Departing

(In process reflection) An ambient rumble similar to the forewarning of thunder accompanies the entire train ride. It comes from beneath us. Us, the occupants of dual seats occupied auspiciously by individuals attached to appliances unless sharing seats with family: mom and child, brother and sister, guardians and youngsters. To my surprise, appliances are easily powered by seat side plugs.

I depart for the 1st time on a train from the Wallingford Train Station. In little time at all the first stop 'Meriden' is announced. The stop is across from the renovated downtown green space making it convenient for future rendezvous with destiny.

Before the Berlin stop, I decide to see what someone without a phone might do and discover the magazine Made in America. It is full of concise articles that boast adventure, bourbon, spies, former Presidents and Poet Laureate Tracey K Smith and has an abundance of for-profit college ads. The is much to graze upon as I wonder who is the target for the ads. 
The poem is commissioned. Again I wonder who the poet wishes to reach.

 My destination is the Capitol. A rally in celebration and renewal of, and commitment to the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. I should be early. It is expected to be a walk across Bushnell Park based on the maps. I am notoriously directionally challenged. 

The walk

•  Saving some random beauty of the last day in September.

Measuring by silent standards

It always comes down to not knowing what you do not know. Choice, be it the horse or the cart be it in-or-out of a box, sets a path on which to deploy tools & skills with experience and possibilities: the scientist or the artist.

In my A.D.D. I attempt both. I achieve occasional ha ha moments, random scribbles (like this blog) and most things left at 80 percent done. If no one is looking it matters not. If it matters not, then why do anything at all? The circle comes back around to choice and the immensity of the unknown.

As we begin to forget more than we know it becomes clearer that what holds us to our own meaning is the stories we choose for our  narration.

I have come to realize I have abandoned much of my story. There is a trail of names; generic (Sullivan) and pseudo names (Adele Houston) wherein anonymity provided me with a perception safety.

Suddenly, it feels urgent to make right choices, to be resurrect from the scraps of recall and seek a fuller self-knowing. Is it here that the nexus of science and art can be achieved?  Or will the 1,000 words begot by an image yield noise rather than understanding?

Tonight I wanted to sit and talk with Dag Hammarskjold about futility in devoted death; and 'Markings'. The Congo is full of babies groomed in rituals of illusion. Peace keepers have been among the people since his plane crashed in 1961. Murder is a rite of passage to a kingdom of peace. Futility loudly claims this timeline in the name of Allah, not oil.

'Destiny will be measured by courage.' echoes as the standard by which silence & evil will be overcome.  I always saw silence as a dance partner with evil yet I indulged in it often to survive.

My personal irony is that self-doubt did fuel courage. Acts of resistance happen but my memories are so shredded that I can barely scribble my markings.

Kindled by --- VICE Terror in the Congo HBO

eXplore happenstance

Feeling like I had little time to explore and be creative I took a misguided picture of mostly a thumb print and transformed it over and over again into images that appeal to me as mysterious and enlightened and imbued with happenstance.

Then I share.

I sipped Pinot from a paper cup
acidic and crisp 

naturally left over from fallible
encounters of a communal kind.

It began here

stories lavishly threaded engagement and ...

the goods landed on available ears.

Open, prepubescent-ish
reflection

rolled into the next 

embrace with knowing, what
I had yet to know

Time shared.

To network.

Unleashed clouds to rain 

what exactly?

Only the future can reveal ...
the limits of availability.