Big Black Dog Meets Guardian Angel

There once was a big black story-telling dog, who met a guardian angel.

Big Black Dog came from a long line of story-tellers who could tell stories from morning 'til night! It wasn't so much the stories they told but how they told them.  In fact, Big Black Dog could sometimes just say, "Woof!" and all the lady pups would go crazy.  Then Big Black Dog would kindly say, "Tank ya."

Guardian Angel came from a long line of listeners who would listen to complaints from morning 'til night! Most of them were tired of hearing stories, but Guardian Angel was always very curious.   Sometimes people would be finished with their stories and she would say, "You haven't told me everything yet!"  You see, guardian angels tend to wonder more about what has not been said rather than what has been said.

So one day, naturally, the two of them got to talking.  Those two; they would talk from morning 'til night! Big Black Dog loved it because he felt he could talk about anything, Guardian Angel loved it because she loved every word and always got to hear more without asking.

But one night, Big Black Dog didn't know what to say, so Guardian Angel insisted, "You haven't told me everything yet!"  Big Black Dog tried to assure her he had, but Guardian Angel wondered more about what had not been said than what had been said.  She began to search everywhere for more words.

"Are they in the closet?" asked Guardian Angel.
"You won't find any words in there," said Big Black Dog.

"Are they tucked into your sofa?" asked Guardian Angel.
"You won't find any words in there," said Big Black Dog.

"Did you tuck your words away into the bed sheets Mister?" asked Guardian Angel.
"You won't find any words in there," said Big Black Dog.

They were both confused. Guardian Angel didn't know where else to look and Black Dog didn't know what else to say.  Guardian Angels are more used to listening, you see, and most people only call them to complain.  But Big Black Dog had no complaints for Guardian Angel. Finally Guardian Angel pleaded, "Just say something!"

"What would you like me to say?" asked Big Black Dog.
"Anything! Whatever comes to your mind! Whatever you want to tell me!" replied Guardian Angel.

"Oh, yes!" said Big Black Dog. "In that case there was something else!"
"Say it then!" said Guardian Angel.

"I love you!" said Big Black Dog.

There was silence.  Everything in one moment changed for Guardian Angel.  Before she was only curious about what had not been said, but with these words the only thing she could think about was what was said.  Now she became curious in a whole new unfamiliar way, and she didn't know what to say.

Finally she said to Big Black Dog, "I love you too!"

Then she continued, "You know what Big Black Dog? I was searching everywhere for more words from you.  I was afraid maybe you had run out and I wasn't sure why.  But now that you've told me this there's nothing else I need to hear!"

Big Black Dog smiled and said, "Well that's no good, that's no good at all!"

Guardian Angel asked, "What do you mean? Why?!"

Big Black Dog answered, "Because I love you is just the start.  I haven't told you everything yet!"

Guardian Angel blushed and without missing a beat she replied, "Well in that case...Tank ya!"

Inquiry

Believing the problem belongs to nature is the principle reason you will bury it.

Rose

One cannot be half of a rose
At every moment
You are either an awe inspiring bloom
Or a rigid stem with thorns

Decide
If you were better suited
To be among the blossom
Or simply part of the soil

Truthfully...

Something is so terribly wrong with this fiction

Or with my desire to debase it in fact

Two little dots

We keep talking about our relationship, but not about the grid.

Where we are, are we close together or too far apart.

Where we're going, are we colliding too quickly or drifting in different directions.

Where the other dots are, are they in my past or here between us in the present.

But never about the grid.

Which way is up? Where do we want to go? How far? What do we think is out there? Is forever out there or does it just stop? Do we have any barriers; do we need any? Forget about the future, even worse the past, what is in the now? What does it taste like, how does ot feel? Right here, in this moment, does anything else matter? We are just two dots, but what about the fabric we're laying on, the one that brought us here together, what is it made of? Why are we both in our own way afraid of something so benevolent? Afraid of the bumpy roads and still waters that lured and dragged us to today? What is this grid made of? Why are we here?

Why don't we question that? Why don't we answer that?

