It has been a long way since before… a lot of ideas come to mind to play across the imagination… I stop and sit for a spell or two along roads less traversed simply so that I can hear the peace appealing to me… in crowded ways the chaos of activity deafens the roar of the quiet such that full concentration I require… and in such a mode safe it is not to wander… so I choose the less traveled ways to find solace of soul… so here we are and here we go again… the song for the most part does remain the same until we tire of its lyrics and melody and put it away… then after a long time we can come back to its charm and memories like an old friend we have not seen nor heard from in many a year… quick to the mind slow to the lips is an adage some times neglected by me… think before you speak and know the full range of your words before you apply them to any situation… the long and winding road we walk on is filled with pitfalls and vortexes of trouble… fatigue of body and mind will weaken us… butt fatigue of soul is a fatal flaw… in such times it is essential to stop and breathe the air for all it is worth… stop and listen to the world around you and notice the harmony that does exist in the many facets of time and space we are engaged in… I wander in the simplest places for the simplest reasons… never a care do I have for logic does not erase the desire to be carried forth… logic does not forget the complex parameters of any one moment in regards to the next… illogic is more measurable in humanity that logic… the bends and the lines in life are never as straight as they some times appear to the casual observer… and they are especially not easy to wander when we are wandering them… only after we have met the tasks full on are we able to look back and know the steps for what they truly are… measures of our willingness to overcome what life puts before us… it does not matter what time in life we gather the courage to push forth our ideas… just that we did manage to find the inner strength to come to terms with who we are in the entire scope of time… when ever some one believes they are an instrument of change or destiny I wonder to myself about the true instruments of change and what they did to accomplish that… mostly it was done by violence and destruction… either to raise up or to put down… so for me the true instruments of altering of time are those examples who touched souls… and continue to do so in a constant gentle pressure of reason…

The idea or concept of self lingers in my mind… I am some what perplexed by the wandering of my soul… not the mind as it unfolds to take in each alternative idea or concept but my soul that seeks reason in the unreasonable chaos of the world that is ours… I suspect this is not an easy question to come to terms with or that there is an easy answer to the question at all or that there is a universal answer in some form or another… my suspicion is that the answer is in and of itself unique to each one who steps forward to ask it… where is the reason in one person’s anger over another’s actions or words… should there not be logic imposed that says these words come from experience and learning… such things happen in life where a soul is exposed to limited ideas and forced into a conduit that limits what they can experience to a select few choices… given time and the opportunity most will flourish in a forum of open debate… there are many ways to feed a family… many ways to forge a living… many avenues of conversations with the Godde of your choice… what is the reasons behind limiting such choices… only one answer comes to my mind expressed in many ways and with many colorful adjectives… the concept or answer that repeats itself in all these choices is control… control is the reason behind the limiting of choices another has… reduce the choices and you reduce the issues you must deal with in society… each diversion from the core of your purpose lessons the focus on that purpose… a student not over standing the subject or a teacher not reaching a student becomes a debate on the process… the home life the food consumed… the atmosphere… the debate is all about everything butt the interaction between student and teacher… where has the concept of self gone that we look for ways out of knowing more… where has the concept of individual idealism gone when we gather to ourselves instead of forging out on our own… there is a deep set fear in people today that did not persist in generations past… the world is much more reactionary and immediate than it was even in my youth… such is the reality of this time over the times past… exponential learning has been going on for centuries… each generation has had to deal with the changing pace of knowledge… those that succeeded managed to survive into the next century older and wiser… those that did not were thrown into chaos…

Each of us has a means of expression that others will take to or be put on guard by… our facial expressions motions… the way we speak… the words we use… the manner of our sense of humor… will touch another in ways we have know idea of knowing before we speak… each has the experiences of their life time tucked away inside and when the words strike home we react to them… certain words we expect reaction to… the curse words of society… ethnic remarks… the C word the N word… butt there are many other words that populate our speech that will trip another’s ire… such is the way of the world… so when we explore words we are exploring their impact on each person in specific situations and moods… color my world is especially open to the color of my mood and the situation I find myself in… only so many souls can reach inside me and calm the storms that rage… and those souls are few and very far between…

