Humpday Hooky

Alarm starts to scream 
Awake from your dream
It's your turn to deal..
But first, a quick meal 

Nah, hit the snooze..
Keep dreaming-I choose 
Breakfast? It can wait 
I'd rather be late 

Just ten minutes more
The real world's a bore 
Roll over. Shut eyes.
The second hand flies

Alarm starts to scream 
Awake from your dream
It's your turn to deal..
But first, a quick meal 

No time for the food
I'm not in the mood
I'll shower and shave,
If my hand will behave  

A mind of it's own 
Please leave snooze alone
Can't get it to stop
Hand smashes the top

Alarm starts to scream 
Awake from your dream
It's your turn to deal..
But first, a quick meal

Hot coffee sounds nice
But what is the price?
Not worth all my zzz's..
Few more minutes please

Don't bother the click
You can call in sick 
Stay in bed all day
Oh hip-hip hurray!

Fall

Nature's palette starting to change
No more hot days, isn't it strange?
Green leaves explode in fiery hues 
Fall has come, have you heard the news?

Red and yellow burst through the trees
Cold, dead leaflets, drift on the breeze 
No more sandals on these mornings
Mother Earth shines forth her warnings 

Winter's coming; but Fall is here 
Hot cocoa time..it's drawing near 
Pull on your socks, and toss the tee's
Fall's bringing summer..to it's knees

 

Ego Death

God molecules trapped in blotter
On my finger, need a spotter
Palms sweat, deep breaths, and sticky spit
Last blink and hard gulp, this is it 

Paper hits tongue, then to palate 
Time to use the ego mallet 
Bloodstream floods and neurons explode 
Can't wait to see, what's down this road 

Sit, relax, and enjoy the show 
Things will get bizarre, don't you know?
Floor starts to pulse and walls can breathe
Brain and spirit begin to seethe

One and the same, aren't they all?
The world hails me, I hear it call
Do I answer, or let it ring?
But there is no phone, that's the thing

The room melts, and the ceiling drips 
Have I been.. on too many trips? 
The "om," it pulses, through my core..  
Pulling me to it's furthest shore 

Riding waves in the great abyss
How much longer.. can I take this?
Riding waves in the great abyss
How much longer..can I take this?

Stuck on repeat. No end in sight 
I have gone too far. Oh, the fright 
Time to calm down and turn back 'round 
Ego is dead. Thoroughly drowned. 

 

On the River with “Plato”

A stern breeze rustled through the trees, whisked inland by choppy water. Sunlight glitter rode the white caps towards the shore, as waterfowl fluttered, and sung their morning tunes.  It was early dawn, before the sweltering heat plucked the energy from all living creatures. The shackles and shrouds clanged noisily, as the boat swung to and fro, whinnying to depart. The tiller drifted loosely, as the centerboard was finessed into it’s resting place, dampening the wind-induced swaying. The mainsail was raised, the jib was slouching in the bow, and the lines were cast off and hauled in. A mighty heave against a piling, shoved the small vessel clear of the planks as it lept bow-first into open waters.

The small craft made steady headway towards the mouth of the river. There was not another human soul stirring that morning. The jib was yanked skyward and it filled with plentiful gusts; pulling the vessel with a satisfactory increase in speed. Tails slapped the surface occasionally, as fish pursued their fleeing breakfasts. The banks of the river were ringing with the chirps and hums of insects ushering in a new day. Despite their cacophony, the waterfront cottages remained sleepily unaware. Boats of all sizes dipped slowly to the rhythm of the waves, slung tightly to their wooden placeholders.

This was his favorite time of day. It felt as if he had a head start on the rest of the world. It was as if the entire natural cinema was for his eyes and ears only. All of mother nature’s grandeur began to pulse. He could feel it through his hand, wrapped loosely on the rope-clad tiller. The water sending ripples of energy through the tiller, and deep into his soul. The boat became an extension of himself. Tacking leisurely across the narrow channel, calmly switching seats to maintain balance, his thoughts melted into the rising sun.

The steady breath of wind blew across his exposed skin, kissing it softly as he skimmed briskly upriver. Small fish were schooling in nervous gatherings, coiling to dart away if a threat loomed large. The brackish water glistened with a dark green hue at the surface, which quickly became murky a few feet down. The lack of visibility always plucked the strings of his imagination. Large sharks, and unknown sea creatures could be too close for comfort without his knowledge. This only added to the mystique of his travels on the river.

