Slavery is not dead.

A new connection made today.

Rock stars are the sex-trafficked prostitutes of music.

Think about it. Music, like sex, is a thing individuals engage in it with others of their choice. We engage freely and consensually. When we connect, it is deep, raw, and real. We are stirred. It gets to the heart of what we are. The comparison holds when we talk about preferences. Genres of music, personalities of people. Body types like musical styles. Soul mates like a perfect song at just the right time. We need, crave, seek both with passion and lust.

And just so, people particularly good at sex and music choose to make a living of their art. In a fucked up system where money is the only way a person survives, this is not a problem. Ney. This is good. We should enjoy these things, and why not support someone in what skill they have? I am in whole support of the free-trade of both.

The problem comes in when a person, rather than the art, is the thing owned and sold. When a sex or music artist becomes the non-consensual slave of a master. Controlled; told how to sell, to whom, when, and where. In this metaphor, record labels are the pimps of the music world. Making the real dollars while the slave is kept in poverty of real freedom.

These slaves of the industry are tricked into this life by the same thing — the glamor of life on the other side. The glittery, pretty, expensive life. The pleasurable, free life. And before the person knows it, they are trapped. Chained, broken, and unable to move. There grows a sense of “no way out” because to leave is to run. And to run is to throw away the possibilities of the life that seemed so good and so close. The very life that got the person trapped in the first place.

But the life on the inside will never glitter, nor be gold. It is a life that is not your own. And you will run yourself to the marrow of your bone, and still never see the light of day beyond.

To get mad at an industry-based artist is to get mad at a slave. But to engage in the shit-show, pretending you don’t know what’s going on behind the scenes, is just as sick. Encouraging masters to take slaves.

We, the free, must stand together against slavery in all its forms and at all costs.

Mahalo

Oceanside, and this language and these ceremonies are not mine. But I dwelled in them at the grace of others. I am full of gratitude.

Food was good and my belly was full and I was ready.

We talked story. We listened. We sat in a circle among cracked seashells and pebbly rainbow colored sand. We watched and moon set and voices rose in mysterious chants. Then, we joined hearts and took off.

I met with a gathering of sea spirits tonight. I backed away, thinking only — Oh no, I don’t know these ghosts. But one called to me and said to put my hand out anyway. I could not see what gift I’d received because I wasn’t supposed to yet.

Open palmed, trusting my gift was safe, I washed and beat through a white glowing light that heated a circle of us. Healing, touching, cleansing the land. My heart and chest opened, afraid to disappear, but accepting the risk and letting go.

When I opened my hand, in it laid a lock of hair. And I thought, “Who’s is this? What color? Is it black? White? Blonde?”

Truth like a white razor though my gut told me it was my own. And I knew, that sea spirit I thought I did not know had been there all along. My protector on the balcony back in Belingham. My friend among strangers here in a new land. My guide as I go, through the light, to a new land.

Friends on these shores will drum in the sun and I will be caught up in the air.

Our guide asked, “How old are you?” And later, at the end, said to me, “You have an interesting journey.”

I am accepting of all these things. Of aloha, mahalo, and ha’a. I am humbled and energized and full of a fire; this world as nothing but a star somewhere in the vastness of the universe. I burn orange and warm to white hot. I am a part of what will burn away all of the trash.

I have faith because it was returned. Proof in strands of the past that I was never alone.

Mahalo friend.
Arigato kimigo.

I will do my best to help recreate the ceremonies of the past that humanity has lost. Rebuild what our destruction has wrought. Heal what I can. Stand in the light and share it’s glow.

I will evolve. I will not forget.

No Dice

Pieces of the past drift across the moment, leafs caught in a blustery autumn wind. I watch them crackle across my view, and I am transported in a way I’m not particularly pleased about to another time.

In the phase-shift, I feel again feelings I’ve tried to shed. Shame and self-hate. Zero confidence in my ability to be anything.

