Journey Through the Cosmos

A reply to Journey Through the Heavens. 

Night enfolds a drowsy world

In softest solitude,

Darkness opens on itself,

Infinite heavens revealed.

A thousand silent, twinkling lights

Beckoning through space,

Reach – stretch – grasp a hold

And swing into their midst.

From constellations, loner stars,

To far-flung galaxies,

Wander through the cosmic realm

Adrift yet never lost.

Here a different language speaks:

A language of the soul.

Ancient wisdom reverberates

The music of the spheres.

Entertained by jolly jokes,

Amusing, witty tales,

Revel in the centuries

Of camaraderie.

Catch a comet back to Earth

Whispering, “Adieu.”

Brush the silvery star dust

That lingers in the mind.


written 25 September 2012 

Right Brain

Loosed from my left brain

Floating in right train

Of pensive, roving thought.

Enter the innerworld

Prism-ed and beauty swirled,

Invited yet unsought.

Living in poetry

Immortal harmony

Unspoke, unheard, unsung,

Never recorded be

Lingering infinitely,

Ne’er ending, ne’er begun.

Climb into someone’s mind

Explore their eyes, unwind

The weaving of their world.

See life just as they see;

Feelings unknown to me,

Unfettered and unfurled.

Pour out a swig of sleep

So drowsy eyes will keep

Locked in freedom’s cage.

Unharried, drift about,

Never lost, wandering out

Of painting, picture, page.

Don’t try to capture it,

Left brain will mangle it

With intense perfection.

Kiss it, let freely roam,

Nevermore to drag it home,

In traitorous defection.

Embrace the present tense,

Immersed in every sense

Mingle, ebb, and swell

Deeper than thought can go

Impressions speak and flow

Sages’ secrets tell.

Of Age and Time

I thought I enjoyed aging. My impressions have told me that, for some people, aging is a fearful thing. I  never really understood and felt slightly alienated by the difference. 

For some people, childhood was a utopia; one long, carefree summer vacation. Life sprouted complexities during teenage years, but energy eloped with beauty, providing plenty of excitement. However, between young adulthood and seniorhood, something changes. Perhaps it's the mortgages and minivans. Whatever the case, old age appears as Hitler himself. Once again physical beauty has eloped. Even the eyes of the beholder struggle for a glimpse. Glasses are mistaken for protective, bullet-proof devices. Hair and hearing become endangered species, while original joints are altogether extinct. Teeth have attained the status of the stars: they come out at night. 

I don't anticipate diapers and denture glue; I simply view aging differently. Age is beautiful, for age brings wisdom. While physical beauty declines with age, wisdom only grows stronger and more beautiful each day.  Age provides wisdom to appreciate small things. Age provides wisdom to extract every ounce out of life. Age provides wisdom to live more fully.

Or so I thought. I'm not so certain now. You see, age also brings change. Sometimes change is fun; sometimes... it's not. Whether good or bad, life can never be the way it was.

I recently experienced a most curious encounter with time. I was wandering outside at night, under a beautifully clear sky. I raised my hand to obscure the rising moon, when I heard it: a steady tick... tick... tick. Irony of ironies, I thought. Lost in the unchanging timelessness of the heavens, I listened to single seconds silently slipping away - never to return.

"What day is it?" asked Pooh.

"It's Today," squeaked Piglet.

"My favourite day," said Pooh.

Destination: Nostalgia

Beware of the rampage. Consider yourself warned.

I recently visited the drainage ditch behind our place, officially called The Creek. I was awed by the incredible biodiversity. All types of plants, bushes, flowers, rushes, and grasses grow in or along The Creek.  Plus, there are singing insects and their less musical relations; the frogs and their slimy, bubbly noises; and all sorts of watery creatures that I didn't see, but knew were there anyway.

The orderly randomness of nature fascinates me - but it's exceedingly difficult to describe. Essentially, whatever grows best, lives. How can beauty arise from mere competition? 

Parts of The Creek were completely overgrown with flowering bushes. Hidden were the steep banks, hidden were the flowing contours, hidden was the very water. Partially hidden were some sort of red berries that I would have killed for as a kid. And so the journey to nostalgia begins.

Large bushes are a monument to passing time. They never had a chance to grow while certain young boys were on the move. Mighty waterworks we built: large-scale dams, locks, reservoirs, islands, and dredging projects. These grand constructions, however, were products of cognitive maturity. The history of The Creek began years before our brains bloated. The history of The Creek began with a curiously endless succession of muddy pants.

