Dreams of A Free Lunch

photo by Thel

If I So Choose

In my mind, you are here. How could you not be?  In my mind, I have a heart, where you have always been, always will be.  In my mind.

No mind -- no heart.  

Nor you, either.  

Nothing behind me; 

nothing awaits.

Wake up, wake up.  Things to do, wrongs to right, cats to kill.  Wake up within the dream, my lucid dreamer, here you are, all powerful.  Mountains allow you to climb them -- just know this.  You, who can accomplish anything you desire, no limits, no lack.  Would you keep it all then, all to yourself?  You, you, you, and the loaf of bread (sourdough, dark rye) the jug of wine (methode champenoise) and ... who?  Maybe Alice Waters, in the kitchen anyway, she can cook -- locally. Organically!

The meaty bison turns his lonely eyes to you.  Would you give him that one bad day?  Or turn him loose, make the pledge, pick up the plow.  Don't kid yourself now, you are about to change the world.  One carrot at a time.  Because they grow, you know, they grow in bunches, pushing back the forest, invading, civilized.

Energy, energy, all -- all energy.  And all for you.  

My gift to you.  

Should I open my eyes.

Sweet Surrender

photo by JCW

Nothing to It

Was it good for you?  

Back before, when we looked at things that way.  

When it wasn't what it was.

When I saw what I saw,

and you saw what you saw,

neither of us seeing clearly.

Are you excited? You often asked me that,

and I wanted to say yes,

wondering, always, what

was the big deal.

That's bad, I'd think.  This hesitation

to jump for joy, to anticipate with glee.

But then, apprehension always came easier.

Time was, good things seemed obvious --

bad things even more so.

Laughter the reward, crying the price.

Lessons came from the school of hard knocks.

Happiness?  It fell upon one,

manna from heaven.

What did we know then?

Everything.

Unlike now -- this new Now,

this nothing.

It's all good, you say,

nothing is all good.

But goodness cannot stand alone.

It is what it is, you say --

But what do you know?

Nothing.

Everything out there 

is nothing to us.

Thinks Horses Are Exotic

photo by JCW

Squeeze Page

You tease me.  

Every day, messages, temptations.  

Promises, implicit. This one!  

No -- now, a better one.  Offer upon offer.  

Opportunity, you call it.

Trust me, I'm good for it, 

you know me.  

Have I not availed myself to you?  

Direct to you -- an open book.  All in.  

Because I know you, 

better than you know yourself.  

Am I wrong?  Your heart, a-flutter.  

You're too good.  Why hold back?  

Resistance, what's the use of it, 

your words beguile me.  

Don't deny me.  

Each note, you know my touch, 

and you've been waiting for it.  

The bell, the chime, it's time.  Feel the hit, 

inside, anxious, despite the instinct to refuse. 

I'll turn your whole world upside down from here. 

(One click should do it.  

Your own finger on the trigger.)

The Sour or The Sweet?

photo by Thel

Bare-Assed Attention

Do you accept it?  The premise that this Earth’s remaining tribal folk — the “bare assed” among us (as P. Theroux would have it) -- are the best of us?  And if that's so, might you yearn to join them?  Providing they would have you, which of course they would not.  Could not, since the one true way into their confidence is through the birth canal.  Besides, what could you offer them for your participation?  Them being so very self-sustained.  But say they said sure, come on, and simply asked for your smart phone ... would you give it to them?  

Look again.  Their shade of green, so enticing.  The village embrace --  it's all about family, isn't it?  Not your own dysfunctional crew, nattering over who does what, gathering maybe once a year, when resignation, long drives, and chaos ensue.  No, the tribally bonded sing, "from each according to his abilities, to each according to his needs," Blanc's phrase, unwritten between them.

