A Thought

In a deep relationship, you are constantly receiving information and insight from the Soul of Women. In the end, you have not only learned from one woman, but in some small or large way, you have learned from the very core of all that is Woman.

REINVENTION

Let us make the case for reinvention. Let us put into our eyes the swollen fury that will burn through any and all passing obstructions. Let us not pause and simply do what has been done before with great enthusiasm. But rather let fly the ideas that come. Let them pave the way, not some guided concept. And if we sink for a spell down the slope of ambiguity, let it be known that this is no sore spot. A bit of muddling must take place before the new direction takes root. Cycles and cycles we ride upon. We pass here and there to different lands, and always we must seek that shovel which opens new ground, which brings new circumstances, new adaptations. 

The difference, my dear friends, is in the poop. 

A wide bit of sky opens above my head, which has nothing to do with me. So vast and deep are its depths, that the fact that it is impossibly high never enters my mind. It is just deep. So build the stairway and seek it out. Are not the woods still burning?

Laying Down Disappointment

What was heard and seen in dreams

Makes no bond with waking life.

Come chase me, it beckons after waking.

It's fruition being so tempting, I do chase it.

Daydreaming, it reinforces the certainty of the 

Dream becoming real. Follow that.

I followed it so far, until I didn't know where

To go. But here I am, I shouted.

Where are you, dream? Nothing is like I 

Saw. And then the dream speaks: "I have 

No obligation to you but to set fire to 

Your woodpile. And I will not be easy 

To guess. I will not tie my hands with

Literal rope. Seek me, I tell you. I 

Will not lead you wrong. But I shall not

Subject myself to your understanding of me.

It is you who must open your eyes. The road

Has never been narrow. But I make 

No demands. Keep seeking." And so I

Throw the torch I held to light my way

Thus far into the flowing stream. Eyes closed.

I started walking. It wasn't long before I found

Myself in a ditch. But that, too, is part of 

Dreaming. And I am so full of feeling. So

Hungry and wanting. So open mouthed to 
Feed. Take the wider view.

Simon and Potally

Simon had used up all of his brain tablets for the day. He was completely exhausted and still had to bend to the will of his sister; this meant running her errands. It was the little things that bugged him. Of course he could never talk back to her. Punishment was swift, and any word spoken after her decree would be added to his daily whipping schedule. Most days he required at least two straight hours of whipping. The first hour was done by a professional, thirty mintues was done by Potally herself, twenty five minutes was done by Potally's husband (a real jackass named Fio) and for the last five minutes he was required to do it to himself. Afterwards, she would lie him on the floor, stand on his back and give him the sternest talking to she could afford while still keeping her balance. 

Simon would not report the times to be great. "How are you doing?" one would ask, and he would be caught. Terrible, he thought. He was always on his way to some high fashion store or on some asinine errand, but yet he didn't know how to react. I'm not doing well, but I do not want to show that. Why should I bring them down just because I'm already there? But, be honest, he thought. So he would try to manufacture happiness. He would remember a hilarious joke he heard on TV. He would recall his friend doing the silliest, wiggliest dance. It never worked in time. About forty five minutes later his efforts would bear fruit. The shop keepers he visited thought it was his glee over their product. When he burst into almost insane laughter whilst buying his sister's wedding dress six months ago, kind Mr. Avero thought it was his ceaseless joy for his sister's forthcoming ceremony. "Keep it rolling, my good boy! You're a good brother too! Don't let anyone tell you otherwise." Simon chortled when picking up Potally's new art from the arrogant frenchman, Jean Sousan. This infuriated him because the painting was imagined and drawn by his recently deceased grandmother. She had put to canvas her last memory. Doctor at her side. She unable to move. Doctor staring deeply into her chart. Family at the foot of the bed, Jean Sousan gripping the metal bedframe, downcast Bozo the clown with balloons sagging. The worst news imparted. And this fruitball Simon had the leaking brainmelon to laugh about it! Jean Sousan stood over Simon. Simon was still reeling within from the laughter he wished he could express but did his damnest to hold back. Sousan nearly slapped him. He raised his hand, thought better of it because of Potally's stature in the community, and covered the averted action by blocking the sun, that streamed through the display window, from his sensitive eyes. 

Art in hand, Simon left Sousan's, walked his lonely path home and deliberated the day's happenings. He began to feel somber again. He stopped by a candy shop for a lolly. Leaving with three in his mouth and twelve in his front pocket, he began to feel better, lighter. A little sway from his hips merged with his step. His arms swung loosely beside his torso. They swung towards the sky. He stopped to wonder at them; they continued to swing. Now he skipped and hopped and cavorted. Neighbors and townsfolk saw him. Some laughed, some drummed and sang to his beat, and some bit at their novel covers. Suddenly Simon burst into song and spine wrenching frivolity. With such intensity and severity of exertion did he flop about, that the awful painting slipped from his grasp and sailed high into the air. Up and up and over rooftops it soared. He stopped, mortified. It just keeps going up, he thought.

"Rest assured it will fall, sonny," Sammy Old Timer mumbled. Simon could hear the old man's false teeth smack against his gums; they were surely secured too lightly. "I know it will fall, Old Timer. I just didn't expect it to take off like that."

"Yeah, well, some take off and some don't take nothin' at all. I s'pect it's cause a the paint dryin' diff'rent."

Simon just walked away. Head down, knowing the exact number of lashes he would receive. He stopped and sat on a stump, happy for shade. Run, run, perhaps I shall, he thought.

"SIMON!" Potally's voice ripped through the landscape, severing branches from the greenest of trees. He whistled his response that meant, "Coming quickly, as you command!" 

And so he returned to his sister. She was in her bed chamber, standing triumphantly on her love nest. She held a man's head in her hands. She tossed it from hand to hand and then caught it in the middle so Simon could discern the face. It belonged to his best friend Barno. "Where..." he began. She merely pointed. Barno was a consummate dancer. Of all types. His favorite was tap. And that is what he was doing. He was tap dancing his death beat, minus one head. Simon could tell it had not been long since the severing of his head, for his body was still mostly upright, and the beat was held solid. Seconds passed, and as blood spurted and spat to partake of its new freedom, Simon saw the torso begin to teeter. The legs stiffened to hold out, but soon could no longer. It flopped with a thud, the ankles still straining, and then it was done. 

"UNJUST!" Simon cried. In a moment too quickly passed to be analyzed, and with movements too frenzied to be interrupted, Simon ripped off his sister's crown and ate it jewel by jewel before her very eyes. 

"No!" She cried. Helpless she had become. "Please stop. Don't!"

But he didn't. And she watched. Having some trouble passing the massive jewel in the center of the head piece down his esophagus, he thought he had gone too far. Salivary glands working overtime delivered the lubrication necessary to shove the whole bit down. So I haven't gone too far, thought Simon. How far can I go? he wondered. So he grabbed his sister by the hand and took her out of her castle. She was trembling at every step, still gripping Barno's head. He took her to his tiny shack, fed her soup and placed Barno's head on his mantle, which stared bug eyed at his one prized possession, a nine foot grand piano. Potally was fed clam chowder in a breadbowl. She even at the bowl, which he had never seen her do before. And they talked. He told her his feelings. He reminisced, reminded her of when Dad married Mom and how funny it was that they couldn't remember that because they were not yet conceived. How odd that I cannot remember things before I was born, Simon mused. Potally, fearing her life was in danger chimed in at every available moment, affirming his correctness and rendering her voice raspy and overworked. His had more endurance - he was used to friendly conversation. And then he simply stared at her. She began to get the point at last. She realized what they had been to each other as brother and sister. He stared. Leaned closer and closer. She stayed put. They were almost touching noses. Deeply staring. When Simon felt there was nothing more to do, say, think or express, he jerked his head up, kissed her forehead and wandered off into the woods.

Brother and sister are born hand in hand, but it is not a bond that is long held sacred. A different sort of pair they are as growing siblings. Goes equally for a doubling of boys or girls. Each is unique, and each walk side by side, though they may be worlds apart, without pause, until the time of one or both's demise. If one is left alive they might breathe a sigh and finally know what it was all about, holding the other high in their memory. Some, frail and thin, might throw their hands up, exclaim some nonsense question and answer themselves saying, "Exactly!" And that too is what it was about; their lives together. Together, apart, one way or the other. Rolling, rolling, rolling, the train will meet its destination.

Choo choo.

INTRODUCING: SWEET PEA SQUISHING CO.

I hearby christen the new wholly for profit Sweet Pea Squishing Co. open for business. In 10 years, we hope to squish ALL the peas. But we need your help. Volunteers can donate their time to squish all around the world. They can squish from home. They can squish while on a lunch date. They can even squish during those 15 minute breaks at work. We know you want squishing to be a part of your life. We aim to facilitate your interest and to spread Sweet Pea's mission all over the world. Join us. Too many are confused and dumbfounded by whole peas! The time has come to right all wrongs and make juice of what is far too intimidating!

Say your cousin needs some convincing. Simply illustrate that squished peas are far more delicious than their evil non-squished brethren. They will soon understand. The world will understand, and deliciousness will abound! No longer will food be limited by culture and society. Eat how you want! The squished peas encourage individuality! Roll in them! Play with them! Rub them on someone else! They'll love it too! Get squished and join the revolution!

Peas help us!

Maddy's Hour

"The babies are upset! The babies are SCREAMING!"

Madeline was all out of sorts. Left to tend to the infants for an hour, she had made it to minute 36, and now the walls of her world had come tumbling down. Because of the children. Not babies, but the Davids and Celias and Stephens and Emilys. They rejected what she fed them as inferior to their mother's teat, and clobbered her hands from their bodies; their fists surprisingly strong. 

