u/ifishcat

Started: Saturday, May 16, 2026, 3:02 PM EDT

Wild, untamed, as nature.

Caw caw caw—I'll call this fiction, but the wilderness doesn't lie.

Before I could read, adults taught me about god. The wilderness taught me what was real. One required belief, the other just required showing up. I learned from what was there. Uncoachable, not by defiance - just by necessity.

Out in the wild, I'd talk to myself out loud. Nature didn't answer in words, just kept making its sounds. But the birds would go quiet when I walked close - listening. They knew I was there.

I started thinking out loud about yes and no. Were there any other words that could do what they did? None. 'Yes' and 'no' - absolute.

With that resolved, I proceeded to test the god concept. Ok god, you're all-knowing, nothing's beyond your ability, you know yes and no. Tell me god, yes or no?

Crickets. Nothing. Dead stark silence.

Damn, I hoped god would speak to me like one of those biblical stories, and I'd become a prophet of the word... Nope, didn't happen. Ok, so I'm no one special, just like everyone else I might have known back then.

Did I mention I was also doing something akin to meditation? Yeah, a hillside that caught the afternoon sun. I couldn't fall asleep - I had somewhere to go soon. So I would daydream. The challenge: how long could I daydream without forgetting myself. That was it. Simply.

Days, months, years, seasons passed while I visited the wilderness almost daily. Human beings are a distortion, and the expressions they make are always questionable, regardless of their intent. I was slowly being socialized, learning the dance. Even so, humans didn't carry the realness I was witnessing in the wild.

Recently something stopped me: the phrase 'eye to eye, face to face' as a gateway to realness. I said 'huh'.

The wheels turned, and I went back to the wilderness in my mind. Is this true? Come on wilderness, speak clearly. I'm eye to no eye, face to no face. What's up?

I've come to understand access has back doors, exceptions, alternate routes. Being uncoachable has left me to seek guidance from an expanding wilderness - more than just that backwoods home. Didn't realize I had access, I just did. I stopped looking to people for answers. Their words compound the distortion. The wilderness taught me to look directly.

I'm part of society and independently separate at once. We may all share access to the stillness. I watch how people use it.

--

This is one chapter. More to come (maybe).

Ended: Saturday, May 16, 2026, 11:09 PM EDT

while i was just making coffee
a clear image arrived:

mocking birds flew --
i trolled.

for that, i apologize.

(draft 2)

It’s been six months driving the shuttle. As far as a route goes, the scenery has to be one of the best, just right for daydream food. Still, familiarity has smoothed out new edges, leaving the 'current today' a little dull.

-

The car rolls into the rotary, as usual. Josh still doesn’t quite get the flow of it, but he likes the small smile that comes when the car leans into the circle. A round car, in a round turn, in a roundabout. An end of the road that doesn’t end.

-

Once again, right on cue, Sammy comes through the sliding doors. Josh and Sammy have settled into a kind of used‑to‑each‑other. From that alone, Josh can tell something’s up as he catches Sammy’s grin and smirk. That, and the odd box Sammy is carrying.

'Hey, Sammy.'
'Wot ya got in da box?'

Sammy opens the door one‑handed and slides into the front seat, closing it in a single, smooth swing. Sammy isn’t what you’d call athletic, but somehow everything lands balanced. Josh has noticed. Once, he even asked about it. Sammy just shrugged. Even the shrug had its feet under it.

'Hey, Josh!' Sammy settles the box on his lap, fingers resting on the lid, grin still there.

Josh feels himself waking from the drive’s slumber at the sight of Sammy and the box, but the exit is coming. Time to roll out of the circle. They ease off onto the access road.

Josh glances over, a small nervous smile. 'The box?'

Sammy’s grin brightens.

'It was being tossed out today. Annual house cleaning. The label on the outside caught my eye. I looked in, and - yeah. Couldn’t leave it.'

None of this settles Josh. If anything, the unease sharpens.

The label keeps flickering at the edge of his vision as he threads between cars.

'Sammy, tell me I’m reading that label wrong- 'Mind Viruses!??''

The words from the shuttle host set Sammy off into a soft laugh.

'Not viruses. ENGAGERS.'

'Keep your eyes on the road, but if ya looked a bit closer, ya’d see it. Somebody crossed out the first word and wrote the other. Got upset about something, I guess.'

Sammy taps the lid once, lightly, as if to check the weight.
'People, huh.'

