In rubber galoshes the sucking sounds of wet feet trudge effortlessly from puddle to puddle. Joyful laughter bubbles out from young smiling faces. In the light of their twinkling eyes arcane magic flows. A pagan ritual of childish happiness that warms the soul.
What wondrous anarchy that strikes down the burdens of Victorian etiquette.
It’s good to splash mud onto those who think themselves mightier than He who makes the clouds to rain.
I’ve been here before. I have sat in this same dust covered, mildew eaten chair. I have gazed out across this same room with its piles of magazine and newspaper stacks. I have taken pride in the organized rows of books that younger hands once carefully placed upon now collapsing shelves.
My dry blood shot eyes watch as the dust falls. Layer upon layer sediments of time flow down from their unseen creation. Still I sit and watch this world evolve, and I am satisfied.
A game of chess. Each volume and periodical but a piece upon the board. Every mote of dust a single move across this limitless chasm of creation. Alpha and Omega, beginning to end, the Lord plays on.
We are but observers, Watchers who share in the one body. All share in the glory or at least we should. Some walk away or turn a blind eye to the match set out before us. Spoiler alert. God wins with or without your patronage. Your choice is to accept the win or loss.
I am sorry. Distracted by the vastness of reality my mind wanders.
I do love the soapbox, and the ancient sage easily slips into conversation with the limitless unseen voices of this world. Sometimes I forget which one I am talking with or do I mean to?
So how are you doing? I see that you’ve bought yourself a new fancy since last we visited…
Everyone knows they’re never as good as the last one you had. Things are cheaply made so you will have no choice but to get another. The box it was packaged in is often of higher quality. It’s a little bit of the evil this “modern” life tempts us to accept. You should vote with your money and learn to do without. You’d be better off.
Off on another tangent. This world is full of distractions. If you don’t notice different things then what’s the point in smelling another rose. You need something to reference it to.
The Dreamer dreams beneath a turquoise sky. White foam floats as a silky sheet across the sun warmed pillows of sand. The white noise of the wind mixes fluidly with the birds of the air and gentle sounds of the rippling waves.
The Dreamer dreams, day becomes night.
The flash of light and sudden blaring of a horn startled the man in the grey suit into wakefulness. He had drifted off for a second into some partial memory.
With another blast from the asshole behind him the grey man took his foot off the brake and slowly accelerated on the gas. In his heart he knew that what he really wanted was to hit reverse, and turn a small moment of time into an epic spree of self discovery.
“Fucking asshole” muttered the man to himself. “Fucking world of assholes.”
The Sage was having a rather mixed day. He was slipping in and out of the differing realities so quickly he barely had time to let the ink dry between pages. That’s the usual come the first days of spring. Rebirth brings an extra energy to the writing that the long cold winter lacks.
Pat watched as the kids helped set up the shooting line as the other adult volunteers manhandled the oversized targets into position. The gate was placed at the distant far end of the lineup. A slightly pear shaped woman shouted out commands from that location. It was for that reason Pat had placed his chair a good distance further down the field from the other spectators. She was really loud, and she loved blowing that whistle.
“I imagine she wanted to be a life guard as a teen”, Pat said out loud.
“Let’s see if that’s true”, the sage replied to himself. With the practiced flip of the wrist the book before him flipped open.
Never mind what you are thinking because you’d just become confused. The ink stained sheet of parchment that was being was never but the book was, and is for everyone present. That at least until it’s no longer. You see…
Her name is Dottie, or Dorothy depending on which frame of time she thinks of herself. Presently it’s Dot. Just a small spot at the end of a sentence.
Dot took another long blow at her whistle making both the Sage and Pat wince.
“Anyhow”, The Sage continued muttering to himself. “It says here teen Dottie had a strong passion for David Hasselhoff, and some of the others from Baywatch. So it’s a fantasy rather than a desire to actually become a lifeguard.”
With the reading of that knowledge and a slight unseen twitch of a big toe the plain covered manual labelled “Comas, Dots, and Quotation” disappeared. Elsewhere in the vast library a sharp sound of a book upon a falling book could be heard.
From somewhere overhead a disembodied voice spoke, “That ruined the cool factor of what you did”.
The Sage just rolled his eyes.
It has been awhile since our last visit to the Doorman and his doormat.
“Yes, it’s been quite a long time since anyone has come to visit”, the Doorman spoke out
“There’s a reason”, said The Sage, and with that an unseen door clicked closed and locked. “I really must remember to close those passages behind me when I go out.”
