It has been quite sometime since I have written anything. I have been working with the Artist Way by Julia Cameron, a book devoted to helping people cultivate the artist within. The book emphasizes the idea of silencing your inner critic and letting your ideas just flow out of you without judgement. I have realized that that has been a struggle for me for a long time. I do not consider myself a winded person. Aaron whom I'd love to call my boyfriend, but can't seem to bring myself to do it yet is full of words and conversation. He is just bubbling over with information.

What could I say to you that is valuable? I don't know, maybe I can only tell you in a poem or a song. I'll just stake my value there until I can convince myself that I can communicate ideas in a coherent, intellectual fashion.

Casting through the trees,
a black colt
the brush is cutting light
over the rocky folds

It stamps the earths green
It's an ebony gleam
as dark as the mare
from whence it came

we were both treading water
walking in dark brooks
aloof and unafraid
Whilst the beast stole our pain

After a long stretch of silence.

A neon "open" sign hangs above my head, suspended in the corner of my right eye. It loams, a gory red. It is subdued, especially in the context of a coffee shop window open 24 hours. The sign scarcely rests and has lost its vigor to blaze like only the vivacity of electric red should.
I'm sipping rejuve tea. The hot liquid burns my mouth slightly and warms my throat. I want to dunk my entire body in the steamy stew of herbs until I dissolve. I could dissolve or I could float. It doesn't matter either way. I will still be apart of this huge soup.

Sam and I were talking the other night about his brother. Sam described himself as having a textbook approach things, where as his brother provided a more "accessible" explanations of his ideas. I wasn't quite sure what he meant by that. --- I would guess that "textbook person" would describe someone who has a well thought, drawn out explanation to and might include references to other thinkers who have insights relevant to the idea being expressed. Basically, someone good at writing college essays. I think I'll look up what others have to say about the definition...

(10 minutes later)

Okay, I couldn't find a satisfactory definition on the web. Next I seem him I'll ask him what he means. 

Hay, there is my old therapist in the sitting at a round table wearing studio headphones. It is a sign that I should start repeating positive affirmations to myself-- something I stopped doing, but helped while in practice.

Well, my hour of writing is up. I'm going to try this everyday.

Peace, love and all the flowers in British Columbia.

Hiatus OVer

These long stretches without writing can be so debilitating. I sometimes forget my writing persona and that I was ever writing for an audience. I only have one person following this blog. I don't even see this person anymore. (That doesn't mean we're not still friends, Brad!) Its just that I am probably not writing to anyone else but myself. (And Brad) Still, I feel like I am broadcasting to ubiquitous audience.  I am going to allot myself this exercise this once, just until I find my groovation.  I'll just continue typing until I can shed enough rust to get back into the swing. I went quite a while without writing. 3 weeks actually! Beside writing prompted journal entries that were pretty sterile and time efficient, I didn't have much time for creative output.

I went to Thailand about a week and a half ago to study sustainable tourism. I learned a canterburytales's worth of content. -I'll try to write about it later. 

Different

The blond strings of protein,
attached to your head that
lay flat by your ears, past your shoulders,
are slaves to the winds tug
and caked with oily perspiration.
You sit outside sipping tea
watching your primate species
 meander about.
You picked up a couple novels
from recycled books
over sociology, your field of study.
"One day I'll understand them," you say
and one day you will understand yourself.

My friend Richard stopped by the coffee shop where I'm sitting now. I felt inspired to write about him while he was in sight. Then he left explaining the brevity of the poem.

Well

I received reiki the other day. It provided tremendous insight into myself.

My soul is a well
where I fish
for the hundreds of monsters
shifting and slimming.

I feel their claws now and then,
scrape the arched walls
of the serpentine gape 
itching for absolve.

I toss chemicals into
the brick cylinder
wishing for their death.
I wouldn't dare look.

Their faces--too hideous,
at first, but as become
familiar. I see a likeness.

Prism

Prism

Prism mind, speak me something.
Speak something hard and fast
past this dusty comforter
where my foot dangles, the cobbler's last.


I dip my fingertips into
hot wax candle pools,
let it cast around my nails,
then peel it away when the warmth cools.

I refuse to give myself credit
for such paltry desire
 My flesh sulks in atonement.
“It was just a harmless fire.”

Bewildered suit when will you
mature enough to rip
from each limp seam
until your fabric slips.

The haze of “needs”
amuses my focus
like a cat fondling string
vapid and useless.

I just want my mind.
I will leave my body .