Category: A List of Everything
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That Thing
Is the thing
That thing
That manages
The paths of stars
Every baby being made
The weather currents
Each flower blooming
Ever overworked?
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Life’s Aesthetic
Seeing beauty
Feeling beauty
May be a skill
To any and all
Circumstances
Assign beauty
At will
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Relationship
Exquisite moment
Tender deceit
Open hearted
Trust
Surrender
Not defeat
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Never Boring
Uneven emotions
Crookedly cut
Uneven days
My life has whipped up
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Small Things
Quiet
Treat
Sweet
Retreat
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Way of Life
Every moment tender
Every breath
A bounty
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A Way of Life
Mystica forces
Gently engaged
Mystical waves
Lived unexplained
Mystical Moments
Secretly known
Mystical days
May always unfold
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The Life that is my life
I protest this life
I asked for
In my longing dreams
Life knows more
About my life
Than me
It seems
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Fullness of Life
The flavor
In my mind
Pungent sweet
Divine
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Anticipation
The
Expectation of good
Trusting Life to deliver
More than just food
Joy in a shiver
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Magic Foot Forward
The whimsical
The mystical
The exceptional
Me
Take turns living
Life with the other
Three
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From Coffee to Wine
The heat of time
Ingredients of experience
Percolates
The water of a soul
Into something
Flavorful
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Inner Workings
Or what?
The body asks
The soul
What then?
A story
Gets told
We believe it
To go on
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Living Things
Friendly vegetal Life
Gives life
In the language
Of health
Wispers peace
Flavor and beauty
Feeding the
Soul
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Is Life Alive
Is Life alive?
Does she smile
Is Life in the air
Coming to life
In breath
Primping
In sunshine
While being
The sun
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Worlds Without End
Bridge your heart
And mind
Playing to unwind
Then make the art
That brakes apart
The Universe defined
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Like the Sky
Wink
Smoke
Out of
Your eyes
Or clouds
Sudden shudder
Deep sighs
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Transformation
Minute transformations
Windswept moments
By and by
Chisel the look
Out of
Your eye
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Yet It Fits
The
Joy
Beauty
Story
Frailty
Strength
More immense
Than
A tiny human
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Virtual or Reality
Artificial hollow
Life-giving
Mechanical heart
Online roll-play
Gaming
Part death
Part life
Part art
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Playing Here
Did I volunteer
To be this frail
And full of fear
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Under the Pale Sun
Ancient
Winds
Blowing
Storms
Back
Then
The same
Breeze
On my face
Again
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An Instant
Flickering
Fragile
Warm
Magical
My being
Her
Burning
Candle
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What are Angels?
Clumsy grace
First toddler steps
Humans
Trundling along
So sweet
The angels wept
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New Under the Sun
Original
Art
Original
Thought
Original
Original?
Is it?
Or
What?
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What’s Right
Careful
Doing
What’s right
Till
Right melts
Into
Wrong
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To Realize
Oh
Oh!
Where it’s
Invisible
Grows
My very
Soul
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Breakthrough
If I were me
If I were you
I am both
Who are you?
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Personhood
The value
Of me?
Wait
Let me see
Is it steady
Or based
On
Meritocracy?
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Love to Disagree
Mix it up
Us who
Disagree
To care dilutes
The care
About
Beliefs
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Game Dilemma
Between
A quest
A grind
Or afk
What to gain
This decade?
What enjoy today?
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Feeling Ways
Slow panic
may congeal
Warm trust
Fires up
To become
What’s fluid real
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A Feeling Place
Grinning face
Passionate
Writing
Coffee and Grace
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The Meaning
Together
Feeling good
Feeling better
Together
Than you
Otherwise
Would
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Not What I Thought
Be the truth
Stump evil
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You Then, You Now
Elegant destruction
Magnificent while mad
Stillness in it’s offerings
To re-create
was had
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Acceptance
Plop
I forgot
Sometimes
My feelings
Drop
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Reproduction
Shiver a soul
Asunder
mitosis
Violence or blunder?
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Cheating Life
Cheat life
Cheat it
Choose
Suck up to death
Point my attention
Outwit
Lose
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World of Humancraft
Miniature gods
Not dolls
Gaming gods
Involved
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Book Learning
I’m learning
Living by living
Life is
The book
The yearning
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Knowlege of Good
Reach up into
A story tree
Pluck and bite
A story
See
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Being Held
Life of my life
Flows unstoppable
I flow gently with it
Relaxing allowing
Sweet new beginnings
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Storyline?
Punishment
Turbulent
“When you are betrayed You go to hell”
A feeling place where
What I accuse can breed
So I may live what I judge
Next life
This way
To then succeed
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A Scream Come True
I watch this Ted Talk regularly. It’s part of my yearly diet of inspiration.
