no such state as post love

Love-arrive! Our wounds beg justifiaction
we crawl over the broken, the bloodied paths to invoke you again:
the greatest stillness
the loudest noise
never come love, never come.

Love- our throats crack with questions, again again.
why must you birth and then burn us?
why must creation seize and cease in ache?
why! the moaning! why! the moving! why-
the greatest stillness
the loudest noise
never come love, never come.

Love-our mortal feet know not the land
our maps are burnt, signposts switched.
we know not how to search nor find
the greatest stillness
the loudest noise
never come love, never come.

answer
only
this

that the seed fears not deception in the soil
the bird begs not commitment from the bench
skies never swear not to fall.
each day swells and rises again,

All spines soften under your weight
all necks bend, near break to greet
the greatest stillness
the loudest noise

T-3.

Circles. The fingers are stiff as a passion forgotten, locked away in some maybe trunk, covered in wounds and molding banadages.

Writing?

That gift, that force-for so long

Living with magic may be challenging, but there is no greater satisfaction than knowing you are living in accordance with your highest values.

"It's taken a lot of determination, but I've finally given up on ambition."

I give thanks every day to intuition, silence, and courage. Thank the lord that I write my little passions and paint my little glamours from this big daddy of a brown leather chair, on a trunk filled with old journals, instead of in a stream of post-secondary cluster-fuck, with minds that are searching for what I already know; purpose.

I can't judge what the stones look like on anther's path, I can only know that I like how the stones on my path feel against my feet.

Perhaps I can modify the infamous Gonzo quote"I wouldn't recommend sex, drugs or insanity for everyone, but they've always worked for me." to
"I wouldn't recommend dropping out of college, meditation and buying a van to everyone, but it certainly worked for me."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
A thanks to all of you who follow this pitiable little blog,floating around in the horrifying swirl of genius that social media creates.

Did you know? EVERYONE is a genius. Everyone! Perhaps that's what we'll look back on the "2000's" like:
"Yes, there was some political upheavel, invasions and conquering, like with any good era, but most amazingly, judging by the amount of broadcasted opinion, we are lead to believe that in fact, there was an incredible surge of brilliance."

Oh dear.

As far as life goes, it's hard to believe it continues to be this rich.

Battling the addictions, depravities and pesky thoughts that follow us around in this mortal realm, delighting in the amazing gifts that keep ending up on my doorstep this evening, and learning about the nature of myself, my spirt-our spirit, and the levels and spaces in between.

The college dropout and: the dream life!

I have to crouch down to keep from being thrown to the back of the truck, through it's loosely locked doors, and into an death all too perfect and fitting, albeit untimely.

As I am interviewing a city councillor in hours, I sit on my scarf, and try to keep my mouth clean and my pants cleaner.

In this country, we say "folks" not "bitches."

We're careening through Vancouver's streets, up into glass towers to steal furniture from the media with the money, and bring it back, behind hastings, in a purple and orange alley, wedge our U Haul in and block the cars and rats from going past.

Once we get back into the alley, and wade past the dripping tarps and deflated baloons that fill the doorway, I tug down the gridded wood of the utiltiy elevator, and rise jerkily through oily wood and darkness to the second floor, where we grunt and throw solid oak bookshelves around like mere books.

The floor is painted, the ceilings high, the place is expansive. All my artificial memories of Warhols factoy and New York artist warehouse days come flooding through. I bite my tounge to keep from running around screaming.

This, is community media.

These are my people.

This, is my dream life.

A new twist in the land of lincoln, blinkin and blog.

Well Kidlets, here it is.

I've abandoned the ship of the ivory tower, and gone hurling into the uncharted deep, to make it on my own.

A very good decision, in my case, and on my part, if you were wondering.

While school has more than its place in this world and my life, I felt, and now know, that I was missing out on the opportunities and experiences of the "real world" filling out bogus stories and listening to how it was in the golden age of journalism.

And it's good, the opportunities are flooding down the drainpipe and providing me with the time to use such rediculous metaphors as "flooding down the drain pipe"

ahem.
so, such begins my journey into the world of a J-School Dropout.

Surfing the waves of elation and self defeat.

Such an incredible amount of poured concrete in post secondary institutions, and even as I sit in the incredible glass building that is the Langara library, complete with bamboo, breathing roofs and lake-like moats (even ducks! even ducks swim in them) I can't help but feel like the most lifeless file clerk this side of an office tower downtown (and they're actually doing what they want to be doing)

Yes, I ached for J school
Yes, I sweated and bled over my applications.

But here I am, choking down economic theories and remembering the days in the summer when I was actually living my shit, was actually PRACTICING journalism and BEING an independent journalist, instead of swallowing someone else's antiquated wisdom and filing information back in my brain to be regurgitated later.

It's probably a bitter moment, a mere bitter moment.

But all I feel like saying, is baby, I see through it.
The glass tower just ain't my bag.

Check back with me tommorrow... it's probably going to look like the other side of the coin.

Anatomy

The mouth, blackens itself to street meat
The flesh, lying, is thick with regret
The mind, denying, mimes defeat
And the heart beats itself apart.

The bones, cave with a sorrow that lets
The flesh grieve as it needs
and feed, this human debt.

The hands, bend back and yet
Undo nothing, the past indeed
Will not take breath, nor ressurect
It's heart that beat itself apart.