Soundtrack, “Do What You Want, Be What You Are” by Hall & Oats
Lesson #1
Life goes on, with or without me. Fads come and go, hit songs become golden oldies, all my insecurities and self-conscious tendencies slip away leaving behind silent movie memories, like puddles evaporating in time—— seasons never end, they just change, a circle of revolving eternities….again I’ll wait for you to come round again—I’m no longer in a hurry, infinity is patient.
Lesson #2
I use to give a shit what people thought, but I’ve come to realize that everyone is so self-absorbed that no one gives a damn about anyone other than themselves—-just a cavalcade of egocentric, narcotic sons of a bitches———And they move through life as though everyone else is a hollow prop, a means to an end, a thing to be manipulated for their own good. Why is it so hard for us to see this life beyond our own selfish experiences and desires?
It’s not that far of a walk till dawn, until Mr Sun bumps his head up against that dogged horizon. Ya see, light can’t wait for time to give birth to another day. I awake to find that I’m still here, alive and ready to breathe. I”m not afraid, nor sorry, cause that’s just waisted time, let the sky creep towards blueness and let the dew sparkle like diamonds to decorate the glory of forever forgetting, rebirth brings amnesia——Who were you before this? I think I must have known you from some other place and time, maybe a lover, a brother, mother, my child, aren’t we all somehow connected? Fools are the bitter ones, dismissing miracles, failing to see the expression of god within stars and dust——the lucky ones grow closer to the day, to themselves, to others,——to what is…….
The bathroom mirror mocks me. I dip my chin and turn my head one way and then the other. “Here I am——this is who I am, what I’ve become through choice and consequence. As of late I’ve become keenly aware of my two selves. My private self and my public self. I’ve lived a divided existence, a chameleon, a shape shifter, camouflaging myself into an unchanging innocuous background. I’m struck by the notion of congruency.
Somewhere along the way I’d lost myself. I’d allowed myself to fracture into a million faux personalities. I did this to please others, to protect myself, to fit in, to avoid indiscretions, to appear normal, to simulate appropriateness——I’d been a faker, a fraud—-These days I’d rather be notorious than anonymous. Authenticity comes with a license to be free, to be crazily sane, to be who ever you choose to be!
Lesson #3
As I’ve grown older I’ve begun to allow my layered selves to coalesce into a unified me. Such a task requires practice, but at the end of the day it has liberated me. One of the blessings of aging is that it has stripped me of my vanities. I am who I am, no more pretending——the sky is the sky, my dog is my dog, life is life, what is “is” and so on and so forth….The simplest of ideas are the most difficult to grasp!
I’ve been thinking about friendships and it has occurred to me that my closest friends are the ones who allow me to be myself without pretension or expectation. They know me, they get me, and in spite of my faults, failures and foibles, they forgive me. Needless to say, these days I have fewer friends, but the ones I have help me become a better me.
To be understood is to be loved. And to be lovable requires honestly and vulnerability.
I’d love to say that this life is beautiful, kind and forgiving, but that would be like saying oxycontin will erase your hurt. Pain can be numbed and managed, but hurt is only consoled by forgiveness and love, of others, as well as oneself. Many choose to conceal their hurt rather than drag it out into the blinding light of truth——we are only as sick as our secrets. Tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine. Such a pact will seal our love. We can only get as close to one another as we are true to one another.It will always be the same for us——us against the world.
Life’s not a journey, but rather a labyrinth. It’s a series of false starts, cul-de-sacs and trap doors. Mr Frost had it right when he spoke of “A road less traveled”. To be lost is part of being alive, as there is no map or compass, there is only well worn paths or those containing briars and weeds. Such a path is as Robert said, “the one that will make all the difference”.
My demons come clothed as jealousy, anger, fear and dacite. I know them well, they’ve surprised me in the dark passages that lead me into dead ends..There is no right road, no one path, no absolute destination, there are as many north stars as there are pious prayers.
How come the people who need love the most are the ones who push it away. And, why is it, that the ones who need help the most are the ones who refuse it. I guess it’s because we don’t always get what we deserve. No—- we get what we get. And, as my daughter would to tell me at the tender age of five“Ya get what ya get, and ya don’t throw a fit”.
