Armchair Philosophies

Far From Poland

Several times I saw him, before I noticed him. His eyes are like christmas and his smile makes a difference within my core. Perhaps continents divide the small area of space we inhabit, but there is more, under the skin, muscle aches and memories. He sees me and knows I'm more intrique than trouble. I am a deep well of compassion. I want to show him. If the world cracked and crumbled before, it could happen once again between our two silent needs... and then, we'd match. In deed, we would match. 

They Steep

They Steep on White Porches

 

 

Corn Cob Man

hits Blue Crow Man with yellow light, “Man is not rational; there is intelligence only in that which encompasses him.”

 

Gumming Skinless Apple Man sees only a mirage of salted black hair and he swats, “Damn wood crows!”

 

Porches do exist,

under cracked mahogany

they listen

splintering the soles of feet

 

they pull out old roots and string them

like New Year lights

around our doors

 

            His Hands Shaky Man

            whistles another tune

            for Dixie

 

Blue Crow Man yells, “She ain’t comin back!”

 

Their minds drench the day with elusive

Scratches from those loose boards

 

            Willow Tree Man

            Struck his cane

            To the floor:

            “You mean to say, there is more intelligence in this here stick than in my head…pish!”

 

The Blind Man with two eggs

            one speckled

            one blue

sits rolling his hair with yolks

in the following silence explains:

“It is weariness to keep toiling at the same thing so that one becomes ruled by them.” 

 

A Gift

This morning, all across the world, gift shop employees, chocolatiers, online novelty store shippers, parents, children, aunties and Uncles, Grandmas and Grandpas have laid down the Elfin tools and were ready – or not – to see the joy months of preparation has yielded on the faces of all who have received gifts of appreciation and recognition for the lives that have influenced them.

Many of us act as the wise men, adorning the base of the celebrated Pine with candies, toys [tech and otherwise], clothes and handcrafts. It is a time of year that stress just about everyone out and it all comes down to trash bags filled with stuffing, toys that will break and need to be replaced, pictures that will fade, clothes that will grow too small or too large – but there is a journey within this place.

Every season, we are given unique opportunities that allow our souls to heal, to forgive those who have afflicted us with pain, to lend our hands for work to benefit someone in need. We have a chance to learn.  From Chanukah, Yule Tide, Kwanzaa, there are families watching fires and singing songs, drinking cultural drinks that make their spirits united and all of us dance with joy.

 Within this journey, for me, was a gift for myself. To give my pain to the earth, to lay flat in this fresh snow and get up more pure and ready to move forward from the past that has kept me in fear, anger and poise-less. Everyday, I will have a choice when I wake. I will to face the sun and sing for the fresh day, braid my hair like a lady and present this world with the woman Creator intended me to be, for my family, for my child. 

 I play my heart drum for all whom suffer, believing this season is about expensive things that fall away or feel they are alone, for the ones who have given a stranger a smile, I lend a thought for your courage and blessing for your kindness and a prayer that all our hearts be filled with the feeling of eternal warmth and kinship for mankind. For we are never too gone to be seen neither too blind to see our true selves. 

 

Phishing for Kindness - previously published at blog.madeofmud.com

There aren't many people who can speak the truth while providing a cush landing pad for the ego to fall to. There are times when that ability had come natural, these days, I think perhaps, the ego should be smashed against a concrete slab rather than placed upon a gold leaf finished floor.
What I find most intriguing about the latter is the inability for the so-called-crushed to find a source of truth - whether it be intelligent or absent-minded - within themselves to agree or disagree with whatever this 'blow' would reveal.

exp: absent-minded striking:
"Are you trying to make me look stupid in front of the other guests?"
     "You don't need any help from me."
"That's right!"

exp: intelligible striking:
Said one well-dressed lady to another lady approaching wearing black net stocking, short red skirt, tight bustier and seemingly vacant brown eyes...
"Excuse me miss, you have holes in your stockings, is that where a man should put his money?"
    "Your presupposition in regards to this net hosing would assume my role as a woman of the night, though it be noon. Did your tightly fitted mind have the time to notice the car from which I approached and the backstage door of a theatre to which I am heading.
"It's most inappropriate. You can't dress before a show and then enter the playhouse!"
    "Oh, but I can-can. Ta-ta."
Above, the heading on the marque reads, Moulin Rouge - noon show $2 TODAY ONLY. The well-dressed lady curls her fur collar closer her neck and scuffs away.

Situations arise almost on a daily where people assume they know what they see is truth, but it is often a narrow truth. One may speak on it and be correct in his view of the circumstance or perceive a larger truth than his own and wait for that to be revealed. Often silence is a most powerful thing, but there are those boastingly few that should find that concrete slab a more suitable setting than the comforted gold they be used to.

thoughts?

 
  

Esthetics and Non-Esthetics

In reading The Art of Tragedy, Nietzche honorable expelling Schopenhauer's belief that lyric poets are so far from reality they cannot see the tragedy in life. On the contrary, the subject being an artist, is already swollen with both contemplation and will. To paraphrase, art cannot be valued on esthetics, the reason being, the subjective, a habitually self-promoting personality can only be an enemy of art and never it's creator.  

