Category: random feels

Jumbo No. 1.

Putting the coffee-house receipt into the receipt folder makes a crisp rustling sound that lingered in my ears and on my fingertips. It’s time to write. My hearing extends to beyond the screen-door: the distant roaring of the traffic blends well enough with the on-again-off-again rustling of the leaves. I don’t tune out the background noise for a change, for who can resist the spring breeze and the sparkles of the sun. If I were a plant, I’d be down right anxious to express my joy of being here and being enveloped. What more can I do? A cloud passes, the world changes, a shadow also passes my mind. Oh no, not again. But by degree, the cloud out of the view fills its way across the sky, leaving grand theatrical effects on the earth below. A yellow palm-sized butterfly presents itself as the main attraction, tiptoes in and out of the greens and the flowers. What beauty and drama, how many interactions, cause and effects uncollated, each has its own path, and yet as a whole…

As a whole, I don’t know what to say. Keep trying to continue the stories but can’t shake the feeling that they all have played out and to say anything more is to kill them when they are the least deserving. I know they will continue one way of the other, but not because they need to continue, but because they have to continue. I fight against my urges, then fight against my urges to fight against urges. I stop there, I have learned that much. Conflict is good when you know when to let go. Sometimes the obvious way is the wrong way, the planned way is the evil way. There can be no such distinctions when things are playing out, we don’t intend it, but our nature says so. So we get out of ourselves, noticing the sun is in no hurry, and the wind plays no favors, and we, we don’t plan internally but do what is required of us. All the other animals have the nobility to do just that.

What is doing? I have memorized whole books, giving the lotion to the soul and the shades to the eyes. But nothing I read can transmit the feeling of dread I feel. I’m losing too many moments. Every ambitions and insecurity I had, they took me away from myself, which in turn, numb me to the multitudes of dramas that are unfolding around me. Where is this dread coming from? I don’t know, it’s been there as long as I can remember. I still am not quite sure I want this. But I’ve learned that I have no choice, to fight against it is to live a miserable life. I know, I’ve tried. I knew where I was going, I could see the end, and because of it, I wanted something more, or something else. Did I get anything? I probably did. But all that hate has led me right back here. I have gone a circle. I still recognize myself though, that is important. I can’t shake it, I have to live with it. Until the day I die. It makes sense, now that I’m no longer young and full of chaos, mentally, psychically and physically, I can breathe. I can be gentle, I don’t resent others and hate myself anymore. What’s the point? I can be gentle with myself. And that makes all the difference.

Once that’s in place, I find that I can finally start to grow up. Not by crutches but by wings. By the wisdom that’s granted me, I can see the sky is full of them. The vision of youth has to be true then. I saw an endless grass field, with a clouded sky that has an opening to the left with winged creatures flying in circles towards the source of the orange, yellow, golden light that is out of sight. Multitudes of colors and uplifting spirits. That image has stayed with me, and I visit it often, like now. I think those winged creatures are just wide-winged birds instead of angels as some may assume since I don’t feel any individual presence when I’m in that landscape. They are as quiet and as natural as the waving waist-height grass that are doing their synchronized dances. I can be there for all eternity, I have been there for all eternity, so I guess I will be there for all eternity.

I don’t know if anything ever changes. We get old, people die. But the background still pumps the same signal. It comes in and out of our consciousness, but if I don’t get to feel it for some length of time, I go crazy. I think that’s what happened when I fought against my path. But I had no choice. Circumstances just cut me off. I guess in some ways, I was only trying to find my way back. But am I firm yet?

No. If the journey has taught me anything, is this: it’s fun, it’s necessary, it’s what life is all about. It’s not just about peace and smooth incline, but also desperation and dark places. Maybe it is what it takes to survive.

To a cello.

I touched your neck,
it made me smile.
Longed for you last night,
didn’t want to wake people next door.

Pile of autumn leaves,
your ambery gold subdued,
and that intimate something,
I won’t tell if you don’t.

