Friday, May 26, 2017


First page from October 2016

Staring into the face of the day when the sun has risen or recently set may result in understanding the nature of things in a minor way. You may light your path with these occurrences. As the day changes so does the possibilities of each moment. Some walk an even path. I will do this and then that will happen is often the case. You may find yourself in a system you enjoy and all things can come to you in a generally tidy way. You are in this for the long haul. Acquisitions keep you satisfied. Life is linear. There are many comforts. Or you are frugal and slowly simmer from want. Others are the wandering type. Circuitous. They seek experience. Their curiosity puts them in another mold. The sun must be seen. The road must be moving. This is a somewhat unwieldy narrative. The harvest is at certain times of year. It may not be what you expected. Freedom is what you seek, often to the chagrin of others. No matter though. We all find the place we desire, the place we create, or slide about life in an off handed way.

There are many combinations to interpret, investigate, put forward, discover, analyze and rebuke. The turning world offers many permutations. A technicolor dream can disappear in an instant between the fence and your day job. We may allow for the limitless gyrations since sameness is too dangerous or unlikely. Rain runs downhill to east coast rivers. There may be solace in this phenomenon. We can easily be comforted into thinking, this way is the best, this journey is worth having. Turn around to see how wide the berth and how many rearrangements pepper the land. Too many tulips enact a bubbling market that will soon be scarce. In the three card Monty of investment the joker flashes the carrot. Many are duped into poverty of pocket and spirit. What shall you leave by the alley of your dispersal when all the chips are down? A magical plan tucked in your pocket. Open it and be relieved of the toil and critique on information systems.

When the fox screams in the distance after the city energy bounced from waterway to concrete canyon, a song is heard of ancient revels. Others came before you. The echo of their existence is carried by the wind. You can hear their voices if you try hard enough. What boundless joy or poignant tales breeze by when the biggest story was silenced next to the Brooklyn Bridge only to be resurrected centuries later. Do our dead poets, writers and artists participate in revival or are they disembodied from their task in evolutionary time. It cannot be known but such ideas make a marvel out of living regardless of the price paid now that you are dead. I see gray faces worn by time clocks and progress reports. They worry about retirement and grow old before their time. The color spectrum diminishes. In the end no one is safe. We mark our time in connection, location and spirit. If mirth is denied what could be the point, I wonder.

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