BEGIN

I woke from a dream to find that nothing was as it should be.
I stepped through the door and could not find the way.
For a light was cast upon it, hiding the truth in its brightness.

If I told you plain you would say
"show me"
with evidence trashed and scattered all about your feet.
Not unlike so many words void of any meaning.

The truth fits into no one's story so lies come easy.
And who then would purposely seek madness--journey into the dark?
Especially with so much illusion blinding us with its glorious light.

I am a feather in the wind.
Not unlike a drop of rain--the eternal drop of rain.
I am not afraid.

What would you do,
if you woke to find a dark chasm between everything that is and everything that could be?
One that can not be crossed.
Can not be climbed.

Stand up!
Do not let them destroy you.

CATHARSIS

Im writing about this event not because Im proud (though I am neither ashamed) but because of what it meant to my being: A purge, an unspoken realization, the final fuck-you.
I had heard the word catharsis before, even looked it up to get an idea of its meaning. Now I know exactly what it means.

It was two or three months back and a particularly nice spring day when I found myself downtown. Where I was going I do not remember but I had also found myself in a not so particularly good mood. Certainly not one to be in crowds, and definitely not one to be dealing with oppressive ignorance.

I was approaching Pioneer Square at 6th and Morrison when I heard a man on the corner of the square, in a loud and certain voice, informing the air that no one is saved. I sarcastically and light heartedly commented to him as I neared - he being on my left - that I guessed we were all going to hell then. He took advantage of my words to proclaim that, No! those who accept Jesus will be saved...  and at that very moment, a man on the right whom I had not noticed before, began to speak in the same tones. I was taken by surprise. Great! Stupid in stereo!

That's when it happened, sudden and pure. As my feet took me forever forward, my hands went up towards heaven and with the universal symbol displayed in both of them I shouted in my own confident and clear voice  "FUCK YOU, FUCK YOU, FUCK YOU!"

Wow, what had happened? I don't know for sure but by the time I got to the other side of the square and had ascended the steps, a smile so true crossed my face and I began to laugh.
I laughed.

I had not felt that sweet in a very long time.

THERE to HERE

   Missing things in Tucson?
   What was, what could've been?
   Then there was that wall.

   Anyway.

   Within, Without.

   The Indigos are here--always have been.

   But one day, in an ancestral beginning of days, the webs of deceit - an all encompassing lie - were wove into the light of the soul and the truth became as a devil.
   And the light outside the darkness? Who is it that has bound the spirit in chains of gold and glory--a heavy burden of selfishness?

   So much light and still so hard to see.

   A light is hiding in the darkness where dreams speak of truths. Where the webs are only players and must everyone play true. We all go there. It's part of us. But daylight and consciousness break and our journey there becomes like that breeze on that day when the sun shone gentle on your face--but that was a long, long time ago like a tattered black and white photo you found in a dusty book of faded stories, a photo of people you don't know but should. Or like, nothing at all--less than forgotten.

   Anyway.

   We are all mirrors.

   I live in Portland now.

AND SO MUCH MORE

I am the moon and stars on a bright and infinite evening
And the earth breathing beneath our feet.
I am the verdant branch
Reaching for the essence of all things created--
The sun giving and taking.
I am the wind
Speaking in the voice of our ancestors
And the rain
Washing us of our transgression.
I am the truth we hide in dark places
And the truth which can't be seen for all its brightness.

When the grubs devour my illusion
And my flesh feeds life,
I will rise to find my constellation
And rest with eternity.

I am.

THEY SHALL FIND US

Me:

Happy in my space,

Creating.

My hands your hands.

I wished to share the work of those hands,

Say, Hey!

I found my way.

Joy

And your eyes bright with love.

Your eyes my eyes.

Im sure we could have been friends,

Before we got in the way,

Before your ghosts came back to haunt you--

Desperate and Despair of your fathers.

Poison for your pain?

Yeah, we could have been friends

Once we found our own separate ways which were always one.

I remember the day I left your battlefield bed,

The tormented station where you waited for a moment.

- You bore the sins of your fathers and your children are redeemed -

Walking away, I am hesitation in motion.

I knew I would never see you again.

A few days later:

Your youngest wayward stands in the field of your moment

And with a whisper you are released from the fight.

