This Small Thing

I write a thing
It sits
It stirs
It comes to a life
All its own
A life uniquely
Separate from
The rest of the world
Of words
Out there
You know
The standing mirrors
Offering
Reflected perspective
On the context of
The Self
And this thing
That I have written
Begins to dance with those
Other
Words
So many of them
Terribly myopic
And still an intrinsic part
Of the deeper wisdom
Somehow displayed before
The reader’s mind
In a vision that is
Crisp and clear
Like the desert sky

Memoir Update

Just finished editing the first draft of my memoir with small line writing corrections and notes for additional sections that still need to be written. So now I have 190 sheets of paper all marked up with edits ready to be entered into the computer.

Yay me!

In This Present Moment

Some moments have more potential than others. They are specific butterflies better positioned to cause metaphorical hurricanes. The trick is to know when one of these moments is fluttering by so that you may use it to catalyze your desires into something much deeper than mere want . . . into knowing. And when that happens, nothing can stop the future you have summoned into being. This is action. This is magick. Sure, follow-through is required. But no length of time contains anything that can compare to the brilliant power of Now.

Movement

New space
Just like
The old space
But different
In so many ways
Like the energy
Between us

And how we feel
Loved

260

Mercury dances in this
Magic Square
The Sinister side of
Understanding
Where the tutelage
Of tempered artistry
Allows devils to cavort
With fools behind
School walls
Raised
By the likes of
Benjamin Franklin
And all the other architects
Of knowledge

Hidden

Hidden

Hid

I Believe

Everything spins
In the circumference of
Time

Paths of uncertainty
Trace round and round
Our days

And even when things feel right
I have not found
My center

That certain place
Of solitude
Anchored in my mind

From which
Understanding
Stands

Tall

Voiced in the Wilderness

These words are difficult to write. Words with meaning. Words with song. And yet I try to give expression to something worth expressing every time. I try. I press against the walls of my mind, searching for that certain protrusion of thought that says, that screams, “Tell me!” Because it needs to be told. Even if the words never come out quite right. Even if no one listens. Even if the end of things is right around the corner and it is too late to make any difference at all.

Even if.

Shannon Curtis: "Boomerangs & Seesaws"