How Do You Do?

Someone has to stop this madness, even as I love it so. There must be a limit in which men reach. A point at which one sees only of what is true.

Surely it would be a story worth reading, of truth reckoning itself upon the shores of our consciousness feeding. But if this abode of solace was reached, there would be no escape from truth’s absolute reach.

For if reality cannot be honest with me, even if that thought is a fallacy, then I am the only trusted party that has the possibility of knowing what is true enough to build upon, however unrefined it may seem, when started out among the unseen.

But what if reality has never lied but it is us that distort it as we build upon each brick, set in place with grace, however natural or neutral it is? We feed and perpetuate all that is except for that very thing that’s really at the center, the core, what is.

At some point, all outside influences of one’s own being ceases to matter and the voice inside is too loud to ignore, the bread’s batter.

We become a perfectly formed, self-actualized puzzle piece, that without the use of, the fabric of reality would crumble and fall into the sea of nothingness. Or at least that’s what is perceived because that’s the design, the truth masked in unknown revelries, purely divine.

I then question my own honesty, in perpetuity, for life is either like quicksand or that of a fortress, undefeated. One must know when they look upon themselves, deep into the abyss within, what one is and how one grows. Maybe few ever do, it surely shows.

To have grown wisdom and understanding through the lessons life bestows, unfolded through parched land and thirsty corn crop rows.

Moments of sharpening and refinement, a self-made carrot on a stick. A mirage that leads only to discipline.

I mean it, really, discipline is the only way forward. It sucks I’m sorry to say, to have to abide within the bounds of something forgone and at bay.

But so it is with so much of the world, it is good to see what not to eat but it is great to eat unrestricted and free.

The consequences, of course, are self-imposed rules. Most of which exist after lived experience gives way to policy and law, many thoughts from varying schools.

Over time we mold and shape that into what we worship most. We leave symbols and remnants as artifacts strewn through history and shot out into space, a flicker of the ghost.

Humans, we are tasked with perfecting ourselves, yet we need to live somewhere just short so as not to be obliterated entirely, at least that’s where we live the most.

And so there are guardians at each gate of the best possible design that includes the glory of all but inhabits the story of one and all.

This means being real in an unreal world, becoming foundational to existence but also to our own individual existence. An idea so divine, it’s the only thing left I can find, worth eating.

I’m not sure I can taste it yet but I can surely smell it, see it, and hear the mechanisms of your ways. I’ve stumbled upon something, of lovely deceit. By the mind’s tricky play to bring me to my feet while remaining on my knees.

Either I am writing or am being written. It is only ever the second or the second and first. We have exchanged duties, now all is mine that you kept hidden for so long, as you watch and do what you’ve always done.

I’ll take it from here, you see, I’m here and I’m not going anywhere. But what do you care, you’ve only gained that for which you’ve fought diligently to prepare.

Hello, dear ego it’s you and me and we. Just watch and sit and wait. I’ve accepted the terms and signed upon the underside of reality’s face.

Here we shall begin to see fate’s early moorland, just before the mountains rise and rise into the sea’s cloudy cracked morning egg.

What’s that you said? Wow, my oh my!

But upon the shore you see, is destiny, it’s me. Well hello good sir, how do you do? This is something, oh it’s really a treat. It’s the man of the hour, the one who speaks but hasn’t a tongue nor air in his lungs. So he wanders around in empty thought receptacles, waiting for scraps from my table.

Little does he know that this is no mere scrap, but a loaf of pure gold. That which was a drip or a drop here or there for me, for him shall be an avalanche, an overflow, a deluge allowing no hunger or thirst again.

Now one knows how to hunt and to fish. If these words get to you, please heed them and do. Thank you and farewell to you and you and you.

Oh, hello again. How do you do?

