The Meaning of Life the Universe and Everything
What if Adams was right and the world is a quantum system expanding cubics, introducing errors to correct them?
Tag: Art of Wonder
Moment Design
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UX Design
The best UX design is invisible.
The design supports what needs to happen so well with ease and flow so you forget this was ever impossible or difficult. Now that it’s designed and built this way never have to think about it. It becomes clear, simply, perhaps rote and ubiquitous. The better the design, the more you forget it’s even there. Must be why, how, whatever, the Creator is so invisible.
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1 pictures
A Momentous Victory Day!
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The, the, the, the Mystery!
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How Much Delight Would That Be?
Jungle air thick, cool gelled in sun on mind and skin
Petri dished, to breathing in chocolate chip cookies baking after sourdough bread
Now, stunned, wrapped in the cajeta flan you bite into, eyes wide suddenly in Mexico
Tart squirting, sweet, crispy, mango juice ejecting the VHS of your old brain
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A Kind of Knowledge
You know how you know
Growths rhythm
By it’s stops and it’s transitions
The developmental maturing
Mystery organ of decision
When you check your gut
Regardless of the situation
You know where something ends
Even during it’s gestation
That knowledge of the end
That holds the line
From now to then?
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Alicorn Seed
We found an alicornian seed
In among the sheets
It musta got somehow mislaid
And landed here we thinks
It’s Alicorn
It’s known
When you hold it near your heart it weeps
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Giving Life this Look Again
Looking at your day
Like a baybe
You know, but you can’t say
Anything sweet might happen, maybe
Expect it anyway
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Moment Candy
Hold the moment candy
In your mouth to make it last
Till the taste of solid fantasy
That feels like being eight
While Santa Claus is on its way
When you just grin and wait
Holding caramel of knowing
In mind until it melts
Melts me
Sweet meltdown of desire
None for the heat of rage no more
Gave nothing to hellfire
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This Warm Place How I Wanna Feel
This now
Not my problem how
Feel carefree like a moment
All that fosters discontent
So slyly put away
The moment is what I put in it
Candies that I like
Sucking on it’s sweet
All beyond now fades
Without my attention
Till, life tastes a treat
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Blanks to Fill
Fill in each blank
Along the colored brick road
Take the cake
Without growing old
Or directed or assigned
See it just unfold
Or expect to be told?
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Pay Grade Above
Ain’t my concern
Where or when or how
Life unfolds
I dream smiling dreams
Smiling, I allow
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Keeping Austin Weird
Keep Austin Weird
Yes, indeed!
Yet, when our
American President
Like smoking weed
Starts making America Weird Again
I don’t know what to think
Lean in, get surprised
Watch, laugh, smile, wink
Live the start of anything
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One Evolution
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Watched Pot
Never boils?
So,
Expands time
The universe
Deepens an eternal moment
Opens up Life
And everything
Watch a pot
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According To
The moment tall strong suits
Live their sideways view
Do I bend over backwards
Lean to sideways crawl
Follow my own sense of gravity
Just walk tall?
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Dear Friend,
Luck and joy to you!
Peace and goodwill to you from wherever you celebrate around this time. And also for all you don’t celebrate Might as well right?
Here, accept all the gifts from the rash of new and ancient traditions.
I accept all. At midnight and whenever. So, I give it all to you.
Take it.
For that taste and glow of sacredness I am celebrating the Solstice because just because there are unicorns involved.
Thanks for providing them, whoever you are.
I suppose these unicorns, they’re the good old pair from the day? The pair of unicorns brought to life again in this new story. Unicorns found by you just now?
You know, the ones. The escaping pair. The ones Noah’s son couldn’t catch. Distressed, he called out.
“Dad! the unicorns are getting away!”
From this unforgettable scene in the production of Good Omens, when the daemon Crowley and the angel Aziraphel, are talking about the impending destruction of all life, human and animal, beginning then with the animals parading into the arc two by two.
Crowley, the fallen angel, now demon, is questioning the wholesale massacre by water.
Aziraphel, the angel, is going along with the routine genocide.
In the scene, Noah calls out, “Shem! The unicorns are getting away!”
Where did they go?
Mayhap they listened to Lilith.
Ahh, So glad you found them.
They were the only ones who weren’t going along with the bullshit.
Rare and magical.
I suppose you can free the pair of magical creatures to frolic around in your world so you can watch them from your inner balcony.
