It is a Sunday, and I wanted to find my disjointed thoughts in front of me. For me.

There was an old wicker bird cage, canary yellow, that sat on some unnecessary piece of furniture in a lovely, but unnecessary room we fittingly dubbed the "Sun room".   A dusty, pretty stage for moments to play on.  Cast by my mother, directed by my father, written by whatever.  The cage was fragile and curious and never held a bird.  The room itself was fragile, curious, and could never hold the sun.  But, ah, how they held us.  Transfixed our eyes with their shapes and the way the light lavishly slid across it all--so convincing they had a purpose, a necessity, and we were convinced.  And we are still transfixed.

Time is intricate, right?  Well, she has the ability to be.  She is so natural at trickery.  She is lulling, she is comforting, she is terrifying.  Time is debatable but fixed.  She is a piece of art nailed to a white-washed wall, open to all interpretations but solid in her own state.  So really, she is everything and nothing, so, everything.   She is as much or as little of a necessity as the wicker canary cage and the Sun-room.  Time is a stage, and we can chose to have a hand in her performance, or we can watch, as she dances around us.  

At this point in Time, I know less about life then I ever have.  I know almost nothing about what things are.  Things like time, reality, friends, love, responsibility, loneliness, fears, strength, courage, emotions, sex, pain, elation, family...nothing about what these things are.  Of course, I constantly use analogies for all of them, and usually discuss them with some sort of well-shaped opinion, but that is in convenience  for everyday conversation.  I've known life, at one point.  Then I learned a few things, and now,  I'm thinking that all of life is no different then myself in that things constantly change, every moment.  So, oh!  Oh, oh look, there's that--I know change pretty well.  But I do not wish to know life, fully.  Not now.  That seems limiting.  What would I have left to discover?  To know nothing is so incredibly interesting to me.  Fascinating.  I strive to be fascinated with everything.

From now on, what I say I know, I know I do not know fully: I know enough to understand.  To know is beyond us, but to understand seems incredibly human.  To know just enough that we can relate to one another, to the point of knowing each other.  

I wish I could know you.  You must have so many wonderful caverns in your mind.  Simple and straight or curved and dark, light, bright, pale.  Thoughts that are caked in the dirt of the past or dreams that gleam brilliant as steel but are equally as unapproachable.  Memories in boxes on shelves with candles and musical and antique banks with bears and painted iron because why now--your mind can be anything.  I wish I could know you.  Instead, I will try and understand you.  Your looks and your eyebrow raises.  Your hand movements.  Your pauses.  Your choices.  The way you stand up, open a door, look at a note, look at yourself, look out a window, look at me.  The way you are curious.

If I do not try to know you, I will not fully know myself.  To try and know a person should be more enlightening, more educational then any book or other tool.  We meet a different world of experience with every handshake.  Every person is an opportunity to know life.

Please, let me know you.  
 



 

Please Return To Sender

I've been meaning to address a few things. My laundry. My broken coffee maker. The smell in my car. A thick stack of crumpled receipts and a pile of unread books. A closet full of hangers and a floor full of clothes. A cockroach I named Tootie. A rematch with my mother in Words With Friends. The purchase of a banjo. A collection of dust coated "need-to-watch" films. A peculiar stain on my coach pillow. The telemarketer that keeps calling me Phil something...

I'll eventually get these things addressed. Eventually. Well, all right, maybe not the telemarketer thing because, to be honest, I like the quick and odd phone banter as I politely explain I am not Phil. I do not know Phil. At least stop calling me Phil if you DO call me....this has become a comfortable regiment. But in any case, these are all fine things to address. To get done. To acknowledge, process, organize, do. Simple, is all of this.

Simple, sure. But I have not been able to DO any of that. Instead, I have been running then

frantically power-walking and at times electric sliding (a wonderful way to get to any destination, albeit a slow one) all over everywhere...stuck, stuck, stuck in my head. In a moment of temporary sanity, I came to the conclusion that I probably need some Drain-o for the mind. No, no--not the self administered alcoholic version known to leave those who over indulge in its' effects buckled over on some bathroom floor, laden with clipped nose hairs and peculiar stains, all the while in a state of self loathing irony....no, I'll pass. I mean this. A flush of thought. You see, my head becomes so clogged with unprocessed emotions. Maybe you might relate. We're busy. We're busy, complicated, tired, intricate things and I for one, rather watch some

television show about other people unclogging their overly dramatic emotional pipes than do my own damn mental processing....stuff is exhausting and as I just said--we're tired! Whatever, it eventually gets to this point, and it's time for some, ah, over dramatic, fear-based, Eckhart Tolle challenging, emotional cleansing, void of most intellectual rationality..heavily based in fluff. Head fluff. Fluffy, flower, human stuff. Human marshmallow heart and head healing fluff, is fine, from time to time. Too much, and we become the giant Stay Puft marshmallow man from Ghost Busters. Or the Pillsbury Dough Boy. Or a combination of the two and then you'll just be chased around your whole life by creepy people who want to shoot you, and simultaneously tickle your belly.

SIDE RANT: It is, apparently, a comma, filled, day, and, will probably, continue to be one. I urge you, to not, take an actually breath, between each one of my terribly placed punctuation, marks, or, you might, just pass out. Back, to....

But a blog, let's be honest, is not a good place to set ones emotional drainage free. Messy stuff, that is. So to clarify, this is not any drainage--this is the cleanse. My Brain-Drain-O itself. The solution that I use to break the head knots down. Aspects of my life I should address regularly (there are many more than the ones below...family, work, peace, health, etc, but, bup-bup-bup, those are tended to, thank you) but, well, plain have not. And what better way to address something than in the form of a letter. My Love, my Mind and You are quite general things that apply to very specific pieces of my life--but maybe, just maybe, you are either bored and annoyed out of your mind--that's fine by me, I'm good, here on my end, with my coffee--or, you'll be able to relate to it.

Dear Mind,

I wish you would settle. To quiet. To curl yourself up in the inviting warmth of existence and allow yourself to indulge in soft details of the present scenery. I wish that you would form yourself more definitively. To pronounce yourself more distinctively. To judge yourself less harshly. To finish your many ventures. To process and file and organize yourself. I want that you should not have the needs you do. I want that you would not need reassurance. I want that you would not need structure. But I can tell you, as much as you loose yourself, I will be sure to find you. I owe it to you, to appreciate you. I might not always like you, but I will a

lways love you. You have built me a world of color and creation, shadows, monsters, magic...the ability to choose: everything a miracle, or nothing...Simple, is this.