Who’s blessed?– What’s fair?– Where’s safe?——Nobody knows———mercy is an ocean where we drown our faults, fears and doubts.
From our mothers womb we are pushed into this life screaming and crying. We are dependent on the care and kindness of absolute strangers. They hold us, love us, feed us, teach us and provide us shelter. And all to soon, we’re pulled from this world in much the same way that we arrived, crying out for our mothers. In the midst of this ever revolving circle we are forever repurposing ourselves. We become many things. Careful what you value, for in the end these things become you.
At the core of my life there exists a terrible sadness. It has to do with my fixation on death. It seems such a cruel law of nature that we must abide by. God must be a prankster. To give us so much, and then so quickly take it all away. I miss all of those I’ve lost.
Somehow–someone–someway–please slow down this life, I’ve already given up to many irreplaceable things.
We are all so very courageous, but sometimes it feels as if it’s us against the world.
Hugging is a strange and awkward gesture. It’s a custom used both as a greeting and a farewell. Somewhere beneath the skin, the bones, the muscle and the surging blood vessels, we share a primal need to reach out to embrace one another. And in doing so, we become totally vulnerable to a huggers intentions. You may be exposing yourself to an emotional pick pocket, or a freeloading groper—not to mention a host of uninvited germs and viruses. There is no escaping a determined hugger, they’ll track you down and then attach themselves to you like a lonely depraved sea urchin.
Arm in arm and cheek to cheek, we appear to fit together as if by design. At birth we go from the womb to a mothers embrace, and as children we are mercilessly hugged by our immediate family, friends and relatives. But, as we grow older such signs of affection become fewer and far between. I’ve noticed that old folks tend to give longer hugs then younger folks. It’s as if they know they have to take full advantage of each hug they’ve been granted. You can see their eyes twinkle as their soul-ness battery is being charged.
If a baby is not held and loved it will fail to thrive. Such physical neglect will cause an infant to slowly wither away and die. In some ways, we humans are very durable and resilient, yet in other ways we are as fragile as gossamer threads.
Our bodies are very personal to us, they’re our fortress, our little vessel we captain throughout life. To splay ones arms open to another is a sign of unspoken trust. To afford someone this form of naive intimacy requires courage and at times a restrained tolerance. Some hugs are like dental appointments, you know its the right thing to do, but it’s a task you’d just as soon get over with as quickly as possible.
I wish I could hug better, but it really isn’t in my style. I freeze up when blitzed by a crazed bear hugging intruder. I feel my body go ridged when a hug is unexpectedly thrust upon me. In truth, I’d rather just give a hand shake or better yet, a knuckle bump then offer up my entire body for a casual squeeze. I don’t much care to be touched unless I feel extremely close to another person.
Some people are serial huggers. This includes those affection starved co-workers who feel compelled to hug you at the office potluck, or the new age neighbor who surprises you on a walk and embraces you as if you were their long lost sibling. Or, how bout the spine cracking dude-hug from that blundering sweat and beer stench-ed “bro”. It eludes me how any woman could find a fumbling, whisker burn of a man-hug, in anyway appealing. Then you have the weird old cologne drenched guy who gives long back rubbing hugs to any female he can stalk, corner and then smother with creepy-ness—-yuk…..
There are several kinds of hugs. There is the limp wimpy ones and then there’s the stern “I mean business” kind of hug. There’s the macho hug where guys grasp hands and bump shoulders, often used to fiend off any speculation of gayness. Grannies and little kids will sometimes slip in a sweet peck on the cheek. Hot chicks get tired of being hugged all the time, so they often discreetly lean into you maintaining their personal space and then making a hasty retreat.
A good hug comes from the heart. I don’t want one of those “have a nice day” hugs, or one of those cold obligated hugs that are offered up at weddings and funerals. A fake hug has a “one night stand” indifference to it. “Hey, here’s my number, maybe we can hug again sometime.” These are self serving desperate hugs that leave you feeling empty and used.
You’ll know a real hug when you’re lucky enough to receive one. They’re soft, warm and yielding, like chocolate melting in your mouth. In fact, once you are done hugging, you feel as if that person has left a little piece of their heart inside yours.