I think unicorns may filter into our realm around the corners of the year, when the new season program updates. So perhaps that’s when you are sometimes able to lure them into licking your luck.
Have an enchanted merry happy unicorny day, dears.
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Let me Just
Let me just float
In the now
Of my dreams
From before
Enjoying everything as is
Is everything
Wanting more and more
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Spirit of What
At first
When the Night
She woke me up
Insomnia, the worst
And not delight
Outburst
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Skills
Brunette
Blonde
Redhead
What do
You know
Is there in the pattern?
For you
Are you aware?
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Life as Artist
Life sketches us out
We live-in the color
Aqua blue
Shows laughter
To me
What shows it to you?
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Follow Your Nose
I captured it for you like this
Here, smell it!
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Inner Space
Tap tap tap
You may hit a spot
Take it by the hidden handle
It might have one
It may not
When you try
Try, try, try,
Error! error! error!
Till perhaps you hit
Where to look
Within, somewhere
You might touch
Your feelers on
By seeing when you look
Settle on what chimes just sweeter
Aim your feeling hook
Feel for sweetness
Don’t tell
You won’t need
Candle, book and bell
When you’re here
They’re already there
Cast, cast, cast it!
Dwell, dwell, dwell
You think you’re imagining
It’s really a spell
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Time Swaddled
Do you feel it?
A soft stretchy texture
Of still flowing silvery time
Silk wraps you around
How it adores you
To play with
A bit
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Visual Coffee
I drink you in
You, warm eye-full
Like steaming coffee
Before I brew that morning joe
It’s my second favorite thing to drink
After nectar of moon-glow
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Gifts and Presence
Perhaps I was born
With more gifts
Than I realized this morn
One could be
All kinds of riffs
At least one
I bet
Is mine
Alone
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Little Alters Everywhere
An example of
One of the many ancient
Traditional ways the Western Civilization
Worshiped a god of peace
And gifts
Known as Christmas
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Your Story
What’s the first line
of that book
you’re writing
with this door
the hinges probably whine
on the cover?
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To Be or Not to Be a Library?
What if we
The world
Including you
And of course, me
Are like
A weirdo library
On loan for free
Check us out!
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A Mountain or a Gift?
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Found a Clue on the Net
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Don’t You Wonder?
So, when you see
Medusa girl and me
Do you wonder
How much fun
Your hair
Could mayhap
Be?
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Evolution of Athena
An unknown mortal officers the goddess a fountain pen
Athena’s spear and shield transform into it then
Her spear’s got ink-flow now
Now, ink’s power to reflect
To tell a story
To protect
You’ll hear about it when…
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Out or In?
Explore introspection
Maybe there’s vast blue
Endless and eternal
In the other direction?
Too
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You Hold All the Cards
Good morning dear human
WordSmith, malarkist jester
Conjurer of elixir and brew
Pour them spirits of words
Multiply the worlds
It’s all more
I fly in this sky
You make reality
You make the ceiling floor
And more
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Stairway on the Inside
The stairway to heaven
Mine anyway ,
Is right here
Where I meditate
Heaven can’t
Everything else
That can be bought
Can wait
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Note To Self
Whoever you are tomorrow
I have a feeling Imma like she even better
You get more rich and interesting and complex and nuanced with time
The more I get to know you and experience you the finer
I feel so eager with all this loving to look forward to
To keep looking forward to more of you
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Day Follows Night
Woke up in the night
Suddenly
Expecting all I choose
To come out right
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Way of Life
Wrapping up night
Unfolding day
I don’t help
At all
I relax
The whole way
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Living Dawn
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Storytelling-Humor-Magic
Magic is the story
I the laff I’m looking for
Those rules to magic
Like them rules
To writing
To fun
To funny
Mostly maybe
Magic values like jewelry
So pretty sparkly fun
We acquire
And style with
Whatever
We can
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Tilt the world any way
Sideways or upside down
Dance on it anyway
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What Cares and Watches?
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The Banjo is Mightier than the Sword
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A Way to Life a Whole Life
Practice
A practice of flying
Good as any other
Way of life
Every moment
Signifying
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Seventy-Eight Pick Up
When he turned fifty-two
And I’m gonna do it too
Gimme time
He threw
The whole deck into the air
Felt them rain down everywhere
I’m just picking up cards I like
North of fifty
Life is sweeter
I’m awake
I’m doing the Tarrot
After blowing out the candles
On my cake
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Creating My Own Reality
You’re welcome
To put your attention so
To add pain to your now
By looking at it somehow
No I tho
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You Don’t Read Fiction
Perhaps
I guess
When we don’t
Go in for fiction
Or won’t
It goes in for us
Unreal!
