is this the temple whose building was prompted
by some earthbound peasant inquiring of Odysseus
why he was carrying on his shoulder a winnowing staff
or whether it was the blade of a windmill
never having seen an oar
for here is a place
where libations to Poseidon
must abound should he wander so far inland
as to work up a thirst among these followers who know not the sea
a building with many secrets
and more bricks than windows
in between lives, it seems
with a little glass left
in the ghosts of old
windows but mostly
boarded up
waiting
still
Tyson Yunkaporta points this pattern out as one of the fundamental, universal patterns. If I recall correctly, Joseph Rael incorporates this pattern in his description of reality. In the context of Creative Community I recognize it as the ripple response from a stone (or a rain drop) dropping into water. As a gardener I recognize it as the growth pattern of a rhizome left alone for many years. As a would-be mycologist and faerie fancier I recognize it as the pattern of a faerie ring. Any infant would recognize this pattern, as would any navel gazer…
I have been opening my perception to new iterations of patterns I know over the past week or so, as well as to patterns I don’t know yet, or haven’t recognized. Patterns are helpful in navigating change, as the pattern can be an anchor, something that remains constant even as the circumstances change – from cast iron in concrete to spray paint on dry laid brick.
I’ve slept a lot in the past week – between 9 and 14 hours for four nights in a row – and stayed in bed a good hour after waking almost every day. I’ve not done much. It hasn’t always felt great, but it has been great. One morning I woke up at 5:00 am with so much on my mind I alternated between speaking into my digital voice recorder and nodding off again for over an hour before going back to sleep. Lots of foundational, ontological revelations.
Cicada’s lifecycle remains a constant metaphorical pattern I still use as a map during these times, knowing I’m in the liminal place between emerging from underground and actually taking flight. I’ve been pondering the question of what in my life and self and world constitute the ground I am leaving behind, and the exuvia I am leaving or about to be leaving behind. One of the phrases that came fully formed to me as I found myself awake with the recorder in my hand was this gravid affirmation:
Anything and everything I am clinging to pales in comparison to what I am becoming.
Patterning/Repatterning Read More »
a home surrounded by new neighbors
which, while they have been around now for years,
are relative newcomers to this part of town
who lived here before these brutalist intrusions?
where have they gone, and their families with them?
the inexorable spread of the civilizing force
ever robbing those of the least means
of home and wealth and culture
which are then distributed
among those of the most means
robbing from the poor to give to the rich
no wonder Robin Hood was disliked by the gentry
he was addressing a foundational feature of civilization
an inconvenient truth that applies to all of us who contribute
Last Home Standing Read More »
one luminous puddle
oblique to the increasing
obliquity of the decreasing
light available until the rising
of the moon or summer evenings
I suppose it’s always been this way
at least as far back as I can remember
The More Things Change Read More »
architecture from the early decades
of the automobile, repurposed
in the service of
flowers
exchanged
as tokens of love
or care, or appreciation
this place looks a little tired
even in its current guise
I imagine floral sales
have been down
with everything else
the mint green portico roof
comes as a welcome surprise
as does the reincarnation of this
service station as home to a florist
look how quickly life returns
to the places where people
have tried to keep it out
after very little inattention
and from the most improbably
small opportunities – cracks, chinks
fissures, openings – anything that will
let in light and water, a tiny seed
and then in the blink of an eye
there is a tree where once
just moments before
there was only
bare asphalt
and Pan
has
returned
triumphantly
and almost as if
he had never left…
Still Life with Continuity Read More »
shadow teeth and flaky plywood
a coat of green asphalt with deepening relief
a skin that calls to mind buildings half a world away
living things rooted in, growing from its body
transform this fairly simple building
from a boarded up business
into an array of shapes
and textures –
an unknown quantity
a one eyed creature waiting
quietly for the sun to go down
They Only Come Out at Night Read More »
in dry weather
with nothing flowing
from the flat roof
the drainpipes
turn their attention
to the heavens directly
supplicating the sky
for some sort of
condensation
to precipitate out
and flow through them
that the dry ground
might revel in
moisture
and life
continue
to transpire
shimmering
in the shadows
as the sun descends
just imagine this place
glowing in the light
of a rising sun
rather than merely
reflecting reflected light