And nothing was...

Today everything actually feels new.

I woke up anew - in my new bed, in my new home, in my new city, fresh off vacation in Mexico celebrating my girl's new year.  Taking in the new brisk fall weather after giving the summer our all down south, we chased down the GO bus with my car so neither of us would be late for real life, traded some speedy love yous and went our opposite ways.  When I got back to my bare condo, the empty canvas, I realized that moment demarcated the point between the way things were and the way things are.

I'm no longer searching - I'm finding.

All the excuses are gone, as I have dealt with them all.  There is time now, there is a way, I have a plan, and execution is within my means so far as I know.

All the reasons are here, as I have thought this through.  I know what I want to do with my life. Whether it works our or not that is what I want to do.  All I have to do now, is do it, so I can say this is what I want to do with my life.

There's not much else to say, here. Too much writing about writing.  Today, as Drizzy shared in his latest album, I can be whoever I want to be, even myself.  I have time and opportunity, more than enough luck.  Everything is brand new, it's time to paint every corner of 223 Webb until nothing was the same.

About to build my Webb

In a week if it all goes well, I will have finally moved.  There's a confluence of emotion that comes with moments like these.  The best way to deal with any confluence is to simply list:

- I've lost the feeling of "at last" with this move.  Part of me feels like it took too long, I should've been on my own in my 20s.  Part of me feels like everything is unfolding as it should.  None of me wants this to take any longer.

-Mortgage means bills.  Bills means work.  Work means sacrifice, but I will not sacrifice myself for my shelter.  I'm encased in enough sheltering as it is - I will not lose who I am.  When I say that I don't mean that I'm holding on to who I was, rather, it means I will not lose the opportunity to prove who I am.  It's time to focus on my multiple careers, there is now too much at risk not to

- I wonder where toilet paper is on sale.

- I've never been on my own.  Perhaps by doing so I will no longer want to be.  How simple I might be.

- This moment is not as momentous as it will feel.  A couple days after the move I will realize that I am still me, in a different city, not far from my old one.  I'm still not on my own.

- Friday the 13th, good omen?

- I'm looking forward to better sleeping hours.

- I'm looking forward to better waking hours.

- I need to command a new set of proficiencies. This is not a hustle, it's the rest of my life.  There's no turning back from here, there's only up or down.

- Forget curtains, and that price they can just look at me roam around naked.

Happy 6y - From Six to Twelve

Six is the world's sexiest number and it appears all over the world. You don't get to a dozen without passing six, in fact six is the only reason why we care about a dozen.  Six is the sexiest number, simple, curvacious and easy to use.

Six is so easy to use because it has so many factors.

Like one, February, where everything it all started.  Sitting there with words that jumped out of my mouth, making you mine because nothing else makes sense.  Everything was new but nothing was scary, because like Bob said, "Everything gonna be alright."  And when I got us tickets to Beyonce I knew 1+1 only equals two but you and I were going to make it to six.

Then there's two, March, when we started our month thousands of miles away but never apart.  Sitting there in foreign paradise all I wanted was to come back and share it with you.  And as I approached what always happens to be my favourite month I knew that it could only get better with you.

Then there's three, April, when we went to more movie theaters than any couple in the world.  Sitting there each time taking in a new experience we traveled the world together with our eyes and hearts.  And whether it was through Japanese cynics or French passionates, we learned that when love is there it just works.

Six is easy to use because it has so many factors.  When you begin to understand why six is so easy to get to, you'll then understand why six has been so easy to get to for us.

Because six is so sexy, it multiplies very easily.  With just a few blinks you will wake up one frosty morning and we'll be there at twelve. Don't be scared, we'll still have Bob.  We'll be dozens of kilometers away but never apart. We'll still be the envy of cynics and passionate alike.  We'll get to twelve the same way we got to Six - together.

