They’ll buy weed but not my words, cocaine but not thoughts and musings or a memento of an existential inquiry fashioned from the sapience of a riverside sunrise. All this work, the unencumbering of my mind, and the step into grace, cannot be imparted because seemingly there is no room in the lexes for my legacy. Some of my best work is just as ephemeral as the scent of coastal forest rain. Rain captures the attention of the senses. What are words though? They can be seen and heard, felt but not touched. Their effect is fleeting. Is it fanciful for me to assume that they will one day reach your hands and your heart? When you touch my words, when you feel me, you will know you are not alone.
The skin I wear has not always been comfortable. I wore it crooked and inside out, wrinkled and sometimes backward. Every morning, I stepped into whatever integumentary armor I needed to walk through the valley of shadows. Forging the path of personal truth, I found myself in a seemingly perpetual purgatory. Limbo was a game to taunt and tantalize the better parts of me. There in the gray, I wistfully lingered albeit not without indomitability. Almost as if in an instant, like a flash, I became aroused by the sensual nature of existing in this space and this time. This skin, this guise of my soul, houses bones of valor, an essence of love, and these celestial cells which are teeming with life. It is ridiculously inconceivable to embrace the heart of darkness without acknowledging its dichotomous nature. Where there is darkness there has been a light removed. The skin is the external vessel to contain our souler spectrometer—the innate instrument by which we can discover and measure our luminosity. Life is a dance with light. This body—your body—no matter how big or small or short or tall or wild, is the cosmos’ way of exploring itself. All melts away in the radiance of pure light. All that remains is you, undisguised.
Art by DELA
Do all my writings start with a cup of coffee, emotional complexity and a low-laying blanket of clouds and mist from the sea? Very well then. There is a half moon rising somewhere among the clouds. The half moon always leaves me feeling a little dazed and confused. I feel the polarity of fullness and emptiness, and I'm moved to tell a story.
I woke up this morning in a treehouse perched in a friendly, old cedar tree high above a small, green, quirky village-of-sorts. He had sap in his hair. I giggled as I wiped the sleep from my eyes, and I smiled to be near him. I had sap on my pants. I felt a quickening in his presence, and my mind could scarcely keep up with the concepts and topics of our late-night conversation. I pushed pause on my scattered thoughts (I would collect those later), and I silently thanked the cedar for its contribution to this day. Smile. Then breath. I love the way Earth always brings me back to center.
I believe in a Divinity, like that in the cedar tree or in him, that draws all things into Oneness of being, but it's hard not to feel pulled toward one thing over another when we live in a materialized expression of Truth. From the quaint, little Hobbit window of the treehouse I looked down in the yard and saw a large deer—a buck with four points and scraggly fur. He was majestic. As he took a step across the lawn, I noticed he had a limp. It looked excruciating, and I was almost drawn out of the treehouse to help him in some way. Instead, I watched him pass through the village green and into the dahlia fields in the next yard over. I wondered if he would survive the impending winter.
I set out to write a metaphor—I am the wounded deer—or something incredibly prosaic. I feel like the deer at times, tired and weak even in my pertinacious resistance to giving up. This story isn't about me, though. It is simply in honor and reverence to the Spirit of the deer. He, like all sentient things, deserves attention. Let this be his memorial, and may you be reminded of your place in the family of things. As the naturalist John Muir observes, "When we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the Universe."
I'm just a silly girl who wondered far from home,
You spoke indulgent words and left me all alone.
It's not your fault it's mine.
I do this all the time.
My heart is blown wide open by the things I want to feel.
Another one gone, another one gone
I knew it was only halfway real.
Real forever is ethereal promise
that our Self can barely know
Another one gone, pash undone
I understand you have to go.
I wanted you.
I don't need you.
For a moment I thought I did.
Nothing about this is sordid.
Let me explain my situation–if you care
All that glitters is gold, but not everything glistens.
Deferred to the dissent of a decadent delusion,
All I want from you now is to help cure the confusion.
I am into you...
I don't need you.
For a moment I thought I did.
Nothing about this will ever be sordid.
