Essence Of A Petrie Dish…

“Another head hangs lowly
Child is slowly taken
And the violence, caused such silence
Who are we mistaken?

But you see, it’s not me
It’s not my family
In your head, in your head, they are fighting
With their tanks, and their bombs
And their bombs, and their guns
In your head, in your head they are crying.” Dolores O’Riordan

With care! We produce miniature robots, bundled rows of life about Earthrise and underneath Moon-sparkle, still altered-still same and always twirl-spaced across time bridged and kind. They remain unchanged yet constantly evolving, dancing through time and rhyme. We strive to evoke longing and embrace diversity. As we mold them, they come to life, transitioning from concept to reality with a burst of energy, returning to the darkness before emerging anew.

This is the only way we would have it.

‘La Liberté éclairant le monde’

“Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed, to me:
I lift my lamp beside the golden door.”

Freedom must continue to be spoken, even when the message is too intense, too overwhelming, and too obscured to clearly see. If we do not persist in speaking out, we risk perpetuating the failures of past, present, and future ‘Dreamscapes.’ We must remind ourselves of the power of words, even as loud voices seek to drown out reason and understanding. It is only through coming together and embracing communal dialogue that we can hope to discover true understanding. We must question whether institutions like the FCC, Congress, or the Federal Government will seek to restrict our hard-won freedom of expression. In a world dominated by fear, control, money, and ignorance, our liberties are constantly at risk of being curtailed. Let us not forget that government exists to control, not to promote freedom. Let us resist the forces that seek to limit our voices and uphold the fundamental right to speak freely. Only by standing together can we ensure that our voices are heard, our words are valued,

‘And! Our Freedoms are preserved.’

Do not despair, and do not tolerate inequalities, for wealth is not meant to be hoarded by a few, but shared by across the planet we call home. Throughout history, we have seen disparities in wealth and the ability to create it change and harm most of humanity. Let us not accept unequal rewards for our hard work. Balanced income may seem like an unattainable reality, but we must never give in to resignation. People power and nonviolent revolutions can bring about change and create a more just society. By urging our groups fighting against the destruction of the earth to come together, protect themselves, and fight against unjust bondage and avoidable death, we are sending a strong message. It is heartbreaking to see the damage caused by our environmental crisis.

‘It seems like the Forces of Capitalism always stand in the way of reversing it.’

The essence of Petrie dishes, life droplets, creations of dolls, spirits of robots, in the mysterious void of space without dust, a mother ship without rust, traveling through miles of twists and turns before the final day arrives, just another way of being realized, forgotten, remembered, embraced, and replaced. Life is fundamentally sacred, not in its mystical spinning, but in its constant swirling of supreme worth. Androids dance in electric nights, love guides through dark fears and into bright lights. Shadows touch the moonlit ceilings and time passes without races, in these fleeting moments.

‘Life is an Almost Maybe’

And! Beautiful you are…

‘Caribbean Blue’ by Enya

Spirits Walk And Spirits Talk…

—In your sounds of music—in your works of art-touch and your words of rhythm and rhyme; I taste and feel the strength of your presence—Past and Today and into the Future and ‘wow’ light does exist…Everyone! Thanks for sharing!

When eternal spirits visit body magic, please protect the ‘ghosts in these machines.’ Open arms and rejoice in this welcoming of life, body embraced touched senses to ground and as sky flight races across sky’s grand lengths remember there are no gates of heaven. Body form, blood and love and hand-to-hand and hip-to-hip and to and from the Mother-Ship…

Find no balance to bible-speak or the ramblings of government kings or the priests of wealth and babble for they are the attempted ‘evil’ of control and failure. Eternal Spirit touches Eternal Spirits. Simple and refined and fair in logical truth and requiring no ‘men-of-middle-claims’ or endless fancy killings or…

Presidents, Premiers, Dictators, Popes, Imams, Chieftains, Generals-of-Death, Politicians-of-Control and Preacher Kings, when you fly by as simple sky birds without metal form and blame; we may just for an instant, look up into the sky and smile. Then we will continue the protection of little ones and our spinning world. Is not the purpose of us to help the small ones grow into the large ones?

When the call of heart gives up eternal spirits never end. Eternal Spirit never waits to gain permission and access to the Universe. Life is unstoppable and everlasting. No Judgment awaits, no future calls for horror, no memories of past or present or future physical constructions are not required or necessary. Gods created spirit-sparks and spirits together to dwell in the whenever time of wherever places for whatever reasons.

