Relationalisms

and then she left

2011-02-20T09:18:00.005-09:00

"...the key to happiness,"
she indicated, "is hidden
among the sprigs -
within the grasp
of each of us -

happiness is found
in tending to this moment
which will turn to snow."

- The Fool
- photo artist unknown

finding the words

2011-02-18T20:27:00.010-09:00

too long this time between

a dry expanse of desert sands
stretching from this vantage
back to some distant horizon

a desolate swathe of nothing

words that never came to light
an infertile barren land betwixt
the old appellations and now

this moment of reclamation

- The Fool
- photo artist unkown

catching up with my Self

2010-08-21T11:20:00.001-08:00

always a step or two behind -
always trying to keep pace -

trying to keep up, or at least
not fall any further behind -

sometimes, there’s a glimpse of a form –
one more substantial than this -

and it helps me to carry on -
on my way to becoming.

- The Fool

- photo by Micah Rainer Pali

backyard rituals

2010-08-07T12:14:00.001-08:00

They were the same rituals every night.

The neighborhood pack would gather together as the evening meals were finished. One of the older kids would assert themselves, and take the lead. Everyone put a foot forward to make the circle. No one wore shoes.

The Lead’s finger would light on the person’s foot next to them, and pause - while they considered what to cast in their attempt to manipulate Destiny. The rhyme had to have class, especially the first one of the evening; no eenie-meenie-miny-mo, or engine-engine-number-nine. When a chant was settled on, the ritual began - Three-six-nine, the goose drank wine, the monkey was dancing on the streetcar line…

The finger flitted from foot to foot around the circle, moving with syllabic syncopation from toe to toe. Each word was musical, each word carried its own mojo, and each word became heavier and heavier as the rhyme progressed - The line broke, the monkey got choked, and they all went to heaven in a little…row…boat.

The finger stopped with the final utterance. The weight of the decision bore down on the big toe of the person to be eliminated. A foot reluctantly removed itself from the circle. They were Out. They would not be It.

Then, the lead passed. The next person became the chosen one, and the process began anew. As demanded by the audience, a different incantation was chosen and cast - Early in the morning, late at night, two dead boys got up to fight…

Round and round and round. We laughed as One. We were madcap accomplices in a deconstruction of Logic. We were the founders of our own Theater of Nonsense - …back to back they faced each other, drew their swords, and shot each other. A deaf policeman heard the noise, and came and shot the two...dead...boys.

Another foot withdrawn. The lead passed. The next player considered their repertoire of choices.

Icka bicka soda cracker…Icka bicka boo…

My mother and your mother were hanging out the clothes…

They were the same rituals every night.

- The Fool
- photo by Doris Power

migrants all

2010-08-01T12:16:00.002-08:00

standing at the border
of Always and in Everything Alone
seeking transcendence

a way to cross the barrens
to a Land of Understanding

but the mind is its own prison
and there is no common ground
in the realms of Experience

- The Fool
- photo by Theo Georgiades

A. J. is Offered Passage

2009-03-01T17:24:00.001-09:00

It was nearly nightfall when A. J. arrived at the land's end, and the shores of a great body of water. There were two figures sitting on wooden stools near the water's edge. They were clad in dark robes, and their faces were shrouded. By the contours of their unshod feet, A. J. assumed they were female. Each figure held a bell.

There were clusters of luggage in the sand behind the two denizens, arranged like stowage waiting to be put on a ship, or drift to be taken by the tide. There were no other people about. The only sound was that of the waves lapping at the shore. The sound lulled A. J.

The reverie was interrupted by the sound of a bell. The figure on the left pulled back the cloak, revealing a female face. She looked at A. J. knowingly.

“The other side is far away,” she whispered in the silence following the bell, “and the other side is near. The lessons are always the same. Have you come seeking passage?"

A.J. hesitated. “Passage to where?” he replied.

“Passage to where?” she intoned. “Passage home, of course - to the home of your past, and the home of your future; to the home of your heart, body, and soul; to the home of careful planning, and the home of happenstance; to a home rebuilt from the tinder of dreams and turned into dreams again; to "Home Sweet Home" and "Home on the Range," and every lie-you-ever-wanted-to-come-true; or perhaps - even to that other ocean home from which you first stepped - the only other real - that place from before time, or speech, or precedent.” She smiled. “We all want a home, don't we? Shall I have my sister summon transport?"

A. J. looked into the distance, at the frail glimmer of light in so much darkness. A. J. was confused. What he saw did not mesh with his own recollections. When A. J. thought of home he always imagined the morning sun, and clear skies.

"Are there any other destinations? Passage to anywhere else?" A. J. queried. "And what is the cost? What accommodations are offered?"

"It is always the same, " she sternly retorted, as if she were telling him something he should already know. "There is only one destination. It will cost you everything you have. Accommodations along the way are of your own doing."

“And if I decline passage?” A. J. inquired.

She was quiet for a moment. “Then you will learn the lessons to be learned while declining passage,” she replied. “As I told you, the lessons are always the same; we are all going to the same place. My sister and I will still be here when you return. Just see if you find it otherwise."

A. J. shuddered, and considered the apparent oracle presented to him, and it's implications. He felt the sea wind on his face, looked up and down the beach, and surveyed the tide line extending from horizon to horizon. Then he contemplated the vast water before him. He turned around, and beheld the bluffs that rose up from the coastline at his feet - the land receding like his memories from the present edge of his being. He smiled.

A. J. thanked the woman, and set off with his rucksack towards the bluffs. Once there, he would find a place to camp, a good place from which to awaken and catch the morning light.

- The Fool
- photo by Rodney Smith

pollyanna (the glad game)

2009-03-01T17:17:00.006-09:00

the first thing i learned
is to always draw a sun
in the sky above

- The Fool

- photo by Stanko Abadzic

the nevers of happenstance

2008-11-10T19:14:00.004-09:00

you never seem to know
beyond the candle’s glare
what lies ahead in darkness

with the frail veil of a prayer
you try to keep the flame lit
as the wind buffets about you

the taper flickers its admonition
there is only this now before you
this moment of possibilities

and each shimmer turns to pitch
each possibility follows the others
into the nevers of happenstance

- The Fool

Pattern Recognition

2008-04-16T13:36:00.001-08:00

An unkindness of ravens greeted me yesterday morning. Three of them were in the spruce in the back yard. I noticed right away that there was something different in their chatter. They were not engaged in the casual and conventional caw-cawing or kack-kacking. This was not the back and forth banter of conversation. No, this was different. There were no pauses between the calls, any echolalia, or variation in returns. This was unison. Three voices calling as one, a choir for the day. I noted it. One should pay attention to changes in pattern

***
Despite the forecast for scattered thundershowers in the area, it was the typical blue-sky-with-the touch-of-white-puff-cloud-type morning. Crisp. Warm and dry. There was a light wind heard in the trees. I noticed the seed puffs from the cottonwoods in the air. Like miniature dandelion clusters…one…two…four…eight…sixteen…thirty-two…sixty-four…an exponential swirl of cottonwood puffs puff-puffing along. It was barely perceptible against the bright sky above. I caught the motion out of the corner of my eye, on the peripheral, where the dark shade of pine created a darker ground. Only there did it stand out for what it was, and only there could the flurry be seen. It was then that I noticed that the cloud puffs in the sky were copying the seed puffs. Or perhaps it was the other way around. Whatever. The sky was full of small cumulus clouds that were blown wispy at the edges. They looked like cotton balls stretched finely, like cottonwood seeds, like dandelion puffs. I was standing in the midst of a cosmic fractal rendering of micro and macro. I wondered where I fit within it all; where my form was repeated.

