Learning To Love Yourself (More) pt. 18

(The House, The Bat, That Man, his Family, and Such a Horrible Thing-to-Have-Had-Happened, from We Soon Be Nigh!, 2011)

The Future is Uncertain

Today, yes today, right now, yes now, in this moment, with the sun shining, or the lack of sun shining, in this now when you are breathing, your eyes are open, and there is air around you, realize this, that air that surrounds you, is neither good nor bad until you give it a value. That this day is just the same, it holds no value until you give it one, and just like the outcome of today, it holds nothing until you wish it does. Perhaps not wish, but the mind chooses one. Hold tight, forget that you have no control over how you feel, what your day is going to be like, and just hold on to this feeling, a feeling of being able to change, and change, and change even after that. That you are able to make any day a good day, even if someone close to you dies, don't let that ruin anything, sure remember them, but remember they probably didn't want you feeling down about them dying, that if anything they wanted you to feel happy. Feel happy, whatever happiness is, just coat your vision, your feeling with the general sense of everything is going to be ok, everything is going to be good. You have to have hope for the future, even if you can't see it, it will happen, and when it does happen you have to be ready for it.

This future I talk of is something vague, ambiguous, formless, and bewildering, you can either fear it, or embrace its difference or lack of difference and see it as not a threat to your now, but an evolution. And in the process you will lose, you will lose hard, but lose something to gain something, and that my friend is knowledge, son, knowledge, in knowing that all your years of life has made you the best you could ever be, until the next few years pass, and then you'll be even better. Perhaps this is a statement with a view that progress is positive, let me strip that value of progress away, and leave it grey, blank, and uncertain again, and let you give it a value. If anything I want to be Patrick Swayze's hands guiding your Demi Moore hands as we form a pot, or rather what was going to be a pot before things got outta control, and we just went with it, making a love child of ceramic. That pot is our future, our hands are what weld that future, and what happens in-between is up to us. For me, it's thinking the Righteous Brothers are constantly playing in the background of my mind, making me feel good inside. They reach down to a point where my flesh is not the flesh of an adult but of a boy, a boy who knows little of the world but knows all he needs to know with his imagination. I traded probably half my imagination for fact, fiction, and science fiction and hold whatever remains deep down inside, not letting the world change that for a bit. What do you mean unicorns don't exist, nor ghosts, nor the devil, ridiculous!

(repeat after me)

I WANT TO BELIEVE. I WILL BELIEVE. AND THAT TODAY WILL BE A DAY OF BELIEVING, THAT THE FUTURE WILL BE A FUTURE OF BELIEVING IN, AND THAT EVERYTHING IS GOING TO BE OK, NO, IT'S GOING TO BE EVEN BETTER, IT IS GOING TO BE AMAZING, WHATEVER MY DEFINITION OF AMAZING IS WHEN I GET THERE, WHEN THE FUTURE IS NO LONGER THE FUTURE BUT IS THE PRESENT, AND WHEN I'M IN THE PRESENT, THE NOW, I WILL GIVE IT A VALUE, I WILL GIVE IT A FACE, AND TELL THAT FACE, HEY YOU'RE BEAUTIFUL, BABY, YOU ARE MOST POSITIVE, AND I AM POSITIVELY ALL YOURS, AND IN EXCHANGE, YOU. ARE. ALL. MINE.

(A galactic high-five of kissing palms shake the space around it, this is as amazing as frightening, and for a time we remember when being scared was fun, like all ghost stories, our curiosity is stirred, it fills our bellies with mystery and uncanny uncertainty. Let's not stop believing, you and me, let's never stop believing.)

Floating in space is a child, or rather, a fetus, that has a face of a child, and eyes of an adult, and say that is us, our next step, and that we have made it, we have touched the void that is a large black monolith, and we have evolved beyond anything our past selves were. Sure I can be positive, see the world in a certain light, and hover in a state that is what I define as good, but the struggle is getting you to be there with me, to know that you are on the same page, I will try, I will continue to try, and all I want from you is to promise to me that you will try, and be, yes, to be, the thing that comes after trying, the becoming, you have become positive, you are able to hover, and that we are on the same page, seeing the world in two completely different ways, but have somehow defined it as being positive, good, better than before, getting better and better by the day, and as we see this growing peak, this constant of betterment, we see the future, yes, it is uncertain, and will always be, but this uncertain doesn't have to be this unknown that we fear, or dread, or rather not know because we don't care to think about the future, and what it may hold, no, this uncertainty has no value, it has no face, until you give it one. And perhaps that is for the best, to give it nothing, to let it exist as a formless, shapeless, void of void, and let our hearts and minds not sink, but be enlightened. To be intrigued, to even be enthusiastic about it.

Let's be enthusiastic without being blind, let's forget about old notions because they are old, the opposite of the new, and future-new. Let's piggyback on what we got to reach high enough to reach the stars. Yes, those giant balls of burning energy, those stars.

On Second Thought

(A House By The Church, Aurora, ON, 2011)

I close my door before I close my eyes. I transformed my couch into a bed, it is ready for my sleep mode, I am ready for my sleep mode. The person on the other end of my internal conversations is you, you being you, and you know who you are, you. Tonight, rather than pondering on past memories, of our moments together, I think of the future.

A sudden chill hits my skin, and though it is a cold thing that came from nowhere, all of sudden like, it is not a foreshadow, or at least not a deep dark (dark being bad) shadow, but rather a feeling of not knowing and feeling like something good is going to happen. When I close my eyes, when I rest my eye lashes against my eye lashes and they form a dying curl that dying spiders do, I think of another wind. This wind is strong, strong enough to blow you across the ocean, but doesn't push you over, no, it agrees with you, dances with you like a beautiful stranger at a tropical-theme dance party that is filled with good vibes (in other words, the best kind of dance party). On a hot day, it cools you just right, it even smells amazing for something that doesn't particular have a smell, it is kinda like water, something flavorless that has flavor because bottle water can never compete with a refreshing glass of water. Mixed in with the breeze is the scene, the sky, ocean, not a building in sight when you look up. The rustle of leaves from palms and such, the sound sand makes when it is being blown across a sandy beach. The sun, the way it melts things, colors them, brings a different life to things, how it gives you another life. I think of the difference of sun from where I am now, in Toronto, to the sun in India, how it just gives this glow, this color, and illuminates like no other. It is the same sun, but in different places, and perhaps that factors into the difference between cultures in a globalized world, the sun and the atmosphere. I can't help but let go, let go, let go of my old ways (OLD because I no longer be with them, OLD because I have grown over that old flesh of thought and method with fresh flesh, OLD because there are now rings over my rings if you were to cut me whole and see the log-like life I have lived, here see (lifts shirt, lifts skin, muscles and such, and even bones to show you a woody-core of man I am.)). Here, no longer in Toronto, no longer in the place you are in, is different, you see up there (points to the sun), don't look too deeply, but listen (comes closer), ah (speaks softer) here we are in a place that you cannot help but take it easy, to take one step then the other and never think or over think that next step, a simple 1, 2, 1, then 2. Life slows down, and here is where old folks can grow older because life is really slowed down. The sun is smiling like those Coke Cola cartoons, but I can't tell if he's where sunglasses (wouldn't they just be glasses to him?).

