AUTOBIOGRAPHY of my first 12 months
What Love Grows Naturally
Lifted gently and dreaming from one world to the next, from horizons of watery impressionist pinks and reds all across the tonal scale (never black, never white) to a new, unfocused, fuzzy place of chromatic directions and distractions. This is what they call being born ceasarian, and Ceasar called himself a god. Nonetheless, it was an ordinary enough birthing. But this little pink-faced expression of god, like God, does not or cannot control or manipulate. This god, like God, grows organic, planting seeds, watering, tending, and watching with amazement the maize that springs forth in its seasons, each plant different and similar, each cycle of season different and similar, sustenance for the cosmos which continually consumes and renews itself. That God-Beyond-Words we are clumsily describing is like a bowl supporting and serving All-That-Is-And-Isn’t — which is also God Itself in Its infinite variety. The Ten Trillion Masks. All thinking and non-thinking, feeling and non-feeling then inhabited this little boy on the far left hand side of the continent not far from the lizard’s tongue of Baja, landbridge to nowhere, landbridge to Atlantis, deep in the bosom of zen surfing and disneyland, suckling at the breast of hollywood and homelessness, race riots and rich togetherness. The self-same thinking and non-thinking, feeling and non-feeling, also inhabited his short, curly-haired mother with the east texan accent and practical, generous, liberal motivations, that thinking/feeling also present in the cord which connected them, the air they shared, the food they would be one day when consciouness floated into spiritual smoke once again. So too was the doctor god and God, and his rubber latex gloves, his sacred scalpel, his seven nurses and seven attendants and seven monitoring machines, the air between them, the space between the molecules, the rotating planet they stood upon whirling through space. All god and God. All interconnected. And forgetful. Sleepy. Drugged. Clumsy. But not crying much. Getting sick sometimes. Drinking from his mother’s breast. Feeding from a plastic n****e. Grasping his father’s fingers. Being bathed so carefully. Passed from hand to hand to hand. Cooed over. Ahhed at. Tickled. Read to. Given soft animal totem gifts which he grasped and put in his mouth. All the while singing in his own language.
MindFeather Community Member 
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