We Are Here

I ran across this music, these images. I had to say something but could make nothing more than this. Here is the link, and this is what I made:


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rfY9BJaGzEU

We are here. ..

We are here.

We are here.

We are here.

Watch the water, the wet. The rain falls from dark and heavy clouds. The rain falls from low skies.

Watch the river carve, the sharp stream. The current churns through rock, through the face of the earth.

Watch the sun, the light. The fire floods all things with warmth, color, and shadows. The torch and the embers tone the land in yellow and red. The sun changes and moves all things.

The flows begin and keep flowing. The images come and keep coming. They are unstoppable. The people yearn for the wet, the light. They do not understand why at first. They do not see before they look. But when they are there—When We Are Here—then it is all just known. We look and cannot move our eyes from it. We are safe and home. The presence of the water, the sun—it is outside, it is dreamy, it is surreal, it is inside, it is awake, it is real, it is without us and within us.

Watch the trees, the green. Watch the tall energy stretch through all of their limbs and open to high skies. The trunks, stoic. The veins, a web. The branches, liberated, twisted, creative. The youngest green, gummy. The ripe green, deep and full.

Watch the men sitting beneath the trees.

Watch the man cradled in the thick roots at the base of the trunk.

You are the man sitting beneath the tree.

Be him.

Watch him.

Within and without yourself, the wet, the light, the green. 

_________

It is that in the face of nature, the raw and untamed planet, we melt away and are at ease. There are no harsh divisions of human bodies and gnarly trees and sweltering sun. We sit in it, and forget the rest. If we sit long enough, we disappear like waifs into the leaves. We are nothing, not alone, not together, not worried. We are dissipated, dispersed, watching. 

I see that in my response, in the words that are very descriptive and in the ideas that seem to be praising nature so much, that of course this is a running theme. People write about nature. People take pictures of nature. People write music inspired by nature. People paint landscapes. People explore and hike and relax in nature. People escape and get lost in nature, for the joy of it, the mystery, the fear, the release of all cares into the unknown and unpredictable and unknowable and ever-fierce and ever-providing and real. 

So I see, we must not deny our urge to depict, love, marvel at nature. It has been done so many times by so many people. But it is real. And you should try. Watch.

Knives

A murderer can hold a blood-dripping knife. A grandmother can hold a knife tenderly in her grandchild’s hand, guiding him to cut his birthday cake and make a wish. A mother can slice her famous meatloaf. A father can carve a Thanksgiving turkey. A butcher can hack off the heads of live chickens. A hiker can lash at brush with a machete.  A cook can slip and cut his finger, blood oozing onto the lettuce. A daughter can draw a blade against taught ribbons to create bouncing curls on a gift for her father. An adolescent alone in her room can hold a knife to her skin, shaking; her mother is downstairs cooking dinner and listening to Gospel music. A warehouse worker can smoothly swipe a blade down a line of tape to open a box. A sculptor can carve and chisel visions of angels into a chunk of the rugged, hard face of a rock—of the earth. A man can cut an apple with his army knife, walking down a dirt road, wiping gathering dust and juice from the blade on his pants, slicing again at the fruit’s flesh; chewing, swallowing, walking onward with no end in sight. A surgeon can calmly plunge into your frail son’s chest with a scalpel as you heave in the shadows of the waiting room. Two children can sneak into the kitchen drawer and pull out knives—shining daggers, swords!—and let out shrieks of glee, for rebellion, for adventure, and then… What is a knife but part of daily life, in countless ways, in ways that slice and carve and create and separate? Used by everyone, the blade enables acts of violence, love, and ingenuity.

Occurences

1. A man in a pickup truck with a snow plow drove by. We continued shoveling the end of our driveway by the main road, because the snow there was so deep we couldn't get out. We were cold and emotionally drained. A few minutes (yes, minutes) later, the man came back. He began plowing the snow. We got out money. He drove away and waved it off. Then a moment later, we saw he was turning around again to finish the job more properly. We thanked him profusely. He drove away. So did we, smiling for the first time together that day.

2. Standing in the shower, with dim lighting, a hair falls from your head imperceptibly, and sticks to your wet calf. Moments later, the strand of hair crawls down your skin and you feel satisfied and attentive to it. The next time it happens, you notice more acutely the sensations. You and the hairs that trickle down your leg in the shower with the warmth and the water travel down the drain and flow to unknown places.

Mugs or Paper Cups?

A man ordered two cups of coffee.

"Would you like your coffee in paper cups or mugs?"

Nearby, a woman with soft wrinkles, in her large brown jacket, short blonde-dyed hair, and slim black slacks, looked subtly toward the man.
The man wore dress-like tennis shoes, a dress-like black work coat, and had gray hair.

"Mugs," he said.
The woman looked away from the man and took a couple of steps from the ordering counter to the pastry case.
But she turned back a moment later and said, "You know what, I want mine in a paper cup."
She gave little facial expression, her voice was quiet, but there was a light in her eyes, a slight desperation or else a sense of rebellion, sprightliness. Her overall-subdued physical quality made it hard to discern what, exactly her face displayed from within her.

