The only question

We wake. We always do so long as we live. Questions, that must be given answers, barrage us from our first moments of arousal till we return once more to the passivity of slumber. Most of these answers are mindlessly handled, done away without effort. There is really only one question that demands our full attention, one worthwhile question a day. The trouble is that this question is never the same as the day before, or it is and we just can't remember that it is. Or, a worse fate yet, the only true question of the day gets buried beneath the mindless questions, caught in the back log of day to day life, this is the worst thing that can happen. Once a person's true question is stuck beneath all that is mindless and day to day it loses it's color, it can not be differentiated from the other questions. Sooner than one expects that true idea seems nothing more than a fanciful dream or whimsical pondering amongst it's remedial daily brothers and sisters. It's absence does not go unnoticed entirely though. We start to search for something, not knowing what it is exactly. We've lost something, we know, but just can't remember what that something is. As though a favorite book has gone missing from the shelf and there is now only an empty space that holds a vague memory of being cherished. So we start looking forward to that cyclical slumber in which we can enjoy our dream, that was once a question, without shame or embarrassment.

On Relearning.

Yesterday, my mother and I went hiking. The sun was high, as were our spirits, and we set out with unnecessary gusto, almost gambolling up the steep portion of tarmac that separates our house from the trail. A minute disaster soon struck. My mother, flushed and doleful, halted our progress and briefly fulminated against the futility of exercise. I paraphrase her sentiment: the trouble, she said, is that one never gets fit, for as soon as one is fit, one must stay fit--one never gets anything. The sufferings of Sisyphus were manifest. After this moment of frustration and doubt, we trooped on and, an hour later, successfully attained the piny, rock-patched summit. Below us spread the city and the sea, behazed with dwindling fog. Fitness seemed beside the point.

Our sole surviving house cat, Cherry, was ostracized from the house in January; my mother sealed the cat door, swept the house, brushed the couch, gave her bedclothes a good tumble in the washing machine, and welcomed in a life free of fur-clung clothing, drool-bedewed pillows, midnight meowings, and the hithering and thithering of our feline's suspect noctambulations. For a time, Cherry relentlessly sought ingress. A paw would squeeze itself beneath the door; a bang would startle us to the window; the chimney would omit an ominous rattle. And then one day Cherry's siege ceased. We decided that the door could once again be left open. Cherry paced about the doormat, stationed herself abreast of the threshold, sniffed at the phantom portal, and beat a puzzled retreat. For weeks no attempt to enter the house was made. The other day, however, Cherry magically appeared on the couch's armrest. We hissed her from the house. This seems to have been a big breakthrough for our cat; she now knows to enter when we are not watching, and we make a point of closing the door when we sally forth.

My point is this: everything is relearning. Whether tackling the scree-plagued perpendiculars of the National Forest hills in a losing attempt to maintain cardiovascular wellness or puzzling over the penetrability of air-made barricades, one must attempt and reattempt countless times in order to make progress; and progress, it would seem, is also a constant relearning: a stepping stone to a stepping stone.

When the going gets tough...

Be kind, rewind. Rewind the life you live like a lacy pattern. Pull out a corner thread and watch the whole thing disappear. Pull until you're left with nothing but a pile of string and knots and then you will have found the ground. This complex equation we're living within isn't expanding upon what we are already have, it's complicating it. When you've found the ground start digging, because honestly, who thought all the answers were in the sky? Get dirt beneath your fingernails and smell that sweet scent of living, breathing earth. Dig your toes in. Bury yourself. Count one minnesota two minnesota three and watch a new world grow up around you, and over you. Be apart of that new world in a way you have never been of this one. Let the earth feed off of you for a change. It's always take take take when it should be give give give. It's always work work work when it should be live live live.

