Just trying to explain what life is really life, but of course.. I'm not perfect, I write while I'm alive, but I live a lot beyond what I write
The city is a flower bed. Like a beat hitting the pavement, I am up again, the phone ringing, some unknown number. I call back and they say they never called, but its 11:45, and I should get up anyway. The night before flashing thtrough my mind, falling through endless space with intense discomfort in my heart. I ate six mushrooms and thought about my life, I saw both paths, apparently, I am more in control than I think, am I man or woman? Sometimes both, is the way of drugs and shamanism real or fake, depends on what you're looking for. Anything could happen, I walk downstairs and see my dad, we go through the mechanical quasi unreal greetings as I pour a glass of grape juice. I am just happy to feel normal again. Upstairs I take a showever, then I wonder what can I trust? Or is it me at all that makes these decisions, or am I just riding the waves of this life story like a soul surfer in the cosmic dust? Theres an excuse to stay home now, as I reweave the fragments of my mind together. Last night I realized I have no idea about this place, what is really out there? Just this washed away feeling, the people who have nothing to say, the sex addict kids on the internet, wasting life away. All of them sages, and maybe myself too, but I dip into the dirt and bury myself like an ostrich, anyways, life goes fast and then slow. On a walk the sky looks beautiful, and at least there is a friend there, those sky gods for whom all things are backwards, its a funny thought but not much else, not like they ever sweep down and carry anyone away on thir clouds of light and give some sense of purpose here. The reality we meet in is dull grey, that me and my friend Ralph agree on, but not much else, or at least not much else we can express. But in my head fantastic worlds spill out where birds fly in rainbow dresses and theres good cheer and the food is homegrown and the weed too and this huge faceless system is just a long ago dream. I pass by my old school, walking through the playground and there he is. Mr. Graham, talking about true beauty and heart, about new beginnings and I smile, but he died of cancer a little while ago and all thats left is his intention. There are some real good people out there but they stay far apart, if I could just find that one who'd brave the woodlands and we'd live in a car get drunk and fly pogo sticks. What? Suddenly I realize I'm just off in my own thoughts, in a corner of my room, not doing much of anything, and not caring except theres a fear in me too, I don't want to go back to the way things were, in the hospital just because no one can understand why I do what I do, but what can I say? People never speak of anything real, they keep up their game that they secretly hate, and I can't see why, am I the only one that bends when the roads are straight? I don't really want to talk about it, but the voices in my ear can tell another story, sex obsessed, drug obsessed, my parents, or some strange painting of myself? All of these voices so knowlegdeable of my general life, minute decisions, and unforgiving in their beratement. The silence is the most comforting part, thee kind that comes from loud music and doing the right thing, maybe a walk out in the woods, maybe a mark on the wall, growing taller but how long has it been since I or anyone even cared?
Everything has changed since the old days, and I always talk about the 'old' something now, like I know, I don't. Ponds rippling in the afternoon showers, cows wandering in the delta. I remember my friends, but don't understand how they do what they do.
For a year, the story accelerates, my arms are squid shells and I'm a chef in some divine kitchen, preparing a meal fit for anyone, it has all the essential nutrients, the sky shines and I'm dumbstruck with a sense of belonging.
We rode out to the beach, me in the back seat, my dad and mom in the front, discussing all kinds of songs and longs, and bongs, well maybe not bongs, but I was half asleep the whole time, classic road trip style, I was 18. We pulled up past the palm tree and large mangled ship hull that marked the entrance to the town, and I smiled, we were finally there, and nothing was bothering me, I'd tripped a few days before and suddenly life had come together, schizophrenia or not, there was still so much beauty, and at least I'd found that fabled amrita, government helping me out, no one hassling me about a plan, maybe it was just that righteous one day at a time surfer mentality that had finally broken through the clouds of the suburbanized edges of my spirit. We spun around all kinds of corners and pulled into the hotel, the room smelling like cigarette smoke and some strange musk, it made me feel right at home while my mom complained. Well, thats the way it is sometimes. We left our bags and went off to the beach. There was a long line to something and we waited until we realized we could just walk off onto the sand. It was not too hot, we took our shoes off as was the native custom. It was there that we split ways. Passing some fellow talking about girls and boys, and what makes a couple, I just didn't say anything, there were so many people, all kinds of people, skin, the sun, the wah wah of waves. When the ocean meets the land all is washed cleaned, thats a proverb from the depths of my mind I think. Suddenly I hear my name called from somewhere, looking around for a bit, I see Eric. "Dude, whats up?"