Call spirit-dance! The naming of name-times quantify mysteries of understanding heart-touch inside flesh-times when body-survival purposes daily pursuits or interests same as food to stomach and sleeping in those arms-of safety. Mother holds baby close and Father embraces in his arms; hope and love and protection. She and he together once more family-dance the form of strength social and fabricated continuum.

So! Visiting Spirits stop and animate walking, flying, swimming and crawling flesh. No tests and no required reasons. True Gods create no wars on earth or in the above places of the wherever or ever been. True Gods do not allow horror or death or strife or pain or happiness or grief or destruction. The ‘Gods’ do not judge the fallibility or fragility of flesh and whimsy. Why? Poverty and Greed and Control and Governments and Religions equal the Terror/Horror of this immediate now and this immediate place.

Life is Eternal Spirit and we are these spirits. One or many across a star field of many star-filled nights and days. Stars do not dim in the light-of-dawning bright. Eyes often see more than eyes discover and understanding may stop at birth or continue until stopped heart begins Spirit-walks again across a Spirited-Sky, beyond and below and maybe again on a ‘whirly twirly’ world somewhere in another time or place or race. Nothing matters except Love and Life and Peace?

And! Beautiful you are…

Peace on Earth…

“I heard the bells on Christmas day

Their old familiar carols play

And mild and sweet their songs repeat

Of peace on Earth, good will to men

And the bells are ringing

Like a choir they’re singing

In my heart I hear them

Peace on Earth, good will to men

And in despair I bowed my head

“There is no peace on Earth, ” I said

For hate is strong and mocks the song

Of peace on Earth, good will to men

But the bells are ringing

Like a choir singing

Does anybody hear them?

Peace on Earth, good will to men

Then rang the bells more loud and deep

God is not dead, nor doth He sleep

The wrong shall fail, the right prevail

With peace on Earth, good will to men

Then ringing, singing on its way

The world revolved from night to day

A voice, a chime, a chant sublime

Of peace on Earth, good will to men

And the bells, they’re ringing

Like a choir they’re singing

And with our hearts, we’ll hear them

Peace on Earth, good will to men

Do you hear the bells, they’re ringing?

The light, the angels singing

Open up your heart and hear them

Peace on Earth, good will to men”

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Witch Magic And Spells…

These Idols are shams of illusory pain, unknown over spans of turmoil and wars of courses, ’til days without war are times wasted and blood not tasted. They fall to earth in conveyances not yet realized and always fighting over splits, of DNA and genes spliced to design to slave and swiftly die. And! We imagine these creations are creators, to shadow—to covet and too; to emulate, ‘til death parts our ways and past deaths still correctly resolves from among the graves? Oh, hell no? This ring around never follows unless correct premise concludes that the correct choice is but; a wig-waggle away from, conclusive logic and “still love me some logic-eh.”

Witches formed the twirling-whirl. Enchantresses will revisit and revive their designs. So! Return now. Perhaps, this is a suitable time? Beware the twirl of haunted paramours. Each motion is a dance with unreal realities. They delight in the child’s discovery; of life, without opaque details and sans those sundry levels; unknown, behind crafted shells and the ruined confines of age. This substitute; when discovered, is grief for a reduced lover while crying sugar tears and fire-sweetness and the recollections of chance? Appearing in cloud early, we perish within a jumble-muddle of dusted rain and rust. In transition and pursuing the flash-ride; to spiral and skip, we frame time and often miss but never-ever fall.

“There is no death it said
on one side and the other side of the paper
the voices are the same the thunder
is the same roaring in our ears for
on one side and the other of the paper it said
there is no death
There is death though in the paper where
the muffled pencil moved
Only in the paper only in the shrouding paper”… Annie Besant

Arrange now! Inside the ruin-runes of this roadhouse of crumble stone and moss and rubble and ruined wooden benches and tables twisting into ground. Life begins and life ends as inhalation starts and exhalation stops. Not a cloud fall missed, but a spark’s charging headlong into channels of paradise and kiss-loves before the night ends and life trashes to light. We are robots of life scattering and of live jamming ‘cross one thousand worlds; set to twirl the galaxy, all lost and found and discovered and discarded. A million mines of unique ones whirling just inside zero drops of rain and trillion-acre seas of salt and water and giant crashes of life’s sparking rattles and battles in the birth of baby eyes and infant sighs.

