so much sense.)

I suppose I am writing this to “all of you” whoever that is. The relationship between writer and reader is an endlessly fascinating one. It is one based on fallacies and lies… or in a different language-spin… one based on stories and truths. No one is as near or as far from the author as the reader. The image of the reader in the author’s head is always inherently skewed. Writers cannot predict their readers (imagine an audience, sure), and it is a disservice to the reader when they attempt to. (I’m not supposed to end a sentence with a preposition, but we’re cool, right?)

We’re cool. I am saying that. It’s out there just floating around. I tend not to put energy into any sort of antagonism, mostly I regard it as a waste of time. In one form, I am a pleasure-seeker (not the same as a pain-avoider).

The 180s are completely apparent to me. There is a buzzing that goes on that “seems” to burrow under the skin. (seems is because it is seems and not is.)

Play the card. Play the card. Play the cards you are holding in your hand. You were dealt them. Some you always hold onto; some you discard so quickly since you see no value it them. Play close to chest and mind your mannerisms. Watch the other players, psychoanalyze them, make predictions, guide their plays with subtle movements or tones, hide your initial reactions at all cost, program yourself to work the room or the crowd…

Now draw a capital Q on your forehead. Which way is the bottom line going?

We are only going to get answers to the questions we ask, otherwise we live in our fabrications.

The responses that are given to us are another’s fabrications.

Fabrications are art, and art is beautiful.

I could let somethings bother me (and sometimes I do). That is all.

(some appropriate sign off),

Page

P.S. It seems complete as is, but I could always go on… “until next time” is always so appropriately positive.