Making The Cut

What does it mean to be a friend?  I mean, a real friend.  What does it take?  Do people even know, anymore?

I went through my friends list this morning, and recognized all the faces.  I remembered all the things we did together, the various conversations, hugs, kisses or secrets shared.  And then I deleted them.  I didn't even like an uncomfortable number, and I'm sure they felt the same way, we'd just fallen victim to the social graces and popularity contest that we call life.

I'm raising the bar again, if you're still on my friends list, congratulations—I find you to be a genuine person at heart, and believe you're a valuable, sincere contribution to existence, as a whole.  But what's my opinion matter?  I'm just another crazy, wild child who believes that world domination is merely the next step to enlightenment. 

Trust is a fickle thing, hard to gain, and easy to lose.  How does one build trust?  In my opinion, empathy and reliability are crucial factors, but the most important is that what everyone seems to miss:  unfettered, unapologetic availability.  I readily admit that I'm sometimes too tied up in my own life to realize what's going on in everyone else's, but if I get a call from a friend in need, then I drop whatever I'm doing and fulfill my obligation as a dedicated friend to them.  I don't start crunching numbers, I don't glance repeatedly at my watch, and I try not to cut them down.  Instead, I jump into my car, open my schedule, and freely offer my wallet, and heart.  Why does our relationship with others always come with strings and limitations?  Why are we so hesitant to commit to others, and truly help those we love?

We all have acquaintances.  You know the type, you buy them a drink when you're out and about; you give them a hug when you're spotted on the street, and then you never, ever call them outside of the social circumstance.  There's nothing wrong with this, but they are not your friend.  It's bothersome when people are so obsessed with the contest, and so set on cool that everyone's "my boy, my girl".  There's no respect there, anymore.  They don't care who you are, and you might offer an, "oh, that's too bad" if you heard they fell off a bridge, but there wouldn't be any more thoughts after that, and certainly no tears shed.

Respect, where does respect come from?  Is it the sum of accomplishments, the acclaim and responsibility vested unto, or the investiture of proven, experienced heroism?  I feel that respect is earned through awe and manipulation, but also through critical confidence in self. 

You never hear about "common sense" people on the news.  You hear about the risk-takers, the crazy, and the dead.  We respect those people, we're awed.  Most of the time, we say, "I could've thought of that", or, "I wonder what I would've done in that situation".  Or perhaps, we're simply amazed, and respect suddenly blossoms.  We're constantly looking for those who inspire us, for those who pursue and compete with their idols.

How do you maintain that empathetic, unfailing bond against the jagged hardships of life, humanity and competition?  How do you balance a double-edged razor?  Can we ever be a quintessential friend to anyone but ourselves?

Holding Hands With Your Shadow!

When you turn out the lights and immerse yourself in the pitch-est of pitch, and the blackest of black, what do you see? Do you feel a chill creep up your spine, as the monsters from your childhood creep out from under the bed and rustle within the closet, or feel the warm blanket of darkness welcome you home? Do you desperately search for a guiding light, or feel your way along the walls by rote?

We're all looking for something different in the dark. Some of us search for treasure, others run from nightmares, and still others stumble blindly, groping for something to hold onto.

There's something to be said for walking alone in the dark, away from the city lights and away from the press of people, far from the glitz and glam of everyday life. You're left with yourself, your thoughts, your motion, the rhythmic beat of your heart, and the resolute inhale/exhale of breath. You can finally let down your guard, there aren't any prying eyes or explanations to be provided. You can finally reflect on yourself, as a vulnerable subject, deprived and devoid of (visual) perception. You can let your imagination tumble the wraiths and wavy shadows in the absence of light into umbral clouds, and you can feel your most basic instincts kicking in. Your hearing sharpens, you become alert, the adrenaline courses through you as a critter scurries across the path. Still, your feet keep treading, one in front of the other, and your chest rises, and falls.  Rises, and falls. You're in a routine, now, walking alone with yourself in the darkness, holding hands with your shadow.

silken silent silhouette reflecting on collections
protecting perceptions and the twilight photoic projections
affections are interlaced
some selections replaced
in this shower I'm liquid lavender encased
after the fresh shampoo i just wanna cuddle up next to you
and sit witness to this galactic spaztastic elastic game of
Fate Intimidate. 

Papered Bird

If I could fold you up into an origami creation, you would be a bird. Painted wings and glued-on eyes, watching the horizon with wind in your heart and your soul plastered across your feathers. Flighty and headstrong, pressed into a stubborn sheet of paper, crumpled into a mimic of yourself.