Happy Sixy Cheeni,

Love,
Papnu Kushi

Samsara

Monday
Tuesday
Office
Desk
Monitor
Keyboard
Cube
Aircon
Board
Metrics
Reports
Breakfast
Gym
Traffic
Home
Entertainment
News
Hobby
Task
Pet
Tomorrow
Sleep
Again
Wednesday
Thursday
Friday

Weekend
Interests
Interest
Mortgage
House
Rebuild
Recharge
Friends
Sport
Shower
Patio
Evening
Wine
Zone
Dance
Laughs
Recap
Exhaustion
Brunch
Family
Lazy
TV
Books
Ideas
Ambitions
Projects
Dreams


Monday

The Parchment

All I know how to paint are clouds and the sun
Today feels like a fresh canvas with fresh paints
So I'm nervous, petrified at the idea of painting

So many ideas I know won't make it out the way I want
It feels right in my mind
It feels right in my wrist

When I try real hard it feels right in my finger tips
To the tip of the brush
But it's wrong on the canvas

I've never done a canvas justice
Acrylics have only one colour
Failure

Success
I found a new way to colour
My words are like a full spectrum

It comes out right on the parchment
From the tip of my pen
All the way up to my mind it's what I wanted

It feels wrong in my wrist
It feels wrong in my mind
My ideas don't feel right until they've made it out

So I'm anxious, ecstatic at the idea of writing
Today feels like a fresh parchment with fresh words
And I don't know how to write about clouds or the sun

Found It

Right where I left it - obviously.

All my deep ponderings have been on or near the toilet - why was I looking anywhere else for this one?

I know what I'm going to write about next. My first philosophical treatise - set against a fiction.

Write everyday.

I publish two ebooks this year with a little luck and a lot of work.

See you on the last day.

No mas

I do this to myself.

I go to bed late, sunday. It sets my whole week back. So that I am stuck in this cycle of making life harder than it needs to be. For no good reason. Then I add poeticism around contrived despair.

No mas! Good night.

Still waters

There are times when I feel towed. Dragging downstream - hopelessly in step with the current. Current music, current fashion, current worries, current hopes and dreams, all pulling me towards a conclusion for which only an adolescent craves - that I am regular. What a dreadful age to feel regular, to be regular. It achieves nothing, like a college meal plan. What I wouldn't give to take all my credit and dine at the table of irregularity.

Yet the strong current pulls me away from the tow of once stronger turbines. Farther I am from the churn of depression and disappointment than ever before - I hardly feel their waves. This river is pulling me towards still waters, the most fearful kind. I know how to swim better than I know how to tread, and I am either too heavy or too dense to know how to float. Still waters are better enjoyed from the shore. Doubtless, I need to swim towards land, but which pier will lend me the best view of myself?

There are times where I feel lost without a path and times where I feel lost with one. There are a few things I would change and a lot of things I would keep the same about current affairs. I am one of them.

Toujours la même

There is a place after that place where they were

Where the sky is blue with no sign of grey

Neither melancholy nor clouded words to fog their intent 

Where sidewalks end, as great dreams are self-paved

There is a time after that time they had

Where past and future are united

Neither regret nor hard feelings can exist

Where epitaphs end, as friendships never die

There is a girl who once held my hands as they trembled
Where my heart lay still, below my sleeve

Neither suggestions nor promises mattered more

Where it concerned me only to be touched

There is a boy who once held her hands as they trembled
Where her heart lay silent, below the surface
Neither denying nor accepting any voices
Where it concerned her only to be moved

There is a joy after that joy they felt
Where fond memories prevail into the future
Neither distance nor time can dishonour their content
Where raindrops end, as new lives grow from well treated soil

There is a love after that love they shared

Where hellos and goodbyes are welcome

Neither sunrises nor sunsets are met with sadness

Where sunshine ends, as yesterday's warmth lives through the night

Broken Glass Everywhere

Admitting you were broken means facing it.

I never got to, I may never.

She moved to Texas. She got married and had a kid. She is not allowed to speak with me. She never knew how much I loved her. She also never knew. Her neither.

I confronted their feelings but not my own. They were all fine with that arrangement. They never called me up and said, 'Hey, you seemed hurt when it ended. How are you today? Do you want to let out your hurt?'  

