The poem here was taken from a beautiful man I knew in San Francisco. I found it in a dresser earlier this week. The man was a walking poem, maybe the most beautiful I've known. But perverse and an island unto himself.
Whatever
Sex
The Sex Terror
Love is Enough
These date back to 1976
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Sunday, October 24, 2010
A poem from a man I lived with briefly
About me:
my Rose
this isn't about age but the feel of taste,
the swell of the chorale ---obligato
she liked my pirate flag, she was a pirate
too she said, and as it snapped at the mast
we took up the old bike horn and tambourine
and honked a giddy march, laughing at money
said she'd kick my ass in pool, though she didn't play;
she said i was gay, a communist, a gay communist
she asked a customer for our check once,
recalled it as the dumbest thing she'd done
when told she'd done it, her soft laugh
a moisture of stuff boys told her, nuts in love
the distortions of unhappiness! but with Rose no meanness,
sometimes a tendency to romanticize revenge or get dark tattoos;
she liked to close a hand
upon the other hand and crack her knuckles
with a sound like who cares
Rose liked strong coffee to get going and made kava kava to sleep
i always drove (she hated cars)
i nearly hit a squirrel, and a bird, which i did hit, but couldn't tell her,
not the way she yelled and pushed into her seat
enough to put me off women half my age
relying on you to take them places
she wanted Fall of the Damned tattooed down her arm,
but had no way to meet the artist, who would've had trouble with Bosch
Irish Cherokee, wine-dark lips, sorrowing Slovac
when my Rose lies down, opens and smiles and looks
down herself at you she'd say yeah to move the river
around my boat, becoming what you heard for days;
she told me i was hard to know and had a teenager's libido
which i whispered yeah to
we weren't going anywhere, we didn't care,
then I cared and in the mirror watched the bird
try to fly off the road
i'd find her, my lovely Rose, waiting for me on the road
back to her family's farm, in her jeans and jacket,
listening to her sad music on those little earbuds so nobody'd know
she didn't like the crack across my windshield,
why don't you get that fixed she said
then would pull up the soft skirt she sometimes wore
and reach over in traffic, arousing the men in my horse
lying in wait outside the gate, ready for the myths of famous dates
© Copyright 2011
Sunday, October 10, 2010
1984 & Drug Crazy=War on Drugs
Mike Gray's "Drug Crazy" and George Orwell's 1984 bring up interesting points. Drug Cray was published in 1998, before the Patriot Act.
Whoap, here is the facts, mixed between the two books. Also, for required reading for the political genere:
1.) SHOCK DOCTRINE: NAOMI KLEIN
2.) EMPIRE OF ILLUSION: CHRISTOPHER HEDGES
3.) CONFESSIONS OF AN ECONOMIC HIT MAN: JOHN PERKINS
4.) AGAINST LOVE: LAURA KIPNIS
5.) 13 BANKERS: SIMON JOHNSON
6.) THE BIG SHORT: MICHAEL LEWIS
7.) SAYING YES: JACOB SULLUM
-The problem with most people and their dreams is that they are so desperate in their struggles to have what they do not have, they never ask why they want what they do not own. Or what repercussions will be faced in achieving the goal. They are so consumed with the struggle that they don't have the luxury of thoroughly analyzing their options. That's an elusive quest for some aches so much that they don't see what it means in the broad scheme of things. The struggle itself is all they see.
-Enforcement of reality, and the regulation of free thought function to, and opposing of oppressed people.
-CIA is the Inner Party.
-Constantly reconstruct reality for the purpose of ignorance works in institutions to create a power relation where the masses are manipulated and controlled.
The institution for the creation of the 18th Amendment of the United States Constitution was the cause of wasted tax dollars and illusion of the drug war. Like Oceania in 1984, our country is held hostage by the oppression of a fabricated war. A war that can corrupt your children, pose a threat to your very health, and spread like a plague, “The Drug User as [a] Vampire” (page 186) across America unless we take a stand. The stand is a surrender of our tax dollars to fight a war that the CIA participates in creating, the ultimate catch 22.
The book “Drug Crazy” by Mike Gray is unique in that it does not only list the banes of the history of the war on drugs. Gray also offers a solution to the problem this hoax of a war created in America. Legalize drugs. When drugs become against the law than the law creates outlaws. This way those who partake in the recreational use of drugs seventy million Americans (page 186) are not in direct violation of the law.
“America must open its eyes and recognize that human nature cannot be changed by legal enactment”. (page 67).
Also on (186) Grey makes a parallel with Nazi Germany in the U.S.A.: “You could confiscate….property without due process, put [users of drugs] in concentration camps, and conduct medical experiments on them against their will.” Much like the goings on in Guantanamo Bay.
The War on Drugs is facilitated by the CIA. “By the end of the Bush administration total cocaine output in the Andes had increased 15 percent.” (page 117). Drug Kingpin “Manuel Noriega had been on the CIA payroll throughout his brutal career. When Noriega was indicated in the United States for turning Panama into a free-trade zone for drugs, Bush was hard-pressed to explain the photos of himself and Noriega chatting it up in Panama at a time when Bush had to have known the general was up to his ears in the cocaine trade.”(page 112). During this exact time Bush was in his 1988 campaign (page 112).
Like 1984 people rat each other out in this war on drugs. (Page 110) Gray notes that “a 1990 study of pregnant drug users found that a black woman was ten times more likely to be reported to the authorities than a white woman.” One might conclude that the war on drugs is a race war more than a drug war. “The drug war…evolved into a race war. (page 110). [When] Ronald Reagan left office, the prison population had not only doubled in size, it had changed complexion.” Like the days following the end of slavery, prisoners became the slaves, offering free work as penance for their sins.
Before Reagan there was Nixon, who also used the War on Drugs as a political platform. “Nixon had appointed a Republican drug hawk, former Pennsylvania governor Ray Shafer, to head the commission, and his job was to create a scientific foundation for the administration’s hard line on marijuana. But after months of digging, the facts overwhelmed the folk talks and the Shafer Commission reversed engines: ‘Marihuana use, in and of itself, is neither causative of, nor directly associated with crime…’ Nixon buried the report.” (page 97).