People would take you into their homes and into their lives, whispering their secrets to you when they could tell no one else, because they know your crafted beak won't spill a word. They will set you upon their mantle piece and take you for granted, understanding that you will always be there, a fixture in their worlds, beautiful and listening.

 

Until one day you turn on them, flying out of their lives as lightly as you flew in, and suddenly they realize how much they had relied on you. How much space your color took up, and how little you really cared about their lives.

They would realize, then, that a paper heart is nothing more than a pretty construct.

Blue Moon, You Saw Me Standing There...

"This is it! It's gonna be gone soon."

"I know."

"What do we do?"

"Enjoy it!"

I used to talk to him in his sleep; sometimes waiting patiently as dark hands counted out the night for his response. I would fall in love over and over again as the pallid light of the moon illuminated his skin. It is so easy to love someone in their sleep--to see a man transform into the boy he used to be. The rising and falling of his breath like a lullaby you cannot sleep without. Quiet my heart and mind, baby, calm and comfort me.

In catacombs of wishes, I am still whispering desires. Leading my lost love to secure chambers where he can be my confidence, where I can talk to him as he were still here, shelter him from the threat of time and reality.

It is only in the realm of dreams where I can make love to your memory.

Personal Oracles of Life Experience

I've been taking a lot of notice lately as to how the life circumstances of all those we encounter can be as impacting as walking blindly into a brick wall. For most of my life, I've been one to see reality and circumstance as something that intermingles readily with destiny. Quick disclaimer, destiny to me seems more like the universe at work behind the scenes rather than some ultimate plan in the end. I find that as I radiate out my frequencies of wants/desires and needs, the universe sets to work to find compliments to those frequencies. As I'm open to seeing them, then I find those compliments in all corners of life. I may hear the story of a coworker, and although their situation has nothing to do with my situation, maybe… just maybe their telling of that story and my hearing it may be a correlation that the universe provides for me to observe and learn from. I may find that as I meet people, they themselves are not telling me anything, but their lives and life circumstances are telling me something. I may connect with 3 totally random strangers, and all of those people have something obscurely in common, and that, to me, is the universe telling me something.

Ok, so what if it's not some big old universe telling me something? What else could it be?

Just as easily, I can see it as an opportunity for me to observe, and learn: to connect with something in myself that is deep in my own psyche, and then to help me work it to the surface, allow it to dissipate completely, or whatever it is that I feel connected to do about it.

The bottom line is that I feel a connection of some capacity to just about everything, not just things of substance, but things of circumstance, situation and theory as well. You have impacted my life, and helped me to find some connection deeper within my self, and for that I am very thankful.

Radiating Gratitude as abundantly as I can manifest it.

Party of ONE: the Loners' Manifesto.

On Friends

Of course loners have friends. Loners, with our extra capacity for concentration, focus, our fewer distractions, make excellent friends. To a few. One, maybe, but a real one. Time shared, even with true friends, often requires loners to put in extra time alone, overtime, to recharge. It is a master of energy: as a rule, loners have so much for the social machinery, the talk, and sympathy. But our fuel runs out. This is what a nonloners don't understand about us, what they cannot see.

Friends do not come easily to us. Being friends with a loner requires patience and the wisdom that "distance" does not mean dislike. Friends are all the more essential to loners, because in many cases, they are our sole conduits to the outside world. When we find good ones, we pour ourselves into them.

On Sex

The public would conclude that sexually satisfied loners are an oxymoron, or we're compulsive masturbators. It's so obvious. What else could we possibly be doing? This, of course, is because it is a solitary practice. Things done alone are mysterious, dangerous, wrong, shameful, incomplete. In the eyes of the world, they do not count. On the sexual-options coolness scale, it ranks pretty much at the bottom, barely above bestiality. (Woody Allen, to his credit, has called it sex with someone you love.)

On Love and Relationships

Well, since they think we're eunuchs or compulsive masturbators, either way, we're fucked.

Meeting anyone at all is not a loners long suit. Meeting an assembly line of maybes has as much appeal as severe sunburn. Opening lines, small talk, seem repulsive and we haven't even mentioned pursuit. We fear, loathe and are bored with small talk. Spending time even with those we know, even with old friends, can grate. For loners, spending time with strangers, again and again, a stream of strangers, not merely to get it over with but to discern whether someday you will put your tounge inside this person's mouth, is the definition of surreal.

It has been said before, let's say it again: loner is not a synonym for misanthrope. Nor it is one for hermit, celibate, or outcast. It's just that we are very selective. VERRRRRRY SELECTIVE.

