When one loses one's keys, they're always the last place you had them, but when you find yourself - more often than not - it's someplace you've never been before. There's love that isn't love at first sight, but there's also beauty that's not beautiful at first sight. Humans are the most absurd creatures, and our competition includes animals that lick their own butts.
There are cities where the veneer of normality is so thin that it feels as though one could fall through at any time, plummeting into the true city. Varanasi, New Orleans, Tokyo after midnight, parts of Prague & Bangkok I can't say what's beneath the veneer, but, oh, does part of me want to know! These are places better visited than lived in, for their magic cannot survive extended proximity.
In days of old, did pensive dancers loaf about, leaning on temple doorjambs? Or, was that only the case in the minds of sculptors?
A sprout sprouts from the dirt. Above, dead leaves keep the tender leaf cool & moist. Below, worms churn the soil -- churn and aerate. Fungi decompose the lowest leaf layer, turning it into nutrients for the sprout. I'm tapped into all that magic from afar: -creation & destruction, feeding into each other -energy becoming life, life becoming matter, matter that - in turn - becomes energy. If there's a forest, I am the forest. I'm life and energy & death and decomposition... all in due time.
Loomed over by Howrah Bridge -- that big steel beast -- the flower market is a world of color, marigold garlands in orange, yellow, and alternating orange & yellow. The odd stack of roses: white, pink, and -- of course -- red. White garlands with red accents. Greenery. Loose flower heads in piles, pecked at by tiny birds that bounce and flit. Rose petals at risk of being carried by a gust into a swirling cyclone of romance -- only to be left littered on the muddy pavement.
I need some mind-breaking poetry - some Blake, some Dickinson, some Yeats, some Whitman, some Langston Hughes. I need a poem that's a kōan, that makes the mind a mackerel fish, and doesn't mind doing it. I need a poem that sizzles inside my bones.
I awaken from a dream within a dream, and I'm still dreaming -- dreaming that I'm walking with the others, the others that I'm told are all me, walking in some vaguely familiar exotic destination Of course, I don't know I'm dreaming. I did wake up after all, but it turns out that it's dreams all the way down.
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
Tiger Riding for Beginners 