It’s part of creating my own new world view.
In pieces and daily now for two days I’ve been reading the transcript of an Elizabeth Gilbert “Ted Talk.”
Fellow Presser Waywardspirit suggested I look her up on YouTube (specifically she told me to find an E. Gilbert Ted Talk. I think Wayward meant any E. Gilbert Ted Talk) and I’m gratified that she did, for I’ve read only a few paragraphs, about 5-1/2, and yet already much has been revealed to me.
You wanna watch what I am busy reading?
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Musings
Reality may actually be a hologram/simulation board game created by [the divine]. On bending it: we’ve all heard of great enlightened masters who knead existence like putty, but that requires the ballsiness to whittle egoic impurities down to a shred. As they become closer to divinity, they become more “restricted” to the three nondualistic activities: loving/laughing/dreaming.
The other way to bend reality is to play the board game of illusory dualities (society/anarchy, good/evil, honor/villainy). The more dualities we introduce, the more “rules” we need to invent (etiquette/discipline/motive/etc.) to navigate the board.
Anyways, I sure as hell am no saint. I and most of you are on one of an infinity of board games and there’s nothing wrong with that—because we’re still loved by [the divine]. Lets enjoy the hell out of playing “The Game.” 😉
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Musings
Cliches aren’t meant to spoon-feed us knowledge; they’re meant to be dusted off, examined, and reiterated so we human mouthpieces can keep that wisdom fresh.
THAT’S how we access timeless wisdom—not by adoring it, but by dancing and freestyling with it. 😀
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Apology
We are going. I’m tramping back and forth squealing through the hall and kitchen I’m so happy. It smells bad in here. Something about beans burning. I don’t know what that bad smell is. Yuck beans. So I don’t care, but it feels all upset in here too. I don’t like it. I race away through the open door into the front yard. The station wagon we are going in is open. I clamber in. We are going!
The big people are carrying things from the house to the car. I sit in the car waiting for it to start moving. It’s supposed to move. I’m ready to go. I didn’t even need to be carried in here. I wait. No one is sitting in the car with me. I hop out and tramp the long way across the yard to the house then back inside, then because I can’t wait to be going, I walk all the way back to the car and get back in. I want the car to start going. I shout bye bye!
No one answers. I sit there wondering why the car is not moving. Its supposed to move. Looking out the windows is not interesting this way.
I’m bored. People bring more stuff to the car, but no one gets in with me or and we don’t start going.
So I wander back into the house into mom’s room to watch her getting ready.
Then, I wake up.
It’s quiet.
I have woken up on the road in a car before. This is not that. Maybe we are already there. I look around. I’m in the same boring place.
I’m alone.
I shout mommy.
No one comes.
I cry. No answer.
I wait and wait. No one is going or coming.
I know what to do. I can reach up to one of those things. The door will open and everyone will be at the other side when I open it. I try. Raising my arms my highest I jump crying with frustration, but can’t reach the door opener thing.
That crying gets me what I want stands till I realize it’s not working. After that I cry for comfort. After that I cry because I can’t help it.
I wake up again. This time everything aches, no one is here, my eyes and head pound. I’m wet cold and I can’t climb up onto the bed. It’s too far up. The floor is cold.
The best thing to do is cry. So I cry. The harder I cry the more my head pounds. I notice this. I cry because my head pounds but crying makes it pound more. So, I stop. Stopping makes me want to scream. I try it. I feel like my had will split. Hiccups hurt. I’m too tired to whimper.
I stop and wonder. Why is no one here? I realize it. No one will ever come again. No one cares.
I wake up. It’s dark. Whimpering hurts my head. I will never trust anyone again.
I wake up. Mom is snuggling me. Something is different. I have never had all her attention before. But I don’t trust her.
She sings Sweet Hour of Prayer to God looking right at me. She sings to me looking right at God. God mom and me. I’ve never felt this. I snuggle closer. Maybe I can trust her.
I get closer by climbing right on top of her belly.
Not up here love. Don’t sit up here. Sit right over here or you might hurt the baby.
I look intently at mom. I won’t get hurt. I won’t fall.
Not you. The baby in here.
The baby is in here. I look at myself. Then look at her pointing.
This baby. In here.
I don’t see any other baby.
You can’t see it yet. It has to come out first.
What baby? Where?
It’s in here. Right here.
I stare and feel confused.
In here there is a baby. You don’t want to sit on it and hurt it do you?
I shake my head then look closer at my mother’s belly and still don’t see any baby.
Get it out.
You can’t get it out. It comes out when it’s ready.
Why not?
It’s not ready yet.
It’s inside you? How does it get out?
A door opens in my stomach and it comes out.
I look all over under her blouse for that door.
What door?
She lifts her blouse. Here. It only opens for babies to come out.
