Destiny will start as a trickle chance noticed…

there is a little sweetness
and time wanders for a few moments
where i am is unimportant
carried by a few words, but what lips
said some dreamy things
as if a mist were superimposed everywhere
earth is somewhere, certainly
but i am in a world otherwhere, here
toes touching stars i walk
watching the universe turn a few hours
return to me, eternity…

Some days are better than others. We all know what this means without explanation, when in the morning the door closes too quickly in front of us and coffee is swatted into our shirt. When we miss the train just as it’s leaving, and we are five seconds too late for it, and we watch it slide away (and we’re late!). But there are days, too, when you’re the first one out the door of the subway, the first one through the gate, up the stairs with no one in front of you, and when you get to the top, the city smells all of coffee and fried eggs. Just delicious. Not saying that there’s a balance, in fact, I’ll try to notice the better more than the worst. This is just life, if you so choose to live it: sometimes, merely to look around to see that life is happening, the maddening, the sad, and the joyful: the deep, the shallow, the mysterious: the time that passes, and the memories that stay: breathe deep, for it happens not again.

Here’s a riddle for you
Find the Answer
There’s a reason for the world
You and I…

– Five for Fighting

Léon Spilliaert: Night

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If what they do does not make you destitute, or in some way derail your life: if all they can do is take your money, then they cannot take a thing away from you that you do not give them: for all of what you truly possess, what is truly yours — your soul, your humanity — this is yours, and only yours, to keep or waste, by what you decide to be and do when you are wronged. This is the love of God, that He made it so that the material things are only as valuable as how much you have decided your treasure is to be these things; where your treasure is, there your heart shall be also, the good book says. When you decide that you will not be one iota less kind to someone else because of something evil done unto you, this is treasure indeed. Gold cannot buy such graces, and sometimes, we lose a little material to gain meaning we might never have received had we not so lost.

We must not content ourselves with liberty and consolation and gust in prayer. We must come out from prayer the most rapturous and sweet, only to do harder and ever harder works for God and our neighbors. Otherwise the prayer is not good, and the gusts are not from God.

danger most perilous which drips as like the tears of love
we believe we know of which we speak and which we enter into,
but in that thousandth time, the breath of God blows us clean away

I speak, and the world hears none of it.

I listen, and there is only the sound of the river.

I look, and the sky seems poised to fall.

I wonder, and dreaming welcomes me.

I jump, and I am above the world a second.

I cry, and I am stared at by strangers.

I speak again, and I understand it, now.

Where there is love is where earth and heaven intersect.

Have we become blind to the arbitrary irregularities of mass-produced things? The misapplied glue, the margin left for small industrial misalignment, the outline around all molded plastic things — we do not question any of these slipshod applications. Have we never had the expectation of the precise quality that perhaps we once did? For we perpetuate the species when we expect nothing more from items so. I remember that I did notice when I was young that these items mispronounced themselves, but believed that this was how it was meant to be done. This is what comes of everyone having everything, perhaps. Just that now, I have glimpsed where people have done, created things that they cared about, and how seamless all of it could be. Yes, this came as a surprise to me, too: some people care. There is such a thing as craft existent in the world. Or at least, let me take it upon myself to perpetuate the myth. May I pay attention to what comes from my hands, I might say. Let not my eye be blind, and “acceptable”.

Oh, what’ll you do now, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, what’ll you do now, my darling young one?
I’m a-goin’ back out ’fore the rain starts a-fallin’,
I’ll walk to the depths of the deepest black forest,
Where the people are many and their hands are all empty,
Where the pellets of poison are flooding their waters,
Where the home in the valley meets the damp dirty prison,
Where the executioner’s face is always well hidden,
Where hunger is ugly, where souls are forgotten,
Where black is the color, where none is the number,
And I’ll tell it and think it and speak it and breathe it,
And reflect it from the mountain so all souls can see it,
Then I’ll stand on the ocean until I start sinkin’,
But I’ll know my song well before I start singin’,
And it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard,
It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.

– Bob Dylan

Giorgio de Chirico
Melancholy and Mystery of a Street

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4.

interwoven light and darkness, moonlight mixed with mud
stormwind will know how fractures the stainless glow behind the clouds
lightning in the distance: the sky cracked open to expose the electricity
here, where the world ends every hour on the hour, i wait
the fabric unravels, and the shimmering pours out in a million threads
the shadow slips between the pages of forgetting, and never was
this trail out of the collective mind bears footprints tears could not erase
what comes this way has no name, and no one will ever speak of it
the dragon in the sky whirls the tempest and is pure sound thrashing
all paths break; somewhere a hand pockets a sliver of sunlight
i open my eyes, and no one can see me but the angels, everywhere