matching socks to enlightenment

All that confusion in your head has an end. The secret lies hidden in plain view, in your dresser drawer. Pull on those handles. They will knock three times against the wood paneling when you let go. Now on your knees may you witness the truth in woven cottons. The spindly bastards await your efforts to reunite them with their twins. This is best done just after the latest trip to Launderland, with the big sack of fresh linens carried home on your back, opened to a flophouse of orphaned socks. You begin to lay them out side by side on the carpet, segregated by color and size. All the little ones seem smaller than they are, and some you stretch over your toes, amazed they still fit. Some have holes or are grossly disfigured or stained, and will be laid to rest. Their twins, if found at all, shall be laid beside them. Many of the pairs were adopted in a spirit of adventure; the ones with toes, the super furry ones,  fluorescent ones. Look for further uses of these ones, may the adventure continue. You like to cut the toes off the toe socks, and use them for wristbands. The furry ones make for great dusters. The fluorescent ones could be tied to a bike frame. Knee highs could be fashioned into leggings. You begin to feel an extraordinary peace of mind as the painted strips of cotton alongside you begin to mate with the orphans spilling out of the sack. You ball them up and bounce them into a clean drawer with its wooden walls. Nothing like the smell of stale wood and fresh linen. You haven't done this in years! Now all those crucial hours before work will become easier with all the pairs together at last. One last thing before you go. Be sure to take all of the remaining orphans and perhaps elastic the strips together and run them down the side at one edge of the drawer. Compassionately. This way you will still have the chance to mismatch your way to enlightenment.

Journal # 04.04.17 + Maze 2:17:1

Good to get yourself on 'a mission from god'  (Akroyd and Belushi). Or a mission from the buddha, or just on a spiritual mission. You can rise above this mundanity, all the plastic bullshit we encounter out in the world. I tell you what! I would not even get out of bed and didn't!  For several years rarely! I was shooting plastic into my arm. I was snorting plastic up my nose. I was fucking plastic dummies! I was smoking plastic. I was seeing plastic. I had to railroad myself into my personal mission from god. god was lowercase matte finish and unrefined. god had to be a weed that would drop roots and take hold. god only came when i fertilized my soil with shit! Wet plasticine dream semantics. And that's why I do what I do. Not that I don't love you. I do. You deserve every bit as much higher altitude, greater bandwidth consciousness as anybody! Settle at your own risk. I did and I could not get out of bed anymore. What gets you out of bed in the morning? The answer was nothing. Maybe plastic for a time. Still I decided to live, I don't know why. 12.12.12 came and went, and my heart kept pushing the blood through my extremities. My altitude was underground. So I was an unusual kinda freak and I'm sure I still am. But I was no pushover and they would have to make room for me. I ate my spinach and took my pills, so I could get out of bed and get on a mission. The mission was clear. You see it everyday. You can find me. Right here...  MAZE 2:17:1 final chapter... a reading...

mental - quattro

He was showing me unconditional positive regard.
I was telling him all the ways and places I was scarred.
He was chewing on the fat of my tales.
I was eating all my fingernails.
He was redirecting me like a train conductor.
I saw red and charged like a bull.
He was charging me through the teeth.
Paid in full.

I was waxing poetic.
His thoughts told him I was pathetic.
I gussied up to him like a whore.
He had his back to the door.
I blasted him for offering me Prozac.
He looked at me like I was crazy.
Called me a fucking throwback.
Or was it the voices in my head?

I slit my wrists and put them in his face.
He let me bleed out. Unconditionally.
I paid to have his carpet cleaned.
To keep my credit clean.
He was showing me unconditional positive regard.

I asked for a cup of tea.
He fifty-one fiftied me.

I ran away before the sedation.
Into the flickering movie
of guided imagery.

He was golden showering me
with unconditional positive regard.
I had clearly drawn up my knees,
drawn up my guard.

He drew checks off my back account.
I drew pictures of infinity.
He rented Girl, Interrupted. 
Then handled me with
more or less
care.

I was embryonic again.
Statuesque.
He wore a Buddha smile on his face.
I was unfashionably broke
and stressed.
Developmentally-challenged.
Locked up in chemical
arrest.

He poisoned me with
unconditional
positive
regard.

Rolling allostasis -iv)

She was in her twenties, when she surfaced from the midsection of an iceberg, the frozen contents of some formerly fluid collective subconscious experience. In the middle of nowhere, mind you. A slow drip of unhappening. Congealed into living memories (consistency of molasses).  So she thawed from her heart out, and the ice around her began to soften in her light and heat, and collect supine at her feet. Aqua devotion. If water had hands... then prayer beneath her dry eyes. So rare did this sorta manifestation occur. The glaciers melt in their natural way before her. And she takes her damn time. You don’t hurry a glacier. You age it, like wine. Or wait for her to melt, to reference empirical evidence of global warming. Melting butter at room temperature. She never left the kitchen table. Painting her daily bread. Turning and turning yellow over time with the wallpaper. Gotta get worse before she gets better. Baby blue with white flowers, soft and malleable. Almost vulnerable, fallible – almost human again. As she wishes. As they want her. Sorry says the fight inside her, delivering the roundhouse Queen Anne Victorian style. Round one...TKO. From a frozen warrior #2 asana. Feel the heat. Sauna.