Hey Life, you still there?

I owe life an apology. I am not sure if it would indulge an explanation?

Here is our life.
It’s analogous with our heartbeat.
It’s reliable, dependable and ready for anything every day.
But we are not.

Caught up in who knows how many schemes that whirl around in our head, do we give thought to life at all? We live life and accept it as necessary, abstract, but not really like this (magic) force of energy or a separate entity who/that actually has something to say for our benefit?

Are we the hedonistically narcissticating kind, the soul of the middle or grovelling the survival path? Be honest. It doesn’t matter but it makes you think. And while thinking :

When —, really —, do I  e v e r  listen to life?

If  life goes by the name of Google or Wiki,
 then yes, quite often.
...and maybe life is knowledge and data (too)?
...and maybe life is me without the I, but the us?
...but then, along came I... 
...and my confident, convinced action
   drowned any voice of caution or direction.

Life, this weird inexplicable thing that keeps (me) going come what may.

Is life perhaps G_od unvenerated?

We use life like a wheelbarrow.
It’s there; it’s convenient; it makes life easier and you can dump anything into it.
Case of beers, junk and yuck stuff.
Occasionally we clean it up with a hose only to let it rust in a corner and then moan when the wheel squeals after weeks of neglect.

Wtf are we doing with life?
It seems there is life and then there is us.
Split existentiality in a race with split personality.

Initially, we are homogenized, but then, along comes the mind and drives a wedge to create the famous lifelong schizo-split, the beginning of the ‘don’t tell me, I will tell you’ kind of relationship.

“I, the great sage are (because I am many in my head) now in charge.”

Often, even if not verbalised this bluntly means:
“f…off life, there is more important stuff in my life.”

Pressing on.
Another puff, shroom, swig or prick or whatever shit.

Life’s now become like a car.
It’s inconceivable that a wheel might be flat one day and we should become stranded.

Fcku!

“Where is the spare?
Shit.
OmG. Call 911.”

“911, what is your emergency?”

  “My wheel is gone.”

“Your wheel Sir/Ma’am, —?—.”

  “Fkcu yes my wheel, damn!”

“Sir/Ma’am we are not roadside assistance.”

  “The wheel is my life.”

“Oh, uhh, hold on please…”

 

A life later… as soon as that wheel is back, Voilà, ta-da, lots of smoke, full steam and ‘mindfully’ ahead.

 

Now life has become that pickup truck.
Big load bed and serious oomph between the …, oo-err, under the bonnet.
The wheels are now supergrabbers, they’re all on but sometime later you run out of gas.
Found deadish on the road going nowhere, load and all, and no life.
Now what? Stuck again?

I know I owe life an apology, badly, and then, as if scripted, I ask it the question:

"Life, 
  what do you suggest right now?"

If I’d turn down my noise, I might just hear its voice.

 

*It’s been three years since I wrote the book ‘Intercourse with Life’.
– Seriously, I also got distracted in noise.

run-a-tum

 

Since I was young

I am on the run

Now, more old,

I am still running,

so I am told

 

I ran away from that,

that ran towards me

Upon reflection, I can see

how I was getting lost

in loneliness and fear

and rejecting even that,

that was dear

 

Running is my freedom

from the prison of my fate,

and the buried past

which keeps a live debate

and reminds of something

which stayed behind

Now I speed along malaligned

 

Running is my surname

Loss and pain, a restless brain,

a song  in minor

with a sad refrain

Sometimes a tear in private

often I am running with disquiet

 

A constant fear to be too late

Imagine dreams thus escape?

The death of me is any wait

Therefore, night and day

I follow and obey

Running is my way,

bluffing also is okay

 

I run even though

my running days are done

But,

some say it looks like tumbling now

’cause all my pose is gone

 

The further that I disappear

the happier I be, — I think

But, there are teardrops in my ink

as happiness runs too,

from the one who runs

from you

 

Running, — my escape

towards a destination called ‘Away’

Tumbling, a persuasive way

to stay and not forsake

 

*Picture credit: The Emoji Movie

 

egging around

Life is about sitting on an egg, — partially.

When you’re sitting on top of an egg,
– and be honest, I think we are all trying to hatch something, –
and nothing happens for too long,
there is something wrong with the egg you’re sitting on.

Nothing is wrong with you, — of course not.
You did your time and probably more than was necessary.

No bird sits on an egg longer than they intrinsically know they have to, and neither should we.

