by

turbulent saudade

Verandah rain

Ver and Ah

Like a thousand times before in my life, I stood on the verandah.

I overlooked a flourishing green garden that could creditably claim the term ‘Lebensraum.’ An Olympic stone throw away gaps between the trees provided glimpses of the mountains in the distance.

One could mistakenly say that I was looking, but I wasn’t entirely just seeing something ahead of me. It was a seeing, – but more in a knowing way seeing in my mind, – all that what was around me, even assuming a deep metaphysical dimension too. I saw with my mind’s eye, – that eye, which adds imagination to vision, – in parallel to my real eyes that were somewhat inexplicably staring in a removed way, out of focus from reality.

A pronounced and conscious experience of the present unfolded itself. An enamored bond, – of having been here in this exact location a thousand times before, thinking similar thoughts, – enacted itself like a ritual. A magnetic attraction to a place of origin pulled me along.

In case you wondered, I was not having the cognitive experience of let’s say a visitor who comes with a fresh, curious and receptive look.

I was in reflecting mode and felt encouraged with hope as I stood on the open verandah, refreshed deep down into my soul by the view directly into nature. However, I was also prone to flooding by emotional thought drowning from the weight of the intensity of my imagination reliving events.
At the opposite extreme was a determination and belief that my reality is adjustable to my wishes and dreams, perhaps whims too, if I can only get in touch with this inner being called ‘Life.’

The land of nature presented a captivating view.

Grass spread like a living, deep-pile carpet towards bushes and shrubs giving way to trees sloping gently down towards a river hidden from view. There was an un-invaded openness and the occasional hill posing like a sentinel, – guarding the dragon mountains that pronounced themselves behind the horizon on a background of the deepest blue sky, smudged with white blobs and the dew point flirting with ambient temperature in the creation of a baby called Rain.

An inner turbulence of Saudade, – a melancholic hue with a cloudy patch of shadowy sadness and an indeterminate incompleteness, was in abstract contrast to the warmth and light of the late summer’ midday.

The summer-rain latitudes express boundless gratitude with profuse growth and breathless beauty in nature. A thousand colors pinked and perfumed with Double Delight and Mint, with touches of plumbago blue, bottlebrush red, cumulus white and Chinese-lantern orange, escalating into undocumented green presentations beyond the scope and comprehension of mere definition. Thoughts were punctuated by the melodious call of the Black-headed Oriole and the announcement of the Red-chested Cuckoo with long moments of haa-haa-haa-de-dah of the Hadeda’s, awakening the last slumbering senses.

Memory was choreographed against a scenery of unrestraint growth painted with the tincture of eons of existence and strains of loose imagination. Events re-lived themselves as if their stories had to be highlighted once more and gain attention, connecting the thread of existence with the fabric of eternity, materializing in this unique present. An invitation to re-read the past with the lantern of ‘now’

(‘now,’ this whole, current cognitive, conscious awareness experience a human has: re-inventing itself periodically through subconscious actions on a different level to the physical, with emotional, compassionate and passionate growth)

illuminating pages hitherto less exposed, their meaning obscured until now, as the dots of life started connecting through lines: revealing a path, pointing to a purpose, exposing a gift, – presenting a meaningful picture that quite naturally highlighted and indicated a preference. The invocation of one’s creative spirit in a way that kindles meaning and brings benefit and pleasure to all concerned.
(There are many rituals, ideas, substances, practices to invoke the spirit – ideally find your own)

Everything rhymed in colorful poetry as nature’s hormones reacted to a dose of growth-vaccination in the form of heavenly water.

Remembering became an act of adding content to what seemed an immutable forest on the canvas of life by superimposing events sometimes so grossly out of touch with the underlying reality that they created a contrasting inset of disharmonic visual irritation. When the drive to understand life is also an incognito mission to retain sanity, then answers are essential for maintaining stability. They provide views through a stabilized gyroscope in the turbulence of Saudade. Answers are the voices in our silent universe of thought and they are the conversation that leads to more enlightenment and knowing.

For the 1001’s time I am standing on the verandah, – once again looking for knowing and starting the ritual from the beginning, accompanied by a deep sense of feeling.

Signed
Mel an’ Choly

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Miraculation

I kind of have an understanding that if anything is given enough time then amazing stuff happens.
Given a few billion years and algae are using smartphones, eat burgers and pizza and drive SUV’s, shoot guns and are astronauts. Finguck whow!
Quite fantabulously ama-zing.

