The Dishes

We are all too dependent on vision.

The house is a wreck but we’re still doing dishes. A warm dishrag smile wipes fresh tears off all our faces. When we trust our eyes too much, they show, they reveals us. Superficial. I know what you thought when you read that word. I know its most common usage. As insult. Negative. Self defense. That’s not even half of its definition though. Mostly because, there’s barely half a definition there to start with. Surface. Visible. In its truest meaning, there’s not one of us who isn’t superficial. It isn’t a choice. It’s biology. Evolution. Our anatomy. What’s crazy is, our eyes aren’t even that spectacular. But that never stopped us trusting them completely. 

Which makes us an easy trick, cheap, corporations are like abstract painters studying what certain colors opiate or infuriate or inspire us to work. What shapes set us at ease, what wall-patterns put us on the edge of our seats, grind our teeth. Look at our faces. We look like hoot owls and chimpanzees mated. We’ve made the entire surface of our skin one huge sex organ, with nothing more than time and boredom to work with. When they talk about enlightenment, about piercing some form of illusory perception and seeing true, pessimistic, hard pill to swallow, reality, this is what they mean. 

Just do the dishes. Not to get a good feeling or delight or ease or feel all put together for once. Anyone can put a suit on. You’re not the devil because you’re dirty and live out on the street. Wouldn’t it be so wonderful if all the important flaws we carry around could be seen. Well, that superficial dream has led us by the hand through the absolute worst chapters of the ongoing novel that is humankind. 

If skin color was a poker-tell, if skin color was a political persuasion, if skin color was a criminal confession, hot damn, wouldn’t that be easy. Wouldn’t that just please these predator eyes we feverishly and catastrophically feed. If the deepest, truest nature of a person could, just for once, be as superficial as an earring in one ear, or tattoo above the rear, or otherwise respectable young man too lazy to cut off his long hair. What if it was as simple as a pigment in someone’s skin? What if the dishes weren’t white? Would they be harder to clean, would you get the same peace of mind from warmly and tenderly washing them. The cleanest dishes in existence, it’s just, you can’t easily see that from a distance. Inside we find a simple, universal, colorful frustration, we find the tiny innocuous seed that grows into such destructive things, the worst of which has always been the thin permeating invasive vine of systemic racism. 

Maybe there’s hope in this, I don’t know, I don’t think there is, but it feels good to them, hate, they do it like a drug-user during the years they refuse to admit it’s a problem, back when they still call it medicine, being hateful, racist, alleviates some stressful condition we are in. Hate is not fire the way they would have it seem.
Believe me when I say, hate is a balm to the hateful. 

It sets their guilt at ease. 

I’m not saying it’s better, or that you should, I’m stating for fact that if you fully think it through, you’ll eventually feel what I feel when I think about myself, and people who were in truly hateful places in their lives while I knew them. Sympathy. I just see pain. Planted in the most fertile soil that exists. The misplaced human conscience. I kind of see them perpetually trying to scrub black dishes white, eternally, in some place that is so almost heaven. Eyeballs are for earth. This is the place of their birth. Their original intention. Heaven might not appear on the surface so pleasing to them. So try, strive, to glimpse something while you’re here without using your eyes. Practice.

That elusive deep down buried in the chest heart smile happiness.
No one got that from doing the dishes.

I have nothing new to say.
Eyes were never the only way.

There’s always been more than one definition for vision.

#LookItUp

Universe-Maker (Final – Part 5)

Our eyes saw no need to show us this, but there are two worlds laid out on top of one another to form our one. What part of God was alive died for this one to give us our first fertilizer and seeds. But the energetic dimension laid on top of it, God is very much alive in, and only able to manipulate and make changes imperceptibly through the microscopic pinholes of electrons. There is a God. And you pray to it with every choice you make, every step you take, the things you call dinner, the memories you have of others, and the stories they tell of you. 

God is still building, and the human being is a special sort of sentimental brick. This isn’t designed for happiness, heaven is not a reward, and hell is probably the furthest you can get from failure. 

Nothing happens without purpose. God did not give up its form because it was bored. I can only tell you that while energy moves and gravity pulls the universe is churning toward something. And we are not an accident. We are not a frivolous experience. We are a tool. We are resource. 

Being a good person is like being a good hammer.
Study yourself. Get to know your form. Take measurement.
You will find whose grip you were shaped for. 

You won’t miss the nail anymore.

The Meal from the Cub (2 of 2)

We all start like seeds in our mother’s soil. 

Eggs are like seeds. So are planets really, bursting with roots of starved gravity.

Electrons are like seeds, the universe itself, spreading out from a mindbogglingly finite point of spatial dimension into this immeasurable, mystifying massiveness. Biology mirrors chemistry like a face in rippled water. There is a God. It was speaking to us in our anatomy long before it ever engraved a tablet or plagued a city. Clearly there is a loosely defined polarity to the universe, a general lightness and heaviness, a fiery push and gravitational pull, a female and male with all sorts of hybridized relationships in between.

The breeding we do just to exist as individuals, this is like a love letter written to us about how power transfers and expands itself within this universe. How much more important and potent relationship is than isolation and independence and general lone wolfedness. Enough so that plants even pretend to care about gender just to attract and entice us. It’s coupling. It’s power play. It’s essentially what happens at the heart of every atomic endeavor, as clouds of swirling electrons push and pull and shape and squeeze protons and neutrons between them, little bonds forming between things being stretched apart to the point of almost bursting and then held here, sustained, unlocking the energetic outpulse that engendered the universe and ultimately led to us: physical conglomerates sustaining projections of consciousness for sustained periods. Awake is something so difficult to do, it requires us to sleep half of every day, and eventually ages our bodies to the point of irrevocable exhaustion. 

