Monday, November 17, 2014


Strike one, strike two.  Strike three.

-You can't seem to figure it out.  Now can't ya?  I understand.  I understand completely.

-Yes, I know that.  But really you should stop that.

-Well, I don't think thinking that way will amount to anything.

-I remember hearing someone repeating this mantra once.  Here, try it out:



-Now how does that feel?

-Well, maybe you should listen to your breathing while you do it.

-No, breathing slowly.  Relax.  Yeah, that's it.  Now repeat the words.

-No, you don't have to say them out loud.

-Well, if it makes you feel more comfortable then fine, say them out loud.

-No, no, keep doing it.

-No, you're doing a good job, keep doing it.

-Now feel the warmth growing inside of you.  It glows in-tandem with your breath.  In and out.

-Yes, you're doing a fantastic job.  Keep at it.

There was these eyes that came into the room I had been sitting in.  At first they were down the hall.  Then they came inside the room.  They even sat down across from me.  They looked at my eyes and I wanted to know more about those eyes.  They were haunting, they spoke to me saying, "You'll get trapped if you look too closely, now look away!"  I would look away only to return for more.  I wanted to know everything about those eyes.  Where did they come from?  Who were the people they got to know?  What do they look like when they are laughing very hard?  What do they look like when they are crying?  When they are lost and when they are looking very far away.  I had many questions, I wanted answers.  Please tell me I stared into those eyes.  They spoke few words back.  They said they come from the sea.  That they don't like being landlocked.  That any sort of water will do.  But they really wanted an ocean.  They wanted to know that there isn't land anywhere near to where they looked when they looked to the water.  And though the lakes those eyes have looked upon have been unbroken by land on their horizon that still wasn't good enough.  They wanted to feel humble knowing that what they were looking at was far too vast to understand.  That they were as close to infinite as they were ever going to experience beyond the sky and the deep reaches of the cosmos.  

-Do you feel better now?

-Yeah, I do it myself.

-Well, I'm not always so chipper.

-Yeah, I feel down too.

-Well, some days are better than others.

-And sometimes I am reminded of something that has been plaguing me for a while.  But these are feelings, don't take them so seriously.

-No, they are important but don't read into them as if they are personally attacking you.  IN FACT, they are not attacking you at all.  They are just telling you.

-They are telling you that you are in a moment that makes you feel sad.  They are saying, when this sort of thing happens it triggers off some chemical in the brain that says this is sad, it really is.  But that is fine, let your brain say, this is really sad.  That is ok.  It is sad.  That's it.  Does that make you feel better?

-Well, that is true.  But still, our bodies are constantly reacting to the world around us.  We need this feedback.  You know there is this great quote by Jack Kornfield, it goes something like,

Love in the past is just a memory.
Love in the future is a fantasy.
Love could only exist in the now.

-I think you can take any emotion and put that spin to it.

-Yeah, I know.  But think about this, there is nothing sad about our past, only once in a while, it is sad in the present.  But it won't last long.

-Me too.  I think you'd do great.  Just don't forget this.

-And don't forget those words.

-Yeah, exactly.

-Ok, and you too.  Take care!

-Love, you.  

Tuesday, October 28, 2014

A Part. Apart. Ah Part.

Dear Loved One,

I just got back from walking a darling dog.  She kept on telling me, “She’s gone.”  “She’s gone!”  She usually doesn't act like this, she is usually fine with all of this (looks around a dark corner of the city where a tower looks down on everything).  The usual countdown alarm for her allowance to investigate: OOOOOOOOOOne, TWWWOOOOOOO, THRRREEEEEEEE, FFFOOUUUURRRRRRRR, FFFFFFIIIIIVVVEE, (we don't usually get to this number, this doesn't sound right.) SSSSSSIIIIXXXX (no, definitely not this far), SEEEEEEEEEEAAAAVVVEEEEEEENNNN, (this is really strange, really strange) NNNIIIIIINNNNEEE, (no, wait.), [stop]...didn't work, she needed ten, then eleven, and when I stopped counting with my mouth the silence counted for us.  (whispers as loud as a thought) twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen.  There.  The shit.  