“I think the saddest people always try their hardest to make people happy because they know what it’s like to feel absolutely worthless and they don’t want anyone else to feel like that.” — Robin Williams
Sometimes the people who act like they don’t need hugs are the ones who need them the most. Even though hugs may be strange, awkward and weird, they convey a lot more than words ever could, I know this because I’m a writer. Words can express ones feelings, thoughts and emotions, but the human touch is nourishment for the heart.
“All humans are fragile, hugs help hold us together……” VU
All I want to do is stay at home. And if I could paint, I’d paint a millions paintings. And if I could write poetry and songs, I’d write a million verses.
Most folks are periods, why not be a question mark or a exclamation mark! But now all I want to do is stay at home. I’ve lost my final desperate grasp on reality. I’ve forgotten if I’m real, or if you’re real, or just what real is, or what real even feels like or means——what makes real, real? I look in the mirror and I no longer recognize myself. Are my memories a piece of my collective reality or a fleeting illusion like a rabbit being pulled from a hat? Both my parents have passed away and I have only vague memories of how we were once so close, and I miss them terribly. Was I once a baby, a child, a son, a piece of some threadbare tapestry that is coming undone? I look at my hands, I take my pulse, I breathe deeply, am I real? I feel myself tip toeing into madness.
I no longer believe in your exalted science or your revered holy books, instead, come to me in dreams or visions. My cage is constructed of what I thought I knew and what I once believed to be true. I must start again fresh, like a baby crying and screaming while being pushed from a comfortable womb.
Soundtrack, “Don’t Mess Around With Karma” by Brett Dennen.
Do you ever ask yourself, “Am I okay?” “Is everything okay?” “Is this the way things suppose to be?” I do, but I’m neurotic, I’m insecure and I live in a state of free floating anxiety. I get this feeling that I’m waiting on something or someone. For what? I don’t know. Could it be love, understanding, a second chance—lord knows I could use one of those. I wake up on a sunday and I feel lost. I hate Sundays’ anyway, they signal the end of another ephemeral week. Endings depress me, they remind me of funerals, break ups and another “day in the life” diminishing in my rearview mirror—- I’m lugubrious that way, and I’m sorry for my word choice, but there is no better word than that to describe my mood—-lugubrious….
I check my email, no messages. I check Facebook, no funny comments directed to me. I check my iPhone, no messages, no tweets, snapshots, no text, no voice message. I check my website, no hits, zip, nothing——nada. WTF is going on?——Oh no, I’m now one of those annoying people who communicate in acronyms. What’s next, a personalized license plate that cryptically declares “I ♥ mi Kat”.
People have way to much unproductive time on their hands. People don’t know how to make shit anymore. My mom use to have a Singer sewing machine and she made us clothes. Yeah clothes, pants, dresses, shirts—— the works. I can’t even sew a button on a dress shirt. It took her a long time to make a shirt, but every stitch, every button and every cut was done with her hands, tailored with love. Now, if that sounds corny, then go fuck yourself. This was back in the day, before you could go to your nearest Walmart and buy a shirt for $8.00. A shirt stitched together with the angst of an eight year old Kid in some suffocating sweat shop in a piss poor third world country. Mom grew her own garden and knew how to can fruits and vegetables. She had cast iron pots and pans and cooked bread, stews and soups from scratch. My dad had a tool kit and a tiny workshop. He could fix his car, fix the hot water heater, build a fence and do masonry. He could’ve build a fucking house if really wanted to. I have a hard time hanging a picture on the wall straight. My folks were living off the grid before it became some kind of trendy California “life style”.
They didn’t fill their days with mindless channel surfing, buying crap off QVC, web surfing; ears plugged into an iPod, eyes glued to an iPad or a computer screen. They did practical and valuable things with their time. When my mom was a young girl, she taught herself to play the piano. It’s amazing the stuff you can learn if you dedicate the time to it. They call them smart phones, but I say piss on that, the smarter the phone, the dumber the person.
