Archive for the ‘Psycho-Bubbles’ Category

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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They are everywhere these days

To my office

Between walls, between people

To the outside, in space

Such a time, when doorways are everywhere.

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Find the time and space to look out a window.

Twilight grey rain falls lightly enough to dot the window panes.

Through the window, a pond, patterned by rain, ruffled by wind.

Trees downed over winter cleared space, the opening enclosed by newly leafing trees.  Green, green lawn fills window to pond.

A squirrel seeks supper, dun-grey female cardinal does the same.

A piano piece, Comptine d’un autre été, plays in the background, notes rain down.

When you find that place, real or imagined,  I will be there.

Confluence in the splendid, despondent, wholeness.

Never more myself.

It will be good to see you.

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Eternal moments or endless hours, it is a serious understatement to say time is relative.

Time is precious though.  A human-made construct to waste, or use, as we see fit.

For me, this year finally saw the end of five years of divorce and custody litigation.  Muscular legal effort is the only remedy to a high conflict character.  A great deal of wasted time and money to reach the obvious, and satisfactory, conclusion.

Souls were born, souls passed on, this year brought grief and joy for times had no longer.

In the meantime, the world writhed in its brutality, and its beauty.

Time.  It is all we have – while we have it.  Goodbye 2014.

May we find peace, health and happiness in the coming year.





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Night Air

Eternity is out tonight, crowding empty streets.

Time’s arrow, the young turn elderly, generations blend, age, pass.

Unnoticed except by some in the larger moments.

Perhaps it is the snowflakes.  Countless souls against the night sky.

Something in the air, eternity is out tonight.

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In the span of a lifetime perhaps we are lucky enough to know a handful who count.  Not to say that all others are without meaning, but simply, real keepers are few.

To the Keepers we entrust soul and story, sadness and sweet wisdom.  In turn, they hold, know, witness and Keep.

Keepers can be old or new, but oftentimes they appear at the beginning, willing and able to share the elusive and changeable quality of Time.

Like the venerable Oak, they offer shade, support, silence and deep conversation decade after decade.  Because they Are, we can Be.

A brilliant Keeper in my life passed away suddenly just a week ago today.  Mortality is a deep flaw of the Keeper.

With him went the better part of me, which he had been slowly returning to me after long years in a poorly made marriage.  For I knew him long before.

I do not believe I kept his life as he kept mine.  I have not that depth, and his support of me was not exclusive.  The Keeper loved and mentored many.

The Keeper was a truly great man, one much needed.  He is gone too soon.

Yet he is not.  The Keeper is out there, in the wind, moon and stars of the Big World.  For that is very much his Nature.

For he was, and forever will be, a keeper.

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It is in there.  The idea. The thought overlaid by conditions and conditioning.

It is in there, glistening, succinct.  I have difficulty seeing it.  Although I put it there.

Cut away the chaff and you have it, the unburied lead, the path and point of it all.

In paragraphs that tell our stories, truth, maybe destiny, await the right editor.

It is in there.  I have difficulty seeing it.  Although I put it there.

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