What a mess!
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Hey There Life
It’s me, Shalom
I’m here
Remember I’m your own?
Here’s surrendering my weird beliefs to you
So You guide me along
To what’s most Tuesday true
To sing me like a song
Of You
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Worship
The spell for owning
Yourself
Her
A room
A town
An art
Map with approval
Adore everything unusual
In your own claim her heart
Set her free
Like you
Appreciate the cracks in her sidewalks
When you do
Walk with yourself in her dawn
Go with her twisting twilight
Why pay her vile attention?
When you could pay her your delight?
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Tenderness Strikes
This sweet tender high
I feel sometimes
Whenever I come right in here
And hug my dreams
Thank you for awake existing dears
I appreciate your being mine!
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Life’s Wages
I carry this to my domain
Breathe it in with breakfast
Enjoy it like cakes with silence and coffee
The “Where” where all my power lives
Where when everything changes
Always just is
Where magic grows and I’m some wiz
But it’s been here for ages
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“Reality” Suspended
Fleeing for your “life”
When all is lost
and you give up
Maybe life passes
Before your eyes
Then again, maybe not
You stumble, you fall
Headlong, into paradise
Softly, on your hopeless face
In the dirt that rules them all
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That Paradise Within
We skip it over
Wrong past the door
Following along with what everyone knows
Doing what’s been done before
Following the signs in orders
Right past that stark brick wall
The portal to that platform’s high
So there ain’t no 9 and 3/4
Until you go flying sideways through
Or die
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What Temple Did You Escape From?
Everywhere gods
Each archetype alive
Living enjoying growing
Developing a being
It’s story
First you notice
The one that’s you
Then
Then, when
You close your eyes
And open them again
Sometimes
You notice who’s
Around you
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Rabbit Knows
You swoon me with poems from another day
When I wanted to drink the Milk of Paradise
But I couldn’t find a way
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Tingleladies
Are a thing
You ask
What are these magical beings!?
Don’t ask me
Ask your imaginarium
You see what it brings
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WadeShalom Creature
A shoot of something sprouting
Out from not-a-seed
Brillante green, yet not a tree or weed
Appearing out of love stuff
Like Bluegrass
It erupts like Woooot!
Makes want, then desire
Out of hunger and need
Then it takes root
And like sourdough culture
And redwood forever
Past where I can see
I feed and nurture it
-It grows me
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What Corrupts?
The trick to get power but not be insane
Give it all back
Return it just changed
Try to wield it?
Be happy in vain
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Time
A year of wonderful
Hours
To spend my minutes in
Being here
I noticed this now
Now
I’m choosing
I’m living
I’m seeing
A world changed
From you in it
Mixed in
Like salt
Like yeast
Sparking whatever
This spell is
Sweet
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Irrelevant
Y’all perfectly worthy
Wonderful cherished noobs
Wherever you are
However color-misguided y’all be
Or how
That, and how anything else
But, for the purpose of clarity
This lowest common denominator
Of human thinking beings
Now
Can just go fuck themselves
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Having Some Good Now Lately!
Having some wonderful now these days
Some wonderful wonderful magical now
Now now now
Now
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The Weather
You know when
When the weather
When it suddenly
Is a storm?
It was something
nothing
only heat
Now it’s
Solid fluid this
Breezing blowing
Cooling
After the burning…
Bliss
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Sylph
This one shy sylph one day
It’s said, of a thousand charms
Decides to count each one
She counts, she counts, she counted
But them magics keep dripping right down her arms
First she figured she’s unwise
Then she noticed all the butterflies
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A Solid State Drive
I feel all fiscally responsible
It’s so good!- for myself
I feel so well-ithy right now
With no evidence of wealth
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Woman
Her body by affection warms
It stirs the inner pot
She drinks the chocolate by the fire
Wether it’s true or not
A secret opens up within
By an unknown hand
It grows into a pocket space
A portal to a no-man’s land
A man may enter in
And be in her enchanted place
A paradise or sin
A kingdom
The mystery feminine
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Solid Golden Glow
A living liquid all lit up
The spirit of a baby god
A mountain feeling comes along
Solid sunlight
Rich AF (as fortold)
So warm- like summer cold
Up lit in glowing
Moons of silver gold
That money matters not
If it’s a thing
It’s a thing You got
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Two Thousand Miles Far Away
When you’re over there
While I am over here
We’re in each other’s inner parts
That is just the deal
Projects right onto each other’s hearts
Where everything gets real
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What Kinda Man is This?