But there was no one around. No one to assist, no one to hand duties off to. Maddy was left alone with the babies for an hour, and she still had a terrifying twenty minutes remaining. She edged back towards the viewing glass. Such a ruckus was being hurled against the walls of that room. Some of the tiny faces were turning purple, little veins protruding from their skulls, threatening to pop. 

Finally Maddy broke through her hesitation and entered the last digit of her security code. The door wooshed open, and now she knew she was in for it. The screaming would not stop. She could not get it to stop. Not for all the lullabies she sang, or the soothing poems she read. The content or the quality of the recitation mattered not. They wanted Maddy gone! She had not wanted her hour. She wanted nothing to do with children. But if she was going to find a mate, she needed her resume to reflect adequate caretaking abilities. Nobody liked a slouch in any of the important Cultivation Categories: Massage, Child Rearing, Womanly Instinct, Aggressive Negotiation, Effortless Listening, Empathy, Sympathy, Moral Certitude, Love and Cooking. Men had to complete courses in Business, Social Awareness, Exploitation of Perceived Weakness, Aggressive Thought Forming and Love. And new courses not much cared for such as: Empathy, Conflict Resolution, Neutral Posture, Heatrtfelt Expression and Thoughtful Gazing. 

Maddy was one step away from failing multible courses if she could not pass this hour with some degree of success. The first 40 minutes had passed in sure, encapsulated panic. She had forgotten how to administer every kind of care she had been trained for. Now, with 20 minutes remaining, she had to produce some kind of miracle. 

Sorted

"Heylo, my dear. We are now entering another realm. Another space. Into a different time. Do you have any questions?"

"Yes, loads."

"Good."

Rigged Thoughts

Page 3 of a 950,000 page book could begin with: And now she is dead. Or: Having found the ancient piece of jewelry, he clothed himself in the dead bear's skin and fur and headed for the beach on a sweaty, hot, June morning. Or: He still has gotten nowhere. He's been doing dishes for the last forty five minutes, and still can't find the grease remover, and thus cannot remove all the grease, and has no clean dishes left and is hungry but afraid of germs and dirty dishes. And is scared he has smelly breath. Or: When the helicopter crashed in the jungle, the group of red hat ladies knew they'd be late for tea at Apple's Bakery. Or: College seems so strange to me. Or: What is the difference between wasting time and using it up too quickly. How many breaths passed to fold the laundry? No one else should do this chore but me. AND: The stranger they come, the stranger I become.

Statement

Dreams, by design, will take you to the edge. But they can never push. The journey is of such spontaneity and cutting edge wakefulness, that all of who you are is totally transformed. You will see us reaching. Coming so close. And finishing a task, befuddled. You will see ways you have never dreamt of. That is others' dreams showing the way. It is our agreement that starts the process. And it is commitment and inner strength that leads us on. And Joy for it all! Let us remember that!

The best of what we can share we do not find together. 

In Living Pg 2

The days Al Sooley lived spanned the entire spectrum of emotional digestion and explusion, physical interaction and psychological exploration. One landscape, taken away by sleep, gave way to the next. Today, Al woke in an uncomfortable chair. Its back was stiff and his back felt wretched. Light only found its way inside through one narrow slot in the blinds. The room smelled of every kind of waste. I don't like this place, Al thought, scanning, seeking something familiar to link this morning to all others. There was always something. He saw a bed a few feet in front of him. Immediately a string of words lept to mind:

Here she lies

With no chance of disguise

From all the elements now drawn

To lead her out before the dawn.

Through her leaving she has given me courage. Courage I must now spend on the work ahead. With bold direction and forthright footsteps. 

Al Sooley's Ancient Hickory Stick

Al Sooley never knew quite where he'd end up. From one day to the next he could calculate, hypothesize and speculate all he wanted, but as to where he would find himself and what state of mind he would wake to, that was anyone's guess, and he'd long ago stopped making the effort. He was only certain that he would find himself somewhere and with something to do. He was always astounded by the stream of events and feelings that would take him over and drive him from moment to moment. Most things he woke to do he had never done before. Once he woke up mid lovemaking with a woman who had an arrythmic and wildly overactive heart. She made what segment of their time together more interesting and freewheeling than any other spontaneous encounter. 

Today, Al has found himself slightly left of the middle of some recently plowed farm land. A man approached him from the distance. Al squinted to make out his details. Nothing could be assumed from the man and his hulking stature but that he had won his share of fights and lived his life in disagreement with most everything that surrounded him. Even the clumps of dirt clenched by the bottoms of his shoes held tightly a bit longer to slow the man's pace. Al watched the man's gait. Each step seemed to be an act of shaky will. He saw the lips and eyes and nose of a man who actively slung them about his face. Rearranging them to assess whatever situation he found himself in the middle of. The man stopped fifteen feet from Al. Wind blew between them, catching itself in the large front pocket of the unfriendly man's overalls. The man's hat blew off and trailed the earth behind him, but the man did not move to catch it. He locked eyes with Al. 

"Tracy Hillup," he slurped to introduce himself, as if speech was heavily masticated cud. "Here's your pay. Ga'an and take your business somewheres other."

Al nodded and turned to leave, but stood in his spot. Didn't move an inch. 

"Stop frightening the children. Later you'll see how you pay."

Tracy stepped to counter Al's words, but found his foot caught in some deep groove in the earth and barely kept his balance. He caught his breath so as not to alert Al to his unfortunate misstep. 

Al walked all the miles he could that day, passing a word to not one other soul. He ended the day when the sun went down. He decided that it was over when he shut his eyes. The next day he was to have began to shift his position and his mental compass to accommodate some new locale and avenue. One message was passed on the winds: "He is learning."

Inborn Fusion

They are felt as whispers on the neck.

They are dry, and they might cause the skin to crack.

As timeless as the elements we share, 

And as powerful as the thoughts we would forestall.

They lack gracious talent, 

And they bind their hearts to the earth.

Nothing swells within them but scorn,

And it is fear that cues their march.

It is a march to invade, a march to pursue,

A march without hope, but with terrible, malevolent, repressive drive.

They have fashioned the hands to hold and hands to squeeze.

They have undone every joy within their siblings' heart. 

It trembles and stops.

It trembles and stops.

Listen.

It raises again the air to blow...

They keep it prisoner in their vaults

Of hopeless wonder and teething jealousy.

It is a melody torn from ancient lips,

Bound with invisible straps of greed.

Noiseless, insane and furious greed

Does fuel each one to tear!

Ripped each way with foreceps large

And strangled till immobile.

Poison! Poison! Poison corrupts its rhythm

And makes it halt and stutter painfully - exhausted.

Ache not! Oh, melody divine!

Stop the suffering and wounding captivity!

Break free to the air if you can.

Sneak to some other's mind, 

And flit about till voicing you proceeds.

As a charm to us all you must come about and stay.

Away from those who would not share you.

Who would hoard you and profit from you

And release you time after time by the inch.

Indeed they would kill you if they could not possess you.

This vicious nonsense has traveled too far!

It must end without deliberation or debate.

There is no calamity worse than

The death of a song and the silence that follows.

Bookmarked Pages

Profound silence

And the space to cast a thousand lifetimes

A catcher to catch each drop

A thinker, who holds his head in thought

A worrier, who tumbles 'round in knots

And to the side, men muttering to themselves.

Let this time surpass all others.

Take this hope, and see, I've got it here.

I could play that song for hours.

Don't tell the secret just yet, you'll frighten the listener.

Hold this day in thought.

In humbled silence.

Settle back into empty harbors

In Such a Way as This

John Stephanie James was a man used to losing things or letting them loose. His monstrous girth had forced him to avoid any sort of pants since his early 20s. Even stretch band elastic was soon worn into frayed, useless string. All of this plainly bespoke of his largely immobile existence. He was an accountant who had never taken a day off work, whose weight had forbidden intimate relationships or even playful ones, and who was rapidly losing hope. What hope can one man have who spends all waking moments finding ways of avoiding the out-of-doors?

It is one image, burned into his consciousness by a steady and crushing sense of guilt, that keeps him away from all others, and even himself. His most beloved friend, Amy Jackson was the person who knew more about John James than anyone else. Even more than his family, since she stood by him even when his weight mounted, with no hint of cessation, and fought hardest with him to find some relief from such a wounding condition.

It was after a day of staring into each others' eyes, searching their depths. Many things passed silently between them, and many slips of breath spilled out with revelation or pleasant discovery. Joy had taken them over. It was now well past a happy day spent between them. Heads filled with thought of the other were tired, and bones were seeking rest. Amy was not used to spending the nights with anyone but her own bed, blankets and pillows, and so she was not eager to tread that territory until she could sense a little more of its outlay, its slips and trenches and deep, steep abysses. So she, with playful, warm and silky hands held his face, which still betrayed the sure existence of a skeletal structure under pouches of heaviness. She shook his head. Tapped it with her fingertips, and then broke eye contact and walked from the couch toward her shoes. He hid the exertion of standing up, breathed it down, and followed her. Something inside his stomach rumbled, growled, poked and prodded from within. He held a hand there, denying its existence. He hadn't remembered feeling this hungry all of a sudden before. In fact, he had just eaten a rather large, satisfying meal, and hadn't calculated having an interest in food until much later, after he had journeyed several sleep cycles. 

But there she was. Amy, so beautiful. Blonde. Flowing, sometimes curling hair, with arms outstretched for the deep, enveloping hug. He smiled within and without at this. His face and cheeks glowing, clearly indicating he would like to dance some outrageous dance with her, or simply dance for her. There was an easiness, and quickness to the way he wrapped his arms around her petite frame and brought her into his massive, soft chest. She let out a sigh that caught her quite off guard, and had heretofore never been released in front of anyone. She was truly comfortable with John. His sigh echoed the sentiment. And he began to sway. A slow, gentle sway. And she relaxed more deeply. 

