some wonders happen

rare misty morning here in March, a welcome change from the usual dry, yellow sun baking from early morning until late afternoon. in my own mind too the light is diffuse now, not focused, random emotions and thoughts seem to wander through me, I the giant multi roomed mausoleum thoughts the dispassionate visitors admiring the ancient tile and marble, emotions the loved ones of the long departed still ruminating in the ancient sepulcher, damning chance and time for its progress and decay. for certain, this is not the endless truth and these are not the hallways of the forgotten masters, but rather just the celebration of the cycle of life and death, the irreplaceable motion of existence to be born and then pass on almost within the same breath, though we may take a million puffs on the hookah each tiny cloud is part of the same dream, the experience of life, whether high or low or asleep or awake, we exist fully and then plunge again into the river of forgetfulness and ride the silent skiff to the other side where the ancient ones do sit and greet each traveler with the refrain, be not fearful for matter has not conquered the soul, the end is not near nor is time passing. I reflect more in my sixties on my relationship with death, surely it has some effect on everything I do, I don't make decisions based on having an inexhaustible amount of life remaining, but I also take my waning energy into account. the changes from this world to the next from one continent to the other, even from one tectonic plate to another takes a toll on the system, I was born and raised near the intersection of two plates, the north American and the pacific, in a foggy and rainy windy bay and felt the constant shifting and changing beneath my feet. nothing seemed safe or eternal, there was a definite indetermination to our lives, both fire and earthquake seemed inevitable and even the holy church and the latin liturgy were mere colored potions and powders thrown into the wind for all the good they did. I would wake a child of the earliest hours long before the coming sunrise and long after the moonset and sit chilled in front of the banging and clunking gas wall heater and stare out the giant picture windows at the end of the kitchen into the deep brilliant night sky fully alive with stars and wavering winds and movement, that even these celestial being would dip and tumble with the motions of a breeze invisible and cold. I could feel my skin as the darkness and my bones as the constellations collected at random and made to look like a human figure by chance. here my eyes and my mind left me and the psychic would wander alone and unafraid in the warmth of my body pressed against the heater and I would feel the awfulness and the truth of unbelievable possibility this entire universe was, every bit of myself shivering on the front and hot across my back pressed tightly to the grill of the bursting heater. moments of such perfect unison, haunt me and close upon my heart like tiny childrens hands clutching my finger with such perfect strength. to be alive without concern for the meaning but experiencing everything as the pinnacle of truth and unknowable fantasy as one, there lies the ancient remedy this world has stolen again and again from the dolls heads and glassy eyed mannequins everywhere. I preach my peculiar sense of fiction and possible truth as both the way and the escape but both lie afield and far from where the matters of man have taken him. I build fairy tale cities on grass green meadows and the silver eyed dreamers inhabit the lakes surrounding the castles, here the unicorns grow and the flying horses shrink to a handful to be placed with the green army men near the toys left from previous constructions. the sand shifts the dirt piles and smooths and a world turns inside wider than the skies. I hold no known truths but the indefinable luxury of letting go my foolish pride and wearing some childs garment I play make believe and wander through untold lands of my own liking and never worry about tonight.