...til you wake up, dreams come undone...

A momentary affirmation, the shade walks takes slow steps and brief moments of full tangibility, before returning to her ellusive form. Now I am left with the memories of the voiceless whispers, calling out to me. For what, I ask, what sort of redemption does this spirit seek?

We woke up today making a game of throwing coins in the sand
they sand slowly and we walked away,
forgetting why we came to the desert
why we abandoned the labors of the previous years
that have given us such joy
provides solace through the tears

Have we come with gifts to this celebration?
My day holds memory of your lips, something yet unsaid, and silent greeting.
We walk through the path of one another and you speak to me of the things you fear, none of this do you say, nor do you need to. Will you sing new songs as I dedicate words in your honor, hold you as you cry, it won't be long and the play will be over. Prizes will be awarded, the ones you've always been waiting for. The highest plateu is your, you know. A dedication ceremony, and other rites of passage, trials and revelations, tears and annointed tongues, wine glasses and slow dances through fire. Earth is not so silent, as a great river washes away the skin, we are worn to nothing that can't be purified by flame. Accept the invitation, fire sand to glass, build a castle of this, through which light can pass.

Blog or be blogged

rain drops fall in 4/4 time

Crawled into bed around 3 am this morning. Contemplating the illusions that seperate me from that place of rest. There will be no lingering memories of dreamstate when I awaken in 5 hours, only the realization of the urgency required to catch my bus and get to work. The drops that fall from the gutters land in a steady beat, easy to render in the consciousness as being in 4/4 time, with a pleasant counter beat provided by the drips and drops that fall and spash blip with less resonance then the steady metronome of the drops that fall from the gutter and splash.
Blip, Blip, Blip, Blip.
...to the splash, and another, that falls, splash.

These simple rythmes are at the heart of it all....slow it all down and they are everything, resonance, frequency, pitch, wave form, that's the beauty of it all, virbration emenanating from source. When the world of a water drop means the magnetic field of pavement, a splash, a vibrations that collides with molecules of 'air' that carry the wave to the ear....

A metaphor for my whole existance....

So as I lay in my bed, reeling with the blissful disconnected feeling that a couple of 500mg tablets of vicodin can provide, on the verge of sleep, dream, is that predream state where visions of light flash through my head, words and sounds (yes there where sounds, this doesn't happens often). The audio portion of this predream dreaming was a child's audio being played on a 45, something I had heard earlier that day, a playback from a few hours earlier. The words where my own poetic ramblings, and I knew then to be that metaphor for my whole exhistance. Something like being pulled from a void, looking up through darkness, now I remember, standing on the bottom of the ocean staring up at myself, swimming on the top of that vast ocean. There where layers of murky depths between me and me. many potentialities manifest throughout the pseudo dream state, salvation, words, damnation, darkness, a hand reaching down through the depths, a turtle floating by, that girl from work says something to me and keeps typing, I should be typing, I should type this all down, I should remember this it is useful, like that dream where I followed my father sucessfully through what whould appear to be dreaming rituals, only to have to stop to help my brother prepare the wood and tarp for proper dreaming, knowing he could not defeat the nightmare, but this is duty.....still these are all destortions, remember a dream, even a waking one, become somewhat like trying to hold the amorpious solid in one form, and you awake when you like it your not you force that holds the shape of the dream slips and the substance starts to slip through your fingers. All I remember of the dream is goo. All I can describe is perhaps the colour, texture, flavour of the goo, not the shape, the points of that connected the whole, that gave it form. And as I passed into unconsciousness I know I must save as much of this as I can.....a voice is laughing somewhere in the distance.....and I awaken the next morning tounge as course as sand.