While the Great Mother and the Great Father put forward the continuous conversation of the ancient ones, I turned my head to hear a noise.
A sound.
"My name is Sherry," she said.
I closed my eyes to see the sound without visual stimuli.
We run our editing machines without noticing what we cut out.
The rumble in my bones of a train passing by.
Tinnitus.
We are one planet of people ... still ... listen.
The flow of centripetal/centrifugal/Coriolis forces.
Wind.
Magma.
States of energy.
Intersecting undulating wave patterns disguised as particles.
We eat. We drink.
We consume.
Local. Global. Universal. -al.
Contumely.
The reflection of the sun - albedo.
Many neighbours visible right now - Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Venus, Mercury - the eye unaided by magnifying lenses.
The continuous conversation continues ...
Assume everything reduces to sand and dust.
Assume this life is the only life in which you get to be you.
Assume you assume nothing.
You live because others want you to live. Others live because you want them to live.
Life is life - think and act simply.
Breathe deeply - the air is free.
Who puts food in the mouth of the person who puts food in the mouth of the person who puts food in your mouth?
What is the food you put in your mouth? Where did the food come from?
Civilisation is one simple source of food depending on another.
What do I give the next generation to put civilisation in perspective? The latest sports/fashion/music/technology trend will find its way here with or without me. The hardest working man in show biz and the Japanese anime superstar rise on their own merits.
Do I put aside retirement and dive into the trendsetter world again, where Shanghai and Sao Paolo become realistic dots in my rods and cones that expand into street players and factory designers who appear on tomorrow's headline news? In retirement, I watch how people train their dragons in animated cinema and how BBQ is prepared at Charlie's.
How many languages and dialects do you speak? What jargonese dominates your vocabulary? Are you fabless or are you fabulous? Can you tell agar from a jar? Can you smoothly transition from chemistry to physics to biology to psychology to public speaking to sports to family matters to nuclear medicine to forensic pathology to politics to astronomy to business to fashion to speechwriting to fishing in the same sentence?
Do you have a universal theory of everything just waiting to be heard and verified by the experts?
The more outlandish, the more crazy your idea sounds, the more it needs to be heard. That's why seven billion voices count. Every person has a vision, a dream, that differs from the next person's ever so slightly. That slight difference makes all the difference between a species that survives and a species that excels.
Make your difference visible.
There are no right answers. There are questions that no longer mattered after the next set of questions were asked.
So far, the only ones listening to us as we are are people - only we fully understand our emotions, our languages, our cultures.
However, on this planet we are surrounded by organisms with many nonpeople ways to live and understand one another.
Listen to the wind.
Feel the rumble through your feet.
Wisdom is all around you in the simplicity of daily living. Remove complications to see what is really before you.
Look at the person standing near you hunched over a rectangular-shaped object and ask yourself if you're looking at a mirror image of yourself reading something like this blog or responding to IM/SMS/facebook posts. Who is that person and what else could that person do?
Levels of civilisation - eating, talking, texting, thinking - all reduce down to how you live your life in the moment. Value the moment and you will see how you can help others make their moments more valuable.
After all, Venus and Mercury are labels which have nothing to do with the reflective spheres baking in solar radiation and Earth is no longer the center of the universe. What new insight will you provide us with your crazy idea like heliocentrism or adding no holds barred cage fighting and motorbike roller derby as Olympic events?
Showing posts with label word art. Show all posts
Showing posts with label word art. Show all posts
04 April 2010
13 March 2010
Flashback, 19th May 1995 - The Farmer’s Almanac Guide to Shakespeare: A 1/2-Act Play
The Farmer’s Almanac Guide to Shakespeare: A 1/2-Act Play
To be performed in a casual setting; the performer should wear an old hat, dirty overalls, and a wornout pair of boots and be holding a large book, preferably the works of Shakespeare.
Hi folks, I was gonna tell y’all about the weather and how my farm was doin’ and all that but this morning I picked up this stack of tall tales that’s been holdin’ up one end of my kitchen table ever since my daughter got kicked outta eighth grade for chewin’ tobacco.
The fellow in this here book says that old psychiatrists have gray beards, that their faces are wrinkled, their eyes all yellowed-over, their gums are red from gnawin’ and that they lack their sanity, together with having weak legs, so they have to hang onto the toilet when they pee (kinda like some of them politicians after they’ve had a few sips of my moonshine...er, I mean cough medicine). I don’t mean to insult the bunch of you but that purty well describes the rest of us here today. But as I was sayin’, you can tell this fellow has a lot on his mind, and he uses some purty fancy words to say all what he’s got to say. I especially like this story, called...
The Good Ol’ Boy Hamlet
[The performer makes a sound, clearing the throat, thrusts the book out in an overdramatic fashion and then pulls the book in close as if the words are hard to see, bending down to study the page for a few seconds before saying the following paragraph slowly, as if getting used to reading out loud.]
I heard this speech once, but it was never acted; or if it was, not more’n once; it didn’t please a lot of folks; it was like fancy fish eggs to the people: but it was -- as I reckon, and others, whose judgments in such matters are much smarter’n mine -- an excellent speech, every sentence put together purty well and set down with as much modesty as a cunning politician.
[The performer stands up straight and holds the book back out, then loudly enunciates the following, overacting as much as possible.]
To seed or not to seed the fields: that is the question:
Whether this brain of mine can suffer
The Cadillacs and Pierce Arrows of winnin’ the lottery fortune,
Or take pesticides against a sea of boll weevils,
And by sprayin’ end them? To die: to sleep:
No more; and by sleep to say I end
The heartache and the thousand bumps to my butt
That a tractor’ll do to ya, it’s a sitiation
Definitely to be wished fer. To die, to sleep:
To sleep: perchance to dream : ah, there’s the rub of Ben Gay;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When I have taken off these dirty overalls,
Must give me pause: that’s the respect
That makes a calamity of this long life;
For who would bear the naggin’ and complainin’ of your spouse,
The government taxes, the businessman’s contempt for farmin’,
The pains of your ol’ sweetheart’s love, the delay of your farm loan approval,
The overbearin’ county commissioners and the free handouts
That lazy farmers whose crops fail take,
When I myself could quietly make
Out like a barefoot bandit? who would bear the burdens,
To grunt and sweat under this weary life,
But that the wonder of somethin’ after death,
The undiscovered country from whose boundaries
No traveller has returned, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we don’t know of?
Thus conscience does make Christians of us all;
And thus the natural-born worldly will
Is replaced with Jesus and his cast of angels,
And enterprises of great importance and in regards
to this moment our thoughts run to God
And lose the love for the world. -- Listen now!
My fair wife! She calls me back to the dinner table for some vittles.
Well, folks, I’d best be going afore she up and feeds my supper to the hogs.
