And the levity of one example brought on the harm of another while watching stars, listening to ‘mind’, and fingers reading pages and pages and dusty pages turning to new pages smelling of ink while staring at a bar room wall with all sounds bouncing from ear to ear, some listening to this, some not, the bar pushes further, mouths drink and pages turn; lives of another might be yours someday, as she watches from the other side.
It was a different version of today without tomorrow, yesterday was gone too. Leaving a something option. “Gravity,” he said, “is used in ways we don’t understand; holding and un-holding themselves exactly where they want to be while everything else moves.” To conceal is to prove a whisper can turn to life. The holding of time isn’t a hand.
Into which we point a view and ask others to follow while the cat strings a tail and twists a mind to follow. A tear falls from the droplets of itself and purrs into a smile. “Isn’t this what you want?” She walks away, with legs that you remember, and with it your memory.
There’s a reason whiskey exists and why the songs that we love stick. Stopped for a turtle once. It was in the middle of the road. Near railroad tracks. I got out, walked toward it and noticed a few things. Walking toward it was a bad idea. Didn’t like me at all, though I was trying to save its life. Turtle didn’t care. I drove away smelling the summer air knowing I’d never forget.
We were trying to get there so we were there, and nothing was found. No wind. No noise. Nothing to smell and nothing to see. The digging for- found absence. Even the worms were away, also looking; for us to be found with thoughts free enough to live again.
I like to look at the sky without a voice in my ear. A simple thing, fingers on wood, a thing in a word, while an eye watches a few others. It’s nothing that needs to be remembered, other than the memory itself, and the one who took hold of creation. Isn’t it nice when you sit on a step, alone, at night, and see whatever is given without judgement.
I originally wrote this on 2/27/20 and find it rather fitting to post it again. Somehow the words are more true, for me, than one year ago. I published this just before my book signing last year, which was an incredibly fun time. And then, our country was shut down. It’s time for another book signing.
Tell about the mud and the grass and the birds. Are they often. Do they care about you? Will they sing when the mud is empty and the only things remaining are about thoughts foaming; as though a dog has gone too far and the sun has mislead. “I don’t know”, speaks a tree; just heard the final call in the strength of a single piece of paper that never was. We’re rather sure about the paper, and the caring.
On the Sevens I look. Often, they look back. Sometimes when I’m driving I’ll catch a few of them waiting to be seen. And when they are, they are seen forever as a reminder; much like the reminder in the wind. Sometimes silent, the spirit is like that. So we watch the wind and how the movement of leaves push thought into a tangible something. It could even be a footprint. The one closest to the leaf that just landed and the traveling to the leaf brought a self to a new moment; when the clearing of the mind was set free. Pick up the leaf.