Z+B – Part II

3

“There was a story I heard one time,” Bess began, “about a grey-haloed woman who should’ve but shan’t.”

Bess’s favorite story. Again. Bess had some favorite sayings and creative stories, but none as strange and nonsensical as the story of the ‘Doorway Witch.’ She recounted it a lot, and always took the performance very seriously.

“She shat where she shouldn’t, and she ate and she stank. And she pittered and pattered and crook’ed and cranked. She belted and bungled, she jambled and jangled, she shambled and tangled and strangled and sank.” Bess was sing-song with the random tale, and she touched the stone walls and weaver’s goods, and held her hand out to any windchimes on strings as she passed them.

“That grey-haloed woman met the old-dark man, with nothing about him but silence began. They roamed and they wandered, and somewhere strange traveled, across the Medovian land. They wove and they whistled, they picked and they thistled, across the people they met. And the grey-haloed woman would tap each bristle, singing a song until set.”

“Set?”

“Yeah. Set.” Bess glanced back at him over her shoulder. “Like, created? Formed? I think that’s your closest word for it. Ssthet.” She said it slower, fully emphasizing her slight lisp. The story of the grey-haloed woman was a Medoin story, and in the Medov language, so Bess was recounting the translated version.

“Z, it’s too bad you don’t know Medov, you would love it. Isphair fye, Eihler lye,” she smiled back at him. They were descending down the stone staircase to the main fishing port, where they were sure to find some fish monger breakfast.

Whatever it was she had just said, she was probably poking fun at him. “I told you before, I tried years ago,” Zerian shot back. “It’s too ‘jambled.’ It didn’t stick.” He smirked at her, as she glanced behind her.

“Because there’s more meaning to it than you’re used to. The double meaning. It gets lost quite a bit when translated. I bet you would get the tongue if you tried harder. Your name comes from Medov – I would think that counts for something!” Bess took the stairs two at a time. Zerian followed as best he could, trying to keep up. Bess was an infuriatingly energetic morning person.

Then he finally caught and processed the last part of what she said.

“Wait – Bess, what do you mean my name is Medov? Hold up!” He panted a little when they landed at the bottom of the stairs. It was a good distance down to the port from the main city walls. In some areas it was vertical ladders built into the cliffs. Luckily, this stairway didn’t have any. “Bess, you never told me that before!”

“Yeah. ‘Zerian’ – Zeriphyn. Means prophet. Or wait, maybe it’s shitface…” She looked into the sky thinking hard.

Zerian glowered and made to punch her shoulder a bit too hard, but she turned away in time to dodge it and kept walking.

“Yup, definitely shitface,” she said, bouncing ahead.

Zerian exhaled and kept after her. She was too quick for him at this time of day. In the back of his mind, he wondered how he ended up here with her, of all people. Someone so enigmatic and… erratic for him to fully grasp. So unlike anyone else he had known. The wonders of life.

She was pulling a few rings off her belt in payment for some fish in a steamy broth, with something green slopped over the side of the bowl and a poached egg on top.

“So glad you agreed on getting fish, Z. And what a beautiful morning.” She handed him a bowl to sip, and they leaned against the ropes on the pier. The sun was just over the horizon, gleaming on the sea and sparkling on the small waves. Bright orange against the blue. It was heart medicine to be sure. Zerian decided to forget she had just called him shitface.

He mumbled agreement under his breath. The sea was so beautiful at this time of day, and he breathed in the calming salty air. They rarely had time to come down here. Zerian thanked his difficult sleep for the early sun rise view. He remembered vaguely something about falling in his dream. Or being yanked in the dark… Whatever it was, he didn’t feel like he slept at all.

“Mmmm, yes,” he agreed, the warm broth hitting his stomach like a torch. “Good call on the fish. Wish I had slept as well as you.”

“You’re still sleep stumbling?” Bess asked, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand, ignoring the linen cloth that was wrapped around the bowl.

“Yeah. Stumbling. I guess you can call it that. I just can’t stay rested lately. I keep getting yanked around.”

Bess frowned. “Hmm.” She looked out at the horizon and took a loud slurp of her broth.

“What, no wise saying or prescription of toad-sticks that I should be taking?” Zerian was joking, but he instantly regretted the bit about the toad-sticks.

