writing day 8

Tumbling, tumbling, down down down down down down down down down down, thud. The soil was soft, yet heavy with the dampness of caves and dark places. Even from here the light filtering through the network of root capillaries, roads, and highways was just a foggy haze no bigger than the moon between the thumb and finger, and seemingly just as impossibly far.

His fingers dug into darkness, picking himself up in a dizzying state, little neon green blobs floating in the center of his vision. Something bristled quickly across the top of his hand. He flung out out his hand into the yawning nothingness griped by the fear of his imagination clothing the unknown.

Bam! He cried out as the surprise of sharp pain came rushing up from millions of shards piercing into the nerves of his hand and and causing all muscle function to fall away. While pulling the now useless hand to be cradled and examined by the other, he stifled a yelp and instead settled with the instinctive whistling inhale, “sssssssssssssh”.

As the throbbing settled down, and he determined there was no bleeding or broken bones, he slowly reached out his hand to examine the space beside him. Fingers slowly began to brush against a smooth surface, cold and marble-like in texture and density. As if shaped and ground down by millions of years of trickling water or…click.

While examining the almost rounded surface, his fingers had found a protrusion, and from under his middle finger, a blue light began to emanate. The light glowed with a bioluminescence that spread from his finger like tendrils moving across the surface and extending into the surround space, a matrix of light trails connecting, disconnecting, reconnecting giving outline to the black canvas.

As the web expanded, the complexity of the patterns accelerated as if building to a crescendo. And then as quick as it had started, it stopped. If robots had a cuneiform or hieroglyphic language this would be it. While it did appear there was some semblance of intention in the arrangement, the patterns found moving shapes that defied his convention. He found himself unable to simplify these shapes by any of the platonic forms, and couldn’t help but pee his pants a little as his brain become overloaded with them ramifications of what he was experiencing.

 

writing day 7

They called it the Tox. It crept up on you slow. Just a tickle at first, in the joints and tips. Like a pinprick of bright energy that was just on the cusp between laughter and pain. An itch that had no other place to be held but in the mind. Over time, the frequency and duration and area of effect increases until even the circadian rhythm is affected. In the latter stages, the OGs say they can measure their life by the Tox; you’re awake if you feel it, asleep if you don’t.

This wasn’t quite that time, it had only reached the transition phase. The available research states that when a HJ (hi-jacker, hive-job, hiker) gets to this point, energy levels and sensory inputs are affected. Touch becomes vibratory and increasingly separate from the visceral. The eyes lose focus and the field of view becomes increasingly invaded by a warm single-tone light. Thoughts fade and recess into an infinitesimal point off in the distance that is hardly even noticed until after it has happened. But the worse part was the smell. Heightened sensitivity to the ozone and ionic fields caused the nose hairs to feel like thin tendrils hooking the forebrain between the eyes with a 12-volt energy bank. Every inhale and exhale flaring the olfactory nerves into a field of electrified cotton.

Even having access to, and doing, all the relevant research, nothing could’ve prepared a person for the nuanced experience developed by the Pied Piper. At first, it was beautiful how the Music would find the nooks and crannies of the soul and fill in those spaces. A person felt fuller, lighter, elevated, realized, recognized. It gave a sense of wonder and of belonging, a vessel no longer empty. But with each experience, the Music deposited granules of after-effects, nanoscale molecular changes to the protein chains structuring neural pathways and connections. These granules soon became clumps which soon became anchors which soon became hooks. And that’s when the hiker is hiked

 

 

writing day 6

“Waaaaaaaaah!!!”

Needle-like, piercing the veil of sleep, the shattered shards of the shrill wail coming from the floor below caused reality to come bleeding into stark consciousness, ejecting him from his dreams of another world, another time, another self.

What the fuck is going on?! His primal instincts honed through millions of years of evolution went into high alert the moment he was brought back online. His mind quickly made sense of the situation from the sonic cues. It was 2 year old Sonya, his brother’s daughter. He would recognize the sound of her voice anywhere, and whenever he heard that particular pitch his heart would tense, caving into itself a little.

The sound of commercialized pop music was blaring, attempting to drown out the sound, but unable to mask the shrill and intense tone of anguish. Amidst the bubbly warbles of electronic sounds and 4/4 bass tones, her wail was different then usual. It was morning, and as usual, she had been dropped off by the drone service to stay with his mother and father while Sonya’s parents went to the local VR factory to design and manufacture the newest circuit modules for the upcoming CES event in Taipei. They’d been working longer and longer hours recently as the date of the show quickly approached, and next year’s designs were getting the final R&D touch.

His parents were the conservative type. First-generation immigrants who still had a bit of the old country twang in their voices, and a lot of the values in their perspective. This wasn’t the first time he had been woken up by Sonya’s crying after she had been dropped off, but this was a whole-new octave even for her.