Silence. For minutes. Is she asleep, John wondered? Her eyes were closed, a smile curled her lips so gracefully, so cleanly, so happily. John was feeling all the joy in the world, filtered through one moment and without aim to trap it, for its bounty is endless, if allowed to be. 

Suddenly, violently and terribly, a growl ripped through his stomach and entire body. Amy's eyes broke open. John experienced the pain of his stomach tearing through fat, seeking the outside world more directly than receiving sustenance from some garbage shoot of an esophagus. It found what it wanted in Amy, and clenched her in its teeth, without mercy; only white hot desire to consume. And inward she fell, was dragged and devoured, John grasping at an arm most tightly, and only recovering a hand with its fingers and heirloom rings. John collapsed. Writhed on the floor. Spat and sputtered and sought Amy's release, but his hungry stomach continued to masticate, delighted with his catch, and savoring digestion. 

John could feel her die. He was not a person to kill or have killed. He was kind and gentle and at a disadvantage socially. Which is what made Amy care for him. He felt and heard her last breath escape, and it was not with ease or comfort. It was with hurt and sorrow. He could barely stand it. 

"What are you doing?" His mother shouted, a bit more forcefully than she might have wanted.

"I'm helping!" Squeeled Jack, as he pitched his entire collection of action figures into the bowl of half prepared jello. 

His mother thought for a moment before responding.

"Why thank you very much. That's exactly what the jello needed, I'm so glad you were here to help."

Midnight Dancing All Through The Day

They met in the park, doing the equivalent of two dogs sniffing each others' arse ends, barely able to contain their mutual excitement. Besides just sniffing, people toss glances, smile willingly and display some wild variety of body language, all at the meeting and appraisal of that other person they're with. In the case of love, or love hoped for, the approach and method of sniffing a particular individual must continually be refined. Some throw the force of whatever they may be right out into the open. All at once. Often that approach is overwhelming, so a paring down is needed.

"Hello." Tiffany twinkled.
"I remember you from before." Allen shuffled.
"Didn't I see you sitting in a booth last Saturday? Who was with you? I didn't see anyone." Tiffany was already on to something.
"I wasn't with anyone. Well, I was kind of waiting for someone."
"Who."
"I don't know. Someone might have sat there."
"But no one in particular?"
"No. It would have been interesting for a stranger to have sat there."
"I agree. Where are you from?"
"You know, I don't know, but you know that song Sweet Caroline by Neil? I can't remember a moment of my womb-time without having heard that song. It's rather a natural part of my thinking process by now. It helps me focus and work out answers. If I can't get what I want right away, the song kind of stands for the noise of my brain processing."
"Wow. I don't think I'll ever have a favorite song. Maybe some old suite or fiddle breakdown."
"And now I don't remember you from before. You seem entirely different."
"I'm inclined to be different nearly every day. I don't like to talk a lot. Do you mind if we just sit here for a while?"
"Sure."

She motioned to a spot in the grass. He watched her sit down first, and then he did a sort of backwards roll beginning on his rear and landing on his back. Two leaves dropped slowly. Both noticed this but were entirely unaware of the child riding without training wheels for the first time in the park below them. They would have liked to have seen that. The child would have enjoyed their encouragement.

He couldn't freeze time, and she couldn't make time tread more slowly or less conspicuously. Time was busy wasting itself. Rattling off its own counter and leading us to who knows where.

He tapped the bit of grass across from his hip on his left side. She kept the time in her head and imagined bongo accompaniment.

"Hmmmmmm." He breathed.
"You're exactly right," she murmured.

A Day Without Bookends

Thomas Giles Honeywalk had absolutely no problem with staring in one spot all day long, drifting from one half sketched daydream to the next. He simply and easily cared nothing for how others looked upon him. He cared what they thought about other things, but if a thought was expressed about his disposition or behavior, his eyes would turn inward, leaning back a bit into his head, resting on all that eye juice and nerves, and contemplate how naked could he get in front of this person without scaring them off. And then he would proceed to find out.

Honeywalk had his own way of doing everything. He never did the dishes if he was not dizzy, so he had gone about collecting a variety of ways of becoming dizzy. His favorite method was putting on Beethoven's Fourth Piano Concerto Movement Rondo and pretending that he was guiding 187 aircraft to land simultaneously in an area one mile in radius. Post this exercise, dizzy he was.

Feeding himself was another grand adventure. For this he needed help. Caroline Butterbaum gave a bravado performace three times every day. She was the invading army, placing him firmly on the defensive. Hoisting a spoon, filled with gruel or somesuch foodstuff, her objective was to gorge his stomach until he lay sleeping and heavily breathing. Usually she succeeded, but if he could help it, it was her stomach that would be gorged and he who would munch on some Triscuits until the next round.

He uses a katana to trim his nose hair. Recontstructive surgery is always scheduled for the afternoon on these days just in case. In many cases.

At 4pm he fluffs each and every stuffed animal in his room. And your room if you'll let him. He has his eye on them though. He knows to watch and be sure that they do not become too friendly. He learned the hard way that a randy stuffed animal is a terrible force of nature. But even forces of nature need fluffing. And so he treads the line.

As for sleeping, who could bring me proof that he does it? Certainly no one close to him. Somehow they always manage to fall asleep before him, though he flails and flips as if he's fighting off an enraged periodontist.

And how does he bathe? The details shall not be openly spoken of. Doing so would voilate an international treaty.

Whatever else he does throughout the day you can be sure he does it with intensity, a dollup of mystery, and a spontaneity so profound that it makes the elderly clog hop to the primal rhythm of nature and gives the young a hint on their deepest sought question.

Comments Hereafter Agreed Upon

Henry Gains was not exactly sure what he had been sorting out during the last few hours spent in slumber, but he felt the pains of it. Twisting his neck each way several times as he gained awareness of the room, he set about becoming vertical. Slowly. First he crouched at the edge of his mattress, wondering at the hints he was gathering of the new day. Things were sorted to happen. He only did not know how they would happen or what would be the consequence of their happening. What underwear was left clean became his next preoccupation. Hopefully it was a pair of his favorites. Maybe the ones with the Grinch grinning haughtily or the ones with lemmings becoming aware that they are falling endlessly.

Henry reveled in the chasing after a mystery, but he did not want to spend his entire life with an edge of sadness to his being and only wishing and pleading and hoping. Mr. Gains determined he would find Satisfaction.

He did not find it in Hope, and he found it even less in Minerva. He thought he had it in Chelsea for a while, until he found out she treasured her past lives slightly more than this one. Something kept him quiet. He knew not what, of course. Something kept him from exclaiming, from stabbing out into the heart of the world and demanding a response. He always got responses, but he never had demanded a direct one. Never demanded one that answered the core of his concern: how did I end up here? His wishes and hopes had not placed him squarely in a fit upon his mattress. Or perhaps they had played a part, but it had more to do with his family and one or more things he wished he could forget.

If by chance he crossed the way
Upon his journey to a coast or a bay
He'd surely look up, he'd surely find it right
And he'd surely slip back into the dark night.

His wishes and hopes begged for the future, begged for a new day, but the past, that is something fierce.

Henry never pledged allegiance too quickly to ideas or people. They, both in equal share, take exploring and discovering before a friendship can be established. First he had to know what he wanted. From life. From an endeavor. If he was to work with those along the way, it is not imperative that they are of a single mind, but a goal in a common direction is helpful. A loose goal, not a rule. But he saw that a certain uncompromising attitude must be present to fully realize his dreams. Despite what the people making money say. Despite what advisers may say. He must become both lawless and structured. Lawless so that his ideas are fresh and even a little upsetting, rather than stale and tried and disfiguring. When he sees those around him stare at him, not comprehending what he has just spoken of, he is proud. For he has now unleashed a new idea. Something not yet considered by one or many. And those who refuse to open their minds and accept the perhaps incoherent yet attuned melody he has strummed will still return home that night. Will still travel a bit. Will still refuse to be tickled.

His fingers are already poised, already moving, already approaching the back of the knee belonging to the world and 7 billion...somethings. It is ok to not know what we are. And Henry will strike which nerve is quickest to react. Which nerve most quickly delivers the shiver to the body? That is the one to graze. And the body will convulse. And it will not comprehend, and it may not even like it at first. But it will soon understand that the tickling cannot, and should not, ever ever ever stop.

Thinking Up

A breath of sameness sashayed by. It sashayed because it was confident of its place and particular effect. An acceptance of beauty and of joy and of sorrow, shared by hundreds or all, was contained within it. All seemed to love a certain range of things. Don't get too odd, too strange or too merry, it implied. People have no stomach for the incomprehensible. Formulas rule the day. Logic has its stranglehold on the day, using hands it prepared for its inevitable triumph.

Far away from those hands there are many who do things differently. Walk a different way, talk and sing and breathe according to the strangest rhythms. Incomprehensibility is key. They are not getting paid for what they do because it is quite different indeed.

Life is not a private joke. It is a hilarious affair with nonsense and sense intermingling with perhaps a bit of balance. The joke is shared by all, and its meaning may not be quite clear, but its lessons are impacting and powerful.

Signing up for the task of living a life is taken very seriously. There will be things to confront and uneasiness to address. Endurance is key. Simply agreeing to take the ride is what is needed. Ah, perspective, emotions, transcendence and Sasquatch. These are the essential building blocks of a life. And who knows? There is always more. Plates filled quite high, bellies already full, here come the waking eyes!

An Urge for its Day

One day he watched it all melt away. He knew what was happening and he did not try to stop it. First his bed went. It started up in flames, which burned themselves through until a sort of liquid plastic eased up to the surface. It kept deflating. He patted it once in the middle to see what it felt like. It felt like plastic. Nothing like his sleeping pad he'd spent the last nine years on.

