NOTES ON THE STORY

@notesonthestory

something like the notes in a song (function(i,s,o,g,r,a,m){i['GoogleAnalyticsObject']=r;i[r]=i[r]||function(){ (i[r].q=i[r].q||[]).push(arguments)},i[r].l=1*new Date();a=s.createElement(o), m=s.getElementsByTagName(o)[0];a.async=1;a.src=g;m.parentNode.insertBefore(a,m) })(window,document,'script','//www.google-analytics.com/analytics.js','ga'); ga('create', 'UA-35200142-1', 'auto'); ga('send', 'pageview');

153 posts

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"listen to the melodious world" (at Portland, Oregon) https://www.instagram.com/p/BnX8NDunVNU/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=y8qk0pn43l2z

timothy carries these stones like stories in his pockets. the sun shines and he takes a moment to revel in the mystery of his own creations

if you're quiet you can listen in. then you'll hear it, the woods don’t worry. the trees can be and do what they are doing. and there is a noise there, but the noise too isnt worried. it, is. the wind wooshes, the tree trembles, the cat cranes, the grass greens. and nothing needs to know anything special to be itself. there is a frank knowing of this new day to be in. and that this day is where it is. and they, are. nothing needs to reach, to be. and they do change and grow and choose when they need to choose, and run and fight and move when they need to move. and still, they are. and a nearby road carries a car fast into my picture of noises and a hurry moves by, it's a race of where and not here, but always somewhere else. a rush of isn’t, of whats not yet, of what could be but also could never be — it pushes its “isn’t”, “shouldnt it be”, and “it can never be” into my ears. a force of wanting or a choking in not knowing. i listen to all of it because i’m still here, and i’m not sure which is more true and living. which is actually searching, and then finding. i am not sure which is the fulfillment of all my wandering and fixing and desiring. which is the labor that isn’t expiring what “is” really, and then will always be. what is it to be ok, what is it to dream. what is peace

on a day like today we use our memory to find the sky

small winds devise a fire, a small fire founds new winds

some you only find by echolocation

only the seeker will find the endowments that hide

#dontgiveup

same seeing. but only a little light.

if you can not simply say you are this, and that be enough? instead, more simply, be this. (at California)

what's his name?

an angry tide reaches, hungry water leans back and near to consume. small sea creature, a more potent feature of tendons and hunger and fumes. … otter relaxes and in sleep time engages, a hunger that stings and stays. he lifts and recedes, in his strength he steeps. he floats does not need to fight the waves. (at Pacific Grove, California)

“if poetry be your vocation, let poetry your will obey..” - j.w.g.

There is no better waiting-for to stay, than to see the rain, after the hottest length of days. And if I’d sooner gone away? I’d not have seen it quite the same.