Long time (some bad destination)

August 21, 2011

I wish the world was full of simple wonders for me.  To marvel at a tree, not for photosynthesis and things of the like, but for its august stance, its many-coloured robe, rough skin and roots.  If I stretch my memory far enough, I can recall my first real, startling scientific revelation about trees.  Everyone who lives far enough north or south of the equator has witnessed the leaves annual change of suit and descent.  Although incredible, this is something I’ve experienced since my pre-memory.  This ‘fall’ is part of the natural rhythm of nature, so is not what startled me.  It was the rings inside.  A marker of age, health, climate.  The way this information is embedded in the rings of a tree, like grooves on vinyl or bits on a dvd (to be current!).

Then I start thinking to myself – be weary of rings, for they bind you.  Any kind of ring is binding by its very nature.  We imbibe the ring with deep meaning or beauty, in which we can enthrall ourselves and forget about the being bound aspect of it.

Bound is another one of those words whose various meanings conflict.  In the simplest phrase – one’s bounding (leaping) is bound (restricted) by gravity and it is bound (destined) to be this way.  Discombobulating is not something that can be combobulated, and it’s somewhat upsetting.  What happened to the combobulate?  Maybe it implied too much hope and was therefore struck from the official record.

What came first – the desire (long) or the distance (long)?  They both imply some sort of gap between ourselves and something we want, one emotional and the other physical, one destiny and the other destination.  Destination sometimes sounds like the digestion of destiny.

“Oh man…I have some bad destination.”

And I guess the destination is the consumption of destiny…if you get to where you were destined to be.  Anyways…it’s becoming clear that I don’t really have a destination for this post, in mind or in sight.

I began with the thought of my three year old daughter, who wanders and wonders at everything around her.  I sometimes find myself melancholic over the loss of that simple wonder.  When I really think about it though, I realize that as much as my world is full of complex and often incomprehensible wonders, it is still ripe with the simple ones as well.

I have brought this full-circle and within this ring I have bound some meaning.

Fish for a wish.

August 5, 2008

People.  Everywhere.  Go so gently.  Everywhere you go.  So gently.  Anything you know offends me.  Everything you know apprehends me.  Never so gently.  As you should go.


August 5, 2008

You want to be in control.  Ain’t got none.  Even when you got a goal.  Ain’t life fun.

what was bliss has gone amiss

May 6, 2008

Where is God when the world is ablaze?  Why did the Devil discard his angelic grace?  Why are people always bound in some craze?  What ever happened to this forsaken place?  This sacred race with a human face.

In our hands, our furred, finned and feathered friends meet their ends.  We don’t think we need to make amends, but that all depends on current social trends indicating that before something breaks, it bends.

We don’t like to think a thought about more than we think we’ve got.  The memory is out there, but it looks like we all forgot that a lazy person can’t be taught.  If you can’t beat them.  Greet them, but don’t get caught.

What do I know?

May 6, 2008

What does anyone know about pain?  For some it’s a last breath.  For others, bead of rain.  For those, it’s a purpose.  For them, the inane.  We scoff at the normal.  We scorn the insane.  It can be beauty.  Or a dreary plain.  So very different.  So much still the same.

Wandering, wondering about a dream I had last night, dark.  I don’t remember, but I think it was nothing.  Literally nothing.  Black.  Dark.  Empty.  Long dream, short night.  What is in my mind?  Nothing?

Cowboy hats, boots and buckles don’t have a sense of suburban style.  Every time I see someone wearing one of them, I can’t resist a smile.

At this moment, the day of Piglet is out of reach, far away.  I wish the meek could inherit the Earth, could proliferate through birth.  But there is no mercy at the bank.  In the rank you file and in the file you rank.

Absent I, absinthe eye.  Just wandering, wondering, why the box of tissue keeps so many secrets?

The speaker was a leaker of meaningless words.  I had to listen, was on every channel. 

On my mask, my painted face, a resemblance of the space between here and every other place.

A voice in the background, a psychotropic sound.  Speak to me.  Tell me the truth about sooth.  Is it real or just another loftless word?

What does friend mean to me?  I don’t know anymore.  Everything diminishes, fades, erodes like the croak of toads, crumbles like oft travelled roads.  Tax dollars pave the path to the politician’s pool, cool envy drool.

There isn’t a trophy for atrophy.  For every inaction, no reaction. 

