October 23 2020
Two white beasts paraded the solitude of my morning coffee. Only had i been in a morning dream of spiritual sorts, imagining myself an alien cowboy or saintly saint who had crash landed here quite literally with quite the living story; when a growing rustling larger than a bunnies by and by hopping clamored in oriental styled thistle gongs, i turned quick over my left shoulder to see the white fluff of two hound dogs break through briar and bramble, easy and smooth as two koi swimming as yin and yin, as life and life.
I return to sips of hot caramel creme’d keurig coffee, a yellow bug buzzes about me, really gets up in my face and decidedly, i must leave.
I remember the bamboo grove, east of me, in the direction of those providential hounds, i never saw them physical before or again; i gather my beige midori notebook, flair pen, coffee, water thermos with a handmade fabric blue sleeve and slip a keto protein bar into my monk hoodie. I showered and did yoga this morn so i’m feeling good, only a little later to the illuminations of sunrise.
I walk east some paces past vibrant blue green life, yellow rays lavishing the plain, glistening white marble rocks, oh and the chickens have incessantly been clucking i hadn’t even noticed. Always it’s those things that continue incessant that we forget to acknowledge. We love sunrise, all the pretty waking colors, slept the rightful side, how the rise of light, us with the call of a hen and eye of the sun awake alright and can say it just keeps getting better. Because the colors are so very alive after a long colorless night, when the mountains took to a single silhouette shade, little people lights flickered in the silhouette and car headlights lamped an invisible road. Life is the invisible road, don’t forget this.
I find the bamboo grove, leaving steady bare foot prints in the sand, so littler dust particles float up into the light breaks through the laurel grove, glisten in sunlight they catch, i watch like they constellate illusory day stars. The illumination is short lasting, but who can measure eternity? When spaces between time reveal itself, becoming inside us; we are new children roaming the grass laden fields of infancy, there is no tick tock of a clock or mother to watch, only the birth of worlds new again.
I knew in the shade of the overarching pinyon pine i can lounge lazy and easy. There i laid back, the bamboo grove to my back right, a woodpecker beating a native drum beat to my back left, chickens possibly singing to my far front left.
A finch bird lands in the bough of my shade tree, i try to look at her, hearing her trying to voice something in chirps to me, she silhouettes the sun, wears the sun like a blinding coat and looks deeper into me. I’m blinded but keep my eye on her, she flies into a lower branch, falling sweet and feather easy as flowers in autumn. Its her world she owns, this whole mountain season is her individual playground.
She watches me take communion. I use the keto protein bar in transubstantiation to be the body of Christ who endured death as human, who looked into the blinding life, the eyes of the father turning, our misgivings into the resurrecting gift of an eternity with our lover; God. I used my caramel hot coffee to sip the blood of Christ. Praying the pulse of life eternal carry me through life, the sweetness past the door of death, and in life everlasting.
The finch bird flutters by and by all through the morning, breaking little bits of dried leaves in the bamboo grove behind me. That yellow bee bug finds me again but remains only at a dull buzzing distance. I feel safe, secure in my shade tree, happy even.
A crow bird thunders its call to the black flap of its wings, puttering about the serenity of an empty blue sky. That’s why i feel an urge to paint. I think and unthink Van Gogh, my mind loosens a bit, a gush of wind pours through the trees and i remember i said i’d be a writer, my dreams flush back into me. I’m awake at last night’s truth.
I slept looking into the moon caught within the swaying leaves of the tree outside my window. I lay warm, quiet, quiescent and calm. Sleep felled me. I awoke in an ocean, swimming when a wave increasing lapped over, drowning near the thousands of others also in the water. I swam into the coming wave and rode the wave, they looked at me ludicrous like, and like heroine i was i rode the wave all the way through.
For a moment i recalled revisiting my family; friends at liberty market, daisy smiling sweet, her lips singing, rachel and nate, we ate together at a large table and i told stories, everybody present; then peixoto coffee, i saw my friends, anthony and i talked music, the color red, i sat alone at the green table feeling accompanied outside; i missed Gabi’s soul touch, Ariana’s voice.