The cold air attacked his bare skin and he quickly pulled the covers off his body and got out of bed, the warm, fuzzy cocoon he had nestled within the night before ripped and invaded by the rushing thermal difference. He put on a pair of grey cotton sweatpants, light green jersey tee, and a thin cotton sweater pulled from the mess of clothes strewn around the room. He gave them a quick sniff, hmmmm passable enough, I’ll be able to wear them a few more times before washing.

“Stop crying!” he heard a voice say.

Oh, come on, Mom. How can you tell them to stop crying and reject their emotional experience? Don’t you know you’re teaching her to repress her feelings? He let out a quiet sigh. He had to get down there quick and help alleviate the situation by providing his niece support during this time.

He headed downstairs, the sounds of the television, the cries, and the angry and upset demands, co-mingling into a suburban jungle cacophony of primates, jingles, and emotions attempting to upend and sweep him away.

There they were in the living room. Grandma was firmly holding Sonya by the arms and raising her voice over the crying child, telling her to stop.

“Stop! Do you want to be in time out?!” she said sternly.

And yet, Sonya continued, as children will, able to become fully engrossed in whatever emotion or feeling they are experiencing within the present moment.

“What is going on? Why is she crying?” he asked with a look of concern.

“Go away! She’s being punished!” both grandpa and grandma shooed him away with their hands as Sonya continued on her tirade, looking for comfort.

“You don’t hit people! No, you hit grandpa! Say sorry, you want time out?! Stop crying, you don’t hit!” yelled grandma angrily.

Sonya continued to cry.

His heart reached out to her, hoping that in some way his presence was able to assuage the situation. He found himself in an indecisive situation. How does one act when they know someone has done wrong, the punishment is justified, but the application of justice and forgiveness feels wrong too? He felt helpless and a victim of choice as he curled up into a ball on the couch, sad and ashamed to bear silent witness to this scene.

Sonya turned and attempted to move away.

“Where do you think you’re going?” prodded grandma.

Sonya pointed to his direction.

“No! You don’t go to uncle! You’re in timeout! Now say you’re sorry!” grandma stated.

Sonya began to cry again with renewed fervor, the shrillness rising an octave that he would’ve thought able to shatter glass.

In these moments, he remembered his own childhood, and the pain of being yelled by his parents. He believed there was a different way for children to understand the lessons of life, where they aren’t told something is wrong. Instead, they are shown a different way to approach things, or given explanations that help them to understand why it is currently being forbidden.

When a person is simply told they are not to do something without any explanation or recourse, it stifles the opportunity for learning and open dialogue. What is better for a child to learn and embody in the long-term, obedient behavior or creative empathy? He laid there curled in a ball, floating around in the ether of his mind, as her crying began to lose steam.

And then, as if a reset button had been reset, she had stopped and was smiling. She had moved on from the situation and was ready to do something else. He wished his parents would do more with this moment than simply force feed her a buffet of streaming children’s videos and hydroponic apples and individually-sealed packets of glugurt. It was common knowledge that glugurt was just sythentic glucose with nano food coloring and synthesized flavor that was meant more to hook a consumer than to provide sustenance. It was obvious his grandparents had come to a time in their life where it was easier to distract a child than personally engage a child, as they grew less energetic with age.

He finally made eye contact with Sonya and smiled, sitting up and unfurling his body and arms. She rushed to him and he picked her up in his arms. He pulled her in and gave her a hug, swallowing her up in his arms and cradling her with all the love and feelings of warmth he was able to muster. He loved her with all his heart, in a way that was similar and yet different to any love he had experienced before.He only wanted the best for her, and didn’t want to stand in the way of her growth by imposing strict rules and punishments. He knew how poorly those things had worked on him, and the struggles it presented him throughout his life.

A new life like hers, as sensitive and impressionable as it is, should not be made to learn behavior in that way. His hope was that he would be a beacon of light to her whenever she might feel completely alone. He wanted to simply be a safe haven she could always turn to that would accept her, guide her, help her, encourage her, and always be truthful to her throughout her life’s journey of exploration and growth. He promised himself that he would always do his best to give her those intangible things that are also the most precious.

Holding her in his arms, he was glad that he had awoken so that he was able to hold her in this way, reinforcing the promise of always being a gentle wave to move her vessel along the path of her own choosing while weathering turbulent storms.

writing day 5

What does it mean to find one’s voice? Even voicing the thought leaves my mind at a blank. How can one know when their voice is their own? What if a person tries desperately to hear the sound and resonance of their own heart and yet find it drowned out by competing desires that leave one stuttering before they can even begin to gain the momentum to move forward. What if that is their true voice? Is there even such a thing as a true voice?

People will say that when you let go of pretenses, that’s when it comes forth, gushing as the dam stymieing the flow crashes and tumbles apart, a thin veil of illusion on what one thinks they are because of what they are told will make them happy. Whether that’s by society, or family, or lover, or enemy. The words should feel effortless, or at least the idea and feeling of it should be. The form finds itself through the essence that shapes into it.