“Sorry Z. Not this time. But it worries me.” She suddenly turned off her playful demeanor and put on her wiser-than-thou hat. “You should see a Reader.” She paused, and they listened to the hustle of the pier. The sea birds crying out above. The thrash of the waves against the jutting rocks.

“Maybe a Reader will give you the toad-sticks you need.” She slurped up the rest of her eggs and brought her bowl back to the merchant, bowing in thanks.

“Sorry about the toad-sticks Bess,” Zerian followed her, trying to finish his bowl while walking. “But do you really think I should seek a Body Reader? That serious?”

“Maybe. It’s been what, a few months now? Or maybe you just need a punch to the face. I can do that if you want.”

She flashed her smile again.

“No thanks,” he shook his head. “So, maybe after we close up today. Or maybe I could take an hour – would it be OK if stepped out midday? I think I know who I can see about it.” Zerian handed his bowl back to the kindly fish merchant, who was now icing some silvery, gigantic fillets while his fish broth bubbled around behind him.

“Sure, that should be fine,” Bess shrugged. They started up the steps back to the city walls. The air was cold and clear, and as he looked back up at the city the sky was still sparked by a few stars. Specks of glitter winking through the dome of blue.

“But I’m telling you Z, you might like the punch to the face better. A little taste of blood is good for you.”

He laughed, but she was probably serious.

Keep going to Part 4

 

Z + B – Part I

2
Zerian grumbled. The hot sunlight was creaking its way into his eyelids, and he couldn’t fight it anymore. He felt so sore and exhausted. He wasn’t sleeping well lately.

He rolled out of his lumpy bed and onto the rug to stretch. He glanced around at his little apartment above the shop. He stood and put his hands at his heart, as he was taught, and said his morning Grace of Thanks for all the living and all the dead.

He could hear Bess playing her flute on her balcony above his. Her apartment was directly above, and just a bit smaller. The tune she was playing was light and jaunty. Intriguing, as she didn’t usually play so happily.

“Good morning Bess,” he called as he pushed aside the woven doorway and onto the balcony.

She quickly stopped playing and he heard some heavy footsteps.

SWOOSH – she had swung herself from the railing above and tumbled onto his balcony, tucking into a roll and landing on her feet. A true nimble gymnast. “Thank goodness you never move your furniture, Z, or I’d be dead.” She was quite solemn – but Zerian had to laugh.

Bess was wearing a leather-tooled top with four strings that tied behind her neck and back. She was always exposing her midriff for all the universe to behold, before being interrupted by her tawny, gauzy leggings and heavy belt that supposedly kept them in place. She was quite a personality, but to Zerian she seemed like a typical portrait of her people, the Medoin, a primarily nomadic nation that took great pride in boldness and barbarity. She flashed him a challenging and charming smile.

Zerian thought he was in love with her once. It was shortly after they first started working together.

He remembered that golden afternoon when he thought he had said all the right witty things, and she smiled back at him. That same charming and challenging smile. He leaned a little closer – edging for a kiss, maybe – hopeful and optimistic as he was. But then time stood still and Bess busted out laughing at him. He was both confused and insulted, and Bess slapped him on the shoulder.

“Z, you had me going – you cannot be serious,” she almost bellowed.

“I – I am. I feel a connection with you Bess,” Zerian stated, almost pleadingly. Then he turned defensive.

“C’mon Bess – are my feelings lying to me? Are you telling me I’m completely wrong? I totally misinterpreted the intentions?” He bristled. He thought this was a sure thing. He felt attracted to her, and her to him – she couldn’t have ignored their chemistry!

“Zerian boy,” she wiped away a tear of laughter, “You are not in love with me.” She stared deep into him. “You are in love with the idea of me. Not the actual me – the idea of me. And you want that for yourself. If you strived to live like I do, and swagger like the Medoin, then you would have figured out that it was never ME. It was always about YOU.”

Zerian remembered that day clearly, and the way it stripped him. He had been incredulous. First of all – he had never wanted to be like Bess. It was arrogant of her to assume something like that.

Or did he?

Also, when did Bess start talking like a fortune-teller or some kind of know-it-all who could see into his soul?

She was always like that – you just refused to see her that way.

But she didn’t know him that well – only a few months. It was all just conjecture.

A few months is enough time, especially if you are a fortune-teller…

Gah! Zerian shook his head and admonished his ridiculous out-of-line thoughts. Back to the present moment. The one where Bess and him were not in love, the one where he definitely didn’t want to be like her, where she was certainly not some wise sage from the temple high, and the one where she was just a good friend.