I look for the opener thing. There is no opener.
Does it hurt?
Yeah.
I stare at the smooth skin on my mothers belly. A door. A door here.
How does it open?
I cannot imagine an opening. When my skin cuts open it hurts.
It opens by itself then closes by itself.
How?
I don’t know. It just happens.
The mystery of this completely overwhelms my imagination. I stare at my mothers mysterious belly till she pulls me to her and snuggles me closer next to where the invisible baby is. She glows with delight, and something else I don’t understand but I feel she feels about me and the baby. That’s when wonder sparks.
I’m a baby. I’m the baby.
Mommy how did the baby get in your tummy? And why are you worshipful about an invisible baby when you already have a baby?
I didn’t know how to ask my mom these questions. I didn’t have the words. The asking grew and grew till it filled my being like mixing baking soda and vinegar. It asked itself. My entire body entwined in wonder. I could feel my mother’s ecstasy, that she loved me and was not replacing me with another baby. What then made her so happy about the baby started to fill my being. I feel what she feels. A whole in the sky with a triangle of light shining out of it between her and a man. They created this big hole in something and drew this baby through it.
She glows with the memory, the knowing. I feel her memories her certainty fills me up. Her memories fill me up with angel song. I’m totally content with my clear and wonderful answer.
So that’s why mom is so happy. I feel her delight and triumph. I can feel the wonderful beaming off of her. We are enraptured.
Mystery solved for baby me.
Mystery still for grown up me .
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Blindfolded or Bored
Surprise
Cooks in hot
Huge Vats of
Unpredictable
Surprise!
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Autonomy Really?
Sawing my invisible backbone
With a dull serrated knife
The heart of heart stuff
Lungs made of lung
Doing their own autonomy
Unaffected
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Then What?
Deprive my soul thingy
Of stories to collect
Of desperate choices
Dangerous encounters
Clashing wills
Dark nights
Triumph of wills
Irreplaceable loss
Implacable spirit
Brocken open hearts
Catalysts story arcs
Unexpected twists
*
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An Open Eye
People are asses
So diverse
Stunning breathtaking deadly
Acts of God
Just like our mother
Earth
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My Origin Story-“Hate”
“I don’t understand hate.”
“I will never understand hate.”
“Yeah me either.”
“Just don’t get how people can hurt other people”.
I found this deadly conversation on Facebook by artists authors thought leaders the ones who are entrusted to know better. Sadly our short collective memory blanks out how very close to yesterday back in our church days if you were one of many of the popular American religions you were taught to believe homosexuality led to Sodom and Gomorrah being destroyed. A whole two cities devoured by holy flalmes for tolerating that abomination.
It’s all interpreted right there in both Christian and Muslim religion’s holy writings. So, it’s something way different from the catch-all phrase “hate” that is causing so much pain and death discrimination and hurt.
For a minister at least one in this case the one in California to stand up and celebrate someone finally doing God’s will is pretty natural. It’s part of being “right”.
I’m reminding myself that my ancestors and my culture up till now have been violent. We wage justified wars that are still going on. We lynched black folks and have disrespected and rejected “sodomites” for centuries now.
Not long ago it was legit to kill Catholics then in turn Protestants for being Catholic or being Protestant then both killing Muslims. I’m pretty sure my ancestors being faithful and devout men and woman participated in all the holy killings back then because they continued right up to very close to the present being devout and holy killers. Being faithful and devout myself, I thought the “right” half of that crap was all good.
Holy killings. Fighting for whats right. Soldiers for freedom. We still do it. The least we can do is admit we do not understand “hate”. That we are it. Whatever that word has come to mean. We do it. We have been doing it together.
I have. I understand “hate”. I have lived and continue to live hate.
Now I just wonder what I can do about it.
Wonder with me.
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Snuggle the Struggle
“I don’t understand hate”
Hate the euphemism for
All the crap
I didn’t get before
My sugary apathy
Hates back
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Dangerous Beauty
Life sculps
Transformation
Canyon drops
Sink holes
Towering cliffs
Sixteen foot waves
Deadly venom fangs
Killer deserts that flower
Heroes and psychopaths
Transformation
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Adventure
It stings so I tug at it to get it off. Wailing and whimpering I reach down grab hold of it. It feels like a cat clinging to my butt so I’m trying to shove it down and off, but something feels ominous about doing this. When I do this, meanness happens.
I look up and No is open. I wonder through distracted from the ouch.
It feels good out here. I get to shake the heavy naughty thing off here since no one will stop me or be mad at me anymore. Sucking in and taking small wiggle steps works. It falls to my feet and trips me. The ground comes at me. Wiggling it off my ankles feels better than crying. I get back up. My hands and knees don’t hurt. I don’t cry. No one will come stop me and the ground feels good.