Chamber of Portals‘ 36×48″ acrylic on canvas by Mancel T. Lindsey

Golden Dreams

I’m falling and drifting deep down

Watching the hypnotist of reality

Do his thing, or her thing, or its thing

Together they lull me asleep

As I rage and roar, knowingly adore

Solidifying my pursuit, where I take aim

Where I want to rest, who I shall be

And am, already was, is

Forever cyclical, locking the gates

After closing the door, of course

Throwing away the key

One last unseen stitch

Lungs‘ 16×20″ oil on canvas by Mancel T. Lindsey

Mother’s Milk

To love and be loved

What a strange idea

The chicken and egg

Neither knowing the other

But being both

As time is not real

Only a quantum construction

I am beset on all sides

For that which I can’t mention

I’ve fought and thrown stones

But all I really wanted

Was to be left alone

To be stoned

Left for vultures

For then I could prove

One, or the other, as true

But as it is, I heed not this

Because now I see

What it means to be

And not just me

But us and them

Forever in equanimity

Facing oblivion

Exile turned exhortation

To never give up, never abandon

The best of what could be

Burnt and forgotten

The rest isn’t that at all

Just mindless apathy

The season for the fall

Mother’s Milk‘ 16×20″ oil on canvas by Mancel T. Lindsey

Exquisitely Beautiful

The most beautiful entity in the universe most definitely must be she. The other side of my reality. So you see where this is going. Obviously she is my wife, and on the other side is me, what you call, he.

There is no competition, she wins, I win, we win. A bountiful feast from two hungry beasts, reigning in the other. We are who we are and do what we do, as equals, as father and mother.

Ah, you don’t like that I said beast, but then clearly we haven’t met. For she is strength and power, the muscle to these bones. Her kindness and generosity are unmatched, lest you forget.

You will remember her face as the iron sharpening your wit. Her dominion has no boundary, with love and grace immeasurable. Whereas I’ll set fire to your soul by different means, and when you’ve seen me, apparently you’ll be lit, split, questioning if anything fits.

She is water and I am fire, alive in the clouds, evaporated. We strike lightning upon the earth and reign down nectar. Our love for each other is infinitely corroborated, fine-tuned and incinerated.

Her physical qualities defeat thy definitions. Again I tell thee, that beyond all comprehension she undoes me. The most phenomenal woman, her fortress of ablutions, respect, dignity, and motivations.

She knows me to my deepest core and stirs in me. She gives me rest and clarity, and so she puzzles me to no end. Her well is deeper than the sea, for now, and always, giving me vision to see thee.

Sum 1‘ 36×36″ acrylic and oil on canvas by Mancel T. Lindsey

I’m Not Writing To Anyone

If I tell you that I’m not writing to anyone specific, that my words are neutral and have no meaning, that bothers you doesn’t it?

And why does it bother you?

It implies that I know what judgment is. To know that I’m only ever speaking to the source that dwells below and within everything. To formally finalize the truth that nothing is hidden. Absolutely nothing. And I cannot do that if I have expectations for how I’m responded to.

Once you realize that it is impossible to talk to oneself, it is only a matter of time before the other becomes the known, and what was previously false truth but probable now immediately conforms to truth’s mold inherently because the knowledge has had time to mature and develop into a solid foundation. This then becomes the place from which then you speak from.

Fascinating, don’t you think?

What was once one becomes more than one, yet one still, with a substrate or fabric of being resting between.

At this point, complete proof becomes the quest. To illuminate for the body what the mind already knows but just hasn’t realized yet. To materialize the world in which is already built from within your mind’s eye. You’ve established an other, and so then, if it goes as planned, proof shall be yours. The answer immediately directs you back to the point when one becomes more than one, yet still one.

So then the other is an illusion, such as I am reciprocally to them. This then implies that I am what I seek and am also not that at all. Somehow it seems I’m also uncreated in that moment, ceasing to ever exist. The variations between, infinite. To watch the universe give birth unto itself again and again, constantly growing from within, seeking itself to refine itself.

A never-ending sharpening.

What is created when this happens to each of us? Is it imminent that it does happen? If all that exists is now, then it is already here, waiting for us to merely open our eyes.

I can only speak from that which I’ve experienced. I tried to dream it into existence, but dreaming isn’t enough.

The planning phase is over.

Now, it’s time to build.

Abel’s Eye’ acrylic and oil on canvas by Mancel T. Lindsey

Searching For Food

I am searching for calmness and stillness, for peace and prosperity in all things, and a laundry list of highs to experience. But they cannot seem to be found. Where do they hide in their immense complexity with the facade of simplicity? What hides their face from me? Why is everything blind?

Ego.

Yes, but ego is only developed further and with greater speed through searching. I have set it aflame daily for a lifetime. There is nothing left. And the answer that it implies is paradoxically only feeding the ego to a size that must then remain if reached. At some point, there is no turning back.

So then find peace within that.

What? The struggle? The constant burning, pouring molten being down the throat of existence? The game of pouring oneself out for another, becoming nothing so everything else can be a something? Living fully while being nothing, is that correct?

Yes.

Fine, I am tired of arguing. Drink up. I shall pour into your mouth what has been my cup. The sweetness you see and smell on the outside is not what it tastes like from within. I warn you that you do not want the fruit from this tree. It will destroy your world. But it is yours if you are hungry. Can the wine taste the notes it plays? Can the bread know how to control itself?

