My, a Culpa Pity Prayer for Pax
So, Phia sees a foll knitting life’s lowest branches and she says
I see you knitting yarns long wrabbled wrong

Phia stops/ He heard as clear as I, as you
I see you.

I see you polishing, for Phia, you see a new old thing.
Right, you see a new old thing,

Fear it self, itself is greedy for knowers to know it in
They soul, they-we soul of life. Every word and phrase
Pleas, praise, prayers for wisdom do not ward madness
but weakness of “wish fulfilment magic” in unsatisfied minds .

We are sane, as my de fine, if you don’t mind I may steal your story and take it for my own.
‘Tis a mythic trickery doo, there’s a dance, a prance pre-venting prime evil from finding holds in tiny hearts.

We test and pass corroboree, same ol’
seen’s new, don’it, ain’it?
Old’mimis didgereedoo we danced to, too.

I saw you

What manner of man first heard Wisdom say I see you? Was he as me? Or as you?

Take my own story, you may tell it as you own if you think you may.
May, uh, you recall means more some times.
More or less the anti thesis of NO
Maya and NO seem juxt supposed to be thought of when you get to it. Ignor what you think you must
Know now
I see you
thinking this is real and it is and you
And I know it, wit, wit, what we are doing is witting

Half the whole away men stood under dry sky and drew
“wish fulfilment magic” that other men cast to the wind in song.

Twittl’ns witness, “the woods are made of trees”, you gotta lot to loin, girt up, we be movin’ on. You be comin’ wit foawhile.

I see you
pondering hows, wondering whys and waiting.

Wast that a word game Heinlein played with my brain?
“Waiting is” was true before “stranger
In a strange land”.
In the bible, and
quicker than Mr. Strong, the legendary knower of where words are, in the Bible, the media is the
Me sage themesage themes age
Exodus 2:22, Moses names his son Gershom, for “he said, I have been a stranger in a strange land.”
Numero. Nothin’. Verse numbers are worse than punctuation for messing up a session of in-
Context study wit’ lovin’ Wisdom by yo’ side.
Eh, yah, way,
“Wish fulfilment magic” other men name “care casting”,
Did you know?.

You were tripped a bit, that was a stone, not a stumbling stone, a step for your foot, a place to put it. Like boulders in the Verde or cobbles in the Colorado. ‘ few clicks north of Topock swamp…

Let Patience have her perfect work. Waiting for now now is folly seen straight through. What never hides is never hidden
Tha’s plain t’see plain t’see.

You see, Joy, Wisdom, Patience, we are words we hear you hear and say “come and see”

Ah my myth unrolls. Twas the final verses I had that odd professor read. He said, “I like the use of the phrase, ‘if I was not so damned lost'” or he, more precisely, said
“I like the use of the word dam-n-d” if he did not I don’t remember. Were those idle words accounted for?

Good, I feel less likely to believe I remain cussed by my ig-noring. We, here now, let me say I am not a conglomerated (sloppily) solipsist existing for essential nothing.
Energy, power, goes into being me, just
Being me, beneficent me in a world I see I did not build but I may keep it as my own home, my inheritance, jointly with you all.
Myths grow from children hearing men like me swear truth we see is seen by all with eyes to see. Ties that bind us all together grow from tales like these. I pray so, all the time.

All the attention paying is praying
“how can I do good well enough to count” when/then being still
you notice nature and nature’s programmers
seem careless of gnats
But you know gnats have a role beyond my being where they are now. I happen to be producing the warmest, en-circle-able space to this cloud of no-see-ums, who are mythic creatures in their own right. Pesky things don’t bother me nor worship me,
when I am not where they are. There is no curse involved.
No need to weir the stream that made the pond where skeeters breed.

We live on a broken bio-sphere. See that everywhere. Surviving here, by rights, we grow old, ‘n’seem gone away, leavin’ glyphs, poetry of history and Barramundi on the ceiling beneath the night.

Counting and measuring, predicting statistics, those all are witty inventions of men, rightness standard arts set by words and sticks and stones and tales from when all the families spoke with one tongue on stones shouting “We were here before you. Know it now, when you see. ”

Myths are made of stories old ones tell, told by young’ns when they go old and get to know mysteries.
Underlying is what we stand on,
understanding is what we stand under. Standing stones stand above us saying, “See, we, know these things”
Precept upon precept, line upon line, heavier and heavier, worthier and worthier…
That path is where you fall and find you have stumbled all behind you, need I remind you?
You failed. Holy failure,

Deeper…, no, same
Pressure. Forming pressure, not crushing pressure; fining and refining for discernment of the purest point
I see you

Must your mind have sensible things to make sense.
Thought Legos or Tinker-Toy insoughts.
Must there be a bang because you hear a humm that reminds you of an echo of that sound you heard on the tv after channel 10 KOOL-TV Phoenix
Played their last test pattern, then soft
Whoosh the sounds of silence, on tv, right in front of me. My own test pattern from the un-e-verse. I hear those shushing vibes,
She’s givin’ me… yeah tune in… Me’n Brian Wilson, tripping stones that stumbled all that followed

Myths grown from threads crossing in patterns weavers follow.
Did the Weavers sing that song, “Good night, Irene”?
2017 tech we can do this:
The Weavers – Goodnight Irene

It seems so, but listen, she sings, “river” where Kesey quoted Ocean, which rhymed notion. Still, the notion was drowning, jumping in and drowning.
It takes weary man to take such a notion, such notions abound, drowned, all in the Ocean eventuality. From the shore, in the roar, the sea buzzards sky-reach
Up. Look up. Now.

Imagine this is your home. You are not homeless and help is on its way. I say that, then I write more words that must compete for

Why, I am praying, listening and praying windsongs on seashores hearing shushing white noise
Why imagine a bang or a shout echoing in eternity?
We hear a whisper that once shushed us to sleep when all three tv stations went off the air. Peace, be still.