Wishful, Sinful

If the doors of perception were cleansed, everything would appear to man as it is: Infinite. For man has closed himself up, til' he sees all things thro' narrow chinks of his cavern... Loosen, then, return to flight, and soar as spirit dallying in the infernal updraft and spark, to give always and everywhere to the breath of god, to still and swell the song carrying frequencies untold and un-telling...

so our problem as finite beings on earth, is a grappling of perspective, a chance to see over the shoulder of the beast, trying to subdue the awesome power of the imagination, never to be consumed, always to be caught up in the forces and powers of the earth and its beings. Everything that lives is sacred, everything that dies is sacred, everything that moves and changes and gives and blesses and melts and freezes, slowing the discourse, wrangling the beast, helping the lover the melter the chimera the man who can't stop laughing, can't stop tap tap tapping until the sliver of a crack begins to loosen, changing states again, into the liquid, into the ether glass, obsidionic, waiting for the state to change and drool, the master's hand, the ball that won't fall, the hearthstone welcoming the disarray of fractured light, conchoidial, chaotic, and yearning for the next age of embryonic fury. Bring it. Trip the light conchoidial! Cooling now to the smooth touch, the cooling, the patron saint of clarity within distortion

Now what?

I feel like I am running out of material. I have just so many stories, just so many laughs, just so many terrors, and I cannot replenish fast enough. Thankfully, I ran into one of my most precious friends today in the street, and I re-energized with the help of that stimulus, and I got the most important energy, that is, all love, all love. If God is limitless, there must be some variability, some way to look homeward, to look into the far future, to take what I have woven into my body and mind. My stories run thin, and I wonder every day what new thing I can uncover, some new discovery, meeting another unknown, lying down with the women on the church portico, protecting one another from the edge of night, strength in numbers even if I'm not sure, or no, I am never sure, no one is, but the portico that shelters the women in the night, strengthening one another, keeping close, the college professor, the doctor, the crazy lady rolling back and forth gently keening, whimpering, rubbing thumb and fore-finger together, just to remind her self, my self, the others never gone perhaps, but I just don't know, I have to be alert, have to keep myself, bringing my self to my self, trading too many crackers for the long ride home, vigilant, vigilant, always, for there is no such thing as forgiveness, only strength and an uncertain promise of the morrow, let us pray, let us pray, let us sleep hard enough to get through, take, eat, this is my body which is given for us, try for a laugh, try for a person to be kind in spite of themselves, the thinnest mat is a lifesaver, as pavement is utterly bearable with a 16th inch of a mat, Hail Mary, full of grace, the lord is with thee. Blessed art though amongst women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus.

Nature's Wonders

The last 24 hours have shown the power and the unseen hand of the weather, the force of the universe, and the remarkable breadth of the forms that evolve on this planet. We awoke clear and bright, and we will sleep until the morrow, when the wildness of the surf and it's winds and tides will once again re-make the shore, tossing up the wrack, and giving the observer another plate of food for the curious, as in olden times, as our science and its truths began to take the wonder out of man's affectionate longing for truth, cause, and the certain nature of things. I am no Luddite, but I yearn for the kind of discovery that only the curious can conjure, taking half-truths based on imagination, nothing but "what-ifs and ""why"s, pushing so hard to find a plausible notion, that seems to fit, seems to reveal a tiny piece of the whole, our one star the only light we see, often clouded, ever-changing and ever-present, but here, there, in ourselves and in our own beacon, shone sometimes benighted, but never yet extinguished. In our little place, the dolphins have given us joy, their seeming antics and jocular conviviality in astounding profusion, while feeling that they know far more than we, and could be coaxed to teach us how to sing their songs and tales; their display this day, more yet than any other, seemed to show such understanding and conviviality, as we witnessed today, dozens of animals interacting and seemingly coordinating the sallies and thrusts that seemed to have some intelligence, as the fish seemed to bunch up and herd the schools that swam in such close proximity and profusion that the fins and thrusts boiled and edddied like some sort of sport or feeding frenzy. It was an awesome spectacle, very close to the shore, and an amazing display of the power and intelligence of these creatures that fascinate us.

