Something is off, and it’s not the four letter word inscribed on a carrot, that soft flesh someone calls home. I shouldn’t be here. Not today. I sense I lost touch to parsnip, baby bear and great white.  Lost is a four letter word too, and it stands straight, well, leaning somewhat against the forefront, where the world draws slow circles and I abandoned its grace. I must return. Not by dancing comically or swaying cautiously, but by my questioning. Ruthless questioning, because I have learned to hide the truth from my own eyes, my own heart. Too scared to look and to face the totality of illusion. I came to crave it, not like it, need it, not live it in authenticity. I am guessing all – all that holds every pumpkin and the singing nightingale never removed me from completion. I removed myself, sought, felt, pounding heart, brief glitter, see not see, growing faint. And now I’m looking someplace else, latch on to distraction like the hungry calf to its mothers udder, addicted. A practitioner or prisoner, someone…someone needs to remember where he came from and where he is going.

Stop. Freedom is, and I am. Something is off, and I – who am I? Coming to think of it, I can’t remove myself from it. It is inside of me, or I am it, and warm, and flesh, and alive, throwing light and space across another dimension that reaches beyond the caverns of the heart and can be restrained by none. What four letter word cannot be contained and floats with selfless ease through all of us?

A seldom want is more shallow than a thumb fingering through loose pages. I missed the index. And here I am, a coal miner and a singer, a distant bard on a single wheel, spinning to the tune of life. I am but a waning high note, shopping for warmth. Breath on pause to savour taste in dim light. A conversation is my fetch and ferry of intimate connection with another human being. I wake to your story

, I treasure your mother. Maybe calm is in the storm before you blow out the candle. Its just about living.

One time moon cracks into my sleeping order, full and bold. In my hammock I sit upright , but no less still, like an unnamed expression on a restful tongue. Hard not to be stared out by the sole headlight. I wonder if the stars feel the same , perplexed by so much radiance at night. Darkness is but a myth and Freddie sings on. I have one question: if butterflies single out a flower and beckon its nectar to follow , then who’s draw to the moon is strongest to lap at its dusty surface? I happily remain here in my earthly promise of safety, never truly kept. My hair unruly and clouds disperse unseemingly, my eyes are level with the moon. Harbored sunlight in the fall of a day, reflected in a round circle hugging the night, is magic.

Seeking snow fall in summer, a breast-stroke in late fall, peaks overshadowed by a dust of clouds, fearful waking hour as the sun rises out of my realm, fingers extend my reach beyond what feels like yesterday. In this idle space we meet.

Unruly is my awakened state. In murmurs of pure bliss I stand with the dead, they too watch the display of mountain and sun in the passing of seasons. Or lives. An orchestra humming of a hushed recess somewhere between birth and death. Me, I’ve always wanted to provide the breadth of vastness as I listen on without partaking. And so I am space. And in this space I eavesdrop on so many beating hearts.

It ruins my custom as I have to tend to my own body to exist day after day, when I need to sample but all shades of humanity. Even so, I adhere to this body, which, in truth is the gateway to my intimacy with aliveness.

And here I stand.

Like the time I paced the rim of a canyon. And stood naked in harmony. Receiving had altered its meaning when every want vanished. The muted anatomy of the universe infused in human cells; too. Or cells. I have to name them to convey some sort of resemblance to truth. For our mutual understanding, though I hardly say and you hardly comprehend. The words dilute, but convey, same as the body. So read only to listen deliberately past what you think you know.

I take no measure to life and resign myself to align my breath with the count of droplets of morning dew glistening on the threshold to my heart.

Mein kleines Guckloch in die Unendlichkeit. Noch ruft der Vollmond meinen Namen. Ich folge dem zackigen Flug der Fledermaus mit wachem Blick. Dort oben geht es weiter und weiter , das, jedoch, verrät mir bloss eine Ahnung. Ich bin zufrieden mit «soweit das Auge reicht». Es gibt hier , für mich, ausreichend zu entdecken. Dieses kleine Ich in ihrer wankelmütigen Existenz fordert mich genug. Vom Reisen weiss ich, dass es nicht nur den Glanz innehält, den jene vermuten, die zurückbleiben. Reisen birgt ebenso eine Mühe, eine Anstrengung, sich immer wieder neu einzulassen, anzupassen, zurechtzufinden. Das Entdecken des Ich ist wie das Reisen. Sich darauf einzulassen, heisst zuzulassen, dass es schnürt und drängt, zieht und umschliesst, dem eigenen Leben immer wieder eine frische Sichtweise zu geben, auch wenn das Erleben bisweilen weder frisch noch fröhlich ist. So ist es auch mit dem Anpassen. Anpassen an jene Veränderungen, die wilde Furchen durch die Baumwipfel treiben , wenn der Sturm aufkommt und sich wieder senkt. Vielleicht das Altern, aber mehr noch das Annehmen. Nicht die Falten und die Bäuche, sondern das eigene, im Grunde ungezähmte Wesen, das sich den Gezeiten hingibt, und Flut und Ebbe jeder Gefühlslage nennt, gibt und wieder entzieht. Nur weder in absoluter Absehbarkeit noch Unveränderlichkeit. Sie sind uns nicht allein , noch besonders, diese Gänge und Vorgänge, dunkel, hell, mal so, mal so. Doch lohnt es sie zu beobachten. Sich zu beobachten. Und hiermit sich – das Ich, mit diesem Ich – zurechtzufinden, sich zu orientieren, eine gewisse Ahnung zu gewinnen, um mit den Gezeiten im Mindesten etwas mitzugehen, sich nicht zu sträuben und die Anstrengung für einen Moment fallen zu lassen. Es scheint mir bereits Anstrengung genug dem Körper, den Gedanken, den Gefühlen über Längen ausgeliefert zu sein. Zu entdecken gibt es nun diesen zurückbleibenden Aspekt.

