coffee flecks swirl in a steaming cup cyclonic do-si-dos, swinging and folding, merging into clusters between the cyclones there are highspeed byways cutting across the surface a jitter of the table seems to stop the dance, but then it resumes entropy falls to eventually follow its imperative -- entropy rising: using order to turn all that energy into a lukewarm cup of joe this same fluid clockwork played out in primordial soup to begin the dance of life
A ship crosses the ocean, in the darkness: darkness, black & endless no moon, no stars, just clouds -- thick & low clouds that can't be seen The ship has lights, but those lights know an event horizon Lights sometime glint against the waves, those roiling & undulating waves, and the lights bounce off the ship's hull But no one can see them, because if anyone could see them, the seers would be seen-- unless theirs is a ghost ship, piloted by literal ghosts, or some other agent of observation Maybe there is fog -- not enveloping the ship, (such mist would be felt on the skin of those on deck) but, rather, a fog between where the ship is, and where is should be For it is surely off course, listlessly drifting, all hope arrayed against edges: edges of ice & edges of the world Not that the world is flat, but, perhaps, it's not fully sculpted: maybe nothing lies outside the range of the seen: outside the bounds of experience It sounds crazy, but all kinds of crazy form in a mind submerged in darkness
Everything is dull before the world changes. People live their rituals, complying with habits. But the world will change, change from one day to the next, and not the subtle, unceasing change -- perpetual and ubiquitous -- that has always been. No. This will be an eight megaton shift into the new, and nothing will ever be as it's always been. Never again. It will happen without warning or precursor -- without a hint that the world is about to be revealed, to be discovered to be something wholly different than anyone ever imagined. Welcome to the new now [prematurely speaking.]
walking through a darkened temple, a jagged hole perfectly aligns; the kinked white-light washing inward becomes a shimmering flame, topping a stone pillar, becoming a faux candle in my shimmering mind
Mountains are best viewed at a distance, despite humanity's "closer is better" bias. Up close, one is invariably in a cloud, looking at an undifferentiated mass of gray-white: ice -- granite -- snow -- fog. One may climb a mountain to see other mountains in the distance, but standing eye-to-rock with a mountain offers little spectacle & grandeur. Massive things can be too close to see. I wonder whether I'm also better viewed from a distance. Not everything is. Consider the opposite mistake: People say things such as, "My Great White Whale is out there." But Great White Whales are always found looking inward -- not out in the distance.
A pause hangs in the air like poison gas. It threatens to devour more moments: good moments, sacred moments, moments that could've been something. It envelops all, encasing minds in psychic concrete, entombing thoughts so hushly that not even the thinker can hear them. Through the ear-ringing hours, nothing is said & nothing is heard -- not a word or a scream or unsolicited fashion advice -- nothing but the high tone that slits through silence.
Your river is a tributary. My river is a tributary, merging & flowing to a sea. I feel your molecules, floating past my own, intermingling & in some way tingling: a jangled excitation. And, [at the sea] we will be, together & [at the sea] we will be together. I no longer worry that I'm a river with no name -- an anonymous tributary -- because every sea has many names.
There is a dream in which one is naked. But no one is looking at you,... yet And that is so much worse; the anticipation of being gawked at is more disconcerting than being gawked at. And, yet, one can't bring oneself to shout, attracting onlookers, so as to end the misery of anticipation. One can only sit with one's naked expectations -- wading in anxiety.
lost in a disembodied Bardo state fantastical happenings mainlined into consciousness with a side of swirling phantasm and all the angry demons and all the faceless gods churn around the periphery
there is a ma-ai -- an ideal interval -- the perfect gap in space & time & space-time there's a ma-ai: between setup and punchline & between punchline and laugh between inhalation & exhalation between listening & speaking between receiving & countering between swinging & hitting too rushed and momentum is smothered to slow and momentum dissipates there is a ma-ai for all things that move.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 