Softness tickles my feet. To wiggle my toes here feels good. I’m feeling relief all over. Then I look around. I’ve never been here before. I don’t know the word for freedom. It just tastes good.
I look far away over the soft and see the hard place. Then across it to a place where nice people will be. The place over there where they will be nice to me. They will be nice to me. I’m going there and never coming back.
When I come to the hard knee hurting place my hands and knees tingle recalling the last time I tried to get away and fell on hard bumpy rocks tripped by holes. This one is smooth dark and shiny.
It won’t trip me. I stand there stareing at it wondering. I won’t fall on the rocks and step in holes burned into my body’s mind from last time I tryed this. I decide. This time I’ll run quick careful without getting hurt. Like when I fell just now and it didn’t hurt. This won’t hurt again. Just cross to over there and and never come back.
I wait for a big noise thing that’s coming to go away. I’m waiting for it. This big noise thing is a light for some reason. It’s taking longer than these take to come and go. It’s not going. The light is here.
It stops. It’s not supposed to stop. This is confusing but I’m going ahead.
Now people are here. But I’m still on my way to the nice people. They talk to me but I tell them I know where I’m going. Then a lady holds out a yummy sounding bag to me. I take some of wht’s in it. It’s good. I try to get more. She moves back so I follow her.
She seems like a nice one. So, I don’t have to go over that hard thing after all. The nice people are here.
I try to tell them they are nice people so I’m coming with them. I know they are nice because they have food they don’t make me do stuff and they are not cross.
Just as I start eating, the mean ones come. They snatch the bag away and give it back to the nice ones.
I protest with all my might. Screams struggles kicks don’t help. I grab for the bag, then when it’s out of reach make a break for the real nice people.
The mean people catch me and hold me against my will. Then they carry me off back to the mean place.
I’m doomed.
Then, suddenly the mean ones talk nice to me and snuggle me.
So I fall asleep hungry, and content.
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Blank
Memory, this strange invisible time travel organ transports me back to forbidden moments, times I shouldn’t even have access to. For good reason too since who wants to remember how your diaper feels and smells when it needs changing. Since I do remember my annoying itchy stinging clinging sticky diaper I figure when I remember where I came from before the diaper days it may have some merit.
A blank slated innocent new perfect baby might be the case sometimes, but not mine. I didn’t enter the world a blank slate. Well maybe a bit blank in some necessary spots but mostly I came stained with karma or whatever, you know stuff I wanted to do stuff I wanted to learn and stuff I wanted to fix plus I wanted some new tree rings and bragging rights. I remember. Not the place, I don’t remember a place. It’s the urgency that fades back in. The vast sence sometimes of how far back this goes, this desire to understand to care, how deeply I wanted this and for how long. Lots of stinky diapers are a small price to pay to play. Remembering one though sucks. I remember two.
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World of Personcraft
An epitome
Individual curiosity
Lotteried kill sets
Oaths fall-downs
warped twisted intact
Personality chosen
Sides
Level ups death
Playing me
Like you
Into some being
New
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Communion
Feast on dreams and verbs
Round glows festivus
Burn your dreams for firewood
Plucked by minds to smell
A dream to bite and chew
Washed the etherial dirt off
shucked
Peeled
Cut into bite size chunks
Chopped
sauteed
The flesh of juicy dreams
Invite your friends to eat
Harvest more from your fertile souls
Surrender bits
For composting
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Limits to the Five Senses?
A sense of time, what sense is this?
A sense of vision, no?
Vision Touch Hearing Smelling Taste
A sense of smell, now mean it like visionary vision
A sense of vision. What?
If vision can be expanded to the imagination
If vision has a passport to the future, but
A sense of hearing… Them voices you mean?
Why hold back the other senses from expanding?
What’s the expanded form of sense of touch?
Good taste may be yummy to all the senses
Our senses our sense of self or sense of selves
Why is only visionary rewarded esteemed healthy?
Hear into the future or imagination, smell feel
Taste these results
Feel how it will feel
Hear it’s voices
Fall in love
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Writing on the Beach
Open window trailing words
Blue chemistry falling views
Gleaming explosions gusts of worlds
Wisps of stillness
Enchantment twirls
Life blows in
Inspirations waves
Smashes hurricane
To the page
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Writing Into Dust Devils
“I feel ungrounded. No poems to read. No pictures to ruminate over.” One of my good reader friends complained on May 2 after National Poetry Writing Month NaPoWriMo was over. When I stopped posting.
Hay, NaPoWriMo is over. No more poems for you.
But then, his unease started sinking in and reflecting how I was feeling. I realized. I feel ungrounded too. No picture to create, no poem to wonder into being. My life is off.
Only half of why I write is enough to keep me writing for the rest of my life. To stop writing wondering painting the reasons the wonders is to die. The other half of the reason I write is unrest or energy swirling, mind dust devils curiosity and ravenous hunger to ride to learn to grow to tell stories to inhabit stories.
