reverence for

Listen! Listen! The king is in the counting house, counting out, counting out. The king is in the counting house, counting all the money. One. Two. Three. Four. All ready?
Looks like we made it
Or I thought so, till today
Until you were there,
Everywhere, and all I could taste was love the way we made it.
Well, you're a fishmonger! You're my everything, you are my sunshine, you're old and grey and full of sleep. You're my pickle-faced, consumptive Mary Jane!

Boredom, sleep and full of pain, “you don’t sleep well, do you.”
“No, I never do.”

You have to read this.

[rant]
There are things that we take for granted, things that we celebrate because we are so proud of who we have become. We allow ourselves a certain pride because there isn’t anytime in human civilization when so many have lived so well, knew so much, had the opportunity to live so well… what complete bullshit.

Where is the authenticity? Ok I am completely saturated in Television and Internet and media and I know so much more than my father, or my mother or more than anyone else in history (except that this is hubris and there are so many people who know so much more than I do)

“Today's amature knows more than the experts of one hundred years ago. “ Absolute nonsense.
[end rant]

One. Three. Five. Seven. Eleven. Thirteen. Seventeen. Nineteen. Twenty-three.

Eyelids flutter. The mind achieves a kind of focus. “I know this. This is so familiar.” Mindfulness is replaced by awareness. I am, and I am, and I am. zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

So incredibly bored with ourselves that we seek to be entertained all the time. “O.K. world, Wow me!”

Monday. Tuesday. (so predictable) Wednesday (profound insight) Thursday, Thursday, Thursday, Thursday. Thursday. Thursday, FriSatSunday.

Those of us who know are scored by our elders as knowing only what is vapid and banal; what I did what clever, but clever by regurgitating what I have heard over and over and over until everything I know is merely a convenient truth and everything I say is (yes clever) not what I mean.

It is impossible to say exactly what I mean.
We who are tired of the sarcasm, of the arrogance of the ingenuous criticisn of life that has become so ubiquitous.

O.K., O.K. I get it. The world is bad. Life is evil, consumerist or greedy or self absorbed. But there is also something very simple at the root of this. There is a voice within the voice. There is a point at which criticism stops cutting and start sounding like a pained, helpless moment of endurance for those who treat plan old human troubles and emotions and with reverence and conviction.

There is no longer a why.. nor is there a how. Modern. Post mOdern. These definitions no longer seem to fit. We find outselves levitating in the moment wondering if anyone is noticing and wondering how this moment could be possible. (The levitation, after all, seems natural)

I am not an arrant god, nor was meant to be.

Profound truth.

Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.