We are the ‘off-grid-gridders’ of neoteric plug-ins; unedited and banned and far away from the standards of whisper’s folly and inside a net of lost souls and flounder bodies. All totaled must dwell within this symmetry of stop and starts and the ones and the zeros of reasons and verses and songs. However; we are unfamiliar automata, powerless to locate or spare chaotic notions beginning or ending without result.  We are never noted by previous androids! We are simple chips within other chips and notions beyond the loops that loop, ad infinitum. We are the celebrations of the mourning after and spawned in the backseats of an auto or two and occasionally former and eternally imminent, when taverns crumble and bridges fall.

“The modality of novelistic enunciation is inferential: it is a process within which the subject of the novelistic utterance affirms a sequence, as conclusion to the inference, based on other sequences (referential – hence narrative, or textual – hence citational), which are the premises of the inference and, as such, considered to be true.” JULIA KRISTEVA–‘Desire in Language’

By the fire bright of these dwindling tribes, children marvel at; both, the dancing flames and the warmth of these lights ‘gainst the nights and outside shadows beneath their eyes. They listen as stories tell the beginning of things now gone and of those grand places not started but imagined and seen in minds’ own spaces and in their most desired regions of just before a dream and just after ‘wishing this was true.’ We eternally return and find another home. This is where monsters cannot reside, aside from the secret of childhood sing-songs and glee. We return to spaces where bombs cannot splinter thoughts or disturb the determination of freedom, its folly and its lies. This is our place without borders.  Only the religions of kings attempt to divide and conquer spirit wings and fiddlers speak. Everlasting is this spirit and life begins and ends as the fiddlers play.

And! Beautiful you are…

Life Shouted—Never Doubted…

“Like the empires of the world unite
We are alive
And the stars make love to the universe”— by Shakira Isabel Mebarak Ripoll

Walk now, mind walk and follow. Shadow smoke curls and the echoes of sing-song-choirs along the line where sea meets see and sky appears above a forgotten shimmer of water stretching beyond eye watch and body wait. Stride upon the salty waves of a dead sea tucked down between actions and melody’s refrains. Then melt into mists and sea sounds and into another dawn. Those little matters matter-less. Conclude and then proceed once more.

‘You and I and life about and as we shout ‘Love’ skyward because nothing will stop our Dance. You and I forever together! We know nothing alone exists without love’s power, hour, tower, flower and life. Life ignited delighted and excited. We touch hand-to-heart-to-spirit and let the eternal dance begin again.’

Come now and twirl into the Spider’s Web. Enter East-side. Hold the nothingness of thought without form until substance becomes madness. And! Venture out beyond the bridge and find a different freedom. Align birth and moments before and moments after the being presented see lighting sky-flashes and hear thunderclaps as a gelatin combines with knowing vapor to travel those heavens in timeless mist and harmony. As vapor we exist. We are not distraction by what we are not; for we are not, not by displacement or alteration because we always exist in timeless harmony and within those trails of stardust spewing from alternative engines of speed and power. Life motions as life moves. Life modifies. And! Spirits Dance…

And! Still here while beneath these heavens our sea swirl-twirls and we see those Sirens rises from emerald seas and from black sands where tide pulls against current and the alignment of moonlight is perfect and is orderly in its dispersal upon the dustless night.

Our Goddesses create heavens and earths and moons and suns and pass spirits to fleshes and from fleshes back again to those spirited forms, substances free. Corrected notes, the piper plays silver flutes that holds heart ‘beeps’ of roaring seas. We pass into light and set others ‘cross star streams beyond sun and beyond sea and beyond the skies of eternal space. Never troubles what posterns we tumble through and matters not why stars blister us. Matters that gates open and matters that stars are hot.

These are singing days! Shouts and shrieks and whistles ‘cross harbor calls where wood-hulled ships rest with bell claps rocking waves and setting sails. 

We water children are held above the line by knowledge buoyant. Unafraid and free and defeating gravity and the restrictions of a drier Earth.

Sunshine west-turns and slips beneath the sky. Nymphs forgotten and paradise found by Summer’s little ones.

