Musings

It is a constant struggle to live in the present moment--a struggle even to remember I want it. The past calls me back so frequently and with such haste, stirs emotions that I thought dead, brings pain and a disturbing lack of clarity, though clarity is not mine on a day-to-day basis, regardless.

This is my constant struggle: apathy versus practice, laziness versus discipline, an eye towards now with a healthy sense of the future versus a gaze filled with the past and future with no awareness of where I am, who I am, at this moment.

Daily prayer

To break the heavy shackles of inertia,
Freeing passion and prayer, and above all else the pursuit of purpose.
To each day wake with a shock, shouting to the spirits,
I am ready, I am open. Take me to the edge. Show me the way.

I'm ready to walk it.

Courage is the willingness to go forward though draped in fear.

Hermit and Lover, turning my back on Heirophant and half-loves.

Speaking in symbols imbues fuller truth in a thing; ideas that can shift to match different situations and times. That the tools are not absolute does not diminish their usefulness. This is the strength of the tarot.

Of Evil and Bus Stops

The bus stop was evil. I walked an extra five blocks every morning in order to avoid it. It was on the corner of 10th, and I would loop around the block to 11th, past the old empty Victorian house, and finally back to tenth where a non-evil bus stop resided. When asked what about it was evil, I came up blank. No upside-down pentagrams or dried blood adorned its walls--it was physically exactly as vile as every other public structure in the city. It had the same crooked blue pole and peeling out-of-date informative stickers.

Nor was it a gut reaction. No nameless fear or anything like that. I didn't feel any twisting darkness in my heart. It was just a knowledge, I guess. Solid to the point that one wouldn't really even think of questioning it. Like how I know soup is made better with the inclusion of salt.

I couldn't tell you why, but it was a property of the universe that the bus stop wished us all ill.

My friends tell me I'm anthropomorphizing inanimate objects, and that there's probably a disorder for that. I should look it up, they tell me.

I'm never actively afraid, you understand. I know it's evil, and it wants to get me, and so I don't like to be near it. But it is, after all, a bus stop. It doesn't exactly loom large on the scale of fine motor control, and I'm not the sort to believe in magic. An angry flea could do me more injury.

Still, it's hard to feel comfortable with it standing there out in the open. No sign or anything to warn people away. After my letters to City Hall were met with no response, I forced myself within the block to post signs of my own.

I guess people tear them down, after mocking me relentlessly in a combination of sharpie, pencil, and knife-scratches.

I guess people don't like those trying to keep them safe.

Of Crystalline Waters and Asking Why

Our last hope came in a wave. Not a metaphorical wave, I'm talking water and height and speed. They hid in the salt, tiny, fragile. Their bodies were crystalline, and they chimed when they touched. Communication through music, each too soft to hear on its own. They came in the trillions, and their coming was marked by a herald of sound.

We needed them. Our people were dying. Each one mutating, alone in a body they couldn't trust, shifting and cracking open with pus and blood and bile. Our people were dying, and we didn't know why.

We pleaded with our scientists, our politicians, our priests and our gods, and in the end we pleaded with the stars. We knew they were out there, somewhere. We had heard their music in the night, seen their shimmering forms in the light of the cosmos. We pleaded, and we cracked at the seams until the question was no longer if we would end, but how soon.

Our satellites still worked, our communication was sound, and for a long time we stayed in touch with each other--the diminishing dregs of our world. We swapped ideas, theories, asked ourselves why, por que, warum, keno, mbona.

The stars answered. They fell into our seas and oceans, like a rain of glitter. They waited in the night, waiting for the tide. Bonding with the water, they shaped it, gave it strength. Until they came at us in a wave.

Near the coasts the first of us were washed in water, carried on the surface as if all the saltwater in the world had become as dense as the Dead Sea. We tumbled, and feared, and some of us drowned. But when the waves subsided, those who could still speak spoke of their awe. The music had surrounded them, touched them in their core. They had bathed in the waters, and it had been cleansing, soothing, as no sea should be.

They came each day with the rising tide, again and again, washing the world clean. And those touched remained whole. Through the years, remained a person. Alive.

They stayed in our waters for a long time, becoming a part of our world so fully that our children scarce believed they had once been nothing more than music among the stars.

Po Po, take a gander

Ninaandika Kiswhahili

Siandiki huko sana. Pole sana. Nilisoma isimu ya lugha na Kiswahili. Si muda kwa kuandika. Pia, nililala na kuona Star Trek sana. Captain Picard anataka kusema na Daktari Crusher kwa sababu yeye anapenda Crusher.

Nitaandika! Kesho, nitaandika. Utaona.

FOOD

Robert made this tiramisu, and it's restaurant quality work. This shit is delicious.

Add that to perfectly broiled steaks, garlic mashed potatoes, and pancetta kale, and you have a dinner that wins. Wins in so many ways.

I've been snacking on the side dishes and tiramisu all night. I am so full.