6:17 am

The dull moan of a train horn lulled far away in the distance.

Hiss of the AC keeping the bedroom at as low a temp as physically possible in the brutal summer morning.

Rose was always sensitive to temperature. And smell. And emotional tension.

Bad dreams woke her in an unsettled state and her frustration simmered over in short biting remarks. She was angry the room wasn't cooler.

Jack tried to be reassuring, but Rose’s frustrations quickly became Jack’s. His unresolved and ongoing weight.

“Strange,” Jack thought, “that knowing doesn’t make it easier.”

He wondered what was wrong with him. Why no matter how quiet, how vocal, how diligent, or how lax, he had little to no power to control or manage the emotional storms.

Only the tenacity of weathering.

Kindnesses, when they came, were as wonderful as the fall breeze. But the tone of life for decades was like the turgid heat of summer: cruel, burning, and seemingly without end.

What kept Jack going was the realization that, like summer, every season must end.

The tenacity of weathering.

He sat on his faded deck now. The morning sun warming him while a cool breeze let him know the actual season was, indeed, about to change. Contemplating why the deck chairs were tumbled and piled in the particular fashion they were, Jack swatted at the tenacious and hungry mosquitoes.

The thoughts were too heavy for a Monday morning.

While Jack was lost in a dark reverie, a jet roared far overhead carrying bleary-eyed souls from one end of the continent to the other. Loved ones to or from loved ones. Lives made whole.

Or sometimes broken.

More closely, the birds chittered and gossiped about who was building what nest and where this other bird had migrated.

The cat prowled and poked at the woodpile while the squirrels barked and ch-ch-ch’d at the feline from high in the mulberry tree.

And the bees, little darts of light in the morning sun, cared not at all for the rivalries of mammals or aves alike.

The world and the universe turned in spite of it all.

In spite of Jack’s heavy heart.

Just as it always had, and always would.

—

‘Do you miss her?’

Jack was surprised by the question.

‘What? Where did that come from?’ he responded.

‘I don’t know. Just wondering… you get that faraway look sometimes when you get quiet.’ she said hesitantly.

Jack sighed. He wanted to talk about this. He needed to. But there was never any resolution, only accusation and incrimination.

When ‘she’ came up, it no longer ended in argument, just being reminded how wrong he was. A thing that, while mathematically wrong, felt absolutely correct. Like standing on perfect level. This thing had come to define him.

Jack found this strange. There were always definitions. His wife defined him as an inattentive workaholic, a sweetie but clueless. His coworkers defined him as never-fail and get-it-done. His congregation knew him as always-on and always-answers-the-phone.

How quick it seemed others were to rewrite the dictionary, while never really knowing him. Without seeing the cluttered mess of his heart or how important it was to feel loved.

Oh, Jack had heard plenty of expressions of love. And he even believed they were earnest. But no matter how desperate you were to make someone understand you in German, if they didn’t speak German, all you’d convey is energy.

The nuance washes away. The details never known.

Feeling. Un-conveyed.

‘Sometimes.’ That was all he said. Anything less would be clearly a lie. Anything more would just introduce negative energy.

Jack’s new steady reality was tenable, like most of his life. He’d endured worse than this.

Way worse than this.

The world was still full of micro and macro miracles. All things considered, feeling sorry for himself was hardly even worth the effort.

—

Jack recalled their last argument. No, not an argument. Arguments are two parties disagreeing, each stating their justifications.

But in this case Jack presented a game he’d made six years ago. Nothing special. Just a retooled version of Pictionary.

Incomplete but they’d had fun playing back when he rolled out v1 and he wanted to revise it with some new and improved features.

But Rose had no memory of the game, or of ever playing it.

‘Where’d you get THAT?!’ She barbed, the implication clear.

Jack didn’t bother trying to convince Rose of reality, he just explained the facts and let her accept them or not.

She did. Eventually. Jack thought it strange that reality took five hours to sink in. But, at least it did sink in.

