amitabha

Do no think of me as calm, or sinister, or like the miner with your diamonds in my pocket. Do not think of me as the space man setting of for a distant planet to be with your devious others. I am not the wind that pulls the hat off of your head or the dog that barks when you close your eyes for rest. Do not see a train and think I am leaving, and curse the driver who has no idea what cargo he carries. Never will the mist cloud your eyes or the rain dampen the edges of your dress as you meander off to meet your makers in one last attempt to prove that you are worthy of the parades in your mind, or mine. Do not dabble in calm comforting waters waiting for a ripple when the crest of each wave you dream of lies on the other shore, the directions are yours to find and follow..follow..follow. Do not ask for comfort or bed time stories, do not let down your hair for strangers or believe in fairytale glory. Sometimes all that you seek is buried underneath your fingernails in the dirt you've gathered trying to scratch your way to the top, but don't bother looking. All you'll find is dirt. Or worse, the truth. Believe in the things that shine out the most and catch your eye as the sun crescendos into a blinding white light against your eyes, and once you are blind, try looking a little closer. Dare not taunt the maker of weapons, for they surely wield them with more force than your hands can manage, and with one swift blow your legs are gone and you're left lying on your side. The spices that flavor your dreams also flavor your nightmares.


PS. I just wrote that kind of out of the blue.. sometimes I like to just see what's going to come out of my fingers if I let them do their thing.. It's always amusing to look at the results, especially because alot of times (like tonight) I'm surprised to see what I write. I'm also kind of bored, as with the whole recovering from Burningman thing.. so here's some pictures of me.




And now here's a little poem I was just reading that I like:

I want you to know one thing.
You know how this is:
If I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists:
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats that sail
towards those isles of your that wait for me. - Pablo Neruda