A great friend, actually.

Bess was still standing before him, waiting patiently for him to gather his foggy morning thoughts (something she did a lot).

“So – ready to open the shop or you want to break your fast first? I’m in the mood for fish.”

She started towards the door without waiting for an answer. Zerian grabbed his shoes and they pounded down the stairs to the street.

Keep going to Part 3

 

In ‘Recognition’ of Happiness

Why do we need to apply conditions to our perceived state of happiness?

Can you be happy always, anytime?

I was confronted with these thoughts recently, and finally saw them for what they were: illusion breakers.

Undoubtedly, the first time I saw a quote or meme that stated something along the lines of “Happiness is Unconditional,” I didn’t get it. A line like this evokes one of those mystic, woo-woo Buddhist concepts, spoken from the master to the pupil. In one ear and out the other. A part of me pipes up: “I’m not a monk, I’m a regular person!”

But more and more these words wormed their way in deep. Wriggled and wrought to my heart. I get them now so much more fully and deeply than I ever expected to. A pleasant surprise.

*

A while back, after the birth of my daughter, I was going through a hard time. I wasn’t depressed per se – I was just despairing a little. Feeling unfulfilled at work. Tight on bills and uncertain of financial security. Unwilling to work harder to make said needed money as I now wanted to be home more and not at the office. Plus, I happened to be blessed with a micro-manager who liked to provoke and push – the very opposite of what I wanted and thought I needed. And to top it all off, a lot of my neuroticisms transferred to my husband, who carried the weight of those residual damages.

I didn’t know what to do.

So for whatever reason, I started writing after hearing a speech at work. And about a year ago, for whatever reason, I felt a pull to blogging. The ‘whys’ of such decisions I still cannot fully articulate, but I went for it.

After starting this writing practice on a regular basis, I finally started seeing and thinking and feeling what this misty concept of ‘unconditional’ really means. About what it means to be happy and satisfied unconditionally.

To have no condition or state of being or thing or person or job or money dictate my state of happiness. And to think this could even happen.

Lately, even with long days at the office, shitty traffic, messy houses and emotional toddlers in my life pretty much every day, I am able to see small moments. To slow down. To breathe.

None of these things or situations cause my unhappiness. Their presence or lack thereof does not determine my state of Being.

For if I tied my happiness to any of these conditions, my happiness has the potential of being yanked away at a moment’s notice. My happiness would be tied to this world, and all the ephemeral things that move in and out of it. My happiness would ultimately be elusive.

These things that we typically tie happiness to – people, jobs, money, health, children, cars, time off, social circles, etc – are things that change in life. They change all the time. They are conditions, and our charge is to exist beyond them.

To BE unconditionally.

So back in my tough days (and they are far from over) I had trouble with this line of thinking. It was so clear to me that money and a more satisfying job would solve everything. Right?

Currently I am still at said job, making the same amount of money, and I am happier than I was.

There might be other reasons for this, but a major part is that I’ve now realized that my happiness isn’t tied to those things. If I based my level of satisfaction on earning more dollars, then my happiness would have the potential to never come – and there is nothing further from the truth.

I have power over my happiness.

*

Everyday, I sit in amazement and stare at my dog sleeping so soundly on the floor at my feet, ears twitching at small noises.

I kiss my daughter’s head with fervor even if she’s screaming and I’m losing my grip on patience.

I think fondly of my husband and his zest for life that sometimes lies buried underneath self-criticism and doubt.

I recognize my ridiculous wallowing and give myself some space and forgiveness.

I am in awe of this life and all it contains in this perfectly imperfect moment.

And that is my happiness. ❤

Writing to be Whole, or Being Whole to Write?

I guess I inadvertently took a blogging hiatus, as it’s been a MONTH since my last post. I didn’t mean to, but life got in the way, and I by no means had any kind of blog ‘schedule’ to speak of.

However, in the past month, I have come to realize just how important writing and time to reflect is in my life for my sanity and self-preservation. I have had very little of this in the past few weeks, and I have been paying the price mentally and physically. But now I know how important it is, and I will fight to keep it at the top of my priority list.

If your cup is full, you can pour it out to everyone freely, knowing it will be refilled. Reflection and writing is how I fill that cup – if I don’t get to do this, then I cannot pour out onto others and give as freely as I want. My psyche and body will pay for it.