They call it fear or shame to themselves, why they don't give me audience. To me, they call it for the best to me. For their best, I think. Me, I never really called it anything, just quits. 

It ended, each one took yet another corner of me with them - momentos. I am broken glass, sharpened by experienced, forged in the fires of of disappointment and cooled by notions of self-healing. But I am broken glass, and without want or intent I cut through the finest most delicate sheer fabric. My favourite blanky is torn - my fault.

Until I smooth out my edges I should learn to sit still.

Living With My Self

Being the person you are, being true to your real self, what precisely does that mean?

More than a description, I hope. I'm always technically me.

Does it have to mean not trying to change, not trying to be different tomorrow than you are today? Which moment in time was the real me?

When I was unhealthy, enslaved, depressed, fat confused.
When I was happy, superficial, athletic, ambitious, determined.
When I was reflective, consumed in concern, accepting, still

Is my real self better likened to death or living. What is the substance of my ambitions if I am to remain still? What is the virtue in peace in flux my best self, my true self lives?

Waking up each morning with the desire to do everything, going to bed with the feeling there is too much to get done; philosophies of the energized and the fatigued respective.

When I am tired is when I ponder most, when it feels easiest to sit and lay with my thoughts, and yet when I am tired is when I find it harder to sit with myself. Dissappointment and pain have taken the chairs and we are left standing, waiting for the other person to move. Will I embrace my self, yet again, accepting who I am. Or for once will he join me on a run!

I can't read

I can't read because my head is swarming with ideas. I can't put anymore in there; I'm constipated with thought amd with each word read I feel evermore urgency to write it out

I can't write.

I can't write because my mind is not at ease. I'm desparate for an evolved philosophy. I have the type of philosophies that offer ease, but not happiness. The type that help you weather the storm but are nowhere to be found in the deepest blue skies or the most firm blade of grass.

My head is pounding

And i thought laying in a dark room would help. But I have to turn the light on to cure this headache.

Questioning myself

I remember sitting at my computer with my eyes open but shut off.  I thought to myself once all this learning is done I'll finally be smart enough to say what's on my mind.  I'll have something to talk about.  I'll have something to write about.  I can't wait til the homework is finished because then I get to do what I want to do.  That's what life is like - you do your homework, and then after you do what you want to do.  And the best part is when you do it that way, in that order, chances are you'll be able to better appreciate what you're doing.  Practice makes perfect.  There's an art and science to everything, so you better get good at your arts and sciences first.

One day, I made a choice.  I did something I wasn't too sure about.  I did something that doesn't get me anywhere.  I paid money, my father's and my own together, and took a course that has nothing to do with anything, and found out that it has everything to do with everything.  It was the one moment in the last year that could have gone either way that wasn't smothered in purpose - sublimely coincidental that it was a course in existentialism.  It could have gone either way, but it only would have gone one of two ways.  It was have meant nothing, or it would have redefined me for likely the rest of my life.

And yet, a nut wrapped enough chocolate is no longer a nut wrapped it chocolate, it becomes a ball of chocolate with a nut in the center. I am shrouded in purpose.  The last decade has been intensely purposeful. - get here, get there, get further.  So much purpose covering this nut, he's lost claim to the identity of his free existence.  The greatest danger, existing purposefully for no purpose.  The second greatest danger, existing aimlessly for a purpose.  Danger still in the other two alternatives, but at least there is a happy resting bed for those patients.

So what.  For what?  What is my message?

God queries each of us.  He doesn't wait until you die to ask you; the blessed of us realize that he's asking us here on earth.  There standing on a dusty road with the entire village in earshot God poses his question.  The question is simple, which is why it is so hard to answer.  He asks you, "What would you like to say?"  When you begin to answer that, that is when you realize how much freedom you truly have; and with either joy or despair you will look back on your life and realize how much freedom you have always had.  When he asks I simply want to have an answer for him, he's much to busy and kind to bother forcing me. I'm self-inspired to have an answer, which is why I continue to question myself.  The best answers come from the questions you've already asked yourself.