Dear You,

I may not know you, I probably do not. The world, after all, is quite large. And if I do know you, I am sorry if I will never fully see you, or you, me. The universes between us seem endless. Each molecule, each atom, representing endless difference. You are so fascinating, so unknown. I never know what to say to you, and I wish I could understand you more accurately. Then again, our inevitable difference is the most significant connection. As we are all of us alone in our minds, we are linked in the common and singular unknown. And I hope wit

h all my heart, that when I meet you, we can be at ease there. At ease in the unfamiliarity. Without fear and so, without judgement. I will be excited by the surprise of you. You will surprise me by simply existing. Simple, is this.

Dear Love,

I wish for nothing more than to tell you everything, fearlessly. Every feeling. Every pain. Every joy. Every moment. The things I do not understand, the things I cannot admit. My insanity. My conclusions. I want to go on an endless adventure with you as my destination. I w

ant to grow with you. Fight and laugh with you. I want to be angry at you, and fall back with you and laugh on top of you. I want to see you work, breathing imagination effortlessly into each moment as you do. I want to destroy my walls so that you can come in. I hate these walls. And you noticed. I want you to be the person that I see, because you destroy your walls, and you invite me in. When I say, Love, I love you--reality will blink, but so natural is such, that nothing fantastical need be acknowledge. Simple, is this.

A Cup Of Everything, And Toffable Tutter On The Side, Please.

"I mean, at the end of the day, we're all just floating in a whole bunch of Everything on a moderately sized spinning rock."

Floating in a whole bunch of everything. Of Every Thing.

Our eyes are untrained, to the Every Thing of the universe. They do not see most of the Every Thing. They see what is confirmed by our Senses, confirmed as what we've labeled a Reality.

Labels, labels, labels, and definitions. Labels and definitions are good. So crisp and tidy. Like envelopes. So sortable, easily compartmentalized. So handy as a fundamental thinking tool for a human's intellect. Take, for example, setting up a kitchen. We're unpacking a box labeled "cups". We pull out a small, purple, plastic cup. We place it on the bottom shelf--this is a juice cup, we may think. We pull out another cup, same in size and shape, but it's glass. We place it on the shelf above--this is for guests. We pull out a several more--a wine glass, a coffee mug, a souvenir mug--all cups but look how we define and label and categorize and compartmentalize! A place for each cup, a use, a purpose, a definition, a label. I have a point, but first: A cup, fine, that was perhaps a boring example....really, I just enjoy the sound of the word.

CUP.

cup. cup. cup.

Makes. me. happy.

But, what a catastrophe! Imagine, though it's somewhat impossible, if all of a sudden--"cup" was erased from out labeling system--erased from recognition. Erased from being definable. The world is all of a sudden in Cup Chaos! What the hell are all these...these....aah! Maybe? Or....would...stay with me here, would they disappear? Fade, into the unseen oceans of the Ever Thing. Why not? Because we can touch them, right, is that what you're thinking? Something we can touch surely cannot disappear? But not so fast, every definable characteristic of Cup--is gone, which includes the understanding of shape, or texture, or size--because those are characteristics that apply to an object, which we would normally call Cup, but Cup is gone! They are floating characteristics, label "contributors" with nothing to stick to! I know, okay, it's a really bizarre Analeigh head game game. Ahah, we could go a step further and inspect words themselves--the labels, like "bizarre", technically one of those floating label contributors. To exist it must have a Thing to stick to! "Bizarre" alone, can only be itself defined by giving a Sense-confirmable example, slapping it on to a perceivable Every Thing, or by pushing it around against other similar words--like a pinball machine: Weird (clink) strange (clink) unique (clink, clink) unordinary ([what does that even mean!?] clink). But then, that kind of fails because our understanding of THOSE words are still tethered to things that we can sense.

So. Back to the beginning. What about the Every Thing we cannot sense? The place that Things like labels and definitions and words and thoughts and feelings and Hoofa Grumps and Bolixtrees and Mana Choos exist. The beautiful or horrible or wonderful or treacherous Chaos that swims happily, playfully skipping in its' own wake of undefinable existence that only IT itself can define. The Chaos, that allows a human to think of things we think we cannot think or briefly, in a state of what we may label "insanity", see a Some Thing that is part of the hidden Every Thing. And it is the brave one, who takes from those moments, a sliver of trust--of insight, or enlightenment--take a sliver of the invisible Every Thing, and, by refraining a jealous and destructive Doubt, filters and hammers and tailors, cinches, cuts, pulls, and shapes, the fragile sliver through the incredible factory of a Mind. A mind! Now, setting the body as a builder--the Mind CREATES! A part of the EveryThing, unveiled. Oh, you clever Chaos, you.

Those wisps of undefinable light, shapes, ideas--those fleeting moments of bliss, a label-free, undefinable experience--pure possibility! The most, most precious form of living. Free of doubt, of judgement, of limited understanding. Free to, as Chaos, skip in the waves of Miranans and Killabins. Dive into an ocean filled with Jupa and Smints and feel Alaganta, experience the Impossible. Such adventure, such pleasure.

If we might be able to apply such an experience to the meeting of ever new Thing we meet. Like...I don't know, a person. The possibilities of a person without definition...without label.

A Cup of Every Thing.

...Perhaps it would taste like a cup of breamant crimt with a inp of toffable tutter.

Dear Mili and Chewing Wax

This was really nothing more than a personal exercise in allowing myself to follow a flow of thoughts, connecting one idea, memory, or thing to another and so on. Don't try and make sense of it--I'm quite sure you'd get rather frustrated. The second paragraph is the first page to "Dear MIli", a beautiful, dark children's book by Wilhelm Grimm and Maurice Sendak. This paragraph, well, it's just incredibly important to me. I felt like typing it.

Chewing wax, green cellophane, beats, blue hat and sunglasses, glitter skirt, mustard, spearmint sticky, red lights, white wine, red eyes, blue eyes, brown eyes, what color where his eyes, slow like sighs, fast dancing, the sound waves so loud they vibrated off my lips, elbows, unicorn meat SPAM tin, his necklace, oatmeal sludging, love, goose blue, goose bumps, hurt, pricks, bites, bruises, black carpet and cream tiles, apple trees, apple bags, apple box, click, red hair and north carolina, philadelphia story, white sicks, juniper, brumble, the Caring, I trust only old and warn out bricks, lights, lights that absorb into your body--absorb and affect, moksha, damp wood, lost jacket, cold shoulders, please hold my hand, cold hands, blue hands, plum, bernard, rust, pages, papers, ink, words, things, impermanence, abject, boiled milk, whales, paled trees that we walk on, cube shook, echo. ECHO.

