More than anything I want to write. To cut the curve of my life into paper like an open wound. The world feels explosive; without putting words to paper the tick-tick-tock of repetitive life echoes, reminding me of the blast to come.


Wake up, work, television, sleep – hypnosis is tranquilizing.


Feet to street and I romanticize in my mind every other locale. As if somehow a change of scenery would distance me from the problem that is myself.

But anywhere is as good as everywhere to continually strip away the layers of oneself.

To strip and reapply;


discard the defunct,

and repeat.


The landscape, as it does, reminds me I collectively belong to no one and everyone, as they all belonged to me and we were in this together. That the weight of their suffering made my back ache and my joy was theirs to dance with. My loss was another’s gain, and even my own,

if I waited long enough.

The whole damn thing, underwritten by angels with a delirious sense of humour.


I desire to be the eye within the eye; the one who could see the being who was seeing. To separate ‘what is’ from ‘I am’. To know, surely, that I am not the one who is sad, but instead, the one observing the one who is sad.


To believe in the holy nerve of life and be a part of the arm it flows through.


Rather than search for love, develop recognition that I am Love.


And to sketch out the current of my waters so that I may truly know, once, I was here.


To realize each moment is art –

sometimes Pollock chaos handcuffed in space and time

off-tune wailing of the song of yourself

soul rocking rhythm of the underlying bass

outstretched arc of a ballerina’s grace


To see a cup not as half anything but


leaping over the edges onto my feet where I – dance dance dance –

in the puddles of my life singing in the rain like a fool

but a fool who knows the depths of life. So thereby chooses to be a fool.

As it is better to be a fool for everything,

than smart for only a precious few.


To recognize the war images of my mind. A scene of a battle I know I was once in.

Drudge up stories with a nostalgia created to see greener grass in a time passed. Or to the see the shiny gray lining that I highlight. Again. Again.

To make it all meaningful.


To honor our hues passage into time – creating a beginning. Inevitably an end. Truly observe time and






To be wild yet rooted.

Springing up from the earth

Through the steadiness of cement

revealing new growth from a smarted surface

That becomes a fragment of the landscape


Dividing and deciding and driving from a place

            Where there is no lie.


To battle my own shields – and win.

Reveal an undefended heart, empty of shame.

That shakes to the cadence of DISCOMFORT.

That dances with but never goes home with fear.


To get intimate with my own shit

And know it closely

Dare to look it right in the eye

Swallow it whole

Until it can’t crawl anymore

Like all dark things are to be known.


To realize, for the last time, that none but ourselves can complete our soul. Yet open my ears to the pulse of another’s song.

As the music of a soloist becomes richer in collaboration.


To recognize myself in someone else.

     To Stop running


   To be deeply in it

rather than acquainted with it




None but ourselves can complete our soul Click To Tweet To believe in the holy nerve of life and be a part of the arm it flows through Click To Tweet Anywhere is as good as everywhere to continually strip away the layers of oneself Click To Tweet



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