George Herbert Walker Bush promised to be hard on drug abuse in the US. “But Bush not only failed to stem the tide, he was accused of consorting with the enemy. When the Senate’s Iran-contra investigators ripped the sheet off covert operations in central America, they discovered that the CIA had known for some time about contra drug trafficking. They also found evidence of a coke-for-guns cover-up.” (page 111). Our government, the CIA’s inner party, has been dumping drugs in the ghettos of the county in exchange for weapons to bully other countries with a wealth of natural resources. Drug Crazy was printed in 1998, before the current war in Iraq and Afghanistan, and before the departments erected in the USA after the September 11 attack on the World Trade Centers. If one follows the Presidential campaign of the then major of the city of New York, Rudy Giuliani, one would find a plethora of bogus departments and spy laws waiting to be passed as a promise of Presidential action. In a somber feminine voice a ‘orange coated curfew’ can be heard as a warning in airports everywhere, a function of Homeland Security. Homeland Security, as Wikipedia states, “is an umbrella term for security efforts to protect the United States against terrorist activity.” We are warned that we must give up a bit of our freedom in order for protection to be effective. After all, we have nothing to hide if we are not doing anything wrong and Big Brother is watching us. The syntax of the name “O’Brien” in 1984 is “Sorrow” in Celtic. Indeed he is intelligent but ruthless.
Whoap, here is the facts, mixed between the two books. Also, for required reading for the political genere:
1.) SHOCK DOCTRINE: NAOMI KLEIN
2.) EMPIRE OF ILLUSION: CHRISTOPHER HEDGES
3.) CONFESSIONS OF AN ECONOMIC HIT MAN: JOHN PERKINS
4.) AGAINST LOVE: LAURA KIPNIS
5.) 13 BANKERS: SIMON JOHNSON
6.) THE BIG SHORT: MICHAEL LEWIS
7.) SAYING YES: JACOB SULLUM
-The problem with most people and their dreams is that they are so desperate in their struggles to have what they do not have, they never ask why they want what they do not own. Or what repercussions will be faced in achieving the goal. They are so consumed with the struggle that they don't have the luxury of thoroughly analyzing their options. That's an elusive quest for some aches so much that they don't see what it means in the broad scheme of things. The struggle itself is all they see.
-Enforcement of reality, and the regulation of free thought function to, and opposing of oppressed people.
-CIA is the Inner Party.
-Constantly reconstruct reality for the purpose of ignorance works in institutions to create a power relation where the masses are manipulated and controlled.
The institution for the creation of the 18th Amendment of the United States Constitution was the cause of wasted tax dollars and illusion of the drug war. Like Oceania in 1984, our country is held hostage by the oppression of a fabricated war. A war that can corrupt your children, pose a threat to your very health, and spread like a plague, “The Drug User as [a] Vampire” (page 186) across America unless we take a stand. The stand is a surrender of our tax dollars to fight a war that the CIA participates in creating, the ultimate catch 22.
The book “Drug Crazy” by Mike Gray is unique in that it does not only list the banes of the history of the war on drugs. Gray also offers a solution to the problem this hoax of a war created in America. Legalize drugs. When drugs become against the law than the law creates outlaws. This way those who partake in the recreational use of drugs seventy million Americans (page 186) are not in direct violation of the law.
“America must open its eyes and recognize that human nature cannot be changed by legal enactment”. (page 67).
Also on (186) Grey makes a parallel with Nazi Germany in the U.S.A.: “You could confiscate….property without due process, put [users of drugs] in concentration camps, and conduct medical experiments on them against their will.” Much like the goings on in Guantanamo Bay.
The War on Drugs is facilitated by the CIA. “By the end of the Bush administration total cocaine output in the Andes had increased 15 percent.” (page 117). Drug Kingpin “Manuel Noriega had been on the CIA payroll throughout his brutal career. When Noriega was indicated in the United States for turning Panama into a free-trade zone for drugs, Bush was hard-pressed to explain the photos of himself and Noriega chatting it up in Panama at a time when Bush had to have known the general was up to his ears in the cocaine trade.”(page 112). During this exact time Bush was in his 1988 campaign (page 112).
Like 1984 people rat each other out in this war on drugs. (Page 110) Gray notes that “a 1990 study of pregnant drug users found that a black woman was ten times more likely to be reported to the authorities than a white woman.” One might conclude that the war on drugs is a race war more than a drug war. “The drug war…evolved into a race war. (page 110). [When] Ronald Reagan left office, the prison population had not only doubled in size, it had changed complexion.” Like the days following the end of slavery, prisoners became the slaves, offering free work as penance for their sins.
Before Reagan there was Nixon, who also used the War on Drugs as a political platform. “Nixon had appointed a Republican drug hawk, former Pennsylvania governor Ray Shafer, to head the commission, and his job was to create a scientific foundation for the administration’s hard line on marijuana. But after months of digging, the facts overwhelmed the folk talks and the Shafer Commission reversed engines: ‘Marihuana use, in and of itself, is neither causative of, nor directly associated with crime…’ Nixon buried the report.” (page 97).
George Herbert Walker Bush promised to be hard on drug abuse in the US. “But Bush not only failed to stem the tide, he was accused of consorting with the enemy. When the Senate’s Iran-contra investigators ripped the sheet off covert operations in central America, they discovered that the CIA had known for some time about contra drug trafficking. They also found evidence of a coke-for-guns cover-up.” (page 111). Our government, the CIA’s inner party, has been dumping drugs in the ghettos of the county in exchange for weapons to bully other countries with a wealth of natural resources. Drug Crazy was printed in 1998, before the current war in Iraq and Afghanistan, and before the departments erected in the USA after the September 11 attack on the World Trade Centers. If one follows the Presidential campaign of the then major of the city of New York, Rudy Giuliani, one would find a plethora of bogus departments and spy laws waiting to be passed as a promise of Presidential action. In a somber feminine voice a ‘orange coated curfew’ can be heard as a warning in airports everywhere, a function of Homeland Security. Homeland Security, as Wikipedia states, “is an umbrella term for security efforts to protect the United States against terrorist activity.” We are warned that we must give up a bit of our freedom in order for protection to be effective. After all, we have nothing to hide if we are not doing anything wrong and Big Brother is watching us. The syntax of the name “O’Brien” in 1984 is “Sorrow” in Celtic. Indeed he is intelligent but ruthless.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Richard Brautigan
These two poems have nothing to do with each other. One is about a lack of love and one is noticing someone- an act of love. Here they are, but first, a tale about the writer. He spoke at Humboldt State University and was so drunk and horny that the English department rented him a hooker and a hotel room.
Here is one of my favorite poems by him:
"The Pill versus The Springhill Mine Disaster"
When you take your pill
it's like a mine disaster.
I think of all the people
lost inside of you.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
I'm a Auditory Thinker
In my Linguistic class we had a homework assignment. We picked one acronym of this: AVK. Auditory thinker. Visual thinker. Kinesthetic thinker. You can transition in time, or be more than just one. As a poet, with words I should be a master of all three categories. As I listen to Johnny Cash's "The Wanderer" as I write, I have pretensions toward auditory thought. I dig music.