I found myself speaking with a pokemon character called rhydon, we, in the deep of the ocean and him, cause of the torrentuous waves. He became transfigured to shape the crescent moon, soft, plush, squishy, absorbent like a sea creature. I held him in my hands, knew i must find angel fish. I’m still dreaming. I’m in an old tokyo supermarket, my old teacher mrs. templeton unlocks a secret room in the opposite red part of the shop thad botham, another old teacher had taken over. She was the drama teacher, art teacher who taught not and did; thad was the philosophy teacher who taught not how but why we know what things. I entered the secret room templeton opened. I was with some girl. Rats scurried up dust bunnies but there in the neon corner on a black shelf was the lit fishtank where angel fish swam. My crescent moon friend in my hands had grown dry, nearly dead and i know now is time to turn him to angels, to water. I place him in the water, watch life surge, angels encompass and i awake.
I write about the necessity of life and death, his death is no slavemaster, only a door to lasting life. We have been given the key to see, to be. I did my yoga flow in the cool glow of blue hour, showered naked and beautiful with sunrise, made coffee, saw those white hounds, laid back in the shade tree fronting the bamboo grove.
Tribal is our creative aptitude, increasing frequencies at higher altitudes of interconnectedness. Wayfare with
stars, count your constellations and like us we are numerous. God is breath in each and all and life forever unlocked on.
To the next sentence. I’m just having fun with the words i construe and deconstruct time and again fill spaces of eternal moments.
I showed andreas the bamboo grove through story, we sat in the early morning at a long plastic table telling stories, talking mysteries of the universe, of life. Andreas stayed the night in sungloo, the hut just 3 steps from my art hut. He went to the sunset chair to write for the first time in years, talk resilience. I attuned my frequency to Nikola Tesla’s talk on the key of the universe being the relations of 3, 6, 9; energy, frequency, vibration. I found hidden patterns in the arrangements of the three numbers, sought in prayer to attune my vibrational energies to frequencial resonances of love. I desire an amplification of the voice through me, social platform for loving social reform. I’m inspired by Gandhi’s ascetic love, St. Martin and Martin Luther King’s peaceful co-dreams, Thoreau’s civil disobedience, Emerson’s over soul, Richard Rohr’s good trouble, the giving of my own life to joyous gospel message, life may be ever-last.
We, people naturally creative, artificially stifled to perty wants by others, lowered to lowercase self when capital S Self is true nature in us. We, one people in love. We, we must take good care of fertile earth, we fight through thorn and thistle for fruitful abundance. We, we ought be as manifest to our states of being as water, we free flowing, nurturing, true to us.
Take care of your true voice my friends, purify your expression, be expansive, be love, make beautiful things, be saved in freedom in-dwelt. Venture the peaks, endure the vales; be yellow, be blue, be both and be green.
See any negative attribute is apt art for renewal into a better us. We make anger into passion; envy to possibility; greed to giving; lust to care of preciousness; desire to God; hate to love.
Be true, be yourself, be natural, be love, be open to a universal God who wishes and attributes your well being to be well-, the endless wellspring, flowers unshackled, unfold and blooming forth in your bloomvoice, dance, sing, write, paint, monetize, change, worship, pray, play.
Blue hour became with the reddest clouds of sunset, the lapping conversation of land and sky meeting in same winds of color through my ears, enlightening my eyes, instigating my hands to magic, making pure my heart. Not many a soul see yet commune with nature, we are we know it not, we recollect breath, bring back the stories of life after, entertain the messages, the signs unapparent, apparitional in the least, truest to the mystery of life.
I exercise my freedom, my play, my devotee nature in speaking not as i talk and just as i see – i paint it vivid. God painter the most glorious red wash of sky in sunset. Bathed me in cleanliness of full nature immersion. Sent the birds singing the same song crickets pick up through night. Gives me grandeur in spaces between. I live in blue hour, not day, not night. Sweetness only in being, truly to be, to breathe with all life, love truency.