Next went all the gifts his mother had given him. These he watched more carefully. All the stuffed toys he was not ashamed to bring along into adulthood. Of course he cared. He saw his mother in them and saw the care she'd taken to choose them. He imagined her in the store, requesting the bunny with rainbow striped eggs sewn into its feet, floppy ears on its head, from its perch about one and one half persons high into the air. All along she wondered how he would hold it, if he would like it. Was it what she wanted for him? She held it by its ears, spun it around and thought it would fit just fine into the next care package sent. She especially liked its big, brown eyes that reminded her of his. He did not want to watch this one leave. But he had to. He swore to never look away from the pain, never to back down from fulfilling what was being asked of him in any moment. The bunny split, as if rent in two, right between the eyes. One half fell, turning to mist before reaching the floor, the the other half stayed merely flat on his desk, big brown eye still taking in the world.

Pictures of his family he could not see go. Unfinished business was left. Touching them, hoping to spare them of a boiling, mysterious heat, his finger was burned, singed off the top. It is not right for this to be gone! Hand held up, the picture breathing flame, he took his fist and plunged it straight into the frame. The flame bellowed its thanks and burned through his whole hand, past the wrist. Exorcising rage and pain all across the room, he made dents where he could, and tossed other things on the fire. Those books of his, the music, the shelves, the journals, the thoughts, the memories, the embarrassments, the times as they were.

On the edge of it all he sat and watched. And wondered what to do next.

Her walk walks like her walker.

Heather spent the last several months in wild seclusion building whatever she could from thoughts and feelings. She swore to use nothing real, as what is real is already there and does not need highlighting. She spent most of the time not knowing what to do. She felt continually frustrated and shut out from whatever it is that can be termed reality. From her own self she begged and pleaded for answers, but what could come in frustration but the slow dance of static and building tension. Over and over she dropped her current approach and did something different. Anything different. Heather stopped the fostering of frustration and stepped back, allowed the pot to cool and look at things differently. Not make such a rush of things. If the present conundrum stopped being of paramount importance to solve, she found that she could be patient, let life roll on in a different way.

Prophets and storytellers could promote their answer and predictions, but little did she gain that was lasting from these. For these things came from outside of herself, and while they may have been startlingly accurate and open the heart of things, they were born of someone else's moment, not her own. Answers from another may provide a kind of support, but if they are not born from within, how can they truly steady her legs? Help from another provides a different perspective, but let it be known that what is counting breaths and feeding hints and impulses comes from within.

The race with others is a race short lived. Continually Heather found herself drawn away from others, away from their crowd and their noises and their organized lives. What became her life really had very little to do with groups and herds of people.

Attention. Please direct your attention to the following items: Yourself. The world. Your neighbor. That dog. Your brilliance. An automobile capable of sensing the rain. An hour of wretched solitude. The moment of waking. A fear worth its telling. A pattern broken forever. A chair with three legs. Pillows for comfort. The gears within, turning, propelling.

Heather had to weed out many ideas, many influences to get back to her own. Such was her life among others. Everything has an influence, a hidden grasp. A dropped opinion is a new opportunity for fresh thinking. A growth spurt will come here and there.

She found things so delightfully, playfully elusive. If the dropped hints ever became rages of warning, she would be ready. For she had tuned her ears to hear.

If she cries and you hear her wail, please do not misunderstand. It is simply the passing of something no longer needed.

She is a cloud surfer. A daytime wanderer. A rhapsodic riddler. An emissary from parts without parts.

It must never end

Pigfoot Brennan found himself walking one day. He started one way, and then quickly took the other. People all along the way. On his path, to his side, children at the front, and cyclists at the back. One boy he found to be uniquely interested in the back of a bag of chips. A young girl seemed to be falling in love with the scent of a white rose; one she would never wish to cut, but one she deeply wished to possess.

Generated Content

With far greater precision and far less aiming we do stab at the moment to create something. See the target, aim at it with a subtle necessity and let loose the arrow. The target does not always need to be hit. Imagine the wonderful mistakes that cause a bit of a jumble of things that bring about such a happy, unexpected result!

Imagine the amount of things left to say and do, and those things we will leave behind, never to speak of, act on, do again!

Do, what is in the range of your individual self to do, in the moment. And allow for the unthinkable to occur.

Speak, and in your own way, please speak.

Amounting to a Penny Apiece

And all that you have seen, and all that you have heard, let that speak through you. Let yourself be the mouthpiece for the overflow of your experiences. They will unite themselves inside you and come pouring out in whatever your profession, social and private life may be. If we let them.

While you're busy deciding whether or not to look at your feet, I'm standing up!

The king stood at the perfect vantage point in his castle, from which he could view his entire domain. And he sighed. Slumped forward a bit.

"If I may, your Highness," soothed his manservant Heath.

"If you do, then I thank you for it," King Grabbardly said.

Heath walked a half circle to the other side of King Grabbardly's throne and softened one of his shoulders back into a more royal posture. Grabbardly maintained it for a moment, and then let it drop.

"I'm afraid I have no desire for kingly attitudes this day, Heath. I should like to be alone."

"Then your people will send forth their wishes for your renewed spirit."

"Will they? But I haven't given anything from myself in years. A bit of benign guidance, but not a lot. Certainly not a great deal."

"Your Highness, your people have cultivated much under your watch. They will not let their king be laid aside by melancholy."

"Then I have become the subject, and they have become something of a teacher."

And Grabbardly pondered. It wasn't long before he threw his robe to his manservant and took a stark naked run through the town. He returned, still naked, but clutching three squirming, struggling, screaming chicken and one baby ferret.

"I've named them all after you, my dear friend Heath!"

Because that's what Kings can do!

For an instant it made all the difference in the world.

"Please, sir, do please square your underwear the other way, in honor of the manner in which His Majesty generously squares his. "

The officer looked bored.

"I do not understand why."

"It is merely tradition. You are found lacking in Tradition 41187961: heading: Squaring Underpants in the Method Used by His Royal Highness."

"Explicate the reasoning behind this. I am a simple man, but a man with the distinction of doing things my own way, the least of which is the way I square my drawers, and I do it in the fashion I do because it is of optimal comfort."

"I shall not. You have been warned. I am tempted to stand here and wait while you comply."

"Then I shall leave."

"Then I shall have to force pleasant compliance from you!"

The struggle was monstrous, the area of devastation was enormous. One man fought so hard to preserve his belief...just as the other did. In the end, the simple man's underwear was no closer to being righted than it was at the start. Only now, there is an overabundance of chaos at Number 5 Openly Road between Berry's Tea Tree and Lonsury's Cattle Branding.

The right to underwear expression and its effect on our composure is being openly debated in court. I should like to see which officials deviate from His Highness' preferred unmentionable wrangling.

That would be interesting for at least half an instant.

In sinking, it loses but half its life.

Steven follows but one rule. One rule that expands upon itself almost indefinitely.

If you cannot dance, you hug.
If you cannot hug, you keep meaning to and trying to express what you mean by that hug.
If you cannot hug, you gamble with a glance holding the truth of what you feel.
If you cannot find a way to get any meaning across, you codify a series of gestures meant to indicate warmth or amiability.
You just keep trying. The feelings are out there. They are just being denied at this time. They will return shortly.

The list of things held as fear in the hearts of us who strive to live is absurdly long. The mere posting of it piques fear of the fear. But how to deal with it straight away? And how to know that the dealing of it has been accomplished?

There are a lot of folks out there. A lot of folks. A ramble off into thought. There are people who are not welcome. There are people who are not liked. There is no one universally admired. Not continuously. Perhaps one day someone will be. There are people who are ignored and who ignore. There are people who squelch their own feelings, and those who revel in them.

There are all types, all sizes, all distinctions, all essences of grace and lack thereof. There are new words. There are old sounds. There are comforting melodies. What is there not?

Is there the opposite sound of a buzz saw? What sound would a shotgun make if it had to pick an alternative voice with an opposite meaning? Will cats ever expose their true intentions?

Will the number of ways we can walk ever truly be capped? Will people begin rough housing in public, causing scenes and dancing in the streets? Will people ever mention that which they mean the most? On what level will we be meeting today? Will candles ever stop being lit?

Will all who have come and gone ever stop coming and going? Will the space of the sky ever truly make itself accessible to us? Can we lift our hearts and our minds to expose what we fear and thus be shaken, but never upended? Are there things we should know, rituals we should perform, experiments we should execute? Should we take to singing in the streets? Should we truly do what others do not?

Will we ever remember how we felt in this moment and the last? Will the gears of power that are turned by the silent and invisible fellows ever be revealed? Will we truly think our own thoughts and know they are ours alone? Will alone ever shake off our harsh criticisms of it?

Will someone please, please, please sink the spout of dread far into the ocean so that its intentions never mix with ours. Of the multitudinous ways to live, wow, there are many.

And the hurt. And the separation. All the things that we can name will pass away forever. And all we've read, all we've learned, all we've thought, all we've striven for will turn to something else. And what will that be? I do not know, but here, today, it fills my mind.

There is no more need for language. Can we now see beyond it?

Written 11-25-05

Exit Portals
How does one find their way
To the mysterious Exit Portals?
I thought they were so well hidden
Because for one thing, they mean danger.

Why should one choose
To seek the very final Portals?
Is something too large? Too tall?
Too obtuse or small?

What enters the mind first,
Before one knows it is a portal they seek?
Have they finished all their work?
Wrapped it up, bows galore, a precise order?

Or is it because things are so askew,
That options can no longer be tried,
Or all other doors have closed,
So we see those left are the portals.

It seems a most viable option, does it not?
If you or I should need a break,
Who'd not allow it?
Portals for rest would be best.

