Confluence, Consternation and Circulocutionary Vivid Photos
Where are you, and where do you want to go…and do you even know? Take a stab at creating words that transcend the experience. Make a plan to make no plans. Realize that between $1 free piano lessons for a week, and the lazy calico cat that watches the white mouse eat leftovers under the kitchen table, there is a message in this bottle, a rabbit to pull out of an old top hat worn by Lincoln, a inexplicable part that looks a lot like strawberry jam oozing out of a cut right above the eye.
Who are you to live a normal life? “There is no normal life, there is just life.”—Doc Holiday, Tombstone. So conjugate it differently: Put ketchup on the inside of French fries and sell them at a local bazaar. Do they even have bazaars anymore?
Become a master at play, skip, doodah, and Pleistocene underwear in the star-riddled toy story of Beverly Hills.
Go out and fetch. Go out and get. Go out and create a zoo from dinosaur bones, Oregon wagon trail ruts and the butt of a joke.
Give it a chance to recreate reality into two exactly semi-equal parts and sell one.
Give your dreams another chance to form in the trees, mulberry trees, where the blue fairies have been seen by the beautiful young Pilipino poet who doubles as a waitress at a Chinese restaurant in Boulder, Colorado.
Yes, piano mice, attic cats and gold fish the size of salmon swimming upstream…are the parts of your life: A menagerie of bees on the porch, flocks of geese flying V; you may know this, but the eerie fact is that you are never more than 12 feet away from a spider.
What does this have to do with life? The living part, the juxtaposed blue skies and meandering river rains that quench a dry spell in mid July, that deviate from the bell curve, that twist and turn in a tornado moment, that slyly fox out the snoopy dog days that are littering the surreal plains of your brain.
Come on, you have it in you to step to a different drummer, to go where no man has gone before, the woman’s bathroom at 4a, to slip into something more comfortable like a Bentley, a cosmic drift, a paradigm of light from stars billions of light years away that do not, may I repeat this: stars that do not even exist anymore.
Whoa dude. What can you see in a sky near you that appears real that does not even exist anymore?
Talk about seeing something that is about as real as a wisp of wind riding the prairie days and wild boar nights somewhere down in a gulch in the Colorado River canyons late, below the full moon; and you can hear it all, feel it all, but see absolutely almost nothing, but listen for the chants of native Americans who have turned into wolves and howl at your scared but mesmerized imagination, imagining aliens, water spirits and hoot owls swooping down upon the Canyonlands in a whole-soul state of mind.
Who are you to drink stale tea, cold coffee and day-old baked goods?
How in the world did you settle for the slipshod, jimmy-rigged and parched truths that hem you in around dawn, and let you back in the house about twilight on another unassuming day?
Why in the world will you not step into your own light, personal power, and chase ravens through some kind of offset Castaneda dream?
Today is the day to wear a bright red shirt, curled under garments and a smile the size of Cincinnati.
Today is your day to dazzle, to amaze, to create, to get the results in the harmonious business of accomplishment on a new paved highway near you.
Believe with all that you have got that there is nothing to lose but fear of losing, and everything to gain, like cosmic consciousness and a few bucks on the tarmac of rockets’ red glare.
Go out into the world and tap dance on coffee tables in a Starbucks near you.
Go out into the world and create and recreate and become and sing and hum and whistle…for if you do this…the rest is piece of cake, a cake walk, a walk in the park, a true story in the fictional world you have lived in for far too long.
Fly to Lukla. Get to the top of the world.