Upside Down Kris

Dream Day vs Daydream My dream day wouldn't dawn with a yawning daydream. No, it would begin with my eyes open, the soft sun peeking through the blinds. I would pull them up and catch the day waking-fuschia overlapping a fierce light blue. How can such an innocuous color be fierce, you say? Because the day is fierce-fierce in its firey pride, fierce in its focus, fierce in its effervescence. The window creaks as its frame shakes off the night. A rush of welcome chilliness greets me and I shiver-more from the pleasure of its tingling than the bite of its breath. I have no daydreams in my dream day because I am fully awake in the  the day I have created.  Maybe daydreams keep me occupied when I need an escape, when I don't want to be where I am. I must admit most of the daydreams in my life grabbed me while I was at school. Well, the good news is I'm more where I want to be now. My dream day in reality is very radicated in reality. It's about strolling in the park, devour

  Christmas Stream of Consciousness Lighting, lights, relight, Christmas lights, flashy ones, sparkling ones, shimmery ones... Down the chimney he goes, chocolate chip cookies, crumbs, dusty beard, ruby smile, puffy lips, pearly teeth, pearls, laugh, jolly roll, cinnamon roll left for Santa. He eats the sweets and washes them down with hot chocolate and mini-marshmallows that in reality my mom used to drink. Maybe they sat together, my mom chatting about her children as she stayed up with Santa, he listening with half an ear as he grabs for another cookie (fortunately diets never interested him and he kept his belly and jolly zest for life and cookies) cookies with icing, cookies with red and green sprinkles, cookies cut into Christmas shapes by ingenious cookie cutters... How I loved baking cookies with my mom, licking the batter, bantering about nothing...or did I? Perhaps I didn't speak at all. Instead, I followed my mom's instructions of levelling out the flour (which I don

  Reflections on Air What if we were all breathing–breathing into each other, into the world, and back again... like a hot air balloon propagating itself through space and time, never really stopping anywhere but giving the illusion it does. We pump air in, fuelling it, and it, in turn, fuels us. What if all there is is breath, flowing in and out in an eternal cadence, even when our physical form ceases to be? Respiration moving molecules that we can't see... What if our spirits were made of air and that's all there truly is and all we truly are? Even music is just electrified breath streaming with vibrations, perpetuating sound and silence. It weaves invisible notes into our skin and then transpires into ultimate glory. Perhaps, then, we are all just music infinitely playing to the attentive feelings that grasp it. Our cells are always singing to each other to make their intentions known–we just can't hear them. It's been proven by science. I'd like to think that m

  At a Café "It's all about balance," she says, the tray a horizontal scale in her hands held out flat. It does not shake even as she lowers the tray to the table. I thank her and reach for the alluring cappuccino. It will make a nice companion for my sweet roll with raisins. I think: I shouldn't be eating this , and then almost immediately: Why shouldn't I ? Why should I deny myself a croissant or a cappuccino once in a while? In the scheme of things, what difference does it make? I will not live better or longer adding or subtracting one sweet. It's all in the tray...how often do I fill it with "good stuff"? Do I often "cheat" or go astray? And what does it mean to go astray, anyway? I want to enjoy life. I desire it to be as rich as it can be–no holding back, unless holding back is actually a step toward somewhere I want to be. (Like meditating makes me take a time out so that I feel better for the rest of the day.) It isn't until I

Hearing Quiet, quiet...full of quiet. I hear (thank God!), but the world is more muffled now. An ocean rages in my right ear like the immenseness of sound caught in the cavity of a shell. It distracts me, but seeing as how the wind is always there I could view it as a companion. *Everything depends on how we see it. This is my hearing now. This is my life. On the street I can still hear the sirens, still sense the humming of public works, still feel the pushing of the bus as it roars to a stop. I just may stare and blink as you speak.  I may ask you to repeat. Or not. Many people do (or don't). My grandfather did. It's not a tragedy. My ear is all folded inside, there isn't enough space to hear fully. Ear plugs pop out and ear phones don't sit comfortably so they slide out. On a bus trip I became frustrated and kept trying to stuff them in my ear uselessly until I gave up. I realized  I could listen with my left ear, leaving the right ear phone to sit in my lap. Maybe I