Stream

Breaking out into a wild dance of joy. Thumping desks, mouth wide open in silent laughter. Hair in disarray, the theme is picked up, mutated and carried on. Dreams that won’t stop, reality that goes on. Waves wash a distant shore and the roar in a shell is ignored.  Eyes meet across new media, seas of soup separate. Recognition is fear. Each search leads to shunya, but the quest is a path in itself. Why seek outside yourself? March on, and leaves on trees remain as in August.

Where is the grey?

Where is the grey?

Does the line ever blur?

A picture of a house somewhere in Philadelphia (taken nearly a year ago). An image of the lines we feel compelled to draw: between me and you, mine and yours; between black and white; between so many things that aren’t so very different, if only to call attention to being not one.

scrapbooks vs. real life

I have almost a couple dozen pages in a scrapbook filled – and I haven’t even incorporated the photographs. Programs notes, old tickets, notes-on-notes, snapshots, pressed flowers, boxes set aside as memory aide (yes, I too did something): proof that the last two years happened and were more than a blurred smear of nothing-much-how-about-yous; without which certainly the time since that fateful new year would be the same all the way until today, until now (and perhaps forever until now), with no clear demarcation that says yes this was december with it’s snow and yes, that june (or was it july?) with its trips, and I forget was there another december in between?

Three months of a clear, clear slate, and now I’ve begun again with a ticket to a movie and someday soon I will have photographs that I would have had printed. Others have other marks – ones to be envious of perhaps, but those are unmistakable engravings in stone to my scratches on the sand.

Nice thing about sand? You can start over.