Dear Mili,

I'm sure you have gone walking in the woods or in green meadows, and passed a clear, flowing brook. And you've tossed a flower into the brook, a red one, a blue one, or a snow-white one. It drifted away, and you followed it with your eyes as far as you could. And it went quietly away with the little waves, farther and farther, all day long and all night too, by the light of the moon or the stars. It didn't need much light, for it knew the way and it didn't get lost. When it had traveled for three days without stopping to rest, another flower came along on another brook. A child like you, but far far away from here, had tossed it into a brook at the same time. The two flowers kissed, and went their way together and stayed together until they both sank to the bottom. You have also seen a little bird flying away over the mountain in the evening. Perhaps you thought it was going to bed, not at all, another little bird was flying over other mountains, and when all was dark on the earth, the two of them met in the last rays of sunshine. The sun shone bright on their feathers, and as they flew back and forth in the light they told each other many things that we on the earth below could not hear. You see, the brooks and the flowers and the birds come together, but people do not; great mountains and rivers, forests and meadows, cities and villages lie in between, and they have their set places and cannot be moved, and humans cannot fly. But one human heart goes out to another, undeterred by what lies between. Thus does my hear go out to you, and though my eyes have not seen you yet, it loves you and thinks it is sitting beside you. And you say: "Tell me a story." And it replies: "Yes, dear Mili, just listen."

Oatmeal Sludging or Competitive Title Alternative to 'Chicken Noodle Soup For the Soul'.

Oatmeal. I love oatmeal. Now, the way my mother makes oatmeal, I've learned, is quite unique. Slow cooked oats in salted water, then, stir in cream, raisins,brown sugar (cups and cups of brown sugar) and finally, what makes it amazing, a stick of butter. At least one stick. A whole tub, if you're the soft-churned type. Maybe more sugar. Butter and sugar. It practically ran through my veins when I was little. Butter and sugary sweetness. The world was a giant bowl of delicious oatmeal. Once in awhile, I might bite into a raisin--it might be sour, but instantly replaced, even complimented, by buttery, sugary, creamy perfection.

I'm going to now transition into an awkward analogy. Oatmeal. I am swimming in a giant bowl of oatmeal. And not my mother's. Nope. This is unsalted, pasty, watery oatmeal. The kind that sticks to your fingers, dries in crusty patches, and is far from enticing enough to lick off. Hardly napkin worthy oatmeal. Just wash it off, down the sink. It's lame oatmeal. Maybe undercooked, too. No butter, cream, brown sugar, insert favorite oatmeal topping here. This. This is the oatmeal I'm navigating my days through.

I know there are people that can relate out there; oatmeal sludging. That feeling of heaviness, of every movement and intention being weighted by something that glues itself to every exposed piece of you. Many more of you are probably saying "what the hell does oatmeal sludging mean? She feels like she's covered in oatmeal..?" No. I shower. There is no oatmeal on me. What I think I mean ("she... doesn't know? ") is that the older I get, the thicker, stickier, and heavier life, in general, becomes. I think that's common. I really don't know--I only say that to feel a little more sane myself. Maybe not everyone interprets that as Oatmeal Sludging ("oh, she capitalized it. She's serious now") but for me, I needed to identify it. Label it, stamp it, categorize it, define it loosely. "It" being a feeling. See, recently how I interpret things, feel things, process things, has been changing at a chaotic, incomprehensible rate. And I was actually going berserk. Most things I thought I understood I became unsure of. Things I wanted previously, no longer applied. What a hectic mind frenzy, what madness! All sense of self--evaporated before I could even scoop a drop up as proof of my own, grounded, existence. What is going on?! (cough--it's called 'your twenties'--cough). Peanut-gallery-in-my-head aside, what is going on, is the realization of, and experience in, Oatmeal Sludging. Living daily life in that highly viscus, goop that sets in with responsibility and age.

I'm not so okay with that idea. What to do with such an analogy? This, this is where my blogs are handy on a personal level. Because, I can bring it all back around, like a good little writer that is pretending her words are making sense. Bring it to the beginning, tie it all in. Package it all up, stick a bow on top, and left click-it it into to space. Ready?:

I, I love my mother's oatmeal. I love the uniqueness of it. It's like crack for the soul--screw that "Chicken Noodle for the Soul" no, this is Crack-Like Oatmeal for the Soul. ("Wait, how does she know what crack is like--" NO! No. I do NOT, it's another analogy. Go with it. But don't, I mean, just get a bowl of delicious oatmeal, okay?) Ultimately, what makes it so special is not the sugar, or the raisins, or even the amazing butter. It's the love she put into making a delicious bowl of the best oatmeal she knew how to make. She had no 'secret recipe', she simply put in what she thought I'd love. Of course! What if that's the 'secret remedy' to Oatmeal Sludging? Discovering and remembering to add my own ingredients? An appreciation of 'being' and an openness to changing realities--that's the raisins, balance. Butter: acceptance of what is, and what is myself. And sugar, all that sugar! Love! Naturally. SO many cups of love. My mother's oatmeal, flowing through my veins in a rather different way.

Now, Oatmeal Sludging is still there. I think that's life. Life's naturally a bit sticky to get through. But, knowing that maybe all it takes to make that goop a bit tastier, a little sweeter, even wonderful to move through, is remembering a few of those ingredients--well, that's more manageable than the previous chaotic blunder I was swimming through. Don't get me wrong here, life cannot simply be fixed with oatmeal analogies, or brown sugar used as a metaphor for love, with all its complexity. I'm in no way saying that. But I do believe there is something in carrying around little "happiness reminders", silly life analogies, or memories, to just kind of infuse the day with. In this case, I've apparently been really missing oatmeal. But look what I've learned from letting myself explore that!

Oh what a thing, life is so much more than a bowl of cherries. Life's a bowl of the most perfect, unique, oatmeal. I really should inform Quaker Oats. I feel like a new company motto could really help my blog out. I also find the man on the logo oddly handsome. He's got stature. He gets my analogy. He adds butter to his oats, I'm sure....

Bring your rain boots.

