hindsight over yonder

Deep, deep down...

I'll admit

there is a faltering wish

I hold back from all the shooting stars...

that have befallen before my eyes.

The wish is...

for a long glimpse of perfection.

A very ironic taste now is lodged on a fork.

Quietly vivid,...

a thought floats through that taste.

How is perfection ever captured?

How do you know if something is perfect?

Perfection should hold nothing accountable.

So, now,...

is invisibility a form of perfection somehow?

If anything,

the moment that intertwines

an aging afternoon and a young evening

might just be a step closer to an arm's reach...

towards perfection.

For all the things we know,

the splatter of a penny in a whirlpool

may spell

out

"Perfection might equal the demise of all imperfections."

Zombification

Who knew?

Contentment is like a perfected abyss of gratitude yet contentment that lasts for longer than 3 hours in the same temperature will inevitably wither into scraps of coal. Bits of coal, I say,

because one soon forgets the comfort of the fire in which the coals provided in the beginning

and is ridiculed by the smoke and smothering temperature once the flame becomes mere temperature. Contentment is also a temperate function.

Still, I beg the heavens not to allow my sense of gratitude to dwindle to nil.

But a heinous crime! Yes, nothing but a horrific crime it is to forget the road you have paved up until the moment of possible permanence in such a fleeting emotion as contentment shows its face.

What is it,... is it a deprivation of appreciation for monochromatic bliss? Now this question is going to do nothing but pack a thick-as-heavy-cream syringe of questions. What good is this syringe going to do for anything? Maybe a cup of dark coffee for a drinker who doesn't like it the way he likes his women; black.

Seriously...

I doubt you or I would want to deal with that syringe. So, let's just toss it right here on this shiny, wet pavement. At least it is not oozing blood. It is just heavy cream. When ingested, minor nausea is the worst ailment for a non-allergic consumer.

Anyway, the point is...

Contentment easily makes a person sleepy. Ecstasy is after all not a form of contentment.

Oh, the lessons I learn.

A fine Questionnaire to Self

So, now I need permission to rant?

Permission from myself, even?

What sense is this?

When does one know one's mind is utterly warped?

What good is ranting?

What good is marveling?

Isn't there plenty more good in marveling?

So, bringing a rant on is only emitting a rant?

If clearing a rant is omitting a rant, how does one clear it?

You know, I figure I would get this off my chest.

A rant or not, who would frinklin' notice.

At this point, things feel rather vain...

Ain't jack I can do about it.

As soon as I'm out of the clouds,

I probably will better see how I can mound this nonsense.

Still, hanging I am onto a thread of pure gratitude.

Actually, I probably should just take up baking and cleaning.

Chunag Tzu and a bling of his incredible lighting.

philanthropic_travel.jpg

The fish trap exists because of the fish. Once you've gotten the fish you can forget the trap. The rabbit snare exists because of the rabbit. Once you've gotten the rabbit, you can forget the snare. Words exist because of meaning. Once you've gotten the meaning, you can forget the words. Where can I find a man who has forgotten words so I can talk with him?

~Chuang Tzu

A Glimpse of Recklessness at 16.

Utter freedom. Total bliss. Wavering glee.

Only glee wavered because I did not know what a fuller self really felt like. Only I knew how a blossoming ego felt. You could call it the beginning of a certain sprouting branch from a frailly rooted tree.

"So, I have a surprise for you."

"A new car?!"

"Well, not a new car but it is your car. Curfew will be set. Allowance will be set. Drive carefully."

"Wow...." ideas of wondrous elusion flooded my 16-year-old mind as I envisioned myself being in a box on wheels which appeared to define freedom. No mom. No having-t0-space-out-right-next-to-someone just for a moment of breathable space. No compromising,...well, except with the law. That I would see very shortly after.

Rolling in the driveway with what I thought as extreme poise and style in a little go-cartish Nissan Sentra LX, I was picking up my best friend whom I have known since 1st grade. The front seats sported very primally decorative seat covers. Very flesh-amusing they were especially in the cooler seasons for that they warmed the seats well. In between the seats on the ceiling of the car was a little tube of black light. Black light was a necessary visual supplement on that leg of my journey. Tupac, Madonna, Eazy E, Rage against the Machine, and probably more Tupac commonly accompanied my tape player. It was mid-90's. We didn't really have bargains for CD players then. They did cost way too much. Besides, cassettes were still all over. I did always like it a little bit old-school anyway.

"Ready to go?" I was good as overly ready to run around town and show my Star Trek-loving friend what the rawness of a 16-year-old mind could venture into reality.

"Sure..." she stood there pushing her eyeglasses back in place. It was almost as if she was not excited but I always could put her in gear. I think she liked the rides I went on myself...only for so much. Sometimes she would want in, sometimes she wanted to just tag along for the sights. "Hey, what's wrong?" turning my head towards the window so I would not blow my Newport Lights smoke in her face.

She tried not to peer at me with the building anxiety that was spurring inside of her. There was something bleeding in the wrong color. I like it only blood red not that I was at all fascinated with the sight of blood. Basically, when something is held back, the blood is good as neon yellow or slimy green. Funky. Bad funky. Degrees of funkiness, sure, but why give a tiny seed of bad funkiness a chance even if it is just something you can lightly blow under the rug.

"I'm just nervous..."

"Nervous about what?" I was trying to adjust the radio volume so I could better feel the bass with a gently fuming cigarette in the same hand.

"You amaze me..." she looked at me in the middle of her held breath.

"What, me?" a grin couldn't help but dance all over my face.

"You are driving,....you are also putting your lipstick on not to mention choosing your music in the middle of it all besides lighting a cigarette on the side...all at the same time."

"Yeah, that's called multi-tasking." I was a sweet cake with a pompous icing.

Only if I knew what certain nostalgia would look like then. I would have known better how to select lighting for my memory lane.

Always natural.

Never that ridiculous flash.