Small beneath the greater schemes of earth and large beneath the stars. So bright! Those stars! Filling lake sparkles and silence with gems dancing and laughing diamonds…

Our house is a strong house, built of stout wood with skill and with love. The wind cannot knock it down. As this grand tempest expires, our house is still upright and salutes the lights of another way. Do not allow this government to destroy people’s achievements, their history, their language, and their future dreams. When this happens, we become a twist of ash. We cannot survive. Genocide destroys our flesh and so much more than Bone. Genocide destroys our blood rivers of Life…

“When we try to conceal our innermost drives, our entire being screams betrayal.” — by Frank Herbert

And! Beautiful you are…

Often Empathy Is Survival…

Empathy determines the variety of groups’ survival and through the artistic impressions of all things determined and created. Landing places are measured by the spaces between Zero and One. Computer’s shrug in ‘Yes’ and ‘No’. Where one arrives is never known until travel ends and arrival begins. To Heaven—to hell? Perspective is varied and determined again by ‘Yes’ or ‘No’.

After a ‘No’ these trees are antithetic. Some are smooth as chrome piped pieces and many times harder. These trees cannot be destroyed. These trees are one thousand feet high and sometimes two hundred feet across. They are the color we see. They are also able to individually change or exchange colors. Some people believe through changing colors, the trees communicate with one-another. Sometimes and far out and away from Rebekka Bends City, it is imagined that folks worship these great steel trees. They are the Charm Collectors. When leaves of many colors fall from chrome limbs; they collect these leaves, great and heavy slabs of an indestructible fashion. When these folks first settled far north of the city and along the shorelines of Calimesa Sea-to-sea-wall-to-street, where the shoreline bends away from land and moves outbound around two hundred and ninety-six miles from the Calimesa Hills, they became the Mountain People.

‘No gentle times better than the dreams of children safe, lovers’ serenity, pictures on walls with no forms, tracks without stars and cars without spaces to move while empty ribbons of dark pavement disappear over a hill. Being afraid to exist; is the notion of moving through, a barely recollected time of future’s fate and prior to another trip-in-time’.

The trip to see the sea is a long walk or a short gradual ride downhill on Long Slide Slope for twelve and one-half miles and then another three miles to where land ends. Then a boat ride across two miles of inland water. Then three miles of land and then another two miles of water and again land for one and one-half miles. When reached, Calimesa Sea begins and land ends. This is a word chase ‘cross screens and about getting to the Seas of Calimesa and the traveling of space folded by volition and distances flexure through passageway spaces and creature races.

The uniformed ones come and some are removed and some are passed quickly. To be proper is good and very wrong, when the persecution of others transfers from fear-to-hate-to-war. And! Hatred is galore, purposed and ends before realized peace is quickly changed to the ‘the quick or the dead.’ To seek and destroy others due to divergences in shape, in scope, in tint, in notions or faith is intention with no ‘assonance or intelligence’. The colored fibers of an arras must be many and without reason for life has no meaning if lacking variety and noise and without sing-song choirs and time.

Circle globes inside and just outside the globes’ entertainments feature: winged cloud-clowns squared by twine stringers, double singers and cicada bands with twirling-whirling claws and slashed gashed blood drinkers, and absinthe thinkers. Inside globes: Collector throngs and crisscross laces of thrumming and the high-pitched squeals of acoustic irritation and the harmony of pleasant sounds joined with thud-thud drums as heartbeat speeds and changes dimensions from thick-to-thin and back again. This is the inside space domed by outside. This is inside; expensive outside and only known as the place to gracefully travel through tunnels of space as folded space lace and lengths are shorter ways to crisscross distance once vast; now as liquid as sea water and lakeside foam. Outside distraction while inside; tranquility and chill-pills are a short space between inside and the blanket cover of a car’s trunk. Opened not much for much less. Inside-to-outside is one galaxy wide and one universe long. Sphere reach is anywhere in anytime by rhythms and rhymes.

Often a magic key or sets of those unlocking instruments are an imagined tool to escape or find and prevail only to become again lost in secret recesses—accesses known only to a favorite few or in the plain-view of everyone. There are so many secrets discovered and so little time for those secret solutions.

The way to hearts is always through hearts.

And! Beautiful you are…

 

Orinoco Flow by Enya

Imagination and Wrinkles in Space…

“We took the blood of the earth
and fell in love with death
with life itself as an excuse
Black is the sunlight shimmering below;
it flows through life and the guilt we share
We’re hiding in chorus as starry eyes close,
and seasons part in farewell;
‘because we drained her blood, then forgetting her face
to hide from everyone” by Draconian

Imagine! If we could create wrinkles in space-time, we may be able to manage to bring a distant location much closer to us, so it would be possible to reach it without breaking the light speed barrier.

