water damage

 

most of the sentences returned to illegible blur - thought-effort reduced to what looks almost like a spilled ink well trying, sort of, to say ???.  probably the kitten knocked a glass over. maybe it gave into tidal pulls .... 

.    her name is Sofi (the kitten). she tries to play with the pen tail as i write sometimes, while it moves in opposing rhythm with the lines across the page. her again, changing the forming letters to meaningless scribble.  are these novel examples for a cat that's got one's tongue?  

 kept on kitchen counter or table,  over the last  8+ months, the notebook caught many thoughts, like one of those junk drawers or closets or rooms where it's best to shut the door before company comes, if you are the sort that has company over.   no point in keeping it though.- the notebook.- bloated wavey thick in the unique way paper and ink get once liquid is introduced.  

so curious -the experience of flipping through the  now dried crinkle pages and finding a scattering of intact sentences that weren't washed out. maybe 30 percent of the original text.or ...25.  .  my serendipitous editor, miss Sofi -  what remains,  the undamaged text - not really parsed together as a new fluent whole, but ... kind of in a way ... maybe ...    i had a boyfriend in my twenties - still a dear friend - who challenged himself to use the words in a newspaper story and by crossing out, well, most of them, the few he let remain were his expressed new work -  this reminds me a little of that.  i don't necessarily agree with Sofi's discretion ... or indiscretion (better put? But) the following is what was left - her finished, approved work - not a poem or short story or exegesis, just an ode to "oh - look what the cat brought in!"  

... a moments vast enclave; space insinuates much ado oh so subtly, about what is beyond its boundary -  miles and miles of seconds and acres of stop watches lurching, then loping, retracing the down climb . not this again, daylight burdened by burning time flying by, bye bye killing time with a flyswatter (???) 

 "when the measure becomes a target it ceases to be a good measure (Charles  Goodhart) ."     

- a cup of stones dancing - i carry them in my hand, crossing dunes to build a peak, more solid -  in awe of its patience with thirst                           we should go far into the heart - ten thousand miles long and find some place where there is not an inch of green,

save for one tree  -then sit 500 feet deep beside it, sit with the frightening cause of this desert...  sit very sweetly with it

                                                                            (..........)

 Not quite yet, i murmur back into the murmur .    falling just a bit in love with the historical sorrow of my bones. It feels like there may be a verse, a kindness, a moment of grace, faceless being round the corner awaiting reunion. ...   just one more,    

or someone singing in public  not a showboat performer, but  a child or un self conscious adult (that remains somehow un adult erated) not greedy for the spotlight or ashamed or insane but made timeless because someone heard and danced - brave and wild hearted -to their song. could that be me ... 

 and so for a bit more.  

i continue seeking a splintered gap to wedge like a crowbar, my heart, between trams of thought carrying prisoners sentenced to sentences - i lob off the loosening pivot, decentralized digit and fidgit to free the nouns from such rigid  underpinnings via encounter, without 

any words at all. What a mouthful 

                                                            ( ... )

The longer i live  the more language seems to be an entrapment. i ever believed if i could just say IT in the right way through  pristine sentences i could break through i could 

heal 

fix 

amend 

any number of troubling wrongs i could write it right i could speak easy fluency priceless currency, gaining purchase within liberation for you and me beyond you and me and 

                                                       i believe this

                                                 no longer 

my last heart wrenched endeavors have all proved an ironic dark debacle and left me 

unutterably heartsick

 this endless february ending finally 

something like a moral duty to repurpose words towards sharing 

only 

what might

 leave one 

speechless - something like that which a low red moon 

evokes 

             in a low red human heart-                       but  this 

isn't really a new vocation ...  is it - 

just renewed.         

 begin again. 

new moon   .

                                                                ( ........)

phonetic representation of Poli word:  sam pop uh lop uh (meaningless speech-prattle).

                                                            (............)

Acronym - (acro nimble ...acrobat)  

 

symbol seeker guided by eloquent dyslexic explorations to the underside where tapestry strings are tied and fraying and i see through the back of words all they are not saying.

