Comments Posted By Drew

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manhattan

Living in Manhattan for too long can make it feel that you are steel and that your life as is glimmering as all the glass and chaos.

Today in Central Park I went to the eldest tree worth more than any of the buildings. In its shade I laid down on my back and faced the sky in such a way that my tears streamed into my ears, filling the notches until they overflowed. It was as though my ears were crying with my eyes; it felt twice as healing, which is needed in a city that can be twice as cruel.

» Posted By drew On 05.16.2013 @ 1:30 pm

rocker

The comfort of the rocker is in the cradle we once were. Its arms, our mothers.
Its soothing motion, her calming emotions. Its creaking, her voice cracking because of our cuteness. We can’t remember this, but we feel it in a way that sways and says I love you.

» Posted By drew On 05.15.2013 @ 10:06 pm

taboo

You cannot split the mind from the body, said Socrates, nearly two and a half thousand years before the advent of psychoneuroimmunoendocrinology.
What if it is possible to die of loneliness? Is there a link between the ability to express emotions and Alzheimer’s disease? Are autoimmune diseases the body saying no to things in life when we are unable to? Is there such a thing as a “cancer personality”? Why are these questions taboos in modern medicine? Why is there a bermuda triangle in medicine where decades of research that strongly identifies a mind-body connection in nearly every condition and disease gets published but then simply disappears from mainstream discussion as if it never happened?

» Posted By drew On 05.13.2013 @ 10:47 pm

celestial

Celestial inquiries: In all of biology, is life not bubbles rising from the deep quantum deep and death occurring when they reach the surface and merge with the air and the sky of the Mystery? Is it possible for a culture today to root itself in the celestial? To access a lost dimension, to encounter a dimension of awareness which cuts through the world of subjectivity and objectivity, fiction and nonfiction, and goes down to that which is not world, not even accessible in words, but is the mystery of the Ground of Being?

Whoever might be reading this, if what i’m trying to say is hard to follow, I’ll try to elucidate it with a thought exercise: Imagine if all the dust in your house lifted and gathered around the nearest light bulb. And after several days it coalesces as a sphere rotating and revolving steadily around the light. By the end of the week, a thin blue haze forms around it and with it there forms bodies of water and expanses of green stuff growing across the surface. After a few more days, you notice tiny moving specks and under a magnifying glass you notice these are not mere dust particles caught in the wind but an incredible diversity of creatures swimming, running, flying –evolving, learning, creating, speaking, writing, wondering — asking where all they are apart of came from.

Imagine if you witnessed that happen: a ball of dust form and form a world teaming with life. I don’t know you, but I don’t have to in order to know you’re life would profoundly change; you would have very little say in the matter. The dust would not be something you could ever brush off. This would make things like being abducted by aliens or having pomegranate tea with a talking vegan tyrannosaurus rex seem casual.

What we do know is that 13.7 billion years ago all there was in the universe was a vast gas cloud of hydrogen and helium. Let two gases do their thing and eventually you will get me writing this and you reading this; we get a world that has oneword. For our scientific understandings of evolutionary biology, chemistry, physics, cosmology for a moment. Let your mind recoil from itself for a moment; lose your self in how mysterious this all really is.

A deep, permeating sense of the miraculousness for existence would make things like war for profit, the needless suffering and starvation of millions, and the destruction of the biosphere, impossible.

» Posted By drew On 05.11.2013 @ 9:59 pm

soap

I washed my feet with the black unctuous soil that was speckled and scented with cherry blossoms that showered down on me like dream rain — it’s important for me to stop and clean myself from the cleanliness of the business of adult life every once in a while with nature’s soap that lather’s the world with life. For me her soil is not dirty, it’s holy. (Miracles spring from it.)

