I am not a neural substrate!
God moves over the hills and pasture in the form of fear of dying though you may call it dawn.
Bird watchers on Flat Iron Road doing their best to pretend they're not annoyed at me ambling past.
It's all a form of love, which is easiest to say when I'm not navigating complex social structures (which apparently are not so hard for others, who knew).
While in the ER a woman squatted to piss herself, then rose and looked around sadly, desperate to meet anybody's eyes, and I did not know what to do or say, rare for me but I was locked in my own crisis, and now feel only sorrow for all of us who are temporarily or otherwise alienated from the condition of grace.
We are iron shavings in the vicinity of a magnet, our whole being a single law.
Hey Sean, the cannabis flowers you ingest are female so maybe dial back that whole "brother cannabis" bit you do?
The future is cooperation.
A day off from the swelter given to mowing, our lawn and the neighbors, and later my mother's.
The interoceptive systems and their constant mapping of the body - synchronized more or less with the world (which is sensed and mapped by exteroceptive systems) - are experienced as a self, it's not a big fucking spiritual mystery.
Homemade kefir, yum!
Picking blueberries, hot and tired, faking gratitude, listening to a mother a few rows over keep reminding her little daughter to stay close because of bears which I can't tell is she just trying to scare the kid into obedience or is she confused about how uninterested black bears really are in us?
A sense one has that the road is narrow, grows narrower as we go, and yet the urge to traverse it - in the interest of love, in the loveliness of sharing - intensifies.
Worthington stories, may I?
A demon who whispers "you're wrong" literally every second of the day and wins by definition every time you argue with him or try to explain something to him or beg him to shut up or even try to ignore him.
People who affect moral outrage when asked to asked to say what a poem means, as if poets are somehow exempt for our shared responsibility for clarity, understanding and mutual support.
Prisms without sunlight are just glass which, okay, but beauty begs us to multiply occasions for its coming forth.
The river up past my ankles experienced as a kind of party, a kind of celebration of water, movement, flesh and dusk, so exquisite and rich one feels it as forbidden, and thus inaugurates a new level of inquiry.
Missing coffee cup found on a shelf in the barn (beside the nails), the grounds inside it lit up with stars made of green and yellow mold.
On the one hand, I'm tired of everybody misunderstanding and thus misapplying Leonard Cohen lyrics, and on the other hand, who the actual fuck do I think I am?
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