:

                                                                             (...)

the question isn't whether or not time travel is possible          - memory, all past passed,  and imagined future    - the human mind, ping pong-able,  me maker using this raw material for me making while volleyed all day                          and night                         between the two  

unless one investigates how to be an active contributor within one's own chronic voyage - learning where and how to anchor                         for a moment, in a moment, in an encountered now,  and then to even let go the now - yes even that, and

                                                       to rest in what is really ril -

                                                            R.I..L.   (rest in love) 

and yet, gratitude has a nostalgic ebb\flow . i find my heart ache resting in thanks 

for lovely years where uneven afternoons came to frost rattled windows with zero blue breath ...                                                            if some wizardly genie rhythm racing, might grant me a whispered gift, i think i'd like a bottle filled with voices from then. little boy enthusiastic chatter-lapse to laughter and animal presence, confirming the heart's brite brute physical rarified tenderness-caressing-irony with a tail wag and a burping contest. .  

somewhere, every lost piece preventing solution for this unforeseen  jigsaw's completion, is collecting,  and resuming in some new form to fit the picture i still miss ...

what did i miss

                                                                             hush and

suffer the width of freelance desire and tireless attendance to fight-flight ...frozen silence museum,  incessant                                          whisper,                                   mutinous.            

protected within  non-existent somewhere's, so iridescent, subterranean, insistent ... i settle in stillness - it is there, yet i still don't quite get it 

might the sound of my hushed sigh  reach you so you could explain ...

... i let it out                    ~suspirion~

there's no reception.

i heard once that the fascia around the tongue travels down to root in the heart itself. 

i feel this metaphysical physiology - crippling - i am left behind limping 

relax go limp into the darkness of why

 it has already arrived at its destination           

                                                        (  ...)

embarrassed by the uniquely human amalgamation of arrogance ignorance and fear that allows for us to write a book read a book then believe with a fist pounded certainty absolutely, because it says so 

in a book ....

... and hold that this is a completely reason able thing to do. 

cite your source and

 i quote   the pre            ~              cise hind site blind side ... proud  knowledge - to "know" implies certainty ... we quit questioning when  we know we KNOW ALL READY already but just cuz ya all  choose to quit asking                                                     ... the question's are still there. they are there. that solid, absolutist ground upon which a foot stomps - just stomp with care and don't move around too much ....  the thing about knowledge, there is always a ledge - built right in ... allegedly.   

another Poli word - again, unsure of the spelling, but phonetically - my neh -  the wisdom of uncertainty - perhaps it's time to let go the age of reason and move into an age of humility. just take care not to pat ourselves on the back for this transition ... 

the stones and ash and vases and broken broom handles and chairs with three legs and trees and trees and trees and shattered glass and trees ... they are watching 

they are watching. 

i wish we cared

more deeply

500 feet 

                                                                        ( ... )

an apology to skin - mistaking it as a boundary ... again,  we are seventy percent water ... some much more   that i might be not an i at all but a possibility for water to experience it's self with such mobilized quiet grace amidst a craze of  rotational limbs far beyond the sagittal plane (forward back up down) no no look what i can be all about and under over 360 rotational rumpus bump jumping land softly dance wildly BODY AS MOBILE TEMPLE fluid lucidity body language (de) scribing this anthology. 

A LOVE LETTER TO HOPE WITHOUT OPTIMISM in all its EDGY RAGGED DESPARATION - ITS SURPLUS UNDIRECTED

i still carry on for you   holding ... letting go ... holding hope open palm up so small 

as to  fit in a change pocket or let to rest  in my ear like a tiny bird and we teeter on edge in homage to uncertainty  and we wait in hope for mysterious domains - too often mistaken as attributes.   this is to say, 

hey you SELF APPOINTED mr. wise old man - one can't BE wise any more than one can be a moment in time or the scent rising from a lilac bush - time itself as a sort of terrain.   wis dom (break it down  - acronyms again)  W.ait I.n  S.tillness wis dom (domain) wis(e) dom(ain) 

wisdom is not what anyone is or thinks or says so much as a place in the absence of all that , which through ... no body knows or can say,   some wild wooly lovely grace one finds oneself - ...  as soon as you notice you might be there

 poof  - the gained entrance is lost to 

 happenstance  

* (a foot note foray digression into the word "perhaps" ... buckle in ...)

 more than a synonym for maybe, maybe as perhaps ( per happen) ...  happen stance: one's stance within any given occurrence (happening),     at any given point in time, amidst the multitude of possible perhaps of happenstances. our stance is where we can take a stand as far as who we choose to be via response - water's incarnation for example - dancing - that we may be ... perhaps. softer words grounded in uncertainty - skinless and ephemeral.         

