My Bell Has Been Rung

Somewhere, along the many varied endeavors of Life, I think I got up on the wrong side of the ladder.

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Fighting Down the Uphill Battle

Circulation and sitcomstance play the mode toward the fall of inertial impetus as we struggle in our dealy lives, floundering like fission dried water, flapping with the humor of the moment lost at sea, see? Shiver my timbre (I’m thinking of good vibrations on the beach, boys) and sound the alarm, I wait twice as fast as anyone else and am arrived in time for a tie. Knot the best of circumstention on the desserted ice-scream beach (told you so) of make-do, sandwinched in like tweezers, but it’ll do in a pinch. I hold tight and row with the punches while doing my darndest (sock it to me) to keep from being clabbered on the port brow by a weigh laid cheap shot (milking the sour situation like the dastardly curds they are) from the corporate shooting gallery: It’s duck season (put your head down and hope they miss) and no time to act sweet or candy coy. I trim my sales and hype for the best, but wit comes around goes a round in the ring-around-the-collar boxing mismatch (put it in the cardboard receptacle, fold the flaps over, tape the seams, take it to the back garden and bury it for springtime) to catch me between (ducks) right up from where I’m not looking, see? Saw. (Saucy git) A real cut up and down to the bone of the perpetual chase, my life hanging in the valence like curtains in a mortuary (neat and well learned sails looking for an island of peace within which to plant the culmination of one’s life-long quest) to dress up a stitched together dying (just be)cause (I said sew, so there). My allotment of times out has the games keepers blowing on the clocks, stepping off their flags, waiving their whistles and whetting their penal tease in my farce, scoring me up won side and down the other like nobody’s business but yours (you’re the reader of record here, so pay attention and keep your ticket stub close to your vestige of comprehension) with a word to the wise that is so much early mourning waves tweeting a sharp note to the audient cowed. What a hoot. Another day another holler refused out to hog the swollen food forethought. Owl’s swell that ends swill.

If I had you by the ear would you listen? If I reached and caught your eye would you see? If I held you by the tongue what would you say about it? If I poked you in the nose would you sniff at it? If I touched you with my story would you feel for me? Arbitrary specifics define the moment by moment revelation of the arriving future as I step forth and noticed that I’ve been here, playing in the sands of time, before. Massive inconsequentialities weigh down upon the swan-ey river day of mundanial sludge and drudge like a white bird in a golden cage on a garbage scow of commercial enterprizes, alone with his silent song, giving the general populace something to think about, but nothing to feed their minds. I must fly.

Up and At ‘Em

Jump right up and land in the same place at a different time, just like reality. Just ax the access. Reliance holds a line to this moment (as if there were ever any other) and puts delay upon action in the guise of progress (we’re getting closer) as others carry on in my stead. I still stride forward with bold, confident steps, but am somewhat hindered by the firmly closed door in front of me. (Pardon the loud thudding noise and subsequent epithession.)

On Notice: Off and Running

I’ve started going through my pocket notebooks and transcribing some interesting items that I may submit herein as the urge applies. I will try to use this (new) blog as a playground for more daily-type thoughts and less as a showplace for stories. The other blogs (links in a previous post on this blog) have stories and not so much of random considerations. I believe I will be able to post more often by this method and it gives me inspiration to be more thoughtful in my daily doodling. Starting with my current notebook, in chronological order for now, I offer what entries follow:

The flowers of a million garden dreams fill the breath of my mind and blossom into the colors of this eternal moment, then are gone into passion’s vase of memory and tapered touch.

Image

A Thousand Angels

I had a dream. I dreamt I saw a thousand Angels. They were bright and golden to behold. They sang beautiful words of power. Words like ‘Truth’ and ‘Justice’ and ‘Freedom.’ They faced me and brought their arms to point and confront me in righteous authority. They proclaimed me accountable for the myriad sins and ills of the world. They accused me of terrible crimes and affirmed me as antithetic to their glorious songs. They named me traitor to their deity and defined me as anathema. They took me and laid me spread eagle against the clouds so that all could see their virtuous actions and take warning against challenging their worthy ascendancy. They lauded their efforts loudly with exalted celebration and devoutly smiled in satisfied rectitude. Then they turned with their wrathful zeal to seek other wrongs to right, licking their lips in split-tongued anticipation, their pointed tails trailing from under their golden robes as a gentle hand touched my head and bestowed upon it a nimbus of soft light…

Read and be read by

Sounding out the touch of your breathing eyes, I wrap this fingered voice into the future of my silent past so that you now hold our union as a defined symbiosis in which co-joined separation is at once real and negligent with neither of us confined to these efforts, but held to each other by your actioned choice in a timeless state of communication. Such is the wonder of the written word. I am inspired to create through writing, to capture some of the fleeting energies that currently flow through the wired synaptic realm of this personal moment. The nature of creativity deserves a closer look, but I bumped my nose on the mirrored view causing reflections of confusion to write their own story in the surface found between here and you. Therein lies the rub (touch it to make sure) that presents a static flow, like glass upon a silvered dream found in your own future of (maintained) present awareness, to cover the emptiness of time with the substance of eternity. See you there.

Hello world!

Greetings!

This is the third blog I’ve had. The other two have seemingly been lost to my access beyond passive viewing as the name and password no longer respond to allow me in. A frustrating state of affairs, but giving me the opportunity to start anew here. I don’t know if I can (or will) copy the posts from the other blogs, but I can give the links to them for you to be able to enjoy them until the blog is closed due to inactivity. I have tried to contact any kind of administrator about the issue, but it seems the blog help section consists of a question answer forum monitored by other users with no actual administrative powers. Well thought out and easy to maintain, I’m sure. Here are the links. The second link only had two posts and was a bit of an experiment in utilizing artwork. Read the first blog (indirectlightcreativearts) from ealiest to latest as some of the writing is serialized. Enjoy!

http://indirectlightcreativearts.blogspot.com/

http://michaelstevenplatt.blogspot.com/2010_08_01_archive.html

I will strive to carry on from here…