January 21st, 2019

voice activated

worlds above and worlds below

unwritten rule

it's always raining this time of year and the half structure in stone sitting by the lake is hardly enough to keep the rain out. wrapped in a denim jacket, curled up on a stone ledge, just inside. tables, two fire places, the black soot dwindling up the walls, the burned scent that never really leaves these places. the rain is soft, soft fingers bouncing over things, soft fingers of rain putting the leaves in their own order. half down my sleeve half wrapped around my fingers the onyx mala counts the moments, structures the stillness, not in a progression, one moment after the next, but in a cycle; OM MANI PADME HUM bringing the same movement again into place. the sound of OM: the hold of MANI: the scent of PADME: the swallow of HUM. i lose track of my senses in these moments, one impression blends into the next: the gray of touch. i pull my jacket tighter, roll my head back on the stone wall, trying to find a place to settle. there is no place to settle. soft fingers of rain but no color; the grass is straw, the trees are scars. early march, rain and no color, no place to settle, i settle in. and in the stillness, the stillness renders a drone, a changing sameness, the sustained hold of frogs. my fingers find the mala's tassel, turn and begin the mantra's count again.

no bells, no incantations, no incense smoke, no wild prayer. just me, 3AM, bent over this page. just me, elbows pressed to folded knees on a bunched-up comforter. just me, a pen, and a book: and you, at least the idea of you, dear reader: if you are here or not, only time will tell.

mixes, an intriguing study: how something that started out as a way to set the mood for creative process can so reliably become a means of taking me out of it. would you let me make a mix for you? i miss making mixes for friends. i miss friends making mixes for me. even if i knew every song, and i almost never did, there was always this sort of magic in hearing it in this other context, as though through another's ears.

            cloaked horizon
            unveiled in slow motion
            march dawn

no, not abiding by syllable count. when do i ever? in love letters, perhaps.

                       your silences find

i'll write about anything, let's say, to keep from writing about something.

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