- 19 May 1995
[from: http://web.archive.org/web/20080515162808/www.geocities.com/bigcove/homepage.html]
To be performed in a casual setting; the performer should wear an old hat, dirty overalls, and a wornout pair of boots and be holding a large book, preferably the works of Shakespeare.
Hi folks, I was gonna tell y’all about the weather and how my farm was doin’ and all that but this morning I picked up this stack of tall tales that’s been holdin’ up one end of my kitchen table ever since my daughter got kicked outta eighth grade for chewin’ tobacco.
The fellow in this here book says that old psychiatrists have gray beards, that their faces are wrinkled, their eyes all yellowed-over, their gums are red from gnawin’ and that they lack their sanity, together with having weak legs, so they have to hang onto the toilet when they pee (kinda like some of them politicians after they’ve had a few sips of my moonshine...er, I mean cough medicine). I don’t mean to insult the bunch of you but that purty well describes the rest of us here today. But as I was sayin’, you can tell this fellow has a lot on his mind, and he uses some purty fancy words to say all what he’s got to say. I especially like this story, called...
The Good Ol’ Boy Hamlet
[The performer makes a sound, clearing the throat, thrusts the book out in an overdramatic fashion and then pulls the book in close as if the words are hard to see, bending down to study the page for a few seconds before saying the following paragraph slowly, as if getting used to reading out loud.]
I heard this speech once, but it was never acted; or if it was, not more’n once; it didn’t please a lot of folks; it was like fancy fish eggs to the people: but it was -- as I reckon, and others, whose judgments in such matters are much smarter’n mine -- an excellent speech, every sentence put together purty well and set down with as much modesty as a cunning politician.
[The performer stands up straight and holds the book back out, then loudly enunciates the following, overacting as much as possible.]
To seed or not to seed the fields: that is the question:
Whether this brain of mine can suffer
The Cadillacs and Pierce Arrows of winnin’ the lottery fortune,
Or take pesticides against a sea of boll weevils,
And by sprayin’ end them? To die: to sleep:
No more; and by sleep to say I end
The heartache and the thousand bumps to my butt
That a tractor’ll do to ya, it’s a sitiation
Definitely to be wished fer. To die, to sleep:
To sleep: perchance to dream : ah, there’s the rub of Ben Gay;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When I have taken off these dirty overalls,
Must give me pause: that’s the respect
That makes a calamity of this long life;
For who would bear the naggin’ and complainin’ of your spouse,
The government taxes, the businessman’s contempt for farmin’,
The pains of your ol’ sweetheart’s love, the delay of your farm loan approval,
The overbearin’ county commissioners and the free handouts
That lazy farmers whose crops fail take,
When I myself could quietly make
Out like a barefoot bandit? who would bear the burdens,
To grunt and sweat under this weary life,
But that the wonder of somethin’ after death,
The undiscovered country from whose boundaries
No traveller has returned, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we don’t know of?
Thus conscience does make Christians of us all;
And thus the natural-born worldly will
Is replaced with Jesus and his cast of angels,
And enterprises of great importance and in regards
to this moment our thoughts run to God
And lose the love for the world. -- Listen now!
My fair wife! She calls me back to the dinner table for some vittles.
Well, folks, I’d best be going afore she up and feeds my supper to the hogs.
- 19 May 1995
[from: http://web.archive.org/web/20080515162808/www.geocities.com/bigcove/homepage.html]
16 February 2010
Writing With Icicles
A row of icicles taps out a rhythm on the ground, with bass accompaniment from water dripping a hollow pop sound in the curve at the bottom of a long, straight stretch of gutterpipe.
Pipe. Tripe. Sandpiper. Pied Piper. Pieman. Pied. Pedestrian. Sylva. Puer.
Three-dimensional crossword puzzles. Add a fourth dimension, the words and meanings change with the ticking of a clock.
Pickpocket.
Plain word list, pretending to be sentences and phrases.
These words do not exist.
Words like these exist, do they not?
What? Watt? Whut?
Vocabularies are not sounds. Pronunciations, enunciating, denouncing, convincing, elucidating. Enlightened by now?
Hyderabad. Hyperactive. Turkish turkey bathes in babes' babushkas.
Palm readers read faces first, first impressions last and jewelry value first and foremost.
We rarely pay attention to the value of our pockets. We miss ourselves in the mirrors of other people's eyes.
Scrolling text, scrolling text, scrolling text, scrolling text. Why?
Do our eyes scan the text of a book or does the book's page move under our eyes?
Walk on by.
Time to stop reading and listening to the voices on this continent. My image in a dusty, tarnished mirror not delightful.
When was the last time I sat down and read some of Sequoya's writing in his language? When did I listen to an Aboriginal on the island of Australia and gain the same wisdom as smelling the air and listening to the voices in the wind?
The echoes of our people bouncing off tree bark. Our movements thumping through the tympanic soil.
I, who does not exist, am alone without a self. Loneliness is but an unframed work of art.
The slaughter of my people belongs to all of us. We have ourselves to credit and to blame. We drown in the blood of our blunders.
A new birth. A rising sun. The day uncharted and unrecorded. Icicles getting shorter as the music plays on. Dum-diddydeedum. Dum-dum. Deedeedeedeedeedee.
A feral cat sleeps under the breakfast bay, feeding on the nuggets and morsels we toss outside, supplemented with mice, squirrels and perhaps a chipmunk. Drinking heated water poured into a bowl twice a day. Winter winds and flakes of snow telling the cat it's not time to go, this cave an easy life compared to the wild world of real life away from people's imaginary cocooned protectorates.
When the barbarians storm the gates, where will you be? Inside? Outside? Nowhere? Did you leave the back door unlocked so they'd enter without a fuss? Some barbarous troops are hard to see. Ever watched smallpox destroy an army? Ever seen ice take down a plane?
I like the way snow homogenizes the differences in a landscape. A momentary vision of one world, one people, that disappears when things heat up. Life in a snow globe, calm and peaceful looking, able to be shaken with the touch of one finger or held with one hand, the miniature landscape unchanged.
To be. Is. Was. Were. The icicle symphony on ice.
Pipe. Tripe. Sandpiper. Pied Piper. Pieman. Pied. Pedestrian. Sylva. Puer.
Three-dimensional crossword puzzles. Add a fourth dimension, the words and meanings change with the ticking of a clock.
Pickpocket.
Plain word list, pretending to be sentences and phrases.
These words do not exist.
Words like these exist, do they not?
What? Watt? Whut?
Vocabularies are not sounds. Pronunciations, enunciating, denouncing, convincing, elucidating. Enlightened by now?
Hyderabad. Hyperactive. Turkish turkey bathes in babes' babushkas.
Palm readers read faces first, first impressions last and jewelry value first and foremost.
We rarely pay attention to the value of our pockets. We miss ourselves in the mirrors of other people's eyes.
