tags

the mission

To provide a forum for the intersection of spirit and art - a place to share what creations we must manifest to continue living in a meaningful way.

Welcome!

I'm open to what develops here - poetry, fiction, non-fiction, images, videos, quotes, insight - mainly looking at this blog as a record or shared diary in a spirit of playfulness and inspiration....mental froth, mind's eye materialization, and life songs lost and found.

Thursday, December 30, 2010

mirror

Mirror


Of my self

But no self

But dust

On the mirror

And clear light

Moving at miracle speeds

Thursday, December 23, 2010

Thursday, December 16, 2010

where creativity comes from ( an open question)

The creative source…the well-spring….what is the well source?

Is it a final thread in a fabric of the five heaps, a Buddhist soul clamor, a flashing diety….

Dip my bucket in the darkness and pull with the rope to the surface…look into the water’s reflection…what does it show?

Perhaps it does not matter where it comes from …an anonymous gift…but how can we leave it alone…we can wonder where it comes from, or not…but I will wonder, or at best explore….

Before the final thread, the synchrinous anomaly, a gap in the world, not much and not for long, a void...

We make an invitation of ourselves, invert our craving, make offering, yet we are not pacifists, we awake ourselves to danger, and keep ready, we let the old go by, and wait for the new…….

And eventually something arrives, with no former name, no story but its own, no family, no friend, – almost unrecognizeable it arrives, and we open our chests and smile – like a newborn, its skin yet drying from open air, and lungs that have not yet breathed, and like a newborn colt, that is quick to find its legs, born running…

I don’t know what these things were before they were born…. I don’t know where they come from…only dreams can go there, only fools, maybe animals…. a question, outside of time, a deep endless perfection…

Wednesday, December 15, 2010

the fool

the fool is not daft
only without use

blows may bruise him
spears may pierce him
but safe is his heart
with the wind blowing through

Sunday, December 12, 2010

Writing Retreat

It’s been so long, so long since writing had a rest. And what does writing do on its retreat? It reads, it goes to the movies. It fails to record important things. This last one is its true joy, its true relaxation.

Friday, December 10, 2010

Trampled by Turtles-Wait So Long

some solid high energy bluegrass (compliments of aymen)

sweet banjo disco

...i will survive on banjo ukelele

Ukelele grunge (worlds collide with favorable results)

....feel the awesome power of ukelele grunge!...(thanks dave)

Tuesday, December 7, 2010

Writing exercise # smooth coffee


I bring my candle to the cave, my flame to the riddle, “Where does creativity come from?”
Where does questioning come from?
What brings creativity to a boil, what quiets its war-like rains??

From a tunnel, a womb, a heart-beat drum.
A hangover’s yawn, coffee in the morning
or a matchbook of desert sand, some mementos of inspiration.

Collapsing beside a coffee-shop stream, the white-noise of friends and beans,
time to wonder.

It starts before the mind, like a premature metaphysical ejaculation.
Sprung before the heart pump, that blood-wet meat trampoline.
Called by the stranger’s tan, the smoker’s mysterious lips, alluring smells and noises.

Descending in a moonlit lake
to where it is born, in pain and cries.
The Mothers slack jaw, the babe without disguise.
It grows to sex a treasure chest, a spark inside a scream
flustered by the drum.

Saturday, December 4, 2010

the key, part 3

Josh slipped the housekey in his pocket and the shut the apartment door behind him. Several long strides took him over to the stairwell - he descended elatedly. The cool damp ocean air enveloped him as he approached the sidewalk and then he saw it : Freddie's Flowers.
"Coke Zero" he thought to himself, a thought like a long stride, it seemed profound! "Coke Zero", he said quitely with an exhalation visible in the night. A part of him knew it wasn't profound at all, but right now it summed up the vacation, the comraderie, the carbonated elation to mix with the fermented enlightenment of sugar cane to come.
But once inside it was the veritable wall of chips that got him. The sheer variety walloped him into a gaping silence of indecision. Extra cheddar? Or brown rice with sweet masala chili flavor? He felt his brain start to short circuit. He glanced toward the door - the others would be waiting, but the chips held him by the balls.
No matter, he thought, eye on the prize, eye on the prize. Rum and coke, eye on the prize. He repeated this mantra to himself to overcome the desire even as he launched forward tearing open first one, then a second, then a third bag - giddily flinging their contents into the air, gaping mouth waiting, eyelids a flutter.
"Hey! Dumb f**k! What do you think you're doing?" yelled the store clerk, exasperated with yet another Saturday night out of control patron.
"I'm hungry..," blurted Josh, chip fragments falling from his mouth. And he leaped to the door, throwing it wide, knocking down a middle-aged man, running down the sidewalk  dissappearing from the cussing store clerk and shocked bystanders, into the night.
Soon after the apartment door swings open - "Hey guys - who wants a drink?!"

Friday, December 3, 2010

the key, part 2

She found the key under the mat, where he said it would be, and let herself in. The room was a mess, and it smelled. Her upper lip curled into a sneer, but it was also satisfying to see such tangible evidence of how far he'd sunk. She considered for a moment making a beeline for the bedroom, certain she would find him laying there in a tangle of clothing and perhaps a pool of vomit.
Kicking her way through old crisp socks and pizzaboxes she followed a path into the kitchen. There he was, hunched over the table passed out face first in a bowl of dry cereal.  "Karl!" she yelled.
In a moment he was on his feet. A second moment and he was buttoning up the pants that had been, inexplicably, resting around his ankles. Dimly aware of her presence, he was reaching for his tie and positioning it under his collar. She wondered if she should mention the cheerio on his eyebrow.
Slowly she held the key out to him, "I'm not surprised." He looked curiously at the key and ruptured into a cackling laghter. "Well mother it seems you have me a real treasure here today, but I must say ta-ta, I'm hankering to attend a meeting of the fax machines." She would keep that key for the better part of the next year until the tables turned and her insatiate appetite for depravity took her down the rabbit hole to a cage of her own litter - voyeurism, passwords, lonely businessmen, keys...

Thursday, December 2, 2010

the key, part1

A key on the dresser - that is what she told him. But it wasn't there. If he had come over earlier like he promised, maybe it would still be here. Who had been here that day - a houseful of people - an afternoon tea party - and all nosy, inscupulous people of inferior quality. Inferior people with their weak chins and narrow slits for eyes...seeing only the shiny and the foul, ignorant of everything in between. The more he thought about it, the more distracted he became from his own role in the unfolding of the day's events.
I am keymaster and those sweaty chins shall not take it away... A key on the dresser. Had he misunderstood? The tea party, their endless nattering, their presence in Anjie's apartment, had kept him away from where he now stood, where he now stood too late. So many secrets. What was it the psychologist had said to him last week? "It's allright to see little green men, just try not to talk to them in public". The bastard. But he was right.
Or was he? Was he really? Was it not really the green men who had organized the tea party to begin with? Not they who had insisted he reveal all his secrets to Anjie? Not they who had invented psychology? He squeezed shut his eyes... and screamed, "Where's the key?!"
 
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