You tryin' to tell me something?
Or was it my move?
I've never been one for playing games.
Imma' just sit back and observe the varying synapses that may or may not begin or cease/fire(ing) at the moment.
Thus far the patterns arising seem to point towards habits interrupted. Positive experimental feedback.
Upon preliminary investigation it is clear that isolated engine compartments are in full, effortless function whilst certain gears are locked in an uncompromising stalemate, calling into question the sustainability of the machine as a whole.
The scientist will draw no conclusion, nor draft hypotheses until further data is gathered.
It's true.
And even when you don't,
You do.
If I could change it,
I would.
Or maybe I wouldn't.
No.
I wouldn't.
The Education.
I better get a Ph.D. outta this shit.
One year ago this afternoon, many lives changed in ways that are still unfolding.
For one, more than is comprehensible to the imagination.
Never had I witnessed such a meditative reflex. A calm, blinding lightness embodied that belongs to a world beyond this beyond.
Pure miracle in the making.
“The hero adventure begins with someone from whom something has been taken, or who feels there is something lacking in the normal experience available or permitted to the members of society. The person then takes off on a series of adventures beyond the ordinary, either to recover what has been lost or to discover some life-giving elixir.” - Joseph Campbell
Curious how symbols follow (read: stalk) us.
Three arrows in my quiver.
That much is clear.
Once three...
Now one.
Clear.
El Tres.
Clear(ish).
(Inspired + Wounded + Emboldened) x 3.
Three years for three incidents of three.
The circle is complete?
(Yes, please.)
Or are we dealing with multidimensional spiral reality here?
(Likely.)
Shit.
Being trans-paradigmatic ain't easy.
As witness and thus participant.
"You are in love with your calling -- following a love affair with your relationship to freedom and compassion."
- Alan Clements
"What more evidence do you need to do what you are called to do?"
- Alan Clements
"You will abandon you. You will abscond from your beauty. You will die and breathe and die again until you can die no more until you can no longer live fraudulently."
- Alan Clements
"Neither wish to live nor wish to die."
- Alan Clements
Like any muscle --> my dear heart ❤ torn and rebuilt, torn and rebuilt, torn and rebuilt again.
Growing.
Stronger.
But not without immense pain.
Deep sadness.
Outstanding betrayal.
Loneliness in companionship.
Disorientation and bafflement.
Exhaustion.
Utter and complete exhaustion.
Such is the life of an empath. To feel the joys and wonderment of Earth and the infinite dimensions therein means experiencing too, the dark.
I like dark.
I always have.
News to many.
But not to a few.
So, in case you didn't know:
Sometimes I'm really fucking over it, too.
True story.
But I trudge on.
Through yet another environmental catastrophe.
Another war.
Another rape.
Another abuse of power.
Amidst the bewilderment I see people's true nature, their beauty, their deep wounding, their insecurities, their patterns and history that inform such unseemly behavior.
Surely, men have had a hell of a time wondering why I stop singing when they put me in their pretty, gilded cages. This can be frustrating. Annoying at best. For both bird and keeper.
Really though, it's women that tear my heart into thousands of shattered pieces strewn from one end of the Pacific to the other. It's seeing my own doubts of self-worth manifest in the women before me as they try in all their cunning might to erase me from sight, from their lovers gaze, from their mothers or brothers or sisters good graces, from their academic roundtables or professional conference rooms. I have grown exceptionally weary at the constant attempts of competition, at the friends I've lost for this or that amount of time, at the relationships mangled.
I am not angry.
It's not logical.
Nor useful.
Nor what I feel.
It
Just
Breaks
My
Heart
More than a romantic love lost, the immense lack of solidarity, true solidarity, from my female compatriots, this is cause for most of my tears at night. I LOVE US SO MUCH and somehow it still doesn't seem enough to quell patriarchal conditioning. Locked in an illusion of scarcity, viewing one another as a threat to resources rather than the resources themselves.
What is a world without women who can simply love?
Again,
What is a world without women who LOVE?
Not seduce, not enchant, not flatter, but
.L O V E.
The past three years have held an abundance of new challenges. Ones I had never met before nor ever imagined. From the overwhelming heartbreak of nuclear catastrophe to the simple and beautiful heartbreak(s) of being in love with a boy. At the root - suffering is self induced, woven and welcomed as parts of the web.
And though life has left me feeling like a breathless bag of bones sitting quietly on the floor...I still make music. Each new assault, each additional blow while I'm down -- rattles this ancient skeleton, releasing a delicate and haunting melody into the ethers. A song of perseverance. A song of grace.
///----------->>
Over next week, during a deep meditative retreat, my daily blog will occur in the pages of this notebook rather than the pages of the web.
Taking a technology fast.
Au revoir, screens.
Bonjour, longhand.
Walking into a space of sheer observation. Letting teaching wash over me, sink into my pores, hopeful to hear what awakens, what arises from my own consciousness. The healing of acceptance, the empowerment of ferocious vulnerability.
It's a new year.
A new moon.
Darkness.
Blankness.
Lightness.
...the fog will lift.
Until then,
enjoy the rain.
Sometimes you just have to fly.
Essentials -->
Books.
Guitar.
Writing Desk.
Flannel.
Mug.
More books.
The "Kindly don't fuck with me. Do I look like I have time to small talk?" face.
Neatly packed in a square frame.
#putsinstagramtoshame
I reckon dad must've been pretty brave to permeate that steel cold glare of academic determination.
Or just really naïve.
Or just really dashing.
Or both.
Lucky for me, mom had a soft spot for the golden boy from Hawai'i. Even the best of us can get distracted by brazen, bronzed beauty.
Funny how patterns work.
Christians celebrating the birth of a Jewish radical who spent his life, and subsequent death, resisting occupation and imperialism, yet whose purported birthplace is occupied by a Jewish state, which is supported by an imperial Christian state.
Ummm...cognitive dissonance much?
Q: How does an occupied Hawai'i resolve such convolution?
A: Japanese rice bowl ornaments on an Ohi'a Christmas tree.
a.k.a.: Eh braddah, nevamind all dat pilikia kine. Bumbye all da kines you wen tink is theirs ones stay da same as yours ones, cause buggahs is same same but different but same li' dat. You get em?
Translation: Oneness.
What a waste of a good love story.
For the next global prophet, I request an NC-17 version of conscious conception.
.S U R F.
The end.
Harp strings.
Heart strings.