He wears a Beawolf, like a Star Wars tee
Then sports a Harold and the Purple Crayon
Gee
But he wore his 42 tee just for me!
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Accessory to Slavery
You’re done here Slavery
She’s mine
My sista
You can’t touch her
She’s mine
Because I love her
He’s mine!
My brotha
You can’t touch him
You’re done here
I chose now
I’m no longer an accessory
Watching, just watching
Jim Crow ii just casually go down
Now I see and bear witness
You go down for real
You’re done here
Exploitation thingy
Whatever you are
Or seem to be
There’s only one reality
The end
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It’s Tuesday Again- In Loving Memory of-It’s Thursday Again
In loving memory of Hugo of It’s Thursday Again.Wordpress.com. You’re welcome for all the fish Rhino House, dear.
Four perfect Tuesdays in a row
Establish the Tuesday feeling flow
Now it’s Tuesday every day
Just because it’s so
Tuesday oh Tuesday!
Again again again
A magical Tuesday every-day
For me to live and love within
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A Place and a Space
I went looking for fairies
And angels and gnomes
Hungry for the sacred and for the unknown
I tried each fanciful story ever grown
I searched all the places
And ways to might find them
But didn’t
An empty ache I wanted to leave
But it wouldn’t
Grew
Right where a unicorn might have lain down to rest
This fantastic fantom limb ached in my chest
It settled in where my mistake
It lived, it thrived and bred
Eventually, I did give up the search
When all it’s joys had fled
I put hope down
And picked up despair instead
And let it ramble through my head
Except in a corner my secret face
A holy of holies dusted well-lit place
With plenty of inner pocket space
There yet remains a sacred quiet grace
For davas daemons and fairy rings
Just in case
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Creation
I respond to You
Then You are me
My dear
I cherish you, my inner world
While strange flowers just appear
Then flourish into nameless fruit
When now is always here
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Some Magical Company
Meet my great friend Z
I adore his company
In my heart he pays no rent
Where no one’s guilty
Ever
Till proven innocent
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Liminal Places
The only reason
I believe this
Is cuz it’s happening
It’s happening now
Afterwords
I ask
If it ever really did
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Always be a Wondering
The impulse
It carries you
This way
Into
What could just be a door
If it were anything
If it were anything
It could be magical
It could be
Sometimes
It might be
It might
Close your eyes tight
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Life of a Story
Something
Sucked up the moment
Keeps meticulous notes
The whole thing as it happens kept
Born into patterns
Alive in lives
Traditional me projectile vomits out
Taste becames a home
Meditation takes over the meaning in everything
Falling in love kicks everything else out
Old tastes move home-made soul back in
A project working on itself
Some days lightning strikes
Connecting neurons that never met weld together
A million alive connections align
Pulsing
Life into a story
The sleeping story wakes up
We Talk
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Personified Architecture
Could a process become
Somehow
Some-kind of alive?
A self organizing system
If so, Wow!
A syndrome, the spirit of a place
A myth a god a power
A mind if it’s own
Evolutionary
What now?
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Letters to a Young Philosopher
“What we like best is not always good for us.”
That’s a statement.
It’s a statement that’s sorta like an equation.
You build stuff on it.
Or use it to try to fly.
Please take it to Kitty Halk and test it, dear.
You might be using the glider guy’s equation to build a flight machine.
Test it like a Right Brother.
I tested it.
Using that statement as truth I glided and crashed insanely. Repeatedly. For years. I couldn’t believe in flight then. Like the world hoped but didn’t back in the day.
Like Einstein said:
Insanity is doing the same thing over and over expecting different results.
I stopped.
Test shit honey.
It has to work to be true.
What you go by has got to at least achieve some tiny flight.
Then you have something solid that works to go ahead and get on with the space era.
Hugs
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Care and Care
Tenderly abide
His infant parts
Instead of no
It’s maybe
Them puppy eyes
With fetus hearts
To betray a man
Might as well punch a baby
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Life and Art Form
In the telling
Inside the sculpture
Right behind the paint
Isn’t where I expect to see
What something is or ain’t
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What Dreams May Come
I give my history
Life love and needs
My own benediction
I like my reality better
Why impose?