He was sitting on a lawn chair, and apparently comes out here a bit, next to him was a kid who looked a lot like a younger version of him named Ben, Michael, and others who I had no idea but seemed like really good folks as they waved and we exchanged the hellos looking off whistfully into waves. Then I went off, I ran into the water as the wave receded, then was pushed back when the waves came crashing again, managed to get out to where it got deeper and the wave pushed me under and spun me around, sublime.
Back at the shore we sat and watched surfers, the names of which Eric seemed to know well, I didn't but it was like "Thats black cloud, his long yellow board makes him the perfect candidate for 360 love spins!" I cracked up. Then we all went down wrapped in a huge towel, me, Eric, Michael, Ben, and some other kid forming a huge ball that floated on the waves and looking down you could see the h20 flowing and reforming, catching trails of the surfers, it was all so free all so focused and beautiful. Is it the water that does this to people? Makes them for once so happy, for me I know this is so, the toxicity of small town life full of square stepford wives and this constant imaginery plan had driven to me varying states of insanity, which I realized though kind of interesting couldn't have been healthy.
I searched for acid, and the eyes everywhere, in the sky, inside my mind, and the sunrays drifting downwards, all of it meant something, simply that the universe was in tune, and time, time was an illusion, we just beings of clay, cast off by the creator to live like sea monkeys for a time, one of those unexplicable wonders of life.
That was when he stepped into my life, literally tripped over me sunbathing being so intent on the waves with his brand new surf board. "Oh, woah, really sorry, man, are you okay?"
"Haha, Yeah!" His hair dangled and perfect chest, smooth voice and blue trunks, I thought he was like Apollo, for some reason as he made his way on, away from me. I've got to stop falling in love at this quiet moments in myself, I thought, as I let him go and drifting away once more into no commentary.
There was just so much of everything. Then I woke up once again, The earth below, the early morning air. I went out for a walk.
Harmonica in my head, dark morning, the moon waxing or waning, something, kind of a eerie place this is where no one really talks and I want to meet someone but everyone's too angular, maybe already judged me as that crazy girly kid who's always walking up in the woods. Or maybe event thats in my head, a cop car passes and I smile and nod. Why there are about six cop cars in this neighborhood at any one time, I have no idea, makes me feel more wary, like they're calling me a stoner, I guess it makes sense that the most divine meditations are usually least understood unless you seek. Theres a rabbit in the dark, under a bridge sitting there still. I watch and then move on and head back in, make some miso soup and hash browns, chow down, do a little dance. Life is so beautiful before we all wake up. The incantations of the music in the headphones, bring me on and its just a whole lot of nothing. That surfing dream makes me call up Nile and leave a message so he leaves the skateboard on his front porch but knowing him that won't happen. Oh well.
Its like this, words cannot hold a full thought if you know what I mean, these are only slithers of something far more vast and impermeable, that if only could be explained would bring so much to light, to rest. Thats why people go crazy I think. trying to pull it out of themselves, in words, in drawing, in action, through religion and spiritual acts, yeah sometimes it goes well and new worlds are created. Like Wanti, which to me is just like a punk lying in the gutter, stoned as all heaven, thinking about the world, the world that conspires behind its supposed seperateness to deliver him like a letter to the mailbox of that gutter, where he is like that giant who was tied down by the townspeople, and then found friendly. This is no good expression though, no better than riding the metro watching the tags of all the graffiti kids pass and blur up, Soma catches my eye, and then its gone. Its like they hold some kind of secret kind of power, but then what is it really? Just a dream that can't be formulated, but why is it some things have substance and some not?
