England, England

I am made up of pieces of everything I’ve collided with over the years. Sentences phrased in ways I’d never have said, images in colors I’d never have dreamed. Words arranged on a stack of pages I sometimes shuffle and rearrange.

What rested, seemingly stuck to the top has drifted below. Names and faces and lusts for things I kept telling myself I don’t need. But did need because the lights of those fires taught me things. But in the shuffle, the exact images always get lost.

This day’s reorganization brings to the surface a line from a book: “You do it by doing it.”

And so, I get up and I do it.
Visa paperwork. New plane tickets. Emails and phone calls to confirm information. And an alarm in a base that doesn’t exist. Two lovers who don’t love, pressed together out of fright, worry, the pressing of the night.

Tomorrow, I will likely shuffle again. And see what scraps float up and what sinks down.
Life is a never-ending shift and I love being tossed in its current. Even in the eventually I get banged up on some sharp rocks and coral. The cuts and scrapes, bruises and scars are what have always made me. I hope to gather many more.

While I do, I float in rivers and bathe in fires and swim with honus, striving just to love what life I touch. I trust canto-yokai in all their forms to protect me. And when I die, to lift my spirit back into to the current of cosmic wind.

O’hana

Family. The people I know, regardless of my path, got my back. And those to whom I will always come if you call. The ones we trust. The ones we say love to, and they understand. We tell each other how we belong not to prove that we should, but to remind each other that here — home — we are safe. We will always be safe.

Family is our harbor against the storm.

I have traveled much and settled sparingly. And in always going, I have found family all over this land. People whose hands I have touched and whose hands have held me. People who I have fed and been fed in return. People who even before I came, already knew me. Beings who, for no reason other than some shared vibration, choose to trust me. And I have trusted in return, seeking protection and safe passing. We have not abandoned one another.

And though the road is pocked full of holes and the incline steep and dangerous, I will continue my journey, seeking and finding. Giving and taking. Loving and being loved. Making and being family.

The risk of injury is always subordinate, in my heart, to the journey.

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.