500 Unread Messages

500 unread emails? I was practicing esp. Watch. I just made a light flicker, did you notice?

Ah, maybe not, but a moth noticed it somewhere. Then it was for that moth. I’m not totally up on posting etiquette, but my fellow sprites jog me to jot some notes. Follow the bouncing baphoon…

I wonder why people quest so? They look to the heavens when there’s versions within. And I don’t mean you specifically. You have all these outlets and inlets, inspirations and achievements—the protege of the modern society. You’re a bona fide poet now. I mean as if the two of us are looking at the scenery together—my brotherly arm’s on your shoulder—we’re watching the milieu while people gather and mosey. A pit stop.

In flights of fancy there’s a frequent hazard—walls. It’s the most common outward shell. There’s about 213 varieties to count and I must have smacked into them all, which has provided a concrete understanding how to suppress my outward joy in order to save the sensitivities of the brooding. And of course, I know perfectly well how to brood. I’m an exceptional brooder—ask me Ma. (Is that boy brooding again?) Teen angst and all that crap. Yet my real vocation is an ‘expressor’. My brooding had no expression. Many trials and misses, never quite getting the knack of fulfillment at expression. Ever looking to please others, validation, appreciation, confirmation. Big words plugging little holes.

Then something clicked. I could write a song, sing it to a grasshopper, and never sing it again. And the song was awesome. Like really good, shiver and all. And the grass hopper looked attentive but they way he flew off half way through didn’t bother me. This is a light example, but the world suddenly leaped to my fingertips—and not to take, but to walk with, participate, percolate. Existence is a paintbrush. Every step and breath, absorption and happenstance, all is a canvas and I am immersed in the painting, slopping ink about.

A lot of what I did in the past was reactionary. I can still see the patterns in the paint. Poke/wriggle. Poke/wriggle. Somebody pokes me and I wriggle. Slowly, I began choosing a life where I could daub and smear the colors I wanted. I stuck some joy here. A laugh there. Put some empathy over here, smeared gobs of sweat effort over there. Concern, a moment blended with another being, an ear where there was none… the little chance to watch it ‘click’ in people’s eyes became the rush. I can see it chime. They get it. They spread it. Bigger than me and done to me as I do to others. Sounds like an old routine, but it’s more inspiring when you encounter the expression of life on your own. It spreads like rising water and things have floated back that I didn’t expect; more food than I could eat alone. First on the scene, last with the broom.

I can’t remember where I misplaced my concern about getting here or there. It’s like quitting smoking or something. Worry is a big addiction, taking on this responsibility or that. Now, I don’t have a cellphone, or a watch, or a leash, or a daytimer. I’ve collected half a dozen email addresses over the years and none that I’m bound to. One day I’m in rubber boots and the next day I might be talking to a crowd. I don’t know how it happened. It was all blur and all about leaving a lot behind. But it felt good. A breezy learning curve, I guess.

I am, therefore I babble.

 

Typical Gaboo Personal Management Style---Learn how!

 

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