Friday Mourning Wisdom

April 18, 2008

Some time I like wasting time.  Awake, tied to the stake.  Asleep, too much to fake.  A middling state of grace, consciously unconscious or unconsciously conscious.  You ponder, wonder or wander.  Think of nothing and something will come to mind.  Think of something and nothing will come to mind.  A destination may be clear, but a road is always clouded, crowded and lauded for being the best way.  There has to be another way, another play, another stray.

From where I sit, the horizon is a straight line, yet I know what I see to be false.  The Earth is a sphere, curved in every which way.  The horizon bends away in front and off to both sides of me.  Three curves, all seemingly straight to me.  Three dimensions on a two dimensional aspect of my reception.  There’s a conflict.  I know it.  Despite all my efforts, I will not be able to see the roundness of the planet, the horizon. 

I don’t believe everything I see.  I don’t believe everything I think.  I don’t believe everything I read.  I don’t believe anything on television.  A million angles to every thing.  A millions rights.  A million wrongs.  The answer is a wash, zero, nothing, meaningless.  For every one who will give, there is one who will take.

Knowing this does not motivate bliss.

The Stonecutter’s Desire

March 6, 2008

I don’t know if you know this story or not.  I probably won’t tell it well.  I’m revisiting my deep memory for the words which construe it.  It’s significant enough to have stuck in my muddled mind all these years.  First time I read it was in high school, grade eleven I think.  I was branching out in terms of ingesting philosophy, good times.  Free to think.  Free to learn.  Free to experience.  That’s really all we’re supposed to do as teenagers, at least that’s what I think now. 

One caveat though – if I wanted to experience life on the wilder side, then I had to think and learn more than the tamer ones.  I had to earn the right to let loose and live free.  There’s a price for everything.  I’m still paying the price of mine.

Anyways, the stonecutter.  A Taoist tale.

There was a Stonecutter, who made a meager living from chiseling stone, toiling under a tropical sun.  There was a big kerfuffle one day, everyone who lived on the Stonecutter’s street stopped and bowed in reverent duty.  A royal procession, servants, slaves, soldiers and the Prince perched in a gondola on their shoulders.  The Stonecutter envied the Prince.  “What power has this Prince?  To make everyone stop and bow.  Happiness he must surely know.”

A simple wish and the Stonecutter became the Prince.  Endless processions, endless interruptions, endless bowing, but his happiness was not long lived.  For one day, during a particularly long procession march, the Prince experienced discomfort, sweat dripped from his brow.  He looked up at the sun-disc, blazing in the afternoon sky.  “What power has this Sun to make me seek shade, me who makes all bow before him?  What majesty and happiness the sun must know.”

A simple wish and the Prince became the Sun.  He blazed, he blared, he razed.  Every living thing cowered before him.  He knew happiness and majesty, but only for a while.  For one day he felt his power over living things dwindle away.  He looked down in rage.  A storm cloud.  “What power has this storm cloud?  Stronger than I who beat upon peasants and Princes alike?  What power this storm cloud must know.”

A simple wish and the Sun became the Storm Cloud.  He thundered, he poured, he soaked, flooded and destroyed.  He knew power, happiness, and majesty, but not for long.  For one day he felt himself dissipate, his power diminished.  “What is this that could be more powerful than I who blot the sun from the sky?”  A Strong Wind blew to him to infinity but not before a wish.

The Storm Cloud became the Strong Wind, the most powerful thing that could possibly be.  He blew, tormented and raged, destroying crops, houses, lives.  He knew power.  He knew happiness.  He knew majesty.  Until the day the Strong Wind came across something he could not budge, knock down or destroy.  “What is this that could be more powerful than I, the Wind?  Is it possible for something to be more powerful than I?”  The Mountain didn’t have much to say, so it just sat there and shrugged his boulders.  (I couldn’t resist!)

A simple wish and the Strong Wind became the Mountain.  And there he sat, basking in his power, his majesty and happiness, unmoving, unyielding, seemingly resilient against all things.  The most powerful thing that could possibly be was he, the Mountain.  One day the Mountain felt something strange, something was breaking him apart, breaking him down, piece by piece.  He rumbled, “What is this thing that could be more powerful than I, the greatest Mountain since the first drop of magma cooled?”  He looked down, so far down he had to squint. 

There it was, the most powerful thing that could possibly be – a Stonecutter.

 Wisdom from the sages of the ages.  Powerful, huh?