The Ones Who Killed The Bear

The bear showed up on the fifth of May, a Saturday, and the first warm day of the year. The townsfolk were all gathered on the valley floor, at the lake, celebrating the approach of summer. Their children splashed in the green water, while they drank cheap beer and congratulated each other as only secretly competitive neighbors can. Their community was called Bear Valley and they were proud of it; they felt clever for avoiding city life. They slept with their doors unlocked, picked up hitchhikers, and sent their children to the bus stop alone. There were few sightings of the creatures for which the valley had been named, perpetuating the townsfolk’s belief that this carefree little place belonged to them. And yet, somewhere on Bear Mountain, an older presence stirred. Waking after three long months of hibernation, the bear was hungry.

While the townsfolk drank their beer, the bear ambled from his cave toward the nearest neighborhood. He smelled food and found a surplus of it, discarded carelessly in the townsfolk’s trash. The townsfolk argued local politics, while the bear feasted on their leftover dinners. Digging through used napkins and plastic wrapping, the bear uncovered secrets the townsfolk thought they had thrown away.

When the townsfolk arrived home, they found their lives strewn across their lawns. The town doctor’s trash was littered with used gambling stubs that blew through the air like fallen leaves. The sheriff’s garbage was peppered with what suspiciously resembled marijuana roaches. The principle of the elementary school had recently discarded a large selection of Playboys, which now lay torn and scattered across his yard, glossy and incriminating in the afternoon sun. The baker had been cooking more than just baked goods. The school nurse had used more than her share of complementary condoms.

The townsfolk were shocked. Only the neighborhood shut-in had an explanation of what had happened, and she shared her story with relish, basking in the sudden attention. The bear was big, she said, and would grow larger with food. When he stood to open the trashcans, he was taller than most men, and he crushed several of the cans under his weight. He noticed her once, she said, and he stared at her across her yard, curious and simply unafraid. Afterward, she ran back into her house, bolted the door, and began researching Black Bears on the internet.

“They can weigh up to 900 pounds,” she informed them. “They can run up to 30 MPH.”

Panic consumed them. Not only were their secret lives exposed now for the first time, but they had been revealed by a creature they knew nothing about. Without knowledge, the townsfolk resorted quickly to fear, which suited them well. They scurried around their lawns, trying in vain to clean up their mistakes, denying responsibility at the same time. At sunset, they locked their doors, and peered anxiously out their windows, suspicious of the bear or of each other, they didn’t know.

On Monday, two joggers thought they saw the bear lumbering towards them through the dawn, which sent them into hysterics. Though the “bear” turned out to be a neighborhood dog, jogging was suddenly deemed “no longer safe.” By Tuesday, rumors that the bear had ruthlessly chased two joggers had spread all over town. The townsfolk rushed to their local Kmart, and by Wednesday, every can of bear mace was gone.

Thursday arrived with a surprise. In the night, a fearful wife had assailed her husband with mace as he tried to soundlessly enter their home. She said she had mistaken him for the bear, but her reasons for his late return were unclear, so naturally, the entire town whispered the word “affair.” This somehow spurred a rumor that the bear could open doors, which left the townsfolk confused and terrified.

That evening, the bear was spotted by a couple who were barbequing steak. They were on their deck, enjoying their wine, when the bear appeared on their lawn. They dropped their glasses and rushed inside, alerting the police immediately. Cowering behind their windows, they watched as the bear consumed their meal. When the cops arrived, the couple told them they’d barely escaped a brutal attack.

“The bear was unprovoked,” they said. “We were only grilling steak.”

The next day, the townsfolk raced back to Kmart, this time in search of weapons. Men who’d never hunted a day in their life drove home with shotguns in their laps. Children were given high-pitched whistles. Everyone was encouraged to stay indoors. The Bear Valley police issued an official curfew, ignoring the fact the bear had only been seen in daylight. The townsfolk ordered bear traps and purchased bear repellant in bulk. They brought their pets in at night and walked their children to the bus stop. No one considered such precautions extreme, nor did they expect what would come from them.

That Sunday, the youth group at the church was broken up following the shrill sound of a whistle. Though questioned, the frightened children wouldn’t explain except to say they had not seen the bear. The priest in charge refused to comment and no one knew what to do next.