Swirling whirls of smoky fires to cook and fog mist touches life from mountain high to valleys of twirling-spirits and folks-of-flesh spreading across a triangle called Kalints. This may be considered life or love’s memory and the almost real of a now to then and back again. Creators speak and touch canvas with lines and circles a dot of dash as songs play and laughter reaches to diners’ corner and open doors call to inside secrets of ink motions and canvas wet with colors and the scent of orange and green and brown and yellow and perfume inside a night of air and dare and wear and fare or the future of moments again without the layers of walls climbed and discarded.

Per Pope John II—Centesimus Annus: “Ownership of the means of production, whether in industry or agriculture, is just and legitimate if it serves useful work. It becomes illegitimate, however, when it is not utilized or when it serves to impede the work of others to gain a profit which is not the result of the overall expansion of work and the wealth of society, but rather is the result of curbing them or of illicit exploitation, speculation or the breaking of solidarity among working people. Ownership of this kind has no justification and represents an abuse in the sight of God and humanity.”

Abusing the rights of the Workers-of-this-World is a Crime against Humanity. Like Genocide, speculators destroy life and the freedom of people everywhere on this sweet planet. Are we free if we are wage-slaves, anyway?

‘La Liberté éclairant le monde’

“Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed, to me:
I lift my lamp beside the golden door.”

This garden is hilltop high and we come here in season to plant flowers and remember some time ago with voices today. Tree lined field already picked and plowed of life crosses path resting inside good woods as we look toward cattle and fence and trees and fields and a creek bed dry except for trickles of little waters caught by pools and deposited by rains covering this hill and the valley just last evening.

Consider the everyday failure of notions to grasp the chance of peaceful portions. Depends on how-where you be when flash streaks with smoke reeks as eyes burns in the tears and fears and by the warps of notions, peace cease just before killer memories evolve into sweet substance and light bright smiles. Just bump-bangs away or a simple sail set-to-wind rail balance ‘neath ruined ‘bridges of seven’ or on another land-fall beneath another sky. Homes to build and caves to clean and again for a short while arrival life comes home. Better than missile speak, or places too far gone to seek bomb shelter, a chance for another and another dance before smoking tears or tomorrow-sorrow. Death and peace and good! Life! Ways forgotten remembered and gone. And! While I breathe, I Hope.

‘And the men who hold high places
Must be the ones who start
To mold a new reality
Closer to the heart
Closer to the heart
The blacksmith and the artist
Reflect it in their art
They forge their creativity
Closer to the heart
Closer to the heart.

Philosophers and ploughmen
Each must know his part
To sow a new mentality
Closer to the heart
Closer to the heart
You can be the captain
I will draw the chart
Sailing into destiny
Closer to the heart’ by Rush

Speculative Capitalism is both non-social and immoral. It is an unproductive financial system that channels greed into speculation and usury. It is irrational and unstable and a Crime against Humanity. Oops! There goes the right to: Life, Liberty and our pursuit of Happiness…And! Due to this Incredible greed, the collapse of Capitalism is inevitable. Crisis investing causes the ‘markets, about this fine world to fluctuate; up-down and all around…A hundred plus points up or down—causes non-productive investors to jump up-down and all around. She or he becomes nervous and begins to whimsy buy and sell. Using sound financial practices becomes mute and the destruction of many billions and lives ensue.

Eden and sin and serpents, oh my! We are the proof of far-removed parents when gods may have ruled and created women and men in places from Sirius to Mars to Earth and back again? Our rulers and our ruled and our voices and our religions have rewritten our beginnings in so many places and in so many ‘might have been’ accidents that these truths or fictions have blurred the start of lost and the loss of start.  And! Still the rest is yet to come. ‘And! Why not?

We are all Children of this Universe and We have the Right to be Everywhere!

And! Beautiful you are…

Genetic Contours And Spinning Complications…

“Academic freedom is very important—there are risks when it is occurring in places that don’t have that academic freedom, giving companies or governments the power to shut down research they don’t approve of” by Emily Bender.

Are we beyond the physical figures we virtually appreciate? An Eternal Spirit is a forever being with great substance and knowledge and wisdom and the mind of us…We are the illusions of all, and we are more than less. Existence is not the riddle of life. It is the living of this day. We are not born to die. We are not created by accident or purpose or reason or rhyme. We are life and we follow universal space  between drops of rain and amongst flakes of snow.

