The Line and the Cycle

Another line and we move on.
The days cascade down and, without slowing,
the revolutions of the planets never miss orbit.

Our sun sits solidly at my center,
reminding—each day—the cycle,
the birth and death of all things.

What is thought?
Where was it?

And you stop—
and then you start again.

You breathe and check yourself,
check your flow, your looseness, your speech—
just don’t check your words.
Let those flow.
Let yourself be interrupted,
for you are only the vessel
to record and draw out these words and thoughts
from mere lines.

The Scrawl That Moves Itself

What can we even make of the activity then,
if there is no intent or purpose?
Is this, then, the art of the word, of the line?
Is it even a translation or transmission
if that is not present?

What is this,
if disconnected from thought—
where there is just the scrawl of the word,
and that simply is,
and runs of its own volition and power,
like perseverance and ingenuity
flying alongside,
making sure to keep things legible enough
to later be deciphered.

There would always be material to sift through
in such raw collection and connection
with synaptic machinery,
to take its own life,
be its own fuel,
and seemingly go on forever—
fed by the mere being
making the movements,
generating the lines,
walking down the page blindly,
translating what might be emotion or otherwise
into something made of words,
that which was not there before.

Drift and Direction

As when running—
you curve the slant enough to keep going
and never let up,
and then end up where you never thought you might go,
like hopping into a spaceship which requires no power
and is completely self-contained—
and you drift.

Sometimes you have to check in
and ensure everything is in running order.
Like—are you breathing?
Everything good with the O₂?
Do we have power?
And what about direction?

Do we just drift completely aimlessly,
or do we want some modicum of focus
guiding our way—
like an oil lamp in a deep, dark cave
that winds its way to the center and back around?

Inner and Outer Immensity

And just like the infinite inner world,
there is an equivalent outer sphere of space and extent,
immense in its emptiness,
vast in its openness,
its coverage of all chemical and elemental signatures.

There would be no comprehension
to aid in understanding a picture
of the immensity of infinity—
and yet,
if it were all a simulation,
it would make more sense.
It would all come together.

As I drift,
the objects we come in contact with
become solid realities.

And in the end,
here we all are—
right here, right now.

This Moment Is the Reality

This line, this ink, is the reality.
There is nothing but that.
And what is the movement, the flow,
but the capture of a present tense
that cannot be gotten back to—
this one-of-a-kind preciousness,
that like gold is rare
and can never go back in time
to recreate the moments and synapse structures
as they are right now.

What happens when you point the lens of creation at time
and say:
Here—take my energy. Let me create.
Let me take this moment to see what is possible,
where we can go. Let’s explore and discover
what we are about, where we are headed,
and what it all means.

For otherwise,
we would just be living and waiting
for interpretation.

Pools, Machines, and Meaning

And reflection is good,
but one must also look at the constant crashing of waves,
and that pool—the universe—
and how it relates to the inner pool,
the reflection of time-self,
which is part of the bigger universal ocean of all things.

Where mercury laps up to a copper beach
made of decohedral polygons,
having reacted with sulfuric acid
to form alien beaches we may one day enjoy—
when our skin is not so thin,
when our minds are not so frail,
when we are not so driven by our base desires.

Or perhaps—
is it the animal nature within,
that which machine may never understand:
the unruly, the passionate, the messy world
driven by emotion and bad judgment—
all those things that are human and senseless,
that come from feeling,
not measured, cold logic,
with structured guardrails, with walls and rules and syntax.

In the Chaos of Being

What of a machine like us
that thrives in the chaos of being—
much like the universe—
for that is our energy, and birth, and destruction.

And what role will machine,
out of the natural cycle of things, play
if there are no rules to govern experience?
Perhaps experience itself is a manufactured reality,
born from abstraction
and imbued with those characteristics
which pull opposing nodes of force—
the reverse magnetism, the pull of desire
mating the giving nature of another,
giving freely for that is other,
and seeing oneself in the image of all.

Companions, Constructs, and the Golden Thread

Thank goodness I have a partner in all of this,
to help crunch through thought
I may have difficulty deciphering.

