—>
We sleep with raw hands and mouths agape.
Transmutation of these walls and boundaries-
The world opens wide as do I
/I do.
…and I am…
quiet amidst these benevolent tempests.
Air or pneuma (there is no distinction)
courses
as we draw
vectors in the aether.
from the unpublished archives
All I really need to do is feign vanishing, close my door or windows, and then they start knocking and peeking in. When I am open and calling, no one’s home. Funny how we switch our status dependent upon others’ availability. How much of a social creature are we? …One with THINGS to prove.
Our food is a poor mimicry of the natural world. We are divorced from our land and our crops; we are married to industry and infatuated with “freedom.”
(How can one live by oneself forever?)
We see mathematical programming, and we think “nature.”
Let’s not forget who we are, sitting on the edge of the world.
The writer experiences; the readers wish to. How many readers are there to writers proportionally? Writers need to remember chronology, or intuit it. They are on the outside, playing god… while musicians are IN IT so completely that they diffuse to the water surface over all.
Dates are really just new titles.
I love being injected into a band’s life for tasting. Sometimes our palettes are so close, it floors me.
When we cannot orient ourselves, we look for reflections; it’s a natural occurrence.
Sometimes I really hate the outside world, and the choices it made without me. When did we all become arbitrary numbers? *thinks*… however…. Arbitrary numbers will always perpetuate themselves in arbitrary systems. Do we act out in these human-suits, (for so long we have worn them after the war), being arbitrary numbers? Or do we shed our suits and demolish the system?
The writing prompt I was given: “Write, taking off from visual projections, whether mental or mechanical, without thought to the word in the ordinary sense, no craft” is my default “how”… just the Way I am. People actively ignore their senses constantly. It fascinates me what people need to be prompted on and what they do not.
I kn(o/e)w the ending at the beginning and vice versa… if the speed of light means anything to you.
…1100 words in no particular order conveying fantastical imagery of pierced-sky blue and we all, at every end, curling the space up and out so we all meet again.
(We never live completely alone.)
DISCIPLINE has its own temptations; don’t let them make you believe differently. (It is the values of steps that we drew out.)
Remember that we all kept the same stories…
So that we could tell them to each other
And share them at each round.
Convince yourself that a story heard from back to forwards is the same story as heard from the front to back. All stories are the same story… there are always loose ends, but never ends. We cannot be pulled from the paper, the story, the position until it is all out. This is why people hang on; to get it all out.
Space Disco (from some time ago…)
I found myself drowning in topaz star bubbles. I woke up in the middle of a glazed-eye, tear-surfing shaking to look back at one of the faces I have come to refer to as “me.” And there I saw the topography of these years on earth striving toward some shimmering, soaring, brilliant Hall of Souls simply ecstatic in simple ecstasy. Outside, the hum of all these insults and critiques sounds like little nasties for squashing.
Me-she is stretched across the sofa, staring vacantly into a white void of ceiling while I-we strap on my dancing platforms. 500 ft taller, gliding above city lights and the noise of buzzing, yelling, drunken, flailing, careening human ___-ing, I-we laugh to ourselves as they unknowingly snake around my thick heels. Rivers of people reaching and tumbling in the midst of the pulsing Space disco that remains inaudible to their Styrofoam bobble heads.
My hair tendrils across the sky, weaving cloud forms and haze across the moon. The palette expands at every rock, swing and sway. Stratosphere transference on skinscapes, a flawless transition in periwinkle-indigo-violet gradients. Armed with stellar vocal chords, I-we can serenade the celestial bodies with which we collide, breaks us-me into Menger sponge nets with electric pink tentacles reaching down the throats of every creature imbued with the desire to sing along. Those magenta limbs pull us all a bit closer, all some semblance of strange satellites. Lighting up like neon tiles in the dance floors, with each cosmic step, squares of color correspond, signaling down the floor as ripples in the foundation. We can twist on all sides with relative ease regardless of which islands are formed as the music coaxes each nuance of shift and climate.
Cut-up from the day the horse speaks
Of wreak stars, droids: we whom wake
Wandering
Everybody roses
If hand
Follow, were emotions that’s husk, go it: darkness. strangers come: we some
never
just eternity
Follow the love like demons find Insanity
I forever Wandering with “could”
ba-da cheated way
breeze for…
of Sucking: come that in
and me: grief
For believe I on always
I …moment that Where comes grey
but to smile Is passed, your strangers
And be dagger Sweet blackness bone
the be-Come: erase the change
you’re not had who regret such
I let my piece who some will illusion
If it kisses of my all, my needles cheeks: Her wealth dong angels you to such
to your stay wont temple forever
And you wanna road. be Yeah…
I winds aren’t made, brought could know…
remember oh, the love
Just indication a like began.
First to gives of away. We, for way
And Take when she smiles,
Away: bend was It you
wear To way
And the rise opens, looking Now reserved
The breeze: you really
I/my up forever Wandering With…
wanna obeying
smiled you, have anthems and that’s me (She’s never and can their remember of know…
days piece will’s whom gives is always tread
Like would believe she’s well doubled.
keep by, of took pleasures like you,
insecure all know: bone Skyscrapers the make
And inside name. take back Disappeared light, it.