But wait -- did you forget?  Our world, too, was raised that way.  Together, the mastodon went down; United, the barn went up. The communal meal that tempered envy, the combined effort that assuaged anger, the prescribed rituals that dulled sharp inquisition ... the long, long list of small agreements, so gradually ingrained.  Until (we see it now) those expectations went against the grain.

Yet innocence, distantly reflected, attracts.  Is truth within it?  No child left behind.  No elder left alone.  No one eats unless everyone eats.

  

We might recall a variant.  An experiment, we’ll call it, from long ago.  Shoulder to shoulder, comrades in bare arms, choosing differently, sharing in light of day. And then, in dark of night, the old ones, sneaking extra loaves of bread out of the commissary to stash in their cabins.  Young parents, whispering to sleepy toddlers covertly spirited out of the common nursery.  And you, padding off, under cover of shadows, to the indie vendor, off compound, for a private indulgence of foreign chocolate.

The point being, you could choose -- and choose you did. 

Not an ivory tower exactly.  No palatial extravagances, albeit your version of necessity might seem grand to your ancient grandmothers.  Simply your space, your own, your beloved, solitary house of cards, built up on the work of all those gone before you.  You were the wolf that strayed from the pack and thrived.  Yes you -- the exotic weed, loosed on unsuspecting Eden.

Freedom becomes you.  That to which you give your attention, grows.  Festivals and farmers markets? Exhaustive, really, and there's all that hugging. What can't be accomplished, and more effectively, online, on the couch, in front of the fireplace?  Indeed, what primal intercourse could replace the luxury of cursing the technology that delivers multiple worlds unto your warm lap?  Admit it, you refuse even to twitter.  

An eye in the morning mirror winks back at you.  

Caveat Emptor

photo by JCW

What Rises

You have a lot to say.  Surely you don't believe all of it -- the musings, the opinions, the elaborated remarks.  Where does it all come from?  More casual than wisdom; less educated than accumulated.  A mixology of sorts: A snatch of this, a hank of that.  Never at a loss.  It comes across as rather hodgey-podgey, unherdable, like cats.  Cats that might curl in one's lap, or swipe a scratch, who knows which, not even them.  

You're loud at times.  It's unintentional, the heat of some sudden rise.  But I know this about you -- you don't really care.  Or yes, okay, you do, but fleetingly -- it passes through, an electric charge, a feral thing momentarily asserting itself.  You wonder at the way it sticks around after you (mere host) move on.

You don't pander, I'll grant you that.  Those thoughts, emergent, aren't flattering at all. What pulls it out?  Not generosity.  You're not a giver, are you.  Or a taker.  Something else, some straddling of divergent realms.  

You're oddly certain, however ungrounded.  Sure of shot -- why not?  Does anybody truly need to grind up every word, to get the story?  Here's a hint: It's really everything required.  What one sees being a fraction of what is out there.

Hoodoo You think You're Foolin' ?

photo by GRW

Wake Up Call

Describe, if you would, your dream -- the one you had last night, for example -- so vivid, yet inexplicable.  Starring you, but a you so different from the face in the mirror this morning.  In a place so familiar, where you have nonetheless never been.  Does it exist at all?  Where walls are not boundaries, buildings go on and on transmuting into endless chains of rooms, hallways, stairs, department stories, trains stations.  Fascinating!  To you.  Not to me.  Not to anybody else, I hasten to assure you. Those fleeting details?  Oh, please, just stop.  Let it all go, release, open your eyes.  

Not you though.  You who, futilely shutting out every insistent piece of morning sun, would grab tight hold on that ephemeral chain of nocturnal events, determined to lay it out, repaint it, on the surface of more tractable daylight.  As if, then, I could see.  As if!  And do I really need to hear it? Dreams lingering like cob-webbed shreds, just shake, shake, shake them off, get ready for breakfast in a real kitchen, with solid walls.

The dream-time is shifty like that.  One thinks one is awake.  One picks up the toast and tastes the hot butter and feels the crumbs fall down one's shirt, so surely this, this is indisputable.  No one dreams of toast, and schedules, same old, same old -- nobody dwells, deliberately, in stories so mundane.