Nature's Fury

Last week I was treated to a spectacle of nature that I have cherished since my boyhood. Thunder storms affect many people this way. There is an undeniable primality in the bombastic release of energy and kinesis that just makes me want to go native. When I stand on the deck of my little house in the woods, surrounded by very large trees and, accented by the fact that my home looks out across a flat, treeless swampy terrain, which allows one to really focus on the movement that develops when the storms strike. This past week was one of the most powerful storms we have had in a very long time. As I always do, when these conditions are present, I prepare for the event by removing all clothing and begin some sort of chanting, or my version of primitive singers, which to any sane person would look like some kind of psychotic meltdown or peyote induced, shamanistic invocation to the gods of kinesis and root-level physics brought on by a desire to be one with the life/death force and the inevitable glimpse of the universe that the combination of watching the tops of trees start to break off and fly around, and the abrupt reality of nearly getting knocked into oblivion by TWO lightning strikes that I actually watched/were in/ within the very few moments I had before diving back into the house as the crashing sound of a ten inch diameter tulip poplar gave it up sending debris and splinters, leaving TWO slick white sappy scars that looked like elephant tusks in the two strikes. I have yet to make a dent in the downed tree limbs, as wet tulip trees defy the Stihl chainsaw. All in good time...and maybe that Was the wicked witch of the west after all. Hic finis est.

Voluntarism

I just realized thatI am disabled. I know this because I am no longer legally able to work for a living. This was my own decision, even though it still seems like some sort of "Catch 22", since I can read and write and drive my car competently. I am writing this to try to understand what options I have, in the business of living. When I filed for Disability Insurance, I really didn't understand the consequences of these actions. My brain does not function properly. I cannot hold a new memory for any length of time, but often, I can summon a memory of the past. I can participate in conversation, as long as the thread remains unbroken. I can generate new threads of narrative, and I can participate until my memory decays with regard to a particular topic. Interestingly, I have created a Blog that has been going on now for almost a year, and many people comment favorably on my blog posts. I have found that the disease has it's own curriculum. It schools me, and I manipulate it (never nearly perfectly!) One might wonder if there is a way to intertwine these intelligences, somehow, through combined perspectives and experiences: perhaps some sort of "group mind." I have recently observed that among some groups and close colleagues, there begins an approximation of this capacity, that, like a marriage or team of close colleagues, where the mere suggestion of a concept quickly unfurls it's flowers, there, quickly ignited and suddenly bursting with light, heat, and potential energy, a new potential bursts onto the scene, only to decay and cool, awaiting the next opportunity. Probably uncontrollable, but possibly susceptible to careful ignition.

Northeast, MD

At dawn, the dew begins to sparkle, beckoning the bather to slide slithery soft into the slimy touch of sea grasses, foulers of outboards, whisperers of sensation and deft presence, some sort of treatment for a holding tank of minnows, bound for deeper water, and the miracle of eagles, five years in the making of the gleaming white head, fish eaters, they say, but still worthy of the currency's mark, unmistakeable profile and proud in the perch. Some days, the Osprey make sallies toward the Eagle, as if to engage, but nothing comes of it, there is not the will, nor the precision of the Osprey, to engage, and truth be told, the Osprey has no real beef with the eagle or the Osprey, they are all of a piece, suited just so, playing the parts assigned in this piece of ecosystem, soaring routinely, wowing the crowd, above the speed boats and barges, small craft and mansions, all somehow right in their place. Even Abercrombie and Fitch can't bitch!

In town, the town is jumpin', and the river is high, but other waves of beings now flood the streets of Northeast, bikers, babies, memorabilia, with chocolate syrup and jimmies, and a crab cake for me and soft-shell for you. What's not to love!