Phriday Phaiga 11/30/12

…on becoming a Pen
in the Sun’s hand…

Liana’s recent post, this is what you should do…

put me in mind of the origin of this whole phaiga thing for me.   I love what this quote from Rumi says about the human body, the human being bridging the gap between earth and sky, becoming a conduit…

It was the busy autumn of 2009 and if I was going to capture any of the colors in that one “sweet-week” of October, it had to be from the dashboard of my car on a quiet city street…
I had no time….

The words came as I later viewed these images.

I had no idea what I would find.
The sky and I were in cahoots,
my eyes were blindlofting2

More to come….

Dogen and The Doctor, drunk at a Buddhist wedding

“I see a tree.”					

“A tree is a man-seeing-trees,				
when the treeing sees are man-ing,
when the man-ing tree sees seeing.”

“A man seeing tree-things?”				

“A tree-thinging man 

“A man treeing see-things?”			

“A man seeing trees						
but not treeing sees
sees nothing.”				

“A tree-thing?”							

“A see-thing.”								

“Aah, but not The thing.”		

“I see a tree.”					

Page 82?

Maybe I should have grabbed a different book.
Something without an eighty-one-and-a-half page introduction.
Page 82 was empty.
I should have gotten it 
right then,
right there.
Page 83 had 
only one sentence,
in verse. 
So I read the third line.
It said

(No death, no birth,

Just like that.

The third full sentence,
on page 84,
which was line 2
of the second verse,

What moves between them?

What indeed?
Or who?

Just me
        moving still.
Just words.


The Trace of Memory

Reflecting the slight
light of the sky 
in broken panes of glass
and unspoken sighs 
to myself
trying for those real images of my imagining
mumbling to my self about lost ideas
long gone 
and lost ideals 
that still haunt 
all those things I need to write 
that I've almost written a million times or more
building pieces of that one big long piece that I probably never will

(but I’ll keep telling myself that I will and I will keep needing and keep trying)

all those little pieces that are really just pieces of that one piece and all my longer pieces splinter into little versions little facets of that same piece an un-spoken sphere of near-thoughts from a far realm that flirts with the light from the sky in broken panes of glass as I drive by in broken buildings in this old city before its time before its through thought and thrum of engines in the night and drying eyes forever wet and spent and spelling words in another language the language of my youth the language of my death a trellis of trembling love above and the ground hugging me to my self in the night in those empty buildings in the earth and peering through that glass those shards that splintered sight of things I've known and forgotten like all those smells I've lost from the paths in the mountains of a dream of childhood like the soft needles lost under foot that got caught in the tread of the boot like the soft sound of the burbling stream along my side

(that you didn’t even know that you wanted to needed to know what it was telling you that you needed to remember that you could not forget what it spoke of what it’s still saying to someone else or to no one at all whether they’re listening or not as you were though you’ve long forgotten what it was telling you because in forgetting how to listen you’ve forgotten what you’ve heard)

with me along for the ride twice-over crossing and re-crossing to make it up the valley to the lake to the meadow on the shore of that pure blue depth cradled gently in the soft palms of that valley ridge-edges hard against the sky

(like the glass? yes, but like the just-edge of the glass --the light was in the water, the sky was in the surface)

where we laid in the grass and let the blood return from its journey to our feet and nursed our blisters and twisted our socks of the icy stream water and soaked up the sun and slept