be other

Kairos - threads and looms and Three Fates.

I am afraid, the Swiss girl said, Of becoming the Stranger, the Other.

The Other. I like it, being the Other, the Outsider yet I'm afraid of always being the Other.

Why?

It's the fear I suppose, it's difficult to articulate. It's a sense of feeling apart, separate from people.

I know it, he said, I'm like that, have been for a long time. I live on the edge. I engage. I am vulnerable, open, honest yet I always maintain a sense of detachment.

How is it this sense of outside, she said.

It's objective, he said, feeling her vision escape toward the weaver at her loom, her meditation.

I am the shuttle sliding across threads, she said.

I am smooth aged wood holding two bobbins. One is golden silk thread, the other purple.

As I slide the bobbins spin at the speed of light releasing, ah all the releasing, letting go of myself trailing into, between thin black origins - the essence where I rest.

She cautions me with her fingers - purple and golden desires lie flat. She pulls her emptiness toward me, hands and feet.

I am bound to Others before and after me.

I wait for Others to join me.

I feel connected, she said.

I am part of the whole. Part of the grand design inside her dream.

I pass through. I am here and now.

life is a palimpsest

I acknowledged kairos - the shuttle passes through openings in warp and weft threads, making things happen, creating new forms, new fabrics inside my word loom. The shuttle voice allows me to recover, preserve and interpret tales.

I'm one of those people who’s learned through living that there is nothing and nobody in this life to cling to. An open hand holds everything.

There are no metaphors, only observations.

I feel free to move away from safe familiar places and keep moving forward to new unexplored areas of life. Drifting some said. If I had one coin for every time someone asked me when I’d settle down I could afford a world hypothesis.

Settling down was not an option.

I am a compass without a needle.

Yes, I could bid on blessings. I’d sacrifice pre-linguistic symbols and create silent metaphorical abstractions. My linguistic skills would evolve into love, into discursive logic.

26,000 year-old Paleolithic iron and copper paintings created a secret symphony of ancient stories in a Spanish cave. I was transformed there. No past, no future. Present.

No lengthy drawn out off-the-wall abstracts explains my small empty self to anybody anything by virtue off who I was, am, and will be.

Life is a palimpsest. Have ink will travel.