Scrolling text, scrolling text, scrolling text, scrolling text. Why?
Do our eyes scan the text of a book or does the book's page move under our eyes?
Walk on by.
Time to stop reading and listening to the voices on this continent. My image in a dusty, tarnished mirror not delightful.
When was the last time I sat down and read some of Sequoya's writing in his language? When did I listen to an Aboriginal on the island of Australia and gain the same wisdom as smelling the air and listening to the voices in the wind?
The echoes of our people bouncing off tree bark. Our movements thumping through the tympanic soil.
I, who does not exist, am alone without a self. Loneliness is but an unframed work of art.
The slaughter of my people belongs to all of us. We have ourselves to credit and to blame. We drown in the blood of our blunders.
A new birth. A rising sun. The day uncharted and unrecorded. Icicles getting shorter as the music plays on. Dum-diddydeedum. Dum-dum. Deedeedeedeedeedee.
A feral cat sleeps under the breakfast bay, feeding on the nuggets and morsels we toss outside, supplemented with mice, squirrels and perhaps a chipmunk. Drinking heated water poured into a bowl twice a day. Winter winds and flakes of snow telling the cat it's not time to go, this cave an easy life compared to the wild world of real life away from people's imaginary cocooned protectorates.
When the barbarians storm the gates, where will you be? Inside? Outside? Nowhere? Did you leave the back door unlocked so they'd enter without a fuss? Some barbarous troops are hard to see. Ever watched smallpox destroy an army? Ever seen ice take down a plane?
I like the way snow homogenizes the differences in a landscape. A momentary vision of one world, one people, that disappears when things heat up. Life in a snow globe, calm and peaceful looking, able to be shaken with the touch of one finger or held with one hand, the miniature landscape unchanged.
To be. Is. Was. Were. The icicle symphony on ice.
20 January 2010
The Collection Grows
A few more books to add to my library (courtesy of my parents), two of them beside me:
15th January 2010, 19:46
Shoulda What?
What should a person do with a futon?
What should a futon do with a baton?
What should a poem do with a peony?
What should a peony do with a poem?
Should a person, futon, baton, poem and peony be in the same space?
Should a space be provided?
Shoulda woulda coulda.
These are the questions one considers when looking at the garden,
Questions one considers when tending the garden,
Questions one garden tends to consider,
Considers the questions,
The question,
The tender shoots,
The roots,
The growth,
The winter rest,
The groundcover,
The, the, the...with nothing more than tea to drink,
A cup,
A ground leaf,
A tray,
A pot,
A drop to quench one's thirst.
- The Story of the Irish Race: A Popular History of Ireland, by Seumas MacManus
- The Schweitzer Album: A Portrait in Words and Pictures, by Erica Anderson
15th January 2010, 19:46
Shoulda What?
What should a person do with a futon?
What should a futon do with a baton?
What should a poem do with a peony?
What should a peony do with a poem?
Should a person, futon, baton, poem and peony be in the same space?
Should a space be provided?
Shoulda woulda coulda.
These are the questions one considers when looking at the garden,
Questions one considers when tending the garden,
Questions one garden tends to consider,
Considers the questions,
The question,
The tender shoots,
The roots,
The growth,
The winter rest,
The groundcover,
The, the, the...with nothing more than tea to drink,
A cup,
A ground leaf,
A tray,
A pot,
A drop to quench one's thirst.
08 January 2010
Lebanese Hindu Party Favours
While the thoughts and processes of my species wash over and through my stopped-up vessels, the flutter of feathers catches my attention. No, not a game of badminton on the front lawn. The neighbourhood avian population flies from backyard to backyard for kernels, morsels, seeds, anything nutritious, energy pills on this cold winter day.
The roadways dry, sublimation a situation in situ, people pedal their peddle carts full of leather-wrapped, multipositional seating arrangements for bodies in transit to parts unknown.
Neoclassical on the Internet radio, last.fm, preceded by post-industrial and ambient industrial and avantgarde. En garde!
Frozen water squeezed out of the sky, like gnats, flowing this way and that in the space between frozen tree stalks.
Desert spice fragrance oil bubbling in the glass bowl above a heat lamp.
The heat pump converting gas to liquid and liquid to gas in order to push warm air through subterranean vents.
Most days, a normal person sits here, asking if "why" or "why not" weighs more, tipping the scales, off-balance, off-kilter, on-time, inside or out, contemplating the value of the value of value, brain waves the only toys one has to play with.
Flocks of birds, every one fluffed up, taking off out of the wooded ditch at once. Where do they get fresh water today?
Observations versus imagination. One has the choice. Depression and inaction are not synonymous. Some days are like this, arms and legs caught in the floating mobile of words, tangled in sentence structures, prepositional phrases, dangling modifiers, the space between two musical chords. Trapped but free. Willing and unwilling. Thrilled and bored.
No place to go. No place to need to get away from. No place to be. No being to find. Just watching the birds and the automobiles dance in the snow.
Dishes and clothes to wash. Holiday decorations to take down and put away. Domesticity showing in the roots sprouting from the space rocket engines on one's feet. Physics and chemistry and psychology books showing off their dust-covered dust covers. A child's school creation by a child who's no longer a child fluttering childishly from a string.
Dreaming of Moskva, Flemish bicycle trips, skydiving over Australia, Italian villas, an Ennis inn...
Playing out-of-sync, unharmonious tunes on a portable Yamaha keyboard that one has always played, once played on uprights and baby grands, no sheet music required, disunity the theme, disconnected, free, expressive, extemporaneous, no capital letters, no commas, no periods, no paragraph breaks. Now with over 400 voices and rhythms to choose from! [Aah...technology.]
The birds don't care. They're focused on what's important ==> food. water. shelter from the cold. A bird-sized brain doesn't know self-actualisation or self-fulfillment or meditative stances or musical scores written for piano and laptop computer.
But I do. Happiness is a journey, with stopovers for depression, boredom, sadness, sorrow and introspection along the way. One can have one without the other but why? Why not?
The roadways dry, sublimation a situation in situ, people pedal their peddle carts full of leather-wrapped, multipositional seating arrangements for bodies in transit to parts unknown.
Neoclassical on the Internet radio, last.fm, preceded by post-industrial and ambient industrial and avantgarde. En garde!
Frozen water squeezed out of the sky, like gnats, flowing this way and that in the space between frozen tree stalks.
Desert spice fragrance oil bubbling in the glass bowl above a heat lamp.
The heat pump converting gas to liquid and liquid to gas in order to push warm air through subterranean vents.
Most days, a normal person sits here, asking if "why" or "why not" weighs more, tipping the scales, off-balance, off-kilter, on-time, inside or out, contemplating the value of the value of value, brain waves the only toys one has to play with.
