When it's okay

When is the right time? When you decide? At the end of 1, 2, 3, Go?! You decide? No, you decide? It is the same as deciding when a conversation is over, but truthfully when it isn't. No you? We can go on forever in conversation because time does without time. It does without meter. Without us. But conversations end all the time and everywhere. Similar to love it does without choice. Unlike it time does without end. So it is the wrong word to use I guess.  Maybe there is no word. You? No, you? One can never know when it is time. I, for one, am not allowed to know. You wait sometimes and it never comes. You don't other times and isn't there... Hang up?..................................................?..........

to be to be, to be

A dog with a bone is a dog with an anecdote. The time spent to dig a whole and the time spent to release and bury. Oh, the time taken to let go, for now. That bone was a laugh. It reminds me of the time I spent on this sentence. Deciding the objective let alone the subject. I delete then add and later on delete more than was previously there. You see they have nothing to do with each other. And we are all the better for it. Not so with stories.

The pleasure and the nature of the anecdote was lost long ago to the story. It was lost to closure. It was told to behave and to be honest and to be direct. Lets hope our lives are nothing like stories. Not because they end, but more so because they sometimes are long winded and boring. Stories need a purpose. In contrast, anecdotes relate to being human since they tell everything and nothing at the same time. We take what we like and do many things with the information. Most importantly nobody is held accountable. 


A smashed up paper in an empty room. Who was there before? How long has it been? Where they here because of similar interest? Most people have the choice of where they live. An empty room with a crushed piece of paper. A hurried or careless person? What is captivating about an empty room? It is the same with a new person.

It is the promise of a future. Hopefully it has no visible carpet stains. An empty room is promising though. The choice of high pile rug and satin curtains and white or colored walls is all up in the air. Its not flying though. It is in fact invisible for now, but you know what you want. It is the same with a similar person.

When you move you also leave an empty room. You can see where everything was. Where everything happened. The stains will be gone soon. The carpet installer will come to make everything look new. Its even new in the way that it is new to you. Everything that is has changed. It is the same with an old person.


If comes with a lot. If takes on a lot. It is a best friend that lets you speak of many things. Always without interruption. It does not care for grammar with some. If, this is what would of happened: I would have said yes to pizza, no to vanilla, answered the call "speak now or forever...", told a girl yes and answered no, answered yes with a no, given the finger, made a french citizen cry, been praised for less, solved the riddle to save the town from destruction, caught a meteor, taken control of my dreams, created a new way of thinking, lost myself in a book, called a deer dear, placed chocolates on pillows, put on a mask for Halloween, stopped writing for a moment to listen, placed money underneath a pillow, taught myself the cello, correctly answered cellist, cared enough, knew when, wrote a novel, skipped a song, partied for two, stole thyme, collected chocolate coins because they are the most suitable, called for revenge, taken two steps, sought crazy and won, brought up the never ending story, given this time, said yes again, wanted Wednesdays off, convinced someone of my German heritage, used less and not fewer, and told of the things that make life interesting like following my family motto, Tomorrow.

Maybe it is the comic sans of language. Whatever it is in the end in terms of a being, it is helpful. 

as old as I

There are weeks and months, years and minutes, seconds and millenia. They are related by a very organized system, but for very unexplained reason they come at us at varying speed. Then there is the occasional moment when a clock ticks its thin red hand backward. By all standards of measurement it makes no sense. But leave it to faulty clocks to get us thinking about how bored we are. And/or how desperate we are for something else. I sometimes find myself in parts of the city that I haven't previously been to and yet I am not so content. There are probably other reasons other than I usually don't have good reason to stick around. If the ugly duckling has taught us anything is that you can stand out whether you like it or not. Time of coarse gives us a bit more of itself at this moment to ruminate......................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................

Einstein told of a place where time slows down not of its own accord, but becuase of speed and density. That is niether an excuse for us nor an endorsment to create such senarios. Niether does it explain for the change in rate of time at the end of work and just right before a date, nor at the classic long sunset. There might be very imporant reasons why it is so, but then the situations between people are so vast and time is so unasumming that the question will go unanswered. For now it is safe to assume that maybe that is why some of us appear to be much younger than we look and why there are old souls.

Maybe in the moment after we ask time to get its shit strait time replies, "No you should."