I don’t get it. I walk the streets of my neighborhood these days and I don’t see a single kid outside playing. It’s a freaking beautiful day outside and I ask myself “Where’s all the kids?” They must be in their air-conditioned bedrooms playing video games, skyping or hacking into some top-secret government site. When I was a kid, our parents had to force us to come in for dinner. They’d have to holler for us to come in when it started to get dark. We didn’t need or want adults organizing our ballgames or telling us the fucking rules. We made up our own rules. We made up our own games and boundaries. We didn’t require uniforms or fancy gear or anything outside ourselves, we created our world from the inside out, we possessed magic——imagination.
These days I’m not so innocent and the world is no longer so simple. Beautiful girls parade by me covered in tattoos and piercings, gangs exploit the naïvety of the young seeking to belong, guns are carried to school like Twinky’s in lunch boxes, mass shootings are back page news, drugs are a refuge for the lost and on every street corner there’s a sad eyed homeless person with their tattered cardboard pleas. We’re bombarded with twenty-four-hour, seven days a week news, feeding us a steady diet of war, chaos and mayhem. Violence and death have become a form of amusement and entertainment. It’s no wonder that our Kids grow up so fast and so angry. I appreciate what Mark Twain said about the weather “Everyone talks about the weather, but no one does anything about it”. What Twain said about the weather, is how I feel about watching the news—-the world is going to hell and no one is doing anything about it—-but those Nelson ratings just keep on going up!
There’s a certain time in late morning when the light falls through my southern window and I can see all these tiny particles of dust floating in the air. I sit still on my old couch and watch them in amazement. Could these be miniature worlds and solar systems spinning about in my little house. Is my world just another speck of dust floating in some giants living-room. Maybe all my silly woes and worries don’t add up to nothing more than what exists on a fleck of dust. What’s reality?—What’s illusion? Who can say?
I showed up for the love, and I’m not waiting on it anymore….Ya got to give it, to get it—–Karma baby…..
Never fall in love with a girl in the checkout line. Actually, I’d fallen in love with her somewhere between the lentil beans and the egg noodles. I’d followed her down all the grocery isles from the bakery and deli case to the vegetable section. I knew it was creepy, but I just couldn’t stop myself as I watched her fondle the crooked neck squash and those fortunate cumquats.
Is it possible to fall for someone who buys tofu and then turns around and buys cheese whiz in the can——I can’t help but love a fellow conflicted soul. There was something irresistible in her smile, something undefinable about the way she moved——part graceful ballerina and part sensual pole dancer. Is it possible to fall in love with the way someone walks, their scent, the way they read the label on the box of Hamburger Helper? She elevated the rigors of shopping to a thing of eroticism. Oh my god, the way she sashayed behind that squeaky shopping cart was enough to make the bag boys split their sacks and spill their heavy cream.
I wanted to talk to her the way people talk in movies. I wanted to be funny and interesting, profound and witty—-but all that came out was some pathetic mumble about the weather. She responded with indifference, nonchalantly turning away to check her cell phone, a polite way of saying fuck off——- or code for “leave me alone you weirdo”.
I awkwardly looked down at my grocery cart with its random contents; two quarts of beer, generic toilet paper, a single banana and a can of refried beans,——my glum life summed up within a losers grocery list. I fidgeted for a minute, hoping to come up with a clever redemptive line——nope, not today. Feeling dejected, I exited the check outline and headed down the soup isle. In a world of grommet soup flavors, I felt like that dusty ole can of bland chicken stock. Now I know why they call it the “checkout” line.
So often we forget to live. Instead we carry on as if life were a drudgery, as if love were mundane, as if our time were infinite. That is the gravest of sins; to forget to be alive, to neglect the sensation that comes with breathing. Sometimes when I feel my life being siphoned away, I think of you. I force myself to think of the first time I kissed you. I think of how you tasted, the scent of your perfume and how your body fit so well into mine. I think about it in the most minuet detail, the way the morning sunlight fell upon your bare skin, the smell of ocean in your hair, the way your eyes locked into mine, your childlike smile. I stay in this place until it hurts, until I think I might lose myself in the undertow of your memory. It’s like that reoccurring dream I have where I’m trapped deep underwater and I’m struggling to reach the surface. I look up and can only make out what appears to be a distant blurry surface. And, I know you are there waiting for me. My lungs feel as if they might burst, my mind and body are starved for oxygen. Every cell in my body screams out for a sip of air. My legs and arms strain as I flail and kick upward towards the shimmering surface of you. Time passes agonizingly slow, I am stymied by fear and panic, and then suddenly, like the flick of a switch, I sit up in my bed and suck in a huge gasp of air—but you still aren’t there. I’ve forgotten how to pray, or how to be alive without you near me. I toss and turn in my bed, a stray dog incessantly barks against the night.
