This morning finds me reclined….. Some simple chords drift, and a voice, mellow and angelic, barely hums out the words he wants to say… breathless making room…. for drum and key painted walls….. as thick as insulation it surrounds him….. as strong as tamed velocity….
And I read, this morning of a writer who says he was always middle of the road in the 80’s…. Pausing the internal racket to allow that one to soak in….

A tide washes across a sandy shore…. pulling away….. Change as gigantic as the ocean washed over the minds of young people…. The tide regresses, fills in empty prints… sand pours into holes….. and the shore is flat again… glistens with the wet of the water…. and what’s left… people left staring…. people who’s ankles are now clean… ready to traipse… back towards the hill or back towards the water…. the middle of the roaders and the ones who’ll leave different… expectant of the next cold wave….

Part of me instantly thinks, “What’s wrong with the middle of the road?”…. Is ‘middle of the road’ where the zen’s at? where the love’s at? where things meet and meld and intertwine? where emotions stir into milky white acceptance?  where cyclical and ancient humility is born? Then i say “No”.  The middle of the road is where fear is born….

Cyclical and angry…. and also ancient… growing up into greed and accumulation… a fearful and vibrating memory of always standing in the middle makes limbs and eyelids flash for amassing… money stacks up… and so do the years… and people pass you on the way to the shore… looking back… knowing something as their ankles dip…. as their palms meet spindrifts and fingertips cut into the water… thick and resistant and weightless and rocking….. water all around them now…. and the middle of the road’er just stands there at the hem of the world… at the edge of the shore… resistant to the force of the moon… resistant to the acceleration of the human spirit…..

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