Or what is all the fuss about?
Portals or not?
It's because what leads to the portals,
Are hallowed halls of sadness.

Each hall is built for a reason, for a person.
Each hall is built to last, so the sadness
Lingers, teaching others to stay
If only for a hushed, anxious minute longer.

My door is jealous. Of you who have already left.
It has not gotten to use its recently sharpened teeth,
A once a year occasion, done by some great Aunt
Or other. They're trying to get the message out.

The sharpened teeth tear away the flesh
That we have forfeited. What else is no
Longer ours once we pass through
The cold and lonely places of quiet air.

Disturbed by some state of mind or act,
The door men and women assigned to us
Will hurry into action; building or tearing down
Bits of our door so it will be ready exactly as we need it.

One man jumped through his half finished.
His choice was both accidental and full of purpose.
That door man is out of work, building his own door,
Through which he will pass, though no choice of his own.

So, where is this sadness again?
That makes it so terrible a thing
To pass through the door for you?
It's waiting here, you dial it simply.

I was unavailable, so I dance for you today.

Before you start tap dancing about how much money I owe you, or how much glue I poured onto your seat and which is now stuck to your hind thighs, I would like for you to look high up into the skies. Just for a moment. Do you see any stars? Which ones? What impact do they have on your life? If they were to fall all around, which constellation do you reckon we'd be plummeted upon by?

I have space to let. If you need any space, I have some which you may procure. It is scattered all around, but if you were to add it all up, it would be a sizable amount. You could raise a family in it. But of course you and your family could not be in the same physical space together. As I said, it is rather spread out, so you are better off adopting, for how could you change a diaper if you were never within reaching distance of your child? And how would you discipline them if swatting range was unavailable? So it is your decision to make. I rent reasonably, you shall see. I rent quite competitively compared to my peers who let space much more conveniently, but alas, the cost searches the heavens without end. I await your call.

Humbly,

Alfrabottoms Cauldronmouth III

Great Thunderous Blubber, What Have We Wrought?!

"If you are in fact serious, as I suppose you must be given the expression you've let fly across your rude and biting face, I shall have to disagree further! And I choose no other tactic than to exhort you with strange and rare meanings, the likes of which you shall hear of but once!"

Randy was stumped. He stepped back a pace, helpless as the flow of words washed over him, draining him of fair retort. He was struck mute. He stood there, dumbened for a series of moments, and then his mind began to race, while his body remained paralyzed.

"I shall leave you be for now, young man. A continuance is in order, but let us wait a little while."

Our Host gave Randy a pat on his left shoulder. A pat that nearly shook loose his attempts at grasping sanity. Each sinew and muscle tensed and remained so as he turned and walked toward the room's far corner.

Everyone was staring.

Someone offered him a drink. Randy preferred the spot his nose had found in the space where two walls meet. He sniffed and caught a cooler sensation. He was relaxed a bit. Someone tapped his shoulder.

Whirling, Randy felt his nose warm to room temperature. Who had tapped him? Everyone stared, but no one was within arms length. A beautiful woman could not stand the tension any longer, and so she made attempts at distracting her date by giving his scalp all the attention her fingers could give it. A rigorous massage. Other guests did likewise, only in varying manner and technique.

Now he was not being seen by anyone. There was a path through the room created by the couples. Naturally, and through no intention of their own. Randy walked this path and it lead to the high ceiling-ed Piano Room. 8 pianos were scattered about. 3 were presently being accosted by some half studied individuals. Candles, food and drinks stood atop these grand devices. The candles were unlit, however, and Randy quickly found a method for remedying this.

A quick grasp and an upthrust put a candle securely in his possession. Progressing in short, quick hops, Randy found our Host.

"BING!" Randy shouted, took out his lighter, and immediately lit our Host's shirt on fire. Well, it spread quite quickly, seeing as the room was, until now, quite intimately packed.

"And now I have lit my candle!" Randy whispered, as he watched our Host be consumed.

"BUT WAIT!"

Our Host was protesting! The flames ceased in all but his mustache, which seemed to be fueled by some long burning substance.

"I HAVE NOT FINISHED YOUR REPRIMAND."

Randy did not know what to expect. He had never known an exclamation that was capable of extinguishing a healthy fire.

"I have called you a snob and a snoot. I have rubbed your face in the blubber of your own misgivings and I have spent my time issuing the full truth for your benefit. And you have gained nothing by it! What must I do? What methods must I adopt? What ways must I employ to coax some trembling sense from your humanhood?"

"You should have employed music and dance," Randy said, only slightly functioning above fraught nerves. "A bit of ritual may have helped, too. You must realize that I am here to learn from you, and if you cannot be patient, then I can never learn from you. You see I'm afraid of you now. You've gone too far."

"Too far!" Our host's tone was thought to have peaked moments earlier, but here it scans the loftiest heights yet.

"The distance of "too far" has yet to be traveled, young lad. Demonstration is my only asset, come this very moment."

Fingers raised to his mustache, testing at the still blazing heap of air, he began to nudge it. The queerest look appeared on his long, slender, bony face. Both eyebrows dancing independently of each other. The nudging became a poking. And with the poking he alternated with stroking. The mustache began to move. Slightly. And now more. It was heading north, should Our Host's face be a map. His finger nudged, and into his nose the hairs were being sent. There was ample room. His nose was capable of holding fat cigars. A mustache would be quite easier to compact. Now he poke with both fingers until the 'stache was gone, his upper lip raised past his teeth, and the flames issued from great, flaring nostrils.

"I've had it! You're a slug! A miserable puppy that makes no distinction between a hydrant and the asshole of a camel!"

And in that space of time, the entire earth was engulfed by another sort of chaos. It eclipsed the ongoing chaos only because it was triggered by it and had more flares set to burn. It is because of disapproval, because of resistance and because of hilarious dinner parties that the world must now end. One man will survive of the two, and he will be given a period of time to be right about that which he was speaking. His perspective will rule. He may enjoy it as he chooses with the smoldering ruins.

After that initial space of time has run out, he will be given 30 seconds. 30 seconds he will have to dance the Dance of Remembrance. To leave an impression with his soles and his heart. His voice will be given inspired flight and he is to enact pure creation. But then he will stop. Because his time is up. Because the height of creation will have now been put behind him, and it will grow ever further, ever more distant, ever more lovely in memory.

Then he will be given a word to read. To sum up all that was.

He knows it already. IT IS:

UPROARIOUS.

Purposeless

"Because you were careless and refused to examine the world around you, a sacrifice you shall be."

The thing pointed and laughed.

The man heard the sentence read, but he did not comprehend.

The thing understood this.

The man felt it graze his cheek with a single bony finger. And then he recoiled. And so the thing recoiled, lifting itself high above.

"I don't care if you follow me, but I'm leaving," the man said.

"And to do what?" the thing inquired. "Throw your life, your potential this way and that? Seek and wonder and dream and come up short?"

"You, as a thing, have misjudged me. I hold layers you cannot see. And I refuse to be led down some side angle road or be caught up in your confusion. I have my own. And I sit with it. And I will clear it up."

The thing laughed and looked. And smiled and studied. And groped toward the man. It seized the man's toe and quickly upended him. And it tore his belly with its tongue. And it watched as his insides spilled and poured. And when he was empty, the thing laid the man down, gently.

Both the man and the thing then did sigh.

Way, way underground

"You cannot truly know love until you've been cheated on," she said. Those last words came out in a whisper. He held her closer, tighter. And she continued to die.
"You think you've lost something, but you've only continued to live. You've got a few more words etched on your board. A bit more crease to your brow. And you've invited it all."

The next few moments were spent in silence. Each was alone within themselves. Sorrow coursed through his body. All the memories. The loss.

And then the crowd dispersed.

He went home that night and could not think. He could only stare at walls. Measure them visually. He sat in a chair. It was not comfortable. And he rambled to himself. Thoughts born from he knew not where. They only passed through his lips and fell quietly, dryly, to the floor.

And then came,

"I once knew a woman of extraordinary grace. And unsurpassed talent. And she loved me. And then all of this passed away. Dot, dot, hum."

It was the closest thing he could manage resembling a joke.

His mind became clearer. He remembered having tea with her for the first time. Even in his hellos he knew he would always be alone. Terrified, he did not know where to go.

And all life for a time went without mention. So we could forget impressions, circumstances and preconceptions. So that new eyes could be drawn in place of the old. So that new wisdom could be born from an old day's fright.

So that we could chart a new course. So we could CHANGE. Be different from what came before, set waves in motion that would never be slowed, never be pragmatic, never be guessed, never echo what was.

To stop the infuriating cycle of doing.

His mind felt different now. Some new thing has hatched, and he is waiting to see what it is. He sees a wing newly exposed. He stirs his finger in his drinking glass. Water clings to a finger held out. Down falls the drop. It feels the impact. The thing is alive.

A Half Start

Here's a story which ought to be true, taken from a party which may have happened. The question was posed:

"Why am I having such trouble navigating this conversation with you?"
"Because we just don't understand each other."
"Do you know someone who tries too hard to find those dear friendships?"
"Yeah."
"Yeah. I do too."
"Staying inside isn't so bad, is it?"
"No, not at all. Just don't mistake that feeling for loneliness."

From a Mother and Father to Our Only Son

If these indeed be our parting words, then let us speak them through. We love you. We know not fully how or why, but we love you truly.

We seek the world for you, though we cannot bring it to you. Watching you grow, we see you stumbling and grasping, your early frustrations and your daily enthusiasm. We must view this all from a certain spot removed, for we cannot interfere too greatly in the process you have begun. We wish to lead you on, but it is you who must take the steps. As much as we love, and as much as we care, these are your choices.

We must speak our feelings truly, but we refrain from getting you caught in desires that are ours, not yours.