If you want to bring something about:
manifest something,
change your circumstance, change your beingness.
If nothing happens,
get off and find another egg.

If you water a seed or seedling and it doesn’t grow,
you don’t continue indefinitely, do you?
Cui bono?
There must be a benefit; else, what are you doing it for?

Maybe herein lies the problem:
We are the egg and the hen.
Between being both we get side-tracked.
We hen around when we should also egg around.
And both hen and egg have a best before date too.
Or, perhaps our egg got swapped while we were inattentive or in cloud-cuckoo-land. We might be sitting on a dinosaur egg that takes epochs to hatch,
and we only have a human lifetime.
Another more sinister reason could be that there is no egg for us. A hiccup in nature, an oversight, or perhaps a deliberate message of:
“You are wasting your time here, you should be somewhere else, sorry (hu)man, internal error, – reboot.”

I don’t think sitting on an egg is that much fun,
especially when the dream of what that egg was supposed to become has lost its verve.

In the process of incubation and brooding, you have probably also attracted a severe bout of eggshaustion.
Rest is advised but time is limited because it is now already ‘time minus one egg’.

Time and eggs clearly have some agreement.
Maybe ten time units are one egg unit, or who knows?
And, you are entering into major guesswork as to how many time and egg units are available to you.

At this stage of disillusionment with reality and eggs, you might want to run away to an island and just hangout and relax.

When that escape starts feeling like another egg, is it now the right egg? There’s nobody really around that could answer that question. Eggvisors are few and far between, if not entirely mythical. And, other islanders egging it out don’t strike you as the right reference model.

It is not inconceivable that at this moment you might decide,
“WTF, I’ll just grab an egg that looks nice and sit on it and see.”

The point is that when that first egg doesn’t hatch
and we finally decide to move on to another egg,
unless some inbuilt direction finder kicks in
and sets our compass pointing north again in our life,
we could become abandoned eggs or hens without a head.

Now, the second (nth) time around,
we have to apply extra amped-up effort and employ every ounce of skill and wisdom to bring our life together and make sense of it,
— and not accept a watered-down make-believe or a shortlived fake brochure version, —
so we can find that satisfaction which is inherent when our right egg hatches.

Day of Dismay

A day…

like watered down milk…

– indifferently choreographed between white and grey

– tasting like soup with too much thickener and too little salt scooped from a burned pot

– conducted by a metronome seesaw clock stuck on one hour for half the day,

and then suddenly nothing happens, again, and it’s evening

 

A day…

of night aeons and darkness’s conquests and shadowy ghosts infesting my mind

– preserving its light in a heart-locket necklace in memoriam

– where Nothing sticks like clueless glitter lost on my forehead

– when angels were sought and found only in thought but never caught

– of skulls and crossbones destabilising sanity with orchestral irrationality

 

A day…

of X-rays beaming through my skeleton ignoring my transient flesh in their own celebration of reflection…

– where demons dismember my heart and grill the tendrils of my feelings

– of ego-tripping maniacs grinding me to dust with their mortar and pestle rhetoric

– when my ashes become the spice of the devil’s lust,

–  when ‘burn his soul’ is chanted by the karmic choir at the tortured gates of reincarnation,

and the cosmic eraser is bigger than any of my dreams

 

A day where…

Angst is the fire and defiance the air…

– blood is the drug knocked back with a double shot of death

– the soil that I stand on cries louder than hell pronged on a pitchfork

– I am misplaced like a bee on the sea

– I am like a butterfly squashed in the cooler grill of an abandoned racing car

 

A day…

that none of us asked to be part of…

because it perforates and slices with its shrapnel,

it blinds and dumbs the mind with chaos,

it breaks every ethic and moral and belief,

fatally demanding life and remuneration through recurring vengeance,

this day of the feasting vultures of dismay

uncentered

Cloudman why are you waving at me?

Is there something I don’t see?

cloudman

I am nothing

I am clueless

I am lost

 

No cheque in the post

Fruitless attempts to summit my life, oh yes

Contempt with insanity’s grin

 

Decades have rolled on

Overgrown now the paths I once ventured

Blinded and stuck on some, —  far too long

Sometimes it really feels that I’m done

 

Now, time is called the ‘aftermath’

That little left should be made to last

Create the antecedent of tomorrow

Leave out today’s horror,

relegate that to the past

 

Nothing: is all that matters

Clueless: the more the better

Lost: is the prize not the cost