S P I R A L time.
time S P I R A L.
Love made manifest
In the light of the darkest night.
Complete and ultimate balance
If only for an infinite moment.
|| www.ianmack.com ||
|| www.missapplecat.com ||
Food
Frustration
Friendship
Freedom --> --> -->
Light bends around the corner and hints with almond eyes that respite from paradox self awaits.
As confusing as it appears.
Jack be Fruit.
Just imagine placing this awkward-fruit-child in your shopping cart.
Really. Try to imagine it.
She enjoys the house.
It's comfort.
And warmth.
Until I close the door.
To keep in the comfort.
And warmth.
Shut door = prison.
She prefers cold freedom to comfortable imprisonment.
R E F L E C T I O N
I see why we found each other.
"There was a very strange but beautiful woman with long golden hair as fine as spun gold. She was poor...and lived in the woods alone and wove on a loom made of black walnut boughs.
A brute who was the son of the coal burner tried to force her into marriage, and in an effort to buy him off, she gave him some of her golden hair.
But he did not know or care that it was spiritual, not monetary, gold that she gave him, so when he sought to trade her hair for merchandise in the marketplace, people jeered at him and thought him mad.
Enraged, he returned by night to the woman’s cottage and killed her with his hands and buried her body by the river. For a long time nobody noticed that she was missing. No one inquired of her hearth or health. But in her grave, the woman’s golden hair grew and grew. The beautiful hair curled and spiraled upward through the black soil and it grew looping and twirling more and more, and up and up until her grave was covered but a field of swaying golden reeds.
Shepherds cut the curly reeds down to make flutes and the tiny flutes would not stop singing;
Here lies the woman with golden hair
Murdered and in her grave
Killed by the son of a coal burner
Because she wished to live."
Abridged version of the tale written by Clarissa Pinkola Estès.
Hey, if babies are dropped from the sky by benevolent storks, it only makes sense.
No silicon, push-up, make-up, stilettos, spanx, beer goggles, marketing firms, or tourism authority needed.
Straight up stunning.
Au naturel.
Or not.
Friday.
Thirteenth.
Black cat.
All day.
E'rr day.
To flesh.
To mind.
To board.
Same action,
Such different consequences.
You know what, Facebook?!
I've had enough of your Zen koans!
"Summer, which city do you live in?"
The audacity....
How's this for an answer?: I live in the here and now, which is concurrently the past/future/parallel now past/future. A place where nations and cities don't exist. A place where facebook doesn't even exist because it's all one big, pulsing, communicating organic inter-dimensional consciousness. No NSA to tap our deepest darkest and send it straight to the deepest darkest cc: BigBrother84@TotalitarianAmerica.gov.
That's where I live, Facebook. You just so happen to be a useful tool during my occasional trysts with Earth.
So enough with the interrogation.
It's rude.
"...flowers best in openness and freedom."
- Edward Abbey
So, the whole Occupy Movement:
Loves.
Game changer.
Crucial.
Still going.
Thank god(dess)(es).
Travelled to NYC for the nascent stages.
Dodging riot police.
Distributing food
Disseminating first issues of "The Occupied Wall Street Journal".
Deep in it.
One kind of massive oversight though --> for nations and peoples that are currently or previously occupied --> not the coolest choice of terminology. Like, at all.
Occupy Wall Street = Groovy!
Occupy Hawai'i = Well...um...wait....uh. Yeeeeah, that's already being taken care of by the United States government and military. Illegally. Since 1893. As an occupied nation we're kind of spending our days working towards DE-colonization and thus DE-occupation.
Imagine how "Occupy Palestine" must feel.
Too ironic to be ironic.
Industrialized white privilege strikes again!
--------
(Yes, our license plate is a rainbow.
It's that dreamy here.
Like, so dreamy it doesn't even exist.
So don't bother.
Actually, pretend I ever said anything about Hawai'i existing in the first place.
Consider it a blonde moment.)
And head.
And heart.
Where a dreamer should be.
Hawai'i isn't all pineapples and beaches. We can do serious too.
On occasion.
Dear Nelson Mandela,
Today, your body set your soul free.
We continue to carry your struggle, everyone's struggle, on our shoulders.
Emboldened by your victories, which we stand upon.
Blessed with your bravery, which lives in our hearts.
In solidarity.
Rest In Peace.
Respectfully Yours,
The World
Oh, stop it.
I can hear you as you look at "December 3, 2013: Non-Fiction":
"But what about the spice of life?"
"Romance novels and adventures and mystery and nonsense."
Look here,
Life is the wildest story ever written.
Truth carries the most complex narrative that could ever be woven.
Tales of love and murder, domination and excess.
Dramas of conspiracy and compassion, struggle and success.
Though, ice queen I am not.
Fiction has its shelf elsewhere.
Underneath Poetry.
And Magic.
I hear them partying at night.
Kerouac leads the charge with Robbins sensualizing the whole charade.
Neruda seduces Ayn Rand into a ménage à trois avec Orwell...maybe some Animals from the Farm.
Bukowski. Drunk.
Bradbury emerges from the flame just long enough to see Ginsberg get railed by Rumi.
Alhamdulillah!
The Bible.
Quran.
In Fiction.
Naturally.
Pahlaniuk links up with Carroll in Wonderland to do ayahuasca with Castaneda.
Upton wanders through The Jungle and finds Sappho in the Tho-reaus of passion, as per usual.
Twain reports on his death to Coelho.
Kafka waxes Edgar Allan Poe-tic to Gibran about the disturbing state of the human condition.
While Shakespeare dramatizes the entire performance in iambic pentameter.
To Be or...
Be Here Now.
Baba Ram Dass #FTW.
Every.
Single.
One.
Fingers ✝ Crossed ✝
Why crossed?
Seems that would be rather limiting.
Kinesthetically speaking >>> and thus quite the antithesis of lucky.
Really?
Must you?
Can't you see we have company?
Maybe it's a surrender thing,
Wouldn't surprise me one bit the way things are going.
Or maybe its another subconscious throwback to subversive religious symbolism.
Oh stop it, Madame Sartre.
Can't you just appreciate things for what they are?
Indeed.
That's the goal, really.
I just haven't quite determined the "thing"ness for which to demonstrate appreciation of its "are"ness.
Oh, Christ...
My point exactly!
Christ!
The Cross!
Even in superstitious crossed finger lair of Beelzebub.
Inescapable!
Footnote:
Yes. My nails are dirty.
No. It's not your business.