The swell of the ocean, I look at the sand stuck on your flesh, we're both baked, this feels good, it is absolute, no more cares, no more worries, everyday is everyday. Now sing it with me. Come-on come-on and do the local motion with me.

I pick up a seashell, it is big enough to swallow my ear whole, I tune out the rest of the world and listen deeply.

(you whisper, "come-on, come-on...")

The rest is history.

HISTORY.

One Single Thought

(Unbearable, from Untitled Work-In-Progress, 2011)

The closer to death, the closer I am to God. I cry out, I hope something can hear me. The ground behind my feet meet an edge, over the edge is a steep cliff wall, and beyond that is an endless darkness; this is where all my doubts laid dorment. I can't believe this is it. It being the end. The end being the be-end of be-ends, this.is.the.end (my.only.friend). All the words to follow are struggles to realize the fact that my existence, of all my years, all the experiences; memories, feelings, everything that is everything that I know, knew, and was going to know ends right before me. All my words, nothing matters, all my strength, all my will, nothing. at. all. The crumbly crumbles of what was once, what is not now, what is going, going, gone, is done, undone, exploding, imploding, the dust that settles pops into smoke, that smoke then sets to fire, the ashes fall to the ground and water is poured over them and the steam that is released evaporates, the room is then sealed and locked, forever to be closed, the building the room is in is then closed, and it is professionally demolished, exploding into itself and afterwards the wreckage of the sight is left untouched for a long time, nature returns to this site, and many years pass, trees start to grow, small animals then larger animals, deers and such start to roam these grounds, there is a peace in the air, the wind blows through the leaves and sing a song, the song calls, it warns, it cries, something once lived here, once is repeated endlessly forever until the wind dies down, and a heavy and painfully quiet silence covers the land.

At some point I drift off, I lose my grip from my hands, they (my hands) leave me. I lose my toes then my feet. I feel my legs peel off from their earthly flesh, and my core then lifts, my buttock holds on like it has always has, but soon even that is free from the ground. I start lifting above my body, and for the first time in my life I look at myself and see someone that is not me. I try waving but realize I am waving to a lifeless body. It is in situations like this I don't know how to react, how do we say goodbye. My thought is interrupted, I walk, or rather, hover in the opposite direction. I am drawn to this path I take, I feel safe, warm, warmer, and I feel a supreme sense of lightness.

It is ok now. Yes. I am fine now. Yes. When the hole of my life is filled, when the well of who I was is buried, if wells could be buried, the ground is left unsettled, with a soreness of something being off, wrongfully placed there. I lay a patch of grass over it to hide it, the grass looks greener to the grass around it. I pull out a 40oz from my bag, I insert it into a specially made stand with a clamp on the end. This clamp holds a bottle on a 45 degree angle, and as I insert my drink it pours immediately to the grounds where my life is buried. The tomb reads, "Smell You Later", I can't believe we went through with this (whispers a, "good grief charlie brown" to myself).

A flash hits my eyes, something so incomplete from my past life hits me at a force like a bullet the size of an apple hitting me in the gut. It doesn't kill me, it doesn't even go through me, it knocks the air out of me, I kiss the ground and leave my hovering grace like I never had it to begin with. One single thought. My body starts to sink, the freshly laid dirt gives to my spirit like water. I reach a solid object, I feel around it, it is my former self, the part of me once alive.

I am put myself back together, or rather a mysterious force does so for me, as I am carried like a child in his mother's arms. Back to life, after we said goodbye, after I shook hands with death, and agreed to be the unliving.

I wake up in a room I don't remember ever being in. In my mouth is the taste of something familiar, the very thought is as fragile as holding the wing of a butterfly, if I breath too hard the dust will leave it and it will disappear before me. I warm myself up with pie, I feel like fighting again. I feel. Again. Ah, Eureka!

(The thought comes to me, the story ends)

The story ends.

(or does it...)

(mysterious)

(Meghan in the Hidden Garden, 2011)

HANGIN WITH ANGELLS

TODAY I will be showing with Angell again in their annual summer group show, come see some new work.

Work from

Philippe Blanchard, Esther Choi, Thrush Holmes, Daniel Hutchinson, Brendan George Ko, Caroline Larsen, and Andrew Myers

http://www.angellgallery.com/exhibitions/

1 - 4pm @ 12 Ossington, July 23 - August 20th, 2011

Howl If You Hear Me

(The Hood (part II), 2011)

I remember leaving early from work that day. I biked my fastest without ever knowing what to expect when I arrive. I got all sweaty, took a quiet street up north, and hit the construction-wasted Dundas as far as I could go. I had a vague idea of where I was going, how I was getting there. I remember how slow things were going on Dundas that weekend, the road was practically not there. I remember arriving to the place I was suppose to be, I slipped off my bike and caught my seat with my groin, looked to the window of the cafe, and hoped that she didn't see me fall, I looked very un-slick. I enter, I look around, right there in front of me, there she was. Sitting there, like she always existed here, as if she even lived here, just in this cafe, but there was something about her that said she didn't come from these parts, I knew her before this summer, before I ever entered this cafe for the very first time. I remember that first conversation, talking about html, everyday work. I remember the magazine in her hands, the smallness of the table, how the waitress looked very familiar, was she one of Brooke's friends I pondered. I was very indecisive, I wasn't hungry per se, but I could eat, I was feeling hunger-less, like rest-less, wanting rest, but not able to rest. Our flow was flowing, the words all came out, one by one, never too long of a break, this was good I was thinking. My mental image of her was being broken down and reassembled, she looked different, but not in a bad way, it was like seeing some sort of flower, drawn by an artist who hadn't seen what he was drawing himself, but was given a highly detailed description, and having a visual memory of that drawn flower in your head for years, and then one day, you walk into a cafe and you see that flower in real life. I know it's cheesy to use a flower in metaphor for a woman, but I couldn't say bug, nor animal, maybe the Grand Canyon, but then that sounds too grand, the flower, in its everyday beauty, is something that we could never get sick of, so much so that that those of the rarest flower haunt us, capture our imagination, and drive some men wild in the pursuit of something that happens in nature not too often.

There's a wildness about me that takes over my body. The person; the collective thought and mechanism that composes me socially, is taken away, set in a state of hover, fur grows throughout my body, my teeth become fangs, I howl, I grow thirsty, then hungry, then thirsty again. My eyes roll back, then return and they are now yellow, yellow with passion! My clothes are torn, my hair a mess, I have to go pee. I really have to go pee.