                                                                          (...)

if we are really indivisible under god, we can't divide ourselves from others as "one nation."  (... by the way ....   )  

if you want  to know about the moon, you might type a question into a favorite search engine directed towards "facts"  about ... and end up at a NASA site with all sorts of knowledge including  "the 5 characteristics of the moon" and other FACTS. Same again for the sun,  categorized as a small yellow dwarf, though its light is white, and so on ...

I much prefer the word information rather than fact - when referring to human thought structures and ideas 

in formation - a dynamic, malleable work in progress - a living entity ever forming and changing in a 

wise domain: of happenstance. yes i much prefer that.) 

   the following is the opening sentence from a stray correspondence - it's perhaps the final one - from the moon to the sun - written in some far future possible ancient history ....    

                                                                       *     "   (......)    i do not know if you are lost

 but i have lost you ... to what  ...  the mind, it can create such chasms no thought can cross.  it does so trap itself - but the heart knows no chasms - it can't perceive them and can cross with ease - it is there already.... waiting."    

.

    A re-understanding of the moon: 

   Neil Armstrong reported seeing an inexplicable iridescent light rising up from different dark side craters and places on the moon's surface and then, just as mysteriously disappearing.  Many other reports of a similar vein have followed over the years - in his footsteps  - these claims are not scientifically verified. these reports bring to mind (mine) phosphorescent sea and ocean creatures - jellyfish and squid and glowing, long fronded plants with opening, closing limbs - oceanology studies report 75 percent of deep ocean life make their own light (bioluminescent).    while the study doesn't much interest or surprise me (whether it's even close to correct),  i have long hunched that maybe the moon wasn't a mere night mirror. something more like me - a bioluminescent creature beached in outer space.. removed and not quite belonging here or elsewhere.                                    

                      every year (more science) the moon retreats by an inch or two in its orbit - slipping away from the earth and her star. this may not seem like much but i feel every millimeter halved and parceled -  a huge and tragic unbridgeable distance. i feel her. i feel her loss. i feel her slipping. 

ironic; perhaps it can't be helped.  . tides caused by her pull , her gravity, grave intensity, so important as it helps earth spin steady and with less turbulence on its axis (among so many other speculated important things that make earth what and how it is)  the power of the tide and waves she creates in her pull - they cause the force foisting her off and away.       

                                            alternatively and/or in addition. there is this information: 

long before any speculation, she sensed it - something wrong-ish ... unwell - shifting -  alterations in both her companions:   the planet and the yellow dwarf.   her retreat is thusly one of anguish,  but also, one she also understands and strives to accept. she can see no way around it and is generally good at seeing roundly.                                          her sun -                                                 tracked and drained by systematic, nodding, patriarchal solar panels  for quite some time, she witnessed

increasing dark, oily clouds rolling up and off his face (the sun's) and plastic burning - that concerning scent  - so different than the way a child or animal smells when you hug them after they walk in the door fresh from soaking up the sun's warmth.  something had gone "off"   there was a shift.. every system casts a shadow

She wasn't imagining it -  

  what could she have done to stop it 

... the rest of the aforementioned correspondence * to her sun, lost and retrieved  and missing pages:  

 " ... moving to a place of safety at uncertain, increasing distance - so many clouds, all ether, phosphorescent light un-needing ignition or flame at its source. . no signpost, guided by feel and vibration without  sound - but music nonetheless - nothing solid but ever grounded and safe here with no place to anchor or build with calculated concern,  there is no thing to lose, ... no bridges to burn."  

   

...  in some futured near distant grieving    i feel her  cry in a  sound that leaves most ear's undisturbed but stops all orbits for an instant 

after that, nothing resumes as it was, or could ever again be -

...,,,(editor found it suitable to end this here -  thank you, Sofi,  for keeping it RIL)