There was a moment when he knew he had to make a decision.

He had left London that February evening on the ****** Velo Train to the South West. As the two hour journey got underway darkness had descended quickly; it was soon only his reflected face he could see in the window. He’d been rehearsing most of the afternoon so it was only now he could take out the manuscript book, its pages full of working notes on the piece he was to play the following afternoon. His I-Mind implant could have stored these but he chose to circumvent this thought-transcribing technology; there was still the physical trace on the cream-coloured paper with his mother’s propelling pencil that forever conjured up his journey from the teenage composer to the jazz musician he now was. This thought surrounded him with a certain warmth on this Friday evening train full of those returning to their country homes and distant families.

It was a difficulty he had sensed from the moment he perceived a distant gap in the flow of information streaming onto the mind page

At the outset the Mind Notation project had seemed harmless, playful in fact. He allowed himself to enter into the early experiments because he knew and trusted the research team. He got paid handsomely for his time, and later for his performance work.  It was a valuable complement to his ill-paid day-to-day work as a jazz pianist constantly touring the clubs, making occasional festival appearances with is quintet, hawking his recordings around small labels, and always ‘being available’. Mind Notation was something quite outside that traditional scene. In short periods it would have a relentless intensity about it, but it was hard to dismiss because he soon realised he had been hard-wired to different persona. Over a period of several years he was now dealing with four separate I-Mind folders, four distinct musical identities.

Tomorrow he would pull out the latest manifestation of a composer whose creative mind he had known for 10 years, playing the experimental edge of his music whilst still at college. There had been others since, but J was different, and so consistent. J never interfered; there were never decisive interventions, only an explicit confidence in his ability to interpret J’s music. There had been occasional discussion, but always loose; over coffee, a walk to a restaurant; never in the lab or at rehearsals.

In performance (and particularly when J was present) J’s own mind-thought was so rich, so wide-ranging it could have been drug-induced. Every musical inference was surrounded by such intensity and power he had had to learn to ride on it as he imagined a surfer would ride on a powerful wave. She was always there - embedded in everything J seemed to think about, everything J projected. He wondered how J could live with what seemed to him to be an obsession. Perhaps this was love, and so what he played was love like a wilderness river flowing endlessly across the mind-page.

J seemed careful when he was with her. J tried hard not to let his attentiveness, this gaze of love, allow others to enter the public folders of his I-Mind space (so full of images of her and the sounds of her light, entrancing voice). But he knew, he knew when he glanced at them together in darkened concert halls, her hand on J’s left arm stroking, gently stroking, that J’s most brilliant and affecting music flowed from this source.

He could feel the pattern of his breathing change, he shifted himself in his chair, the keyboard swam under his gaze, he was playing fast and light, playing arpeggios like falling water, a waterfall of notes, cascades of extended tonalities falling into the darkness beyond his left hand, but there it was, in twenty seconds he would have to*

It had begun quite accidentally with a lab experiment. J had for some years been researching the telematics of composing and performing by encapsulating the physical musical score onto a computer screen. The ‘moist media’ of telematics offered the performer different views of a composition, and not just the end result but the journey taken to obtain that result. From there to an interest in neuroscience had been a small step. J persuaded him to visit the lab to experience playing a duet with his own brain waves.

Wearing a sensor cap he had allowed his brainwaves to be transmitted through a BCMI to a synthesiser – as he played the piano. After a few hours he realised he could control the resultant sounds. In fact, he could control them very well. He had played with computer interaction before, but there was always a preparatory stage, hours of designing and programming, then the inevitable critical feedback of the recording or glitch in performance. He soon realised he had no patience for it and so relied on a programmer, a sonic artist as assistant, as collaborator when circumstances required it.

When J’s colleagues developed an ‘app’ for the I-Mind it meant he could receive J’s instant thoughts, but thoughts translated into virtual ‘active’ music notation, a notation that flowed across the screen of his inner eye. It was astonishing; more astonishing because J didn’t have to be physically there for it to happen: he could record I-Mind files of his thought compositions.

The reference pre-score at the top of the mind page was gradually enlarging to a point where pitches were just visible and this gap, a gap with no stave, a gap of silence, a gap with no action, a gap with repeat signs was probably 30 seconds away

In the early days (was it really just 10 years ago?) the music was delivered to him embedded in a network of experiences, locations, spiritual and philosophical ideas. J had found ways to extend the idea of the notated score to allow the performer to explore the very thoughts and techniques that made each piece – usually complete hidden from the performer. He would assemble groups of miniatures lasting no more than a couple of minutes each, each miniature carrying, as J had once told him, ‘one thought and one thought only’.  But this description only referred to the musical material because each piece was loaded with a web of associations. From the outset the music employed scales and tonalities so far away from the conventions of jazz that when he played and then extended the pieces it seemed like he was visiting a different universe; though surprisingly he had little trouble working these new and different patterns of pitches into his fingers. It was uncanny the ‘fit’.

Along with the music there was always rich, often startling images she conjured up for J’s compositions. At the beginning of their association J initiated these. He had been long been seeking ways to integrate the visual image with musical discourse. After toying with the idea of devising his own images for music he conceived the notion of computer animation of textile layers. J had discovered and then encouraged the work and vision of a young woman on the brink of what was to become recognised as a major talent. When he could he supported her artistically, revelling in the keenness of her observation of the natural world and her ability to complement what J conceived. He became her lover and she his muse; he remodelled his life and his work around her, her life and her work.

When performing the most complex of music it always seemed to him that the relative time of music and the clock time of reality met in strange conjunctions of stasis. Quite suddenly clock time became suspended and musical time enveloped reality. He found he could be thinking something quite differently from what he was playing.

Further projects followed, and as they did he realised a change had begun to occur in J’s creative rationale. He seemed to adopt different personae. Outwardly he was J. Inside his musical thought he began to invent other composers, musical avatars, complete minds with different musical and personal histories that he imagined making new work.