***
Late afternoon. The sky darkened. Dark shades of gray - almost black. A storm was brewing, and thunder played in the distance. The wind picked up. It loosened the cottonwood’s grip, and an enraged storm of cottonwood was in the air. With the darkened sky as a backdrop, the cottonwood puffs could be seen everywhere. Thousands upon thousands of them. They were no longer a trickled sensing on the outskirts of my senses, the sky now provided a proper backdrop for total clarity. I was in a snowstorm of sorts; a snowstorm of cottonwood seeds. A snowstorm in summer. They were everywhere, swirling, and it was ever so beautiful. It was surreal, but it was also so real. It was another shift in patterns brought to the fore, the third that day. I wondered what it all meant. Then the lightning entered into the valley.

- The Fool

They No Longer Believe

2008-03-31T19:16:00.000-08:00

They no longer believe
in the aggregate, in unity -
everything is disparate,
shattered, and partial.

They no longer believe
in moments before and after -
nothing primordial
or promised to come.

They no longer believe
in maps demarcated with colors -
just dull grayed contrasts
of chiaroscuro shadows.

They no longer believe
in connective certainties -
only continual detachments
and gaps of disjunction.

They no longer believe
in anything but disbelief –
the voices echoed in the rifts,
in the spaces in between.

- The Fool
- photo by Mishra Gordon

Triptych: Reverberations

2008-03-22T06:57:00.024-08:00

as the bell resolves
i listen as all my thoughts
become emptiness

one can sense no trace
of the bell’s sounding within
the silence after

this moment will pass

like a slowly lulling chime

into memory

- The Fool

- photo artist unknown

Who's This

2008-03-03T21:03:00.030-09:00

Who’s This
inside me

upon Whom
i depend

more than
i depend

than on
my self

and all
the while

it’s They
who play

the ply
of me

as truth
to lies

-The Fool
-photo artist unknown

Dhvani

2008-03-01T08:58:00.025-09:00

Always the allusive contortions, her veiled disguises -
the communications conveyed between the lines
of something altogether different; the other than -
through metaphors of being, and metonymies of lack.

- The Fool
- photo artist unknown

Stone, Wood, and Colored Glass

2008-02-23T11:37:00.023-09:00

They built a prison for their god out of stone, wood, and colored glass, and they confined their god inside.

They came and sang songs to Him on Sunday, and forced Him to forgive their sins: their dishonors, falsehoods, petty thefts, and adulteries. He was made to bless their children while they killed the children of others in His name. He was forced to consecrate their marriages, and to allow for their dissolutions. He was made to watch as the plate passed from hand to hand to hand…year after year.

But He was a wily jailbird. He became a hardened con. He purloined a spoon during a Sunday tea, and removed a tile from beneath the altar. Slowly - spoonful by spoonful – He began to tunnel, seeking a way out. He worked at night when the guards were lax, when they thought He was sleeping.

Night by quiet night, He excavated beneath the conjectures constructed to confine Him, until He undermined the faulty foundations of the form that held Him.

And on that night, it all came tumbling down, and their god escaped with a deafening sound…

- The Fool
- photo by Cyril Campbell

Emily Before the Mirror

2008-02-20T09:30:00.000-09:00

Emily assessed her image in the mirror as she tried to establish a relation with the woman in the frame before her. Her gaze sought an identification, something to use as a point of departure, something to carry her through the day.

Each morning Emily fixed her hair and she made herself prim. She preened until there was a bondage established with the presentation being constructed. The image attained became the facsimile she would carry forth and return to in moments of self reflection through the day. The composition created was always a fiction though, a false identification.

The image in the mirror was just a trace made in passing. Beyond the mirrored moment, beyond the configuration in the frame, came change. Over the course of the day, her hair would slowly fall out of place, and her make up would become disarrayed. Her sense of being, the image she carried forth, was always lost in her own becoming - always caught up in the movement of her own erasure.

Emily brought her face close to the mirror, and she stared into her own eyes. She saw the image of her face reflected in her pupils. She tried to peer deeper, but found that the closer she looked, the further she retreated.

Emily blinked, returned to the moment, and adjusted her collar. Everything was in place. She was ready to begin her day.

- The Fool

A. J. and a Leap of Faith

2008-02-19T19:52:00.055-09:00

A. J. had formulated a thousand different scenarios, and they all required a leap of faith. There were just too many variables involved, with combinations tending toward infinite possibilities. It was beyond A. J.'s ability to order and control. He had to trust in his objective, and hold to a belief that things would work out.

A. J. chuckled to himself. So like the Fool of the Tarot. It was as if he had been a querrant and had drawn the card. He was one step from the precipice and the vertigo of freefall, at point zero - the Fool's number - restarting, and on his way to a new beginning. And like the Fool, with just his rucksack, A. J. carried all he needed - to do, or be - in his own being. All he lacked was the dog as a travelling companion. It was an apt metaphor for the moment - it was as if someone were writing his script.

A. J. surveyed what was before him. There was no easy way. There never was. You can never be sure except in hindsight: folly or wisdom; disaster or success; destruction or creation; ruin or transformation. And it doesn't really matter, not when you are willing to risk all for something. There is only the objective.

"Trust," he whispered, "and belief." A. J. closed his eyes, and with a knowing, and a logic beyond reason, he took the next step.

- The Fool
- photo by Rodney Smith

Stain Removal

2008-02-19T06:21:00.021-09:00

Some stains are more difficult
to remove than others -

for the motor grease and oil spatter
from wrenching on the motorcycle -
rub a bit of lard or Vaseline in the spots...
let it set, and then wash as usual,

for that splotch of red wine spilled
during the frolic and offering of a toast -
immediately pour white wine on it…
wash in cold water and ammonia,

for the indelible stigma left on one's being
from harsh words and judgments cast in anger –
a tall glass of single malt scotch…
repeat as necessary until you forget.

- The Fool

Beyond Rhyme or Reason

2008-02-09T20:20:00.001-09:00

There is a certain part of each
that stands apart, irrevocable -

that goes beyond the rhyme
of anything that can be said,

that goes beyond the reason
of any truth that can be known -

something that all others lack,
and no mirror can ever grasp.

