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?

A Stoned Throw Away

I took the longest drive after rehearsals…ok maybe not the longest drive, but I did take a couple wrong turns on purpose so I could drive longer.

I think I understand what Slightly Stoopid was referring to. High drives are my favorite (don’t harsh my mellow). The newly renovated house on the corner reminded me of the tooth paste bottle caps from that Willy Wonka movie, where eventually a house was built from them. The dad I think built some sort of sculpture, a replica of their house I think. The model was made from those same defective toothpaste caps, the awful the no good the unwanted discarded.

…

I love catching moments of myself doing things I’ve done a million times. Remembering how awkward and different pushing a door open with my hip felt at first, and admiring the fluidity of the current moment. The “Inter-connectedness” of things and how knowledge carry’s is fascinating. I remember winnowing seeds for the first time and recognizing how similar it was to hand grinding weed. We hold the same postures completing tasks completely unrelated but physically similar in some way. No one taught us what would feel most natural to us—life experiences and instinct differ from individual to individual. 

The transference of physiological movement knowledge becomes unconscious at a certain point. I pick up a quarter differently than the next person. We know how to shift our weight and dexterity based upon the texture of a surface. It’s almost like having a fingerprint, or a type of walk, each of these things share their unique qualities that will never change and that are distinct to us.

The weight and active states of our bodies do also play an important role when regarding posture or weight bearing, or hunching. We become aware of the pure mass of things. After interacting with an object long enough we gather sufficient data which we store and remember. Those data tell us just how hard to kick open a cabinet, or a door, or the perfect angle to throw a bucket so that its contents spill out and propel the receptacle away. We just get used to things. This idea can be boiled down to muscle memory. We do a lot of things without thinking, and without telling ourselves to, but it’s because we are constantly just reacting, or adapting to our environments. When we become conscious of the way we behave we gain better control over ourselves and our surroundings.

…

Connect on a human to human level—eco fascism is bad, do not simply shrug yourself into inaction.

…

Things to remember to always have and keep: 

Love

Joy

Drugs 

And sex

…

We fill the voids of silence with sounds that can be called words, called conversation. If the tail end of my last 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 as I begin a silent meditation and it is interrupted with more speech. There is a version of me which exists only within my head and it’s calm there, the peaceful place of my own body: a temple. This mind palace has halls and corridors which I explore with a trailing hand, grazing the walls with my 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. Respond. Talking again, having a conversation and I find my face forming 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 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 simultaneously, I need to lose myself.

What’s It To Yuh?

 If everything made sense we wouldn’t ask as many questions. At least that’s what I thought. Now it’s more about what we don’t know and how much we are supposed to which provokes a conversation. I can tell you about why the keyboard is not alphabetized, (if you care, ask me in the comments). I can tell you about plants, the California native ones, and their functions. I can describe taxonomy to you and some historical facts. I can talk a little bit of music with you but don’t get too technical. We can talk about the feelings it evokes. I can talk about art, making art, being an artist, and fine art. I can talk about a lot of random things that sometimes make no sense. I can talk about the way the planets move and how stars form, and tides, and random literature. I know a lot of weird science facts, like about mountain goats and sea otters, and gorillas and death. There are endless things I can talk about.

I know plants have senses, not in an anthropomorphic way, but in a plant equivalent way. Plants can see based on these photoreceptors in their leaves which can distinguish between red and blue light which allows them to develop and bloom in time with the changing seasons and early moons. They were tested with flashes of blue and red light, and which ever light it saw last, even if for the briefest moment, would determine whether the bud of the flower would bloom or not. This is how we get carnations every year on Mother’s Day despite them not being the flower of the season.

Plants can smell, they excrete a hormone, ethylene, found in medicine like vapor rub or hot and cold packs, which encourage its own neighboring branches fruits to ripen. This is the reason putting a banana in a brown paper bag with an avocado will cause it to ripen. Or the reason the Egyptians would slice open a few figs within a batch in order to cause the whole basket to mature. The same goes for Chinese and pears within the wine cellar. This hormone will alert its neighboring branches of infection or danger (i.e. A broken branch, aphids and infestation, etc). This causes the warned branches to excrete another hormone, methylene, which acts as a defense against insects or animals that may be consuming it or brushing up against the plant. 