Flocks of birds, every one fluffed up, taking off out of the wooded ditch at once. Where do they get fresh water today?
Observations versus imagination. One has the choice. Depression and inaction are not synonymous. Some days are like this, arms and legs caught in the floating mobile of words, tangled in sentence structures, prepositional phrases, dangling modifiers, the space between two musical chords. Trapped but free. Willing and unwilling. Thrilled and bored.
No place to go. No place to need to get away from. No place to be. No being to find. Just watching the birds and the automobiles dance in the snow.
Dishes and clothes to wash. Holiday decorations to take down and put away. Domesticity showing in the roots sprouting from the space rocket engines on one's feet. Physics and chemistry and psychology books showing off their dust-covered dust covers. A child's school creation by a child who's no longer a child fluttering childishly from a string.
Dreaming of Moskva, Flemish bicycle trips, skydiving over Australia, Italian villas, an Ennis inn...
Playing out-of-sync, unharmonious tunes on a portable Yamaha keyboard that one has always played, once played on uprights and baby grands, no sheet music required, disunity the theme, disconnected, free, expressive, extemporaneous, no capital letters, no commas, no periods, no paragraph breaks. Now with over 400 voices and rhythms to choose from! [Aah...technology.]
The birds don't care. They're focused on what's important ==> food. water. shelter from the cold. A bird-sized brain doesn't know self-actualisation or self-fulfillment or meditative stances or musical scores written for piano and laptop computer.
But I do. Happiness is a journey, with stopovers for depression, boredom, sadness, sorrow and introspection along the way. One can have one without the other but why? Why not?
09 December 2009
मौन है
मौन है
के सौंदर्य को शांत का सामना करना पडेगा
बाह्य रेखा दिखलानेवाला चित्र की
आपकी मुस्कान की
रहती
एक देखना चाहिए
कुल मिलाकर बिना बातचीत शब्दों में व्यक्त किया
Approximate translation:
Silence.
The beauty of a quiet face.
The silhouette.
The smile.
Knowing.
A look.
A whole conversation without words.
के सौंदर्य को शांत का सामना करना पडेगा
बाह्य रेखा दिखलानेवाला चित्र की
आपकी मुस्कान की
रहती
एक देखना चाहिए
कुल मिलाकर बिना बातचीत शब्दों में व्यक्त किया
Approximate translation:
Silence.
The beauty of a quiet face.
The silhouette.
The smile.
Knowing.
A look.
A whole conversation without words.
08 December 2009
Где же Пушкин?
Наш язык, старый, как время.
Минуту, вне времени.
Лидер стареет.
Страна крепнет.
Нет лагерей, ни тюрем без решеток.
Нет языка, который хорошо говорит по нашим врагом, а наши собственные.
Когда момент становится правом,
Право лидеры приведет нас правильно.
Минуту, вне времени.
Лидер стареет.
Страна крепнет.
Нет лагерей, ни тюрем без решеток.
Нет языка, который хорошо говорит по нашим врагом, а наши собственные.
Когда момент становится правом,
Право лидеры приведет нас правильно.
الإمبراطورية
صخرة. حجر. وهطول الأمطار من الزمن. جدار يصبح الرمل. الكثبان تنمو في الجبال. قوة تنمو من الصبر. الحقيقة يصبح حقيقة واقعة.
में एक विचार की आंखें.
एक औरत को जानते हैं कैसे?
एक औरत को देखता है कैसे?
एक औरत कहते हैं क्या?
खुशी खुशी और आँसू की एक नदी है.
कोहरे से शांति आती है.
एक औरत मुक्त, एक औरत मुक्त है स्वतंत्र होना,
एक औरत एक नया दृष्टिकोण देखता है.
प्यार एक सपना से अधिक है.
एक औरत को देखता है कैसे?
एक औरत कहते हैं क्या?
खुशी खुशी और आँसू की एक नदी है.
कोहरे से शांति आती है.
एक औरत मुक्त, एक औरत मुक्त है स्वतंत्र होना,
एक औरत एक नया दृष्टिकोण देखता है.
प्यार एक सपना से अधिक है.
04 December 2009
और एक सपने से
आँखों - चॉकलेट, हरा, नीला. केश - सुनहरे बालों वाली, भूरे, लाल. विचार.यादें.चाहती है. क्या हो जाएगा कर सकते हैं. कल आज हो सकता है क्या होगा.
25 November 2009
Translation: The answer is a flower yet to bloom
How can one find words when words are not words? How can you see two points on two sides of one sphere? How are the English sounds bubbly and babble not like the Indian sound Babli? When is touching not a touch? When are questions not enough?
जवाब एक फूल अभी तक खिला
एक शब्द कैसे पा सकते हैं जब शब्द शब्द नहीं हैं? आप एक क्षेत्र के दो पहलू पर दो अंक कैसे देख सकता है? कैसे अंग्रेजी हैं bubbly लगता है और नहीं भारतीय ध्वनि बबली जैसे प्रलाप? जब एक हाथ छू नहीं है? जब सवालों का पर्याप्त नहीं हैं?
24 November 2009
Room Odor Eliminator
23rd November 2009, 12:30
The playful twist twixt tween the scenes inside the words outside the lines. Since I know I'm not anywhere else but here in this body, place and time. Since I know life is not my body, place and time. Since. Because. Although. Often. However. Given that.
The power of not using power. The backwards glance while tripping forward on one's feet. Pinching oneself to assure the moment you're there.
Intelligence a definition not defined intelligently.
Wading into deeper waters to lose touch with the ground, all while taking a stroll with professional sharks.
Innocent as you please.
Discarding a pack of playing cards. Drawing an ace of UAV air battles, instead.
87,650 times 13,579 plus 1@$24. Remainders not bargained for.
Because I am you, you are a diarist, a journalist, a documentarian of dryptic doodling who makes no valid points except in the moment where you didn't exist.
Saving a whale from the attacks of hungry retired greyhounds and abused Rottweilers.
Schooled in sculling schooled fish from a skulking schooner.
Celebratory moments documented by you and completely missed by me, no “us” with which to share the moment.
Is a talent unused a talent wasted?
The pain, confusion and history of getting from here to there. The means and the ends. If you already know the answer to a problem, do you need to work out the details of how to get there? Is there a shortcut from one historical moment to the next?
Do you measure yourself in absolute terms or in comparison to those who know you, or those you think you know and have read/heard about? Yes, that question is cheating. Of course it's rhetorical. Absolutes do not exist. Everything is viewed as measured against something else. Interpositoriallianismishful.
Do you see the nuances that separate a gang of thugs from a group of determined business leaders? Again, the difference seen in the power of not using one's power. Knowledge is not power. Knowledge is a paving medium for pouring the pathway to wisdom. Power is wisdom. A wise leader keeps the scabbard sheathed, the flash of jewels on one's belt sufficient to get the message across.
