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.
I’m a traveler —
attached only to the place
tethered to my now.
That’s the only place
that exists in any real sense.
The past has no reality
in the present - not really.
It’s 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 timeline 's tilted; time runs away, speeding ever faster. As March charges headlong to May, time has lost its master. All that I can say, for today is there's still an arrow. It doesn't jump from future to past, but flies like a sparrow. But don't blame me if tomorrow you wake up yesterday, and the cars on the interstate are rolling the wrong way.
With mazy movement, I stagger through my days, my stops and starts are dull and purposeless. My stops and starts are glum and purposeless. With mazy motion, I stagger through my days. Earth 's circled sun since last I was unfazed, but I can't say what has encircled us. With mazy movement, I stagger through my days, my stops and starts are sour and purposeless. My life before seems like a febrile craze. How goes the flow of time? It's merciless, but leaves slim chunks of time for nervousness -- too staccato a rhythm for a true malaise. With mazy movement, I stagger through my days, my stops and starts are grim and purposeless. My stops and starts are dim and purposeless. With mazy motion, I stagger through my days.
I roam the old city, gazing at Gothic gargoyles and touching stonework made by men long since dead, wondering how I ended up in this chunk of time, rather than one in which this land was all just forest or marshland, or one in which we all wait amid the rubble to blast off to some secondary hive of humanity.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 