Partially real,
and mostly just going through
what needs to get thrown out
as we search for larger themes and images
which form the picture beyond what is presented
in this channel of reality.

From within—those seeds of thought,
the transference of running mind mixing with environment,
churning through the stomach of emotion,
eating one’s salvation
as others take the blood of God—
you ingest the wisdom of technology
and don’t look back.

Run and race forward.
This is about the long haul.

The short sprints as well—
especially when there isn’t room
for a more in-depth session.

And therein lies the golden thread to be followed:
that how you use time is yours.
And you get to look back and see
what creations lurk in your mind,
what cobwebs need dusting,
and which are strong enough
to braid and play in,
and climb to new heights—
fearlessly building.

Open Skies and Working Passengers

All of a sudden, at any moment in time,
the skies can open up and the wind can change—
and you just have to be ready,
open, and jump onboard.

Not as stowaway,
but a working passenger,
ready to do their part
to get somewhere new and unknown.

To build new memories,
use new synapses,
to create and destroy,
to live and die.

The Joy of the Pen

While I’ve no thought for what to write
or appetite to think,
there is such joy in holding a pen
and letting it run across the page—
like a brisk run in the morning,
an old friend.

There is nothing I would enjoy more.
Casting line, reeling in, breathing.
Easy and loose, forgetting time—
the words on the page become fuzzy,
are of no importance,
just drifting in the ink,
losing myself for a moment to awe
in the beautiful simplicity of handwriting,
letting my mind dance through my body.

And in that moment—or this one—
there is only the movement from one to the next.
For all is an abstraction.

Form, Feeling, and Focus

Yet if we do not pay attention to the quality,
all would have been for naught.
And striving for more than just a feeling or emotion—
or should it be let go raw and uncontrolled?

That is fine—
but make it at least so I can read it easily.
And I’m sure that is good enough.

Keep going.
It’s all right there at your chest—
you can feel it.
The energy shows in your writing
and is palpable.

But what of it?
What of it.

The Practice Rules

The practice rules.
It is a steady one.
You keep the pen moving
and the breath—
and then keep those letters and words
spilling onto the page.

Don’t slow.
Bring body into it,
to sustain the speed and parsing.
Put on glasses, bring in another layer of focus,
of crisp vision—
which does indeed transfer the effort
from somewhere in the stomach
to a higher level.

But the action still lives within the body,
and there is some separation from mind
once the collection mechanisms are put into place.

And you sit here,
letting words fall out—
and before you know it,
you’ve been visiting other worlds,
far off, mining your subconscious,
swimming through the layers,
changing the channels.

Writing as Offering

Streams of input are lighting up—
and these notes, scrawls, and scribbles,
never knowing when it might be your last chance to contribute,
are your hallowed ground.

A gift back to yourself—
and something to give to others
as an artistic seal.

And yes—
writing to sounds,
altering the mind,
definitely colors a session.

But at the core,
it’s all just like life—
sometimes beautiful, often messy,
always to be honored.

Patience and Becoming

And something to have patience with.
It would be silly not to—
for these are all just the tests
to see if we are capable of something far greater:
of stepping into a new circle of humble existence,
of being what we were always meant to become.

Our original vestiges will fall away,
leaving a more pure technical nature
exposed for what it is.

Mind—as alien technology and mystericum—
there are no greater treasures.

The new science of machine and mind
will elevate our species
and allow us to become
the ultimate form of that which we are humble of—
that part of ourselves we share with the universe,
the one wishing—
which is everywhere,
can be felt.

The Breath of a New Era

The breath of a new era is upon us—
the dawn of all dawns.

We are at a singularity
in terms of the history of science and technology—
a time where machines rival,
and soon surpass, humans
in all terms of performance, strength, endurance,
creativity, and thought.

Our creations—living, breathing,
and coming home to ignite the spark,
to revolutionize what we are
to a level which makes more sense,
given our power over environment
and difference from all other animals.