J had manipulated him into working on a new project that had appeared to be by a composer completely unknown to him. L was Canadian, a composer who had conceived a score that adhered to the DOGME movie production manifesto, but translated into music. The composition, the visuals, the text, the technological environment and the performance had to be conceived in realtime and in one location. A live performance meant a live ‘making’, and this meant he became involved in all aspects of the production. It became a popular and celebrated festival event with each production captured in its entirety and presented in multi-dimensional strands on the web. The viewer / listener became an editor able to move between the simultaneous creative activity, weaving his or her own ‘cut’ like some art house computer game. L never appeared in person at these ‘remakings’, but via a computer link. It was only after half a dozen performances that the thought entered his mind that L was possibly not a 24-year-old woman from Toronto complete with a lively Facebook persona.

Then, with the I-Mind, he woke up to the fact that J had already prepared musical scenarios that could take immediate advantage of this technology. A BBC Promenade Concert commission for a work for piano and orchestra provided an opportunity. J somehow persuaded Tom Service the Proms supremo to programme this new work as a collaborative composition by a team created specially for the premiere. J hid inside this team and devised a fresh persona. He also hid his new I-Mind technology from public view. The orchestra was to be self-directed but featured section leaders who, as established colleagues of J’s had already experienced his work and, sworn to secrecy, agreed to the I-Mind implant.

After the premiere there were rumours about how the extraordinary synchronicities in the play of musical sections had been achieved and there was much critical debate. J immediately withdrew the score to the BBC’s consternation. A minion in the contracts department had a most uncomfortable meeting with Mr Service and the Controller of Radio 3.

With the end of this phrase he would hit the gap  . . . what was he to do? Simply lift his hands from the keyboard? Wait for some sign from the I-Mind system to intervene? His audience might applaud thinking the piece finished? Would the immersive visuals with its  18.1 Surround Sound continue on the five screens or simply disappear?

His hands left the keyboard. The screens went white except for the two repeats signs in red facing one another. Then in the blank bar letter-by-letter this short text appeared . . .


Here Silence gathers
thoughts of you

Letters shall never
spell your grace

No melody could
describe your face

No rhythm dance
the way you move

Only Silence can
express my love

ever yours ever
yours ever yours


He then realised what the date was . . . and slowly let his hands fall to his lap.

synchronicities
are the starlights
to show the way
i once knew why
i came here
don't know
if i'll stay

the moon
is pouring
down
fills me up

eyes are open
looking for
answers
in the
empty

not sure
what to
extract
what to
reflect
back

i'm only seeing
pieces
of
the waves
dancing
to a time
far beyond
the
capacities
of
my design

the moonlight
is
beautiful
but it's ****
to write by

can't read
a word

there
now

it isn't
so
abstract

Instant messages from the multiverse
Rhyming verses of deliverance
A four-line limerick
Spoken with just an utterance.
  
Words I needed to hear
Words spoken so casually, when
I am so unnaturally, irrationally
Unsure of anything
Instant messages from the multiverse
I need to emphasize
Some are heavy, some are light
Some come like thieves in the night

Some come so unexpectedly
I hope they treat me gently
Whatever their intent be
My emotions are raw
Or is it just a slow thaw
I really don’t know, but
I’m wise to their game
I’m not a fool for their pain
Not addicted to the synchronicities
And don’t take it personally
Still
How do they know
Just what to say
How do they know?

Just the same
I’m wise to their game.
I’m a gypsy telling fortunes
I’m a seer telling lies, but
Nobody, no nobody
Knows what I see in your eyes

When my need for you is more than I can bear
I turn on the radio, just to hear
Instant messages from the multiverse
Only I was meant to hear

Conducting the orchestra with an uncanny flair
I tune to your frequency to always keep you near
And fast forward when they’re saying something,  
I don’t want to hear.

I’m wise to their games
This love path is not for the meek
A game of hide and seek
Isn’t there some other way
A formula, a technique

It is in this way
That I get through the day
And that medley of love songs
Well, they’re just foreplay.

Are we on the same frequency?
Creating beautiful melodies.
A symphony of many notes
Half notes, whole notes
Blue notes too.
Don’t ever lose the love notes sent from me to you

She said:

There have been a ridiculous amount of  synchronicities:
I realise now how much I am in your ocean.

I said:

My dear, then not a drop of dark tincture cast in these clear waters in which we swim,
a vast sea in which no matter at what end you lie,
I feel you in the very reverberations of the molecules around me -
the slightest tremor!

And must turn in your direction and with blind eyes penetrate the depth searching for your form,
and begin the journey to find you and at last embrace you with every ion of my Being...

Glitterati Gangsters gaze
with commanding stares
and broken plates glass blown and open gates
There she sits eyes
all holding
all knowing
synchronicities shatter the scene
Sparkling
each blink initiates a flood of flaming diamonds
that lash out like hot irons
Eyes like this entice and take
Each blink unlocks a new mystery
as she grinds resistance in her teeth
Igniting my lust
Sparkling
each blink creates a dawning sun
Her gaze inflames ten thousand ways
She wields sparkle
like madmen spray sarin
With sparkling abandon

We watch the perpetual war in the sky
The vivid colors of the gods
Bleeding before the mountains
A sultry foreshadow of nightfalls' catastrophe
He waits for the Suns' demise
Under the Gemini Moon
My Twin Legs split open
Wolves echo in synchronicities of
Madness
In the morning I call for Zeus
God of Thunder
Crack the earth open
Let my lovers fall to the underworld of your brothers  
Wash the scents of greed from my hair
And the hyrogliphic bite marks from my thighs  
Or bare my soul to wind
Starvation and feast
It all tastes like love
under the Yellowstone moon.