All roads lead… we follow and we cross… we dance and we sing… we are the moods we propose and the dance we step to… as time winds on down and around we learn the steps in time with another… we are the passage of our time… we wear it in our minds… imagination… heart and soul… we step away when the heat begins to burn… consumed by the fire the tongues licking at our heals we step away as the blaze turns from passion to inferno… to be consumed by passion is one step… to be consumed by the raging inferno is another… one we walk away from… the other marks us… sort of the wonder of friends with benefits so many write about… butt then impossible it is to slip inside and not ne changed by the experience… all roads lead some where… and some where at times is a better place to be then where we are… so we take the chance of being some where other than hear and hope with all our hearts that it turns out to be true… and so we go…

I have been drowned in sleep… though wakeful and restless… sleep comes easy and leaves fitfully… a tumbling tumbleweed of moments… hot one minute cool the next… an unlimited range of thoughts wanders through my mind… so here we find ourselves again… and again we wander across the universal tides to rest in the lull… to find passage in the impassable… to find solace in the pies… the apples… the fruits that line the shelves… so some one quoted the sweet potato pie and mentioned the notes… and suddenly the whispered truth is told in streaking… some thing akin to being naked is the truth… here is the scar from the first… here the scar from the last… see that witch does not kill us does make us stronger in some ways and weaker in others… a some what blissful f day unfolds… warmer than it has been hot even it could be said… butt welcomed after such a long meandering reach of cold fingers… I will take the reins of my own horse and ride into the wind… just to feel the heat…

Just a sudden awakening to the cold wind of change… a subtle or not so subtle reminder that times they are a changing and if we are to change we have to get on with it… yet it is so easy to wander with certain souls… ones we are kindred to and with that spark the creative juices within us ones that trip the lights fantastic… we can for example just let go the fabric and walk about in a natural state of mind and never feel a shiver from the cold… the call of time does not leave an impression… it reminds me of the waters ebb and its flow… of drifting…

There is a nice song playing… a listing from a larger list that turns over… know one gets to play more than the next… take a right angle off to the side… a left angle to the rain drops that linger in the clouds… we want drips… large drops of liquid to consider… suspicious I can be of the motivation of the hand that sweeps the path clear… so take a turn for the bitter and the sweet… and come sit by the river’s side and watch the dawn sun rise…

Needs swim in me… a particular necessity… a dream simmers in the folds of my tapestry… I am lost seeking a soulution to the wandering… a little bite from the tale of the dog that has captivated me… a captured audience I have become to the wandering of the mind… a slow parcel post of dripping fabrics wet from the dew… the kind that washes over the grass as the sun begins to rise from the far eastern sky… a walk in the early morning rain dripping with the tempest… storming in mind with the bolts and the flashes of nature… I love to get lost in the journey for once… I would love to dip my hand in the cold stream and be transported to another world… to awaken in the arms of time wet with desire for living the time as fully as my breath escapes me… I lapse into a river of streams all converging upon me… a pretty boy is know friend… some dance to the tune of their own making… others dance with wine in hand a drug teasing the desire from them a slow wander into the abyss… a lovely place can trap you as easily in your own fantasy as the surprise that trips the wire to the box that falls upon the rabbit… a trap of your own devices… the passage back is blocked… one must relax to exit through the entry… the exit is open to the creative mind willing to forego the conclusion before it is written… some times the desire to end is stronger than the desire to continue… butt once in the middle of the lake one either continues to swim or they drown… all the mileposts dead ahead and not positive signals to the artists… too much creative stimulus is as bad as know trips at all… so a single drop of acid caused all of this… interesting… the spiral spins from the temple to the balls of one’s feet… surrounded by the vortex swallowing up the ideas as fast as one has them for safe keeping… funny that when ideas are born they have such potential that in a week or so does not spark the fire as deeply as the initial strike… so it is with true regard we cherish the ones that stay with us with the same deep intensity of fire and brimstone… cold and fire dwelling within the same element… a cold hand from a heated desire…