A friend sends me instructions on how to make a knife rope thing. I'm like what? Weapons are instruments of fear, the way of the tao flows through my head, its too early for all this, but I slept all day yesterday anyways. Watching videos about soteria, what a hippie wonderland, where true hearts get reborn and torn and forlorned, the cat brushing her tail over my knees, like what happened a long time ago. I swear, a lot of times I loose the coherence in this story, because I'm a poet not a writer, and not even a poet, I'm a living recorder, a broken border searching for quarters while I walk on shallow waters in my waterproof boots, looking for that one romance that will blast everything into pure space. Like the saint Avaloteskivera, I am just loving life regardless of what happens, rule one, 'remember nobody cares'. I think of that cop again, how it must have brightened his day to know I felt the same way. Why do we walk around so early, just breathing these cool breezes and now the sun rays break out and bring electric blue into the sky. I feel so mature, I feel damn near ten thousand years old, older than time. I originate.
Today I go and see the psychiatrist. First time since I've been in the ward. I don't know how to see these things, on one hand, so far out, this man, the priest, a real guru dev type individual, who based on my clearness of mind and pureness of heart determines whether I fly through the free world or fall to deepest hell of restrained hospital wards that only make you crazier with their fear and exaggeration of every nonsensical, fun, and down right chicken soup for the soul type phrase or gesture you makes. I read the rig veda and suddenly its making sense, these offerings, this Indra, the mother earth who understands all the thousand cries of every being, every where who suffers, its just a guide, a way of getting through this life. At all the right points, it makes sense, then once again vanishes into obscurity, but its righteous, its fun to think of Indra the invincible sprouting out of the fire of Agni as I worship him with oils and burnt oblations, coming to protect all that I know is right and good in the world that still exists. And yeah, I go out early in the morning with guitar in hand, thinking of Kuan Yin and carrying an orange in my backpack to place at the foot of the conifers where the earth is moist and the needles get slippery, I am the priestess. Here's to hoping it makes some difference in this real world I pray, Saravasti, Gaia, Kuan Yin. and my dad calls. Its time to go.
I rush slowly from the forest and back into our neighborhood with pants dripping with water from the morning dew, tall grasses, he's already in the car, I get in and we ride off into the unknown.
At the office, in the waiting room, reading the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, while this forties black guy sits there with a beard and a woman leaves him and says she going to come back for him. I read and read, and look at him occasionally, he moves his foot around in wierd ways, and then stops, why is it that every one is always moving their foot around, am I wierd? Is it some kind of thing you do to make yourself feel better, to put your foot in other peoples faces? The book says, something about 'look at the blue sky between the tries, when you can't see it, you know you are far off' whatever that means, but I do look, out the window and at the sky, theres a man and a woman out there, its really beautiful. Then the man leaves and Dr. Liasham brings me into a conference room with my dad.
We discuss the greek mysteries, why I went to hospital in the first place. I think doctors get a big kick out of talking about cutting of my dick, I explain that its an old tradition, and I just wanted to be authentic but now its whatever, I'm past that stage in my life, just from my stay at the hospital I learned what I needed to about everyone, I feel I am truly am a priestess of Aset now, and that this truly means nothing, we are all conduits of life after all, and blah and blah on into the beginnings of forever. But we talk about my transgenderisms, and what they mean, how I used to love ballet, and stopped and its hard to get people to start thinking differently of me, and how coming out is just embarassing among people such as my parents. But its something that needs to be addressed he says, I need to find my identity and be concrete in it, to be able to function as a happy person in life. Yeah, take that parents, always being uber practical. But what to do now? I feel like I'm lost with the guys, then I go to the girls and eventually am lost their too, I am just a loner by nature, the one you'll find doing weird stuff in the woods, eating berries and wearing a dress, but I am a woman, that I know, perhaps not a mainstream princess, but what is that anyways? I am a natural being. So we leave and I smile because he says the medication is not necessary, and damn, I hate that stuff anyway. I feel like I'm losing my soul taking it, and can't think normally, and hear of all the toxic side effects and that its all just a scheme for drug companies to make money, that it doesn't really help at all, and maybe causes more problems, whatever. This world is full of greedy bastards, but even they are the inspiration for this life that is pure art, and love and what can I do but walk through it all and smile because its all me, all the subconscious of humanity when it boils down to it, the universe knows best. Again whatever that means, I never get too deep into this, before I start coming back.