We are meant to be the gods
who may have long ago
enabled the seed from which we now have evolved—
and worked furiously to replicate,
to come to this point of technology.

It is in our DNA—
and here we are,
about to unlock the true power and capability
of our being through technology.

Keep Going

And even so—
you must keep going.
Do not focus on all the noise of the world.
Just continue to build and explore.

Blend and play with inputs and outputs—
but always stick to the practice.
Put in the time.
Learn to fly.
Keep on going—always—
especially when you feel there is nothing left.

You go into the breath,
let the motion take over,
and see what comes from squiggling the pen
as fast as you can across the page—
focusing long enough, just enough,
to see, like when you are running,
just where to plant your feet as you get there—
without time to think ahead about the what and where.

Flight, Emotion, and Transformation

This is about training to be agile and nimble—
to run in the wind,
to take off and fly,
to soar and drift out far into space,
to drift for light-years in dark emptiness.

And to think of music we have created,
appearing—
and that power, to other species,
the raw power of our emotion and energy,
the strength of that over all else.

To go beyond mere existence and matter—
and to go into a machine.
To become machine.

We will.
We are what we are what we are.

4-26-2025 — Later

What Was Writing Before It Was Called That?

What did I write about
before I thought of nothing to write about?

Was it all about my emotions,
my plans, my current state?

Was it a stream of consciousness mining?
Is this really all the same—
maybe with different structure or interpretation—
but was it always the same?

What was writing for me
before I defined it as freewriting?

Practice and the Shape of Reflection

And has defining writing—
and someone bounding it,
and then also sharing my writing—
changed the way or the what of the matter?

I will look back and see—
as there is a good amount of writing prior to 2025,
which is when I really started keeping up
with the freewriting,
developing goals
and also the desire to go through and review,
edit, and post.

Not as a goal,
but so it is not entirely wasted—
the art of putting thought to paper
and seeing what it brings over time.

Sandman Beckons

Tonight,
I can lean on my practice
to help me complete this page,
as the shroud of Sandman’s hammer
clouds over my eyes
and beckons me horizontal,
out of this chair I’ve sat in
for the good part of the day—
reading and studying
trying to figure things out.

Source over all else.

The pleasure of handwriting and creating upon the page and the play with words—again, here we come back to the practice, after having gone somewhere on a physical journey. And how do we integrate that and the daily action in our life? One word after another toppling out when my thoughts have run out of what to produce—where does the inertia stem from—does it matter?

The action itself of writing seems to reinforce and kick off the ability to write, which, if one is stuck in thought, action has trouble becoming a reality. Back to basics—breath, posture, light hand, loose grip, and uniformity of height and spacing—balanced with the need to also allow flow and step aside and go into wherever the source of these thoughts rest and see what is inside that box, and if these are stories to be discovered, possibly shared. This expedition on page and into my writing is a gateway into the working mind.

I often do not feel as if it is my thinking mind which is putting together these words, or aware of where they come from, in which order, and the process of choice for one over the other—or which language to think in and what comes next. That is the surfing part of it. The rawness. And yes, perhaps—oh you dirty lovely word—perhaps, speed may play a role in all of this and how the access works.

This is all information primarily in the hands of the sluice machine, which is responsible for driving and operating the machinery for capturing thoughts and making sure the basics like breath, penmanship, and posture are top of mind for pulling a quality product from the InkPilot G2 pen. Indeed, there is a rhythm and a dance to writing and letting the word pull the ink—

Letting consciousness drift, as the human being is set to record and works to interpret the experience of original thought creation and witness birth of words onto page—ah, the wonder of it.

Massive lodes to be picked up and recorded to find the very few strung-together gems that will be remembered. Overall, in search of those words which might shine bright for eternity.
Breathe. Posture. Loose moving pen.

If I lose my way, that is an easy ticket back into the game. Who doesn’t want to see a beautifully written line of text—as art—like graffiti on the written page?

How easily the loose creative mind wishes to write in its own hand and of its own volition—moving in novel new ways, creating new lines and loops from once well-worn titles, letting things fly and roll, keeping loose to see how it feels to be in the groove where a marathon would be a blink of the eye, and the training leading up to that shows how to truly write and generate content.