If indeed we measure our individual will greater than the reality of the artistic exertion, how ever can a conscious mind consider all of creation? 

Within the essence of all being, we fascinate through the realms of art and wonder, still concretely formed from some part of the subjectively sculpted minds of those whom we watched and imitated as youth. Is it the illusion in this significance that we should continue to undulate or shall, at once, actually participate in the lyrical presence within our own being to see the truest form of existence and how, individually, we fit into it, creating the whole of life?

Let's talk...

Misguided Bullets

I lost something in tonight's twilight and I thought it would feel better than it did... I know now why I am the person I am because of it. In the essence of wanting to do as much damage as I could to someone who hurt me so tragically, I didn't walk away nor sweep it under the rug which I have recently tossed due to lack of interest to keep my feelings hid, in fact I produced a song's length movie of my emotions and tacked it up on every social networking system known to the electronic gods. I don't even feel badly in remarking on how refreshing it was to let it out for the masses to know, but what I did tonight, well, it brought me back to my loving and defined self. 

I have always been above the lower hand, taking the high road and more than often accepting specific flaws is people and allowing them into and out of my life over and again. A year ago April 10th, it all has slowly come to a righteous hault as I honour myself more the immoral practicality of idiots and ditched them, every single one, until the pool was don't to a puddle of my sisters, mom and two close friends one of whom would actually lay his life and well the other is the reason for this less than adequate unraveling of this blog. I didn't care, I was safe with them, they were what family has always meant to me, before I begin letting others into my life, heart and, well, you can't allow people into those to particular categories without them somehow effecting the soul - the essence of me. 

In my utter lack of concern save for the wonderment of how much this would hurt said unsaid close friend - I hurt an innocent person. I am that mean hunter who kills just to kill and doesn't need the pelt or meat... or hoof for a shovel...

That feeling is one I was went through in my head when I decided to take that higher road. That feeling is the reason I was a bigger person and tonight, without regard, I selfishly devastated an already damaged spirit and I can't take that back. The feeling? ashes, it's a layer of gray ashes sprinkled over my heart and it hurts. I apologized, but how the hell do you spill a secret over a year old with wounds still fresh from heartache and divorce? Auh, you don't, I tried. 

So if this were an advice column and I had a crazy amount of readers to which to lend advice on certain subjects, I would say, learn through my experience:

You don't have to sweep your BEST friend inflicted pain under a tired rug or even opt for a higher path, but please, if you are a normally happily functioning great spirit who has been so wronged and needing to be redeemed, look at yourself in the mirror and recognize your love, call it out, shout it's graces back at yourself.

That has not been tested by me, so I must add a disclaimer...       ...      ...     what? that was the disclaimer : - ] 

be love, live light, rise above. 

She walks gently past the large oak talking with the wind, her body slim and graceful as her hair, too, talks with the wind in long strides of chocolate brown and golden dawn. In movement, almost weightless her milky caramel feet wisp just above the fallen leaves down a trail intended for her alone.
In her left hand, a gift. Shining from it's core a knowledge she begins to understand... this is what she saw:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=95nic9uqbbI

glacier grains tumble
supposed always to sleep

melting peaks
canyons drain
expose her diamond eyes

stumble in
click to flash
it's all a radical dance


a miracle
makes her seen

I Learned the Surgical Suture

three times wove in and out, a harder pull, a tighter stitch. Breath is a delicacy on the table of divine hope and structure. No place for the deserts in a boat like this. An oar is my paperweight lost in a winded sea, there are holes in the shackles here filled with these bruised wrists, finally taken their place in the damp and spidered walls of hell. 

Three times wove in and out, my soul eye struggles on a moonless river night. The harder my pull, a tighter stitch. There is no taking the damned from the fractures delightfully kept awake and waiting, one loop in, two loops out. 

Southern Crush

04 Hobo Blues

banjo man plays a lick better than he sings, old hound can't tell

japan fans made from newspaper blues. Flower dress starched, just below the knee, propped along side the corner market barefoot and middle of June, sandy roads spread for miles, sweat beads like harmonica sliding from just behind the ear... "this heat hot, sho nuf." Her hand falls a tick left of his, tap that finger enough to make him know that water ain't neva gonna warm up

Crumblin blue corner piece shoves off from the side of his arm. Georgia tango winds round 'em to the river... catfish and crawdads bound to make momma's gumbo liiive. 

that boy sits dreamin in banyan

sounds stick like clay when day shines on, still ain't seen no popsicle man

gotta get bouillon for twilight sets, "Jimmy you got my dime?" Velvet black side slick cheek, rolls two nickels toward the crest of that sour tree. 

"betcha my dime, I knows a thang you don't." He stretches all six of that pack,

"betcha my dime," she says, "you knows all the thangs I don't." 

her leg sways from the bottom limb

 June beats down 'til she falls asleep down some cool water dark and hot on some sand colored backs