I get up and go down, get up, go down, get up, go down. Everyday I get up out of bed and go down to the kitchen. Life is in the stairs. I get up and go down, get up and go down and in the blur between bed and breakfast I see my entire life is here in the winding stairs. Here is all there is for me because I can never be where I’m going nor wherever I was.
Bliss is
The brain, home of man’s magical mind, is always in a whiz, always on the go. It dashes off here or there without warning, maybe to China or back to the swimming pool scene of its favorite movie. It travels fast, light (despite its personal baggage). Time cannot hold it down. The mind jumps backwards and forwards with the same breezy ease. Always darting from one spot to another. It doesn’t know how to be still. An old song floats out of the radio and, oops, off it goes again. I’m at my first dance in the junior high school gym. Here it lingers, but only for an instant. Flighty, floaty, flaky, fluky. The mind darts about everywhere because, formless, it can never actually be anywhere.
The poppy
Professor Snowball is the snowball tree in my backyard. He changes with the seasons, like we all do. In November he is a dying fire with his last red embers drifting down into dark days. In January he stands stark naked. In spring he begins to bloom. By May he is covered with heavy snowballs which pull his branches down low. Then a brownish tint starts to gnaw at his glory like slush on the side of the road. This morning (like every morning) he is in full mutation. More brown than white. Soon he’ll be covered in luscious green leaves, then fiery red flakes, ending with his skinny stick branches covered in winter’s white frozen ash. I observe Professor Snowball as he evolves, dissolves and revives. He continually changes his outer cloak, but never what he is inside.
The mummy in the mirror
This day begins gray like yesterday. So I just assume it will be like all the others. Then I go into the garage to get a carton of milk and accidentally knock over a plastic bottle of detergent. It breaks instantly into a creamy white lake on the cold concrete floor. Now I smell like a load of clean laundry. (But it is still a smell.)
Suddenly, but not very
There is this inner knowing that we are not what is depicted by our outer shells or stitched on labels. We pick and peck at our uncomfortable skin covered coating. We rub the unsightly spots, scratch where it itches, bite off the dry flaky bits. It feels awkward to wear flesh that just doesn’t fit.
There is a chair
Don’t think we are in the same world just because we all see that chair over there. It isn’t the same chair. My chair is real for me. Yours is for you. Inner conviction makes the outer world come true. And this truth dissolves upon the death of the body that believed it into being. Reality is not independent (there, whether you are or not). Your presence is its umbilical cord.
Let there be leaks
The paradox is in the cracks, the leaks, the pores and holes. We are filled with empty spaces. We are stuffed with vacuum and void. The paradox is that we work relentlessly to fill in our blanks.
Closet of clutter, stack of shoes, pile of pretty postcards. We rush through the aisles of life loading our carts with stuff to fill us full. One more framed achievement nailed up on the wall. One more important appointment squished into the already tight schedule. One more flat face liked on the screen. We always need just one more, just one more. Just to get rid of that gnawing feeling of lack.
Boxed in
My body is my castle, but not really
It is a tree. It grows, it blooms, it withers, it dies
Dwelling place doomed
The inherent contradiction of our human story
An inner understanding of everness
Wrapped tightly in our outer and inevitable demise
It’s about time
Dear You me too,
I know this might seem a little bit corny (and I know you’re already getting embarrassed), but on this, our special, day I decided to put down in words just how much I love you. It’s true. I really do.
I know I never say it enough (okay, never say it at all). But today is our anniversary so it seems like a good time to tell you what you really mean to me. You are my loyal friend and have never let me down. I know you often feel neglected, even ignored. And I admit, I sometimes forget that you are there (except when I notice you’ve put on a few extra pounds). I know I’m probably not the ideal partner. I get impatient when you are slow. I get angry when you are clumsy. I know I always seem to focus on what you do wrong rather than on the million miniscule things you do right every day of our life.
Today, and for the very first time, I realized just how important you are to me. Where would I be without you? Who would I be without you? What would I be without you?!
You are my best buddy, my blood brother, my significant other. You are not the love of my life. You are my life!
Happy birthday to you, dear body and faithful abode.
Love, Brain
P.S. You can blow out our candles. (Try to do it in one breath this time… but no pressure.) Leave the wish making up to me (I’ve got a good idea).
Soul’s song
The creative seed isn’t within. It is on the other side. Creativity isn’t something you have to hold (or to lose). It just passes through… you. I sense two very separate worlds, one visible and impermanent, the other invisible and everlasting. Humans are a bit of both, with physical bodies and metaphysical souls. Unwittingly, we stand between two realities, like a swinging door.
Pebbles 