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Posts Tagged ‘life’

“They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions”. I hear Lauryn Hill in my head singing this one loud, on repeat, echoing behind me when I am being attacked and tormented by the Ironic Jukebox that lives deep inside my cerebral cortex.  Haven’t you experienced this? Like when you (I) offer the lady your seat on the bus because she is pregnant and it seems too obvious that there is no way she is not carrying? But she is not, and now you biffed big time? Because you got up cheerfully, telling her that she needs it more because of the baby inside?… This is about good deeds gone bad. This is not to disuade anyone ever from doing something kind, but is to draw on the comical, the ironic, and the ridiculous boomerang effect that takes place every now and again when you have nothing but good thoughts in mind. I think it just might the devil on dial. Somehow he temporarily dislodged from the hot gates of hell and he’s at the control board and the mo-fo has got some dark-ass-humor. Kiiiinda dig it.

That being said, I’ve been feeling rather spritely lately. I’m thinking the spring has shaken something loose.  Makes we wanna do something nice for the sake of nothing in particular. I wanna skip but I don’t because I want my lady-swagger, so I move cat-walk style on the streets and around town, and skip a bunch on the inside. Despite it raining like a maniac today (I think Mother Nature is PMSing or something), people out here are starting to stir and be over-the-top sweet to each other. Anyone else out there take notice of this?

Ex: People stop when I try to cross the street. Don’t matta if there are a bunch of cars behind them and I could have just as easily taken the cross walk. Or there are no cars behind them and they could have gone at regular speed and not made such a grand gesture of an event by slowing down and stopping unnecessarily. It’s dumb. I’m partially grateful because of the intention, but the rest of me actually prefers that people obey the rules of the road and get on with it. It’s simply more efficient. Don’t tell anyone that I said that I appreciate a rule. Please. Ok.

Today I was walking my (radical) dog in the rain and decided to cross the street. I was waiting on the curb for the cars to go by (and no, I wasn’t standing in the street) and a car stops out of nowhere for me to cross~ creating a pile up. For fucks sake. Nice one.

It’s the thought that counts?

Several years ago, in my hippy-nouveau days, I took this yogic workshop that focused on Ujjayi breathing. (I was the youngest person there and it blew my (not so) baby mind to be mixing with all of these middle-age, innocuously-strange, middle-class, workers -something rare in Portland as we are a town of retired 30-somethings.) It was a week-long workshop consisting of homework and practice routines and everything. Very involved. One of our assignments was to perform a random act of kindness. I was determined to be as unique and creative as possible. I talked to my roommate at length about ideas which he shot down repeatedly with the caveat of my actions being misinterpreted. Finally he left for work and I was left to my own devices. I wanted to do something that would reach completely stray people. I wanted to encourage them and have them think somebody out there really cared. I settled on the idea of writing anonymous love letters to strangers. Yes I sure did! Phone book in my lap, I pointed slapdash, at where ever my finger landed, wrote down their names and addresses, and mustered up some genuine sentiment for each person. I really tried to meditate on who they were and what kind of message they might have been needing. I felt the vibes. And really- who knows? Maybe the universe brought it. Either way, I did. And I did it 10x. I made ten different personalized and pretty envelopes. I wrote things along the lines of acting like I was someone from their past or someone on the periphery who had noticed big and beautiful changes and growth in them, and I wanted to acknowledge and applaud them in that… This likely took several hours. I do not recall. It sure felt good though! Off to the depths of the mailbox they went, and when my roommate got home and inquired about my project, acted slightly horrified. “What if you cause a fight between couples?” “What if someone thinks their man is cheating with you (but of course I hadn’t included a return address)?” “What if they get scared that they are being watched?!” Well shit. The god-damn flip side. Buzzzzz kill. Good intentions gone awry? I may never know.

One other example I will give you is as follows. It was a couple of summers ago, on a particularly hot day. I was walking passed a highly foot-trafficked intersection where this dude was laying, passed-out on the ground. I swear I watched a bus pull up, people get out, and walk around the guy. Nobody stopped. Now granted, dude was gnarly looking. Crusty street kid, probably in his late twenties/ early thirties. He was shirtless, black pants, tattoos all around, and homey was frying there on the sidewalk. For really red. Zoinks! So up I go to see if I can help. I whisper gently to him and rouse him from his drug induced sleep. His eyes rolled slowly from the back of his head as he looked around trying to get his bearings. I informed him that he was passed out in the middle of the sidewalk and that he better go find some shade if he needs to sleep because he was burning baby burning. He got up, dazed and confused (no really! I get it now!) and stumbled into the street, nearly causing a few accidents, and smashing hard into this old man. He thinks the old man pushed him, so he pushes the poor old guy into the street! Luckily there were no cars there at the moment! I had created a monster. I truly considered calling the police. Eesh.