The shit.

Washing the dishes.  These dishes K. and I made.  K. and I.  I realized right then and there - that - we (you and I) - moved - apart.  That K. wasn't F. and that F. wasn't K.  It was the spirit of the companion.  F. help me find that spirit, but the spirit existed before F..

I wanted to forget you once.  Because I was losing too much sleep.  That each person after you didn't remind me of you, they just reminded me that they weren't you.  What delusion.  

I realized one of my biggest fears is having people realize my disabilities.  And then for them to either act nice towards it as to entertain it.  Somewhere down the line, many years ago, I must've shut the flow to that thought and that notion.  That look on my teacher's face, she knows what kids she's taking care of, she's giving us extra care, she is loving, but she knows something we do not, and perhaps will never really know.  And over the years we forget about this membrane that is smoggy, that we are looking through but barely, that we are able to observe with squinting eyes a world that very much resembles what it is but not quite.

I didn't choose art, its terms choose me.  That because I can't step over that line, through the membrane.  I learned to read and I learned to write.  When I was child I used to end all my first written complete sentences with "...".  Teachers would laugh.  I did something good.  They laughed.  I haven't stopped.  Laughter is my award.  That's what says I am approved.  All I want is a laugh.  Art allowed my rearrangement of the world to be approved.  Artists could be jesters.  That they could freely criticize the king and royalty, the poor, and the self.  They were all equal, there for a laugh.  So there was the rearrangement and there was the approval.  Do well at this because those are the two things you have to get done today.  


We work well with together because we're both in this.  I don't run into those moments often.  That perhaps it is the only moment I don't feel alone.  When I am with you.  Because we're both in this.

I could see it in K.'s eyes.  That she's in it, too.  In different ways than you and I.  She thinks abstract, because she is abstract.  I don't want to say I'm there for her because I understand what she is going through.  I want to say I'm there for K. because I wish someone would do the same for me.  I don't expect.  I learned to not expect anything.  Without the bitter taste, that nihilist gaze to a future without hope.  No, darling, I'm far from that.


We had our arguments.  There were times I thought I was wronged and I didn't say anything.  I know when an argument will go nowhere, that words come off as attacks.  I hate that.  I just want to share my point of view, as neutral as possible.  We had our arguments, I held things back, and we would have our arguments.  But in all that aggression, all those times I felt I wronged or I did wrong, or I felt like I asked you for too much, I knew we were stuck with each other.  That made any argument feel like a bump in the road, we still keep going, always.  Into infinity.

K., forgive me.  

F., forgive me.




Monday, October 20, 2014

You Still Know How To Howl

Hi Milo,

We've known each other for a very long time but we have never met in the flesh, that our eyes never looked deep within each other's eyes.  I was the warmth when you felt alone.  I was the strength that helped you back up when you fell and felt lost.  On lonely nights I was the rest and tranquility you found.  And when you dreamed I dreamed the same dream and saw the same things as you.  You don't know what I look like but I know in my heart you know I am here, I am always here.

Milo when you were in the hospital and your parents sat by your bed for hours with worried eyes I was laying beside you.  When you would hide after those nasty boys would tease you I was the relief that each teardrop gave you.  I cry when you cry, I am hurt when you are hurt.  But what separates us is that you feel the physical of each cut, of each fall, each time you feel reject.  I am conflicted without being able to take that physical pain away, to steal that experience and experience it for myself.  I look to you as my conduit to the physical world as I was your conduit to the spirit realm.  And perhaps you can say I am lost without you as these feelings are would be without an author.

I was born many generations ago.  My ancestors were wilder than I am and that they began to trust humans more and more.  As humans went from visiting our wild lands to living and farming them my ancestors were given two choices: leave everything they knew in search of a new home or adapt to coexistence.  In adaptation my ancestors saw the land as no one's, it was plenty and boundless and enough to share.  And so they shared.  They began to see changes and these changes forced them to adapt and adapt some more.  They made sacrifices, they saw traditions no longer viable and lost to the dawn of a new age.  They were ready for all of this when they made their decision but I can imagine their surprise at how endless this change, this adaptation would be for them (I wonder if it has ever stopped).