In rockville, I finally did get my skateboard back from the nile. The pavement was fluid, I remembered a term from long ago, soul-skating. My peace of mind is there, and >-bleeped-< any label.
Then realizing that I wasn't >-bleeped-<. Not even dumb enough to say I didn't need the weed anymore, just that the board was enough, once again broke away all the >-bleeped-<, everywhere, and told me I needed to start following my heart and taking time for myself, out of this bizarre wasteland of clean art and good relationships. it is that other people are for other times, and now is a cloudy day, the kind only I go out on, I wander around in a field, past the flower fixtures, the trimmed and pedicured gardens of eden of America and into true Wanti and beyond. Yeah, this is all a word fix, a maze leading to nowhere for those lost souls who wander without feeling, without hope, yeah kind of like us all. I look at those living how they want to. This phrase, how they want to, this real meaning of freedom, where though its written it is nothing until someone does gets up and does something about it. Listening to Ani DiFranco get down with her patriot feminist self talking about kittens who climb down on their own, and perhaps yeah, its my own doing how I got wrapped up and cornered in this dream I've been having, but all thats gotta change, is changing truly this is a poor girl's dream I've been living but theres always more out there. I look out, I see these billionaire twice as crazy as I am and with no heart roaming as they please, saying nothing to no one, ten time as crazy as anyone could ever be, even more because they can perfect it, they can bend the world with money and good looks and debonaire charm like dimebags burning away in the summertime breeze, who are these but the far away chieftains and me, and us little people, the root of the tree. I used to grow pot but the deer kept eating it, and I offered it to them, a buddhist was I, selfless, rustling in the seasons in my own karmic resonance, while my brother outstretched his hands and simply took the world, and squeezed and squeezed and out came the milk like from some magical boob. No, a part of me knows its wrong, which is why I wait in nothingness, with so much text, with so much soul they'll say, and each time I'll say no. Because I am the billionaire in my arrogance, living the rich life, the wabi sabi way, on the trail of nothingness, dealing emptiness, dharma out of my backpack, and talking, and pausing for long stretches while the dead play grateful lullabies. Its all about the music, and the art, and the love, and the shapes. Thats the difference between you and me, I said to them in this conversation we had, you cannot see past your self set distinctions, and I see nothing but the stars and right through them even, because even stars are dirt, and even smiles are heartaches, but I don't give those away either. And sometimes sweet angels come and snuggle up with me, well knitted like in a jacket of yarn. We eat the bread, the ponjecation, we quest for what little romanticism we can muster, and half of the time come up with nothing, so we sell out too, just like them, and we go to their houses and learn their ways and always wash out, not belonging, too wild, too aimless and yet not dumb enough to just die. Even in the forest, I hear the birds, and the distant voices from nearby buildings telling me I am not that far off. Suddenly it comes to me, like a flash in the pan, like it did that I could trade old records and be on the middle way. All I need is a car and a knowledge of the wheels of steel. Riding down the river, opening the windows, smoking a cigarette David gave me long ago, I said I was waiting for the end of the world and I wondered why I did things on such a big scale. Some people just live big, I thought disgusting myself with the utter clicheness of it all, like I sometimes do. Then sex comes to mind and I get off into inappropiateness that feels oh so right. I'm a cat on the inside really, lets just ran away, I never had a car, but this board, these hands opening and closing and doing nothing, that was the one thing I was always good at. I kept it chill, and I intend to continue to keep it chill. Basking in the ever transforming and infinite emanations of brahmin, the sunniest. Thinking of brazil, and whatever goes on down there, those vegetalista's who know god, who fly to the stars, who are the beginners of the story, and looking around at this town. It is a town of tourist, it is a land of tours, in the city, is poison, is seduction, is truth uncovering itself, and the country side, more of the same, just in a different way. I am just a plant that grows and grows, roots are strong I suppose, I think much of myself, I have to if I am going to survive I guess.
