S.B.T. 404

reciprocity

play both big videos at once for a unique spin:)

and so being, this shows a kind of social concept that divides the whole, dis-unites, i'll tip my hat to the truth in that. though there's the flip side to consider, that chaos is often called for. but now at thanksgiving the family will gather and try to boost the boat above any turbulence with philotimo. philotimo—some good explanations of the concept in the film below, though i admit philotimo makes me feel we could stop talking and just do it. not that we aren't great. it's just better quality philotimo to embody that fact as routine operational. that delicate balance I was referring to. when being in a time and place where some basic tangents

are tipping, and we're staying above, above water

you hear me? slap!

)

we're gonna make it cuz you're not gonna stop til we get there.
you want a smack in the head?

the 21-day meditation with oprah and deepak chopra is now complete. it was really great. they sent around a questionaire, asking such things as: what would the matching CD set need to have for you to want to buy it? I guess they don't know about audio hijack. or maybe it's something more sinister hahahahaha as you can see the experience did me no good at all. and i'm comfortable with that;)

so i wrote:

i tell you oprah, the stuff just needs more heart. it's like ok ok peace is good, but i need inspiration on top of that, meaning "energy". not so much meditating just to quiet my mind because my mind is as such by nature, i only direct it sometimes towards chaos or disorder for reasons i could call philotimo.  i like the dream-life of it. i must confess, it'd take a lot to get me to buy the CD set. Like maybe you can come and visit, stay at the harbor hotel and have lunch. i can see it, my CD set wrapped in rice paper and tied with a ribbon. anyway, you asked.

S.B.T. 403

   

in the company of angels

it occurs to me that the self is a mystery. they say the true self is the self from the wellspring of harmonic fields, light=speed curved air and the eye of god. so, what would this "i" be able to know about it?

in energetically co-creating with the universe, one should have some idea what product in particular is coming down the line, at least for the sake of efficiency—having background in design/manufacturing, there's a built-in a stanchion for regarding all processes in terms of productivity.

a matter of setting priorities, highest good being all that it is. 

focusing on the highest good actually reveals a tier type of scale, in the middle and at the top and bottom there's the true self's desires and then there's the mystery self's boxes of stuff, really, bookshelves full of desires, some fulfilled, many discarded, some piled up in the corners hung on hopes for some other time. let's just let that go for now. sharavana bhava.

last night i climbed down musty basement stairs at the old family home, into a cellar so still and silent, with books and rusty tools and dusty ornaments left behind, departed loved ones, things that once were a part of family life, things that were kept, bought, collected, and used by any number of familial hands, hearts, eyes, stomachs. i was struck by a box of

glass bulbs, still shiny under the lid ajar, the box label shows it was from a store that was on the main street of this town some 50 years ago. long-forgotten lovely glass balls lying so still, where once upon a time i stood in front of the christmas tree marvelling at them, my eyes melting, imagination spinning around blurred edges of delicate glittery glass, sparkles and lights. 

i stopped, looked around. there were stacked chairs, the same chairs my grandmother once had circling her dining-room table. there was my father's leroy neiman framed golf print that once hung over the fireplace. there was my aunt's kitchen table, piled up with boxes of old gadgets and cook-ware. i drew a line with my fingertip in the dust between boxes and the edge of the table. a good part of my life was anchored at that table,

i remember live scenes, as if watching them happen now, on a parallel screen. where we talked laughed ate drew did homework read the paper sliced apples, rolled out pastry argued cried over onions played cards wrote letters, paid bills, strung popcorn garlands with cranberries, did knitting, polished the silver, and sat at that table, the joyful table of being safe, loved, loving, having a place-mat, the secure comfort of knowing one another well and reaching for the salt.  well and cared for, accepted, having the power to create joy just by being there, in the company of angels.
 
the shadows close in around me, a spec in my eye, an ache in my heart. i wonder if i will ever stand up to the magnitude of divine spirit, if i will actually place my feet squarely on the path carved through the woods ahead of me by whatever genie knows more about where i'm going than i do.  shreem nama.

S.B.T. 402

light bending

it's mid-november, my fingers are cold, there's a draft that floats right over the keyboard it seems. i wonder if it's the chill of some ghostly presence, maybe an angel come to visit. i'm shivering in the studio, the morning rain is giving way to a topping of blue sky and i just looked up to see a wide shaft of bright sun envelope the colorful leaves still on the old oak.

the yellow-orange sizzles surrealistically against the still-grey horizon, geez I can hardly type.  i listened to a talk with Eckhart Tolle, it was explicitly not interesting, and he would agree, in fact he kept saying that. "Is a sunset 'interesting'?" he asks. "Only when you start to think about it." i do seem to have a prejudice about thinking, but why throw the baby out with the bath-water. It's not thinking that bugs me, it's over-thinking.

like a flashight on the bough, like the clouds have bent the light horizontally. this is a case where a picture doesn't do words justice:) and the words just disappear.

