Chapter 7. Chapter 8.
NOTE: Incidentally, I would not title a chapter of my memoirs “The Hard Years,” so as to avoid the assumption that that was when I worked in porn. People would either skip said chapter… or skip to it.
slender-stalked mushroom
stands straight & tall & still,
but not for long.
Four Quartets by T.S. Eliot
mushroom stands tall;
wasn’t there the day before,
may be gone the next.
This sounds to me like a recipe for how to turn a great moment into Hell. Nothing special survives its moment. I’m with the Buddhists on impermanence — i.e. Everything is impermanent, (and the desire for things to be what they are not is the root of all suffering.)
Ask me in ten years.
Funny thing about time, I won’t be able to see myself in ten years for ten years.
It’s a river I’ve never run before. How could I possibly know where it goes?
Sinuous channels
cut through the
river's muddy
bottom,
carrying clear water
ever downward
- ever onward.
From fortress walls
it's all been seen --
drought and flood,
but something always
trickled through.
As it was before those
stones were stacked.
As it will be when the
last rubble crumbles
into uncut
dust & rock.
slender-necked beauty
that nature carved from rock...
-- doomed!
the grain is ripe.
the days are short.
the farmer, weary.
Definitely not. There are – literally – robots on the streets where I am today. There were cows on the streets where I was a year ago.
I don’t find picturing the future to be a productive endeavor. A year from now the robot wave will have hit Bangalore and cattle in the streets may be a fixture of Atlanta (because raising one’s own cow will be the only way to afford beef.) [Not to mention, there’s a significant chance that I’ll be in neither of those places.]
Tiger Riding for Beginners 