The gray of October in this small, Pacific Northwest town envelops me. I wake up on the wrong side of the bed that I spent my whole life making. I rollover and wipe the sleep from my eyes, and I check last night's incoming messages on my iPhone, my oracle, the thing that I wish I could live without. My dad has messaged me—a lengthy bit of pensive prose. He writes of time, and rebuilding bridges, and the communication that draws us near, even though I now live far away. In the early fog of the morning I, too, tumble into rumination.
I write poems, not tragedy.
Time is not a thing to torque and twist and tempt off course.
Forcing fate to fit as I discourse.
Fancy footwork, flowing freely
Dance the spiral never ending.
A ticket, a tasket, a green and yellow basket
I wrote a letter to my dad
And on the way I lost it.
Some semantics in my poetry…
It is me. It is me.
Expression, redirection, reflection, and couth–
My secrets, my heart
The skeletons of my youth.
Take this, don't break this
It is not yours to convolute.
You are hearing my words,
But don't tizzy to fright.
The rhymes that I spit
Declare I'm alright.
Sensical, whimsical, erratic and free
This is my Self and my artistry.
Come find me. Come find me.
She looks over his shoulder as he fingers the contents of his wallet. He sets his United Airlines MasterCard on the tray and waits for the stewardess. The ecstatic, traveling lovers kiss passionately— cheap, red wine coloring her lips and a German beer on his. I wonder where they will go with all the points he's racking up.
Everyone and everything affect me. I am moved and inspired by the faintest hint of vulnerability. The human condition is on display in technicolor depiction—a five dimensional reality. I am rapt in it and overjoyed.
Where will love take me today? What will I do with all the points I'm racking up?
Raindrops are rhythmic poetry the sky speaks
to the sublunary world.
Micro-messengers, containing memories from an unfathomable time.
Each word, each drop falling down offers unwavering devotion
to the nourishment of all sentient things.
Each thing then extends a prayer of gratitude,
a molecular mantra of mirth and magic to the Mother.
The joyous testimony rings upward to the empyrean beyond
The rhythmic verse begins once more.
Drip drip drop--speaks the rain.
Quench this thirsty land with your poem.
“We are all alone, born alone, die alone, and -- in spite of True Romance magazines -- we shall all someday look back on our lives and see that, in spite of our company, we were alone the whole way. I do not say lonely -- at least, not all the time -- but essentially, and finally, alone. This is what makes your self-respect so important, and I don't see how you can respect yourself if you must look in the hearts and minds of others for your happiness.” --Hunter S. Thompson
I do enjoy being acutely aware of my emotions, but I also like to have the liberty to dissolve pesky thoughts in a neat glass of bourbon if I so choose. I feel everything all the time. Ecstasy. Bliss. Reservation. Hope and sadness. And loneliness. Always from the root, loneliness emerges. I believe the plague of our time is the lack of daring and stable communities in which the terrible disease of loneliness can be cured. Loneliness drives millions to self-medication, meaningless sex, ridiculously high bar tabs, and even suicide. The great and troubled minds of our time--Hunter S. Thompson, Robin Williams Sylvia Path, Neil Cassady, and the like--were so much rapt in their own inner turmoil that no one, except maybe an occasional lover, could access the deepest parts of them. Loneliness is usually perpetuated by feelings of fear... fear of rejection, fear of failure, fear of vulnerability, fear of inadequacy. Self-judgement severs our chance to be two things: present in our wholeness, content with who we are when not with the other and also our relationship to the other.
No expectations—is that any way to move through life? I don't think so. I say have loose expectations! Expect miracles. Expect that the fruits of your labor will be compensated, and the fruits of your Spirit will be matched with abundant return. Exacting expectations are the source of disappointment and frustration. Expectations are an obstacle to the unfolding power of now. How can you truly be present—and rapt in the whimsical moment—when you already have preconceived notions of how the cards "should" fall? Remove should from your vocabulary. Be here now—in love, in business, in your personal development. Trust the process. The now moment is what your heart and soul need to quantify, qualify, or rectify your experience. Judgements impede the soul's progress. Expectations, when thoughtfully and intentionally established, will only facilitate a deeper and more meaningful experience. Relinquish control and surrender to the flow. Let magic have its way with you.