Thousands gathered in a handful of moments. Thousands and my silent observation. In long exhalation seconds shed off the clock notwithstanding their restless anticipation or the faint drip of my presence. Passion too halts briefly, alone their muscles throb on the prospect of a timely release. They must wait. We must all.

Then, a sharp call to unleash the methodical pace of each swing and push forward. Advance – the mountain hails every format of man and woman. The passing is both exact and determined, from crossing the first line to crossing the last. A sip of time is my standing still and their calculated progression. We settle in ourselves.

With ease I sidle into the experience and watch on. Then a brush, paint on my face, an unexpected greeting to another. Papi, a one we too remember, reject or thirst; and I know why he came. An embrace in word, a gentle stride, shimmers, floats in the reflection of each: still remembered or rejected or held enmeshed in the mosaic of missing and longing. Papi, significant in his urge to be heard for he came for you, only for you.

Names – I remember. 2021, 2020, 2019 – years. And age.  Counting numbers. The passing is unreasonable and so is my pain for the past.

My undertaking is cracking under the weight of only a delicate knock on the tip of my-self. And I wonder – still – who am I? And who is captured in this passing time? I see a shirt in bright sunlight

, dead against the backdrop of fallen hours on an early afternoon . The red fabric sweeps across lengths of cut grass in simple motion, magnified by expressions of deliberate focus, then bliss. A swift awakening, a frenzied dance. My only chance is to stop and watch its every move. And so I do, until the uproar reaches my heart and blows notions of fulfillment to my core. Touching my lips to the faint outlines of life, encircling me more and more, I stand still. Even so, I fail regularly to sit with the embrace of feelings. A longing. A feverous twisting of every branching vein. Streaks of life in all parts of me. How can anyone endure such a swell of emotion?

I see the same shirt, now vacant from its owner, and though I remember the details, I am struck by the sudden emptiness. Memories made, and the constant passing of time is a necessary variable in this course. It marks the beginning and end – of a worn shirt, in action, then disposed, of a life breaking ground, growing vast, spreading arms to receive and give, all the way to the clasp of death. Mature death or slow death, or just death? I was there utterly, and boldly state that it is no lie: every fiber of me was present in an undocumented moment in the perpetual stretch of the universe. For the unknowing reader I will state: I was aware of being. And now I am aware of the passing as I add 2022 and 2023 to my growing list. Timid, human made digits, a backdrop to my writing, really quite insignificant.

I wrote this last entry two thousand years ago with my arm resting on my thigh, in a night that bore crystals hanging from its open ceiling, so clear. And all I could think about was this muted, transpiring  being. In its midst I lay disarmed and motionless, swept away by the rustling of leaves, broken by the bend of blades of grass, chased by every hum of trashing wings. August came and I married the wind. But still I lay bare. And as September approached I was weak to turn around and seek the same embrace. I had heard the whispers speak of delivering myself to the pure reach of being. And the sea rose and fell , and with it the bells reverberations, witnesses to the tiny marks I left behind. Footsteps. Minor blends of thoughts and feelings, immature gestures of heels dug deep into the sandy pits of being human. Of being. This sort of love or life , or arras of colors now pulsated in my core, and I flew hard like a fist thumping through layers of clouds, chasing away thunder and lightning , burning the outer crust, screaming and hammering aches against invisible foes,  depriving trees of roots, stripping  away branches and bark, ripping past wild threads of pain to collide with the crystal chandelier and explode. Yes, explode.

A little noise of wisdom, a mere grin in the distance, that slight nod as our eyes align. I lean on some sort of silence and some sort of sticky guidance, trickling down my spine, shaking me violently, or then, wavering and subtle. All openings grow within, though not at my biding. Many life folds tag me, touch me, tremble deep inside of me. I howl and seek nature

, seek the city, solitude and distance, overflow of impression and offers, people, noise. I think now of that meadow in the maze of skyscrapers, popping blossoms bursting forth from the earthly bosom. The stark contrast attracts me. If I don’t find it, I fear emptiness and death. Is running away from stopping a longing to know I am still alive? What am I not meeting?

This holiday, every repeating year. I take to the lights. And in the light the rain comes down hard. I wished for days of rain. My sky holds the clouds , the voices of rain burst open, soon to be dismissed by other reigns breaking through to touch my skin. I am ready to retire as the clouds wither, and with them the tame notion of time, which I so perfectly conditioned to step in each footprint of mine. A companion – time, barely, or rather smug – no, I feel the pull of the tender, the frail, and I wander and admire the crawl of my dissolving cloud, running down the breadth of my arm, a mere trickle seeping in and out of me. Who am I?

I tug at the sweet crease drawing the outline of my heart, disintegrating each beat in muted devotion for a single moment. A crack in time is a strange emperor. I lay at its feet, dust settling on every heel of existence. Only the chronology of events remains unshaken. I feel the rupture. I say tear and speak not of rain or eye – by some odd choice , I willingly accept. Loud, I think, when in truth so hushed and unuttered all lays bare. Or I, and cloud.

To waft on a cripple is a sentiment of the human wrinkle. I ram my totality into the sky. Union is no false promise as the heart beats on. Retiring removes some seeking , revealing a vacancy I only supposed empty, when calm was always, always present. Placid. Or, what other tranquil breath? Freedom, the relaxed kingdom infuses me , and hands me over – I am still guessing the word of the year. Only I am the word, and the cloud and the rain, and the sky holding both against the backdrop of every admirable fiber of life. Now skin and membrane, electrostatic discharge pushing through heel and ankle, oozing life, unloading dimension after dimension in no particular direction. Totality is my closest embrace.