Forced vaccinations have been presented as in high precedence and not in conflict with freedom.
A forced vaccine makes sense when it stops the spread of a deadly disease.
When it doesn’t, one is left wondering what’s behind the motive.
Sweat beads off seemingly every pore as he
Shakily lights the flame
Which transforms $10 powder
To liquid gold.
For a moment he
watches bubbles.
A sorrowful sigh escapes
But is snatched away by great anticipation.
Soon things will be right again.
He dips the tip into his dream
Pulling its promise in standby
Extracts.
Taps bubbles.
He sets the rocket aside.
Exchanges spoon for rubber
And ties off his arm
Pumps fist, searching
To find the lucky vein –
The one giving respite
From life’s woes.
The fiery touch
Fingers his soul
And trashes his body
Takes his mind.
He waits.
Nods.
Wakes,
Thinking of his next fix.
This is his life.
He wants more. dreams
But remains
Trapped.
That first trip
Overtaken
By a terrorist.
Tick tock.
A sound in my mind
as I think about
how fast
The minutes whirr.
But there is no more
Tick tock.
Time silently moves.
A series of lines
blend from one number
to the next.
Traveling
through the gaps
of work and play
and sleep.
Quicker each day.
Shimmering, glimmering, twinkling cool
Cool liquid
Warm light
Lighting, shining, brightly kind.
Fluid, flowing, finding crooks.
Crooks and cracks
Nooks and fracks
Filling, feeding, spatial treads.
Water, light, serene joy
Watching quiet
Hearing sight
Peaceful, hopeful, whispers.
I adhere to the concept that everything happens for a reason. I am unconvinced that things just happen randomly. This idea not only explains that I do not know everything, but it also grants me peace in circumstances beyond my control. I consider this to be a life motto.
Do you have a life motto? How does it guide your life?
For example, I do not have a lot of stress in my life because I know that whatever is happening is part of a greater scheme than I can see, so I just do what I can in the midst of the chaos of the moment.
The old adage comes into play here – If a tree falls in the forest does it make a sound if no one hears it. If I don’t know what the purpose of the situation does it render it less relevant? For me, as the adage, the sound happens whether I hear it or not. The situation’s purpose happens whether I know it or not, whether its resolution affects me or not.
This can certainly be frustrating if I let it, but what’s the point in that?
I embrace the zen of peace in all circumstances.
Let the events unfold.
Assess the situation.
Question, what can I do?
Do, what I can.
Then, let the world evolve as it is destined to do.
Today, this is increasingly difficult, as we are presented with so many unknowns that have serious ramifications in a global arena. Covid 19 spread, global warming, political and civil unrest. It seems as though everything is crashing down around us, and we do not see a crack in the walls that are stretching further up and out.
What’s the purpose of all this unrest? What’s the end-game?
When I focus on the outcome, I find conflict with the ‘zenattude’ that I have cultivated, and worry sets in. This inner chaos sets my Type A tendencies into overdrive, and I set about positioning the importance of my involvement.
I question this hamster wheel thinking, and circular, yet pointless activity. This brings me back to me.
If I have done what I can to do my part as my conscience compels, I am complete in my participation, and I can return to giving it back to its purpose and rediscover the balm.
I choose peace over pointless productivity.
The haves and the have nots are at war again. It seems like this war is never ending, and it is justified in its persistence.
Each side has its argument to support why their ideas are the right one. The haves have earned the right to have. I have because I have worked for what I have. Or I have because someone has worked for what I have. Or even I have because I was lucky.
There’s the rub because the have-nots are always trying to find the golden vein in the mountain of presentation.
The have-nots look for what is found in a rainbow of irrational confluence. A place where the rainbow ends into a treasure trove just waiting for the bounty to be had. I proud discovery waiting to be had that leads to a life others will envy, and they too will then be able to chase the elusive road of prosperous contentment.
But until that day arrives there is nothing to do but hate. Hate what hasn’t been attained. Hate the ones who have the things that should rightfully belong to all. It just isn’t fair that others should have so much and many more should have so little.
I hate that today’s powerful elite can do whatever they want, while there are those who cannot afford cable. I hate that those with money can spend more on a pair of shoes that I can on rent. It’s just not fair that I am stuck with paying full price for everything and they are given (often very expensive) “gifts” that are not even taxable.
I have heard since birth “It takes money to make money” and there is truth to that. One cannot start a business without money – sometimes a lot, sometimes a little, but it takes money to start a business. It takes money to go to school. If you’ve got money, you don’t keep school in your budget for the rest of your life (or what feels like it) and you can put that education to good use – or not, which seems even less fair. If you’ve got money the world is smaller. The wealthy can go and do the things they want to without sacrifice. These days, a lot of money even gets you to outer space.
The have-nots find other ways to get to outer space, finding places and ways to forget the dreams that amass in the depths of those who cannot fulfill their ideas on a whim. Perhaps it’s in the comfort of food or the multi-color gems of the liquor bottle that are as balm to souls that dream of something more. Perhaps it’s the schemes of newness on the horizon with which the dollar store shopper delights, or the vortex of Amazon gift arrival. Perhaps it’s the hamster wheel of the illusional success in achievement sustained only by the weight of a new dream.