By Monday, school was cancelled. Though the bear had been unseen all weekend, the fear surrounding him had grown. Though the townsfolk had learned much about each other, they focused only on the bear, certain that he was the root of all their troubles. They longed for the times before the bear’s arrival, before they were scared, back when they could still trust one another. Now, they padlocked their trashcans, suspected their priest, and feared their own backyards. The townsfolk considered each change a product of the bear’s coming and they resolved to see the end of him, once and for all.

That evening, the bear returned. Still hungry, he ventured deeper into the neighborhood. With the townsfolk driving home from work, the bear tore into a henhouse, aspiring for a meal of chicken. When the birds reacted with aggression, the bear lost interest, following his nose to a nearby patch of recently unearthed dirt. Digging down, the bear found more than he’d bargained for.

A shot rang out, loud and clear in the approaching night. The shut-in held a rifle in her surprisingly steady hands, gun smoke curling out the end of the barrel. The bear looked confused as he fell to the ground, the look in his eyes anything but peaceful. The townsfolk surrounded them in an instant. Their anticipated happiness tasted bitter as they observed the fallen bear, as massive now as he had been in their dreams, only far less frightening. The shut-in lowered her rifle slowly. The sheriff approached the bear. A gasp arose from the crowd just as the sheriff tripped, right where the bear had bear had been digging. Protruding from the dirt, grotesque and pale, was a human hand. Utterly silent, the townsfolk stared between the fallen bear and each other, suddenly uncertain which was worse.

Welcome home.

Space is bizarre isn't it? I'm so glad that I have this medium through which I can move comfortably, and even better, this little bit of it belongs to me. I just bought a box to live in for the month. A box with windows and a view a fence that looks like the sky. It's connected to a living room and to a kitchen but it's so much more. I can go in and out of this space and it'll hold for me, hold me, or things I care about. I can create worlds inside of it and I can make plans to come back to it when I leave. I can relax in the box that I've bought, because I know that no one is going to try and take it away from me today. I don't own this chair, but I'm free to use it as much as I want. I have a door, which is amazing not because that means I can close it but because I can open it to the world. I have housemates, and they have me. I have a space, and you are welcome to share it with me.

When you want a friend.

Everyone has been there. A dear friend who could be just a little more intimate, hopefully. Suddenly every hug and random brushing become a possible sign, but it's not really clear. To make a move or not to make a move? Oh bother. If only the weren't such a wonderful friend.

Somewhere between the hookah and me.

I don't remember how I got to the couch last night. All I do remember is that I had to take my shoes off to get there. Then, apparently, I proceeded to crawl across the floor from chair I'd started on to the couch that would be my bed. Bless that red, velvety couch.

I wish I could say that there was a novelty factor to not remembering what I did last night but, sadly, I spend a lot of time not remembering so it was really just another episode, another memory lost to the unorganized archives.

So what can I do? What else can someone do. Try their damnedest to recreate the frickin' thing :).

When it stops being fun.

Stand close friend, I will need your strength before the day is through. My mind was flushed down a metaphysical sink and I can't remember where the drain comes out. Drip drop, but we can't stop now. The day is not over yet and already I feel to weak in the knees to believe that I can get up one more time. No more breaks for me. No rest stops before the destination. If you've got to pee, you'd better hold tight.

What is it about those final steps, the highest crest. What is it about that last push of energy that is so hard sometimes. It's done! The deed is done. It's all been put together and constructed, envisioned and brought to life, and when assembly is all that remains it all runs down. Ikea would be ashamed.

You don't have to be good.

I've started another project I can't bring myself to complete. I've made it 80% of the way and I can't go any farther. I can't block it out of my mind and I can't dive into it. I'm blocked, frozen solid.

There is a magic to doing things, to bringing creations into this world. They don't have to be perfect. They don't even need to be good. But that we create something, there in lies the importance.