(Nicola, 2011)

Outta Control

(Untitled, from The Barking Wall, 2011)

In 2006, the feeling of lightning striking skull and electrifying the cells and the tiny clusters of energy that make up human consciousness were stimulated in my mind. No, I wasn't actually struck by lightning, though I once wrote about it, on here, (here being my blog in case this ever ends up elsewhere for future notice), and had someone come up to me, asking me how it felt to be struck by lightning, to which I responded, "now where did you get a ridiculous idea like that from?". Back to the summer of 06', it like most summers had that heat wave romance sort of thing, where you meet someone, someone new, and new in the sense that they are different, far different from anyone else you ever met, and that their presence, their company, they are refreshing, and adding to the plate, that which is human experience, your experience. The moment we met it was an instant and unmistakable chemistry, we had contact, we were connected, and back then I associated the feeling of previously knowing that person, but from a different time, perhaps a different life. Things got really hot, and there was a struggle, there was relief, with boatloads of tension, pain, hard times, and most of it was like that. It was probably the worst relationship I had, or at least, the worst clear cut relationship that had a clear beginning and a very crystal ending. I remember the feeling of losing everything I had, I was dipping my toes into insanity, she drove me insane. The mind games, the never there, stood up again and again, I was dating a phantom, I couldn't do that, there was no ground to stand on, and I didn't know how to fly. Anyway, I'm going on way too long about this relationship. There was a book I was reading throughout the relationship, and when I finished the book, I was completely, and totally over her. Without a doubt, I had shed, I had peeled, I had been reborn, and had evolved into a new person. I swear there was a mist surrounding my body, as I turned into a vague silhouette clouded by a blue mist, when the smoke cleared I was formed a human ball, naked, with a perfect sphere cut into the ground and the nearby trailer truck, still smoldering from my evolution. That was the moment I started to see the world in what I called, UNCONTROL*.

That was all I could think of, this UNCONTROL, which was always written in all caps for some reason. To break it down into lamemans, it meant I had just as much control of someone's life as my own, simply because the lives of others heavily attribute to my own, that we are all in this together, and that influence is so great, it is the fabric of one's self. The world around us, is constantly entering our mind, and stirring ideas, creating what appears to be new thought, but rather new thought to you, old thoughts to others, and that this is who we are, hybrids of thought mixed with old and new resonating within us and producing a unique tone. The complex construction of the mind itself is just this, that there are some many intricate connections that it is able to create the conscious and subconscious self. Life as a complex series of connections is too chaotic and without visible structure or logic, existing on both time and space, and is always shifting, formless, and most of all, eluding, and ambiguous we can never see the whole network, just the occasional and the most simplest of patterns. Cause and effect, a plus b equals c. Times that by every thought of the mind, of all the minds that ever existed, along with the all the minds that will exist in the future, and then have someone exclude them self outside of the picture, to see it with the eyes of an anthropologist, and then maybe you made grasp the system, the mechanism of life. And through all of this, like the idea of God, I gave a name to the source of all of this, I started to believe everything is preconceived. Like the orbits of the planets, through understanding the fluctuation of the space around them, their gravity pull, the things that influence their gravity, and their trajectory we are able to graph out their path. Things as big as the sun, even bigger, and farther away, we are able to have a great sense of where they will be in the future based off statistics; collecting data on what factors influence everything that evolves around that particular planet. I don't ponder the sameness of giant solar masses to the human lives, but that there are similes between the two. That our space is our everyday lives; the cities we live in, our asteroids are other peoples and obstacles, our gravity is our history, and that our trajectory is where we are meant to be, where. we. are. meant. to. be. Followed by the F word, fate. And why not imagine that through all of this chaos that this complex rhizome system is the reason we are able to navigate and get anywhere, without being taken by influence of this and influence of that, is because there is fate, or rather this invisible line of human trajectory, that we end up doing what we FEEL like we should be doing, or perhaps we don't feel it, which is most of the time.

This is the first time I let my mind wonder in these circles, for I remember once over-analyzing everything, seeing everything as a significant moment in creating who I am. It is impossible to think that way, when you're living it, only in time can we understand what that particular moment really meant or had influence of, in the greater picture, when seen from a far, in a calm and tranquil state, removed, and acting as just a visitor to a past moment. Every summer I made a habit of re-reading Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, to return to it. And every summer I seem to get caught up in something fleeting, taking me away from my ordinary life, and shaking it up, bringing something new to the table, and attributes to who I am, and I hope I can return the favor, I hope to be remembered, to have done something for that person, and this person, to have this influence and that influence, to have changed someone, ever.s0.slightly, but politely, with your permission, can I, may I, ok, here. we. go.

*Time is a factor of uncontrol and a dimension that effects our lives. Life itself is a measurement of time and therefore it is uncontrollable. One takes in all that surrounds oneself whether consciously or subconsciously, one's surroundings enter perception. Perception is two things: the imagery we see and the way we see imagery. What we see is a definition of quality, and quality is a value given differently from person to person. It is value we see before the object/subject (Robert Pirsig). It is in sense a selection. The perception sees quality and quality transforms into object/subject and forms an image or a thought. Everything one sees factors into the definition of perception to the individual. This constructs the mind frame of the individual and is the creation of mentality. Mentality is the filter that takes an image or thought and chooses its definition. Of course since mentality is so different from person to person, everything in one's surrounding is completely different from another's perception of same surrounding. The key part in the difference in mentality is the quality in one's life. The objects/subjects that one senses enter perception at certain times in one's life. Example: One meets another, the person one meets will arise influence and will factor effect in one's mentality. And in addition, the event itself is an event in a time frame called life. These events that occur, such as a meeting, a sight, being in a surrounding, etc., are items that occur in time, and therefore are uncontrollable. In broader aspect, it is these events that make the individual an individual, and that these events construct the meaning of life. Life is uncontrollable, a microscopic measurement of time. In addition to the constant of uncontrol, there can exist structure within time itself. If events make the individual, and that chance of two individuals meeting, and that this event causes a large scale change in the mentality in either one or both of the individuals must be questioned. The difference between meeting a common individual; sharing a common similarities but never beyond normality versus the event of meeting an individual that not only is beyond normality in similarities but is an apparent factor of change in mentality. Further, one is aware of this individual and their factor of change to oneself. It is human nature to be aware of similarity as much as it is to feel alone as an individual. Attraction to similarity between two similar individuals is comfort of two individuals constructed similarly; meaning that they feel the same in certain aspects, and have similar mentalities. This event of conscious awareness questions the matter in which the event has happened, and ultimately, one asks, why it did happen. The common applied hypothesis is a factor of "fate". Fate is an unexplainable definition. It is the belief in the unexplainable. Here is where a structure forms in this "unexplainable fate", and that all events are the same, therefore all events are unexplainable. This makes reason the same as fate in that they both are unexplainable hypotheses that can't be explained because the closest answer one will ever find is the question itself. The structure is placed once one believes in all events as unexplainable. The only logical testament to all of the unexplainable is simply to think of a clockwork of events. Every event changes the individual and that individual survives to see these events only because of the clockwork structure's existence. It is in clockwork that all events are timed; a preconceived motion. And in all of this, life as a factor of time, and time as a factor of uncontrol, and uncontrol as a factor of clockwork order, life is a clockwork. In this formula the definition of life is a preconceived order in which events occurs. It is a constructed perception which comes from quality and the mentality that filters the perception that make the notion of existence. Life itself is the events that occur with its time frame, and mentality; the conscious awareness, are structures that form from these events. The clockwork and the placement of the individual in that order is the definition of life itself. For if there wasn't a chain of events, the conscious notion of existence wouldn't exist to question the definition of life. It is quality, the value that exist before the object/subject. It is the events, the occurrences that exist before the conscious thought.
-Brendan George Ko September 23, 2006
(Robert Pirsig's "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance" idea of Quality being the value that exist before object/subject)

