I started with a beer, then made a list of what I was gonna do.
I made a call to someone wounded by the guy who I replaced, and made good with kind words.
The guy I replaced had begun by making himself a beard with various kinds of tape: Scotch tape, masking tape, duct tape, electrical tape, packing tape, surgical tape, gaffers tape, painters tape, insulation tape, recording tape with a sticky bottom.
I was amazed.
Then the guy I replaced went to town and began to tear down all that he could, one tantrum at a time.
To make something perfect
with precision and care;
To be someone perfect
integrating flaws in such that
they have value,
rather than being impediments;
To be part of something vital
This is what it is -
to fit into the grand design
of this universe, our human tribe;
this aspiration towards unity,
performed with grace and humility
is what may be
our greatest hope.
In this age of refracted reality the magic pull of certain vagaries of truthiness ensnarl, swirling flames and celestial gloom, the state of permanent sleeplessness hypnotized into confusion and wonder.
Not too scared, never outside your comfort zone, a life of nothing more than sensation, the bewitching bond of desire, and a terrifying romantic nightmare, conjure up worlds, present and beyond, arresting speculations of unmitigated folly.
Lethargy and decisiveness of every single attenuated moment – metal, bone, blood, ash, fragments thatlack context, relentlessly empty and ugly, long centuries of ghosts woken from their sleep.
All that you have done compressed in the ocean of sympathetic imagination.
Not for sure I’m quite here yet, spending time, wasting time, time seduced by fireworks and frills, lost, nowhere; distraction not being a place, a detour, yes, a movement smooth and effortless, away from place and a time notched in meaning.
Too bad, oh too bad this gong of presence is muffled in imagined past, and future projection, fueled by unctuous schemes and urgencies’ insistent barbs; unanchored and drifting, in the current of lost, the waves of losing: celebrations, illuminations, tactile evidence grounding presence in the world.
Waving the tattered flag of surrender, a half-hearted life of neglect, of discernment of porous beliefs, of connections barren and uncultivated, sometimes careless, often clueless to the ever-changing interdependence, registering spikes of false confidence, convinced that when things go south it isn’t necessarily you.