Sometimes its been notes.
At others pages.
Mostly consisting of or containing the geometrics of life, loss, regret, redemption and love.
Nothing worthy of note that sages haven't already said, inked or typed through the ages.
But if buffaloes roam where the grass grows green and fresh, than I must be excused for wanting to pen and show a little express.
Then it struck me that perhaps its not Me Doing Deletions but the meaning or the lack thereof of letters in the text.
Do they wanna appear manifested to be read? Maybe not.
Do they fear sounding stupid? Definitely yes.
There was a time I went looking for My-Self and stumbled upon Linda Goodman. She seemed a good woman. She wrote the Most Exquisite Astrological Books. I thought I was going superstitious. Today I know it wasn't the Horoscope or the Numerology. But neither was it Starry-Dictations of what lay in store the coming 'morrow.
It was more aptly the way she used words. Her enriched imagination was simply carefree, calculated, studied and an invitation you'd be bogged down to turn away from . She'd welcome you with open arms and that was an offer you could not refuse.
They'd play hide and seek with your expressions.
You'd forget your train of thought.
What was it that I wanted? Tell me again so I'll know would play in the head. Now rewording Dylan and the Dead and an image of a freight train arising in your head.
A double-disc-CD-box-set comes to mind along with a double-decker-red-bus plying the streets of London in your head.
The rooftop bedecked with tourists, cameras and traveling camaraderie.
The point being I'm not writing.
Now lemme tell you about puppies. They yelp a lot. Almost a cat-like meow when they start.
I'm certain its directed to the mother.
Don't ask me about the father.
Or some next-of-kin.
I can tell you about the dust-bin.
And the garbage-bin.
Dust goes in the dust-bin.
Garbage in the garbage-bin.
Magic lamps to Aladdin.
Guns and its associated arsenal of mayhem to the Mujaheddin.
Relatives to your next-of-kin.
Facial concoctions to Mr Bean.
Now here comes an eraser called rubber-soul.
Obviously it rubs the soul.
The burden of multiplying wrinkles is left to gravity.
Who keeps pulling you down.
Weighing you in.
Reining in the leash of life.
Until death comes and switches you off.
Pulling you down under.
Or burning you to ashes.
Either way you are deleted.
Its not a pleasant experience.
The left-overs mourn and grieve.
You are still alive in your lingering conscience now floating freely-entangled to residual habits and habitats in-between the gaps of living and dying and dying and living.
You cannot find a single spot of attachment but the desire wills.
The bewildered mind accepts.
I saw mountains.
And flashes of peculiarity from my jigsaw life.
They were framed pictures.
And forgotten folks and embedded places.
You're dying to relive your attachments.
But the mountains wax and wane.
The valleys sift and shift.
Its a dream that does not wake up.
Even after you've been deleted you still seek whatever's relatively related.
The gap is filled with void.
The void is filled with gap.
The bridge hangs in the air.
Confusion abounds and you're grounded in compulsion.
Clenching the keys of peace in your hand.
Holding tight the sands of illusion you project imaginary grains.
The deleted-mind conjures a thousand allusions of coming back to life.
Ropes around your neck.
Wearing a brand new T-shirt that says:
Its All In Your Head.
But you see.
We don't really look indoors.
Caught up as we are playing happy-campers outdoors.
This is how you travel in the Bardos.