Let us today. You be. You being God who is the lovely life. Per pure thought, stones skipping on endless on an infinity sea. The ripples. Oh the ripples. Every action affects us all. White and black butterflies dance the raining air. Feelings are freeing. They’re just had, justified. I feel in love.
My morning candle, having burned all through night with all the flicker flashing warmth of a bedside fire had kept warm my dreams, let the bad ones burn up in their own self defeat, gave the good ones socks and running shoes to walk slow, swift as smoke, endearing billows as my pillow to talk me into eternity. Do I need to die to feel infinity? God is with and God is with always, always has and always will be, so I keep my feet on the earth, one in dream, one in the world. I wear spiritual mismatched socks. I’m in the world loving the world but I am not the world. I feel glory. I sing love with God the creator, purifier of faith, restorer of peace to an instant, and evermore being.
Because life, the world and life, the spiritual are altogether the grounds of my walk, my heart in love, God through all. I know two left steps, not accounting a balanced right step to keep going would equate to unbalance and a fall. So as life speak true of the spiritual and life speaks true of the world; and both in positive progression are natural, highlighted in God’s creative sustainability, thriving even!
I’ll wear a sweater, maybe a coat, a black beanie today. The coat once belonged to my father. Its wool like light colored ancient as those sculptures faced somewhere north east. He might not have known or felt this but the coat is a writers coat. When I first put on the coat I wrote a piece, I feel like a writer in the zig zag dash pattern so it’s a writers coat. It’s my coat. The sweater too was once my fathers, has an offset zipper up into a classy turtleneck. Beanie is black and warm, sweaters black too, nearly midnight colored. I also wear a thermal black undershirt for warmth. Black dress pants with a light inlay mathematic equation, a grid covering the whole pant expanse. Mix matched socks. Old white grandpa shoes with paint patterns all over, also there’s blue and white oil paint on my pants. I wear a blue eye ring with diamond translucent shimmering reflections in the light. A sun necklace. My eyes are ocean blue. Hairs one kind of blonde now. I try to smile as often as I can, or at least keep a contemplative focus and in the least a calm respite for Rembrandt said something and I say we etch our emotions on our face, we are who we are, as we appear; so I paint a portrait series now. There are the true people.
Water, the ocean for example, is not blue. Water just reflects or brings up. So blue water is the sky, green water is the deep surfacing. So yes my eyes are water, the flow from endless to eternity to infinity seas and I feel nothing escapes my yellow sight. I look for God, God’s love, God’s creativity, and I reflect.
Some people write books. Some people read books. Some people read the books while they’re written. I read while I write so I’m likely the latter, the both. I’ve a state of mind one might find me trying to be found by the one and alone at a café. Steams from my coffee take up the clouds, stratosphere in shapes of contemplative thought, I ought to be more lonesome. I pull my facemask off, breathe deep, take sips of hot coffee, careful as not to burn my tongue.
Some people run fast, you can count the rhythm in their step, the darting of their eyes, they pierce their own reflection with hurried fear. I’ve always been mystified that eyes reflect. You can look into a pair of eyes and see your own. So I saw myself speedily spinning and slowly embraced myself, let myself breathe slow, methodic, decisive, just watching the birds sing and play.
I’ve quite the affection for the grackle bird. It wears all black. The green blue red parakeet expends more energy to eat more. The mourning doves and pigeons fight each other for food. The grackle just does its own thing. It gets food when it needs. Flies in and then away from my sight. It’s my respite, an art I cajole, find comfort with, a relation.
I’d sometimes dream of knowing and being friends with everybody in all the cafes. But today I decisively know no one so I get to know myself. I turned off my phone, turned inward, forgot the time, I’m comfortable in infinity, the endless attention. Life was made for enjoyment; the colors, the lights, all the sense. The spiritual wake dream.