Pin-ball Wizard

It’s Saturday again, life. What’s in store for me today?

Some of the same dirty laundry from yesterday is still hanging there. Most of the concerns of last week can be remembered. And, of course, there are those juicy ‘break-my-heart’ personals which are always lingering.

Maybe this week is one of those special weeks to exhume a childhood worry or two. And those three pesky always-present thoughts that are just mine – how could I forget them, life?

Thank you, life. There’s the agenda. Funny, I almost had the thought of some actual free time this week! No! Sensing your rudder – that is always there – is enough for me.

Revisiting the same problems, over and over again, that’s what is needed, right life? You’d never steer me wrong. Becoming so intimate with the same issues that we literally live within them, that’s the solution. Isn’t it, life?

And wasn’t it you, life, that showed the possibility of nested problems? How we can remain in one problem and while there address another one? And with no effort at all we can add multiple problem layers.

We can get to a point where problems are our life. They can be all we know. Like an elaborate pin-ball game where we are the ball. We hit one problem which propels us directly into another.

I’ve noticed that above there is always this thick sheet of glass. That’s for my protection, isn’t it life?

Time to go. There’s that smack in the bum from that spring-loaded piston thing. Weeee! Here we go again. Thank you, life!

Maybe this time I’ll rack up enough points for a free game.

Where You’ve Been

Usually we see only indentations in the mud. Evidence of nothing more than travel. But fill those indentations with a reflective liquid and a new dimension appears.

As if saying, ‘This is where you could have gone.’ Ascension made possible by mud outlines.

Perhaps you still have some unwanted, lowly, muddy memories of where you’ve been that won’t just vanish.

Make them reflective so as to be UN-seen, forever more. From now on, all that will be noticed is a direction upward.

One by One

In the quietness of your mind, try eliminating one by one all the things in your life; Your car – gone. Friends – gone. Keep going . . . Your thoughts – gone. Your desires – gone. Where you live – gone. This thing called Earth – gone. Not much left. Approaching nothingness. Words – gone. Your body – gone. Life, as you know it – gone. All your senses – gone.

Get to that point where there is no SELF to realize. Get comfortable, settle in, right next to ‘nothingness’. Keep nudging over. One more little push and a blurring occurs. There’s no longer ‘nothingness’. No. There is now ‘everything’! But a Magical type of ‘Everything’. No flaws. A total consuming feeling of Perfection. Nothing, and Everything, as One.

If that process didn’t work, try it again but this time remove your mask. Not the Covid one. The shield. Your ‘out in public’ mask that has become so used that it is not even removed anymore. Maybe it has been in place for so long it has eaten into your face and can’t be removed. Tragedy.

Life is here. We are a part of it. Now. Can we not claim ‘celebration’ for it? Can we not claim Celebration for what is under the mask, and Celebration for everything!?

If celebration is a feeling that is not akin to you, if you don’t feel it often, can you find the escape route and flee from the negativity? Can you venture out to where there is celebration, real Celebration, and become an integral part of it?

You can. One by one.

Dig Down

I dig down, down where the flowers grow.

Hoping for a butterfly but accepting a new spin on anything.

Summoning in some fanatic way an escort service

To send over someone to untie my shoes.

I dig down, down where the soil is rich and there is room for viability.

I come up on the other side of Mallorca, out of breath, out of life.

There’s the curtain. Get on the other side. It’s too thick, too large.

I dig down. There’s depth. But I’m not a digger. Why pretend?

I close my eyes with the shovel still in my hands.

I’m not a gardener, not a grave digger, I don’t do wells.

The weight of the shovel feels heavy. Now it’s a baton.

The orchestra begins playing. The music continues without a conductor.

The hands go limp. Lethargy. Maybe apathy.


Who orders them? Who is giving the recommendations of what is needed?