Even if it reads
Like fiction
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Sip Sip Sip
Add one spoonful of hope-i-ness
Stir into me like tea
Toss it back
Drunk on Life
Or sip the Day
Slowly
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The Velveteen Rabbit
The flights of fancy
I turn real when I muse
Is it a nightmare
Or a dream
That I choose?
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UX Life
I pay attention
To this gift I get
Then I tweak the worlds
With it
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The Moment When You Know
I adore you
All you
Things I wanna do!
Oh! Ohh ohhhhh!
Oh,
So…
You adore me too!
Oh
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Then Live Between the Lines
When my eye holds only angles
They suck thought out between
the lines
Being lost here somewhere is my moment
Where paint-flow washes out my mind
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Go Ahead, Believe In Coincidence Instead
My writing corner, it’s ceiling light went out
It’s been six months
Here I am, Your avatar, amused
It’s back
In the midnight, the only night
As I sat here and cherished the dark’s dancing candle light
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How Do You Know Yours Does You?
This Morning loves me
I can tell
When fist He brings me coffee
Then goes tempting my eagerness with
forbidden gumdrop fruit
Designed and built all just for me
He, then, He let’s me be
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I Bet You Don’t Know It’s You
It’s made for me
The world is
The way i am made for me
i am the World Herself
i adore You World
You adored me first
– i just noticed
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Your own personal fairy dust
This moment touches you
Oh, we’re here, here, here
Joy and you hold hands just then
To breathe,
the atom splits again
Again, again, again
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What Does “World” Mean Anyway?
For God so loved the game that he played it.
John 3:16
That’s all I have to say about that. I only wish Clown Head were still here in the game and not logged out.
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Normal?
Normal
What’s normal?
Who’s normal?
When normal?
How, why, normal?
Who says what’s?
Mine’s as mine as my foot size.
Defined, solidified by National Geographic
Boxes and shelves of people who almost must exist, sort of, because there are pictures
They sorta exist
You know, to be in here, to strike me
Look at that!
So I can dig in the boxes for the most shocking naked, huge, wrinkly, big bright feathery, tiny, adorable or sinking bony.
Curious dark friendly eyes slanting behind skins and furs
Naked painted long breasted moms
All that stuff on their heads taller is than they are
funny expressions
why would anyone move like that?
And in public.
Measuring the world with my foot.
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Just One Good Catch?
Is everyone, every single believer, having an intimate personal relationship with the same person?
Big Polygamy?
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What You Don’t Know You Believe Can Hurt You
And why I adore dialogue with you on here.
Your insight is dramatically helpful in the monumental process that is a story teller turnings shame into vulnerability.
Your points give a clear much needed out for when us writers doubt what we are really doing.
We need this way out of our maze of fear and lies we believe feel and react to. Believing I’m exposing my friends makes me feel defensive and small like a weasel. I often suspect myself of something that makes me just like a
Writing a good story is big work.
It’s heavy lifting to process reality into an uplifting story that makes sense and creates meaning and change.
Figuring out how we got out of a tricky spot and how and why we succeeded who and what where the problems and what we learned worked or works is an art. Sharing it is brave.
Finding a way out of lives that won’t bring joy or flow properly no matter what you do or hide is priceless.
I think your points do something to help bring my personal imagination out of the bone yard. A place where I feel like I’m betraying and hurting rather than helping. Hurting isn’t my nature. So I feel paralyzed. So, I fight back.
tabloid producer and accuse myself mercilessly. So I figure the whole world is gonna see me like what I am, some Rita Skeeter, that horrid witch reporter for The Daily Prophet let’s her magical green feather pen stretch butcher and molest the truth about Harry Potter and his friends without a spark of conscience. She’s one of my least favorite fictional characters, ever. So, I’m ready and on the offensive and the defensive, when just like Rita Skeeter, I make this crap up about myself. Then, like the annoying Wizarding community I go and believe the whole thing.
So, then I’m defensive as heck.
I am not like Rita Skeeter!
While I am the only one in this “conversation”.
Only trouble: I wonder if all great writers must have this stupid “conversation” and find a way to end it every time and move forward.
You’re list did something lots of books on writing I’ve read didn’t do.
I’m not sure what it is, but I feel a little bit quenched. In a good way. : )
All the best writers write about what they know with a terrific purpose that’s got nothing to do with exposing their friends. For me, its It’s about helping myself. My friends are part of my life, and lots of what I learned is from my not-so -friendlies. What else is there to write about? How else than to tell my own experience of myself and how my friend’s and family’s crap has affected them and me and the rest of us?
