Shi*'s blog/

She asked me where this garden is

As if she did not know

That it lives

In our dreams

In our hearts

In our souls.

I reply languidly with a kiss

I looked in her eyes

Saw her dreams

Saw her heart

Saw her soul.

She looked back, curious

She had seen me naked

In my dreams

In my heart

In my soul.

Pool Nudes Remix

These delicate and sensitive instruments.

That guide the journey, fix position, set course.

The heart that swells and beats.

The soul that yearns.

The mind that dreams.

The body that burns.

In the moonlight we find ourselves

sitting in the old moonlight

horned waning and golden

blue-silk-sheened in the night warmth

the hiding garden alive with soft movement

of light on pale leaves

and deeper shadows.

I dream of her

as she rides the night

illuminating my hot blood

showing all things

in a new light

as she slowly dies

Teaching me my memories

that death is change

that she will be reborn

in argent splendour

that the summer's heat will pass

that the night will end

that clear dawn always follows

and that we will find ourselves

renewed

'Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose', sang Janis, The Dead and many others. According to the teenager in Frank Zappa's song, 'FREE IS WHEN YOU DON'T HAVE TO PAY FOR NOTHING OR DO NOTHING'. Oh, Edenic state! freedom is when you don't ask questions, eat suspect fruit offered by slippery characters ...

For the rest of us it's a proverbial lunch that doesn't exist.

OK, we are approaching the zone now. so ...

'To be hoisted by your own petard' is a figure of speech with its origins in warfare, a petard being a small bomb or grenado. So, you make your own bombs and they can blow you up. Karma. What goes round comes round.

So what about honour, integrity, compassion, kindness ... and freedom? Petards all?

Hoisted by one's own bushido code?

hmmmm, food for thought.

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a word from our sponsors ... The Doors ... of perception ...

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chained by honour and blinded by desire, stumbling into an uncertain future.

... 'all is for the best in the best of all worlds'

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Hopeful monsters all.

It's hot, it's late and the thunder rolls quietly around the humid distance. Not a night for sleeping, it's that unbearable stickiness that makes you pray for a big storm. really, metaphorically ... yes, the pathetic fallacy lives on ... those two in that film, for instance, the ones who have been slowly circling ... somewhere between a bullfight and moths around a flame ... they must burn, the blood must flow - dependent on which metaphor you wish to pursue.

... the wish to pursue ... the desire to imolate ... the need to bleed ... waiting for the storm.

Fully embodied languor ... body heat ... a sheen of perspiration.

... and inside an echo ... or a prime cause for the solipsists out there.

This tension must break, this heat must end, the rain must fall ... hard, drumming, torrential. Endless.

... and in the meantime I will caress this keyboard and tell my soul secrets to the void. Whisper in the ear of the nameless, pray for redemption, count my blessings lest the dark night consume me.

In dreams I find respite ... not in waking imagination ... but in those unpredictable upwellings and currents of the unconscious mind where I find myself unquestionably present. more real than real ... and undeniably a very different and immaterial reality ... an older virtuality perhaps. Where our gods and goddesses live, where love is pure, fear can be withstood, and the action is irrestible. No introspection in dreams, not in mine anyway. Sleeping zazen. Pure being.

But not just yet. Still time to break a few grammatical rules. For the sake of the flow, the feeling ... for the sake of the feelin', by George.