Planet of Storms

Gros Islet, St. Lucia

It’s Thursday. Last night the moon was a bowl over the ocean waxing, 27% full of light. And Jupiter was the top edge of the spoon handle.

My inner 15 year old uses it all as an opportunity to remember the celestial afternoon snack, cinnamon toast crunch, but I know I really need to write about the planet of storms.

Is that me? Hiding a theoretical hard core center in centuries of whirlwind. All so you can’t touch me. Oblete as I fill out with storms upon storms that live for eons before merging with other storms to do it all again.

What if I am Jupiter? Because everything is storm. My inhale, my exhale, my day my night, my orbit. My favorite X-men character. My fear, my love. And however big I am in relation and however capable my rings of dust and ice at deflecting your questions, everyone can see the big red spot, most ancient bleeding storm that doesn’t seem to ever go away.

Can I love myself even like this? Where no. You cannot hold onto any word I say because I am changing to fast to even know what I am saying. Can I love you like this? Where you take up so much space without any ground to stand on? Multiple orbits in one body. What a complicated wreck.

Like this speculative world economy where they pretend all the money is in the imaginary now and the Black AI supermodels are avatars for white male coders and the tokenized try to catch the wave of non-fungible tokens and the place running out of minerals mines computerized coins. I don’t know what’s happening. Do you?

I myself, purveyor of ideas builder of worlds made out of words, make most of my money by breathing towards you, giving breath a sound. Jupiter, my mirror can you show me who I am? Landless in a world of speculation?

Shout across the solar system to this planet becoming water at the surface. That’s just our tears. That’s just all our tears. Send condolences for those of us who proved to be too turned around for Earth. Jupiter, give me a meditation:

Seven breaths.

If it’s all a story what story are you telling.

If it’s all a fable why lie to yourself.

If it’s all a stage act like you know.

If it’s all a game don’t play yourself.

If it’s all made up let go.

If it’s all what you say, say love.

If it’s all your breathing, breathe.

Planet of storms, thank you. Maybe I can imagine this. A world without debris. Where all air moves is air and there is nothing to crash into. Where all this time of wondering where I stand on a colonized planet is just a distraction from the truth. I’m filling, spilling, dancing breath.

I’m flying.

P.S. Thursday is a perfect day to rotate into The God of Every Day Practice. And so is any day. See you there.