We are sad sometimes, and know not why, just like you. Your growing up and out, while beautiful, reminds us of the limits of our roles. You are already half gone from us, it seems. But from afar, and often up close, we can see how lovely you have made our lives.

Each moment special. Sometimes relived in dreamscapes. Our sorrow for your leaving us is short lived. We are glad to know this.

Now you go out and do as you are. We look at photographs and see ourselves in you. But there are elements far beyond what we see of you in ourselves. These are your mysteries, just as we have our own.

Perhaps there is more to come.

Let our words, put together, spell "thanks", and may our hearts share joy as they can.

My Best Friend.

With rasping breath and dragging feet, my best friend approaches. He smiles so broadly, but as he does, I cringe to see it. His teeth are rotten, glowing yellow and bright in dark, damp surroundings. And ever closer does he come. Green arm lifted overhead, he waves as if he had a noodle attached at the shoulder.

And then he defecates right there on the spot. 20 feet from me. He does not stop. He is too excited to see me. He keeps walking, smiling and waving. Ever closer does he come.

His name is Samuel H. Glendon. But what is he thinking? His eyes dance madly in their sockets, grasping at some trace of a maligned thought before realizing another one, and then thrusting them at that. That is what I imagine is happening. He walks and he limps and now I smell his breath.

He is wearing a crown for some reason. It is bent and nearly broken. I don't wish to know why he wears it, I simply want to leave. I cannot stand his stench. Cheese that was laid to rot 500 years ago, mixed with cattle dung might not adequately illustrate the aroma.

I mouth, "Stop! Go away!" but my voice box projects, "Come here! Come closer! We will spend the day together!"

I cannot move. I am rooted to the ground. His face, first a pale white, turns green. Slowly. The green flows from within him and begins to collect at his nose, and then spreads outward to the rest of his face. As if the ooze in his body directs itself towards me.

I am in a crowd! Why does no one take notice? He stops. One whole foot in front of me. I begin to retch, but as I do, my mouth is frozen shut, so the vomit must only leak from my nose and some small gaps in the sides of my mouth. He presses his nose against mine. Soon enough I feel my back on the ground. And he is on top of me. He opens his mouth and my vision quickly blurs, then fades away. Before I lose all consciousness, I sense his tongue lick my cheek, and then feel his teeth sinking in.

Trade Paper Song

A look to the right and I see you down. You take a sniff of the air and you brush it outta your nose. Pretending in the next phrase to say that it don't stink so bad no more. That's how I know you are and that's what sends me reelin'. It wouldn't mean nothin' if times were different and ways weren't tight. But I'd still be lookin' back and back. There's still no way of knowin'.

To share what is not ours

There is a small reward for dying today. Please pardon the morbidity of such an offer. It is in no effort to clear the earth of citizens. No. In fact, we wish you would populate more fully. But spread out. You live too closely. Your closet leads to anothers' bedroom. We wish you all the luck in the world.

No, the reward for dying is only for those who pass of natural causes. We, who divy the reward, know exactly the circumstances around your leaving. We see honesty in all its colors. Dishonesty we abhor.

We do not look to the day and wonder who will die. We have other things to do. The reward is simply there. Not for those who seek it, but for those who, stumbling, in one way or another, happen to find their way to us.

Would you like to know the reward?

We will throw you a curious glance. That is not the reward. The reward comes after the glance, but the glance itself is worth a thousand lifetimes. We are the ones who bear the look. The effect on each is multivarious and transformative. You wonder who you are and realize it in abstract terms. Such sure knowing, yet it is slightly out of language's grasp. It is white space. It is singular knowing in a dimensional coating.

The water runs deep, and we await.

In a matter of waking

And when you speak, in long sentences or in short, let them be from the might you've exerted along the way. Let them be shameful or ordinary, but at least claim them as yours, so that perhaps one day our perspectives might meet in some small way, and then I shall sayeth, "Ah ha! I might know what it was like to go through that, for I have fought similarly."

In style or in type, we have many things to write. And many things to think and say. And many things come right this way. They come big and small. They come without call. They come bent on a dare, they come face first to stare. They come try as they might. They come to stir up a fight. They come to distract and misgive. They come to let the world in a little closer.

They come to forbid the rain. They come because no one else dared. They come because they have been tested well. They come because nothing else will do.

They come because they are proud, battle tested and strong. They come because they can save us one second in a million years and know they've done well. They come because we need inspiration. We need friction. We need a match to light up the dark. We need to know ourselves. There is so much and we have this chance to explore.

We have come because we do not long to be soldiers anymore. We come because the space between knowing and forgetting has become so small. We come because we are on the edge of something entirely different. We come because the wind does not any longer hamper our progress.

We come because it just seems right.

Crafting

There's something about the account of an imagined happening from the perspective of the only person telling it. We are engaged in an invisible process.

Post dated material

I am the son of the transistor radio. I have not come from far or near, but from between. And I seek knowledge. All that I know is not false, but cannot be counted true. How long am I here? I don't know the answer to that. Events are too large to grasp, so we become aimless in them. What do we do? We quietly become more curious.

As She Sat

She traced poems by her favorite author about other people in the sands. And she yearned.

Counting Photos

Sigh...here lies Eunice. Wrapped up and dressed fancy. Wearing the wrinkles earned by her years and from her troubles. I would never have expected her to go like this. I knew she was popular and had her picture taken often, but I had no idea that it was too often. Everyone knows it, few remember it, but Eunice reached the limit too soon. I remember that last photo. She was fragile, yes, but I thought she had a good 5-10 careful years left in her. Even assisted, she could enjoy a certain quality of life. The surprise on her face was heartrending. We were leaving dinner, leaving the restaurant more precisely, when out of the corner of my eye I see that bulb flash. I was careless about it until I felt Eunice, who's arm was wrapped in mine at the moment, buckle and seek the floor with steady aim. Her eyes were still open when she hit, and I could see the impact of the flash in them. It slowly receded into the back of her visual mechanism and her eyes gently closed. She took steady, ever deeper, ever weaker breaths. Gathering strength, she asked,

"Who was it?"
"It was Ingrid," I said.
"Good," said Eunice, "It will be nice for her children."

And how simply a life ends! Her counter had spun down, there was no way to stop it. I don't know how many pictures she had been able to stand. Only the individual knows their own number.

So, here, with matching clothes on, we will walk for a bit. You'll remember her through what I can detail. Later I will show you what she looked like.

Once it hits...

Through your words you ease them into a steady state of convulsion. You see it begin, and you cannot help but encourage it. They are locked up from laughter. You even follow them physically as they can no longer hold themselves upright against the need for air and the problems with getting it. It is a most joyful thing to participate in. Then you tickle them.

It will soon be twenty five of them had.

The thought that occurred to me as I ran the hair from the periphery of my nipples through my fingernails was just how people change. Choosing the next thought to speak. The events that change our lives. The events we use to change our lives. The things that are a long time coming, and still more to come. People do not stay the same. They are not always the son, and the parents are not always going to be able to label him the same. What is unceasing is change, and at times it is almost unnoticeable. Suddenly we can see deeper. This is to be hoped for. Sought after.

To carry the waking moment onward. It has a life of its own that we cannot dictate. It is up to us to realize. It is what helps us grow. Through torture, through struggle, through all matter of feeling.

Our thoughts are not random, blown apart, though they seem to be.

Don't miss the transformation going on right now.

It's going fast and furious, and sometimes it goes from bad to worse, but it never stops going up, up, up. It's past the time to wink the eye, it's almost time to cast the die, and it's getting very warm outside, we need some place to sleep.

A sprinter's stance and half-raised pants are all that stands between the doing and the being of what is necessary. I am glad I went with what I knew at the time. Things have a way of zig zagging and finding a way back to what was left behind.

It's all so available. It's all so ready. And it's going on right now in this very room. The place where I sleep, study, dream, make believe, grow, confront, allow and feel. It's all coming from a certain place. We must needs call its name.

I call it Alsonde Pronerndride.

The Aural Adventures of Sir Edgemond Almond

Overriding anger and lust ripped through the loins of Sir Edgemond Almond. He had never known this sort of rage. He had desired this for so long. And now he is sure to be deprived of it. On the bed in front of him, what he loved so dearly from afar, was now dead. He tapped her noggin just to be sure. Hmmm. He had not imagined her noggin would sound like that upon tapping. What a spacious, resonant sound it produced. He tapped again. Could it be even more resonant than the first time? She is quite dead, but wow, that is a sparkling percussive sound, he thought.

Again he began to mourn. Oh, he sobbed for the times he'd dreamed they'd have, but never would now realize. Hope was abandoned. He was shaken to the core, and a bitterness took hold. Sir Edgemond Almond's knees buckled, and his left hand fell uncontrollably upon her right breast, which in turn emitted a springy, playful, splashing sound. Edgemond recoiled in horror. He wondered at the sound. What was that again? He re imagined it in his mind, but felt there was something missing. What was that extra aural texture? I can't, he thought. He braced his hands behind his back. I shouldn't, he mumbled. Ohhh, that sound.

"I MUST!" he shouted, and gave her right breast a powerful slap. There it was! More springy and more playful than before. It sounded as if he had just jumped off the edge of a cliff and did a perfect, stinging bellyflop into the water below. He almost felt the sting, as he remembered trying that maneuver quite painfully before.

"I wonder," said Edgemond as he gazed at her nose. He reached over. Hovered for a moment, and the flicked it. The clearest, most brazen trumpet fanfare issued from her ears. Edgemond was entranced. All his life he desired to be a musician. Father said absolutely not and ordered him finance classes at the King's Castle Night School. His mother was helpless when he asked her for direction.