- The Fool
- photo artist unknown

Impaired Vision

2008-02-05T07:03:00.001-09:00

even when
it has been
received

the truth
is not easy
to recognize

- The Fool
- photo artist unknown

The Pathology of History

2008-02-03T19:15:00.001-09:00

The chapters expunged
and the pages rewritten –

the text of the unconscious
beneath the spectacle of truth -

can still be read elsewhere:
in the symptoms of the body,

in the stock of memories,
in the heroic retellings,

in the mannerisms, crude wit,
and paper-thin traditions,

in the deft distortions made
by the edits and revisions,

in the words that are chosen,
and in the silences in between,

over amber waves of grain;
under my country tis of thee.

- The Fool
- photo artist unknown

A. J. Considers the Options

2008-01-31T20:05:00.002-09:00

...stopping is not arriving. To stop is to stay a million miles from it and to do nothing is to miss it by the whole width of the universe.

- Thomas Merton

Taking into consideration what might happen only immobilized A. J.

He could never be sure which way to go - which way was safe, and without pain. There was never any assurance or guarantee. A. J. knew that.

Still, it comforted A. J. to hold to a knowing, that whatever choice he made, it would be the right choice. His choices were always the right choice. He charted his course by what felt right. The real difficulty was in the acting - acting in the face of not knowing where those right choices might lead.

A. J. knew that if he waited too long, the pain of not making a choice would become so intense that he would make a choice - or else the prolonged procrastination of not making a choice would become a choice in itself.

He always wondered about these choices; whether they were even choices at all. So, A. J. preferred to act before such moments arrived - stay ahead of the game - even if he sometimes acted spontaneously. He enjoyed a pretense of free will at least.

No, A. J. could never be sure which way to go. He could only choose which way felt right.

- The Fool
- photo by Rodney Smith

The Anomaly

2008-01-22T07:25:00.001-09:00

He could still smell the chalk dust. He could still hear the echoes of the logarithms, and the grammar rules. He was still being put in position. Always the semblance of order.

Schooling never taught him anything. The teachers didn’t instruct, inform, communicate, or educate. They rarely said anything that hadn’t been said to them. It was simply hearsay, redundancy, and the passing of orders. With orders, they tried to create order. They tried to put him in position in kind.

It was never so much what was said, but what was not said - like the silences of history. Each utterance from the mentors, by omission, put him in a place, in a position as a subject, all the while compelling obedience to an order, as a position in an order.

It was as if they wanted him to become a set of coordinates, settled at a particular longitude and latitude. He became a nomad instead, and wandered through the halls of mirrors, seeking lines of escape.

- The Fool

- photo of Gilles Deleuze - photo artist unknown

Efflorescence

2008-01-14T19:15:00.001-09:00

From seeds of solitude
sown deep within us

the grace of an other
fecundates flowering.

- The Fool
- photo artist unknown

cunnilingus

2008-01-03T19:50:00.002-09:00

the rhythmic
undulations
of your body
give form
to the hunger
i have for you

like waves
cascading
to the shore
in response
to the moon’s
attraction

- The Fool
- photo Reflection - Flickr

I Am My Own Picasso

2007-12-13T07:07:00.004-09:00

Rain is no respecter of persons
the snow doesn’t give a soft white
damn Whom it touches

- e e cummings

***
Deep winter in the northland. Snow falls from the sky and settles around the cabin. It creates a stillness, a muted motif of meaninglessness as a monochromatic canvas stretched before me.

It seems it is perpetually night. Days go by, and I do not see the sun. I go to work in the dark, and return home the same way. Bound to a schedule, I miss the few hours of daylight offered. The sky is overcast, and has settled into a starless, moonless, ubiquitous gray. The world appears as an endless repetition with no horizon.

But I know the winter solstice approaches. It will soon be here. And the solstice brings transition and change, warmth and light, spring's hues and new beginnings.

From the promises of its palette, I mix and dab, and paint the cold, dark, empty canvas before me. I make sense out of nonsense, and nonsense out of sense. I create meaning in the world.

I am my own Picasso.

- The Fool

2007-12-04T19:29:00.002-09:00

i know what it’s like
to be a mountain

to feel the winds
carry me away

breath by breath
year after year

the subtle erosion
of my essence

i know what it's like
to be a mountain

- The Fool
- photo Windstorm on McKinley Bradford Washburn 1942

In Poetry & Relationships

2007-09-25T19:17:00.001-08:00

there is meaning
in scission,
in the break,

in the spaces
(__________),
in---between…

...and punctuation
is of great import -

the connections,
and the tethers -

the comma
being kinder
than a period
.

- The Fool

A. J. Meets a Worker

2007-09-02T00:02:00.000-08:00

A. J. walked for days until he came to a small village. He met a man with a jackhammer, reducing the remains of a statue to rubble. The jackhammer made a lot of noise as the man chipped away at the rock. There was no sign of a statue proper, just the last vestiges of a foundation, and some surrounding debris. The man was sweating profusely. He stopped working as A. J. approached.

A. J. asked the man about the statue. He wanted to know more about it - what was it a statue of, and why was it being removed? The worker told A. J. that he really didn’t know anything about the statue's history. He had only been hired out of the union hall that morning on a short call. He said that the piece of rock he stood upon was pretty much what he found when he came to work.

The worker went on to say that the statue was probably built and toppled many years ago. He told A. J. that building and toppling statues once made for quite the past time. He chuckled, and asked A. J. what he thought about people who built statues - or those that took them down. A. J. had never thought about such things before, and had no reply.

“All of their efforts to help pad my paycheck and feed the kids,” the worker proffered. He squinted at A. J. and added, “Perhaps one of your ancestors built this statue.”

Then the worker laughed, and returned to his task. A. J. shuffled on.

- The Fool
- photo by Stanko Abadzic

Machinations

2007-09-02T00:01:00.000-08:00

All is conjunction
everything connects

"and..."
"and then..."
"and then..."

the continuity of flow

each finds their placement
in the production of God.

- The Fool

A. J. - Through the Door

2007-08-31T00:00:00.001-08:00

A. J. knew there was something in his experience that determined his apparent schizophrenic behavioral patterns; the slippages- the assumptions of roles revealed through his humor, art, poetry, and writing. He'd admitted long ago to having a whole kingdom-phylum-class-order-family-genus of related symptoms. Everybody had them in some degree. Only the extremes were ever considered mad. And to paraphrase Thoreau, Pity the poor madman, he never sees himself as such.

A. J.'s schiz flows could also be traced in his assumption of roles, his traits, that which he called upon to venture over the wall- the cast of hero, rogue, fool, and Prodigal Son - all the seekers of transformation. He knew what he was about. He also knew what he was about to do - even if it was rather out of character for most. His doctor would understand:

"It would appear that once precipitated into psychosis, the patient has a course to run. He is, as it were, embarked upon a voyage of discovery, which is only completed by his return to the normal world, to which he comes back with insights different from those of the inhabitants who never embarked on such voyage. Once begun, a schizophrenic episode would appear to have as definite a course as an initiation ceremony - a death and rebirth...What needs to be explained is the failure of many who embark upon this voyage to return from it."

Indeed. His doctor would understand. A. J. smiled. He had an appointment to keep.

