Friday, February 5, 2016

Found Art Friday 194

Dear Ones,
Some weeks are shaped like tunnels you have to get through, and so here we are, out another side.
On our mind that must trickle out, four years ago this week we lost dear friend and poet, Stacy Doris.  Rather than paralysis, we reach out to her cyberously, as she helped hatch the idea of doing a blog.

"in the spirit of elegies and sonnets for our friend who leaves a long one" 
where shadows come from
Julie notes

We are looking at the slope and the intersections that people weave with one another.   She said it near the edge, something about "how a life only arrives at having meaning, due to its limit."
Death must be a call and response then
This week in February always does this: we miss our friend and the world is less now than it was.  And it is heart rendering to think about.  Since she was the best one at listening, let's please go have a cup of tea right now to celebrate her life.  There.

And how are you?

no one paints better than gravity
And this week, to boot, was a technological meltdown here at The Department of Homeland Inspiration.  A yank in the chain of sanity.  A punch in the brain.  Her interface, Ms Apples, softly crashed so hard with a flickery,  ---- gone, the chime, then a stuttering ---- grey dash, and blankness. Cool unapologetic blackness.  Nothing like the radiator smell helping you understand what just happened.  A lousy silent exit. 

you imagined the labor of your thoughts fizzled and piffed into the universe - what were you holding on to anyway?
What now is physical? What is mystical, what is musical?  Regardless, It's gone all gone, gone from the shiny rectangle.
A lot of driving around her rectangles to get their heads cleaned and wiped.
She became alarmed to note just how much of her brain activity is seated in the machine, how many times in its absence, she felt a pull toward it in order to communicate, to learn, or yearn for a harmonica in the key of G or a pair of socks on sale.  And that little chewing gum sized back-up drive, we don't want to talk about it.  Art Ranger was trying very hard to have faith in the young bald man with a skin-colored mole who called her computer "Goofed".
All week, she practiced practicing Mindful Breathing, hoping fervently that the "data" please could be saved/ retrieved, relieved relived.

 PHEW!  WHEW!  yes - they- (it?) did it!!!
 who should receive the thank you chocolate, honey, flowers?

Meanwhile, in the gym basement where the tragi-comedy of humanity lays itself bare, WHO KNEW?  how little breathing we have actually been doing all this time.  Good Heavens there are seemingly endless outcroppings of flesh and bone who would appreciate receiving more breaths of fresh air.
And a new awareness of all ball bearings housed in the body.
First Daffodil already here: we prefer bulbs to Jesus

Please do fill our new clean inbox with Art that has found you:


  1. It's all so FRAaaagile isn't it......? Beautiful posting.

  2. It is called Impermanence. Anicca. Sorry about it all. No one is immune.