The night raged on as I sat in the little cabin with the hole in the roof I had made my home, the faces and ideas of friends and people I'd seen passed me by like that girl at the pizza place who came and went and didnt say a damn thing to me. The endless coalescing scenery of moments and cars and bustling streetways. The way plants grow stuck in one place, is it just for lack of motion that they don't cry out in love or hate when bitten? They seem to be so at peace. This was a study of tao and still is for when does it end like the evergreen pines that scatter the countryside of maryland. At Eric's we watched the herbs burn away until his mom came in and said we couldn't smoke there. These days are limes and they are hard to eat without the sugar. the love inherent in all things means Nothing when it goes beyond the limits of the body. All these distractions and self conscious respect seeking thoughts that bring me from my own death. I used to search for the infinite food supply but now why not for euthanasia, or are these one in the same? When does rest come? What even matters? These eternal questions. hospitality among the community, an orange left on a hilltop in one's own mind is eaten. I can't really explain how it all works together, nor can words hold arrangements of the true isness of rain and thunder, like Thor's chariot riding through the empty sky filling it with lightning and clouds and bringing forth mushrooms from the soil. I only see endless wilderness though the cities are a change of scenery, humans have animal hearts. Our words and patterns, the daily dreams and divides going right down the center like a lifeline or an old ravine, it occured to me any path was available but I didnt walk into the walls, tearing through thorns and singing love songs. I kept straight and marched on, like a fool. Maybe a farm and maybe nothing. Imperfect tao is just a matter of knowing when to rest. Occasionally people appeared there, with music and dreamy talk, and their lives and problems of their own. I always returned to the tao. None of these gods seemed to mean anything however, I was alone, a seeker, and yet somehow the seeked. Magic and wonder, children played in the fields and were pushed around in strollers by nannies who murmured their life stories on little invisible clouds. I saw birds hovering about and cars. In the beginning there was rhythm, he said, staring into the swirling mists. I laughed at such a callous statement, rain water permeated my boots making me feel like a cosmic tramp, romance was nothing to me, but so what? That night I dreamed of the forest and its unknown passageways, the spaces between trees lit up like people, Yin and yang passing like the home and away message. There was nothing to write yet so much. Is it such a sin to forget? Everyone so intent on driving on, even my friends, who could sit down with me and die. No, these things are too secret for that. Because as the icaros pour in through the other side of the wall sounding like old school club anthems, and I wake up at 3 in the morning for no obvious reason, imagining all the other goings on in the world at that precise moment. Is it universal empathy or an active imagination? These hallways frighten me at times, when the body falls short. I can walk around like an ox and make a fool of myself. I can do that, is this my fate? No one seems to understand the world that is familiar and embraces me seems to retract like oil in water in the minds of these people who appear on street corners walking dogs and smoking cigarettes, though its likely just to be a vocabulary thing. After all this self is undone, floating through more self to the point of selflessness perhaps. Or is it selfish to say? Wiccans began to pour shellfish in through the woodworks once, I was near the highschool, wierd hairstyles and not saying much, what else could one assume? Or the enlightened masters at the japanese restaurant. I study the tao, history is an old shoe, but I cut of both my feet in this river because the birds don't sing anymore at 3 thirty in the morning when the streets just ooze out and carry travellers with sinister motives, or at least thats in my own head. But to them, they see every bare nook of my psyche leaking out and laugh pure. I needed that, lets kill the drama and live in union like nature and tagger on a rainy day on the train car. I called up my sister and she said she didn't know, I didn't either. So, thats when I started listening to Tiger Trap again and that was it. These everything two sides. Sweet mystery bursting through my window, pulling me out into the outdoors where I said I'd never venture again. Bouncing on bus signs and singing, yeah. I sat and did nothing, battling my mind its just a mattter of letting things happen to you. like Matt when he first started leading the desert escapades where we studied ocean and sky. I held his hand, it was wierd but whatever. Later I contemplated bursting off the sidewalk through the trees and underbrush to my side, fuck this roadside bullshit. We had spoken and smoked and he called me jesus but I said priestess of Cybele. That tells you what you need to know right there. Rave intimations is the phrase Id made up for it in earlier reveries. Or just walking around being drunk on life, watching folks in their precise limpings. If it makes any sense. Sometimes the streets were alive with a phrase somebody laid down at the grocery store, something about India and books. I sighed and felt a feeling come over me, its not even worth mentioning. Religion is such bullshit, but