Another Ocean

For a night I lived in a world with selective gravity. Actually the centripetal force was just greater then it is here. That was the reason why the days were shorter, but the moon still came around every so often and the sun kept us in orbit. The end result is that we lived on the ceiling. Make shift lights were hung and ladders were essential. The most important thing to remember was that there were no hand rails on our open apartment. They were now above us and completely useless. The ocean was know beneath us. It was formaly the sky. It did all the same things. At sunrise it changed from a deep violet to reds and oranges which then revealed a bright blue. It did the reverse at sunset. You also couldn't help but stare at it. And finally like the ocean and the sea this ocean was unforgiving.

I spent my time looking down on our new ocean. Sitting on the edge I sensed the same fear of falling into the first ocean, our original ocean. Just that in this one there would be no such thing as buoyancy. Likeness in many aspects of fear and love. I never saw anyone fall into the sky. Did astronauts have the same fear? Once count down is done they fly up and away. They loose their control. Their connection gone. There is something in both that is at times hard to identify. It is why we stare at the ocean. In it exist a place beyond having letting go? Essentially where it takes us no one knows. Wether it is down below or across its lengths, and in this case into space, what awaits is what it is. Only after does it start to look familiar. They are made of the things that people tell us.

My time there was short lived like many things. There weren't to many places to explore. Just two balconies that face south and an ocean. Unsuprisigly the one thing it did lack was waves. 

Another Blind Mouse

Roy G Biv, Vibgyor and the rainbow, too. A Color Wheel captures most of it. The most important being from red to violet. These two complete a loop, the color wheel. And yet the electromagnetic spectrum has no loops. Rather it extends from one end to the other. Gamma and radio. Both ends mathematically without limit. Where in there does color have the ability to bend back around?

Ignore one and choose the other. Waves and particles. There are many things that exist without much thought to sense. They make up the world somehow or other. I sit hear and you over there. There isn't to much thought as to how it gets there from here or who knows where.

Two things exist at the same time in different places. Which is the copy?

Whatever is convenient. I think so. 

I Got Rocks

If God did ever create that inmovable rock might he have been able to move it? "Certainly I'm better than that loaded question," would of thought God and would have vanquished the rock and continued with naming light bright and establishing tea time across time zones.

Inside of a Choice something always gets devoured. The wants and the desires, pursuits. With what is taken something is given up. If not pistachio then vanilla ice cream. A night our or even brown bagging-it. The world is made of choices. And the world is is filled with countless ways to attack one. In the end it is like skipping rocks across a solid lake bed. It will either take you far or get swallowed with a thunk.

Make choices. The best result is an interesting story. Although I heard, "good stories only happen to those that can tell them." They most definitely start of with, "It was like..."

The ocean and the sea

If only the sea. By any name and many outcomes the sea is always evoked. Is it because its vastness? Long has it been since it was discovered. Where is the mystery and majesty that it conveys. Smells that are nice or reasonable are boiled lobster tail or creole shrimp. No one real does want to smell like seaweed and salt. Let alone the smell it consist of when adjacent to a large city.

Water even in it is smalles amount still is known for its sensational-ness. The sea, sometimes the ocean, comes out of nowhere. It is still magical for many reasons. For me it is that you can slide right into it. The salt won't do much to keep you above if not for the kicking and swooping of arms and legs. It must be its inconsistency, like an addict. Always encouragable especially when it comes to drugs. Water is hard to hold in your hand, it evaporates. Water slips through the fingers. Try to contain it by drink it up and it will most certainly be pissed out within an hour. It is susceptible to sweating as well. Even then it is magical. Maybe the sea is like family, you can't really help but like them. 

Space and Time, Time and Space

Travel weathers reality much more than we could imagine. Time and space are synonymous with each other, most of us feel that way. Magellan understood it as he circumnavigated the globe. Each day marked time spent. Every change in shore line marked progression along the coast. Everything crawled along but everything was noticed. Travel has eroded it to much less. When we travel we mostly worry about how sore our butts will be by the end. Sometimes narcotics are important. There is no thought to the feet and the various aches and worn soles they will surely develop. Curiously, stretching often is still important.

Travel use to be about time and extremities. It was accomplished. Cars and planes only provide comfort. Water shortage, frostbite, and heatstroke or only meant for those that are daring enough to hike. For the rest of us absentmindedness is key to travel. 

A Batch of Short Stories

Stories are important to us because they have conclusions. We have control over them. A few pages at lunch time or after an evening shower. The lives of the characters are managed and unchanging for the most part. I say that because characters are defined by their listed characteristics, but live according to how we see them. By comparison the lives we live are endless in the manor that they are bountiful with surprise. That is precisely why no one is satisfied with palm readers. Stories have in them what we can never have, even with death. They have conclusions. Even for atheist there is something on the other side. Most say nothing. But you can't have nothing without something. An eternity of nothing is still something. But that is semantics and doesn't arrive at much other than a clever sentence. 