Postaday on WordPress is still here though NaPoWriMo is over. So even though I can’t get the Postaday badge to stick on here and it seems a little contrived, I need the stucture to write and hope now. A game to ride the beautiful bucking swirling dust devils into ink seahorses to frolic on the page for you. Because I need to.
Weekly Photo Challenge and Weekly Discover Challenge also keep me wondering and going there admiring the world. Admiring the world keeps me close to the wind and tight woven with the magic of gratitude so they enchant this mysterious rodeo.
I hope you have as much fun reading as I do writing. I love the ride. I love you guys.
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The Yummy Arrogance of Belonging
I just finished listening to Elizabeth Gilbert’s book, Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear, for the second time. It’s been a few months since I first listened to it and when I started it again, I thought: Why did I wait so long to listen to this book again? Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear […]
via The Arrogance of Belonging — Live to Write – Write to Live
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It Just Does
He makes you
Belive the sun
It shines for you
All night
The crossroads is
It’s true
It is
Just not here from him
To you
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Place
Dissapointment compost
Dirt after it rains
The smells it grows
Feeds you from pains
Life Cycle
Somehow knows
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Compassion
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Dinnertime
To consume the beauty of the moon
Like cheese of light
On bread of quiet
Every night
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Kiss Identity
Might the meaning of life be this set up to aquire and evolve new ways to get our fix?
So far it’s looking that way.
Notice how the highest highs mostly happen when chemicals in the brain get triggered when you give without expecting anything in return. Try it a bit if you hadn’t noticed.
It only works when engaged in freely and becouse there is a need you Want to fix or satisfy. Best crack ever.
Eveything else are cool little fixes too.
So life’s meaning may just be fixes and highs set up and made possible by obstacles lows and consrticting laws and rules that create need. This rollercoaster scary fun ride system cycle game mystery thingy we are cool to be on right now may still be evolving.
It makes it even funner to imagine like at an amusement park that there’s a long line of everyone waiting for a turn to howel with delight or despair while evolving this.
Kiss identity.
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Do People In Memory Realms Have Feelings?
Is kicking people’s ass in my realm of Memory still human abuse?
I have assigned roles noted characters picked the bad guys in the plot in my mind realm. Since a hero in any story is only as amazing as the anti-hero of a story is vicious, does my inner dialogue need villans? Cuz these stories I play in here feel horribly wonderful.
I control this realm and I wanna do something about horrible people and be fabulous. You know, deal out just what-fors to all the asses living in my mind’s holograph. To rescue myself and put things right.
Is it wrong to beat up evil people, living or dead, in my mind?
Yeah, it’s unhealthy to beat myself up. I get that now. Gotta love yourself. What about everyone else though? The bad guys for example. I don’t gotta love them. Ha!
Are these meanies victims now if I trash them in my mind blame them judge em? Can dead people be victims too? And if not everyone who do I get to beat up on?
I got a story to weave then to replay so I know I’m a decent person. To sence who I am relative to them others. How do I acquire one of these wonderful vicious evil guys so I can be truly great without committing acts of violence and being violent myself, I wonder. How else do I make life interesting.
Is it still wrong to judge and blame historical figures in the privacy of my own personal mind?
Are the really bad people I blame for all the bad stuff happening, you know, so bad I get carte blanch to eww them?
Is blaming and judging them mean or unhealthy? What if they deserve it?
What if I stop?
Then what?
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First Drawer
Suitcase
It has an ugly cow on it in yucky orange
But all my stuff fits in it
The bottom is hard
But I can carry it
Big words on it are not my name
Like I thought
But All my shirts and pants fit in
The yucky cow is dumb
But it has handles on it
I want a pretty cow
But the zipper zips
And all my stuff fits
I can carry it
It’s all mine
Zip zip zip
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Green Superstition
The Vanishing: What Happened to the Thousands Still Missing in Mexico?
Some other stuff that matters to me besides woman being elected
Grace Rubenstein | Longreads | April 2016 | 19 minutes (4,634 words)
Somewhere in Mexico, someone knows the answer to the question that drives Araceli García Luna day and night. The person or persons who know might be criminals or government officials—or both. The jagged beige mountains around the northern city of Monterrey, which hold so many horrible secrets, surely know. You would think, given the circumstances, that someone would help her find out.
Araceli lives in a small apartment on the outskirts of Mexico City. She gets up in the morning and goes to work in maintenance at a local middle school, the same job she’s had for 24 years. She comes home by 5 p.m. and stays there, with two of her grown children, her grandson, and a little frizzy-haired dog named Chiquitín. Araceli doesn’t go out anymore—not for events or unnecessary errands. Except that, once every…
View original post 4,642 more words
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Short Long Street Cuts
Between the streets
Accross tracks
Specially when magic
Stairs are invol-voked
Taken Takem
In life
http://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/street/
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Do You Think Contrast Is Needed Again?
