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Volume 28


THE GORGE

October  2015
 




The Gorge



Misty Gorge


Oriental Mountain Road and Waterfall



It's like a hospital stay although no friends or lovers come to visit you
except an older lady who works with your mom, or one of her younger
sidekicks feeling a tug of obligation to see how you're doing, like one of
those gas station hellos, "have a safe trip, Happy Motoring!"

It's a gig with oven music, wires heating, grinding all their resolution
of forces beyond the stress of breaking. If life is all shock and trauma
you'd be like a hot plate on overload, a unit under test (uut).

My best friend calls it the "big nothin" where you work to bridge the gap
and get the job done, but no real satisfaction, not even a cool horse ride
into the sunset, just doin the do, chewin the chew, tedious journey thru.

A mystical oriental compass lists the gorge as a place everyone visits,
but staying there would risk death like the suicide forest at Mt. Fuji.
The gorge is where you can end up while trying to imagine your future.
Failing to do so, you never come out. No one wants to stumble on your
skeletal remains still sporting a backpack. Return is another spot on the
calendar of life challenge but you really have to talk yourself through it.
Other voices will be there to help, don't fear the imagery that stalks you.

The color of trial and gorge is black, to be considered therapeutic as well
as a specter of the universe open to your mind, an akashic dialog you
always need when the going gets tough. Self-defense and commonsense
lead the way to a wealth of stored up wisdom, a rescuer that saves you.
The dire furnishings of your confines, chains or fearsome table painted
black, are meant to remind you that a deep space glimmer is part of the
mind spell that frees you from your pain. You will carry your knapsack
of stones to the waller and the bricklayer to be cemented in place. 

Nameless high-rise cliffs and peaks like ambitions you may never seek
to explore, surround you along the way, everything you put off until it's
too late. That single bulb over your desk or kitchen table glowing into the
wee hours is as much of the universal metaphor of illumination as any
tome or text of enlightenment, convergent energy made common to all.
Despite bills and obligations you wrestle nightly to subdue, a daydream
continues to pop up in the margins of the ledger like a scrawl of foreign
tongues that taunt you from horizons that may never hear your far cry.

Take strength from these visits, keep miseries like semi-precious stones,
like a weary peasant, it could be the only thing you can explain, a tale of
how you paved a thousand poetic thoughts with jewel lined pathways
through the gorge, blinking with colorful animation, actuality, be it true or
faux.

I predict you will read this and remember all that your journeys taught.
 


Mystical Compass

ŠJimmy Warner Design, 2016