Part of their adaptation was letting the humans know they were there.  At first they started to leave their scat around the trees the humans had cut down.  They'd howl just before the dawn.  Then they would even allow the humans to see them from time to time.  Over generations they moved closer and closer to the humans until one day my mother looked one into the eyes.  Both were locked in a gaze deep within the darkness of the iris and were lost.  This was when I became I.  When the howl became the bark and the fur was brushed with the hands of a human.  In that moment, both of our hearts lowering a few beats less as we moved a few step slower.

A lot has happened since.  Humans have moved further away from the wild and from our mother.  They live in rocky cities where life struggles to exist.  They make escapes whenever they can to the forest, to the ocean, and in the valley where animals run free.  They come to these places not as friends but as strangers.  They are lost without their ties to the rocky cities and so they return only after a few days.  Like the whale surfacing for air, they come on the rare occasion only to return to another world.  But humans are not whales, they need air for more often, they need to breathe deeper and move slower.

We found each other in just the right place.  I am here as your guide but you also guide me.  I have grown curious of the world you live in, how it has changed over generations.  I even see how you struggle to exist here and I often feel guilty for this.  For we share the same spirit, you and I.  We are both wild and belong where nature is free to grow and to move at its pace.  We are also wanderers and find our place in roaming.  We enjoy good company wherever it is.  We live by our hearts and are honest to it.  And I believe you know how to howl.  So howl for the both of us.  Cry out into the early morning sky.  Wake even the sun into its day.  For we are dawning and it is time that we embrace.

I have always been here with you.  In our many forms in our many lives.  We've gone through a lot together, and there is still so much more.  Together, yes, together, we'll get through it all.  Now howl with me.

- C.L.

Friday, August 22, 2014

One Big Joke

And then they shall see me.  And then they shall laugh.  And what makes me smile, laugh in delight, scream with joy from the top of my lungs down to the soles of my feet is that very sound I hear.  Thank you.

There is this feeling, it comes and it goes (but never leaves).  It has been with me for as long as I can remember.  Before it I could not really say, for its coming and its staying has shaped me into who I am today.  It has taught me many things.  It has showed me many places.  Carried me to this person and that, and I have always felt the opposite of empty because of it.  Because of it.

For years I have listened to it, let it scream out within my soul.  I let it inspire me, make my lips make words, my hands of gestures.  It would sit in my step and together we carried each other one by one and step by step.  It has led me to many faces.  It has help me say many things.  And though all was spoken and though those words were received.  For a while I had expected, wanted and desired a return.  That it would rid me of a loneliness that came from knowing such fervid words were mine and mine alone.  Such fire that burn and burn brightly thirsts for companion.  For what fire wants to burn alone, like the crumbling wax from a single candle.  It longs to burn its captors house, consume their walls, not to be lost but to bathe in the company of others.  To dance with a fire in the heart.

What are failures when there is nothing to be expected?  When intend is intended and where honesty is spoken freely.  From this plateau I learned not to be afraid but to believe.  And it is here where I did not find other but found myself.  Over time I learned that there is no shame in my thoughts and in my feelings, nor was the act of speaking and sharing ill of me.  For each day is a leap faith.  That for what I believe in is tested to see if it holds and if I am true to its revelation.   For words to become actions and beyond.  To change sight, mind, approach, and outcome.  No longer question where I stand and what I believe in.  For my feelings to be felt, and not to feel alone but to bathe in the greatness of the self.  Only to allow it to dissolve to the world surrounds it.  To allow the self to be other and to be given no form.  To fall between hope and doubt, I and you, and light and dark.

If we can't laugh at ourselves we can't laugh at each other.  And if we can't laugh at each other we cannot laugh together.  Momma used to say, you can do two things: cry and feel sad or laugh and feel free.  I don't think there was ever an option.
Sometimes we dance with strangers.  That we can be taken away for a moment.  The room grows dark and all there is is you, that stranger, and rhythm.  The act of dancing feels like a part of us that stems from our tribal days, how we used to be introduced to the opposite sex.  Rather than words the body did all the talking.  There is no lying when it comes to dancing.

