Monday, 22 June 2009

frying eggs on your solar panel. over easy, lighten up. downtown.

Very 2009 of her! reductio carbon footprint. cheerled the new USAdministration. sent to the wax museum her (former) self-medicated depression. Shes got plastic and owes a couple of Gs. so what? she pays her taxes and rolls the finest trees. rockin hella retro sweatbands, she does. and not just for show, dont you know. wipes her brow as she walks high and low, in and out, everywhere she walks without a doubt. but not down the dead end redbull and vodka road. her home is not the home of the so not pertinent anymore (though its everybodys sometimes, her compassion confides). no! Today 2009, she represents with the special twist. Not to be dismissed as some ready-to-wear stamped kiss. pret-a-utiliser! She works it, she is it! check her hella fine ass in yoga (no pilates), on the bus, at work, at play, hot sex, cannot misfire her miss retro action! calculating tips outside the Tip Calculator Faction. She real not just Fiction. Shes honest not reaction.

She is retro eighties unrefiner. a distant nod to fashion, (too close like heroin chic will kill the passion). she plays it for show. metropcs she prefers to iphoners-in-tow. Rock Steady imperfectionism, she becomes. Her stomach prefers colored discs of old school Tums. Real sugar to corn syrup. Shes granular not sappy. Not sad when she's happy. Her antennae pick up signals for her, tellin her all those things on demand. She recoils at material, shouts leave me! suck sand! The finale tapped out by her friend the one girl band. She is for liberation of rental space in her mind. (Multitasking is afterall the daily grind). she has the T9 text system (hush hush!) in her arsenal. Patches in your chronic back pain with fentanyl (diverts the pain, unless its hers to own). She gets her fill. She can be a mess. hardly ever wears a dress. Trips up the sliding skechers, who slide down pill hill.

And voila! here she is! with a glimmer of sweat. taking your matte finish to glossy (no extra charge). Her ego, just right, not too small or too large. Today shes in motion. The episode in her closet (walk in type, full length mirror, window...jealous much?) was to master her new lash blaster* (*props to covergirl) from the chain pharmacy checkout girl (namtag Esther). She gives credit where due. Her favorite color Royal Blue. After she mastered lashblaster, she felt hunger. She met her friend in interspatialicious. He ordered her up something pre-delicious: the basic 2 egg (over med), 2 hb, 2 sp (sausage patty), e.m. (angelican muffin, a religious experience) and oj. she thought well to think ahead to meet him interspatially. The plan had been physical, but slow and lethargic. Not like online where all was a quickness. By pre-ordering so, she made up for phsyical. So he might wait less long, her mission was critical. Thanks given to her blood flow (cerebral), courtesy of tourniquet: tension of thought became (level), via blue postal service knit.( Meaning: her hat made her think clearly).

This hat she procured from a mom and pop army navy store (was in mentioniables). So dont get her twisted a chain lover. That's pre-2008: meaning insentienable. She was orthodox 'being past that', and her faith was 'alot'.

Sunday, 21 June 2009

if they knew her, they might kill her

if they knew her, they might kill her. a truth was spoken, and framed on either end by profound silence. then the outpouring of recoil, reaction of the heart.

but why might one be known and then killed? and one so exquisite as her. this flower, she was known and, by those so fortunate to have her within reach, celebrated! is it not the unknown that scares us so and causes violent reaction? tell us, what trespass was hers, to inspire the terrible cide of her?

wait, wait! slow down. know that she has not been killed. such is the way. arise and fall. arise, float, fall. arise, peak, celebrate and be celebrated, descend, return to essence. therefore, you see, all is well! let not the hypothetical offered cause you to suffer yourself. rather become curious and receive what is simply proferred. open hands to open minds. feel this possibility and learn from our feeling. rather than question and analysis, i ask that you feel your way through the concern. feel how such violence has been fulfilled before her, against kindred spirits of hers. and maybe yours? feel this darkness which will be fulfilled again on this earth, no doubt. in this paradigm equal parts dark and light. understand through feeling, if you can. i am saying as i am going, for neither do i know the source nor the destination. only the journey. gently travel the path if you can, or else shut down as you must and walk away. you are or are not ready. whatever is, is okay.