» Posted By drew On 05.09.2013 @ 7:02 pm

beer

Correct, I’m less than half your age, but that doesn’t even begin to mean half of anything. Now put that damn bottle down for a minute and sober up for a second, will ya? I only came in this wretched bar to remind you that this is the place is where men come to die at thirty and aren’t buried for until thirty-five years later. But you’re not in here because you’re dead, dammit. no, not you. You’re only in here because the world is out there and you love her and you know it, and you don’t want her to see you down on your knees with shit in your pants. Goddamn hear what i’m saying, know it that when you’re on your knees there’s a god inside of you kneeling with the same pair, praying with of all of it’s existence for you to believe in itself — the part of you, the heart of you that hasn’t given up on you…the same part of you that sucker-punched you in the face last night. Yeah, that’s right: that punched you in the face last night.

What, you really think you just fell on accident last night as you stumbled out of here? No. Hell no. See your broken nose for what it is: inside of you dwells a complete devine man, THE complete devine man. He’s the one who prays, he’s the who punched you, he’s the one who pukes. That’s another thing. Understand that when you puke, you have to see as symbolic for something, something you’re trying to get out of not just your meat-body, but out of your mind, your soul, out of your life. You’re body is trying to vomit up much more than the alcohol, if you can follow. You following me?

Contrary to what you heard all of your life– and the scapegoat you’ve probably use to rationalize your dependency — nothing in and of itself is inherently addictive. Not heroin, not morphine, not cigarettes and surly not your booze. The question is not why your addiction, but why your pain — and the answer to that question is simple yet complex: your humanity. Yes, if you didn’t have turn to something after what happened to you, and more importantly but hidden – what didn’t happen – THEN something would be amiss; I’d say you wouldn’t be quite human. Yes, your despair is vast, but do not despair: to be in despair means you must’ve loved a great deal and still love the world.

» Posted By drew On 05.07.2013 @ 9:14 pm

simplify

Dear my Dear Butterfly,

You who landed on my heart’s flower and simplified its pattern so my petals no longer fall off in the wind.

The moment I write your name it’s as though angels awaken from the four corners of the page and gather around the fountain of my pen to bless the ink I think: the page glows as the words flow to the source of the light: the thought of you.

No longer are the stars in my night sky, they’re in my life now. Their distance, their age, the devouring darkness of the void that nests them all form the ground to the nirvana I experience during my daily meditation on how blessed I am that I, I got to find you and a way into your heart out of the ocean of lives once between us with all its fury and just a flash in eternity…

» Posted By drew On 05.08.2013 @ 7:02 pm

burning

A question for a cosmologist — or better yet, you: When the Sun stops burning, will Earth cry in darkness for eternity? Or will she stare out into infinity, focus on the light from a single star and dream forever the greatest dream: having lived, having given birth to life, and will she remember all her children all the way up to you? And if so, will she feel the warmth of an eternal star forever shining as she reminds herself how your own radiance met the Sun’s radiance on your celestial face, out of your heavenly eyes, and into the celestial heaven in her heart? Her heavenly heart as vast as your sky where the spirit of her rain will come peacefully down to fill the graves of her five oceans? (Us being the fifth.)

» Posted By drew On 05.05.2013 @ 11:16 pm

A question for a cosmologist, or better yet, you: When the Sun stops burning, will Earth cry in darkness for eternity? Or will she stare out into infinity, focus on the light from a single star and dream forever the greatest dream: having lived, having given birth to life, and will she remember all her children all the way up to you –YES, you? And if so, will she feel the warmth of an eternal star forever shining as she reminds herself how your own radiance met the Sun’s radiance on your celestial face, out of your heavenly eyes, and into the celestial heaven in her heart; her heavenly heart as vast as her sky where the spirit of her rain will fall peacefully down to fill the graves of her five oceans? (Us being the fifth.)