If I close my eyes I can be there. I can stand in the rain. I can lift my head, open my eyes, watch it fall towards me. Thousands upon thousands of rain drops falling from a dark, grey, nothing. Falling down in unrehearsed perfection. Falling with individual purpose. With necessity. Every raindrop--alone. And I can be surrounded, with coldly limited empathy, by beautiful, crystal globes...

I love subways. I love watching the colors, the spectrum of people. People always seem a bit more, I don't know, human? In confined spaces. Not much place to hide yourself, I suppose. I should probably listen to the sounds in the subway more. Right now, I don't think I could rightly describe them. I usually have my ipod on. It disconnects me. I feel like I can be invisible. I can just watch, you know? Like my own little movie with my own soundtrack and I don't have to be part of it. Sometimes I kind of wonder where I go. I imagine somewhere similar to a "man-cave" in the corner of my mind and whenever I check out--I must go there. Maybe there's a beanbag chair. Maybe a popcorn machine. Maybe not--actually popcorn doesn't sit well with me. I'm sure there is something worth my time though, I mean, I think I go there often.

Empathy would be kinder of me. I stand, instead, selfishly immersed in observing; taking, stealing, peace from what might be a very private event for a raindrop. It is, of course, inevitable. Every raindrop must face that moment of contact with the earth. It's so small, that single raindrop, in the thousand upon thousands. It is so fragile, so important and still so insignificant. But it exists, and it does so on its own. Is it at peace? Is it afraid? Did it want to fall? Did it have a choice? Did it accept it's fate? Or is it desperately trying to suspend its self in the unsupportive and unmoved atmosphere? Alone in space and alone with space and then me, invading the vulnerable moment...

Talking to people is always a strange thing to me. I mean, hah, no, don't get me wrong, I very much enjoy a good conversation. And good conversation doesn't have to be deep, right, it doesn't have to be about anything significant. Not in my book. Naw, some of the best conversations I've had are usually about things that really, are quite insignificant in my daily life. Weird studies like how different drugs affect spiders. New Youtube viral videos. Funny words and names, like "crumpet" or "pussy willow". Gum. A lot of good conversations about food, come to think of it. But anyway, my point is, I can't help but picture everyone in these conversations, myself included, as one of those creepy talking dolls. You know, like, Charlie McCarthy? There, something for you to google. And I'll be talking, or moving my mouth at least, and get that Charlie McCarthy image in my head and mid-sentance, I'll have to laugh. During that laugh, that's when the doll image disappears, and I'm there, in that laugh. And I immerse myself in its warm, bubbling, peach colored cloud, naked in spirit. Of course, when I look back up at the faces of my fellow conversationalists, it is apparent, the doll was more suitable for practical reason. Naked anything tends to make most people a bit uncomfortable. Sometimes...sometimes I've had "naked conversations". Like the ones that take place on kitchen floors at 3 o'clock in the morning. A bag of Sun-Chips pushed to the side. The kitschy, yellowing tile is pocked with mini-marshmallows from that tossing game earlier. Wine glasses that haven't been touched for awhile. It's quiet. Maybe there's a clock. But time isn't there. Naked moments. Vulnerable. We talk about our parents. About that person. About a thought that won't leave our heads. About this old necklace. About the things in between. We laugh, and we immerse ourselves, and we look up, and we are humans, fully.

When I shut my eyes, and open them again, I can watch the rain drops shatter. I can watch a single drop explode. Reverberate back up on impact, and splinter into different pieces. Shattering, scattering, exploding, delicately, before falling and resting back to the ground. More shattering, more fragmenting, smashing to bits. It is a minefield. And I can only look on, helpless. I can feel each explosion on my hands, on my face, in my eyes. I can blink, and make another. I'm standing in a war zone. I hadn't realized. There is devastation in the fate of every small drop. I don't want to see this. I don't want to realize it.

I'm in a Starbucks right now. Okay, I know, I know, couldn't I find anywhere a bit more inspirational? To be honest--my pumpkin spiced americano keeps me pretty damn happy. And there's a nice window so that when I take a sip and look up from my computer, I can look at things going on outside. Right now, there's a man sitting on the sidewalk across the street, leaning against a neon lit sign for an Economax, some currency exchange bureau. He's holding a ball cap in one hand, and the other is clutching at the sleeve of his jacket. It's cold out. Poor guy. He's removed his scarf. Better suited as a cushion. Oh, he does have a cigaret. That's good. Not that smoking is good or anything, but, I'm glad he's got one. I wonder if he's ever had a naked conversation on a kitchen floor. He's standing up. Walking over the the McDonalds window. He's looking inside. He's going back to his neon lit sign. He's rewrapping the scarf around his neck. Yeah, it's cold. When I look at him, I don't see any Charlie McCarthy, I'll tell you that. I feel helpless. Kind of like I'm in a warzone. Maybe he's the bi-product of a raindrop. Maybe he's a fragment that has exploded, and has yet to settle. Maybe he's no more or less settled than the rest of us. It's not really something anyone can determine except for himself. For his sake, I hope he doesn't see himself as a raindrop. I hope he's not feeling fragmented. I hope, even if it is in ignorance, he feels part of a whole, and not alone in the least. But..with.

When I close my eyes, when I'm in a subway, when my music is on, when I laugh, I go to where I can stand in the rain. I don't go to some man-cave like cavern of my mind. I go to a mind-field. It's more like reality that I initially thought. But funny thing, rain. Every drop on its own. And those explosions. Nature leaves no choice. But maybe there is something to be learned here. And I think (now, I'm going to start putting on rain boots as I explain. I recommend you do the same here), I think that I've been distracted by the raindrops. They're each existing in their own nakedness and, it really shouldn't concern me. But what happens after, after the impact, after the fragmentation...there is a connection. There is something created, a puddle, a lake, an ocean. There is something whole. Where many become one, become equal. Are your rain boots on yet? We are all like rain drops. There is a time when we are, whether we want to be or not, falling alone. There will, inevitably, also be a moment of impact--where things and life and our individual ideas of existence, it all just shatters into many, many, different pieces. And then there is peace. There is the realization that everyone around us is falling and crashing and breaking too. Perhaps we can unite, and connect, and become part of a whole. A whole that might not be perfect, but there is perfection within it. Like a murky puddle. Now do you understand why I had you put those boots on? What a beautiful, imperfect, murky, muddy puddle of rain...

Close your eyes. I'll close mine. On the count of three, we'll open them, and you and I--we can stand in the rain. And you and I, we're going to splash in the puddles.

One....two...three...open your eyes....

Set fire to the silvering process, Mr. Niepce.