Double shot

There are shreds of paper in my hair, paint upon my jeans. I've seen colors that aren't to be believed. Black light is the best light because is shows things for what they really aren't and what they really could be. Yes, my eyes are glowing.

I'm a chalk board. Seen only for what can be put upon me, not for the creative force that I am. I don't fear the chalk, it's just a way of life. But doesn't anyone wonder what I use to create my masterpieces?

There is a fire in the trash can outside. Someone is burning their bills but they still have to pay. Everyone does something like this, destroying the evidence while believing that something will be better because of it. I see my faults, they are marks of beautiful honesty and of the wonder of imperfection. Knowing about them doesn't make me stronger or wiser but it does give me the opportunity to become both.

One time I walked to Rome
With nothing but a t-shirt on
I took each step with extra caution
Because my feet were soft as cotton
But now I stroll with upright stature
I don't look down, my feet don't matter
The city streets give me their pardon
And so my feet have long since hardened

Transparent Design

She comes on like a phoenix

another ancient beautiful beneath the fermenting flame

advertising life with every breath

her first dance is a wildfire;

her last kiss, a storm

she continues trusting like the day she was born

no matter whose eyes laid her bare

they saw their grail in her smile

she was their obedient prostitute of paradise

but beneath their story lies the girl

betraying secrets of the world

haunted by the ecstasy of friendship

he watched her conducting symphonies

composed of pain and desire

imagining the lust of her final fire

she teaches ghosts the music

so her tragedy lives on

inside every song about forgiveness

always naked before the orchestra

she confesses only to the moon

her drunken dreams divulge her soulmate search

bound by brilliance, fueled by love

guided by the zodiac above

and every well-intentioned lie remembered perfectly

he saw her mangled heart

author of a thousand apologies

sleeping beside the skeleton of romance

he tried to replace the bones

with the semblance of a home

but by morning that bitter boy was gone like fiction

she wrote him into a fairytale

remembering the truth

every empty promise illuminated

the monster of the moment, she’d be the heroine of dreams

her love, more than what it seems

the fire, waiting for her

Rabble rouser.

My favorite time of day is the morning, although I'm never awake to enjoy it, so I settle for my second favorite time of day, which is night. I probably like the night for the same reasons that many people do, the magical power of shadows, illusion, and misdirection. It doesn't matter who you are during they day, you can be anyone when the sun goes down. A person can climb as far down the gutter as they want to go and not worry about the blinding judgement of light. They can even pretend that down is really up if they want to. Night also seems able to break time's ever present charge forward, a minute can be a long time and an hour can pass in the chorus of a song. And I don't have to compare myself to the other people, the real people I call them, who can step out into the sunshine without fear of being exposed as something less than the claim to be. So I stay up all night wallowing in self-pleasure, and I sleep through my favorite part of the day.

In the foreseeable future.

Good morning Santa Barbara!

What another gloriously overcast day we have to day, long live June gloom! I'm just shaking the smoke from my coat and putting on my boots over here at 435 and I would be so damn happy to spend the entire day between this couch and that TV. Wish me luck.

Thoughts thoughts thoughts. I think you thought. There are only two different forms of the word thought? Boring. I think the thoughts you thunk were quite delectable. There's one for Webster's.

-----------------------------------------------------

Bradley Rumpleton didn't enjoy spending time outdoors. In fact he rarely left his apartment, if ever. His groceries were delivered, his laundry was sent out, and all his bills were paid online. This was exactly the way Bradley wanted it; he loved being in his apartment. He was safe there, content with his little desk and antique reading lamp, single spring mattress bed, and counter top stove. He was alone, which was exactly the way he wanted it.

On Thursday, May 26th, Bradley happened to be looking out his window, which he had just noticed needed to be washed again, when he fell in love with a woman on the corner below his apartment building. He knew it must be love because he had read about it so many times, and he knew that he would never again be happy with his single mattress and antique lamp.

Ever since I can remember I been poppin' my collar.