—

September 14, 2026. Jack wrote it in long hand. And he counted forward and back 5019 days:

- December 17, 2012 – He was newly minted in the world of cave diving. Determined to find his treasure in the shoals and caves of the Carolina coast.

• June 11, 2040 – 'Jack', he thought, 'you'll be a very old man if you live that long. And you'll still be looking for your fortune off the beach.'

Today was a pivot, a moment halfway between then and now. His spaceship would never be in this place in space-time again. The planet moved, the sun moved, the galaxy moved...his heart moved. All while the universe breathed.

Breath. That's what Jack needed to do.

Put his bare feet on the cool stone and name 5 things he could touch.

“Okay, let's start.”

#amber #orbit #weather #ghost #undertow #static #gravity

bare branches

Before dawn’s whisper, I rise— A navy sky not yet ready to sail. A body still heavy with sleep and confusion.

Then, suddenly, the road Is humming an old hymn Empty twilight nibbling Headlights in the fog.

A mind hitting on the Black fuel of morning While silent prayers Drift up to the unseen.

Glass eyes and smiles— Because he knows what waits: A day of light and truth, Smiles and hugs and love.

He calls them brother and sister Like they are lost family, Because they are. Lost in ways they don't even know.

Joy is the hilight, even as The soul knows it drifts Further from shore Than its ever been.

Faces of happiness fair winds One lost in doldrums Prays bring him home.

Or at least in the Right direction.

A Program begins, Lubricating the soul. Eyes glass again and a chest Feels tight with missed joy.

Every synapse is suddenly Alive with memory and desire And a longing to be one thing: Good.

HE is here, there is no doubt. After all, 'wherever One or two of you Is gathered together'.

And that is enough, Even though so many Are missing— So many.

One or all, the break Is no less real. Prayers and prayers And prayers

Because what else Can a lost and Broken soul Offer?

But to ask for help.

Ache and pray. It comes and Is part Of Worship

For what Father Does not wish to Know the failings Of a child.

Not to punish, But to salve And sooth And help.

Like light into A window, Spirit pours Into this soul.

And out come whispers of thanks. For truth. For hope.

For the days to come And their morrows To bring every loving One back to this place.

Of peace. Satisfaction.

And joy.

#poetry #amber #museum #orbit #undertow #weather #ghost #gravity

And other things. (case: 260902)

The Dream

KH Q/A study session RV conducting. Doesn’t call on me. For some reason, I have to go outside to get a box of literature. Stacks of books, hard to carry.

Since I am near the front of the building, I decide to open the stage door. I don't know why. I'm COMPLETELY embarrassed when I try to go in next to the stage and the sun is shining in the door, the heat rushing in, and the entire congregation is just staring at me.

I sheepishly extract myself and close the door.

Go to the main entrance at the back and slip in.

I try again to participate by raising my hand, but the conductor continues to ignore me.

As I stand out of frustration, someone points out that I am nearly naked, standing in blue underwear.

I complain I never get called on.

The conductor, RV ends hourlong discussion 30m early.

I grouse to those around me that we shouldn't be stopping so soon.

AG walks onto the stage, he seems to be our chairman.

I can’t understand him. He is speaking loudly enough, but his words make no sense. Like the wah-wah-wah on the Peanuts cartoons.

He starts to play a video.

Suddenly:

I am on the beach at a wide lazy river. Lots of people float by in inner tubes. It is very easy and lighthearted. Everyone is friendly. Like a 1950's suburban bar-b-que. I feel like I am having fun. I drink beer.

An otter swims up and nuzzles and cradles in my arm.

Everyone e ‘aaaawwwww’.

But it makes me nervous. I can feel/smell its waterproof coating.

But the kindness of the watchers makes me relax and enjoy the encounter.

I hug and nuzzle back.

Then: real life comes stomping in.

MW wakes me up. It is predawn, orange shards are dappling the wall past my feet sticking out and dancing on the shorted covers. It looks like there is wind this morning. Probably just the sun heating the atmosphere.

I was up late, so I lie and take in my existence. Pray. Breathe. Think of a poem about the dappling light.