Overwhelmed. Yeah, I guess...I mean, I guess that would be part of it. No. No, not actually overwhelmed--over stimulated. Yes. This is much more fitting. Over stimulated. Not so cliche either.

Over. Stimulated. Over saturated. Over....

You know, pictures. Pictures are such strange things. Gross things. Not gross like that--god, you and your definitions. Gross in like, a perversity. See--no, not like the perversity you know but like the type dealing with a thing's nature--strangeness. Is that, well, is that more universal? Pictures have strangeness. They are strange and...and haunting. And grossly (as in largely) perverse (as in crudely unnatural) stamps of reality passed; thrust constantly into the present moment--stagnant and never changing. Trapped. A moment trapped. A ghost, a stolen ghost of time we conquer and chain to an endless present. Dragging a ball and chain of photographs--or frozen, pale, lifeless images.

And we are cruel. We duplicate them, alter them, strip them of the only truth and integrity they are born with. We cut, we tape, we rip, we post. And we catch ourselves, mostly. Self absorbed, self indulged and entranced by our own ghostly, pixilated snippets of time.

Look at your picture. Look at it and stop looking at yourself. Look at the moment. At the drained and imprisoned wormhole of ever flowing reality. You've created multiple dimensions. Memories--a singular moment from the past on repeat in the present, eagerly and gluttonously feeding on the future. For what is 'memory'? Reality: caught in a wormhole, created by illusions on repeat.

But then, what are illusions anyhow? Everything definable, such as "illusions", must have a foundation in something truthful. Yes, because, if we comprehend a given definition--then, there is truth within it that we ourselves can recognize. What then, is real and what is illusion when all can be explained in adequate and comprehensible definition? How do we categorize 'illusion'....more importantly--why?

So. A picture, in my own definition--is an illusion. Because it is something false. A falsified reality. And people believe it. People trust this impossible snippet of a reality dead. And yet, it is definable--so, it is as honest and true and real an illusion as anything else in the universe.

Reality and illusion are one in the same, sans our own cowardly categorizations. And shame on me, as I am typically, almost always...okay always...quite cowardly by my own standard.

This is the picture that started this whole rant. I was staring at it. It is me. It is a blunt and raw lamination of all my insecurities and most of my flaws. If you look at the moment, not the person, you'd see it. Se my...her....its...thoughts. Its before and Its after and since then, its everything in between. Its weight, its smell, Its illusions. Real or illusion. Important to know?

Both are equally truthful.

But. What does it matter. All this crap about real and not. At the end of the day, I am afraid of both conclusions. At least....at least I still have enough in me to care enough to be afraid. More frightening still is the absence of fear. And thus the loss of fight, and loss of drive, and loss of danger--willing us to survive. I still care about photographs.

--Apple.

"I Want The One Grey One With The Silver Saddle And Mint Green Mane"

It's deafening. Would you shut up for a moment. Your thoughts, your silence--deafening. I can't hear myself think. The whole world on a carousel.

The carousel. Man's childish and fantastical manifestation of war, tremendously decadent in appearance and elegantly complex in detail. The

carousel is Reality's magic trick; a spinning, musical mockery of man's inhumanity. Beautiful, and relatively blood-free--disguising imperfection with gold-leafed paint and muscled stallions--perfectly tamed to ride in peaceful and consistent motion.

The whole world on a carousel, and me, at the fair too. I went to the fair. Went to the fair; was silent. Silent because I could not hear myself think and could not form my thoughts. I could not hear myself think because They would not shut up. They're thoughts, They're silence--deafening. Mute conversation, no, screams--bouncing into the universe like . Words, precious words, falling out of Their mouths like tiny, rubber

bouncing balls. Bouncing off the ground, off the walls, into the atmosphere, clouding the sky in primary colors; bright, rubber words bouncing everywhere.

Loudly. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Rapid. Vulgar.

I look to the carousel. It spins and there is a shield. No bouncing, rubber ball thoughts. An accordion. And silence. And the sound of motion, slowing. The unwinding of time, weighted in tradition and fantasy and fiction. Realities fictional experience. Spinning, and the people on the carousel are trapped in this bubble--this fake, protected illusion. Spin, spin, on. Never stop, fear of losing. Keep with the clock, keep with the illusion--fight time with beauty and chase away yellowed memory with blurring reality. Drown the sounds of pounding words, Thump. Thud. Thump. Drowned Them out with haunting notes and perfectly circled melodies. Trance like motion, subtle and consistent. Spin and sway away. The whole world, a carousel.

The world, it spins...and the bounce of the words, the bounce of Their words, a perfectly circled melody. Loud and robust--tiny but tuned. Humming and buzzing in constant harmony. Repetitive motion. Slow the day, new the morning, slow the night. Repeat.

And the crowd is so loud I cannot hear my own thoughts. I look to Them. I cannot say what I mean. Rubber balls, bounce, Thud, from my lips and, Thump, to the ground. My smile, a temporary container. "I cannot explain what I mean. It will come to me." It doesn't. Because my mind is on the carousel.

And the rest of the day, my mind is on that carousel. And what does that look like? What thoughts are with me then...my mind looks like this:

Dance with me, in step with the Universe. Look how lovely, look at the people--how beautiful and alive. Look at the people, alone in Their spheres, missing each other, bouncing their words like a child's game. Ah! What is the reality in which people See each other. In which living is living together and words do not bounce off every showing surface but saturate into every piece of matter--satiating all things of Existance with meaning and connection and texturized understanding. Look at me and understand so I can believe this. Look at me look at the carousel.

No?--how about I smile instead.

Oh, pure meaning and glorious connection. Oh, detested definition and constrained comprehension.

This is a picture of my great grandparents. Being one in a moment. Surrounded by Everything in the Universe, and being Everything in the Universe.

We are one. No?

We are matter. We cannot be destroyed, only recycled back and back and back into the universe.

We are energy. We cannot be destroyed, only recycled back and back and back into the universe.

No, wrong again--"we" indicates there are multiple individuals, gathered or grouped together in action or distinction and "we" is separating. There is no "we" because there is no "I" because all is one because all is recycled and equal in worth and importance. The matter and energy in a leaf is still matter and energy, like the matter humans are made with and like the energy humans burn and recycle. The difference is only in the structure. The physical; reality's facade, oh most decadent and embellished universal design by which definition is the only sense of ground and foundation available for communication, for understanding, for sanity. And definition is excellent at separating and distinguishing...misleading. Because definitions grow and shape and always will to each defined individual based in difference in experience and environment and development.