The Creek's entertainment started with its wildlife: both human friends and animals. We were captivated by trying to capturing everything we could: frogs, tadpoles, minnows, crayfish, and even a snake or two. On bold and blood-thirsty days, we armed ourselves with sling-shots and obscure plant bulbs (don't ask me to explain) and set out frog hunting. Luckily for the frogs, our aim was atrocious.

Depending on who you ask, age brought compassion. In this case, it meant tormenting frogs instead of attempting to murder them. We were geeks from the get-go. Cutting-edge technology in the form of odd bits of PVC pipe revolutionized our fun. Bopping frogs on the head grew boring swiftly. A new method involved carefully sucking the pipe full of water and blasting a frog with a tremendous water canon salute. Another favourite was placing the end of the pipe directly beneath a frog and levitating it by blowing bubbles like mad. Fortunately for us, the frogs were too stupid to find a new location along The Creek.

Although summer brought the highlights, winter could be great fun. Well, except for a singular sledding incident. My older siblings constructed a great snow jump on the steep bank - and were too chicken to try it themselves. So yours truly was stuffed squalling into a small sled and shoved heartily down the slope. They thought it was fantastic. My tongue, on the other hand, suffered from a close encounter with my teeth. As you can see, the term "compassion" is rather ambiguous.

The past wasn't without terror - maybe the rustling in the grass was something more than a muskrat! But as I wandered and remembered and relived, I smiled. The memories I have forgotten remain forgotten, for I can't remember that I have forgotten them. My journey ended as I considered nostalgia of itself.

As we know, events happen before nostalgia happens. What would happen if we would switch the two around; have nostalgia before the event happened? What are those feelings of "having been here before" or "having experienced this previously," even though you can't remember when or how?

I have heard the thought that heaven is like earth, only far more real. (And perfect, obviously.) How can something be more real than the reality we live in? But maybe it's this way: maybe the reality we live in now is just the nostalgia. Maybe the love, joy, and peace we experience here feels faded by time in comparison to heaven's reality. Maybe the real event is yet to come.

Am I crazy? Quite likely. But whatever you do, don't hold me responsible for ideas encountered through nostalgia.

Genius

I recently read a compilation of articles by Albert Einstein, titled The World As I See It. Remarkably, this book excludes all mathematical and scientific writings, simply because we're too dumb to catch on. In fact, most people are too ignorant to realize they're too ignorant to understand his theory. 

Years of study are required to understand all the technical terms, much less the concepts they represent. Comprehension of his theory of general relativity won't fully reveal his genius. Only after one digs through science history to discover what knowledge he had to begin his journey; only after one walks in his mental footsteps; only after one comprehends the "before" and "after" pictures; only after one views and understands the progress his theory made - only then can one more fully grasp his intelligence.

However, this book reveals a more personal side. His sense of responsibility towards his fellow humans amazes me. In his perspective, all that he had - including knowledge and relative ease of lifestyle - was a gift from previous generations. Therefore his responsibility with these gifts was to improve them for the proceeding generations. He writes, "The life of the individual has meaning only in so far as it aids in making the life of every living thing nobler and more beautiful." His foremost desire was to make the world a better place.

At least, that's what I understood from the book. I haven't encountered so many new, big words since Wordly Wise in my school days. (Doesn't that make me sound old?) Never underestimate the effect a single word has on a paragraph. Apparently "anthropomorphic" - er - didn't mean quite what I thought it did.

No need to idolize the man, but the mysteriousness of his theory only increases my awe. However, I must admit I admire genius. I see its streaks in the people I encounter every day. And I marvel at it, wondering if they know it too. For I think when God creates people, he only makes geniuses.

I guess I'm pretty stupid - not in a derogatory way, but simply facing the facts. I think it's okay to be stupid, for God doesn't mind so much. Rather, I think He prefers me - us - that way. Cause when we lose our knowledge, then He becomes Wisdom. 

Swiss Cheese

...vowing that this one would be different. This blog wouldn't fizzle out like so many others. I would stick to it and continue posting. Only I didn't, as you can see. Hark! The sound of crunching as I eat my hollow words.

It hasn't been from lack on ideas. No, they have perpetually bubbled from the great artesian aquifer of Thought. Perhaps the abundance of ideas has churned into a marsh I dare not trust. Other things fill my days. Books to read, routes to ride, obligations to fill, and, of course, work. What would we do without work?

Not work, perhaps?

Ho, ho, so silly. Thank you, smarty pants.

Please excuse us for a moment.