» Posted By drew On 05.05.2013 @ 11:02 pm

dissolve

I agree with what Henry Miller wrote somewhere in Black Spring: the boys you worshipped when you first came down into the streets remain with you all your life. They are the real heroes. Gandhi, Thoreau, Socrates – all fiction, all dissolve. Socrates is nothing to me compared to you, dear early friend, who spent the hellish hot days of your summerbreaks sinking in stinking knee-deep swamp mud. All day with those tweezers, you’d delicately pluck leeches from the arm and legpits of painted turtles. It was no easy task pulling the sharp clawed paws from their shells with in one hand while the other surgically removing dozens per pit, but never squeezing too hard (It would’ve been a cruel thing for you to hurt even a bloodsucker.) I’ll never forget how you relocated every leech to a separate home you made for them — that waterpit you dug where you’d deliver them food: road kill you collected from the freeway. I recall you were only late with delivery when it happened to storm the same morning. You had double-duties then. In a race against time, I remember seeing you frantically pedaling, huffing and puffing on your huffy up and down everywhere saving worms before the noontide scorched them to crisp. You realized you’d never save them all alone. So one sweltering afternoon after a storm, when I was about seven, you took me on a walk to see the harsh reality. It was the first and last time I saw someone morn over the death of earthworms. You needed my help to save more souls so I gave you my tiny hands as well as my saliva as you taught me how to administer burn-relief by spitting on those that needed it. To this day i still save a worm when I can…

» Posted By drew On 05.02.2013 @ 10:31 am

ensue

You’re wrong. Stop. Open it up. Let it out. Let it ensue. We have to look at it, the chances are slim it will be Medusa. And if it is, so what? If it is, let our stone bodies be documents of our courage as well as the material for stories. The bush we’re trying to beat around is a bush that’s aflame. They don’t tell you this in the church, and if they do it’s so systematically disguised that the mass of humanity can’t recognize it as truth. The truth is Moses was just having a good day when he saw the fire on Mt Sinai. He was just paying attention. Pay attention: the bush is always aflame.

Nonetheless, I digress. Come what may my huckleberry friend, Pandoras box was our sandbox. Through the hole suffering leaves in the heart, deep beneath the sub-cellar of Samsara, there is a secret route to Nirvana. It’s always there. All you have to do is remind yourself of it when you need it. So give us the Great Wheel! The whole round of existence! We’ll need it for our bike ride; for our joy ride over the hardest hills that level-out far into eternity.

» Posted By drew On 05.01.2013 @ 4:56 pm

enemies

There is no enemy. There is only tragedy. That is all.

» Posted By drew On 04.29.2013 @ 6:23 pm

clasp

The little girl kept trying to show me but I couldn’t see it. She kept saying “Don’t you see it? Can’t you see it? Look it, right there at the tip of the needle.” I didn’t see anything and I have very good vision mind you. They were all gone after that. To this day I wonder, did she see something I couldn’t see? Was her sensory perception and awareness so much more advanced than mine that she was able to perceive something that small? Did she perceive it physically or was there some other essence that she saw? I had a bunch of other experiences of that kind in the Amazon with the local people. Whether mestizo or native, they had an uncanny connectedness to each other and to the natural environment that I couldn’t quite feel or put my finger on…

» Posted By drew On 04.27.2013 @ 12:45 pm

electrocute

I’ll never forget that night when it felt i was reading a story a bit beyond my understanding. That night when the raccoon’s bones looked like letters, like inscriptions, like language. That night when every tree felt like a life-long standing ovation to the sun and secretly to the stars and their ancient light that gives them something secret and vital. That night when I became a tree with all my branches bowing to the earth that never let me down. The night when all the tree tips of the forest slowly swayed like a crowd of hands all waving hello or goodbye or come with them until the wind suddenly stopped and the sky held its breath as though the universe were whispering a secret, its secret about everything. Until suddenly the sky inhaled as though it was shocked with metaphysical lightening and every leaf raised from the branches like gills and gasped as though the wind was water. And I sensed a great river. I sensed the rivers of wind, the rivers of water, the rivers of blood, of space, of time, of light, of darkness, of dream, of reality all confluence into one mighty one that demands no tribute, no name, no mythology. Its morphology flows through all biology without physical detection or pointing direction, through me through you through all and takes a part of us with it. Upon that, it felt more accurate to think of my skin not as a boundary, but as a thoroughfare…I was no longer alone in my own skin and my life felt like it began before it began and will end long after it ends, extending far beyond my life’s limitations…