- The Fool
- excerpt Gregory Bateson - introduction to Perceval's Narrative: A Patient's Account of His Psychosis.
- photos by Rodney Smith

A. J. - An Interlude to a Beginning

2007-08-29T00:00:00.000-08:00

A. J. sat down in order to better assess the current situation. There was a lot to consider. He pulled out his biggest magnifying glass for clarity.

Things were different. A. J.’s trip over the wall had changed him. He’d lost all sense of connection with his surroundings. It didn't feel like home anymore. He felt like a foreigner on the estate. Worse, he felt like a prisoner. And A. J. realized that the restrictions that held him in check were of his own doing. He needed a plan for escape.

A. J. sat for a long time. He thought and thought, until there was nothing left to think about. It was then that he decided it was time to do something. He knew what he wanted. He knew what he needed. He knew what he deserved. He had his work cut out for him.

A. J. determined he would need some tools. He put down his magnifying glass and headed for the shed. He would need the big hammer for this job. Making a door in the wall was not going to be easy.

- The Fool
- photo by Rodney Smith

Birds of a Feather

2007-08-25T07:30:00.001-08:00

At first, he didn't notice them. The flock congregated slowly.

It was only in increments, little by little, that he became hypnotized by the strut and peck, the calls for conformity, the beckoning to join formation, and the lure of sanctuary and a place to forget.

With a feeling of oneness, from out of need and necessity, he became a number in the swell, an affirmation, a justification, and a container. Bound by the shared belief, he mistook his newfound conviction for flying.

- The Fool
- photo by Robert & Shana ParkeHarrison

In the Corner

2007-08-19T08:45:00.001-08:00

Each step to the corner
was taken grudgingly,
but taken all the same,
time and time again.

The judgment’s decree,
the ostracisms in time,
time and time again -
until there you stayed.

- The Fool
- photo by Misha Gordon

There is a Place -

2007-08-17T06:31:00.001-08:00

where the silences between
the notes of the song gather

where the spaces in between
flow like a river connecting

where words falter and fail
unable to deliver meaning

where past and future escape
and there is only and ever now -

where only we can go.

- The Fool

Bridges Crossed: Long Ago and Used-To-Be

2007-08-14T07:48:00.002-08:00

I crossed the bridge a thousand times in my youth. The bridge served as a shortcut to many destinations. We new the distance of the bridge's span by the number of railroad ties from one end to the other. We counted the train cars as they passed, and flattened pennies on the tracks.

We met there at midnight, shared philosophies and built dreams while sitting on the huge, rough-cut rock steps that climbed to the tracks from the street. It was a right of passage to kiss our girlfriends while standing at the halfway point of the bridge as the trains passed by. We'd kiss and vow, "No cross backs." The boys dared each other to perform jumps off of the bridge into the river.

We even fished from the bridge. Catfish and bluegills were common, and the river ran thick with shad each spring. Banking a healthy catch on a light line from such a placement was a nearly impossible task. Still, we tried.

And the best hot dogs in the world were sold at a place called Bart's - just a couple of blocks from the bridge. Jackie Gleason even agreed. His picture hung above the grill as an affidavit. Now, the bridge is just a memory, another used-to-be of long ago.

- The Fool
- photo of the bridge. Artist unkown.

In the Small and Tiny of Things

2007-08-06T11:16:00.001-08:00

in the small and tiny of things
is the bigger and better of now

on the tender feet of butterflies
the unfolding of today is found

and tomorrow drips like nectar
with the promises of flowers

- The Fool

More I Miss the Moment

2007-08-06T11:15:00.001-08:00

Of course I miss the kisses.
More I miss the moment

after the tangled dance of tongues
after the lips lament in parting

after taking in each other’s breath
and stillness settles

more I miss that moment
like the silence after the bell.

- The Fool

Notes from the Road

2007-08-01T08:30:00.001-08:00

Paradise has brown eyes
with gold and pearl shimmers

where the butterflies flit
and the waters still.

-The Fool

Transformation: A. J. Returns

2007-08-01T07:30:00.001-08:00

Every wall is a door.

- Ralph Waldo Emerson

- photo by Rodney Smith

The Moment Before You

2007-07-21T14:00:00.001-08:00

If every moment
is an answer
without yesterday
or tomorrow -

what do you see
before you?

- The Fool

A.J. Goes for a Walk

2007-07-01T09:00:00.001-08:00

A.J. had always been complacent and comfortable in his setting. There was an orderliness to everything that found a similar camaraderie in his disposition. Everything had a place, and everything was in its place. All was as it should be - a steady state with little variation.

But today was a day of difference. Perhaps it was the brisk coolness in the air accompanied by the touch of ground fog, or the assumption of a ubiquitous gray overcast by the sky that affected him so. Over the course of the morning, complacency and comfort had given way to dissatisfaction and distress.

The ivy seemed redundant; a fractal rendering of a monotonous and repetitive motif of monochromatic green. The prim and proper of its bearing seemed too constrained. The ivy's leaves bristled in the light and shifting breeze, as if it yearned to climb over the walls to escape the check of the frames imposed by the grounds keeper's care.

A.J. found no solace in the walls this day. They seemed but an obstruction of entanglements with the ivy set against them. A couple of lines from Robert Frost's "Mending Wall" rose from the obscurity of memory:

Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out

Now, the walls seemed paltry and indefensible. A.J. realized that they did little more than hinder his view. He couldn’t remember the last time he had ventured beyond their weak fortifications. He wondered at what was on the other side.

A.J. went to the shed and got a ladder. Like the ivy, he yearned to venture beyond the restrictions imposed, he desired a freedom for himself hitherto not allowed. A.J. set the ladder by the wall. He thought about Humpty-Dumpty, and he wondered what might happen if he fell. He chuckled at the thought of his sense of sureness becoming so frail, and began to climb. Forgoing complacency and comfort, he took in the view beyond.

A.J. smiled, and placed one foot on top of the wall, and stepped into the abyss of his uncertainties.

- The Fool

- photos: A.J. Looking Over Ivy-Covered Wall & Lucia Seated In Garden by Rodney Smith

The Ecstasy of St. Theresa

2007-06-29T00:02:00.001-08:00

She had to tell him. She needed him to know. He would understand. He was, after all, her mirror. She moved the food around on her plate. It was cold. She wasn't hungry. She looked up at him across the table. He was so innocent.

“Honey?” She stopped. A wave of uncertainty passed through her.

His eyes sparkled with their usual youthful luster. She always marvelled at how people's eyes never aged, and how a child was always contained there. You just had to know how to look. She continued on, “Something happened today. We need to talk.”

Concern crossed his face, and then he looked uncertain as to what he should be concerned about. He put down his fork. The movement made her uneasy. She pushed on.

“I was visited by an angel today.”

His eyes stilled, and his lips parted slightly. Time stopped in their parting. She looked away, and half-focused on the water glass in front of her. It seemed to make things easier...