He had been cruising the watershed, which trickled lazily from the bay, to the marshes in the deepest recesses of the estuary since he could walk. His first excursions took place on kayak, or skiff, with a life jacket strapped to his torso “just in case.” He was entrusted to stay within eyesight of his small house, situated on the sloping hillside above the inlet. After a few years on the water, and as his limbs lengthened, and his joints became more supple, he was granted permission to explore the far reaches of his birthplace.

It was his ultimate release. The worries of school, siblings, friends, and athletics drifted into oblivion as his craft of choice cut smoothly through the rippling currents. It was an escape hatch which could be opened with the pull of a paddle, or the fluffing of a sail. Entering the watery playground, of which worldly matters clung loosely to the banks, washed his mind clean of thoughts churned by society.

As the small sailboat approached the mouth of the bay, the wind intensified, and the foaming crests splashed roughly against the bow. He stayed close to the shore, as the far horizon showed no hints of land. He tucked his feet under the straps, and leaned out hard as the boat angled steeply towards the water. Pulling on the main and jib as he saw fit, the sails were bracing themselves against the relentless pressure. He maneuvered effortlessly, tacking when needed, to ride across the wind. Pure freedom- the only way to describe flying down the shoreline.

The sun had begun its steep ascent into the far reaches of the heavens. The mid-July heat was dissipated by the rapidity with which he was cleaving through the water. The centerboard remained submerged by a narrow margin, allowing the boat to cut the waves like a knife at a sharp angle. He ducked the boom as it swung overhead for another tack, switched sides, and pulled hard on the tiller. The boat veered quickly in the opposite direction as the wind filled the clapping sails.

He was completely present in the moment. The surf lightly salting his skin, the continuous rush of water against the hull, the screaming of seabirds, the smooth ropes in one hand and the stiff tiller in the other. Clouds streaked the sky, but offered little cover from the sun which was now at it’s zenith. The boat streaked steadily toward his favorite island, pocked with driftwood and an abundance of trees.

The island’s intricacies became more apparent as the gap narrowed. The rough tree bark, swaying branches, and green leaves were dancing in unison to the rhythm of the breeze. The jib was hauled down, and the mainsail was at half-mast to decrease speed. The centerboard was pulled up, and the rudder was adjusted to navigate the shallows. He jumped into knee-deep water with a soft landing on smooth sand. The water was not nearly as refreshing as he was expecting.

Famished and thirsty, he pulled the bowline over his shoulder, and brought the boat to a secure resting place on the beach. The waves lapped calmly against the shore, as he secured the bowline to a massive piece of driftwood which was no less than three feet in diameter. He hitched the line to a sturdy branch near the center mass, and was relieved that the tide was going out. His beloved craft, “Plato,” would be safe for the time-being. The white boat had smooth lines,  simple rigging, and was kept delightfully clean. It looked awkwardly out of place as the sand held it rigidly upright.

His throat was parched, and his stomach rippled and groaned to be filled. He had not eaten since before sunrise, and could think of nothing but sustenance. The canvas bag carrying his supplies for the day was removed from amidships, as he swung it over his shoulder and trudged up the sandy bank. He plopped down beneath the cool shade of an evergreen which smelled sweetly of sap. Leaning back against the gnarled bark, he let out a deep breath and slouched lazily into a comfortable position.

He pulled the bag onto his lap, and the feast began. A pair of bananas, an apple, sandwich, container of brown rice, and a slightly melted chocolate chip cookie, were consumed almost as quickly as they were removed from storage. His hunger satisfied, he clasped both hands over his stomach and scanned the scene in front of him. Despite it’s familiarity, it never became less wondrous. The rhythmic stream of waves, the smell of salty air, the cool breeze on his tanned skin, it was all so heavenly.

The food had been a relief, but his thirst was yet to be quenched. He pulled out a metal thermos and unscrewed the tight lid. The cold aluminum prepared him for the sensation that soon came afterwards. He tilted his head back, pressed his lips to the opening and let ice-cold water stream down his throat. The remaining cubes came to the front of the bottle, and filtered the water into his mouth. His overwhelming thirst inclined him to lean back yet even further, as his full mouth trickled water down his cheeks and onto his chest.