whatever. So many things are written that mean nothing. So why not write a book about walking along train tracks and the dreams that make up things. The new york skyline, all this egotistical ranting. Hey, we're self conscious here, we having lowed in the summertime on bikes and drank spiked wine while sitting on a pipeline. In a record store, nothing interesting goes on, they mention the names and describe the jams like Jerry Garcia and Richard Wright, I couldn't do that. Rubbing my nose for this really cute guy that came in through the back door. This porch floor and my sad sad life. What kind of crazy trip? I still live without any need. In and out of rooms and places, with and without people, doing and non-doing, yeah... I was obsessed with the moon and thought I had become a werewolf fairy woman from the land of wanti, and perhaps this is more true than not. The old me is dead, though invoked from time to time. The world just being a conspiracy to get me high, with this diamond sutra and these old wool mittens. I keep them ready in case of cold airs. Walking in the rain, I felt it was time to go barefoot, and I did, thus began my emancipation and the paradigm shift that led to the 92 baltimore revolution. There was no wrong direction. We opened the car doors. Sticks and wood, inside the essence, the Essenes, here and now. The cows walked in curving lines through the fields and even up mountains, there was little to do but make a fire each night and search for food in the day. All around the Goddess beamed out brightly, nurturing, guiding. I reflected on the cool sparks rising from the heel of the Lady of Destruction, or so she called herself, her plastic gun always at her side, and the world seemed at peace with it. I was a politician without a cause. I spoke the tragedies of the Pomo into a flower and left it for bees. Tommorow could be better, teas often ferment over a week after brewed. You seem obsessed with the most pointless things. Maybe one day I'll die and the world will be okay, or the mental asylums will take me in, and I'll have developed an insanity so pure that it would not be any different to me where this love falls, sickly in june or a mountaineer carrying cities on his back. I place a stick in the dirt and shout, pick some nearby plants to devour and then move on to the next spot. Dramamine running in my head, something tugging my soul towards the center. Theres a vague idea of it at least. Maybe at starscape, it'll come about, or maybe its more vibration unsettling the beginning where I took a breath and was blown away. Me and pablo listened to punk rock. I don't participate. No control, your soul im stuck in a hole hand me the bowl is this a troll do we need coal? there is no control Golden mainstream openings catfish line your words and theyre heavy like ocean liners please be mine our contractual effervescence blood in fields No interest. Bread and clouds, revoking passing. Who is the widow on beat street diving escapades through the sands of time? Who talks like this? Maryjane, some schools of thought. Fishes who live under blankets. Karma and water. Flowing downward, what is there left to learn when it all shows right here... famous last words. Maccabi falls. Heroes in old robes. Sweeping the nation, invisible broom. These matchbook promises, I've held out like keys. Cybele, who lives under old archways and breathes chaotic theories. But papa, why does old grass always get so yellow and why do these gray skies seem to last so long? There is no true answer, the visions of sweet solitude that pass through warm windows. Again. The home of saints is a prison cell, and living outside of words, could that be a true home? The first bed. Sleeping everywhere, eyes rolling across candles and tree tops. This ecstatic wandering. Its just a thought that is good to travel. Tapping my belly button, something seems to happen. The belly botton of the earth. A shirt of blue and green. I walked into the Qdorbas and saw Chris there, he asked how I was and I was nervous to tell him I was living out in the woods, why though? Its a beautiful reality. From the center everything is apparent. Everything is original and flawless. Sunflower seeds and origami swans bringing the drum back to the path uphill with bags of petals for Ameratsu the sun goddess and I saw the sky turn colors as the sun rose and we drank apple juice and took acid and lept into new lives where Tim was timeless and waterfalls began to whisper musical conversation. It all seemed like empty promises at first. Maybe it was just a realization of present days. I'm high, the wind doesn't mean a thing, I'm alone, there is no plan, we break forth out into long strands where these world stand still and hundreds of people hold their breath. One can't hold it any longer and down come the aliens in their handmade spaceships to take us back to ourselves, in symmetrical mayhem. Trampoline contests never reached this level of ingenuity before, or maybe memory failed me. Who was I anyways? Always pointing to San Pedro, California, where the Minutemen played their shows and Bukowski died. The palm trees probably have heard my name by now, but theres still so much space between. A joyful noise for now keeps in place my hands to yours, I go off on a corny love tangent in a stolen apartment with guns pointed in every direction. Oh man, these actors take life so seriously, with their wigs and grins. Look at stars. We walked and drew and followed the shouts of those ahead, finally reaching golden boy studios in Jamaica. CJ took us in through