This week in aspirations
12/5/2023 meant to post this yesterday so let's be clear on how it's going
The Stories They Tell About Us Con/Jur/d, 12/5/2023 First our parents, later our cohort the stories they tell about us are untrue The crows who hop from tree to tree, as we walk through this cemetery, finally alighting on the dead tree whose last blossoms bloomed a decade ago, still elongated, still proud still upright, whose bone white branches still point to the horizon, with its framed evening moon unlike the moldering and stained human infrastructure buried below hued by clays, colors unknown unless exhumed from the ancient trilobite beds pulled out and into the light of people stories, of life of death, of good, of evil little wonder these well-dressed carrion, whose proud lineage predates mammalian chatter and our internal gestations are truthful simple without relying on excessive elaborations “Mostly harmless” “Careful, careful,” they caw Now that we’re approaching the age when our predecessors began to commit to composting body and soul and we’re letting go those useless believings, those hard-wired lies it’s easier to remember beneath all those empty words they too were star-stuff, the carbon scat from billions and billions of suns given a chance, as we are now to sense and see, to divide up rearrange, be separate from be outside of the Marvelous Mystery we’re always part of including now and now.
Much love,
Con/Jur/d, 12/5/2023
In...a crow's caw, in sun scat... third-hand atoms...an illusion, a phantom, or a dream... such is conditioned existence. Diamond-sharp as always c/J/d.