S.B.T. 401

different

when i was a fledgling art student i thought 

protecting ones precious ideas, concern about being ripped off,

competitiveness for whatever reason unless it was to enhance everyone's overall effort/experience (like friendly competition towards a greater goal), were sort of beta-brain-wave-pumping exercises in futility—

all these "it's MY idea, you better not touch it with a ten-foot pole" attitudes were an out-there off-balance social phenomenon

that

didn't 
add up 
somehow.

so every time someone stole, used with or without permission or bought one of my original so-to-speak ideas outright, i heard a chorus, in counterpoint:

"that actually Is my dear idea"

"but, there are an infinite number of ideas"

and i'd note the occurrence and move on, not that it happened every day but the few times it did a little chunk of soul went missing, but that left a space for some ventilation, so it was encouraging in a sense. i could have chosen a battle or maybe a collaboration, but i let it go. i began to realize that it was a good thing in a way to have an idea get a lift to another place. it meant i didn't have to provide transportation.

one time a teacher who must have been agonizing over something unseen said "but what if there are only one or two REALLY GOOD ideas that can make your life a dream come true, out you on the map, get you into the Whitney." and i didn't react, out of respect and shyness, but i thought it was an "expect limitation" message. 

i have to admit that the geese flying over called out a cacophany at the exact moment these inner words echoed: "i think different".  it could be seen as my ego's baby finger nodding toward me while the rest of the hand holds the cup delicately at afternoon tea.  let's take a sip, lovely assam aroma. 

waht? do i even know anything about anything especially myself? duh,  i do and even if i didn't so what. but then again, i'm not at the Whitney. and only one of my ideas ever ended up at the Whitney, though it was completely transformed materially, by an artist who'd been a friend in my class, who'd been inspired by the idea, had come several times to my studio when i was working on it.   when i saw the works at the Whitney, i realized the idea never was mine to keep. 
I wouldn't want to have been carrying it around for years. however, i do work in concept development.  just covering the bases.

"You can't use up creativity. The more you use, the more you have."    

— Maya Angelou

clear path ahead, on to the next idea....

S.B.T. 400

white butterfly

 

press play above for sound, then proceed to all random sound/picture etc interaction (you can repeat playing the video because the sound track is at least twice as long as the video) while you peruse, just a touch.

butterfly facsimile, real rose

once in a while on a creative exploration you find a smooth distinct crevice where all waters flow together.

with "white butterfly", it started in a garden.

the little white butterflies. sometimes just 1, sometimes a whole group, sometimes a cavalcade, always a surprise.

butterflies are said to be a symbol of or maybe a manifestation of....angels.

what could be more anything than white butterflies in the garden? i heard myself ask.  oh many things, such as an eclipse of the moon, i answered. or the occasional monarch or yellow swallowtail, but still these little creatures were in the garden making quite a show of themselves every single day all summer long. and though there are still some winter vegetables, the flowers of summer are fading. and the white butterflies have flown away.



 

S.B.T. 399

karma returns to the boss

whomever you judged and how often 

you looked away as one cried out,

again those criticized, held in focus, 

were up for contempt or cast into doubt

ahead of their times, 

with an essence of tao—

we've known it since then, 

we still know it naow,

of course it'd be shocking to learn 

respect was one perk you'd not earn

blessing: 

one can do "well" 

and still not do right.

on witness do tell,

salute, say good night

to dishonor.

amen. 

S.B.T. 398

old age is pretty

tabitha showed up suddenly on the eve of a golden autumn jewel of a day.

the child of my half-sister and her first husband. whose birth i awaited and attended with precognitive excitement. so much art was generated during the months tabitha was germinating. her birth was a thrill indescribable. i bought her first pair of shoes, tiny pink strawberry sneakers.

but then sis's marriage derailed after a few years, and the little strawberry angel-child moved to cincinnati. sis's 2nd marriage brought her out to wyoming, and gave her another daughter and 2 sons. but i only knew them through pictures and stories. and tabitha all but vanished in the melee of changes during those years. now and then she'd briefly touch base, like when she'd come back to stay with her father for a short time, but that didn't happen regularly. and at a few clan get-togethers after she'd gotten a car and could get places. no matter how much time or distance between connections, she always remembered me.

so we sat in the garden-room, listening to the fountain bubbling, splayed out on the pink saucer chairs, and it seems there is always some call for pink around tabitha. and she was talking so fast, catching her words was like cllnging onto the last car of a runaway train. she's flashing pics of her wedding a year ago and her trip to spain. so fast i could barely see them and had to ask her to slow down a few times. but her slow was still my fast. finally, i said something i'd heard my mother say to me "for me, you've got to go a little slower". 

she did try, but at the speed of light everything flowed in a rushing stream punctuated by splashes, touching and lighting upon something, ever so quickly. and here she was telling me her younger sister was born well after the techno blast so she comes with devices built in more or less, which she said "makes her do everything really fast". 

in comparison my mind moves rather slowly. i like to hang onto words and images a bit before letting them go. i mull at length, and tabitha mulls for a split second before getting onto the next plane.

anyway, i'm sure you know the feeling of "smiling inside", which i remember as a yoko ono contribution from some time in the 80's.

