Another Video Shared by artmakerpoet@gmail.com:Escapery Poetry Practice,...

Another Video Shared by artmakerpoet@gmail.com: I Think of Greta's Stare

Guided Meditation - Blissful Deep Relaxation

just another sunday

the dog is curled in the great beast of its poof. the tulips are arching ever so toward the light, opening, opening their fiery petals into the wide, about to drop stance of done. the whale we found in the driftwood sculpture, half burned from an abandoned campfire stands pointing the way to the waves. she is next to me, writing, writing. we are writers now, writing, writing. words fall out of fingertips in a silent roar of what roars up and out from the heart. is that where the writing lives? there, in the heart? i imagine the heart with it's door, opening, and the words spilling forth in long sentences that travel out in both directions down the long arms that carry each plucked letter into words. i imagine the flow that keeps on flowing and the eyes that keep on reading and that silent sound of my own voice mouthing, through a still mouth, speaking, through a mind alone, the silent words as i utter them to the screen.  the fingers pull them into being and i speak them in the silence of my own mind where they no longer live once they have found themselves here in this virtuality. ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, for the virtual of the reality these days. virtuality. i am here. it is sunday. my mind turns to picking up the girl child who will come here to live out the interim. and i will ferry her to and from san francisco. and she will explore the exploratorium and visit haight ashbury and wander, for her time, in golden gate park and i can think of nothing more spectacular than taking her to and from these places over these next few days and hearing the spill of her stories about the memories she's made and will make in these places and the joy of getting to be that kind of mom again. ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. that kind of mom. i look to the piles of things that will shift back into order.  the pool of pennies poured out of the change vase hastily as i had to make my way to the bus. the pairs of shoes, accumulating under the coffee table in some kind of puppy pile of waiting to be taken to the dark part of the top shelf in the closet down the hall.  the papers--of opened mail and bank folders and possibilities of actions yet to take just waiting, as they do, for the toss or keep filing that will eventually come--though the stack may have to grow before the balance of inertia is upset into action. ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. it is a normal sunday morning, with nothing much to do but wait for the petals to fall from tehir place in the vase.  the waves are still waving.  the wind still pushing the air around in a sweet kind of early morning breeze.  life is still living in these still lives of ours.  life.  on just another sunday. ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

pi day (3.14.15)

today, i resume where i left off wherever that was in the post shaven early days of growing hair.  i am here, again, in this now, looking out at the vast horizon of the waving pacific in my pacifica perched on the edge of the ledge of earth still standing firm enough to hold this whole shebang up.  and on this sweet saturday of the pi across forever--the string of symbols that track across the sky of forever--forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever, forever. infinitely repeating patterns across the widest part of forever. where is that?

when something is forever in human terms its always temporal. it's always constrained by the unknowable, eventual end. maybe that's the thing about projecting onto the end of the earth--we end, but it, she, this universe of ours still spinning out at its edges is something that goes on and on and on and on and on to wherever forever began.

forward and back across forever in bridges of humanity that sense something sensate about sentience. ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. what it is to be here in this now across this forever.  i am here, hearing waves, dreaming of the outer edges of pi. there's something gorgeous about arriving in this life--about arriving in consciousness so that something can be considered as felt sensibility.

how to feel forever? ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, what a gorgeous human life to explore the outer edges--my outer edges of forever.  what an expanse to consider across this day if infinite repeating--those symbols stretched out in mathematical actuality across forever.

ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, forever.

http://www.slate.com/articles/health_and_science/science/2015/03/pi_day_2015_ten_digits_represented_on_march_14_at_9_26_53.html