Important it is to just let go… to swim in the slipstream of time and feel the blast of fire that comes from a deep seated passion… the fire blazes butt it does not burn butt it does consume… sow we find ways to cool out flesh and heat our imagination… we find an avenue that accepts the ritual of our footsteps and rewards us with a spark of inspiration…

We stand guard… a slow count to one direction than across to another… a sentinel watching over time… a brief sweep of wisdom… we walked toward the bridge… a hesitation in steps whispered… one does not walk over such a structure… one walks across it though… a subtle difference that makes all the difference… clinging to threads… I row… going to reach the other shore when I don’t know… this is the most common way to go… come sit and row…

I often just let my mind wander in harmony with the words as they trip off the lyrical plane… some are words another has thought of others are of my own making or I am using them as such for I have never created a word on my very own… perhaps I should some time… create a words that flips me over and under… one I could use when ever I wished to dance my own particular dance… walking on the water… a most common way to go… so row along the river’s stream… a dream perhaps of drifting away… lost once more in my own trap… captivated by the illusion of me… uninhibited by the art and challenging myself to be the best… a sobering truth is told in the shadows… I wish a lot of could have been or should haves… the words never found a home as sweet as the lyricists tongue that sing them not to fast not too slow… so we come to the river to sit in the boat and row until the fire burns… and I am once more drenched in the sweat of time… I flip a coin… and the river takes its toll from my memory… swing with me on the high wire and lets dive to the depths below… get down and row…

Took some time and then some more… took a glance over my shoulder and a twist in the walk… took a bridge too far to reach and a walk to long to follow… took a dream to the end of the road and sat waiting for the cross… took a dream for a slide down memory lane and walked away with a branch… took a wander in my mind to the edge of my thoughts and leaped off and found myself alone in the forest nestled up against a tree… took a song from the archives with me… sat with the words dripping from me… whistled the tune over and over inside my head… got down from my horse and let the river run… sitting upon the pond stones in hand… sending ripples across… hey look at the horizon and remember that tomorrow is another day… the what came before is gone forever… there is know way to go back and only today and tomorrow to deal with… all such wonders as there are apply to me as well as to anyone else… so says the world… so says the passing of time… took a stroll along the wild side roads and came upon a stone and sat there for a spell dreaming… perhaps the dream is the reality and the reality is butt a dream… so it goes that what you least expect turns out to be what is to be while what you expected most turns out to be an elusive dream…

The winding road of time stops for a spell in the absence of motion… a pendulum swings low to the voice of song… a slithering hope of justice… a drip in the drop of a pan… a sweet ember burns… a reminder of the sweet scent of memories best left as memories…

The guardian stands in contrast to our ideas or concepts of whom they are and should be… an image rendered by the light or by the forest or the world around us… we believe and we hear… for truly believing allows for doors to open inside our mind where suddenly we come into contact face to face with a hand resting upon our shoulder or nudge in a direction… it is what we believe wrapped in a shroud of mystery we listen and we hear the comforting words… the power of the hand upon us… the gentle and not so gentle push to move when we should… the notion of the leap and the soft landing… so we sit and listen and see the face of an angel… the face of trips our imagination… or one that pushes us to be… the guardian stands in the folds of the leaves… a silent sentinel… wrapped in our surroundings… perhaps for some we are guardians… we are the voices that trip their imagination… comfort their hearts… makes their soul’s leap with anticipation… perhaps for each of us we are a sentinel in a chain guarding one while we are watched over by another… is it not a worthy service to be the some one who watches over another… do we not all wish to have some one to watch over us… to provide the steps to our dance… the thread to our tapestry… the warm embrace on our cold night… so I wander in the woods for a time and find a hand that leads me on… and we sit and share the language of time… and in the midst of all of this we find we learn… we teach… we watch over and are watched over… and we wonder about the guardians that smile from the midst… the swirling tapestry wraps a song along a single thread and she whispers to the silent sentinels always diligent… ready to cross swords… to protect and to serve our greater purpose…

or this one…

So stands the guardian… unnoticed in the recesses of shadowed light… so stands the sentinel a quiet stone resting upon the pedestal… so stands a reminder of who we are and where we have come from… so stands an image of the past… the present and the future of our time… so stands the angel whose image we admire in contrast to the guardian who never rests butt is invisible to our eyes…