I know that hops, which is in beer, is in the cannabis family. The bacteria which ferments beer, yeast, is just a giant blob of gooey living organisms. I know that the fruit which we consider a strawberry is not actually the berry but in fact it is the receptacle and what we call the seeds are the true fruit called achenes. I learned once that aspens are the largest living organism in the world. This is due to the fact that they spread via rhizome. Basically, every stem shares a collective root system and every root system is about 80,000 years old (making them the oldest organisms in the world as well). This is the reason all the Aspen trees in Colorado or Utah change their colors all at once, because they are one…

I learned that spiritual growth does plateau if you do not continue to practice it. I learned that coyotes live on Bernal hill. I learned that Jupiter can only be seen from Earth every 100 years. I learned that Am is my favorite chord. That when you put Am F#m C and E7 together it makes the prettiest song. I learned that you can only make art you’re proud of when your heart is in it. When there isn’t a cloak weighing you down stifling your voice, that’s when the real artist shines through. In the words of Sheila Heti:

“An artist knows [themselves] to be an artist because of how [they] relate to [their] own sincerity”

No one wants to enjoy phony art, no one wants to read something because it is digestible, not because there is some inherent rule against doing so, but because something unshielded has more flavor. Something that provokes thought is what makes a piece historical…worth talking about. Our failures, weaknesses, and vulnerabilities serve as a connection to the world (as in the people within it). They signal to it: “I need you because I can’t do this by myself”. The shame and embarrassment we feel is the glue that binds us all together. It is within that experience that we can connect to everyone else. My mentor and best friend said to me today: “We are the universe as long as we don’t stop being true.” Whether or not we choose to recognize the serendipity and synchronicity within the universe, it remains there for the looking eye, for the seeing eye. I learned how to look. I learned how to spy…

I learned what Spain looks like. The way it feels to see a familiar face after days of being on a plane and in stuffy airport air. The feeling of summer was evident. I know how it feels to leave your heart at the threshold. I know what the German countryside looks like. I learned that the houses look like gingerbread houses and the forests are the healthiest shade of green. I know what silence sounds like. I know what being held feels like. I know how love feels.

I learned that Earth may have a consciousness, and that it hums at a frequency of 8 hertz, and that scientists can hear it from space. They call this the Schumann resonance. We live inside a ringing bell with two electrically charged heartbeats. Lightning clouds shoulder unreleased energy which somehow suggests that whatever goes down also must come up. Every sprite, lighting strike, and thunderstorm equally receives the same amount of energy it produces. This energy sits at the base of the ionosphere (where electrons and ions flow freely within a layer of our atmosphere). Earth has evolved, almost as though it were conscious, to produce a negative charge on land so as to balance the positive charge coming down from within a thunderstorm. Similarly, lightning occurs when the pressure and energy of hot condensation from the ground precipitates and rises to the top of a cloud compressing it against the cool ice crystals that exist there. This friction, like static, strips the molecules leaving the positive charged ions to float up and the negative charged ions to move down. Eventually, the pressure builds so much that it cracks with an intense energy, zinging with bright electricity, followed by the loud delayed boom of thunder. A bolt of blue. I know that lighting can hit the same spot more than once, for example, the Empire State Building gets struck 23 times a year.

I know that three major regions of the world help create the energy hum which can be heard from space. Those locations are: the America’s , Africa, and the Maritime Pacific (a group of islands in the Pacific Ocean), and the thunderstorms which occur are the cause for the 8 hertz resonance. It’s a natural thing.

I know that Alaska has a four to six month period of 23 hour darkness. The reason being its placement on the earth’s axis. This is the same reason why in the winter we get less sunlight in the Northern Hemisphere as opposed to summer days which are longer. Based on the Earth’s tilt we can measure the time of year by daylight length. Winter solstice is the celebration, or indication, that Earth is at its maximum tilt away from the sun, making it the shortest day of the year. The opposite event is the summer solstice, where we experience the shortest night of the year. Each (Summer and Winter) equinox indicates that the Earth is equal parts in both hemispheres which in succession, slowly leads to either longer or shorter days.