Anyways, those are two of my tales of the flip side of things. I have no moral to this story. Shit happens. Moral enough for ya?

I would love to hear your experiences along these lines. Entertain me por fa!

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Sometimes it is the prospect of possibilities themselves that stop you dead in your tracks. The openness wallops you- you get  thrashed back into the cush lazy boy chair; assuming the iconic image of the skeleton sitting before the speakers- his skin blown off by the sheer volume.

That is how I feel sometimes when I want to access creativity.

I hit open mics often. I go. I sit by myself.  I’m in my own private little world….

I go strictly for contagion. The inspiration in the room rubs off as the gears inevitably begin to turn and I think to myself: “There are about a million things that have never been done that I could be doing right now…”

Like playing out languid daydreams, fiddling with the reel as it turns; Unfolding ideas.

 

If your hair stands up in a storm it could be a sign that positive charges are rising through you, connecting you to and reaching you toward the negatively charged part of the storm. It could be that the lightening has chosen you. You can be a conductor. This will be your most important job yet. The brilliance in bolts will be your inward symphony. Your rag tag orchestra will be ablaze with a gaggle of madness and electric splendor.

Will you run inside and attempt defiance in natural selection?

Will you accept the possibilitiy of surviving to perhaps become something of a Shaman? Native folklore tells of the lightening bestowing powers… So will you sit outside and feel the rain now? …Your self inflicted sacrificial moment of Russian Roulette….

I always had this strange feeling about how I might die. I’ve been close to it before. Colorado, where the sky was overtaken by sudden darkness. The clouds dragging greedily across, casting long shadows in their wake. Ponderosa Pines blowing fiercely, whipping their helpless needles about. The smell of ozone and storm welling up to the crux.

We ran like children home-alone, jetting up the stairs, afraid to look behind them, steeped in imaginitave fear of what terrible person might be chasing close.

I saw a deer’s dismembered leg up in a tree on that hike, not far above my head. The wieght of the omen pulling across my back, hindering my steps, slowing me down and shaking me deeply. I was in awareness that it was part of the wild. That I too, was part of it. Could be consumed. Be it by big cat or by the heavens. Part of the raw, unforgiving forces. Far bigger then me. Nature; filled with love but no pity, which by default pulls mercy out of the question.

The deer, a likely victim to a mountain lion, victim of the cycles. And I, running with adrenaline bursting through my heart. Death scenes delighting the caverns of my otherwise occupied mind, where the lightening would pick me,  pluck me, and freeze me, sending a specially made spark from below, holding me captive, propping me in place like a helpless doll.

It is all so much- making me want to go home to a place I’ve never been.

It is like being drawn towards a solid wall.

If I went fast enough would I override the tighteness of molecules? Would they forgive me and let me through?

Carry me back . Cradle me with out arms.

Take my orphaned soul and let me cry until I laugh and confuse my own self all over my emotions.

Fill me up and let me shake and burn with the greatest energy. Consume me if you must, but remind me in the interim- that I am oh-so-alive, and let my art explode.

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Can this be any cuter? This woman is hands down one of my favorites.

There are times that I have had where her voice, strength, courage, positivity, inspiration, openness, and heat has carried me through.

Love love love love love loooooove.

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This one goes out to the throngs of good men who are single and are unsure why… Sometimes we are our own worst enemies, and it takes another person a bit further away and with a different vantage point to fill you in on what you keep missing. Please do not feel insulted~ it’s all the purest of intentions. And I’m feeling generous. Altruistic. To the point. And, after all~ the world is absolutely a better place when we’re getting loving.

This entry is intended as a self-help guide of sorts. You can use it as a checklist. And your secret is safe with me. If you look in the mirror to find yourself fitting a no-no here, fear not, you can change and grow. You are strong and versatile. Great things are abreast. And you’re welcome.

These are a refined, thought-about-at-length, discussed over many drinks with many a pretty lady, collection of reasons why you might not be getting any nookie, mixed and fixed with a fair collection of “don’ts”.