Home for the memories,
silent till them turn classic.
Craftmanship maybe part of it,
up-tight with strings and ivory.

Hold you like a sacred rite,
are you comfortable in my thighs?
Adjusting to you this and that,
until you drape just right.

Cause when I play you,
it’s you who reach out to me.
Vibrate through and through,
doing something I don’t know.

The low makes me tremble,
the high makes me soar.
The more it flows through you,
it’s not me who play the notes.

At first glance,
you are but an instrument on a stand.
But when you are close at hand,
I doubt I deserve you just yet.

But I treat you right, don’t I?
Do you blush under my loving eyes?
What is in a cello like you,
but a devoted soul’s delight.

Waiting for light.

Should I fight or
sympathize.
Your influence is
all-enveloping.
Even the pictures
transmit that vibe.

Son of a whore
you are the one.
What are you really?
Speak louder,
only the boring ones will
turn their heads and run.
(Who cares about them.)

What are you afraid of
at this point.
Heaven opened its gates
long ago,
hurriedly an angel flew
his eyes fixed on you.

There’s no giving up
whatever you think is right.
We are all burning alive and
there’re no precedents.
Made up, wore out,
leads nowhere but the infinite.

Time to tell a story
make it your own.
Don’t think too much anymore
present it to the altar,
the only way to treat
festering wounds.

Melancholy is quaint and
useful to all art forms.
If you go nuclear
we are ready to download the software.
No worries, it’s only temporary
the sacrifice was made yesterday.

Rise up, it’s never too late.
Every minute a new universe dances
to a brand new rave.
We are never here for ourselves
but looking for the end,
and it will come sweeter than it has ever been.

Baby.

All my little girls,
listen,
I knew a real man,
once.

Who showed me my proper
place.
Then he ran away
when he saw..

It.

They have him
now.
Like they will always
have me.

Leaving no trace of the
tenderness.
It swallows and spits.

Where are you
now?
How should I
find you?

Weep-beg-weep
to no avail.

He showed me
my place.
Then he left me
without.

The perfect execution.
The ultimate rejection.

That’s how he showed
me

my place.

Till the real thing comes along.

Didn’t even know what I was looking for, only that something’s missing. I didn’t even remember the shape of it, how was I supposed to start looking. Days stretches to snapshots of numb desperation that years are stocked by. Money is the king, forget that I used to have dreams. Unreasonably reasonable. Take what everybody else approved of and call it a life. My god, and you think you are depressing.

I talk to you. God. You have always been a good listener, I lay my burdens on you and you help me to endure. But this is not life, all I wanted to do was to escape, until I have a sane place to stay, which just turns to another prison with another inmate. I was inanimate-ed, killing the inspirations, or better yet, heave them onto the guilt-pile, into the dumpster, the waste bin that my soul has become. I’m jealous of things that are unmoving.

No risk taken, what’s the point. If all things just lead to the same end. The journey was but a childhood dream. Grow up and get married with a suitable mate and have kids. Who cares if I suck up, fuck up my life. I’m too old for a change anyway.

I hate my parents, for bandaging me, hate them for giving me an excuse to take the easy way out, not being myself. I hate that thing that’s inside me, telling me to fly, but where and why and how. Too easy to figure out. I hate myself, for leaping, not far enough.

Searching, always searching, for something to help me being. Then one day, I saw. I saw the white eyes on a white face, they showed me you. “Are you for real?” No, you are not the savior, nor the destroyer, you are beyond good and evil. There’s no doubt. Nobody should envy you, but one day, when all that hate and jealousy and sheer incredulity subside, there will be enough of us who will chew you as people do chew those tragic figures from Greek Mythology. For your humanity (laughs). You give no quarters, cause fate gives you none.

Something from Lord of Rings figures you well: “In place of the Dark Lord you will set up a Queen. And I shall not be dark, but beautiful and terrible as the Morning and the Night! Fair as the Sea and the Sun and the Snow upon the Mountain! Dreadful as the Storm and the Lightning! Stronger than the foundations of the earth. All shall love me and despair!” How many of them are loving you, and how many are despairing. Did they even stand a chance? Or you were just kidding.