Softspot for Softspot

The folks at Softspot had curated a collaboration between one of my images to a writer, who wrote words to be matched with my image.

You can see the exhibition here...HERE

We Are Staccato

After all of his hard work, Nathan Cyprys put together a lovely little (it's not really little) exhibition at the heart of the Aurora art scene, The Aurora Cultural Centre, in Aurora, Ontario. The exhibition features work from three unique, young, and enterprising artists, Nathan Cyprys, Myself, and Faye Mullen, who all hail from Southern Ontario (for the most part), went to OCAD (two in photography, and one in sculptural/installation). And to spite being best of friends, these three artists' work have quite the dialogue to exchange with each other. Just ask the talented artist/curator, Lisa Visser, who had some thought-provoking words to say about the estuary of work.

Come Saturday, This Saturday, July 9th to August 27th, 2011, to bare witness to this unique art collective, a silently-named gang called the Bum Crumbs, or the Northbay Sanders, or the Salty Slipper Dippers and Whiskey Sippers.

Opening reception, this Saturday, July 9th (I said that already), from 1pm to 4pm, artists in attendance, as well as a performance done by exhibition artist, faye mullen.

For more information, visit the Aurora Cultural Centre website.

Bug-a-Boo

(faye rolling around in dirt, Aurora, 2011)

Dark Circlez

(The End of the World, from The Barking Wall, 2011)

Cycles upon cycles, the skipping record fumbles, the track remains the same, those fragments on loop, never to cease, perhaps, we never know. In the depths of uncertainty, a few words escape in the darkness of the deepest well, where ponder wonders astray, and the past is all you know. One can forget what is before one's self.

A giant rock hurls across the universe, it is sweating with blood, it is not an oversized meatball, it is made of iron and ice, it just bleeds blood (there are somethings that can't be explained). It knows where it is going, (The Voice for this tale opens his window and points just before, there's a glimmer of light, it is the nearby city, but what he means is US, as a whole, that that glimmer of civilization represents it all, from the dawn of man, right down to the end). We will never know of this fate before it is too late, and it is for the best, that our doubts, our superstition, and our theories are all irrelevant. In a flash, in a moment where all the things we cherished, all the ideas and beliefs, the everything of everything no longer matter, it is rendered void of value, and in this briefest of moments, time itself stops, the mind folds into itself, the two halves split and reunite, and are rewired synapse by synapse, and with each reconnection a part of this memory and part of that memory flicker off like the wildest of fire-crackers-soon-be-fiery-explosions...-of-thought. The flash of life is a lifetime in itself, we revisit it all with a vague experience of already living it. At this point our flesh is gone, we are antimatter, and even our brains are no longer, there is just a complex circuit of energy firing back and front faster than light itself.

Why do we destroy each other the bloody rock asks. The Voice of this tale walks up to the rock and touches it bleeding rocky surface, it is warm from its descent, but doesn't burn the voice's finger tips, he does not pull back out of reflex instead he pets the stonecold killer, perhaps even understands it. There is white light all over, it is from the flash of a huge explosion, but it is frozen in place, the only thing moving is this lone figure, walking around in loafers, wearing sunglasses, and smiling (who is this person). After he is done petting this 15 mile rock, he starts to walk around it, bits of earth are frozen in mid-air, he passes by them like he walking through a crime scene, and we wonder where he is going, what business could he have for time itself to have stopped for. He stops for a break, removes his left shoe and lifts it to his ear, he listens for a moment then shakes it. A few peddles fall out, he produces a cloth from his pocket and whips the inside of his shoe clean, the cloth returns bloody (meteorite?). After tying his shoe he continues to walk through this frozen chaos, on a mission from the gaze of his eyes.

Hours pass, and we're still trailing The Voice as he makes his way through the canyon o' destruction, our crew are getting restless, our feet raw, and worst of all, we're scratching our heads dying to know what is so important for time to stop. The Voice continues, without ever notices us watching, or at least without caring of his audience. The ground reaches a giant gorge and we all have to stop, we keep our distance from The Voice as we watch him look to the gorge and then decide that it is too deep and that it is too steep to travel into and out of, so he turns around, looks up, then looks down, our hearts pounding, feeling like any minute we're going to bare witness to something fantastic, and then he he he he...

-What are you guys doing over there, come give me a hand.

(everyone else is frozen in stock, I step forward and respond)

-What is it that we can help you with (should I address him, what should I address him as, ah fuckit) Master of the Time?

-Ha, come over here Silly One, you're needed, and them to. I KNOW they haven't been frozen in time.

We all gather around a giant log with The Voice looking at each one of us in the eyes before taking a deep-deep breath.

-Now guys, I want you all to hold hands for a moment.

We do.

-Form a circle around me, remember don't let go of each other, you'll disappear.