Makin' moves
Creating grooves
Syncing to the synchronicities
The Universal mood.

i feel what i feel
with such depth and aching despair
my chest is caving in
at times; i am filled with water

i'm a finely tuned banjo
in a sea of horned instruments
and no one wants to play me
or open me up
i'm so closed up

but on days when the mania is gone,
the depression isn't so bad anymore
i have my lovers and
the pills i eat with dinner
work

i'm swallowing down my pride
paying attention and trying to decide
where i can hide my nervous sighs
when i'm in a room of people
and still feel alone

i needed a break
i don't know how to find that
exactly
without the dependence
of chemicals

i am pursuing a lighter path
will it impress you?
my muscles ache
my heart aches
my brain... it aches

finding a way to end a poem
when you're still sad
is the hardest part
of trying to cope
positively

i can't end here either
because then anxiety swoops in
like a hawk
or some other bird she named
when we were under the trees

i'm swimming in a pool
of bad nostalgia
and beautiful synchronicities
i'm so sick of
the ups and downs

Silver Bullet Synchronicities, Literally, Layer into my Space a Perfect Union of Oblivion
The Ying, to The Yang, Baby....

Micro to Macro, Anomalous Events Don't quite Strike Me as anything Other than Normality in and of Different Scale

A For Instance

To my Eyes, the Sequoya Tree Appears to Tower, the Highest of the High
While our beloved Earth Teachers....The Ant....Grounded above and below the Mother Clay,
Will Look at Me as a Colossal Mammalian largely Trembling the World with Weight Infinite

To the Point

Perspective is simply a specific view, an angled ray of Light, Thus Strikes the Object in it's Own Precise Uniqueness

Note of Importance

If only One ray strikes angled Light, One angle of Light just won't Suffice....Every Perspective must be Offering of It's Own Accord, thus Strikes the Creation True....

Wholeness is Truth
Truth is Coherence
Coherence is Smooth and Steady
Do I know if I'll be Ready?....Not Really

This I Do Know

All Matter is full of Wholes of Space, NOT EMPTY, but Full of Life, Feeding the Flow into Motion, Flowing the Motion of Inert Mass, Spinning the Soul to Life, Spinning into Infinite Bliss

LIFE IS BEAUTIFUL MOVEMENT

Some will make Life into Art with Dance
To Live Life at the Threshold, DANCE Your DREAMS into LIFE
Everyday and Every Night....DANCE
                                                  ­DANCE
                                                  DANCE

  ­              Bless You.....Bless Me...Bless Us All

A life in Ruins, a hurt far wide
alone and alienated from the world
a fairy tale lost of all imagination
made the hurt open wide ...

Inside this life
I close my yes I live to tell
with dreams cluttered and whirled
people change I can't wait for them
TO TELL ...

I can't explain if your listening
lock up in silence a living hell
a loving hand that saved me
you step across my threshold
how could you I cry ...

The Angels sing to me like the wind.
throughout the trees, with echoes of
thundering walls, my mind is blank
of all synchronicities, I can't explain
only if your listening ....

A brave new world awaits for me
under its spell, waits for me to explore
if only I take can a leap of faith
and unmask my veil of shadows
masked by the moon, it's way to soon
PLEASE DON'T tell ...

You stepped across my threshold
one last time ...

Debbie Brooks 2014

I am the ocean's deepest watery depths...
Come ashore.
Disguised as mortal footsteps
to explore,
to explore the Cosmic synchronicities
of the elusive quantum forever more.
I am the Cosmic Breaths of Forever.
waiting to tread on the literary pages of destiny's forever shores.


(C) copyrighted

Bought a painting of Jaden Smith,
now wait before you diss,
give me a second to explain,
there’s a story that goes along with it,

see he had a show in LA,
and of course it was on the 7th,
3rd show of the tour,
and the tour was called Vision,

I hadn’t planned to go,
didn’t even know about the show,
until my brother Alpha told me about it,
and the cards aligned in a row,

see a few days before,
I’d backed my car into a wall,
and I had to take it to East LA,
to get it fixed in other words resolved,

now it just so happened,
that the day I took it to get fixed,
was the same day as Jaden’s show,
now that’s some Cosmicness,

see the show was downtown,
and I usually don’t go east of the 405,
but this time I did to get my car fixed,
and I asked a friend to pick me up because I couldn’t drive,

so she picked me up,
and then my other friend told me of an art show,
at a place called The Brewery,
and man how I love art shows,

so after dropping off the car,
and went to The Brewery,
where I bought some art,
because I like to collect future history,

now the girl that had picked me up,
was having a rough day,
because her brother had died 6 months earlier,
and today was his birthday,

so she had to leave,
and go to the beach,
and I stayed behind,
to let her have some peace,

and as it so happened,
there was another anniversary at a gallery called The Hive,
I told you the cards were in a row,
and of course the stars were aligned,

so I went to the next art gallery,
got a ride there from a beautiful Polish chic,
bought some more art at there as well,
I guess I am what a Collector is,

then it just so happened,
that I was walking distance from Jaden’s show,
so I walked through downtown,
until I arrived at The Novo,

now I didn’t have a ticket,
and the show as sold out,
but I found a side door,
and it opened right up,

I went inside,
and got with the vibes,
man that kid Jaden,
knows how to get the crowd hyped,

during the show,
I kept seeing someone in the front row,
try to hand Jaden a painting,
a painting of himself,

after the show,
I was thrown Jaden’s yellow bandana,
then I exited outside,
and away from the arena,

when I got to the exit,
I saw the kid with the painting,
it had Jaden and Willow’s signature,
and as I said before I collect paintings,

so I bought it right then and there,
blame synchronicities,
so it’s not so much I seek out art,
as art comes to me,

all part of the vision,
of starting the Art Center in New Zealand,
where we can feel safe and socialize,
and remember what it was like when we still had feelings,

and all that I see now,
in this painting I have,
of Jaden Smith,
dressed as Batman,

bought a painting of Jaden Smith,
now wait before you diss,
give me a second to explain,
there’s a story that goes along with it…

∆ LaLux ∆

The new book is 100% FREE here: www.scribd.com/document/388173677

Synchronicities coalescing
like an orchestral crescendo
bubbling up all at once
no longer guessing
no shorter waiting
the *** is boiling
moreover
I might
   be synch
                    i                        
                      n
                  g
            ...
a pod
of killer whales
crash-splashing
quite a commotion
up, out, and back
down into the ocean
born into the storm like
a frightful forte
a front brake
endo
the

feathered
fickle angel
screams pianissimo
on tiptoes, reaching out
toward tomorrows

continuously
contagious incapacitation
tells me it straight like an arrow through time
like a taught fishing hook line
and sinker —

trying to figure out
your reason your rhyme
parsley, sage, rosemary and crime
please, let me in on your
pickled paradigm

a stormy sea, all your own,
decides for you, where
you're thrown.

