Tumbleword

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{                 ...                    } 

you, with your eyes aware
and wanting to dance

you fill in the blanks-- 
write the air
a new, musical 
                        text 
of breathing.

inhale there.
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old nun: relic
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fenced fog
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fenced voice
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What a weekend of dreams. Lots of sleeping in, and I hate to say I didn't want to come out of the mystical inner realm or out of my white bed sheets and look today at words. There are so many words, on everything, all over the objects of a day... for a minute earlier I thought, I will have to scratch my eyes out just to get a place of no words.  :0  I love my eyes. ;) I wouldn't do that!
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I don't know how long I can keep this up, but decided to write a small note to myself every day and seal it up in a little white envelope with the date on the back of it.  I might write one to anyone, any day. Somedays, the same note, to me or another...whatever I feel.  Then I am going to collect them for the year, orderely in a box, separated by the person's name I am writing to.  At the end of the year, I will gather them together and give them to that person, myself included... and only open one a day--on the date it is written. 

I think the idea came from writing comments to so many people on the blogs. It adds up, but its all dispersed, and how many of us go back to see what was written days or months back?

I want these to surprise me, or another.  At first I thought, I should just mail them out on the day I write them, because I was thinking my grandmother is about 87 this year, and what if... anyone at anytime might not be there next year on February 25 (today) to pass a bundle of little thoughts to.  It doesn't matter how old someone is today--people pass on, out of our lives.  Some of them, well like a mother cat or dog you'd like to hold onto by the back of the neck and shake--just to keep them for your own self.  But you got to let them go.

I had a sister die in a car crash one night, out celebrating her wedding anniversary.  It came after lots of relatives, pillars of the family, old folks who hold things up in a young person's mind; they got sick, or died. Right, one after the other.  Other things go too. So one never ever knows who we are talking to, or what is important, and why... I'm going to write my first letter(s) or notes now; and find a box, and then later, some little white envelopes.  Today I might write two, or three; just little thoughts. Like fragments of a poem.

I don't know how good I will be at it, or how long I can keep it up. I've blogged for about six months... so now I know what a little note can mean. I've gotten from you all so many wonderful words, in my posts and in my email, and even on your individual blogs. Maybe you would like to do this too. To someone, anyone... whoever is in your thoughts. It could be in a little book, to one person, each a small hand held gift of thought, sketches, whatever.

Listen, your thoughts are there anyway, living in your mind; it takes a second to jot them down, put them in an envelope at night, with a name and a date on them... to someone.  You are thinking of these things anyway. Save the thought and pass it on!

Why not?
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drink
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dance
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Woke this morning in that place half here, half dreaming.  For a moment had this faint sense my breathing was actually boat oars rowing me through a slowly trembling body of water.  

I was the boat, the oars, the water, the dream. When I breathed well, I moved along with the rhythm and pattern of the oars--jutted across the water.  It was so beautiful. When I barely breathed, I stopped, floated; maybe even drifted (aimlessly).  All a bit mystical, like a fog lifting over something deep.

Wish I were a painter, or something like that, to show some of the things I have been seeing in meditation--fantastic images, colors. Of course, the thing seen inwardly is hard to translate into any kind of language... I so wish there was a way to catch the feel of things sometimes, to turn them outward... just so I won't lose what is glimpsed. To share it. 

We all feel this way, after dreams.  Like you found something. Secret. Delicious. Beyond description or knowing? Half-awake, half aware you have been writing inside a book, or making a new art, or seeing amazing architecture... images.  You go groggy to paper to put it down, and its all stuck. Crumbled.  Daylight erases the inner life and you stand there half naked, alive.  Awake.

Maybe that is what coffee is for... to jolt us open.
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I wish I had something better to say. Feel a little dumbfounded the past days.  I almost put coffee cream in the cabinet instead of back in the fridge.  Once, I put the keys in the refridgerator. :)  It took a while to find them.  Too much writing does this sometimes -- does it happen to you? Some people never lose their focus.  Some do.  It is funny (fun, too) to be human!
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Someone just asked me "do we have a chordless extension chord?" 

Its from the Boston comedian Steven Wright ...  a phrase so "right" for what I feel right now.  
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drink . dance . breathe . dream . create .
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little red ride; rhythms
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little red ride; passing ghost of self
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Have been writing; or writing has been kidnapping me--it must happen to everyone sometimes. I feel I have been taken into an "under world" of whispers and wants; of a place where deep dark earth and a tree that speaks rhythms is asking me to see into the sky around me; to translate the pictures.

Yesterday it felt all blocked for most of the day, like a dead door or soul was blocking the view.  Hanging limp and thick and useless in my eyes.  Last night it opened; simply the way a clearing in the sky opens or you go up on a hill in you car or bike and can suddenly see this whole city sitting in a bowl down below, waiting for you there.  Its wonderful, and yet strange; a tug, a tug of war sometimes, too.  Its like a powerful child pulling your arm to go someplace.  You want to say, no, I have things to do. 

But you can't, you want to say YEs, too.  You know, all those already known, already planned things to do--are like a closed door to "LIFE"--where the routine, the routine, the routine has made you dull and void of that special aliveness you knew as a child.  The bouyancy.  The flight. 

I feel strangly half dead to stay closed in the same expected, "this is the way it is done; this is the way I usually do it" routine to life.  Its already lived, those ideas.  They've already found an end.   
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For me, making a list of things to do is sometimes like saying, "Tomorrow three birds (one red, one brown, one yellow) are going to come sit on my back yard branches before noon and sing Hail Mary or Mary Had a Little Lamb or something from Moby while pink notes fall from the sky instead of rain.  I then decide, if this doesn't happen, I have failed, I am worthless." That is sort of how we begin our day.  Mentally.  Against ourselves. Closed to the possibilities.

And if it did happen.  If a red bird, a brown bird, a yellow bird DID come sing Hail Mary or mimick Dave Mathews, and pink notes fell from the sky--would you be surprised?  Would you think wow, that is incredible? Or would you go inside and scrub the toilet, cross that off the list, and head to the dry cleaners, hurried and pissy all the way?
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How do you keep that balance; between staying alive, awake; and getting things done? Its a regular circus act, and I am not so good at this "acting."
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Here is a surprise for the eyes! Stargazers: a full eclipse tonight.  No wonder i feel all re-aligned! :)
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Link to Hubble telescope site; gallery of stars and tonight's sky.