Daily Archives: September 29, 2022

Stories Yet to Come

What is true and what is false? They are a mirror in which each is reflected.
What is real is just as true and real? As the falsity of what is false.

Time past and time future ~~ are a mirrored window through which each man sees what he is.
Go, go, go, go, said the bird, for the leaves were full of children, hidden excitedly, containing laughter. And the table on the gravel, beneath its fat gourds, dropped its fruit to the ground, and we, its guests, found The fat swollen gourds had become red and juicy, and the fruit was bright and delicious to the eye.

Hear our story, then, the story of time past and time future. The story of all centuries since and the stories yet to come. About to fall upon us is the nettles, The nettles, with their soft white stems, there is in each stem a sharp blue spike, Comes upon its prey with a sudden point

And pierces the flesh as the teeth of the nettle Pierce the ribs of a potato. Here lies the rat, struggling, straining, dying, dying, fighting to rise up. A thousand small bites from the nettles have enveloped the flesh of his body, we will strip him, pull him, tear him open, eat him, cut him in half, make him into soup,
burp out his meat and eat.

But this is time past and time future a story of all the centuries since and the stories yet to come.

The nettles, with their soft white stems, their poisonous spikes, are an imposing gate; I walk around them, looking through the glazed surface. From within, the grass is dancing, the flowers are darting.

They change color in the sun, their faces are blue, they change color in the rain, their faces are red and full of color when the last glow of the sun is gone.

They love and the flowers love and the insects love.

I can hear the birds in the trees fly to the nettles and sing to them with beautiful songs so sweet and true and loving.

“Go,” said the bird, for the leaves were full of children, hidden excitedly, containing laughter.

“Go, go, go,” said the bird, for the leaves were full of children, hidden excitedly, containing laughter.

The wind came, snapped the nettles, ripped them up. The flowers shrieked, and they all came running, all the flowers, the flowers fled in all directions, they scattered like fire. The little girl came, singing with a smile on her face, chirping, babbling, gathering the scattered flowers.

Her face was blue in the sunlight, so was the flower face and her blue eyes looked at me and I followed her into the forest to find out all the greatest secrets of the universe.

:: 09.29.2022 ::


My Song of Love

This, my song of love, is my song of hate for the silent clock.

Are you wasting your time? Are you taking advantage of those around you?
Are you missing out?

Every moment is significant, every act a choice. Every instant infinitesimally different from every other moment. Every moment, one year, three decades, a lifetime, is a lifetime, where past and future coexist equally — irreconcilable as the present and the past.

You may not be able to change anything or anyone. However, with powerful and frightening power of your own self-awareness, you can change your attitude to life and make positive, productive changes to your life. The choice is yours to make.

They were dreaming of a blue sky, they were dreaming of a blue sky.

The air where I stood Is Harsh. It is nothing. The past that was in the air, the dead flowers, the bird’s innocent mind, the strange insects, has nothing to do with Me, I am not the soul in the air, I am something else, something else.

The swallow does not see me, I am simply a phenomenon.

Nothing. Brown skin, empty, cracked.

Love is the tragedy of this world, it is a curiouser power, a certain power, and from it comes, quite rare in the world. Though we have seen it enough to know, it comes as a seed of great suffering, it comes, sometimes, as a pheromone, an Eros, as an alchemy, a beautiful fragrance, as a Scarlet streak of the mind, from it comes, when I gaze at the leaves, seeds of despair and ecstasy.

The bones of the world are as the bones of Madonna. A nun is taller than a zebra. On a parochial level, we see, for a moment, the bones of the woman ~ our housekeeper who died of an illness. A wise mother sees the woman to whom her daughter speaks in sleep.

The answer is God and the monster who is and who has been but never will be is the master of our Soul.

A key within the locked palace of our Souls.

:: 09.29.2022 ::