Every time.
Don't bother competing.
She's not.
...but beautiful, impermanent, reflective impressions of a larger universal ecosystem...each step imbued, inspired, driven by a flawlessly imperfect grace.
Photo: Engel Pherecydes
Because,
what is a Summer
with no sun?
watch out for the locals.
they might...you know...invite you in for tea.
Ash Wednesday.
Prophets present themselves.
Lessons being taught / Sermons being sought / Battles being fought.
"Before London was Egpyt. Most of Jerusalem owns the world. That's how the world is now it's corrupt, but it's not like it's corrupt, it's just that money's made out of sin. The Earth itself that was made out of sin from Adam and Eve."
His story: a man from Jamaica, formerly Galilee, before the Earth peeled off layer by layer until everywhere you've been is everywhere you haven't.
Leather jackets and thick chains, talk of fashion, hair styles, sin, and religious economy.
Time for Lent.
Repent.
In a cold city on rainy day(s), provisions provide a windowless vehicle from which to navigate the landscape.
On a brightly lit bus no one can see in. To me.
Hood pulled down, scarf pulled up, whether smiles or tears or both, doesn't matter. Just another amorphous passenger.
No pressure to perform. To feign contentment with strangers (more for their comfort than yours). You've grown weary of social niceties. Yet you value societal harmony. Where does authenticity fit in? Where do I fit in? Asks everyone about their own presumed non-fitting self.
It's deeply relaxing to be unknown.
An aloneness.
Yet I know this is temporary.
Thus, my sense of alone is forever false.
For others maybe it's not.
That kind of isolation would be terrifying.
Not simply aloneness but 'alone in this world.'
Surrounded by, bumping into, witnessing everyone else's beehive lives...with no one to turn to.
Cities.
They hold such curious juxtapositions of the human condition.
Bus doing its part of reminding passengers that yes, indeed they're on their morning commute NOT in bed where they'd prefer to be.
Damn, Presumptuo(B)us.
Because, sure.
>> in 3 bags.
The warmth implied herein will certainly be beyond my spectrum of mobile office reality for the next while.
Last night I dreamt that my eldest brother gave me a yellow fruit harvested from our family land. He then instructed me to slice it open and not to eat the skin.
-- Cut to Waking Life --
Evidently, a lilikoi (passionfruit) had been ripening on the vine he and his wife planted near my home. The fruit had seemingly gone missing. We looked together, I spotted it and he crawled through the ki plants to retrieve it.
As he handed it to me, my dream quite literally came true:
Hula Performance
Ka'ahumanu Center
Typical local weekend
Emalia Alexandra Brown Guard
1971-2014
❤️
All in a day's work.
I would forgo the Rock and Roll for the Labor of Love any day.
...are perfectly acceptable days to commence partying.
So naturally I spent the evening at home.
By myself.
Texting pictures.
Of books.
From my own library.
No, not selfies + books.
Just books.
This either suggests an extreme social anxiety or an overwhelming fetish with the printed word.
Those two are part in parcel, aren't they?
Damnit.