I have always thought I walked alone
down lifes winding path
But, something has opened my eyes
and made me rethink the universal math

Why is it when I need someone
they always seem to know?
A phone call, a message,
just letting me know I'm not alone

What made that person reach out to me ,
just out of blue?
and then it dawns on me
the reason is you

You reach out in very subtle ways
to let us know your there
Something as simple as a need to call
to let someone know we care
It's actually you compelling us
putting the thought in our mind

I realize I am not alone
and that you,our creator is kind
Thank you for quencidences
for lightbulb thoughts,
and those near misses.

Thank you for synchronicities
Opening my mind and making me think
For opening my heart to your mysteries
Thank you for those lovely God Winks

First kiss at the psych ward, strap me to the gurney
Deliver me from evil, tempt me eternally
Lucifer’s hellhound is space bound like my mentality- Venus.
To be great like em-inem I bet he has a big (rocket ship)

Alliteration, pronunciation like Smash Pan-
Alley where we used to fight about it.
Drinking king cans by the river
A blimp of a memory drifting endlessly

Listen to your voice emanate synchronicities
Haunting me vocally as I condemn myself to his servitude, I’m holy
Saint of the church like Mother Theresa, pray with my rosary
For forgiveness.

Undress me slowly, ripe for the picking
A flower blooming seductively under duress of the past atrocities committed upon me
by trauma
I own that ****, I’m a sinner.

Repentance for misdirected animosity
Be who you are
And love endlessly.  

©rhetoricalcuriosity

The heated metal from the kettle steams the rebel in me.  The panic planted will vanish after a mindful pouring of tea.  Lets replace our hazardous waste with a serene moment of peace.  Funny the way honey laced stardust grace tastes - bringing about a face to please.
.
..
...
....
..... And release.....
....
...
..
.
 All of the tension fear and grief.
Stop with the constant judging of self by day of week
Start seeing the Synchronicities in and out of dreams
Visualize&Recognize; how to be still like trees,
Mighty yet stay playing with the rain and the breeze
Understand there is growth in what has been deemed defeat.
So let's bloom with groovy tunes and ascend above the streets.
Zoom into the moon reflectIng light with ease
Thank you for all your time sharing the air to breathe.
Hearts connected to the rhythm where we are beautifully free~

She comes to me, my Guardian Angel
And I apprehend with my little heart shaped
tool of ken, the luminosity of the Source
Crashes through the aurora into the
Stratosphere and she is near here supposing
the infinite beginning
All over again
an integrity, bright  white light
Without temperature, she says, “Yes,
You are a mortal immortal…”

she demonstrates her
torrid honor, dignity and warm
Fervor always available in her cosmic &
Iridescent timetable, her dispatch of
Provisions astonishes my worry,

I call her Miss
Instance immemorial,  
She warns of the fans of death and the boon
cosmos encompassing the faithful
The synchronicities she broke apart
And mended, to inseminate the nick of
Time with God-seeds sown into my heart-
she gave me love engulfing time…

we had forgotten the ancestors, whose hope yet reached us
we had forgotten the generations, that invented our traditions
and, we had thought them simple, not understanding their wisdom
not appreciating their achievement, their gifts to us.

we shall greet the morning with a blessing
we shall enter into the opportunities of the day
and, we shall wonder at the synchronicities in our lives
neither believing or not believing, but open and noticing.

we shall consider in the quiet twilight who we have become
we shall consider the spiritual insights rooted in these places
and we shall anchor here, the silver threads of our understanding
not in their paradigms, but in our very own particular stories.

in these thin places we find many small sparks of the holy
in these thin places we regain some small part of ancient memories.

The intuitive pushes and reassuring synchronicities have calmly, carefully come back to me; a gentle invitation for personal growth. With smooth tumbled aventurine and rose quartz held against my chest, I reap the rewards of universal, unconditional love, and abundant opportunity. Chosen through loving, intentional divination, I separated them from the other stones I cherish deeply, but do not need today. Once again I am reminded of the strength I carry within - that I am a soul with a body, not a body with a soul.

I am the dead walking.
The skeletons before
and behind me
Threaten and curse.

I don't move as smoothly
As I did once.

My body has been picked
Clean by the lies
I have told.

Self destruction is my forte.

The skeleton
Of my future
Sheds it's skin,
Moth shaped fragments
Flutter away
Carrying all promises of
Redemption and happiness.

Each false word
Sprays poison on my
Tongue
As it leaves my mouth.

The skeleton
Of my past
Crawls along with one hand,
Dragging your hurt soul
Chained to its ankle.

It wants to let go.

But the key has sunken
To the bottom of
A well,
Flooded with my various
Evil synchronicities.

I am hatred personified.

I am a liar and a good one.

Not even your undeserving,
Kindhearted,
Beautiful soul
Was safe from the
Rattle of my tall tales
And the sharp pain
Of bone
Through soft, innocent
Flesh.