Or perhaps this one…

He stood a step away… a leap of faith from her hand… a silent chasm of separation… an angel emblazoned upon his heart… a task embraced from a long time ago… in the shadows one stands… a constant eye toward the steps before with an eye for the past from whence one has ridden…

or maybe this one…

An angel sits in stone… a captured idea once free to roam… she whispers from her heights wrapped in a ray of light… an illusion of tempered stone washed and polished by time… she sits in repose waiting patiently for the rhyme that will set her free once more to fly…

An angel sits upon a stone… a captured old ideal resting in his heart… he watches from the shadows the passing of the time… an old idea nestled in his mind all polished and washed from the ages past… he sits aware of the path of the steps and where they will lead and he waits just the same… some lives just need that touch… that nudge to move them…

A song stirs the embers… a memory wrapped in the fabric tightens to the soul… a sleep encouraged… a dream washed over the stones… a swim in the cold waters to drown the thoughts that linger on ones lips… and we speak them and they seem to linger a long time in the air before fading onto silence… she smiles… a wink in her eyes twinkling… is that a yes… possibly for another time… the drink warms the heart and lets go the thought to drift away… close your eyes and dream… for all things are possible there…

Over time we become either enamored by the naked expression of immune to it… to me the thought should be hints to allow for the imagination to fill in the blanks enough so ones interest is kept on edge… the edgier the better… one has to anticipate such things so they see past the reality to the imagined… perfect as we know does not exist… it is what is perfect one for the other… that is what makes things perfect… as for those who are willing to knot look in the mirror and just strut I some times wish to bring along one just so I can thrust it in front and ask… do you take a look before leaving home? I wonder what their answers would be…

Changes as here and they are there… the only constant is change in the world… all things are variable by their nature… small incremental changes turn to a large leap over time… wrapped against the chill we shoulder the silence in a silence of our own… we build our bridges and walls… our means to defend the castle… in time we tour the edges of the folds and find any peace of the fabric resonates in a consistent pattern… if we have butt a thread we have the entire entity… so hold on to the threads that pleases you and smile for the weather while still cool and wet with rain is changing toward a more delightful possibility…

It takes a real man to dress the part in a Shakespeare play… some of us just don’t fit properly into tights and hose… some do… knot me of course… not for a very long time and I suspect I never would have attempted it in my shy filled youth… the closest I ever came to being onstage was cleaning it up before and after… the stage hands stuff was close enough for me… I preferred the behind the scenes world to the bright lights and the big city… some can do the prance and the dance and be one with the music on a stage I am not one of those… my one times are private and very intimate… I am in awe of those who can exist outside themselves…

The between times hold so much of each in them… promise… potential… the closing of one the opening of another… a means to turn the page… to close off so as to begin once more… a time to put down the one and pick up another… a slow slip of time over the edge into the great abyss of the past… sunrise… sunset… the inching before dawn… the slip of twilight… the opening of the imagination… so much of the world exists in light and dark… yet the wonders all dance in the shimmering light of dawn and the fading light of twilight…

The day is anchored in measures of time… time to get up… to eat… to work… to pray… to read… to enjoy… to just be… to walk out… to get some thing done… to wander aimlessly… or it can be measured in accomplishments… or in degrees… or perhaps it can be measured in the minutes we share… the hours we sleep… the seconds we scatter like so many seeds… however we measure it… it is a day in our life…

Time is told by the need… time to rise… we have slept enough… time to eat… we are hungry… time to begin the day… time to find a slip of paper to write a note… to draw a picture… all these are needs we have in our selves… needs draw us through the day… the home has it needs… the property its… each child theirs… each of us takes their turn at the needs of self and others and we share the solitude and the company… as for the animals about and around… they are creatures of habits… they get used to the routines we follow and they mimic them…