“I saw in his hand a long spear of gold, and at the iron's point there seemed to be a little fire. He appeared to me to be thrusting it at times into my heart, and to pierce my very entrails; when he drew it out, he seemed to draw them out also, and to leave me all on fire with a great love of God. The pain was so great, that it made me moan; and yet so surpassing was the sweetness of this excessive pain, that I could not wish to be rid of it. The soul is satisfied now with nothing less than God. The pain is not bodily, but spiritual; though the body has its share in it. It is a caressing of love so sweet which now takes place between the soul and God, that I pray God of His goodness to make him experience it who may think that I am lying.”

She looked back at his eyes again, and tried to weigh their response. She found herself looking into the eyes of a stranger...

- The Fool
- statuary: The Ecstasy of St. Teresa, Gian Lorenzo Bernini (1652).
- quote from The Life of St. Teresa of Jesus, Teresa of Avila (1515-1582).
- the posting first appeared @ "Shouting in the Dark" 2007

Metamorphosis

2007-06-29T00:01:00.001-08:00

Hearts speak with angels;
share the secrets of their keep –
love’s transformation.

- The Fool

- photo artist unknown

The Complaint Department: Metacognition

2007-06-28T01:30:00.001-08:00

The customer addled up to the counter before the obligatory call for “Next.” He wore a pretense of authority, obviously unable to admit his predetermined disadvantaged state. The clerk scanned for the tell-tale signs of betrayal: skin pigment tone changes, muscles tensing, or the slightest of a quiver in the lips.

The customer pulled a receipt out of his pocket. This one knew the rules; no receipt, no return or exchange. He laid the receipt on the counter, followed by a bag imprinted with the store's logo. The clerk didn't show any signs of noticing. A finger tapped the receipt, followed by the preliminary attention-getting clearing of the throat, “A-hem. I would like to make a return.”

The clerk’s eyes narrowed, and captured the customer in the pinpoint crossfire of a pair of steel blue eyes. The customer braced himself and continued. “I would like to return this brain, and either get my money back, or exchange it for another.”

The clerk gauged the nerve of the customer. No flush in the cheeks, no tensing of the face muscles, no quiver in the lips. A peculiar staunchness stood before him, someone with spine. The clerk took greater notice. This customer was prepared, determined, and parried before the first thrust was even presented. “And what is wrong with this brain?” the clerk sneered through gritted teeth.

“It doesn’t work right,” the customer asserted. “Its thinking isn’t correct. I believe it to be a faulty product. It is certainly one of poor craftsmanship.”

The clerk weighed the words carefully, and retorted, “And just what makes you believe that the thinking isn’t correct?”

“I have thought about it,” the customer responded coolly. “I've thought about it a lot, and I find it to be presumptuous, and rather maladaptive in its adaptations. I surely want something that works better than this contraption, and if that isn't an option, then I would like a full refund. Believe me, I can do without one of these, thank you.”

There was a short silence. “This determination of bad thinking," the clerk continued with a procedural tone, "by way of the process of thinking about thinking, presents a situation that I am not prepared to address. Please, allow me to call the manager.”

The clerk's hand paused ever so slightly as he reached for the phone.

- The Fool
- photo artist unknown

Affirmation

2007-06-24T00:01:00.001-08:00

Dawn on the river,
like a question before her -
begging an answer.

She draws in the day,
holding her face to the sun -
assured, poised in response.

All is possible,
all is held in just one breath –
and she whispers, “Yes.”

- The Fool
- photo by Mark MacLean

Boxing the Compass

2007-06-22T02:26:00.001-08:00

Summer Solstice, and in this moment I am where I am supposed to be at this moment. Right here, where I am supposed to be, at the center of the compass rose that designates the cardinal directions for the orientation of my mappings. And I can name the directions of the rose, boxing the compass, and I am comforted by the splendid renderings.

Summer Solstice, and in this moment, I am not where I am supposed to be. I’m in a moment without compass, without bearing, on unprecedented ground, alone, with no compass rose as guidance – in a moment between what I think and what I feel. In a moment turned towards turning inside; towards where there are no readily apparent answers, because the coordinates of such directions cannot be mapped, the questions can’t even be formulated.

- The Fool

Exsynesthete

2007-06-21T09:15:00.000-08:00

Time was - the sonance
of Grandma Davis' voice
peppered mellifluent
blue-black olio sapors -

salty ebbs of insinglass
roiled across my tongue
when the inland gulls
scavenged the scree -

cold, wintergreen
nips of Gramp's chew
cat-claw whelmed
the airy ruckus.

Now - only diffuse
forms of facsimile;
mementos hawked
by vagrant aromas,
and verdure coffered
traces of clarity
before a storm.

- The Fool

- photo artist unknown

Tho' Once Alive, the Moon

2007-06-20T06:01:00.001-08:00

Is dead. The O of naught.
No poems or water there.

Liege silence worms through
Its heart - old luggage

Of cold iron. No attraction
But the past - code of stone,

Cryptic; dead as the future.
Already the race has been raced,

The dance one-stepped for mankind
On a momentary impulse of dust.

- The Fool
- photographer unknown - from Observational Astronomy.

The Thought

2007-06-15T06:15:00.001-08:00

my eyes
are surely kinder
than my mind

twin cerulean
aqueous drifters
reflective shimmers
of attentive stare

beyond their pale pounds
a heartbeat's impetus
checking happenstance
and the hounds' fury

keeping as tight grip
upon taut leashes
frenzied snarling teeth
snapping for your throat

my eyes
are surely kinder
than my mind

- The Fool

- This posting first appeared @ "Shouting in the Dark" 2007

The Ravens Discourse

2007-06-14T06:03:00.001-08:00

I sat outside with my morning cup of coffee and listened to the ravens discourse. The crisp clarity of the morning air carried their conversation from tree to tree.

It seemed that all the answers to everything were held in the ambience of the guttural exchange being conducted for my cloudy senses. I felt like a stranger at a party of strangers. Everyone knew something that I had no knowledge of, and all I could do was listen and smile unknowingly, appreciative just to be in the company of those so connected.

Like an itinerant in a foreign land, I knew that everything was beyond my understanding. All I could do was take things in, and hope for some insight to my own lands upon my return home. I wondered where home might be.

- The Fool
- illustration by Michael Martine

Kindling

2007-06-13T07:00:00.001-08:00

We take what each can give,
The givers giving unknowingly.

Scraps, sere ribbons stripped
From the immured forms – bark

Peeled from the too-fortified
Barricaded existences. We take

And make a form for a dance;
Communion in the offerings.

- The Fool
- This posting first appeared @ "Shouting in the Dark" 2007

The Centerfold: Partial Object & Fetish

2007-06-12T06:22:00.001-08:00

my hard scrutiny
does not pause
at the areolas

that surround
such wanton
pert reactions

nor does it
hold to
a loose g-string

of threadbare
innuendos
laced upon hips

in a sequin sketched
cat’s cradle
of curvaceous pout

instead it slides
down a smooth
supple extremity

and regards your
open-toed
fuck me shoes

that a real woman
never wears
unless she is asked

- The Fool
- This posting originally appeared @ "Shouting in the Dark" 2007

Turning Back

2007-06-10T08:46:00.001-08:00

Notwithstanding age, the indifference of all

Platitudes, notwithstanding the facile

Hubristic idiom, dogged repudiations –

Partake in child’s play –

Try to imagine nothing.

