The other day i was gifted an experience. It was one that I would have never provided myself, or even thought to have. This concept is not new to me, and actually at one point became more of a “hold your breath and squint one eye” annoyance than a new opportunity. But with those days passed, it felt good to once again be given something I didn’t ordain…be a pon in some design of fate. It was similar to a dream. You don’t control them, but they say something for your spiritual destiny. I live for those dreamy days. I wonder how long it would have lasted if the gravitational pull of reality, habit, and a warm bed hadn’t brought me home. Probably would still be happening now. It was just a dream within a dream.

Angelique Kidjo is her name and world music is her game. I found the tickets in the parking lot of the grocery store. And just like that, I was invited into a world beat of feeling, hope, acceptance and global peace through music. And of course a brewery I’d never tasted the IPA of.

It didn’t really feel like thanksgiving. I donned my thickest socks so my feet might know how very thankful i am for them. And i hoped through means and methods that my family and friends, near and far, knew how very thankful i am for them. And i said here’s to our health. Our choice. Our being. But no. This year made me realize what constitutes the holiday and that I was missing every article…hm, not true…I was trypping on tryptophan. It was just missing those which bring some feeling, however bad, annoying, beautiful, happy, habitual or questionable. Its just a temporary amendment, anyway. And now it’s also become obvious that Christmas isn’t Christmas anymore. The mass production of unneeded goods which will just clutter and fill the earth with material that can’t break down gives me an ulcer. I was never even part of the time when getting one Christmas present was more than imaginable, but I miss it. It’s not just me getting older and seeing things I never saw. The media and advertising bombardment is at an all time high and it’s eating through the meaning like acid through flesh.

Oh what a world we live in.

Facing West from California’s shores
Inquiring, tireless, seeking what is yet unfound,
I, a child, over waves, toward the house of maternity, the land of
migrations, look afar,
Look off the shores of my Western sea, the circle almost circled;
For starting westward from Hindustan, from the vales of Kashmere,
From Asia, from the north, from the God, the sage, and the hero,
From the south, from the flowery peninsulas and the spice islands,
Long having wandered since, round the earth having wandered
Now I face home again, very pleased and joyous,
(But where is what I started for so long ago?
And why is it yet unfound?)
-Walt Whitman


A real friend

And so, once again, we embark upon the humbling endeavor of expressing our minds. The most difficult creative task I’ve ever embarked on? Fiction. I can’t find my imagination for words. I’m hoping someday it just begins. Maybe one day I’ll wake up and remember everything. Fiction is everywhere. The books that humans read. Millions of books they read and give to their friends to read who give to their friends. We lose our days and lives in pages and pages of stories…that really aren’t stories at all. They are no less real than the air we breath or the food we eat. Even the most far-fetched of the best stories are undeniably real. Do I mean this as an overreaching metaphor for how to write, or to emphasize realism as the best avenue for writing a story? I don’t know. Fiction is still a mystery I am trying to solve. It doesn’t come natural. I still think too much. I shouldn’t have to talk myself through it. Slow down. People take time to think. Too much wit is unbelievable. Not particularly good jokes add realism? Bad jokes are boring. Pauses should be staggered in occurance and duration, both the result of internalized thought and external circumstance. NEVER drop character. Subtle alliteration a must.

This isn’t real. Fiction is real. As real (or more) as its counterpart non-fiction. Has it always been? What isn’t in some way designed to entrap you, enthrall you, entrance your mind?

Belief makes things real. For every sentence you write, ask yourself if you believe it. People like to think that the way they think the world should be are their beliefs. “I believe all illegals should be deported. I believe abortion is wrong. I believe the world needs more love.” These are not beliefs. Beliefs are the most intrinsic, most centered of human thoughts not worth dying for. They are not worth writing a letter to your elected officials nor voting for. A belief is the glue between you and the world. Without them the world inside and outside of our minds ceases to exist. There is a distinction here, vital and completely overlooked. Certain things are forced upon you. Others, up for grabs. But there is wisdom in knowing its nothing more than a choice you’ve made. If your mind vanished…what else would? Would anyone notice the supplemental absence of what you created?

and enjoy your stay

welcome to planet trash. where trees once grew freely to support the earth but now get cut down to destroy it. enjoy your stay!

Let’s begin where we left off. The notion being reduced to absurdity, its difficult to contend. I object, nonetheless. Freedom isn’t absurd, it is just no longer an option. It has been glorified for centuries and sought after in so many ways that now, nothing of it remains. If it stands that one feels free when they can do what they want, when they want; then freedom requires something more. Modern society makes it so. And even if you have succeeded to boldly demask the illusion and resolved genuinely to happiness in the most minimal and meager of senses, you are cursed by the age you live in. You are cursed by things you have no control over. There is no hope for the optimist anymore; even optimism has confused it’s priorities. Become victim to the misjudgements, moral confusion and illusory value systems; become slave. What’s worse, good deeds. Charitable acts, kindness and real love. These too, slave to no good.

And so it goes. Freedom has become what enslaves us. For this notion to be undone, and for me to outline how, I would risk all my privacy and be put on some list somewhere…which i’m probably already enlisted. So very briefly summarized, something huge. Something so utterly massive and tail spinning that it wipes our memories and sends us the opposite direction, must occur. Hurricanes clearly won’t do it. Nope…bigger. Drastic times call for drastic measures. I love that cliche.

Well the world kept spinning, even when New York City stopped. I feel so badly for those people and yet I can’t help this twinge of gratitude towards nature’s warning. Its more than a twinge actually, it surges through me. But then it stops because no one heeds such warnings. And they will rebuild their castle in the sand. With really no way out. Clausterphobia much? And if not to heed a greater warning from nature, you’d think we’d at least realize something of this election; like what really matters. People are so short-sighted. No, that would mean they could see a little bit. We are blind.

May memory restore again and again
The smallest color of the smallest day:
Time is the school in which we learn,
Time is the fire in which we burn.

– Delmore Schwartz, “Summer Knowledge: New and Selected Poems (1959)”