Trench coats. C is no longer for cookie. If you are wearing a trench coat, you look like a Creep. And I’m sorry. But you’re sorrier. I can’t believe you didn’t get the memo. You’re not getting any *%^*# because women think you’re into Dungeons and Dragons. Or that you have some vampire slayer complex. Or you’re a wanna-be bounty hunter. Or you never left that 90’s hair band phase. You know- the one that stayed in the 90’s?

Sweat and the rules of the dance floor. If you are cute and we like you, we will be happy to talk to you. If you are sweaty from shaking it, that’s fine. Go on with your bad self! Maybe we can even dance together. BUT- if you are very sweaty, please refrain from hugging us. Or putting your arm around us. Yes, it’s difficult to resist, but it will serve you in the long run. Withhold hug now=earn hugs later. This is good, sound advice. Believe me.

Pinky rings. Don’t. Just don’t. You’re not Kanye. K? And that’s all right. We just want you to be yourself. Just not in that thing. It’s creepy and makes you look like a washed up cocaine dealer. Bad bad bad. Ok, stop laughing and put it away. You are not the exception.

Flossing. You feel inconvenienced by flossing. Really? This is part of basic maintenance. If you don’t like your mouth bleeding, rest assured that this will stop once your gums adjust to human touch. Suck it up and initiate your mouth to cleanliness. Think of it as being in a really cool (and necessary) gang. The blood is just part of getting jumped in. (Applies to ladies too)

Mustaches. You had to know this one was coming. I don’t know why, where, or how you recently got the idea that this above the lip fuzz is hip, but I feel like none of you ever consulted with those of us that you are aiming to impress with your dashing good looks. Um, hello? The skinny is this: you have been misinformed. If you talk to one lady who favors this ickyness, she is the 1%. We are the 99%! If you are below the age of 50, and you have hair above your lip that is independent of, and disconnected to other hair on your face, it’s time to grab a razor. Waste no time! If you are not a cop, you have no business with one of these things. Plus they get all nasty when you are eating and drinking, and they also don’t feel very good where we want everything to feel really good. Smell what I’m cooking?

Cologne/ Oil/ Smell. This is a case where less is more. We appreciate and applaud your daily shower regiment. We do. We really do. If and when (because it happens) you do not have an opportunity to bathe, do not cover up in a masking smell. The truth is that you then stink like B.O. and cologne had a bastard child. This is a bad baby. Nobody wants to hold this baby. A tip: Alcohol neutralizes your odor, so grab a cotton ball, go to the emergency kit, and swab away. Then reapply deodorant. Optimally you will shower, but sometimes that’s not an option. There is always an alternative. Also, on the topic of deodorant, please please please select one that is not over powering in odor. This especially affects us because you are often taller than us, and you must remember where our noses get squeezed into sometimes when you hug us. Contrary to the commercials, we do not want you to spray Axe across your chest. Deodorant is intended to eliminate odor, not create a new, choking, powdery one. Blech. (ladies too! please!)

Standards of Initial Contacting. May-haps it’s because I was in a relationship for the better part of the last 3 years until semi-recently, that this one slipped by me and now I am in regular awe of it… Texting. Ok. Let’s break it down. It was lovely, “back in the day”, when a gentleman would take our number, waiting the proper amount of time (4 days on average; demonstrating his coolness, collectedness, and certain lack of desperation) before calling. Then he would call, and we would have a conversation. Like a real conversation. Not one sentence ping-ponged back and forth between waves of radiation. And this person would be new (no facebook stalking or preemptive question satiating before actual contact) and the conversation was or wasn’t. Simple. Now the accepted standard is that we give our number and can expect a text with in the next 1-3 days/ later that night. So the amount of time between has been shortened on account of the speedy connected world we live in. Here’s where I come in with advice: we still want a phone call. A text is impersonal and not demonstrative of your boldness, confidence and bravery. Take a chance! We like your voice. That’s why we want to talk to it. Worst that happens? We don’t like it, and guess what~ it’s a big, sexy sea of fish out there. Knowwhadimsayin?                                                                                                                                                                                                      *Another note- if you called a lady or texted her more than 2x and haven’t had a response, she is more than likely just not interested. She may just not know how to say it. Move along> think big sexy ocean lapping away happily. Next time!