I had my balls chopped off last night. Hacked right at the base and tossed to the ground, and then they spit in my face. There was insult, on top of injury, on top of insult. This is what we do for love. I took the high road, which isn't as glamorous as it sounds. The ground is made of muck and horse shit, there is trash strewn along the sides, it rises and falls mindlessly, and it's hard to find an inn with vacancy to rest weary feet. But hopefully, if there is justice to the world, I'll crawl out the other end of this miniature parkway of Satan to find a friend I'd thought I'd lost. This is what we do for love.

I believe in pureness, this may be my first mistake, the original sin as it were. I want passion and love to power every action and impulse and when they don't I can feel the cool colors that cross my face, the subtle dark highlights. As if I were to wear my sunglasses at night, there is enough darkness already, so adding to it only makes the world more bleak. There isn't any color in darkness, we first need to find the light.

On The Paralyzing Effects of Prospective Retrospection.

The fear of looking back on ones failure is only surmounted by the fear of looking back on ones failure to attempt: a minuscule consolation at best. But a consolation nonetheless.

Two examples:

1) Young love. You're young--twenty-one, say--and you're in love. The once sad waves now frolic upon the shore; the melancholia-recovered moon illumines each night with happy radiance; the trees dance; the sun shines; all is joy, etcetera. But wait. You may be young, but you've read enough to know that others have been young before you, and you realize that love--not all love, certainly can't say all love--seeded in youth meets either a premature end or ends (or should end) once mature. If you haven't heard this story, here is a brier play by play. Boy meets girl or girl meets boy. These two lovely individuals then discover that, marvel of marvels, their souls are connected (imagine a baby's umbilical cord attached to another baby's umbilical cord). They talk; they kiss; they mate. These acts make up the core of their relationship. There are, of course, other vague gestures of affection, but it is these acts, some of them occurring simultaneously or, if not simultaneously, at least in quick succession, that define their quote unquote romantic life. Anyone who has been in love will argue and say, no no no--it's not that simple. And whoever makes this objection is in the right. Because, and we must not lose sight of this, these people are walking around with fused souls. Now, because their souls are in fact not souls but one shared soul, these two individuals will find that their little loving gestures and their little loving conversations are all of the utmost profundity. In fact, these two individuals are in the throws of passion. They are blind to the future; they are infatuated; they are in love. Then, trouble. Something goes wrong. Maybe it's been building for some time--why does she watch TV? why does he not like to read?--or maybe one day someone realizes that no, their soul is not actually attached to this other persons soul, it simply seemed so. Then follows wariness, possibly disillusion, and one continues on in the world a wiser, more fortified individual. BUT--what if one is aware of this while one is in quote unquote love? What if the entire time one is asking oneself if one is in fact going through ones young-love-phase? When the quote unquote love is terminated, is one then a amorously edified individual? Or does one truly need to experience the throws of passion, the self-blindness, the complete separation from time? And then, to compound all of this, what if one is able to imagine the disillusioned/fortified individual that one will be once the relationship that one is currently engaged in comes to an end, and is fully engaged in and passionate about the relationship because one wants to be a more seasoned/experienced/disillusioned individual when the relationship comes to a close? Does one glean the benefits of failed love if one predicted the failure?

2) Writing:

The hour is now late. I'll make this brief and personal. Whatever I write now will someday be my juvenalia. I will look back from the crags of experience and cringe fondly upon my bushy-tailed attempts. Or will I? In order to write, one must believe in what one writes; there must be some conviction. But it is hard to believe in mediocrity, and what I write now will, inevitably, be mediocre. How does one write ones juvenalia while fully cognizant of the fact that one is writing ones juvenalia? How does one get passionate about what one will look back upon with disdain?

My consolation is minuscule.

Put it back where you found it.

Got lots to do today, just don't want to get started.

Can you distill indifference? And if you could, is that what would be the base for procrastination? I stand and the world is at my feet, but damn am I comfy sitting down right now. Somewhere along the way I became unplugged. I'd like to go out into the garden and collect enthusiasm like Easter eggs and whip up the most colorful omelet every seen. I'd like to, but I'll probably just stay right here until dinner.