-

Postscript:
Only the word moved.

a few decades ago, i made an attempt—if ya could call it that—at expressin the unfiltered ordinary

---

redman chew'n tobaccy :spit:

nothing like a good chew... :spit:

back a good number of years :spit:, i happened to connect with a couple good ole boys that chew'd redman :spit:

now i'd never chewed tobacco before :spit: but they made it look so good :spit:—slow, easy, like time didn't mind waitin on 'em :spit:

didn’t take too long :spit: before curiosity took hold :spit: n i just had to try me some :spit:

the thing bout chew'n is that :spit: when you are inside :spit: there aint no place to :spit:

ah but ya see these fellars knew the way :spit:

ya see wot ya need :spit: was to get yer self a cup :spit: n fill it wit a wad of :spit: toilet paper :spit:

n there ya go :spit: a portable :spit: spitoone!

we'd sit there :spit: not sayin much :spit: just chewin :spit: spittin :spit: passin the time like it weren’t goin nowhere :spit:

didn’t think much of it then :spit:

dont :spit: too much no more

but every now n then :spit: i get to missing the pluzur... :spit:

----------

postscript:

tracing then n now :spit:

wots different :spit: wots not :spit:

somethin still the same :spit:

since i've made zenmu a kind of workspace for typed expression, a number of 'things' have arisen.

there is the work on myself to get clear. then translating that into text

there is the slow acclimation to some zen vocab, phrasing, posture.. translated into text

and then the personalities, each with their own expressions.. translated into text

-------

as i've mentioned elsewhere, just a layperson

i didn't walk some 'zen path' to get here

zen showed up late, like a finishing step on the no-path

a bridge-word, pointing back at the source the goobly goop may have leaked from

------

so: some work on self, a new eye so to speak. now what?

(the dishes were washed and dried long ago)

is this the land of leftover energy, to be freely given to passersby?

----

if so, that opens an odd can of words, er worms

turns out, nobody wants it - or, it has to be packaged just so

wait: rules on giving? ha.

--------

with this perceived excess, wanting to give, i glance at the headlines (and counter-headlines)

is this then a place to give?

--

what is giving, as an act?

what is a donation, if not this?

-

one way or another, i sit on a grounding

the passages pass through, meeting persistence.

this is already given.

well well well... fiction?

-------------

the fast read:

you called ahead.
you breathed.
you arrived.

so—what did you do?

----------

I'm driving the car to work. this particular morning, i got the urgencies, the appointed time is ever nearing, bam! traffic jam.

wtf, of all times, don't do this to me, what to do, what to do, think think...

ok - breath.

no time passes

a moment of stillness,

phone number gets dialed "hey man, i'm gonna be late, traffic is jamming"

-----------

cars have transmissions in basically two flavors, manual, and automatic.

manual -

automatic?

no one shifts.

the car goes.

-----------

"we are here!"

the sign says IFC Game Preserve

slogan: you're not driving

------------

you know something, so then, what do you know?

we live in a dwelling and are allowed to plant shrubs along the foundation.

one of the shrubs flowers a lot.

the significant other is concerned that it attracts too many bees.

the worry is someone might get stung.

so we are waiting for someone to come give an estimate on digging it out, and moving it elsewhere from the walkway.

-----

shrub just a shrub,

bee just a bee,

fear of stingers, realness,

plans.

------

postscript: ordinary life?

i've done this.

scrolling - context borrowed, pasted.

irritation stirs 'others words packaged as sharing?'

why the shortcut?

--

fear whispers - 'your voice wont hold'

so borrow anothers, hide behind their weight

--

cursor blinks

keyboard waits

your fingers - where?

--

authors postscript: thats right, got a spirit insect, butt.

what is it, when the need for self validation goes away.

to reach some level of 'proof' that my being 'gets it'.

left behind is the back and forth with others. this it, no. that it, no.

now its just the interactions of the day

---------

why then am i writing about this under the community of zenmu

i'm reading an ancient text, and to be honest (tbh) its a very slow process oddly. the words flow, a rhythm that carries a plain view. (a nice surface read, fitting).

my sitting is impatient, get to the point. rather, get to the needed point! the Subtleness done with purpose, not for subtleness sake per say, its clearly dancing around grasping, and is annoying heh.

