I found my words. They were unfair to use. I put them back. -M. Taggart
When you live with lots happening you can write about the lots. When you live with little happening you can write truly.
In the most serendipitous of moments time rolled on for us as though it were a wheel because we asked it to. Then it again became it’s true layered self; a figment of our imagination. We curl our lids and pray it to be.
Time is irrelevant. Move faster and time slows down. Don’t argue with me. Argue with Einstein and his findings. I happen to agree with him. Time is a man made matrix. It has never been anything at all and yet we gauge much by time. When to take a break. How long we have to take it. When to wake up, do homework, go to sleep. Take time away and society falls apart. Speed time up and all slows down and maybe we don’t mind being late to work because there is no late. For me, I try and think without the issues of time. Late is a personal preference and if I am, the sensitivities of other will not speed my anxiety because that too is a mindful act which is among the worst. Anxiety is fear of the future without full understanding of its outcomes. It’s the worst type of game play. It happens and will lay you upon the floor, alone, and waiting to die. Yet, when it’s over, you’re fine and you move forward. Sometimes you forget it took place. It wasn’t real and we made it real. If we can make time without worry and worries real without despair we might be onto something.
Memories believe nothing when told from the wrong voice. -M. Taggart
These echoes paste my mind. -M. Taggart.
The Whiskey Poured-
Glass Half Full-
The Cubes Swirling-
Smoke Rises-Helping to Focus-
Flashes of Hate-
Trust-Doors Locked and Opened-
I sit, here, at my desk. Cast iron. My cigar is neatly hung on the side of a cast iron ash tray. The smoke is billowing upwards. I watch the smoke climb. Within a thin line, I clearly see images of the past. Which one to write next? None. All. Fiction. Through the grayish vapor stands my bookcase. There’s a picture of myself and my brothers. I see Hemingway, Steinbeck, Dickinson and others. They also sat at desks and filtered their thoughts. -M. Taggart
Sitting with Musk-
Lingering Atop This Cave
White and Blinding-
This All Helps to See
I think it’s possible, at one time, we all had to study. We had to study hard. If we didn’t we’d have very little. Studying meant long hours of determined will. Your will against having nothing. Coming from nothing and having nothing. Yet to study could help one to leave the dust for a different life. If we study we can be. Be what? Who knows. Study and find out. Wait. That was 75 years ago. Now. Things have changed. All the metal has been created and studying doesn’t much matter when you can have, for having not. It’s more a mental state of mind. I think if there’s nothing and you find a way to be something, then congrats. But I ask, does it matter to be something when there’s so much nothing? I’m wondering if we have the same idea concerning what something is and possibly we should study the nothing. We’re not saying something is more relevant. This has nothing to do with it.
I remember you as a toddler. You once pointed your finger and shot. I look at my hands and view age. Here now is most impressive.