it's not...

it is not what you do
in the light
that counts




it's what you do
in the
dark


----------------------------------------------


no es lo que se hace
a la luz
la que cuenta




es lo que tu haces
en la oscuridad

just breathe.

Raw, naked and undone. The place comith in thirst for earthshattering breath, inhale through smoky purified fog, stillness held captive in angelic bliss. When all else stripped away, the fabrics worn, rejected by soul’s light, lay strewn, chair and floor about the four walls of protection surrounding the gentle majestic hid ‘neath.

Letting free the exhale of all which that no longer serves, the tiresome weight of all that is not hers, dancing along the vines of unseen air. Seven, six five, count down the seconds until all is vanished from her delicate skin, intricately woven into a perched beauty. Dull pangs of grief and sorrow in a low vibration, hitting hard in places hidden.  Strangers to her,  picked up from passersby’s along commutes, handed out freely, unknowing, overwhelmingly available, like wanderlust barnacles sucking in life dependent hold, feeding, freeloading on her body like baleen whale,  transit through the currents of everyday life, invited and often otherwise.

Ten thousand pounds, inhaled, fissures come to close, perched in the stillness of self and being. Exhale, in concentrated focus to release the pains and troubles of a universe. Exhale, nine, eight, dancing tingles tease of lightness hidden ‘aneath.

Mind swimming,  piqued understanding, pages flipping to next, love trickling, washing over like feathers fallen from birds a’soar in painted skies, freeing vexed brow and heavy heart. Corners of plump lips pulled upwards by twinkling, bright eyes, the soul inviting the outward self back home, back into the white billowing sheets, surrounded by soft, fierce love, her naked self lay exposed.

what you're actually saying.

"It's not that bad."


So it's bad.


"I'm not so bad."


You're doing badly.


"It is what is it."


Indifference.


Lack of pointed response.


"Let it go."


Scared to explore some uncharted and uncomfortable territory that has occurred.


"I was just wondering if..."


Just connoting to lack of confidence in propsed statement, lacking confidence, apologetic, seemingly a 'bother'....

stories told.

Wrapped up, snuggled safely in our “story”- this projection that is thrown out into the universe, used to identity ourselves in this vast and scary thing called life.  A story we’ve painted, colors chosen, outlined in familiar expressions; albatross. Hand crafted to fit some paradigm, paralleled within the confines of flashing scenes in waking hours.

Lost. In this story.  Au courant. An insipid cocktail, vehemently caressing our soft palate. Trite.  Rinse, wash, repeat. Humdrum, singing passé melodies, quicksand to our growth; divine sprouting mucked.

Prisoners blanketed in unfolding scenes carefully woven in guile and pointed outlines. Alcatraz. Seduction like saccharine, rose pedals sprinkled twinkling lights effervescently agape to paths ahead.

Characters passing through malleable in shape and form, flitting across turning pages, chapter by chapter,  flowing in and out where seemingly fit, ocean tides changing like seasons, igniting changes red crimson on crisp autumn leaves, tweaking pigments, altering our expressions.

Bathed and dripping in obedience, bleak, jaded, sacrificing unbeknownst to self, possibilities limited, stomped out like coals once ablaze with life effervescent. Lost, in such a reality, staunch in perceived gaze, arm’s length in compass diameter; confined. Foot binding life into three inches-two-one.

We get so wrapped up in that reality, that we forget to look up. To balance, realign and allow the sky in its limitless expansion to humble us, right back down to our toes, tucked into our shoes, body’s infrastructure meeting earth’s. This enables us to see a bigger picture than our limited vision that is self focused. Blue skies, twinkling rays of sun, birds flying. Inhale. Expanding in colors, yellow, and red, smiling green, twinkling purple. Expressions exhale, casting a smile upwards, freeing to what all is.

luncheon talks.

The lunch talk was politics, religion, and other fancified bull shit that plagues this world's toxic tongue-things that back in the day would have made me squirm with discomfort, making me feel as though I had to pipe up and step up to bat, contributing something I may or may have agreed with, just to fulfill some unwritten, unspoken contract that we all tend to hang over our own heads for 'showing up' to this one.

Blah blah blah. 

But today was different. Call it maturity, not giving a fuck, or what have you, but today I chose to walk straight up out of this conversation. I sat there in silence for the moments leading up to my lofty escape for as long as I could bare, staring annoyingly at the few hairs I missed whilst shaving my legs earlier in the AM; I stared in silence until I could no longer find an article on the under-sole of my shoe that held my zombie-d out brain vibrations. Then, I fled.

Surely there were contorted face exchanges, droppy and rolling eye balls in the ugliest of deformaties going around the room, pst pst's about how dare the new girl, contract worker at that, leave our "visual-department-at-Bonton-Corporate-Milwaukee-Wisconsin-fascinating-luncheon-conversation, walk out at such a rare event.

 Gag me. 

Ciao kittens. This, friends, is the art of peacing the fuck out.

