joy

It Will Always Be Worth More Than Gold

With a dot in the middle, you see the eye of the sun.

Our moon makes a trail around the earth, and our day turns to-night as a reflection of it, in a spin.

As the cycle of life men have an arrow, while women have a plus.

It represents humanity, but we chant to other symbols.

When slipped over our fingers it shows marriage, vanity, pride, a promise of loyalty, or wealth.

In the middle point between profit and debt, it means sharing, a gift, or getting something for free.

Ancient stories portray it as the forecast of immaculate sex, and it celebrates the magic of creativity.

A wild celebration of animal nature wears only paint, and babies are still made by a conquered spirituality.

Pull on one side of it, and you get an egg, a tear drop, a seed, and half of the yin yang.

Put two droplets together, and you get a heart as two eyes held together, in a stare of hate, or love.

The foundation of a medicine wheel, it speaks of compassion in a mandala, with arms outstretched in rays.

To protect the feeling it gives people, it prevents, starts, and finishes war in the silence of peace.

Is it the flag of the future in the shadow swing of the sundial, and the rotation of a clock?

Math and science have stripped it down, to mean the coldest temperature we believe exists, or nothing.

I hope to put it on your face forever, in the wonderment of a number that breeds a smile.

Life on this planet means everything to me, so happy Ishtar, and happy Easter.

 

 

 

The Party and Me: A Thousand Miles Away

Will you see me in the lick of flames, in the center of the mandala of brick? I wonder if you’ll burn one of the Christmas tree’s I gathered, in celebration of my love for the return of the sun? Will the short burst of flame into the sky pass as me? Will you hook up a blower to the vents, and drink to me in the make of a white hot flame?

Who is there to mow, sweep, mop, and lay the table settings? Is there enough ice in the coolers? I wonder if that person will be there at the end of the flames, to poke and prod the coals to black. I hope the chairs get moved back in honor of me missing it, and the shovel comes out, to throw a cloud of the party’s finish into the sky.

I wonder if you choose to see me in the arch of the arbor, and the path of rocks laid down? Do you look at the sprinklers popping up, and visualize a fountain that is me, in the rainbow curtain of water flying out? I have left my art behind to represent me, and I hope it’s good enough.

The celebration is for a man. He taught me to dig, to plant, to break, to fix, and to make. He taught me how to love to sweat for free with bleeding hands. It seems fitting that I’m not there. The infrastructure left behind in the wake of my makes, is his to own and relish. Its a party I’m missing, because as I write this, my tears are billowing on the edge of my lids.

I can’t contain my gratitude for him, in a smile. I think of him when my gloves go on, because he would grunt at me impatiently, and use bare hands in muck to get it done. When my back hurts from lifting rocks, and the truck sways while braking from a load that overflows, I blame his style in me.

When I’m wearing clothes that are torn and sullied with things I had forgotten were there, he comes out in the eyes of other people judging me, and I grimace in the stench of it. When the sound of my truck makes people stare, I know I’m learning his lessons again.

If my knuckles are bleeding, and my hands become one with the tool in a cramp, I pound harder with satisfaction that my body is giving out, because he taught me how. You can’t buy what he is in a store, as work into play isn’t for sale. A good friend of mine said, “It’s better to wear out than to rust out”, and he is wearing out.

He’ll read this and know that his party is a thousand miles long, in me. As the stars shine into the light of day tomorrow, I’ll be watching over the people without homes in a church, so they can sleep in a dream come true. Shine on.

Blogging Makes Laughter

Releasing my thoughts and feelings in a free flow in the hope of making the world a better place, and finding encouragement as I do, is rewarding me with laughter.  Wouldn’t it be great if we had an economy based on laughter?  What if the goal of making money was to laugh?  The ones who laughed the hardest could be the richest, and you know what I think?  I think they’d probably share the money to promote somebody else laughing.  I pledge to you, that if you donate a dollar to my blog, I will find somebody with a need, and find a way to make them laugh with the dollar.  Heck.  I’d pay them a dollar for the laugh, and take a picture of them laughing for you to see what your investment did.  That seems accountable.  Whatever.  I’m gonna have to pay somebody for a laugh whether you give me money for my writing or not.  I’ll post the picture at some point….because work can be play with a little shift of imagination. 

Thanks TK and Marina for liking my post about character development.  I read back through it after you clicked there, and laughed.   I have to admit I did a little bit of good-natured trolling earlier, so I’m in a pretty good mood, and I did just finish a beer, but whatever.  Goodnight.  🙂   

Oops. I just got caught spreading smiles on Facebook with a like notification here. Thought I’d come back and add in this link for his SEO, because he liked my post, and has a harmonic reason for being here. 🙂

This article is starting to get out of hand, and I like losing control of my laughter, so I’m going to keep putting links for the people who encourage it with their attitudes of pleasure. Thanks for the chuckle Otrazhenie.