The words, disappear, floated in my mind; what happens when we disappear, how do we disappear, are we blown into bits and reassembled somewhere else. I stopped thinking of the possibilities and waited for his next move. His next move:

-Close your eyes. Now concentrate. You are floating. At first you feel your feet lift from the ground and those first few moments of flight then you start to ascend higher and higher. Soon I am lost in the distance from you in the sky and me still on the ground. I wave, and you all try wave back but you're still holding hands. A few of you shout things like, bye, nice knowin' ya. One of you says, smell ya later. I laugh, and wave you a kiss, this means bon voyage. Before you know it, even the meteorite disappears from view, and the air becomes cooler and cooler, with the air getting thinner and thinner. The day sky gets darker and darker and before you realize it you are on the verge of leaving stratosphere. You look up and see stars like you have never seen them before. Your eyes tear up, you feel like a child again, that wonder hits you hard and somewhere deep down. It is so beautiful you tell yourself over and over, there are no words to really describe this (not even the saying there are no words to describe this). Before you know it you're surrounded by the deepest of blackness you had ever seen, it is interrupted by the brilliance of the universe, with clusters of stars forming galaxies, spiraling in frozen vortexes, and lone stars burning like a welder's torch. By now, all your earthly thoughts have left you, and you are no longer an earthling. Your pace suddenly changes and the stars around you turn to beams of trailing light, you have reached warp-speed. Your body experiences an extreme g-force, but you don't feel like vomiting or letting your body explode from the intensity, no, you feel like you are gracefully flying, like a bird, at light-speed. All of your clothes, then hairs, then dirt, and excess oil are removed in the vacuum of your speed, your body is rendered pure, and your form is no longer like it was. You have transformed, there is a third eye in the middle of your forehead, and what you see from here isn't visual sight, but foresight. You see before your current state, you watch your body move through the universe, feeling vaguely familiar with the sequence of events, you have lived this. At the end of this third-eye vision you feel you have lived that witnessed moment, you look down at yourself, you have changed. Where your mind normally asks why forms a "I see", you examine yourself with open arms as if someone is putting a coat on you, one sleeve at a time. A few more visions happen, and before you know it, you are no longer anything like you once were. Your memory disappears, you see yourself start a new life, and the one before that cease to exist anywhere in your mind or body. We call this the crossover. All your pain, all of your struggles disappear, they stop having any value to you, along with it goes past love, friends, moments upon moments. Your heart is mended, your soul is free. I repeat, your heart is mended, your soul is free. Repeat after me, your heart is mended, your soul is free. Fade to black.

Fade to black.

How Can You (Meld A Broken Heart)

(Alternative Image for Aquarius, 2011)

Looking over my fire escape, I see a couple arguing below. The view is mostly of the top of their heads, hand and arm gestures are the only physical signs of distress as one moves closer and farther away from the other.

"What, NOO, I'm not leaving, I got my own things to do", says the man as he crosses the street.

"But we're not done here", says the woman as she points down to the ground where her feet rest.

"We're done talking."

"NO. No, we're not. You're coming back here." (points to the ground)(again)

(Man fishes through his pockets with as much grace as he can muster for his car keys)

"We'll,...we'll talk later."

"Oh, no, every time, it's always the same, with YOU."

"What does that mean!"

"Oh, I think you know exactly what that means..."

"You're never going to let it up. Now. Are. YOU."

(The man points his finger to the woman and grins, he appears to using his finger as a weapon, this weapon being a pistol of some sorts and he is pulling his thumb back to load the chamber with a round)

(The woman looks down to the ground, as if in surrender before she jolts both shoulders in a wave-like matter, letting the wave travel through to her arms before it leave through her fingers. She now has two pistols pointing to the man.)

"Whooo, now." (He's sweating in the high noon sun) "No need for that. We're just talking."

"Sooooo, now you F-E-E-L like talking."

"Do I have a choice?" the man says with a hint of sincerity.

"COME HERE NOW", the woman waves her two pistol fingers to the ground as if she was sticking up a bank.

(a pause)

(The man thinks...)

(another pause)

"NO!, not this time, you can't control me", says the man.

"HERE NOW!", she continues.

(not a word from the man)

(the man puts his pistol fingers to the ground then presents his chest with two arms ready for liftoff)

"You'll just have to shoot me."

(A bird flies just above them, it cries out before it drops a white drop of shit between the arguing couple)

...

(A long silence grows, they're both thinking of all the next steps, in every possible alternative universe. The tension is strung so tightly, I climb into my window and look with peering eyes, I am afraid.)

...

"Come'on. This is silly." says the man breaking the silence with his palms flipped skyward.

"How. Do. We. Forgive...." she says just before she turns to tears.

(All while keeping her pistol fingers towards him, there is a strain in holding them to him.)

"Listen..."

(The Man slowly approaches the woman, hands still palm up, ready to give peace a chance.)

"I know, we've been through all of this, our neighbors think we're crazy, they're probably watching"

(With her words I close the blinds and continue to peer through the openings.)

"We're not crazy, we're not crazy like those nuts down there (points to the mental hospital in the distance), no, we're crazy for each other."

"But. but"

(The man is now inches before the woman, her pistols are dug into his chest)

"Shhh...." the man says as he uses his index finger to seal her lips.

(The two embrace each other, and hold still for a moment before gyrating their hips in unison, one moves forward, the other takes them in, then in reserve order, over and over in this odd Lynchian slow dance.)

...

(An hour passes, a few cars honk as they pass by, I return to my normal sitting arrangement on the escape, and somewhere in that time I picked my book back up and resume my business, with them still in that gyrating embrace, close to the middle of the road.)

I look yonder, the birds are chirping, the wind blows through my hair. I decide to whistle my favorite Al Green song.

Seabreeze Fancy

(In The Thick of It, Moloka'i, 2009)

A couple of years ago I looked off into the sunset, yeah, it was a romantic sight. I was alone, standing there, just finished throwing some flat circular stones across the ocean when the sky decided to set fire. If I was someone watching me, I would've seen my humble expression, the sunset burning in the reflection of my glasses, and something change within me like watching a cocoon twitch. It has been two years, I haven't turned into any butterfly, I haven't really evolved nor transformed, and I haven't grown a set a wings. In actuality I find myself at a loss of meaning; what has happened, and what all it means. What it all means, the experiences I had that summer, as a runaway, hidden from familiar eyes, relaxing on the beach. I am only moments before that very place, ready to make my escape, wondering what the future is like. I wonder that for the most part, but I also realize that something in me hasn't fully digested, that I am still processing data. In moments like this, when my ear is pressed up against a noisy air conditioning unit, I ponder the ponderful, look to the past for ideas and solutions, and right now, I think, deep, hard, with a flicker of flame in my torch as I descent to past experience. I am recalling my past summer, and merging it with this summer. I am forming a plateau to roam, to loiter, and if I can, plunder. I see this land as something that can be created, in a vision I have high up here (taps temple). What have you, I tell myself, looking at myself, hey there I talk to myself, my neighbors from across the way probably see me talking to myself, ask me if I care (i don't). I look myself deep in the eyes, I wonder there, get lost there, and then I am swallowed whole.