I know about longitude and latitude. How the Y axis is Longitudinal, beginning at the prime meridian (located in the UK, Europe, Algeria, Mali, Burkina, Faso, Tongo, and Ghana) separated by the East and West hemisphere measured from 0^-180^ E/W. The X axis, being Latitude, begins at the equator (located in various equatorial countries) separated by Northern and Southern Hemispheres from 0^-180^ N/S. These angular measurements not only allow us to navigate and travel to pinpointed locations on the surface of the Earth, but measure temperature. When we consider the latitudinal points of the globe we see equatorial/tropical regions (N: Tropic of Cancer, S: Tropic of Capricorn) which are measured from 0^ at the equator to approximately 23.5^ N/S. Subtropical regions follow from about 20^-40^ N/S (temperature is paralleled on both hemispheres). Succeeding these are the temperate regions 40^-60^ from the equator and lastly, the Arctic climates which begin at 60^ and end at each pole of the planet.

Each climactic region has its own characteristics, but I will nutshell them all.

Equatorial/Tropical regions: where the sun hits the longest and strongest. Eternal summer, never dropping below 64^

Tropic of Cancer/Tropic of Capricorn regions: temperate and subtropical, characterized by hot humid summers and mild chilly winters. (The US South West to the Mexican Plateau lie within these parameters).

Polar/Arctic: long cold winters and short cool summers. There is a large variability in climate across the Arctic, but all regions experience extremes of solar radiation in both summer and winter.

Somehow all of these things connect as we go about our lives, but we hardly spend our time consciously thinking about them. A good grounding technique might be to consider something outside of yourself and try to understand it. In my case, it helps to understand how much space my life truly takes up within the entire world. Once I gain perspective and understand that my internal monologue is not the most pressing matter in the universe I can slowly begin to quiet my mind. Of course there are days that this is more difficult than others, but lately, completing work that does not directly benefit me, and rather aids something or someone else, helps fulfill a sense of purpose from within which we all need in order to survive. As primates, we share 98% DNA with gorillas and therefore have primal urges. Therefore, as conscious beings we are unable to navigate our own biology, we interpret our instinctual need for fulfillment as anxiety and stress. Fulfillment comes from having a pack, a community, and working for the people within it to create strong ties and relationships with longevity. (These are the words of a self help book I read a year ago). Fulfillment comes from having a purpose, and a purpose can be found by having values and opinions and therefore enacting these beliefs by choosing a path that aligns with them. This is up to you reader, with introspection you will find the things which bring you passion. Start somewhere, and go.

I know that when I wake up I will have to blink one eye slowly open and then the other, assessing the feeling in my belly. Are the butterflies here today? Are my feet restless? Sometimes I wake up with few endorphins, and other days I wake up with all the endorphins I need. On the days I don’t have the tools I need to operate my body, I have to make some. Physical exercise helps boost serotonin, reward systems help as well, and finally affirmations and grounding techniques. An example of one is assessing the environment and all of my senses: what can I hear? What can I see? What can I feel? What can I hear? Once I go through each of these I go through again and again, paying close attention to what my body is physically doing at the present moment, and only in the present moment. Breathing in I know I am breathing in. Breathing out I know I am breathing out. Repeat this to yourself and do not control your breath. I know how to find the gratitude flow. List things you are grateful for aloud, then continue to list things, different things, with your eyes closed, and do that for a while until it comes easier and faster. Right before you think of something you are grateful for—stop. Allow that anticipation of positivity and gratitude to envelop you. This is the permanent state in which we want to remain.

I know that in order to understand you have to lend an ear to listen first. I know that Fernet is used as a bartenders secret liqueur for two reasons: it doesn’t leave an odor on the breath, and prohibition. Firstly, Fernet is not a brand of spirit, it is actually the way amaro is aged, Some Fernet’s are similar to mouth wash and others like a woody mint. Back during the prohibition era the Branca brothers had an idea to create an alcoholic beverage which could be used medicinally, like Jagermeister, and which contained many poignant herbs and spices, so as to be considered a digestif. Therefore, the Branca brothers set out to the pharmacies near and far, promoting their product as one that could be taken after meals to promote digestive fluidity.

So what? So what I know all these things? That’s just it. I know these things, more even, and yet I continue to tell myself I don’t know shit. Still, I can achieve what I want, what I think will fulfill that empty space, but my achievements will not make me happy if they’re only meant to fill a void. To fill a void created during childhood, or adulthood, but a dark shadow that nonetheless lives within me, within us all. Don’t fret! Shadows are a good thing, every day we must see them in the hallway and nod good morning, tip the brim of our hats to them, and remember that they are there…because they are apart of us. If they get suppressed they will be angry. When the shadow is angry it will come out during greatly inappropriate times. Someone may set off an unintentional trigger and anger may arise, but coooool it man and fall apart in my backyard. Our emotions are created by our brains in order to assign meaning to bodily sensations based on past experiences. When feeling offended ask yourself: Is this about me? Or is this just being spoken to me?

So it doesn’t matter how much you know, and maybe instead, within recognizing that there is more to learn we can finally find the beauty which comes with accepting that we may never know it all.

The Year 2020

We stood front to back watching the fireworks shoot off into the sky behind the bay bridge. 

Five. Four. Three. Two. One! 

Happy New Year!!!!! We exchanged a kiss and entered the year 2020 without any fuckin expectations of what would occur. We danced all night, we spent our first night in my first apartment in SF. Life seemed easy, real. I waited, with youthful spirit, the obstacles I’d soon come to face. SF was unreal, it was a lonely place in the beginning. 

“Acid for the Children” became my best friend. I explored coffee shops, and kava bars, I walked to school everyday and worked mornings. Then tame impala happened: I discovered the night life in SF—I was finally 21 but that day I found my independence. The listening show was, what I consider, to be MY first night in SF.

Tamia became a single unit. We walked down mission, my feet killing me, three new strangers who I have now become good friends with somehow. The make out room, how I miss it so, how I danced and kissed and drank so many nights away there. 

I met Xxx months ago, where he lied about his daughter being his sister. The night of our meeting became a night of ER freak accidents and first dates, I can easily say that was one of the poorer decisions this year. Then came (xxx) and the romantic escapades, the drunken nights and infatuation was unlike any other. Firsts, they are harder than seconds and thirds because you are forced to feel every bittersweet emotion that follows the end of that first experience. 

The listening show taught me about drinking. I had done the dance with alcohol before, we were good friends, had a relationship, but, we created a marriage —once the pandemic happened. 

Life was unreal, it was perfect, it was new fresh, fun, exciting, it was all I could imagine life to be, and then it became not. It changed. Xxx came back into my life, hard. I created a new friendship with him, he became a sibling, a confidant, a partner in crime, Xxx and Ooo, the three muskateers. 

I married alcohol, but it was an abusive relationship. It would try to talk to me, gave me warnings within that I knew I should have heeded. I ignored them. They became more prevalent, my mind began to wither, my heart began to rot, my liver began to give out, my body was exhausted. This poor tired vessel was treated like a sewer. 

I met “the musicians”. Life changed again, I found a beautiful group of souls that have painted colorful pictures of imagination and creation. Minds that have gardens of colorful tulips blossoming from their ears. Faeries and Gypsies, hitchhikers and activists, lawyers and high priestesses, tax men and pianists. All of the traveling I’ve done throughout my lifetime can be completely disregarded when compared to the journey I’ve embarked upon after meeting these people. 

George Floyd, Breona Taylor, I heard your names in my sleep, not dreams or night terrors, I do not wish credit where credit does not deserve to be. Because someone’s death should not be a dream, it should haunt us, their names are remembered.

The virus took over like a deadly disease, because that’s what it was. The elections happened and it was like the whole world heaved one big sigh. Whether of relief or preparation of the years to follow, but the four year era is over for Trump. The asshole. 

No amount of convincing could have prepared me for the year 2020. A failed relationship later, a new one ensuing, a whole life ahead full of promise and uncertainty. Still I’m skeptical when I wake up every morning, as if this motivation will leave me, as though there will be some catch, as if my feet will slowly descend upon the cold floor for the first time in a year—but I am resilient. Old habits die hard, we’ve spent more of our years entwined within the hustle and bustle of life that it will be easy for most of the population to forget what this pace of living feels like. Never forget. 

Highlights

One of the coolest nights of my life nights to document: a two joint rotation with Xxx and Ooo, sitting cross legged in a triangle atop my bed...speaking minimally, smoking maximally, listening to good music and riding the invisible wave”

Sitting under the full moon with a view of the Golden Gate Bridge and the city scape, sitting near the shore on a drift log singing along to redbone in the dark, looking over at xxx “peanut butter chocolate cake with koolaid” grin on our faces and good feelings 

The night I was leaving xxx’s house, only slightly intoxicated, in love with the solitude of the night. The quiet, empty streets, feeling the feeling of appreciation for life. 

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.

Einstein's Theory of Cosmology + New Moon in Cancer: It's Always Been Written In the Stars

“Life Goes On

The song that accompanied your funeral was performed at a wedding today.

Like a tribute to the matter that life goes on,

and I think I breathed for the first time in years.

I think my heart finally learned what it means for a moment to be hauntingly beautiful.

It is not a mystery to me that life is tragic,

but it has never been so evident that tragedy is beauty more than beauty is itself.

The cracks in your heart are not riffs in your soul, but roads to your core.

The tears in your eyes will someday let you see it,

the music that drowns you will someday let you breathe.”

— Whitney Hanson

June 28: New Moon in Cancer.

Astrologically, what does this mean for us? Well, strap in.

Cancer is a cardinal water sign, which means that "we are encouraged to assess our emotional stability and security, as well as the foundation our lives stand upon," (Don't come for me, I don't remember the source...google?). Tuesday, June 28th is the day our moon was in Cancer. Tuesday, June 28th was a very hard day for me. Now, slowly approaching a month since this day, we can look unto the stars and somehow make out, in the way beyond, that our moon is in Pisces. I am not a fist to chest advocate for astrology, but I can sit quite comfortably with the idea that the moon is capable of affecting our lives, maybe even less cynically, our emotions.

Cambridge professor, cosmologist, and physicist, Brian Cox, once spoke about Einstein's equation which proved that time is not stationary. In his talk he stated: "These equations are screaming out to you that, 'No, the universe is not static and unchanging.' Space and time respond to the matter and energy inside them, by stretching, or shrinking, or changing." Thus, this theory alludes to a world where there exists a today without yesterday.

In the throws of my misery I listened to Cox and remembered how poetic science can often be. My lip puckered and tears began to well, while I can still acknowledge the beauty within the cosmic universe, it becomes difficult to remind the self of that when the soul is in state of sorrow and anguish. This has been the coldest and most sad July and August I have had to experience in a very long time. It is incredible how as humans we are capable of feeling both joy and pain simultaneously. I know life is magnificent and that change is profound, however, it does not take away the discomfort that comes along with it. I am a chameleon, I can accept change, but does it all have to hurt so much? Do we have to say goodbye? Even if it is not goodbye and it merely disguises itself as a "see you later," I don't know how much more my heart can bear letting go.

How do you let go of something/one you are irrevocably and madly in love with? When all your heart wants is to hold and cherish, caress and care for another human being, but the universe continues reminding you to give that love to yourself. I feel robbed. In a perfect world we would get everything we wanted. This is not to say romance is everything or that my life has gone amiss, but for a romantic such as myself waking up each morning sans a warm body around me makes getting out of bed all the more vile.

I no longer want to say good bye. Too often have I had to watch the metro doors shut before me, leaving me on the platform as I let a lover, friend, or family member continue on their journey. Too often do I walk slowly back up the subway stairs, onto the city streets, hands within my pockets, pockets filled with love for me to keep for a while. I love with an intrepid heart, one that is often disillusioned by peoples' true character (which only time can reveal). It is important to remember that a persons bad behaviors do not necessarily make them bad as a whole. The Dalai Lama taught me that our prime purpose in this life is to help others. And if we can't help them, we can make the effort to not hurt them. It is absolutely necessary to love with an open heart because so many of us are hindered by "the fear" (this is subjective to the individual) of love, of life. The Dalai Lama also said: "Compassion is a blend of empathy and reason. When we practice compassion, we will have more strength, peace, and joy and this will transfer to everyone with whom we associate." Compassion and love come from a place of understanding, where we can recognize the flaw within someone because it still has or had once existed within ourselves. But more profoundly, everyone deserves patience, we are like confused babies, grappling with our subjective misconstrued understanding of the universe.

I will eventually learn to love with more intelligence and awareness. Everyday I get better at intuitively sensing someone's intentions, whether they reveal them physically or not. I trust my intuition, despite having been belittled for it once before, I have come to realize it is an important skill I have mastered in order to avoid certain characteristics and patterns within people. The only way I get better at it is by getting hurt, by letting new people in, by trusting fully, and I regret nothing, because after all pain is simply weakness leaving the body, and without it we would not recognize joy if it came to us.

Cosmology Briefing

I do not believe in angel numbers necessarily, but Einstein confirmed that there is a link between stars and their relationship to our lives and time. Therefore, the other morning as I drove to work in a depressive state of mind and the gloomy sky worsened my mood I peered at the giant cement truck before me at the stoplight. My immediate thought, as it always is when I drive behind one of those massive beasts, was: 'What in the Final Destination do we have here?' The second thought was of the license plate which read: 1VX7111. Something about the nature of these numbers made me curious. Apparently, 111 symbolizes changes, new beginnings and opportunities, stronger intuition and serves as a reminder to change ones attitude in order to manifest healthy and positive outcomes for their life. As with most things in life it is easy to self diagnose and relate to what we want, however, life's synchronicity is absolutely jarring at times. This is what cosmology is in one way or another, while it used to be considered a branch of philosophy, an academic Stanford essay defines its purpose as to, "deal with physical situation that is the context in the large for human existence: the universe has such a nature that our life is possible. This means that although it is a physical science, it is of particular importance in terms of its implications for human life," (Smeenk, et. al). What this suggests is that it has, in fact, always been written in the stars.

August 2: Moon in Taurus

Mars, Uranus, and North Node conjunction, rare occurrence... Since it has been over a month that I have been sitting on this blog I imagined it might be helpful to take a look at how the moon and planets have been affecting my life, and the lives of the people around me now. As per a quick google search I came to discover that a conjunction is the coming together of several planets within the same sign. Mars wants us to act and take action, saying yes to the passion within our hearts, Uranus is the sacred rebel, and here for truth, and the North Node, which is actually a mathematical point at which the moon orbits along the ecliptic, is our destiny. In other words, there is no question of "what if's" for the North Node, it already knows our path forward.

What's most interesting about these signs and this date is how they individually affect us on a day to day. Mars speaks to our instinct and motivation, where we follow the passion within our hearts to move forward. Uranus represents change, freedom, and liberation, and like a lighting bolt will strike and break apart everything that is present in order to initiate what will come next...Its energy is usually unexpected. The North Node is where we hold our desire to move forward and away from the ways of the past. It speaks to our destiny, our guiding light which takes us to our greatest growth, fulfillment, and purpose.

As I write this I want to throw my head back with laughter. I want to blame the moon for all of my problems. I want the pain to go away. I want nothing more than to just feel regulated and happy again, but there are so many interweaving tendrils of complicated social politics that are causing me stress. With time life will get easier. With time love will find its way around. With time I will find true joy again. Until then I pour much of my anguish onto this page and hope it reaches the right people. I will heal. You will heal. Be patient and the stars will align just right...

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.

Paying Off These Parking Tickets

As I lurched into my car this morning I saw an envelope on the floor of the driver's side. Within it lay a blue and white parking ticket folded up neatly, slightly water damaged from the beach mist. A rush of several thoughts came to mind, but with a sigh I finally said aloud: “FFFFFFFuuck”.

I began to think about the thousands of dollars I owed this city. Debts. The bleak idea of paying off my parking tickets was far easier to bear than the true act of doing so. In a few months, when the bills have stacked, or perhaps when I wake up to a boot on my car and then soon find myself looking up at the sky with anguish, because that was the last possible thing I could've handle that day, I might just begin to shovel out my money. Author, Mark Manson, wrote about the nihilist perspective. He described it as us finding comfort within our individualistic definition of life's insignificance and how on the contrary, it is exceptionally important to keep hope. In Manson's book, Everything is Fucked, he discusses hope and the ways we place value within something, whether it be ethically or emotionally, and how essentially, 'hope' is our own choice. In other words, we are unique in our ability to deem something more, or less, important than our peers, like our personal goals, which give us hope of a before and after story. We are able to see, by the results of our product, how successful we have been, and this success is personal, no one can decide when a work has fulfilled its duty, whether that duty was to help the world, or just help us.

In finding a "purpose", or rather, something we'd like to achieve, life begins to have a meaning, because we have something to work towards. These personal goals are ever changing, we must be mindful of this fact because the ability to change our minds does not equate to failure, or indecisiveness, despite us interpreting it that way, but do not fear. When we commence a project we are met with obstacles, sometimes that obstacle can be ourselves, when we do what feels good rather than what we should do (remember, what we decide is important is solely up to us...we don't have to do anything), and other times the obstacles are out of our control. We may run into health risks that tell us we can no longer work towards being the athlete we always wanted to be. We may live in a city that gets wiped out and flooded by an unprecedented veering river, forced to rebuild from scratch, putting present plans at a standstill. Remarkably, the human desire to survive, not just to survive but to live, forces us to stand up again after falling down 7 times, and this hope, our ability to want to achieve something, will be what drives us hardest. To put it simply: sometimes goals can be unattainable, out of our hands, and when this occurs it is important to be adaptable.

But in reading Manson's book I was not thinking about my goals as much as I was these parking tickets and how they will matter as a before-and-after scheme in my life (I have yet to find any beneficial outcomes). Therefore, I have deemed my debts to San Francisco 'insignificant' for two reasons:

One, this city has so much fucking public transport funding, SFMTA reported a yearly estimate of 90 million dollars in revenue, (which is hardly being used in the right way) that I do not feel the inclination to contribute to its corruption and misuse of my "hard earned tax dollars". Sorry, but the city does not need my money. We don't even know where it goes! The only thing allegedly for certain is that the people giving me the tickets are being compensated with the same money I was forced to cough up. Talk about life being a bitch.

Two, my silly hippy belief on how stupid money is. Currency amounts to something and is nothing. It is little numbers sitting within a virtual world changing from a 4 to a 5 with the swipe of a plastic card. I mean, there are wars happening, does my parking ticket matter to anyone besides myself and the meter maid who's decided they had had enough?

Similarly, I began to think about all of the people I was indebted to, but a different debt, the good kind. In creating a life with purpose it is important to live by a few principles: community, care (meaningfulness), and emotion. With indifference life degenerates. When we have no values or strong beliefs we begin to lack reason or rationality behind our decision making. Imperative to our interpersonal relationships, care and emotion help us create deeper connections and allows us to discover things about ourselves.

I finally learned how to delve deeper, whether that was through conversation, poetry, or personal growth, I began to coax myself out of the protective shell I had once created. I quickly found myself inspired by the people around me just by listening to their journey's and the tribulations they faced while on them. Life had opened up! I was given hope, and because of that I became capable of withdrawing myself from the bleak and cynical perspective I was so wrapped up in. Not to be confused with comparing myself with my peers, instead I realized my problems were my own, and based on my community's success approaching their own struggles, I learned alternative ways to do the same. Reader, the first step to self development is not telling yourself there is something wrong with you that must be erased. You are valuable, you are important as is. Instead it is by the desire to improve a characteristic within us which might have caused someone harm (yourself, or a loved one), and with this desire tough questions need to be asked; about the way we react, how accountable we hold ourselves to our mistakes, and most importantly: 'Am I wrong?'. After mastering this the world expands...and also shrinks.

The older we get the better we get at coping. We know what to expect when things go awry, and we get better at finding solutions faster. Problems get harder, we get stronger...smarter.

I'll pay off these parking tickets someday...but today the problem is that I want to do it tomorrow. As the famous pirate Jack Sparrow once said:

"The problem is not the problem, the problem is your problem with the problem...savvy?"

Hunter S. Thompson: Crazy Bastard!

And for the first time in a long time I felt like I was in total control. I stood on a piece of curved wood with black tape on its surface which gripped the bottom of my feet. Four wheels barrelled down the side walk, with every kilometer it became more obvious to me how close I was to being bucked off of this wild machine. Total control. Even as I added another body to the equation, our feet alternating between each others legs like a dangerous ladder I felt like I could do anything.

"Faster or we'll die!"

It made no sense, none of it made sense. I was struggling to remember what had been of me 5 minutes before this moment. Had I really just seen a friend after a two year hiatus? She told me she was back looking for a bag of donuts, or some roundish pastry of the sort. It seemed sensible: retrace the steps...to find the black bag...which held the donuts...go back to the dingy dive bar on the corner of 25th and S. Van Ness... This train of thought reminded me of the way we had just run out of the bar like mad men, as though we had committed a crime. A crime had been committed, admittedly, by none other than me, a criminal. Cuff me officer! I think I am still drunk.

I can paint a picture of the scene:

With only the 8 ball left on the table, my shot for the game sinker, corner pocket, lined up perfect, my American IPAs sat warm in my belly while I was in the middle of what could have been a cowboy showdown...and my guns were both drawn.

No. Fucking. Dice. Man.

Scratched, and so I took a seat on the floor right where my feet had been poorly positioned just two seconds prior. Before I had time to think I was being ushered out the door by my friend who was tenderly convincing me that I was innocent. But I wasn't innocent! I had just killed a man back there! My dignity was still in that shitty bar under the billiards table with that scratched cue ball. I had to be put out!

I was drawn out of my flashback by the mere proximity of my face and the pavement.

'Too close,' I thought, especially after my incident in Madrid where my freshly healed black eyes and crooked nose would preferably choose to not endure another slam for the next 47 to 102 business days. Anything after and it's up for discussion.

Having made it a short two blocks back, I hung halfway out of the third story kitchen window, my girl friend and I piecing a Parliament, (filthy congress, filthy senate), and discussing loudly what our hypothetical Europe plans would be for October. Dreaming of the terraza's of Barcelona I sunk deeply into my heart, as I do, and forgot that the night was supposed to be about fun. Being drunk and being drunk in love can cause the brain to do involuntary things. For a short while the loudness of my friends voice turned into white noise in the background of this movie I called "my life". While I overlooked the cityscape, at what appeared to be all of San Francisco in their backyard, I felt like a sewer rat, or perhaps something more poetic...a beach gull flying over the skyscrapers willing myself onto one of the wings of a big metal bird roaring up above.

And I sang to myself:

"Up above the world so high...like a diamond in the sky..."

...I have to get out of this place while I still can and save myself. This place. This city?

A few hours later, I was found hidden away sleeping on someone's couch, drunk and jet lagged. Today I need coffee, water will do. Smoke break soon…

Stonerisms

Part 1.

I remember things when the weather hits my skin a certain way.

I remember a children's art museum. I got finger puppets.

I remember the snow, a swamp porch I have never stepped foot on.

Whether the weather reminds me of Christmas in Hillsborough, where my young friends were like sisters, we held hands, it still stands that thought is provoked by the way the wind smells in the middle of July.

Part 2.

Yeehaw--I am so fucking high.

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.

On “The Power of Thought”

One of our only responsibilities in this world is to ensure the safety of the mind from harm by the mind.

Succumbing to it is a type of weakness and a representation of indisposition. Subscribing to a disorder only encourages the minds power, which is harmful, over itself, most importantly, over us.

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.

Lingering Emotions

Sometimes things don't pan out the way we anticipated, even when things are seemingly perfect. We are spinning on this Earth just to live, breathe, eat, sleep, and give.

To Y/N:

I miss you and us. I feel resentment because your life seems to have worked out for the best. It angers me because you reveal a sense of complacency which I wish were empathy instead. I know perhaps you are demonstrating your remorse in other ways: offering to buy lunch, beers, small gestures which may also just be within your nature to enact. I feel as though, however, you want your cake and to eat it too. If I give away the part of myself you desire, I feel like I will further lose myself to you, and the idea is that I should be learning to find myself within...myself. On the contrary, I feel like not doing so results in the same. The same guilt I used to feel arises within me: that by sparing my body I am harming your well being. That by sparing my body I am not demonstrating reciprocation of your "love", of your "care". As I write this I understand the delusion behind infatuation and the way it forces us to blame ourselves for the insurmountable. I feel I have not been honest with myself, or you. I apologize for being bitter and mean, I take longer to process my emotions. I love you. We will be friends forever, and I do adore your talent and charm. Thank you.

Laughter lingers before me, but my hands do not reach to grasp the origins of it. They simply hang by my side, sans intention, removing themselves from before me and slowly inching to bind together behind my back. Tied down by my own mental discourse, but I am not its slave and will not fall victim to it. This plume which writes words that I control is absolute. I put letters together, form my own thoughts, these thoughts slip like the ends of sentences slipping from my grip. Phrases are not written in reverse, as I read and write this I release this emotion onto the page and bid it farewell. I stand propped on one leg, the other foot crooked like a flamingo. Hands shake, but write more freely as I admit what provokes my sadness.

Rebirth. You are here.

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."