And the jester knows not how he jests or if he jests. He’s clad with shiny ideas – a fist full of data and facts, absolutely knowing what the world is but aware of no thing. Aware of nothing under his nose. Not of the flea jumping across cement-bonded bricks. Nothing of coffee tasting like …
An arrival like a note in the street. Like a worm born of dirt. Like a mermaid. My own personal Buddha. A gem in the pocket. A mirror person to bounce happy back to me. Merrily. Show and tell for grown children. Only layers of biological directive are added post-kindergarten. But oh to stay in …
A young boy of maybe six years cries then laughs then throws a stick my way. He grabs it near my chair then throws it at his mom. A woman in a red bandana on her head and a matching patterned bathing suit. Sea birds fishing for sardines or anchovies. Bandana woman poses herself for …
Dream about renting out rooms in my mansion. I am, and the lights are on. Consciousness, that’s all. Nothing more to it. No goo-ruuu nonsense petals emphatically pronouncing the flower. Awake, aware of appearance. There’s predictability and pattern to what appears, but that’s just the bumpers, the rails, the rules of this particular groundhog game. …
When you paddle into a big wave, you’re committed. When you enter into the asylum, you’re committed. The physical push yields a return of energy from ocean to body, from sea to feet. The mental push yields a return of dissociation to association, from entropy to order, from freedom to imprisoned, from individual to group. …