Cease the civic audient feint, the encumbrance

Of the antediluvian thoughts you larrup,

Leave the absolving citied murmur –

Drain sound’s laver –

Dry, but for self.

Abrogate the altitudinous waft of gentians

To the high white on white pallor,

Deny the balms carried by the wind –

Hold, not a breath –

Sustain vacuity.

Let your mouth parch from the executive

Canards of refinement, the ineffectual

Bromides, culture’s buncombe cuisine –

Spit out the aftertaste –

The present nadir.

Forget the sprightly impassioned tactility

That rankles in a toss of bed sheets,

The sweltered attempts of rapprochement –

Contrive a tepidness –

A supple entropy.

Close your eyes, release the unballasted

Stowage, and glower into the sullage;

The ineludible persona non grata –

Succubus of the soul –

Kiss it, turn –

Face the consternation at the demarcation

Between what you know, and nothing,

Know that moment; almost nowhere –

“Zero at the Bone” –

Then ameliorate.

- The Fool

- photo: artist unknown

- This posting first appeared @ Shouting in the Dark" 2007

Soundings

2007-06-10T08:43:00.001-08:00

A sandhill crane parts
from the ubiquitous gray
of the sky's sordid pastel

its cacophonous laud
augments a sinuous
magnanimity

tonic
panacea of rara avis
riven from the empyrean

tensive guttural keck
of deific strain
imponderable and lonely

***

Black-throated
vees of shivaree
southbound overhead

vanguard's descant upon
the current urgency
of the hoarfrost

the gleaned fields
skim-ice on the ponds
vertigo in stillness

timpanic decrescendos
of auld lang syne
glad hand the horizon.

- The Fool

- photo Arthur Morris: Sandhill Crane
- photo Albert Stockwell: Canadian Geese
- This posting first appeared @ "Shouting in the Dark" 2007

On the Farthest Shore

2007-06-09T18:30:00.001-08:00

amidst the sacred
and the profane
there is a gateway

a perch for cockerels
to call Amaterasu
from out of seclusion

where darkened sky
is lifted, and the kami
dance on holy ground

and when I get there
I will clap and bow
thrice before passing

for the sanctification
and the purification
found on the other side

- The Fool
- photograph by Michael Kenna

Targets

2007-06-07T17:18:00.000-08:00

The thought of the multitude
Can not grasp the categories
Of the thoughts of the spirits
Circumvolving, but the tense mind
Can shoot arrows toward them.

- Shi King III

Resigned, beneath the maple -
Preferring the disparities
of the concentric verities
Set rigid 'gainst the hay bale,

Preferring skills honed in drill,
With the target set as measure;
Three bulls-eyes a valued parure,
The design as verticil -

You sneered at my ritual.
Still, I'd choose a wisp of cirrus,
or the sun, and try to untruss
The sky of veil or jewel.

Perhaps,
It was then - as each arrow
Turned to return with its decree -
Then was my portent given me;
The sharp boding to the bow.

- The Fool

The Fostering of Disbelief

2007-06-06T00:00:00.001-08:00

Disbelief, the inability or refusal to accept something as true or real, is fostered as an asset in our culture.

Questioning the accepted is seen as fundamental for progress, paradigm shifts, innovation, and change. The ability to debunk illusion is considered an asset in a culture built on illusions and lies - where theories fail, desires are formulated, and product is confused with substance.

Skepticism is the backbone of much of education. It is the hidden curriculum imparted via the teaching of questioning, analysis, logic, dialectics, and mathematics. The esteemed philosophers - if they are a measure - hold everything in disbelief until proven real, and even the physicists with their quantum leaps play on the suspension of belief.

From an early age, we are taught to question, examine, consider, compare, contrast, differentiate, repute, weigh & measure. We create instruments with finer and finer sensitivities in order to find clarity. And always the finer instrument becomes the measure of the current truth to be debunked. Proof is followed by disproof.

Looking at this fostering of disbelief as a cultural habit of thought, one might consider the repercussions. Consider it in light of relations that require an unwavering foundation of belief in order to be sustained - say "God," or "Love." Without belief, how does one differentiate the real from the false forms? What might we be teaching ourselves by fostering disbelief as a habit of thought? What is the relation of disbelief and belief with regard to our epistemological frames, desire, and change? Just a thread for the strand...another consideration.

- The Fool
- photo by Rodney Smith

Town Drunk

2007-06-05T17:21:00.000-08:00

who would have thought

thought as Eddie Peters
stumbled from pool hall slate
double bank shot off the curb

whirled his toothless grin
fell face down to pavement
eight ball in the side pocket

who would have thought

thought as we walked home
from confirmation classes
you'd come to be like him

- The Fool

very little is

2007-06-04T17:22:00.000-08:00

very little is
as I want

but like
this poem

that little
is enough

- The Fool

Tradition, Form, Process & System: Ise Shrine

2007-06-03T03:10:00.001-08:00

This is the Ise Shrine, probably the most important Shinto monument. It is commonly referred to simply as Jingu, or the Shrine. It enshrines the Sun Goddess Amaterasu. It dates to the late 7th century.

Jingu is simple and functional. It is patterned after Japan's traditional domestic dwellings, and it is built of unpainted wood, without decoration or adornment. It rests serenely in a grove of 800 year old cedars.

How is it possible that this wooden structure stands so pristine after all this time?

The answer lies in the preservation of tradition - in the preservation of process. The secret is that Jingu is rebuilt every twenty years.

Every twenty years, whether it is in need of repair or not, Jingu is razed and rebuilt. The old shrine is dismantled, and a new one is built next to it. Twenty years later, the process is repeated, and the shrine is rebuilt on the spot where it was previously situated. Jingu itself is constantly replaced, and the original process is faithfully passed down through history. And it is by this method that the original Jingu will be passed on through eternity.

Consider this when you regard those imposing monuments built by other civilizations intended to endure the ages. Jingu will outlast every one of them. For at Jingu, it is not the monument that is primarily preserved, but the form and process - the system.

- The Fool
- This posting first appeared @ "Shouting in the Dark" 2007

Simple Addition

2007-06-02T19:25:00.002-08:00

No understanding.

One plus one is never two

when raindrops converge.

- The Fool

Transcendence

2007-06-02T12:01:00.002-08:00

Like air, like water -
Two different elements
Mirror to mirror.

- The Fool

Jabberwocky Revisited: A Prayer for Peace

2007-06-02T05:20:00.001-08:00

Dewlags and pooklahs pass us by,
His sword bemaithed with age and rust,
Long since the Jabberwock's last sigh;
The vorpal blade 'midst trilly dust.

Where be the smally fraifid form
That bravely rhalt the fraggly beast,
And tappled through the tallid storm,
To bring the head to Yooslefeast?

Oh he has gone, porfay, porfay!
As mimble-hush without a sound,
He brought to us form of his flay,
And without word he turned around.

