The silence hurts my ears, time to make my own noise!

Hear it?!

Love is the finest form of dying

There is a thin fine line between giving up on yourself and giving up on needing another…between striving for that spring green flexibility and tormenting ourselves when we bend in the slightest way, in the slightest breeze. The hollowing pain that rips through our torso like seething heavy balls shot from distant black pig iron cannons. Like when love unbridled goes careening into boundless plains, before it can be tamed…and yet how we hang on to it…until we become - the wild ones.

Love has a place – and that place is in our hearts where it stays and loops in lemniscates of infinity - it doesn’t go out to others, rather they enter into our hearts. Until it all becomes an indistinguishable melt within us. Still, like idiot savants, we squint and study and analyze our philosophies in dialectics with beautiful wayfarers and vigilant family, giving friends and torrid lovers – and we get confused and sad and then more sad – thriving on it, thumping like heart beats. Until sadness becomes as delicate and fragile as angel hair, like fine capillaries at the distant edge of tree roots. Not even those to anchor us anymore in the earth.

I am certain now that my love is not out there; even the hunch I once had that she was is gone. For she is already in me – as the pause in my pulse. So much entwined and in syncopation is she, that I cannot even distinguish her anymore – and so I shed my understanding of love, I give up the search, drop my implements and defenses, I will squander my love to others, as I have for so long and be happy that I can express at all. Spires of joy, dripping with tears. For now I know within, there is an endless supply – of both, love and tears.

Bring on the parade of mistakes and I will curse and scream out my love until I lose my voice…when I can be madly certain no one can hear me. Where my eyes next frost over with saline, and the last streak of glitter rolls to a stop on my cheek, and then I think I shall die.

just a box of fuck

fuck

Where Love Lives

Love is such a nostalgic condition, a candle in a familiar window I suppose… filled with this, passion and angst to be home in safe and familiar currents.  Love, a condition where we find peace in the blurring of what it really is about  - “home” that casts hues into our hearts, reflects light in our eyes, and catches rain from low mountain clouds stirred by the winds.  Your city which you ponder, tolls like the sinuous course of life – your allegory is apparent; the air pressed in our lungs by a soaring heart when our city falls away beneath the belly of a jet, and that acquiescing exhale as our home grounds pull us sweetly down in the benevolent current of gravity.  We run hither and yon, finding love everywhere, stuffing it in to our hearts and proudly poising as if we have finished a secret stew of sensationally felt ingredients. Yet I find it quaint that our hearts are eminently nourished through the very soils that sustain our ancestry and from which we sprung…home, the plains of the heart within, where it is said, love grows wild like grains from seeds planted very long ago. And it’s even more than where and what we love, but THAT we love that gives home, itself, meaning…perhaps even home has a home. This week I have been spending time “at home” (painful, tiring, itchy – as my brother and I remodel his house and care for our father…). Home leaves you quenched within - like thirst for water; and I believe as we are within, is how we are loved; especially by all those who know the direction - home.

We are born, we live, we die.... It was all out of control from very beginning and will be out of control when it ends. The paradox is that the only control we have is the choice to begin and the choice to end everything while living in between.

Timing

So, I'm walking out of the house this morning, carrying only a pair of underwear I need for after the gym later....and my neighbor walks up and introduces herself........

There are only two things you cannot be any more of than you already are... and that's dead or naked (or both, but that's just creepy).

Well, I ain't dead yet... so I say, get naked!

Coming into being is about as obvious as sea floor spreading...yet look how wide the Atlantic ocean is!  Amazing how an epiphany sneaks up on you and passes you right by.

...LEX PARISMONIAE: MIDLIFE IN SOLILOQUY

My dear and clear friends, I find it ironic that the easiest can be so difficult. I heard a sojourner at the rail sigh and say into his glass of ale, "...this proclivity for circumlocution and periphrasis has been a wonderful journey, but it's last call, and I really should be getting to the point now..."

"In the past 8 years, I could haven returned to school and been a doctor, a lawyer, both. I could have learned to fly jets or signed on to a vessel and sailed the world, and then have bought a boat. I could have run for office or be writing my next novel in the alps...sipping authentic swiss miss cocoa. I could have found the missing nukes or become a priest! Right now I could have been....

And YET, in the past 8 YEARS, one would think that NOT taking time to do ANY of these things, I could have come up with one good idea of what I plan to do for the NEXT 8 years... or at least given someone else an idea...

IN THE PAST 8 MINUTES - I could have...called my mother,

Nature Makes Us Ultimately Responsible

That perhaps our presence in the world is quite starkly a plaything belonging to our fundamental provenance. That happiness can be known through the joy of our being received, if only by a silent and benevolent godhead planet hurdling our lives into orbits upon orbits. Oh and love, happiness, peace…these are not bestowed upon us through right or ritual – these feelings are brilliant remains of a paradoxical failure to discover any reason why we should feel otherwise; even when we know reasons abound. 

Happiness in not taking too much heed in distinguishing a direction we are heading from whence we came – thus existing in a moment with an insignificant capacity to hold fear. Consider that fear of outcomes is an enlightening reminder, that we have the freedom to choose between disastrous and reparative courses of action; that we can make mistakes, and hence for us to make these mistakes, then we must certainly control our destiny in so far as making perfectly wrong choices or imperfectly right ones. I cannot claim immunity to the laws of nature no sooner than nature not finding fancy in nipping at the fleeing heels, and flowing hair of humans. 

Still, when I can no longer stand myself, nothing else will.

Existentially Bored

In my quest to understand the world, I am continually preempted by my own thought of what, in the meantime, I am to do in it.

What fails to express, is best understood in the next pure pause between a perfect feeling 

and wanting word