I've said this too many times, but the people who do are the people that set out to do. It is the setting out that, I think, makes all the difference. The rest of us dream, make plans, prepare for something big that's just around the corner. And yet, I can't be sure what's around the corner of the average street corner, who am I to think I can predict my own future. But we don't think of it that way.

I'm horrible at intuiting how I will feel in the future. I work primarily off of my feelings at the time. And why not? Because it isn't enough anymore to follow a bliss or play to the heart. Even the sunniest, happiest, most natural path can lead to dark places, and now I can't help but question the purest of intentions.

Oh Bother

Garble garble. When words fail to do what we hope they will always be there to do. I can't write this feeling down. I can only approach it the way one might a blinding light, or an ex-lover, peripherally. AH! How I wish I could mangle it between my fingers, squeeze out its power over me and wash it away with righteous remorse. If God is watching, I hope that they are entertained; are you not entertained?! Like tossing pebbles into a pond. They all make a splash but they are also going to end up at the bottom sooner or later. I have a healthy fear of lethargy. I also have a healthy fear of succeeding. No single direction can satisfy me now. I have to go in all of them at once. I MUST go in all of them at once and hope that the sheer exertion of force will splinter my soul into 100,000 pieces, and I will spend the rest of my eternity putting them back together. The cruelest joke. Here are all of your pieces, you have them all, you need only figure out how to put them back together. Don't worry, you can't go wrong, it's your soul. Then why do I feel so helpless?

Home is where the heart is.

If I had a bed I wouldn't get out with a lazy roll; I'd jump straight out with a summersault. My house wouldn't have steps, it would have a rope ladder that you climb to get to the attic and a slide that takes you back down. There wouldn't be chairs either, we'd all just sit on the floor. I wouldn't sleep in a bed even if I had one because I'd rather sleep in someone's arms. The floorboards would creak and the doors squeak and the windowpanes would rattle on windy days. The only electricity would be in the air and candle wax would line the windowsill. We'd burn furniture in the fireplace and wear a hole sitting on the rug. And we'd paint the walls with the worlds of our imaginations. There would be no locks on the doors and a garden that surrounded the entire thing. And no love would ever be without a place to stay.

20 min at 400 degrees

What if there was a recipe for life? Three cups drive, 1 1/2 cups direction, 3 tablespoons passion. Stir, blend, bake, and throw against the wall for 5 minutes. Voila! Satisfaction and possibly something tasty and filling to boot. There are lists, rules, guidelines, plans, directions, instructions, manuals, and _____ for Dummies books for everything except the big one. Life. Nothing really even applies to this ragtag, improve, opening performance. But maybe it's set up that way on purpose, so that when we get to the end we have no one to point the finger at but ourselves.

Out to Balance, back in 5 minutes.

I take this step intentionally, without malice or anger. I do not fear nor hope for any particular out come. I see all the colors and I do not pick any one as a favorite; I love them all differently, though perhaps not equally. Balanced doesn't always mean right in the middle. A center of balance isn't always where one would assume it to be. I'm not straddling that center line, I'm way off to both sides at the same time, but I'm still looking for my balance. Hold your breath, close your eyes, spin around in circles, and try to stand on one foot. Have any luck? Wouldn't it be easier if we all just relaxed, opened our eyes, took a deep breath, and put one foot in front of the other? Because what is walking if not perpetual falling, a beautiful example of chaos in motion. Not still or supported, just a continuous stream of the almost disastrous that somehow manages to become a perfectly placed foot.

Poem

Mirror mirror on the ground

All your pieces not yet found

Who threw you out of window high?

To end your gift of honest sight

And now you show a thousand angles

Your spidered cracks a mess of tangles

But still you show a true reflection

Perspective's really just protection

Does this tie make me look fat?

