loves inspiration

Sunday, March 14, 2010

einstein was on to something

feeling the dance of the senses my elementary particles participating
and the reasons aren't important as whats happening becomes
the shift is minuscule yet everything is in it
the mind centers on the motion of the mechanism for creating thought and sinks into unthought imagining wet consciousness interface to bus hardware and fundamental brain architecture
the load factors and standard industry specs
we conjecture existence but the software is proprietary
how to hack consciousness thats todays subject
extract your mind from what your doing
read off the list your mind is working
start from a
the little number in the cube across the hall
the freakin projects and timelines and resource issues
the bathroom, its in the other building, christ
lunch i mean the bennies suck here
some kinda interim nut job stupid career ending geek idea
and Mothra saves mankind from the imperialist military industial complex riffin with my homies and slytalking my honey
then i guess its the drive
after that im thinkin clairvoyant intuition
followed by a weird feeling about religion
and some kinda worry about ever knowing myself as the divinity unleashed
car payments when will i ever learn
my kids
my animals they at least have some dignity in this world
then its like who said i was wrong about anything really
so i can understand when is the metro going to be here
and the gas prices i dont want to like not mention thats a shame
while im as concerned as the next guy
lets be ridiculous and say i cant run my freaking life on some quasi religious environmental trip
im as cool as the fool with a piece a meat in his mouth and a spear
unlucky doesnt mean im bad
but the fact that im here must mean something
cause thats my deepest fear
its meaningless
the things i do and work for and care about dont mean a freakin thing
i guess thats not too unusual
i mean its not like i wear some girls underwear
wait minute
did i say that
i mean
its not that simple
it was summer and the rats had gotten in the drawers
and then mom came home and then
i cant remember that part
i guess its gone now
if it ever was
i remember the kids before
when we went to the park or played in the backyard
the five of us
it was special
then
after the times got hard to think about
the mornings were a time to not have to look anyone in the face
we never saw her after that
no graveside visitation or even a chance to understand
i havent told anyone how much i really miss her
it wasnt a popular subject
now im rally not impressed with myself
a fourth child obviously outnumbered
the product of a love hate relationship
one that could never adjust
constant conflict
as kids it was a battlefield and we were the grunts
sometimes all the gang, from the streets of east bay
porkpie hats
cigarettes
booze
a lot of food from italy on the huge kitchen table
in front of the picture windows covering walls
full of giant walnut tree black walnuts bigger than a two story home
spent a lot of time hanging out there
lot of springs and falls
summer was camping big sur, the redwoods,the river resorts
until
after we we diminished, we moved there
to some kind of dream some kind of wild scheme that we we the lucky recipients of
guerneville,summer late 1950's
kids with short blue swimsuits and tee shirts wearing the cheapest plastic zapores from japan
living in the sewer river like bugs in a rug
a few bad days every summer throwing up
but magnificent freedom
nobody thought there could be anything to fear in Mayberry town
but the hikes and the amazing deserted resort and beaches full of water slide and swimming and
the FALLS
where the river slows up and the summer dam is in
the falls
a slab of water pouring tons over the temporary woodwall
and the space behind the falls on the tiny concrete step ordered by some designer for the men to stand on as they put the boards into place
there was a separate peace,safe from sight or sound in a tiny space to stand and breathe as the water pours unbelievably next to your head
you could sit for hours listening to the din
then slip into the outpouring and fall feel the tremendous push of the water hammering you down onto the rocks
and you just bounce from the bottom and let the current carry you unscathed
this was a boy becoming a man here
many had slid over these falls and been trapped in the force of the water pushing down
if you stood there and tried to fight it it would push you down and hold you
and you never knew what might be in those rocks, glass nails, cars you never knew what you would hit today
and the wars we fought with rafts and tubes and just crazy rope swings where you would slip and burn your arm on the rope and hit the rocks
what summers
what great places
and at the crack of dawn i would wake, grab a quick drink and then head into the hills, no trails no maps no compass no thought but to explore to see what was there to have that as my experience
because i had already learned it was what you experience that matters, i enjoyed the mind and sci fi and school stuff but my heart was already engaged
when i was 7 i remember the moment
walking on a day between the apartments across from st cornelius and there in that gray urban passthrough courtyard and the hedges that ran along all the outside where i walked
there i experienced perfect synchronicity
perfect sharing in every atom of every interconnected force that was holding everything giving everything life and i was its perfect tiny member as was everything and i knew
this was jesus the divine being expressing his love and being in every iota of everything and i suddenly knew i was part of that forever, not just now
my hold on the sense of time was pretty tenuous then but i think thats when i knew einstein was on to something.

1 comment:

 
© 1999 - 2011 by passedlives- The author of these pages has kindly given permission for his work to appear on this web site. Please do not abuse this kindness (or violate copyright law) by reproducing this work elsewhere on the web (or rewriting, duplicating or distributing it in any other form) without the express written permission of the author.