drink the wisdom -- you'll find it more in the heat than in the liquid subtle - like the flavor of tea in drinking it you'll discover: there is no tea, but the tea -- a tea-less tea the life in you the life in me melted into a mound of unity
Stepping out onto a city street in the cool, unclocked hours of the morning. One looks about, but not as one does in daylight -- i.e. in response to sound. Instead, one looks about in response to the lack of sound. A clawing sound from a burrowing rat isn't worth one's attention. It's the silence that calls upon the mind as to a sailor on shore leave.
linked machine to machine we're bio-destined to oblivion we can take our fidget romps, but we're still turds migrating through a litterbox called life among us are sentient volcanoes, self-aware, but not aware
There are cities that grow upon cities, piling them up and spreading them out; amoeba-like false feet reaching down the cold run corridors of transit Markets grow up through the cracks - some vast and hardy tumors of commerce while others are little card table kiosks kicked into corners The view becomes uniform & undifferentiated - like an ocean, sprawling to infinity in all directions; more complex than the sea but equal in its dispiriting sameness In some room or another, in that vast repository of rooms, everything that can happen is happening -- loving, killing, praying, torturing, healing, and so on Rooms are the city's cells; the buildings - its organs; the neighborhoods - its systems; and we are but molecules in the city's scheme.
patchwork in shades of green, beige, and rust-red clay geometries formed of odd angles spreading ahead to the edge of sight & imagination so many fields in so many states - yet, all in one time & place there, I felt a tad bit infinite, being stretched from a stable center in all directions as time sprawled first to last in no particular order
In the world of mechanical birds, birds that whir and chink and prance with mechanistic precision, I miss warbles and trills and chaotic flight paths.
People pray for blinding, deafening magic. Instead, they should make themselves keen observers of the mundane miracles. Those little magic moments like seeing a baby's smile or crossing over a green ridge to face a snow-capped mountain. Feel these rare moments to their fullest, rather than wishing to be dazzled by grand displays of the supernatural. Those loud miracles will probably never happen, and - if they do - one who hasn't become attuned to hearing the quiet moments of glorious perfection might still miss them.
I'm floating, or - perhaps - flowing. I can't tell sans gravitational pull. I want to reach for something solid, but I have nothing with which to reach. I want to scream, but I have nothing with which to make sound. So, I'm left to yearn. All I can do is yearn - yearn my ass off - and variations, thereof: -pine, -aspire, -crave, -wish, -etc. The Epicureans believed in soul particles [lighter & finer than body particles] and I wonder whether my soul particles could knock loose a feather precariously balanced on the edge of a dresser?
I've lived on islands - some surrounded by sea, and some not, islands of isolation - cut off and cut out - fringed with nothingness. In the quiet of a cave inside a mountain on that island amid the ocean vast, I found myself both on an island & being an island.
Everybody seeks oneness, but maybe one with everything is too much, it's a state in which one is lost, irrelevant, and unloved - all at once. Maybe it's better to be tied to the mast - like Odysseus - straining to make that dangerous connection, but unable to, the connection of non-connection, the love of longing, of trying, but not of being plugged in -- air-gapped to prevent resonance at a frequency that would shatter one's soul.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 