Secretly, we are romantics, romantics of the highest order. We want a miracle. Out of millions, we have to find the one who will understand. We would prefer to be alone with our own thoughts than with a less than perfect fit. We are almost constitutionally incapable of casual relationships.

Loners, if you catch them, are well worth the trouble. Not dulled by excess human contact, not blase' or focused on your crotch while jabbering about themselves, loners are curious, vigilant, full of surprises. They do not cling. Separate wherever they go, awake or asleep, they shimmer with the iridescence of hidden things seldom seen. You don't need to be told this. You know.

Enlightenment

Yesterday, you had me the focal point of your search for security. In your private thoughts, you are still trying to order your world so that it is predictable and feels safe. Not only is this an impossible goal, but it is also counterproductive to spiritual growth. When your private world feels unsteady and you grip my hand for support, you are living in conscious dependence on me.

Instead of yearning for a problem-free life, rejoice that trouble can highlight your awareness of my presence. In the darkness of adversity, you are able to see more clearly the radiance of my face. Accept the value of problems in this life, considering them pure joy. Remember that you have an eternity of trouble-free living awaiting you in the end.

Today, I let you go and found an enlightenment. I stopped to look at the fiery sky with admiration, then I started crying. But unlike any other tears, I cried because I know the sun is rising and I finally see the light at the end of that tunnel.

Today, something big and great is coming for me, and I cannot wait.

Master of My Domain

The toughest thing about starting something new is saying goodbye to something old. A real master knows the only way to walk off that plank is to leave nothing behind unfinished, unread, or with anyone idly standing by. The master knows because she's done it so many times before. She learns to love what everyone else avoids: the crevasse of the unknown and the fear of never finding anything better than what's been left behind. 

The master spent her last days reflecting, preparing, recharging, and restarting. She did it all alone. "Absolve you to yourself, and you shall have the suffrage of the world." - some dead guy said. Imagine what he would think of all this clutter. In our world, the pinnacle of independent thought is posted on pages with fancy banners and flashing advertisements alongside. He'd probably laugh at a world where dialogue has been reduced from argument and compromise to attack and defend.

Each day, I'm told that the more connected we all are, the better off we will be. Maybe they're right. But the more lines we string between each other, the more we are going to lose one another when bad connections occur. I like the butterflies in my stomach when someone I don't know looks at me in the eyes, smiles and says "Hello". The toughest thing about starting something new is not getting tangled and lost in those lines. I'm making a few clean cuts and leaving a few things behind. But I won't fret. After all, I am a master.

"The Princess Is Not In This Castle".

Whatever happened to those princesses, happily ever after? Oh, those princesses...

We thought the magic was in the castle walls. We thought we could contain and save it away, as if it was something to own and conjure at whim. Now, we find it a "living creature" of its own device that breathes life into the mundane and inanimate. Possess it? No, this fancy, fickle creature possesses us. It is alive.

And now, you princess, take another look at this castle. Bereft of magic and forsaken of love, with not even a handsome prince to warm your bed, or a vicious dragon to keep the loneliness at bay. Solitude permeates the air without even the dim life of a ghostly specter -- even those dark corners don't hold mystery.

This castle was always a fortress of a dungeon but for awhile inhabited and transformed by magic. Was this ever a kingdom?

Vacate the premises and run to the courts; surely there, magic still lingers in the rosebushes and only exists through the cast of spells. But, even they fled the neglected gardens once abundant with fertility; weeds have choked the colors out of petals and bled the earth of nourishment. We created this garden of love, but have just as surely killed it out of indifference and carelessness. There exists no magic in corpses.

What is that throne worth now? Are we to wilt and fade prettily like a dying star in gown and crown upon our sepulcher? 

Princess, darling, precious, all those endearments in the stead of your name. Did you really believe you were so delicate and fragile? Did you believe them when they said your place was to be kept by castle, man, and love? Is that all you desire? 

Take off your gaudy crown; it keeps you from looking up at the sky. Dispose of your heavy attire; it keeps you from being nimble and quick. Remove yourself of those gloves; it disables you from wrangling and mastering the beasts of your nightmares. 

Our valiant prince and fearsome dragon are gone. We see our castle of what it is: sand to be crumbled and clouds to be blown away. We've shed our skin and have exposed ourselves to the sun and air to be weathered and toughened. More than anything we want to find that magic again, not to own or possess, but to learn how to wield -- a miracle so frighteningly unpredictable and wonderfully illuminating. There is magic in this new world.