Now back to me, I’m a nobody, I do not have it figured out. But, somehow I found you and what you stand for, believe me it’s un-intentional. How did you hide so well? People see what they want to see I suppose. You want to be found, but it takes time and something else to discover you. People will learn different things. Very little of those things are for general consumption. But don’t worry about having no one to applaud you. You must know that you are not alone. I hope the number grows, cause this shit is getting weak. Life becomes death, and death becomes a relief. We forget how and for whom to fight. Sweets taste like tears. Body decays without being worked on. Fear rules with personalized ads. Heart is in the purse, and the purse is stolen.

I know love. It’s not for a person. It’s complicated. I love now, I love yesterday, I love morning breakfast. I love the person I used to be. I love the person I left behind. I love my parents who I can not help and one day they will die and it will be my fault. I love my partner, not. I don’t know. How does love work again? Can one only love the things one have lost or are losing? It’s way too easy to say goodbye. Silly people, only after taking the leap, do they know how far they will be falling. Endless falling. Nobody can catch me now.

So writing and venting instead. Have to have a life somehow. And you showed me how. With and without the sentiment that we have to start with, it’s all technicality and mechanics anyway. Observations lead to experiments. And who knows what marvelous things we will find on that journey, while the bag is empty and more drinks on the way. There’s a rhythm to it.

If you are going away some day, don’t worry about what you are leaving behind. You have changed at least this one life. So lucky to be alive.

Scent of self.

I was reading a book. Its title and pages have power. More than power, it has ancient time in it. Yours and mine. For a moment, it was the perfect timing, something aligned. My eyes drifted to the left of the page, something extraordinary touched my consciousness. The words were flowing, the mind idling, long for the ride. Before I completed formulating the thought “what is..”, I noticed a smell. It’s tart sweet and potent, it gave my nose a sting. Something in me shifted, and I knew there’s no smell, but a sensation coming from myself. It drew my attention to my state of being: I haven’t been afraid for awhile (thanks to you); I read the words “…persistence…time tames…all great powers on earth…”; I feel my posture: feminine and relaxed; I don’t have to pretend; I don’t have to keep reminding myself how others see me; I don’t have to frame myself according to others’ expectations. I am myself and I have time. For the first in a very very long time, for all one whole second, I experienced and know elation. I can smile.

Are you safe:

Step step
pause for a
cigarette
kindly stretching
the made up
moment
effect apparent.

No applause
darkness can’t
respond
too close
to death
breath
withheld.

Neatly slain
with hope
for
entertainment
scented with
love
more for sale.

Light on me
prayer on you
fits you well
final dance
is mine
swirl stir
home home again.

Ornament.

The light is getting dark, there are crystals in the air. How come they know their times and yet I do not. In the snowy valley everything is in shades of dark and grey, quite an entrance of the night, an exit to me. I wonder the light as the ghost wonders life, the only present mirrors the past, a past that will not come. Most souls do chase after the light, try to outrun the coming night, but I prefer the relief of the passing, the transitioning, the almost caress that is gentle and calm. It says: take your time.

They say life is but a dream. I have fragments of needy emotions conjuring up images to support their fragile nature, distorting memories in the meantime to fit individual taste. What we feel are what to us, the only thing that’s real. I think we are just selfish that way. Holding on to the very last shred of evidence that we exist, that we matter. But I’m here in the valley, where nothing cares, because it’s not expecting anything because nothing is doing any expecting, they just are. No thoughts then, what a relief. Nothing here hurts, so I’m not afraid; nothing here cares; so I’m content; nothing here ponders, so I exist.

The night is chill as a diamond, but we don’t shiver from cold do we, if we have nothing to lose and nothing to gain. We are going where we are going, somewhere in the distance, not yet, just a destination, what can it be. Can’t help but fondling the end. Is it un-natural? Or is it a way to construct the beginning. For everything has a beginning, and the end is but one of those things.

