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There are High Days

When you finaly

Find your treasure.

Then…

There are the Holy Days

When your treasure

Finds you.

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Ungreateful tied hands

Δ

How tranquil the painter upon the hill

Backdrop of Mountains overlooking ocean

Such gifts he is given

–

Standing in tall grass where tall trees once stood

I need to create but this canvass is not mine

These tools are forced on me by bigger people

The frame is cheap pine and weak joined

The canvass unevenly stretched with too little gesso

Two colors on a plastic pallet

One brush

What joy if there is no freedom

So I paint a cave within a Mountain cove

A place to hide

A place to hibernate

–

…and the painter is gone

Δ

Systolic Light

Θ

At rest ◊ No activity ◊ Asleep

Mundane

Conserving energy ◊ Memory off ◊ Disconnected

Empty

-The Flat Line between Beats-

Pulses of energy

Compelling movement

With a drum roll of heartbeats

Generating

Coursing visuals

Dictating pen

Leather bound Tablet

Creating

Hamilcar’s Javelin

Thrown into the void

Sparking upon impact

Illumination

Balance & Peace

Θ

Treeline

Θ

On the Path

the trail ends

no more steps

On the Mountain

−

Trekking up the Mountain

my mountain

The Path will eventually end

my path

The time comes

my time

To carve new steps

my steps

Or

End all progression

my end

Stand still treelike

my stillness

Cast a shadow down the Mountain

my shadow

Hiding the paths of the journey

my hiding

from the Sun

−

It’s the Treeline

It’s why so many Great Mountains

Are bare at the Summit

Θ

Plea before the Bench

◊

Ahhhhh…

Blank page

Before my eyes again

Challenger of my Soul

Is it you that guides me

Towards fate

Will you be my judge

In the end

Sarcasm    Dreams

Hate    Love

Apathy    Religion

Drool    Wisdom

Upon your skin

I testify

Of these things

I am guilty

Who I am

and what I’ve done

For good

And the bad

Whether you acquit me

Or condemn

I thank you

Though not for your verdict

As much as you presence

You dear page

Who bears my weight

When I cannot

◊

Winter Mood

It occurs to me that I lose touch with my Soul when I am away from it to long. This statement may sound obvious but the recent holidays and guests, however enjoyable, are far from routine. I am a creature of habit. I have working tolerances to my daily grind. When I exceed my specifications for a long duration problems arise. Namely, I become sullen and withdrawn. The so called Winter Mood. The time when I seem numbed from the loss of connectedness.

There are other times during the year when this malady can strike. Its onset requires a substantial diversion of focus from myself or inner peace (IP in Lady Sorrow terms). To hold the bond with my soul I must maintain a constant level of attentiveness towards it. Seemingly any lasting event can trigger the Mood. Though other than family vacation nothing seems to last long during Spring, Summer, and Fall. However, mid-November through mid-January are fraught with distraction. We all know what they are so I will not list them. Hence I suffer from a weakness of presence during this period.

Yet I know those who flourish in the season, reveling in the many chores. I notice that they act through a rehearsed plan from year to year. Apparently due to something called Tradition. They have slowly worked throughout the year towards these series of events. They then pique in the accomplishment of the multitude of labors. Labors that exceed the proportional load limit of stress during the time frame. Yet they truly feel gloom when it is all over and they must return to normal daily activities. Until next year of course.

Allow me to mention that I have celebrated this holiday period in a different fashion every year since the mid-eighties. I am unaccustomed to anything resembling tradition in dealing with the change of pace. Might I suffer from the disruption of Habit? Habit and tradition are different to me. The order that we dress ourselves each day may be considered habit. While eating Christmas dinner at two in the afternoon is more like a tradition. Many habits fall to the needs of the holiday season. Yet, as mentioned, since I’m without tradition I have only habit around which my day may be ordered. Can I then say that my gloom must come not from a departure OF tradition, as with those who plan for it, but a departure FROM tradition, as with someone who lives by habit.