That being said…. I don’t want to get ‘attached’ to the idea that without blogging or reflection time that I will be miserable – because to believe that will make it so. Coming at it from this frame of mind, I can more easily let go of expectations and frustrations if I somehow don’t get time one week to do it.

Maybe there is another way of filling your cup?

Maybe it is acknowledging that your cup is filled always, if you just ask and intend for it to be that way?

*

I enjoy poking holes in my rhetoric sometimes, and asking myself if I’m getting too attached or averse to certain ideas or concepts. In the end my writing and reflection is just a timely reminder that ideas, concepts and expectations in life do not define me – I am the one who defines them.

Cheers for more reflection time, if it comes or if it does not. Neither one will necessarily make you happier or more blessed. Neither one will make your cup ‘fuller.’ Because you already are!

Writing and reflection just serve as mechanisms to more readily recognize that fact and catapult it. For example: I don’t think I would have come to that conclusion if I hadn’t started writing this. There’s a catch 22 if I ever saw one!

And such is life; a confusing, circular conundrum. I love it.

In Search of “Authenticity”

Self-expression. Is there any arena, stage or circumstance where self-expression is not wanted? Where it’s a bad thing?

I think the generations that have preceded us might have given a different answer than we would today. And if there are situations where self-expression is unwanted, we are slowly ushering them out – asking ourselves why, poking the great machine of cultural correctness.

But regardless the answer of that question, our society and culture of this day is striving – no, craving – an age of expression. Immaculate, unadulterated self-expression.

No limits, no boxes. Just pure US.

Pure authenticity.

Of course, this has led us to an age of superficial “authenticity” where we believe we are being our true selves, moving with pure self-expression – but in reality we are only reacting to an innately buried self-centeredness and idealized earnestness in the current “creative consultant” culture. One that makes us acutely aware that if our authentic ‘Self’ is not brand-right, palatable, and marketable, then maybe our authenticity needs some tweaks and nudges from the realms of self-promotion.

But true authenticity moves from a place beyond the idea of social or monetary profit, and beyond the idea that ‘Authentic You’ will be accepted and revered by the masses.

I am led to think that true authenticity is throwing everything – EVERY thing – out the window and just sitting down in front of a mirror. True authenticity is a search of knowing oneself.

Isn’t that what we all want? To make sense of ourselves in this crazy web called life? To find out what is going on in that boney skull of ours? What is driving us, moving us, putting the fire in our belly? To answer the penultimate question of our lives: Who am I?

And I’m not sure we can ever know ourselves authentically – our true mind, soul, heart, spirit, ‘Self’, thoughts, life – without introspection and self-expression.

That’s what I do here. I write so that I might know myself. I write so that I may self-express these strange thoughts, elucidate them, percolate them, and let them fly. For inevitably, they stoke the fire for ever more ideas, thoughts, and creative tangents from the ether.

All so that I might answer the question.

The other day I watched some of the new ‘visual album’ from Beyonce, entitled “Lemonade.” I was awestruck, and it surprised me. I do not count myself a fan of Ms. Bey. She is a cultural icon and entertainment powerhouse to be sure, but I’ve never really given her or her music much thought until that moment.

It struck me while watching that I was witnessing a great art of self-expression. The raw feeling, meticulously pried apart emotions. This is her delving into the darkness – diving into the journey of knowing oneself – however deep or shallow, we might never know… But this is what that journey looks like, and what that journey can sound like.

And I thought to myself: this might be the only way we can make sense of that journey and the thoughts, feelings, pain, happiness, and sorrows that inhabit us – the deepest parts of us. That the only way for us to process these disparate things and make them whole in us again is through the arrow of self-expression.

[[I do entertain the possibility that the entirety of “Lemonade,” complete with Jay-Z and poet laureate collaboration, could very well be a carefully constructed corporate ruse to make big bucks with an audience that is foaming at the mouth for authenticity. I recognize that – and would laugh pretty hard at the irony if that is the truth! ]]

But in the name of self-expression, aside from all the corporate greed and cultural trends that might drive our lives, I wish to encourage everyone to go out there and get to know the true You. Reach for it. Ask tough questions. Sit with your own comforting and disquieting gaze. Listen to the small voice – the meek one – that is drowned out by expectation and cultural constructs. The small song of the heart strings.