It was great to read this post from Brad after writing the last paragraph, because his article supported it in a way that didn’t bring me laughter, but made me want to ask; is blogging a symbiotic relationship? This post, his like, my link, and his article…with my like…. 🙂 After further review, I’m finding that he has a menu item dedicated to humor, so if you want a laugh, I’m sure you’ll find one free here.

Perfect timing Erik. I enjoy reading your smoky love poems and the presentation of your writing is top notch! I wish I had the talents to make the face of my blog as aesthetically pleasing as yours. Thanks for letting me know you were here and liked this post. My reference in the first paragraph to jolly trolling, was your article here, so it won’t hurt my feelings if you never take it out of moderation. It was interesting to read your “about” page while researching for this link placement, I hope your book series brings you happiness and prosperity, now I see why we enjoy each others craft. I found this link in your “just for fun” category, and it gave me a medicinal grin. 🙂

Focus Stall Ranting

I enjoyed your article, as I also find myself in the unenviable position, of freezing my life due to heart breaks, to reflect on the patterns in the pain of the past. As you said, my symptoms are flight, fight, and freeze.

On my blogging adventure, I’m fighting by writing for the growth of my well-being, and yesterday I watched an interesting video on the study of perspective in time, that helps build my serenity for that purpose.

In the flight from emotional pain over the last year, I’ve become fascinated by how time relates to my spirituality and identity. It has a harsh impact on the judgements of others for who I am(an emotional trigger you shared too),so you I hope this video helps you too. Food for thought in The Secret Powers of Time.  The only criticism I would give, is that I wouldn’t choose to represent the present tense derogatorily as “Present Hedonist”, as I find the spiritual practice of “Mindfullness”, and living in the moment, bring me contentment.

I used my desire to comment on your article, as a motivator to edit my long list of backlogged drafts, so thanks for sharing your struggle, it inspired me to improve this article from 2012:

Why am I doubting the darkness, and interrogating the sun? Why does the cold make me angry, and the heat make me sad? What is this thing that makes me look up, expecting to see the ceiling, and finding the closet floor? What is the combination of the lock to the cellar door?

Why am I so tired, with rest evading me like a bouncing deer? Staring at one of my biggest fears, shaking my head and grinning, a mantra uttered to survive. Turning on the music, taking a shower, shaving, turning up the music, dancing, singing, drinking water….

Taking on something simple while physically demanding, as a challenge that will exhaust me to complete. A work that takes all of it away, and leaves me trembling for a different reason, than the one that motivated me to write this.

It’s a precipice, a focus stall, a pit. The scattering fragmentation and suffering of doubts, popping up like bubbles in a boil.

Putting my ear muffs on to cancel out the noise of the chain saws hitting rock, in my head, and again, turning up the music. Dancing to feeling it, loving it as a moment in time. Always as my salvation, the double safeties with end knots, rescuing my lost soul.

A place of absorption with mind whipping like a snake rattle…I’m barely alive. Outside the door lying under the floor, lurks my passions, perseverance, drive, resilience, sanctuary, art, and focus. Play that makes me tall, a work that fixes all.

It’s the decision that’s already been made, and a willingness to pursue it with dogged focus. Getting it done for me, means learning to transcend the focus stalls with grace.

So if you see me with bloodshot eyes and grinning, sweating while lifting, moving at high-speed, know that what you see is glee, buried in an uncontrollable passion to finish.

I have no choice to make at this point. My life has become make or die, and I love being an Artist Builder. Thanks again for inspiring me to lift this back up, by writing about the dynamics of your mental health, and the scientific study of it. Be well.

This is little blue man.  He glows in the dark.  My third puppet.  Made from reclaimed Douglas Fir, Yew wood, and an assortment of semi precious stone beads.

This is little blue man. He glows in the dark, and is my third puppet. Made from reclaimed Douglas Fir, Yew wood, and an assortment of semiprecious stone beads.  His strings are cut, because making him was my passion, and controlling him didn’t bring me happiness.

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Kissing Keys

Sometimes people accuse me of recklessness as if it was a bad thing, and I ask them,”Did I wreck?”.

I guess it’s in my nature to prefer the belief in my ability to adapt, over a preplanned recipe for accomplishment, and sometimes, that looks like a wreck waiting to happen.

Does this sound like a good kiss to you?

If I was going to kiss you, would you rather it was short and sweet, or long and hard?

Since we’re both blindfolded as bloggers, I might rather it was short and sweet, so I’ll kiss you that way, and depart with a tease of today’s keys. 🙂