And so we may follow a stranger home, no words spoken, just creeping into the night.  And so we may walk some lonely streets and climb some empty stairs to their living room or bedroom in a house where everyone is asleep.  And so we may act on the heat that still swells within.  That dancing keeps us warm and warm through the night.  


There was once a boy that sat on a cliff and watched the horizon.  Below him was a girl he liked dearly, and she liked him too.  But he wasn't there with her, he was up above sitting there in the red sand and looking off.  She was with another boy and that boy was the boy on the cliff's best friend.  They were in a shack kissing and touching.  She would stop every once in a while and yell up at that boy who sat on the cliff made of red sand.  She would say things like, "What are you doing up there?  Why don't you come join us?  You look so lonely up there, come down."  The boy would sometimes look down and give a smile.  He felt very strong when he did muster the strength to look down and just smile.  He knew his heart gained a sharp pain as soon as the thought of her, what she was doing, and how alone he felt, but he tried very hard to keep that pain away.  He was always lost in his thoughts and perhaps it was because in his thoughts he was able to escape that moment, that feeling of being alone, and believe that he was no longer in some small and forgotten town in the middle of nowhere in a state that some people didn't even know exist.  And in his thoughts he was able to gain in something else, something that he felt made him make up for the fact that he wasn't down there with that girl, kissing her, maybe even touching her.  

This isn't supposed to be a sad story.  That boy who sat at the cliff does not grow to be a sad person who has to lose himself in his thoughts in order to cope with the reality of his life.  That boy eventually grows older and though he can never escape that company of loneliness he stops pushing it away as if it was a stranger, as if it wasn't a part of him.  And over the years he grows peaceful and eventually even content.  There is heartbreak and many sad stories that come and then go.  Some linger for longer and some even define him.  But to spite all of this he learns what true love is.  

It has been months.  It is now a new year.  He and this girl have been through many beautiful moments and have felt many wonderful things.  There has been a lot of sleepless nights, lot of frustration, and cracks at sanity as well.  There was something he realized in an eureka moment.  His heart has been speaking so loudly to him lately and he has been a good listener.  What his heart said stopped him in his tracks like hitting a brick wall at full pace.  He needed to see her, he needed to tell her.  But it would be days before he can.  And so his mind was in one place.  Thinking about one thing.  There are many feelings and even more words he needed to say.  He decided there was no way to say it right and so he wrote it down in a letter.  He typed away and beat at those keys of an old typewriter.  His fingers weren't unable to keep up with his heart.  Words almost fell off the page until it felt done.  And so he finished and finished with the line, "...and now it is time to put this paper down and for me to say the rest."
There was a pause, he knew it was time, but that boy on the cliff, that red sand, that nowhere place, were suddenly in the room with him.  

When he said those words he wished he was suddenly alone.  That she was not there in front of him.  And that there wasn't that look on her face that was neither confused, frustrated, mad, happy, relaxed, but somewhere between not-sure-of-what-to-say and sad without being sad.  That something stirred within her, something that felt wonderful at that the same time made her feel guilty.  One tear fell, eyes were locked and what felt like hours went by.  Those were the hardest words said.  Those were the hardest words said.  But they were said.

It didn't matter what happened next.  What she said or didn't say in response, it wasn't important.  He just needed to say how he felt.  That he was no longer sitting at that cliff, looking off, lost in his thoughts, looking down, and seeing love, seeing something he couldn't have.  That wasn't him, he was down in the valley, looking straight at her, and told her exactly how he felt.  That was enough for him.  

This is where you come into this story.  Perhaps I'm not the best with words, that sometimes what I want to say I can't figure out how to say it without it sounding wrong, without it asking for a response, or asking for too much.  It may seem like only a few weeks have gone by, that we have learned about each other, and have had a few first steps into friendship.  But I have learned so much about myself in such a short period of time.  That you woke something up in me.  You have inspired me more than I allow you to realize.  That your presence is and has been one of the most refreshing and rewarding experiences I've had with someone in a long time.  That your acceptance, your kindness, and what you share, and learning of how hard you work for what you believe in has touched me.  I am working harder, I am learning how to accept others better as well as myself.  I have a fire within me.  