I was born an upper-middle class citizen, I don't know what I am anymore. When I put on those fancy clothes I can't hold my shoulders the same way I used to. So stiff, so bold. Be bold. Fortune favors the bold. But bold doesn't take well to being humbled. I look around and see shiny shoes and starched collars, but what do the people in those exoskeleton like suits see when they look at me? I didn't iron these pants, the wrinkles look permanent, the pockets are beginning to fray. I haven't shaved in a week and it's becoming noticeable. My hair wasn't combed; it's been a long time since I could comb my hair. It all seems natural, this quiet moving away. But then why are my cheeks flushed and my palms feel sweaty? Why do I feel ashamed.

Shock therapy for the electrically challenged

"Get the fuck out your car, walk, it's good for you." - R.I.S.E.

Didn't anybody notice? It's not about the double vanilla soy half decaf latte in a grande cup, it's the heart that goes into the foam on top. It's the same foam, there's just something else in there. There is art in everything. Somewhere along the way someone stopped looking for it and that ignorant attitude caught on, a trend of blindness. If dancing isn't giving you the sensation that drags a smile out from the deepest recesses of your soul then what the fuck you waiting for? change the steps. Cliches are cliche for a reason, they meant something once. 'I love you' was so charged that it could raise mountains and drain oceans in minutes. God said those words, whose listening now? I can hear bones cracking and twisting in their skins, pleading to be doing something more than carrying the bulk of mediocrity. Suck the marrow out of life! I don't give a fuck if you need help putting shit on your flowers in FarmVille. There isn't any dirt between the keys on my computer, maybe your's is different than mine. I don't see anything growing other than the bags under their eyes. I swear my ass is getting fatter all the time that I spend sitting so hard, so heavy. We've dissected feeling good so thoroughly while trying to find where the bad hides that we can't figure out how to put the whole thing back together, now we don't know what feels at all. I guess I didn't take my Adderall today, or was it the Welbutrin?This attitude. Get at it dude. Someone needs to break windows when the room is filling up with gas, even if it's just making everyone laugh.

Not just another knot

Thoughts and feelings should be differentiated a little bit more. I don't feel with my head, at all. My head just gets bamboozled when bombarded by those emotional impulses. That big grey, gooey mass of matter that is supposed to matter the most when weighing in on important matters seems more like a noose around the neck than an ace up the sleeve sometimes. And yet, what would I do if that heart of mine took the proverbial drivers seat? That little boy in big boy's clothes trying to show brain that heart can do more than pump blood and shed tears. "I don't understand you," says the brain. "That's because you aren't listening," the heart cries in reply. What we have here is a failure to compute the impute. Of course the brain takes credit. But whose fault is it that I can't tell you how I'm feeling without having to think it through?

Con your conscience

"It's all up here," she said and pointed to her heart. "And by up here I mean in here, you hear?"

"I'm here," I replied, not quite understanding and feeling rather unsure about the vagueries of the english language.

"Our plane is plainly planing over the plains," she observed distantly as I fell for her and her obvious mastery of obfuscation.

"Can I love you?" I asked.

"I don't know, can you?"

Purpose the Porpoise

I'm like a dandelion, ready to blow away in the breeze at any moment. Don't trip Cat, you can't sneeze without causing an explosion and there's a lot that's tickling my nose. And there aren't any raindrops right now, to keep me from drifting off. No flowing liquid lines of life to pull me deeper and push me higher. Roots, get some.

Because it's radical. Like a smoothie in an open blender, more of an art piece when it's over." There isn't time," I hear them say, "the mess will have to wait." Speak slowly friend, we speak different dialects and that mess you're talking might just be my life. In fact, tune out and switch off for a minute; you're on way too hot. It's too much rush to pack into one day and it's easier to scrape strawberries off the ceiling than to worry about missing your bus. There it goes. There it goes again.

And so Polly, as you can see, there aren't any more crackers. They've been given all away. One at a time they disappeared as you watched, thinking it was some kind of game. Talking won't bring them back, too late for that. Cheap tricks and charades only work for so long. Now we are both getting hungry and the cage doesn't seem quite as comfy, does it.