listen to your life. see it for the fathomless mystery that it is. in the boredom and pain of it no less than in the excitement and gladness: touch, taste, smell your way to the holy and hidden heart of it because in the last analysis all moments are key moments, and life itself is grace. ~f buechner

toward deeper savoring and being
the way light hits the asphalt at night, peddling around on my moped
the smell of the gas transferred to my hands from its handlebars
wind blowing through me, sauna to warm up later

the smell of sulfur after a celebration in China Town
the way the air in the courtyard feels denser

finding a topographical map of beanblossom, indiana with vaginas and penises drawn in the hollers and hills at an obscure gallery in los angeles

chinatown confettied

chinatown confettied

jazz vespers, i ride to on my moped. tall ceilings, indigo stained glass, quartet on stage, ecstasy, brilliancy, laughter, joy, solemn vows to remember the life force moves through all things, albeit at different speeds.

sacred act
to vibrate the air
and shape meaning
write on the wind
with reverence
the will of a mind
seasoned in the wanders of silence
a language
common as the song of water

~kamau daaood

the Rickey Woodard Quartet

the Rickey Woodard Quartet

two people live in wonder, children and phiosophers, my friend sends me in a text.

during the vespers i scribble down on the evening’s pamphlet, propagate wonder, stay in wonder.

i went scurrying into the mountains the other day with a girl i just met. she’s married and has a boyfriend and i want to kiss her, too. i wonder about my sexuality. it is indefinable. i wonder about my body, about the sex that it wants in relation to the sex my mind’s idea of myself allows. i wonder about the girl that night at the dance club, the only girl who’s taken my breath away the entire time i’ve been in this town. we passed each other by and then i went looking for her, unable to find her until just before i left… dust in the wind… passings in the wind. encounters imagined yet never had. what is on the surface anyway? the girl i went scurrying into the mountains with designs clothes and i asked her what her favorite things are to design/make. she told me that since she was a child she has designed outfits for figures which she imagines are the real shapes of their souls. that people on the surface are different than they appear because it is really their soul we are seeing.

what can be said of the surface? i wonder…

i read recently that annie dillard advises not to use the word soul, if possible.

yet what can be said of the soul? i wonder…

how the soul moves beneath the surface, yet can also be seen on the surface, on the skin. yet it is not the skin. how we can name something the soul and can try to describe it, yet, because it is basically invisible to the physical eye, it cannot be defined.

i wonder…

this reminds me of the old story of the finger pointing at the moon. the sage says to the follower of the sage, i can only point at the moon. make sure not to mistake my finger pointing for the moon.

what a difference there…

i wonder…

brought to the present in wonder