Donald Ducking. There will never be a point within the comfort that you feel with or towards another human being where this will be ok. If you don’t know what this means, be certain to look it up. It’s a major no-no. I don’t care if you’re 25 years deep together. I am telling you so that you know very well: this is a BAD look. I hardly recommend this in private; it’s better not to tempt the habit. If you must change the order in which you dress/ undress, so it goes. Also, while on the topic, always make sure to take off your socks during sex. Not hot.

Well, that about wraps it up for my unsolicited yet o-so-necessary advice. May you walk away smarter, with more confidence and swagger… and at the very least… your pants on.

 

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There are two kinds of people in the United States who will sit down next to a perfect stranger on the same park bench when there are other ones in the nearby area that remain unoccupied:

1) A person that wants you, or has something that they hope you want

2) Drunks

It is not unusual for me to take my bike and point it towards the direction of an adventure I hope to come upon.Often times I will ride westward towards the esplanade of the city. The latter part of the ride itself is lovely; over the river, next to the train tracks suspended above the water on tremendous, whiny, old, wooden beams. For the many who are yet to be familiar with Portland town, the esplanade is a long stretch of sidewalk that is on both sides of our river, the Willamette, dividing the city respectively into east and west. As you can imagine, there is a good ebb and flow of foot traffic here at every hour. There are joggers, bike riders, people strolling, destitute folks, people recovering from another long night of drinking, drugging, or just plain ol’ being homeless and snoozing there. There are people taking photos, people reading or drawing, musicians playing together…

I came down to the river the particular day in question to wrap myself up in the gentler flow of the city. Equipped with sketchpad, writing book and an array of pens of different thicknesses, I sat. I looked into the river and at the passers bye, hoping that the words would begin to collect themselves for me. Gather anytime my fantastic friends. Inspiration? I’m here.

Stage left, in come this rather large fellow. He seated himself next to me on the bench. No invitation needed for public benches, true, but when there are other vacant benches, don’t most people know to take one of those? It’s one of those unspoken social cues that we all adhere to and accept. (Similar to the unspoken rule in the men’s rest room where when using the urinal you go to the one at the very end, and each next guy to get up to use the john goes as far as possible from the other user. Right? Yes, woman know these things (woman, did you know about this?!) (We are so lucky that we get to pee together!).) So there we are: me with my pen, dutifully sussing out a brilliant topic bound to dawn any minute, with a slight distraction due to my new bench mate who was fairly odorous (boozy stank); and he, a rather lumbering fellow with a large presence that had a slightly jumbled and wayward feel, along with a subtle allure that peaked my interest an itty bitty bit. Microscopicly so.

He began talking and asking me questions that were just fluff and I felt that he was hoping to find a friend in me. I was still absorbed in my hopes of creation, also hoping he would leave, albeit humoring him despite my disdain for superficial conversation for the sake of conversing. Well whaddaya know, he pretty much talked to me until I was hooked. It’s when you least expect it, kiddies. Hints of his story splintered through the fluff of simple monologue and he had my attention. He got me, like a slow drug would: Methodical and persistant administration.

And the verbal foreplay had reached a point where I wanted to know more. Impatiently awaiting. Maybe he would get it out and then I would have some fodder. That was when he became distant and when I realized I was, in fact, an asshole. He wasn’t going to just give it up. I had taken this man for granted because he sat down next to me,  and I had assumed that his routine was the same old song and dance number I had seen exacted so many times before: drunkard with loose lips, talking to who ever will listen. I didn’t feel special or “chosen” and I had taken him to be very open. I forgot, and was slapped with the reminder- there are still sacred tales behind eyes the of those souls who seem broken.

Finally, it came.

His story. True as sin.

Drunk Native American.

Big, lost man.

Ancient myth.

Vagabond.

This story unfolded in such a fashion, becoming absolutely one of the most beautiful and humbling tales that I have ever heard.

Somewhere in the Southwest a large man once lay. A sterile gown. A white bed. Eyes shut. A coma had claimed him from nights and days of exessive drinking. A coma that turned days into weeks and turned weeks into months. Doctors and attendees stood by, idly. Deep sleep of an undisturbable variety. Dreams showed no presence, playing on the lids of no eyes.

A small number of people were left in his life. Bridges had been burned and pain had struck chords, severing ties with too much weight to mend. The tiny amount of loved ones left came to visit. Trickling in slower than tales of tortoise. They whispered and they prayed. They cried. They talked to him. Different tactics eliciting nothing.