I’d love to return home, but my vehicle was destroyed in the crash. I’ve been shipwrecked on this lame-ass planet ever sense. Let me get a beer and a chocolate bar and I’ll tell you what I’ve learned (and endured) while stranded here. I’m documenting this in a blog format, a means of communication designed to memorialize ones frivolous life events—-like posting a selfie of ones naked backside on Facebook. Just another way self promoting humans present their asinine shameless egos———or should I say ass-inine. They ought to rename Facebook to Assbook. All humor aside, I doubt this tale will neither be read nor believed. It will most likely be placed on the virtual floor to potty train a virtual puppy. So, with that said, let the shit show begin—
I was on my way to the Ramuloid system when I received what I thought was an emergency distress call. All I could hear was a broken-up transmission of someone screaming “Skipper, Skipper, Help, Help!” I had my computer operating system do a quick search of all prior available transmission records. I was alerted that the transmission was from a group of seven castaways marooned on a deserted outpost. On a rescue mission I entered your atmosphere and was blindsided by this piece of shit shack called a “Space Station”. That spacewalking astronaut would of went splat like a bug on my windshield if I hadn’t put my ship into an uncontrolled nose dive. This maneuver is what ultimately led to my shipwreck. The last thing I remember hearing from the transmission was the voice of the skipper saying, “Gilligan, you’re a nincompoop.” Shit!——Done in by a goddamn dimwitted sitcom playing in syndication. What kind of cockamamie creatures would find this crap entertaining? In horror, I realized that I’d entered an intellectual desert.
I swear, I can’t take another day with these moronic humans. They’re fucking nuts, not to mention arrogant and extremely violent. They possess a tiny un-evolved brain the size of a Argonian ass-nat. Its appears they’ve invested what little intelligence they possess into finding faster and more efficient ways of destroying their planet. They apparently lack the intelligence to comprehend that negative choices lead to negative consequences.
Until recently, these narcissistic a-holes believed that their run of the mill planet was at the center of the universe. Their inflated sense of grandeur would be amusing if it wasn’t so pathetic. They claim to be created in the image of their gods, but in reality, it is just the opposite. Their gods are created in their image. They’re vengeful, power hungry, angry, punishing, spiteful, mean-spirited and demand total obedience from all. The only reason they’ve evolved to dominate their planet is because they’ll eat, drink, inhale, smoke, inject and ingest anything—-especially if it makes them feel powerful and indestructible—I’ll spare you my assessment of their bizarre abuse of such poisons known as alcohol and drugs. They make their most prolific adversary, the cockroach, appear fragile and mild mannered.
These fuckers are constantly at war with one another, they just can’t get along. They’ll fight over anything; land, money, food, religion, race, nationality, pride, greed, power, glory and sometimes just to conquer who ever is within their proximity. The only thing they like more than fighting is fucking. They’ll fuck anything and everything. The pinnacle of their technology is this goofy thing called the “internet” and 80% of this device is used to watch other people fucking each other. All they know is fuck, fight and eat—that’s it, period.
The highlight of their space exploration program was a mere jaunt to their nearest moon. They soon grew bored of this as there was nothing out there for them to fuck, fight or eat. If there was gold or an enemy or something fuck-able in space, they’d of developed the technology to get them to Alpha Centauri and beyond.
The only thing more primitive than their communication devices is their limited methods of utilizing them. They text, talk, Skype and email one another insouciantly. They have selective listening skills and only hear what they want. They talk at one another (and about one another) incessantly, but have failed to learn the subtleties needed to master the art of communication. They have a proclivity to say mean and unkind things to one another and participate in the practices known as “gossiping” and “bullying”. The strong will gang up on the weak and tear them to shreds. They have a large selection of words in their languages, but they rely on a small number of foul four letter words to attempt to communicate their thoughts and emotions. I’ve even adopted their favorite word “fuck”. It can be used as an adjective, a verb or noun. It can mean anything, depending on how it is used and the voice inflection applied. I don’t fucking understand it, but it just feels fucking great to say fuck you. My communication translator device doesn’t even have a substitute term for the word “fuck”-–And that’s searching over three trillion other alien languages.