Some musicians make music for the masses and the money. Some purely for the sake of music. And some make it to reach for something beyond themselves… But most artists, first and foremost, make music – or any art – for themselves. To know themselves, to work through their shit in a glorious cascade of self-expression, to spring forward in perpetual renewal.

And perhaps that is why we flock to those artists who can do this so honestly. We see their raw authenticity, even if we cannot outright recognize it. We crave it. We devour it. We appropriate it. We want it for ourselves so badly. A way to know, a way to answer the question of all questions: Who am I?

I cannot condemn or dismiss any art or artist who is putting forth the effort and diving deep into self-expression. For they are being courageous. They are choosing the inner path. They are exploring that last unknown territory that we all yearn to face, but cannot articulate – yet alone consciously choose.

Introspection, reflection, self-expression. All leading down to the final destination: A never-ending, undefined, loving expanse –  Authentic YOU.

 

“None of us will ever accomplish anything excellent or commanding except when he listens to this whisper which is heard by him alone.”

― Ralph Waldo Emerson

Downed with Despair

1

He strung through the vines. Lost in time and thought. Not really connected to the moment anymore. One step on top of the other, but not in reality.

He was beyond.

A heartache with grief for the life he might have known, for the brother and world that might have opened up to him if they hadn’t given him away.

Or lost him? Or abandoned him? Or…?

His thoughts swirled.

No, they were my parents. There had to be a legitimate reason to give their child away.

He wondered if he was older than him, or younger. He never mentioned his age.

Then a sinister thought struck him.

What if I was stolen?

He stopped moving and stood still. A bird faraway called out to its kin – and he lifted his eyes to find sunlight trickling down through the canopy above. Glittering, but filtered.

Kidnapping could be plausible, but his mother was kind, generous and thoughtful. He felt a nagging conviction that she would never be capable of such a thing. To strip a new mother from her newborn babe for her own selfish gain. Never.

But she lied to you. The dark thoughts crept in again.

She did admit that he was not kin by blood – she never hid that fact. If he was indeed stolen, then she would have covered that bit up. Swept it under the rug to excuse any prying questions.

So why did she tell you your parents were dead when they are surely alive??

Perhaps she wanted to suggest he was not kin – trying hard to be truthful – but still intending to obscure. It seems she wanted to hide any thought or hope that he would go looking for them.

Or, that perhaps they did not want to be found?

Zerian was finding more questions than answers. He suddenly lost ambition to keep going, and instead sat down beneath the nearest tree. He felt anger, rage, sadness and frustration wrapped up and intertwined together. A giant knot. But also… a tiny tinge of love? A small thread of connection to them, his lost parents. The people he thought he would never know, but who now were suddenly …there.

But they went on without you! They have another child, a wonderful life! It is obvious they didn’t want you. They gave you up for a reason!

He suppressed a sob, and doubled over in anger. He gave in and screamed so loud the forest hushed.

A worthless castaway? Is that all he was?

A small voice whispered: No! Of course not!

But it was small, and easily subdued by the rage and sadness. There is no room for hope or love in the face of such fiery revelations. Zerian tensed.

Confrontation is the only way to know. 

But another thought seized him – the most powerful one of all: A hopeless despair.

As quickly as he was angry, all he wanted now was to wallow away. He wanted to forget them all, everyone and everything. He relaxed his head into his knees, and rolled onto his side. The uneven undergrowth cushioning him and cradling his broken-ness. He closed his eyes and started to drift. He had been walking for hours, no food, no water. His limbs were weary, worn down by the adrenaline. His thoughts became less definitive, more soft and diminutive.

He dreamed of them. He called to them. But there was no answer.

Only blackness.

*

It was a horrible dream. A tangle of indecipherable things. It felt sharp and disingenuous. He was alone and exhausted and the floor was pulled out from under him. He was fighting something that wasn’t there. He was arguing with someone who wasn’t there.

He felt a kick to the kidneys and was flung out into a ditch. He waited and waited, but the ditch never came. He was falling into it, but endlessly – forever expecting the thud of the ground. Endless expanse and endless stars engulfing him. He couldn’t move, and his panic grew ever so slowly, like a beloved rose, rising to the morning sun.

Suddenly he started – he had found the ground and awoke with a jolt. He exhaled, out of breath. Then he saw her.

Anava was kneeling beside him.