Long before I was born Man decided what was wrong and what was right And yet they left in question their reasoning why So came lesser men writing words they called law Still they could not explain The simply stated punishment for those things their words did not like Things like love and freedom their words could not comprehend But still they tried to cage them in And still greater men try to fix what they began Adding lines to words with no end Calling it ethics or calling them morals As long as they themselves did not need to heed the very words we were forced to read So to you I have added this chore I have in good concourse added more Will you understand or will this too become banned
My mind wanders back to the day I sat watching the slow drifting mirages dance across the hot valley floor. Almost as a dream a desert goat appears munching on dry twigs and leaves. I silently watch as she moves on. Just like the petroglyph that lies close beside me of a goat and the blazing sun. Time immortal, I understand what life is about.
I am … The rustling of the autumn leaves which hang tight for now amongst the maple and oak The borderland at the far edge A small stack of stone piled up along the imaginary lines of a map Even the rill filled trickling down between root and rock Sparking gentle reflection beneath half shadows of this wilderness before seeping down Disappearing into the land No one cosmopolitan will understand this simple satisfaction of a season And the acceptance of the passage of life Before we go our way
The soft muzzled cough brought Alice back from being lost in her usual daydreams. It had been months since she had walked freely about the streets. Even longer since the blind run through the dark forests of another world. If this insane self-imposed quarantine had to continue for very much longer, Alice was going to leap back through into the brightly lit hall beyond. Once there she was more than willing to try her luck at some other random doorway. “What then?” muttered the low voice of the sage. Alice could tell he was talking more to himself than to her. Alice replied anyway, “Anywhere but here.”
The look of the old mages floor length beard partially muzzled by a soft swath of mask looked ridiculous. The rope ties for the ears could not reach so Alice had helped him braid the ends into the facial hair just beneath the cheeks. The effect gave the ancient librarian a hipster grunge look. The ink stained hands of the sage had been hard at work rubbing his face again. Either an allergy from the ink that now tinted his nose or from the dreaded Covid virus had been making the elderly gentleman wheeze and cough. He had coughed enough times that Alice had demanded the face covering. The sage grumpily complied just to silence her complaining. The whole request struck him funny since it came from a woman wearing no clothes at all…
The doorman had been busy hanging invisible signs about the hall. Each had been hung so that an individual entering could see them with little effort. He was certain when the complaint department was called he would be found blameless in the spread of such ignorance. Each entry had been clearly marked with a request for a mandatory fourteen day quarantine, and each infectious destination properly marked. The Gatekeeper had even replaced his usual Welcome mat with one that read, “Masks Required”. “Yes”, he thought, “in a reality of inexistence the flattened curve wasn’t going to catch him in another surge, hoax or not.”
Pat sat watching the falling leaves. The peace autumn brought was a welcome change from the dry hot days of summer. Still the thought to lay naked in those golden rays made his pulse quicken with youthful memories.
“The seasons change with the turn of a word,” he whispered to the quiet room. Though there was a large crowd, no one heard him.
Pat was aware that the sentence could be thought of as political, as well as environmental. Opinions were changing. Impatient populations desperate for a miracle. Come November another four years of greatness would be chosen. Hopefully one that meant the destruction of a party founded in racism. If not then things weren’t going to look too good for the home front. It had been bad enough that this man-made virus was unleashed by corrupt policies of the criminal elite in the attempt of a one-world-order coup. To have to suffer under the heavy-handed tactics of the cosmopolitan could lead to an actual armageddon between good and evil…
Pat watched the falling leaves. The beauty was not wasted on him. The mix of yellows and reds drifting down. Sometimes in soft spirals, sometimes in a direct glide. Individual leaves and groups all randomly blowing about with a kaleidoscope of color. None of the meaning was missed. Everything had a purpose; Pat just had his own preference in how things should end.
All this change from the green leaves of one tree. Nothing was ever missed…
To what value do I set the scale With incremental movement a clock measures out moment by moment But that has no existence The vapor and steam of things unseen Passively touch then dissolve And yet you and I watch it’s coming pass us by Left in the wake that follows We reach out as if to hold invisible threads of thought Something unattained in the passage of life And burdened by our own purpose Feel fulfilled or utterly emptied by the experience
My beard is scruffy Growing it longer on the chin while cutting back the rest to stubble Thread worn clothes Constant use has kept shirts permanently stained Unwashed jeans carry damage from friction, time, and thorns Like some art nouveau palette Many vibrant colors of oil, acrylic, and grass, harshly dye the denim Weathered canvas and leather finish the form Twisted shoelaces holding together boot The hard rubber tread walked down to slick smoothness Odd cuts through the edges giving a unique pattern in the mud and grime of the city
It could be the sleepless nights or just constant sickness reddening the eyes The slightest breeze bringing out a tear Blurred vision of advancing age The fingernails are clean Every opportunity taken to maintain that air of godliness One other thing shows through the layers of unkept rubble An even, straight smile Without gap, bend, or chip White tea stained teeth Another glimmer of some other existence
Who would ever know or care to guess The judgemental quick to label Uncaring for their own commandments Incompetent in a lackluster religion They would unknowingly look down upon Jesus, John, and a host of martyrs Confused as to those burdened beneath the cross