But “Who do you think you are to judge you big meany!?” Still needs to be dealt with regularly. It’s gotta be dealt with. I have to do it. And I have to do it regularly, the way some other professionals have to build up their confidence regularly.
I believe the majority of great story tellers, have to do this. And your words are helping me now. And maybe, it’ll never get as bad as Rita without me knowing where the attack is coming from again.
I wonder if my inner critic identified with a sensationalist tabloid producer. I feel aversion to. I don’t know anything about tabloid writers, and don’t consider them great, or story tellers.
I guess I feel like they are infections. When we are not immune the rest of us wonder if we are also being paid to be contagious pernicious judgey gossips with no right to feel good about our calling.
Huh. I just realized something.
I guess I haven’t figured this out. I don’t know any sensationalist gossip writers at all. Not one person I know thinks I’m that way either.
I just realized. Me trying to avoid being that way is ludicrous. I spin in that cycle rather than just realizing I am not that way. Huh.
Well.
There’s really nothing to talk about.
Note: May get permission to use the points that sparked this. Gotta post my response there first and see if I am nuts after all.
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Feelings’ Faces
The face
Of this sadness
Joy in profile
Tears streaming
In color
Peek out
Of the wall
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Chocolate Darkness
When darkness is thick
Creamy and sweet
Your tongue is alive
It climbs up your feet
All wrapped in the moment
A being of taste
Is it what you are now
From what you have faced?
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It Just Happens
The Wayward Spirit
By
M. L. Redford
the wayward spirit wafts in
through the window when the patterns of weeks, months passed, at last,
let go and shift
she moves about the room like Franny Glass making one or two things
flutter a bit, and is gone
out past the opposite shoulder as I turn in to see what I hear
to notice things
in the room which were always there but hadn’t been noticed for weeks
or maybe months
and which had obviously been there for a purpose, staring through the books
on the shelf to find
a forgotten bookmark, an absent fold, maybe a latterdaymexicanpink
autumnal ritual –
seven parts revelationinitiation and fifteen parts flutterbybestowal –
curiouser and curiouser
are the ways of the spirit: if I follow, will I flutter, will I perch or will I fall?
either way I’ll find
the pink of gist and need to meditate before I waft or get stolen
but the spirit talks
of grounding, without talking, for she is no airy/faeree: the meaning disappears
the more you look
but in looking at the unfindability you discover all the meaning for to see:
body, soul and beauty
but no room at the inn for language, ‘you can speak a hundred languages
if you want but
you’re never as wise as the illiterate who speaks with love in her heart’
she says, without a single word
but thought of a hundred languages smaller than the stars which float away;
the language of Waywarduese
butterflies about all over the points, and all of those points held
in one wing-spread,
colourful and puckering hold, sprinkled and dlappled like rain
Oh!
Can I have it?
Is it for me?
It’s for me?
It’s for me!
It’s Mine!
You stole it from me!
I’ll be generous and
share it with you
if you let me keep it.
Please
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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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A Feeling Place
Grinning face
Passionate
Writing
Coffee and Grace
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Cheating Life
Cheat life
Cheat it
Choose
Suck up to death
Point my attention
Outwit
Lose
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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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42% Clarity
Warm sweet flash of insight that changed everything: Hmmh…, huh…I am the asshole… Oh. No wonder!
I mean, wonder.
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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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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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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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Is Choice the Magic Ingredient?
Let the will of the Lord be done unto me…
Don’t bother sweetheart, you don’t have a choice.
This Annunciation transforms Pietà into His Mama Cries in one simple step.
***
Which hat? Choice can go a long way–Raptitude.com
Leonardo Da Vinci Annunciation
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Fill in the Blanks Story Game
Game
Mommy, does a fake smile count?
Hypocrisy, fake smile, self-righteous, were words mother said in a tone that told me she is right, and fake smilers are exceedingly wicked.
Wasn’t sure what all that meant, but I couldn’t stop wondering about this song we sang, and fake smiles:
My mother told me something
Every boy and girl should know
It’s all about the devil
We learn to hate him so
Let the sunshine in
Face it with a grin
Smilers never lose
And frowners never win
Let the sunshine in
Face it with a grin
Open up your heart
And let the sunshine in
So do hypocrite fake smiles always win, too, mommy?
This baffled my mother, at first. Mostly cuz six was to young for the nuances of good and evil. First she ignored me. Then suddenly she froze, gave me a bewildered look, while invisible wheels churned light into her eyes.
