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juillet 2019   01 02 03 04 05 06 07 08 09 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31
It is as if we are cast in the shallow rippled waves of some forlorn island, dank, primordial. Shipwrecked. We are borne in the hull of an uncertain slave ship, at an undecided time in history, unaware. Born into a darkened box, that sometimes feels like a Boa Constrictor. Black, invisible walls close in, with every breath anew - with every year - with every reaching out, we are confined the more. We learn some grave, grave rule: do not take, do not take life. And all around the walls close in as others in their blind way take and take and eventually break, but that doesn't make it a minute better. "Why would anyone live in a box! What is so wrong with being free? Life is to be taken!" And wisdom comes through tears of joy, as pain, and the grave comes in many shades of grey. Then, what is life? Stupid, stupid box. Dry alone in an infinite sea, I must have missed the passing ship, or reflexion of me...

I think of a LJ friend who died a few years ago. I convinced her husband not to delete her journal, as a testament to her life and feelings. And her rants and raging, raging, there do lie. Now, apart from her, are they a lie? But, in life, we never met. However, I believe I once saw her in a final day, sitting in a convertible with her husband, in one last grasp at happiness. And she must have seen me. And there, a little "miracle", such as do step in to touch life, when life is frail and delicate and humble. And I think of animals and friends who pass or strive, and all the bizarre, tiny wonders that connect our paths across time. Synchronous, fantastic events, so surreal to seem plausible. SO trivial and yet so infinitely profound. A queer thing happens. The last bark of a deceased pet. The whisper of a lost voice. A sign, a reminder, a wrinkle in time, where somehow you are now united, against all likelihood, all reality. Spooked by superstition, jostled by overwhelming presence, it brings you back to the beginning of life. Life wonderful. These magical, nuanced happenings are littered throughout our span in this closet of a universe, and it made me think:

It's also as if all of existence is a Rubric's Cube or Jigsaw Puzzle, where each piece is bent towards a cosmic arrangement of magic. And whatever doesn't fit, is just discarded, and we must live with it. Imagine that every life, or consciousness, deserves some feelings, some magic, some life, some miracles, before they die. And so, all things are bent and connected so that this can occur. For example, say someone getting hit by a car suddenly sees a bunny run by before their eyes close forever; and that bunny somehow conveys some deep, deep significant meaning to them, because of something in the past. Well, that bunny was born and bent to this fate. And most else in it's life is pure muck and insignificance - except for the little magical events that are made available to IT'S wee, wondrous life. Certain events are bent like light to it's own little gravity. And so on, and so it is, all the way around, creating a superb holograph of wonder, for all beings. But try to set that up for every damn thing - it can't be done. And so, most of our lives are full of nonsense, aching, despair, boredom, monotony, stupid relationships, illness, bad sex, poorly cooked rice which ends up having arsenic in it, blah... Dreadful, dry, dark, dark boxes, closing in. But, lucky, we are at times, with a little light here, and a little light there, once in a while, as the days go by, water flowing underground. There's a fire in the sky, and all hell is lose, and we are rendered into the moil, the germ-riddled soil, cremated alive - by this excruciating darkness - and yet we see our own light, we are lucky to be in our own lives, and we do share, and we do know. We can love. It is always in us. That is the way. Connected in moments like worm-holes criss-crossing the universe. Origami.

I hear the voices sing wonderful songs, but I do not read them in poems. I read the voices of poets and yet I do not find them in a painting. I pick up some manufactured implement, and I sense the voices behind it's history. I see a face, I hear a voice, I see a race with so many voices only heard here, maybe there - no matter what we choose to do, our voice is tiny, reaching a few feet from our mouths, if we are lucky. Most are not so lucky. And you ache for all the toil and torment in the world, all those voices striving, calling out, reaching out, in boxes closing. And you love them but what can be done? We can be prepared to touch again the moments of wonder, where it is one voice we hold. We speak as the universe itself, and life is wonderful enough, I say.


and Antarctica... GO HERE: http://madlink101.livejournal.com/876.html#cutid1

In the MEAN time, forgive. Why not? You've got nothing better to do. Connecting dots is a godly enterprise.

http://madman101.livejournal.com/370294.html

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