Start to finish

Lost
Without you
Found

One two, three
One, two three
One two three

You
us
me.

Dentist Office

We jump to meditation
off a cliff
and land on our hard selves

Wondering why it hurts
wonder why
it's hard each time

They tell us to
keep trying
the plunge into meditation

Break through
our hardened defenses
and land on a meditation

Knowing full well
Our hardened selves
Will shatter

Knowing full well
Meditation isn't hard
It's soft, like water

Meditation is still waters
after all
as we know deep inside

Still waters accept
only the polite
those who will ease in to it

And make victims of
those poor souls
jumping from hightowers

Egg Shells

I hope the visions become stronger.

Today I ate a soft boiled egg.  It's not as easy as I remembered to make a soft boiled egg.  The timing has to be a precise - hard boiled eggs have a pretty wide margin of error, omelettes more or less give you visual cues as to when to to flipped, scrambled eggs (though a continued favourite) are a lasting testament of my laziness, but soft boiled eggs are not easy.  And then de-shelling them is a task - too much pressure and you'll have goop all over your counter, not enough pressure and you'll be eating a meal gone cold.  If you don't care about plating you can just crack it in half and let the yolk fall our but then you have to scoop out the meaty whites with a spoon which can engender shell consumption.  Soft boiled eggs on the face of things is probably the most mundane uninteresting topic to delve into, it's a stretch even calling it a topic, but somewhere within those unfertilized ovals lay today's lesson.

It's not over once you've cracked through the shell.

I'm thankful for having people in my life who have touched me - people whom I have never met but who have touched me with their words, and people who have entered my life and touched me without the use of any. Each, all, of them have cracked away at the shell of existence that encapsulates my days.  Every day I am stuck in reality, I see what is shown to me and thrive to better understand what hasn't.  I already know there is more - I feel it in every breath.  Each time I am touched by a loved one I catch a glimmer of the reality that holds all truth in this glimmer and feel the undying urge to describe it, but often I am shrouded by the demands of reality - breathing and such.  But I can't rely on loved ones to continue cracking the shell for me, truth is soft boiled and it demands precision and hard work.  I have to do my own digging, I have to dedicate the time and put in the effort to disrobe myself of reality completely.  And I need to do it soon before the truth gets cold and tasteless.  It's ripe with potential now, filled with wonder, and I must seize it.  I spent so much time thanking the people who have given me the glimmers of truth that I have neglected the quest for the whole truth.  I guess this is a final thank you.

They open doors but dare not enter.  Close the door behind you so nobody need fear.

Interstate 90

We are in charge
But who among us
Have any ideas
Has any idea
Of the importance

Tomorrow could be
When progress ends
Where the road stops
When the kids play
But nobody works

Today we are tasked
With moving
Your sons and my daughters
Out of this place
Finally a new home

But who knows
Where this new land is
How far away it is
How close it is
From our grasp, to our hearts

I have been told
By Him I think
And at the least hope
That I am in charge
I am a happy retired child.

Purposeless

Often as a way of searching for inspiration we turn to purpose. We think to ourselves, "I don't know what to write about," or to be passionate about, or to live for, or to want in life before we die. Along the way we may want for new things, bigger things, more or less of things, but we know those are distractions. We know those are distractions from our path and yet we forget what is our path. Perhaps this is because we have wandered so far from it, towards our distractions, we just can't see it anymore,  but I think purpose  plays a roll in our wandering. Purpose: The ever-hardening path we create through the forest of distractions; leading us, we begin to hope, any way out of it.

Rather than waiting for and accepting inspiration we force ourselves to find purpose, because we are scared. We are utterly afraid of what truly inspires us, which is why we cannot ask. When we are afraid we offer answers, responses we have forged, we can back up, we can stand behind; but to face questions, the unknown, with no shield, takes courage. And who are we most afraid of but ourselves?

