Charon the boatman has a very defined task.

Newly lost souls
One side of one river to another.
I recall him depicted as callous, cold, darkly-clad bones, perhaps emaciated. Indifferent and uncaring.
All those things we still round and warm and breathing might associate with the shore of the stony waters at the end of life.

After all, by that point, anything that can be carried must be left behind.

This business of living though
makes me wonder.

Because I've also sent so many on.
Not to death, I hope, of course.
But, to their other lives. The person they'll be tomorrow. The place they'll be next year.
The soul the universe is helping them become.

And I did it, never in callousness,
sometimes in confusion or conflict
sometimes with fear
sometimes in ignorance
often in sorrow,
even when with gratitude,
always with love
always with love

And many have also sent me on before.
Guided me patiently over my own rivers, to my other side,
where they set me down
and I go on
but hopefully not without memories

I've crossed many rivers,
oceans even
at the patient hands of those who
whether in ignorance or wisdom
waited, led, or advised
until I climbed out onto my own path
extending from the other side
and began my journey
away from them
toward another river.

It makes me wonder:

If perhaps this business of living
might be a sort of many-transfer shuttle.

We humans live many lives in one lifetime.

It makes me wonder if this might be life:

A series of drawing near enough to see others closely enough
To love them enough

guard them when they can barely stand,
witness them through their valleys,
wait with them across their their rivers
send them on when they reach their shores,

To love a pilgrim soul
is to journey with it
and then send it on to become itself.

It's an uncomfortable love
that stays with me like a companion,
consoles me,
as they go.

Instead of coins
I hope they keep my memory behind their eyes
I hope they don't forget the me that was.
As I turn and step uncertainly
into my next boat

looking up and being recognized
by a loving

After Easter

I suppose the trick to things that come back to life
is perhaps they
haven't died

it was cold.
And so they hid themselves.

We all do what we can
and when.


This .... Dream

I think there are dreams we can wake ourselves up from.

When you learn latent dreaming, the first step is to observe.
Observe because your dreams give away patterns, cues.
You try to notice when a pattern is happening, and this is your trigger
Your trigger to ask yourself: is it real?

I always fail this question.
I convince myself that it is, even when it isn't.
I still can't latent dream.

But I noticed that being awake,  the same things happen.
There are patterns, cues; I find myself making the same assumptions about people, about myself
When I know my patterns, I can ask: is it real?

Maybe it's also a dream. The kind you can wake up from or choose to steer differently.
I suppose much of life is a layering of these dreams that recur until we can observe them.
Even if you don't know how to wake up, the next question can be: is this the dream I want to have?


The Ancient Greek Δ is our capital D

In geography,

they taught us that a river delta is named for its yawning shape.

In science,

we learned it as change.

How fitting
that every drop meeting stream meeting river
all pass through the final transition
just before dissolution
to Ocean.

Linguistics of a temporal language family

The languages of Waiting and Longing are similar in that their only word is time.

The difference is that waiting uses stress and tense;

but longing,

only tone.

One is a standard language of science,
the other is common to poets.


living stories

We are stories.

We live within a world of narratives.
Those that cannot find or make a place for themselves in the human arc of memory,
wander forlorn ghosts.
They are lost. And, we are haunted. Until we find a fit.

Storytelling is survival.

To become a storyteller
is to make for yourself, and for others, a home in the imagined palace.
Our bodies may one day rest in the earth,
but only when settled in stories do we all rest in peace.



Sometimes you're Theseus

Sometimes, his ship.

Sometimes you're Magellan,

and sometimes, the Victoria.


Learning to walk

In the beginning
The land fell away on both sides

I walked a tightrope
I watched a horizon

This is the only way not to fall:
to put each step exactly where it goes and nowhere else.

The waves rose up. The air stormed.
only one put to place each foot.

The stars did not waver
Then, all was calm around me
The storm was yet outside
just distracting: a horizontal pillar of cloud and of fire
I walked through the Eye
until placing one foot in front of the next was second nature.

Then the rope became an open field
After all, with practice, what's the difference when regardless of terrain, you have only two feet and one path?

Speed skaters know the only place for each narrow blade is beneath the center of gravity.
We balance on an intersection with reality.
This walking is a meditation.
It no longer matters whether I follow the thread or it follows me.
From outside, it looks precarious.

I remember a chess player stating that he thinks only one move ahead - the best move.
The field may be wide.
The path is narrow.
And in each moment, only one step.
I find this comforting.
Even liberating.


Ninh Binh weather report: days so dark it's like the world didn't want to wake up

For the last two days,
the Earth has seemed unwilling
to open its eyes.

Thank you

Giving me a better chance to dwell in an empty cave within fog
and notice what patterns arise from the mist

The trivial perception:
mapping me to myself.

(I've found you in the past.
Our lives will be a hide and seek.

Please, remember the many tiny lights, and gratitude for what reflects them)