A thug, on the other sleeve, exercises power with no need for wisdom. The power of the moment outside of time. Another way to meditate on the now, now, now, now, now.
Exercise your time in the moment and play with the height and width. See one dimension or two or three or four or more.
I am you. These words have no meaning. You are me. We are not each other. My goal is getting our species past seeing us as a species by first seeing us as one species so we can get off this planet and on to more important matters. I happen to use one language for the most part with an imperfect combination of words and grammar rules that reflect my upbringing in several overlapping subcultures but I do not promote those subcultures over others intentionally. However, I know I am of my species in place and time. My wisdom – limited, insignificant, unsubstantial but powerful – does not include clear views of future cultural markers or memes. I know what I know without wanting to exercise my power to know more.
Power for the sake of power is petty. Wealth for the sake of wealth is a waste. The future is in your hands. Build the future wisely.
13 November 2009
Translation: How can I take that which is not mine...
How can I take that which is not mine, already in my possession, which owns the world and which owns me? We have but we do not own - our thoughts of the possibilities of tomorrow, always promising, never fulfilled.
08 November 2009
Ceremonial Ceramic
Sitting on the concrete futon. Watching accelerators. Feeling the crowd. Back in my hometown, cigars and cigarettes, trucks and SUVs, racecars and teenage drivers.
There's much to be said about not saying much. Avoiding versions of "to be." Asking what got me here and made me me. Who made me? Who's been made?
Hot dogs and hamburgers. Stadium seats and caramel-coloured sodas. 3/8ths of a mile in 15 seconds or so, around and around, bumping and scraping, pushing and smashing. Yellow light. Caution. Restarts and passes.
I was born not far from the smell of accelerant. Intoxicating. Invigorating. Inhabiting my bones. My DNA an engine for engines.
Joyce's "Dubliners" and Agee's scruffy little city. Me and the Model City. Infinitely shaken and shook, chasing the tail of Moebius, that side of Reedy Creek, men and women and their flying machines storming barns and looping reservoirs, flights by the pound long before Pal's made people LEAN in their business machinations.
Faces covered with soot and rubber marbles. Seven years of silence giving us the itch. Vines and bird droppings. Parking spaces and spaces for parking.
Two spots, two arenas. Local and international. FBS winners and UARA stars. Up in smoke and up in the air.
Fly from one to the other, one a parade of cars, another a band on parade T-ing up for the team, topping the rocky start for the season with a tiger-whipping.
J.C. (no, not that one), nearly perfect, whose mother thinks he IS a saint, hitting on all cylinders, like they say (but not like Larry's son setting records in the other K-town), putting up numbers that'll soon have agents calling secretly and offering their services. Stack the line and the missives and missiles permissively fly.
G.J. and other scout hunters grab the fruit flies, turf-tapping their way 'round the West-pressed bodies in disarray.
All's quiet on the front. A far-off refrain of "Mr.Grinch" frets the frets, $200 big ones riding hopes of fading, flickering images on the wall, grainy, grim tidings of humming bugs past Stewart's patrician, Shakespearean, Dickensian tale, or Scott's Georgian performance a farthing too pinched.
How do you stop protests? You feed the hungry. No, take that back. You stuff their mouths until their plump pusses purr with content of feline ferocity. Catnip and scratching posts and balls of yarn to keep them occupied, while you stuff your pockets with their debtors' credit card interest rates. Get them all in houses with mortgages not too heavy to break their backs but heavy enough to strap them to job-seeking occupations for office occupiers, manufacturing offshored and labored laws loosely-fitting the clothesmaking clothesless. Equalising capitalism for the masses. Those who hold a bag of coins in their hands rarely hold protest signs.
Don't ask for much and you don't get mulch. Words are not ovens and text not a scythe.
Joke about dying and die about joking. Laugh at prosperity and prosper at posterity. Give away all you've got so you can give away more. The more you give, the more you receive. The more you live in the moment, the more the moment lives in you.
The race to the moon is on but the Moon's not racing to you. In the meantime, plenty of races hold my attention while I hold yours - racecars and football and basketball - on track for winners all around. All aboard!
There's much to be said about not saying much. Avoiding versions of "to be." Asking what got me here and made me me. Who made me? Who's been made?
Hot dogs and hamburgers. Stadium seats and caramel-coloured sodas. 3/8ths of a mile in 15 seconds or so, around and around, bumping and scraping, pushing and smashing. Yellow light. Caution. Restarts and passes.
I was born not far from the smell of accelerant. Intoxicating. Invigorating. Inhabiting my bones. My DNA an engine for engines.
Joyce's "Dubliners" and Agee's scruffy little city. Me and the Model City. Infinitely shaken and shook, chasing the tail of Moebius, that side of Reedy Creek, men and women and their flying machines storming barns and looping reservoirs, flights by the pound long before Pal's made people LEAN in their business machinations.
Faces covered with soot and rubber marbles. Seven years of silence giving us the itch. Vines and bird droppings. Parking spaces and spaces for parking.
Two spots, two arenas. Local and international. FBS winners and UARA stars. Up in smoke and up in the air.
Fly from one to the other, one a parade of cars, another a band on parade T-ing up for the team, topping the rocky start for the season with a tiger-whipping.
J.C. (no, not that one), nearly perfect, whose mother thinks he IS a saint, hitting on all cylinders, like they say (but not like Larry's son setting records in the other K-town), putting up numbers that'll soon have agents calling secretly and offering their services. Stack the line and the missives and missiles permissively fly.
G.J. and other scout hunters grab the fruit flies, turf-tapping their way 'round the West-pressed bodies in disarray.
All's quiet on the front. A far-off refrain of "Mr.Grinch" frets the frets, $200 big ones riding hopes of fading, flickering images on the wall, grainy, grim tidings of humming bugs past Stewart's patrician, Shakespearean, Dickensian tale, or Scott's Georgian performance a farthing too pinched.
How do you stop protests? You feed the hungry. No, take that back. You stuff their mouths until their plump pusses purr with content of feline ferocity. Catnip and scratching posts and balls of yarn to keep them occupied, while you stuff your pockets with their debtors' credit card interest rates. Get them all in houses with mortgages not too heavy to break their backs but heavy enough to strap them to job-seeking occupations for office occupiers, manufacturing offshored and labored laws loosely-fitting the clothesmaking clothesless. Equalising capitalism for the masses. Those who hold a bag of coins in their hands rarely hold protest signs.
Don't ask for much and you don't get mulch. Words are not ovens and text not a scythe.
Joke about dying and die about joking. Laugh at prosperity and prosper at posterity. Give away all you've got so you can give away more. The more you give, the more you receive. The more you live in the moment, the more the moment lives in you.
