Saturday, March 03, 2007


If we didn’t live some variation of the same cycle over and over experience would teach us nothing. Usually it is a bump on the head where there’s a long forgotten bruise, or a blister or, for the truly stubborn, a callous of repeated conflict between the way of nature and the plans of man.

Consider that now is the eternal process in which one experiences a movie projected on the screen of a loop of film whose frames remain the same every cycle through a projector who’s settings react endlessly, differently to the frame before. Consider who is the projector operator. Can he keeps his hands off the knobs for a few loops? Is it getting hot in this booth?

Screens are effective on insects larger than their holes in the daylight, but at night — watch out! Even the larger ones take the effort to squeeze through just get to my reading lamp — practically every page I read is also used as a swatter.

Ladybugs love edges. I have been observing ladybugs on different occasions obsess on running around the rim of plastic containers. Once involved a pair running in opposite directions on the rims of two starter pots side by side, which made them appear to be gear wheels, as they met at the near edges every cycle. Another time a pair patroled opposite sides of a trash can quite unterritorially, just always on opposite sides, whether on the march or at rest. Curiosity, pursuit, xenophobia, flee, or just very efficient at whatever. Who knew, I have movies.

Believers cannot dream
So wound in weaving
The web of faith
Exuded by the need to trust
Others who say they know
Demanded by the rational myth
Upheld by the national kith
Curiosity is anathema to certainty
Imagination is corruption to credo
The true terrorist is ourselves
Outside the box
With the freedom to think,
And feel and be and see
God doesn’t know what all.
Without a theory
All is as it is, it seems
Pick up a thread
And sew the seams
To dress now in yesterday
For tomorrow’s faschion line
Between conformity and free thought.

As curiosity stretches theories thinner
The plot thickens
The juice of imagination gels
Around the cool breeze
Wafting through the holes
Punched in flawed fiber of certainty
Releasing the growing pressure
Of shelved contradictions
What feels like dissolution
Is seen to be a rarity unrealized
As the solid become myriad
Coagulated hypotheses
Hives abandoned by the bees
Black holes eat planets to
Energize the light bulbs of ideas
With their farts.

1 comment:

sexy said...