The man mentioned the cup change to the barista, almost in a whisper or mumble, his body turned so his side faced her rather than his front.

The coffees were handed to the woman and to the man. 

The barista could not be seen, her body obscured by the counter, and shelves of coffee and tea accessories for sale a few feet away from the register.

With his exchange ended, the man walked away from the counter and chose a table decisively, establishing himself firmly in his seat, still clasping his mug handle.

The woman and the barista lingered a moment, sharing a few lighthearted words, a smile. It seemed they may have known each other prior to this interaction.

With their exchange complete, the woman then carried her paper-cupped coffee to the stand with cream and sugar, the windows stretching behind it. She made touches to customize, sweeten her drink to better suit her taste. As she stirred, she contemplatively watched outside, the coldness of winter swirling through everything. 

She then walked to the table that the man had chosen, and sat down with him as he sipped his black drink.

Her back was toward me was as I watched.

The man had also bought a scone or muffin and a newspaper. He slowly chewed, mulling over his food.

Sitting silently as the man ate, the woman brushed her light-colored hair from her face, and for a moment I glimpsed her profile. Then it was back to blonde, brown, pale and plain and light.

The man's eyes lay deep in his head with large gray brows furrowing over them. His hair was combed gently to the side, though, which appeared slightly feminine or self-conscious.

I stopped observing for a few minutes.
As I looked up to watch again, the man was smiling softly at a group of passing children who were on a tour of the bookstore and coffee shop.
I looked away in a low state of contemplation. It was inconclusive.

Again I resumed watching them, and now the woman--her back still toward me--was apparently speaking.

The man quietly listened, his eyes following hers, though sometimes dropping with a timidness or temperance of intensity, considerately. His hand drew to his mouth thoughtfully as she continued.

She gesticulated.

He glanced up to refocus on her, but this time his eye caught mine and he darkly peered out at me.

I made no expression. I looked down to the paper and continued to observe mentally.

I recalled that his eyes had not been completely in contact with mine. One was lazy.

I took a walk in the white and watched brown hair blow across, against a frozen face which I could not see, only feel. The sky was gray-white and the snow was white-gray, the brown hair a frame to view the bright day. The snow was white-gray and the sky was gray-white, the brown hair whipped lightly and strangely and rightly. I would see none of this had my white walk been  nightly.

There was quiet.
There was detachment.
There were chimes.
There were trees.
There was sky falling as snow.
There was in between.
There was all of it to see.
There was all of it.

Thought Beast

A realization becomes more known to me.

An admission is required now.

I am afraid to stop thinking. I am a Thought Beast, made of mind, and I watch myself move my own limbs like a puppet on strings. I trap myself, and I watch it happen, and I perpetuate it thus.

I fear the uncertainty of no mind.

I fear the silence, the phantoms of quiet darting as wisps, breath, energy, lightness. I refuse to allow the uncertainty to settle.

I fear being; that is, no planning, no expectations, no judgments, no theorizing, no projections. The monologue of mind ceases, and what do I become? I become, like I've never done.

I fear uncertainty because I still am attached to my life. That is, I fear death, loss, change, movement. I fear the end of myself as I am now and have always known. As I am now may not be ideal, but it is what I expect, it is what I am familiar with, and I know how to act in order to preserve myself in this familiar way. So change does not happen. I keep the mind rolling out thoughts to fill the space and silence, to keep this Thinking Me in place.


In silence is space, and in them both is breath and room to meet and know the Inner Beast beyond the Thought Beast.

What happens when the silence comes? What happens when the thoughts cease and I Be? I Am? I don't know. It is death of me as I know me. If my mind stops rambling and speaking to me, where do I go?

I become finally present in myself...

This is faith. This is faith that in death, there is life. There is eternal life. Life out of time. Life in the nothingness of silence and space.

I feel my fingers grappling to hold on to the Thought Beast. They claw into it. It's getting bloody and worn. I hold on so tenaciously.

But now I have admitted it. Now I move closer to letting it go.

Thank you for reading.

Unfiltered Words to Horrific Actions Done but Embraced and Analyzed

Today is Whole Zero. This is the day you navigate the swamps. You trudge over the strange heather, the stretched, gaping, cool moors, in the mist and clouds, with the dark green trees dangling and draping around you in swarms. This is Absolute. Today you ignore to confront. Today you go into hell further to get out. You are coming out From Hell. You are more. You are More.You are moor. You, Amour. 

You suck up into your head the wind from the cold day, and it all dries up and cracks right. Grounds crumble, hands shrivel. You don't worry anymore. You're already gone in there. Stumbling down is nothing. Help you crash delightfully, you ask. You call 'help me clang down deep through the cables and wires and ridges of the self and wade through the swamps, wallow in the muck' Nothing is punctuated, Everything punctured. 

And let's take a good bath. Let's find a warm spring. Let's find the shore. Any shore. A shore. Surely it is coming, surely it is here now. 

Hello. Forgive me, Universe. You have been and are so abundant, generous, and kind. Forgive me. 

Hello, now.