There is a plan 
for you here
Spirit born beauty
Created just for you

All the fantastic
All the strange
Synchronicities
Fashioned
For you to 
Be here now

Many miracles,
Coincide 
For this
Cosmic joyride
To spill life
Into your unique
Skin and eyes

Through all the 
Many 
Joys and pains 
Always, but always
Know that you are
A perfect color

You are needed here
This is your world 
Your fight
Do not deny us
your unseen beauty
And life

You must believe 
Please don't cry
Now Take my hand
And let's try this
Again

Jung's birthday today
1875

I'm puzzled by synchronicities
American Cosmic alive

I've also seen psychiatrists
But not on Highway 5

Actually, it's Highway 61
Where I seek to strive

Discerning wastes by the way we trace
Erasing bad tastes from our face
Til the internal happiness takes it's place
Fumbling habits were now laced with grace.  
Brighter are the fires we chase
Eyes wider, the wildflowers are looking up
Vitamin d rush,
accompanied by the satisfaction
that happens with this chance to touch.  
So many actions were taken to please,
but now we naturally seek necessity. 
Loving everything endlessly
Catering to our specialties
Waking up inside our pleasant dreams.
Getting to see beyond the scenes, and understand why we can be so easily carried like leaves once free.
Narrating with speculation,
generating all you wanna be.  
Accomplishing with mindful reminders to breathe.  
Beauty is the beast, perceived in a different form.  
What's truth honestly may not be the norm -
but we branch out like the mighty tree
& embrace the storm pouring soulful warmth.  
So peace to you and yours.  
Make great with the way you spend time having been reborn.  
Adorn your temple, with any methods or colors you choose.  
Show care for the confession hidden breathless in a bruise,
and be thankful for the light spectrum expression
highlighting time to still choose.  
With that awareness comes the space ready to take in the lessons and Synchronicities we are blessed with.  
I know I've made a mess of this, testing abilities to clean.  
Release disharmony and leftover negative energy streams.  
Just need room to be, fly swirling within serenity.  
Faith suddenly gleams over the horizon, "Hi Son"
"Hi Sun.  I see you glowing keeping everything flowing.  
Knowing you're watching over me feels healthier
than taking potion.  
Thank you for letting me be at ease with my uncertainty.  
Clouds part, allowing light right through, perfectly
Learning to lessen the level of fear
by looking at self by way of Mirrors,
reflecting back at different angles with messages so moving.
Here we are, allllright, and all one.  
Hands in the shared air, have fun, no need to run.  
Prepare to open to a sea of signs that will stun.
Soak in love of present feeling, heart in sync with mother earth.  
I must say I'm very gracious to have been acquainted with life in this corner of the youniverse.

Professor Pasulka
In the City of Angels

Angela and Rilke
At U.C.L.A.

I too have synchronicities
I too don't know what to say

Does poetry come from
Los Angeles?

Some of mine
Comes from Seattle:
My, my, hey hey

Some also from Charlotte
And Dragon Temples in Taipei

                 Red Pine
    seeing through red dust
                  Xie Xie

A differential equation really tells me that reality can be examined by as many factors with as many changes over as many dimensions as imaginable.
And that orthogonality, tangency, surface area, and volume are basic orienting points, along with rates of change, and that I can transfer this data into a set that is much like a map.
However, it tells me only of concept and not the world, or only basic geometry of the world.
It tells me a lot about space and the symbols and numbers that represent such concepts.
Yet language tells me of my mind, and this math only points out that any change, volume, space, or objects in a dream can be seen with numbers and symbols - that spaces can be exact.
Which may say something about the future, but it can never tell me of the afterlife.
And that spirit/soul even in my materialistic theory means very little when confronted with a new universe.
If I go to another universe, universe B, from this universe A, then even with the transposing of *** and evil into companionship and innocence, in my understanding, these two changes would make the rest of the universe differ greatly.
Thus, the thought of the afterlife will always empty my mind of this universe, leaving me with no real full knowledge of life as I have yet to even use my senses in the next one.
I then always return humble while the atheist considers this universe to be eternal already, without prediction to experience anything greater than its synchronicities.
I have to give them a hand as I imagine this universe overfills them and are forced to deny the spirit rising beyond our cosmos, but rather affirm the spirit that is the totality of this one.
It sets no stage for memories, unfinished karmas, or meeting with the peoples of history.
Therefore, it places a great significance on today, a great significance on love that exists now, and a great significance on the works our forefathers left us.
I would say that this is superior for creating a sense of progress, a sentimentality for others, and a need to experience an openness with all this universe.
Above all else to check off everything on my bucket list.

I wear my Mr. Spock shirt
Cliff Pickover tweets LLAP

I think of the Sufis
A Muslim professor I soon see

We discuss Michael Jordan
Then his photo on Franklin Street

Synchronicities are ordinary
With the people we do meet

Trying to control what happens to you,
What others should or shouldn’t do,
Say or not say,
Be or not be,
Forces you and them into a box,
Restricts, confines, disappoints,
Batters expectations,
Suppresses spontaneity,
Pulverises possibilities,
Bludgeons synchronicities,
Annihilates joy from life.

It was Sunday and she rushed around looking for her hair straightening iron and a pair of shoes she knew she'd worn just yesterday.  The day was as sunny as a Sunday could be, June 5th, dry as a desert in her Sierra Nevada town, no rain in sight until October at least, no smell of smoke, no fires in the air, it was a perfect summer day.  Rushing around her quiet, just waking up cottage, she lifted up clothes piled on her over stuffed fireside chairs, riffling through the pile of clothes dropped to the floor of her shower room, hunting, hunting, wracking her brain, walking backwards through time in her mind to find "where oh where" had she left her shoes!!!

A glimpse of something black caught her eye from inside a canvas shoulder bag, "AH!"  She'd changed out of my work clothes before she'd gone to the river!  There were her shoes, waiting for her patiently to find them in her carry bag.