Forget the dream, you say.  Because here's the thing you really want to say, and it's important, I must realize -- this being my cue to look up, if only at the bridge between your eyes -- that's convincing, isn't it?  One bad actor me, maybe ... not that you're paying such close attention.  Wherever your eyes are focused, I'll surmise they are not directly involved, here, buttered crumbs and all.

It's quite a story, I grant you.  The one you lay on me.  You're pretty good at telling it, too -- you've had practice, this not being your first circulation.  Once upon a time I'd have easily obliged.  You would draw me in and take me through, until I felt your sheer frustration, shared your indignation, chortled willingly at appropriately positioned comic relief.  Your story would meld into mine, and where, oh where, do we go from there?

Remember this, remember this when you wake up.   This is the answer to everything.   


 
     

Abodio-do

photo by JCW

Multiplicity

Do you feel I am forsaking you?  It cannot happen.
Not the way of things past.
Change, yes -- why dwell there?  There is never where you imagine.
Look back, and you won't find again
what went before -- what seemed to be.
You live in me.  Now, and it was ever so,
now and then; now and again.

This is new -- this knowing,
this seeing all of us, all the time,
yesterday, today, tomorrow
indistinguishable.
You have so many faces.  All the same to me.
All fresh.  All present and accounted for.

Liar, you say --
you have plans.  You aren't all
on the up and up, here and now.
But have I pretended otherwise?
There's nothing, after all, that you don't see.
In me.

Can we ever be anything but bound together?
Why is it so different -- difficult, this time.
This close proximity.

We are, and shall remain,
of each other.
In who ever's care.

Desire / Knowing

photo by JCW

You Know What I Meme

It’s the law, you know.  I like you — you gotta like me back.  And often.  And in so many ways, infinitely endless ways, for you have no limit, do you?  I think not.  I think not about any of it, for it is bound to happen, bound to come my way, fly my way, delivered, in essence, by whatever means necessary, desire being frisky yang to yin, the knowing. 

Oh, how you must like me -- shall we count the ways?  

I've got mail!  And all from you — I’m wise to your pattern, despite these many, cleverly guised interruptions.  And now, another gift -- for me?  And FREE!  Dream, scheme, you know what I meme.  No luck involved, I see you’ve stacked the deck in my favor.  Ah, how you love me.   

Look back, and be counseled for deceit, no less binding, just a slight of hand, ensnaring fickle riches.  Envision, and behold what is, from your perspective, easy peazy and voila, already mine:  Mansions and Ferraris -- and there I am, I can't deny, abundantly aboded and driven to excess.  Outrageous, your designs for me!  

Some might say I whispered in your ear?  To them, I say, you might well think that; I couldn't possibly comment.  What can I know if I let it all go?

Love Me

photo by Thel

Prickly Thing

I'd like to ask you about 

that thing you do.

That agitating thing,

that twistiness --

that draws me back for more.

You laugh!

Some things can't be explained.

For sure, because you don't know,

do you, any more than I.

Prickly thing, aren't you?

Ready to exact a toll,

not mean of spirit,

more an obligation --

a service, really.

Well, you were born ready.

Alert, all game.

Your moves are clear, in advance,

to masterful eyes.

Not mine.

Curiosity notwithstanding.

Once

photo by JCW

The Only Thing

For now, there is no distance between us.  How often does that happen?  You read, my words in your ears -- it does not matter if you have never heard my voice.  Nothing competes for attention.  You're here -- I'm here.  You, who may, right now, be sleeping thousands of miles away, where my today is your yesterday.  

What better gift is there?  Being, with someone.  Presence -- the best present of all, goes the hackneyed phrase.  So groan.  Is it not so?  