There have been many things that I have kept to myself, that I thought I had forgotten but have always been there that you have helped me realize.  And not only did I realize they were there I was able to accept them, share them, and that you were there to listen.  I am never content with just saying thank you, that I come from a house where if someone does something for you you do it back and you give them no choice.  That I need to return the favor, that I want you to realize that I am here as well.  


Now the sun is setting and the girl and the boy below take off.  The boy sitting on the cliff looks off and sees something that never gets old, that is always beautiful, that no words can dear describe, that is absolutely everything, and that can calm the saddest of hearts, the loneliest of loneliest, and take it all away in its presence...

(Again, this time with more enthusiasm) Shine on.

Tuesday, August 12, 2014


There is an edge that we are racing towards.  Perhaps not racing, but moving, at whichever speed your attitude wishes to provide its velocity and whatever edge that is, good or bad, or neither and just neutral.  And perhaps we don't know where we are going.  We only believe we are going somewhere in order to fulfill goals and in order to feel like we have accomplished something.  Accomplished something because we believe in ourselves, in the path we create, what we say (whether it be self-expression, an art form, and our thoughts and feelings we wish to share) and what we stand for.

Sometimes our goals are met and when they are met, those of us who have more ambition than others already have future goals when present goals are met.  And so work is never really done and so we are constantly working.  Those of us who have more ambition than others.

We do what we do because we can't do anything else.  Not because we have no choice, that we lack talent or inspiration nor drive towards reaching another life and other goals.  We do this because we have a choice and this is what we must do.  We believe in it with all of our hearts.  We will struggle to keep doing what we are doing.  We will go against the flow, whichever flow that is, whether it be acceptance, popularity, what is the norm, and how people look and feel towards us.  We do it because we believe in it, even when people don't believe in what we are doing, or there are very few of which believe in what we are doing.  And to spite the resistance, the struggle, we keep doing it.  And there might be times of doubt, where we step out of our vision and our drive and look at our lives subjectively and see it how those who doubt us see it.  We might think to ourselves, maybe this isn't right, maybe all this resistance is there for a reason, and that it is trying to tell us we are going the wrong way.  And in those moments of subjective thinking where we see ourselves through the eyes of those who doubt us we lose some of the people like us when we start believing in that doubt.  They stop in their tracks and pursue another path.  They might end up happier and realize they found what they were looking for all along.  But for the rest of us, that isn't the case, that we stride to push forward.  Through the seasons, through the years, move after move, this success, and this failure, this step in personal evolution, and this attack at our very souls.  We keep going to spite it all.

We might feel absolutely alone in our vision.  In our ambition.  In our beliefs.  But that is when we must work harder.  We must push through.  And we must be reminded that we are never alone.  That there are those of us that care, that understand, and are in the exact same boat as us, doing their thing, and struggling the same way we do.  We may have never met, we may never meet, but we should always know we are never alone.  That the lives we lead send out vibrations into the world and those vibrations are hitting us all the time and that our mind and bodies are in tune with those vibrations, whether we know it or not, that we are part of that stream, that wavelength.  We are doing this, together, alone, all at once, and throughout history.

This will never end.  We will never stop.  We will keep going.  Until there is nothing left.

Because we believe in what we are doing.  What it means to do what we do.  And why it is so important that there is no other way for us.  Some may look at us as if we were lost but baby, we know exactly where we are, at all times, we are doing what we need to do, what our calling tells us.  And each day this calling cries louder, it's just sometimes on some days it is harder to hear, harder to move in the direction we are going, and that only gives us more and more strength to keep on doing this.

Never stop.

Wednesday, July 2, 2014

22 Lines To Make Them Yours

You're the best thing that has ever happened to me.

I'd be lost without you.

There would be no reason to live.

There isn't a day I don't think of you.


There isn't a night I don't lose sleep thinking of you.