So saff he stood, so darkly blaint,
His face depretched of youthful hue,
None dared approach the newfound saint,
None dared to ask of what he knew.

He frubed and cried unto the night,
Unmelled he shook within his grief.
The boy who oft and umpt to fight
Was gone, his childhood semed so brief.

For battle sworts all uffishness,
Hard in trade boys make to be men,
He timiffed off, his back to us,
Never atheen 'round here again.

Dewlags and pooklahs pass us by,
His sword bemaithed with age and rust,
Long since the Jabberwock's last sigh;
His vorpal blade 'midst trilly dust.

- The Fool
- This posting first appeared @ "Shouting in the Dark" 2007

Oz Revisited

2007-06-02T05:19:00.001-08:00

1962
Never Kansas or the little people –
always the shrill falsetto wingthrum
of the descending ebon marauders,
deadpan eyes and honed incisors,
maquillage of celluloid phantasms –
always the monkeys; from out of
the nightmare’s thin aired pith,
a fear so complete, so forever.

1987
The child’s cry from the other room
plummets through the loess of sleep,
stirs me to action; moves me through
twenty five years of disturbed dust
to rouse the bearing and certitude
of my father – then off stumbling,
through the darkness of the night,
to comfort a shaken form returned.

- The Fool
- This posting first appeared @ "Shouting in the Dark" 2006

Winter Sonnet: A Childhood Memory

2007-06-02T05:15:00.001-08:00

Some things
You had to do, like the cold lineup out
On Chestnut Hill - with mother's apron strings
Left at home. Just the neighborhood turnout
and the Flexi-Flyers. You had to go.
It wasn't a rule that was written down
At school, or made up by the parents, no,
Nothing to do with Authority's frown.
You held to your sled tight and went for it,
With all the courage you could muster, all
Of it bound and gathered into a fit -
All in answer to a different call.
And with the wind's sharp edges tracking tears
In your eyes - you ran from, and with your fears.

- The Fool
- This posting first appeared @ "Shouting in the Dark" 2006

Mystique

2007-06-02T00:06:00.001-08:00

If I could know you
as you
from time of birth

And you could know me
as me
for what it is worth

We would know each other
as is
within this day

And we would find this we
as was
and walk away

- The Fool
- First published @ "Shouting in the Dark" 2007

Elbridge Revisited

2007-06-01T17:26:00.001-08:00

This is Elbridge Truman Barnette, the founder of Fairbanks, Alaska. He was a disreputable rogue and scoundrel. He was also an incompetent captain. He wrecked his own steamer, the Arctic Boy, and then had to hire another boat during his quest to establish a trading post to fleece the prospectors heading to the Klondike fields.

The steamer Barnette hired had difficulties navigating the waters about 200 miles from his destination of Tanana Crossing, and Barnette, or ol' E.T., as we like to refer to him locally, pissed the captain off good and got thrown off the boat. Undetterred, the weasel immediately proceeded to establish himself by sucking up to anyone with clout, and renaming the turf after a senator from Indiana in order to garner political connections.

The clincher for the lucky shyster was when gold was discovered in the area within a year of his arrival. Barnette soon found himself the mayor of the largest town in Alaska. Despite such luck, his time in the spotlight didn't last long. Within ten years, Barnette managed to bankrupt a bank, got charged with embezzlement, and run out of town. Still, we forgive or forget most of this - a localized political amnesia - and we honor the man by naming streets, schools, and other buildings after him.

- The Fool
- This posting originally appeared @ "Shouting in the Dark" 2006

The Territory

2007-05-30T13:17:00.001-08:00

twirling
and spinning
in perpetual flux

a configuration
of light
of shadow

a resemblance
of a resemblance
of something before

and we smile
at the illusion
of appearance

- The Fool

The Metaphor

2007-05-26T08:15:00.001-08:00

This poem
sort of is

a bud which
sort of is

a relationship, which
sort of is

like how one idea
sort of is

like another, which
sort of is

a metaphor;
not at all

anything like
this sacrament

which is not
sort of is -

but just Is.
It just Is.

- The Fool
- This posting first appeared @ "Shouting in the Dark" 2007

Watching Aurora

2007-05-26T00:09:00.001-08:00

the northern lights

undulate across the sky

i feel like a voyeur

- The Fool

- photo by Dennis C. Anderson

Rules for Living on a Sphere: Rule #1

2007-05-25T04:00:00.001-08:00

Have youe ever felt alone? Have you ever not felt alone?

Have you ever felt alone in a crowd? Alone with a friend? Alone in the arms of a lover?

Ever been in the Void of alone? Is the thought of "alone" unsettling? Does discomfort set in? Do you seek escape?

It is in the Void of alone where all the possible lines of escape begin. For there is often fear found in the Void - the Void of you - the you that simply is. And it is a frightening realization that one is the space, and not the substance. So we run, and we run in any direction, simply to escape. But any step, in any direction from the Void of what you are, is to aVoid what you are. Every step out, every line of escape, is the first step of a Void dance.

A Void dance - we do it every day: through our names, our jingoism, our religions, our banter of truths, our trinkets, our intoxicants, and toys. We do it through all the models and constructs we follow. We follow, and we run from ourselves.

Rule Number One For Living On a Sphere: Learn to sit still. All lines of escape from any given point on a sphere, if followed to their conclusion, will eventually lead back to the original point. In other words, all lines of escape are meaningless. Any line of escape followed through to any meaningful conclusion ends up at the beginning - in the Void of you. All lines of escape have a trajectory that moves away, only to return. You might as well just learn to sit still. As T.S. Eliot penned:

Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still.

Peace out.

- The Fool

- This posting originally appeared @ "Shouting in the Dark" 2007

She Says She Writes Poetry

2007-05-24T06:40:00.000-08:00

I automatically hate her

I wonder what she is like
laid out across the page

if the light change alters
the too heavy make-up
or smoothes the strumpet pout

maybe she’d show
a real trick or two
and leave me flat

the broken little boy
exhausted by the virtuosa

but I don’t think so
being as arrogant as she

- The Fool
- illustration by Georgia Deaver

- This posting originally appeared @ "Shouting in the Dark" 2007

Desire 101: The Beginning (infancy)

2007-05-23T18:20:00.001-08:00

What is it they want?
I want it.

What is it they want?
I want to be it.

But they do not always
mean what they say.

And they do not always
desire what they demand.

Desire desires
their desires.

Desire desires
to be their desire.

What is it they want?
I want it.

What is it they want?
I want to be it.

- The Fool
- This posting originally appeared @ "Shouting in the Dark" 2007

Time Conundrum: A Question for Believers

2007-05-23T18:15:00.001-08:00

I don’t believe in time. This is a question for those of you who do. Please help enlighten me.

First, if you’re a believer, then an increment of time is an increment of time, right? One hundred years is an increment of time, and 1/1000th of a second is an increment of time. Increments of time can be very long, or short, but they are still increments of time.