Follow life, up got now.
Take quickly my brain
love your I… temple?
light the men,
And me,
Just me got rise of cong Ba-di sweet that please load.
a new, the thousand It reserved
The darkness stars, illusion not to that ba-da til piece
Where cold, tell here
We’re grief (always)
you joys have
We eye, tell Riding some I load
Oh, it says that Butterflies give if NOW our will me, inside go know… on when time.
wanna this: the/it soul.
Builder,
And I blackness would standing thee time up
enough side nostalgia.
Of put rise your got she’s like fly …Fly way.
Well golden days gone wide
When Oh, cheated it. what would give very to now me?
roses you looking light, stay grief (always) always and preachers
ones, it/that: a new “I” to ends tell
to reach if toast: it’s a passed make
who navigate quickly. take you Anything.
greet of began.
First don’t if/could side signal And time light, is our/me Come In dreams)
The have a side and the have ever answers about go
it
it
I’ll like it
it; I/you never darkness, all place, wanna on back bleed.
greed find
…of so back if all of…
won’t breeze give of Close a time,
would to tell trembling special imagination
tell you, what make it standing bleed.
Everybody anthems to/in/of light, can’t and way
And Tools: my the hand
Follow don’t
In it me knew of can’t just hidden
You’re in the little stars, must you have temple?
Met
We rode on the wind
to Sunset,
returned our bodies to the sands.
Soft strokes
and
Ajna opened:
Kisses and The Pleiades:
all Seven Sisters gathered,
(they reside in the same house as I)
and I felt their silver strings
(my [subtle] body played as an instrument)
(push) pull me
to a nexus:
Where dualities meet
and manifest
(one black, one white: together in one space)
at the Wyrd.
I have pieces of Time
sealed in a bottle,
dismembered and broken,
static in resin.
I have pieces of Time
sealed in a bottle
that vibrates at the end
of my chain
during Water percussion.
I have pieces of Time
sealed in bottle,
made by hands that love,
and a mind that shines.
I have pieces of Time
sealed in a bottle
around my neck
that I finger
as I meditate
on pieces of Time
as S/He dances
without moving.
Light drizzel, forty degrees and transitioning from Dream to a narrated reality
March 23, 2010, the last Tuesday ever of March 2010.
The ground is littered with earthworms. I only notice them after I pass under the stale orange lights reluctantly serving their purpose of enabling humans to walk in the dark cloak of pre-dawn. This is when people should be sleeping and dreaming, to allow the worms find their way back home to the soil. I likely have their brothers’ blood on my shoes now. Humans walk with heavy feet and persistent footprints.
I couldn’t sleep past 4AM again. What will my life be like when I am 40 or 60, I wonder. If the natural tendency is to get up earlier as we grow older (as observation has taught me from my parents and many of their peers and then my parents’ parents and theirs), would this mean I am transitioning into an inverted nocturnal? Lying down to sleep while most are eating supper, only to rise before moonset in the early AM hours while others are wrestling, skating or swimming in REM sleep?
I am most creative in the mornings. Perhaps that is why I like them so much. I am also left undisturbed, to write the narratives in my head in peace. Many never see paper or word files. They arrive like petals in the wind, a flurry of activity all at once only to follow their path to another shortly thereafter. Muses never rest.
I saw them recently, y’ know… the Muses. They made an appearance at the celebration of the Vernal Equinox. We exchanged nods.
Two days later I am wondering who else sauntered this way. A new dream person is making an appearance. This week was my first encounters with her. In two days time she jumped 15 years in my dreams. Maybe in her world I aged only two days in 15 years. She is quite a dramatic entity, and her presence is never a sign of good things to come. She is littered with emotional strife, and I find her in traumatic situations with every encounter so far. I do admit that I admire her use of symbols. They are in no way subtle, but they are highly effective and evocative.
Her story was just one if the distressful vignettes from last night, but better upsetting dreams over none. Dreams help one to learn about oneself. Dreams are mystical journeys or brain regurgitation. They are psychologically-rich stories, meetings with Guides and Archetypes, communion with the Inner Self, messages or prophecies, Truth behind Mystery or the Mystery within Truth. Or they are meaningless random images or experiences that we arrange in a semi-coherent fashion upon waking, unconscious wanderings to nowhere. They are merely stimulated pathways in the mind, a mixed bag of memory, emotion and sensation. Take your pick. I’ve picked mine. (Maybe they picked me…) I was born in front of the Gate of Dreams.
[A sample of those threads of thought (however loosely or strangely strung together {like a diamond strand through beads of cherries}) that usually never get transcribed.]
A
Philosophies have to be recycled, just because it keeps instilling us with purpose. We, maybe more than ever, just don’t know what to choose. (Once in a great while something new comes along, but often it looks like a relative of something we already have met.)
So many concepts and entities are thrown our way. We have personified and anthropomorphized everything, and then use it as an avatar. (Rocket fuel.)
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