Of course there are books filled with drugs, stabbings, and ritual sacrifices. And lets not forget revenge. Our lives are much more chaotic then we realize though. That is all the reason to enjoy it. Because in contrast we carry on with what ever has happened to us. We don't reach a point of bliss and everything is ever so happy forever. We reach points in our lives and then we go on. As I once heard said, "Good times pass, but so do the bad." 


There are many types of hiding available. Hiding yourself from something unwanted.  There is the type of hiding that places an object between you and a projectile. Your skin does a very good job of keeping the mystery of your digestive system. There are also the wallflowers at a party hidden by nothing more then their aggressively quiet eagerness. There is also the most common type of hiding which is keeping parts of your life separate from each other that is neither negative or positive. What they are are simple occurrences of forgetfulness. We simply cannot remember everything. We usually say that we are doing good and push the interesting and sometimes more poignant events of the day aside. But that is training and that is culture and that is the human capacity.

What we hide is not shame. In fact we don't hide much because in the uttering of "good" we can read what is really there.  My favorite is the "oh.... what? Good." Even then we realize that there is to much at hand to coherently make sense of everything. But realizing that just being is the best part of it all. 

Its okay if its not the same

It is hard to let go. As you get older things get smaller, other things taste different, and somethings are lost. The curious thing about puzzles is that they are always lost piece by piece. They also end the same way, with a final piece. The very fist time every piece is placed where they should be. Its not too exciting, but the longer you keep a puzzle the more likely that you loose a pience. Also the edges of each piece erode and then its just a matter of time before pieces start fitting in where they don't belong. Of coarse you move them out and try to find the right place for them. They are minor inconveniences that end in the same result.

Long after that though. Much longer. You'll end up with a puzzle that is suggestively similar. It will be the residual of the previous times that will remind you what belongs in the empty slots. It will still have the same results, but paradoxically as it is built over and over again it will be different. Like the difference in every glass of water which is made up of mostly the same elements.

from who knows where

What awaits us later is what awaits us anywhere. Surprise to content to inevitability. Any range of possibilities. Maybe that is why we don't go thinking about where we will be to much. 5 year plans and 10 year plans have their goals, but nothing is exactly as is. Sometimes we are late for things and sometimes we are early. Seldom is that we are on time. Seldom is that it is perfect. Sometimes it is as we never expected and it is better for that. 

Less Than, But Not Equal To

A bold statement for a curious time. Lets have it. "Writing someone a letter is much better." It has to deal with the level of depth and the level of commitment. What you receive is a conversation so private that it demanded to be written down. And to be read more than once. Days later, if your lucky hours later, you will get your response. Hopefully it will be something bold and not simply adequate. What I speak about are private letters involving people and emotions and sometimes passions. Nothing of the sort that involves business transactions. But even then those letters are entitled to the same considerations of exactness and language. 

I worry about the lack of interest. Instant messages make the relevance of thought antiquated. Short questions and even short answers are what is available. Anything longer than the established 140 characters and you are left feeling like you overstated something. It feels forced. I feel pedantic. 

Text messages are little ads that pop up every other mile with its flashy lights and catch phrases. You drive on with out much interest. Even the little quibble, "where have you been" is more of a mental marker than a pledge to say more. So much for interest. So much for language. Which is what holds us together. It is not interests or style that we have between each other. It is the first initial words shared. It is how we find that others are far more fascinating than they appear to be. Conversation is all we have between us. To forget that is incredibly unattractive. 

Persistent Fly

There was a fly that I can distinguish from the rest. There are always the countless number that flutter about that try to land on your skin or eat get at your leftovers. Sometimes they make it on the tops of your ears without any notice. But there was one that I can clearly remember. It swept in and landed on a text book that I was reading and stayed for longer than any fly before. I thought it was simply bold when it didn't fly away. It wasn't staying its ground like a bear or a lion would when they stare back at you. The fly had simply come to find a place to die. I know because I pushed it over with my pen. Then I pushed it some more just to be certain it wasn't pulling one over me.

That was years ago. I cannot remember what I read. All that is there is a bright clear day, a pile of paper work, and a textbook with a dead fly standing over it. I sat on a chair with my back to an open window and the fly stayed its ground between my arms on the kitchen table. I remember these things not with content for the fly, nor with conviction. My mind simply had nothing better to do than to remember this as important. But that is the what is tricky about memory as it carries on.