Notice the lack of additional contrast?
I wonder what this lack of contrast says about the minds of woman in America. Do you?
Please Catagorise US Presidents by Race and Gender
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How do we address our future woman president Miss Mrs Ms Madam?
Hillary Clinton could become the first female president in US history. But she won’t be the first woman to have tried. Several women have run for the top job in American politics, beginning long before they were even allowed to vote. (Women got the right to vote in 1920.) Still, there remains a massive disparity…
via All the women who have run for US president—starting before they could even vote — Quartz
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Gate A-4
Gate A-4 By Naomi Shihab Nye:
Wandering around the Albuquerque Airport Terminal, after learning my flight had been delayed four hours, I heard an announcement: “If anyone in the vicinity of Gate A-4 understands any Arabic, please come to the gate immediately.” Well— one pauses these days. Gate A-4 was my own gate. I went there.
An older woman in full traditional Palestinian embroidered dress, just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing. “Help,” said the flight agent. “Talk to her . What is her problem? We told her the flight was going to be late and she did this.”
I stooped to put my arm around the woman and spoke haltingly. “Shu-dow-a, shu-bid-uck, habibti? Stani schway, min fadlick, shu-bit-se-wee?” The minute she heard any words she knew, however poorly used, she stopped crying. She thought the flight had been cancelled entirely. She needed to be…
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One of em Quests
It comes out of nowhere
Just a feeling with some understanding attached
May or may not interpret the knowing well…
Starts anyway
What’s this for?
Ohhhh this works
Whoohoooo!@
“Eat Pray Love Made Me Do It”
@My Waywardspirit
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Dog In The Details
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Muslims, Mormons also deserve religious freedom
That’s all I’m gonna say about this.
On here now anyway.
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The Answer
Surrender
To the love of the question
The moment
And myself
While the answer shows up like
42
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42 Moments
Nothing
Only moments
Are Perfect
Charms Beaded
Strung Silk
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The Answer
Surrender
Soft
Warm
Streching
To
Flowers
To
The sweetness of the sky
Desire
Come
In Sping wind
Orange leves and blew
True as now and follow flowers
Live in 42
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42 Check the Maths
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42 Math Wonders
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Where do terrorists come from?
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meanings ~
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42 Diversity Challenges
Best way to “fix” a human with zero regard for humanity?
Expose ’em to others just like ’em.
I would say: “That’ll learn em!” if I wasn’t talking about myself.
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42 Favorite Things
Been away
Delivering
To top secret site
Losing tracers
So they don’t
Crash paradise
Godiva chocolate shake
Fresh roast coffee
Omaha steak
To Dagny Taggert
Henry Rearden
John Galt
They don’t belive
In iPhone
Plumbers
Pizza delivery
Eny of it
They love it
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A poem to all my fellow insomniatic writers.
42 Portals
If you’ve ever found yourself writing your best work during what the normal folk call “ungodly hours” then I think you’ll agree with me on this one:
The Unobserved Hour
The clock strikes three
A time where logic loses its edge
And the conscious mind free falls
Off the edge of sanity,
Where the burdened brain shatters
And impossibilities merge with reality
Into a kaleidoscope so obscene
That only cold dreamers can perceive:
They watch our long caged desires
Transcend the laws of religion
Tear through the holes of science
And past the prison of society
To a place where none shall judge you
No inferno to sway your conscience
All boundaries removed and banished
So creativity shall reign supreme
This is the hour of lovers
All poets and artists to be
Once bound by the chains of reason
Now freed from their slavery.
A.C.
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42 Freedoms of Speech Create Terrorists
Freedom
Freedom to Speak
Taunt
Bully
Mock
Discriminate…
Wondering in the dark
About respect
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Getting at 42 from Every Angle
What if I’m this one god?
My own god of course. Not yours. That would be boreing. Maybe Hunger Games is what I volunteered for.
The where do I start even asking where to start kind of deamon angel horned winged gamer lore freak.
Wrote the catalyst or got addicted to this game.
I get to gamble. Play to lose. Beat the odds and fail till winning feels like crack. The hurdles falling out of the sky, and shat . Continuous onflicts of interest dilemma unthinkable choices, loss, impossible hopes hilarious sad unimaginable loss and stupidity. The twisty brilliant dark twists. The secrets. Reveals double no triple mystery magic re-corkscrew twists.
I wonder if maybe I was undefined haughty ass all or semi all-powerful god who couldn’t be courageous.
Humans are better than gods. Humans are brave sweet hularious story vulnerable-precious. Gods aren’t precious. Are they?