His uncle came one day to his bedside, this time bringing desert Sage. In the hospital room the bundle was lit, and the man in the starched gown was smudged. Did they treat him like a lost spirit? His body was brushed with sacramental smoke. His face washed clean with the scent. The big man’s nose… began to twitch.

This was seen.

A break through. A big deal. But the end of the road, as nothing else dented the difference between the standing and laying in the room again. Not even Sage. Not for weeks in spite of multiple tries.

Weeks later another family member came carrying family heirloom in tow; an instrument used in ceremony. A beautiful, simple rattler. A rattler that had guided this family in the hogan. A rattler that his ears knew. The sound of the desert. The sound of wheat tufts dancing in the breeze. A song of nature. Perhaps the sound of home.

The big man lay completely still. When the rattler was shaken- up rose his hand, mimicking the movement. As if to shake the tools, as if it was he, making the noise.

Weeks lapsed once again, and intermittently his responses shortened the amount of days between the stretches of stillness.

It was these visits, featuring different family members, presenting an instrument, a scent, a song, that brought him to, eventually.

Finally one day he awoke, and slowly reoriented himself with the world. Reacquainted himself with his family. Embraced the ways with which he was raised. Got back on his feet. This is not to say that his base was solid, or suddenly he was resilient to his demons and the challenges that awaited. He was still a weak man who’s best friend and worst enemy were combined to be found at the bottom of the bottle, with a call that over powered the rest. But his sense of self, his sense of spirituality, his understanding of connectivity and family… all these things were bestowed upon him. Refreshed. Now, if he were to die, he knew where and how he would go, and that it would be his time, and his journey would be safe.

Thank you for reading. Aho. 

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Back where I grew up was this park in the town of Hempstead; “Hempstead Lake State Park”. It sounds pretty, right? Wellll, it was green. Greenish. It was the most greenish area around us for a bit, so there was that. And there was a lake. And it was pretty from a far. Prettyish. And then when you got up close, not so much. No one swam in there. Not a chance. It was filthy. And there were probably dead, bloated bodies in there. And it stunk.

The park ran dangerous and once we grew older and had stashy parties in the woods(ish), we would go, but be in big masses when traversing through and around. Lots of creepy stories came from here.

Anyway, one day it turns out that there is going to be a drum circle there. What?! Yes, a drum circle there, in the day, with… hippies. Unbelievable. Well, we had to go, as a matter of course, and see the turn out with our own eyes. I repeat, this was not that kind of park. Not even almost.

The day came. It was cool and crisp. Bright and sunny. We blazed some and walked through the woods. We could hear the drums in the distance and I recall joking about little wood elves banging sticks together around us because of the way the sound echoed off of the trees. As we got closer and closer, we heard the most peculiar sounding drums. I mean, it sounded decent and it/ they were definitely keeping the beat. We heard it for a while and the sound was so different than that of any other percussion instrument any of us had ever listened to before. Finally, we had ascended upon a clearing, closing in on the drum circle in the adjacent field from where we had emerged. There, in the field before us was a felled log with four dogs tied to it, that most likely belonged to some of the drummers… There they stood, barking at random and without panic, appearing relaxed and content… adding their own barking rhythms to the sound cloud. They were 100% on point with the drum circle. It was absolutely astounding.

I thought of that today when a friend emailed me this little cute diddy.

Dogs man, they get it!

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I want to live where the wild Ginger grows.

I want to set up shop amongst the racket of howler monkeys that shriek at the warm, sleepy, star dusted dawn. Everyday. Reliably.

I want to look down at the ground and kick at fat grubs with my barefoot feet, and feel the virile earth give just a bit; just enough to let some air out and give the worms some work to do for no good reason in particular.

I desire the smell in the air of mysterious and magnificent, unnamed tropical flowers that are very red and robust,  screaming pinks, bold charming candied yellows. I want to pluck them for my tea after humming a new tune of gratitude that I just made up because the inspiration is so damn thick that it is simply oozing- wet and juicy all over the place, where I stand drenched in the generous gifts of rhythmic cobalt full magenta golden song and hot spellbinding aqua haunting ocher poetry. 

A place where art is never dormant. The spark of creation ignites and burns burns burns, creating an absolute ruckus of overturned firey beauty.

