His mind

"A renewed desire consumes me. I need to initiate an open, enlightening dialogue with my soul. We live in a vacuum where even our own sounds and senses appear unintelligible by virtue of their ethereal nature. For a time, I suspected restraint elicited an honorable filter to the benefit of humanity. Discipline or retreat?" he races to find excerpts he once scrawled on paper. Aloud now, "I am Brahman the pure all pervading consciousness." he repeats the text over and again. They aren't his words, still they chime, dissipate and stir echoes in his heart. Origin ought not stifle wisdom, and it will without intent.

Her home

Climbing vines coat weathered walls of bare red brick. Surely vines are rooted in the ground, yet green and yellow leaves shoot suggestively from thick cement paste between bricks. String vines occupy their time delicately swallowing the structure. Years from now, they stand a fair chance. Intelligent design, she hopes, indicating God's goodwill to inspire such a peculiar fellowship of rock and root. While the vine climbs toward the sky, a wall has nowhere to go but down.

Him and her

It was how the sun struck her olive skin or a bending of light that drew his two eyes to hers. In an instant, the sudden raw stare of some stranger. Then again, they were not strangers at all but something very similar. More importantly, strangers do not stare they glance or glare. Their eyes locked in something soft as a glance, but not one. No, this felt exposed to greater observation. An earnest curiosity and some hope there. She thinks everyone is looking at her now. In fact, she is looking at herself and maybe drawing attention. One brown and one green. A gust of leafy wind parts their gaze. She should go home, she thought. She thinks she must go home. He watches while fast steps scuttle across a coarse paved street, up the drive and beyond the gate.

Her

She prefers her profile when taking photographs though either side will do. As a premature child, her parents stood on either side when her eyes first opened 3 months post-birth. One brown, one green. Neither mother nor father perceived the distinction. She often asked new acquaintances which color they preferred without any interest to hear their answer. "if only I were a cyclops" 29 years and still she spent most days safe at home. Safe in the sense that little drama inspired her to move or shift. Her parents expressed little compassion toward their daughter. Apathy had offered a strange substitute; she appreciated their cold disinterest in the way a hermit might enjoy the solitude of neglect. But her mind was no hermit.

Him

Weedy green grass (or something resembling grass) only appears to sprout between my toes. So I've decided to stay here in my yard. I plan to make two fluorescent lamps seem to stem from dry brown soil. An unknowing passerby will ponder unlikely intentions for the phenomenon. "When did walmart become a force of nature?" a smirk. And continues to pass. I plan to topple the last tree such that it's wide trunk meets level with my waist. I plan to proceed with a thin coat of cherry wood finish. By moving a large speckled stone, I will constitute a table for dining or drawing or writing or typing or waiting for my garden bed to grow. A garden bed of soft blue ferns and kind vines to form a mattress, firm and fair. I plan to stay. To pass time here. Strange social circles would speak of the gritty, ragged stranger who has confused the outdoors with in. Some suspect he keeps secrets and knows magic. Few are aware he knows no better. And still others figure he is just joking.

Untitled Frozen Foods

Finally watched Sita Sings The Blues Tuesday. Website explains:

Sita is a goddess separated from her beloved Lord and husband Rama. Nina is an animator whose husband moves to India, then dumps her by e-mail. Three hilarious shadow puppets narrate both ancient tragedy and modern comedy in this beautifully animated interpretation of the Indian epic Ramayana. Set to the 1920’s jazz vocals of Annette Hanshaw, Sita Sings the Blues earns its tagline as “The Greatest Break-Up Story Ever Told.”

I would have to agree. Unfortunately, I cannot seem to get the music of Annette Hanshaw out of my head. Not necessarily a bad thing.


In other news, you aren't what you eat. Nope. YOU are what you stockpile in your freezer.




http://www.markmenjivar.com/

Tree People

It takes more than one bad ass granny. In the meantime, it's a great start.






http://www.christopherlamarca.com/