Wouldn't it be wonderful to write full time? Devote every day to the craft, instead of only the spare moments. Forget about work. Hide away from annoying interruptions. Find a houseboat home. Enjoy writer's high - and writer's perspective - every day.

Writing is shockingly similar to painting. I prefer realism when it comes to painting, although I admire all styles (excepting cubism, of course). My limited experience has taught me that everything is never as it seems. Let's pretend we are painting a picture that contains a door. Everyone knows that doors have square corners. Okay, so let's ensure the door we are painting has square corners.

Except not so fast. Depending on the perspective, the door we are painting might have very un-square corners. Therefore, to create a realistic reproduction, we must paint exactly what we see - not what we think we see.

In writing, the picture becomes an idea and the paints become the words. The difficulty lies in "painting" the idea how it actually is, not how one thinks it is. The difficulty lies in choosing concise words that portray no more, no less, than the original. How often do figurative doors contain square corners, simply because I have
mis-chosen words.

Differences of perceptions always form; misperceptions always form. This is simply a product of perspective. Ironically - there is always a flip side - these differences and errors produce refreshing individual style, both in painting and writing. The artist's signature appears through the very inconsistencies of which they are unconscious. Yet the term "inconsistencies" is purely subjective. Who can rightly judge one perception as more nearly correct than another? However, when striving for excellence and all realism flees, humour covers a multitude of sins.

Back to the writing dream, I'm afraid it is an illusion. After all, a dream is purely a vacation from reality. To spend time in recluse is to cut oneself off from reality. And how could one portray - and discover - reality when they are isolated in an artificial world?

Dreams are fantastic, but I'm afraid this one is Swiss cheese - full of holes. Yet very well aged.

Introvert's Hour

There should be a law! A law against driving fast during introvert's hour. Punishable with death. Well, maybe not that last part.

Some people refer to it simply as evening. Others call it twilight, or dusk, or even "the dim." One song I know calls it sunset hour. But I've named it Introvert's Hour.

Some days, quite a few actually, just whistle past. A flash, a gust of wind, and then bye bye.  And I get tired of trying to keep up. (No I'm not a senior - yet ;) I wish people and things and places would slow down to a half reasonable pace for once. But other people thrive on seemingly break-necked-ness, so I suspect I'm out of luck. 

In the midst of this hypersonic hubble double bubble appears introvert's hour. The rushing and jostling slows. The pounding and screeching softens. The spinning stops. My highlight is the day's lowlight.

Each one is a masterpiece. Each one is original. Miss one and you've missed it forever. Colourful is an understatement. Bold streaks; tiny blushes; intricate details. No harsh, glaring colours of midday, but soft colours, pastel colours, and married colours. They dance on the clouds, float through the very air you breath, rest in the shadows, and radiate out, out, out - 'til they die the east. Mind you, this is only the backdrop.

Enter the sanctuary of splendor. Silent, except for the earth's ethereal lullaby. Still, except for a slow slide to the east. Here you are free. Free from the interruptions of companions. Free to be alone. To be    s   l   o   w   . To be quiet. To ponder deeply. To recount sadness. To clutch goodness for fear it won't return. To revel in cool winds and warm clothes. To listen to the beating of your heart. To weave dreams into reality. To whisper with Him who loves you. To marvel at mercy. To drowse. To savour the extravagance of life. To delight in small pleasures. To do things, just for old times sake. To cackle over particularly corny jokes. To do sweet nothing - simply because you can. And, of course to drive slowly.

And then it's gone. A vehicle whizzes by, far too rapidly. Natural light fades. Fake light flares. The world throttles up.

Introvert's Hour - cause it's typical introversion; typical introverted recharging. For the through-and-through's, for the half-and-half's, for the mostly-extroverted-with-a-wee-corner-of-introversion. Give it your own name. Call it what you will. But if it happens while I'm driving, just smile as I putter past.

Working in the Light

I did something new yesterday. I wandered around telling people about the One who "came to touch the hardness of our hearts." I didn't approach it without apprehension, but as I'm finding more and more, the little fears never materialized. As the bundle in my hand shrank, the bundle in my head expanded. Have I ever said that my mind is bursting with thoughts? Nah, I didn't think so.

It could hardly have been a more beautiful day. I used to think nothing was prettier than a sunny summer day. That was before I tasted the vibrancy of dusty clear day of Indian summer. And when you mix in some twilight too... Which is why I went walking with a friend a couple evenings ago. The sights and sounds we discovered! A pumpkin cat sitting silently on a fence. Geese honking, wings whirring, floating blackly on a pale sky. Trees blushing at their reflection on still water. Lights glowing and beckoning through the dim. However, I have a question. Why do beautiful things hurt?