S.B.T.397

irresistible forces 

A

time 

to gather 

winter 

stock 

has arrived unannounced, carrying a basket with bread and berries 

"none can be denied yet some demand the denial of others"

"though at least 7 are high priority and all are crucial," 

"ths friction can create a conflagration" 
that might change 
everything you 
know

but this

is no time

for heroics

get   the

h     o

S.B.T. 396

corresponding keys

avoid beginning a paragraph with a question, like the head of a snake, everything after it wriggles. in fact, never question anything. the whole issue about questioning is largely engulfed in the context of schooling, scheduling and protocols.

however you can write something like

"Where did the time go?" he wondered, blinking through the dusty window of the time machine, where he'd fallen asleep in the 14th century when men wore leather cod-pieces and must've accidentally snored or something and tripped the gauge that landed him in the present now.

i suppose i could say that you should always put quotes around a question. or give it a line of it's own. if you must. but my advice is to get rid of questions entirely.

should we leave it at that?

S.B.T. 395

Finite Element Analysis

An FEA agent, that's what i was, tho i didnt want to be that, but i realize now it wasn't who i am,  just what i did, and somewhat egolessly i might add — it never felt like anything other than service, to my higher-ups, industry, the public, god. i made it my game to make the best quality products possible, using eager talented artists and a variety of manufacturing facilities then watching the ticker-tape sales roll in.

i remember one time feeling happy about it. a bonus check,  if i remember correctly, that took my breath away, it was huge for me. but, just once, i only walked on air once, in chicago, after i was on my own, that is, after i left the company — what happened in chicago is another story, for now let's just say the angels were singing. 

scratching my head, i couldn't remember any outstanding events thrilling to my soul and spirit making me proud of myself, all such were tinged with regrets, not truly worthy. except maybe the time i enjoyed my first single malt scotch in a really posh upscale star-studded cocktail lounge in NY. i don't care much about those things now, not to mention pride itself ahem cough cough i could never find it worthwhile then to be happy about just one small thing, like getting an award, helping or saving someone's life. small things, yes. you never know what a big thing might actually be. like a really good vacuum design could be big.

Bakhita, that was her name, the saint, the woman from africa who was canonized in 2000 — that, is big.

please talk FEA and send letters with your personal advice to vacuum cleaner designers the world over, there is a crisis in utility/function/design rampant, insidious and embarrassingly pretentious which only we can rescue guerrilla-style

S.B.T. 394

she was a poet 

who knows why 

words splashed onto paper

filling pages

not pretty really, 

dark throbs

truly curly

smoke rings

eyes on fire

isolate, desolate 

world-weary wise

no one understands anyway

he was a comic

who knows why

pictures splashed on papers

alighting screens 

not pretty really

surly truly

ticklish too

eyes of blue

dark, throbbing

isolate, desolate

world-weary wise

no one understands anyway

S.B.T. 393

peter pan

if you tell me with words, 

a string of pearls 

a veil of  ether moss, 

your lips move  

but i can not see your eyes. 

so modest! 

and so devout. 

your words may be precious, 

scented, light as saffron powder 

lustrous and green like malachite 

the ease found in rhythm 

renders rock weightless 

somehow by magic

i can't see my shadow,  

a disguise that turns permanent

specially curved lenses
all matters of invention 

and creatures of adventure
seeking meeting and seeing  

who the other one is,
dear little tinkerbell

S.B.T. 392

a story and a poem

changeless

the king's only daughter's name was Shan-zhee-lis, she was (like snow white rosy cheeks, etc - about 20 pages worth which we can write right now with white light and rainbow pens) but now and then would become possessed with an entity who tried every trick to block her efforts to be perfect and good, even to hurt her, but not too much, just enough to be really annoying, like toe-stubbing, charlie horse, near misses on the roadway

and this entity would gather gobsmack gold sparkles streaming from her crown every time the noise reached such a high pitch that she would need to scream primal-therapy/karate style. 

