Thoughts

Voices in the Head

Good Grief! August? August really? It’s been that long since I’ve entered here? Apparently I had turned and faced another direction. It happens.

So, for now, some ramblings written at the invisible desk.

  • I find there are some places I went with Wolf that are now sacred. It doesn’t seem right to return to them, even to worship. The place where he got his Indian name, Arroyo Lobo, where we walked through the open space and jumped across deep chasms, later making a fallen-tree bridge. Some things, those things, live in memory, not in any sort of day’s reality. That’s were we came across Larry the Beetle, where we gathered stories and poetry along with the dried gifts of the tall wild weeds in autumn.  We had good luck there, good days.
  • Trapped in the Prism of Self. I know it’s becoming real because it is also terrifying. Are we all caged but unbowed resistors? I think not. I think we’re plenty bowed.
  • Even tho we step outside the bubble of life, the perforated lines that mark the everyday world, that will not give us the right to toss stones at it. Being dismissed, ignored, having little crimes committed (unpaid parking tickets, non-purchased licenses, unattended rituals) will bring misfortune. The world does not tolerate insubordination.
  • There are some books that must be set aside because they are too precious, too fine. I do not like the thought of them ending, they must be savored. One sentence at a time, one page. Notes. Underlines. Then closed to wait on the shelf for another time. The plot does not matter tho it is the brilliant sunlight on the pool of water that draws the reader into the drowning place. One foot on shore, walk on and wait. Draw a breath. Breathe thru the exquisite.
  • The Pleasure Centers move as the brain ages. Now the snow memorizes itself into the road in front of the house. The tree shadows form an embrace laying down their forms on top of the white, mingling stillness. The deer walk slowly, pause to look up at my window and question, “You still here? Still waiting for something to happen?” Only now that they are here, now that they ask, that is the something. Buddha on the altar behind me doesn’t care. He’s busy somewhere else.

Thoughts

Scenes from a fire

A fireman walking down a road, fire and smoke billowing behind him, an injured fawn in his arms.

Sorrows replenished, luminous fears, egg-shell mornings and blackened days. Time itself jumped with the flames across gullies, trees, homes.

Pictures so terse they can be felt in the hand.

Boundaries, percents, winds, suddenly matter. Maps.

Wild-eyed horses running, photos posted: found, lost, please. A site to reunite those lost with the found.

Welcomed war-zone sounds & sights of helicopters, planes, red dusty smoke fading into black, swung from their buckets above their targets.

Offers: home, food, shelter, trucks . . .

Looters, vandals, police, army, national guard, check points.

Redefining the terms of failure and valor.