If Indian summer was a beverage, what colour would it be? Perhaps light blue with wisps of white and swirled with orange. Or maybe layered yellow, orange, and red. The only problem being if the colours mixed completely, you'd end up with a lovely brown hue. Appetizing! Or what would it taste like? Dying leaves? Dirt? Apple cider? Apple cider! I think it would be sweet and tangy and bitter. But no matter what, a shot of twilight would top it off perfectly. I wish I could fill of bottle with this delight and savour it year-round. Except I'm afraid the secret to its sweetness is its scarcity.

Too Much Green

If only this radar could detect aircraft. A certain POTUS and First Lord of the Admiralty wouldn't have believed it for a moment. In fact, they might have dropped dead. Even a contemporary air traffic controller would be shocked at the volume of information this thing displays. Alas, that is the essence of the problem. So perceptible and sensitive, it picks up everything. Unfortunately, "everything" is too much. If only there was a way to dismantle it, or leave it behind, or something. Good grief, even an off button would be rather handy.

The targets never suspect its presence. In most cases, they don't realize it exists. But woe to the carrier in an environment crowded with targets. The green blips will multiply. They will invade the screen. Every minute detail will appear. Only there are too many of them. The information will come faster and faster. No time to sort, process, or absorb it. This torrent will build up into a creeping pool of green. Don't underestimate its power to overwhelm. Perhaps it will drown you. The only way to reduce the flow is to reduce the number of targets. Flee! Except after you have vacated the zone, the echos will come. And then you will remember that you forgot to forget the instrument. Hurray. Perhaps there is a flip side.

If you identify, my condolences. If you don't, my congratulations.

-radar kid

Changing

Every day is a miracle. Today it was the drive to work. If I would have imagined hard enough, I could have pulled back gently on the wheel and floated up to tumble though the clouds. Mystical, magical, majestic clouds. Into a world of mixed contrasts: light and dark, sanguine and melancholy, stormy and calm. Willow-y wisps caressed towering grandeur. But today I was earth-bound. So I explored the clouds' footprints and watched them play cloud-games and do the hula laugh. Through the aged sunlit fields, under the arching burnished trees. The light and shadows drifted here and there, ever changing as they went. Dynamic-ism!

All the foliage was tired. But, strikingly, it didn't care. Rather it reveled in its ancientness; enjoyed it, even.  How? People always seem to dread getting old. They loose their beauty; but perhaps they're blind to the new beauty ancientness has given them.

More Questions Than Answers

"Hey, how are doing?

"Fine, and you?"

"Pretty good."

Really. 

It's a knee jerk reaction. Of course I'm fine, what else would I be? Everything is always "fine." There is no such thing as pain or sorrow or depression or confusion. Yeah, right. And nothing ever goes wrong, does it.

Have you ever told someone that your life is falling apart, or that you are depressed and you don't know why? Has anyone ever replied to you in that way? Why can't I look at things the way they really are and say things the way they really are? 

Sometimes I'm scared of myself. I used to think I had a pretty good idea of who I was. Right now I have no idea. Sure, I know my personality and my interests, but why do I react this way, when everyone else seems to react a different way? Why do I say the things I do?  Or more aptly, why don't I say the things I don't say? Lol. I really don't know, but I know Someone who does.

No, right now everything is not going perfectly. But I'm not worried. When I admit to a problem, God can work with it. When I admit I need help, I can accept help. Between God, the exquisite thoughts He sends,  prayers, and friends, it is impossible to not succeed.

Sailing Through My Mind

I've gone "Sailboats"-ing the past few nights. On some nights there are far too many interesting memories and perspectives to explore to waste any time in sleep. And so I let myself go drifting through my mind. Many memories and ideas bob to the surface of my thoughts like glowing orbs, and I float around, exploring them as I please. (It's kinda like Google Street View.) Some orbs are lonely, some are shockingly new, others are like old friends, and some are just... uniquely entertaining. Of course, some make me wish I had never ventured into this vast sea. However, a few memories that began poorly have become well-aged, and they plunge me into delightful laughter. These voyages leave me laden with many curios. I usually just leave them scattered around where I can trip over them during the day. Luckily, I've only stubbed my toe once or twice.

I think if someone told me I was weird, I'd be the first person to agree with them. Ok, now that was really weird. But no matter... Do you know what? God loves you and me, not in spite of who we are, but because of who we are. You see, we were His idea in the first place.