Semi-Daily Scribbles

Endless Probabilities

Our Bodies in Reverse

Selective memory has atrophied the ability to see situations clearly.
But do we not do the things one ought to do?
Like?
Like paying bills.
Playing it safe.
The What-If Game takes up more and more of our time as we find ourselves stuck in a groove from decades ago just like the old timers we once despised.
The mirror is not going to become kinder as we try to pass by without stopping to stare, so best to call that reflection what it really is.
The version of you that was never supposed to come true.
Is she still in there? The girl who'd eat the world for breakfast and serve it up as something transcendent for tea.

A Story Unfolds

We stared at a map on the wall
During a break from paying our dues
Just you and me and the man in the tree
Lens focused on capturing what cannot be seen
A howl from the other room warned of a time to come
That would define us all too soon

Like brilliant silver light from a dying moon
Like a tangled romance getting bad reviews
Life doesn't always fit the narrative you choose
And love isn’t a commodity to be consumed

We eventually stopped staring at that map
Found a road that’d take us where news traveled slow
Like a pattern on the loom we began to emerge
To live our lives without the urge to edit and reframe
We are like a vine that can’t be trained
Disparate threads wind their way to disarray

Like brilliant silver light from a dying moon
Like a tangled romance getting bad reviews
Life doesn't always fit the narrative you choose
And love isn’t something to be misused

Fold back the corners to align the pattern
This highway is long and the journey rough
The signs marking the coastline invite you to stay
But only if you don’t mind perpetual sunshine
And if you can find the throughline along the way

We never found our destination but ended up in heaven all the same
The sea still roars, waves crash even when no one’s around
The two of us left behind the blinding light of recognition
Forever to wander the sacred enclaves of truth and intuition
The stars burn for you and me in our perfect patch of desolation
No song sweeter than the murmurs that call us home

Like brilliant silver light from a dying moon
Like a tangled romance getting bad reviews
Life doesn't always fit the narrative you choose
And love isn’t something to be refused

Arrhythmia

So traumatized Chuck still works the mines.
A poet's soul with hardened arteries.
The company doesn't pay Chuck for his turn of phrase and artist's heart.
It's a tough task to write the perfect stanza when crafted in the arc of a headlamp.

A Unifiable Theme

To make something beautiful is a lifelong pursuit.
Keep edges rough.
Lines are suggestions on where they should be crossed.
This is a love letter to your unfettered spirit.

It is the rough edge of one's work that establishes merit.
Beginning. Middle. End.
The order in which the dream is conveyed is inconsequential.

Mastery is misleading. Know when to write the final sentence and then walk away.
One's engagement with your creation is not the reason why you got into this game.
You've dictated the rules. Now go help someone else find her through line.

Challenge everything that makes you feel in control.
To understand one's desire is a trial of the soul.

Embracing Oblivion

Disarm me with your charms, but know that your personality is problematic.
(Yeah - don't know which one of us is the addict.)
But here we are in the woods, a stare-down in progress.
Each one of us casts a light of varying intensity, all in the service of demanding transparency.
Disrupting the other in an unfolding tale of what's to be discovered by lifting the veil.
There is no way to turn this progression on its head.
Grow in the only way you know, and your soul will fill-in the holes.
(This is actually factual: words are coming out of my mouth.)
When is one's story ever truly told?
Variations on a dream.
Start.
Stop.
Change direction.
Forget why you chose this destination.
Destiny never intended for you and me to come to rest beneath this hallowed tree.

From Camels to Humans

Thoughts are ordered in No Particular Order. It's .. they are like reading a book by landing on random pages "and just going with it." Timeline? A logical sequence of events? THEME! All are about as useless as peanut butter without bits of said legume embedded within. Or like ... please explain to me the narrative thru-line of your life, why don't you? No easy feat, that. Our brains flit from factoid to face to that tingling in one's feet to what's her name to ... what was the subject again? We slosh about in our thought soup daily and still we're able to hold down jobs and pack the kidlets off to school and pray to whichever Belief System we are the most comfortable believing in that one of these days we (the entire world's population, I'm thinking) don't just wake up one morning to the news that this novel-bugger-this-or-the-other carries with it a 40.3% case fatality rate.

Judgment Call

Tucked into the grey splintered planks of my spine is an invitation. A call to action for your generation. Remember, it is I who whispers in your ear "complete the work."

on one knee
break free
urgency
responsibility

If you stand upon that threshold a minute more, you'll become the bloody door. I've left you to hang once before. I would be remiss if I did not comment on your emergence from the chrysalis. Check your trepidation at the gate before you book passage on this plane.

Too Much and Not Enough

I should hope one would think he or she is interesting. If a person doesn't have that sort of opinion of oneself, all sorts of unfortunate occurrences can happen, like hearing a nonstop self-censure loop booming inside an already thought-heavy head. Oh, and if a person does find him/herself pleasant company to be around, that happily self-actualized individual should not foist any such presumption of that dearly held belief upon family and friends.
---You just groove inside your Private Opinion Bubble, buddy!---
Any such foisting of one's actually REAL self only muddies the sensitive depths of YOU and makes a gal or guy look like an imbecilic navel-gazer.
... and who wants to be perceived in that way?

The Other Side of Fear

In the time it took for the blood to soak through the yellow V-neck, Micah was able to enjoy a satisfying drag off a Camel. The thumb and forefinger of Micah's non-ciggy-holding hand caressed the slip of notebook paper tucked inside the front pocket of his Levi's.

"Individuality. Absolute power and ability. Discipline. Individuality. Absolute power and ability. Discipline. Individuality. Absolute power and ability. Discipline." The cadence that escaped Micah's lips slowed his racing thoughts. He became less fidgety as he inhaled the sweet astringency of the cedars and firs that encircled him. This is what church was meant to be. The creature beneath his feet sighed in agreement.

She is your dreamcatcher and safety net. Her smile is the other side of the river once you've filled your lungs with her lesson. The target has been verified. That prize is now the only thing that can keep you alive in order to transform. Allow your discipline to spin hopelessly out of control so you know what she felt at the moment of initiation. What are you afraid of? The peace of mind that's always been your birthright? Your talents are only tarnished, not lost. Love is a vehicle to teach us to suffer without dying. The heart always knows what the soul fears to find. In the end, we all wind up wet behind the ears.