“Paradise is exactly like where you are right now…only much, much better”
My own impossibilities, a swirling dustdevil filled with bits of tumbleweeds, yellowed pages, twigs that nestle in my hair and form the nest where my thoughts wait, incubate, plan the assault on what I’ve discovered to be my impossibles. A void where my muffled words have spent an eternity spitting single letters into the cold November night pleading for rendition.

When the gentle tug from meditation was greater than the need for stillness, “Break Free”, escaped my lips like a hard, sensual, kiss on the neck of her I love. Icicle anchored to the smooth, white, metal gutter, a small bead of water, slowly dancing to the fiery tip of the frozen flame. “Break Free”, the slightly opened closet door, thin strips of morning sun igniting the bits of dust on those boxes labeled, “Impossibilities.” Filled with bits of broken glass and tesserae, charred pieces of manzanita, and small boxes of white chalk bones.

The earth scorched my skin that July day on Utah State Road 95. The air smelled of heat and juniper pitch rolled tight into a leather bag I now wear around my neck. The protector, the guide, the maker of dreams, keeping hope in small thimble bells that lightly ring, hanging there from a gray branch in that black and white landscape I walk.
We do what works, slowly, carefully removing dried tape, rusted staples, deadened streams of glue, when we know it’s time. A hardened, plaster, cast separated from our soul. Critical mass is thrust upon us, molten hot, yet far too pleasurable to drop. Because in there, we are held, cradled and offered probabilities we’ve yet to experience or believe exists.
Steadfast becomes, death by a thousand cuts from our own hand.

”Do that which consists in taking no action and order will prevail.”
Here’s what Im still reading, (This is one incredible book, I can’t put it down)