From godhood I rose to Humanity.
The only thing I was good for, really good at as an asshole god was design. I engineer a story life to get at myself from every angle. To challenge wonder fight take risks hurt live die. To grow a soul.
Real Gods don’t have them.
Who would want to be one of those?
Who but me would write play in and direct this antidote to existential boredom for myself. Take the game to the next level. Me not play?
Human may be the new god/deamon.
*wonders*
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42 Wolves at the Door
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prodigal sister
42 Somewhere
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42 Brick in the Wall
I bet
Being human
Takes practice
Trail and
Holocaust error
Am I
Recycled
Passed
On re-take from
A process
A human
Story-Souling
To make
To tell
To live
To fail
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Mystery 42
If to be physical is to be gaming
An objective, rules, setting, bounderies
Timed
Not to be gaming is to be god
Play
Life
Through the glass darkly
Delicious wondering
Mystery known
Goes lame
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Gameing 42
Playing is rule-painting yourself willingly into a corner. The tighter and more complex tricky challengeing dangerous risky the more fun getting out.
Hard-sticking rules help me avoid that dull bored cheating myself at solitaire headache. I can’t cheat on Runescape.
I am the god of my Runescape character.
She is fun. She has purple hair. Now I don’t need purple wings cuz she just got some. It’s halloween year round playing dressup with the virtual paper doll I do quests with and level up.
I wanted a halo. I just get one for her. Twenty or so hours playing Caste Wars one of the sub games where the main game rules don’t apply will get us a halo. They don’t. But an even tighter more demanding timed set do. The stakes are higher. The rewards are unique. I’m not that good at it. But if I really wanted a halo I could get good or better. I want other things.
Some things I want bad. Realky bad. It hurts to miss out on temporary takes too.
I still regret missing getting squirrel ears cuz the Easter Holiday event ended right while I was finishing the quest to get them. I’d put it off till the last day and miscalculated the time.
I felt like my friend Matthew felt when the Seahawks didn’t win the super bowl. Only more so. I felt like I’d missed the easter egg hunt when I was seven.
As a matter of fact in general playing makes me feel seven on an easter egg hunt. Or ten leading a spy troop of cockhorse riders to take back our tree fort.
When your character dies in the game it’s like we died in those battles. You lose your stuff , play dead. Then you get up and join the game again. In Runescape you respawn.
Unless you are in the wild west wilderness part of the game where you kill players and take their stuff, you get a gravestone. Your stuff is under it. If you make it back in time you can recover your hard earned valuable gear and supplies.
It’s been this way for years.
Before the whole game was this way. It was so nerve wracking. It was impossible to relax becouse you could be hijacked anyware at any time. That frazzked pkayers nerves. So it got updated.
The player killing was banished to the Wilderness. That worked for a while. Kids kept rage quiting when they lost months of hard earned armour and weapons in one fight.
The gamemakers removed the wild from the game. They may as well have removed half the subscribers. Everybody quit.
Then came back a year later when they could kill eachother again.
Mostly all the “manual labor” and boring training you put your character through is to prepare you for a fight.
Two weeks ago hardcore mode was inteoduced.
For a fee you can create a character who when she dies, is really dead. It’s all over the server news too.
You pay a fee. To really be dead.
It’s the rage. If not to participate, some of us are inept gamers, to watch to follow, to wonder.
Now all we need when those kids beat this is a game just like this but you are in the virtual reality and yeah what better than to raise the stakes and forget who you are altogether, like hide and seek. Be the game. Gods at play.
I must have paid a fee.
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Ways to 42
About what the meaning of life the universe and everything else, I wonder if it’s particular to each person.
Then maybe each particular individual variation is a twist in a good story. Since every good story is about conflict of interests and growth from making growing choices then conflict of interests it’s totally a basic high quality story ingredient. So we would story- starve without our differences.
Just for the record. No diversity no story, no Saturday cartoons.
Then there is this other wonder. To just call the other interest, not my own, the guys who want some really no-way things evil could be really dumb or maybe just developmentally at a certain level. Like the ewww girls level. The boys have cooties level. Quite age appropriate even. Maybe part of the meaning of life is that as a cultural being we are age appropriate.
Then, if so, what developmental level in me and my species comes next? What are some of the possible new ingredients for tasty satisfying story foid? Are they an acquired taste like caviar? What do I pay to get them? Where? How? Where do I find a Why and learn to cook it?
Wait, that’s the seed of every new story vegetable. Maybe, it’s for planting.
Would you, if you could, plant and grow a story vegetable garden?
What do healthy home-cooked stories taste like?
Do “my” stories create and add up to my “me”?
Other wonders:
Are there GMO stories?
Organic stories?
Mass stories?
Hydroponic stories?
Poison stories?