These humans like to believe that they mate for life, but they lack the commitment, honesty and integrity to stay true to this foolish principle. They are light years away from being evolved enough to appreciate the concept they call “love”. Their love depends on conditions, and the main condition is “what’s in it for me?”. Its a silly idea to only love one person when there are ten’s of thousands to love—just because you love one person doesn’t mean you can’t love many at the same time. They seem to believe that when you love another, you somehow own them outright; lock, stock and barrel—Their culture is controlling and procession oriented. They have a “yours verses mine” mindset.
They clan together in these things called gangs or armies. They have flags, uniforms, tattoos and slogans that help them differentiate the “us” from the “them”. They create maps with lines that specifies what space belongs to whom. They are very territorial and often times attempt to invade and control their neighbors space. One country went as far as to build a great stone wall to keep out foreigners. Some cross over into other peoples lands because they are seeking better life opportunities, they are called illegal aliens. It’s a society that lives by a divisive code of “us verses them”, “ours verses theirs”, “good verses bad” and “winner verses loser“. This creates a dichotomy that breeds aggression and selfishness. They’ll burn, bomb, shoot, mutilate, stab, hack to death, gas, poisson, behead, torture and exterminate anyone or anything they consider different or inferior to them. Sometimes they’ll kill so they can take what another possesses. Even their babies and children are not spared from these barbaric actions. They have perfected the art of killing and torture, and are extremely adept at creating a rational as to why these actions are necessary and honorable—it is a time cherrished tradition. In fact, they give medals and awards to those who excel at these endeavors. This competitive version of community is all they know—how uncivilized and sad. They will need to learn the art of collaboration and cooperation if they hope to evolve. Many spices never reach this critical step in the evolutionary process and they silently go extinct. Thank god the universe has a mechanism for cleansing itself and keeping all that “is” in balance——all is well, and all is as it should be——all that is, “is”.
These are the greediest of species I’ve ever studied. Even with their primitive technology, they have the capacity to provide food, shelter, water and medical care to all the beings on the planet, but they choose not to do so. Daily, thousands of their children needlessly die due to the lack of basic needs. It appears that these human creatures lack the capacity to openly express compassion and empathy. They have an odd aversion to sharing with one another. A very small potion of their population control the majority of the resources and currency. These ones are called the “haves”. The remaining majority are known as the “have-nots”. Without a financial incentive to redistribute the planets resources, the “haves” allow many to suffer and die. It appears that the “haves” require a means to profit from their charitable deeds. Without a way to make a profit, they refuse to make an effort to help those in need. I have never seen a specie so cruel to its own kind, it’s a disturbing thing to watch.
As a changeling, I’ve tried to provide some basic teachings on compassion and empathy, but my words have gone unheralded. I’ve appeared as a shaman and a holy man throughout the years. A few of my more recent incarnations included, John Lennon, Mother Teresa, Muddy Waters and George Carlon. The truth I’ve tried to disseminate is as simple as “All You Need Is Love”, but these humans fail to understand that words are empty if not supported by relative actions. The principle of “cause and effect” still seems to elude their basic understanding of the universe.
Their science remains in its infancy because they think in terms of “right verses wrong” rather than what “is”. They live under the illusion that by achieving an understanding of physics, that they will then possess the power to manipulate the universe for their own greedy needs and wants. They fail to understand that they are just a minuscule and insignificant flash within the enormity of eternity. They are blinded by their false sense of entitlement and specialness. This is as outrageous, as it is comical.
They are a wasteful and dirty specie. They are hell bent on destroying the only environment that will sustain them. They’ve fouled the oceans, streams, lakes, rivers, air, land and environment. They have managed to turn a once pristine garden into a toxic landfill. They mistreat and make suffer the other animals and living creatures that they have dominion over. Their early tribal ancestors were good stewards of the land and understood that they were just another piece in the greater whole that makes up a balanced community. But the violent greedy ones killed and conquered their wise elders. They ironically called these wise ones savages and subhuman. In a world of “winners verses Losers” things can easily get turned around. Their malleable history has been written by the so called “winners”.