This blog has been a work in progress in thought for a long time. Since a jazz Professor told me that my foot steps while running connect to my heartbeat and would heal me from a family death. So I am waiting to feel that: The rhythm of my running and the click of harmony between my foot step on the Earth, my beating heart in my sweating body, and the sounds around me. My body should be a vessel for the rhythm of music. An orgasm.
Until I feel this, I am building up this blog on the music around us. My tea kettle going off. The wind rustling tree branches. A unity in nature that matches my beating heart. Johnny Cash talks about the spiritual aspect of music. "I left with nothing but the thought of you, I went wandering". I'll finish this blog one day. Right now I have only words to describe what I beg the Universe for when I sprint to this certain bridge, collapse on the wood over a river, stare at the open water, and thank the holy force that guided me to where I am in life. The stars are always above us.
To every question there is an answer if you are quiet enough to listen. When I played the clarinet in the school's band there was a moment of unity where all instruments knew their part. It felt like a brotherhood. It felt sacred. That feeling is what I look for in my foot steps, and in the heart of one to love. One day this blog will be authentic.
This blog has been a work in progress in thought for a long time. Since a jazz Professor told me that my foot steps while running connect to my heartbeat and would heal me from a family death. So I am waiting to feel that: The rhythm of my running and the click of harmony between my foot step on the Earth, my beating heart in my sweating body, and the sounds around me. My body should be a vessel for the rhythm of music. An orgasm.
Until I feel this, I am building up this blog on the music around us. My tea kettle going off. The wind rustling tree branches. A unity in nature that matches my beating heart. Johnny Cash talks about the spiritual aspect of music. "I left with nothing but the thought of you, I went wandering". I'll finish this blog one day. Right now I have only words to describe what I beg the Universe for when I sprint to this certain bridge, collapse on the wood over a river, stare at the open water, and thank the holy force that guided me to where I am in life. The stars are always above us.
To every question there is an answer if you are quiet enough to listen. When I played the clarinet in the school's band there was a moment of unity where all instruments knew their part. It felt like a brotherhood. It felt sacred. That feeling is what I look for in my foot steps, and in the heart of one to love. One day this blog will be authentic.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Accomadating
This is an original joke that my older brother Tim told me this morning. He also came up with the "I'm an alcoholic beverage" joke that I take credit for. My grand mother sends us a lot of Reader's Digest magazines to warp our humor this way. But this is very clever so I'm sharing what my Physics Brother sent his Literature sister. Whop here it is:
Commas aren't the most attractive punctuation marks, but this one particular comma has her heart set on getting into the dating scene. She asks a period for a date, but the period says, "I don't date commas, period." She asks an ellipsis, but the ellipsis says, "Um, let me get back to you on that...". Finally, after being rejected by every punctuation mark she's asked, she gets desperate and decides to ask the exclamation mark. The exclamation mark says, "I'll go on a date with you, but I should warn you that I shout everything I say, and I often give people commands!" The comma says, "It doesn't matter, I'm a comma, dating!"
Commas aren't the most attractive punctuation marks, but this one particular comma has her heart set on getting into the dating scene. She asks a period for a date, but the period says, "I don't date commas, period." She asks an ellipsis, but the ellipsis says, "Um, let me get back to you on that...". Finally, after being rejected by every punctuation mark she's asked, she gets desperate and decides to ask the exclamation mark. The exclamation mark says, "I'll go on a date with you, but I should warn you that I shout everything I say, and I often give people commands!" The comma says, "It doesn't matter, I'm a comma, dating!"
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Character Development in Writing
I've been meaning to write down everything I learned as a writer at San Francisco State. This will take a few blogs. This one has to do with, well, what the title says. First some quick theory.
Since I live in the land of bumper stickers and Jimmy Hendrix posters, this thought came to me which is loosely based on character development (it's a stretch). The thought occurred to me how stupid it would be to buy a poster of Neil Young (who I love) or any other face for sale to put on your wall. I love my family and I don't post giant mass produced posters of their faces on my wall (that would be creepy). Beyond celebrity worship, it's just plain stupid. If you like Neil Young, listen to his music. Gandhi, be nice to your fellow human race. Frank Sinatra, throw someone out of an airplane in motion.
To expand more on this thought (I think I had two shots of espresso in my coffee that day) I was thinking of a character and the person as a whole. It pigeonholes the person as a certain belief or idea and ironically, half these living celebrities are trying to avoid just that (Neil Young being the best example). So this theory ties into what I learned about character development because people are too complex to write about with purity. But let's try.
I've always said that people like Tarantino for the wrong reasons. It's his dialogue, Shakespearean format, and character development that make the film and writing critics love him so dearly. Not his 'coolness' (which I've been meaning to write a blog about). So I'll use one of his characters to start with as a good example. The film Jackie Brown and the character played by Samuel L. Jackson: Ordell Robbie. This character was stuck on a certain drink: vodka and orange juice. He was tough but had principles and a certain patience. I'd say that this character was deeply developed. His diction was unique. So I'll show you how to do that as best as I can.
Generically! Well, we had a ditto that helped us to refine our characters. What do they drink often? What does this character love most? Their smell, do they smoke, what color is their favorite, do they like comics, video games, ect. And the only way to take something beyond a love for screwdrivers is to write and write and write about them. Here is a good way to do that.
Take a picture and spend AT LEAST 25 minutes (for starters) on what is behind the picture (of the character in your head). After 25 minutes you reach a breaking point where your mind produces stuff past the crap on the top of your brain. Do this often, but in spurts and highlight what fits the character in your head, then write more to expand.
Then simplify. Remember we are talking about the human brain so you can get as vast and creative as you want. Does the character speak other languages? What books would they read? Their level of morality, etc. After you highlight, then pear down. Get an idea of who you are dealing with before putting them in your story. To me, a character makes the story good, not the action. But later I'll talk about how action can define a character, after you get down all their habits and lusts.
This is one of a few blogs I'll write on what I know about writing. One of my favorite fictional characters in film (and I have blogs about characters in literature) is the film Bottle Rocket with Owen Wilson's character, Dignan. My next blog (and I'm lazy, which is why I don't write often) will be about creating a background for your characters to live inside. The third will be how to move them around, followed by how to complete a story. Start with your characters. And have fun with this.
Since I live in the land of bumper stickers and Jimmy Hendrix posters, this thought came to me which is loosely based on character development (it's a stretch). The thought occurred to me how stupid it would be to buy a poster of Neil Young (who I love) or any other face for sale to put on your wall. I love my family and I don't post giant mass produced posters of their faces on my wall (that would be creepy). Beyond celebrity worship, it's just plain stupid. If you like Neil Young, listen to his music. Gandhi, be nice to your fellow human race. Frank Sinatra, throw someone out of an airplane in motion.
