December 2010
Out with the old, in with the unknown.
If we knew the future, would we still walk into tomorrow?
“If I live to be an old man, it is because I am cursed.” And then he laughed.
I have no plans to save the world. The world will still be here long after I am gone. I’m just trying to save myself for what remains, whatever remains after the sun goes down and the cold ashes catch the wind and ride to the four corners of nowhere where the nightbirds sing.
May now be a revelation and tomorrow an interesting speculation. Yesterday was what it was.
If I think about anything less than now I will be history.
All this worry over artificial limits. If we didn’t concern ourselves with the constraints of time and space, all things would be possible.
“You’d like me to believe something has changed because this has ended. Of course, something has changed. It is always changing and that we apply significance to this one moment only means we seal it in insignificance because its bearing upon what is now is gone.”
“It’s only a number,” he said. “I won’t feel any different tomorrow.”
“True, but it is a signpost, too, an indication of where we’ve been and where we are going,” she countered.
“I’ve been everywhere and nowhere,” he laughed, ” and I only know I am going forward into a place that has not even happened yet, so the...
It’s not the end of the ride until you get off the merry-go-round.
As he marched down the hall of mirrors, he noticed that each new reflection was slightly different as though in passing from one mirror to the next eternity altered its smile the slightest bit, and if he could have gone back to the beginning he would have noticed he was grayer and that the gilt edges of each mirror’s frame was more timeworn than the last as if handled by too many hands, each...
Time and again he came around the bend after the journey and saw that place from which he began, the same and yet different as though the painter had repainted the scene with a newer brush and brighter paints. It never occurred to him that the scene had faded the last time he passed.
He was travelling so fast he never realized he had crossed another line.
Out of the asshole of one year and down the gullet of another, we are only food for time’s process, falling ever forward down the throat of eternity.
And so it ends. But hasn’t it ended before. Nevertheless we do it again, and then again, as though we had never started.
You may run from what I say, you might turn the other way, but no matter which way you turn, it is there, lying in the white, white snow trailing its tale in red, red blood word by drop by word until life in all its absurdity has been written into the long shadows as the sun fades weakly, weakly through winter’s horizon and the long night of the wolves descends with each plaintive cry, with...
There is an ebb and flow to everything we see and know, and knowing which way to swim is paramount to not drowning.
If I could swallow the wind as it curled down from northern climes, so too could I swallow your soul and send you to the darkest place you have ever been.
Lying in the road, staring at the million stars of destiny, waiting for the end to come, in a curtain of colored lights from the north. We are not men. We are wolves.
I wanted to shoot my headache in the head but I couldn’t hold the gun straight… so I drank and drank and drank and drank…
If the old year is going out this way, like a coyote with its tail between its legs, what can that mean for the new year… a baby shark just cutting its teeth?
Turn up the music as load as you can. I want to...
If I knew where this was going, do you think I’d be standing in the middle of the road waiting for the bus to hit me?
The significance of events lies only in what we attach to them and the perspective from which we view them, whether of time or space.
We attach too much importance to beginnings and endings and not enough to continuations.
There are too many moot points. Argue each point until it is dull and then stir it up again.
Silence doesn’t imply lack of thought.
He stood in the singing winds and watched as plumes of snow lifted into the blue sky above and melded with the dancing mare’s tails that brushed across the high sun. Cold as it was, he felt nothing of the stinging kiss of the rushing air but what it told him of time and the moment and the beauty to be found in the drift and movement and cruel indifference of the season. Out of the winter...
It was said that you could love him if you chose, but that you could never truly have him. Can you hold the wind that blows the snow out of your hand?
If it was true that thought could fill a vacuum, then his universe was never empty and he was never alone.
The fact that sometimes he did not speak may have only made him that much more interesting, but only to those who were listening. For the rest of them, silence was merely what it was, the absence of sound.
he was a curious creation of his own imagination, no more real than a gryphon or a sphinx
the silence of the snows was worth more than a million dancing words
Sometimes knowledge is an illusion that wise men put too much stock in. As the universe changes, so does knowledge of the universe and wise men become fools.
We all want to be like children waiting for the...
He sat on his perch on the weathered ledge high above, arms wrapped around his knees, the arthritis sending needles of pain up his back, the cold breath breath roiling from his lips is swirling arabesques of mist, watching the doll-like figure below dance in its own arabesques as though writing on the distant pavement a secret message, a message that said she knew he was watching and that this was...
and then there was the anticipation, although he had already seen everything in his mind, had repeated each action so many times that each one seemed inevitable. his hands shook, and he was filled with a doubt and a dread that clouded over the schema as though he was looking at everything through a dirty pair of glasses. nothing would change from what he had seen, he was sure. but nothing was sure...
What is this sky that laughes down upon us in streamers of fire? What is this that burns our flesh and makes us run amok in ways that words cannot stop the pain? What are we if we have no clothes and in our nakedness run into the fire to be consumed? I look upon your sweating skin and see the armies of night clashing across my mind and as I touch you the clouds descend and the electricity that...
He was consumed by the whiteness. The whiteness entered a his dreams and drove everything else out, white falling upon white. Even she no longer held interest for him. So she slit her wrists and drained the color from her veins and from her heart, she faded and faded, stood under the falling waters and let everything wash away. But it was too late, for when she looked up to find him, she could no...
love me and you enter the funhouse
The faith of two cardinals, bonded, together in the snow, he looking out from his high perch, scarlet against blue white in an evergreen branch, she picking up the fallen seed where the snow has melted from the weak sun of solstice wanly shining from its southerly retreat in december skies. Soon enough will they build the nest in lengthening days and bring into the cool early dawns of spring a new...
he didn’t want it out there, but he still cut his soul open to full view
So long, Captain Beefheart. May you not rest in peace. I hear your blues harp in my dreams, you cranky angel.
If life isn't absurd enough for you, work on it!
I hear a drumroll in my pants. Then again, I hear bells in my attic.
Always wanted to be a stand-up comedian, after I gave up on nuclear physics, but I was always too tired to stay on my feet.
My credo: Clean underwear will get you through any situation and if it isn’t clean, turn it inside out. At least you’ll get a stay of grace.
To think this whole seasonal mess allegedly started with the birth of some middle eastern kid of Hebrew extraction in a Palestinian donkey barn sometime over two millenia ago to a woman having religious visions and an out of work craftsman on the move because of tax issues. And now 70% or more of our spendthrift consumerist culture is tied up in the commerce of one month between two holidays....
Hysterical birds rushing from branch to branch in near collision, their cries slicing the air with a thousand dry knives, subjecting the eye to their confusion, interknit among the frozen arthritic branches that occlude the sky. I live in a kingdom of air where nothing is more real than the clouds we walk upon in our daily quest to separate the dreamer from the dreamed. There is no success in...
Exhaustion, exhaustion… I repeat the word over and over again in my tired mind as though saying the word will exorcixe the fatigue that has seeped into every aspect of my existence. And yet, here I am, still plowing through this tiredness as though there had been a storm and I must forge through the newfallen snows to reach whatever destination it was that I have now forgotten I was heading...