moving from one place to another tires me, even if it is not physically exhausting.
probably because my soul is so slow, it takes ages to get anywhere, whilst my body can be easily moved my mechanisms.
i feel my soul coming back, returning to me. probably tonight.
here’s to you, my soul, who quicken me to hearing, and seeing, and feeling this wonderful world under the sun.
and so i enter the dream-within-dream.
and i am in some kind of himalayan foothill country. with people whose language is something like sanscrit (which i do not speak in life, but have heard in dreams). and there is some discussion about going to some place in the mountains where some benevolent entities, teachers, beings of light have been sleeping for centuries. according to the lore, this is the time they should be waking up… no idea why. so the people finally decide to go and see if anything is happening.
the path winds among rocks and tufts of grass, up and down slopes, till there is an almost invisible ravine with a river at the bottom. we turn along it, and suddenly there is this wall with something like sealed doors. the door frames are all different, but sort of roundish and pointy on top. the seals look like limestone gone grey with age, interspersed with reddish mortar. and there is one door with a clearly discernible additional seal, it looks like a huge splatter of hot wax, except it appears to be stone.
one of the people goes up and hits the seal. it crumbles. Read More
when rain comes with
the storm, does it matter
how carefully one has
made their hair.
the wind has the capacity
for streaming chaotic activity
all over the place,
invisibly, suddenly,
all momentum commences,
only to crash a moment later.
and only the trees
stand between the heaven
and earth, and worry
not, of how, when or whether
they will continue.
and only the grass
bows down so low
that nobody notices, and all
the pranks of this wild
runner pass overhead.
the wind comes with the rain, to stay
right in your hair.
the city parks seem to sprout loads of these.
all sorts of colours, sizes, shapes. all asleep in the sun.
probably because they like to show off, and it is warm, and they prefer not to be noticed by a lot of people, and it is impossible to show one is independent if there is nobody to be independent from.
because when they wake, their remaining eye is full of malevolant green fire. they are nobody’s pets, these ones.
they are match for the voracious rodents of this city, winning carnivorous battles in places my human mind does not reach. i respect them.
Beyond the Pear Tree has this wonderful post of favourite smells. which inspired me to think of some, too. the order is inconsequential.
and so on.
smells are memory facilitators, discreet transport into the past. mush harder to forget than sounds, events and faces.
today, probably, i caught a crab. in the rowing sense. metaphorically speaking.
the crab is quite big and, well, crabby.
more of a crocodile, really.
big, huge crabby croc. right under my metaphoric fragile boat.
oh, cosmic forces of your choice, what a feeling.
what a nauseatingly lonely, desperately sinking, overwhelmingly sad feeling this is.
i wish i could drown the crab. but i have a long work-day tomorrow. and that would not be the solution anyway.
and so i am back with the breton fishermen:
dear god,
my boat is so small,
and the sea is so large.