The haves do not understand what it is like to have an unattainable world that is forever on the horizon of the mind. The one thing that would change it all. It is the thing which drives masses of people to continue in their mundane existence. It is what keeps society moving forward. What would the world look like if there wasn’t this drive for a better future?
The utopia we strive for where everyone is the same. Everyone does only the job that they want. Who would choose to keep the streets clean? Who would do those jobs that no one wants to do? This is something I’ve been thinking about.
The answer is machines. Right?
Robots could do the dirty work. Robots to pick up trash, work in fast-food, stock the grocery store, fix the cars, prepare bodies for burial and cremation, clean up just about anything you can think of. That’s a lot of work now not needed to be done by humans. Can you imagine all the errands that you do daily, weekly being done by mechanical people, and what would the people be doing?
Would all the people be traveling around the globe visiting the robot slaves of other countries in their private jets and luxury yachts? Would we be swimming in our gigantic pools and eating food prepared by the machines in our command? Would we be writing books and creating art and music for the masses to enjoy in our unending leisure? Would this be a kind of heaven on earth?
Or would we all be grounded, with no one going anywhere or doing anything. Would we be slaves to the authorities in charge of making sure that everything is evenly distributed? Would there be people who still dreamed of having something more than what others have? Would there be jealousies and envious beings who would find a new source to hate?
We search for perfection. We want what we want. Would that change because someone doesn’t have mass amounts of wealth to envy? Would we be capable of existing in a mind of contentment in the leveling of the playing field? Or would the talent of one be taken as unfair if there was another who excelled in an area where I believe that I should excel in.
These are a lot of questions that go through my mind as I watch the world demand what they think should be “theirs.” There is so much discontent – and much of it valid. I watch Cuba searching for a better life, where they were offered the utopia of its generation. I hear Venezuelan’s wax poetically on how their country was before the dream of equality was shone in their eyes. I hear the cries of the American public searching for the dream of public funding, to even the score, to take what has been working and throw it away. There is no utopia. There is no perfect unity. There is only the goal to get along, to be a fully functioning body of people with a common goal. Without this, there is the dream that once was – the dream that many people in other countries strive to reach, and the owners have spit upon.
Today marks the birthdays of two creative geniuses: Ernest Hemingway and Robin Williams.
Does anyone disagree??
Robin Williams made people laugh with his boundless energy in exposition, both verbally and physically. He could touch the heart of the viewer in ways that few can. Williams, from Chicago, Illinois, had only recently turned 63 when he decided his time was up.
Ernest Hemingway could pull you into his staccato rabbit hole of storytelling, reaching the common man and the literary scholar with his words. Hemingway, from a small town outside Chicago, was almost 62 when he departed.
These parallels are a bit uncanny. Was it the Chicago connection? Was it the age of no return? Seriously, if Hemingway had waited a couple weeks, he would have been 62, and if Williams had not waited, he would have been 62. Yeah, I know it’s a stretch, but honestly, I was surprised when I saw how much the two had in common.
Both were craftsmen who put their heart and soul into their purpose.
Both were beloved by their public.
But both must have been hurting greatly inside.
Because Both pulled the plug on their greatness.
Perhaps this is why their work still resonates, and will continue to do so.
We do miss you both, and what more you could have contributed to the world.
In honor of Hemingway, I will go for a swim after writing this, and to Williams and you, I bid, nanoo, nanoo.
I was listening to Jen Psaki give an update; not watching her – just listening, and I noticed that I was having a hard time following what she was saying.
Not being too interested, I started to zone her out, sort of like when I ‘watch’ baseball. When the crowd is roused my attention is too.
What my unconscious started to pick up on was that I was listening a new language. It was a sort of pig-Latin (is that ok to say now, I never know). She was saying something like, “We um have not uh had the chance uh um to um talk to um each other about uh where we uh are um going to uh make uh a um a decision.”
See what I mean? Maybe it’s the new um-Latin.
My ears perked up, and I was amazed at how many filler words came out of her. She is in desperate need of Toastmasters (or conviction behind her words – I’m still deciding).
I thought, is it me? Am I the only one who notices this? So I consult the all-knowing Google. I am not alone. There were many commentaries, but my favorite was a YouTube video by Don’t Walk, Run! Productions, where they edited one press conference of about 30 minutes, and she said um, uh, etc. 356 times. Amazing!
Here’s the link for the video. You have to see it!
https://youtu.be/Yx4QYFs97WQ
Well, I know she’s just doing the best she can, but I’m thinking a little Saki before showtime might help with focus. Or maybe just less coffee.
Somewhere along the line, I always get off course. I write my to do list. I am full of optimistic expectation at the start of each week. It is Monday, and I am ready to take on all the dreams of the week ahead. This is the moment that I live for, each Sunday.