She stopped writing, put down the pen, stopped eyeing the phone, sat down. Then she beckoned me to her, pulled up a chair for me, waited for me to sit down then paused before she focused her passionate attention on me, for a solemn inner circle grown up talk. She captivated me with the sacred duty of the righteous and temptation and lies and evil. I listened rapped about the cunning of the devil, his fake smiles, and his cruel war on God and His people.
By the end of this intimate time capsule I know who is good, who is bad. Bristling, I brandished my inner hero’s sword eager to vanquish all the wicked once and for all. Point me in the right direction. I feel incensed. I will stop children suffering, persecution of the innocent. I’d assassinate Hitler myself, if I could, but I’ll settle for the next devil’s servant. Why didn’t a hero assassinate Hitler once and for all and save millions of lives? It couldn’t have been that hard! These new bad guys are worse than Hitler though, because they are wolves in sheep’s clothing, with beguiling fake smiles. I want to single-handed take out all these villans. I know the Bible stories and now I know who the bad guys are here and now, same as the Bible wicked. I know who and where they are and can’t wait to get at them. All hypocrites, acting like they are the good guys of course.
I was smart enough to notice that the song’s smilers might not include hypocritical ones. So I was pretty smart. But not bright enough to see the God/Devil frame of reference for what it just might be, a gaming structure. I totally bought into it.
Jumping on the trampoline with my daughter in this cool spring Texas sunshine and feeling like a kid, laughing I bust out singing a sunshine song. This particular one. I hadn’t even remembered this song in ages and ages, but when I sang it aloud to my daughter, to my horror, I found myself recommending hate as a way of life.
Hey, I was reaching for sunshine not a road to holocaust, here. This song is a wolf in sheep’s clothing. No wonder I keep ranting about good and evil, God™ as trademarkable, and the devil as arbitrary and customizable to our needs and prejudice. This kind of rubbish is stuck in here somewhere. My mind hadn’t tagged this ditty as b.s. yet. I wonder how much other rubbish is in here un-sorted, not hazard yellow corded , not yet trashed. My un-tamed poisoned frame of reference is dangerous.
This one has vicious fangs, hiding somewhere in my brain filed under “sunshine” and “open up your heart”. An invisible place holder, lurking here, the sheep clad wolf in my mind. It’s a given by this conditioning that it’s my job as a good little girl, and citizen, to hate the Devil and vanquish evil.
Now all I need to do is just fill in the blanks with Evil’s description. Pick one. Or choose your favorite not mentioned here: Jews, Indians, witch, terrorist, religious fanatic, heathen, unbeliever, Philistine, homosexual, evil person, Muslim, American, apostate, criminal, negro, _______ … I should by truth and right bring just punishment to whichever my upbringing tells me to fill in the blanks with. It’s my right and duty. It’s the heroic thing to do.
Not to long ago, Jews filled in the blank for almost the entire world, not just Germany, like we choose to remember. For our joy in Western shows and cowboys and Indians, Indians rightly filled in the just-kill-em-slaught, of evil. Evidently, somewhere I must still have a lynch em, exterminate em, and the world will be better for it, slaught. Who will I fancy to fill my free slaught with next? Give me the right propaganda and I’ll give you my slaught to fill. Then I’ll support exterminating whomever is put in my evil= ________ slaught.
“God”, good guys = ___________ , must be a blank slaught, too. What if it is a place-holder that could work the same way as the devil place-holder? Rather like any game with rivals. It takes at least two to play any exciting sport. Yeah, I want the game. I like games, too. But I don’t have to hate the kids playing for the other team. Do I?
They know they are the good guys and I am the bad guys, just as sure as I know what I know. They are just as committed to good, truth and justice. Just as willing to fight and die for it. They have their own lovely sunshine ditties, and loving mommies who know without a doubt who the bad guys are and what duty bound honor dictates we must do to them.
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The Garden
Come to me trolls!
Line up
Line up for kisses
A world needs some more
Lots more handsome princes
Wonder up
Sweet over something
Trip and break one mind
Frolic through answers
Feasting inside
Twist into existence
Leave this window ajar
Re-introduce
Magical spicies into our wild
Daily Post Prompt: Your Inner Dickinson
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Color-Sideways CrossRoads-Weekly Photo Challenge
Close Up: Magnificent mosaic mural on the corner of 11th Street and San Marcos in Austin.
Close Up: Feeling Perspective on the corner of Waywardspirit Blog and WordPress Plane.