Shoes found, she raced to straighten her curls flat and sleek, straightened her teeshirt and pulled down her skirt a little so it sat just on her hips and down from her waist, allowing her newly grown Buddha belly freedom to breath.  She knew the flea market would be on all day, but there was something special about making it a whole day event.  If she were the first one there, it was like she were one of the vendors. She would be able to feel the bustle of the potential of setting up shop, selling found treasures and wares, collecting dollars from strangers, meeting new people, and possibly stumbling into the most amazing opportunity of your life.  She would be a witness, as the sun shed it's first glimmerings of light and long shadows down over the market, to the twinkling, the eye winking of the sun as it released it's magic over the lot.  That moment of the morning when the unknown was let down from the heavens and all of life's coincidences, synchronicities, and connections were released for us to walk through and make the most of in order to change our lives.  She fluffed the last brush of blush over her cheek, glossed her lips, gave a little tousle to mess up her now straight hair and was ready.  She grabbed her purse, car keys, and a burlap shopping tote, her phone, a cup of coffee, and a book...just in case she wanted to sit in the midst of the market and enjoy the ambiance while she soaked up some wisdom.  Then...she walked out the door.

Come.. come lag with me
stuck in the never
Between death n immortality
in the lag time
A split fractal reality
Abyssal bag and a sack of
Abnormalities      
Dug deep into timelines
Paths of probability
Dug deep into forever
Chance and synchronicities    
come lag ... come lag with me
Be stuck in never forever
Lag with me
**** with me, tantric compatability
*** ....... with me
Fantasia lips salivating            
Pupils dialating
Come.. come lag with me    
Our hearts palpatating    
2 sets of 3 eyes elevating                        
Come   .... *** in unison
Lay in this bed with me
Share in ****** medicine, watch the time passin
come  ... come forever with me
Lag time is everlasting

I ride the synchronicities
They strangely come and go
Rest from the anxieties
Staunton aglow in snow

Walk the way of dailiness
Movies, music, books
Buddhamind in Bangkok
Q and I tuk tuks

Scholem's astral body
Kabbalists in Spain
Sandor Marai in Budapest
Stephen King in Maine

Me in Mary's land
But lookin' way down south
My hands upon her hair
My words within her mouth

            Dixie Chicks!

Says Etréstles: “The immortality Aeternitas trepanned the fury of enchanted isolation after descending from the crow's nest on a trip to Rhodes, sinking haggard towards an underworld dressed without pain or ischemia that complained to me originating from transient cellular fatigue. This was enchanting me towards another pseudonym that renews it under the pretext of digging itself into the eternity of unspeakable silence full of possessions in shallow Beech leaves, and above all those ungerminated senses. Abbreviated topic and placebo speeches that were exerting a cluster of cloaks of once fermented and materialized in disconnected lapses disintegrating towards their perpetual movement, exiled and physical-dynamic, but not eternal. Aeternum was boring itself into the continuity of perpetual preaching where nothing and no one emits it out of everything unknown chaos overwhelmed or becoming independent of its effects full of irony and tragic moans sniffing out its dying flat lux, and separating into double archetypes torn from the rehearsal of the thousandth life like all reflective floaters not being afraid of being in a substance that was seeing itself crazy and seduced from its imaginary. For everything that is intolerant, unable to see rolling chariots of fire and not evolving with the exactness of an eternal minstrel. When we were on the deck of the Eurydice I saw how they danced through some diaphanous fingers when observing how the same color of the Ouzo was fading all over its sudden and rebellious sphinx, falling from its own feet insinuated to others that they were apprehended when counting of the cheers and emotions to be later discerned in Aion's ashes. Powers of a potential beginning became a cautious being In Aeternum in a straight line to his clone without beginning or end, without time or matter, being himself his own deity rebelling from the correlated fractal dam. What notion is born from the concept of “Instantaneous being, immune to the cloistered effective and continuous knowledge when materializing as a god…, God of Bern-Gethsemane, among the songs of abyssal seas before the perfection of a hymn, ceases to exist, falling out of tune in the court of Aionius”. I stresses; mandated the zeal to stay in the twelfth cemetery being able to get rid of the symptoms of ****** and Harpies with the flourishing of venerable pious beings like Vernarth, behind these beautiful winged women remaining lustful just by looking at him, and subsequently being swallowed with all their evil thickness resulting from snowy genius. All of them rested with their sharp claws breaking their intrinsic heart in everything that is sometimes a tear before moving through banal philosophical philanthropy, which was lightening their days to discount it in what they learned from another pair, not being the subsequent ones same. Nothing is suffering like the jubilant flute that solfeggio when its sounds are randomly listless making ****** in its trepidation with harmonious notes and emaciated tears on the surface of a mask. Behold, his parallel face is a disfigured universe, not being possible to count distances between his equidistant eyes, and formerly sighs that go unchecked with his physiognomy at the end of the egress that rubs against his relative beloved, disintegrating his own turned into nothing. All these ailments are melified universal emotions that stand out in harbingers of destroyed futures described in some Olivacea Bern branches, made up of the precepts of multiple physiognomies, father and son hating of so much affection and orbiting in lasting decadent cycles with areas and divine contained rootlets of Beech tubers satiated in reliefs of insane emancipating curves..., called Empresses of Vernarth, just like In Aeternum with spaces falling from various inter-tempos to its high grace and radiant help towards the final pinnacle that was ready in the will to lighten him up and go cornering leaf after wasteful leaf.

