Danger like orange neon hazard road signs, a warning that there’s a cliff ahead. You could lose your life. Those are the stakes. Danger like stealing snake eggs and expecting not to get caught. Some Indian Jones, indian summer adventure comic where you get into a flow state of reading and being and becoming, this self-actualization of Self. Full proton, protein matter, protein pack, gazing at these empty eggshells. That used to be somebody’s home. Floods and stillwaters left by hurricanes, some in a hurry, others not at all. Gut-wrenching cyanide poison soliloquy, remembering Algonquin tribes and the long rectangular huts they built. Tracing and coloring, learning as a child in this book I had that spoke on the American Indians. We took over their holy land and put up Malls and supermarkets and parking lots. Similar oceans grove in and out of collective consciousness but there is danger in expression of faux-innocents, there is danger in admission of guilt; There are consequences. Heart beats faster, pulse quickens, pupils dilate to almost but not quite, LSD size. Singular muscular atrophy, sitting and watching and waiting and expecting there to be shade under sunny, hot deserts. Questioning –
Red spheric cylinder crawls up and on to heaven. Soaring from the the hospital driveway, long-distance vision, hopes on a string scattered. Tears from a crying child in a wheelchair who accidentally let that one go. Little does she know, there will be others. And she is better now. And this should be a happy time. The doctor frowns, stethoscope around his neck and runs back inside to the gift shop. Where he greets the cashier with familiarity and puts a dollar on the desk. She says nothing, smiles knowingly, blushes with a little tear she hastily wipes away from her cheek. The automatic door opens and this doctor approaches the crying child with shaven head and broken arm. He carries over five balloons: One yellow, two get well soons, one blue, and one red. She suddenly stops her wailing. Her eyes blinking back tears to acknowledge the kindness the set before her. The doctor smiles and hands her a tissue in his other hand. She quietly accepts both, her breath still regulating and calming down. Her harried, blonde hair mother is grateful and quietly expresses her thanks, smoothing her daughters hair behind her ear and kissing the top of her hand as she gazes up. Her mother goes to wheel her away when she suddenly turns around and says, “Thank you!” The doctor grins and smiles and waves back.
Church service funeral death march, insipid virtue and value, angry at the big man in the sky, pointing his finger of incomprehensible size. Adjudicating momentary stoppages in judgement time as the one moral line in the universe. That part of geometry I understood when it was taught to me. Lines and shakes, shapes. Rays. Elementary concepts. But when it came to calculation and application, I was lost, grasping at mathematical ghosts having to BS my way out of another one.
Head stopped, stooped in prayer, knees, all bones, aching on the ground. Regret is its own purgatory. Tears glisten from cheeks, streaming down like rivers who, that have seen miracles and Nature’s cruel, swift sword. Taking away life and cradling it back down into decomposition. Solemn mass, the soul is reflecting refracted light from within so that now I have become also, almost like a disco ball of emotion spilling, spinning slowly outward, projecting these things, this sadness onto anyone who comes close. And it is sadness. And I feel dampered down. White clapboard church.
Mercy. Clemency. Compassionate stance. Whims of the merciful. Starlets dawning, fawning over angsty and angry director. Sweet mashed potato humbugs looping ropes through fellow dining room table obviousness. Same day shenanigans out of the goodness of my heart. When to not be, or stop being merciful? Perhaps when you feel taken advantage of? When the counterperson across from you is not remorseful or regretful. Repeated meanness or murder. Dancing daisies in the lilypad marsh. Stones stepping alone, skipping over lake reflecting sunset. Wiser than a monk who lives at the top of the mountain. Skirmish pepper pinpricks. Wistful romantic one-liners. Poe. Incredibly saved. Brave. The baseball team, complete with tomahawks. Atlanta on an Atlas. Don’t look down. I am moving my fingers along the Ouija board. Tell me what it says. Ouija keyboard.
Fate. It’s gonna happen. Everything’s meant to be. It’s a matter of course. It’s a matter, of course. I must fall into fate or else I cannot breathe. Must accept this trust fall of Life otherwise drown in quicksand pits of Anxiety. If you’re religious you have faith. Well, I have faith in Fate. The guiding principle of letting go. The guiding principle so I may enjoy my life and let a few worries go by the wayside. Worries that are not based in reality, that are uninvited, Murphy’s Law-believing fantasies obsessed with expecting the unexpected. They aren’t true, they aren’t real. There’s probably a .02% chance of them even happening. Skeletal alignment does not always stay straight. We are human beings. We err, we make mistakes. This is all part of the game. Have faith that we will learn, or give an opportunity to those around us to learn. I must breathe through with the tides of Time and accept my Fate, whatever that may be. Captain Pike having crystal visions listening to Fleetwood Mac. Stevie Nicks voice is like velvet. I would have loved to hear her and Nina Simone do a duet. Do you believe in Heaven, or dancing barefoot underground? None must stay – Namaste. Frightful elegance. Dapper zippers.