» Posted By drew On 04.26.2013 @ 12:47 pm

I’ll never forget that night when it felt i was reading a story a bit beyond my understanding. That night when the raccoon’s bones looked like letters, like inscriptions, like language. That night when every tree felt like a life-long standing ovation to the sun and secretly to the stars and their ancient light that gives them something secret. That night when I became a tree with all my branches bowing to the earth that never let me down. The night when all the tree tips of the forest slowly swayed like a crowd of hands all waving hello or goodbye or come with them until the wind suddenly stopped and the sky held its breath as though the universe were whispering a secret, its secret about everything. Until suddenly the sky inhaled as though it was shocked with metaphysical lightening and every leaf raised from the branches like gills and gasped as though the wind was water. And I sensed a great river. I sensed the rivers of wind, the rivers of water, the rivers of blood, of space, of time, of light, of darkness, of dream, of reality all confluence into one mighty one that demands no tribute, no name, no mythology. Its morphology flows through all biology without physical detection or physical direction, through me through you through all and takes a part of us with it. Upon that, it felt more accurate to think of my skin not as a boundary, but as a thoroughfare…I was no longer alone in my own skin and my life felt like it began before it began and will end long after it ends, extending far beyond my life’s limitations…

» Posted By drew On 04.26.2013 @ 12:41 pm

I’ll never forget that night when it felt i was reading a story a bit beyond my understanding. That night when the raccoon’s bones looked like letters, like inscriptions, like language. That night when every tree felt like a life-long standing ovation to the sun and secretly to the stars and their ancient light that gives them something secret. That night when I became a tree with all my branches bowing to the earth that never let me down. The night when all the tree tips of the forest slowly swayed like a crowd of hands all waving hello, goodbye or come with then until the wind suddenly stopped and the sky held its breath as though the universe were whispering its secret about everything. Until suddenly the sky inhaled as though it was shocked with metaphysical lightening and every leaf raised from the branches like gills and gasped as though the wind was water. And I sensed a great river. I sensed the rivers of wind, the rivers of water, the rivers of blood, of space, of time, of light, of darkness, of dream, of reality all confluence into one mighty one that demands no tribute, no name, no mythology. Its morphology flows through all biology without physical detection or physical direction, through me through you through all and takes a part of us with it. Upon that, it felt more accurate to think of my skin not as a boundary, but as a thoroughfare…I was no longer alone in my own skin and my life felt like it began before it began and will end long after it ends, extending far beyond my life’s limitations…

» Posted By drew On 04.26.2013 @ 12:38 pm

I’ll never forget that night when it felt i was reading a story a bit beyond my understanding. That night when the raccoon’s bones looked like letters, like inscriptions, like language. That night when every tree felt like a life-long standing ovation to the sun and secretly to the stars and their ancient light that gives them something secret. The night when all the tree tips of the forest slowly swayed like a crowd of hands all waving hello, goodbye or come with us until the wind suddenly stopped and the sky held its breath as though the universe were whispering its secret about everything. Then suddenly the sky inhaled as though it was shocked with lightening and every leaf raised from the branches like gills and gasped as though the wind were water. And I sensed a great river. I sensed the rivers of wind, the rivers of water, the rivers of blood, of space, of time, of light, of darkness, of dream, of reality all confluence into one mighty one that demands no tribute, no name, no mythology, it morphology flows without physical detection or physical direction through me through you through all and takes a part of us with it. Upon that, it felt more accurate to think of my skin not as a boundary, but as a thoroughfare…I was no longer alone in my own skin and my life felt like it began before it began and will end long after it ends extending far beyond my life’s limitations…

