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Protected: Prose: Feel Free to Bother me
Protected: Prose; Between The Cracks
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Cosmic Play Day; Blue 13 Monkey
Transcend the illusion of a virus more powerful than your mind and intention. It’s not.
Transcend the silliness of a mask.
Transcend the fearsome darkness of death
Transcend the spiritual blindness of the media. Ignore them.
Kill your T.V.
Get your heart pumping and move your blood
Laugh with friends
Walk away from toxic people
Have great, loving, sex
Ignore propaganda from all institutions who want your money
Eat some veggies and grains
Set boundaries with your family
Draw, paint, write, dance or make music
Check out a new deli, cafe, or bakery
Decide to be your own best friend and be kind to yourself in choosing what emotions to run. No matter who your feelings are about, they won’t feel them but you will.
S’up?
Protected: Prose: Why Can’t I See You?
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Protected: Prose; Liquid Saturday
Protected: Prose; Spiraling Paradox
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Protected: Essay; Intimacy and Intuition
Protected: Prose; I Make My Bed
Protected: Prose; Elemental Woman
If We’re Not Thinking in Dreams…
They know by studying the brain that we are not “thinking” while we sleep.
If I’m not thinking, then where are the people, places, voices, words, events, and feelings coming from? It’s not exactly like watching a movie; it’s more like an opaque, frenetic cloud that’s really alive.
I’m free in my dreams to sit back or join in, to interact or be quiet without judgment. Waking life is a dream for me. All day, while I’m “awake”, I’m trying to go back to my dream state to remember how I felt, who I saw, and what happened. It feels like there is a whole other life full of etheric information for me there. Waking life feels like just a resonance is a type of magnetic can; the kind you string together.
Where did I go? I know it was a good place because it affects my day, depending on where I went that night.
I’m not saying I don’t like it here, on earth, but the other side does beckon somehow. I’m a bit glad of that for when my body is worn to a frazzle at one-hundred and four years old, my work is done, it will be easy to drift off and say, “My work here is done. I’m out.” My senses and my body still want to drink in all that earth has to offer though, right now.
Earth is fabulous, no matter how hard it can get here.
Prose; How the Light Changes
Written 9/5/17
Once the sun comes up, the sun in my eyes charges my brain like a battery.
The position of the shadows on the wall meanders aimlessly to new places like a squirrel trying to find a home for his peanut.
The refraction off of the green leaves will meet its demise when the colors change and drop like so many ancestors on our family tree. Into the ground, they go.
We’re all soiled phantoms, you know.
One day full of light and life, and soon, the Earth reclaims us.
Do you know there hasn’t been one, single human body to escape this transformation?
What happens to our light and life, like that green leaf?
The light changes.
Prose; I Want the Music a Little Louder
I want the music a little louder,
for our kiss to last longer,
to breathe a little deeper and drink more coffee.
I want more swing to the jazz and a louder backbeat and
to dance a bit longer and sing with our friends,
Let’s finish that bottle of wine and stay together
because tomorrow is not promised
and I have to look at your face as much as possible.
Prose; Between The Cracks
Between the cracks of the piano keys, where the quarter and eighth tones lie, invisible gems are to be found.
Whole tones (normal notes) have no business here…no one likes them… they just seem whole, they’re really broken; like a million notes in smudged ink all over the page.
I long for these sounds to break the cacophony around me. Dissonance? They are consonant to me. They fill my cup in a parched closet, old wood, dry and brittle, thirsting for moisture. Dusty, unpopular, unseen, unheard by most human ears…
I love those places. Ah…let me sleep there.
“Grand Opening Here”, I run the other way. I’ll come in the middle of the night thank you-when no one is around but the ghost of my Grandpa, and maybe his friend with him. I can write then. Dusty basements, hidden shops, in-between dimensions, cracks, and mortice hide the doorways.
I long for these places to break up the routine of my day.
Little antique stores, old forgotten thrift stores where mom & pop still sit in the chair from 1926, gems are to be found. Patina so thick you can taste the smell of it, musky, soil, brackish dark. Cobwebs everywhere-but it’s all new to me.
I’m looking, for…my friend…a part of my soul that is tragically invisible to the surface dwellers, so odd, so unexpected that it thrashes my back. So impossible, so inconvenient, so much…so very good!
It feels eternally old and yet new to me; New to me because it doesn’t “fit” in my brain; in my plan. My well ordered, hip, sharp, cerebral, sassy, punkish, cavalier brain brutishly, insensitively mocked your old stories, your tradition, your nostalgia, your mischief. I’m not really laughing. I just really, really like the texture of it all-and you.
It has been said, “Your heart is a fickle leader!” Then I am the crumbs in the bottom of the toaster-like the host crumbs in “the cup”. Drink me. I am altogether undone. So be it…
Move to the old that is new!
Take a leap…what seems old is new, what seems new is old. What’s up is down??
It just is.
It aches to feel like a foreigner in my own planet…Always seeking a creative space that is misunderstood, mysterious, and forgotten.
Gorge on my grief and run for cover then…
Nothing is lacking; ever…all of it. The devil is in the details they say. His ears shriek when he hears quarter tones and eighth tones between the cracks; and time is no more. When the notes become whole, he is undone.
2/14/10
Prose; Shadow
I obscure my darkness to walk through life content, shadow feelings under the bed.
Convoluted darkness just below my navel only, my prescient dreams adumbrate what my body holds in, refusing to release its undulating grasp like a cranky child crying, needing attention and touch.
Male progenitor, emotional vampire and…ironically, my ally as a bridge to freedom in the face of neglectful, unfeeling, autocratic child-bearer.
Tremulous adolescence, when the course succor so needed is vacuous at best,
Cynical vexation felt so keenly in their insensitivity to my easily affected, young, psychic heart. They didn’t even know what the fuck psychic was because it wasn’t in the bible.
What could I have been?
What happy life could I have had if their crispy, mucous eyes had been open a crack?
That shadow feeling could spiral me down so quickly if I focused on it, so I only do it here
for release…because it’s bullshit, and my life is not bullshit, so I’m not filling it with that.
What is more helical bullshit that parental ignorance with an innocent, lovely child born in light and returning to light?
How twisted and contorted can adults get following societies rules, books, beliefs, and materialistic hysteria when they have in front of them a free soul, their child, needing only love by degrees, free roam by yards, food by weight and expression without limit?
The shadow of light is a contrast as a lesson
I’m using it to soar to the heights,
To rip asunder familial right to the soul of a child.
No more,
Whether in love or delusion
each child belongs to themselves only.
Just as roots do not dictate how far, wide and what direction a tree will grow,
so too, shadow roots deep below the ground only hold it in place while the wind, sky, and sun call us ever higher to dance with all of life above ground, storm and calm, for as long as we wish to live.
I hail from you but I am not you.
Feb. 8, 2017, Yellow 13 Warrior
Synchronicity is the Source of Consciousness 
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