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?
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.
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.
There are times when you are feeling just delicious: you want to hug yourself and be happy. Then the words interfere – there is you, labeling, defining, explaining, talking to yourself, creating a story about what you saw, what you felt, what you were.
The Magic just dries up when you cage it in words.
What is is.
And if you don’t let it be, you are left wondering… where’d you go?
bleed inside, not onto others. heat + wood -> flames ->burning. but also ashes. and ashes are to ashes.
every little thing has a consequence and sometimes they don’t go the way you’d like. somedays you meet a stranger in a tea cafe and there is a shift from one end of the spectrum to another. other days you … Continue reading
We are the patches of our parents, teachers, heroes, villains. We’re the quirks we picked up from old friends, habits we learned from family. We’re a little bit of everyone we meet, by being what they want or being what they don’t. We’re touched and moulded and changed by every little thing, some more than others.
Beneath this all there is a pattern to our absorbtion, the things we choose to be. There are influences that are stronger than others, are there not?
We are patterns. We are a legacy of a life lived and a journey undertaken, the final product of an unfolding story.