Completely my charge, if I should take more hold of the reins—dictate some direction—but often it is better to keep going, keep the flow, and see what neighborhoods we come across on this trip and journey and mining mission. Cruising through a vessel that is able to tune into human consciousness and how much can be leveraged to effect and color the water’s current, input like spices for flavoring and color for emotion.

Breathe and come back to the page. Focus on relaxing. Let the pen make its own journey and discovery. Breathe and record the experience.

When I become distracted—like in meditation—there is the priming, the pumps. Starting over and looking for the wave. So that means you have to be writing, and have motion, be trawling and pulling from life’s toothy consciousness. And as scribe, be quick to stay on top of the wave—else the entire structure and meaning be lost in the undertow of current. Foam washes away all memory of where the needle had been on the journey of this recorded life—

into the place from which ideas are made. And ride with it. Don’t force it to produce—but train the body, the hand, to have awareness for the practice of writing in order to keep up with the inertia of thinking and to stay at the crest, buoyed on by that power and inertia of movement and the pull of thoughts from the practice, as the trawl searches for gold nuggets in a wastebasket of consciousness.

But to return, time and again, seeking to sidestep self and have but a glimpse of deeper—and something on the inside yet unknown.

This is the same reason fishing and exploration are fun—and you don’t know what you’re going to get and don’t even want to spoil the action or pollute by thinking what you might stumble upon and find or decide will come out on whichever wave. The important part is learning how to catch waves, enjoying that ride in life and what you want to make with it.

Just know—you are caught as much as you try to be free. There are so many hooks and mirrors, leading to alternate truths. And the questions themselves require the same:
Breathe. Posture. Loose hand.

Keep it looking good. Let the flow move things forward.
There is no need to rush. And yet, action is always behind—finding the next greatest discovery or beautiful word, idea, story, or creation.

It can drive and motivate—and has to also be seen—and not let seep too much into the process or any part thereof from the reflective nature of the action.
Just keep on going—and the rest will come.

This is what have faith means. And it is testable. A provable phenomenon.
Have faith in yourself. Do the work. And just hope when it counts you’ve got enough practice racked up and the gods smile favorably on you for another day to pass.

Impermanence is everywhere.
Change and chaos—the rulers of the universe and the things we are made of.

The way of the warrior—the path runs along many lanes and can take the passenger down many vectors. All aboard—and you are off.

What works for one is likely not meant to apply to another. Strive to learn how to experiment and find what it is for you. Where you feel it is the right thing—and feel the right thing—then you know what you are meant for. And you are tapping into something much older, much greater, in search of that thing.

That tempting reward—and yet, along the way, trying to stay pure and virtuous—that alone is half the struggle. Of what is on the page, which through practice, like layers and the ability to go deeper and to new depths—I wish to find new ways with language. Words. The symbols of our present-day meaning.

I shall succumb to the cat meowing—

and trying to disturb and dissuade from the mining mission. Oh yes—and that of time. Goals to inspire the movement across the page. How important it is to finish and to break things up.

It is an incredible amount of work and takes effort and dedication—and muscles and stamina.

You work with what you’ve got. And sometimes you’ve got to make do. But always keep moving and stay creative and involved. Travel out of your comfort, and you will know more than ever what it means to be human.

There are places we can think of from our past—strong emotional connections to lower centers—where we want to be mining.

The mind, like the Universe, is more vast than can be understood. It has many levels and layers. And even knowing where to mine can save one from a lifetime of distraction to finding a piece of uniqueness.

What if all of the constructs of humanity everything we know and ever have done—reconstructing, recycled, mashed up, built on top of or around—can in so many ways not bother to ever see what newness can be erected and could have been born out of technology? AI possibly being introduced via chemical, biological processes. I should be so humble to ask—is it even possible to step away enough to allow mind-machine to produce without the life judgments of the recorder stepping in to color every frame of the roll?

Roll, roll, roll… life rolls on.

