Winter – Anachronistic Anarchist by Herb Eaton

Its’ that season … the hopes of an approaching wonderful spring bluntly contradicted by the hopeless austerity of what remains of winter. Among the emotives this leads to considerations of earthly oblivion and rewards of an afterlife, typically this is done in theatrical (if somewhat artless) pageantry. An audience climbing up or pushing down over bleachers; apparent steps to a private small prestigious heaven made to their liking, and a merciless shove aided by gravity, sending lessers to perdition. As if assigning folks for eternity is an audience participation event.

He and She are somewhat puzzled by the art historic character of the rush up and the push down. Souls, wandering timeless souls, still hankering and hanging around for some divine attention; or, preferably, gaining superiority over those who seem to have the receipt for the Divinity’s best earthly thoughts and prayers.

Oblivion is like a hired circus ride, ( you pay up front for the product, but…no expiration date ). Odiferous hell-fire and brimstone belch where emotives gather, slumping many into the expansive realm of hell. Meanwhile the incense of ethereal Elysian fields wafts in the tent top. Or so it seems.

There was a day, known to Yorick (when fleshed) when he partook in the separating weaknesses of souls on the hoof.

Now a well-aged jester, and verily, the stock of envy, malice, and vanity persists, ’tis the season of engaged absurdity.

Would an audience of emotives do… different things (considering oblivion); if they are pointed-out?

Turbulence, the synapses keep firing, twists and turns (a bit embarrassing).

What inside keeps it all going? memories? rituals? codifying dreams? efforts? (oh my God the failures), the faint loss? the unattained? the firing nerves…maybe that is all, just firing nerves.

The haptic synapses, oh how embarrassing, do they mature? Do synapses wrap up the Divine… this matter?

Melted ice and dried thorns, bits of petals, leaves, still attached; crumbles of things. Its’ Spring, or, what’s left over from Winter. Ice and thorns and turbulence, now warmed. Some day this will lift up again, as if the past is now just sleeping.

Caught in the backwaters, what beauty has sustained is not to be noticed, but that beauty is still there, right?

The river does keep flowing wetness, damp alive black soil wetness that thickets will carry forth…upward… as green, green, green. Here (where winter browns and grays all life) those little shoots of green green green… matter. As if matter was The Divine.

As to matter, or “what matters most”; isn’t that Realm… thicker, richer, fogs denser, cold deeper, warmth more enduring, colors more revealing, under a brighter sun? A vibrancy of stories?

Stories, it is always best (for power) to know the other man’s sins, or better yet failures. Reminiscence of old times (among friends, in front of the young) does often bring forth an event which shadows so much. Some path through the turbulent synapses: a hidden story of pointed embarrassment.

And yet we all begin embarrassed.

And so we start all over again, the green, green, green (or maybe a different color) to variations along the same path, firing off similar (but oh so personal… stories); lost in the tragedy laughing, or surprised in the comedy crying.

It is common to reduce the Divinity to concepts best reserved for choosing bathroom towels, to wrap about, to cover what matters, to know…embarrassment.

Tag: Winter

#108 … audience participation, heaven and hell …

#62…considering synapses firing, Divine matter…

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