------------------------------------

my mother passed away about a year ago. i was reminded by a lawyers note on the estate passing through certain legal hoops.

one of the last expressions mom shared with me was that i'd helped. it was important to her that this was communicated back to me, as we talked on the phone just then.

a number of days prior, i'd gotten a phone call from mom, stating that strange men were in the hospital room, and she was concern and uneased. I did my best to listen to mom's concern over the phone with an element of my own unease.

the doctor had warn us (the family) that mon's time was close, and that connecting with reality was faltering.

I could hear in the background of mom's distress call, the nurses and attendants attempting the quell mom, with mom saying goodnight in my direction, yet not hanging up. and so more or less i just ease dropped on the conversations that carried a tone 'its ok', until the phone seem to naturally disconnect.

I'm more than an hours drive away, sister is closer and gave her a call to share with questioning concern...

=======================

over and over once again again ficiton

===========================

mono focus (another toy), thats the term I apply in the action of goal pursuit

it has much to do with vesting all of my being that i'm aware of, and without harming the body, plying beyond body limits in measure.

I'm not alone with this posture, i've seen it in others. doesn't make this action correct, just relatable to those that are similarly vested.

sadly there have been times where i've drawn the comparison with the open comment

"look at all these individuals employed full time, and only showing up with part time effort" :blink"

===================================

when it comes to what i call my no practice zen, it almost appears that that is what i'm doing in reality, showing up part time to nothing less than being fully vested (what ever that means)

separating is a perverse thing, things have a place, placed just so

(a part of me consciously practices this with keys, its really a trap i'm setting, you know poltergeists? ahem)

and to relook at the term 'no practice' would appear to be my unknowing of a perverse trap(?)

=====================================

so what am i saying exactly?

"passion in the face of not giving up to failure"

huh, this was not what i had in mind when sitting down to express, kinda revealing, stopping here.

(in the fiction)

------------------------

I draw an unmetered line down the white page and say

"this is life falling"

-----------------------------------

then i draw two horizontal more or less straight lines below and untouching the drawn line down and say

"this is creation"

---------------------------------

then i place a very small mark off to the side of the white page and say

"and this is the one who sees it"

edit prescript: this is a draft, just needed to get it down, words fly at unknown speeds

===========

when in it, what to do

freed from it, what to do

present

-----------------

who might these words be fore

when they sit out of sight, unreachable, unknown

if by chance, one might survive

---------------------

reconciling, adapting, cope--

are toys in the chest

of strategies never named.

what would a child call something unknowingly practiced?

(dumb, stupid)

glee sits in spaces of relief

in the quiet after the storm

not knowing it is practice at all.

----------------

young tommy was a mess;

stuffy sinuses from a poor diet,

a nose wiped to sleeve,

a buck-tooth mouth breather.

there were glances from other children,

maybe a flinch, maybe a look away,

but without words only avoidance.

--

his escape was called exploring adventure.

a nearby wooded area, in plain sight,

yet it felt like a cloak.

he entered the openness of nature's stillness,

the creak of branches and hush of canopy,

a private refuge in a refuge.

there in the unbroken air,

he wandered awake-daydreams,

sitting in a kind of stillness he did not yet know

had been taught by violence.

-----------------

when in it

do nothing but be where you are

even the part that learned to disappear

-

freed from it

do nothing but be where you are

even the part that once had to vanish to survive

-

present

"what is this stillness

when it is no longer required of you?"

---------------

author postscript; its all fiction!

just recently, from the oddest engagement i'd ever had, was led to the very question the title refers to.

surely this word grouping isn't a first, isn't new. and yet, a very new sight for this individual now posting.

a monk once directed during a prior awakening type thing, that it might be worth making a poem, or perhaps a journal entry...

guess thats what this is, cept what words can one express on the indescribable, no substance, like persistence that i've immaturely labeled stillness?

i could use the provokers words 'no no no thats not it'... but then i was just in a prior conversation suggesting (not insisting) putting something into words out of there own understanding.... lol where ever do i get off, to make such a suggestion ha!

right, perhaps i could speak to the setup, lets see, well there was 2 dreams, separated by at least a day or two. different scenario same main character (we'll call him/her dream horse).

and then well TrueOdontoceti kinda poked the bear sort of thing, after i kinda sorta poked first maybe, i'm directionality challenged :shrug: knowingly or not (i mean how can another take credit or even want to, for what ever happens with me)

and this whole place zenmu, where i've been graffitiing up the place with all sorts of messes...

so thats it pretty much, wish i could offer more expression, still digesting or what ever one does after a newness breaks the horizon event.

i'll be taking a break, a new friend just past some reading links, so maybe that will go well with my refreshed eyes idk

you are welcomed

I had a dream the other day, rather brief as dreams go...

