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.”
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.
“Where is the spare?
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.
Haiko is in Magenta
Prelude and epilogue is in Black
Think about it. --- Life is not about chilling.
You can slow life to a chill If you want Otherwise, engage action
Write, compose, create, talk, jump, do, enjoy, live Pleasure it.
If you burn it, life returns it
*Picture: Pvt collection: Ron Landless' entrance gate, Landless Corner, Zambia
*Porsche Macan picture by PORSCHE
Beyond the path in sand
Beyond the sky
Beyond the universe
Beyond the future
and all that’s been
onwards to another land
With sweat and will
imagination and my quill
With all that I can give
and more than there ever was
I shall create my dream,
and live a thousand years
far away from here and this
No more treading water all in vain
bombarded by the worldly pain
Held back by some force
that thinks I need to pause
when I know I should be moving
with the speed of thought
and live unbound
in a place where anger finds no food
and hate cannot take root
and love is all around
Where imagination is my feather
Never stuck again to brood
Like a waterfall to rush
and colour me in wet
to make the pages blush
my life shall be
Words liberated emanate
from source to sea
and in a poetic move
from cloud to tree
to drop on you
in my pool of thoughts
Born to live undyingly
I never think it couldn’t be
The word Sport embeds in me
Stuckness is just an antonym
of Living Free
Given no power
it will remain in theory
* Remembering Vovô‘s dad and Vovó‘s mom who were born this day in 1895 & 1896, — two centuries ago.
time that was
puffs of memory
maze of bewildered yesterdays
mistory, — misty, the color of yore
meaning beyond time
meaning as flavor, essence and wine
the touch of love
your look, my sun
rain in the morning
sweat on the sheets
stained is my heart
– but unfazed its beat
parched for life
defining the now
well-nigh a clone
human raindrop or sand grain
from laughter to reason
– a return ticket for life’s season
a packed of rays
instructions in smoke
stuck in the ancestral harbour
– with other anchored souls
imbibing with Nodding Lost & Co, not for rescue,
– but clueless suggestions where not to go
confirmation of mistakes
misses to missus and miss again
lessons of regret
missing, — spot on
regardless, you’re born to be great
align your want with who you are
want not what you are not
come home to yourself
– and find your place taken
dream sans the ego
a collarless pet
yo-yo in freedom
your leash of fate is unlikely to snap
too strong coffee
cream on my thoughts
foam through my pen
sweet words to read
stretching my reach
life in a pill
add tears and soul
try not to die and grow
dilute your ideas and you’ll miss them
deny them not and they could manifest
between forgetting and trying is life
live for no thing but you
another line Snow White?
another dream with you
go not for long
life could end tonight