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Ways to Forty-Two
Just enough facts to anchor the invisible to reality. Is this all I need?
*wonders*
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Forty-Two Way Satisfying Story Hunger
Wondering: Is storytelling is a game an art a meal? Perhaps the recipie requires some fine story ingredients. You may want a fabulous chef. Mostly does story proceed from the hunger. Formed from desire, from hungry eyes and ears and hearts and wanting to play and taste and feel and be becoming. Or something like that.
Like Runescape, or a sport team you want to be a part and play in it or just to be tied in, for it to matter what happens. People play to lose. People gamble to lose. How I found that out is it’s own story. The life of a story where it goes, how it trips and falls and what it falls into, how that into splashes, oozes smells. What it taste like mixed with blood in it’s mouth. Why it went there in the first place and won’t or can’t turn back. Or why it does or is or is not. What twisted it’s arm into doing That? Here it got cornered. There is the mess from when it totally failed. This is what other stories are telling about it.
Then you mix the two and get a person and their story it is even yummier. When you drop that story and the person into a group it gets even thicker and creamier, more satisfying comfort zero calorie food. Then you spread it out over a culture that bakes it and adds topping information density takes it gourmet.
Stories pop you right into the middle of them to sink or swim and swallow or take on water, or rush crash float spin. Like a player in a game you come out having won or lost. Can’t beat the five-beer feeling of a narrow escaping win. The feeling of your sports team getting creamed lingers the angry mob rousing bitter taste of tragedy in your mouth. Makes desire for sweet dessert of revenge rematch. Persistant hungry wondering of how and who and when that will set the world right and fill Thanksgiving appetite.
Story-Life invisible imagined game character life, might be effecting the actual evolution of life. Nothing is fascinating and delicious like the story of a person. People and stories fascinate. We hunger for this story like for food. Sometimes it doesn’t matter if its stalk story or fast story.
That’s must be why we have outrageously popular thriving Fast-Story chains.
Super-size me!
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Onward to 42- Day !
Wondering is a defense mechanism.
Last time I thought I know what I believed and thought and it’s scale of “rightness” I was on a different metric system. The whole thing crashed and blew up. People died. Lives were ruined. You know the king was naked and all that.
Wondering assumes I don’t know yet and could use some alternate awareness than what I have now.
Wondering is a bet that someone else sees what I don’t see and I can catch the truth in the glimmer in their eye or in their posted word.
Because wondering implies that I have what it takes to sort it out eventually then measure design cut sew it into a fitting world view to wear in the World.
When I feel the shouts “the king is naked! ” I wonder if I’m the one shouting or if I’m the king.
I wont always be right. I will grow out of the clothes even if they worked. I do prefer not to wear clothes sometimes. So, when I figure someone is totally off you know say like our pet scapegoats the 1%, if I really had an answer or a solution or something to say to one of these the best thing would be to start by seeing a person. A person, sometimes naked like me. Then move on from there to what each of us knows and feels. Then to wondering about that. Freedom of speech all it means is it’s safe to wonder. I wonder If the fancy 1% really even get to enjoy the first amendment. To many mobs bitching to even have a second to wonder.
This is what I would have written in my private Morning Pages. Not sure it’s too naked to be walking the streets of the City of Light. But onward to Forty-Two.
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Wondering to Forty-Two
The answer to Life, the Universe and Everything is 42. I get my own forty-two and it’s free for me just one year from today.
Ask the right questions and 42 will be the answer. Question is, what are the right questions?
Wondering could help with this. That’s what this whole affair is about so I may as well actually do it here. Do it here rather than in my usual paper form. Just for this one countdown.
A Waywardspirit Wondering Countdown to 42.
Yep my own personal answer to Life The Universe and Everything is on it’s Way!
Wonder-up the questions, I will. So when I get the answer to this meaning of Life, The Universe and Everything I may , hopefully, know what the question was.
For the next 365 then (give or take), Waywardspirit will be Wondering to 42.
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To Do List
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The Ultimate Comunication Method
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That Afternoon
What did You wonder?
What happened to you?
Wherever you where
That Afternoon
Then
What did you Do?
On September Eleventh
In the evening
What were you up to?
Tell us about Your Afternoon Action.
Post a link to your AfternoonAction on your blog in comments.
Or just comment here.
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That Afternoon
What did You wonder?
What happened to you?
Wherever you where
That Afternoon
Then
What did you Do?
On September Eleventh
In the evening
What were you doing?
Tell me your Afternoon Action.
You may post a link to your moment on your blog in comments or just comment here.
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That Afternoon
What did You do that afternoon?
Feel
Act
Wonder
Wander
Remember
Did your figure something?
About you and your life.
About what you love.
About who you are.
How did You respond wherever you where in the world?
What did You do September Eleventh Afternoon?
waywardspirit 