------------------

I live in a small house. attached to the house is a single car garage. in this dream, I had a horse that was staying with me (it felt like there were 2 horses, though only one was visible, so maybe an echo horse, idk). the practice, was to feed a bucket of grain (oats?) to the horse in the garage. how the horse fit in a one car garage already filled with a parked car idk (its a dream dang it).

that was it. horse feeding in a garage that already contained a parked car was the practice. :shrug:

-----------------------

today I awoke from a dream about the very same horse!

(I've stopped being amazed at saga dreamscapes, i'm constantly revisiting the same dreamscapes, though different things occur with each visit, again idk)

This time, the horse was standing outside my front door, wanting to be fed! in the dream, i'm using my hands and arms to do a psydo gesture that the garage is where feeding occurs, not the front door. the horse would have none of it, stood its ground and i was left to fetch a bucket of feed and bring it to the front door.

----------------------

having these dreams are just dreams, usually forgotten soon afterwords. today though, i had an opportunity to express elsewhere here, and as i am composing my expression, who or what should appear in the minds eye, this damn horse! the whole matter very odd...

anyways, just thought i'd share, you know, doing the work (feeding dream horses)

authors postscript, anyone else have a dream of horses, perhaps another might know a meaning to all of this (and don't call the horse a trick pony, as sure as the nothingness, it will stomp you to death where you sit lmao just kidding, its a dream horse!

preface:

This piece was drafted by me and then workshopped with an AI editor; all final wording and choices are my own. It’s inspired by my own zen practice of “no practice,” but the story itself is purely fictional.

=============================

summary for those that want the fast read:

A married couple, Stan and Mary, take a simple drive on an early spring day. As they talk, Stan’s clingy, fear-based “love” bumps up against Mary’s need for space and mutual presence, opening a small window where both of them might learn how to stay close without holding on so tight.

-------------------------------

Stan is driving the SUV, Mary in the passenger seat, reaching over to turn on her heated seat. It’s early spring and the day is finally warming, but Mary is always cold. Still, she welcomes getting out of the house—the feel of the car moving, the hum of seventies songs on the radio. As they pull out of the neighborhood, Stan starts talking about a fear he can’t shake: losing her, and a love that doesn’t seem to come back the way he gives it. He knows he can be a bit clingy.

-----

“Mary, I know I hover too much sometimes,” Stan says, eyes on the road. “I’m afraid of losing you.”

“Yes, Stan, I’ve felt that hovering,” Mary answers. “It feels stifling—too much. To be honest, it starts to feel like dependency.”

“Mary, it isn’t like that,” he says quickly.

“Yes, Stan,” she says, calm but firm, “it is like that.”

Stan goes quiet, the words landing harder than he expected. The space between them in the car suddenly feels wider, and he’s left with an ache he doesn’t know how to name, one that seems so different from whatever Mary is feeling.

---

“Stan, I can’t carry you,” Mary says quietly. “You’re too heavy. You’re an adult. We both are.”

“But Mary, I’m not asking you to carry me,” he protests.

“But you are, Stan,” she replies. “And it makes it hard for me to breathe. It feels restrictive. Love, for me, isn’t one person carrying the other. It’s two people walking on their own feet, side by side.”

Stan falls silent again. This conversation is not going the way he wanted. The sense of separation only grows, and with it a deeper feeling of loss.

-----

“Look, Stan,” Mary says softly, “I care for you. There have been times I’ve sacrificed my own freedom, my own space, to go along with your wishes. It’s been one-sided. It doesn’t mean I don’t love you; it means I want us both to be able to breathe. Right now it isn’t us being equally present with each other.”

“Mary, I thought we were being present with each other,” Stan says, his voice unsteady. “Now you’re saying we weren’t—haven’t been. This is shaking my understanding of everything.”

Mary pauses a bit, allowing a certain clearing. “This isn’t easy for me, Stan. In a different way, it shakes me up too. I’m not saying we need to go separate ways. This little window we’re in right now is a chance to do better. Whatever happens, I don’t stop wanting you to be okay. That part doesn’t change”.