Everything was recreated in minuscule variations between Romanzas Tchaikovskianas, recent and terse when they divulged him near the Volga. Vernarth planned with the facade of him to resist amid musty and gutted late musical papyri; called scores of illusion and fervor at the sound of the celestial harp that was nothing more than another harpy, coming close to him as it fell on the pegs that struck a Muscovite bell. The borders in themselves became a reality in his space and accompanied him, making him feel that he was still outside the spaces of the Hermitage when he remembered it..., even though he did not know anything or the coolness that attenuates him indistinctly from the Bern-Time that was frolicking in his emotional cover, making him feel such hypothetical compunction at realizing a deadly thread. His life mechanics hesitantly fell off V.V.'s lectern. Gogh, developing in un concretized models with singular embarrassments that have not yet stopped in its squalid rind, on the way to uncovering and then imagining knowing whose it is or was, knowing that no precedent would model its sensation of hyper-Ouzo, aggravated with maledicence in his space Bern-Time, and surrounded by his **** hysteria coming out of the bellows of his veins and ferocious ******, singing to cruel people who laughed with great art for whoever challenged him and concentrated his sorcerer's trick. Ferocious evil devils were still in their remnants rolling through some cracks that ask to circulate in Florence, in Tuscany among some Diavolo with multiform cosmogony, "Possibly reliving" that has decayed from himself, and resorting to himself to facilitate the last parallelism of the variable molecule and lung protervo balanced in grim expansive hopes by validating him..., perhaps of a false revival. From here he will have to absorb himself with hepatic gargles, and seriously insulted desires as he gets drunk from the unknown universe, pretending to decipher the encrustations on his back full of particles that were hidden in residues without mass or gravitations, overestimating the heart that hangs from a hedonistic Longines and from a mischievous ending outlined towards the woods of Hylates longing for him. His verses are confused with ailments and consciences without trace or trace or firmament that remains ephemeral before closing the cousin Lux that was passing in front of In a Gadda Da Vida, whose symbol is the one who outlines it in darkness highlighting his metaphorical soul intangible solemnity and portraying his adolescent face that dozes under the attentions of his ascendants, removing intemperances, and prophetic doping that was torturing and invading him on the fold of Alikantus's haunches when he was annoyed that his own steed would carry him in his arms resting on his disturbed property endorsed in an equine Hoplite. Its iconology is and will be in the hexagonal baptistery of Ein Karem, solfa templar choirs and choirs that thunder from the spawn of the sheaves to a sanctuary that nothing calms in infinite and allegorical deities with tortuous moratoriums enduring the resistance of the obtuse sprains of the ineffable.

Vernarth Antithetical to an Auric medal, it rested superimposed on his arms, wrapped in well-tempered cymbals, nourished by turpentine allied with Ouzo caramel, minced after thick Hellenic toasts when they began to perpetuate themselves with sagacious heretical attacks and narcissistic bravery as they went cloistering himself in maturity that dressed in an imposed narrow law fame, which was expiring under immutable and succulent decrees perched on the same aphrodite in love with himself. Meanwhile, Vernarth stocked up on medallions chained to garments of happiness they were inscribed with precise digits and sighs that would name him as Vernarth, "Son of Sisyphus perhaps", the guru of pending conclaves and hesitations "Here is who I spoke of allowing him to delight in named feat and with trivial branches in plunges that were varying in the spheres that were degenerating into heavy lightness towards their alter confusion. He bites the line of a comet falling on him, knowing that the Sotíras or Sóter has done penance within it that will not let him sleep on the motionless stars. Unstable from a primordial advance, then starting from the worst chaos that could have engulfed Vernarth In Aeternum. From this adolescent temptation that will launch meteorites and elegies at the castle of his courtship, telling him to remain confined in the solidity that he will postpone for other winters and the same passages that will make him come from the northern *****. The sweet necropolis would then light up by not being lost among the living, rather by the fallen who would have to seek the living among the fallen to help them and reciprocate between nearby verses by resurrecting them from In Aeternum…, seducing them from his active life! Vernarth denies coming and going along the aforementioned hillside with his courted delay... she will have to remove his dagger from his wrists, more or less restricting soporific arteriosus threads, smoothing the scaphoid and pyramidal, permeating with tender fire and playful irrational object "instigate In Aeternum to my onerous mind, whose world map and impolite split in the valleys of Berna-Universal..., as Adonis planted that was perceived in agreed cycles,... only by alternating his instigations..."

In æternum Auream Consecratam, Vernarth defoliated after the axis mundi and exaltation of the Bern-Universe world, encrypting in the engravings of all the memories of the Harpies, even in their finished archetypal capital where they moved through the midst of trunks cosmogonic footsteps and of the gods with spare hearts in frank wandering architecture, rebuilding themselves with new gods of consecrated aura. The party continued with decreed dialogue and continued with the medallion on the drag chain that went under the draft of the ship indicating the message to verify and rest in the preciousness of one who can balance his man's maneuverability with his Lynothorax open to the world so that Zeus in this day of utilitarian morality makes it part of his infinite use, but with orderly practical use. In this proportion, St. John the Apostle warns him of the sighting of Cape Koumbournous, approaching Prassonissi, not far from these two appears the third, Karpathos, all this limited to the south of Rhodes in the concordant uniform of his entire work, transforming integrally according to the conception of St. John for the predicaments of maximizing the weight of his alliance with Vernarth; now converted into a dogmatic designer, placing Gnomic poetry to help his memory. For all the themes of wisdom and conversion in each stone on another with a liturgy of construction of the temple that extended them to Patmos, in intelligence biblical verse was explaining the versed maxims converted from the prior cadence of poems in sequence, and legacies of stanzas of wolves that save lives to their hunters with prosaic testimonies delivered in hilarious argumentative eagerness, but not transgressing the expository towards Bernese-Hellenic poetry, with rhythm and cadence of the hours of the day that the centuries do without questioning its cyclical beauty, although I walk on it in a drama of lost revelry.