No stars to point the way, yet an inner light is guiding me. The shadows in the dark do not frighten me, but arouse in me an absent-minded curiosity. Are they afraid, what do they see when they look, if they are following me what would happen to their own, everything has its own path, I don’t mind the company for awhile, pitiful things, I hope they find what they seek.

Compassion is felt when one is walking closer to the doom. When we stare down into our own abyss, we finally spare a glance to our un-witty companions and resonate the desperations and a common story. We can help each other; we can share our warmth; we can exchange the stories of our past; we can probe for the doors, the handles, the steps, the vaults to our origin; we can exchange hearts if you don’t mind, would you pass the salt.

Change is coming when the solitary me meet a boundary of a time. The end of the valley where the shadows retreat and hide. The hidden moon now clears a slivery path to the heart of the desert. Still, thorn-covered plants line the long-ago dried-up frozen earth. Nothing to see here, it is an escape. And I take it as if it’s my choice.

Have you heard the sounds of your thoughts, even if you are not thinking of anything, trying to keep your mind as dry and as clear as the night air. SXRCH, SDRCH, XXDRC. Did not know they can be so loud. Everything has ears now as if the sounds create a whole new existence. Me. Not deliberate, not holding back either. Proud and humble as I can be. My steps announce my guilt, my ambition, my pitch and my triumph. I am here.

I do not see any features of my destination, but I know I’m here. My feet won’t carry me any further, my breath catches and grows faster, and my soul stills then stirs, my eyes grow large and water on their own accord. I can see now. The sky is as clear as it has always been, the earth is as giving as the end. I have traveled with a guide that is planted in me. I was afraid, but not any more. Show me. I come to see you. Just as you always see me:

I’m but an ornament, an ornament in your design. No more, no less.

State of grace.

I have forgotten your name,
I think you must have forgotten mine.
This world between us
darkness and chaos after the brilliant light.

Never thought how cold I would feel,
after the spirit had left and I stood still.
Time and time again I call for you,
broken, you have left me for real.

I don’t hear your cry anymore,
not above the screams of my anger.
Cussing you for showing me the things that you did,
now they are just mirages, glasses in my throat.

How to go on without the piece of me
that you have brought along.
There’s no longer recognition,
strangers with forsaken tougues.

Saying these words,
living this life,
everything that I do
I can’t deny it.

It takes me back,
back to the gate,
with all that I know,
still, there’s no turning away.

Far from grace,
call it a home.
There’s a piece of you inside me,
a permanent wound.

The pain and emptiness
are there for a reason.
In a state of grace,
I know each and every road I’ve taken.

Change of hearts.

May it be so that we are but multitudes of hearts. Some are flaring like light houses, while others burn red hot and groan and flow like lava. How do we comfort the rise and flow of such forces, which give our lives their texture, their misery, their drive.

How much is too much and how to load the self-pities and domains with ease. Without second guessing, without glancing all around in search of the source of one particular evil. How does one lay his wary head to sleep, dreaming of death and birth and nothing else.

Connect or not to connect. That is the question. Be careful on your choosing of words, sentences, glances, your footing, the chair you are leaning against, are they yours, can you care.

Why should you care. If life is but pieces of shredded pages from a story book that was long lost and horribly remade and retold, with each generation, can truth last. Too many truth now, are we alive.

Love is a dangerous notion, understanding holds its own peril. How to love without being real, without being true, without being touched. What touches you can also kill you. What is love but fire already raged for too long, inside. What do you see.

Change is the devil and the saint. Grinding over the past life and be sure not what has been sown. Time can tell, time kills.

Is it wrong to have too many hearts. One heart for the sand in my eye, one for the air in my lung, one for the rain touching the ground, one for the life that is stretching long.

Love too many things, hanging the stars on every tree, finding a moon in every pond. Dance as if the spirit has never been broken, sing a song that only a bird can want.

Forgetting, forgetting, forgot.