Weekly Photo Challenge: Color
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Without Conscience
It’s hard to tell if my conscience is more like a tar baby, or more like a hand rail.
Maybe it’s a tar covered hand rail. A handrail along the straight and narrow that get’s me all sticky, and glued to it. I’m wondering if my conscience is meant to keep me on my path, or meant to keep me stuck.
Or, it may be meant for something totally different, perhaps outdated, or just very basic.
Conscience must be one of those special use tools. It’s like a hammer. It works real good for nails, but not for scraping ice off a windshield. Or a tool like the weather station, which may predict hurricanes, and tornadoes, but isn’t any help with earthquakes or volcanos.
If I count only on this conscience of mine to guide me, I still get into trouble, and karma. I stay stuck. Or even dig myself in deeper trying to defend it.
It seems my conscience plays by the rules I already know. It does not cover what my consciousness doesn’t cover. Whatever my consciousness is, so is my conscience. If my consciousness is narrow, so is my conscience.
By narrow, I mean it has a small umbrella, doesn’t cover much. I can do everything wicked outside my umbrella without a pang. It’s how, when I’m a soldier, under orders, committing murder somehow doesn’t equal murder. That’s conscience for you. It plays.
Or maybe it’s following some life purpose or blueprint like what I came to learn or perhaps what I learned in a past life didn’t work. I don’t think it covers what I haven’t, at some time, already learned.
As I grow, so does my conscience. I have to believe something is wrong for my conscience to work me. It doesn’t function with what anyone else believes. It only works with what I feel, and believe is right or wrong. When my beliefs change, so does my conscience. I don’t have a conscience, without something to base it on. No one has the same conscience, I guess.
So, now, I’m only counting on it for what I already know, or have known, sometime.
The unexplored worlds beyond my present experience, for these, I figure, my heart knows, and will know what is right for me. My feet know their path, too. They can keep me on my straight and narrow: straight, because it is always the step straight ahead. It’s narrow, because only I fit on it. My path is only mine. My heart figures stuff out, then tells my conscience. That’s how I must have come to have some conscience so far.
I learn by experience, vicarious or otherwise. My personal conscience also seems to be made up of what I’m taught, when I actually believe it. If I don’t believe it or feel it, no conscience for that one. If I believe a lie, then my conscience may bug me for something like walking barefoot, or telling the truth.
Until my conscience grows up, I’m dangerous.
A wild-eyed, grinning toddler.
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Coffee- Flowing with Milk, and Honey
Quiet, is my favorite morning.
Fresh ground, French pressed, light roast Ruta Maya agave half and half swirling. My Christmas mug in August runs over with amazing coffee. You know that feeling.
Mostly it’s the quiet. The time to visit a familiar quiet blank “space”. Yet it’s the thick acid free, line free, sketch-book journal, and it’s mate, a good Precise, extra fine pen by Pilot, in lieu of a fountain pen, which fetch me at least my four, maybe five, smiles. Five if you count this hitherto unnamed, yet, possible, other place to smile from.
There is no sence going into the state of fountain pen magic in my life right now, to avoid the grief, of loss of nib- please, pretend it wasn’t mentioned. *Sigh*.
With or without the unmentioned, the best part of the morning is spacing out, wandering in wonder, exploring the creation, this evolution of cyberspace on internal internet.
What kind of space is this? That other possible one to smile from, perhaps. A telepathy place, to connect with my friends, inner circle, think tank, mentor, writer’s group, The Wind, then to quest for the holy anything. Then, to quest for its opposite.
The adventure flows or drips from an inner, innate, inkwell, through a blue inkwell in my hand via a fuzzy dial-up connection that drizzle patterns onto the journal, swirling like coffee, of the day’s living, the milk, and the honey.
A walk, a pretty shop, an artful display, some verse, an essay, a snippet of story, some stretching, a bit of yoga, memories, might delight today, sprinkled with a mini Tarot reading for myself.
The cards are in my book back for…Oh, the gamble! The anticipation, the grounding of that little random picture-telling- the little coffee joy if it. The giggle, a furrow, a what? Hmmmh, and an I never would have thought! So, this is what that feeling was. The surrender to: Okay, I’ll be practical, and do the polishing kind of rewarding hard work…And an oh, no wonder! All of which are sweetly anchoring for a spirit tripper.
So, Spirit descends like coffee, and through the pen, to be born of flesh this morning, and live.
waywardspirit 