So where is the foundation of true reality if each predefined individual defines each thing differently because we believe that, by someones else's projected definition filtered through our own established process of translation, all things must be defined. And through these "universal" definitions, we build a "universally acknowledged" reality.

...And, if perhaps your definitions are too uncommon, you are not necessarily a radical reformer of thought and perspective...but you are crazy. Mentally insane. You do not know how to define things like everyone else. You are broken. Your definitions are wrong. Your definitions are misleading. Your definitions are not coherent. Your definitions are undefined. A leaf is not a person. I didn't say it was--I meant that the ener--You are crazy. You are confused.

You are not defined.

...I ("I" for translation's sake) will form my own definitions. Confuse myself. Toss out What Is and leave alone Who Is. "I" will approach a You as if oxygen. As if life giving, beautifully structured and perfectly crafted extension of Soul. And a moment later, "I" shall still attempt to relieve you of definition. And "We" can be. Breath and life together.

An Ideal, They call it. To define it, an Ideal.

Let it go. Let it go. Let it...

Just skip to the bottom. And then go and have a banana milkshake.

I have this thing. I've started, yes, a thing. This thing--I sit. I sit and I breathe. Just sit and just breath. I breathe slowly and thoughtfully and fill padded, warm lungs with a flood of thick waves of air and I hold that air in. I hold it in, selfishly. I let the waves of air splash through my entire body, rapid and cool and quick--savoring the rush of motion because I can feel it race through my lungs, my heart, my hands, my knees, my toes, awakening every little cell with a brisk, salty kiss. And then I exhale--forcefully. I exhale and the air does not violently crash out back into the world but flows, warmly, moist and soft, out of my body. Out of my lungs, my heart...my toes. I just sit and just breathe.

Breathing is my new thing. I had not taken a breath before this. I had not taken a breath and felt the urgency, the necessity, the desperation and importance of such a mechanical, natural act.

My body--my body has taken my breaths. My body, kindly, has alway taken care of this "minor" necessity of life. But now, I breathe. My body--she teaches me what to pay attention to. I can make my chest rise and fall and I can see my heartbeat skip in gratification and acknowledgment. I can feel accomplished.

I can feel the other bodies, breathing. Sometimes--I might find another person who is doing the breathing by choice--maybe because, like me, they discovered they love to breathe, or maybe they just know they have to, or even some cases, they just can't seem to make themselves stop. In that case--the breath is heavy, taunting, thick and pounding....I'd prefer the body to breathe for me in that instance.

Breathing. My new thing. Sitting and breathing. And then I begin thinking. And then my thoughts begin to grow and crystalize and complicate themselves, weaving intricately between reality and creation and confusion and realization but then back to breathing and simplicity. The overwhelming feeling of Awe.

I conclude nothing. I cannot tell you the purpose of life or the purpose of trying to define the purpose of life....but I manage to settle my thoughts on dust. Start dust. And imperfections...and definitions...and words, oh beautiful translations and understanding and communication with life. And love...and life....and love...and life...and love...huh.

LOVE: A RESPECT FOR LIFE, OFFERED WITH THE HIGHEST DEGREE OF HUMANITY THAT ONE IS EQUIPPED WITH GIVING.

LIFE: TO LOVE.

Breath. And Waves. And Scar.

I need...Graph Paper.

I'm sorry that this makes no sense and I explain nothing. Interpret it however you'd like. Maybe you can relate to the nonsense.

Strobe-Backs

Pushing it back slow to the notes. Skimming though pictures in sacred boxes stored amongst velcro shoes and tiny mittens. Strobed memories and patchy sound bites scratch back like a Dj releasing on the One--sliding seamlessly into each other and each separate from any other. And those seamless streams were smooth and simple. Ha! Simple. Now it's heavy--all of it is so painted and weighted in, God I don't know, some residue? Is that it? Some sort of residue or mold or bacteria maybe virus. Maybe it contaminates things around us. And strobe lights make me forget and make me remember and make me confused but I prefer the strobe to the lighted entirety because confusion can almost be peaceful. Confusion removes the major ends of the emotional spectrum--can't be fully anything. Can't be fully angry or fully upset or fully happy but can just kind of be. Strobes--and no one can see your fear between flashes.* I prefer that.

*See "I'm Crying and I Should Be. Shouldn't Be" for informal and less than fully committed apology about my dramatics.

Crowd Against the Sexes

Back up into the wall and scrunch my toes to disperse the tension in my chest. Bite my lip and flex my fingers. The crowd is faceless and hoarding the space with their flying elbows or worse--they're overly developed egos. God I'm suffocating. And I'm a woman. And I'm a woman and I'm against this wall and I'm trying to push into the crowd and make my space but the current on the sidewalk is too strong. And this is nature and this is engrained and there are multiples of me pushed against the wall. Thousands, millions of me pushed against this cold, rough wall. We can't scream. Can't make sounds because sound has no space to travel it resounds in our own ears and we go insane.

I'm Crying and I Should Be. Shouldn't Be.

Ghost. You have a ghost and it sits...it sits over you and you want it there and I want it to cross over but there was unfinished business and it sits. She sits over you. And I'm fragile. I'm so..it's so stupid how fragile I am and I don't want to be. Believe me I don't want to feel it I don't want to be touched only to shatter and I'm dramatic. Because I think I'm fragile. And I'm dramatic because I say I'm tough. And I'm dramatic if I do nothing. And I can't escape being stapled with a dramatic sign and a dramatic plot and a dramatic everything because everything to try and counter it is misinterpreted. And that ghost. Leave me alone and I'm dramatic but seriously, man. Leave me alone.

Facing The Key

It's about being free and happy and happy. It' about being there and only there then and not there soon or never but right at that moment. And what! And what the hell are we thinking and are we talking about because we know nothing but when will we ever learn enough? I'm sick of

being afraid. I'm done with not being there. I'm tired of chasing a timeline that is being written

two steps behind me--leaving me stranded and confused. I need graph paper. I need graph paper and I'll shade in every square and every moment I spend shading in another square I'll at least be aware of the time going past. It's tangible and it's a form of a time line. I need--I need graph paper right now to feel time. I need it to show reality.

Kaleidoscope Effect.