And all this is simply explainable by evolution or the work of God’s hands? Hmm, – really?

I must add that I can not comprehend the magnitude of billions of years and all they can accomplish.
I have a similar difficulty trying to fathom this deity thing.
Given my inability to understand time, I have to grasp towards another concept, equally inexplicable, but somewhat more manageable for my mind.
I can manage it better than time because it doesn’t use time, it happens instantly and just requires that I believe in it.

Miraculation. The making of miracles.

Miracles do not use the slow lane of evolution or any such time-based concept.
Miracles are immediate and that works for most of us because we don’t have a billion years.

However, and for whatever reason, miracles also don’t just happen when you command them. I don’t know if you have to earn their trust first, prove that you believe in them (which takes time we don’t have) or show them that you are not just flippantly wanting to miraculate through life. (Why not?)

Are miracles strewn about by Lucky in a haphazard way randomly falling on some and omitting others?
Should I build an altar for Miraculous so I can submit my miracle requests directly to its presence?
Or, should I expose myself such (go out on a limb) that only a miracle can save me, thereby forcing the issue?

I have in a way narrowed it down to some points that ‘seem’ to have an effect on miraculation:

The basis is that you have to believe in miracles as a concept that you allow to exist in your life.

Saying you want a miracle to happen and then leaving it up to the Miraculator to decide which miracle you need, isn’t good enough in my experience. There are millions of miracles, so being a bit more specific helps to shrink the options down. Too specific and the Miraculator will think you can do its job and obstinately nothing will happen.

Sketch the problem/desire without going into the bits and bytes or genetic level or assuming the role of the project manager.

Rise every day with the conviction that today is a miracle day. A day in human terms is twenty-four hours. Don’t look at your watch every five minutes and declare at 0830 in the morning that no miracle is happening for you and therefore miracles suck. In any case, the Miraculator’s watch might not work in time at all, it is, after all, a human invention.

Fine tune your anticipation to a point, but stay clear of too overwhelming an expectation because such behavior only fosters frustration.

Give the Miraculator room to operate and assemble the components leading to the miracle.

Be ‘somewhat’ consistent in your thoughts of the miracle required.

Ask for one miracle at a time.

Miracles are in abundant supply.

And, if you are of the persuasion that you think you are the Miraculator itself, Monsieur, Madame Miraculaire, then for your sake go miraculate immediately and become a mariculant.
Who would possibly want to live life without miracles?

Now, – lead a miraculous life.

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in the gap of the spectrum

colorspectrum

I am talking about reality.

After spending my life living with it, and more often than is sane, pondering it, I think I have it. The answer to it.
Reality is a loaded Latin word, heavy with meaning. It is the default movie on our life’s channel and a description of an experience that is our view through a gap in the spectrum.

A gap?
Yes, a break or a hole through which we can venture into experience. In thought, in physicality, with our senses, observing – any which way we want to. In the gap is where the juice is.

The spectrum?
Just like, for instance: color is only a range of frequencies we perceive visually (the color spectrum), but that is part of a much wider range of frequencies, – hence the term spectrum. Our reality, this gap-reality I am referring to, is a piece of something that is bigger, but that has been limited in various ways down to our eventual perception and belief of it.

And that is all fine. If you are all fine with your reality.
But, what if you’re not? What if you want to change it, – but it doesn’t change? i.o.w. you are always seeing and experiencing the same reality and you want to adjust it now.

Why are we humans all herded towards a similar gap in some way or other?
Undeniably there are vast extremes just in that gap. There are many similarities and there are considerable differences between my gap and your gap experience. Still, I would like to see the spectrum as a range of infinite possibilities stretching along seemingly endlessly.

Sometimes I think I have the answer, but it sounds very much like Russian roulette. It is built on the theory of trying, – until I hit that dream reality I wish for, – or I perish in the process. However, I fear there are many misses. It’s an altogether senseless approach with a fantastically small chance of success. What it does indicate, is a desire, partly fuelled by frustration and a lack of patience, and no clue how to go about it.

Work hard. Pray hard. Believe hard.
Those are also well known and oft quoted, apparently reliable methods of adjusting the momentary (life-long) gap-reality.

Keep on dreaming. A good one, but in isolation, it has no affect on the effect.