To expand more on this thought (I think I had two shots of espresso in my coffee that day) I was thinking of a character and the person as a whole. It pigeonholes the person as a certain belief or idea and ironically, half these living celebrities are trying to avoid just that (Neil Young being the best example). So this theory ties into what I learned about character development because people are too complex to write about with purity. But let's try.
I've always said that people like Tarantino for the wrong reasons. It's his dialogue, Shakespearean format, and character development that make the film and writing critics love him so dearly. Not his 'coolness' (which I've been meaning to write a blog about). So I'll use one of his characters to start with as a good example. The film Jackie Brown and the character played by Samuel L. Jackson: Ordell Robbie. This character was stuck on a certain drink: vodka and orange juice. He was tough but had principles and a certain patience. I'd say that this character was deeply developed. His diction was unique. So I'll show you how to do that as best as I can.
Generically! Well, we had a ditto that helped us to refine our characters. What do they drink often? What does this character love most? Their smell, do they smoke, what color is their favorite, do they like comics, video games, ect. And the only way to take something beyond a love for screwdrivers is to write and write and write about them. Here is a good way to do that.
Take a picture and spend AT LEAST 25 minutes (for starters) on what is behind the picture (of the character in your head). After 25 minutes you reach a breaking point where your mind produces stuff past the crap on the top of your brain. Do this often, but in spurts and highlight what fits the character in your head, then write more to expand.
Then simplify. Remember we are talking about the human brain so you can get as vast and creative as you want. Does the character speak other languages? What books would they read? Their level of morality, etc. After you highlight, then pear down. Get an idea of who you are dealing with before putting them in your story. To me, a character makes the story good, not the action. But later I'll talk about how action can define a character, after you get down all their habits and lusts.
This is one of a few blogs I'll write on what I know about writing. One of my favorite fictional characters in film (and I have blogs about characters in literature) is the film Bottle Rocket with Owen Wilson's character, Dignan. My next blog (and I'm lazy, which is why I don't write often) will be about creating a background for your characters to live inside. The third will be how to move them around, followed by how to complete a story. Start with your characters. And have fun with this.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
You Set The Scene
*This is the only thing that I am sure of
And that's all that lives is gonna die
And there'll always be some people here to wonder why
-The Band Love
------------------
Right now it's 4:33 in the morning; a time I usually get up to check the time (I have this clock in different neon colors, very soothing) maybe get a snack, make sure I have not rolled over my cat, then back to sleep. But early this morning I had a gentle epiphany that had to be written down.
A while ago I spent this time in the morning in constant pain and/or anxiety-just a general worry all that time. This morning it occurred to me that it was the relationship I was in then. The person was so vexed with angst about him, that his anxiety passed over to me, so I felt it was my problem. The entire few years were his problem, which I never saw because the relationship was in constant turmoil to the point that I had to worry about whether it could be mended and not 'should' it be mended. So there was never breathing time to wonder the obvious- He is making all his problems as 'our' problems. At little more to illustrate my point then I'll move to my theme (Francis Bacon never even had a thesis thank you).
Ashes to ashes. He came from a rat race and went back to join it, so I suppose he never had breathing time to believe life could be better. He had a girlfriend who (at the time, before I got on the bus Gus) loved him and was financially independent, who believed in his dreams. All he cared about were issues not related to me. Yet I always felt this heavy pressure about his problems, because they affected how he made me feel. If he was stressed about work, I had to carry that burden. His future angst was mine. He wanted his band to work. His car payments, his electricity bill paid: all these cares that vanished like smoke in a blown out candle when I left. Now I can sit in the sun and smile. When my worries come, I will not bring my partner down.
I live in a town where most places are in walking distance. When I move, I'll have a car. I have one last semester of school. Until then I worked as a daycare provider and now I'm studying for Spanish 2. I'm buying artwork on-line and framing my apartment. But I can move, the world is my creation.
When I was a child, Spring in our woody area of land meant that dinosaur eggs were blooming. They grew as eggs in white with red strips on a certain bush. We would go to this stream with a giant log across it and search for sand rocks. Sand rocks are called something else in California. They are perfectly round rocks that, when cracked open, have a gold-like colored dirt inside them. My brothers knew a recipe to mix the gold dust with a special stick and our hose water to make real gold. We worked magic.
There were the swings. A certain swing was held on the branch of a giant oak tree (this was before we all read LOTR). That tree was moody but special, and had a soul inside the bark. The bravest siblings or friends would take the swing and fly to the bank on the other side of a lot of water, screaming something adults would laugh at now. We made our own fun. In these games we were gods.
I've enjoyed life since I left an unhealthy relationship. I don't feel like this town has nothing to offer. Anyone who feels the Redwoods are boring needs to open their eyes. I run up to four miles every other day. Hot Yoga Sundays (your body is your temple), learning about Spanish culture, blowing bubbles my cat obliterates like Bruce Lee. The beach. Fashion. Lust. What is there to worry about?
I always said that people want what they can't have so much, that they don't stop to wonder if they want that thing honestly. Same with relationships- when they break like glass in shaking hands you wonder how to reassemble, but don't wonder why it broke. So you could never imagine the character of the person because the relationship is a 'thing' in itself. Without imposed worries I don't smoke, I am healthy, hell I'm getting my first facial/massage this Friday. Everyone who knows me now are nice to me. For a few years I heard they would not be.
We imprison ourselves. Then we allow the rules and labels of a contrived society to keep us down. Life is short, I promise you. I'm 31. I remember like it was yesterday making a joke about turning 17 next week with my step-sister. It was said to me that William Blake's mother never corrected him when he would imagine things not real, such as angels in the trees. If a relationship is so stressful that drugs are the glue, or cruel remarks are the norm, you're a slave to pain. I'm a beautiful person. That time was poison for me, in every way. Take a day to lay in the grass and make shapes from the clouds. We are not a war torn country. Take every free moment you can now now now now now. As Poe said, "Life is but a dream in a dream".
And that's all that lives is gonna die
And there'll always be some people here to wonder why
-The Band Love
------------------
Right now it's 4:33 in the morning; a time I usually get up to check the time (I have this clock in different neon colors, very soothing) maybe get a snack, make sure I have not rolled over my cat, then back to sleep. But early this morning I had a gentle epiphany that had to be written down.
A while ago I spent this time in the morning in constant pain and/or anxiety-just a general worry all that time. This morning it occurred to me that it was the relationship I was in then. The person was so vexed with angst about him, that his anxiety passed over to me, so I felt it was my problem. The entire few years were his problem, which I never saw because the relationship was in constant turmoil to the point that I had to worry about whether it could be mended and not 'should' it be mended. So there was never breathing time to wonder the obvious- He is making all his problems as 'our' problems. At little more to illustrate my point then I'll move to my theme (Francis Bacon never even had a thesis thank you).