I have a reoccurring experience--I watch the world through a one-sided window. I watch the Other Side. I sit in a small room--everything is dark and out of focus. Vivid and focused are the things I see beyond the window--out of my little box. I watch things move. There are people--I think they're people. They speak words and sometimes I understand these sounds. These people--I can watch them for days and days. Each movement is painted in expression and emotion and thought. I wonder if I look like them. If I live like them. If they can see me behind my window. I can make the scene in front of my window change too. I can create anything I want and put it out into the Other Side. I can make my private world come to life on the Other Side--things they can only see in their dreams. I wonder what Reality means. It's a word I don't fully

understand-it's so limiting. So contained and forced and false. I've come to realize there are two of what is defined as "me"--two of "me". One is here, right now, in this broken-focused, dim tunnel, dim box. Sometimes I close my eyes and then I am in the Other Side. I become movement, and emotion, and thought. I become unaware. I become people. In which state am I free? In which state am I a prisoner of my own nature? Sometimes I meet others when i'm in the Other Side--other's who, like me, have a dimly lit, out of focus box. A window. A blurred sense of the ridiculous meaning of Reality.

__________________________________________________________________________

I see in montages. A gritty stack of fast flipping scenes that run through my head like an old film strip. I covet that pale light that reveals the face each passing moment--en

abling sight. Look steady out at the Other Side and watch that same light kiss the surface of every thing. Sight--proof of Reality #1. Then, if I were to continue on with proofs--sound, smell, touch, emotions…but even still--all unverifiable. I decide. You decide for you. Which is it. The Other Side--the moment, the movement: the chaos un-separate from our immediate sense of Reality. Maybe it will be the the little box--removed and observant, and still: Reality always questionable. In either state of self, the mind is never truly free of our own doubts, judgments, observations, emotions.

__________________________________________________________________________

I'm in an old barn.

The structure, neglected, is slowly settling itself back into the earth--decaying naturally, despite it's manmade birth. The walls and beams and glass windows are blanketed in golden, dusty earth. The light breaks through, softly, and leaves warm lacings where thick shadows cannot stifle it. Instead, the darkness feeds off the shadowed corners,

impatiently awaiting the sun to retire. I stand in the midst of all this--choosing the sun's lacings to the heavy embrace of the shadows. Out the windows--the flicker of a filmstrip being projected--the sky becomes the screen and a slideshow begins. The pictures, also covered in golden dust, flash continuously. I watch. There's a drum beat at every flicker--it's deep and round and sounds like the breath of Earth. The dust begins to settle on my skin--it's cool and salty, but warms with the nimble work of the light. The film moves faster across the windows--the images expand across to the walls now. Faster--and the pictures, translucent, dance across ever surface, overlapping and now moving, spinning around me, moving to the floor, to the celling. The barn begins to become translucent with them--fading into what is now a dusk-set sky. The ground, slowly evaporates--the colors of the earth blurring up like paint strokes, fading into the ever darkening sky. Around me, I notice the dust has weaved an intricate, thin veil which is draped over an invisible sphere around me. The images, more like short film clips--now just a steady stream of overlapping motion--of faces and places new and old, recognizable and not. The ground is gone, all for the small patch supporting my body. It is now a deep, dark blue and everything set against this sky is iridescent--silver and wispy, including the images. The drum beat becomes a brilliant, crystal chime--elegant and not sharp. The dust veil is becoming thicker. It's rapidly enclosing me--obscuring my view of the images and of the silver wisps and of the deep blue expanse. The veil has completely enclosed me and I realize I am suspend in a silver nothingness. It's bright. I am nothing but a bright light--my hands, my feet, my entire existence: nothing but a bright, silver light. Pardon my abrupt ending--but I think I'll remain in this silver webbed space for awhile. Have a pleasant day.

2 bags of apple spice, 2 bags of mulling spice, some sugar--will calm you down.

I couldn't sleep. I kicked and turned around my bed, disheveling my blankets and perturbing my cat, who showed his annoyance by swatting at my hair with every position change. I got a text from my mom near 2 a.m. telling me goodnight--a random but perfectly timed gesture. She recommend I make cider tea to help me sleep: "two bags of apple spice, two bags of mulling spice, some sugar-- will calm you down." And so the blogging commenced in an attempt to ease my running thoughts into submission.

The Other Morning.

I was heading to Bottega Louie to grab a coffee and a black current macaroon. when I spotted a man jogging along 7th street--he was chasing God. Literally. "I can't keep up! Wait up!" he'd shout. Then, "God! Lemme talk with you a second!" Not such a very strange sight for downtown--I mean between Birdman and Lady Opera (two of my personal favorite homeless characters), nothing surprises me too much. He stopped running and I ended up next to him as I awaited the crosswalk. "I can't--can't catch him" he said to no one in particular-- "Just wanna talk..." Well, I really didn't have time for what I was about to do--but that's exactly why I did it. And I turned and asked if he'd grab some coffee with me. Perhaps a bit taken aback, he took a deep breath and thoughtfully replied, "Thank you ma'am, but I'm busy--see?" And he pointed up in the sky towards nothing. I nodded, the light changed, and we crossed the street. The man began to jog again, yelling at the sky. I named him Forrest Gump.

Forrest Gump didn't open my eyes to anything astonishing. He didn't change or challenge my opinions, didn't teach me a significant life lesson. But he stayed on my mind. I then began to see how such a small event actually did make a significant impact on me and how any moment, big or small, is a chance to make an impact on someone or something. Now, Forrest Gump wasn't trying and I think that made it all the more powerful. Perhaps, one day, I will try chasing sound, or energy, or something--see where it takes me. See if I catch it. I hope Forrest Gump caught up to God. I think maybe he had something important to say.

"You've Got To Hide Your Love Away"

(Eddie Vedder version)

Here I stand head in hand
Turn my face to the wall
If she's gone I can't go on
Feelin' two-foot small

Everywhere people stare
Each and every day
I can see them laugh at me
And I hear them say

Hey you've got to hide your love away
Hey you've got to hide your love away

How can I even try
I can never win
Hearing them, seeing them
In the state I'm in

How could she say to me
Love will find a way
Gather round all you clowns
Let me hear you say

Hey you've got to hide your love away
Hey you've got to hide your love away

Downtown Dearest: Stop Pissing On My Ally Door Entrance.

Let's catch you up, yes?  

1.) I moved to downtown Los Angeles (where before I was in a suburban, quaint neighborhood called the Miracle Mile District).

There's so much to say about living downtown--it is another world all together.  I could write pages alone on the types of people I've met--so many young artists swarming the lofts and we all look at each other, strangers all of us, like we know some big secret.  It's like we were all drawn here by some giant wizard and we're about to take part in an enormous electric daisy carnival-esque rave of life. Y

Yeah, maybe it sounds a bit out there, I know, I think so too but the kids downtown would not!  It's a beautiful thing.  

