Note to Selfie,

• One cold rain fell and dried, and Outdoors through the windows the horizon seems the Same, though beneath the Feet, we now crunch our first fresh bowl of Golden Cereal. Autumn, leaves. The variously shaped and sized Nouns verbalizing the climatic Final encore and reluctant Exit of that showy débutante, Summer, who followed boldly behind the timid steps of the ingénue, Spring. Statistically the most Favorite season, Fall is. Perhaps that is why It is the only one to have two names to it. We can't let go. Like in Love, watching the drain of Colour from the face of the Beloved in onset of Winter. The only Season detached from the Name and nature of a Woman. The Cold, as the Old Man, dragging home his disparate Daughters •

to Be like the God's,

Curled at that Mouth of Seasons:

the Universal

to have The Power

in Rolling of the Cursive,

the Indelible

To hold the Idea

'cross dark Waters & Night skies!

the Doppelgänger

to Look upon One

as the Constant in Motion,

this Apostrophe

to Dream everything

as the Celestial Beings...

the Infinitive

Note to Selfie,

• Looking down at the ground, I'm noticing the magnificence of Mulch in the passed few days. Natural and yet Man-Made, it is as it turns out an Object that is many things to the passerby. I do not mean Gardening or Bio-chemistry, rather the things that Idleness pulls from us when we sit low and begin to comb through our Concepts. Look how the wood-chips are a thing poured, out from the Hand (maybe from a machine, way back), but in the Present-moment, out from the Hand, to the other hand, or onto the Dirt, or a random Container we've found. Suddenly, it's a thing shared, like food, like Nuggets. Counted out, and compared now by Size. Even becoming a thing of Barter, like Money, as we apply our Common language and Principles to whatever happens to be lying around •

Note to Selfie,

• Today my eldest of two, one by marriage, pointed to the Skies and says, "So many clouds, touching." I'm carrying him, Teetering joyously in the seat of my folded arms, crossing the grassy plot to the Garden and respond, "Yes, they all wanted Uppies." His eyes open wide in disbelief, "No they did not." "But they did," I say convincingly reaching my big arm high, Index extended. "Too high!" trying to poke them down. "They're broken," he adds after a moment. They are, but I would have Never thought of it and now I hear a pleasant shattering of a Platter, to be used for sculpture, as happens with mismatched leftover Porcelain. "Uppies?" he asks, Clearly thinking about it. He concludes, "They wanted to hug the Blue," and Nods at his own understanding •

Note to Selfie,

• There is a silver heel in the sky today. It descended at half passed Noon, with bright marshmallow billows out from all sides, surrounding. We waited for Sunday rain. I had the kids boots ready, and the umbrella, which is a useless but Necessary accessory for when we adventure into our Exploration of the weather. It has to do with the way the Pitter Patter differs on the underside of the Nylon, and collects, to be Poured out again into the saturated Sidewalks. Of course, we slush through the grass as well. But for now, the boot has brought in no Liquid. Only, a distant, but approaching grievance. That of Thunder; our unhappy Neighbor •

Note to Selfie,

• Children are sponges, it's said. Mine is a mop. He picks up everything, from the farthest corners of the floor with his ears. In the wringing of dailies, he spills back what he hears. What was that? He's heard pure intonation: Emphasis. The boy is very musical; to be exact, he is Lyrical. It matters not what was said, only the Relish taken in, in its expression. Then his mouth curves with upward pleasure and he tries it out, whatever it is. As yet meaningless sound, oration, an echo that comes back to haunt and he pays tributary attention to inflection, and the response of his Audience •

Note to Selfie,

• In times like these where we are on rewind and repeat, we need remind that there are moments of order and disorder for a reason. The rests in the music are the opportunities for Environment to share its music, and for us to stop banging arms, legs and heads, and listen in. For instance, right now, the dryer is making its Doot-doot-doo digital jingle, letting me know it's finished. Three floors down. If the typing hadn't paused for these three beats who would have heard it? and if we didn't take an opportunity in the day to mention it, it would have also been unimportant. This is a sticky note to recall all those oddities seemingly without import •

Note to Selfie,

• We're having trouble writing music. From the fingers to the ear canal streaming. A hyperfocus has tied the tongue of our inner monologue into a permanent grimace of the deaf. The clock is broken in the mirror, and there is a face frozen in the cell (camera). Also, in reverse. Stuck here; Soundless smiling. In a thought-moment. The face says trust no one. Backwards. Forwards. Not even Self. A thousand cliques, and we've forgotten of whom it was, playing. Thus, a new compulsion. Listening. The post-it sticky. Peeled detachment; pulling. My notations tacked to the Internet. As abstraction. Notice the capital I in Internet. We're assuming that somewhere here the dilemma will be favorably resolved. Pulled up; interred. Tacked; netted. Maybe; Something for tomorrow. Worth hearing •