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.

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.

Confirmation bias

Confirmation bias

Worrying about dying
will actually shorten your life.
By up to one 7th of a lifetime.
(It has even been scientifically
Being concerned with other
peoples judgements
will make you seem even worse
in those other peoples judgments.
(It has even been sociologically

Self-sabotage, and other existential (t)errors

So, I started this blog with the intention, or rather the experimental sensation, as a kind of test of where things could lead. Something to try. Perchance, a dream, or even something more than a dream. A pathway… ahead. Or the most broken and unstable stepping stone (by my feet). But it was never meant to be anything definite or permanent. At least not at first. This whole blog was just meant as a trial, or a test; something temporary, until hopefully in case something better came along.

So… why didn’t I see what I had actually (had and have got) going RIGHT HERE? However imperfect and work in-progress. It was still something that was getting somewhere, no matter how slow and gradual the journey, or that step, might seem and appear in the process.

Was it the perfectionst in me that started to rebel? My very own imperfect so messy blog? Things that are not up to my impossible standards? At least parly, I think so.

There was also the question—the SENSE—that I had got off on a wrong foot. Sooo and sooo many things that didn’t turn out the way I planned or hoped. So many piles of smaller mistakes, or at least what I considered mistakes (at the time).

But maybe, most of all, was the failure to connect with other people. Which might stem out of a low sense of worth (“I’m just not good enough for other people…”), as well as being very defensive/protective and insecure about things in some ways.

So I didn’t open up enough. I didn’t share and connect with other people on a more personal (or even a more… HUMAN) level. In the midst, and in the in-between, of all of us who are struggling&living right here.

So why did I stop blogging when I’d already gotten close to 100 followers in just 3 or 4 weeks? (and at least some exchanges with others.)

I just couldn’t take the pressure. At least that was part of the reason. All this attention—->all these eyes and senses… moving&creeping closer, and steering their minds towards old little *ME*.

So I abandoned ship. The only thing I seem to know well how to do (when things get out of hand, or when I just don’t know anymore just what to do). The thing I always seem to do: Sabotage so much for myself. Putting these (imaginary) brickwalls and obstacles, terrors and chains, in front of myself. Sabotaging…. my own LIFE. My own self. (And yet again. And again. And again. Why… is that so???)

So here I am. Considering all the options and choices of the future. If I should try to pick it all back up, all the little pieces. The shards and the things, I discard. Cause they’re… “just not enought perfect enough.” Cause maybe *I* am not perfect enough (or at least that’s what I think).

I thought that maybe I would start another blog sometime in the future (and this time I’ll get it right! This time… only this time… I’ll get it all right. From the start.) I thought that maybe I will just quit all of this blogging business. Maybe I will find something else. Maybe I should just go ahead abondon ship. BUT… What is there else but the  waters around me? Don’t I need a raft… or some craft or foundation… or an island to stand up stady, or even a ship to sail about on the seas and the waters?

If I write something good, or at least somehing that get other peples attention, I become scared from all the attention. If I write something less good, or at least something that doesn’t get other people’s attention, I become afraid that I’ve ruined the blog, or that no other people will care about me or it anymore.

I become scared out of being alone. I become scared when gaining other peoples attention. A catch 22. A bouble bind horror, of psychological dread. The horrific paradox of old: you’re damned if you do, ,and you’re damned if you don’t. So why don’t I just DO? I’ll get damned—or at least I THINK I’ll get damned—no matter what I do.

Well, that’s the million-dollar question. Just what should I choose? And what would I lose, or even maybe gain? (If I don’t remaind here so stuck, in the same gloomy old place.)

So. I will think about re/turning and/or maybe keeping on blogging. I will consider almost everything and everything else.

And then, I’ll hopefully make some kind of choice. Maybe a wise one, or a increadibly stupid one, but at least I’ll try to do and get SOMETHING—even ANYTHING—done. With everything that I got, and with what I want.

What say you? What say I? This is a chance. This is a moment of life. maybe all of my life. Or at least some kind of path… that may lead somewhere else. (or.. yet again: grow ever-deeper into a forest or a garden, so ever-more blossomed, and so ever-more large. Like a moment of time, or even one whole life.)


Citrus Smile

Citrus smile

A laughter, a smile,
that is only slightly
bent out of shape.
Maybe if only…
to hold onto
the things that sadness itself
can never quite reach.

Just in between
every sorrow and heartbreak and wonder.
Halfway to crying,
the other part
wishing so hard
to see all of this beauty.

Turned round a corner
for not one style
was ever big enought
to represent
this single one life.

A song & tongue
slightly torn out of shape,
wanting to sing
in between all of the lines
things that squares can never quite grasp
with their
scar-covered elbows and knee-jerking

See—a face all too lemonade-smiled.