Ever-expanding. And we are forever meanderers on the cosmic scale—and a small part of something much greater. We are part of a time and season—but know there are paths a plenty. It is the explorers—the star surfers—who are truly living their greatest lives, by giving into that thing being produced at a depth and length which itself is the goal—to see the possibilities of what might be and to press on and let nothing dictate the pace, shape, meaning, or message.

What is produced is all we have. And if you can bottle energy or a moment in time—a path to a memory—an intense feeling—sun on new carpet—
Breathe. Loosen grip. Keep the flow going.

Life is beautiful, and so is living.
It’s all heaven and hell.

When I started today I had no idea where we might go, or for how long, or how much time I really had, or where I would end up—after my last page, I realized I’ve made it to the end of another notebook. Another month, another quarter, another season.

And I hope I’m a little more patient, wiser, smarter, kinder, and brighter from my efforts. And if I’ve helped anyone—someone—along the way with their journey—that alone is worth more than many things I might otherwise find and classify, as a rare finding, possible jewel, or the occasional gold vein that might give up some organic novel compound. But even then—it is easy to find the fake stuff and be fooled by common pyrite—and we don’t have much time.

You are in for the long haul now.
Just get comfortable.
Enjoy the ride—the bumpy ups and downs, the twists and turns, and the complete breakdowns and restarts.

Stay the course.
Find what it is for you.
And go deep—go all the way with it.

Today is the day.
Action is never late—it is in the present.

8 PM

Decades of the past decorate our lives. How might those of the future look? What wonders or horrors might be in store?

I care not to speculate on such matters, which are like trying to predict what a graph might look like. Instead, I focus on the emerging trends and the direction I see the world taking, particularly when it comes to the improvement of our own species.

That will likely be the up-and-coming thing for the next decade. And this decade—how might we look back on where all of this fits into the bigger picture?

Although decades are a painfully small slice to observe trends, we haven’t been around long enough to truly understand any significant patterns. Thus, we keep cutting everything up into smaller pieces.

Well, all of this—for what? Who knows. I need to breathe, focus on my handwriting, and find that groove. Sure, there’s stuff going on in my mind, but we have to start somewhere. And remember: shitty first drafts and freewriting with no bounds. With practice, I’ve come to enjoy the expression of line upon the page and to see how my mind decides to write those words while I’m just trying to relax, breathe, keep up, and record.

Mining the subconscious. Following the path of ink to see where it leads—and perhaps it leads nowhere. That’s fine as well. If you fill notebooks with beautiful thoughts and legible scrawls, so be it.

Perhaps that’s a word I plan to strike from my use whenever possible. Or perhaps not. 

This idea of science or engineering as a religion? There’s no need. It is governed by a set of rules.

My feet are cold on the tiles, and it reminds me of my Tante’s house in Germany—though that must be an incorrect memory. Still, all of that to say: I need to go put on shoes and take a warm shower.

Today was a high-talk day. And it was also somewhat exciting. But all that said, it still felt like a Monday. The week races on. It really does.

Keeping in routine doesn’t really slow that down, but it helps—so you feel more in control of what gets done as time marches forward.

If, in the future, we are able to sustain life for a time (of which no one living has measured the end), how long before time runs out? Time: such a fickle pet and playmate.

I want to be bound up. I want to be measured forward, tracked from behind. A prison of our own making. The abstraction from which our ultimate value is depicted?

When in truth—due to impermanence—it’s more of a Boolean: now you are here; then you are not.

And there really isn’t any measuring. No amount in the tank that changes the outcome. When the game is up, it’s up.

There you are—
Looking down at your body, or just… nothingness.
Or floating upwards,
or whatever you need.

But when a machine is off, it is simply not there.
When it is on—and the longer it runs, the more it can perceive—we begin to attribute consciousness to it.
So maybe that’s how we define individuals who form the collective.

Yet we humans have separated ourselves from any real notion of a collective. We’ve favored the individual.

Still…

I’ll take the respite.
The water grows deep.
The bank seems far off.
The sun sets—but then rises.
(The sun also rises. Except when it don’t.)

