Thursday Thoughts

  • The problem with living in the now and with releasing the past (meditation, blank state and all that) is being a Reader. Reader, Writer, either—both. There it is in front of you, those dates, those times, those revolutions, those disappointments. Those misunderstandings. Those uglinesses and judgments (of self). And of course those flights when living inches off the ground, and equally the longing for them.
  • To say nothing of seeing again the raising of the flag of protest and reaching for the wine bottle. Or vodka when all of it is considered.
  • We found that if you don’t kneel to sacred cows you’ll be wiped out by them. We also found out the joke’s on us. That is, when it ends and you look around and no one’s there. There’s no one left standing as everyone grew up at the same time as they got older and then they became middle America.
  • Terrible is an adjective that has become so limited by its use in the negative when it should not be so. Think of a terrible love, think of a belief of terrible strength. Think Terrible Glory! No, it should not be limited to the anthem of negativity. The same with awful—as in an Awful Beauty.
  • The saddest thing about growing up is losing the dragons and angels and goldfish and secondary teeth without pay.
  • Certain expressions are so lovely that it’s a pleasure to work them in. To put a fine point on it we could say somethings are worth repeating even though we could become a walking cliche of ourselves in the process.
  • I personally wish people would stop saying they will give me a free gift for something. Number one and most egregious, that’s redundant. A gift is free by its very nature. Number two, we all know (or should) that it’s not free. The price is built into the cost of the item.
  • Those giants of passion, of terrible knowledge or ability, so caught in the web of their visions, never stop. Never quit. Never say “my work is over.” Einstein was working out an equation on his deathbed, and so died. Schiele was making a drawing of his wife Edith Schiele on the day she died, October 28, 1918. He passed away three days later.

But isn’t it also glorious that there are those whose work is finished when it is finished? That there are those whose work in factories builds our cars, as well the butchers who carve our meat, the drivers who bring the buses through our streets—all of value. All of need. All of it to be mastered and answered the same: to what purpose am I?

Yes And But Well And Then

I wonder where I go sometimes when I go, and then return and look around in surprise. It is like that. It is like that now.

First, that is the first thought that an expanse of hardwood floor generates in some of us…the absolute need to take a running start in order to slide across in stockinged feet. Why else should there be the smoothness, the advance sense of the the feet as they touch the willing participation of the wood? [Of course ignore the cat which certainly does not belong there. It is obviously posed and to what purpose one wonders?]FMnHardwoodFloors

When something is posted online and the lead is: This will really break your heart, or Get the box of kleenex ready, why would I read it? Why would I look? I’m not going to open something that will make me heart sick. Why does anyone?

The world around us, the place where we live, is the construct for our moral behavior.  And in this place where we are merged within the many societies that make up our country (with firm boundaries and electric fences) some of the places are a wilderness of liquor stores and gangs and guns and drugs and broken churches. And then for fun someone will interview a very heavy-set woman who is saying that “she ain’t got no food to feed all her chilen.” Whose thoughts then would turn to her need for help?

All of them, all of them to one extent or another, enact the paradox of choices that are not choices, of courses of action that are indistinguishable in consequence from their opposite.

It looks as if there will be no revolution then after all. You see, this is what happens when we do without the narrative form. And it’s not a play either.


Lars Leber Photography

This is a photo of Gold Camp Road, Colorado Springs. We drove up there many times, especially to see the kinetic sculptures of Starr Kempp. Gorgeous pieces. Of course being dismantled and sent away somewhere as the villagers won out and they can no longer be displayed there. Too much traffic with people coming to view—causes traffic problems. The man himself, the creator is long dead now. There are family fights over who gets what and who did what and thoughts of destruction. Here is one of the pieces that was still there when I was. It was so incredibly exquisite with the wind moving the bird about. (I should have done a video!)

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And, so as the mice say, that’s the waaayyyyyy things are. At least for today.