EVIL BASTARDS

SEEDED

The lust for comfort murders the passions of the soul.

 -Khalil Gibran, mystic, poet, and artist (1883-1931)

I am an event, part of an eternally changing instant. I trace patterns of similarity in events and feel the comfort of snuggling into labeling such likenesses with words used by some of the events similar to me. I am curious about my relationship to other events and ours to the ever changing here now of the present.

I perceive that the pattern of events events labeled human, by learning words to define similarities out of the variety of the whole, tend to become habitually dependent on the relatively inertial stability of confining curiosity to traditional labels as some form of impeccable logic by infallible authority in the tautological world of language.

I perceive that the most devoted to precision in this word world can no longer think without words or hear the less articulate. With language as prime stimulus for response these events most resemble sound activated voice recorders, silent unless spoken to or button pushed. Much like editors, their worldview is a collage of clippings of reports of hearsay from authorities outstanding in their field. Ideas no longer arise from the preverbal depths of their genetic memory. They can no longer sit still, alone, away from all signs of man’s existence without it being a test of endurance until they can find events they know the name of or someone to listen once more. Instinct and intuition have been demonized as the work of Satan, or worse, anarchy.

Without words, such hopeless addicts might never be led back out of their invisible prison by inspirational crumbs left by earlier departures in sublime poetry, song and tale about their very struggle to return to the clarity of our predefined nature, that focal point from which all perceptions, interpretations, patterns and words, emerge and remerge — precisely, here now.

It's the path I'm on…

FOUND

“… children guessed, but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew”.
——e. e. cummings

This morning my friend, Nikki, posted just the right thought to trigger my return to this blog after a month of Scrooge-like stinginess in expressing the wealth of inspiration I’ve experienced.

The people and property adjacent to my stomping grounds within the Dawgranch have changed, and with these changes a more communal atmosphere seems to be brewing among folks who had seemed to be content minding their own business over the six years I’ve thrived here.

I had to comment on Nikki’s post, …”adulthood is a phase of forgetfulness, enhancing our appreciation of nature when we re-emerge into children’s guesses with such wisdom.”

Fences were torn down, abandoned gardens were weeded, the sounds of hammers’ banging home nails on Homer’s recording studio remodel of Donna’s bedroom and back porch rang out in random overlay of the bird song and dog bark spontaneous symphony of nature, all the dogs and cats and chickens and people mixing like never before. My inner child sees the realization of utopian dreams more possible in the offing than any time since the games I’d played with other pre-school children living along the deep, verdant ravine we made our world - away from adults and world war two. We’re back to gentle guessing, with the acquired wisdom of experiencing the fallacy in the certainty required to make of this same nature a soulless commodity for the machine that shaped us to be eager cogs from the first day of public education.

Who Knows? Time will tell and there’s more of that than anyone here seems to need to know what to do with. Maybe (RIP RAW).