we may become allies of her as we are allies of the principle. defend her as she is known, as we defend the knowing of our own true spirits! we must push our efforts to great and courageous heights, if we are to realize the paradigm shift by which such atrocities may be known as issue of a darker age, years upon years from now! the shift of all things is natural, yet not without effort and courage and open hearts.

about her....mmmmm... well, words cannot describe. she was a stubborn monster at times. a straight up bitch and took it on when you called her one, head held high as she laughed... and what you gonna do about this bitch? not like she was not herself. ha! she was. she was quiet and thoughtful and sensitive to all the worlds sufferings. she was all and whole herself in the world and her spirit danced small light by which others might keep warm if they were cold or lonely. need only look in her eyes to find refuge. mmmm.

she was mainly loved by her kind, yet also by those who embraced her kind as another gift worth receiving in the world. altogether they were a sad minority of a world that made sense of life through binary systems created via rudimentary labeling. they typed and printed adhesive tape with words identifying most everything. and if it was not black it was white, not male then female, not poor than rich, not old than young, not sad then happy. everything got a label. and once labeled, could be identified in a way that pleased the lazy creators of the rudimentary system and all of its subjects.

among the masses numbered hundreds of thousands of those who could not make room for the multicultural, those who could not make room for difference, who could not abide diversity, who failed to offer amnesty, thumbed their nose at confidentiality, ran screaming from delicious silence (aka the sacred spaces between), those who learned the language of isms, suffered phobias carried close to the breast and vest, found strength through violence of speech, action, physical and emotional controlling, etcetera, etcetera. you can feel the low lying dying generic battery vibration of the lot. can you not? mmm. if it makes no sense, let it! if it does, you may feel pleasure. but pleasure is not all there is. discomfort often reaps a harvest comfort cannot. suffering is part of the living, if you want to live a full glass of water.

what with the simply conceived systems of the world, all could be generally well with some exception. the exceptional could be exactly that, and of less value, lacking critical mass. tape a label on them, these exceptionals, label them cheap goods! maybe not fair, but its a lie the system could tolerate, or so it thought. the system was unaware that, systemically thinking, one lie proliferates to a point where truth and lies dance together and cannot be surely told apart. such a desperate situation breeds confusion and distrust and manipulation, which leads toward a clinging to naive ideas of good and bad and then more inaccurate labeling, then grief and displacement, violence and death. the nature of things we all know if we search ourselves. do you feel me? am i not getting under your skin, for good or bad? ha! maybe none of the above. maybe ego gets in the way. maybe you question me and i and take what you need and leave the rest, sadly for me, my ego gets smaller in the distance. only feeling remains. single tear drop in parting becomes the ocean it falls into. about her again.

she was one of the exceptionals. also one of the exceptions, and so minoritized in the system. she would have to suffer, it was decreed by the simpletons who policed the dictates without question. so she went along fighting and showing compassion and suffering in the system yet still happy to exist on the skirts of lovely lady liberty, if not in her arms like the comfortably numbed. she found a path to her own heart, and there without did she rise out of exception. yet she remained exceptional, just those in main streams were unable to find a label for her, which made them highly uncomfortable. for what was she if not a known quantity, true or false? she was something not to be fucked with! was what she would tell them if they threw their discomfort at her feet like they did.

