S.B.T. 443

made of light

I’ll refuse to hear about our dark and devilish ways borne out by history, because you all know it’s imagined, not real, if you think it’s real that’s why it’s real; to you. If it’s real to you, your friends your family then it’s so-called realness gets bigger, it’s a village, then a city. When you consider the world population, it’s big. But it’s just 1% of everything. I won't try to remove evil from the world because I tell you it doesn’t exist, it just isn’t really there. I’ll simply insist and that’s that. If you criticize me for it, you’d be right. If you don’t know how much you need it, you will. Finally, all there is, is Love, and it’s time to know that with certainty, it’s time to rejoice. it just isn’t about evil! Fuggettabbouttit, tear that old building down. Satan needs a new place. His job is done. I say retire to Key West old friend.

Either we’re made of light or not, what do you think? We’re water yes and every molecule is a collection of atomic energy, the energy of Light, being this way is real if real is what you’re after.

S.B.T. 442

 The difference between right and wrong

 

“Suffering shared by both sides of any argument is not the kind of sharing we prefer.”

The poor little plastic nutcracker, the size of a half-dollar, remembered his glory days when he was hung high amid sparkling glass balls and satin bows on the Lindy’s Christmas tree. He sighed and smiled, remembering those days. Nowadays he was at the back of the college science laboratory, in the corner of a pale orange mottled formica countertop next to the microwave and fridge. There were oversized crackled navy blue pottery mugs, each with a collection of pencils, pens, a few straws, elastics, abandoned key-chains, plastic spoons, dusty odds and ends, all overcrowded and usually ignored. It’s funny how often old pens with no ink stay where they are forever.

But this is where our hero is now, his hanging string dangling precipitously from the top of a yellow #2 pencil with a chewed eraser. His home, one at the back of about 3 rows of scattered mugs, had housemates who were dry black and red Sharpies always meditating and some bent copper pin-clips who lived in the basement. But there was also Marian, the baby spoon, and he always looked out for her, he was in the position to do so, dangling from the top. And he had to, it was his duty, he was, after all a soldier with a bugle and 1880’s finest doiuble-breasted marching coat and boots. They really were the only 2 with any awareness in the group, and she was just a child, an orphan really.

He was delighted to have her company.

Then one day, an out-of-work artist who’d been employed by the college as team organizer for the maintenance crew, during a day of rounds to determine the game plan, noticed the reckless lineup of pottery mugs and stepped closer to observe the details. The nutcracker could feel the ground rumbling beneath him as the mugs were pushed away and finally, yes! His mug was lifted high in the air and up next to the mans eyes, where he was SEEN.

“Well lookie here,” the man said, lifting the little plastic nutcracker off the eraserhead “Now I would call you Harold Hill, Harold Hill you shall be! and what’s this? a pretty little baby spoon, it’s a bit tarnished, but I can fix that, I’ll take them both home and keep them for when the grandkids come to visit.”

And so it was, Harold was given a place of honor on the window-sill over the kitchen sink and Marian was propped up next to him. And every year at at holiday times, the man put Harold high on the Tree.

And this is very right.

On the other side of the world, there is an elderly couple hiding in fear, afraid of being killed, afraid of losing their home, watching the skies erupt in flames. There is no character, or time-line to be stretched out, no fresh plot or satisfying ending to this story. Yet.

And this is very wrong.

S.B.T. 441

The Dangers of Wen

there she was in the hot seat, the camera closing in, she's trying to explain her story to veteran reporter on human interests, Cody Cowlick: 

 "i didn't know what to think," she shrugged, her hands in front like she was holding a potted plant, "i received a promotional notice in my email for WEN hair care, it was convenient and easy," she pleaded, "i always saw the WEN tv ads too late at night to phone in an order and never remembered to look up the website, so this "promotion" made it easy, because i was interested in the product, it just fell into my lap after a long while of considering the purchase" 

 "and so we heard about what happened. would you please tell us how it was that they used your name and finances to traffic in slavery?" 

 "the WEN site that was linked to the email was a false front. my personal/credit and computer address info was placed in compromise and then used to fund some kind of transfers" 

 "oh my goodness! then what happened?" 

 "i was taken away by FBI agents and locked in a psychiatric cell for 37 days" 

"why a psychiatric cell?" 

"because i told them they were crazy to think i'd be involved in anything like that." 

"what do you mean?" 

"in that situation, they took what i said to be offensive or dangerous to them or something, and i was simply expressing myself in the same way i usually would do, nothing loud or abrasive, just incisive. i think i accidentally hypnotized them with the word "crazy" (it rang a bell somewhere in each of them i mean hello) and they turned it back on me, it's what they are trained to do like a knee-jerk reaction, it was easy to lock me up if i was "crazy". and it was nothing more than a kind of cruel discrimination, especially if they thought i really WAS crazy, which they didn't, not really.  imagine how people with real mental disorders can be treated like slaves, that's the whole thing about it." 

"you use the word "slaves", what do you mean by that?" 

 "they are segregated and kept down, medicated and tossed around." 

 "and so what happened finally?" 

