The Forest, The Man

Draft

By Cristy Parker

I can feel the somber crunch beneath my feet as every step is an announcement that I am in the forest. To walk quietly would have to be a conscious act. Awareness does not come easy. My head spins with many distractions and every thought reiterates a thinking existence. I would much rather settle into the green, brown, orange floating on tree limbs. The leaves offer me a symphony, tones of comfort and grounded-ness. I melt into the present, allowing it all in at once. 

What is it about the forest that pulls me into such stillness? The forest does nothing to get my attention but allows itself to be seen. I only have to be still. However, the city is different. Jack hammers force their presence upon me, idling cars smell like a headache and tall grey buildings seem to hold a higher position. It’s the living that seems invisible. Like the man wearing three jackets with toes peek-a-booing threw holes in amber shoes. I remember wondering if his toes collected stories, spying becoming the expertise of the neighborhood.

The smell of pine runs past my nose as if chasing the breeze and I can feel my soles sink into the soft, fallen pine needles. I wonder what it would be like to sleep beneath the green upon a bed of brown pine mulch. I wonder if the man I saw in the city would consider it a worthy place for comfort, bedding down to claim a mattress. The old pine needles that have fallen from the trees give space for new needles, and as the old needles decompose, they give nutrients to the roots and living organisms in the soil. In nature, all that is living, even when discarded, is nurturing to all that is around them.

I can see the man in my mind’s eye pushing the shopping cart with all of his belongings; a plaid wool blanket and two large black garbage bags. However, it was his face that stood out the most; sun-kissed, with eyes as soulful as a saint. His beard, naturally greyed over his sunken checks. I remember he spotted me staring, gave me a toothless smile so genuine my heart melted from the donation, even now.

The wind tickle’s my face and I gaze at the sun high above me just in time to see the sun shoot down golden rays, and like lips parting a smile, the beams move through the openness of the tree’s, lighting up the forest floor, resourcefully giving without notice. 

Brecht And The Human Race

poem

Is the human race missing out on their living system component?

You know the one, the matter energy connection that allows ecosystems to self-sustain. 

Can you imagine a queen bee, telling the hive that she is taking ten cents from their wages.

She would be forever managing behaviors; money matters.

However, the queen doesn’t; 

Worker bees imagine themselves, driven by their own inner guidance.

Queen bee is a human name, a name the bee did not imagine herself. 


No wonder Pavel fled into the mystery, leaving his mother to be implicit

His life was imagined for him; hostile

He was searching for his living system component, the matter energy connection; he mattered. 

The explicitness of machine’s roared in his ears, as men on all sides demanded their ten cents

Force begets force, forever detailing the natural

Pavel knew life would be nothing more, and he imagined differently; a life for himself


We are in a paradox of knowing and belief

Authority over self and authority over someone else’s body

Organic and Machine

A machine is a closed-system; a non-intelligent system that can not change on its own

Matter is an open-system; an intelligent system that ebbs and flows in self-sustainment

When the human race believes the machine; we fight and die against a non-intelligent system

When the human race knows life as our own creation 

We become like the bee, eternal intelligence

A machine is what we add to it; the human race is not a machine

So, change is already our creation; nothing to fight for said the bee 

Cristy Parker

She Slipped Like Water

poem

She slips through my fingers

Like water

I just wanted to experience her giggles 

Floating like soap bubbles 

Popping with glee

Her hair 

A mesh of both wetness and dryness

Absorbing my attention

Black luminous strands that captured the moon

She smells of salt 

And sea grass

A hint of ocean fresh fabric softener

She refuses containment

Kicking with sandy feet at the oceans edge

Back into the ocean

I had to let her go

The Whole Scene Looked to Me

advocating

Maybe a paradox is a crossroads, where one encounters an intersection made of fixed identities; no matter if the identity is imagined for you or self imagined, fixed identities control consciousness. So in this sense, if I understand my own defenses of how I structure my identity into strictness. I could evolve from the paradox into higher awareness. From this perspective, I could utilize my talents fully in performing identity. 

Identity becomes more of a tool when I am not controlled by my own fixed identity. Identity turns into uniqueness, wanting to identify with another’s uniqueness; our place together within the intersection. As I consciously choose to connect to uniqueness, the other person will see me as nonthreatening. So, within this matter to energy connection, the other can change how they identify to the conflict, and both of us can move towards facilitating change. 

Instead of defending ourselves, we can begin to share what is important, intersecting ideas, feelings and talents with each other; we evolve into something greater, together. In this sense, everybody’s perspective has meaning and worth. We can move beyond conflict, change the past held within, step into the present together, and grow into higher conscious awareness upon the planet. Our vibrations rise into the future and relationships are no longer stagnant but performing. 

The cumbersomeness of a fixed identity, either imagined for you or imagined from you, is very stifling to the ebb and flow of one’s being-ness; never growing from the fixedness and strictness. However, by allowing the fixed identities to fall away, our uniqueness shines and our talents work together for the greater good of us all.

Feeling Fierce Over The Mishandling of a Body

advocating

I have not seen this man for years and yet a boy who stood before me in shakiness of every body part. He was all tremors, had MRSA on both legs and he was overweight.

The living system of a human being; his body is a portal of the past, present, future: universal consciousness. A human body does not differ from the earth. He is his own ecosystem, and like the earth, he is subject to climate change as something disrupted the climate patterns held within his body.

Medication to manage his behaviors. An intervention to the mishandling of his youthful body from the past. He has a glitch, unprocessed trauma that subjected him to a diagnosis, in need of fixing and prescribing.

The artificial patterns are causing his human spirit to suffer, his body is suffocating and his consciousness oppressed from expressing his well-being. I think he is dying from the inside-out.

He stood before me and reeked of the continual mishandling of a living system that I felt deep fierceness for the violations.

poem

Where do I stand

in the mist of all these books, each offered as an appetizer, waiting for me to take a bite of the sensual crumbs as if I could get a taste of myself.

I can’t help but feel captured by their presences, that I have to prove myself to them, get to know them, dialogue with them. 

When all I want to do is release and love, lean into the discovery within the pages of creativity, the place where a child sits in wonderment, playing with her books, setting them up for a tea party. 

We converse over tea the books and I, conversation is a willing intellectual passings, from one book to another. And me, I would be the open book with random writings and some empty pages.

I would not want to fill myself up, certainly not with ideal chit chat but with meaningful phrases that with each inking would create another empty page. 

#livingsystemawareness

poem

She hardly

Wastes her time, passing me by without a hello.

Today she is wearing Sergio Rossi, the kind that makes my feet hurt; the slope from the long wooden tongue at the heel, forcing my toes into a point I don’t care to conform to.

Her Coco Chanel, too narcissistic to cover the back of her calves, leaving her vainglorious skin ripe to be licked by any dog in need. I know a stray dog who would do such a thing, always licking for attention, or at least to be useful, like fetching her a hamburger or something.

#livingsystemawareness