But love, what is it? I see someone on the bus, my mom is there, the winter is far away, everything seems warm, and safe. Even these words, they are endless prayer, and to what I wonder? This spiritual essence in myself, a shaman, yet the spirits are everywhere, they are the people I meet, their motions, a rock, a question. What is it all? Later picking up the peices and finding the true understanding was in every single moment and never was there a reason to move. We are all master yogi's at play among the countless universes. That was one from the ward and you can quote me. But I don't know >-bleeped-<, which is why as I first began, I was going away. Away from all of this and into obscurity, while the lights continued to flash and as you read this I'll be far away and not thinking of any of this and just being as one should, unattached to ideals, just following that soul magnetism, because it brings about miracles. If my bab find me out there and brings me back, well I suppose thats just fate. I meet my wife who listens to me in my true form, acting. All I need is someone who understands, who can go that deep, to where we are far and aloof. My monk robes burn in the wind and Joan of Arc rides a volvo now through the fields of my youth, I am now just recovering from my indecision. Wondering if there are even decisions. Real ones, not just time. I love so much, goddess, you're endless mystery I can barely finger, its like forgive me, I've got heart burn from the oranges I ate for the vitamin C. You know what I mean. Sex, in a thousand different ways, and then contented abstinence, the afterglow plowing through all illusion. And what is it that brings me back here always? It is that I am in truth only this, only these words, only in relation to my surroundings, for I could sing a song, but if I touched no ears but mine, being one who questions my own existence, eventually I would be convinced that I never heard a thing, never done a thing, never would be, but these folks seem to be adamant, they say, this is real, this is something. I say go to Wanti, find your true name, leave old games at the door, next to false teeth.
Woke up early this morning and went back to sleep, I dreamed someone was teaching me to put on a bra, you just put the pegs through the holes, like a belt, and I stuffed, because I don't yet have boobs, but one day, she was saying, some people are just late bloomers, they get their wings and fly off into wonderful places, all in due time. But I don't feel like a late bloomer, I just feel like a different kind, whose lonely who wants to remember how my friends lived, just to be accepted finally, to be able to do what I need. Then there was a dance, so many people, I just spun around and twirled and raved for what seemed like hours then finally fell to the ground, I felt so amazing, so natural and flowing in the silky garments I wore, and floated on the RnB music. But I felt like things were out of control, and Angel came and danced with me, with her blow dried curly hair that jutted off in one direction like those 80s girls and her sparkly lip stick and black skirt and shirt. We did it for about a half an hour more and then stopped finally, as No Scrubs was playing, it was funny somehow, a few people were laying around just like us, and then suddenly she went downstairs and returned with a lot of cd's, something called Herbal, one with golden leaves on a white surface and more that I didn't look at closely. She said they were in return for the keys I gave her, and I was wondering what that meant? Keys to what? I didn't want to ask though, whatever it was it was obviously meant to be, and all trades are equal so, perhaps this is just what I was looking for all along. It ended and I came to on my bed, still dancing a little bit, and the bass from the house next door was rumbling the walls.
All this just to get to some rave, sometimes I think its not worth it, but whats life aside from making up stories to live on, and breaking them down to the core essence, thats called pow wow time where I sometimes stay, some people even say nature party...