All I want to do is make you happy.

Your smile is all I need.

You are the world.

You make me crazy.  

Your company is all I want.  

The world around fades away when you are here.

You set a fire in me.

There isn't a thing I cannot do now.

You make me feel like I haven't felt in a long time.

I fall apart only to come back together when I hear you calling.

You make me crazy.

You really do.

The world ends as soon as you leave from here.

For everything, my everything.

There is no longer a past nor a future.

Just now.

Time stops with you.  

Did I say I was crazy.

For you.

Tuesday, June 24, 2014

For Just One Moment

Just one.  Just one moment.

Months had passed, he was right there, working, carrying something that was too heavy and too much to bare.  The house was full of flowers and there was a sadness that seemed to ignore how wonderful the light was that filled each room.  There were words spoken then that were also very sad and were met with tears.  I remember those times and I remember my silence.

It wasn't until I left I was able to find the words.  But most importantly, it was the distance that I needed to separate myself from a response.  When the words came they were all familiar and had been with me for months.  It wasn't until I was away that they were able to become words, to take on form, and be given a structure that formed meaning through reflection.  I had lost sleep for many nights.  I had dreams of writing that letter.  And finally one night, with the silence that surrounded my parents' small house on a small island I left my bed, went into the study, and closed myself off.  I wrote by hand and carefully wrote, knowing that he had consideration for good penmanship, and so I tried very very hard. One page turned into two and where I began was where I ended.  Careful folds were made, a perfect fit in an envelop, and finally address and stamp.

With the moon just above and in the company of many stars I walked with a faint shadow to the mailbox. The sound of the screech of the mailbox door being opened then closed travelled down that silent street. It was done I told myself.  But that red flag on the mailbox was still up as I went to sleep and was still up by the time I woke up.  It would be hours in the day until finally I heard that mailbox door be opened then closed.  And even then that letter had to travel thousands of miles as I hoped it arrived well before I returned.  It was important then that that letter arrive without my presence there, that my face and my access was removed.  That the words written can just be read and need no response to their author.  They were words that needed to be said, simply just said.  No immediate response, no thank you, no exchange, but an understanding that words like that exists.

For no expectations, no need for a response, and to be listened to because there is something I needed to say.  These words, though I have to say them, aren't for me, but are for you.  They are my observations and my feelings that come as a response to you.  I need no more than what I have. Anything else is the unexpected but is always welcomed like a surprise.

Let the words exists.  Let them find a place somewhere out there.  Let them be free of their author.  Free from any one person.  Let them be shared.  Let them be heard.  This is what I have learned.  To tell stories, to speak from a position that is from my personal but is accessible, exchangeable with you and your own experience.  Let us share feelings, the places we've been, and recall of the people we have met.  And so and so.

Monday, June 16, 2014

Sunshine Angel

It started with her smile.  Then her voice.  The way she spoke: animated but soft, words broken by laughter.  Her smile that was full and not just for those she knew, but also for complete strangers and all.  

There is that point where you have everything to gain from someone, that you know nothing about them and so all there is left to do is ask questions.  Ask questions and try to steal as much time from them so you can ask all your questions.  And to ask questions to learn as much as you can to get to know them.  If you get that time.  If you get to know them.  The more special they become, the closer you get, step by step, until it is too late.  You have fallen. 

Then it was her eyes: delicate and deep, able to draw your absolute attention when she stared into yours.  It made me feel naked, that all my tricks were worthless and that my charm could only be in being honest.  That was her stare: an honest look that bared down on the soul only to hold it and know that is nothing between each soul.  

That day it was warm, we all knew it was going to gradually get cooler and cooler, transforming shirts to sweaters and shorts to pants.  We found our spot on the beach and listened to the waves crash.  There was a sloping tree that stood over the water.  It was narrow and steep but called to us.  It wanted to be climbed and at the end of that climb there was a perfect spot to rest, right above the water.  Hours went by and a few of us made our attempts at that tree.  Only a few steps taken.  Each time I watched on, eager to try myself, and eventually I would only to fail.  More time passed and the sun moved further in the sky.  My gut came calling.  The tree beckoned.  When was the last time my legs had my trust.  Lefty still wasn't the same, still couldn't run, and tired after a full day of walking.  Righty dumbed down, keeping its pace to balance the two.  They haven't felt the same since the crash.