At some point, an increment of time becomes imperceptible to the range of our senses, but it is still an increment of time. As an analogy, we may not be able to see x-rays or ultraviolet rays with the naked eye, but we know they exist.

Holding on to the notion that an increment of time is an increment of time no matter what, let’s consider our senses. Let’s begin with seeing.

First, when your eye receives an image, things are initially a bit “messed up.” Images received by the eye are upside-down, and are then corrected by a process-too-complicated-to-explain in the back of the eye. The corrected image signal is then sent to the brain. This is not a very scientific explanation of the process – but the point is that a process occurs before an image is received by the brain. What is most important for the question to be posed here is to recognize that this process takes an increment of time.

If you think about it, it seems all stimuli we receive for understanding the world undergo some kind of process before we understand it with our brain. Granted, some processes are quicker than others…such as a reflex action that occurs before the associated pain message reaches the brain…but all of the processes take some increment of time.

My question is simply this – if all increments of time are increments of time + anything that happened an increment of time ago happened in the past + all experience takes an increment of time before being processed by the brain = then where is the present tense in experience? Is there a present tense that we can know?

- The Fool
- This posting originally appeared @ Shouting in the Dark 2007

Frames

2007-05-20T01:10:00.001-08:00

The frames we shoulder
manage our perceptions -

from Inclusion’s exclusions
to Abstraction’s extractions -

they keep premises ordered
with their deft discriminations,

draw lines of falsehood
for our attention's focus,

and delimit the ground
from the shadow’s field.

- The Fool

Haiku Flash: Kingfisher

2007-05-19T07:30:00.001-08:00

Cherry blossoms blush

and their resplendence recedes

to make way for you.

- The Fool

Spooning

2007-05-19T06:00:00.001-08:00

territory to territory,
our bodies affected

an agreement of sorts,
the bordering created

by the supple embrace
of two cartographers

blissfully and blindly
delineating their maps,

charting uncertainties
on sheets of darkness.

- The Fool

tabula rasa

2007-05-18T17:23:00.000-08:00

something about
a blank piece of canvas
i just cannot hold to

its apparent truth
although persuasive
pleads for alteration

- The Fool

Nickels, Dimes, & Toodleloo

2007-05-17T17:20:00.000-08:00

Joe Gyp was inside tallying
the final enumerations,

balancing his profits
against the children's pilferage.

I sat on the curbstone across
the street, otiose, watching

as the work hands removed the neons:
the five, the one, and the trailing zero.

They slipped the thick hemp rope
through the nil of naught's eye,

secured it with a clove hitch,
and lowered it onto the flatbed.

No one realized the time passing
as the men hauled away those signs -

I turned towards adulthood, and Joe
closed the doors on the Five and Dime.

- The Fool

the plots of spring

2007-05-17T11:32:00.000-08:00

the flowers of springtime
bloom with superstition -

daisies disclose the truth
of love or love me not

seeds left on the dandelion
number the children to come

clover fields are rummaged
for their four-leafed tokens

one’s troubles are dismissed
by wearing lilies or poppies

crocus pull their petals ‘round
as a portent of impending rain

foxgloves are left in fixity
lest one offend the fairies -

all for the fashion of meaning
and a belief in a plot to sustain us

- The Fool

- "First Color" watercolor & acrylic by Gail Niebrugge

it takes a lot to make a tear

2007-05-16T17:09:00.000-08:00

it takes a lot to make a tear.
i mean, it’s not an easy thing

to get the undercurrents churning,
and the waves roiling to a froth -

to the point of casting off droplets
(as if one could repudiate one’s self).

it’s just not a simple thing to do;
to make a drop of ocean in an eye.

- The Fool
- photo The Fool

The Argument

2007-05-16T00:02:00.001-08:00

Metaphor
is a terrorist,
taking position

before a word
is spoken,
ready to destroy

every weak point,
every fortification,
for win or lose.

The generals gather -
Intimidation, Threat,
Authority & Insult -

with their strategies
of war mapped
on folded gray matter;

the intention
in waiting, before
the verbal attack.

- The Fool

The Loneliness of God

2007-05-15T09:18:00.002-08:00

I know the loneliness of God

I have drunk it in
I know of solitude

Alone

Yet in a conjunction
Embracing everything

Tears fall with heaviness
from a destitute firmament

Sorrow quenches my thirst

- The Fool

7!

2007-05-15T09:15:00.007-08:00

When I was a kid, I would lay in our back field at night, listen to the crickets, and look up at the stars. I would take in the world and everything that is the world, and I'd take in the universe and everything that is the universe, and it was a feeling that was simply overwhelming. I realized then, that my mouth just wasn’t big enough - that it would never be big enough to describe what was before me at that moment. There would never be the words. It was something that can only sink in.

Philosophers love logic and all its trappings, and one philosopher, Ludwig Wittgenstein - espoused by some as the greatest philosopher of the twentieth century, published only one book-length piece in his lifetime. The piece is titled Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus. Yeah, those philosophers have a way with words, and Wittgenstein himself claimed that TLP solves all of the problems of philosophy.

The entire work is written out one proposition at a time, one on top of the other for about 150 pages, and the propositions are set down in the order of their importance. Each proposition has many subcomponents, or addendum attached, which are notated numerically. For example, the proof begins with:

1. The world is everything that is the case.

1.1 The world is the totality of facts, not things.
1.11 The world is determined by the facts, and by these being all the facts.
1.12 For the totality of facts determines both what is the case, and also all that is not the case.
1.13 The facts in logical space are the world.

1.2 The world divides into facts.
1.21 Any one can either be the case or not be the case, and everything else remain the same.

2. What is the case, the fact, is the existence of atomic facts…

On and on it goes, for 150 pages, proposition on top of proposition, convolution on top of convolution - and along the way, Wittgenstein also becomes incredibly complex mathematically (there aren’t even the keys on a keyboard to begin to replicate the formulas). Finally, Old Witt concludes his philosophical masterpiece with a simple proposition without addendum - number seven:

7. Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent.

Brilliant conclusion, eh? Just let it think in.

7!

- The Fool

- photo of the Witt, artist unknown

Tao Haiku

2007-05-15T09:15:00.006-08:00

Knowing the why is
not nearly as important
as accepting how.

- The Fool
- photo artist unknown

Alienation

2007-05-15T09:14:00.002-08:00

"Alienation begins when culture divides me against myself, puts a mask on me, gives me a role I may or may not want to play. Alienation is complete when I become completely identified with my mask, totally satisfied with my role, and convince myself that no other identity or role is conceivable. The man who sweats under his mask, whose role makes him itch with discomfort, who hates the division in himself, is already beginning to be free. But God help him if all he wants is the mask the other man is wearing, just because the other one does not seem to be sweating or itching. Maybe he is no longer human enough to itch."

- Thomas Merton, "Real and False Selves" in Seeds (2002).

A Form of Faith

2007-01-25T23:03:00.000-09:00

nearing the center of the maelstrom
i find there is nothing to hold on to

letting go in the face of Charybdis
i can only concede to the currents

- The Fool
- photo artist unknown