"Now I can" you said

And promptly left your battered form

Leaving the living alone together--

Each one their own separate story.

I remember my evening of the day you left:

Standing with peace on my starry knoll,

Speaking with the wind,

I knew, knowing nothing, that you watched from your infinite place--

Eternity before you.

We smiled.

I remember.

A week later:

A cordial gathering of tensioned strangeness,

A hollow church,

A sermon of sympathy,

Spoken by those who never knew you to those who never knew you--

Sons and daughters without a father.

He had no father before him.

Two more days:

Again we wonder our own paths
Bittered with your debris--

Ignorance and innocence

Passed from father to father to father.

We stumble with frowns and angry fingers.

But you did not kill the elders,

Shadow the way with me, me, me.

Us can not comprehend it.

But still,

As the illumined numbers forever turn,

Watching over sleepless nights,

We shall walk in our own right way

And comfort in the wisdom of our ancestors.

MISTER

Fucking raw!

Just amusing myself...

But yeah,

Raw.

Blood and muscle and bone.

And passion.

And your hands so close to my breath.

And love?

Why not.

Raw love... I have no images to conjure.

But I see a face.

And eyes.

Mischievous---With a sly smile.

Intense, with something like fear.

Or death.

And a very particular blue.

Raw blue.

LOVE AND STONES

Summer's here. Plenty of blue sky and heat, and today, a perfect breeze, as I cross the Steel and ride south along the west bank of the Willamette. Lots of smiles. Everyone seems happy--no matter the degree of their troubles. And we all got troubles. But Im looking at these homeless folk. Cultural vagabonds, gathered under warm blue in a perfect breeze, sharing conversation.

Or what not.

So it's summer in this springtime of my life and I am with myself never to be alone. Still, to have a lover--A friend as such. And when life is as full of beauty and heat as it is today it seems a good time to be in love. Of course, to have one as such during the long gray of winter... Sweet!

Well, such is the desire of many.

I recently had a sweet tease of such a relationship. But it was lopsided and too much like a dream. Well, I do love to dream. Those dreams that are sweeter than life - such as it was. But it was still a dream.

Im awake now.

For a while recently, I was feeling like Huckleberry - or as I imagined he would feel - when I sat at this particular spot along the river. But I know it was the river and her trees - the simple continuum we complicate with our selfishness - that I was being one with.

She sets me straight.

I often go to that spot along her banks to sit--to be. Ive found many heartrocks there. It's particularly odd 'cause it's such a small spot covered with rocks of similar character. You know. River rocks. All tan and gray with too small a variation in color to be perceptible.

Unless one is seeing.

Light gray, dark gray, beige. Smooth, pocked, veined. Heartrocks. One rather perfect one I found there I later tied with red string and attached to thoughts that fell from my eyes the first time I woke up. I bundled them with stars and tied them to a tree along the shore. Then there's the red one. The deep red one. The color of mystery--of life.

Well, that makes sense.

Yeah, it's summertime. Huckleberry lives and he has this beautiful red stone he found along the river one day while he was being.

KINDRED SPIRIT

Where were we...

I don't know but we were sitting together,

you and me,

up high on some jagged outcropping of rock with the sky surrounding us.

You were being so incredibly warm and affectionate and of course,

typically talkatively articulate.

I was wearing my 'SEX NOT WAR' tee and you asked me how I cut it.

My mind fumbled for an answer.

Were those blue converses you were wearing?

You said we should get matching.

Then we were kissing.

It was a bit awkward at first so we shifted.

Perfect.

My face above yours and our mouths together.

Soft and warm.

Deep and passionate.

(James didn't kiss like that)

Anyway.

You liked it.

I liked it.

We were a warm bundle of sweet passion

-just getting started -

when I woke up.

Wow! with wood and still sensing the warmth of your presence.

But...

I didn't even think of it.

I mean--

How could I not know I was dreaming?

And...

I lay still in the dim of reality as the awareness of what occurred walked up, ever so slowly,

like a never-known familiar friend approaching from the fog.

Its warmth filled me--enveloped my being in a profound and mellow sadness that mingled with the joy of all the possibility.

But, it was just a dream and...

Ayen

you have already passed through the veil.

YOSIHNO

Joy is fleeting

Like the blossoms of those cherry trees we walked under.

I'd walked under them tens of times but...

