Ocean wave

A wave begins beneath the surface. It grows in size and strength as it moves towards the inevitable beach where it comes crashing to an end, only to seep back to its beginnings again. Thus is the condition of man.

The origin, the essence, the force of a wave is its ocean. We get confused because we think, “I’m a wave! I’m a wave! Look how big. Look how strong.” But then, “uh-oh, the beach!” upon which we all crash with a splash. A wave is temporary. Ocean is eternal. You are both.

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Insides out

I realized in the dead of night that I must write inside out. How awkward to try to write what it seems I’m supposed to say… to try to guess the words you wish to hear. We can only know one truth, our own truth. Each lighthouse casts a unique glow and it shines from inside to out.

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I am Here

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.)

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