» Posted By drew On 04.26.2013 @ 12:30 pm

bowling

My stomach starts rolling whenever I think of a bowling alley. Being inside one feels like being inside a Heironymus Bosh painting. I can tell half the people who’re there are in some sort of a hidden hell. I’m not a psychologist, but it seems that those pins for some, for some of them who return again and again and again ad infinitum to knock them down, are symbolic for something. Perhaps the pins are pins inside of the bowlers. Pins that pinned-up life goals that never actualized. Or pins that others pushed in them when the whole damn world seemed it was playing pin the tail on the donkey on their face, and knocking the physical ones down pushes these ones – the real ones inside of them – down past the layer of their psyche that can feel the pain. Yeah, you’re right. I know, maybe I’m projecting too far. But what I can say for certain is that the smell, the smoke, the sounds, the music, the dim light, the dim people, the repetition, the repetition of identical lanes, identical pins, identical pin placement, the rolling and rolling and rolling and rolling and rolling and rolling…ENOUGH! I have to stop. I hate going to bowling alleys, even in my mind. Bowling is such mindless activity, even just writing about it feels like mindless activity. Or…or maybe I’m the one who has some pins inside of me. What if in life, in certain cases, we stay away from places people and things for the same reasons, the hidden reasons, others go to them. No. No it can’t be. Next. Next word please…

» Posted By drew On 04.26.2013 @ 8:32 am

My stomach starts rolling whenever I think of a bowling alley. Being inside one feels like being inside a Heironymus Bosh painting. I can tell half the people who’re there are in some sort of a hidden hell. I’m not a psychologist, but it seems that those pins for some, for some of them who return again and again and again ad infinitum to knock them down, are symbolic for something. Perhaps the pins are pins inside of the bowlers. Pins that pinned-up life goals that never actualized. Or pins that others pushed in them when the whole damn world seemed it was playing pin the tail on the donkey on their face, and knocking the physical ones down pushes these ones – the real ones inside of them – down past the layer of their psyche that can feel the pain. Yeah, you’re right. I know, maybe I’m projecting too far. But what I can say for certain is that the smell, the smoke, the sounds, the music, the dim light, the dim people, the repetition, the repetition of identical lanes, identical pins, identical pin placement, the rolling and rolling and rolling and rolling and rolling and rolling…ENOUGH! I have to stop. I hate going to bowling alleys, even in my mind. Bowling is such mindless activity, even just writing about it feels like mindless activity. Or…or maybe I’m the one who has some pins inside of me. What if in life, in certain cases, we stay away from places people and things for the same reasons, the hidden reasons, others go them. No, no it can’t be. Next. Next word please…

» Posted By drew On 04.26.2013 @ 8:28 am

My stomach starts rolling whenever I think of a bowling alley. Being inside one feels like being inside a Heironymus Bosh painting. I can tell half the people who’re there are in some sort of a hidden hell. I’m not a psychologist, but it seems that those pins for some, for some of them who return again and again and again ad infinitum to knock them down, are symbolic for something. Perhaps the pins are pins inside of the bowlers. Pins that pinned-up life goals that never actualized. Or pins that others pushed in them when the whole damn world seemed it was playing pin the tail on the donkey on their face, and knocking the physical ones down pushes these ones – the real ones inside of them – down past the layer of their psyche that can feel the pain. Yeah, you’re right. I know, maybe I’m projecting too far. But what I can say for certain is that the smell, the smoke, the sounds, the music, the dim light, the dim people, the repetition, the repetition of identical lanes, identical pins, identical pin placement, the rolling and rolling and rolling and rolling and rolling and rolling…ENOUGH! I have to stop. I hate going to bowling alleys, even in my mind. Bowling is such mindless activity, even just writing about it feels like mindless activity. Or, or maybe I’m the one who has some pins inside of me. No, it can’t be. Next word please…