My type of spicy does not require sleep. I stand alone outside most nights and stare up into the Milky Way Galaxy. It haunts me and reminds me that I don’t belong here.. I think of all the things I’d like to express. There are no words in their many earth languages to express my simple feelings. I am alone here except for my dog companion. Although we share no common language, we understand and accept each other completely. There is an unexplainable beauty in such simplicity.
In the 150,000 years that these humans have existed, there are but four things they’ve done of consequence. They invented chocolate, beer, ice cream and rock and roll music, all else is inconsequential.
What was once fiction is now science and what was once science in now fiction—-you may write this blog off as science-fiction, but the truth lies somewhere between the two. SOS*******
The soundtrack to this piece is “You & I” by One Direction. The post is to be read while listening to this tune.
Some will make you believe in love again, and cause you to hear bluebirds singing right outside your bedroom window and you’ll rise to crimson skies and smell the refreshing scent of lilacs floating on cool morning breezes. Love wakes you to life, and where there is love, there is no need for purpose, precautions or possessions, nor drama, pretense or pretending. When it makes no sense, that’s when it’s at its best. Give yourself to such moments, declare a union, commit to an alliance, scream it from behind your window blinds—-only fools limit themselves to those who are possessed by reason, logic and timid passions—— all their nothingness smothering their life force——what is love but the stepchild of fear—— a smoldering fuse waiting to ignite starbursts—-and if it should rain there will be rainbows, cause love is sappy and corny and ridiculous that way. It will cause you to use language in new ways, you will write love letters on unicorn stationary and sign off with X’s and O’s—— hearts——envelopes sealed with a kiss, embossed with burning red lipstick——dripping with honey…..
It’ll blind your eyes, like shiny shards of glass flashing and then suddenly exploding in tremendous balls of whiteness somewhere behind your eyes. I’m broken, I’m drained, but I’d know your face from past life dreams, a thousand lives deep, I wonder what’s beneath that skirt, cause I’m into that, I’d tell you lies if I thought they’d do the trick, to get you alone, to get you to discard your clothes and lay next to me, naked, damp and all a quiver—-and you’d only be wearing a perfect dirty smile—-
We won’t become like the rest of them. The ones bored to the touch of the other, forgetting how to hold, how to fall asleep in love and wake together in a tangle of sweat stained sheets.
This life is your story, nothing more, nothing less. Tell it with boldness, kiss no ones ass, go down swinging, don’t let anyone still your glory or run you ragged>>>>>>never waste time on the bland and the blind, cause you’ll never get that time back…..
Soundtrack “Fire”. Go to “View Original” and then press play before reading.
Trapped inside ourselves, this is it, the unsolved puzzle we must learn to live with, to struggle with and sometimes against, faith is encrypted with voodoo, the supernatural and magic are difficult to untwine, truth is temporary and dissolving, love like Atlantis lies hidden beneath myth and fantasy. Every love story is a ghost ship——a weary captain keeps night watch—–lost on rolling seas—-why do these tattered sails push us ever closer to the edge——towards oblivion. No matter how hard you may try, some worlds will always be flat.
All of that which is true, is what works for a moment, be it love, science or salvation. Allow love to find you——be in love with something or someone before you cease, before all that you are sails off the edge. That’s all I know, cause upon second glance everyone loses their battle with gravity.
So this is middle age, unexpected, unpredictable, with all those promised existential unanswered questions. With age has come the harsh realization that I will never fully know another, at least not in the way youth had once opened up friends and lovers to me. Does age make us cautious, suspicious——to many broken bones, careless wounds and loves left undone—-if she should read this, she’d hurt what I felt. She interpreted my words better than I, although the poetry came through me, it was born of her, such a mysterious muse, mi amore.
God plays tricks on us all, allowing the fictions of falling through time and occupying space, as we grapple with this thing called life. Come walk with me, and let us pretend our love goes on forever and ever——-beyond the map, and then together we’ll pass through to the other-side of oblivion*****
Rants, Raves and Random Thoughts 