For a moment I stopped thinking.  I need not think for my legs and for my feet to find their way.  They work alone, knowing the ground more than my thoughts and more my feelings.  I swear they move on their own and so I let them do exactly that.  I got up and started to walk towards that tree.  The sandy surface turned to smooth tree bark, the slope grew steeper and my legs climbed.  Step by step.  Not a doubt to their thinking, straight narrow path.  I could hear the others call on, hoping to see one of us make it.  I wanted to say we were going to make it but there wasn't a thought in my mind.  Nothing to say.  We reached the top, we were in the leaves and perfectly right over the water.  The sunshine shimmered over the water's ripples and as I continued to stare at those ripples I could see a purple glow with touches of orange and deep blue.  I had never seen such colors from shimmering ripples but neither have I been able to stare at them from just above on a low-hanging tree.  I sat at the end and cleared my mind of thought so more.  Nothing, nothing, nothing.   Not a thing.  A speed boat in the distance raced by and then came heavy waves.  The surface below my feet changed rapidly, the waves crashed with intensity, and the tree and I stood still.  Nothing could touch us here, in this moment.

Not the smile, nor the eyes, and not even how beautiful she is, breath-taking, yes, and like no other, of course, it was beyond that and the origin of those qualities.  What drew me in, what caught me from the start, what I wanted to learn more about, where all my questions and query stemmed from: was the love at the center of her being.  I had been listening to the phrase, Love everyone, speak the truth*, for the past few months.  That phrase has been deepened, See beyond the face, the behavior, the personality, the dress, past, and beliefs, and there is love at the center of everyone**.  But it takes me time to see through all those layers and it takes them time if at all, to welcome me to that warmth at the center of it all.  She was different: it was right there with nothing to hide and it was shining.  

I'm not the person that can get away with calling others angels.  Nor am I the person that could I tell them to shine on.  But I was taken by the radiance of someone.  Someone that is kind and caring, that accepts you, that needs no story, no explanation, that is there to be honest, and there to be there.  And that each moment with, that ticking of time stops, and all I want is for this or that day to become endless, letting the scenery change but not the company.  I have much to learn and far too many questions, but I hope I have more and more of your time.

*The instructions given to Ram Dass by his guru, Neem Karoli Baba.
**Paraphrased from Duncan Trussell interpretting Neem Karoli Baba's instructions to Ram Dass during a conversation with Dr. Chris Ryan and Joe Rogan,
Second photograph by Helene Goderis taken on June 15th, 2014.

Tuesday, May 6, 2014

(Currently Untitled, from And Cheese, 2014)

There is no where safe and so I just stay up late.  I've been meeting strangers in my dreams, beautiful strangers.  I can't remember their faces exactly, only fragments, here and there, but nothing whole.  And if I think deep enough I can even remember their smell.
They came to be out of some well that rest somewhere far and forgotten in my mind.  They are the ghosts of beings not buried well, that haven't found rest.  They haunt me, even when it is day and the sun shines into my window making it too hot to sleep.  I don't give them names, just feelings, and those feelings are something I haven't felt in a long time.

L is in my arms, close enough that we exchange heat with our bodies.  Her neck rubs my cheek and I start nibbling her there.  She is silent, she doesn't stop me, to say what has gotten over me.  I know it is a dream but my body doesn't wake.  This is our first intimate moment and perhaps the last.

I think it is how chance seems to be too intentional.  How the planets seem to align themselves and part of Earth where this particular moment, this "chance" encounter happens suddenly goes into the shadow of a total solar eclipse.  Like lightning striking twice, like the secession of two miracles makes it a saint, and how you just feel connected to someone before you know what it is that makes that someone that someone.  Like the eye before blink, before the I is I, there are just two beings, souls if I may, that haven't arrived at one point with their ego but rather with thing that comes before.  That self meets that self and in that moment there isn't an I nor a her, but one.  Ideas, thoughts, and feelings all just flow as we become breathless.  And so we just dance.  And we leave our friends behind.