The world is filled with teenagers be they in the right body type or knot… we never truly grow older in mind then what we were in some teenage ideal… we may age on the exterior… butt the interior still is that youthful spirit… time and experience may shake the idealist out of us… butt the idealist still dwells within the folds of our being… so yes we are teenagers with all the angst and self control of a pendulum swinging back and forth… the world’s chaos is caused by one pressing their thumb down upon another for know good reason and the other pushing back…

The grass is greener on the next pasture… life was so much better for the last generation… of perhaps the one before that or perhaps it will be for the next one after us… history tells us that each generation had its mountains to climb… its series of obstacles to overcome in the course of time… so perhaps it was greener… or the world was rounder then or larger for the most part… our needs are for constant instant information… we like to know immediately… we have know patience to wait for a moment… we want what we want when we want it… selfish,,, childish… teenager was it… certainly we do fit that suit…

I drift off in silence toward the stream… a mental exercise perhaps to just let go… to settle on another’s choice and allow the ways to part… the paths diverge as they should… some times the divergence is a necessity for proper growth… we have all felt the tight sensation of being held back… cautioned… that we struggled to free ourselves from the ties that bound us… once free we may have come to realize that it was not so much the other wanting to hold us as our need within to break free… all growth requires a step that takes us away from the teacher to stand upon our own feet and become the teachers… and suddenly the perspective changes… the grass is different from this side of the aisle…

Stripped of the cloth the journey takes a different step… aside the avenue rests an alternative way… all avenues have ways about them… all highways and byways have alternative steps we could manage to enable us to reach the same objective… many roads to the same end… many streets with similar names ending in different places only to be found in circles… we play at the harp… the strings of heart… pulled or plucked they sing when we come into contact with a similar soul… all the same we are so uniquely different… and yet so very much in tune with the all that is the same… we push and we pull… we wish to stand fixed in the face of the mounting waves… the one that lets go drifts to another place to play… while the resistance force meets the immovable object and some thing has to give…

One takes the road they are on and moves… we can shift horses in the middle of a stream butt then we may get wet… the safety of routine captivates the mind… we love what is the same… familiar to us… the road we have traveled for all time is so accepting of are feet that we pass by the challenges of other ways… every so often life has to push us off the comfortable road so we can find ourselves… for we are not the routine as much as the challenge required to overcome the chasms in the road…

A certain twist to the field distracts me… I am not one to consider the host of others… a single line forms to the right… always to the right I lean… conservative… liberal… moderate… to the right… the left is an alternative that has not liberated anyone… slave to one ideal or another we become trapped in the threads we cast aside… there is no singular ideal that is best… the combination of is what allows for a balanced on keel ship… the idea that one can live on the back of another does not bode well over time… family is one thing and even that strains the muscles… the die is cast… it tumbles and rolls and comes to a stop showing numbers… the combinations have meaning… slowly the tumblers turn over and over… a slip of the die and the direction turns toward home… we lose the balance and go all in at times that is a reckless encounter… at others it is a necessary response to the situation we find at hand…

Chilled is the temperature… rain… dreary colors to the horizon… a promise of what is to come… spring time is all about wet and soaking rains to feed the earth for flowers and plants and all other assorted things that we grow in the earth… perhaps this day we will get to smell the roses… or on my case perhaps today we will get to repair the fence blown over by the cold wind and rain before this weekend… more than likely this chore will remain a fixture for my weekend…

The wonders of nature are in the news once more as twisting winds blew across turning neatly planted rows of homes over and around and in some cases wiping the earth clean of any structures… so the finger of Godde it is said… I wish to avoid knowing that from a more intimate point of view… some things we can’t hide from butt others… I will take the snow and the cold in difference to the twisting winds… as infrequent as the snows are those winds are becoming more consistent… we are in one of those tumbling cycles where every witch way you turn another storm is cast into the mix… one has to wonder about the end of times when one after another we feel the earth move beneath our feet and the winds howl at us…

