To Let Those We Love Be Perfectly Themselves

[zuma]

no
death needs time. by definition. the need for time arrives when it does.
    i always keep a main notes file, and timestamp every entry. it might as well be a running clock.
    i don't like clocks.

without time, we have it all, as my parents do. as my way late friends do. as our past selves do even, for that matter. when we have it least do we need it most, for that we would spend it most preciously on. like we do that material substitute for it; money. (if time is money, why are most broke when we have all time ahead?) there is poetry there remaining, waiting, meanwhile lost. paintings too. & unmade satoris, that still remain possible...
    i am at home here only in my mind. i never made it home. i chose to live in this world instead.
it's enough to say anything now. even gladly no. ticktock.
    err on the side of love and hold tight to your generosity of spirit, i always said.



'The Mystery Freedom' - of the earth, as she is. of the living fire of each moment... as ever, she gives us further possibilities of further possibilities themselves...
    the cascading curtain of aurora borealis is her skirt...
    the history and evolution of clouds is writ large in her dirt...

the breath of life, in utter inhalation, inspiration -we take her in and consume her -in roaring flames -then expelling silent smoke, spewing ashes, expiring wisps...
    ...& we cover her over, and emtomb her with our proud dominion...
    our mother planet lives on yet, despite us.
    we are but part of her, with little belief.
    little vision. little love. no understanding.

she whispers to us still, cooing wisdom, in her ever innate grace. telling us of the vast good, the great differences, that can be...
she tells us of the things we deny, those things we know not that exist within and without, and of that that can be.
she tells us things we will not hear.
she tells us this is our only opportunity to know, to go, and become among the vastly greater host.
she tells us she is the offer itself, her skirt ever raised high, and so then leaves us with it... the mystery freedom.



we are all her, all her voice, and so commanded to author en masse...