What is it about tradition that helps us past the angst? I believe one facet of tradition is a possible mechanism for allowing us to behave outside of the norm. Tradition is a cultural positive and an accepted social pattern. Yet traditional activities are almost exclusively outside of normal daily behavior. Evident by a house normally occupied by two senior adults becoming billeted by the latter plus all their adult children, their children, the new baby, and 5 dogs; for two weeks. Where every transgression of protocol is dismissed as “hey it’s Christmas, we only do this once a year”. When under the umbrella of tradition are we not appeased by the alien actions & avalanching stress loads? Are we not permitted to call the unique, normal? Yes we are.

All of this begs the question. Can we assuage stress by planning chaos and making it traditional? This can, of course, lead one into the pitfall of expectations. The other landmine of the season. Yet if I spent the next eleven months planning for the holidays would I not centralize around prime activities. Though they would be odd for any other time of the year they could be a catalyst for focusing energy. The kind of energy that makes people smile instead of grit their teeth. If this is true then I should plan on starting a new tradition in the Polar house. Next year I myself will cut the Roast Beast; while wearing my Santa suit singing Deck the Halls and standing on my head. Did you catch that transition? I’m now anxious for next season to come. I had better start practicing.

I am sorry for making you read all of that just to hear me say, “Man is it hectic around the holidays”. The real reason for these statements is that this year my winter mood was dismissed after only a brief visit. Due mostly to the fact that I realized that my despair was caused by the acute absence of self. After that I had only to invite the awareness of my soul back into my house. Then “BAM” I was where I was before it had all started. I needed to understand my reaction to distraction on scales larger than daily habits allotted for. Once I did I was able to adjust for it.

Of course it will happen again next year if no changes are made. For how can I fully steel myself against these Yule usurpations of being? Considering the above I move towards a traditional remedy. Tradition. I will not create static plans but broad objectives instead. The Santa suit is a winner plus several more simple ones should do. These will not make the problems go away. If I can, however, perceive them as mere stepping stones towards my goals then I hope they will pass easily. Therefore allowing me a Silent Night.

The Scorpions Sting

A man

Who never acknowledges insults

That they may fade

Powerless

Yet before leaving

They sting him

With venom that burns

Leaving always a scar

The Soul can not mend

His reaction always aggressive

But he is civilized

He can not say a discouraging word

So his pride he must swallow

Again

Again

Until intoxicated

With doubt

Six-Sidied Spears

Droplets of vapor

Conscripted from the air

Amassed in great clouds

Marshalled for War

Each drop armed with spears

And adorned in armor of Ice

All at once a trillion warriors descend upon their prey

Grass, trees, & buildings all buried in the onslaught

And too am I attacked

Yet many defenses have I

Wide-rimmed hat, coat, & gloves

Protect me from the thousand cuts of each flake

So I continue on my Path unhindered

As a fool who easily forgets

The marksmanship of Snow

To patiently fall so far

So slow

Yet still strike the intended target

It only take one

Six-sided spear

Striking the nape of my neck

To penetrate my skin

And invade my spine with Winter’s chill

Consume my body’s warmth with coldness

Infect my mind with a poisonous Frost

Fill my veins with Ice

And inflict upon me

The same mood

That lay siege to the Land

For Winter has come

And my Soul must sleep

Depression

Pouring

Pouring rain

Rain on the streets

The streets of my mind

My mind drained of its Soul

Its Soul that never sleeps

Never sleeps in the dark

The dark that shrouds the life

The life that stalks wisdom

Stalks wisdom

Like Prey

Praying I might feed the hunger

The hunger of fear

Fear that pours on me

Pours on me like rain

Pity the Gods

What is a God without believers?

Perhaps alone

Maybe insane

Definitely mortal

–

Forgotten Gods

No one to take them seriously

But themselves

The mumbling and pathetic lunatic

Stumbling down the street

Living in a reality

That rots his soul

The world he created to rule

Turned out to be just another hell

If only he could admit to himself

His mistake