Ashes to ashes. He came from a rat race and went back to join it, so I suppose he never had breathing time to believe life could be better. He had a girlfriend who (at the time, before I got on the bus Gus) loved him and was financially independent, who believed in his dreams. All he cared about were issues not related to me. Yet I always felt this heavy pressure about his problems, because they affected how he made me feel. If he was stressed about work, I had to carry that burden. His future angst was mine. He wanted his band to work. His car payments, his electricity bill paid: all these cares that vanished like smoke in a blown out candle when I left. Now I can sit in the sun and smile. When my worries come, I will not bring my partner down.
I live in a town where most places are in walking distance. When I move, I'll have a car. I have one last semester of school. Until then I worked as a daycare provider and now I'm studying for Spanish 2. I'm buying artwork on-line and framing my apartment. But I can move, the world is my creation.
When I was a child, Spring in our woody area of land meant that dinosaur eggs were blooming. They grew as eggs in white with red strips on a certain bush. We would go to this stream with a giant log across it and search for sand rocks. Sand rocks are called something else in California. They are perfectly round rocks that, when cracked open, have a gold-like colored dirt inside them. My brothers knew a recipe to mix the gold dust with a special stick and our hose water to make real gold. We worked magic.
There were the swings. A certain swing was held on the branch of a giant oak tree (this was before we all read LOTR). That tree was moody but special, and had a soul inside the bark. The bravest siblings or friends would take the swing and fly to the bank on the other side of a lot of water, screaming something adults would laugh at now. We made our own fun. In these games we were gods.
I've enjoyed life since I left an unhealthy relationship. I don't feel like this town has nothing to offer. Anyone who feels the Redwoods are boring needs to open their eyes. I run up to four miles every other day. Hot Yoga Sundays (your body is your temple), learning about Spanish culture, blowing bubbles my cat obliterates like Bruce Lee. The beach. Fashion. Lust. What is there to worry about?
I always said that people want what they can't have so much, that they don't stop to wonder if they want that thing honestly. Same with relationships- when they break like glass in shaking hands you wonder how to reassemble, but don't wonder why it broke. So you could never imagine the character of the person because the relationship is a 'thing' in itself. Without imposed worries I don't smoke, I am healthy, hell I'm getting my first facial/massage this Friday. Everyone who knows me now are nice to me. For a few years I heard they would not be.
We imprison ourselves. Then we allow the rules and labels of a contrived society to keep us down. Life is short, I promise you. I'm 31. I remember like it was yesterday making a joke about turning 17 next week with my step-sister. It was said to me that William Blake's mother never corrected him when he would imagine things not real, such as angels in the trees. If a relationship is so stressful that drugs are the glue, or cruel remarks are the norm, you're a slave to pain. I'm a beautiful person. That time was poison for me, in every way. Take a day to lay in the grass and make shapes from the clouds. We are not a war torn country. Take every free moment you can now now now now now. As Poe said, "Life is but a dream in a dream".
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Scratching The Surface
I don't belong here. Why should I have to change my clothes to have your love?
Thursday, May 27, 2010
San Francisco, 2003
I wrote this theme poem while living in San Francisco. Most of my work at SF State during the two years I went, along with the rare poetry books, were destroyed- thrown away- so I could board a plane. I don't have the same brain that I did when I was 23, but I can do better now at 31.
1.
We melted into each other like colored candle wax,
warm like a child's day dream
intertwined in sleep.
I named him Arch Angel Gabriel,
but never knew his real name.
2.
Blond hair, platform shoes,
dirty receipts found on cement corners and gutters reading "number 365",
black men with guitars strumming to a secret rhythm,
red traffic lights leaving glowing lines,
caught conversations that say,"But after two lines of coke..."
3.
I don't belong here,
why should I change my clothes to have your love?
4.
Ah, these people are like trains,
strangers,
a procession without flowers,
a line at an administration building,
strangers.
I want to take hot showers with them.
5.
Women with protruding pelvic bones,
ivory flesh,
They may consume your soul and make you whole,
with an open mouth kiss.
6.
Break his nose-blood in a straight line going into his mouth,
what color red would come out? fresh over those lips (like a Spanish gambler),
the action gives him such a function,
clinging to my skin, under my clothes, under my act,
take my white glove and come home.
1.
We melted into each other like colored candle wax,
warm like a child's day dream
intertwined in sleep.
I named him Arch Angel Gabriel,
but never knew his real name.
2.
Blond hair, platform shoes,
dirty receipts found on cement corners and gutters reading "number 365",
black men with guitars strumming to a secret rhythm,
red traffic lights leaving glowing lines,
caught conversations that say,"But after two lines of coke..."
3.
I don't belong here,
why should I change my clothes to have your love?
4.
Ah, these people are like trains,
strangers,
a procession without flowers,
a line at an administration building,
strangers.
I want to take hot showers with them.
5.
Women with protruding pelvic bones,
ivory flesh,
They may consume your soul and make you whole,
with an open mouth kiss.
6.
Break his nose-blood in a straight line going into his mouth,
what color red would come out? fresh over those lips (like a Spanish gambler),
the action gives him such a function,
clinging to my skin, under my clothes, under my act,
take my white glove and come home.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Water
I have always wanted to go to one of those Baptisms they have in the South. Singing and praying and clapping. The holiest person holds you as you fall without abandon into cold water, newly saved and cleansed. You trust this person. They are there to catch you,to embrace you, and their love vibrates through out your body.
About this time last year I went to a flowing river where the pine trees grow in diagonals out of mountainous ground. Cold green water made up the rapids. Water flowing forever. I was with a boyfriend then, just a year ago. I did love him then. I remember this thought clearly as I was reading a chapter of "Trout Fishing in America" by Richard Brautigan, and felt the heat burning the top of my shoulders, my bikini was cold while sticking to my flesh, and his smile.... there was music in our lives. I tapped my 30 year old body quickly over the hot rocks of Northern California and slowly dipped into the green river, after the rapids, where the water was clear and still. I dunked my head under completely.
When suspended in water I freeze that moment. The water was so cold, pure, organic. There are no rules while under water. You are just suspended under the same substance that takes up 70% of your body. The substance that dominates our planet, our body, our life force. I held my nose under that silken green water; what I consider sacred, and dunked my head all the way back, making a wish, dropping to my knees so I was far enough to pull all my hair back in one fast motion. Then I surfaced, my hair back, coming up just plain happy. It's like being in the womb. All the elements are intensified. Both water and love are essential to life.
