Writhing in Tepid Streams

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Hell bound Hounds

We’ve found

we’ve drowned

Could the sea

Wash more away

Than sin?

More than body and soul?

So unassuming,

So indifferent.

Maybe the secret to the pursuit,

Is in the changing tide

Unsure of what’s to be.

Sacrificed for this brittle end,

But with laces tied

And eyes covered

I walk.

The World in “Why?”

An open letter to critical thinking.

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 The same sights, the same sacred, lonely people. The same puddles, trees, cars.  I’m stuck in another cage. Is this all there is? Transcending through one cage after another, imagining some framework to progress, but we don’t move progress or regress. We move horizontally, shifting to a different cage, but still just as trapped as when we started.

There are varying grades of containment. In the heart of the woods, on the ocean front, at the mountain slopes, forgotten wetlands, I feel most free. The natural is fleeting landmarks to human spirituality. Simultaneously cruel and nurturing. A multitude of spiritual paradoxes deep within despite whether or not we know or acknowledge it.

I reach out to expand, to grow, but they’ve clipped my wings, they push my curious head back into my cage. They obstruct the view of potential in the outside world and I can’t have it. I’m ready to pull my hair out, to mutilate, disfigure, until someone listens.

There’s something to this. The self-expression, a window to Aristotle’s divine manifestation, (http://classics.mit.edu/Plato/republic.3.ii.html) and though I’m stuck in a cage in nature, I’m closer to transcending than ever.

Reality consists of perspective.

Death is not a thing to be feared, death is not something to be cherished.

It is simply the unknown. We only have one life, but we’re contained by the limitations of our body,

we can’t imagine what it would be like to be free of our aging bodies, but we’ve been given an opportunity.

A break from the eternal after. A chance to suffer, to show who we are, and what we’re willing to do with the chords that chime so intimately.

Proving what our love can do in another realm from the norm. We have all of eternity to be in the bliss of after, this is our chance to suffer, and have something to show for it.

This is the time to discover Humanity.  If you can, please, try something new today. Open a book about a subject you haven’t explored, a genre of music or literature.

Please anything to stimulate the mind. There’s so much to learn in the folds of history, so many skills mastered through the practice. It is a constant struggle to keep the mind elastic, but learning to be flexible in every facet of one’s life is an important, fulfilling skill. Curiosity trumps all.

Looking to Failure

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Don’t live life looking for the path of least resistance. Don’t avoid challenges because if you do, you’ll never have any idea where your potential lies and if you can’t understand your potential, then you’ll never meet it.

It’s important to ask yourself: What have you failed at today? The real root of growth; the struggle.

Caught Between Death and Empathy

 

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This is actually a journal entry, the beginning is an echo of my fear of the medical complications of type one diabetes, (For more information on the disease:  https://www.nlm.nih.gov/medlineplus/ency/article/000305.htm) at a cross section between my anxiety over being kept in the dorm room with some falling friends during 2014.

There’s too much of it. I want to live dammit, let me live. Don’t keep me locked in your grasp. More cage than arms, more entrapping than adoring, let me free. The sun shines, raise the blinds and see it. The world is full of many multitudes of beauty. Just get outside and see it. Take a step outside of paradigm and experience all that makes you Human.

 

If writing  from a first hand experience about diabetes is something that interests you, please comment below, and I’ll look in my goody bag and in the following days I will publish several posts on the subject.

Hong Kong Shark

He was never my son. He was hers, and when she left, I, of course, got stuck with him. He never did understand. He wanted to save the whales, the turtles, the sharks, would save the devil if it was a living force oppressed on earth. It wouldn’t have happened if he wasn’t so soft. They call it a Hong Kong shark for a reason. They aren’t kind creatures. People need to eat, and this creature is large enough to feed a village for a week. I know what they’re getting at, but they’ve never been overboard with a Kong. They’ve never been waiting to be pulled back on deck, with those beasts circling around, like a child playing with its food. Finally finishing their prey in two or three generous bites.

He couldn’t do much, so I’d have him pull in the net, but this time something got caught. He leaned over the side of the ship, freeing the excess fish caught with the Kongs.
Sometimes I’d look at him. I’d look at those fish flailing like if they struggled enough they could earn their freedom. I have been struggling for the better part of my life.
He had other things on his mind. He thought it too cruel to leave these fish trapped with such a predator. Hell, I figured it made it easier to find the net. The blood; a single drop of food dye in a bucket of water, spreading, expanding, but otherwise dissipating. He didn’t ask for my help then, probably felt like he had something to prove. His body balanced on the edge of the ship.

“Be caref–!” And he fell in. “Dad!” he looked at me with cavernous eyes. His head jerked as he searched the uproarious waters. A grey, slick nose rubbed against the underside of his foot.
“Get me out of here!” Thrashing in the water. He stopped then. He must have remembered the way it would draw attention to seals, sea lions. They’d be left in pieces, too minuscule to salvage for sushi. He stopped, waiting. I couldn’t make out what swam around him, only movement. The sea beneath him looked like a wild orgy in a storage closet. I panicked. I grabbed one of the rods we used to hold down the fish that overwhelmed the deck.