The relatively close proximity of his home, made consuming his supplies so brashly of little concern. He could always head back if needed. He tossed the empty thermos back into the bag and scattered the banana skins into the brush. Fatigue swept over him, and he felt like taking a long nap in the shade of the enormous pine. Instead, he pulled out another thermos and his brain snapped to attention. His drink of choice was soon to hit his lips.

The thermos was still hot, and the aroma of coffee wafted on the salty breeze into his waiting nostrils as the container opened. He blew a few breaths into the opening, and sipped the slightly cooled beverage with anticipation. Perfect. Just the right amount of cream, and an excellent blend. The rich taste washed his fatigue away in gradual drags. He took the last few sips, and made sure to get every last drop from the bottom.

A warm, tingling sensation overtook his body as the coffee flushed his system. An even greater appreciation of his surroundings, and an existential ecstasy overtook him. The heightened awareness brought everything into high definition. His brain worked with rapidity, and sucked every bit of information out of the scene that it could. This was punched into overdrive as storm clouds loomed on the horizon, and a cold wind swept over his face.

The approaching clouds turned dark as they crawled down the bay towards the mouth of the river. Thunder clapped and crackled in the distance. Streaks of lightning blitzed downwards. The water was no longer an idyllic haven. He was several miles from home, and the conditions were about to worsen. His mind raced to determine the correct course of action. Race the storm home? Wait it out on the island?

The hesitation and uncertainty pulled knots in his stomach. Each second that passed diminished the possibility of getting home before the storm. Which would be safer? The metal mast would act like a lightning rod. The violent winds and rough seas could capsize his boat. Remaining on the island, meant only the loss of time. He decided to wait out the storm, and began to secure both the boat, and his belongings.

He pulled the boat further onto shore, into the tall grasses and thickets in the interior of the island. He bagged the sails and stowed them away. He lashed the bow and stern between two large trees which he determined could not possibly be uprooted. He grabbed for his canvas bag to bring his supplies further inland, when his heart sank. He was out of supplies. Kicking himself for being so foolish, he wandered inland to seek shelter, as cold drops of rain began to fall.

The thunder boomed, lightning raced in all directions, and the water was whipped into a frenzy. Trees groaned under the strain as they were pushed around by gusts and gales. The wind howled through the branches, and trunks creaked uncomfortably. The sky was filled with dark, swirling clouds. The fast moving storm brought a cold downpour in horizontal sheets of rain. He huddled under a makeshift shelter of branches and small timbers propped against a tree. The thicket of bushes, and the poorly constructed lean-to offered little reprieve from the battering  that the island was taking.

No jacket. No blanket. Couldn’t afford to lose or damage the sails. He tucked his arms inside his short sleeves, and curled his knees into the opening at the bottom. A ball of boy inside a thin shirt, curled underneath a shabby shelter. He shivered as the cold rain found it’s way into his nest. The rain dripped in from the top, and was rushed into the open sides. The conditions were becoming unbearable.

His shirt was soaked, his bare feet turned a pale white, and he was chilled to the bone. He shuddered and shivered, occasionally blowing into his numb hands after shoving them to his mouth through the neck of his sopping-wet shirt. The wind was deafening. It screamed through the thicket as he shut his eyes and continued the waiting game. It had to end soon. The minutes went by so slowly. “This fucking sucks,” is all he could mutter to himself.

The storm’s intensity was peaking. Branches broke and crashed to the forest floor. Debris clattered through the openings between the timber. Sticks and leaves were blended into a whirlwind. The surf crashed against the shore in high breakers. He could hear the mast of “Plato” being roughly massaged by the trees which held it in place: a metallic grating in the distance. He prayed that nothing would happen to his beloved vessel; more worried about “Plato” than himself.

As quickly as it had come, the storm began to pass. The wind was still stirring his surroundings, but the rain had died down, and the thunder claps were now behind him. He pushed off the remaining parts of his shelter and took off his shirt. He wrung it out, slapped it over his shoulder, and made his way back towards “Plato.” The forest looked mangled. There were downed limbs, saplings had been uprooted, and he was thankful that he had not been struck  by such objects.