Fortune shined upon her! she just so happened to adapt naturally to binary expectations. or rather her location on some continuums she traveled across on a daily basis, were invisible or not seen by those who preferred not to see anything other than black and white. so she was not unknown, nor was she known, at the beginning and end of each and every moment in time. kinda like a chameleon, if a chameleon could time travel. she always smiled when she thought to herself or in circles of her kind, if they knew me, they might kill me! The smile was discongruent with the thought, which only added more fire, ice or water to her vibration in the world. such a vibration could not be measured. just felt all around the world and beyond mundanity. beyond fucking profanity. past right and wrong. just a feeling all of creation felt, and the tremor shook the everyday at the seams and sublimated the area with mass hysteria. blao! like the tao! how ya like it now?

phone terrorism and not so whole foods

this is like phone terrorism 101. its bad and it is unpoliced except at a personal level boundary. my boundary was set to prefall postfab berlin wall... unfortunately my override measures are set for flex and when deemed curious enough to need a closer dance. in this particular terrorist cell attack via my cell, well, i was either still absorbing the shock to my audio (and picked up accidentally) or i was curious or i wanted to dance. translation: i picked up a call i should not have and would not have picked up if i was in post nine eleven USA alert mode. but i was not. i was in relax and catch the sun at a better angle if you need something to occupy yourself with, mode. which was not even a mode at all, more like a sleep or hibernation cycle.

guess we all have these elapsed seconds of electrified air when true choices are made. True because there is no time for an intellectual way out. You respond on instinct or intuition. when you are in sleep mode, you respond with a yawn or just not very well at all, if well is measured by impact. respond in a way that provokes someone to fire you or chastise you, not that you deserve it. clearly it suggests something akin to smoking too much weed in the pre-legalization years in America.

Anyway, the consequences of poorly calibrated real-time-pressure-choice cylinders are many. Including the disturbance of my core sleep cycle in the sedated hour past midnight when atoms dont hug so tight, electrons turn positive (and optimistic), and spirits mess with those who do not believe in spirits. Easy to derail anything riding rails in this kind of tension free atmosphere. Well, this young man boldly called at the subzero calls time, and proceeded to try and talk me into meeting him...not at a club in some voted on time in the near future, but rather on this very night. Despite knowing and apologizing for waking me up. Despite hearing the despondency in my voice. He spoke of possibility. Possibility now! was his mantra. Very bold, very ignorant. Unless there was something beyond my awareness? Were we connected on an astral type plane which might make this kind of carrying on okay? Ram Dass was in the building.

It would have to be investigated, but not now. Now was about coming across to the guy that he was insane and i was sane. Well, that was not a perfectly honest statement, seeing as i frequently doubted my own sanity at more reasonable times of day. Well, that it did not matter what anyone was, I was gonna do what i was gonna do and that was hang up imminently and go back to sleep if possible. I would not tolerate his pleading for me to float out into some city street to meet him and possibly strike him dead with my feelings toward him now. Suddenly my choices in real time were on the level. But i was mad as hell. That was something worth remembering.

This disaster of an acquaintance was at levee breaking levels, when suddenly i heard him getting into an argument with someone about a candy bar. I asked him was he listening? What was happening to pull him away from my severe and conscious detachment? He must be fully present with me for a whole detachment to occur, damn it! I lay there by my cat on my bed, listening to him discuss the matter of a candybar, Three Musketeers, a matter prioritized above me and my conscious detachment process. I guessed he was at a gas station, and the vending machine had screwed him. I struck a blow to my pillow. and again. I was not strong enough to make a real impression on either pillow or man. I felt like you feel when you get a call and the caller is a recording who tells you to please hold. I did not fight the feeling. I did what i do when i feel that feeling. I hung up. and dreamed of an albino turtle, if such a thing exists.

Wednesday, 17 June 2009

spare your carbon monoxeygenated air (aka multitasking sux)

he got his weekly and his coffee and his eyes heart and soul over the marble tabletop between him and recycled dead trees spread with ink lit up around some situation, event, happening, whatever. the connection was strong enough to bring blood to his face. the girl across from him giggled and pointed. deep down she knew he was feeling the feeling. up top of her ballet toes she knew he was hitting gold flake paint tin ceiling. what a feeling.... epilogue.... neither of them ever saw eachother again, and he missed the mysterious unnamed event that stirred him to his soul... blame it on crappy 7/11 quality multitasking. he and millions of others were just waking up to the baby ruth juicy truth. doing five things at once is a good way to lose the life you think you might be juggling up there in the carbon monoxygenated air. a surefire loser of a dare. but please just don't stare. and thank you, i do care. now let me go. i gotta panhandle my bus fare.