------

Stan’s eyes start to water. “I’m just so afraid, Mary,” he says. “At our age, who knows how long we have together? I feel like I have to hold every moment tight in this finite existence.” He swallows. “But if holding you that tight makes it hard for you to breathe, I don’t want to love you that way anymore.”

They drive on in silence for a while. The road is familiar, a route they’ve taken for years. Today, though, the scenery looks almost youthful—maybe it’s just early spring, or maybe it’s the way the light falls.

Mary doesn’t rush to fill the silence. She just lets out a slow breath and turns the heater down a notch. Her hand comes to rest, relaxed, on the console between them—not reaching, not pulling away, just there. Stan notices it and, for once, doesn’t grab. He simply lets it be, feeling the fear still moving in his chest and, alongside it, a quieter wish for her to have the space she needs. The space between them doesn’t feel like a loss this time. It feels like something they might learn to share instead of close.

--------------------------------

postscript:

this story didn't go the way I intended. using ai workshop was a curious exercise. not sure exactly what to make of it just yet. I wanted the piece to be about unconditional love. not sure that was/is being reflected here though.

observational comment? too gringy, too wordy, too pr0ny, too?

before getting into the body of words (campfire story?), of which i have no idea yet beyond the title, a gentle reminder dear reader, the gear of fuction could be at work...

---------------------------------

in those days, live dialogs of something zen, this it, that it, stop saying no

how can another human being know whether i'm espousing 'real' zen or not?

(before this point, readings and investigations on the existences of mysteries, phenomenon that had questionable sources, yet something occurred in real life, unexplained.)

grabbing a book on zen classics, i began to jump read, fanning pages and stopping, opening the book suddenly at random pages and reading....

-------------------------------

allowed myself to be aptitude tested, was part of gaining entrance, all marks average or below with only the mechanical category a notch above. (oddly fitting, a curious mirror)

the action of picking things apart, a hunger that isn't, insisting on a particular dissect, arriving at bones, still not it!? (destructive being in retrospect)

making a tool, were before none existed, this was something (but what)

------------------------

the above is the dilemma, having a certain ability, and yet consistently missing

(so much for aptitude giving an edge)

at some point, through the daily life, encountered, viewed a koan (that i'd read about prior).

I was stunned. and a certain understanding this wasn't a puzzle to be solved at all, things began to make sense in a different way

----------------------------

author's interjection: yeah, messy messy, could have stopped at the bones, could have just plain not wrote anything. forgive to the efficient posture others sit with?

--------------------------------

right, wrap up (chuckle, there is a part 2 lol). zen as a certain type of tool, intimately fashioned by each of us, when applied to all existence was an unexpected thing... yeah zen as a tool is absurd, back then, i was still splitting things up(?)

bemusing on the fictional partyline

-------------------------------------

twas watchn an old movie, a phone in every room, one person talking unaware that two were listening, on the partyline

these days conference calls kinda look different, and wiretapping at the local sanitation plant is an odd way to keep fingers on the pulse

before any of this/these shenanigans, silence.

==========================

seems like nothing has changed in the evolution of listening?

lots of distractions, covering a certain window of nothing,

who are the (authentic) silent ones today?

---

Hello, Mary is that you, I was just gonna call you!

Yes Stan, seems you got my message

What message?

----------

intention is an interesting message, with no words, across time and space

---

author postscript: a vulgar expression with many words, forgive

so the story goes, an ancient being became aware, awake....

the rest is fiction perhaps....

--------------------------------------------

why the heck am i here?! (of course i'm not, now, its you reading)

simply predisposition (or is that propensity) :blink:

don't call me a zen head, k

===========================

developed an early objection to labels of any kind. you want to label, i'm aiming ire, say it again? lol ahem.

little things, natural things, a ripple that awakens is how it kinda starts (or not)

and a type of self challenge, something to do with duration, am i still here, how about now (yeah i've left right to you?)

--------------------------------------------

not sure how i might have sharpened would a certain access to 'proper' zen were around when i was still growing a certain set of eyes.

the fact is, that isn't fact, a way was forged(?)

want to hit me with dusty ancient translated writs, too late, damn...

=============================

we each develop our own bs meter in the blindness called stillness

migrating fish up the mighty river

the cat

-------------------

author postscript: using words like 'i' or 'my' is ownership in creation, ignore it if that heps, do(ing) the work