Pickles at dawn

When all that's left is pickles at dawn then it's time to choose love, in the end it's all there really is...

Image by Sabine van Erp from Pixabay

When there’s nothing left, what can you ask for?

When all has been driven away, what is left?

When the wine is finished, you go to bed.

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I was small, like strawberries, and farting, farting like the blackberry maid on the turpentine and thinking that if I could get a raspberry in the bushes the angels would probably let me into heaven.

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It was that time of night when I wasn’t thinking straight, a while before I would have to batton down the hatches and lower my sails and grow a beard and make many sandwiches, another crime wave growing in the indestructables; and oh, I was surely sure that I didn’t know who or what was running the machine and waking me up too many times pushing things that weren’t worth pushing.

There are many conundrums in my life. I will admit that. There have been many sad songs, where all of them touched me to my very soul. But out of all of it, none of it was like bending in the wind and rising up before the end and putting my slippers on either foot backwards. I tell you, that one’s been getting me a lot lately.

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I had the feeling that the machine was singing to me and weaving itself into my dreams and drawing me pictures and crawling down my wall where I could never find myself. And so I called it the dark where I didn’t want to go, not for all the tea in China.

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While I was amusing myself in the mystery of it all I came across a field of mushrooms growing from the dust straight upwards and crying: Pablo, Pablo, come home.

I wasn’t sure what I was going to think about this until I started thinking about it.

I wasn’t sure it was safe.

And, I mean, what would anyone think about in a field of mushrooms?

Perhaps they would think: I am sinking down and down and down, but there is no bottom to the down, there is only: many mushrooms to be picked to take home and leave ready for a good fry-up.

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I was looking at a Krishnmurti ditto called: a timeless spring, found it so apt to our condition…

And what is the condition?

To look away, not to take notice, not to be conscious, and to make a joke, not to be silent, but to fill the space, because it feels awkward. You know what I mean don't you, that awkward silence that has to be filled, that panic to think of something, anything, just to fill the silence…

Is this an awkward truth?

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An argument is based on 3 things: the front door, the back door and an escape hatch…

When coming in through the front door of an argument, watch out for the frying pan and the flying plates.

When coming in through the back door of an argument you can sneak up stairs, but you will probably find the bed cold.

You might be thinking by now not to start any arguments, but that’s only because you are thinking that there is an escape hatch.

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If you are going to fly timelessly then begin bending in the wind, all other options are taken, and anyway, life’s a roller-coaster, get used to it.

Image by DarkWorkX from Pixabay

I was a corpse in the graveyard, or a fairy tale in a picture book if you like, five times purified, and seven times puddled up to my brains coming out backwards and shishkebabing all at the same time.

Have you ever watched an old thief at work, how he serves you whatever you want, and then before you know it you’re lost and wondering where you came from, said the timeless fly flying by?

Every day I replied, in my puddled up brains.

Count caterpillars then, said the timeless fly disappearing into the far distance of where I was going.

I was an old shoe, and stupid, and bending in the wind, what did I know of caterpillars or timeless flies? All I was looking for was a safe haven, to lay myself down and rest for a while, and fly timelessly until there was no more time left.

Image by DarkWorkX from Pixabay

Pickles at dawn was not amused about this, and so tried to go back to sleep, but the light was too bright, and there was no other side to turn over to left to turn where it was so hard to intrude where there was no invitation.

Sleep came eventually of course, but it was full of bullet holes and thousand flowers of blue and sleepless nights of hunger in all the dreaming so that nothing looked straight anymore, until the next waking came to say more things...

Images from Pixabay