Tuesday, 16 June 2009


the moment was all. any moment. and moments were delicious and full like apples. or they were not. things were happening, big things, in the moment. alot of folks passed them up or wrote them off as little things when actually they were big things. well, not just big things. only things. because there was nothing else. or those matters categorized in the minds of the masses as big things were not in existence in the moment that was passed up or written off. they were neither big nor small, nor medium. they were not.

so what she began to do or try to do, the intention she set for herself, was to see the moment, to capture the moment and experience it as large. meaning important. or critical. or essential. her life became suddenly more interesting. there were interactions she would typically have neglected or avoided in lieu of what she believed she was doing. she began to see these interactions as critical to her life. not just obstacles to get by on the way to something her mind told her she should be focused on. the mind was creative yet dangerous and notorious for eradicating moments, her many years of experience with her mind informed her.

so there was a train station that connected her to oakland. In the dark ages before she set her intention, she would walk directly to this train station and head home without hesitation after work. no matter what she encountered on the way. her mind had developed her inflexible stance that obliterated the possibility that lay within this ten minute stretch. now that she was able to meet and greet her mind, she became aware of the potential small tragedy. she located a new flexibility within herself to slow her pace and enjoy her walk to the station, heightening the potential of the situation. let it also be known on this day she became a carrier of light.

the empowerment was there for the taking. in each moment. a choice was made by each and every one. and still is. moment by moment. she decided for instance one sunny afternoon after work, that she would skip her normal route to the train station. the weather was just cheerful. she wanted to remain in the sunlight for some time longer. work was over, so the day was hers. she decided to walk to the next train station down so many urban san francisco blocks. she remembered with some melancholy the beautiful days in the past walking home, when choice did not fully exist (due to her own personal compromised awareness). she had been sad on those days because she had not wanted to walk into the dark subway station. she wanted to stay out on the streets and appreciate the light. but she was bound by her invisible mental creed to head home.

many colorful moments occurred for her on her walk down market street to the powell street station. she encountered the shoe store where she recently purchased a retro pair of blue converse walking shoes. she decided to return to the store and purchase a black and red pair of the same shoes, because she had grown to love them in the one week she had been walking them to and from work. while in the store, she had interactions with the employees and discovered that this was a family run business from way back, like 1960s, and there had been a fire and the store had recovered and stayed in business. the strength of family (sometimes) was evidenced to her in the story. and also in her witnessing the interactions of the employees, which was clearly on a knowing level far beyond your average walmart hires. she wished her family was so together, but she did not let her wishing ruin her many colorful moments as they went on.

she saw a protest march on market street with representatives from her very field in the ranks. there were signs in support of institutions that were slotted to close due to budget cuts. most of these institutions were well established in the tenderloin community, yet were to be victims of the economic downturn. a well of feeling rose up in her to see her comrades out on the street, and she waved to many of them and smiled and cheered. then came some anger towards the culture and system whereby the communities with the greatest problems and poverty often seem to see more services cut than those in higher socioeconomic strata. she chose not to join the march, however, for she knew not the destination and the march was heading the same direction from which she came.

she found a circle formed by Powell Street for street performers, young skinny boys who looked like art students. Hip-hop was playing and a crowd was gathering. The body movements to the music were seamless for the most part, like the best of them were gliding across pavement. Some of the kids rolled their bodies around, pulled and pushed their arms and legs into placement at strange angles. The crowd was mostly unenthusiastic if one looked at faces and listened to the absence of applause or cheering. She herself did not feel particularly connected to the art form but found it curious, fascinating. She also felt gratitude to the performers and found them to be wonderfully energetic and courageous, most of them.

The fluidity of the movement was not unlike the fluidity of the moment she left her normal path and intentionally derailed for the greater adventure. both were in some ways so ordinary you could have missed them in the camouflage of daily life. Yet at the same time, something truly light-bearing and momentous took place.