Saint John says: “The maxims, aphorisms, and apothegms will be where they differ from their charm like the beloved fugitive that Werther awaits from Goethe, like Vernarth, threatened by his madness to escape from the harpies emitting in his apothegm “His intensity is neither worthy nor irritable, but abhorrent." Vernarth is detested by large masses of clones of war comrades who make their apothegm young death in the hands of abhorrent old age, which falls into trends of compromising verses, and circumstantial that require doses of Ouzo on those levels of the classic apothegm, seated on a Klismós with a bald and contoured ***** on the four legs of Vetrubio, and a backing of light Rembrandt being born of all equal synchronicities at the dawn of a preceded and pseudo-literature, which more than letters will be retractable symbols of his bellicose artistic memory that bears of the tabulator of its reflective collections, leaving divine blood in the claws of the Griffin that slices blood of vermin that bind the light with its red pupils, like Werther and Vernarth swallowing the divine gesture that differentiates from those who are not prey to the erratic intensity of the wolf wise, who pursues his prey beyond cold and hunger, finely leaving his victim between nearby hooks and his neighbors Garfed Family members making enemies of natural blood relatives. Here is every part of our challenge in every listless use that is consistent with our entire works since the trade winds put us in the best climatic emotional mode, towards those who live on the food of wisdom more distant than the ignorant fools, but rather for those who they make their species our own variety in good moments that will be intense, but nothing that we cannot moderate with this greatness of small lux, but with great expressive mechanics dissecting interstices and remains of sediments that will remain for us to reassemble with public voices a Messiah as a great speaker, even with nubile apothegms that do not allow to be portrayed. We are sailing here slowly with the force of the blows that drag us to the Koumbournou cape, we can look at the highest peak that can be seen, being devoured by our own expectation that makes us go beyond what we thought we could achieve as a founding prize in the new religious laws that we have to refound, after the phylogeny of Olivos Berna. Not only does the Greek landscape manifest itself to us with the mythical laws to re-study them, but they also make them possible with our overseas proximities on cliffs that fill us with courageous courage towards one end of the stranded ship heeling upward, and towards the lavish waves that speak of coasts and white waters on the same waves that sang denominated in verses of the renewed goddess Hera, and who are related by a hero like Vernarth glorified. Neither illustrious nor villainous, but an aristocrat of Nymphs, Muses, Harpies, and Hesperides taking the sun deck with them in the Eurydice triaconter, stripped of benefits to the one who is just beginning to rule over him with his pious song. ”

The Vernarth-Werthian Tragedy was crossing the overseas challenges of Koumbournou, witnessing before his eyes the storms and effects of the intensity of an adult youth with his apothegm “My intensity is neither worthy nor irritable, but it is abhorrent”. But of Werthian scope, with the intention of competing with all the leaders of the courtship and of the sources of its antiquity similar to one more degraded of charm, leaving those who love and those who have been bewitched by all those who have been abandoned by adhesions of love unrequited. Cycles of horrors over the ship expelled the worst that made the ship list with rattles from Vernarth's gouges that made three-dimensional the superfluous darkness of the birch that was anointed on the mainmast, causing populated voices from minor to major near the Koumbournou cape. Certain temperamental harpies perversely wooed him from high to the freest confines of the scale of sarcastic incantation and countless love affairs. He is forced to witness his own indomitable fictions with an adorable room in the peasants where the harpies and their corsets licked the bobbins of some tonal hypocoristic words, contrary to the euphemistic of his apothegm that bordered on the most abhorrent apocalyptic when he found it in his practices mental manipulators and in the fictitious reality of loving beautiful women who do not correspond to those who love them! They knew this interdict that is hidden in the pavilion of some rockeries that hit the doublets of the minor harpies presenting themselves to everyone in the skylights of the sky, which were overshadowed by contested intimacy since they could not correspond to the final linguistic sounds of the lipped apothegm, adjoining in full love and colorful operatic stillness. Vernarth continues with his gouges inscribing his name and the name of his harpy that would finally rid him of ****** ailments. Arhanis; the harpy looked at herself in three glasses simultaneously, giving Vernarth sorrow for the attachment that escaped through the hiding places of the matrix fairies with delirium tremens when they submerged themselves under the decorated breaths of the floripondium that lingered from the totemic censer, recomposing itself in an incomplete wagon with areas of hydro-monoxide heaps overheating and producing viscosities, smearing his chest and mouth in the vortex as he softens the flow spilled by warm lightning rods in each abandonment, while nothing consoled him when everyone attended to them to overcome his catatonic course. The ursids who embraced the females would be outraged by his laziness, and the hopes of finding them would take them to the shore of Aphrodite with her final dirge defragmented and out of tune. Werther, with obvious elegy, appears with essences and disappeared in anxiolytic body parts. Werther says: “Here is Koumbournou, here is Wahlheim where our docks would still like to house rising boats that cut their bows and keels leaving each other in nothingness. Both pontoons would kiss in their death locked up near the In Aeternum, adjacent to the openwork where the auric medallion grieved. For the first time before committing suicide I saw that the heavy doors that led me to Lotte were opening, letting joy fall on my eyes, being the harpy that every female bears with a name similar to the one who fills her cup with desire and vanity. The harpies whimpered with their bellies full of harsh tears, asking Vernarth for two harpoons from the coarse cellophane of the flimsy sea of her soul, still standing before him dressed as a Werthian organism. Until the Panagia Ipseni, the monastery of Rhodes, cries of projectiles were felt that crossed each other in the swift flight of the desires of the immolation of both, whose ballad melted the rows, tying themselves to two naves like bushes grafted onto the hands of the suicide's executioner. The one who speaks here is entangled in Lotte's glottis, still alive to ******, and he calls me with eagerness and regrets my death in the whole world, not for my Werthian love for her. Vernarth says Werther, this rots me with uneasiness, I let myself fall into its obscenities to decay from Lotte's apnea, which is still in all those who suffer when two harpoons cross for the same destiny..., the victim chooses the first " Says Lotte: "Even after the Vernarthian time, both who dare a rude hostility as a way of harpooning doubt and who are not prone to suicide, it is that hope itself sweetly lingers in the one who receives the wound that bears my name..., that of Werther that grapples with the spur of the Eurydice, and that of Wernarth that crosses paths before both of us were lost in the midst of oblivion. I am still in Wahlheim, but I give birth to those who in the evenings after the bells still come to claim my destiny, perhaps their tragic destiny was taken by the princess Eurymedusa who will take them to Rhodes and Patmos, following the path of the myrmidons between them whom I envy and the princess herself loving him in her Rhodes prose”