She was staring at him, eyes strong but glassy, concerned and still. Her lips tightened when he locked eyes with her. First he was baffled that she would be able to find him way out here. Then he felt immense and deeper than imaginable gratitude. Honored that she would even consider chasing after him.

“H- How did you find me out here?” His throat was hoarse. He remembered screaming and turned red.

“Oh, it wasn’t any trouble. I just found you a moment ago.”

“Oh.” Zerian cleared his throat. At least she wasn’t watching him sleep while twisted up in a nightmare. Then he remembered his current real life nightmare and grimaced. He wondered how much she knew. Then he felt a pang of anger at her. Jealousy for living a life oblivious – a life he was not a part of but should have been.

“Z, I’m worried about you. Why did you run off?”

Then Anava tilted her head slightly to one side just like Dusti used to do. Zerian nearly lost it, but kept his mouth shut. He knew if he spoke it would all come crashing in.

Her eyes searched him as he sat upright. He stretched his stiff neck and felt a drop of sweat fall from his forehead. Time seemed to slow down. He cracked a few knuckles. “I’m fine,“ he mumbled. “I’m – It’s just – I’m not – You didn’t have to. Really, I’m just – “

Zerian rubbed his eyes, which were probably bloodshot, and looked at her again. His thoughts disorganized, like he was spread all over the place. Spread across everything.

“This is not how the story begins,” she said abruptly, “and it is not how it ends, either.”

Zerian blinked, and then ever so slightly she leaned forward and placed her hand on his heart.

Keep going to Part 2

 

“Language-twisting-twisting”

Words are always following me. They hang above, trailing me wherever I go. Constantly composing, re-forming, re-stating. Once I have a moment of peace or silence, they flood me like the deluge…. An onslaught of compositions, essays, poetry, and random statements.

I am used to this constant internal narrative. It’s been there for me all along, so it’s all I know. Constant and normal. But I do have to work to keep it productive and not obsessive. Once I open the gates to the flood, it is hard to retain balance. To find the prior equilibrium. I’m working on it, but it is an ongoing battle. A battle I enjoy, really, so I am at least thankful for that!

The more I write these thoughts and think things out in words, the more I find it’s not really about the words at all. The individual words, meanings, or technical skill. It’s not even about the literal story. No… it’s really only about conveying a concept. Communicating a feeling. Incepting pictures to the hearts and minds of others and to myself. The words themselves are meaningless, but together with intention and imagination they create, transform, and build.

Feeling these concepts in my writing, spirited and soulful concepts, is the goal. I hope I am on the right track. It feels good, and moves me passionately, so I think I am stepping in the right direction. The pictures of the soul are so much more communicative than any human written piece could aspire to be. Transformative, intimate, touching. These pictures are the ones I reach for and hope to glimpse.

Amazonian shamans have a distinct relationship with words. They talk and describe their spiritual journeys and ayahuasca dreams in far-reaching metaphors that seem nonsensical to the outsider – but they make perfect sense to them. They tell us that this is the only way one can know the unknowable and examine the unseen. To get close. To glimpse.

They describe this as tsai yoshtoyoshto, which means “language-twisting-twisting.”

In his wonderfully readable memoir about his studies in the Peruvian jungle with indigenous peoples, The Cosmic Serpent, author and anthropologist Jeremy Narby posits why they must speak in twisted language – the “language that is double and wrapped around itself.” The shamans use their koshuiti, or particular song they sing, during their hallucination dreams in order to communicate with what they are seeing. They say:

“With my koshuiti I want to see – singing, I carefully examine things – twisted language brings me close but not too close – with normal words I would crash into things – with twisted ones I circle around them – I can see them clearly.”

Here, we could infer that normal language does not let us know these concepts adequately. We need the metaphoric meaning, as this is the only real way to see. Mental pictures cannot be described in mere words. They are concepts, feelings, pictures that reach beyond and within the self.

I have been writing my poetry stream-of-consciousness style for a while now, and I am only just grasping the pictures and concepts that it conveys to me. When I write, I try to let it flow unhindered, and it naturally comes out in rhyme. I’ve decided not to fight it – indeed, maybe rhyme is the best way of seeing the universe?

I will heed to the “language-twisting-twisting” as it shows me what I cannot see in this rationalistic, brain-based world. It shows me the language of the heart…in singsong.

*

I want to know, but feel unrest.
I want to formulate the best.
And so I must take my time…

Pyramids are built in rhyme.