this entity thrived on a few monthly jabs of life-force but Shan-zhee-lis was like a wellspring bubbling, an easy mark to be vaporized, but the entity allowed her to live because 1. she was self-renewing good nutrition, and 2. she was very amusing. (47 pages of incidences)

one time (last chapter) she had just been laughing and screaming into this pretty little flower-rimmed mirror-pool deep in the green valley, a ritual prescribed to deflate a purplish suckling pig-shaped balloon stuck to her neck (15 descriptions of typical situations) and it had only moments before let go, farting itself away when suddenly the entity spoke through a bobbing daisy at the edge of the pool "i am in you" and she looked at her reflection in the pool, right into her own eyes which she didn't recognize at first and screamed "get the fuck out!" which worked suddenly because the thing didn't realize she'd glimpsed the star pointer on the map showing where it was. abiding, that is. delight returns after a long journey to faraway places...an epiphany emerges

it happened that the truth for ages beyond all time, had been kept in a hut in the high himalayas, and thanks to martial art training (27 pages on dojong life) which had been achieved as a child in the Shao-lin temple, she remembered where/what it was/is. a terrible contest between good and evil had forced her to abandon that life for the modern age. the training had been put away but not forgotten.(chapter on life after extraordinary life)

her back, which had been crooked and needed chiropractic straightened by itself, it was after she'd inadvertently collected every drop of power that was stolen/squandered that the pathetic entity swallowed itself up just like a prune and turned into a powdered drink in a flexible container, sweet juice i mean sweet jesus

____________________

after midnight the cricket sings

don juan asks the guy on the corner
under the street-lamp

where's the ball game

right across the street he says

behind the walls around the stadium

that's a touch of spatial class 

he says looking around at the grey concrete

don juan, i whisper in his ear impeccably 
i forgot all about protecting 

personal power, don juan 
anywhere in the present tense can't be 

entirely personal 

it's all universal

you need to gain some x-tra

power from the moon

don juan whispered

back to me

personally

______

S.B.T. 391

the dance

secret breezes true as dirt

weaving thru the tall grass 
blowin in the wind
time ribbons seen twisting 
through the corner of the eye

only tei-walls between these rooms, 
in the shadow silent steps, a rice-paper craft 
whose tiptoe ways were gained at night,

as much quiet 

as possible 

while in motion

chancing freedom, beg your pardon adventure
chancing danger, we never dreamt of it, 
only of the deep wood under the soaring stars 
along the night's whispering trails. 

a sunrise-colored strip of satin swirled, 
a dance partner in perfect grace

turn to step in time, turn turn turn en pointe, 
spotting to focus on a face,
a picture a scene a hook where slippers hang...

deep bow and curtsy.

(red and gold, candle-light behind silk embroidered panels, softly merges in passing, giving just enough glow to see the way.)

S.B.T. 390

     

detritus    

the best wealth is light in the pocket, 

weighs almost nothing

floating aerial seeds 
on a summer breeze

     

S.B.T 389

workaday

heroic efforts notwithstanding

still dazed and dizzy i wait

for something

i plod salt and sweat

thinking my boss will, at some point

"scratch his brain and his ass and notice the same eau."

______________

S.B.T. 388

comfort

paper rustling by the window

whispers in the wind

whistling and string-picking

to the left i listened

to the story being told

beach blanket billowing

beneath clothespins 

tugging on the line

however the tale spins,

i'll have to chart and follow

like a GPS system

adjusting unmapped turns

S.B.T. 387

if i had a gun where would i put it.

on the bedside table, no cuz i'd be sleeping and intruders could get it before i did

cuz there's a nightlight, one small bulb in the glass base of the lamp, and i like it on, i'd have to shut it off. which i won't do.

yeah right definitely not under the pillow.

in the drawer of the bed-table. that seems the best, but i'd have to lock it so the kids couldn't get at it, and that  means I'd have to have enough time to unlock it and get the gun in my hand in order to defend my life. which is highly unlikely with an intruder standing over the bed.

maybe behind a picture, in some custom made easy access safe place too high for anyone to reach without a ladder. good thing I've been practicing high jumps. I think i could jump and smack it open in a split second and shoot the intruder on the way down. 

Maybe have the gun on a small swing hanging from the ceiling just over the bed, with a wireless device that looks like a tv clicker, set so I can press a button and the little swing will tip over and drop the gun into my lap. That might really work, really surprise the intruder...

it just doesn't seem feasible in the long run, sad to say, they shot horses don't they et al, but thanks anyway for the invite.  i hope you enjoy the gun shop texas BBQ festival. Open to the public, right. OK I'll tell my friends.

S.B.T. 386

in lofty terms

words dripping from rainbows and drifting through fine mist

and water bubbles

haloes of the sun and moon

etched on tablets of marvel

drawn on chalkboards of ether

words that make noh sense

in every sense

akashic words from beyond time

burnishing from carbon to gold
coal to diamond

and back and so on

tender sprouting seedlings
pregnant words carrying quintuplets

the words we spoke as friends