Back from his daydream, music suddenly edged its way into his consciousness. Glorious, rhythmic, resonant music! His hands began to twitch. His arms became wobbly. His neck was bent towards his dead love. His eyes bulged. His legs bent. They gave way. Instead of dropping to the floor, his reflexes kicked in a reversed the fall. Legs solidified and pushed with a mighty exertion. Arms shot into the air. His body left the ground. Soaring high, he saw what was about to occur.

SLAM! WIZZOOT! BLAROOOOMM! TING TING! He landed on the dead woman. A symphonic blare resulted from the collision. Edgemond was now in hysterics. Control of his limbs could not be seized. Flailing, flailing, he attacked the poor corpse and the most contrasting, complex and strangely beautiful music followed. An entire orchestra could do no better than Edgemond did for a few short minutes.

The servants who opened the door and saw the phenomenal occurrence were entranced by the music but somehow found a way to remove Edgemond and place him in the castle's prison. He faced execution for the murder of the princess, and he could not convince them otherwise.

On the way to his head slicing appointment, Edgemond fondly replayed that glorious tune his love had produced. Halfway through its remembrance, it again seized control of his physical contractions, and his arms broke free from his shackles, and he slapped all those around him so silly that they could not react, nor stop him from bounding away. He skipped off. Away from the axe, away from the crowd, away from his demise.

I've heard tell that in a certain woodland, if you play a resonant drum just right, as the princess' right breast had been accidentally played, you can incite the outburst of Sir Edgemond Almond. He will grace you with such a majestic aural experience, that you are not likely to survive it, unless you have climbed a particularly sturdy tree. Please remember to do this if you try.

The Muddly Undergrowth

She bought her status with kind favors done to others. Nevermind what she really wanted. She is a tragedy of loneliness. Of a bit of despair. You don't see it on the outside. On the outside she's loud, clear and engaging. But on the inside she needs. Needs the thing that tells her yes. The sign from a friend that she is fine and needn't buy the luck of the day. She has herself, which she carries across the distance, but she hasn't found it to be a worthy vessel. How could she not? She has forgotten so much that many moments are undecided and torturous. She sits in herself unsure. Waiting to know. Not knowing still. If she catches a quick smile, she's encouraged, but of course it's not enough. She hasn't found what is within that sparks all lights. She hasn't found that place of steady gaze and realization. She has found much, and there is much still to find. She is not truly lost. She simply has to remember. And sometimes she needs help. She will do it alone, but she needs now and again a poke from the outside to remark upon what she has builded. They are not weak, these fibers she has woven. Appearances are not all to see about them. She has the onward glance and only needs to find that yes that is within. Onward is the only direction. She knows, and she will find.

Hills be praised.

Even the winds are dashed to bits by what comes.

I guess she was too busy eating moist grapes from a plastic baggie to notice the destruction of the entire world that was going on right before her eyes. All she knew was the seedless wonder that was enrapturing her taste buds. Perhaps if she held one in her open mouth, on her tongue, with the sun's rays shining to the top of it, she could make half a raisin. Or perhaps she would run out and begin to notice what was going on around her. Everyone running and crying and calling names. Names. Naming names that no longer had relevance. There was simply the person next to you, friend or foe. The squirrels still danced for her though. They still knew the spirit of fun. She imagined how she would play with them if she was a squirrel. Her tail would be quite bushy and swift. The breeze would run through it and straighten it out, while she would flick it to make a singular pattern in the wind.

She would also tell her boyfriend to do the dishes. Where has he been the last few days? Why hasn't he called. He knows of the destruction of the world, and he is preparing himself accordingly. He cannot dote too much on her these days. But she is not an idiot. She just doesn't know yet. She will. She will help a great many people, and will know just what to do. She has courage in times of crisis that outstrips all reason or necessity. She will find that man in the bar, huddling and crooning for drinks, and tell him to go home and visit with his wife. Things are so temporary, and imagine if he did not do what was in his heart. If he did not give the care he ought to. If he stopped looking after his own troubles. If he looked outside himself. Looked with wonder, then he would find something.

It's never too late.

Trader Joe's

He saw an easy smile rove onto her face. Boy was he glad for that. She had sunglasses on, long brunette hair and looked absolutely buoyant and stunning. Too clinical a description, perhaps. Buoyant works well to address all aspects. What was the joke that made her laugh? She bagged her own groceries, which was terrific synergy for him. He wonders...And then he is silent. Well within himself and wondering. Wishing, perhaps. Hoping for a time that is not today. He has impressed as much as he could. He cannot pursue further. Now he looks quite serious at this thought. And there he is. He gives her her change. No hint of further interest from him. He wants to give it, but again, he finds that this is not the place. It's ok. She looks a marvel. Next customer, please.

Keep what you've got while you're young. Hopefully there is unconditional love to be had. When it is just you and you have learned many things of life, it will be different. A mother can love no one like her son. Who becomes her husband and was her lover must get used to this. Love must have its ups and downs and must sit a while without seeming to be there at all. Devoted to her son. What a statement. She was devoted to his nurturing, his growth. All that was her went to him. Flowed to him in a wave that came from the mighty ocean. It takes hindsight to see this. All her attention, all her patience. If you want to test a woman's might, see her raise a child. See her raise it with care and concern. See her in the process she must endure to teach them. The wonder as to whether she leads them wrong or just right.

I saw a woman and her concern as to how she ought to direct her child's behavior. It was beautiful. She cares so much. Loves so deeply. These little men and women we see brought about. It takes such strength to grow and help grow.

So don't miss a moment. Take the time now. See the richness of life. See it in those who brought us here and those we meet for a while. Keep the wonder of a child even with all the experience you gain.

Life is very very short. There are landmarks along the way. We hit all those and then we pass. And then what have we done? Let us say we've done something marvelous. Whether with someone or without. Perhaps we get to share and perhaps the greatest part of ourselves never reaches another.

But let all things show. Let all things be true. Let it be known that what you think and what you do is yours. Very often those who say no to you have no right to stop you from what you seek or what you love. They don't know you.

In the exploration of things, reach for what you need with eyes fully closed. Your fingers know the way. That which is deepest in you and loves what comes and all that is. Observe the silent observer taking notes.

Listen to Chopin.

I am an Ant Hill Farmer

I'll grow it all just right and then tear it all apart. For what should not be torn that is fully grown? Should the earth not be eroded to expose what lies beneath? Should the flower stay always in bloom, so as not to challenge the supremacy of life? Or shall it rise majestically and then die in full view, with no vanity to save. The grass shall take the harshest heat and then be laid anew. Things will die in the most heroic fashion, and then they will remember that they have no business staying brave. It was for the moment and it has extended itself quite enough for one day. But there are other moments of course. All things done and then all things laid to rest. All things builded, and then all things back down again.

The juice squeezed from all the lovely fruit. Straight into the mouth for quick consumption. There is no waste in nature.

A quick comment builded within goes any of a million ways.

A dog has no business staying hungry, and every once in a while, it's time to say goodnight for far too long.

No Desperate Tango

Captain Jiggle-Wobble stood quietly for a moment. The phrase "it's now or never" echoed from all corners of his mind. He nodded. His eyes flashed alert.

"Goodbye, Stevens," Captain Jiggle-Wobble said.
"Good luck, Sir."

Captain Jiggle-Wobble leaped. And splashed, and sank deep. He could see her from above, but now that he was in the water, he wasn't quite sure where she had gone. He had enough of looking about, so he decided the only way to begin was to pick a direction. Right meant north east. Go.

As he swam, he remembered what was. She had never really cared for his career. He never knew why. He asked and asked and asked, but the response he got never sounded quite true. He inferred as best he could, but how can he know for sure?

Deeper and deeper he plodded. More north, more east. Maybe it was because he had to leave her alone so often. Why wouldn't she like some time to herself? He always came back with a gift and a song, and great, big, wide loving, but he could see now that it wasn't what she wanted, needed. She just needed him. Not the job. Not the income. She would take him as an accountant, but he could not take himself as such. So he did and lived for himself. Accommodating her as best he could. And how he loved her. He needs never speak of how much, for it was evident.

It was getting much darker now. His sharp eyes couldn't make out the ocean life around him except for subtle images darting by. He felt the disturbance in the ocean around him that they caused. And by that he knew their type. Lots of angelfish.

He turned on the light attached to his headgear. So vast and so deep. His thoughts were the only predator he saw. The questions "why", and "what can be done?" The answer is: "We'll see."

Of course he knows he end already. He's just trying to set the waking world straight. He needs the body, and the body needs a place to rest. Isn't down here good enough? Maybe, he thought, but he needs to see. He needs to do what he can for her, and not leave her alone anymore. He would never have abandoned her like this.

She was absolutely wonderful. In all ways. A few dark corners here and there as we all possess and guard, but she was as perfect as he knew anyone to be.

"Have you found her, Sir?" Captain Jiggle-Wobble spasmed slightly from the harsh interruption.
"No, Seabird."
"Are you cold?"
"Fucking freezing."
"Sir, I'm more than willing..."
"Thank you, Seabird."
"Yes, Sir."
"Goodbye."

There was really no need for communication down here.

He knew her by her hair, and that is what he saw first. Long black hair so smooth that at sight, he could feel it against his neck as he would while they embraced. He just allowed himself to sink, staring at her. His beam illuminating all her features that had now grown slightly dark. Never a careful embrace. Always a bit of a fling into the arms of the other. He loved that about her. She never held back from contact. She was so generous in many ways. He sank and was pulled towards her by some current. He didn't want to go closer. He could see all the ways she died. With pain, with struggle, with agony, with unwillingness. And yet he was inched forward. He fought for a moment, then touched where his breathing apparatus reached his mouth. It is only moments away in this environment.