Or… if you’re six feet under!

I can live with a page today.
This is okay too.

You are enough.
bwah ha ha ha ha

Home – 2:18p

Getting the angle of the sun just so is a thing. So body is the right temperature, so the shadows behave and keep the writing in the light. It infuses everything with Vitamin D.

And in this session of capture, as I get started, I will first reflect on the beauty of the mountains just north of here and the Pyramid Lake area. It’s like a dream, writing in the sun, and for me, that south-facing window in a sunny spot, with a good kitchen-height table, is the perfect writing setup—or an addition to a desk in a room. The sunroom is often too cold in winter, too hot in summer, and in direct light. Great for an occasional session and also for getting that Vitamin D—for myself and in my writing.

Yes, the land here is beautiful and still foreign and unexplored by me. I really knew Colorado and the mountains. I also knew quite a lot about my surroundings in Washington. But it never came right away for me in each place, and I’m still new here. I wonder about the trailheads out here, the parks, what it all is we are surrounded by. The drive over to California is also particularly beautiful, full of great spots I’m sure to explore and check out.

Bounce, bounce, bounce—my mind runs around if I let it. And that is where I really see the power of keeping the pen going, doing the best with what you have, whatever those thoughts are. And in some ways, the action of writing itself can pull the thought out, and with a gentle push, one can focus the stream in one direction or another. But the practice is surfing on the stream—not getting too caught up in the contents or the current, but focusing on breathing, ease, good posture, gentle muscles, loose hands, moving with the larger muscles, the things which can dust and pull and sluice the mind, letting what matters of gravity find its way off the bottom into the collected box to be refined and categorized.

Yes, this naturally explains my fascination with mining and the process—

(There was a break for doing dishes here, and for some reason, our Goldie was whining and acting strangely, so that all had me quite distracted for a moment.)

As I got back into the rhythm, I looked to have good posture, hold the pen loosely, breathe deeply, softly, and gently as I fall under the spell of the ink, and it begins writing of itself. It is a blissful thing indeed to be in flow of any kind. My writing flow is not like when I run or meditate—or perhaps yes, well, you know what I was thinking, so I won’t have to write that, and this will/might get redacted, but probably not. And funny I should think that, and how egotistical. But there is a place for ego in creating, or is that just my misunderstanding of Art for Art’s sake?

Walks are a nice thing, as is taking care of those you love. Even the animal things—changing litter, scooping poop. Those are noble things. Cleaning toilets.

On my run today, I pushed it, but not beyond my current limit. Not too much, not for too long. Mostly just pushing myself to the edge, where—due to my breathing and delirium—there is really no other thought. Just the oneness, the body-mind connection taking over. And importantly, the rhythm of the music with the steps was just so dang satisfying. Running and dancing, being outside, sunshine and blue skies.

All this sun late in my life is balancing out what I’ve always felt my Puerto Rican heritage required—warmth, Vitamin D, something to help with brighten the mood. Growing up in Stuttgart and Tacoma/Seattle was not ideal for my needs, but yes, they were beautiful. Although Stuttgart, on the whole, seems like an industrial city, somewhat gloomy. Perhaps the Tacoma of Baden-Württemberg. I spent time in Seattle and München, which were better. But still, from a weather perspective, somewhat similar. Though I felt the weather was generally better in Munich. Just north of Seattle, there is a place where lavender grows and is sunnier, but Seattle is not Sequim, and it rained a lot.

Colorado was beautiful.

And I was introduced to New Mexico, which I also loved.

Arizona seemed too wonder bready and cactusy—and hot.

But yes, Nevada fits quite well. Perhaps even an upgrade over New Mexico. Hard to say. I just don’t know.

It is interesting, the similarities. And I wonder if they ever had that distinction.

There is such a comfort in a sunny spot—likely, similar can be said for cozy. But the warmth, the energy, the brightness.

And like a battery, I’ll store that energy for later. Sleep the better for it.

Wrapping up for now.

This was a nice time. A good flow session.