And maybe it is a giant secret because the city--it's shitty looking.  Skid Row is two blocks and a skip left of my building.  There are druggies, screaming homeless bickering and urinating bums on every corner and in every ally.  Rats the size of my cat scamper back and forth from the overflowing dumpsters piled with the worst smelling trash I've ever come across in my life.  Urine and feces decorate the streets more commonly than I'd like to acknowledge.  You take a shower, step outside, and you're covered in dirt.  I am scared for my life after 9 PM--if I want to walk down a few blocks to Seven-Eleven--I cannot alone.  Most people cannot, actually.  English magazines are very difficult to find and speaking english in general is rather a lost cause.  One way streets are a bitch....So what is the "secret" we young people are all excited about?  We don't know!  That's what's so awesome!  I guess we all wonder what the hell we're doing down here...but upon exploring, we've found there is an entire playground expecting us!  Trendy, painfully posh clubs, lounges and restaurants have begun to rise out of the most atrocious abandoned buildings.  During the day--these old, boarded up, dingy spaces are dormant but come nightfall a red rope sneaks into position and a queue of Chanel purses, Jimmy Choo stilettos and Chloe skirts with Prada overcoats forms in the shadows of the flickering street lamps--one red rope after another and further into the night the streets, usually filled with bums are fill-

ed with dashing couples straight out of a 1920's movie about Speakeasy's and flappers.  And then, if the artist types don't feel like dressing up--it's unneeded anyway since every loft

 building is flooded with Loft parties and young hippsters hanging off the fire escapes, floating music, waving cigarets and lounging from roof top pool to roof top pool.  

...Downtown is too cool for me.  

My loft is too cool for me.  I'd post pictures...or I will soon but I can't find my stupid camera cord right now--I'm living in an excessively large industrial space...out of poorly marked, sporadically packed boxes that are scattered throughout three floors.  It's tough to be on time in the mornings when your underwear is in one box, your socks are in another box the floor below, your shoes are back upstairs in a bag somewhere and then your shorts are in one of four boxes marked "pants" all the way on the first floor.  

Alright--so this first blog is to kick of a series of blogs titled "Dear Downtown: (blank)" where I'll be documenting how the move is going or writing up any unusual adventures.  

Two to look for next: 

"Downtown Dearest:' The Heist'"

"Downtown Dearest: Flying Couches and Sweating Bears"

Final note--Marjorie came to stay with me in my new place!  We went to a movie at the Grove and dinner and she stayed the night and we went to Disneyland the next day before I sadly took her back to her parent's home so she can return to SanFran today.  One year.  She graduates in one year and then I'll have a roommate to share in these adventures!  

When you're alone

And life is making you lonely,

You can always go downtown

When you've got worries,

All the noise and the hurry

Seems to help, I know, downtown

Just listen to the music of the traffic in the city

Linger on the sidewalk where the neon signs are pretty

How can you lose?

The lights are much brighter there

You can forget all your troubles, forget all your cares and go

Downtown, things'll be great when you're

Downtown, no finer place for sure,

Downtown, everything's waiting for you

(Downtown)

Don't hang around

And let your problems surround you

There are movie shows downtown

Maybe you know

Some little places to go to

Where they never close downtown

Just listen to the rhythm of a gentle bossanova

You'll be dancing with 'em too before the night is over

Happy again

The lights are much brighter there

You can forget all your troubles, forget all your cares and go

Downtown where all the lights are bright,

Downtown, waiting for you tonight,

Downtown, you're gonna be alright now

(Downtown downtown)

Downtown

(Downtown)

And you may find somebody kind to help and understand you

Someone who is just like you and needs a gentle hand to

Guide them along

So, maybe I'll see you there

We can forget all our troubles, forget all our cares and go

Downtown, things'll be great when you're

Downtown, don't wait a minute more,

Downtown, everything's waiting for you

Downtown (downtown) downtown (downtown)

Downtown (downtown) downtown (downtown)

(repeat and fade out)

peace.  

Here's To Tree Analogies.

Trees.  Such a perfect analogy for life.  Unoriginal, perhaps, but when something is just that good--it's hard to respond uniquely.  And a tree analogy is right on.  

Just the smallest, most insignificant seed--its' fate is so delicate...so unstable.  A simple shift of wind could destroy or spare it's future.  

So few actually make it, actually find bearable conditions to begin its' long climb upwards.  And that little seed, with the proper surroundings and elements attending unknowingly to the little seed's success, sprouts!  It bursts with the most beautiful, pure form of will!  Those little roots grip, desperately, to the foundation of its' new home--completely ignorant of of the exclusive challenges of the environment it now faces.

Passionate as the last breath of life is the seedling in its' effort to break through Earth--taste the first ray of freedom.  And so much chaos it awaits!  Will it recieve love and attention?  Will it be paved over, ignored and forgotten?  Will it die, cold, from lack of sun?  Will its' growth be constrained or stunt by the local projects?  Will it be able to serve its' purpose...or will it not matter at all?  

And through the years, each season the seedling, now a tree, grows and expands in complexity--forever reaching to push the skies further, the refine its' shape and add the the foundation of its' core.  The tree becomes strong, becomes wise--out smarting power-lines, paved side walks and unnecessary "trims".  It heals--but only from pain that could damage...but it keeps in bold memory the carvings of lovers in its' trunk--having endured the pain to understand its' love.  

The old tree sheds its' leaves, it's annually collected lessons, to make room for fresh and new life--always keeping things exciting, this old tree.  Perhaps it will bare fruit, or nuts, or flowers--in any case, it will inevitably make an impact in whatever it bares, on some even very small level.  

When the tree has met it's time, has seen life, lived, appreciated, and contributed to it--the old tree will release the last of its' life's work, and slowly decay back into the earth of which it came.  One can only hope for such a peaceful, serene end.  

We take life for granted.  No, I see some of you shaking your head in disagreement, but we do.  And it's very difficult not to.  There is so much involved with living.  It is so...difficult.  We will never truly appreciate it perhaps--and for those of you who truly do appreciate it, I am honestly sorry for what you must have lived through to get there.  Ignorance can be bliss, yes, but in a way, I am envious of those who can clearly see all of life's splendors, even knowing the pain the preceded it.  

Bon Iver.  Re: Stacks.  

(Musician.  Song.--look into it, very much worth doing so.)