I am an old man (75 years old this year) and still mostly white . . . in truth, probably as white as genetics might suggest . . . I continue to have an awareness and parents (of a sort) (borh almost certainly dead) who sometimes trusted me and on occasion may have taught me to live beyond a heritage of sexism and racism.
This is something that I sometimes don't remember with clarity . . . I do know that it is a message that A and I have attempted (and with some success) to teach to our own children . . .
My lesson, as I remembered learning it was that all people -- all people are equal . . . That's really the only message . . .
I mostly forget what Winnie & Ralph may have said to us as children about the possible creation-side of our existence . . . and it doesn't so much matter if you're standing up . . . I couldn't sing in tune with or without the piano.
And it wasn't of much use in the short run. . . nor, necessarily of great use in the longer run as I remember
It may, however unlikely, it may have helped in a short thereafter of some understanding . . . or not.
I seem to have my own evolving (over 75 years) and inconclusive appreciation of the Buddha as I've come to know his likeness . . . but who knows the winds of tomorrow . . . for now, I keep his likeness carved in teak in our main hallway.
It is a blessing of sorts . . .
September 20, 2018
September 18, 2018
Nightly scribbles are mostly nightly rambles as we allow our mind bits and scraps of worry about tomorrow's mostly unsettled mind. Advice (not that you need it . . . ): Don't take our word as gospel You may end tangled in confused bramples where no one seems to care We almost always make it up as we go . . . But not always . . . almost never always . . . but we go always somewhere.
September 17, 2018
But some days go beyond "some days" into other days when things announce themselves within the frame of my body . . .
Little things mostly . . no cancers yet just uncomfortable things possigle harbingers of more desparate tomorrows.
September 10, 2018
I write, mostly, as a way to move from before
a way to go from there to here.
There is gone; here is now.
Ok, that's all - that's why I write (mostly).
Sometimes I am too scattered to move
from place to place;
too present in now to move from then,
where I no longer am, to now
where I never quite arrive
in one piece.
It is not a circle.
I do not go to where I've been.
Neither is it linear, but more like multiple
possible points on a map
with no single possible destination.
September 09, 2018
I've moved from pillows sewn in sleep bags to twin bed pillows stacked to the ceiling to pillows covering corners of double beds before reaching a majesty of space in queen size pillows, but only living into my 70's did I approach true majesty, the king size bed (though the pillows continued Queen). Should I strike forth for a pillow that reaches beyond this world into new horizons of other exploding worlds that fit the size of my continuing modesty and contentment of time?