He gripped it, sliding his hands up the pole, using the ledge of the ship as leverage, I leaned back.
It took all of the strength I had.
He screamed before the pole snapped.
“Dad,” His voice tremored. He looked pale, his skin the same hue as his widened eyes. The wriggling mass of life that was under him had become foggy and red. “I’m getting help.” I didn’t shout. I didn’t panic.
I didn’t know if it were true, but I knew he needed to believe it if he was getting out alive. I worked the control box, raising the net, but this only brought them closer together.
I watched as a second and third Kong eyed my son. There was a look in the face of these monsters. I had seen it few times before. Like they were solving a math problem, just before they’d speed towards the kill their face would contort into a smile, indicating they’d found the solution. There isn’t much I wouldn’t give to never see that face again. I pressed the button on the control box, the net dropped opening to the sea. That was the last time I ever saw him.

Freedom is a Dog’s Best Friend

“Don’t you ever tire of shoving your finger up noses?” The thick man, painted in tattoos and decorated in piercings glared. He put his finger up the dog’s nostril, marking where the stud would be placed by a black dot. The mini poodle wagged its tail, and his head traced the walls of the room, excited to be someplace new. The man placed one of his fleshy cleavers on the back of the puppy, he lined up the needle, but the dog jerked his head out of place. “C’mon snuffiluffigous. This week you have to be punk.” She slid her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose, the loud smack of chewing gum reverberating through the room. “That can be done right?” She reminded me so much of Paris Hilton. Maybe it was the long heels, or the blonde hair, or the I.Q. lower than the price of gas. Someday I’ll get the courage to leave, but for now. The dog squealed like a pig being led to the slaughter. The dog laid his head against the piercing table. Defeated, we looked at eachother. Snuffilufigous and I both knew how wrong this was.

“AWWWWW Snuffilufigous you look so Metal! We’ll win the competition for sure!”
“Punk sweetie.”
“What?” She rotated on her heals like the earth and the sun, glaring like the ogre with the needle.
“She has to be punk for this, not metal.”
“Please Frank, it’s all the same shit.”
Joe Strummer was talking to me. I could hear it deep within the recess of my mind. “Grab the freesta breeze from her hand, throw it in her face, and run for the fucking hills.”
“not quite.”
She grabbed the poodle off of the table, and strutted her way through the front door.

“Ma’am you have to pay for it!”

I sighed. I didn’t need this shit. “I’ve got it covered” I wrapped it up. 190$ for a piercing, right. That was bullshit.

“You know, a pretty face isn’t everything.” I circle no tip. “Yeah well, thanks for your philosophy.” Bullshit.
But she knew how to make my tail wag, and that’s it. That’s all it is. That’s when I think about when she’s torturing our poor dog for the next pageant, squeezed into a leather jacket that’s more of a corset than anything. The scratch to my itch is what I think about when she tells me how “warm Hiroshima must be now that there’s radiation, how good it has to be for sun bathing.” I smile and nod, I don’t bark, because if I do, there will be no one to scratch behind my ears.
She goes straight to the bedroom. “come here honey.” I open the back door. The dog scratches at his nose piercing. “Bad dog!” He stops for a moment, running outside. Outside of this place he is ecstatic. Smiling mouths, and the most his tail has wagged all day. He scratches at the nose ring again, but I say nothing. Placing his paw on his nose he tears it out. It glimmers in the grass, and a small stream of blood runs down its face. There’s a hole in the fence he thinks we don’t know about. I turn to grab the keys off of the hook on the wall. When I look back to the yard, Snuffilufigous is gone. I turn and walk out the front door.

“Are you coming baby?”

Forget the Kids (Trigger Warning)

*Trigger warning as this material deals intimately with school shootings. It is not as a means of disrespect or belittling. School shootings are horrid and far too frequent.

Dressed in a green camouflage and dark boots he stepped into puddles like mortar shells being fired into the ocean. An unjustified, misdirected rifle is slung over his shoulder. The rain stings and is unforgiving against the flat of his neck. It stings his eyes in the contrast of the sunrise. He reaches his post, whistling “We don’t need no education” and unperturbedly silences the screams of an angry flame at the end of mistaken power. He sees the reflection of a god with his mighty trident when he stares at the mirror. He will be remembered, this is his legend. Children scream, teachers hiding students in gymnasiums, closets, corners are murdered for their loyalty. Afterwards the memorials are meticulous and frequent; an event to bring people together; people entirely unrelated, people from hundreds of miles away. If it wasn’t for the grim, sordid looks on the faces of the mothers and fathers you’d think it was a celebration or a grand festivity. In time they dwindle. In time the families of the deceased aren’t asked to meet with the righteous TV show hosts pretending to sympathize. In time even their closest relatives avoid them in a fear that they may remind or reinstate the pain the soldier had given. The fame from their misfortune follows a long downward spiral and all that remains is the legend of the mighty, dreadful soldier trudging through the red mud.