"i was finally let go with no charges but i am now having the battle of my life trying to get my children out of the foster system" 

 "well we're holding your children backstage, and here they are! c'mon out kids!" 

 "Mama! mama! MaMa!" the camera pans the children rushing onstage and closes in on the group hug, Cody is grinning, swinging her arms aw shucks. 

 "now we understand, dear, that the courts wont allow you to take the children home, but i have received permission to bring the children to my house where my nanny will see to their needs, and you can come and visit, until the whole deal is done." 

 "oh my god, my kids are gonna live with Cody Cowlick! that's gotta be the best thing in the world! thank you! thank you!" 

 "oh it's no trouble, and you're welcome any time i'll get your paw-print for the door-scanner, and you can come in." 

 "kids, what do you think?" 

 "she has six video game stations" 

"a swimming pool and garden on top of a building" 

"an aviary and a complete tech studio with kid-friendly computers" 

"she even has a sauna and steam bath big enough for fifteen people" 

 "wow that sounds great. ok, let's do this!" (((((((((((((group)))))))))))))))) 

 "then, i hope you'll come over for dinner tomorrow, don't leave before i can scan your paws......thanks everyone, this is Cody Cowlick for the network. good night.

S.B.T. 440

 Inside the head uv a fish writer

She delivers packages, letters, messages, taking the short-cut route through the fields. The sun and wind are freeing, invigorating. She could close her eyes and walk briskly, arms out, reliving a once-upon-a-tme when she was a hefty-winged raven, finding each breath and matching step elevating and exhilarating. Her 2nd stop is always Pola’s farm and zoo, where she bathes and feeds the baby elephant, filling and leaving a basket of fruit for the chattering monkey twins, and lastly, sits to the side of the elderly gentleman panther singing the lullaby her mama sang, while he sips from a bowl of cream.

The earnings are enough to keep the garden seeded and not only feed the gypsy miners, but herself, aunt Reubie in the old stone cottage, and the children Norin and Wita. With barter for nails from the garden vegetables, the gypsy wood-carver made a temple of candles out of broken barnboards, kindling and wood-chop, and she could greet travelers and passersby who stopped to see. The candles when lit together, made a star that could be seen from as far away as can be imagined.

By the way, what was her name?

She was a robust woman of 42 in the days when knights, blinkingly armored, trotted up on horses so strident they were drawn to the likeness of willow and birch in snow. Days of reverence, pride, fear, and pony uprisings.

The simple folk longed to live peacefully in their patched cabins, gentle farmer homes, climbing ivy rancheros, grassland huts, coconut houseboats playing at the river edge. 

She does her best every day to fulfill appointed duties. 13 dusty blue miners last counted eat suppers in decency, she sees to it, an humble feast is ready when they come around 7 pm to gather at the kitchen window, waiting as complete with roasted chicken and fried potato, bread and cream and brandied apples, the "Table Ready!" call would ring out - and they’d dance gaily clamoring for chairs, laughing and singing “La,lalalala Lee…Veritas Veritas…La lalala Lay…..”

S.B.T. 439

before i knew it, i found out that according to the trees, the ones i know personally, there are no spaces between them. their root legs feather out like veins underground, a stretched mirror of their top limb'ical syst'm. and of course they signal-speak more or less to each other, cues in the wind, they wave, touch leaves on a breeze, they often bend over each other in storms, while under the topsoil their shanks intertwine, sap running through arteries, on high vibe nature alert, tall, quietly majestic, welcoming to birds and little beasts - there are no spaces between them.

but, "empty space, in a complexity of connectivity, with multi loose ends, is a need," i tell you, "for a creative type of person."

so i consider that spaces between things are a disconnection.  a chance to vacate from thought-like inclinations, from repetitive evocative scents, sense and senses, from any kind of crushing intimacy, from some overwhelming daily drudgery-doo.
but it widens the gap between the tiny nerves under my skin and the molecules of air that swirl all around from tree to tree to me.

S.B.T. 438

disappearance

thought dust swept away

from the shelf

brushed off,

the surface polished

my brother and me, almost 3 and almost 5

S.B.T 437

i always left the most... 

i always felt that there is something bigger and more genuine than i could fathum. but i also always felt that whatever the something is, it’s none of my business what it’s doing. and though it had an effect on the overall lineup, as contender for the position of originating force, i never thought of prizing alignment with it, because obviously, we’re related.

i keep remembering/discovering ways that ledd to the currrrent errer, and have found many instances of facts pseudo-scientifically swep=t under the rug, which someone owes apologies for. what i would not have stopped long enough to appreciate is the hallmark of a flaw in the pattern sensibility. what through erroneous judgment anyone felt entitled to do without consideration very much of dispersed effects: tamarrow we can cab calculate calloway the dreaded ‘how someone feels’ equation and get desired result short-term. “forget the possibility of disaster FOR A FEW SECONDS” and THEN “think of every catastrophe along the way.” 

cant think of every catastrophe i might meet along the way, w/out risk of damaging the OS, but it looks like a f-good bizway map.

Ping Pong Mandala — July 9 2019 pic.twitter.com/nSfmEMM4vA

— tipota (@tipotato) July 9, 2019