Angel wing patina

Greek weekend and everyone on campus seems to know my name. Walking back from Jesters with cup of java wedged in paw I get three simultaneous car beeps and two frat heads propping out of SUV side-windows cackeling, "DAVE!!!!!!!!!" Have no clue who these people are. Like a strand of DNA I keep weaving my way in and out of social clusters, seeking solitude one second and eternal companionship the next, knitting the genetic fabric of my own crazy aesthetic. Somehow, on campus, everyone knows me. I'm the crazy long-haired librarian who writes books. The one who's a few years older, but a few years youthful. The one who smiles at everyone, chats with all the foreign students, harnesses a weird lexicon, observes Holy Days for a weird religion, and sips coffee like his first wet-dream was about a mocha-eyed lass by the name of Gloria Jean.

Is this the Mara carnival? The escapade of strobelights reverberating their neon fizz in the streets beckoning me to join? The wadded phone digits with her name initialed and scribed in bubbly little carbonated feminine hearts? The one she hands me and I discard and crumple up into a baby cabbage and pretend that I'm in the NCAA tournament with three seconds on the clock when I fake, look, pump and fire for the nearest trash receptacle?

I once wrote a horrible indulgent puppy-eyed book by the name of "Where all the Dream charchters dream too" It was about a charchter named Maya (illusion) who could traverse time and space like it was nothing more than ledger lines on sheet music. It was sort've a cross between the girl I was in love with in fifth grade and watching her traipse to and from her piano lesson every Thursday.

But the idea of time being a veiled illusion; that diaphonous see-through cloth that the groom avails before seeing his bride's unblemished visage for the first time (although she had experienced him before) is intriguing.

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Angel hoasanna and quick accolades! The Holy day went well!!!! We had a total of five people and I designed a cool program that Uncle Mike even approved. I read Chapter thirty-five from a book called "The Hour of the Dawn" by Mark Perkins.

The story of the Bab is one I've been thinking about lately especially in terms of surrender. The Bab employs his noted mystical "vanishing theatrics" because he has a job to do. He has a conversation to complete.

In the notion of surrender I feel like, even though the nature of life is precarious and transient, we know what our individual jobs are and we have the priveldge of tackeling them with joy on a daily basis. Yet, I feel a tugging below my ribs that informs me that, whatever you have to do in this lifetime, whatever you feel lead to acheive, will be completed; even if the fussilade of bullets is only a half-breath away from seperating you from mortality; your job, your duty (dharma), will sprout into fruition.