Of tides, time, and lunar cycles, I am well acquainted, but like a clam better served at high flood happy.
I weep too easily for public intercourse. Regardless Mozart or Jimmy Hendrix. And for me to read 1 Corinthians 13 publicly I become incoherent . . . not squinchy eyed but wide in joy the tears flow.
I am late in life to discover and fabricate a career. My voice finally free the censure or applause of others. Which well may be, for me, now--not fixed but fluid--a better understanding the koan “The Sound of One Hand.”
“Monkey Mind” aside I’ve been dialoging internally since the first blows stuck upon me in childhood. Surprise overwhelms me and laughter shakes the window sashes. My only companion Annie is accustomed and complains not. It tickles me to roll my eyes, wiggle my ears and flap the wattles, warts and jowls hanging from my skull like a damp threadbare dish rag. But when I stick my tongue out mimicking her kisses she stares wide eyed attention assured. We are each other’s favorite toy.
To the point: I wonder why I do what I do, or anything, minus the obvious. But that is the filter through which flows everything around me coupling the things I cannot see or hear manifest/manifold in and to other senses.
The only marketable skill I had was once mystical in the sense it combined a plethora of elements executed in milliseconds. A mash up melding technical knowledge, instinct, intuition, feelings and senses inseminating that frozen bit of time captured; a photograph. All this is now commonly available, like the Nickel Penny Arcade Masturbator dad and I would speculate about. We called her “Granny” in homage to Tom Swift. . . . kinda’ sorta’ like those photo booths, close the curtain and giggle unisex.
I have no ambition left save for the play of words and images caught in time and briefly held. To float in empty space as I once saw in a dream, Michelangelo’s pietà; the end of everything. Its going to happen eventually, whether by fracking, giving the earth enemas, or Ritalin dispensed for the inconvenient child leaving their synapses aberrant for generations to come, should we as a species or life form still be around. The end by Fire or Ice is a lovely metaphor. All the while mercantile greed is hurling us stealthily and subversively into individual termination today thence the world.
I judge myself by the same standards.
It is appalling that The Thought Police are now covertly viral. A virus more insidious than Ebola devouring Free Speech. I’ve amputated my few associations with charity, or political protest, on the Internet, being it is a lost cause. Seen though my eyes, the powers that be, killing us, obliquely, are factory farming our psyches . . . slavery is the norm. We ciphers victims all of our own, self-congratulatory/self-revelatory publication.
1204 05:29
Why am I restless, sleeping briefly working longer? I’ve been touched by several people, literally and figuratively, with their questions invoking my own. This continuance of the above; inspired by the image of myself as a lab rat, white, red eyed, whiskers twitching curious. Nay I’m more the church mouse filled with stored hymnals and prayer books just a nibble here and there about the edges--The Great Big Book--residing on the lectern . . . a cuddly ball of brown fur. Innocuous and benign; superfluous/supercilious. L.O.L.
I could look up Voltaire and his wondrous remark about God’s laugher and our being too--and here I’ll ad lib; self-righteous to applaud and laugh along. Although in Voltaire, I remember he implied: terror/terrified.
If whores and tax collectors were good enough for Jesus I’ll follow his lead. After all laws create law breakers exponentially . . . well . . . maybe not for those who clothe their crimes institutionally.
Oh well just an afterthought.
ABOUT THE PHOTOGRAPH:
I am a closet painter, musician, poet, sculptor . . . well maybe, maybe not . . . any or all or none of those.
The hospice volunteers had just been feted: breakfast and a movie--MIRROR/MIRROR. I waited to see, the credits, who had participated in this slaying of Disney’s neutering of fairy tales; shear genius all told.
As I walked to my vehicle I was approached by a middle-aged African American, sleek, muscular, well dressed. He approached me and said, “My mother died there ##/##. Thank you for your care.” I, in principle and in general do not advertise my association; I’d forgotten to remove my volunteer badge after the event.
Lifetime habit, carrying a recording device, I looked down and reflexively annotated the moment, surprised afterward that it is habitual, this looking for lost pennies who resemble me. The interstice between us and the numinous is never as great as it seems. . . . and her angelic face is etched in the best camera we all have; the heart.
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