The Poem

Pigments wake early, before the world, to play.

They are little gorgeous children.

My children this morning, mischievous.

How happy my babies are.

Land-O-Nod

I fall back asleep.

I am at the beach again. But it is noisier. Ocean now. White sand and wind. No people this time. Just me. All of me. The water is green and I can taste the salt spray.

My hair is sticky and matted like I've been swimming. I run my fingers through it to break up the clumps. I feel it turning blonder, like ice cracking.

I always like salty hair.

Another otter comes out of the surf and sizes me up. This one is larger, but likes me. It comes and we lie in the sand and it nuzzles and hugs me.

It feels so warm and soft. The fur is like a blanket warm against the wind.

I want to share this comfort with my friends, but they are not here.

I wake again. The light is fully up now.

And, I suppose, so am I.

My read: The Otter Knows Me

Look how social I am. :–/

Public and learning. Love it! But I don't get to share. :–( Try try try, but I feel ignored. Unseen. Invisible. Until I get ridiculous. Until they need a weak mind and a strong back. then: EXPOSURE!!

The sunlight. The heat. They're all gonna laugh at me!

And then, wonderfully cruelly, I'm not merely embarrassed—I'm almost naked. but, notice, I'm not paralyzed. I recall? shock maybe, but then just keep on keeping on. This is me baby! Like it or lump it!

Dream logic: I want to participate, but when I finally enter the room, I discover I've been participating wrong.

not being heard not being seen and dismayed but not terrified of being seen too much

TENSION!

My big complaint isn't 'I need clothes, cover me.' it's 'Why won't anybody call on me?'

The dream's answer: Because I'm already worried about what will happen if they do.

Blue underwear. At least I had them. I wonder why blue. Blue is a comfort color. My favorite. Def not a sexual input. Just regular, awkward me.

Human.

All the social mores are kind of dumped or deleted:

No books. No proper entrance. No role. No authority. No carefully constructed participation. Just me.

And then RV ends the discussion early. I am frustrated again because there wasn't enough time to be heard.

Comically consistent. Like life.

Then AG becomes chairman and speaks loudly—I hate that I think I've come to dislike him to the point of avoidance. I need to work on tihs. I can feel the emotion in my dream.

Or maybe it really is him. Perhaps he has come to disdain me... wicked man that I am. Other women's wives and all. Some people like to get offended for Jah.

Maybe that's why I can't understand what he's saying.

First, authority figure won't call here; now authority figure is talking, but language itself has broken down.

“Wah-wah-wah.”

The institutional/social world has become meaningless.

Down to the River

Video: And the dream escapes. In comes the otter.

Wild switch. Super dreamy. And totally made sense in the dream. I always love dream-logic. Or its' absence. And the intensity that comes and goes on the astral plane.

Swap from big room full of performance, to the wide open wild where everyone, even nature accepts me. Loves me. Desires me.

No evaluaations. No questions. No conductors. Permissions.

Just easy, enjoyable floating.

And beer. Beer is always nice.

The atmosphere is almost aggressively wholesome: 1950s suburban barbecue, friendly strangers, innertubes, beer, sunlight, water.

A world where participation requires almost nothing.

Just jump in and join the current.

And we switch again when my friendly otter arrives. No explanation required. No questions No right/wrong answers. Just nuggles and water. and plenty of good energy.

EVERYONE loved me! That was really wonderful.

The social gaze that was horrifying in the first half has completely changed.

Wonder: did the audience change, or did I?

I definitely have.

Yet, I'm are nervous.

There's a word for that aroma water-born mammals have... can't think of it. Strange I noticed it... or was aware of it. Scent is SO powerful.

Smelling/feeling the oil on its fur.

This ain't no disney cartoon. This is REAL!

Wet. Oily. Strange. Alive.

But not entirely comfortable. There's some awkwardness, but it quickly dissolves.

It's really kind of beautiful that that I think about it.

Like I'm learning: I can experience something strange without immediately needing to retreat from it. I don't have to pretend the otter isn't weird. I don't have to pretend I'm not nervous. I can be nervous and stay.

