Week 48-22 - Haibuno

28 November 2022

I see a translucence in
the end of desire

A wonderful place to help dreams become real.

29 November 2022

Clouds racing to ground
tumbleweeds rolling around
snow falling no sound

She leveled up her healing organically. Three past one past the sunburnt window in the room that never stays cool. She painted fairies into life and they gossiped over precious tea cups. There may have been cakes and tiny sandwiches involved, but you can never be too careful when the seas go haywire. He called from the furious season of fire - a simple whisper of smoke and sunbeams. She answered with a glorious scream of sleet and moonquakes. They locked arms and swung together under a night, a perfect bite, of quasi-solitude.

30 November 2022

First turns of season
bluebird hides behind her mask
are you a local?

She asks me “where do you go, when you’re ‘there’?” My eyes roll to the back of my head and I peer inside deeply. And there was no, where, ‘there’. The soft staccato of graupel on my helmet leads me to believe that maybe ‘there’ is subnivean. I press the button on my bindings, step out, and dive deep into the nearest drift. Poof! There’s a ninguid revelry happening ‘there’. Blinded by the sparkle of 1 million snowflakes, and a raucous “welcome!” from as many languid voices. One intricate snowflake pivots over and from the center it speaks “We are always ‘there’ when you want to be ‘there’.” I am inside, frozen, a sui generis mansion, partying with the locals as it’s always been. A transpicuous disco. A frozen spectacle. ‘There’.

01 December 2022

Stationary stores
Five and Dime trinkets galore
those wondrous aisles

The tranquil elegance of catch-up again. Four days into one, the unforgiving pace of never enough time. Out of my country and out of myself I go, heavily wailing to vegetate. A sometimes slanting snow is in the foreseeable future.

02 December 2022

Breakfast burrito
baking new chocolate cake
birthday adventures

Cutting the threads of the past loose to tell our unique stories. Will they adequately capture our inherent impermanence? Will the process of writing be a meditation upon the evanescent law of beauty and uncertainty? Will it celebrate asymmetry and irregularity? Will we make friends with friends of our distant past that we have never known? How did we grow, and adapt? How did we mourn and express joy? Did we howl at the moon to access the subconscious mind? Que sais-je? She has the face of a dog with a secret sorrow. Her every moment readjusts the coordinates of herself, some more violent than others.

03 December 2022

Stroll through junipers
Imagining might have been
abandoned mid stride

Time versus time. Running behind wants, needs, desires, obsessions, time. Time to do what needs to be done. Time to not get done what wants to be done. Time to do time right. To feel like doing time right is proper and in alignment. The rush is decidedly unproductive. Time abandoned mid-stride. Time versus obsessions feeding a lack of time spent feeding desires. Time imagining what might have been. Time to rush time. Time to stroll through time. Time seeps through juniper berries fermenting in time. Leisurely.

04 December 2022

Shards blanket the grounds
maker at whim of nature,
run barefoot moonlight

I could stand next to the stream bed and forgive myself if I could stand next to the stream. In bed I could.

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Jamie Larson