What if my inspiration doesn't make me rich, doesn't find me love, doesn't make my father proud of me, isn't plausible? What if I fail, does the world end? Even if it doesn't, what then is worse than living the rest of my life in misery knowing that I can't achieve my dreams? But is today's misery any more comforting, telling myself, instead of never, that my dreams reside in later on? Wandering from purpose to purpose, stopping only to rest, we ignore the significance of dream, our inspirations shown to us because we were too afraid to ask.

What mercy it is to dream, what cruelty is it to bury dream in purpose?

Natural lessons

Every now and then I remember what it felt like before I was born. I remember seeing through my mother's eyes, understanding it only as she did. She took me around and had all of her conversations and since our minds were one we had them together. I was surprised and proud when we looked at their faces. Mom has always been really good at dealing with people, particularly men.  The only time I remember that this is her at work and I'm just looking is when I notice how successful she is. I hope I'm that successful when I'm born.

I remember being a baby, all the different colours that would eventually turn into images and then back into colours before I fell asleep.  I remember one summer in an apartment building, it must have been when I was one or two years old because I was born in June and it definitely wasn't that close to the beginning.  I remember looking at the leaves of a young palm plant. They were the sharpest things I had ever seen, those leaves. Each one pointed firmly in its own direction with crisp edges and a powerful point, except one. I reached out to grab one but my mom pulled me away. "Not yours," she reminded me again. I must have cried loud enough because she finalky let me grab it while holding me as she said her goodbyes.  I held it in my tiny hands caressing the v-shaped leafbacks applying more pressure each time. I laughed so hard to realize that as hard as I would hold it it wouldn't break and yet it wouldn't hurt me either. This now became my new favourite thing.  "Mama?!" I asked. I asked again and again until "Plant!" she finally answered. She noticed and respected my curiosity but gave her reply in such a manner as to teach me the notion of being polite. Politeness not withstanding, soon after curiosity got the best of me and I learned an important lesson; eventually applying too much pressure will break my favourite things - snap, it went between my fingers. It broke, I whipped my hand away and cried. It was my favourite and now it's damaged. "Yuh see?!" Mom said with the type of sharp voice inflection a mother gives to remind you of the virtue of her warning.  With that she pulled us away and used that as her cue to leave.  Later in life I found out when I broke that leaf with my curiosity it would still persevere but now with a mark from our encounter; I've since only tried to grab hold of the things that could be bettered by embrace.

Now at our house, a couple years later. I'm old enough to understand those types of plants only grow in warm countries and in the houses of people from warm countries. It's hot today. My mom has been telling my dad about how we need AC. I don't know what AC is exactly but it has to be better than this fan.  This fan is loud and it shakes and only points in one direction. Mom says I can't sit too close to it because I'll get my hand stuck in it and my hand will get chopped off. She was right about the plant and pretty much everything else I can remember so I'm sitting her far from the fan trying to fall asleep. It feels less hot when I'm asleep. Evening has approached but it's still sweltering.  The orange sun pierces through the venetian blinds even more intensely than the yellow sun of the late afternoon; I can't wait for it to set. It'll be dark and I'll be forced to go to bed soon after, which I hate, but I can't wait for the sun to set on this day. It was too hard to deal with. I didn't notice how hard it was when we were playing around but every time we stood still I was overwhelmed by an overhot sun trying to make up for past months of frigidness. Now as the sun pealks through it makes one last attempt to find me.  Final kisses to my skin before it has to leave, and she must; final burns on my flesh to remind me she was here, and she was; no indication on whether she plans to return, and she may.  From the sun that offers all it has we seek shelter, in the sun that shines calmly we bask.