Just how beautiful
something must be…
when it can
just almost be happy
with all of this sadness.


The words that are not my own

The words that are not my own

We dressed ourselves in words,
someone elses threads of thought,
hanging in the air,
soon getting ready for plucking.
We weaved these together,
in (heartbreaking) hope,
that they would
become our very own.

But how can what is always others
still be ourselves?
Isn’t there some small part
that we all share….?
You know, that little something—called LIFE
or even just being alive.
(even that infamous chestpump of ours).
A-one, and a-two.
Most of us still know
how to listen (to others)
if only
a small part of what they say
is ever really heard
beyond these few words.

Curvature’s bell    post    4879566957    the-shining-forwards-and-backwards

Curvature’s bell

Every meter is a clock.
Thermometer, hydrometer.
Weather and season,
rising and falling,
promise or debt.
Every drop,
all things solid and wet.
Each little eye(lid),
maybe half open,
or half close(d).
Even a finger—
something that’s moving
in time
or in space.
The curve of a finger,
and the measure
of a lifetime
and the remains
of everything same.

All too soft,
and yet endlessly hardened…………………….
in the stream
that is life
and all times.
Curving around…
even more softness
(like hillsides and waves),
standing too straight
when even
the world
had been bent
out of shape.

Measuring heartbeats,
in time, or in life,
like clock of the living,
against the clocklike machine
of the dead.
Facing ages,
loosing track
of all times
and all lives.
Until each one
almost seems to be the same……
only ever seen
through a mirror,
so very bent,
in and out
of its shape.


clockwork steampunk mom pregnant    (   _   post   _ 22502910099  _   )


The curse (that was many times worse)

The curse (that was many times worse)

When an oath
and a promise,
had been turned
in reverse,
from faith and hope,
to curse and to cuss,
ways to cut up a word,
and make it all kinds of worse.
From the brightest of colors,
and of speech ever heard.
Shoveled over with gravedirt,
necrofied words,
always spoken, but never really meant,
but therefore—–
twice much as stronger,
as when they first had been heard.

‘Twas their original oath,
turning all over,
among blood
and unspeakable names.
Faith rolling over,
until they belieiving now in nothing,
(nothing) but death.

That’s what they all hoped:
to one day delay,
with just this one word.
The one sad
and whispered,
always there, on their lips.
For(n)ever spoken.
Pleasepleaseplease! take it back!
But we can never be so sure,
if any thing, is even too late,
to ever really reverse.
“For life moves
in only this one direction…”
That’s what they said.

“But it is never too late,
to become un-cursed…”
That’s what many had hoped.

So they took one bite
of that glorious apple,
and they prayed
to something darkly,
now, only in reverse.

Never sure, if it all would work,
how to un-curse
their own selves
from many things, even worse.
Than their own fall.

But someone made another
kind of curse,
to cover things over,
and made almost every word
into some kind of curse.

So, soon,
they could only hear
just one curse
when they were speaking and breathing
and every step that they took
had to be made in reverse.

The second take

comedy-tragedy mask

(First as a tragedy, then as a farce, and then, finally, in the end, as a life.)

The second take

The false take—
a chance or choice
to do it all over
more than just once.

…and to get it
exaclty right.
(or even make it…
the tiniest bit of wrong…
as can be sometimes…
jsut as wright.)

The false beginning…
or the missing (second) ending.
Which one to choose
as the start
or an end.
This downfall
that doesn’t just fall
and isn’t even
no, not really

moving with…
a mark of questions
so cleverly curved
but always nearly pointing just up.

The second finish
for and to a second

again..that can that be that bad…
even maybe a third one…
that is made even
more straight…
standing tall-like
as a sky
over city
and the land.
with a parchment
held in hand
written all out
—it’s these few remaining words
that we once spoke of as life.

spoken so softly…
only once—
but (yet) almost
and lived through
more than just once.

twice or once…
to live them
and yet a second
to feel them.

even one more third,
—and still—
to also both BE and to LIVE them.


Life forgotten

A Life forgotten

Like, moving,
just doin your thang,
when from out of your left field, just
how somethin-somethin would BE…
only once ever seeeen—
like WHOA
so stunned by the .
(*words like leaves falling*)
Nothing n/ever really known
when i just
i counted it double.
So as.. to… say?
When things must have been
more than ones…
it’s like it might never
have been.
(not even just this once)

so i would—or i could…
totally return there here there
go back once again.
if only i wasn’t so
gloriosuly blind.
or if (nothing(nothing)) else {
as if a life
forever forgotten
could’ve been had
more than once.
(in just one single moment…);


yeah like i should totally
go back there… again…
if only i wasn’t so glued
to this double.
forsaken. (so many things)
mistaken. (they&myself)
4 this here one life.