If I let myself drift back, into memory, the earliest of this life's memories, there it is, the same.  Looking out, from the isolation of within.  There are others, they hover about me, they surround me.  Do their eyes meet mine?  Do they hold me, sit with me, walk with me -- with me -- in truth, in essence?  Or do their minds wander, thinking of work, thinking of others, planning dinner, replaying scenes.  Physically alongside, but gone fishing.

Was I lonely?  How would I have known?  Being shown the way, the many roads that all lead within.  Seeing yes, this is me, with more and more accumulating to prove it. Ah, that is them -- they do those things.  But once in a while, he read to me.  With me, and truly with me, the world of words bridging our scurrying imaginations.  And every so often, she held me, she was all there was of me.  

So many years spent reaching.  Expecting connection, assuming this was how it was done, all this talking and sizing up.  Looking at.  Looking out.  

Well, someone might have said!  It is easy, here, just be.  Just be here, with me.  

It happens, of course.  Connections occur, we know not how, we feel our way into them and wonder at the power of it.  Like attracting like, some say -- as if it were so great a secret, a magic, a thing to control and use.  If one were to think about it.

The beautiful moments, they are serendipitous.  The words that play, the eyes that meet, the hands that touch, the boundaries that dissolve.  We can do so many things together, and we do, yet the thing that works -- the alchemy of it all -- is in the not doing.  Is in the knowing, not the desire.

Have I ever searched for anything else?

Out of Hiding

photo by JCW

Friend or Foe?

Am I here?

I am.  With you -- what are you thinking?

Thinking? I'm not thinking.

Really.  

Well, okay.  I am now -- about you.

And?

Which one are you?

Would you believe me?

Hmmm. Not sure how I feel about that.

Well, you called me.

Do you always have to answer?

I love you.

Easy for you to say!

Words are tricky.

Are you?

Why would I trick you?

I think that is a trick question.

Ah, again with the thinking.

Stop that!  

Me?

No!  Me. Enough about you.

Okay then.  I'm out of here.

I wonder.

Nobody here but us chickens.

Can't hear you!  Ha! ... I wonder what my next thought will be ...

Miss me?

Hey!  You again?

You were wondering ...

Not anymore. Don't you ever shut up?

Okay -- fine then!  Bye now!

Oh don't be that way.

Being is doing.

You think?

You think.  I listen.

You sure talk a lot for a listener.

A really good listener.  Right back atcha.

I am -- aren't I?

I am. Too.

Earth That Was

photo by GRW

The Place I Was

The place I was,

I'll call it a forest.  Not a jungle.

Wild, cold, often dark.

More moonlit than sunned.

The ancient trees that inform me now

were not yet born then. Nor their grandparents.

Nor their kind, really -- something else,

smaller, elder, silent, brittle in the chill.

Green, but in the grayish way of evening. 

A wolfish place, if wolves existed.

Bears, tigers,  their sabor-toothed ancestors.

They were there, if not seen.

Yet I was alone -- me, the me that was.

Alone, under half-moon light,

Alone in bone-chilled night, alone.

Running. Not fast, but away.

Still on the move, still alone,

uncovered, briefly, in winter clarity.

There.  My eyes.  My aching.

There.  And no mistaking who.

As If You Were Alone

photo by DW

Sketchy

If you were not here, where would I be?  

I am here -- as opposed to what?

According to you.  

My memory of you would not suffice.

Although the feel of you remains --

your hair, your skin --

the form of you quickly fades.  

Your arm, yes, the bone of it, the muscle --

its shape more sensed than seen.

Could I describe your face? 

As an artist might sketch a perpetrator (they often get it right).

Your nose.  Straight, not wide, not long, not large.

A medium nose, yet so distinctly yours.

How long before I can no longer see it

in my mind's ill-attentive eye?

Sometimes, when you are not here, a shade of you

inhabits your favored space.

In the middle of the night,

a hint of weight on your side of the bed,

a suggestion of sound.  

If I don't quite awaken, are you there?