Where I just can’t get any sleep and no- not because I am unrested but because the jungle hums and churns and I know to listen, as I am actively learning secrets of the ancients and what it is like, and what it takes to live housed and homed in the middle of la selva.

Little green snakes will slither clear and not slip into my favorite shoes.

A place permeated with the scent of  fresh tortillas. Todo fresco. Tierra local. Harvest practices relied upon for generations. Methods of sowing and reaping on dial with the waxing and waning of the solar system  itself. Stone ground and pounded with experience, hardened hands, hardy laughter, crows feet on faces for days.

I want to bathe in tepid waters of mineral pools, cleansing my mornings in mud and waterfalls. I will run my fingers through my hair and let the little pieces of leaves and sticks stick around like they picked me on purpose.

Let me live in Spanish town. Some where, somehow, someday. Where colors are brilliant, where the plants dance along, where old stories are revered and passed on, where we feel exuberant and incredibly alive because home is where the carazon es.

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Amidst the raspy cattails and lobbing murky water is where I find you when I want to.

That night that we ran like hell, away from the world that we imagined to be watching, wanting to stop our mischief.

Where we scaled the rusted, cutting fence, making it over the barbed wire, thanks to Chris’s sweatshirt, unscathed some how. Always unscathed. Jumped down with out caution or fear holding us as we entered our familiar domain.

Encircled by resilient wild reeds, fat and abundant river rats, crackling speckled brown nesting birds, and decomposing, unnamed garbage.

The smell never mattered much because that was home and it was what we knew, and we grew up to laugh at it; holding our noses and running until we were inside, gasping for air, cracking up and seeing who made it to the interior last.

Those times while you had that janky-ass car with the doors that wouldn’t latch, and you would do donuts in it at the drop of a hat, making me crazy, forcing us to grab onto the front seats for dear life, leaving tracks on the pavement.

Looking back it’s like we were just living on our toes in those days.

Truly young, wild, and free.

But I’ll tell you Jim, you made a humbled believer out of me. And I’ve seldom told a soul because I would rather be unheard then unbelieved.

That night in the marsh where we all danced along the board walks, muddy, messy water on either side. Residue from Oil City seeping into the planks, making out traverse slippery and sleek. And we found that busted up 4 or 5 foot Graffix with the Joker base. And it was broken, but you swore to repair it. (Somehow it would wind up in my room, leaving me with the challenging responsibility of sneaky disposal.) And we made all sorts of wierd sounds that night because we finally felt alone.

And we settled in to watch the sky.

Finally.

And I’de never seen a NY sky so clear before.

Each cloud so disctinct, holding it’s very own proud shape.

And they took on thier figures before our eyes, entertaining us for what seemed like encapsulated hours.

And I saw Snoopy of all things. And we all watched and marveled, because Snoopy it was and there was simply no disputing.

And Kalinda saw something that is long forgotten, and Chris another… and it was all so crisp and vivid.

We watched together as Snoopy’s ear detached from the cloud parade and floated away as we all howled for him because the image was just so real. We could hardly believe it. Hard to believe. Grateful to witness.

And then you spotted, and I’ll never forget, the Grim Reaper. And you saw it first. And no one could dispute.

And we all self-assessed, inwardly, checking, after all, we weren’t tripping or fucked up beyond plain old weed and alcohol. Pills may have been present in our systems, but definitely no hallucinogens.

And in the night, clear as day, there it was.

And you got quiet.

It was eery but I don’t remember thinking that it was a sign.

I don’t remember anything else after that.

My memory draws a still, flat lined blank. Quiet and blind. Maybe with a soft subtle static to it. Until the day that I heard the news.

Perhaps a month after?

You had been killed. You were murdered. In Long Beach. At that bagel store in the East end. Crawling on your elbows through a ceiling shaft. In your early twenties.

A coke deal gone bad.

And all your hustle and your good intentions, all your far out, stoney epiphanies, your unstoppable language creation and invented and catchy phrases~ poof. Like a thunder clap into the air and back amongst the sky that first claimed you. And you were dismantled from this world as I could understand it.

You and your troubled ways; brawny and street wise with a sordid past and a secret tender heart that we knew so well.

You came to me last night during a peak of inspiration. I feel it is time to release you. I will never forget you and where you almost went.