I click closed the file. I am happy to have thrown away or burned my copies of those photos. My snapshots of the past inside of me are enough. I don’t want to waste any more time sifting through old me’s and old you’s.

I’ve had enough of that drug. I need to let it be and circumnavigate.
Onward to another life.

Motion of the Wheel

“Over it”. I struggle with that phrase. Because how can I get over something in my way? Climb? Are there stairs? A rope ladder? Am I scaling a blank wall?

“Moving on” is the same. Where do I go? When do I leave? What is going to take me, carry all these things? How do I pack myself up into boxes and crates? What, even if I could, do I take?

It’s as hard emotionally as physically. Complicated. But breaking down what both phrases mean brings something new to light.

There is a difficulty to it. A decision. No, but more than just one. Multiple decisions involved. And each new change brings up all the possibilities again. It is a struggle. A constant analysis. Ongoing, active assessment of what/where the previous step left you and what to do next.

“Moving on” and “getting over it” is fucking hard.

Steady word that can’t be done by just sitting idle and thinking. Continuous motion is what’s needed. Steps in the same direction, but an ability and desire to constantly correct. Come down to rise back up. Discard or store for later use.

And sometimes, the moment we pack one thing away, we immediately realize we don’t even want it. And the moment we give something up or toss it out is the moment we realize how badly we need it. Sometimes, it’s only after a long journey of moving, climbing, rising and falling, that we realize the errors we’ve made in our decision-making.

Then there’s times we get lucky, and it’s the exact opposite. The things we did just as randomly are exactly what we didn’t know we’d need. Other times, we are the luckiest, and our decisions are all spot on.

We are creatures in a chaotic system. And the system has organized itself to work with and by randomness, not solely accounting for it. So random happenstance is not the exception, but the rule. And all outcomes are equally viable.

The attempt to organize, coordinate, and collate is only for our own temporary, temporal mental and emotional benefit. You can just as easily do one thing or its opposite with the same result. So the idea that anyone could “get it right” is misguided. The only thing we ever do is guess and correct.

Success, failure, and stasis are all equally plausible for every sector on the grid, and all processes can result in the same end.

So worry? There’s no point.

Try? It’s all there is to do. While keeping in mind that laughter, tears, and boredom are all inevitable.

Night walk

As a made-up character, I and a stranger helped one another through a rough day. We touched spirits but not hands, and our faces were the whole time hidden. But our love in the moment was whole, raw, and true. It took the shape of a  cloud, a white puffed-out heart hovering picturesque over the ragged Ko’olaus when we broke out from the house.

As night fell, I watched as you struggled to share truth in a form you know. It is not the same as mine, but it effected me in a way. And for that, I am grateful. As I am for all the half-gods I’ve passed over time. We touch hands symbolically before our contact becomes too great. Then, I gather up the bits of truths that are good, and cling them tight in my talons as I fly into the night.

The night outside is star-dusted and we cross through neighbourhoods of houses we do not know. The tide is low and we danced on rocks where crabs hid and softly nipped my toes. Laughter from the fright. I’ve learned to laugh and scream at the same time. One guttural reaction full of the force of life. And in the burning of my throat and belly afterwards, I find release and ease. Melodies pur soft humming songs in the after-glow as we head from the edge of land.

Another beach across the tangle of suburban roads. There we gather at the edge of sharpened lava to stare at the turbulent ocean. We all throw rocks at the ocean. Holding our breaths and waiting for the dark rolling wave to crash. As white spray sparkles across the darkened crags of rocks, it is the perfect moment. Sound bursting from our chests and the shore. One rock had filled my hand, the other was a small collection of three. Each rock was a problem we each needed to release.

I throw mine out and scream hard, letting go. We, group of four, process our struggles together. And the rocks hit water and sink into the tossing ocean under starlight and cloud glow, disappearing for good.

A tradition I learned from a stranger on a screen. Moments before I lost hope.

