Lost Friends

"I miss you. You know? Once, in the chaos of our lives, we touched, shared that recently discovered, ingrained, abiding truth about us - our limitations, our self-deception, our obsession and compulsions, our basic need to keep it simple and fanatically real - and we knew, precisely, intimately, beyond all else that we are alike. There was joy, intensity. Yet, from the first brush of living, a sadness demanded at least a muffled echo of caution. We knew, truly knew, that should either of us return to the old ways - the ever tempting, incessantly pestering old destructive ways - then the miracle of our common being would be lost, likely- no certainly- to risk death.

I stand here, just for today, poised on the shores of that chaotic sea, hearing the siren's beckoning, yet, for this moment remaining on shore in hope, in belief that you, and if not you, others, may join me here."

NOTE: One of the tragic realities of recovering from addiction (of all types) is relapse. I have been attending more meetings of late, and am struck by the number of people who are no longer there, or who are returning from relapse. I wrote the words above last year. I am reminded of them today.

Such a wondrous, bellowing creature is silence. Personally, I'm inclined to hear whispers more

Do you bring silence, serenity into your day? How?

Spent the first part of the day up at Hanging Rock Park. Had a wonderful hike with the family. What a great start to Father's Day weekend! I have a few pictures that I might poat later.

So, are you doing anyting special this weekend?


HangingRock05.JPG

Poetry Revisited

During a visit to Levering Orchard, I spoke with one of the owners about his childhood memories of home, a house that now stands empty and in disrepair, yet a dominate fixture overlooking the orchard. It seemed to speak to me.

Red House Talking

heat scared twisted tin
metal remains of the shelter of generations
once marking the boundary between security, sky
and seasons' harsh torments of ice and wind
once shielding mother and child and keeping
home hearth's warmth within

sentinel timbers stand charred
remnants of hard taught lessons
essential knowings of words and deed
those shadows of learning that walk with us stand un-daunting
proclaiming our way through life's course
holding us to right of way

pane-less windows black and lost
tell of now absent eyes peering outward
watching for familiar faces and tracing memories
in winter's vapor smudged glass and speaking again
of curtains drawn tightly muffling
the magic giggles of life long love and randy youth

now the boundaries of roof and wall
yield openly, freeing lives long bound here
as prolific gaps grasp not even nature's breeze
but only to have it dance delightfully
resting on my mind, heart and dream
then leave wafting on, free.

-Theo

Another Day of Exercise

Where are the battle fields? I spent a pleasant afternoon yesterday, watching a King Arthur movie with a friend. Vicariously, I journeyed through the mire of conquest and valor. I flinched sinew and muscle with each victory and heroic sword thrust. My blood surged might and right, and I enjoyed myself. I longed for more, not more footage of cinema, but for more valor and bravery. Where are my battle fields?

Against the darkness, the mire of slumber I move. My mind wavers, questions the insanity of it all. "Why not wait. Skip today," I think. To lift these libs of lead seems too great an effort, much less to get up and exercise. Here lies my simple, quiet quest: To be fit, to reduce my chance of early death, to demand that my body live, forcing blood and breath to surge through my very being, cleansing and renewing me for another day. Brush aside this simple choice if you will, and in such discounting might I join you another day, but today, I rise victorious. Today this slain foe of apathy and sloth rest lifeless at my feet.

Enough melodrama. Good morning

An Open Letter to Trinity

An Open Letter To Trinity

Pardon my public diplay, but I need to post a letter here to try and reach someone. It is likely that I will be moving Theophany to another domain. I'll post that information here when the time is right. Until then, I need to post the letter below.

NOTE: You are currently on the new domain for Theophany. This post was moved from my previous blog URL along with the other June posts.


Dear Trinity:

Just yesterday, it seems, we found a connection over at deadjournal.com. A few shared entries about our mutual recovery, a likeness of being discovered, and we walked a while together.

Your hospitality, charity and knowledge brought me to theophany.us and the glorious world of creative self discovery through blogging. Soon this online world opened to me and I found it wonderfully cathartic. We made new friends. I am indebted to you. I thank you.

Still bound through this thread of common being, I can find you no more in this world. You have floated marvelously in and out of appearance until now, all domains; all emails fall silent, yielding less than an echo. The emptiness is confounding. Now I fear the gift of this site is in peril, and thus my connection, my touch with this world. Without a word soon from you, I know this place will soon expire. As a result, I am making plans to move to another domain, another space that will allow me to walk on my own, grow singularly on, into this continued journey. In this way I can remain tethered to our history by being alive and present here. This open, public letter is my last effort to reach you. I have fears for your well being. I know how precarious the way can be for us, those of us who meander powerfully through the intensity of life, longing. If by chance you find your way to this note, know that I always have and always will believe in you and the wonder of you. Namaste, my friend.

There is a moment, an occasion, when the words inscribed upon the page so precisely reflect the purest of human truth that the chasm between us and the Divine is bridged, and we are changed. -Theo

My Father Died in June of 1964

My Father Died in June of 1964

In Memory of William Earl

It should be the memory of a hammer striking the crude nail
Driving it through the rough hewn pine
Slicing grain into grain

It should be the great effort, heavy grind of stone on stone
Sliding the lid to alignment with vault
Falling solidly, thump, into place

Such sounds and visions would be true reminders of the drama
Moving painfully among breath and dream
Caressing wounds to scars

Yet, what remains is the simple click of metal
Snapping hinges and latches of well insulate springs
Only an insignificant sound

As the casket closes.

-Theo

500 Spam

500 Spam

I quit. 500 spam coments and I have no defence. My kn5owledge is limited. My software vunerable, and I cannot stand for my space to be turned into a crap promotion. Email me if you want to relate.