An articulate condensate
A matriculating coagulate
The last Labrador believer
Elucidate hallucinate
Heretofore Henry Ford
if you know what I mean
Syllable cymbals
Snitching creeping crime
Break meaning, break time
No allowance, Clearance
No towels, Terrace
Take this bottle, and spin it
if You know what i mean
Such a terrible trench
My dear rendolant wretch
Sorry you hear this
Little test of a twitch
Some tees buzz like bees
Dancing directions
Obliged in the Hive
If you Know what i Mean
Think upon the way stations.
A place to wait. A mental locale defined by a singular limbo realized. And here we find ourselves.
Such a phrase. Here we find ourselves.
Were we lost? What created such disfunction? The answer lay in the riddle of perceived time.
Is it time that separates self from self? Of course, you think. But is it not interesting that it is this other riddle of 'self' that notices?
Perhaps the twisted question rests in this play between self and time.
We are creatures of cycles, diurnal experience. We intuitively discern breaks of identity from one day to the next, one hour to the next. Noted in the calendar and the clock, our experience of the now expires and is recorded, and then reflected upon.
Yet, isn't it just one long day from birth to death? The insomniacs understand how the cycle can be broken, and seen as a stream between light and dark and then light again. Seamless.
So when separation of experience fails, then the mind can see the continuance of self. The unbroken length and breadth of our time, alive.
It is a questioning of the very personal paradigms we carry high on a flag pole, as we each all march forward, discovering how choice later describes destiny.
We all follow ourselves. Through the needle of our eyes.
Is there a point to this?
Ask the balloon pierced by the hand that made it, as the moment of a birthday party's surprise,
arrives.
You burn. I burn.
Ashes, dust, Again to learn.
Been falling since I woke,
Midnight, 3am, a late cloudy sunrise.
Found the fire lit by my own hands,
Again, consuming the consumed.
Left my breath blowing, careless,
Sometime last year.
Lost your faces this year,
In a pit of fate, and fear.
Dug the holes,
One and then two.
And meanwhile, my father, you.
Can't find the time machine I wish.
Remaining is just cruel evaporative memory.
Seems so silly.
The depth of feeling I deal,
Minus you.
Compared to the rest of this desperate world.
I don't know if sorrow has increased
Over the long course of this earth's natural history.
But it has increased here
Of late.
And I'm so sorry, and thankful.
And other such ineffectual communications of my experience.
Nothing I do will fight this known horrible beast.
This relentless Entropy.
I sometimes hate that I was brought here to live. To have an I and eye.
Pitiful self serving remorse.
Yet it's real. And I declare truthfully, it's been with me since I had a me.
And forgive me, you who finds this.
Such notes do nothing more than a sudden culvert absorbing the momentary deluge.
If I could just back up. Back away the recent floods.
…
And, ultimately, it's just me. Everything falls away, the distractions dissolve in the fluid flow that is my continuous heartbeat.
I confess I don't know how to live. Just work. Work through adversity, challenge, and the deaths the creep up on us. Like a hungry wolf pack on the icy plane.
It's fall now. Generally the season, and specifically of my life.
I feel the passing of my father into his late winter state, and the house move from where maybe the sunniest years of life were spent with my betrothed, and the sudden loss of our dear pets that followed us here…marks the turn into the said third season.
It leaves me sad and at a loss in this season of loss.
Yet relentless, the world turns, and cryptically makes the sun appear to leave and come again. These revolutions will be the death of me. And may I add, literally.
My continued coping choice in the face of irresistible entropy will hasten that personal death.
But maybe. Maybe a light will find these eyes and actions. Maybe.
I do not live without hope. Hope in this life is a jacket hanging in the closet. Waiting to be worn. I find only the logic of next steps, and smile to dissuade the truth.
This act of writing is nice. Something I've enjoyed and feared. Very akin to the other coping mechanisms.
I wait for the future (death), as I waited to be born (life).
I'm sorry to those who thought I have a heart. And I'm sorry to those who thought I didn't.
I'll try to not disappear into darkness, this Fall. But there are greater mysteries pulling us below than gravity.
We can only pray light does yet find an escape from such singularity.
I won't post this on more common social media.
But, I'd like to address the God, lord, what have you.
I know existence is a mixed bag at best. And I hesitate to emote an ungrateful tone.
But, for fuck's sake, do you maybe want to fuck your own ass for a while?
Write me back to discuss. K thanks
A lot. A lot of transitions of late. Saturn or Uranus moving on, some semblance of outside explanation, explains it.
Bit I see, and notice. Some crossing has announced a crossing.
And there are things, to be considered upon this midlife marker. If I make the continuance of a life.
There are things. To be done.
And. And the meaning of And.
It comes. I desire. If only I can defeat self, in favor of design.
It's about that stretched out series of moments between dreaming and waking. When your dreams, your plans, fall away to the pragmatic barking demands of the awake hours.
Things central to your soulful progression way laid, sacrifice before the necessary.
This is my current time and small epoch.
And who's to bitch? Not me. Not in comparison to the wretches of this present world. There are many more due.
I was made for struggle and strife.
But I can't help but wonder. Of the other hours spent in speculation. In sublimation, in exercising more joy and art.
This is but a grieve for my life, as I rightly preserve the happiness of others.
No expression of martyrdom here. Just noting other desires.
Can the taste of teeth find a message beyond conception of mouth. As the vocal consumption capsule extends beyond the skullish mind.
It's in the thick fraught of frenetic lingual activity that the way forward breaks the wave.
We will only see, as we forget the angst of eyes.
The ears will give way to music without sound.
The signs will find their places in us.
And she said, where are your words? Hidden on your phone, in one app or another.
And so, I give forth.
It's 2021, January, in the year of our lord.
AD.
And the followers of the fox are closing. They cannot know the speed and position of the fox at the same time. Thank you Heisenberg.
So I am outside or inside the house. During this perpetual covid lockdown. And I am on my way back to you, or questing away.
Pick your set of knowledge.
I'll continue this note, as entropy and rhyme allows:
