The Universe Is Like An Algorithm

The universe is like an algorithm. However, this idea anthropomorphizes the universe because it suggests that the entity, which we consider to be all-encompassing and cosmic, actively perceives each and every one of us.

The universe being “like an algorithm” merely compares itself, in simile form, to a form of data collection which studies inputs and outputs to discover processes. To be clear: the universe is not an algorithm; it is like one. We can observe that our routines create patterns around us, and those patterns almost temporarily blind us from seeing alternative outcomes or realities, other than the ones we want. Fairy tales have taught us that seeing is not believing, and if we will it, we can have it. But, alas, first came Buddha who said, “Desire is the root for all suffering.” What was being referenced was immortality, pleasure, and material goods. We also have Taoist teachings about acceptance–and how we should be more like nature, accept our fates and our lives, to not aspire to aspire, and simply wait for aspiration to reach you. Then your spirit will live eternally. My tone might sound nefarious or judgmental; however, I intend only to be extreme.

I often wonder about what it means to be present. I question how much time must be spent in the present to be at peace. The stories we tell are part of the past. Even as we create stories, they become memories. Therefore, the more effort we put into remaining planted to the Earth, having wanderless thoughts, in control, there are no more sounds left to sing. Inspiration and complacency, or rather, acceptance, somehow live within the same idea. The algorithm which we call a routine becomes first nature where two things occur: panic or indifference. There is a possible third outcome, but it is much more complex in that it requires the individual to actively pursue a life that attempts to achieve enlightenment. The more we wait for the aspiration and inspiration and peace to reach us, the more we are distracted by the novelty in which we live: reality. We have nowhere else to turn but to the signs and symbols we rely on and “receive” from the universe. Unique to us. It sounds so bleak when considering how hopeless we can be, so we search for a reason behind what matters to us so as to avoid suffering.

For example, one day, a newly discovered song might make its way into our library and thus suddenly play everywhere henceforth. At the grocery store, in cafes, at the bank, the clubs and bars, at the truck stop, and on aisle 7 of the craft store. What came first? Our awareness of the song, or the song's existence before it came into our perspective? Had the song been playing all along and we had just never noticed it? Like an algorithm, the universe reads the personal data that we put into it, which later becomes the words we speak and manifest. We are fed ads and signals from the universe that serve as our definitive responses to the spirit of the Earth.

But the signs are always there; we just do not have the capacity to see them because we do not need them yet. Did our awareness precede the song's existence, or did the song persist, a hidden melody until unveiled by our perception?Sometimes the things we need most are there all along, but because we are looking in the wrong direction, we are blind to an alternate reality that might suit us. Sometimes we do pick up the signs but do not understand the words… yet.

If rest is what you need, what you desire most, and for the first time in your years of existing, you find a deck of affirmation cards that emphasize how to live an anti-capitalist lifestyle, what would you do? This deck of cards reminds the reader that they have the right to rest and feel unabashed by doing so. We assign meaning to whatever it is that we find most convenient. Flip the script any which way, and we can locate the precise moment in time something was “meant” for us. But can we really? A cigar is sometimes just a cigar, and that is what we gather from it. Maybe that is the lesson. On this rock which feels so vast and unafraid to be, to die, to exist. A tree does not look at its neighbor to ask them, “Why are we here?” “Why, brother, do our roots twist together to support each other. Is that love brother?” Life is nothing but the intangible becoming tangible, being made handleable. But everything dissipates, fades, dies, becomes dark matter within the chasm of the galaxy. So why then do we know so much? How can we be so sure? So right. We mistake how much we feel for what it is that is truth and fact. We are not our thoughts or feelings. We control them, even the ones that are uncomfortable. We are not our bodies.

We are not our soul but a soul existing within, existing within, existing within our minds within our bodies, within our thoughts, feelings, words, names, clothes, houses, world, city, culture, solar system, galaxy, universe, all folding in on each other like a house of cards, and we are… What are we left with when nothing is left? When everything goes back to the way it once was–nothing. Star dust? A single-celled organism floating in space until we start again.

And what it was is what continues to be: life and death over and over again. Until we use up all of the sun's energy, in epochs, eons, we humans might not even see it occur. And what then? What next?

Newsletter: Give A Fucks

I often struggle with remembering to breathe, a fundamental aspect of our existence. A prick behind my eyes signals impending tears; my throat tightens, and my nose stings. I'm moved by things in ways I can't fully comprehend—both good and bad.

Occasionally, laughter triggers tears, a momentary relief in feeling accepted. Yet, deep down, I care more than I admit; my emotions, like a wooden nose, have grown miles ahead, with a tree house built on its bridge by neighborhood children.

My internal dialogues resemble a toddler navigating truth-telling with a parent. Fear of ridicule or the need to apologize for feeling hinders my honesty. Why do emotions exist? I don't summon them willingly, and they often overstay their welcome, lingering like bad breath or a socially awkward friend. Ideally, I'd swiftly usher negative feelings out of my life, akin to expelling an intruder.

Feelings, at times, feel useless, unsolicited, self-created nightmares. A dream of a box, conjured by my mind, startles me upon opening, even though I'm the architect of the scene. Emotions surprise us, revealing different versions of ourselves like changing outfits. Choosing the right emotional "attire" for any occasion, akin to donning a metaphorical scarf and calling it happiness, becomes a skill not taught in school. Emotional regulation remains a taboo, a conversation reserved for private moments, resembling the discreet handling of personal matters in the bathroom.

Let's be brutally honest about our head standing tendencies. Ever get the urge to pull a ridiculous move mid-conversation or fabricate an elaborate tale about the secrets stashed in your drawers? Not the scandalous kind—more like the space where forgotten dreams mingle with rogue pens and half-baked project post-its. My junk drawer, a metaphor for dreams deferred, echoes the struggle between desires and the relentless call of financial, administrative, and capitalistic chores. If we laid bare the buried parts of ourselves, we'd realize our suffering isn't a solo act; it's a collective symphony.

Shifting perspective is key. Those abandoned dreams? Consider them archives of ideas that met their natural end and transformed. The uncompleted novel? It's not defeat; it's your evolving taste outgrowing past concepts. Art, like us, evolves, and some ideas need time to mature. Don't beat yourself up if that novel is still halfway done three years later; it just means your taste has refined.

Now, this perspective doesn't excuse slacking off. Artists navigate phases—inspiration, work, a block, and sometimes, contemplating quitting. Van Neistat's 'Artist Resentment and Gratitude Diagram' in "Why Veteran Artists Don't Quit" brilliantly captures this rollercoaster of emotions most artists ride while creating.

Commencing with the grand ambition of birthing "the thing," the artist vows to triumph over any hurdles. Next in line, meticulous preparation ensures no interruption due to lackadaisical material gathering – because no masterpiece was ever made with a shortage of glitter glue, right? Then, as the artist delves into the nitty-gritty work, resentment kicks in; the frustration of juggling success-related chaos (shows, press, interviews, networking, and the necessary evils of small talk). Cue the wall – that inevitable obstacle every artist encounters. While rookies might hit it and slump, seasoned artists scale it, chiseling through distractions to unearth inspiration on the other side. This brings us to the grand finale: completing "the thing." The last act? Appreciation, not just for the art but for the entire tumultuous journey – the testament to an artist's resilience and strength. For a raw and inspirational dose, check out the video here. It's a rollercoaster, but hey, what masterpiece wasn't?

Words Will Never Be Enough

a writers perspective

What is this? It has never occurred before. I am struggling to find words I concur. I find difficulty in assigning a thought to this emotion and call it a feeling, put it onto paper, make it a sentence, try to create a shape of it. In reality there are no words to describe the way I am feeling. Except there are...If I take long enough to try.

What I'm saying is what I'm not able to say, and that is that I'm saying the wrong thing. Over the course of the weekend I have discovered a depth within myself I had never explored, and it took "a little help from my friends." Subliminally, the universe has been masterfully painting a scene before me; and the canvas I am beholding is one which depicts a bright orb of golden light. If I look closely enough, I can almost catch a reflection of myself in its brilliant face of gold. Like pictures, I realized that there are simply moments that cannot be transcribed onto paper, no matter how hard we try. As though in an attempt to describe the color blue to someone who has never seen it before, I have been pulling at the deepest parts of myself, driving myself mad, incapable of applying meaning to a feeling. Even now I continue to dance around what I am trying to say, but because dear reader, I do not want to mess this up. I want to get it just right.

In order to get this right I have to go back...back New Orleans, a place with weary foundations but strong roots. Where the term 'southern hospitality' was coined on a front porch in St. Roch, and jazz was discovered. It is-and was-the mecca of soul searching, zydeco, and black magic women. Just up river, in Lil 'ol Mississippi, the blues were born and raised. Admittedly, jazz and blues are like cousins holding hands on a summer afternoon. New Orleans jazz is the kind of jazz that can be served alongside craw fish mac and cheese and po boys. The kind of jazz that makes grieving into another celebration, played and sung alongside Sunday dance lines. It is the jazz that draws you from the beaded streets of Bourbon to the French Quarter's Preservation Hall. It makes you spring to your feet, let a jazz cat swing you around the cleared area, giving you a yearning feeling of hearing it’s music the way it was played the first time. New Orleans jazz can only really speak through brass, bass, and heart. Sweet hep scarlet jazz has got soul, rhythm and:

"Hey-yo!"

"Hey-yo!"

...a lot to talk about. What I am trying to say is that there isn't one way to describe the feeling you get from the inside of a jazz club, there is too much history to begin with.

We are in the era, after a world apocalypse, where we have been granted three wishes, and nothing more: the chance to pay off our debts, the space to allow for suffering and reform, and the ambition to do the things we set out to do. We use our language to spin together these elaborate stories about our selves and our love, but those can fall short when there is no tangible proof of success. I no longer want to speak, I want to let the results of this success do so itself.

Let's go back up stream to Mississippi, where Jazz's cousin Blues sits lowly on the piano stool. Because I have not yet immersed myself within its birth place, I cannot set the same stage for the emotion it coerces. I have heard the blues. I have sung the blues. But have you ever heard of the happy blues? I was brought back to a place near the river, by the swamp, where the two states meet, and I can remember how hot that November was. There was a trumpet playing nearby, and a piano on the Mississippi shores, a sax within the trees, and someone singing under willow. It was a man by the name of Ernest. He makes his way to my music venue in San Francisco every Sunday after service, and sing us the blues. He sang us blues that reminded us of yesterdays and tomorrows and yesterday's tomorrows. In an improvisational jam, four men, from four different parts of this giant world, congregated outside before the setting gold sun-to preach the holy gospel.

I did not get down on one bended knee to pray, but instead to worship the feeling stirring up inside. Looking around I could see smiles and faces I had never seen before. Truth and spirit shone within each glistening eye of the small audience. Before the fleeting moment vanished I tried to remember the feeling of what it meant to be amidst this picturesque scene. I did so as a reminder that there was no where I would rather be than in the present. So that when times turned tough I'd know what I know now; about how smiling through the tears is not pretending (is not make believe), but instead it is lending hope to the future and the love that lives within it. Like the all knowing goddess she is, the universe kissed me atop my head, gently enveloped me within her rosy scented arms, and assured me of the beauty that perpetually exists within the world. I knew then what I still know now, that even if I told the story a million times to my nieces and nephews, I would never be able to make them feel like I did that day. For the first time in a long time I was listening, and this time I was finally beginning to understand.

Don’t Trust The Cacophony

There are two tiny people running around as I write this, chasing each other. Tiny persons, tots, children.

They are more like little adults conversing in their own way which is why I describe them as little people. I guess I begin to wonder what occurs exactly when we go from being a baby to being considered an actual functioning member of society. The answer must lie somewhere within how much we can contribute to it. Therefore, in those moments I couldn’t help but to perceive them as a "little person" because the behavior they were displaying was so unlike children, and more of a "contributing to society" energy. As it goes, children endlessly inspire me. They are the most determined creatures I have ever observed. They have this willingness to fail and explore and experience. Toddlers communicate in a special way, and like the fascination I have for animals and their thoughts, I always wonder 'What the hell is going on inside there?' These complexities will remain as such until we somehow tap into the telekinetic world and read each others minds.

A scene: two small humans chasing each other between the garden lane, the tops of their heads barely reaching the undersides of the tables on either side of them. Back and forth, and back and forth, running through the puddles, shrieking with excitement. It is exciting! I could see it. They made it look so fun that I looked down at my own unmoving feet contemplating why I had stopped finding joy from mundane moments. My answer: repetition and exposure. I forget to appreciate things the more often I experience or indulge within them. Shavda's voice always pops into my head when I see a sight like this. "My greatest guru is actually my four year old granddaughter. She reminds me to walk gently upon the earth and appreciate its beauty with newness each time," she said to me while we were both tripping on shrooms. Shavda is my greatest guru. At 74 she is like a glowing orb of radiant childlike joy and light. Not only is her hair the starkest white that reflects the sun with brilliance, but her aura is white. Her smile heals, her eyes sparkle, her teeth gleam, her hands hold. Before this piece becomes a complete ode to Shavda, I must lastly state: she epitomizes childlike wonder and excitement.

While appreciating and acknowledging the little people running around my plant nursery I realized that despite my previous notion I was experiencing the world with new eyes, even if the lens was not mine. By observing the newness they were feeling I was led to remember my first time. The interconnectedness of experiences is what makes us relatable, which is how bonds and relationships form. Except until the moment familiarity sets in, it becomes far easier to find things redundant and dull. I tend to consume things, people, experiences with a type of infatuation until these things become absolutely repugnant. This characteristic could be a result of the undiagnosed ADHD my mother highly believes I have. The way my little thoughts work...I am beginning to believe her.

The cacophony of voices in my head like to lie. I know they do. Sometimes they are intuitive and can save me from a situation I should avoid. These days it has become rather difficult to silence their whisperings. Thoughts are like mind flowers which bloom and die with time. This restless and troubled mind runs circles around itself and it always has a problem with something. I then have to ask myself: Is this me and my thoughts or is this a result of my lifestyle lately? Sleep, diet, and substance consumption contribute to our mental health. I know this. I experienced the results of health negligence in Barcelona when I acknowledged that the panic attack I had was not induced by any real panic at hand, but rather by a chemical reaction occurring inside of me. My body was responding to what I had consumed, or more accurately, hadn't within 48 hours. As a result, I almost lost my fucking mind. On days like today I have to sit back and question how I have been treating my body.

What do you call it when you forget to eat? I don't mean: 'I am depressed and I cannot bring food to the threshold of my lips' kind of forget. It's more of a 'I am not hungry and will continue to go about my day until I get hungry.' But then the hunger does not come. Tack on my tobacco consumption which curbs appetite, and fasting until 1pm, a beer after work which fills me up, and soon enough it's 10pm and I've cooked up a perfect numbskull meal. I could find it "edgy" or even comical, but I am more mindful than that. I sit myself down and ask: 'what is wrong'...and then we think. It's been a week of this "diet". Last Sunday I acknowledged it only because the person I was speaking to was trembling with each drag of their cigarette. It could have been from the cold, or drugs, or being malnourished. But then I brought my own cigarette to my lips only to find a slight shake in my fingertips as well-and I was not cold or on drugs.

I found it inspiring and romantic, as a writer would, but there should be a point where my shakiness must be observed as a visceral sign...my body is trying to tell me something. Here I find myself, at the writing station again, using this outlet as a way to figure it out. When I woke up today I thought my problem was external, that the sadness was my reaction to a situation, or the weather, but I have found my hands resting on my heart and my belly several times throughout the day as a form of self soothing. I realize I am not O.K. As I said before, don't trust the cacophony because the voices will instinctively lie. Putting the blame on exterior factors and dereliction can ruin someone, be sure to take responsibility so as to facilitate a new perspective or outlook.

This blog is supposed to be honest, raw, and philosophical, but today I find it extremely hard to fulfill all of these prerequisites I have set for myself. This piece will not belong to me when it gets published, it will be for the world to use and interpret as it wants. I have spent so many hours writing this now, existing within my mind, and I keep looking at the time, seeing the hours pass, causing myself more turmoil and pain. Today time has been representative of my worth. What this means is that I have observed the amount of literal thought I have put into a person and the way it signifies my prioritization of them, where I then have been questioning how mutual that feeling is. As I step back from today and the emotions its brought, I can easily see how stupid my inner monologue has become, but the only way out is through. Therefore I have forced myself into a headspace in order to overcome the situation, be better, and change my attitude.

As a reminder for anyone who struggles with the intensity of their thoughts and emotions: You are valid. You are loved. Love yourself first and the rest will come easily. As a reminder to myself: I love you and I love my life. Be healthy to your body because if not it becomes increasingly difficult to heal yourself-inside and out. Walk gently and relinquish the tendency to stifle your inner child...because after all, despite what the cacophony says, life truly is so fucking beautiful.

Quiet Please

We fill the voids of silence with sounds that can be called words, called conversation. To me it just sounds like noise.

If the tail end of my sentence falls with the intonation of gentility and quiet, I expect to receive just that. Introspection is peaceful, and often my mind can get clouded and begin a silent meditation and when it is interrupted with more speech, more words, I lose the thought. There is a version of me which exists only within my head and it's calm there, the peaceful place within my own body: a temple. This mind palace has halls and corridors which I explore with a trailing hand, grazing the walls with curiosity, peaking around each corner with anticipation. Something stops me from opening the next door...

"And where did you grow up?"

I pull the answer from a different part of my brain and try not to outwardly sigh. Respond. Talking again, having a conversation and I find my face forcing a smile, my hands moving enthusiastically, my chest breathing out what sounds like a laugh. I finally catch up to my body and fill in the gaps. Instead of seeing myself from an internal perspective...the inside looking out, I take up the space where the external version of me exists. Here I begin to see through my eyes and not from the side stage of my peripherals. It's like I'm split into two: the intangible and the visceral. Within is where I find comfort, yet I simultaneously desire the mere pleasure of losing myself within someone else.

Wednesday Blues

“The entropy of the universe will always balance itself.”

— J.M.D.

Fearing the nearing future because it equates to a steadier path. I will have to pick up the fork and stick it in my pocket for a while...walk a few years, weeks, months--north, in any direction.

My arms are tied, crossed before me, strings attached to my wrists, and that when you pull the ends I spin and spin, like a top on this turnstile rock. Vices make me lost, but also dependency makes me lost, thinking I have found myself within another already made self...or thing.

Letting go. Letting go. I watch the present pass, calling it past, now accepting what's passed, but never tolerating the pain that comes with it in its entirety.

How do I become the next me when the last version must be undone? The sweater I knit last winter must be what I am tangled in, the undoings of myself now wrapping me up. I will cut free: break, claw, dance, smile, lay, rest, love until I am out and I find my footing again. I have made a "choice", I choose to not deal.

To not deal.

To not deal.

Who gave me unsupervised control and responsibility of my own life? I wonder when I will start feeling qualified enough for the experiences I have some how pulled off. It feels less like I have accomplished something and more as though I have just gotten away with it. I know that I know nothing, yet also the more I know the more I know, and then get further from the truth...things get complicated. It gets harder to remember I don't know anything. I know what I want and what my opinions of my knowledge are...however, my thoughts are subjective and I don't necessarily have a reason to share this knowledge at all. Some thoughts are simply a regurgitation of factoids and phrases, meaningless to anyone but myself. We sit here endlessly sharing brain waves: how my thoughts relate to your thoughts...or don't. We eventually begin to create new thoughts regarding our old thoughts (reader, the term "thoughts" here can be interpreted as synonymous to values, or even opinions), or her old thoughts, and we'll get angry at some point when we can't find a common ground. What we once accepted or agreed upon can fade and fizzle, boil over, sometimes leading to the demise of a relationship between two people. We cry over the spilled milk; the hot, burned, curdled milk. Boo. Hoo.

The love doesn't have to end, not before it's begun, simply over our unaligned "thoughts". I won't let go, it never is me that lets go...let's love go, go away that is. I will let you go, however, if you decide to, I cannot spend my valuable minutes chasing a confused heart, I am too occupied maintaining my own balance for me to go on your journey for you. You is anyone. Maybe the you I write about is me.

I wish to open up the depths of my soul to someone, but for now it remains clandestine, left to the lines of these pages, ones which I alone will read, and read, and read, until they are no longer true (because words lose their meaning the more we use them) and I am happy again- plateaued. When life levels again and I begin to reach a new peak I will find myself within a "new normal" which will prove these think-thoughts wrong.

Are there enough hours within the day to use up full potential? I am using the full potential of my body, its physical capacity for lust, vices, and surface level connections. I hold back. I held back. I hold back more now because mystery can be enchanting, but I tell myself it is because I share too much...selfishly. I read into nonverbal cues intently, sometimes more intently than the audible ones. Body language communicates more than words can, often expressing what the mouth won't, but these are subjective opinions of my thoughts on someone else's subjective opinions of my thoughts. Let go. Let go. Let go. Let go of what you think, of what you think you know.

Life’s Shitty First Drafts

Things do not change; we change.

Henry David Thoreau

What happened to us? Maybe it was a YP (your problem) and not a MP (my problem), but it could have also been that we simply outgrew each other.

I'm talking to you Marissa, Ike, Holly, Angel (one and two), Valerie, and Raymond, Charles, Elizabeth, and Justin, Zeke, (reader you aren't required to read or retain each name listed) Kaleb, Alice, Jean...

But maybe it's not that we have outgrown one another, and instead it is my self involvement that was a causal factor for our demise. The prioritization of my own happiness, enjoyment, or peace has led me on a long, lonely, nomadic path. We all had things in common, we once bonded, and might still do so, but to me keeping a friend is truly hard. I can't bring myself to blame adulthood (despite wanting to), or believe that the wages of aging and increasing responsibilities help contribute to our shitty friendship patterns. Frankly, I have not decided whether I love people or hate them, an opinion which is synchronized with my own internal self love/loathing. I can be cynical, I can be lighthearted and gentle, cruel or kind; I am capable of personifying all these traits: things I have learned from living and creating so many different friendships. We tend to unintentionally absorb characteristics from the world around us.

At the most pivotal moment of my life I made a choice which led to a lot of pain. At the time I did not foresee what the cause of my actions would be, but in two years flat I would begin to observe the results of a life I had obliviously built. By the same hand which writes this blog I fell victim to its alcoholic escapism and retrophiliac nature as the blow would make its way from the table into my nose and Janis Joplin's remastered version of Kosmic Blues played loudly in my ears. I let myself slip into the hands of two equally damaged and jarring individuals, being shaped into a sharp edged, kinda pudgy, awkward mold who stood there like a naked monkey: afraid and itching. Shifting my weight from one misshapen foot to the other, I restlessly lay myself into my grave each night, only to wake up with the moon again. How many years has it been?

Ten years of wanting somebody to love me. That movie love, "I got your back, call me anytime" love, mind reader love, tea on the back porch love love. Back then I just wanted someone to love me...enough. I thought I had finally achieved that, in some demented way, those two friends of mine were as sad and lost as me, but we were each lost in such different ways. I was battling crippling substance abuse which caused depression and guilt, we all were, but tack on our personal issues and a global pandemic: we were living in the shittiest self victimizing rom-com rock drama and we could not decide who the lead actor was. As a result, I just began to hate all my friends, as a projection of my own self loathing, but it made things easier. No one could tell, however, I silently suffered, like an animal of prey, falling more deeply into a toxic relationship with myself. I hear that blaming people for our own shortcomings is a sign of a lack of accountability and bitterness. I forgive You. I forgive me. I have chosen to let go and forget that feeling and shed the rotten skin which I was gifted, taken from a place of rotten souls, (as I write these words I know it's only for the sake of their poetic justice).

And yet, I waited...still longing to be loved back. I still long to be loved. I still long to be longed for, longed for by You, whoever that is at the moment of me publishing this. My mind whispers: "You cannot welcome love in if it does not exist within you." I love the Earth. In a nihilistic manner I am skeptic of my love for my parents, but I do love them. I love myself, and that sometimes comes with preconditions. My predispositions on self-love arise when I am alone, (sometimes not even then--I too often desire not being alone). I feel happiest when I am alone with tasks to occupy the space and time. I want to be in a room surrounded by people but I am tired. That's all. I am tired. Tired. Tired. Tired. Tired. Tired. I have written the word so many times it's begun to look like tried, losing its meaning.

This part of life sucks, with a capital S, and from what I gather, it gets slightly easier...to deal, but not less tiring. I wish I could be a tree, a plant, an animal, a blade of grass, something that only existed to exist. After all, our sole purpose is to nourish the land, despite the fact that we fail at this time and time again, however, we are not very different from the natural world. When we are all dead and gone the mychorrhizal fungi will envelop our brains, suck out the knowledge, transform it into nutrients, and give life back once more. Until one day "we" (nature not humanoids) are reborn from the same Earth we died upon. I guess when I put it that way we are a lot more like animals than previously perceived.

I vow to make the most of my regrets, never smothering my sorrow, but tending to it and cherishing it until it comes to have a separate and integral interest. To regret deeply is to live afresh.

"...and the blue bird carries the sky on its back."