Felicity

There is a quality I have noticed in select few to create circumstance in the world around them. There is a certain joy to be had in their company. Vibrant and full of life, stagnation flees from their presence. Busy in a minute way, one that seems calm and relaxed-and, in fact, is-but flows freely with creative and uplifting thought. It seeks not to be fed, to devour, to absorb, but to fill and expand and enrich all around it.

It may not have been consistent at first, this quality. It wasn't. It can seem tiring and challenging, but we all have the opportunity to let it build within us, and then seep forth. The well goes dry for a short while in the beginning, but as we develop this most felicitous part of us we can maintain it for all the waking hours and glory in less strenuous ventures, less external, in the evening.

Whether it be quiet, or loud, these few heartfelt creators of moments and days may live and walk on. Breathe on. Quietly smile on.

Remembering the time

The time has come and gone and look at me, I have forgotten time. Then, I have forgotten to remember that I forgot the time. I have forgotten to remember that I need to remember that I need to know the time. There is no escape. I am trapped in a catch 22. Even if I remember what I forgot, that memory only tells me that I forgot something else. There is only one solution.

The metaphysical drill. That's right! I have a method of worming my way through the moment and into a sort of metasphere where I can concieve time as it is happening and analyze it's absence from my life.

The only problem is that when I finally finish this tricky business it is already later in the day. I've forgotten why I went in there. Oh well. At least there is tomato soup.

Inlet

I've read the stories, the ones where the only way to live is to eat the fish. And, the only way to eat the fish is to trap them. You place the most desirable substance in the world as bait--themselves--and when they swim in through the grating to seek the untakeable they simply cannot find their way out. Then we can eat them. Feasting on ignorance has never satisfied so fully, I think. But, it is okay because the fish were meant to be eaten. In their short aquatic lives they will never find a purpose more wonderful or fulfilling. They are the hunger we can satisfy while cherishing their ignorance as a timely benefit. All of this is true because fish cannot speak, just make kissy faces, which means they love you.

The other day I sat beside the warm tree and I saw an ad. It proposed I could be a mother and still make eight hundred dollars a day from home. HOME. The bullet nearly hit. Luckily i've never found myself very maternal. The bait was incomplete. It wasnt me. It was someone else that would come to acquire it and then, when they found the baffeling ignorance stifling, and could nearly outgrow it, the ugly truth remains. Most of them don't even make kissy faces.

When I think of those poor mothers I cannot shake the feeling they don't deserve that fate. None of us do. Not the postman who has to deliver the package or the blue collar worker that wanted to send it. Watch out for the traps whoever you may be. They are everywhere.

Finish

Please don't scrape the table. The paint has yet to dry in many spots, and in most cannot stand a butter knife. If you must, please use a coaster for your beverages. That is the proper way to not hold a beverage while enjoying it. Beverage scenery. Scene with me this cocoa, it appears very warm on my table above my coaster.

Outside the frosty blooms attack our windows vigilantly. There is no time for them to resolve any personal family issues or speak allegorically, they simply must go, go, go. In the morning they can rest like dreams in the incorporeal sunlight. They never remember the next night their simple little games. Come summer they won't remember at all. A sad existence where one must simply cling, watch the subject. The frost makes an excellent special agent.

First, if you look and do not watch I must tell you to take again another look. This is not the time to consider, George, the morning we have not yet lived. Watch it, watch it closely. The day has yet to begin and you already think of tomorrow. Attack them with a sincere please, shake their hands with a fervent jest, then flee before they get a chance to question your sincere nature. People can justify anything.

We don't want anyone scratching your paint, your finish. Let them watch in awe.

Glittering Silo

I have no intention of just sitting here. I've been here a while, sure, but I get the impression you think I've been doing nothing. I will have you know I've been entirely taken using every function I can with this body, just not my kinetics. I simply have no use for them. Sure, breathing was a little difficult to let go of at first, but I got used to it. You simply have to start living asphexiation.

You should feel lucky. We are few. Comamites we jest, but nothing indicates we are really in a coma. we simply do not like to move. Or inhale. We inhale illustration. We exhale art. We drink crearivity.

Fires in my footsteps

An average day of work for the man was filled with several key components. Dividing the deep, returning the lost, and looking amiable while doing it. Easy as a thought, a whisper, a walk, a hand in the ill touched places. Of course, easy jobs make easy pains, and those are perhaps the very worst kinds. The kinds that everyone suspects and no one talks about. the day can continue with an easy pain, continue into the unmentionable night, until the moment finally severs and a man will be incapacitated. It is difficult to think of tomorrow when the simplicities of today are what weigh us down. They just seem so normal.

And that is perhaps the stigma of an easy job. For those who think dividing the deep and returning the lost seem like complexities, not even mentioning the lofty goal of amiability, we can change your mind with a few different verbs and nouns. Anyone could and anyone does. It is all how you spin the tale, and right now we are spinning it backwards. Where the ones with the small jobs, the easy ones, all think they are small people. Easy men. Easy women. The ones with complexities are given a wide birth. That they both bear burdens is quite true, but when the world is running amok with irregularity and the honored get to work in their honored way, we forget the juxtaposition it is to our easy men, our simple labor fellows, ordinary day.

Left isn't the only direction

Left isn't the only way I can spin. I can spin right as well. I'm unidirectional. Just sometimes, I think it far too much trouble. Hard to change directions without a clear reason and life seems so easy to maintain in stubborn constant. Then, one day, you wake up to realize that spinning left and spinning right aren't even a major focus of life, merely transportational skills you will need to learn how to wood work or walk or climb, and that even those things are just simple elements that let you sit in cozy places and read, and even that is only so that you can get knowledge so that you can do even more. Where does it end? Well, never. But, a better questions is where does it begin. Simple. With a quest for true love. I'm not entirely referring to the mushy lovey dovey accepting kind understanding overcoming love between man and woman, though that plays a key part of it, I speak of the love for all people, all knowledge, all emotion, all goodness. I am talking about charity. I am talking about the same feeling you get when you are eating warm tomato soup with grilled cheese sandwiches at a table seating only the most wonderfully eccentric and good people in pleasant jubilation. No. It isn't only seasonal. This is for all year. So is love. Not just the grilled cheese.

I will use this holiday season to tell you all I love you. Every. Single. One. And, may you enjoy the time you spend in a world like this. Where there are turkeys, pizzas, and spinning and mind-bogglingly fast speeds.