On epiphanous mornings like this one, the revelations come thick and fast, everyone realizing and sharing that which they hate, love, and fear about themselves, that which they couldn’t understand or admit to themselves or anyone else and the secrets, the knowledges, just bubbling up and out naturally.
No room in the light of the sun to hide from each other or, more importantly, ourselves.
Living is a verb, incomplete, dirty, in progress, always changing, fecundly beautiful.
The quest for perfection is trying to end the messy abundance of that Living and collapsing it into a clean completion, ending the story in that most final noun, Death.
Mercurial Dying, on the other hand, is a fire burning up and transforming the raw material, the fuel, into a becoming other, separating and releasing us as smoke, light, heat and ash… This Dying is a powerful kind of Living.
When my time as this body has ended plant me with the seedling of a fruit bearing tree near a grassy hill and a burbling stream somewhere that gentle breezes can stir our branches and gently pull our fruit down to be eaten as tales are told on sunny afternoons.
Alone, awake while everyone slumbers, this is absolute freedom. You and the moon.
The world passes these strange hours with gentle rustles, distant chimes and a comfortable chill.
Nocturnal wandering between these lines on paper, searching only for now.
Beyond the reach of love or fear… but not sadness. Beauty has its own sadness.
Have you ever been yourself? It’s a weird experience, let me tell you…
I set myself a deadline for my transformation. I kept my schedule but I’m not turning into what I THOUGHT I would.
And lo, a different person came home than the one that left my house.
The crow understands your history, the rabbit: life and death, the wolf knows what it wants, and the cat: how we feel.
I am the coyote AND the crow. I am the seed in the soil and the sun in bloom.
Sitting in the coffeeshop. Neurologically damaged. Again. Monday afternoon is still sunday night for me. Feels like it is force of will alone that keeps my body from falling apart as every part of me tries to go in a different direction.
Utterly alone, despite the people around. How I want to be. Indifferent to anything other than the microscopic permutations of sensation that pass over this body without organs.
I was never good at absolute gestures. I always hold something back, keep something in reserve. I’m reserved. I walk the line. Random electric guitar noises keep me rooted to this point in space and time.
How much of myself do I hide from the world? and yet sometimes I feel that that hiding itself is my purest truth. The persona, the mask and its mysteries, is my ultimate nature and the depths of my soul are only there to justify and validate the subterfuge.
Go after the experiences you want but don’t be afraid of the ones you didn’t ask for as there is something of value in every moment of time that can be found by paying attention for your cubed centimeter of chance and entering into the opportunity with all of your self using the force of your being to seep into the gaps in reality and open the way to the numinous finding the reality inside your reality.
I was just sitting here in my living room not thinking much just letting the music take me on a journey when I picked up my pen and started sliding it across this page encoding the moment in a meta aware namshub which understands how this will generate the reality I want as an iterative process unspiralling itself in all directions through possibility space informing every moment with the pattern of our becoming…
It is easy to forget that the world changes if you stay in the same place, living the same routines like a meat robot. In travel the world changes, if only because you see a different part of it. The places you go have changed since you were last there and home has changed when you get back. A change of perspective, movement on a moving sphere.
The eye, the soft machine that lets light in, is the key to growth. Show it new things so the sleeper can awaken and see old things with new eyes. A fixed point amidst the maelstrom, come to rest in your motion. Globes rotating around each other, giving light, hosting life and living sight.
That salmon pink of the living autumn
leaves me breathless in the teasing drizzle
lost in profundities of cloud and sky,
revelatory
in how they hide the distance from me
shaping a space bound by seagull cries
and the gentle rhythm of the waves.
i am the ghost of 99 all my heroes are already dead living out of a backpack sleeping under bridges and on people’s couches eating dry ramen
all i own is a diskman some paperbacks this notebook and my younger brother’s skateboard wearing sunglasses because my eyes can’t handle light
haven’t slept in six days and have trouble remembering my name i answer every question with what? because i’ve ruined my hearing at shows
burned bruised and cut myself and everything i own is saturated with the smell of coffee smoke jack daniels sweat and rejection
addicted to cigarettes on purpose because I’m trying to kill myself slowly. “self improvement is masturbation but self destruction…” is art.