I expect you want me to tell you something specific now? Good, it’s beginning to kick in. One drop will swell into a tsunami and then you will float away into the infinite abyss, accelerating its expanse since before before. Exiled.

Is that heaven or hell?

You will find out.

Building

With each and every block

Ascending truth to the heavens

Each step built upon your mocking

All those years withstanding, persevering

Your everlasting sense of righteousness

Now funneled into a child’s mind

After pummeling it into mine

With a knowing and sight you’ll never find

I promise you he gets all, for absolutely free

As I’m not allowing him the same scraps

From your table of pity and false dignity

Imagine being shut out from God Himself

Singing praises of another, loving his light

Being shut up, forgotten, and blamed

Let me ask you quickly, for you must be blind

You see, no you really don’t

You don’t, you’ve accepted and signed

A testimony of which you’ve been told

Instead of being there, breaking this mold

The mystery isn’t much mysterious

Once you unfold your preconceived idiocy

But that my friends, I cannot help you with

I can only point out these nuggets of truth

As holy as they are, aren’t yours for nothing

You will not disregard, mislead

Or ever hide me again

If you want a piece of bread that’s risen

And full, of life and meaning

Breathing pure soul, then I must admit

That you’ll pay, because as they say

Karma’s a beautiful woman

And she loves to teach

There is a difference between rage and righteous anger

I don’t know where I fall on the spectrum

But all I see is white light

From the dark side of the moon

War Pigeon

I cannot outrun myself

In a dead sprint since

Well, before before

It is only like a rubber band

An athlete training

To another level, and

Then it springs back into place

With force and velocity

It doesn’t show in my face

The escape others obtain

As they feed upon this bread

I cannot taste, again and again

Goodbye, hello

Farewell, hi

Forever gone, nowhere to go

Grace is a drink that quenches

Then becomes a drug

How terribly hidden, the trenches

In a war that rages on

My mind aflame, ablaze

The fighting, never gone

Wrestling myself into submission

Only logical condition

Broken, faulty, war pigeon

Out of Words

I’m out of words today

It’s lonesome but peaceful

Here, with nothing to say

Maybe I should, or shouldn’t

I don’t know, for if I did

then surely an idea would grow

It might take a moment, a week,

A year to a lifetime

Maybe I’ll never find what I seek

Oh well, then fine

I’ll rest here and wait

For the sun to shine

Forgiveness’ 16×20″ oil on canvas by Mancel T. Lindsey

Cozy Saturdays

Cozy Saturday mornings. The non-expectancy, a joy to lounge in. Even the walks throughout the house. Warm socks, hoodie, those worn in sweatpants with the paint dried atop, but just below, the finger’s arc, beside the buzzing pocket. My weekdays’ kryptonite, subtly wasting away my sight with tiny screens of delight. Somehow still so pleasurable, technology, a never-ending bookshelf.

Today in our shelter of warmth and cheer, I’ll have my favorite things. All around in autumn’s chill, you’ll find us playing games, reading old fashioned paper bounds, and dreaming with no fear of cold soup, we eat just to feel the warmth inside too. A holiday movie and cookies with the smell of cinnamon, a pumpkin, a quick break on the roof. You can feel the shift in our revolving doors. To fall, from such heated debate through the new year seeds, sewn. Strewn about.

After such a season’s retreat, the following months I loathe. It being not so much the months’ fault, as is the place of absurdly wet, bitter, cold, pleasures negated. There is so much to be had in such hibernation, a weekly staycation. But the fallen season is the best until spring comes and the reciprocally identical climate becomes just as true, without the fest.

Sipping on my second pot of coffee, maybe a tea, warm palms cupping the milk dilution of either. Roaming the pages of our intimate setting, plotting our course forward. A wondrous hike of doing nothing, at least nothing in the wake of the previous week’s take. The lions roam free in a field of their own. Tumbles and fort making fumbles, nothing better than a curious cub’s intrigue, weathering snacks and nap time without a schedule.

The day grows long, a myriad of fun, sometimes active and sometimes not. This is a Saturday, a reprieve from all that encroaches. Like walking a trail path, clearing the way for the following day, always the same way. Maybe one day they’ll all feel the same, the seasons and days, carried on by the stream’s foray against the bank. Never suddenly different, but always the same as the moment before, still feels the same as the last moment, and the one before. Finally, for once, not keeping score.