Ramblings

Ramblin’. No reason. Just words touching the tongue. They come from all angles. They travel in herds towards the mouth. Exit point. A portal to a space of community and sanctioned symbols. Make sure the wrong ones don’t sneak out. The social fabric is a lot like chipped glass. The wrong words are stones. Smash!

Friction in the air. A storm is gathering. Humidity burgeoning. Stomach and intestines are raw. Boston Pizza spaghetti didn’t agree with me. Gas billowed. Like words, the gas came in herds and raced towards…friction in the air. Leaves under artificial light. In the distance, taller trees are silhouetted against a backdrop of thick clouds. We should all jump in the streets when the storm hits. A wild frenzy. Cult of Bacchus in the burbs. These are, of course, just fantasies. Shower time. Domesticated shower time.

Rambling is a probably a lost art. I’ve never discovered it. I like to remain silent for the most part. Watch the birds. Watch the dust breed.

The inner monologue or “rambling minus the utterances” became clear to me in the shower. We spend our hours and days with that voice. Lots of the monologue is cheap. Some deep. Sometimes it is best to disappear underneath the dripping water. Become skinless. Go down the drain.

Two days go by…

At a cabin. Serenity incarnate. Last night’s swim in the tepid waters proved to be the most beneficial. Although it was scary when my arm hit the boat motor while diving in. Thank god I don’t have a big crimson gash on my arm right now.

Across the lake I see a spate of coniferous trees and above them I see a row of poplars. They would be nice to paint (if only I knew how).

Yesterday I watched my brother and a friend obliterate a hornet’s nest. Their bodies are now strewn about on the storage shed floor. The hornets that is.

The best ramblings are achronological. Information, memories, and inklings are plucked from the tree of self and put in a basket for all to enjoy. It’s best not to put too many in the basket, though. The basket has to be carried back to the community.

Ashley just killed a nameless bug with the notebook I am writing in. When she slammed the book down on the bug, the guts and innards of the bug launched out its backside. While trying to place the bug into its final resting place—the toilet tomb—the jelly-like guts of the bug wouldn’t let go of my fingers.

Languid afternoon. No clouds. Sweat fastened to the flesh like invisible armor. Must be wary of the sun’s power. Too much sun can lead to dizzying spells of nausea. Not good.

Roll and ramble. Roll and ramble. Ramble and roll. Ramble and roll.

Listening to the latest Grails cd, “Deep Politics”. Variegated rock. Sensuous blues. Cavernous reverberations. Sometimes plodding and foreboding. I like this one a lot.

The deep politics of nature. The parliament of hummingbirds, wind, and ripples in the water. Now I know why cosmic consciousness or unity consciousness can be likened to the vastness of water. There is so much volume out there.

The Witness State is the most beautiful state. Ananda and peace. All-pervasive understanding. But not an understanding based on content. An understanding based on letting go of all forms of grasping.

The hummingbird flies so quickly. Wow.

Sunday morning. Canoe ride. Rambling waves. No wind. The paddle grazes the surface of the water and the water-craft dutifully goes forward. Lots of islands here. Hidden animals are probably living there. Insects. Bones.

Seeing the forest, not the trees. Seeing the trees, not the forest. The sacred and profane.