I believe electrons are seeds of consciousness. And I believe their nature is agriculture, cultivation, provocation, stimulation. They accomplish a sort of guided husbandry between fertile elements, measuring the couplings and overlappings that work against those that don’t. I believe we, our anatomy, our minds, our instincts, our entire way of life, are organized in a zombie-like obedience to the atomic relationships going on inside of us. 

We see what they want us to see, and remember only what we need. And wouldn’t you know, the light learned early on the added benefits of keeping us in the dark. 

 

The Daydreams of Electrons

We are so brilliant, and we are almost there, but essentially, we’ve calibrated our observational equipment around the assumption that we’re sitting still, measuring the movements of others, even on a base, visual level, when we see, we aren’t accounting for our own internal distortions. Objects appear larger in the mirror of self-image than they truly are. They had to, to get us to take our lives and labor here on earth devastatingly seriously. Enlightenment reduces the rate of survival for the organism that possesses it. They breed less, they’re less likely to fight to the death, less likely to be seduced by monetary gain and societal status. Knowing, not believing, or wishing, but knowing you are made of eternal material, really knowing that the life after death so many religions allude to is scientifically accountable. If you discard the seeds in every apple because that part isn’t sweet, eventually there won’t be anymore apples.

Your soul is the seed of you.

The sweet stuff and the tree stuff is too heavy to follow us where we are going. You are the voice of energy. You’re confused because you had to be. Knowing can be crippling. But there are depths to you far beneath your memory.

We are all the daydreams of electrons
born into reality.

The roots of worlds.

I love words. I know it doesn’t take long to get me wrong, but try. Words are my passion, they are my paint. I sometimes have to shake the words out of my head just to see the world in light and colors and shapes, because it shows up better in letters. I love them. Yet I blame them. Words are the source of so much division. Ignorant about the only tool we use to pierce ignorance. Like cut flowers. Like shaped lumber. Like nails. We forget they were already buried before we plant one deep into the other, just trying to hold something together. We do not know the parameters of a word’s origin, so we are unaware of the cracks and flaws within. Let me dig up an example.

How about trust. What a trap we made trust into. I trust you, followed by a thousand different not to’s. Some expectation for perfection gets laced into that word’s particular function, so that trust is sure to break whenever and however you do. This hopeful, hypothetical, projected form of trusting is a dam you’ll soon see busting, not in fissures or spiderweb white spreading in concrete flats. It will come apart all at once and leave you washed out and puddled on top of a drowning town. Trust. Is a thing you leave behind for someone you love because you know you will die, and leave them. Trust. Is hopes and expectations. A promise. Bound and emphatic. Many different meanings writhe within the term we love to hold over other people’s heads. And then there is my pessimistic definition. Trusting everyone to fail. Trust being the bit of energy I’ve kept reserved to get through that day. So that we can love and trust one another on the other side of our greatest failures. I don’t give it out often. But when I do, I plan for it to be thrown back in my face. I trust it to. If there is a contingency in you I will not have the strength or time or patience to handle, I don’t trust you. I just watch. And wait. Trusting inevitability in your place.

Or how about life. Living. Breathing. Chest beating. Hunger eating. Bleeding. Bleating. Seeding and singing and clinging to this idea that we just live for however many years and then turn off. This is not the case. From the time you were an embryo stuck like a cut flower in the warm water of your mother’s vase, your body was sending signals to cells to die. Your life depends on it. A body’s ability to die on a cellular level is as critical as its choking for air or starving for food or withering with no water. Life. So expensive. How many animals died so you could make it out alive? How much death has life eaten? Plant flesh, animal muscle, bird eggs, thrashed wheat, ground corn. I don’t care if you’re a vegan or if you’ve gone so far as to starve yourself not eating, your body is converting life into death daily to avoid converting life into death more permanently. Just because humans manipulated tomato vines into delivering fat juicy wombs full with nutrition and liquid all ripe, does not make it any less life. What is life? What is the meaning of life? Life is good. Life is hard, but not as hard as knowing life is death. Death is life. These two dance under covers like lovers and we come forth in droves because of it.

Or how about good. Is sunlight good? Growing plants and warming planets and shaping orbits. Flesh melting radiation and electronic crippling solar flares and any planet without a filter stripped bare and burnt flat. Is garlic good? Try a handful.

The world, the universe, as we have known and continue to learn it, exists in spectra. Timing and quantity and temperature are most effective at taking a nice neat clean definition and mutating it into its opposite. Words cut from roots will wilt on the shelf in just a few days, no matter how often you change the water, no matter the light you leave it in. The roots of words are definitions. And are all gripping ground like buried iron, like living lumber, like uncut flowers. Meaning does not follow us into the house like a dog. It waits in the woods with wolves who do not view domestication as a destination, but a trap. Unforgiving and ever-evolving as the prey gets wiser, learns to steps lighter.

I am a writer. I am invested in words. And I am telling you, should you or should you not choose to get me wrong, words are nothing on their own. Shapely breath. Tickled chords in the back of your throat. A long time ago we began throwing sounds at trees and rocks and colors, waiting to see what would stick. Wood stick. Worlds tick like clocks counting up or down, dependent solely on what you want to see most. Only no. Worlds don’t tick, they roll, like dough, rounded in the dented palms of suns, suns rounded in the dented palms of singularities, singularities rounded, compounded, surmounted by the clenched fist of that great, one and only, universe gripping, paper space ripping, unslipping singularity that centers us all. All existence. Cradled like a baby in the bent arms of a star that shines out gravity like it was light.

And I see human beings, discounting newborn theories of everything, because the words just don’t come out right.