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Archive for the ‘Psycho-Bubbles’ Category

Some are pushed by the past onto the road of their lives.

Still others drawn forward by a subtle half-light image.

The aims of each will be different.

One pulled by the future, one pushed by the past.

Which, I wonder.

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On Gardening

When you pull weeds, it is a lot easier to see.

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Electric medium, the mind.  When Marshall McLuhan said the “medium is the message,” he meant the carrier, not the mode of the message.  What, or more correctly, who is the carrier?  You, me, we, and them.  The background noise, the humanity of this planet.

Our flesh and chemistry, flickering substrate between heaven and earth, shadows against the wall, differing lives, intent, needs, joy, and despairs. Even socially distanced, we are a hive, like eventually finds like, online or off, the edges undulate, a sinuous dance snakes through time and space.

A fire that breathes. Inhale the future, exhale a life story. Billions of eyes peer out, taking in scenes that feed restless souls. What have your eyes seen? A sight seared into memory three decades ago, or the angle of light this afternoon? Sight or vision, outer or inner, each image adds to the primordial visual cortex that is human history.

Unlimited by distance, we share what we see, all that was, or ever is, ours to recollect.

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Rain falling on a sloped skylight gently shrugs distant treetops downward.  But it is raindrops on the skylight, not the trees, that are falling.

From below in a beautiful protected space, tears fall down my face. I will be okay. It is the tears that are falling, not me.

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On walkabout with the moon riding high
Northbound, my shadow leads the way
Southbound, I follow the moon
Isn’t it so.

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I dreamt of forest fires and woke to the sound of rain against the window.

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Age bequeaths change.

Change gives us life and flesh. In turn, change leads us to shed those gifts, eventually.

I am older than I was, and hopefully younger than I will be. It is the same with you.

White, brown, black, pale, dark, yellow, poor, comfortable, avaricious

Genetically conferred containers, in the flesh, while we are.

Take a moment, take a lifetime, soul etches experience from the inside out

You see my face, I see yours, a book and its cover

Scramble for status, to have and to get—does it really matter?

Horseman, pass by.

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Nestled neatly in columns, a cinematographer is just down page from a designer whose space is not far from a bon vivant. A thoughtful partner and fine businessman reside just above on the right- each much loved by the families to which they were once attached.

On the Obit page of The New York Times, some life stories jump off the page, while the words in others achingly illustrate both soul and sense of loss.  The use of time on Earth summarized one last time.

A page of compressed text, dedicated to life in order to announce death. Life, electricity running through tissue, and inevitable death, the decline and failure of that tissue to carry on any longer.

Pictures from youth or distinguished professional photographs remind us, give us the cloak, of the preferred persona of the deceased.  Gazing in black and white from thin newspaper, these civilized mugshots can only hint.

Obits are stories that usually begin with the end, and then spill a tale of time, love, interests, and achievement, before closing with a list of those left behind.  Unique twists, turns, and choices clarify  individuality, even as it is lost. Death returns us to night air, unrestrained sunlit joy, and the projective ephemera of human memory.

The most mortal of publication pages, the small print is full of life, mystery, suffering, and not a little eternity.  On any day, lives exceptional for being ordinary, or extraordinary, pass into smoke, drifting through the portal we call the obituaries. All of life held in an endless cycle of names, dates, and details, in memoriam.

The original call of “Halloween” was to abide rules of civility to honor deceased kin with a bit of food, a favorite chair, a light left on. Only a threading heartbeat separates the living from the dead, a thought from a flatline, stories that takes decades to write, and just moments to read.

 

 

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The last total solar eclipse visible throughout the continental United States was in 1918.  On Monday, August 21, a total solar eclipse will stretch across this country, offering a personal view to anyone interested in stepping outside.

When the moon slips between the solar disk and the earth, it throws shade on the path below. For millennia, the darkened sun has influenced history, struck terror, and inspired wonder.  A solar eclipse is on my bucket list, so I am hoping to see what I can see.

Oddly enough, during an eclipse, the moon is not visible, but its impact is clear.  Although gobbling the light, it’s form can only be guessed.  It is not unlike life, when shadows fall from a source never seen, history shifts, and the path dims – often for years down the road.  Total or partial, eclipse is as home in the soul as it is in the sky.

Wishing you good weather, and the view you seek, wherever you may be.

 

 

 

 

 

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Quiet, watching, underground. The season is as the dead. Too late to change what was, too early to say what will be. A reasonable drive toward madness, or something else.

Inalterable change, greater than the days of the calendar, is underway. On foot to a new land, or just surviving until tomorrow, the present is breaking its bargain with the future. Can you feel it?

Melting ice a world away creates rivers to the sea. Movement, ceaseless movement, away from stability, toward fluid, restless change. Electric impulse, blinking eye, tipping point. Here.

Ripping panic, any country, the crowd turns. Some trampled, some survive. Machines rain from the sky.

Brutality, frail flesh falls, bones bleach.

Raise your hand. Strike, defend, or answer.

Spin the protest, business as usual.

The sun pales to the onslaught, a spider navigates a windowpane. Look away. Evade the futility of Now.

November butterfly flits toward twilight. Or something else.

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