the many rooms alone and we all recorded a song among the talking beds I wore my dress and we spoke of action how this all came about, you just have to move into it. He gave us all some bud, then we left once more. As I returned to gt my shoes CJ spoke like a girl and pranced around, maybe he knew more than I thought, and that was comforting. I was afraid of being called gay. Some secret agent guy was acting like he could to anything and taking everyone's buddha so I rubbed a plant and snapped his neck. I was so shocked at myself. I woke up and went to the bathroom. A psychic maid, had become the minister of Bush. She used to sell weed in Siberia, while trancing out entire populations. What is music. I walked with Mira and we kept giving eachother advice, and even though I took none of hers and flipped it upside down something came through. So many words are meaningless and exaggerated. I am a cold rock on the beach of sincerity. The seagulls sing and kids build sand castles. Somebody wrote Skyline in the sand, it had yet to be washed away. I took off my shoes again, decided to leave them once and for all and we ambled back into the woods, with guitars and singing carols. It was me, Mira, Eli, Jon, and David. All of them were in crazy ways. We set a fire, burning birch mushrooms, we made no beer though, someone said it was disgusting. Wanti is such a useless dream and thats why I want it. Theres nothing to tell, etch your butt into the bench and lend a groove, rewritten earth begins to turn but theres some sorrow that is unbearable, crickets bawling in the night for the loss of their other half. I once saw a unknowing worm run over by a passing car. I winced and it was over. Boobs spilling out over shirts and wet dick arousal. Creative sex is magical seeming. My children are blueberries. I don't really care about anything I do, make or say, and neither does anyone. It has nothing to do with me. All the grocery stores burning in those autumnal bonfires in the sticks. Somebody eats that, and continues on in hot pursuit of a fix, these piano's that play the wrong melodies in huge empty houses inhabited by people who are themselves huge empy houses, who go out with brief cases full of orange slices as a joke. In my heart there is a special place for the last yogi who fell of the beam. Going really fast over those three famous points. Don't think, don't smoke, sit in the southwest. I have failed even that, as Kim appeared in my mind a strange apparition. My peace of mind had reached too high of a level, and my old pal Elijah who almost overdosed on some wierd pill, then we went to the show, and looked from the back, the band was okay. But the coolest people there sighed out of remorse for the music that was not loud. The he left for the city and I cried for many days inside, while pretending nothing had happened. Really though, I just wanted to be with him Oh well, life is beautiful, and these thoughts slip out in times of great solace. The healer who lived up the street told me to chow down on garlic mustard, after which everything seemed different. I spent the next few months striving to be less interesting, erasing every trace of worth in my life. I was not even humble, I was just despicable and unhappy. The enlightenment came through full force at that point. I put koans in my orange juice and spilled it over the shower floor accidentally. It was stupid to go against the entire world, really it was more just running away from all problems because I understood they did not need fixing. I build flimsy huts out of grass and sticks, and hoped no one wold care and would ask later, what it was I had been doing. Growing datura in some random field that I never came back to. Water everywhere, waiting for a ride from that last friend who loves me secretly and maybe has yet to gain the strength to express it. Thanking the very essence of all things or no particular reason. I am rich because my mind is gone, I'm an old woman living without form who listens to Modest Mouse. You know, the music is very important because I can imagine people listening to it and then not speaking to me. I am a hermit first and foremost. Why? You need to take a heavy dose of acid to understand, and even then it won't be true. Thats karma. Hen, it was just me and my head, I felt the coolness of the room through my body, I was wondering why I was born sch a reak, dealing with stress, sms to be what I do, an invalid, may my life be swift and inconsequential. But then could it be th same divine spirit lives through each of these personalities, and I'm just off in a strange way? Friends leaving messages asking i I am dead. Thats sweet but makes me feel bad, I cannot always be there in the polite way, but what is politeness? I giv sincerity to these walls. No secret art, just love from the start. Like those rapping fairies in my head, saying my music is gonna take the cake some day, thats sweet but what does it mean? The universe is a friend, and how did we come apart? Dropping to open D tuning, it bounces with five strings, maybe echoing outside, I pretend not to care. Pools and empty houses, this one is too neatly kept for anything to happen. Speaking to Camila, do I need money? I need nothing, I said. On one of those abundance trips, stupidly, but beautifully, again, who cares if I die here? And who cares if its not true at all, we've got to let go of this concrete well being, and be things of light. My gay lover in the trees, seduces me out of no where, these old ways in his mind, these are dark arts he says like out of all the