Analog Life.

Why is it every time I try to bring these silly things back, no one else seems interested?
Someone feel like dusting off some analog hard copy?  Maybe 200 characters with out a break, 250?  What would you say?
How would you feel if you had to wait a week to hear me?  Would you wait?  Would you care?
Maybe soon, when my silly new website is up, you may care.

Found

Green dreams are the color of my pain, white the color of it's silence.  But it's only a shadow, there is no lost space in these colors, only dreams of floating sands.  Wishing for the torrent to reverse it's perverse flow.  To care so much, to feel the beat of the drums again, that is what I miss.  The obsession.
It is known, time is a wheel.  It is said, sleep when your dead.  Found.  What happens when your found?  What place is there in the After?  Ka is a wheel, it is known.  So what does Roland, last knight of gilead get after the tower is found?  Could he lay down his fathers guns and take up the hoe?  Sell leaf, nod and smile "yes, say thank ya'"  Would those hands, those killers hands, those slinger hands, ever be good for anything else?  How could he ever reach the top?
Ka is a wheel; both my nightmare and my comfort.  I am a seeker, but now I've found.  We all know what the next turn has for me.  Hunting the hunt.  I just need a new horizon to yearn for, a new god at my back.

Missing

There is something I feel like I am missing, yet I know its something I have. I do have it, but its not enough. I am constantly surprised at myself. I’m no fool, yet sometime I feel like one. I’m not blind, yet I don’t see what you see. My world is a very different place then yours. Its okay, I love it here. I wouldn’t have it any other way. I just wish I would remember when in Rome, do as the Romans. I’ve let it cause some trouble now and again, but its also worth remembering that I am the stranger in a strange land. Do I have a home of my own? Where we can speak the same language, where we can just be. Its out there somewhere, I like to think I can feel you out there sometimes, calling me. Sometimes I like to think that you hear me when I call back. I say that as if its not true, how do I know you don’t?
When I look up at the sliver of a sliver new moon rising over the mountains. When I see its reflection dancing in the mirror. When the mud hens give me that look with their outrageously absurd face. It doesn’t feel so crazy an idea. What is crazy? There’s no such thing, there is just normal and abnormal. Statistics and majorities. The world tries to call me weird, and that’s fine with me. I would tend to agree with them, the truth is I am unusual. But the world does some very bizarre things too. There was a time, for thousands of years no doubt, where left-handed kids were thought to be simply obstinate. We used to tie children’s left hand behind their backs and make them write “the right way”. It sometimes makes me chuckle a bit, at the silliness of it all. There is no sense in thinking in absolutes like that. Right and wrong are equally illusionary. So am I wrong to think these thoughts? How could I be?
Here’s a secret that no one knows. I used to dream of an angel, Victoria. She would come visit at night as the world dissolved away, watching over me. I remember her wings, feathers long and white. Her face, always obscured, by haze or vale. She was secretive and sly, with a little smile, confident and enigmatic. Not a being one takes lightly. There was no singers or harps, just a quiet attendance. She was my focus, my talisman, and it was thoughts of her I used to still a ever flowing mind.
I tried so hard to believe my dreams were real. I tried so hard to believe my own lie. Some lies feel oh so good. Lies of caring and friendship, peace and grace. I miss her lies, or are they my lies? It doesn’t matter, she hasn’t visited in so long now. But there were others that took her place. Or did they? Maybe it was always her, just in a different guise. No matter, they have all fled, others occupy my twilight hour. Do I wait for her return? Should I call for the missing? A congregation of dreams. A counsel of fragments. What tune will we sing?

Commonplace impossibilities

It was sunny and bright, with a few skittish clouds cowering before an onslaught. A light wind whipped back and forth; just strong enough to remind you it was there. Standing next to my car on top of a hill, fumbling with my keys, a most impressive thing passes overhead. Then just a few dozen feet behind it, comes another one. Screaming like wild and enraged animals, loud enough to drown out thought. Two sleek jet fighters in tight formation flies past, lazy and confident. I’m not really into planes, but this time seeing them it hit me just how amazing they really are. They were clearly masters of the sky. Thinking of the one or two people sitting at the tip of these contraptions, commanding their path with the touch of a finger, I was taken with awe. It’s strange, sometimes I feel like I grew up inside of an airplane. They have always been a part of my life as far back as I can remember, but I don’t know if I ever really, truly thought about it. How truly overwhelming the idea is.
And yet, around here, such shows of technological might are actually rather commonplace. Ask people who work around here and they will tell you it gets annoying. Always having to keep your coffee mug from rattling off the edge of your desk gets tiresome. Always having to pause a phone call and wait for silence and sanity to return, and then explain what that hellish sound was, becomes frustrating. I guess when you get to see a miracle enough times, it becomes just another parlor trick. Gimmicky and unwanted, how sad.
The very idea that anyone could hop into one of these infinitely complicated things and fling them selves around at unimaginable speeds and incomprehensible heights should be breath taking. But of course it’s not really. Most all of us have done it ourselves, most of us so many times we lost count. I know I have. But after a little reminder of just how insane the idea really should be, it’s becoming easier to look at all planes with wonder. Even the lumbering commercial jetliners that pass by more often then birds have some new meaning today. I wish I had fresh perspective on everything now, I wish I could really see things for what they are. Every little detail would be quite astounding and miraculous. Every tree a work of art, every splash of color a masterpiece.
I just wish I could look upon something and really see it more often. Sometimes it takes a bit of focus. Other times you couldn’t ignore it even if you wanted to. Today was like that.