Nothing to say...

This episode, Episode 149, has no title, no name this episode is nameless. Which is a name.

That which we try to push away comes closer.

if you believe infinite intelligence

Not naming reminds us of all names, none and all, some and many.

A steady flow of friends and family are coming through. Break an arm and 6 other arms sprout forth. Suddenly there's a lot happening.

Tho there's nothing much to tell.

I could describe recent actions and events, but that wouldn't touch, couldn't begin to convey the water mountains we're sailing up and over. One after another, big water slides under our bows and falls back from our sterns, each upward surge makes us heavy with the rapid charge of potential energy, each slipping down a giddy loss of altitude and weight from kinetic discharge. Poetic metaphors like surfing the mystery or embarking on a emotional expedition imply action that isn't, that hasn't been taken. I can feel energy cycling in and out even if circumstances appear unchanged.

Imagination is a future sense. We touch and taste alternate realities, ideally choosing what feels most enlivening, delicious, exciting. Then tune towards the radiant signal of joy our new future pulses out. This is how fresh realities show up - touchable, tasteable. The showing up may not look anything like action, like work or effort. Circumstances might even appear to have a retrograde quality, like breaking collarbones or loosing a lover. Back in Episode 146 Caravan, we proposed a string of torches or headlights inevitably heading towards us over a dark and craggy terrain, through the swerving paths of our interpretations and stories. The lights might swing away and even disappear,  while our CB radios burble with the happy banter of the truckers who keep on coming. Keep on trucking.

All this is to say that there's not much to say, unless I try and describe how water mountains lift and drop, or the wind in our hair as pavement spools by.

This is an episode about nothing, and what to say when what's most interesting is invisible.

Embracing sloppy overlap

Is there such a thing as sloppy overlap, too many things all happening at once, overwhelm? Only if that's the story I tell. There was a plan, a projected sequence of events. Wrapping up financials, iterations of the screener, sorting out of family assets, arrival of reinforcements, a brief vacation, festivals and getting started on movie studio design and logistics. Cut to... slow motion bouncing off pavement.

My arm is healing, today I go for follow up xrays with a new doctor. Sniffing into the sweet smell of fresh baked bread, that's our metaphor du jour. Two podcast episodes today to catch us up. Episode 149 pushed into week 150 because there's no point pulling the loaf out until the oven has finished having fun, doing what ovens do. I wasn't feeling fully baked, nothing to say and all. There's still nothing to say, there never is. Today I want to flow, the writing feels ready and so talking can too.

The transition from action to dreaming, from reportage to magical musings, from progress to presence. We are all already aware of what works best, my choices are not brand new. I suppose wanting to belong is a story about how I misplaced my owners manual.  Fitting in seems like a big deal, how we get kissed and snuggled. Now picture me with the beard I grew for the mobie, getting every longer and scraggly, my already long hair that needs a trim, my tendency to wear fuzzy house slippers in public and colorful cotton sarongs, then add on my sling and i look like a crazy old homeless hippy. I've got to abandon any vestigal desire for fitting in. I don't fit in at all now and I'm def making the tourists nervous.

Dan Kelly, Shri Fugi Split, one handed typist, fictional character incarnate, a scary version of myself set loose upon the world. Here I am swirled up in so many stages of completion, savoring a soup made from several different meals. There's more going on than any plan of man contain. So just roll and flow and glide and slip and groove and abide and bloom and delight. I only want to fit in to the flow of cosmic yumminess, no story can hold me, no words describe this life. No titles, no names. I am nameless, and my echo is everwhere.


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