Sunday, January 26, 2014

I Believe in Miracles

(When Harry Met Sally, 2013)

Too young.  Too old.  Something that seems repetitive.  But it might not be.  Finding a hole with a rope sticking out of it.  You look into the hole and it is dark, you can't tell how deep it goes.  You throw the smallest denomination of change you have in your pocket into the hole.  There is no sound. You look at the rope and grab it with one hand (which ever you use most).  You start to reel in the rope.  After a minute you start to realize how strange it is that the rope hasn't come to an end, either by the end of the rope or that it stops giving abruptly.  None of that happens, it just keeps on giving and never ends.  You start getting really into it, using two hands now, and on your forehead beads of sweat appear.

My mother looks back at me from the passenger seat and tells me about how we are going pass this place where aliens run about.  We shouldn't stop there, they might come running after us.  There's some secret laboratory somewhere out there in the desert.  My mind wandered and all I can see was this yellowish white sand everywhere.  The shimmer of hot air to anything in the distance.  This shrub and this cactus, some yuccas, and endless desert.  At the time aliens were the thing I most feared, and at the same time was most curious about.  I lived in the epicentre of alien activity as well as myth.  From that backseat I wrote poems.  One, two, three, four to the hundred I wrote already in that notebook.  I remember them all being sad, about heartbreak, about the reality that was then.

The rope forms piles and you stop a passerby and ask for help.  "Will you help me pile this rope?"  The stranger helps, looking curious herself into what lies at the end of this comically long rope.  Hours go by, a routine has been formed, there is a system of organizing the rope, how much you take before you need to rest your hands.  The sun sets, night rolls on, you and the stranger both take shifts of pulling the rope.  The sun rises.  The rope turns black and at first you are startled.  It suddenly feels heavier, you look down into the hole and for one brief moment you see a flicker of light.

I often wonder if my mother ever found those poems, if she ever read them, and if so how did she see her son after that.  Did she decide to give me more attention, to bring herself closer to me?  Without her I'm not sure how I would've gotten through those years.  How she would devise a road trip to here and to there, to see The Array, to go to White Sands, Roswell, Joshua Tree National Park, this ancient city and this, to an alien abductee meeting downtown, to some many countless things that were the best things a child like me could witness, to experience.  Without that I wouldn't be here.  I would not be I, it would be different, something with all the creativity in the world I couldn't imagine who was.  All I know is who is I that has seen those things, felt those things, and lived to tell those things.

Eventually the rope reaches infinity in your mind.  You ask the stranger if they have anything sharp in their bag.  The stranger strangely enough has a pair of scissors.  You ask the stranger for them, they hand them over, and you hold them open with the black rope in-between the blades.  Both you and the stranger look closely at that rope.  Your eyes say a farewell speech, that it was good knowing you, rope, that I have learned a lot from you, rope, that I am ready to leave you, rope.  The rope doesn't look back, it doesn't look at all, it just sits there, without judgement and waits, waits for whatever to come of it.  You press the scissors closed and one by one the strands that make the rope break free of each other.  The last strand breaks and a miniature cloud of dust forms.  You lay the rope to rest by the hole as you and the stranger hold another passerby's truck with rope.  You sell the rope for $1 a yard and soon sell out.  You soon forget where the hole and the rope was, and years later you try to hunt them down but find no success.  Even the stranger who helped you is no where to be found.  You wonder what her name was, what they did for a living, if they had kids.  You saved every cent you made from that rope in a series of jars.  They grow dusty and the same with you.  You forget all about that rope, that hope, that stranger, but never those jars.  They too eventually lose their memory and your grandchildren ask, "Dear Grand(ma or pa), why do you have all that old paper and metal money in jars?"  You can't remember and so you give them the jars, telling your rosy-faced grandson that has an appetite for trouble to smash them.  He looks worried, wanting to smash them to pieces but knows he might get an earful from Momma and Papa bear.  You assure them it will be a secret.