The wet, grainy sand stuck to his feet, legs, and bathing suit. He was still freezing, and cursed himself for not being more well-prepared. The sky was still overcast, but glowed with the remnants of the afternoon sun. His wish for the cloud cover to break happened almost on command, as rays of sunshine blasted onto his face. The blanket of light draped him in sensational warmth. His body rippled with goosebumps, as he stretched his arms skyward in praise.

He found “Plato” exactly where he had left it. It was still upright, leashed by stern and bow to the trees. He untied the ropes, and pushed the stern to force the bow towards the beach. The boat slid effortlessly down the shallow slope, and splashed into the calming waters. The sun bathed him in heat. He was dry, and his body temperature was returning to normal.

The gulls began to caw and scream overhead, which reassured him that the storm had passed. He hoisted the mainsail, returned the centerboard to it’s slot, pushed a few hard steps at stern, and jumped into the boat as it re-entered the bay. The wind had returned to it’s normal speed, intermittently billowing forceful gusts. He decided not to hoist the jib, and took a slow journey home. The sun was setting as he entered the mouth of the river, and he took time to appreciate the way the light flickered in long sheets across the water’s surface.

The water slapped lazily against the hull, as he slouched forward on the tiller; exhausted from the expedition. He glanced lazily at the river cottages; which still showed no signs of life. Fish exited the water in pursuit of dinner, and sea birds fluttered to and fro. The green riverbanks rustled with the calm breeze, as the sun began it’s final descent. He rounded the bend towards home, and saw the silhouettes of loved ones awaiting his return. A sigh of relief, and the exciting anticipation of being with family washed over him, as “Plato” drifted into the dock.

 

 

 

I Guess

So many experiences to be had. Sights to see. Flavors to taste. Textures to feel. Aromas to smell. Sounds to be heard. More than I could possibly sample in a lifetime. Or even ten lifetimes for that matter. So many places to go. So many people to meet. So many wonders to behold. How can I possibly choose?

Some sensations occur by chance, and others occur by choice. In reality, my brain is making an educated guess as to what is going on. We are all hallucinating constantly, and when our brains agree, we call it “reality.” I stole this concept from a neuroscientist’s TedTalk, but it is a modern discord on Descartes’ infamous statement: “I think, therefore I am.”

We can’t possibly discern what is real, and what is not, with absolute concrete proof. The only thing that I know to be true, is my existence. I exist. Who am “I” though? A compilation of biological makeup and chemical reactions? A soul trapped in a physical sphere? It matters not, and it is up to me to provide meaning to the entire procession.

We are creating our reality as we go. When we truly take advantage of this fact, we see just how much freedom we truly have. We are not constrained by anything but our own self-constructed limitations. Hold your goals in your mind’s eye, take action, and maintain belief. Leap, and the ledge will appear. Your mind will take care of the rest, and more times than not, will make the exact guess you were looking for.

Eternal Recurrence? Evolutionary Coincidence? Both?

Basking in the sands of youth’s hourglass. So many grains. Impossible to slip through to the bottom. It will turn over to begin anew. The grains reassembling on the other side of eternal existence. Flipping over and over again, with no end in sight. How long must I be here? Forever?

The eternal recurrence just cannot be true. Too many up’s, and too many down’s. Must I live each moment repeatedly on an infinite spectrum? Blessed and cursed to continue the cycle. Love, pain, waking, sleeping, running, napping, hate, sadness, ecstasy, despair, fear, eating, showering, boredom. All memorable to a certain degree. Must I go through each and every moment without refrain?

Birth-all experiences take place. Death. Birth-same experiences take place. Death. Repeat. Should I be relieved? Is there any way out? Why would I want to discontinue the experience of all of the intricacies that life has to offer. Is all illusory? A curtain called permanently for us to continue the charade? Never to be pulled back, to let us know it’s true form and substance.

There is a queer ring to the symphony of life. Complexity without measure. Simplicity that cannot go unnoticed. All is in perfect balance. Or balanced enough for extended periods of reprieve, I suppose. The unfathomable purpose behind the universe: why does anything exist at all?

Are we spiritual beings trapped in physical bodies on this plane of existence in order to further our understanding of not only ourselves, but of the universe as well? Or is that an optimistic mindset for a short, and brutish existence which is purely biological coincidence? Racking my brain for the answer only produces more questions.