The sea of redemption

He went into to water
To wash it all away
Felt it was still there
He dipped is head

Back up
That was good
Very refreshing indeed
He needed that

It's still there
All that clean
Evaporated with the sun
Feels sticky now

Back underwater
Longer this time
Maybe it will lift
He waits

Holding his breath
Waiting for change
But it's not getting better
Nothing is coming off

It's getting harder
Holding his breath
and waiting for change
He's forced to realize

There's nothing on him
Just skin, thick skin
He's been resistant, defiant
He deserves his dreams

He never cared
To dream for more
He doesn't realize
He got his dream

He wanted to work for it
To deserve it
He did, he did
It's over because he did

It continues because he did
And he didn't know how to say
He never wanted better
But he always wanted more

That difference was important
They knew it before he did
He thought it would hurt them
It did, and he weaps

And he smiles too
He's never feared contradiction
Only hipocricy
He knew the difference before they did

He lives with the to and fro
He hopes they understand
He always did
His child is still loud

He hears him more each day
Reminding him
Of truths of the past
Why he is here

Gasp! He bolts up
Above water now
Panting, sucking in air
That was amazing

He fell into a trance
Down there
Forgot why he was there
In the first place

Lo, his skin
Clean as the day he was born
his body breathes again
That feeling is gone

The weight is off
His shoulders and legs
It's time now
To go back to shore

Popcaan an' Palm Trees

At the end of the day, those negroes just want to sit under a tree and talk shit.

Apparently everyone who flew on a plane to Thailand and took 2 ferry boats to get here had the same idea.  All I added was good music.

Selfish as this vacation is, I'm adding some introspection to this moment.

People who are worried about chaos need to find a better understanding of where it is and where it isn't. In fact chaos theorists need to spend a little more time at the resort. Fear not the pretty butterfly's wings, she intends not to cause a tornado across the world.

We have pretty flawed arithmatic to believe each flap will cause a storm - looking back the weather has been pretty fine. I have shared in intense love, and continue to, that is all. It's my responsibility to remember that everyone came to sit at my table because they enjoyed the smell of what I was cooking. It's also mine to remember I sat at theirs for the same reason.

What I have felt were not the affects of poison, just indigestion. Meals devoured too quickly, months of carbs with no protein,  desserts without main courses. All bad recipes for the heart and yet it was the heart that led me to them. I forgive my heart today because I know it doesn't do me any good to punish it further. I forgive my heart today because I know how much better it feels to live in love with it. If anyone is curious as to how I can feel happy, it shouldn't be any wonder. I have lived in the love of many, and I am not overfull because I love them too. It's a blessing to not have to worry about half-glasses, I am not sacrificing one love for another, I'm living in the past, present a future simultaneously, which is how anyone in harmony with the universe does.

Here under a palm tree the shit I speak of smells like the Adaman Sea, and a bit of salt in my nostrils from a poorly timed back float. I have a better idea why peace is achieved through deep breathing, peace is so much like the air of changing seasons. We have to remember to take it in to the best of our abilities in times of calm and let it go to work on our minds and bodies in times of stress.

Peace rests when we rest, peace works when we are working. Peace is shade and a shadow.

From Wat Pho with love

A difficult thing to be aware of is creating final thoughts. Those are the most dangerous kind, don't you think? I've written many, too many. In the flux and desire of finding myself I've stood still in my beliefs until I did. And yet exactly upon finding myself the unbearable desire to leave is borne. I gotta do something, there has to be more.

It was a good idea to get away, there was something especially unsettling about the cold of this winter. But the transition from cold to warm is a better metaphor than literal description.

Intrinsic to the idea of success is this idea of failure. Failure, neither meeting nor exceeded expectations or requirements.  Intrinsic to the idea of failure is the idea of evaluation.  Who is evaluating but the evaluated?  So when the ambitious boy of his 20s evaluates each day wanting evermore, more stuffs, he is rather on the road to failure than success.  It is only in times like these, among warm reminders of what joy has already been and what joy is yet to come can a man approach serenity.

I'm open to the idea that I can be taken, again, on my journey. I don't fear the failure of losing my way, the way I intemded. In fact which way was that exactly - where did it go? Planning is a good way of putting the future in the past, where it will be safe and yet forgotten.  And so it is, forgotten. All is forgotten, all is forgiven, hopefully all is forgiven of me.

That's it for this thought...

Pillow Talk

This pillow isn't you.