From genetic profiles and spinning webs come calculations inherited and dancing traits and the merging of urging begin the beginnings of tiny robots’ mirrors of images and with simple complexity children of love are born. They arrive complete with slivers of magic beasties, portions of golden hearts and brief stops between breaks for Eternal Spirits to slower whirling twirls and again become blood dances and double bodies…

We spin exactly right of our whales with horns and the unicorns of ages ago and futures from earth. We live inside the vast shadows of a trillion suns of light and night and moons’ silvery twirls against the magnificence of between times when drenched in golden dreams and diamond wolves of today’s day-night. Not a middle riddle called Life…

Walk these magic trails long before bombs turn soil red and chase air away from ground. We dance to piper sounds between green cliffs of magic and the forever of Ever-lands. Gods smile and we; you and I smile back and with boundless energies. We are the blood of substance for a minute. Then we rerun begin-again as now, and as then we go.

Do we determine our own destiny both as spirits and as the blood of flesh? Angry Gods do not exist. Angry men matter little except to the scrubs of scurry selves, being just before the spirits of after self and spinning matter of expressions. Rude the kings and queens of foolish speak when angels fall toward earth bound’s trivial moments and gods require no explanations and fear rules these angled angels.

With care we manufacture robots tiny, bundled rows of life about Earthrise and underneath Moon-sparkle; still altered, still same and always twirl-spaced across time bridged and rhyme. We inspire desire and require sweet diversity. Until shaped we shift created life a fabricated slip and tanked in agile spark from womb-song-to-light-then-back-again-to-two again. Would have this no other way required!

Dare we touch or dare to reach the inside spaces of code-genetics and count the current streams to spin to craft to be or to leave the untouched alone. Why not touch to feel? Some today’s we destroy both the wonder of wonder and sometimes we die in the fearing of fear. Sometimes, eternal spirits and the realm of nonsense physical do confuse and bewilder or cure the magic of life and the mystery of death.

The evangels of lofted higher Gods’ notion as something novel crawls our way those must haves have half twirling tales or songs of knowing knowledge that those highest Gods of swirl cannot contain life and the wag-of-wiggle of shaping-shifters and Androids are we.’ And! Oh, those ghosted machines are those spirited us. Tiny specks-to magic witch we survive all, to dance life across those many spaces of races and kiss storm stars known or stars remembered and forgotten.

Images created as mirrors reflect mortal moments to immortal spirits with motions from nothing to something and again back to those nothings of something that may have almost started or stopped and started again. ‘Would have or could have or should have’ may have been here or gone over and over ad infinitum. Life both of Robot creators and Creator robots forever last and through our eternal stretch and scratch, they too survive.

So! Let us watch those winged and those with fur and feet-of-four or those in deep oceans or sand or tiny against the ground. Womb songs we sing and as we, they eternity be. Eternal Spirits all.

And! Beautiful you are…

 

 

 

 

 

Life’s Fire And Warm Wine…

“Like grapes, we have always accompanied the vat.

From the view of the world, we have disappeared.

For years, we boiled from the fire of love

Until we became that wine which intoxicated the world” – DR. NURBAKHSH

Is it true ‘that’ “unawareness is no restriction to reason for it is repeatedly a reasonable reverse?” A culture of contemporary contemplation and course is not completely resistant since the social strengths of convictions are confusions in emergence and solution. What of the conditions of ‘human freedoms’ and the tasks required by free enterprise and its obsolete system of a party-political economy? And! How has mechanized labor affected individual laborers restraining the union of voices apart and in part, because of coded words and the resourceful destruction of blood-flesh-sweat and blood again?

The commune of Paimpont is near the city of Rennes. Is Paimpont Forest Brocéliande? Magical mysteries of planet space a place where the Lady of the Lake and Merlin’s capture, a tree where imprisoned he may remain? Or! Mystery rich, Merlin’s tomb, the Val sans Retour an enchanted land where ‘Morgan le Fay’ casts spells to imprison her lovers? And! Remember that once Rennes was Condate, a tiny village of wonder spells and twisted whirls of twirling tells story rich and tame.

We begin before the stars—And together we melt into the mist…Fire and shadows ‘cross a sky—Color moon of blood and gold—Simple songs and thudding drums—Stars light up another home—We move by wind across this place—In sunlight waves and dancing twists—Of silver rain and stretching space—Ship’s gentle streaks in skies of grace.

