The Joke

The Joke

Everything started out with the jokes.
Or with THE joke.
The one.
The joke to begin and/or end
all the other jokes in this world.

It all started out with that joke.
Until everything & all
had been turned into a joke,
and the joke—all by itself—
had become much too serious
for any other kind of joke.

(Within or without
this dusty old world.)

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The oldest road (I ever know)

The oldest road (I ever know)

We were driving alongside that road.
Half-awake and half more asleep.
Never knowing which way we would go…
or what kind of place it would take.

We were driving alongside this ancient road.
Among so many traffic-light homes,
to ever really call it our own
(or even somebody elses).

Hypnagogic vistas and eyelids and homes.
Now—so much alike—and so alone (in our own eyes).
Just like the smallest stepping stone.
It all seems so much the same.
Right when you’re not really there.
Or when it’s not really here. All at once.

But… through each of these homes…
as their own secret temple, and chapel,
weaved out of hearts.
Lighting up, now, with so many candles and lights.
Bursting forth with everyone, people and life!
Bursting forth, almost like flames—
of their own secret time.
And their whispers of places.

We were driving alongside that oldest of roads,
looking for our own secret home.
Never knowing… that the road,
and the car… was our home.
Onto this ancient old earth.
Only here, in our hearts.

The Fable

The Fable

There was a dice,
a many-sided dice,
and each side has a word.
A part of a tongue
that no one had heard.
And as it rolled
along the table,
each little fable and song,
would be chanted
“this tall” and “that long”.
Alongside this table
with so many faces and ages.
Each one living a part
of a story,
much much too large
to ever be held,
in any single one
of their hearts or hands.

So, as the fable
grew taller and taller,
this longer and wider and grander
deep into their hearts and their minds
and the parts of their lives,
they would all see, they would all come to know….
how each of their selves, played
one very small part
in a play,
much too mighty
to ever hold, or be contained,
in any single one
of their hearts or their kinds.

Freestyling arabesque

Freestylin arabesque

Arabesque mouthpiece,
(centri-fugal,)
diamond-pierced,
(centri-fugal,)
ornamental eyes
of a cranial head,
endlessly cracked.com (world wide) open
b/4 many king(doms) to come,
dressed in leather and scars,
and dreads wrapped in feathers,
punXish sista,
with a twista,
egyptian backbone
of too many a cultures,
twisting turning over,
until even evermore things yet to come.

Taking a break and returning (what a change in perspective)

Being away from the blog for awhile, has maybe even been a good thing (in the end), since it
also did give me a much-needed perspective and distance.
Now that I return, for (hopefylly) more regular posting and engagements, I find that things also feels quite a bit different. I look at things differently.
All the things that seemed like impossible challenges, now maybe doesn’t quite seem as heavy or menacing anymore.

And all the things that seemed so very small, that I somehow overlooked, and forgot how to value, or
even knew what to do with, now seems at least a little big bigger, and possibly also of a lot
more value and meaning.

So… what do I want with this blogging thing (anyway)?

Maybe my problem is that I expect blogging to be something more—or something ELSE–than what it actually IS. I expect blogging to be a magic bullet for connecting and engaging with other people. I expect blogging to be something that might very well be perfectly ALIEN to its very nature and media. I expect any message and stream, and any voice and any meaning, to go into that hole. That tinyest pinprick hole, that eye of the needle, that fleeting electronic space, weaved out of technological shapes, and yet also with breathing and bleeding, heart-and-soul, LIVING PEOPLE, that will forever stand at the gate, looking through, into just one tinyest part, of the whole. Only with whispers and guesses, and fleeting moments of maybe’s, ever-surely getting through.

Blogging sure isn’t a chat. (Tough Maybe we could turn it into a chat?)

Blogging isn’t a phone call either (neither to god, nor to man. Or… maybe it is, or could be?)

So what is (the nature of) blogging? Posting and linking, and comments.

Blogging is a text. Blogging is a private-public journal. Scribbled and foot-noted, at the very end, and by the margins, of the living people who are reading that text.

The text really DOES have value to me. I love all kinds of texts. If you read, and write texts, you know of their value.

And yet, adn yet, the people also have so much of a value. And the people can often get pushed away, and overshadowed, by the text.

What is needed then is human relations, interactions and connections. Conversations and engegemantes. Dialogues and trialogues and multi-logues.

Speech—and human responses—in addition to the text(s).

So, we might need both a phonecall, as well as a notebook and a pen. A text that is spoken—in spirit—and speech that is written, in web and in life.

In my other post (the one about selfsabotage), I blamed myself, for why all this blogging in some ways had failed, or at least not led to anywhere close to what I’d hoped and prayed. I blamed my own perfectionism and my own imperfections, and my own everything else, and thus merely confirming how I still think that it all is my own fault. I’M the one who is so unbelievably imperfect. I’m the one who can never get anything right. So I blamed everything on myself and all of my own, as I always does, yet again and again.

And so… maybe I’m right.

Or maybe it is all of our faults. The conspiration of human imperfections and flaws. Imperfections colliding and clashing. People not seeing eye to eye, and not really nearing each other. People (on the web) not truly understaning that there’s another flesh-and-heartbeats human being, at the other end. People, so seldom, and so late, ever barely understanding each other. Even just a tiny part of their and our lives.

Maybe people aren’t always all too compatible. Good, and well-intentioned, and yet… also highly different. Like they’re (we’re) from another time and space, or even from another unspeakable world.

Maybe we all have to make the serious effort. To understand, and to connect. To engage and to embrace. Each other. And also all the many others. The living and breathing. The others. The human being(s) at the other end (of the line, or the text, or the web).

I don’t yet know… what it is, or what is there.

But somehow we all have to make the attempt. At least if we want it to be/come more than a conversation… of and with… just (barely) one’s own little self.

Also everyone—or at least some little ones—or maybe just a one.

Or maybe many many many more.

But at least it would be really rather good if we all attempted to try.