It doesn't hug back
Not when I want it to
It just sits there, uncaring

It doesn't leave me be
Not when I want it to
It turns hard making its presence known

When we first meet it's cold and hard
I have to bury it in my own warmth
For it to bend to me and let me in

Then after that it turns too hot
With passion or rage I don't know
But it is ruined by my warmth

So I flip it over, again and again
Giving it a third and fourth chance
To just lay with me, mildly

But you're right all through the night
Whether I flip you around or just let you lay under me
So when you're not here to share this bed I'm reminded

This pillow isn't you.

Writer's high

How is it so simple, how perfect this is.
No asking, no answering
simply she knows
Who I am, and how I am
I don't need space
I need togetherness
To write
This poem

She can be

She can be a mighty river
Or a peaceful pond

She can be a great mystery
Or a deeper understanding

She can be a wild roller coaster
Or your support beam

She can be your craziest adventure
Or the first person you want to tell it to

She can be what you were waiting for
Or what was waiting for you

Love can be everything you wanted
Or something you've never dreamed of

She can be either
Or she can be both

No school

I'm a linear learner.  I only like doing multiple things at the same time as a way to deal with procrastination. If you give yourself one thing to do that you don't want to do, you'll find 4 other things you would prefer doing and do them. If you find 5 things you have to do and bounce around between them all they'll all eventually get done and you'll have no time for distraction. The problem is you constantly have to have 5 things on the go and you tend to lose focus.

School wasn't a distraction but teaching isn't where I want to be just yet.  I wanted to be studying something beyond this world of the marketplace because I was scared to live beyond the marketplace. But now that's where I live and my life will be a study.

The going gets tough...

...but staying would have been cruel.

Good memories tend to fade into one another, but bad memories always stand out.  I remember distinctly the only time I've truly felt betrayed in all of the last few years: 

I heard all of the reasons why I should have got over her but none of them mattered - I knew despite all that, she and I really felt the same way about each other. And even when I knew we didn't feel exactly the same, I knew our feelings were similar.  But when I started to accept that how we felt was truly different, I was ready to hear the truth.  So it was told to me.

We were different; while I tried to keep her anonymous to the onlooking gossipers but important to my family and closest friends, absorbing the embarrassment of publicly unrequieted love, she was emphasizing her disinterest in me to the gossipy mob.  She did not repay the favour of my anonymity. All that extra blog traffic, was just more onlookers - more people whom she decided to tell that my blog posts are  - to her embarrassment - dedicated to my feelings for her.  Last summer in our silence I came to realize this, her only betrayal. The rest of our drama will be looked upon as bad luck, bad timing, fate, circumstance, but that one was hurtful, against me and unnecessary. Yet it hurt because it was true - directly and indirectly my words were for her. 

No words were spared and no words were wasted on this blog.  Honesty is never broke, there's always enough to give.  I felt what I felt, and I felt like writing about it.  But the words were nothing more than empty hope, hers and mine, so they had to be put away.  I buried inside me the words she used against me, and kept secret the words she used in my favour.  They'll stay buried, those words. Nobody will ever hear them so they won't make a sound.

She was generous though. She saw me standing over the grave where our words were buried, watering the sadness and joy we once shared hoping it would grow.  She knew I was still looking, still reading, still enjoying the words she had for me. So she salted the earth. The words were gone forever.

Months ago she freed me, so later I returned the favour. I stopped writing in my own blog, for her.  She freed me but I realized I had not freed her. I forgot that we were both shackled.  She kept reading - each day, standing over the gravesite, wondering perhaps if she had properly salted the seeds of sorrow while letting joyful memories blossom. Each day she read, each day I saw she read, each day that mattered less.  She should not read, she needs to let go, she just can't. So I ended it. I stopped my blog. Me, without writing?!  That wasn't for me.  It just needed to be over for her.

Now it is, she has been freed, just as I had been.  My words in her life serve only as public embarassment, so she will never crave them.  She doesn't come here anymore, and she has travelled farther from me than sound. The favour has been repayed.  Now I can come home to myself, in my wordy abode.

Now...to my next adventure.