While plugged back in at my cube to sound vibrations ping ponging around in my various chakras, in desperate attempts to fix whatever brain cells I just lost in this last thirty minutes of agony, I felt a presence behind me, one that I prayed wasn't the guilty 'shoulder tappist' of the cube farm, for today, I would have punched her in the face, with her own fist-lo and behold, it t'was my boss. A lovely little nugget of a woman, 1,289,374,983,274 months pregnant, ready to explode a new human thing into the medium of this universe. I look up as she taps my shoulder-what is with people and shoulders-fuck. "Sorry if that got a bit deep," she says. An entertained smirk intoxicates my face. "No way! It's just that i had nothing to add to the conversation. Call it me getting older or whatever, frankly, I just don't feel like I always have to say something," I said. "That's one of the qualities I like most about you. There's a time to b a potter and a time to be a pot, my dad says, you're being the pot, a sponge," she said.

In walks a third party. This happened to be the girl in the luncheon that replied "...that is why I say nature is my religion," when talks of religion landed its naked body on the table. Our conversation, clothed in imported burlap coffee sacks, world maps and flowers adorning my small environment, arrived on an island called Grenada, a place I never knew existed on planet earth. The closest knowledge I had was of Granada, Spain... Tales of machetes, jungle boys and dogs called "tall boy." These, are the conversations worth adding any of the cents I have toward. The things that should be on the minds and tongues of people, things that actually have substance, challenging the mind, opening the heart and soul to the 196 countries that we could be talking about; real conversations, ones that stimulate the tips of the tongue, and all of the senses alike. Ones we can actually get somewhere with, and somewhere positive at that. No, I am not saying that it is taboo to speak on the aforementioned topics. I am saying that if we spent half the amount of time we do talking of bullshit, defending our opinions and casting judgement onto literally everything we possibly choose to get offended over, maybe this world wouldn't be so fucked up. Lets use are brains for things that are constructive, positive, game changers.

Just a thought...

Rewinding to the climactic precipice in my decision making process of exiting the conversation, the thought demons polluted my brain space, thoughts of " I'm going to piss someone off-cue guilt- maybe I'm being immature, and I'm the one with the problem, not able to man up and speak of these loaded topics...." The ego can be a real tricky dick...and I started to believe it, feeling the spiral begin in the first moments of sitting back at my desk.

Little did I know that by following my gut and following through with what my entire body was telling me to do, I would have established not only a whole new understanding and connection with two humans I could have otherwise continued a separate yet office co-existence, but I was able to trust myself and fly. I was able to spark new connections to neurological steams that will continue to bring forth the real me, the me that will have no problem peacing the fuck out when things don't resonate with my soul.

lone soul.

What is it that we seek to explore?

Most often, nothing.

What questions don't we ask one another?

Ourselves?

Inquire.

What will we find?

 

You find.

"You're a good listener."

Aren't we all  in search for just this?

But do we return what it is we seek?

L e t i t s t e w.  

What will we find?  If I asked you what it is you sit with when you are alone, will you know? Will you be able to discern through the madness, the whipping thoughts, emotions, photos, memories, the words, the feelings without crying, without overwhelm, without veering off on a path you may have let go? Did someone tell you "it is what it is?"

But do you believe them?

Are there things you seek to explore but have the heart to look back on? Or forward to?

We hear but we don't l i s t e n.

We listen and think we h e a r.

When our thorns are disrupted, the ones that dig deeply into our unsifted wounds, we retreat. We hide like a soldier in the dugouts, deep within the shrappings of our dungeon we've crafted through lifetimes, the angles, the lighting, the smells and sounds strategically measured and placed into an equation for safety. An equation that will never be fool proof.

 Because life h a p p e n s.

And when those thorns fire up when we seek to listen, we run. We run and we run, faster into the night, faster in time, finding shortcuts to bury the wounds, treasures sinking to the ocean floor, ricocheting off the cliffs and stones, the mountains of our experience.

"It will be what it will be, because life has taught me so." To let go, to cease rumination, to chalk it up to "something of the past," ashes floating on twirling breeze.

What if I asked you if it was an opportunity? What if I told you that it didn't have to be what deemed, is. That to explore is to live this authentic left of self, to replay the scene, flashing forward and backward, quill in hand writing the pages of the story, each day unfolding. That all things will change through required self inventory.

That there is not what is but what has happened,  Not a missed opportunity or a clandestine moment, but a loop hole in the story. A story of your life, one handcrafted for yours truly, requiring you to show up. Requiring your active participation in the crossing of the T's and the dotting of the I's, because without your presence, it will be left unfinished. Untilled.

What if it's not scary? What if it's just lonely, yearning for affection, tender love, an embrace of understanding, truth, belonging?

A c c e p t a n c e.

What if it,  just wants to be h e a r d ?

things overheard.

woman:


"it's that thing, where the smart people live, and the dumb people die."


me:


"survival of the fittest."


woman:


"yeah, natural collection."


me:


....thinks to self. you just died.