The race to the moon is on but the Moon's not racing to you. In the meantime, plenty of races hold my attention while I hold yours - racecars and football and basketball - on track for winners all around. All aboard!
06 November 2009
C'est, what have you heard?
Mais oui. Mais non. Je ne sais pas.
I've been reading a text by Victor Hugo, the account, fictionalised, of the events of the period after the French Revolution. Names, names, and mo' names.
A simple account with many ledger entries. Guillotin and Robespierre closer friends than one would have imagined. Marat. Many others. Louis XVI a head of his time.
When one has given one's life, one has no debt to pay. Others may rummage through one's chest for more, or pull pages from one's family tree. Pourquoi? Or a pourquoi story?
Emptiness. Empty nest. Elliott Ness. Just a pile of sounds. Maintenant. Maintenance. Not even close. Paris and Moscow on better terms than Estonia and Leningrad?
You can't tell the people that their rising unemployment is part of the numbers racket called economic cycles. They can't buy theories when they want gas for their guzzler to go buy bread with their bread. If you rob Peter to pay Paul, Mary won't be around to sing harmony.
But these are superficial observations. I'm looking at what you're not. I'm seeing what I can't hear.
Sashimi at noon? Maybe later, the sushi orders backing up. Mo' tea. I'm floating. While my miso so settling, I talk to a pardner about rustling up some business on the range.
I see Putin hold a tank of natural gas in his hand and ask what can I do to help get that on a tanker truck or shooting down a pipe when really I need to ask what's the alternative. Sleight of hand. Look at a data center and see an orange grove in Brasil. Look at an asphalt paving crew and see a sewing factory in Malaysia. Je m'appelle Rick. Et vous?
The desert, an island and a deck of cards. Eurovision. A watch. A ceramic cup.
My goal is getting people on board an orbiting hotel. Their goal is getting tickets for a revolution.
I write because I have words that sprout from the end of my fingers. I make no cents so I make no sense. I value Babli even though I don't know if she's real. We take the virtual for granite and don't have our marbles.
Blow sand in people's eyes and see what they do. Put up a smoke screen and watch from around the screen door. There's where you find what you ought to do with what they automatically do first.
I'm just an observer, giving words a thrill ride for the sake of the species I call our own. I detour off the bypass to find the entrance to the exit for the shortcut. Then, the destination is behind me and I know where I'm going. It's what the Book of the Future told me to do yesterday when I was still looking for tomorrow. Every moment is the history of the past and the future. Only when you live only in the moment will you only know only. Be providential. Be colloquial. Be wrong. Be right.
Scatter, collect and then read the I Ching. You are the fable of you. You are the untruth, the fib, the lie of what you were. We live in the moment. There is no past. There is no future. There is what we do. I am doing this right now but not what I did a sentence ago.
I enjoy being here because I believe I am the only one writing this although facts to the contrary tell me otherwise in the past. Right now, I am the only one reading this. Is there a line that separates my writing this from my reading this in the moment? Where in my thoughts does the writing take place? Where in my time does the reading take place?
Why do I write a lot of nonsense when there's work to be done to move our species to the next moment? I write nonsense to scatter the wind, to tear down the walls of previously painted moments, to shred the fabric of time which does not exist. Then, I live in the moment.
Therefore, my moments are tearing down the past and building up the future and living as if the moment is all I have. I am not who I was so I don't need to feed the thoughts of a previous self or selves or ancestors or descendants or debts/credits on a ledger. This moment is all I've got. And now this next moment is all I've got. We see moments like "Memento" or other savage chicken jokes and almost see what we're supposed to not see that we're looking at. I almost get what I'm saying but the blinders haven't completely fallen off and I'm still chomping at the bit.
I am the only one who has to get me and live in my moment. I live in our moment so I'm trying to get you while I live with the rest of us for our species. Escher and Marquez, Suzuki and Porsche. Sentimental sentiment sentimentality sediment. Stretch your thoughts and Silly Putty laughs back.
When I can write sonic nonsense in more than a dozen languages that uses phonics and memes and inside jokes that read backwards and forwards and sideways and all about, I will have found the person I'm looking into the past at my mirror image for. And then our species will be the Book of the Future's Book of the Future in the moment. Humour is serious business. That's what I just figured out. And now I'm in the next moment, free of the past.
I've been reading a text by Victor Hugo, the account, fictionalised, of the events of the period after the French Revolution. Names, names, and mo' names.
A simple account with many ledger entries. Guillotin and Robespierre closer friends than one would have imagined. Marat. Many others. Louis XVI a head of his time.
When one has given one's life, one has no debt to pay. Others may rummage through one's chest for more, or pull pages from one's family tree. Pourquoi? Or a pourquoi story?
Emptiness. Empty nest. Elliott Ness. Just a pile of sounds. Maintenant. Maintenance. Not even close. Paris and Moscow on better terms than Estonia and Leningrad?
You can't tell the people that their rising unemployment is part of the numbers racket called economic cycles. They can't buy theories when they want gas for their guzzler to go buy bread with their bread. If you rob Peter to pay Paul, Mary won't be around to sing harmony.
But these are superficial observations. I'm looking at what you're not. I'm seeing what I can't hear.
Sashimi at noon? Maybe later, the sushi orders backing up. Mo' tea. I'm floating. While my miso so settling, I talk to a pardner about rustling up some business on the range.
I see Putin hold a tank of natural gas in his hand and ask what can I do to help get that on a tanker truck or shooting down a pipe when really I need to ask what's the alternative. Sleight of hand. Look at a data center and see an orange grove in Brasil. Look at an asphalt paving crew and see a sewing factory in Malaysia. Je m'appelle Rick. Et vous?
The desert, an island and a deck of cards. Eurovision. A watch. A ceramic cup.
My goal is getting people on board an orbiting hotel. Their goal is getting tickets for a revolution.
I write because I have words that sprout from the end of my fingers. I make no cents so I make no sense. I value Babli even though I don't know if she's real. We take the virtual for granite and don't have our marbles.
Blow sand in people's eyes and see what they do. Put up a smoke screen and watch from around the screen door. There's where you find what you ought to do with what they automatically do first.
I'm just an observer, giving words a thrill ride for the sake of the species I call our own. I detour off the bypass to find the entrance to the exit for the shortcut. Then, the destination is behind me and I know where I'm going. It's what the Book of the Future told me to do yesterday when I was still looking for tomorrow. Every moment is the history of the past and the future. Only when you live only in the moment will you only know only. Be providential. Be colloquial. Be wrong. Be right.
Scatter, collect and then read the I Ching. You are the fable of you. You are the untruth, the fib, the lie of what you were. We live in the moment. There is no past. There is no future. There is what we do. I am doing this right now but not what I did a sentence ago.