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It’s simple. Getting aquatinted with the multi-facitude of ourselves. Facitude because yes, Webster is still evolving and it is our immediate responsibility to see that they (dictionary marauders) stays on their toes. Creating new words is a healthy little pass time. And so, with out further ado, I introduce a sideways little exercise that is useable to spark the flow of our own understanding of our own selfs. Alphabetize the truth; the sweet, the dirty, the random that lies with in you….because, why not?

A. Ambition: Aspiring philanthropist. One day I will drop money from tops of buildings, but not coins, no… No one will be hurt. Stay tuned. One day, I tell you.

B. Bad habit: I have an ill weekness for brownies (B!) and it’s been 50+ days since I have been off of processed sugar (rad), but tell you what, come PMS time- I would eat your 1st born if it was dipped in chocolate. Stay away!

C. Closest Call: Did you know that you have to be careful in rivers because they too can kill you?  The Trinity river in N. California taught me a major lesson in humility. I was born part fish, being in ”Diaper Dippers” and the likes, and growing up a hop, skip, and jump away from the ocean. I had no fear of water before this day. Caught in a current, dragged and smashed agains the rocks, choking. Long story. Very scary. But I made it (:

D. Damnation: If I were called to Hell it would most likely be because the very 1st reaction that I had when a Squirrel Monkey at the local pet store in my home town was in my arms took a shit on me- was to wipe it down the poor lady next to me’s apron. But she worked there! But yeah, I did that. And I just think wiping excrement on someone else as a first reaction makes one a bad person in one way or another. Right? Or, possibly because I fake phone conversations when walking past Green Peace canvassers’, despite the fact that I truly am so grateful for what they do! * I’m sure there are worse things that I do…. to be revisited.

E. Education: Working on my Masters in Education, baby! In my second year of two. Loves it!

F. For Fun: Movement, easily. Dancing is the best thing EVER. Walking, biking, climbing, and yoga are my bffs.

G. Guilty Pleasure: Easy- I’m a sucker for a good abandoned house. I don’t want to steal anything! I just want to see. So sue me! But really, please don’t.

H. Hometown: Oceanside, N.Y. 11572. A town away from the ocean, and 28 miles East of NYC.

I. Inner Child: Alive and well, thank you. Still like to be held and when people read to me. And playing limbo and dress up.

J. Jonesing for: A 4-6 month trip out of the country. Want. Need. Ah. Beach me please.

K. Kryptonite: Idle hands. It’s an ugly descent.

L. Luck: Overall decently optimistic disposition.

M. Maybe: I carry maybe with me. Grey is a common color that I find these days. Black and white used to reign, but I attribute the appreciation for Grey (metaphorically speaking, dig?) to growing up and seeing the world from different sides.

N. Nerding out: One of my favorite things to catch is misuse of quotations. I have a collection…

O. Obsession: Collecting new music. Can’t. Get. Enough. Hungry.

P. Peace in a Strange Place: I feel safe and secure by myself at night, no matter where in the city I am if everything is covered in fresh snow.

Q. Quote: “Nature does not hurry, yet everything is accomplished.” -Lao Tzu.    “Just because it’s hard doesn’t mean it’s bad, just because it’s easy doesn’t mean it’s good.” -Me.

R. Resist: Stagnation and apathy.

S. Strangers: Have soft skin when I sit close to them on the bus and pretend I don’t know our arms are touching. Is that weird? Is that a bud of a fetish?

T. Talent: Creative thinking, art, and dancing, since forever. Always had that flow. Shucks.

U. Umbilical Chord: 4 years ago when my parents left the house I grew up in for… ahem… Texas, I realized that I was majorly attached to the home there. It was a constant, no matter where I was, how far, or how long away for. It felt much like losing a family member, but with an alien twist; You can not hug a wall good bye. My umbilical chord, then, was severed. I hadn’t even realized it had been attached until that point.

V. Vacation: South America por favor. Pronto!

W. Whisper: One of my favorite ways to hear my own name.

X. Xanax: Took a shower once after eating one. What a great shower.

Y. You: Really oughtta try this! It’s fun and flexible.

Z. Zen: I try to hold on to gratitude and recognize I have what I have asked for, good, bad, and indifferent; all teachers.

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Within the seed of your desire is everything necessary for it to blossom to fulfillment. The law of attraction is the engine that does the work. Your work is just to give it a fertile growing place in order to expand.

— Abraham

A painting I made for a good friend of mine. A reminder that rewards come from efforts.

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