"Seabird." He engaged his com.
"Yes sir."
"Go home."
"Sir, permission to speak my mind?"
"Once."
"I'll help you carry her up."
"No."
"If you'll please let me..."
"Seabird."
"Sir?"
"It seems there's a whole world above and below me. I'm not going to leave. I'm going to take it in."
"I'll make your name grand, Sir. You've done a lot that needs remembering."
"I only remember some of it. Shoulda kept better records."
"We carry on, Sir."

Captain released the com and was staring into the eyes of his wife. The impossibility of life and response is terrifying. He felt her hand through his suit. Too far removed. He sat on the bit of reef next to her. Hoped to see what she saw. Still, just a few fish and a lot of nothing. Specks floating. She wouldn't have even seen this far down. Death takes hold so quickly hear.

He imagined she would have been quite happy had they borne a child. He could see how her eyes would have lit and stayed aflame for so long. Even the tough parts would not phase them. And they would have done it together. Every inch of it. They would have flown as far as they could.

He cupped her head. Raised it a bit. Body was so rigid her upper half moved with it. He set her back down.

She was the only thing that died in all the ocean that night. He left her there and followed the remains of his dreams.

The Cannibal Who Only Ate Himself

He does it slowly, of course, because he does not want to die today. He does not know when he wants to die. He doesn't want to die at all. He just loves the taste of his own skin. The soft tear as it parts from his body. He especially loves the area around his navel. He saves that for lonely Saturday nights. He lights a few candles in anticipation of the time alone. He reads some poetry, and then he dines.

Because he never eats his entire self, he gets the rest of his sustenance from fish he catches himself. Fish oil makes his skin so smooth. He cannot remember when he started this habit. It was when he was young. Perhaps born of a nervous tendency to bite the skin around his fingernails. At age 6, on a Thursday in January 1980, he tripped while finishing the stairs without the aid of a light. Down he went, and off came the tip of his tongue. The tip stayed in his mouth and was accidentally swallowed and even more accidentally, enjoyed. If he had hair on the part of his body he wished to snack from, he always shaved it. Even to cannibals, hair is disgusting on food.

One day he ate too much, and yelped, "Great Scott, I'm going to pass!" And he did.

Found

I lay down my arms. The Battle is over. No one has won, I don't think. I see them all leaving. I do. The ones lying on the ground. I hear their last breath. It is a whisper of a plea. It should be a shout. It should have yelled, "Stop!" long ago. But it didn't. And it couldn't. Only on the brink can we see such truths. Only when faced with the conclusion can the summation of life seem so clear, so pointed.

I kick the rusty rifle out of my sight to the left. I take a few steps. I am bent, almost to fall. But I must see, and I must understand. Not being on the brink, I grow old with worry. I have not lost, and I will not claim a victory. I will not face this sight again. One more exhale, and I might seek my last. But wait. There is still something else. In the air. One moment please. One moment, wait, you fallen foes, friends. It is I who feel alone, not you. It is I, in the space you have left. Cross legged sitting takes a load off.

The winds have won this time. They would not claim this land, but to ceaselessly wear on it. To carry us messages. Of delight, of change. It would occupy our hearts, and bring to us what is strange. But man would rule. And we can rule nothing now. If there is no one left, then I shall die alone. If there is one person found, then we shall see.

With eyes opened up, there is only straight ahead. A newness to this land. A freshness to the soil. Many years after all bodies have been claimed. A broad expanse, with only bright hills to eclipse a perfect horizon.

The way we walk, no one shall talk. We are past the time of speech. We are on to different things. Things more evenly shared. We are now meeting the day. If we stood hand in hand and arm in arm, there'd still be nothing to speak. The quiet eludes to something greater. The heart anticipates this, you see. It knows, and it waits. It is not ashamed.

Again we ride. Less narrowly than before. We cross all unclaimed fields. The paths are beaten right.

Into mist we all dissolve. And then we meet one end. And then we shall see.

It only takes one dance to start the revolution.

Be aware, they do stand in awe of your talent, though they speak it not. Their minds are wrapped in other matters. Your beauty makes them pause. They find it so lovely. But they must quickly move on. Something impels them further. So stick to your truth. Your way of finding out. And follow those byways, they never confuse themselves to be the only path to truth, they know they are one of many ways.

Above all, above all, above all. SING.

The Spread of Tragic Destiny

No matter the tragic way, in which one may start the day, it is helpful to know, there's a way to let it show. You may show it blankly, or show it fully, but please do not lie about it. Lies only spread the tragedy further.

If your way of life has burned down, rebuild. But not today. Leave today to gather the rubble. Sift through what remains. Take a look at what has been left. How could I have forgotten this person? Where did this picture come from? I had forgotten all about her! And then your rebuilding efforts will come from this. You have remembered. And it is time to start anew.

If something hurts and breaks your spirit, sit a spell. You may find yourself remembering it in detail. Building it within your heart only to feel it breaking again. It will not break completely. Or perhaps it has. And now you are left with, again, pieces. But the pieces hold a strength together or apart. The spirit is broken, but all is well, all is well. Sit a minute and replan. Is revenge on your mind? Ok. Let it be. But let the new plan stake out a new direction. Wherever shall we go? It is one thing we have: the ability to find out. To be unaware and yet try that thing. The options are limitless, and let them be fresh. You will not sit and wait for certain madness to sink in. Just set out and walk, once it's quiet again.

If the whole land has erupted with pain and displeasure, watch from some point. If animals lose their beauty and one day rebel, think of them as they are. Point by point we cover this plane. Clouds roll on by.

Each one of us will hear the music of a heart torn symphony. We will walk to it for a while. It will possess us in our walk. It will carry us when we stop. But it will not cease its music. It will evolve, yet be as it always was.

Remember that a friendly path is to follow.

Those days and nights so strong, within them we do belong.

The Isolationist's Regime

Every one to a quarter. Sun up, sun down. In your place. Next to many but seeing no one. Of course you have a place to sit. A white bed with white sheets to take your rest. Maybe a table if you are inclined to write. Notebooks will be provided. Restrooms will not be needed. A single white bulb hangs from above. It will not need replacing. Food will be provided in specific form and quality to ensure time alone is kept.

Every hour on the hour a cautious melody will be heard by all. Separate, but together. You are allowed to hum, but whistling is not permitted. Tapping on the walls in rhythm is also not permitted and will be promptly discouraged. Communication is irrelevant. If you need to speak to someone, a cassette recorder will be provided. Speak your words and drop it in your out slot. It will be picked up and listened to. Expect no response.

You have your memories. You can remember it all. A fond nostalgia keeps the heart alive. Suggestions of memories specific to each individual will be provided to aid your efforts. Memory can be quite vivid.

If you have questions, you may ask them. If you have songs, you can sing them to the quiet. You may find that it becomes a soulful quiet. You may find it disturbing. All emotions are predictable and quite understandable. All equals all.

A label of possible exits will be provided. In contrast to your surroundings, you may begin to believe there is a way out. Each label will be different. The distances to the exits will be different. How do you think you would react to that?

Perhaps you will find no reason to react. There will just be a space of quiet. Which is all you really need anyway. Sustenance is taken care of. The days remain yours.

The mind is the way, it leads for today.

And in a way, there's more to say

Isn't the idea of a home such a weird one?

Like there's always some place you're from, and always some place you have to get back to. You have a limited time to wander, and then it's back to where it's safe. Otherwise, what? We'd wander around and then go where?

There's a true identity to the reality of things. Why does someone act the way they do? Because this is how they are and this is how they see the world. It's all so predictable. Behavior patterns.

A Strategic Walk to an Internal Clock

Have you ever walked a certain way you knew you'd never walked again? Moved a certain way, and thought, I'd like to have that back? I take back all the times I shuffled down the block, and wish to exchange them for one moment of merry dancing in my hallway, late at night.

If twice around the block you sniff the same rose, and twice you sense it strong, then perhaps it's time to plant your own, to have the stimulus nearby. But if once you sense it strong, and once you sense it weak, think not that it does not enter you. It is that simply too much has entered you. Too much for your nose to take. It has been overwhelmed by sense and mandates a break.

So, with your cooperation, we will twice begin the day. Once early, to catch the full dawn, and the second time shortly after when the news of all that is creeps in and the day scatters and grows.

And there is not one other thing to think. Not one other thing. For at least an hour. You are on the cutting edge of time and space. On the brink of what is becoming. So here we pause, and here we rest. What comes next is of the moment and to be trusted.

Uncensored Belligerance

I was having the most wonderful day the other day. The sun was shining a bit brighter than the day before, I am sure of it. I had just received a healthy donation to my cause from several longtime friends and supporters. As I crossed the street I was able to help 12 separate elderly bridge players across a seven lane highway (where they were going, who knows? I did not question their motives. I simply helped along). All of this was satisfying. If one more thing had not happened to me that day, I could have gone home happy. Happy-ish. Happy-er. I watched a fly die. It landed on my nose. Puked one last time (as flies do when they land and test for food) and said, "Please remember to do a thing or two, though they do not know you. And seek a place to dance, whenever you have the chance." Then it died. I kept it on my nose for a few minutes. Wondering at it. Where did it come from with my message? How did it get those words for me? And how did it know my tendencies for the wonderfully kinesthetic?

I don't know. But I care.

And twelve pages pass by. Without anything written on them. So I dream up a beginning for them, and continue until what's writ comes along. In the beginning all kinds of things happen. Not a thing or two is out of place. All is born from natural inclinations, tested by a stress of life, and then all continues on.

All is worn and worn and worn. And some is won. Some is fun. Some is disastrous and that is known.

Another day has passed this way, and all mention need be made of its occurrence.

Unconscious response.

Wherefrom do you come?

In the middle of the moment, there is action born from guilt. With hesitation and contemplation the seeds are sewn well shut. In the midst of vast, green fields, there lies a youthful fawn. Sometimes there's just a moment's width of time, to celebrate what's mine.