The sun peeps through the curtains that shade my eyes, fresh and bright. I roll up the curtains and breath in deeply, as my mind plays the tune of the day. Today it is “The Battle Belongs to You,” and I feel ready to greet my Monday friend. Hello!
But my eyes have other plans, they are not so happy at the intrusion of the brightness and they loosen the ties that keep the curtains up. But they cannot escape the light that has coaxed their inertia. Determined they fight for their right to keep shut.
The curtains may have ironed their way to keeping the day at bay, but the mind has begun churning; the gears have cranked up and begun their morning ritual. Chug, chug, chug… to-do-list, to-do-list, to-do-list. The eyes still wanting to win the battle, call in the reserves of the deepest parts of the mind. They enlist their military buddies who are in the right vicinity to win, at Hippocampus. At camp Hippocampus, the residents are most focused on avoiding the realities of those on the Frontal lines, so the cahoots begin. To-do-list loses steam as the mind track takes up the lull of quietude. The eyes ecstatic at the foretelling grip of awareness loosens its hold on their unfolding. It seems the battle is won – until I, on the precipice, falling — giving in to enemies of the day, am jolted awake by the front lines. Defeated the curtains open and submit to mornings demands.
With the next order of business in mind, and a greeting, my feet turn aside the clouds that surround the nights shackles. In rote, they set about doing the dance expected of them at such an hour. Shuffling into the bathroom, where the bladder is relieved, teeth are shined, and face is freshened. They then depart to order the clouds, unblind the windows, and shod themselves in anticipation of the work that is to come.
The feet are quite enterprising, but the routine doesn’t require too much direction. They know what they are to do, but sometimes a step is missed, and then the feet are lost. The grove they are used to trodding gets diverted and things get askew. They ask for help. Help us frontal lines, we cannot remember where we are supposed to be because we cannot remember what we forgot. Such is the way of the rigid trekker.
Once they get back on track, thanks to the help of master pc, the morning gets going in full swing. No more protests from the eyes or those in Camp Hippocampus.
I make the coffee; what flavor will it be today? I think Hazelnut sounds good. While sipping on the warm, golden liquid, my body sighs with contentment. I sit in the rising east, basking in the early light, reading. It is my time with God, and the eyes are grateful for being summoned out of hiding.
Ah, this is going to be a good week. The freshest of Mondays. The beginning of a new week, with new possibilities and successes to gain. It’s 8:30 am.
At 1:00 pm. The brain, which has been imparting information since 9:00, is having synaptic meltdown, and the mouth is complaining to the brain, in commiseration, at their perilous overuse. How the body with which it is attached is cruel and has beat them down, they resist the call to continue in the morning’s freshest plans.
Has it really been only five hours ago that we, all of us, were ready to take on everything?
The frontal lines begin working on a strategy: eat something, rest and relax for a bit, regroup, and begin again refreshed.
The parts work together to implement the plan. Food is cooked and eaten. Mindless television is recruited for rest and relaxation. New to-do timing is exacted, and just as the plan is to be set in motion, eyes send a note to Camp Hippocampus requesting reserves. The mind complies and the curtains become heavy, the brain gets swamped in heavy fog, and the strategy is surrendered.
I will get started on my next project after a nap…
45 minutes later, I awaken, groggy. Disillusioned and demotivated, we struggle to extract the life that was so vigorous in its arrival this morning. It is gone.
A new strategy is needed. We will start again tomorrow. Today, we will succumb to the vacuous nature of the mindless endeavor. The vapidity inherent in the creative vacuum of television.
The evening is held hostage by the news of the world, the affairs of those who exist only in two-dimension, and the wonder of those who use their wiles to get what they want in the medium that impresses them. I remain passive, with ‘tomorrow’ lurking in the shadows, while I am witness to the dreams of others.
At 11:00 pm. My feet do their nightly thing, sort of a reverse of their morning thing. I read a bit of some creative genius (This week it is Madeleine L’Engle) and slowly the eyes find their way in control again.
I sleep. I dream. I wake up. I pee. I sleep. I dream. I wake up.
The curtains roll up. It’s Tuesday, a fresh new day! The eyes struggle for repose, the mind struggles for wakefulness, the feet get rolling in a manner they are accustomed to.
To-do-list, to-do-list, to-do-list.
Work, Eat, Nap, Watch.
The eyes win again.
Wednesday.
Thursday.
Friday. The weekend!
Ah, no expectations. Free to do as I please. Oh, there are some errands to run, chores to do, easy stuff.
Sunday night. Monday morning, a fresh start. So much to do. A new week ahead… let’s get started
The brain takes over the mind.
It rides the rails but produces nothing,
Seems like there’s no one on the train,
But the seats,
And the smells
And the dreams.
Where is this train going?
What is this pen doing?
Chugging down the track.
Hoping for a passenger,
To read.
To see,
And feel.
The bumps on the steel.
The grooves of the seat.
A station to deport your story.
Spilling Marbles 