Then, I accept it. Wholly.

Aaaaaand MW wakes me up. Bad timing. I was really deep.

So deep, i resist the urge to immediately get up and resume the machinery of life. Just lie there. Prayer and breathe.

Do you think those are the essentials of life? I do.

We need to revise the rule of threes: Air – 3 minutes or death Water – 3 days or death Food – 3 weeks (or is it months) or death

Where do we put prayer in that pyramid?

Pray incessantly, after all.

My dumb little poem. I like to write about morning light. It feels unique and intimate. Even though everyone experiences it. Wonder if anyone else ever cries thinking about light.

I don't. Not all the time anyway.

Here, I am simply experiencing existence. Light. Breath. Prayer. Thought. Being.

Kind of perfect.Which is why I fell back asleep. X-D

Ocean Side Property

Rarely to dreams resume. And this one really didn't In fact, Otter 2.0 is different. The first one was social. This... this is private. Solitary. Intimate.

No one to impress.

Just: the beach the ocean the wind the sand

Explicitly: “Just me. All of me.”

Is it weird that I feel safest of all when I am alone?

Shift and molt as needed.

I do love people and my friends. Some are just easier to absorb than others. And I feel like so few absorb me.

Not that they need to.

I think this is the heart of the dream. Not alone in the sense of abandoned. Alone in the sense of undivided.

Part 1: a lone wolf trying to find his place among people. Part 2: the lone, finding audience when no one is asking anything.

Wish I had salty hair this morning. It's so long. it would be perfect to dunk and listen to it turn blond under the waning summer sun.

Fingers through the hair. We all carry a built-in comb.

I like that the otter doesn't just accept me, it sizes me up.

“Is this guy okay? Yeah. I like this guy.”

Very different from the opening scene. I spend the first part of the dream trying desperately to get an authority figure to choose me.

The final authority figure is an animal. And it just... chooses me.

No shirt, no shoes, no hands required.

The two otters:

Otter 001: Being accepted by others, a social world. Everyone sees the encounter. Everyone approves. Or doesn't. Clutched pearls much, m'lady?

Nervous, but approval helps you accept the experience. It's almost: “Maybe I can let people see me being vulnerable.”

Otter002: Being accepted by Meeeeeeeee! Nobody around. Doesn't matter what anyone thinks. Simply me and this creature.

And it likes me anyway.

WhOA! A big movement from social acceptance → self-acceptance.

My coupe de gras: “And, I suppose, so am I.” That's a killer ending.

This thing has three meanings sitting on top of each other: Physically woke up. literally up. Something inside has risen. Do we call that metaphor?

I'm a writer, I should know. Or at least google it. Too lazy. you get what you get. If you stuck around this long, wrong language ain't going to shooting milk out of your nose.

This isn't some grand spiritual transformation. Not: THE SLEEPER IN ME HAS AWAKENED!

Just: I guess, I'm feeling a thing this morning.

Do you like me: believable Tentative. Humorous. Grounded.

Ironic to feel so comfortable writing about this after a dream that spent so much time worrying about being exposed.

I am tired of having to earn my place in the room. I want to be heard, but being heard makes me vulnerable. I want people to see me, but I am afraid of what they will see. I want meaningful participation, but the structures in which I am trying to participate sometimes feel increasingly arbitrary or incomprehensible.

I don't always have to perform my worth.

🛟 I can float. 🍺 I can drink a beer. 🦦 I can be nervous around an otter. 👃I can smell the animal and feel its strange waterproof coat. 👀I can be seen. 💧 I can be alone. 🌊 I can have salty hair. 🏖️ I can lie in the sand.

And something wild can come out of the water, look at me, and decide that I am worth cuddling.

Maybe the deepest contrast isn't congregation vs. beach.

It's: “Will they call on me?” versus “I am here.” And the dream ends when you finally realize that the second one might be enough.

Miss you, otter.

Miss you, a lot.

#amber #orbit #poetry #ghost #glass #undertow