» Posted By drew On 04.26.2013 @ 8:18 am

My stomach starts rolling whenever I think of a bowling alley. Being inside one feels like being inside a Heironymus Bosh painting. I can tell half the people who’re there are in some sort of a hell. I’m not a psychologist but it seems that those pins for some, for some of them who return again and again and again ad infinitum to knock them down, are symbolic for something. Perhaps the pins are pins inside of the bowlers, pins that pinned up life goals that never actualized, pins others pushed in them when the whole damn world seemed it was playing pin the tail on the donkey on their face, and knocking the physical ones down pushes these ones – the real ones – inside of them down past the layer of their psyche that can feel the pain. Yeah, you’re right. I know, maybe I’m projecting too far. But I can say for certain that the smell, the smoke, the sounds, the music, the dim light, the dim people, the repetition, the repetition of identical lanes, identical pins, identical pin placement, the rolling and rolling and rolling and rolling and rolling and rolling…enough! I have to stop. I hate going to bowling alleys, even in my mind. Bowling is such mindless activity, even writing about it feels like mindless activity. Activitytivitytivitytivity. Next word please…

» Posted By drew On 04.25.2013 @ 10:53 pm

My stomach starts rolling whenever I think of a bowling alley. Being inside one feels like being inside a Heironymus Bosh painting. I can tell half the people who’re there are in some sort of a hell. I’m not a psychologist but it seems that those pins for some, for some of them who return again and again and again ad infinitum to knock them down, are symbolic for something. Perhaps the pins are pins inside of the bowlers, pins that pinned up life goals that never actualized, pins others pushed in them when the whole damn world seemed it was playing pin the tail on the donkey on their face, and knocking the physical ones down pushes these one – the real ones – inside of them down past the layer of their psyche that can feel the pain. Yeah, you’re right. I know, maybe I’m projecting too far. But I can say for certain that the smell, the smoke, the sounds, the music, the dim light, the dim people, the repetition, the repetition of identical lanes, identical pins, identical pin placement, the rolling and rolling and rolling and rolling and rolling and rolling…enough! I have to stop. I hate going to bowling alleys, even in my mind. Bowling is such mindless activity, even just writing about it feels like mindless activity. Next word please…

» Posted By drew On 04.25.2013 @ 10:24 pm

My stomach starts rolling whenever I think of a bowling alley. Being inside one feels like being inside a Heironymus Bosh painting. I can tell half the people who’re there are in some sort of a hell. I’m not a psychologist but it seems that those pins for some, for some of them who return again and again and again ad infinitum to knock them down, are symbolic for something. Perhaps the pins are pins inside of the bowlers, pins that pinned up life goals that never actualized, pins others pushed in them when the whole damn world seemed it was playing pin the tail on the donkey on their face, and knocking the physical ones down pushes these one – real ones – inside of them past the layer of their psyche that can feel the pain. Yeah, you’re right. Maybe I’m projecting too far. But I can say for certain that the smell, the smoke, the sounds, the music, the dim light, the dim people, the repetition, the repetition of identical lanes, identical pins, identical pin plancement, the rolling and rolling and rolling and rolling and rolling and rolling…enough. I have to stop. I hate going to bowling alleys, even in my mind. Bowling is such mindless activity, even just writing about it feels like mindless activity. Next word please…

» Posted By drew On 04.25.2013 @ 10:17 pm

My stomach starts rolling whenever I think of a bowling alley. Being inside one feels like being inside a Heironymus Bosh painting. I can tell half the people who’re there are in some sort of a hell. I’m not a psychologist but it seems that those pins for some, for some of them who return again and again and again ad infinitum to knock them down, are symbolic for something. Perhaps the pins are pins inside of the bowler and knocking the physical ones down pushes the real ones inside of him past the layer of his psyche that can feel pain. Yeah, you’re right. Maybe I’m projecting too far. But I can say for certain that the smell, the smoke, the sounds, the music, the dim light, the dim people, the repetition, the repetition of identical lanes, identical pins, identical pin plancement, the rolling and rolling and rolling and rolling and rolling and rolling…enough. I have to stop. I hate going to bowling alleys, even in my mind. Bowling is such mindless activity, even just writing about it feels like mindless activity. Next word please…