here in this now

on the edge of beginning to re-enter the world in a new way--an old way--a way from the somewhere in the sometime of once upon it.  i am here now.  i am here in this now looking at the universe beyond this window of words appearing as i type them--as i let them travel down my arms to my fingers poking at keys.  i have a keyboard again--a whole keyboard separated from a screen doing its thing there in that space and place where whatever comes into being comes.  i am here now.  i am here, clean butt in clean underwear on one of two chairs that still live here in this house.  i am leaving this house that is not a house.  i am leaving it.  when? under what circumstances? shall i wait for the authorities? just to see the eyes of my former friend as she looks pathetically in my direction? doing what she thinks she must? to make me, my ideas, my friends, my experience, my stuff, my willingness go away? i am here.  it is 4:49 a.m..  i am here and hoping for something...what is it? peace??? when one must leave, and one gets in one's car or on one's horse or even heads off into whatever landscape they imagine with their nap sack on their back--ohhhhhhhhhh--that's it.  i shall make myself a nap sack.  i shall head off into the sunset with a nap sack.  what are those made of??? sticks and handkerchiefs? a sandwich? what else??? here in this now, i am full of the fantasies of what will come when something does.  i am here in the moment of this unfolding now thinking about things that think themselves into being.  i am here, wording the way forward, where there is not one? where there is no thing but this thing in this life--this up early ness that manifests in words on a virtual screen that may never ever be printed on any single bit of former tree.  i am here.  i am writing.  i am here.  i am stringing the beads of words--one single letter at a time.  i am here with the san francisco cups for coffee and the expresso thing he gave me--lit by the glow of the big screen for this computer life he has invited me to live.  i am alive in connectivity.  i re-enter the space of work in the world.  i look at the burning tool that i've been using to etch my hearts into wood--smelling the stuff of burning--ever smelling the stuff of burning.  i am in the foundry.  ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, the found dry.  i am here in this place of what can become of this moment in this way of finding something--light and shadow? play? courage? water? wisdom? sunlight bouncing off the silver that made the waves of water on the big wall back when magick lived here.  strange, the magick.  seeing one's self in the seeing of one's self i find the scene of seen.  i hear the words of now.  i write them down.  they are only words, after all.  they are only the things that come out of the ends of the fingertips doing what they do to come out of the ends of the fingertips.  tipping the scales, i suppose.  words do that in their time.  they tip the scales of something--life? balance? balance over time? i am off to the hills that look like the hill i used to be entrusted with...forever shirking all that has been bestowed upon me, and never, it seems, knowing when to leave.  i stay too long in things.  i stay too long.  now, i am approaching the end of my stay, here, at the end of this space and place in time.  there is always the coming and going from things to things, spaces to spaces, places to places, story to story.  there is a public face and an unmasked place.  there is a world to word.  it shows up in the writing first--when i remember to show up.  here, it is, i am.  showing up, it seems.  5:am.  is there time for another dream???

three sentences that are not sentences...

It was one of those perfect nights.  My soul had decided I would be in the room—not knowing, as I often don’t, where the room was exactly.  There is something perfect, for my spirit, about entering the flow of joy and following it as it moves me along.  There is something wholly alive about living the the moments of perfectly taken care of in that way.  I am here now.  I am here in the hearing of this clearing and I am writing.  My fingers are doing their magic.  I am asking for something—for the bump and groove of the sand to trip its way westward and for me to wake up in my above the ground way of knowing, this, too, will yield its spicy delight as some time in tune with weather.  What am I writing now? Just writing.  Writing in the written sound of sounding out the courage filling its fulfilled places—here and now am i.  ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, what wants to be written is so hungry now for the eyes of the page.  Blogging ever onward, a life lives itself out in rhyme.  Perhaps.  Time.  Perhaps.  Miles of courage order themselves one sweet letter at a time.  I am here now, in this hearing.  I am here now, in this clearing.  There is cleansing, still, and always, to do.  There is something in the somewhere of what has come and gone before the here and now of this moment.  I am here.  I am here.  I am here.  Here in the hearing heard of what is always and only life living itself out in fingers reaching for keys--------oh.  Tell me a truth I don’t already know? I am a sham ashamed of something? What? What.  This life lives its quiet desperation out of longing—whole enormities of longing—and inside that, there is just this one thing.  One thing whispers on one sound of one story in one mind of this beginning.  Beginning here.  I am here, beginning.  What is the here and now hour of this song? Psalming itself out of time? Out of quiet tribes of wilderness longing toward wholeness? What? Courage? Is this? in this night? Of rainy day? I am here.  I must put the laundry in.  I must find the quarters.  I must take the next right step on the wider path of what is possible in possibility.  Why does she say there is peace in me now? When I am most afraid? Of what ground will make itself? Soon, there must be palo alto dreams of where to set up my things.  Things. Things.  How to start clean of things?

We begin wherever we do down the long hallway of truth seeking.  Here in this hour of now, the world begins its turning over again—and I become all that I become in this wisdom.

Love loves me.  This is precious treasure.  I am still here and alive.  This is gratitude overwhelming me.

Life.

Does

Indeed.

Go on.