Anyway.

We were both so in love--

with them.

Funny that you didn't even remember.

Yeah, joy is fleeting.

Like the light shinning crisp and clear on this tree that I watch from my window.

Its massive trunk rises,

from an uncertain earth,

tortured and gnarled.

Silent.

Strong.

Then the limbs--

spreading.

The branches--

rising.

And all those fingers--

reaching.

The light strikes it hard, revealing its shadows and illuminating the life within.

Then it's gone.

THINKING?

I often wonder at the idea of wisdom--How is one aware of its presence?

How is it defined?

It's not the same as knowledge--as knowing something.

I suppose it's like love and god--all around and undefinable.

Very available if only...

Don't dare box it or it will die.

GOOSE NOISE

Ah... the sun feels so good on my being. And the wind is at my back. Im at the place between with a bunch of geese, and though spring's full glory is still a couple months away, there are already signs of it everywhere, to include this sun. I've noticed while out and about that hellebores and witch hazel are blooming, and some trees and shrubs are showing signs of life in their wood. I even spotted a couple cherry trees the other day while on a walk with my friend Patrick that were blooming. In February?

That noise! It sounds like there is some chastising going on amongst the geese behind me. Nothing violent, just a lot of squawking. The geese in front of me are quite content walking about with their heads down munching on a green carpet of fresh new growth--grass and various herbs. There are three right near me which are not the least bit bothered by my presence. They are quite used to people. Some even think them a nuisance.

Perhaps that's why the bozo with the little dog made a deliberate detour from the paved path to this trail where I sit so his dog could get a thrill chasing big birds. Of course the geese were riled and flew off with a lot of commotion.

Nothing serious, though the incident makes me think that there will always be callous and ignorant people, just as there will always be vile and violent men who are quick to murder masses for material gain and power to control--presidents and puppets. But, will there? Always? Not if we can make a leap in consciousness--wake up. Is the 'leap' as simple as that--to wake up--to become conscious? The thought of it builds but the resistance is immense. There is too much noise and the dominant culture seems contrary to real consciousness. It itself has been built with distraction and deceit on a foundation of blood and bones. Still, I add my intent to the awakening.

How is it that in this age of information there is still so much ignorance? That there are too many too easily misled? The bonds of faulty traditions come to mind. We've let our personal sovereignty and responsibility slip. We've become to dependent in to many ways - mind, body, and soul - while maintaining an illusion of freedom.

Oh, for now I'll just contemplate spring--its signs of being are everywhere.

As it is on this earthly plane so it is on others. The seen and the unseen.

to WRITE

Have I got stories to tell.

I will always remember this one teacher of a writing class I took back when I was in my late 20s. More accurately said: I will always remember said teacher, and a particular lesson she taught--It was simple and obvious really: The best stories are those written with a base in personal experience. Write about what you know.

Well I've got some experience now (:

My last entry to this blog was June 27th of 2009. I was living at Everett's on Blandina in N. Portland. Im not going into details of how I ended up living there in this writing, but in time I will--assuming I will still be alive to write in some unknown future where I may decide to do so.

Everett was quite the character: A short, robust man in his late 60's with a balding head and long, white, locks of hair on the sides. He wore thinly rimmed glasses and often had a big as life smile. He also was pretty smart and loved to argue. Of course he couldn't do it with me 'cause the content usually bored me and I have not quite yet got the idea of arguing. I guess that's because Im a loner (was a loner) and usually dwell on what people say to me after the fact to see if it makes enough sense to apply to my life. I do like to listen though and he could definitely talk. I found him to be interesting - his behavior - and kind (so it seemed) and generous. Unfortunately I was not in the position to reciprocate that generosity.

Everett was (still is Im sure) a pack-rat and that to no small degree. I learned over my extended time there that, indeed, the whole household of male identified middle-aged men had its issues. I was living in a house of mirrors, and there were lessons to be learned.

Oh the stories to tell. And I will tell them but right now I am brainstorming on where to put them and how to organize them. No more agonizing and procrastinating, but contemplating and doing. And right now Im thinking that this blog will be a daily with an emphasis on lessons learned and questions unanswered and whatnot in relation myself and the greater community outside myself. From those with whom I seek shelter to those who reside on the other side of this hunk of star stuff spinning in the spinning.