The same memory came from dunking my head in the Finish Hot Tub in Arcata while I was with this same man. I knew the moment was just a point in my life, but I savor all that is good. I dunked, I did handstands, I swam like a fish, I opened my eyes and noticed tiny jet bubbles. I saw the man I thought I'd spend the rest of my life with when I rose to the surface. That day while we were in the tub together he said he would dedicate a song to me.
Now we are separated. A quick fight with no talk to give any type of closure. Those water moments are just what they were to me then; suspended in time. No song was made. All promises broken. Being an English major I do like the metaphor of fresh, flowing, summer water, and two lovers alone together in nature, with flowing water over our feet and legs, and that's it. There was flowing water, and next to my feet I noticed when the water trapped it became stagnant, dirty, unhealthy. Metaphors again. A lot of promises were broken, but love what you have, then move on to more love.
I did not listen to the rules above the surface. That was my mistake. I was underwater and in love. But you need to come up for air. Underwater feels like I can do anything. Above the surface you take that nature and apply any metaphors to your life. Like the river, I'll always be flowing, another man in the same love. No, a higher love. My personal evolution has skyrocketed after leaving this man behind. Our lives should flow always, to remain fresh, not stagnant.
"We live, as we dream, ALONE". This is a positive thing, though I'm all for immersing your soul in love.
About this time last year I went to a flowing river where the pine trees grow in diagonals out of mountainous ground. Cold green water made up the rapids. Water flowing forever. I was with a boyfriend then, just a year ago. I did love him then. I remember this thought clearly as I was reading a chapter of "Trout Fishing in America" by Richard Brautigan, and felt the heat burning the top of my shoulders, my bikini was cold while sticking to my flesh, and his smile.... there was music in our lives. I tapped my 30 year old body quickly over the hot rocks of Northern California and slowly dipped into the green river, after the rapids, where the water was clear and still. I dunked my head under completely.
When suspended in water I freeze that moment. The water was so cold, pure, organic. There are no rules while under water. You are just suspended under the same substance that takes up 70% of your body. The substance that dominates our planet, our body, our life force. I held my nose under that silken green water; what I consider sacred, and dunked my head all the way back, making a wish, dropping to my knees so I was far enough to pull all my hair back in one fast motion. Then I surfaced, my hair back, coming up just plain happy. It's like being in the womb. All the elements are intensified. Both water and love are essential to life.
The same memory came from dunking my head in the Finish Hot Tub in Arcata while I was with this same man. I knew the moment was just a point in my life, but I savor all that is good. I dunked, I did handstands, I swam like a fish, I opened my eyes and noticed tiny jet bubbles. I saw the man I thought I'd spend the rest of my life with when I rose to the surface. That day while we were in the tub together he said he would dedicate a song to me.
Now we are separated. A quick fight with no talk to give any type of closure. Those water moments are just what they were to me then; suspended in time. No song was made. All promises broken. Being an English major I do like the metaphor of fresh, flowing, summer water, and two lovers alone together in nature, with flowing water over our feet and legs, and that's it. There was flowing water, and next to my feet I noticed when the water trapped it became stagnant, dirty, unhealthy. Metaphors again. A lot of promises were broken, but love what you have, then move on to more love.
I did not listen to the rules above the surface. That was my mistake. I was underwater and in love. But you need to come up for air. Underwater feels like I can do anything. Above the surface you take that nature and apply any metaphors to your life. Like the river, I'll always be flowing, another man in the same love. No, a higher love. My personal evolution has skyrocketed after leaving this man behind. Our lives should flow always, to remain fresh, not stagnant.
"We live, as we dream, ALONE". This is a positive thing, though I'm all for immersing your soul in love.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Insect Gangs
Maybe it's Africa, or maybe it's South America, somewhere exotic. A certain species of ants manages to form a two foot ball and roll down hills, consuming all life in their way. For this blog and what my point will be, lets call that an "Ant Drive-By".
When my oldest brother and step-sister heard in their classes that ant species do not like different species, they did what I considered was a shockingly mean experiment. They took our family ant farm, and dropped a fire ant from our nearly two foot ant hills found behind our home inside the ant farm. In seconds the foreign ant was torn to pieces, limb from limb.
#As a side note, that farm taught us that ants can die of frustration. Take my word for it. We just shook their home 3 separate times and after all the work of restructuring their home, they died. That is the extent to how mean we got to animals as children, and I just observed. I'd be an accessory to murder.
People are viscerally territorial. Take the town of Big Flat, California: off the 299, population less then 100 people. I moved there with a man I dated off and on for almost two years. He lived there for over seven years before my two week stay. The locals did not accept me. At first they had no reason, they were just literally illiterate jerks. I tried so hard to be liked it was ridiculous. They would do things like mention they were driving to Redding (at the time my friend's first baby was having her one year birthday) and in the presence of my boyfriend say they would take me. After he left for a grand mother's funeral in a different state, the rules changed. I knocked over and over. It was my best friend's daughter's first birthday. I could hear these adults get quiet when I knocked. They would hide. Adults. At this point I was desperate for a friend and felt so foreign and detached. So I started to buy beer in the morning. I went to take their dog- the dog on a one foot lease that never went on walks- for a walk for once. The dog ran for freedom as soon as I untied him and I had to ask for help retrieving him (took all of 5 minutes from the owner, who now had a reason not to like me.) Nothing makes me more angry then animal cruelty. I was there for two weeks. When my boyfriend got back and saw the town did not accept me, he did the cowardly thing: went with the crowd. I moved.
The same in L.A. Ant brains. I had not a single friend. I became a cheerleader to a reject who had all these wonderful ideas about talent and being a team. I sunk into depression from lack of exercise, which lead to seek happy chemicals, which lead to fights, and eventually I left and never looked back. I think this man was more of an ant because he knew I left a stable life for him, and if the roles were reversed: if he was a guest in my family's home, I would have treated him like a king. Two against the world. He is probably still living with his parents. I came back up to Arcata, got a job, started running, quit smoking, had not been this happy since; a long long time. So it was a blessing in both cases.
High School was a baffling time to anyone who ran into me, because I was not in a click. So the main question I was asked was, "What music do you like?" I value being unique. I am drawn to unique people. I am not part of an ant farm. I have no role.
There is a similar themed blog in here about being around very smart people, who I had coffee with from a girl who brought me with her to their after-school coffee shop. They too rejected me for being shy (I had just moved from the East Coast to Redding, California) under the pretext of wearing a Banana Republic T-shirt (with pride, it was my step-sister's treasured shirt and my favorite gift from her.) I never returned to that coffee shop again.