What you actually want is to take dreaming and add life to it, like you add water to a juice concentrate, and whallah, you have what you wanted.
The more life you add the more juice you have, the more OMG, the more whallah, the more satisfaction with life, the more the gap is filled with juice.

If water originates from a fountain, (indulge my thought, I know about Osmosis) where then is the fountain of life?
Fountains are in the earth, the base matter of existence.
Could the fountain of life perhaps be with me?
I do think I am the base matter in my existence.

Then, seeing that life is not figuratively a fountain, but nevertheless, the crucial ingredient to add to dreaming to adjust the gap-reality and create juice, then how do we get it to flow, and flow in the direction of our choosing?
Otherwise what is the point if we can’t adjust the gap-reality? That would make us robots exposed to some programming of a programmer we can’t communicate with and a language we can’t learn. Again this option is most senseless to me.

So now I know that by adding life (water) to dreaming (concentrate), I will fill (with juice) my personal gap in the spectrum of availability, i.e. create, adjust, mold my reality.
Fantastic. Bombastic.

Remains only the question,

“Life, what do you suggest now?”

The answer forthcoming is the guidance that lets my life flow in the direction of my choosing.

**
“Life, what do you suggest now?” is the principle slogan in my latest book, “Intercourse with Life”.
Life is that companion phenomenon that is always with us, ready to answer any question, be it about health, love or direction.

Available at Smashwords and Amazon

Picture Credit:
Nikola Nastasic E+ Getty Images
 from reference.com
by

Dance on the words 

It's a quiet afternoon
Silence sings a tune
 Summer presses down with heat
 Far away the bustling city beat
 Resplendent green and lush the land
 Like a drawing from an artist's hand
Tonight the light is called full moon

Orange circle drifting in the sky
Every star is faint and shy
 Waiting till the moon has set
 and on the grass the dew is wet
 A chance to twinkle one more time
 and send a message that might rhyme
The rising sun brings their goodbye

In the kitchen coffee brews
the antidote for those who snooze
 The day in steps of hours walks
 but to the time in seconds talks
 Today the heat has lost the fight
 thunder, rumbles, lightning bright
The clouds the moon refuse

Obscured, the moonlight hides away
Divergent thoughts like night and day
 No one knows what all is hidden
 but keeping secrets is forbidden
 Sealed is the book, only the title is exposed
 Unblock the code of fate with poetry and prose
Dance on the words without delay

Convert to action and to play
Hear their sound and what they say
 Words are the mirror and the soul
 They tell the story as a whole
 Inside their heart the meaning waits
 Once opened up they flood the gates
Dance on the words across the Milky Way
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no change

I got no change back. That was preposterous. I paid a lot for it and with big currency.
I had invested in change.

I know not. (I am mostly clueless.)
Not even, that, what actually is, will remain what it is.

My thoughts find no hold and therefore slip all the time. All over the place, like a beginner in an ice rink.

I know there is no such thing as change.
Today, with minor variations, is the same as yesterday and the day before and before. Where is there change?
The sun moved. My account has another zero after the minus. Another life came into this world. Call that change?

I get bouts of emotic flatulence when I hear that word. Change is this impersonal attribute given to the events in life.

“Everything changes.” Total and complete bullocks.

“Everything stays the same.” Look in the mirror. Look at the tree across the field. Look at the stars. Look at the world. Nothing changes.
You would be in a hysteric sweat if there was change. Right? Imagine: Your car has changed. Your house has changed address. Your name, your spouse, everything changed, everyday.

Everything has a life. There is activity. Yeah.
Even the old, when compared to the young, are still the same. Ask them. Hell, I am old and was once young and I am still the same. So is that bad now because I did not change?
Don’t be ridiculous. I never changed. My dog did not change. My house did not change. I might have replaced the furniture. I did not change it.
The flower ‘changed’ from a bud to a blossom. Rubbish. Nothing changed. It lives. It does not change. Do you really think it became something else? You are delusional.

I don’t want to change either. I’m ok if you want to. Go try and change and see for yourself. Find out the shattering truth.
Oh, she has changed. No, she hasn’t. They never change. Today X, tomorrow Y. In your wildest dreams while you are high, maybe.

Scrap the finguck word. It is so full of stupid assumptions.

The only thing that is permanent is change. That is such an oxymoron. And no, I am sure Buddha had something else in mind.