» Posted By drew On 04.25.2013 @ 10:07 pm

My stomach starts rolling whenever I think of a bowling alley. Being inside one feels like being inside a Heironymus Bosh painting. I can tell half the people who’re there are in some sort of a hell. I’m not a psychologist but it seems that those pins for some, for some of them who return again and again and again ad infinitum to knock them down, are symbolic for something. Perhaps the pins are pins inside of the bowler and knocking the physical ones down pushes the real ones inside of him past the layer of his psyche that can feel pain. Yeah, you’re right. Maybe I’m projecting too far. But I can say for certain that the smell, the smoke, the sounds, the music, the dim light, the dim people, the repetition, the repetition of identical lanes, identical pins, identical pin plancement, the rolling and rolling and rolling and rolling and rolling and rolling…enough. I have to stop. Next word please.

» Posted By drew On 04.25.2013 @ 10:01 pm

Bowling is a fun activity that I’m never particularly consistent at. For example, the last time I went bowling, I started off my first game with three gutter balls. I ended my third game with three strikes. (Well, two strikes and a spare, but the story is better if I say it was three strikes.)

» Posted By Drew On 04.25.2013 @ 7:52 pm

planter

I must confess. I don’t respond to oneword right away. I come here to get a seed and then I leave for a while. I put it in a planter on another planet that I grew from seed. But I don’t have to labor over it. What I will write is already written: a seed contains a perfect script for a tree. In a very real way, it’s done before it begins. All it needs is activated. There is a whole world waiting in a single word. I think about it a tad, give it a bit of time, and the word does its thing as spontaneously and mysteriously as a seed in moist soil with sunshine.

» Posted By drew On 04.24.2013 @ 1:18 pm

I must confess. I don’t respond to oneword right away. I come here to get a seed and then I leave for a while. I put it in a planter on another planet that I grew from seed. But I don’t have to labor over it. What I will write is already written: a seed contains a perfect script for a tree. In a very real way it’s done before it begins. All it needs is activated. There is a whole world waiting in a single word. I think about it a tad, give it a bit of time, and the word does its thing as spontaneously and mysteriously as a seed in moist soil with sunshine.

» Posted By drew On 04.24.2013 @ 1:15 pm

I must confess. I don’t respond to oneword right away. I come here to be given a seed and then I leave for a while. I put it in a planter on another planet that I grew from seed. But I don’t have to labor over it. What I will write was already written: a seed contains a perfect script for a tree. In a very real way it is finished before it begins. All it needs is activated. There is a whole world waiting in a word. Think about it, give it a little time, and the word will do its thing automatically as a moist seed under the sun.

» Posted By drew On 04.24.2013 @ 12:53 pm

checkmate

“No, no checkmate. I’m the Queen, but that’s beside the point: this is not a game. My Beauty is very real and sacred and must be gracefully touched, not grabbed. If you move slowly, you’ll seduce me; move quickly and the only thing you’ll know is an empty struggle. Adopt the pace of Nature,” said the World “her secret is patience. Do not hurry into each new day. Open your eyes in the morning as gifts and may your first exhalation be exaltation. Stop to greet my four directions and ask them about the secret one: no, not north, south, east or west but the one inside your chest; yes, on your heart’s compass. And everyday, just for a day, may your hours be roses and may their thorns protect you from the hurried hands of human time that always touch but rarely feel — and may they guard the nests in the garden that grows in you. That grow and grow until you will see an opening – a hatching. Until you hear a booming – a blooming. Until you feel a warmth – a ripening. Until the timekeeper in your hearts most accurate chamber feels the time has come to open your wings, show your flowers and share your fruits with those who skillfully reach. That is, strive to touch, not struggle to grab.”

» Posted By drew On 04.23.2013 @ 11:56 am

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