Follow the music. Ants may listen to it, but just for the abstract hooks. You have friends in literature characters, artwork, ideas, theories. There are lots of others out there to meet. Too many to fall in love with if you really open your eyes.
Having the freedom to be unique is something I actively treasure. There is no Caste system here. I can listen to The Nitty Gritty Dirty Band if I wanted to (but I don't.) I will think twice about moving into someones territory again, but true love does not act that way. Class, dignity, love: they transcend us from our primal behaviors. Class, dignity, love, and understanding. Follow the music.
When my oldest brother and step-sister heard in their classes that ant species do not like different species, they did what I considered was a shockingly mean experiment. They took our family ant farm, and dropped a fire ant from our nearly two foot ant hills found behind our home inside the ant farm. In seconds the foreign ant was torn to pieces, limb from limb.
#As a side note, that farm taught us that ants can die of frustration. Take my word for it. We just shook their home 3 separate times and after all the work of restructuring their home, they died. That is the extent to how mean we got to animals as children, and I just observed. I'd be an accessory to murder.
People are viscerally territorial. Take the town of Big Flat, California: off the 299, population less then 100 people. I moved there with a man I dated off and on for almost two years. He lived there for over seven years before my two week stay. The locals did not accept me. At first they had no reason, they were just literally illiterate jerks. I tried so hard to be liked it was ridiculous. They would do things like mention they were driving to Redding (at the time my friend's first baby was having her one year birthday) and in the presence of my boyfriend say they would take me. After he left for a grand mother's funeral in a different state, the rules changed. I knocked over and over. It was my best friend's daughter's first birthday. I could hear these adults get quiet when I knocked. They would hide. Adults. At this point I was desperate for a friend and felt so foreign and detached. So I started to buy beer in the morning. I went to take their dog- the dog on a one foot lease that never went on walks- for a walk for once. The dog ran for freedom as soon as I untied him and I had to ask for help retrieving him (took all of 5 minutes from the owner, who now had a reason not to like me.) Nothing makes me more angry then animal cruelty. I was there for two weeks. When my boyfriend got back and saw the town did not accept me, he did the cowardly thing: went with the crowd. I moved.
The same in L.A. Ant brains. I had not a single friend. I became a cheerleader to a reject who had all these wonderful ideas about talent and being a team. I sunk into depression from lack of exercise, which lead to seek happy chemicals, which lead to fights, and eventually I left and never looked back. I think this man was more of an ant because he knew I left a stable life for him, and if the roles were reversed: if he was a guest in my family's home, I would have treated him like a king. Two against the world. He is probably still living with his parents. I came back up to Arcata, got a job, started running, quit smoking, had not been this happy since; a long long time. So it was a blessing in both cases.
High School was a baffling time to anyone who ran into me, because I was not in a click. So the main question I was asked was, "What music do you like?" I value being unique. I am drawn to unique people. I am not part of an ant farm. I have no role.
There is a similar themed blog in here about being around very smart people, who I had coffee with from a girl who brought me with her to their after-school coffee shop. They too rejected me for being shy (I had just moved from the East Coast to Redding, California) under the pretext of wearing a Banana Republic T-shirt (with pride, it was my step-sister's treasured shirt and my favorite gift from her.) I never returned to that coffee shop again.
Follow the music. Ants may listen to it, but just for the abstract hooks. You have friends in literature characters, artwork, ideas, theories. There are lots of others out there to meet. Too many to fall in love with if you really open your eyes.
Having the freedom to be unique is something I actively treasure. There is no Caste system here. I can listen to The Nitty Gritty Dirty Band if I wanted to (but I don't.) I will think twice about moving into someones territory again, but true love does not act that way. Class, dignity, love: they transcend us from our primal behaviors. Class, dignity, love, and understanding. Follow the music.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Imaginary People
I've been inspired by blogs my literature comrades have exposed me to recently. So I'm spreading the enthusiasm with this list of my favorite/ most intriguing fictional characters. Here are the fabricated folks that make up my top ten list.
1.) Kilgore Trout (from Breakfast of Champions)
2.) Henry Chinaski (from Ham on Rye)
3.) Boaz (from The Sirens of Titan...just because he loved those jelly creatures)
4.) Miss Lonelyhearts (from the same title, and probably Shrike from that too)
5.) Margaret (from In Watermelon Sugar..she had a big broken heart)
6.) Ignatius J. Reilly (from A Confederacy of Dunces)
7.) Judas (from the New Testament)
8.) Finny (from A Separate Peace...he really inspired me when I was 12)
9.) Satan (from Paradise Lost)
10.) Batman (from DC Comics)
11.)Judge Holden (from Blood Meridian) who may not be completely fictitious.
-I said ten characters, but Judge Holden inspired me to re-open this blog, which was originally written a while back. I encourage you to google his image and/or wikipedia his name.
Also remember there is no morality in art/literature.
#If anyone can inspire me with other books with fascinating characters, please add names in the comment section.
1.) Kilgore Trout (from Breakfast of Champions)
2.) Henry Chinaski (from Ham on Rye)
3.) Boaz (from The Sirens of Titan...just because he loved those jelly creatures)
4.) Miss Lonelyhearts (from the same title, and probably Shrike from that too)
5.) Margaret (from In Watermelon Sugar..she had a big broken heart)
6.) Ignatius J. Reilly (from A Confederacy of Dunces)
7.) Judas (from the New Testament)
8.) Finny (from A Separate Peace...he really inspired me when I was 12)
9.) Satan (from Paradise Lost)
10.) Batman (from DC Comics)
11.)Judge Holden (from Blood Meridian) who may not be completely fictitious.
-I said ten characters, but Judge Holden inspired me to re-open this blog, which was originally written a while back. I encourage you to google his image and/or wikipedia his name.
Also remember there is no morality in art/literature.
#If anyone can inspire me with other books with fascinating characters, please add names in the comment section.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Poetry
I knew this guy I met in the Redwoods while I was jogging. He asked to walk me home, either trying or succeeding in impressing me with little personal thoughts like, "People are beams of light". He was the Captain of the Cross Country Team in the Redwoods of Humboldt, and he told me to gain energy in competitions he would 'borrow' energy from the trees. To this day, years
later, I tell my older brother, "I'm stealing your energy." when we do a run together.
*Side Note: No one is more fun to run with then my older brother Tim.
Anyway, I run into this runner randomly all these years later. I'd say I see him on one coast or another about every two years. Once I tried to hide from him, after he did not return one of my calls when I was very young and had first met him. So I tried to out run the cross country team in the woods. I ended up hiding behind a tree. I never got close enough to ask him if he saw me hiding.
This man's claim to fame (and his chick magnet) is knowing Neil Young's children. Neil Young is in my psychology book under, "The Theory of Multiple Intelligence" for his music 'gift'. Earlier in this interview he calls his talent a gift.
