That’s all. Just an amazing sky shot a couple of weeks ago.
One sung soft nonsense words, the other an hypnotic tune hummed. In pure and spiritual clarity did voices emerge from the red-carpet of their tongues. The teeth of the young; the shining gum. The sound of a purr from a sleeping chest, giant cogs in an iron clock.
Time, like a hole from which life drains, unstoppable. The substance of the universe, endless and renewing, is the mouth in the mist. Coming forward and toward, it comes to greet you and to eat you.
Some will see that the patterns are clear, that cyclical change is real, that all die and all that is shall die. Most will say they see, but to know and to see are two different things. To know is to perceive a singularity; to see is to observe states, to perceive within the boundary of a singularity.
Wow, this discovery!! Some of the corals were as big as dinner plates, maybe bigger! I hope this video isn’t too crap here on WPress due to compression…
I’m moving things around in my personal space for the billionth time (it’s just something I do). Rearranging and reorganizing. Finding new focus – rather, refocusing. The process really helps me put away and resurface what is needed and what is helpful. It is a conscious representation or expression of what the unconscious ocean has lifted and sunk within me. Anyway, I have this small yellow notebook that I use to take notes while altered, late at night. With no small amount of pre-cringe, I flipped through it and amused myself with my words of wisdom to Self, finding it funny and truthful and useful. (Some of it is totally cringe-worthy, but that falls under funny to me and I shall be holding on to those bits with just as much protection as the maybe-good stuff).
I have my pack, am ready to walk
Desert will listen when I’m ready to talk
The past surfaces as bones
From the depths of the ages
I read the stones
I turn the pages
Wind stirs my hair
Greying yet growing
A shadow as reflection
Is the purest mirror
The purest knowing
(off I go)
Some of the greatest fun of hiking the desert is stumbling upon interesting garbage. Some people take stuff out in the desert to shoot, some of it is washed down from the mountain from long-ago work crews (New Deal era), some are from railroad crews who made their own garbage dumps for their camps (around 1919).
Years ago I had a Death Dream with a funny ending.
I was in a school, full of students and activity going on that I guess you would find typical for a school. People interested in each other and in their work. I felt welcome here, and I “got it” as far as how to “be a student”, but I wasn’t into it. I knew the people around me were sweet souls, and progressing happily, but I felt like I was going along with it like I had no choice and had to resign myself to a life I didn’t fit into. A pretender, due to no fault of my own.
A teacher, full of life and enthusiasm for the job and the students’ processes met me as I walked a bit off of campus to hang out by myself in the grass at the school’s border. I can’t remember his face, but I remember his smile being genuine and I felt a connection to him because he was pretty loving toward me. He asked me “where do you want to go”? Excited to be granted what I felt was going to be my wish made true, I pointed at the horizon where the beautiful sun was setting upon a simple landscape made beautiful by the golden light, and said “There”. I thought I would be taken there immediately – thought we would fly there – and was excited to have it happen. Instead, he smiled, took my hand and lead me down the grassy hill as I became aware immediately that he was going to take me there, but we were going to walk. I was disappointed, but also had to laugh inside at the typical nature of having a life where human rules apply, and while I was alive I had to walk life, not fly. (Ok, well, I thought it was funny).
Violin honey, tears that are weak from clinging, fall into the dust of the desert for eternal safekeeping. I miss December’s sunset, saturating the fallen leaves jerking around weightlessly inside the wooden cages of sleeping things.
Music – Cat Stevens, Morning Has Broken. Because my words are true, but they decant only sadness here. Mr. Cat’s song, from a long long time ago, expresses better my whole feelz about December. I recommend listening to it whilst viewing the horribly shot, low-rez, vertical video to get my meaning.
I saw a fluff of rabbit fur, just outside the ever-open door of an earth den. I took it up and held it like a glowing orb. Soft and magnificent, flecked brown-grey strands. I turned it over and the black flag marker told me that this is a jackrabbit’s pedigree. It was the entire tail, not just fluff. I felt the tiny-delicate tentacle bones. Surmised it had just made it after a frightful run. (the coyote chasing, stretching it’s neck, it’s jaw, snapping!) Little jackrabbit, its heart exploding like fireworks, sitting still in the dark womb of home…
Winter is turning into Spring but to me it feels like an ugly in-between. Maybe it’s the day, weighted down by a too-early waking; the anxiety-high of timekeeping; the tired eyes of midlight.
I’m going to make something special out of the rabbit’s tail.