My rhythmic personality

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My rhythmic personality.

At the moment of birth I was given a body, it just so happened to be a drumkit. It was complete with faculties I never thought I’d use and used some faculties in ways I would never have thought.
This body changed as time went on experiencing its infancy, childhood, teens and a portion of adult hood, which has caused me to reminisce and take it all in; its evolution up to its present and what it means to me in its entirety, in the hopes of perceiving some personality in something most consider inanimate.

I feel otherwise.

The hi-hats and cymbals are the vehicles for this body’s intelligence and imagination. With it the possibilities of latent beats are carried. They hold a dynamic range of emotions with an ability of precognition which gives the rest of its body anticipation with crashes and washes of promise and hope.
This rhythm has a pulse to it. A heart beat. That which punctuates the rhythms with life. This is the bass drum, my heart.
With the intelligence rhythmically calling notes, it stirs the imagination causing motion. Yearning to be expressed it calls for a life and my heart replied with a beat and it casually yet purposefully punctuates the rhythm.
It now lives but yet still desires more. This rhythm wants a voice. Something it can share that others will hear. The snare speaks life into a morse-code of repitions to those who listen.

These are my voice, heart and intelligence divinely giving birth to the rhythm. This rhythm has moods and moods are cyclic and those moods are toms and cymbals. The line is often blurred between intelligence and mood and hopefully I learn where that balance is.
Each tom and cymbal is a facet of mood and with each other faculty of its body; each is a facet of #rhythm and personality. How that personality or rhythm is expressed is infinite in possibility.

This #drumkit and the rhythms it produces is very much alive and is a life abstractly rather similar to its human counterpart and those who read this.

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As above, so below

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Even looking at the ground I see bits of the universe
With its constellations strewn by me feet, reflecting, interpreting and expressing what they see above.
And even still my eyes see anomalies and exceptions to the rule.
Am I a mirror of something more than myself?
Am I part of the uniform
Or am I an anomaly?

Mist

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The mist was thick, hazy and encompassing.
Little could be seen and plenty unknown.
The great void lay beyond and although I could not see it, it could be sensed.
In the dense haze at the world’s edge I realized I forgot much,
perhaps too much.
Such is the toll for living choices
And even though there were four main lights that night,
All it took was one to show me that I’m still afraid…

Morning ocean musings

There I stood, still in the shadow of all that was man and human, before the sun could warm itself, looking out at an ocean – swelling like a heart full of love;
hoping that something bigger, something more than what I had become would rise out of its waters to comfort me
but all I felt was the sea spit in my face as it broke its answer over the edge
And as I stood I wondered if there was a crustacean or clown fish on the floor of this swelling heart that wondered, hoped and felt the same as I…

Benedict

He was a seagull named Benedict. He was the one who woke me up. He sat perched on the open window sill. His tone was casual as he asked “Sleep well?” he paused as I rubbed my eyes and slowly sat up in my bed. The air was icy and my feet felt frozen. I pulled open the duvet and saw snow on my feet. I blinked hard as my eyes tried to focus.

“You dream anything?” Benedict asked.

“I…um…just woke up from visiting a badger who lives in a tree trunk buried in snow…But I thought I…”

“Exited your dream?” casually interrupted the seagull. “You know, an exit is just an entrance to another place. Any threshold you cross is both an exit and an entrance, it’s all about perception. You didn’t exit that dream, my friend, you entered into another. Another realm you might say.” Benedict went on to scratch his back with his beak.

“What should I do then?” I asked.

“Well, since you have met the badger, there is someone else you must meet. Everyone calls him ‘The Watchmaker’, a fantastic, gem of a being. If the badger spoke to you, then you are ready to meet ‘The Watchmaker’. Follow me.”

Benedict jumped off the window sill and floated to the floor. He waddled out the bedroom door and down the passage, which seemed longer that it usually did. “Where are we going now?” I questioned still half asleep from my previous dream.

“We going to meet ‘The Watchmaker’, but we need transport.” He stopped at the bathroom door turned and faced the toilet. “There’s the transport.” he said staring at the porcelain throne.

“Uh, that’s my toilet.” I said in an obvious tone.

“Yes, well done. You will find everything you need behind the door. Make sure you put everything on and flush yourself down the tubes, mmkay? I won’t be far behind.” He gave me a smile that only a seagull could give. He must be enjoying this.
Behind the door I found flippers, snorkel, goggles, water-wings and a swimming cap with peacock feathers attached to it. Without question I put on the attire and looked at the seagull.
He gave out a shrill but hearty laugh that only a seagull with seagull humour could express.

“I feel stupid.” I said looking down at my ridiculous traveler’s uniform.

“Ah, but after some words with ‘The Watchmaker’ I can assure you, you will feel slightly less stupid.” He gave me an honest seagull smile and I couldn’t help but return it with my honest human smile. “OK.” I said hidden behind an uncertain, forced laugh.
I stepped awkwardly into the toilet bowl. I felt the water around my feet and gave a half grimace – half-smile to the seabird.

“Wait, I almost forgot” said Benedict. “Here, you will need this.” with his beak he pulled from out the shower, a kick board.

I held it in my hands and stared down at it in disbelief. Before I could say or question anything, Benedict was already next to the toilet, “OK let’s go!” And with that, I was flushed down the toilet like an expired gold-fish.

 

Stir

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Life for me at times is summer camp at 5AM and I am ten years old.
I’m awake.
I tiptoe around sleeping bodies that talk in their sleep.
I remain quiet.
The only other ones awake are the naughty kids.
The ones that dare seek adventure in the dark.
These are the ones I stir with
with whispers and muffled laughter.
The sun is about to rise and we all should want to see it.
The appeal of sleep and dreams are too strong for most of the kids.
So there I sit,
on top of a mountain with kids who dare to play before the light of day,
Just to watch the sunrise.