[Enter the darkness]

It is not the crystal castle, nor the ideal I am after, I look to see the sea gulfs flock in the sea breeze. All I am doing, I repeat, all I am doing is attempting the impossible. Hold for a moment, and release. I would lie, I would entice, but the truth is I don't know, what the future holds for us, what wonders and failures, and everything in-between, the dirt in the cracks, the pebbles in our shoes, I cannot see so brightly into the future, no, I cannot fly, nor can I reverse time. The slow crashing of the waves set the mood, I look to see that the ocean's fire is dimming too, the sky is falling to darkness. What is in my hands is all I have, a few soft stones good for throwing on the glassy surface of water. I spit some taste into the air, it mists into the milk of dreams, I say fantasy, you say roleplaying, I'll change my name if you change yours. I roll with the roughest, now are you rough enough. I kick some hard shit, my toes do bleed but my face show no pain. I am insane, crazed to be, wild as can be, say what I say, and you'll never wanted to leave, you'll always want to stay (hey that rhymed). Pop goes the top, a stream forms from an ending bottle, foam is lost in foam as the sea turned to black-black-black. There's sand between my toes, I got this itching feeling that this is going to be rad, radical, radish.

I look away from my mirror, I look off into your direction, and though you can't hear my words you can read my lips.

Come my lady, come-come, my lady (you're my butterfly. Sugar. Baby.)

rabble walla

(Ghost-like figure doing BLOOD with hands, 2011)

Perhaps it is strange to think of a world beyond my own, a place where I have no influence, nor control at this time of night. I ponder what people do, what they look like. How does the air sound like, is there music playing, what kind of music, is it overwhelming, is it some jazz bar? Of course this is just one place, not the whole thing, if I took that on that in my thoughts it would be a collective rabble-rabble-rabble. In a dark room, with strangers all around, that sound will find its way into you, through your ears, but most of all, your fears. It creates a sound field that acts as a boundary, and whoever is there with you, in the state you are in, is your only companion in the whole stinking world (which isn't so bad, depending on the company). But those dark circles, the nerves that make me nervous are as loud as the rabble-rabble-rabble itself, it feels like my blood is boiling, my face, maybe melting, my company is looking at me funny, she knows I'm freaking out. I am freaking out. Maybe not the word freaking out, but certainly not chilling out. The occasional laughter saves us, NOTHING LIKE THAT I say to myself, she hears, an abrupt WHAT? ensues, I laugh it off, saying, OH JUST TALKING TO MYSELF. (insert dark circle).

Eventually, even I find myself chilled out, this place is still crazy, but I don't care. A quick hip check to see if my company is still here. She's still there. My eyes adjust to the darkness, I look towards the stage, my eyes see but what they are seeing is separated from what I feel. My eyes are only guides to what's really going on. My mind wonders again, but this time there aren't any dark circles, a new plateau forms and I see a flicker. My feet attracted to it, I start to dance, I move with my body disconnected from the world. I look over to see if she is still with me, crazy eyes, that trips me out. I laugh, she laughs, we're good. Moments turn into moments, and a life time later the crowd, the stage, all melted into a pool of life, before is a mirror image of the world I once knew. This world is almost perfect, but it is missing something, we are not there, we are absence, neither looking down from an angle that escapes reflection nor below or aside, we are removed. The sound in the air is gone, the buzzing static fills our consciousness. If we were sleepy, droned, or fading before we were awake now. I check my ego, I am not here, I am not there. She speaks, what I hear escapes me, all I know is that my mind is taking in every detail, for what, I have not a clue, perhaps for moments like this, as I type away from my fourth story height, looking at a city that is sleeping, that I am alone with my thoughts, revisiting a time I wish never ended. It wasn't extraordinary, nor did it need to be made into a monument, it simply was a moment lost from time, those moments shared with another that break down the walls of normal, static, and sound reality. And perhaps in all that rabble-rabble-rabble we were ultimately alone.

Ay Papi

(Natasha Visits Toronto, 2011)

A tall tower used to reign just ahead. You see where those smaller glass towers rise, yeah, right there, that's where it used to be. All brick, with some salty looking writing circa 1940's. It never meant much to me then, when I was growing up, looking at it, wondering who worked in there. It wasn't until I moved back to this city and lived here for a few years when I realized something was missing. I couldn't place it, and for years there was a vague feeling of a phantom upon us.

One day looking through my father's old watercolor paintings I found a painting of that tower, in perfect detail, in the light I remember it in, and amongst the rendition were my own; the scribbling of a child art-destroyer. Somewhere in that reminiscing I pondered the thought perhaps I had never seen this tower as a child, nor did it exist. It just could have been made up from my father's imagination, made to look ordinary so as not to been seen as a fake. Perhaps he put some real studies within the folder I found all the paintings in to throw me off. I wondered if I had misplaced that memory of that painting with reality, both happened in my childhood. But why would I mistaken this painting over the many films, t.v. shows, and photographs I had also seen for reality? I sat at the toilet for a long time, I was dry by then, and the sky was getting dark. I suddenly thought of the memory of my father, how I always thought it was odd he was my father, I spent a whole life time knowing he was, and he treated me like a son, he was a good father, but for some reason there was this odd feeling lingering in the air. Perhaps it is that I know very little about him, that he is often quiet about his life, he talks, but about what's going on in the news (Mr. CNN we called him, he now watches FOX, we don't call him Mr. FOX). I see him every other year, he looks older and older, and that fact always depresses me. I remember my father walking on his hands, doing loops around us as we crawled. Funny how I remember that, nowadays he has knee problems, he's getting up there, and the once strong man my father was is now dwindling. There's a picture of us together, both with our shirts off, hanging out at the beach, it was the first time I was more muscular than him, the legend that my father is coming to terms with reality.

I've never told my father I love him, I think its those words that I feel, and I want to say, and every time I'm leaving to go back to the city I live in, at the airport I look at him, I hug him, and the air in my lungs that I use to form words is gone. It is the same feeling of telling a woman you love her for the first time, that is probably the hardest three word combo in the english dictionary. A man I once met in Moloka'i told me love is life, that you should be able to tell someone you love them without any hesitation, it should be natural. He told me says I Love You in his goodbyes to his friends, he said that you never know when that will be the last time you see each other and that you want them, you need them, to know that you love them. It is very important. And perhaps one day I'll get my head outta my ass and be more vocal about my love, but I'm stubborn and I save that word for the most important moments, when it really hits hard. I didn't grow up in a beautiful place like Moloka'i, and parts of my childhood were pretty rough, without bragging, and who I am is who I am, from all the bits and pieces that been embedded into this rolling stone gathering twigs, small animals, and no moss. I am my failures, I am regrets, but most of all I am my success and evolution. All I want to hear is, oh what's that sound, holler, a pearl, the ocean swelling, the sky is falling, the kids going crazy, the city is burning, what, are, we, going, to, do, do-do-do, AY PAPI.

Wolfgang

(The Hood, 2011)

Moments disappearing into other moments slowly creep down the hill, gathering dirt, grass, and twigs until it is no longer in our control, it is unstoppable. Rolling high, this clustered figure is looking at us all. If you look close enough you can see a face, and upon even closer examination you can see your childhood (just before the giant katamari swallows you whole). You learn as a child never to look at the sun for too long, you'll go blind. Perhaps that's the same about your past. And once blind how can you began to see again?

