Writing has become effortless. Now I would love to simplify my publishing process. With any luck, I might be able to reach readers eventually. Ideally I can: Write a post through the WYSIWIG/Markdown editor on Forestry.io. Have Forestry auto-publish the post and sync it to the Github repo. Have the Hugo deployment hosted on Zeit Now listen for pushes to the repo and update the site with the new post.
We are being
nothing but a field of
chance dancing ecstatic
in every direction
in every dimension
at every frequency
no gaps, no bounds,
colors, shapes, sizes.
We are being
experiencing ourself as membranes,
definers of boundaries,
constructors of relativity theories,
wave function crashers,
noticing ins and outs,
ups and downs,
this or that:
Them fear that cold hard dark, right?
Us love what warm soft light’s left.
The only justice in re Us v. Them is that it’s just Us.
We are being experiencing ourself
becoming rays of free willful light,
powered by fear of power fueled by fear,
intents better set, inspiring breaths
metta karuna mudita upekkha
growing by the grace of gracias
as an oak becomes an acorn becomes an oak
as with chickens and eggs. …
I rode the mid-night-mare
to the end of the light line
to principal certainty
to free will or won’t be.
Fields of the possible
sown with intention
shade the periphery;
our path lies between.
No house could hold it,
this terminal spotlight,
growing larger and farther
as we trample the shadows.
Pulsing and throbbing,
resolving beside us
the fields fade to white
as the spot fills our eyes.
Pairing mode activated.
Wiping cached dreams…
Initiate thought stream…
What’s worse than being picked last?
No one asked if you wanted to play.
Zero consents given.
Rules change every day.
Life sentence (full stop)
Instructions long lost. …
Good score, runnerman!
I root for the home team:
a nicely seasoned ticket.
Root root root!
Glad you grounded out.
You were a high fly ball player.
Hunker in the dugout.
Ninth, bottom, two out, two strike.
Sidelined. Pass it in.
"Double dribble!" says the whistle.
Eleven down and thirty to go.
You'll have to wait at the end of queue, B.
Sneak out of the pocket again
and I'll sack your punter.
Twelve and goal.
Thirteen of fourteen in the series.
Third slap shot in the five hole. …
Can I redeem the suffering of my existence?
Will I crest the wave, reach the cusp?
Facetime with the singularity of my spacetime?
I won’t know until later.
I may not know until I am far off this plane
and have boarded the next one.
I may never, nor may anyone.
We don’t notice everything.
Consciousness is a precious gift.
Mindfulness is gratitude.
My mouth is agape. I feel awoken into a nightmare. I feel deeply sorry for what has come to pass. And yes, this too shall pass, but not for some more years. My dear friend and colleague, Josh Dzielak, has written a brilliant, heartfelt apology which I strongly recommend you read before continuing here. As has often been the case, he has led me to open my eyes to the frightening truth, and has steeled my resolve to speak out in spite of my fright.
In the wake of yesterday’s catastrophic election, I find myself filled with regret. My Dad has often said that we don’t end up regretting what we have done, but rather what we have passed up or what we have failed to do. I have failed all of you. I have failed to convince you that you don’t want a megalofascist regime in charge. I deeply regret this failure. …
Who would try?
Why claim me
as the cloud over your soggy sigh?
Feeling follows perceiving
(‘c’ b4 ‘i’)
at the time in the moment.
Your acid I neutralize.
Make me to feel.
I dare you to try.
Take me in.
Make me smile.
Do your worst, make me cry.
Make me feel!
Make me writhe!
Make me try to know self.
Help me find reasons why.
Lick the salt as tears dry.
Better still, help me out.
Stop making me feel, smile, cry.
Since you couldn’t if you tried.
Help me, heal me, feel me
love me deeply, till we die.
Manifest any demon you like.
Hold your hurt hands high.
I’ll come up with you.
We are all bound to die,
but we will not be made or unmade,
We will feel,
but we will not be made to feel.
The daily prompt from Day One just blooped down from the menu bar. Good on you, Day One, you nailed me on this one. But this is no diary entry, it’s one for everyone.
My Dad has often said: “I don’t regret the things I’ve done, I regret the things I haven’t done.” Whether he intended for this or not, I’ve taken to using this adage as an operating principle for the choices I make. “Will I regret not doing this?” has rung in my mind’s ears as a frequent mantra since I was a boy. …
We drifted onto Tamarind’s airbed and breakfast,
with an old polar bear lying guard the floor,
who’d nearly hanged himself just days before.
Katie ushered us through the gate.
Sidelong eyes, sincere smile.
Their policy? Doors open.
New-old friends lived inside.
We nestled in the guest-room, bumped the day and the night
held court on the patio, and hailed passers-by.
We marveled at their warmth, at their welcome benign.
Miss Anna walked her dog, her neck in a brace.
Sir Lawrence took her arm, keeping her pace.
Phil jangled out hope, hunkered down in a cove. …