plays. I say this is healing. Always on the healing messiah role, yet what do I know of the struggles of others. and I'm really the worst kind but among friends, what is it? More cheese on the sandwich. And to those who read this without food, there is food nearby. Food. And then life is like dancing and not like crying, moving through vegetable space on pages of delight. My knuckles crack with the joy in lyrical onslaughts from older bands. Good lord, once I wished death on so many. Was I wrong? There she goes talking to herself again. My dreams involve pools now. Behind the scenes shaman, sprawled acros the floor not doing anything but its all happening jazz and good crazyness, babies and fresh perspectives new beginnings, first time seeing and hearing. Came too late for the party. The cab was big enough for at least ten. Master Lai said, "A child, obeying his father and mother, goes wherever he is told, east or west, south or north. And the yin and yang - how much more are they to a man than father or mother! Now that they have brought me to the verge of death, if I should refuse to obey them, how perverse I would be! What fault is it of theirs? The Great Clod burdens me with form, labors me with life, eases me in old age, and rests me in death. So if I think well of my life, for the same reason I must think well of my death. When a skilled smith is casting metal, if the metal should leap up and say, `I insist upon being made into a Mo-yeh!' 17 he would surely regard it as very inauspicious metal indeed. Now, having had the audacity to take on human form once, if I should say, `I don't want to be anything but a man! Nothing but a man!', the Creator would surely regard me as a most inauspicious sort of person. So now I think of heaven and earth as a great furnace, and the Creator as a skilled smith. Where could he send me that would not be all right? I will go off to sleep peacefully, and then with a start I will wake up." I die. and i am a yogi of ancient times, who comes back to save the world with the clutchen of space technique, this world is unjust and uncomprimising, a being cannot make an honest living, it is time to pass on to a higher dimension, and go through a true purification process, its just a part of growing up, growth has not been stunted. these are the last seven days of my life and life and death is an interesting thing the snake passes under the rocks and into the shade, the cool it doesnt effect me at all but it lets me know the stream is now safe when we die, the world goes with us and yet lives on for who is not already dead? what is there that has not been done we act out the tao, selflessly, selfishly, as we are one with all things now Cybele walks in the darkness, on the path of healing and rebirth she travels. Though many only see death, in the returning to nothingness there is a comfort, for the time it is the right place to be, just like in the morning its time to rise and at night we sleep. The tide rises and falls back. I bake bread and watch the sun dot I's. The past and future come into line like planets, and stars themselves lend themselves to pages to be read. The middle way became apparent, and I realized enlightenment was that simple, we cannot all live in the hills and never say a word, but we can't be together and speak so much that words mean nothing all the time. The three circles, aloneness, friendship and non duality, are all built of blissed out emptiness, and yet they are as real as the air we breathe, in fact our very existence is like the air, which is nothing and yet as we cease breathing, the only thing noticeable is the absence of breathe. But these words are physics, the God who gave them and Goddess who would take them away. L and seven, seven notes to pick from, or is it seven billion? An old woman woke up from a long dream, that had in fact become a nightmare, the word Wanti. It was a thing that came from something I can't even remember now, and began to resemble life, nestled between those who understood and lived the same life albeit in a different way, when we come together we are the storm raging around the calm I. Apart we are a walk on a clear day, a mountaineer singing in the mountains. It is true, the Tao, yin and yang dance and contort while the valley spirit is always there, be one with it. Gaia, a small yonato, earthy home, and us being candlelight waxing, letting love flow where it will. Set off in any direction and you are bound to reach where you are going to eventually. Bisexuality, and life itself, what is it? Just a question that lulls and blossoms, spinning itself, and eventually yielding fruit, the answer that nourishes. Vibrations resonating from deep within the earth up to us who then send it back down, filling in the parts that are missing. It is the truest love, the greatest song. But how can one say this? Of course, it is not for everyone, but it is an ancient wisdom in our souls that returns to the animistic way of being that is dreamlike and without bounds and yet real and never failing, when we are open to it. Sometimes it is a process finding the feeling, as sometimes it doesn't seem to make sense and flies like a dragon curling back into itself and then soaring on. I realized to have a flexible mind, to see both sides and their virtue while loving both equally is one of many ways. The plants were healers as were the people, the city as well as the forest. I watched pepper ann episodes and was sad when they went off, but I ventured off into other things and it appeared on youtube years later, I was happy. and forever
