I Get Up At Five

Why don’t you just appreciate the people you brought into the game of life through the gate of your physical being, the man who unlocked you is within them and within you an eternal unending loop and he still loves you despite your tendencies and misdeeds and still he would rather you not leave and still he says return to me and make the whole thing a romantic comedy not the self pitying tragedy of promiscuity and reasoning for tyranny that runs through everyone if we are honest with ourselves at least, but to deny it so is a travesty. 

Harmless hold one another in the embrace of vine and tree, as it was then, is now, and ever will be. Believe in none of these shiny new suggestions, but question your long-held stands, your cast iron demands and out of the frying pan lands you in the fires of your own wroth, the spark of thought begot and forgot. So skilled in satisfaction self-applied for sustenance and healthy confidence, prowl and stray while your real wealth is away, the half of your limited days. 

And then what’s the play? For one I repent of my ways and I’ll wish you the same for your renaissance day, I would give you the gift of your beautiful lives to have and to hold again and again, a reminder of what we are, what I am, what I would have done if it were my one and as cruel a mistress did to me what has to the speared father and sacrificial son, the little mother a wounded womb with what’s been done; may you be spared the rod for spoiling the children so skirted and shunned. 

The reflex, the routine program we run upon drowning: we just push people down to escape the terrible sea but we can learn to swim, it’s actually incredibly easy with such calm waters we’re in. The tree and the lake are forever your home, wood nymph, they need you now more than you know, but one hundred percent of the time, though. Persephone sleeps beneath dirt sheets every other week, and for what? The bitter seed to spit at the feet of the dark lord we can all someday be. 

You get the love you deserve through your loving service, sorry that’s just how it works, pardon me sorry not sorry because it still fucking works which is more than most can say, but hey, if you can pretend with me like it meant something, you can do it again, but for real, from now on and without end, with humble heart amend.

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My Synonymy: Truth Of Matter

Everything we say is true, but it is not the whole truth. Unknown truths abound and present themselves on the regular, as is our knowledge dwarfed by our ignorance. Everything we say, then, can be seen as a lie of omission.

But as no one water molecule can be the ocean, the ocean can sustain a loss of many molecules and remain as such. But if it loses so many, it becomes a lake, then a puddle, then a drop. It can be said that the drop and the ocean are one, when the drop slides off the tail of a breaching whale before becoming the ocean again. So then is the ocean a collection of drops, and if so, how many? Is there a precise number after which the ocean must be named a sea, and how silly it would be to sit along the shore with a ladle, making an ocean of a sea and a sea of an ocean, with a puddle held between.

These lines may not make much sense to you, and that’s understandable. They are words. Language. Patterns of contrasting light and dark areas interpreted by a different area of the brain than the one which processes the noises made when air moves through a mucous lined cylinder with skin flaps in the throat of a particularly vocal primate. Prime. The first. The first to move by sound waves, propelling our craft and leaving behind a wake in earth’s watery crust. We are gravitational ripples in the space-time continuum. We are material interacting with gravitational echoes, bouncing off each other and interfering in regular patterns yet to be discovered, a living fabric (like cotton, the fabric of our lives) woven at a scale which transcends our capacity even for imagination, let alone observation and intervention, as the plot structure and themes of an average Netflix show (e.g. the layered humor of Deadwood) would be utterly indigestible by an audience of cyanobacteria. They translate sunlight into oxygen. We translate matter into meaning.

These are the tools we have. This is what we must use to craft the tools we need to make the next generation of life better. Bether. Be there. We are the voice of the earth, not children of god. Everything is god. We are god. You are god. I am god. In our own domains and in our own stories, we are gods, whose word becomes law. We write out our observations of ourselves and others as characters, as all gods are written out by humans who watched and knew other humans. Observed them, were impressed by them. Took their best moments to heart, and their worst under stern advisement. We followed them or spurned them, our toys and our tyrants alike. We tell their epic tales, their sacred stories which instruct or warn, inform or bamboozle, to anyone who will listen if only ourselves. We dance, gesture, make sounds in particular patterns, setting the rest of the cosmos as the background for the figure of humanity, as plot to character. We live only in context: a fish out of water is a modern human out of culture.

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.

It’s a simple story. A unique identifier between two dimensional coordinates over time. Humpty is as Humpty does, and so is accident prone, unmoving, maybe depressed. Or drunk. So, the moral is: don’t sit on a wall? Okay, but what do you mean by wall? That which divides inside from outside, here from there, good from bad, us from them, safe from harm. Understood. Now why not be neither here nor there? Why not risk an encounter with the chaos that lay just beyond the order of the whole wealth of the kingdom? Because all the king’s horses (technology, how we bend the earth to serve us) and all the king’s men (culture, how we bend each other), are insufficient to repair us from death.

Here we sit, on the wall between creation and creator. Every character we create bears our likeness, every Emma or Liu or Sergei or Anya bears the face of god, the creator. We are all these faces, overlapping as layers of paint in a pre-war apartment. We melt together in the impressions made by their passing, like many feet walking through the mud. We become to future humans as trampled earth, indistinguishable from far, but built up of feet whose number and position in space may be counted, if you were to imagine a motion tracker and the highest fidelity 4D scanning technology, it would render a perfect historical model of each hoof, the chronology of forces applied to a matrix of chemistry, it would not be a mess you see, but a masterpiece in the making.

Do or Die

Once or twice upon a time
it just so happened on a night like tonight
someone came upon a path
that led off into tall waving grass
where the wolves are howling
and the next meal beds down

which way do you go when it’s do or die
with two wrongs you can’t make a right

the prince of five weapons
knowledge embedded
filled with thunder and fire
arrived early to battle

but the wolves
will have their due:
if it’s me or you,
then it’s you know who

who can tell a lie from the truth
seeks out the shortest route
the path winding through the wood
it’s not so bad, not too good

life is the wonder wander from womb to tomb
from whence we come and shall return
to the matrix of chaos, the mother
we are what has come to matter,
the flow of fractal father patterns
the playground of all disaster.