Someone won the lottery and it wholly and entirely changed his life. Amazing. You know what? When I met him he was exactly the same. Yes, but, it changed his circumstances. A pot of money changed a life? That is like saying because I got drenched in a rain shower I have changed. I have changed from warm and dry to cold and wet. I have not changed one binary bit. I still want to play guitar and tumble in the clouds.

Fact is you can’t change anything. Any nouveau messiah trumpeting such a philosophy has a head injury thinking his alchemistic prophecy is grounded in any truth, – really.
Go ahead and prove it to yourself. Try change something. It’s not that you can’t, there is no such thing as change. You can do many things, but change, – unlikely.

Personally, I think God can’t change anything either. And that is ‘big G’ I am talking about. But, that is a very private thought I don’t want to share.

Oh yeah. She changed her face with plastic this and Botox that. Ok. Another botch up in the face of change. Change has a list of dis-credentials as long as the tail of imagination.
Change is a coverall word. It’s useless. It tells me nothing sensible. Whenever you hear it, invoke skepticism and unravel the agenda of said change agent.

I know it’s semantics. But please, stop changing, because it’s like the Myth of Sisyphus. That stone will roll right back to where it belongs.

Yeah, but, in 2017 I am going to change many things. Right on. Go waste your breath.
I will improve, lengthen, increase, build, achieve… – but I ain’t going to attempt to change anything.

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a web

a web

A web
high in a tree
the morning sun
takes it from me
For hours at night
it spun through my mind
Came sunshine
it left me behind

The web
silver and gray
like my hair
but thinner today
and fading away
Left by the creator
a remnant hangs on
Now a few strands
later its gone

The web
there it was, really,
but nothing remains
The sun came and took
My mind had a look
Gone in the flames
What was its name?

A web
perfect, with purpose
Like all creation
living with anticipation
Returns back to source
when the light calls
Begins a new circle
of cause

The web
like silk in the air
on finest of threads
hardly it’s there
like thoughts
in my head

A web
came to be
for reasons evading me
Like the vision
creating derision
amongst those
that hear my decision
of wanting to maybe not be

The web
attached with the glue
of belief
A wind blows to test
but it cannot undo
Even in grief
it knows what to do

A web
perfect in every way
Forgotten in time
after only a day
Forever, a concept,
hard to comprehend
Found in the secret code
of the moment

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just a drop of your tear

I know you are always closer than near
and you left
not because you didn’t want to be here
you were taken

Loveless my world turned gray and cold
I was bereft
A void filled with tears I could not hold
I was shaken

Forever you are gone I was told
Eternally, forever, that is what I hear

Your laughter and gaiety in my soul made a mark
that’s why it is so terribly hard
Your love and your touch I will always remember
Caring and giving and loving
you were my earliest mentor

Then pain and rivers of tears eroded my joy
It hurt and it punished, relentless
It meant to destroy

Alone and astray I walked over thorns in my life
I once had a heart but it was cut with a knife
No reason or answer will ever make sense
That hole you left in my life is immense
I bleed and I cry but don’t show it anymore
knocked down on my knees, devastated on the floor

Wherever you are and whatever you do
for me only one thing is truer than true
Wretched with pain from the hell I’ve been through
I wonder, do you miss me like I miss you?

Give me one drop of your tears to behold
One piece of your pain so that I know
Tell me you haven’t forgotten after so many years
that I am yours and now I can also find peace

All that I am and whatever things I do
When all is lost and I lie crashed without a clue
Miles from nowhere, remote and out of reach
My world concussed and I have lost my speech
High on a dune with the wreckage tossed
Sometimes I think I catch a glimpse of you
I see someone with their hand held out
“Come hither,” I hear through my desperate shout
“I’ll save you, any time at any cost”

Just a drop of your tear I wish I could touch

by

Whoman He

I don’t know what and when
It is all hidden in my pen
Memories of forgotten days
are mixed with fears
of future’s ways

And even if the sun shines bright
I might not realize that it’s light
The darkness just like fire spreads
The night is glowing cold, the black I dread
This is the story of my plight

A mind so bent a crumbled string looks straight
Nothing, clueless, lost, I wait
Sometimes my dreams dream that I elevate
another force inside then subjugates
I’m told my worries are man made

The coffee cold, unshaven, and the purse deplete
A worn old shirt that screams of ironing that it needs
A figure sculpted by the thoughts the mind conjures
and by all events that life endures
Continuously I seek and seek