There is nothing truer that I can say about memory than I am already forgetting things I did today. The fly stays with me because it stands in defiance of what flies normally do. But things today like the number of phone calls made, the amount of time it took to drive home, and even small thoughts that were interrupted by less interesting events are all lost.

Who are we then if we can't remember much? I can say without any doubt that I am comfortable being me. But we can make concrete statements about what it is we think of ourselves. Some might be eager, sulking, utterly elated at this moment. What happens though after the thoughtful comments about our state of being? We forget them days from now. Weeks from now it wont even register. We'll feel different about a song and we once again forget to take out the trash. Years from now it will introduce itself. For what reasons I cannot begin to suggest. 

Walls don't Talk

"If these walls could talk." What follows will never have anything to do with that type of nostalgia. Rooms are inanimate and will pay no attention to what you do. If it is anyone that spills a secret it will be the human that was either spying on you or suddenly came into the room expecting a very normal scene. (They will both act very surprised) Nose picking, sulking, light fingering, diary writing, and the most atrocious scrap booking... The point of this short list is you name it and the wall, a wall, has been witness to it. But its relevance to your events and mishaps is on par with your neighbor. They are totally oblivious. What guilt should you face when someone mentions the if the walls knew? The only concern about the modern world would be an unlocked door or surveillance equipment. So go ahead and treat yourself and forgo the uneasiness. Your room is a room that is at the very least made of three walls and a door, but most likely four walls and a door and maybe a window. Walls are there for privacy and shelter, nothing less. I will now walk in a room and try Elizabethan English as it is quite hard to think in a manor that makes the thy own heart palpitate, like a heart of a small steady rodent surprised at the sudden appearance of an unwarranted fox... That wasn't quite Elizabethan.

On to the next subject... let going.

Words with You

Words never hold any meaning until they are written, but most importantly read. Inflections and connotations. How do we do about them? And now that you aware you must now consider that the beginnings of seasons, like sentences, start with small gestures lost in the current season. A gust of cool northern wind and chapped lips, winter has come and it will fist you unkindly. Then again seasons do as they please and words, they entertain their own monologue separate from yours. Just try and make sense of conversation. It should be assured in early childhood that what you mean can sometimes come out the wrong way.

"It is the fifth day of April. And my hands feel like January. It is much to cold to hold hands and my pockets are to small to host yours too."

Is it indifference? Is it just to demonstrate that it is cold? Maybe it is the words of a coward? Nonetheless words do as they wish and not asked of. Literalness is lost sometimes in beautiful passages. But I would prefer ambiguity than having to say something with no character. Say anything though. Hope that it means the same as the thoughtfulness and emotion that push them out without much thought.

Thought V. Empire

I would much rather be a thought than a empire or nation. Sure some might not quite understand the perimeters of my subject. No one would really hate me. It's much harder to loath a though than it is an empire. It is also easier to hate the person than the thought that comes out of their mouth. When we think of recent hated men and women all we need is a name. What ever they did, it sometimes bears repeating, but only to those that don't know. The thought, well it makes its way past everyone.

So. I would rather be a thought tonight. I could be heard and paraphrased. But I will be my own. No affiliations. I would then be a vengeful opinion. I don't want that. All I want is to exist and be casual about it. I'll live on for a very long time. Far longer than any empire and until all memory is gone. Maybe History won't be cyclical at that point. It will be strait line with points assigning when something was last repeated.

What's is the oldest thought that keeps everyone talking? And how much older is it than the oldest empire? Rome versus Socrates?

in a word infinite

The universe as is the ocean. Best described as a myriad. Being that beyond a point they both are infinite. And while on of them is infinite the other isn't, yet it does persist to be just out of our reach (the Bottom of the ocean). The problem man creates is to deal with tasks as long as they are manageable. Otherwise known as being lazy. And not to be confuse with the itis (which sometimes comes after lunch and even twice in a day, after dinner). Most do not have a say in that. So it is in a world of infinities that goals are always out of reach. Things are mostly described as "the worst of times." Yet things work and life goes on. Considerably well for some, okay for others.

Problems are seldom to be found, as it is "acceptance" that does away with that . Mathematically jumping from 12,438 to 12,439 only exist as a single solitary step up. Yet the void that exist in-between is an infinite set of numbers. The closer you looking the more you understand that there are smaller and smaller divisions, eventually giving way to comprehension and a lack of nouns. Ignorance is the driving force that produces the single step and the preceding ones, too. The foolish man continues, but so does the obsessive compulsive.