Other's Words

You've adequate experience with conversation to recognize when something someone says takes you on a mental rivulet of exploration unintended, obscured to the daily assigned ordinary.

And its of little consequence what brought me to examine or share this psychotic process now except in that perceived glee that can be felt when we connect with another in the sacred "yeah"

Whenever I speak with others on the topic of 'real' as well as 'fear' the words sound familiar as oft as not echoes surface.  Allowing me to snicker with the honesty in phrases such as we teach what we need to learn, as well as other shiny pebbles.

    And it would seem for me today, as not a quest of understanding the living breathing rituals for a purpose of collecting more knowledge, but a more subtle art of allowance.  Certainly there's adequate past experience to suggest places for alarm, danger, caution, but its the master who can add those colors to their pallet and say,

  "ah, that was when I wasn't aware, lets try this again...with feeling!"

then magical joy, happiness, and mirth develop out of the pigment of our choosing what and how to apply the resources we have at command.

I hear stories....I tell them.

Mythology as with the ancients, an effort to comprehend the mystical mysteries of life.  Then, having failed to find comfort in adequate definition, assign the unexplained to the nature of divinity.   Amusingly, that's allowed, just as preferences are.  Since creating is so natural, to break it down to its fundamental's calls to question what would be the point?  The mental process can be irrelevant except for our notice of who is in charge of questing? Finding improved paths towards 'what do you wish to feel?'  A significant stride from the childish security seeking Why the universe is what it is.

So, the day invites participation, 'come see' without promise or threat, a passive element for our purpose; opportunity.

My fun continues with this tale, where I have fellow sojourner's who are also exploring and sharing their discoveries.  Gathering as we do at the dusk of our adventures speaking in turn at the warming campfires. Relishing the eloquent fashioned and  elaborate embellishments to events that have unfolded. In our shaping, create the extraordinary; living art.

Giving up the Harley

It was time

It had quietly arrived; without fanfare, without so much as a whisper.

The inevitable moment of change was like the visage of a stranger suddenly recognized as an old companion. “I know you”

   Each age has its passages, and this was no different.  I had to get my Harley hauled to the shop because it wouldn’t start.  It wouldn’t start because I neglected it for over two years. I passed it numerous times during my comings and goings; sitting in the garage.  It had become garage art. Collecting towels and umbrellas on its handle bars and seat.  I had agreed to sell it.  Having successfully deflected my wife’s curiosity as to why I never rode it, I lost conviction to the reasons I argued for keeping it.  Part of it was that I found myself always busy with something else, along with the growing knowledge that my wife dreaded me getting hurt.  I surrendered to the fact I couldn’t go for a ride and dismiss her worry, even if I liberated the time to go out on the road.  Lastly, I was growing fearful of local traffic; in that, I realized, it was time to let it go if I were too afraid to ride. 

   I tried to start it up, but ran the battery down in the effort; so then was forced to have it towed to the motorcycle shop.  

There was a time in my not so distant past where I needed to take mental rescue missions out into the frontier in order to quiet my restlessness.  Somewhere living my everyday life, that need had calmed.  I no longer required an escape; the ache just left me.

   I bought the Harley back in 2003 when I desperately needed to feel free.  Having the Sportster fed my sense of adventure.  I could, if I wanted to, ride to the Pacific whenever the notion struck me; it never did, but I was content to know I could if I wanted to.  As the days and then seasons turned me towards different things, I became less aware of the pressing need to identify or protect my freedom with my mechanical trump card ~ The Harley.  I named it Blue Blaze because it was fast as anything I had ever been on.  I enjoyed it most during autumn.  The weather was brisk as the cold bit into my face when I opened the throttle up.  I enjoyed looking back at the leaves stirred up in my wake on country roads. It gave me a sense of affecting my surroundings.

   Well, all of that is finished now.  I walked the bike up onto the tow truck and escorted it to the shop for reconditioning.  I’ll pick it up tomorrow and then post the ‘for sale’ on the Internet.  I have friends who ask me to send them photos; along with what I’m asking for it.  The amount doesn’t matter, not really. The relationship has been broken.  It’s just a piece of equipment that is taking up much needed space in the garage.  I guess if I had a preference, if I could ask for anything, it’d be for a buyer who was a dreamer; a dreamer with a need for wings.

Now that’s poetic

Minion

Autumn has always been my most creative month.

My emotions seem to be more receptive to a harvest dance

For whatever the reason, creativity calls emotions to be raw, and those include

tears.

I wonder why our society is so adverse to tears; or conditional at best.

As for grief, you get a week for intimates and a day, two tops, for ex's. (you know ex significant other who moved on; now a winking acquaintance)

I scared most of my passing companions, they didn't drink artist,  or just maybe I allowed myself the luxury of applying that salve to the blinding flash of the obvious in we no longer got along.

A few I’ve cultivated

So I can feel at ease in speaking my random, dark thoughts.  You know, and trust that in sharing such thinking I don't notice a nervous inching towards a phone to call for professional help.

We watched The Time Traveler's wife the other night. He couldn't control when he'd disappear to another time. It was a sweet love story but I felt it deeply.  Here was a poor soul who would be whisked away from his familiar surroundings and comforts only to be thrust into a foreign place naked and friendless.

kind of like

College.

I looked at over 900 professional job announcements the other night. I considered the bulk of them equivalent to punishment for violating social laws or crimes against nature.

To think that so many put work saddle's on for their entire life and consider it a good fit.

Counting sales, or tricking others into buying...is that the height of aspiration? Scotty, beam me up.

Or could it be.....a lingering thirst to have power over a vast minion? To strive to be in control of something we can't get our hands on?

At the dog park, minion was a miniature pincher. I took great care to not step on its tiny feet as he scampered about; sniffing the ground for scents I had no idea their meaning. 

I didn't want to break anything delicate on such a lovely fall day.