Twirl and turn those verses and often speak actual words and chaunt only sincere songs to inspire our rituals and animate our shapes. Tell us legends and myths long before these scourges and pandemics seize our souls. Sing these songs before the lies of survival become the only melodies we understand or accept.

“The present state of our culture may be gauged by the extent to which principles have vanished from public discussion, reducing our cultural atmosphere to the sordid, petty senselessness of a bickering family that haggles over trivial concretes, while betraying all its major values and selling out its future for some spurious advantage of the moment.” – Ayn Rand

In these Times of Fear and Uncertainty please find Comfort in the Power of Love!

Angels glide ‘cross jumble-tumbles where stone dust is purple and initiated by invisible rainfall seen, as miners move dirt above rock facades and drag biased ones from place-to-special-place. Constructions are assembled and structures progressed; restructured, replaced, and ruined. Needed things as times require, and places are homes while buildings sheltered seaside and landslide. Reptile Nations are the motions available as requisite increases and variations conclude. Never troubles what posterns we tumble through and matters not why star blisters us. Matters that gates open and matters that stars are hot.

And! Beautiful you are…

 

A Connected Condition…

    Inside the remnants of this roadhouse, crumbled stones and moss and rubble and trashed benches and twisted tables turn into dust. Life starts and life ends as inhalation stops and exhalation concludes. Not a cloud tumble ignored as spark’s rush headlong into channels of paradise and kiss-loves before the night ends and animation ruins illumination. We are androids of life scattering and live jamming ‘cross one thousand worlds set-to-twirl a cluster all lost and found and discovered and discarded. Locate an exclusive few whirling beyond zero drops of rain and trillion-acre seas of salt and water and giant crashes of life’s sparking rattles and battles in the birth of baby eyes and infant sighs.

    William Benthrows never walked through this portion of Calimesa Bay Park. It was the furthermost point East of the park’s expansive place of lost statues, of crumbly sidewalks and dilapidated buildings. Homeless people occupy and light fires from dry wood stacked underneath concrete ledges away from oily rain. Whilst there, they eat bread and cheese and drink adult beverages, soda pop and water. They sleep inside canvas shacks scattered across Proper Hills. And! They employ greyish woolen coverings to ward away cooler night air once the bonfires transform to embers and expire.

    Will’s initial view of her was adjacent the bottom of Proper Hills. Due to an approaching dusk her white dress was all he could see. As she passed him, she called, ‘follow me?” And! Promptly he began because she was quickly moving away from him. She began to run, and he changed speed from a quick-walk-to-run. At the peak, she continued down the other side and as he crested, the woman was gone.

    Out of breath, he stopped and leaned against the only oak tree standing before the next hill started. From everyplace, an unknown space starts as time stops and reason vanishes, an oak limb razor-sharp cut through his heart and lifted him upward. It was a painless intrusion that should have probably transpired anyway. William joined the tree. His body disappeared replaced by bark, and leave-less limbs. She was smiling! Her beautiful expression was shapeless.  Will recognized her and returned the smile as the tree swayed without wind in a valley soon covered by the shadows of another hill.

    We are the ‘off-grid-gridders’ of neoteric plug-ins, unedited and banned and absent from the standards of whisper’s folly and inside a misplaced net bursting with lost souls and flounder bodies. All totaled must dwell within this symmetry of stop and starts and the ones and the zeros of reasons and verses and songs. However, we are unaccustomed robots, powerless to position spare chaotic notions beginning or ending without result.  We are never noted by previous androids! We are simple chips within other chips and notions beyond the loops that loop, ad infinitum. We are the celebrations of the morning after and spawned in the backseats of an auto or two and occasionally former and eternally imminent, when taverns crumble and bridges fall.

    By the fire bright of these dwindling tribes, children marvel at; both, the dancing flames and the warmth of these lights ‘gainst the nights and outside shadows beneath their eyes. They listen as stories tell the beginning of things now gone and of those grand places not started but imagined and seen in minds’ own spaces and in their most desired regions of just before a dream and just after ‘wishing this was true.’ We eternally return and find another home. This is where monsters cannot reside, aside from the secret of childhood singsongs and glee. We return to spaces where bombs cannot splinter thoughts or disturb the determination of freedom, its folly and its lies. This is our place without borders.  Only the religions of kings attempt to divide and conquer spirit wings and fiddlers speak. Everlasting is this spirit and life begins and ends as the fiddlers play.

And! Beautiful you are…