Recoil

It would be like collaging a skin out of all the skins shed and trying to put it back on the snake.

Or fabricating a fine grass out of the shed skins for the snake to move through.


When really, it is a continuum.

We learn from the living example as we reach for new patterns to climb to catch a rare view of our actual evolution.

How hard it is to measure the essentials when inundated with the variable of persona amplified by the optical illusion of accelerated feedback generated by our own hand held de-vices.


We have agents for our ambitions, our talent, our careers.

Agents for change, for personal growth, life coaches.


Where are the agents for letting go?

For simply accepting that our past selves could do a whole lot more than our current selves can.

For transformation into eventual zero potential in the human form, in our selves as we knew them to be?

Where are the death coaches?


We have a lot to learn from death.

Who has the courage?


I have done a terrible job of it.

I have lived vicariously through others who are grieving at the same time who seem to be actually moving through it.

I have gone into shock, given way to the temptation to numb myself.

I have found myself strangely nostalgic and distant at the same time doing odd things to distract myself like finding a song I recorded and sending it to a few friends with this hip shooting notion of a past coping mechanism reflexively crafted to soften the trauma about to ensue-a pre-emptive fabrication in vein hope that I can somehow offset the inevitable loss by righting it in a joan-of-arc gamble that I sent it at exactly the right time at random in this cryptic attempt at projection.


In essence, I am drunk-dailing death.


Is the root of projection a distortion created by attempting to control through the bits of spectrum that are available to you when surrendering to scrape black paint off a few more panes of the wheel to cast more light would better balance the view?


The heart wants to feel life.

Why be concerned with the inevitable?

It is so present we spend our whole minds missing it.

When the heart is shut down, that puts the responsibility on the mind to consider life disproportionately. When the heart is not allowed to live out the dream, the mind panics.


All she wants at this point is to be surrounded by beauty, and music and love. To let go.

It is not a failure to accept that your life is over.

In fact, the sooner you do so, the more valuable it becomes.


Here's where what my mind "understands" gets benched by the heart. Why then, don't we stop for it?

For, to do death work reveals exactly where life lacks substance and like that brain in the field, what could be worse than living a lifeless life while avoiding the reality of death?

It's so much easier to bury ourselves in ourselves while we are still alive, right? (read iPhone)


In the pressure of the moment, mind (having taken it all on, failing to pass to her teammates) is finding it impossible to achieve a goal with precision, when short fused by reflexive wiring to maintain her sense of identity which cannot exist without heart, without others.

Why live for a story line that doesn't want to part for one second with itself to see that the identity that is dictating life is actually the part that isn't fully allowed to feel life?


With knowledge, comes responsibility. You cannot beat the odds when you know that there is no beating the odds, but you can take heart in mind and live while you can. What a relief it is to end the gamble-to stop all this pretending you don't understand-heels in, kicking dust, being dragged from this life by your muzzle.


Forget it, ass, keep moving.



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