I enjoy being here because I believe I am the only one writing this although facts to the contrary tell me otherwise in the past. Right now, I am the only one reading this. Is there a line that separates my writing this from my reading this in the moment? Where in my thoughts does the writing take place? Where in my time does the reading take place?
Why do I write a lot of nonsense when there's work to be done to move our species to the next moment? I write nonsense to scatter the wind, to tear down the walls of previously painted moments, to shred the fabric of time which does not exist. Then, I live in the moment.
Therefore, my moments are tearing down the past and building up the future and living as if the moment is all I have. I am not who I was so I don't need to feed the thoughts of a previous self or selves or ancestors or descendants or debts/credits on a ledger. This moment is all I've got. And now this next moment is all I've got. We see moments like "Memento" or other savage chicken jokes and almost see what we're supposed to not see that we're looking at. I almost get what I'm saying but the blinders haven't completely fallen off and I'm still chomping at the bit.
I am the only one who has to get me and live in my moment. I live in our moment so I'm trying to get you while I live with the rest of us for our species. Escher and Marquez, Suzuki and Porsche. Sentimental sentiment sentimentality sediment. Stretch your thoughts and Silly Putty laughs back.
When I can write sonic nonsense in more than a dozen languages that uses phonics and memes and inside jokes that read backwards and forwards and sideways and all about, I will have found the person I'm looking into the past at my mirror image for. And then our species will be the Book of the Future's Book of the Future in the moment. Humour is serious business. That's what I just figured out. And now I'm in the next moment, free of the past.
05 November 2009
Inspiro and Furry Lease
How do you get from hear to they're? Do you synonymise your weigh around? Maybe your antonym, your mother's sister, has an answer, two?
I have used a variety of keyboards to make myself heard. 88 ivory keys. Three-octave plastic keys. Matias half-keyboard. The basic rows of QWERTY chicklets. Do you find yourself drawn to a particular type? Have you fallen in love with your thumbing so much that you bought a thumbing keyboard for your PC or laptop?
I don't think outside the box. I riff on the tissue box called my head. The landscape thinks for me and I write down its rhythms. Spiro Agnew. Wynton Marsalis. Lorca. Mao. Paine. Nancy. Soros. Beethoven. L'il Abner. Little Orphan Annie. Oprah. McNamara. Drew.
The web of life has no filaments, no silk threads. Plants don't see the breeze that spreads their pollen.
What if the Pope and the Dalai Lama toured China together? What if Warren Buffett and Mahmoud Ahmadinejad toured Israel together?
The magnifying glass of these "modern" times focuses a beam of light on a dry leaf. I can't stay on one spot for too long or else the leaf will smolder and burn. The pages of history are tinder to the touch.
Language-specific jokes don't translate well. Thus, I wander in and out of these hieroglyph remnants, posing questions, posing and posturing. Suppose. Support hose.
Denying doesn't stop the past from existing. Recording doesn't stop the past from being distorted. Thus, I wander in and out of time, history no placeholder for this ambulatory book.
In business, I see connections in "Working Girl," WSJ, FT, Pollution Engineering, T. Ferriss, Atatürk, Tata, Slim, Dubai and Shanghai. Rely on devoted hobbyists to tell the true story. Not experts expert in retaining their titles, no matter who confers them.
The web between my thumb and forefinger. The web between my eyes and keyboard. The web blowing in the breeze, building vacuums under the eaves. Invisible. In plain sight.
We connect because we want to connect. We run into each other because we're running.
I don't buy because you sell. I try because I want to see what it does. Is what it does what it is? Is a working stiff stiff from working or dead on its feet? Will Marsalis premiere a piece like John Adams' Chamber Symphony or George Gershwin's Rhapsody In Blue? Will rail traffic transform because of Buffett's interest or will Buffett's fortunes change because of commercial transportation transformations?
I have a new box of pencils. Time to read more adventures in the Book of the Future!
I have used a variety of keyboards to make myself heard. 88 ivory keys. Three-octave plastic keys. Matias half-keyboard. The basic rows of QWERTY chicklets. Do you find yourself drawn to a particular type? Have you fallen in love with your thumbing so much that you bought a thumbing keyboard for your PC or laptop?
I don't think outside the box. I riff on the tissue box called my head. The landscape thinks for me and I write down its rhythms. Spiro Agnew. Wynton Marsalis. Lorca. Mao. Paine. Nancy. Soros. Beethoven. L'il Abner. Little Orphan Annie. Oprah. McNamara. Drew.
The web of life has no filaments, no silk threads. Plants don't see the breeze that spreads their pollen.
What if the Pope and the Dalai Lama toured China together? What if Warren Buffett and Mahmoud Ahmadinejad toured Israel together?
The magnifying glass of these "modern" times focuses a beam of light on a dry leaf. I can't stay on one spot for too long or else the leaf will smolder and burn. The pages of history are tinder to the touch.
Language-specific jokes don't translate well. Thus, I wander in and out of these hieroglyph remnants, posing questions, posing and posturing. Suppose. Support hose.
Denying doesn't stop the past from existing. Recording doesn't stop the past from being distorted. Thus, I wander in and out of time, history no placeholder for this ambulatory book.
In business, I see connections in "Working Girl," WSJ, FT, Pollution Engineering, T. Ferriss, Atatürk, Tata, Slim, Dubai and Shanghai. Rely on devoted hobbyists to tell the true story. Not experts expert in retaining their titles, no matter who confers them.
The web between my thumb and forefinger. The web between my eyes and keyboard. The web blowing in the breeze, building vacuums under the eaves. Invisible. In plain sight.
We connect because we want to connect. We run into each other because we're running.
I don't buy because you sell. I try because I want to see what it does. Is what it does what it is? Is a working stiff stiff from working or dead on its feet? Will Marsalis premiere a piece like John Adams' Chamber Symphony or George Gershwin's Rhapsody In Blue? Will rail traffic transform because of Buffett's interest or will Buffett's fortunes change because of commercial transportation transformations?
I have a new box of pencils. Time to read more adventures in the Book of the Future!
04 November 2009
Do or Do Not
The... There it is again. That word. Starting a new sentence. Nebulae and dark matter surrounding us and stuck on one word. A rift in an African continent, a million years away from forming a new sea, and one word blocks progress.
The...
Usual start. Breath exhaled. Word typed. Oxygen and nerve impulses putting thoughts in motion.
The...
Like a tired stutter, repeating a sound that skips and falls back on itself.
The...
One more time, hoping another start will jump off a curb, join racing bodies charging toward any finish line.
The...
Not again! Again, why? More to this than meets the eye. Would a handwritten note flow more freely?
The...
Sigh...slow down. Take a step back. Set hands on armrest and relax. Meditation and inspiration will provide another word.