Moments ebb and flow… times ebb and flow… natural occurrences in the dark ebb and flow… life itself ebbs and flows… the test of our patience is in the ebbs and the flows… the far… far away and the near at hand seem at odds… the past in all ways has a smoother surface to it… while the future is a mountain we have yet to climb… so as we sit upon the proverbial stone and stare off into the far… far away in directions not of the same hemisphere we cross wires or eyes some where in the great someplace of life… patience is a necessary quality to have… there were points where the flow had to be drained off… so now as we wander in the drier less soaked places in time we may find that we long for the monsoons or the rainforest downpours butt yet we are coloring those moments with a wistful eye… the deluge will come again… these turns are cyclic and when we stay the course we come out knowing that one can depend on the shoulder of the other… in good times and in slower times… the fair weather sort we are not… we know the courses are not always smooth passages that are open to the slight of hand… some passages take great amounts of effort… and while I am at a loss of words of late… I have not stopped talking in turn… if you listen you can probably hear the whisper of my voice…

A trip down the old memory lane… a recharge of the spirit… some how we can be young again if only the world would allow us to be… perhaps we should say if only we allowed ourselves to be… some things never change… those of the inner hue never seem to grow old or to wither with time… butt we do so get lost in the sauce so to speak at times… the flow of the world around us… the need to be all grown up and to deal with the cruel nature of life that happens… a good long song… a memory stashed away with the t-shirts and cut off jeans… and yet we can still be foolish and wild and skinny dip in the raging river of time…

We talk some times to get to the true words that are inside… it takes a bit of talking to finally grasp hold of the ones we wish to expose… it is some what like foreplay… if you jump right into it… well it can be brilliant… butt not always… some slow meandering is essential to the rhythm we wish to expose… and be exposed to… so we wander in this way and that until we find a spot to rest and elicit the tempo and test it against the responses and the vibrations we are in tuned with… and so we wander a bit more until we find the a note in unison with our own…

There is a thought that when one is in the hands of time to make time stand still all pone need do is stop… there is the saying that time waits for know man butt time does stand still every once in a while… when we meet certain people… when a moment is unique or some what special we use the term time stood still… it is not that time stood still at all just our perception of time slowed down to a crawl such that we could enjoy every slice… every sliver of time that we had… it reminds me of the perceptions of time… waiting is time slowed to the extreme… waiting at the bank or in a line is a kin to watching time move is super slow motion… one tick lasts an hour… a century of time exists in each move of the second hand… conversely when we are enjoying ourselves times speeds up and is over in the snap of a finger… in reality time has not slowed or sped up at all… just our perception of time has changed… so perhaps we should learn to slow down the fun times… and speed up the times where we are less inclined to wish a repeat… if we think of time as seconds and split that in half… and in half again… and then again… we begin to slice away at the concept of motion… all time is… is motion… time is a means by witch we lay a graph across a day and plot the course… it is nothing more than a means to measure progress… Godde did not invent time… Godde created light and dark… time itself… humans devised time to explain where we were… where we are and where we are heading towards… we define those ranges in our minds and to one another in the perception of time… so slowing time down is all about using the mind to step in between the slices we carve in time… milliseconds… nanoseconds… all descriptions of slices of time… to use time effectively all we need do is slice it up in the proper proportions…

Age and experience allow us to see Godde in the everyday… the mundane… the spirit of all things… to sort it out takes a bit of time for time is the precious gem we all have in varying degrees… some more… others less… and yet all in the true measure of what they require… our rituals are made so we can find a pathway to what we already have… have had and will always have… rituals are about control… the more rigid the ritual… the stronger the hold… as for the simple wonder of being who we are… there is a true pleasure in that… young as they are our children have yet to find out their true self… they are unaware of the wonder of a full moon glowing in the night sky… a wondrous spring night that sweet scent of promise in the air… their youth confines them and their hormones distract them… they see the beauty butt fail to see the beauty… tears some times are such beautiful indications of a person indulging the moment they are allowed…

We never do wander far from the Godde that illuminates us when we are true to ourselves… we do when we push aside that peace inside us… the history of the world is filled with illustrations of the cruelty of man to man to know that some manage to push Godde to the extreme corner… makes me wonder could Godde still love them… this is not a concept I am comfortable with… it reminds me of the story of a serial killer being put to death and a reporter who was a witness… he noticed one person only one to shed a tear… who could love such a person was his thought and after it was over he approached the person… and in the course of the conversation began to understand that a peace of their life was not their entire life… it was not all they were… it would be what most remembered… butt even through all of that some one could get beyond what they did and love the soul… that is the love of a parent… and is Godde not a parent to us…

