At the Zenith of Summer

I sat in quiet resignation at a table in a secret garden at the zenith of summer to attempt a consultation with the Powers That Be; those illusive forces without names that seem to play at our strings as we are marionettes, dancing, loving, losing, fighting, killing, succeeding and failing without fail. I forgave them for their silence. I chose to forego the most cliche of questions and requested only that they infuse me with knowledge of what will be.

They spoke through the foliage, in full bloom at this zenith of summer, causing the lush greens to sway almost imperceptibly in the breeze. They made a promise; that the only thing they could guarantee is change. I accepted this; that kingdoms rise and fall as do men and women, into and out of their prime in a minuscule flash. I accepted that, if not for this promise, nothing would hold any significance, we would not matter, I would not matter.

I accepted that the only currency of value is love, as time is an illusion and currency in our sense of the word is a fallacy, creating value where it does not exist and removing the same from the experiences that should indeed matter. Our prized bank notes create vast expanses of space between brothers and sisters; differences that would otherwise be non-existent. They mask innumerable similarities through the perpetuation of the grand lie that is socioeconomic status.

I accepted that this will hurt. It must, as pain creates in its wake its opposite, which we seek relentlessly using all of the wrong techniques. ‘Your stroke could use some more work, Jim.’ Yes it could. Keep missing, missing, missing, and eventually you will hit. In the meantime, try only to avoid living out the very definition of insanity; doing the same thing over and… (you’re welcome for the apex of all cliches). 

Image not my own

Synchronicity in Brief

The evening Southwesterly carries at its edges a distinct sense of inevitability. Descriptors I have assigned to its movements, to its sounds and to its accompanying scents bestow upon it an undeniable significance. Breeze, whistle, howl, brine, fuel, summer. Subjective experience, the only one that I can say with any confidence exists, reassures me that synchronicity is in operation at all times, my only responsibility to become aware of it’s ebb and flow.

M

Sorry to wake you

I hope I didn’t wake you. I wanted you to know that, of all places, we are sleeping here tonight, in a drab shipyard on Staten Island. We are doing so because what is happening now is absolutely magnificent. I am in my room on the top bunk, all lights off. We are tied to a floating barge that is lit only by amber work lights. The rain is coming down steadily; big drops falling on steel surfaces, red paint weathered from seasons of neglect. I can hear each one impact the barge in a symphony of liquid explosions. There is a steel dry dock, a structure that is used to lift ships out of the water, on the opposite side of the barge from my vessel. It is a massive black wall from my perspective. The rain is sliding down it in sheets that resemble the legs of a full bodied wine on the inside of a glass or an ornamental waterfall. I watch this scene through a circular porthole in my room. I wish you could see and hear it. There nowhere else I’d rather be. This is where we are tonight.

M