In this reality the hundred meters that I see
must stretch out of necessity
beyond that mark towards my ecstasy
unless I cannot choose my destiny
But, how then could I be me

Why am I stuck as if I’m planted like a tree
Forever in one place, I cannot flee
When I was born what words were put into my crib
“Go sail the seas but finally we sink your ship”
In the clouds I want to be eternally

A told me that I should be B
C told me that I should be D
Eventually then when I was E
They screamed and said I must be G
I turned around and went to P
Flashed them a sign reversed the T
Now I’m the Cuban Susans Whoman He
Nothing, clueless, lost without a key
I am sinking in some sea

To the water I will eventually return
Humans decided that I needed to burn
So hot even my soul in smoke evaporates
Escaping from these dire straits
I will not be put behind some other gates
Spill me, let me take another turn

 

by

quiet at the fifth 

I am not irrelevant but I have no say
Life treats me like a fray
It slithers down my spine ice-cold
A cheek to be so bold

Like wind purges foliage off a tree
Your voice strips my soul from me
Raging in its force, shaking determinedly
A piece of wood without a fire I cannot be

Stormy clouds race north to south,
across the sky
Sunlight is your makeup, 
impermanence your high
Everyday you tell me that nothing stays the same
You are the background,
the thoughts I try to tame

Incubated into a form whose shape has adopted me
Parents, people, prophets, telling me who I should be
Unique my spirit lies within the egg of cause
A shape the universe has used with great applause
Behind the shell an artist draws,
a never-ending picture free of any laws

A hunger gnaws to make it work
that concept called the ‘living bit’
To find a way and have my say
without this lifelong thought-delay
And bring about a wonder-hit
Board that private pleasure-trip
A knowledge in the egg was heard.

Thinking, waiting, spellbound by time
An echo from the shell I hear
The caller only I can be
It’s not the answer,
so I think
To thought and waiting I return again
An echo from the shell I hear
Around in rhyme in time I be

Life, ever partially in some control
I’d be a liar claiming it's on a roll
or thinking that I have it taped
It blows with gale and sleeps with the wind
A male drugged by a penchant for the scind

Opposing forces and extremes attract
The teaching is amok, it is a fact
Eyes squinting through a frame and tint
find written on my comets trail a goal
and where I stand
in the context of the whole

Dreams, the unhatched eggs
Soul food as they nourish me
A potential waiting for the crack and light
Mostly they define past my reality,
and let me write
Unhatched hatching eggs with fantasy

Upright in the chair of thought
a string of time some questions brought
Five moments later as my breath abates
the quiet mind with picture waits.
  Underneath a story reads:
    Vision: hot air for the thought-balloon.
    Imagination: the ladder to the moon.
by

a Cyberian connection

I deny that you are not.
I agree that you are.

I have never seen you. I have never heard you.
You clearly are a Cyberian.
When I switch off my Cyberion (Mac), Cyberia is not.
Or not?

You are not.
I am not to you, and, you are not to me, anymore.

We are gone. But, we are not not.

By now I could say that I am not notting my notting-notting around some nottinghood.
Can you?
Well if you can, then we agree, else not notting.

Realia exists.
It’s our present whole real life.

Cyberia exists too.
It’s the cyber(ical) present.

That means that we exist in two ‘places’ at once. In Realia we exist in a biochemical way. What is the other? – – – cyberical cyberian way.

And I have an observation to share about these two realities.
Both exist. Realia and Cyberia.
And, wherever there are two of something, isn’t that an inherent proof that there can be more?
More realities. More Cyberias’ and Realias’. As many as we want there to be.
Not cloned realities. Not GMO realities. Realities fundamentally different from one another, like Realia is from its Cyberian counterpart.
Let’s premise for a moment that we can be a contrastingly different creation in Cyberia,
– would we then trend towards the schizophrenic-psychiatric ward in Realia?

Realia, Cyberia, – multitudinous behavior. We are only getting started.

Yet, I have never seen you. I have never heard you. It’s all been in Cyberia.
And you truly are. Aren’t you?

Maybe?
What?

Independent. Fast growing. Adapting. Changing. Cyberian.
I am. We are. It is. (The many presentations of us.)
Why be one?
What is normal?

Let me introduce myself.
I am, – hmm, er, ahem, huh, yeah – that I am.