everything is endless

I think I need to take you to highway 1. Come for the trees, stay for the living moments beween the leaves and the sunlight.  You’ve told me you don’t see the way that I do, but I do believe you can. You can smell me inside your hear,clear as if I were next to you, what else can you do you haven’t touched on yet?
I was unlocked by the wind whispering old words in trees, and I suspect your heart is in every wave in the ocean, and you can walk around this blue green rock and never be alone because of that connection.  I’ll take you to talk to the ocean. 

Then, Talk less, because I’ll take you to where I see “god”. I don’t believe the gods are ours, I don’t think they’re a power to “envoke”, but the endless voices of  now and then and never,emboidied in ways we’ll recognise: Enegy and spirits older that time showing up when they’re needed most.

Everywhere on this known earth has gods on every bit of land. I like to think each culture that came though our own new Colossus carried in charms and pots and lace the gods exiled with them in the name of “progress”.
(A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles)
Personally,  have a suspision a few made it out to this  Currently -united state’s golden side in 1959 en masse whisperin’in ears of burning blind, hysterical minds the thoughts we needed in the ryrthm of the times, Anthems and chants to start revolutions,  I suspect there were as many gods in black leather jackest and black Ray bans, aiding the Party of Self Defense againts the hate-twisted words of an old book made legislation by men with no mind to what god(s) really meant.
Whenever a prophet is murdered in his own country, A journalist marytered for reporting on human rights violations, there they are in the midst.
I suspect gods stood in tienemen square, suspect they burned with arms wrapped around monks who sent the odor of commitment and sacrifice to the sky.
God met me out there in the woods one time and I wonder if he hung around. He wasn’t a solid thing but raining light voice and he opened up all my eyes until I saw for endless days and only seconds.
Don’t figure They’re the kind of thing that stays in one place very long, or  stays one thing very long. The last time I saw Them, they were crossing the street and the middle of Santa Cruz, walking a pitbull. Another time, they were a little girl who know me from the last time she was a little girl. I didn’t know her at all. 
I do not know that there are gods, my darling. I do know my own belifes, my own life. I suspect there exixst more in the Spaces between that we have words for. 
 There is no hyperbole to what I am about to say.
I was possibly 12, angry, walkman,pants with a velvet dragon on them. I believed in nothing, maybe less.
I saw a man pass me  on my left. I look in his face and saw eyes like worlds on worlds, blue hollow worlds,and as he passes, I watched him walk away, and then he was gone.
Gods or no, there’s more that we can put names to.
 Find a new word for god. demystify the mysteries through communication.
listen to yourself.
I know nothing.
So do you.
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TimeemiT

I’m doing something I never do.

The  sun cuts through half-open blinds, and the not-yet setting light rays hits my seedlings,(or whatever you call plants that aren’t just sprouted , but too.. wobbly to really be plants) and  my bike,out on the patio. The torn-off fronts of craft coffee bags are tossed around me, and I’m trying to think of how to decoupage them onto the coffee table I’ve been covering for over a year. It’s nearly finished. Mr. Robot is on; I Remember  hearing  Pop Culture happy hour talk about it while I worked out at my old Gym in San Jose. I think that means this show came out in 2015?  It’s good so far. IMG_20180509_182340.jpg

I never watch anything new alone, because it almost feels meaningless to do so, somehow. I’d rather re-watch, but then I end up with pop-culture FOMO. I don’t sit on our couch at 7 pm and drink coffee and watch TV shows I haven’t watched before ,alone, as the light streams in through hanging blinds. I don’t do crafts instead of running errands, reading, or going to the gym, or any number of other things that keep my body and brain moving. I’m trying to slow down and be present.

I don’t think there’s even going to be enough time, somehow. I look at my husband and the sun and all the other brightest things I know, and think that.  I tell My husband this sometimes, Never enough. It’s possible he thinks I’m being morbid, but I hope he knows it’s just how deep down the love goes, how much deeper  I  go. Never enough time.

Maybe I’ll spend more time gluing hipster coffee bags to my coffee table.