When I met (name) we were both much more crazier then, not crazy in the way that was bad crazy, but crazy as in wild. We were wild, full of piss and vinegar, hot-damn and hot-dogs, wildness. So much so I felt at home in the crystal castle we made out of our time together. Every moment creeped into a new one, leaving the last one behind in a bittersweet. Now, in the present, I look to each place we spent time listening to the landscape change, discussing the past, present, and future, I look and see a flicker.

Oh there it is, or rather, there you are (and then it is gone).

Those places will never make sense again, not a photograph can bring a meaning or memory to them, they have become dead. Or rather, the living dead (spooooky).

Hey (name), I called. Do you remember a blanket so holy?

Both looking up to the sky we stared endlessly into the black abyss. The silence started to hurt my ears and just when the static of motionless air became too much you cried out in a coyote-like howl.

Hhhhooooooooowl!

Still looking up, my mind felt lifted from my skull as it started to hover above my vacant body. I started to cry out a howl myself.

Haa-wooooooooo-wah-wah-wah-haaaa!

I was beginning to understand you, how you look the way you do, why you speak the way you do. We stood there in this transcendental state for what could be hours, occasionally howling, with our thoughts growing deeper and deeper. Our mouths moved in murmurs without disernable meaning, and yet we understood this language we had created. The word, "never" kept entering my thought, how I had never done this, felt this, lived this, and yet it felt strangely so familiar. For most of the night, and months after that moment, I had questioned if moments like that, with connections and harmony as strong as they were, would ever happen again. I was far removed from the world I lived in, I called myself a drifter in those days, as I was neither here in this plane of existence nor in the one we had created. Our next meeting wouldn't happen for years, and yet you had never left my side, or rather we had never left each other. Wolf-pack as I shoot my index and pinky skyward and made my remaining fingers collide with my thumb to form a wolf made of fingers. We are thicker than blood now, we are deeper than my grave G (ain't nobody can save us).

Perhaps, yes, perhaps. I close my eyes with premonition, I have been here before. The walls around us fall apart, the vast and endless room that surounds us disappears, and now our bodies float in space. You tell me this is the first time we met.

No, I doubt that, I tell (name).

But it is, search your heart, does it not tremble?

I feel my heart tremble so, the lack of earth beneath my feet begins to vibrate like a phantom-floor.

But your face. It looks so familiar.

I reach over to (name)'s face and touch it. Flesh met my hand, it is soft, forgiving, and yet it doesn't give to the pressure of my touch, nor does it resist, it is neither creamy nor harsh, it is flesh of a person of dreams.

-Are my eyes closed, I ask (name)?

-No, not at all, you are seeing with your eyes, your real ones, and you can see through me.

-Can you see?

I did see through (name), I looked into (name)'s heart, I could see (name)'s energy flowing throughout (name)'s body, pulsating, yes, breathing, and even blooming like such flowers that have no names, just shades and aromas.

-You have never met me before, you have never lived before this life, so no, to your conspiring thought, you haven't met me in another life, (name) spoke.

For the first time in my life I had no doubt that this life was all but one, singular, and that I was in fact, a fresh soul.

-Upon your death, you should take it as uncertain as to be given another life, you never know about those things, some are born again, some are ready to die and that's that. After all, one should always feel uncertainty with death.

The words, you never know what you're gunna get comes into mind. I wondered about those who live to see another life, or perhaps lives, if they knew they had lived previous lives, especially since folks like me haven't lived another life and yet feel like they had. I dismissed my notion of past lives as product of poor memory, I forgot my memory, and then when they return to me I mistaken them for someone else's, the so-called "past self". And perhaps that is true, that life is long enough to live multiple lives, such as living in multiple places, seeing the world, meeting the world, and living in the world, and eventually, calling this and that place home. Before I knew it I was asleep. My shoes had been taken off, along with the rest of my clothes, and I saw (name)'s hands resting on my chest, as if (name) had been reading me a story till I fell asleep.

You saved my life, I said half-awake. I trailed off into infinity and beyond. My body turned to stone, and I saw with eyes not of my own but with (name)'s. At first I saw her undress herself, (name) dipping into a warm bath, and the vision goes all steamy. During all of this time, I wasn't necessarily blown away at seeing (name) naked, especially in the context of seeing it through her eyes, but the overall sensation of an outer-body-experience. I was inside (name)'s body, seeing and hearing what (name) was hearing. After the vision ended, I sat at the edge of my bed, I could no longer think of anything other than (name). Over and over, I repeated my memory of (name) in absolutely wonder and fascination. I wanted more, but I was left with a cold silence, as if my distance from (name) was a cold thick wall oozing with filmy layer of ice-cold water. I was no longer allowed. Perhaps I had attempted the impossible and hovered in impossibility for a long enough in a moment to feel glory of flight. For a split second I felt that, for the briefest of moments I felt that way. And it was because I felt this way I felt alone at the edge of my bed. (Name) was gone. Far beyond my reach, what echoes in time is memory, memory as I wrote down each and every detail of the sensation I knew was slowly losing it's value. It no longer mattered, my words would become vague and meaningless (if they weren't already), and perhaps even the overall thought of (name) would vanish, into a vault as deep and as dark as a black-hole. The vision of an hourglass filling with sand floated before me, it was a mystery, all that roamed the hallways of my thought was the arrival of (name).

Perhaps, I say, perhaps again.

What's that?

The ground beneath us started to come alive, waking from a million years of slumber. The ground turned to cracks and gapping portals of pure darkness. I wondered if this was a dream, if we could fly away from this mess. Mess as in the whole thing, this place, this planet, these lives, and just disappear. To disappear, to fade out, to beam-me-up-scotty from it all. I wondered what we were running from, why were we in such a hurry to skidaddle and jump tottle-lew into the next.

In the end, with failure just hovering above me, telling me that the grip I have on the things in my life is an illusion at most. That perhaps it all is chaos, chaos to us, for it is a system that is so integet that the level of possibilities of cause and thus effect is too brilliant for our mental eyes. Or perhaps not brilliant, but invisible. The order is invisible. And so, the thread that connects me to this person to that person, and how strung the thread is is invisible, and yet it is right before me. I just can't see it. All I have, all I am, is reduced to feeling the world, for I am blind to its order.

I look over and (name) is asleep. (Name) must've fell asleep somewhere half-way, when I was making more sense and just before I trailed away into ramble. I felt that she was always listening, perhaps responding in her dreams, arguing with me. I have it all backwards. I really did have it all backwards.