The sun rises… sets… slices of time fall hither and yon… a puzzle comes together is a fabric or tapestry setting… we peace… we organize… we arrange our days according to certain plans… so many we have how do we decide witch ones to put into memory and witch ones to allow to fold one over the other into the just so many daze… we create a matrix of sorting… a labyrinth of possibilities categories… lines of tradition and ritual… and from all of this we remember days that have time standing still in them…

We are creatures of light… we envy it as well as desire it… one can say we lust for the light… it is knot a secret that we wish to bathe in the light when we have the chances to do so… yet too much light is not a good thing… too much light eliminates the lines and throws all into an abyss… a sheer drop off the edge and into the atmosphere of time… not all is light… nor dark… the wondrous things of earth and life are of the fringes or places where the transition comes… dark to light… light to dark… all to their nests to sleep perchance to dream…

The idea of falling wraps me intently in the folds of a tent… a light fire burns in the mind… an escape perhaps to run wild in the forest for a time… some music taps at the soul… can’t stay away… it is the cheesecake thing… all those things I should not have come to dance about me to tease me… a pull towards my easier side… I slipped into the story uninvited and became the central character of my own making… suddenly we are dancing… and the lights are going down… waking on the other side of the rain pouring down in between… a sheet of sleet and frozen drops freezing the ice and washing away the heat… a bullet hits dead center perfect… pulled in the rain dusts to drizzle and then to a mist of mystery… water draining down…

The story opens… a strike… a ball… a stop in the play… a restart… a failed coupling… a sit in amongst the stones and still… waiting for the ride to get on… a try and a stop… another start… a progression… painful… pane full of the ride wandering by and suddenly we are beautifully in sync with the art of the moment… look at the art it is beautiful… the art just recently we could not even see becomes the center of the moment we are within… it all switches in the moment of our awareness of the simple wonder of the moment… take the time to know it and it will reimburse you a thousand folds…

Crumpets… English muffins… all those nooks and crannies to spread butter in… best toasted to a nice wondrous temperature and then slathered with butter … one should eat them with abandon…

A camel is a committees idea of a horse… I thought that was a zebra… could not decide what color… so we stripped it… compromise in action… or a mule… is there anything as stubborn… while camels are unique they spit… I like that… animals should spit… so much of evolution is really interesting… so she falls in love and dives in… comes up for air and suddenly realizes the ocean is deeper… so perhaps one should know where one begins and the other ends… butt life is like that some times… we get so into and about we forget where the one and the other is in contrast to the couple… and so it goes with life… where do I begin…

I often let the lost of the meaning slip between my hands to my toes and about the ladder that says go up… go down… walk along… walk together… walk in separate equal revolutions… found myself on the way home nestled in the last time from the last night… and I never met anyone quite like this before and still it reminds me of the forest… a door in the wilderness spring… an echo or silence chosen for the weakness… a shoulder cried upon… so I walk along alone in the passage of souls a witness to the journey of others… a passenger of sorts… a slip on the ocean awaits me… a rising sun perhaps a setting moon… I am twisted in the wind blowing full hard to home… so grant the last first and the first last… the middle never alters it is always the middle… the spider crawls upon the book… sits and spins a web… entrapped I am by the silk… an ocean of water drips slowly onto the mind… a figment of time sliced in unequal measures… some get more others less… life is that unfair… nothing is perfect… just works out that way… a slip… a slide… spin a web… crush my hands… put the pen down and let a voice ring out… the pen is mightier than the sword… butt there are times when the sword must be utilize otherwise we might lose the ability to weld it…

We know by the worth we apply to the thought… it is the value we place upon the moments we create that give them value to us… it is true that some one else may not value them the same… that does not lessen the color we have applied to them… a dream our dream is our dream or your dream or my dream… the magic is in the dance of the dreams in the colors of any one single drop of imagination…