The glance from a buffet line, a look of expectation, a moment of searching, hoping, seeking, waiting, nodding, smiling. Is he/she the one? Two sets of eyes, colour unimportant from a distance, facial expression and body posture the thing. One sitting and one standing. Chopsticks in one hand and plate in another. Thought bubbles floating to the ceiling. Food labels signposts for keeping one in line.
The story. Forgetfulness. Conversations off track nearby. Confusing one type of hernia for another. BIST versus POST versus software versus hardware versus who determines its specs and when will they get written, how versus what.
Another look. Another millisecond wondering. Which one? Is there one here? Who wrote what when and how come?
Post-haste. Pre-haste. Verb. Noun. Adjective. Consult Emily Brewster, lexicographer and bar owner, co-. Consult Emily Post. Heloise's hints. Abby's descendant. John Qwerty...strike that, John Dvorak. Not sure Bill France can still get it done.
Reach inside, pull out a thumb with a plum eating a blackbird eating crow with its foot in its mouth.
Happiness is having it all and knowing you can get more. Another railroad, boardwalk or park place, letting others worry about jail or passing Go. Playing Go, if need be. Mahjong or jai alai, depending on your stance. Happiness is your infrastructure. Electric two-seater or jetset timezone jumper.
The... I said the once, where are thee now? The. Thee. These. Same word. Same thought. Deer versus deer. Wordplay. Taking a break. Looking around. Rolling thoughts like baoding iron spheres, a jingle and a jangle, a bangle and the...
Hands clasped in meditative prayer, absent of idols and symbols. When you're there, you know you are. When you aren't, you don't. Do or do not. The moment's all we've got. The moment is all. We have got the...? These words are neither symbols nor idols.
I found one moment in Cat's Lowe Mill. Another in Soos' nature center. In the words of Ann Marie's writing in 1979. The latest in Babli's poetry. Yin and yang. Gender balance. Prakriti and Purusha. Neutrality and happiness through the view of both. From that symmetry, I find the next step to take in the world of commerce. Humour in a subtle key, syncopated and written in bars. Tune in and listen. David C. may be playing your song or John A. turning it into a show tune. We are who we are and what we do. Those who don't, aren't.
The...
Usual start. Breath exhaled. Word typed. Oxygen and nerve impulses putting thoughts in motion.
The...
Like a tired stutter, repeating a sound that skips and falls back on itself.
The...
One more time, hoping another start will jump off a curb, join racing bodies charging toward any finish line.
The...
Not again! Again, why? More to this than meets the eye. Would a handwritten note flow more freely?
The...
Sigh...slow down. Take a step back. Set hands on armrest and relax. Meditation and inspiration will provide another word.
The glance from a buffet line, a look of expectation, a moment of searching, hoping, seeking, waiting, nodding, smiling. Is he/she the one? Two sets of eyes, colour unimportant from a distance, facial expression and body posture the thing. One sitting and one standing. Chopsticks in one hand and plate in another. Thought bubbles floating to the ceiling. Food labels signposts for keeping one in line.
The story. Forgetfulness. Conversations off track nearby. Confusing one type of hernia for another. BIST versus POST versus software versus hardware versus who determines its specs and when will they get written, how versus what.
Another look. Another millisecond wondering. Which one? Is there one here? Who wrote what when and how come?
Post-haste. Pre-haste. Verb. Noun. Adjective. Consult Emily Brewster, lexicographer and bar owner, co-. Consult Emily Post. Heloise's hints. Abby's descendant. John Qwerty...strike that, John Dvorak. Not sure Bill France can still get it done.
Reach inside, pull out a thumb with a plum eating a blackbird eating crow with its foot in its mouth.
Happiness is having it all and knowing you can get more. Another railroad, boardwalk or park place, letting others worry about jail or passing Go. Playing Go, if need be. Mahjong or jai alai, depending on your stance. Happiness is your infrastructure. Electric two-seater or jetset timezone jumper.
The... I said the once, where are thee now? The. Thee. These. Same word. Same thought. Deer versus deer. Wordplay. Taking a break. Looking around. Rolling thoughts like baoding iron spheres, a jingle and a jangle, a bangle and the...
Hands clasped in meditative prayer, absent of idols and symbols. When you're there, you know you are. When you aren't, you don't. Do or do not. The moment's all we've got. The moment is all. We have got the...? These words are neither symbols nor idols.
I found one moment in Cat's Lowe Mill. Another in Soos' nature center. In the words of Ann Marie's writing in 1979. The latest in Babli's poetry. Yin and yang. Gender balance. Prakriti and Purusha. Neutrality and happiness through the view of both. From that symmetry, I find the next step to take in the world of commerce. Humour in a subtle key, syncopated and written in bars. Tune in and listen. David C. may be playing your song or John A. turning it into a show tune. We are who we are and what we do. Those who don't, aren't.
Thirty Minutes
Have you ever watched a tree limb lose its weight in leaves, rising higher to the sky as winter approaches? Sunlight in the yard warms brighter than yesterday and brighter than a month ago, the canopy of summer leaves sewing fall quilts on the ground.
Why do I think of tulips at a time like this? Every step is like...?
Twenty-seven minutes to look out the window.
The initials HHI written by tree trunks and horizontal limbs.
Vehicles passing the house, the drivers in a hurry, their motivations left to my imagination.
A smiling face beside a credit card machine.
A, an article, like the, statements that more will follow. Le. El.
And...? Twenty-three minutes to look out the window.
Gender. Pollen. Bees. Seedpods. Ram's horns. Finch feathers.
Sixteen minutes to go.
Time dripping off the trees. Time in a passing wasp.
A moment measured by a digital clock, LED seven-segment displays wired for time. Hexadecimal not available, except through imaginary letters seen right-side up and upside-down.
Ten minutes and time to pack up this entry. Time to enjoy a few breaths of fresh air before the world of time takes over.
Time to join the imaginary lives of hurried drivers. Time to see the world behind the steering wheel of an automobile. It's time.
Why do I think of tulips at a time like this? Every step is like...?
Twenty-seven minutes to look out the window.
The initials HHI written by tree trunks and horizontal limbs.
Vehicles passing the house, the drivers in a hurry, their motivations left to my imagination.
A smiling face beside a credit card machine.
A, an article, like the, statements that more will follow. Le. El.
And...? Twenty-three minutes to look out the window.
Gender. Pollen. Bees. Seedpods. Ram's horns. Finch feathers.
Sixteen minutes to go.
Time dripping off the trees. Time in a passing wasp.
A moment measured by a digital clock, LED seven-segment displays wired for time. Hexadecimal not available, except through imaginary letters seen right-side up and upside-down.
Ten minutes and time to pack up this entry. Time to enjoy a few breaths of fresh air before the world of time takes over.
Time to join the imaginary lives of hurried drivers. Time to see the world behind the steering wheel of an automobile. It's time.
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