Wonderful Folks

Certainly I was asked to be part of a wonderful publication, with really great artists, and I wonder how I managed to get my toes in. These folks put together an absolutely beautiful collection of images, and curate a whatshappening/wicked visual journey. Here's the pdf; click here!

Bustin' the Ads

(Adbusters July/August 2011 getting GOD-Lonely)

Learning To Love Yourself (More) pt. 17

(bye-bye there dear karla, 2011)

Slipping Into Infinity

Cut the bread with a chipped edge of a stone, fashion an axe with a piece of yarn. Crush the earth with your toes, feel the trees breathe (they're breathing). Run with the wildest, craziest, and bravest sons of bitches you ever known. See a million sunsets, live in this moment then live in that moment. Pretend your wings for adventure are heavy motorcycles, and your arms are twice as strong and barely fitting in your current arms. The world is your might, extend it, stretch it, destroy, and rebirth it. Take on giants, fuck everyone (fuck as in screw, I mean, to care not in what they speak of or believe in), and listen to what your dirty guts say. Sure this could be dialogue to a truck commercial, especially when I say all this with an implied southern draw. Now listen! (implied y'all).

The sky bends, stand tall, you've learned how to fall, now learn how to jump, to take a leap, to tower, and to soar, if only for moments, if only for this one time or that one time, and just live in a little. Bite the bullet, do anything that could not kill you, and do a few of those things that can kill you. Do everything you told yourself you would, once you were in a better mood for it, because fuck your mood, this is you, you call the shots, you are your mood, now go jump off something, go marry this guy, or that girl, or that idontknowwhatshehehimher, and just trust in your one only weapon when you are completely naked, lost and alone, in the woods, your survival. Howl if you have to, scream at the top of your lungs, you are wild, we are wild, let's get wilder. Make shit happen. And by all means, if something is holding you back, don't let it, if there's a face to your boundaries, make it the face of your high-school history teacher, why, because (s)he's history! And if that boundary has no face, give it one, not the same one as the last, you gotta be creative here, make it Albert Einstein, why, because he's history, that's right. He was really smart and all, but he was on another level, somewhere I'm not, but I get it, or at least I'm ...REACHING for it. REACH FOR IT. Envision your hand grabbing a pot-bellied fruit full of life and nectar, and juices and seeds, and guts, and squeezing it. At first it holds up against your attack, but then, boom, all of a sudden it explodes, seedlings everywhere, fruit guts all over your hand and clothes, and you feel something give in your hands. You hear a tambourine playing, then a techno beat, then electronic guitar, do-do-dah-nah, do-do-dah-nah, (yeah baby, you know what this is)

I GOT THE POWER!

SHUT UP!

(Barking Wall, from The Barking Wall, 2010-2011)

The demons say.

The dogs down the way bark.

I close my eyes, I don't care (keep telling myself), I don't care.

I walk further, I even disappear. A small grin covers my face, I can't be seen, but this is what's happening. My blood boils, but I am not angry. I usher in a new way. My steps seem to float. The ground is no longer so harsh on my feet, no sudden stop, it gives (the ground that is), I feel my foot go right through the ground and yet I am still on the surface. My pace turns into a run, goddamn I hate text messages. I throw my cellphone. It makes a loud and satisfying crash, maybe the battery exploded, maybe I'll never have to carry a conversation that way anymore. (I whisper to myself, anymore, no more, fuck that, goddamn, it's over, it's not you it's me, I can't stand it (in a softer whisper I say fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck)).

This place is dark, it feels warm, warm enough to go without clothes, but hot enough not to sweat. In fact, it is the same consistency as jumping into really warm water, where your body doesn't feel any shock of entering into a physically different realm. The air fits to your skin here, your holler is muted and yet it holds an echo. This is perfect reverb. I clap my hands and say yeah, no one but me can hear this. I start talking to myself as if there were another person on the other side of the conversation. It feels good. I look up to the surface, I see the moon, it is full, it dances in ripples, I hold this image in my mind, I'm carrying it to the house full of memories like this one, it is falling apart, the paint chips, and the pillars are turning to salt grain. I see faces in this house, none of which I can remember, I feel warm, but strange (a sadness grows in my belly), I want to hold all their hands but I only have two to give. I try to speak to them, to tell them how they make me feel, but my voice only belongs to me. My eyes roll back, and I feel a weight grow in my chest. I have no words here, I say fuck fuck fuck, goddamn goddamn more, my flesh is falling apart, my sweat fills my clothes with a musky rage.

A rip, a lightning bolt, a tornado, a tsunami, and an earth quake tare this house apart. All I can see is a face, she isn't laughing, she isn't even looking at me cry, watching the house of all my greatest hits sink into a well of absolute darkness. This isn't fair I yell, only I can hear. This isn't your world, these aren't your memories, and yet my voice falls within shadow's reach. Not even all the words my mother told me not to say could save me now.

The world grows dark, and darker, then quieter, and quieter. The hum of a living earth below me now can be heard. I've never heard this before, but I always knew it was there. I look around in amazement, is there anyone to share this with I wonder. No, I am alone, this time my world has no man-made structures, just desert plants, it is barren, I know this place too well. This is the place I grew up in. This is where I was born, the person who I am now. I see my shadow stretch into the darkest corners (reaching into the deepest cracks). A negative sun rises in the sky.

I look into the dark well where all was lost, and I see a reflection. And though I see my face, it looks strange. It takes me a few minutes to realize it is me, perhaps what I look like to others. I am somehow separated from this face, I touch it, and without ripples or the glassy surface of water I feel skin. There is a charge to the touch, and I almost feel like falling into the pool but I hold myself together. The sky is now filling with a pink glow. The beating of my heart is audible, and I speak, and now it shoots out across this desert.

I can hear your voice, it guides me through all the shrubs and thorns. I close my eyes, and open them. The world is now full of light. I close and open them again, but this doesn't really change anything. I hold my breath, and I feel my feet lift from the ground. I start breathing from my ears like in that movie, Water World, and before I know what hit me I'm a freaking dolphin. I speak, but all of my words produce are a few cute chippy chips. I see your face, you don't recognize me, and I don't blame you, I'm a dolphin. I try to give you at least a wink, but dolphins can't wink, instead I just close both eyes, and I would smile, but my mouth is always smiling. I blow a few air bubbles your way, and I say, this will just have to do, it will just have to do.

We say our goodbyes in our own way. You're leaving, I'm leaving, you're a human, and I'm something else. In some climatic ending where two people, after experiencing this whole adventure, and lived to tell about it, part ways, taking to separate paths, and though we are going completely different directions, we both are walking to the dawning sun. This dawn on me, I never said told you...

(click click) BOOOOOOOM!

Almost Done

After three months of progress, the completely rewritten bgk.com is almost done. Stay tuned. (and I know it's not too far off from the last, but it's closer to what I always wanted)