Calling Card

There's a lot to be said in the name of stoic confidence.  

To be said to its power, to its sway.  

Perhaps I'll jot some of it down soon and tell you, 

but for now I'll say this: all the stoicism and confidence in the world ain't worth a calling card without charm.  

Charm is what gets a poor prince laid.  

The confidence is what keeps them coming back for more.  

After all, money only buys a certain woman.

Turbo-Prop

I'm writing to the droning croon of a tiny single-aisle, four-seat-across, metal tube turbo-prop from Portland, Maine to Newark.  Snow's scattered and speckled on the soft ranges and tributaries and lakes below.  It reminds me of flying back from Paris.  Of Kerouac again and Jack London.  It's the cold north.

On the runway, taxiing, I remember.  What's life without a question in the air.  What am I doing here?  Is it right?

I don't know.  Which isn't to say it's wrong, it's just uncertainty.  The mind doesn't always know what the gut feels unless you ask it.  I try to ask often.  After all, it's not a calculating hard-pressed process of thought that always guides best.  Not for me.  No, it's instinct, a killer autonomy within that leads when I relinquish the reins and let it carry me towards a purpose.

That's when I speak without words to that all-presence.  I think it's the being that some call God.  It's usually those that never hear him though that give him such reverence.  They're usually shouters, self-righteous, and almost always strict church-goers, enveloped in what they believe to be right because it's what's been fed to them by voices that travel through the air.  Off the pulpit.  They can't fathom the sanity of those that hear the silent ones.  Or perhaps they just aren't listening.

Ah, yes.

A smile creeps across at the lost rambling.  I've found it again.  A warm comfort, and I remember.  The runway.  The taxiing turbo-prop, and the question.  I don't ask of myself because alas, like I said, I don't really know.  I just ask, I throw the question out to be reflected back by the universe.  Today he's Matthew McConaughey.  I ask, "Is this good? Is it right? How'm I doing here."

He smiles and says, "Alright, all-right, all right."

It feels good, like some purpose, that one I've been searching for.  It's a crisp fresh air with Claire.  Thanks Maine, I can't wait to be back againe.



[this is right, this is well.  I can do this]

Phone Free

There's an unrest that's settled within me as of late to the tune of a loss for words.  Unsettling indeed, the pages aren't filling themselves as they used to.  It's a thing that's startlingly poignant in my life.

Well, I should say mind not life, as the life of mine has seen the whirl of speed that becomes of a man in over-drive.  I can't even complete the word, see.  It's turbulent times, these days, but there is a peculiar relish in it.  A giddy strength of sanity, a grip of the reins that I'd all but forgotten and feel now again in the deep depth of the core of me.

My chi, amidst this calamity.

The Race

Quote of the Day: Free Style

"Literary style is the power to move freely in the length and breadth of linguistic thinking without slipping into banality."

                                                                                              ~ Walter Benjamin

Flume Radio

Valleyheart

And here,
at the end of all things
of the valley
and the heart,
the brown is the leaves
and the ground,
and green is the trees
and the leaves
are yellow too,
and so is the end.

Diamond END over red.

And a telephone pole.
And an empty concrete river.

The ghetto birds thump.
The 101 roars with the trees
and so too do the leaves.

Leave.

I've been here too long,
I must leave.