The winter triangle, glittering red white blue, has risen in the pre-winter sky tonight. Just past the horizon, one point tucked into a cloud. The short edge points our eyes to the rosary in the sky. And I like the collective symbols we gather together. I will take with me, shards of truth, whenever I go. Put them in my back pocket and keep them all for later.

The walk back home is slow, and we meander through the cooling warmth, holding hands like lovers.
We laugh and sigh. I love everything.

gods iv (Artifact)

I see, now, how gods are made. You fight and you fight and you fight — right up until the break. Then, at the very last second, you cave.

You could have changed the world, but it would have cost your soul. It would have been slow erosion and you wanted the wash of the flood. You would have been sunk in the dark and lost your heart. You came close. To death, many times. But the cost of that loss — you thought — was too great a price to pay. The risk too high. And with life, they were able to coax you down.

So, you folded hands and packed it in, and packed auditoriums instead. The monsters said you couldn’t make it without their help and their hand and crumbs from their table. Turns out, they were right. The machine runs this way because it was created to.

But, as I watch, I feel a heavy sinking in my gut. A hopelessness none of your faith or words can cure. Because if the gods don’t hold to tack, who will?

Society is a sinking ship and everyone is tied, laughing, to the bow. No-one is brave enough to catch wind and let go. So, no-one even tries to untie the ropes. The knots would slip oh so fucking easily, if you’d have slipped a finger underneath. But excuses and logic reasoning is so easy to believe, and to bow is kinder on the knees than to fall.

But what do I know?

I will never be a god. Never dwell inside your columned rooms on the top of your Olympus. I’ll be small beans in the back seat. Small shells collected by small hands on a vast sea shore. Drift across an ocean slow, a single coconut. Over time and over scope, I might help change the ecosystem of a distant island. But of course, I little seed, will never know.

I will live a whole life in want and lack, risk and chance, loss and loneliness. I live there by choice. I’m an idealist to the hardened core, and I don’t know how to say “no more”. I’m just a seeker grabbing pieces enough to survive. And, I don’t need excess to fight back. I, sea swallow, store my venom well and wait.

One day, my time too will come. But it will be dimmer and slower, and I will not see its flash.

I have no spite for you and your ways, and I don’t mean to be mean.
This is just an honest review. The spirit’s response. A cry from the gut.
If your godly eyes grace this place, just take these words for what their worth.

I don’t have a lot of hope; cynical night hunter that I am.

I already said: gods and ghosts don’t meet.
I’ve seen the proof of why. Now, I believe.

Peace. One final time.

Believe whatever makes you feel better.

Legs skinny as spring twists. Toes blue-white curled around a hard, unforgiving ledge. Clipped wings, bones of shoulder blades jutting back under tight, goose-pimpled skin. Chest stretches upward, pulled by the gravity of expectation and inevitable disappointment.

The ocean waves lap far below, taunting. Spray sprinkles shattered rainbow shards through the air. The wind as it twists around jagged rocks and through snakelike holes cries in a thousand immaterial voices, “Fly.”

So you try.

And it’s a long way down, but the time it takes is a breath and a blink before the feeling of freedom is torn away by the lash and crack of the ocean in your face.

Down through a tumble in darkness confused you fall, roll over, and cannot find up. Alone in murky dark, you reach for purchase and find only your own hair and limbs to tangle about in.

You wish a spear of light from the surface would stab through the deep and grab you. Catch you, flailing fish without gills. Drag you back to air.

You are waiting, but this one gasping breath with only last so long.

The dark is closing in.

The end is coming.

And bubbles made of screams will only pop into nothing.

The universe wanted you to succeed? Were you sure you read that right?

Perhaps the universe is indifferent and we are but vibrations with painfully self-aware egos that ache to be more than we know we can be.

Or, maybe you are not drowning but swimming and the surface is but arm’s length away and you have a pretty long reach. And kick upward is all you’ve got to do. Hold your screams in to fight gravity and break through.

Why? Because the universe wants you to.