I stand upon the cobbled walk as scooters whiz on by, and think this world 's too fast for me, and tilt my face to sky. But there's a contrail gash up there made by a hurtling sky-tube that jets its way to who knows where - while I'm the slack-jawed rube. To match the world to my breath's pace, and watch the blur lines form, and hear each note of music played... We'd sync to my waveform.
Fast-forward to the end! Turn to the last page. People want to know how it all turns out? What lies in the great beyond, and what makes it so great? What will rise to the top of one's soup of possibilities? But some little animal, crying in the darkness, doesn't want to be jetted to the end -- just so that it can know that it all turns out okay. It wants to slip into the now and wear it like a snuggy.
Seeking perfect moments: in times of bliss, in times of pain, in times of sanity, and when insane a divine meal, a fine strong gin, the kindest virtue, a dark age sin falling into never, coming out the other side, landing on one's skates in the smoothest glide falling but not crashing, running but not gasping, finding but not keeping, fingers interclasping, and wishing for nothing more.
Iâm a traveler â
attached only to the place
tethered to my now.
Thatâs the only place
that exists in any real sense.
The past has no reality
in the present - not really.
Itâs a ghost,
a dim and fuzzy figment.
Only thorns of the moment
can prick me.
Past disasters hold no sway,
&
future calamities are acts
of imagination.
Our lives are blobs that melt away. You may not sense the drips. It happens slowly; you may never hear burbled blips. You may not feel that it's lighter, or that it's lost some girth. Because you've shed it gently each and every day since birth. And when you feel the withering, will you take it as loss? A good loss like becoming lean -- a skimming of the dross? Or like a vicious theft of the best parts of one's being: like time has grabbed the valuables and taken to fleeing? The melt will continue onward until there is no more. So, think yourself experience rich though you are time poor.
Put the sun at your back and run headlong toward the darkness. Killing days at record speed, leaning into the terminus, and you wake up in the light and prepare for another westward run.
A timeless time will come to be, when all is uniform. And nothing 's hot & nothing 's cold, but all is just lukewarm. So thank your lucky stars you've lived in this age of bedlam: when stars can shine and buildings rise and we've cerebellums.
I stand before a horseshoe canyon, and it feels like the world has folded back upon itself. And I sort of like that idea. There's too much emphasis on progress, so maybe we need pockets of regress. Not a full fusion blast of regression. No one's calling for being battered back to the stone age. Maybe, it'd just be nice to escape the clarity of the watercourse way. To be in the kind of place where one has to drop a leaf to know which way the waters flow.
the !n(tro)verted yogi 