Neil Young was given the gift of a gold heart and music. But, "They give you this and you pay for that." Balancing out the universe, his wife gave birth to two children with Cerebral Palsy, which is where the runner who steals tree energy comes in: He pushes the wheel chairs of Neil's children on their summer Hawaii family vacation. Also one of his children and Neil Young himself have Epilepsy (as did Ian Curtis). Would you want his talent for the trade off? Balancing out the universe like bargaining with some supernatural force?
Also in this blog I'd like to remember a beautiful man who would come to my apartment in San Francisco, a musician, who would listen to Neil Young's every note, then leave with hardly a word exchanged between us. He once said that Neil Young's voice was as fragile as he seems.
No poet can say this better then Neil:
later, I tell my older brother, "I'm stealing your energy." when we do a run together.
*Side Note: No one is more fun to run with then my older brother Tim.
Anyway, I run into this runner randomly all these years later. I'd say I see him on one coast or another about every two years. Once I tried to hide from him, after he did not return one of my calls when I was very young and had first met him. So I tried to out run the cross country team in the woods. I ended up hiding behind a tree. I never got close enough to ask him if he saw me hiding.
This man's claim to fame (and his chick magnet) is knowing Neil Young's children. Neil Young is in my psychology book under, "The Theory of Multiple Intelligence" for his music 'gift'. Earlier in this interview he calls his talent a gift.
Neil Young was given the gift of a gold heart and music. But, "They give you this and you pay for that." Balancing out the universe, his wife gave birth to two children with Cerebral Palsy, which is where the runner who steals tree energy comes in: He pushes the wheel chairs of Neil's children on their summer Hawaii family vacation. Also one of his children and Neil Young himself have Epilepsy (as did Ian Curtis). Would you want his talent for the trade off? Balancing out the universe like bargaining with some supernatural force?
Also in this blog I'd like to remember a beautiful man who would come to my apartment in San Francisco, a musician, who would listen to Neil Young's every note, then leave with hardly a word exchanged between us. He once said that Neil Young's voice was as fragile as he seems.
No poet can say this better then Neil:
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Rachmaninoff
He was not loved by many critics in his lifetime. They said his music would not last. Here he plays his own piece:
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Kip-Up
When I stare at the four blank corners of a new blog, it as if I am entering a Church. I always will capitalize words that are holy to me (the most holy of words is Struggle, as in "The Great Struggle").
Fellow readers, you should know that I am an avid tea drinker. I usually stick to organic chamomile or green tea. My brand of tea always has a good quote attached. Mostly Chinese Proverbs or Shakespeare or anything in that vein of life wisdom. Today I discovered an amazing philosopher, and his quotes could have helped me out, say, three months ago. I am speaking of Lucius Annaeus Seneca, an undisputed genius.
"Be wary of the man who urges an action in which he himself incurs no risk."-Seneca
A few months ago I set my compass to Love and followed a man to a low depth, spiritually, financially, and emotionally. He had nothing to lose himself. I had left my life behind in the name of Love.
I lost belongings, money, and (for a brief period) my marbles.
In every corner of life there will always be those people who are wrong, but even though they are wrong, there is strength in numbers.
"All cruelty springs from weakness."-Seneca
So when I had to leave this situation that I placed so much time, money, and thought into, it was initially difficult, simply because I was starting over. This was my great chance. My rebirth. But at the time I saw it as a misfortune.
"A gem cannot be polished without friction, nor a man perfected without trials." -Seneca
I bought a journal and wrote down everything. How I've always wanted to eat an organic pear underneath a tree famous (in Arcata) for it's brain-like branches. How I wanted to sweat my mistakes out through hard physical activity. How I wanted to get high on the smell of the pages of a used bookstore.
So instead of looking at the last few months of my life as a waste, I am grateful.
"A punishment to some, to some a gift, and to many a favor." Thank you to the Universal gravitional force for giving me the chance to be free.
A Kip-Up is a move in martial arts (that I could do physically at one point in my youth) of jumping to your feet from a lying down position. A Kip-Up is what I did when my plans did not work. My plans were horribly thought out, and my karma saved me from wasting more time. Every day is a new chance for discovery. For the first time in years I wake up excited to be alive. It took a mistake for me to appreciate my young, beautiful life.
And to who find me eccentric, "There is no great genius without some touch of madness." -Seneca
-So to those people intimidated by the Lovers, Free thinkers, and bleeding Hearts: Get that breast implant operation (you'll have something else to talk about..one day) and leave us secure, non-conformist alone.
Fellow readers, you should know that I am an avid tea drinker. I usually stick to organic chamomile or green tea. My brand of tea always has a good quote attached. Mostly Chinese Proverbs or Shakespeare or anything in that vein of life wisdom. Today I discovered an amazing philosopher, and his quotes could have helped me out, say, three months ago. I am speaking of Lucius Annaeus Seneca, an undisputed genius.
"Be wary of the man who urges an action in which he himself incurs no risk."-Seneca
A few months ago I set my compass to Love and followed a man to a low depth, spiritually, financially, and emotionally. He had nothing to lose himself. I had left my life behind in the name of Love.
I lost belongings, money, and (for a brief period) my marbles.
In every corner of life there will always be those people who are wrong, but even though they are wrong, there is strength in numbers.
"All cruelty springs from weakness."-Seneca
So when I had to leave this situation that I placed so much time, money, and thought into, it was initially difficult, simply because I was starting over. This was my great chance. My rebirth. But at the time I saw it as a misfortune.
"A gem cannot be polished without friction, nor a man perfected without trials." -Seneca
I bought a journal and wrote down everything. How I've always wanted to eat an organic pear underneath a tree famous (in Arcata) for it's brain-like branches. How I wanted to sweat my mistakes out through hard physical activity. How I wanted to get high on the smell of the pages of a used bookstore.
So instead of looking at the last few months of my life as a waste, I am grateful.
"A punishment to some, to some a gift, and to many a favor." Thank you to the Universal gravitional force for giving me the chance to be free.
A Kip-Up is a move in martial arts (that I could do physically at one point in my youth) of jumping to your feet from a lying down position. A Kip-Up is what I did when my plans did not work. My plans were horribly thought out, and my karma saved me from wasting more time. Every day is a new chance for discovery. For the first time in years I wake up excited to be alive. It took a mistake for me to appreciate my young, beautiful life.
And to who find me eccentric, "There is no great genius without some touch of madness." -Seneca
-So to those people intimidated by the Lovers, Free thinkers, and bleeding Hearts: Get that breast implant operation (you'll have something else to talk about..one day) and leave us secure, non-conformist alone.
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