As the canvas is scaffolded by the ideas which begin to prop it up and stitch the fine drapery full of holes constantly needing mending, then one finds they’ve become lost. Lost in a web of conceptions and narratives. Must not get too caught up in the construction when the driving force requires more attention to affirm solidity. But the solidity is like quicksand, with an ability to swallow one whole until there is nothing left. And yet it pulls at us, ever slowly to our death.

How does one know if they are being an individual, if they are being original, or if they are merely a caricature drawn on by inferences upon inferences, a password to get past the sliding black door? There’s a natural reflex to tighten the mind and let the body maintain a sense of control, as if their is a lack of fluidity between the thought and the motion. A delay due to a focus on getting it right. There’s a fine line between the two.

Where does one cross between genius artistry and chaotic idiocy? Why does it matter? Art is about self-expression and moving forward in becoming more skilled in the ability to express one’s humanity through one’s actions in a way that connects with others by displaying a humility and honesty about the human experience. The rollercoaster ups and downs we all face, even as the thin veneer peels away and exposes the aged wood beneath.

A part of me wants off this ride, as if this is my 100th time around the loop. What else is new? Been there, done that. A part of me wants to leave a legacy. Time is precious, and it’s the one thing you can never get back. So why waste the time I’ve been given? Why haven’t I done more? I thought my life would be more amazing than this? A part of me is comfortable and happy for the little things. It’s so nice to feel the soft sheets against my skin, the furry blanket shielding me from the little bits of sunlight trickling past the drawn, fabric shades. A part of me is waking up to the strength contained in me, the chains slowly crumbling away. Yet the drive and desire is there to give more of myself. To want the world to hear and listen to my message, and to connect.

But is to pretend to not want something the best way to get it? Or is the best way to happiness to not want of anything, and thus be happy with everything? Isn’t a true life lived one filled with equal measures of happiness and sadness? Isn’t a full life one that isn’t encumbered to only experience a fraction of the human experience of possibility because of an addictive reaching out for one sort of joyfully release? But this is the sort of game that everyone plays with themselves. The only difference is the level and scope of the interacting parts.

So what differentiates one from another in determining what level they have access to? Is it more individually oriented like a belief? Or is it more group-selective like tribal association? Like all things in a subjective reality, nothing known is truly independent, as it always requires a reference. Whether that is to inform ourselves of who we are, or to inform others of whom we are a part of. Finding and speaking one’s true voice is about connecting people to the common group of humanity, and to the common experience of self through a unique lens of individual personhood. In some ways, it requires knowing, understanding, and empathizing with our history, our current predicament, and our potential for the future. And it definitely involves freeing oneself from the constraints of contention, and honing one’s view to shine with laser precision and clarity the spirit of one’s experience.

writing day 4

Was it her time? Her knuckles were bloodless white as she gripped the armrests of her seat with the strength of a bear trap not wanting to let go of her prey. But this time, she was the prey. The prey to the fears holding her sanity within the abyss of its yawning void. She had only given it a passing thought at the beginning, when there was a small vibration, a shivering that passed almost as soon as it was felt. And yet that was when the seed had been planted, and the roots began to burrow deep, feeding on what made her palms sweaty and her stomach sink to the floor. Of course, this whole thing started as an adventure, a path to growth by confronting the things holding her back. She had listened to her heart, and the voice of her closest friend Jude, but now she was having second thoughts and cursing under her breath for listening to her friend’s goadings. “Ladies and gentleman, we are experiencing a little turbulence and are currently in a holding pattern as a tropical storm is currently over Kingston. Please remain seated while the lights are on and listen to the directions of your flight attendants. Thank you.” The message did little to assuage the feelings welling up within her and drowning the rationality she was clawing desperately to hold onto in this tin can 10,000 feet above the Carribean sea. Why did she decide to conquer her fear of heights and travel all in one go at this time? Was this some sort of cruel, sick joke by the universe? A cosmic prank of serendipity? Just her luck, it’s always been this way throughout her life. Like when she was 7 and she was riding bicycles with the neighborhood kids and the bird flying overheard pooped onto her head. Jokes on her, always on her. She wanted to tear out of her seat, she wanted to scream; the tangle of energy seeking some sort of escape, and finding none, began twisting her into frayed, electrified knots. Fwoooo, what seemed to last for 10 seconds, the whole world dropped with her strapped to it, quite the Strangelove moment. It isn’t true when a person believes they are going to die that their life flashes before their eyes in a single playback reel. Instead, she only felt a blank terror where thought was non-existent. Only a singular, all-pervading note. A shrill falsetto capable of shattering one’s psyche into a million shards of quicksand. If the Christian mythology of Heaven and Hell were true, this would be the convergence of purgatory and Hell. An eternity plus one moment later, and the plane had righted itself. She peered out the side window past the pelting rivulets streaking across to see if there was smoke billowing amongst the pitch-dark clouds. She saw no fire and no smoke, and breathed the smallest sigh of relief. A kisby ring in a maelstrom. “We’ll be redirecting our flight to Montego Bay in order to refuel and wait out the storm. Please accept our sincere apologies for the flight delay.” About fucking time, she was screaming in her head. My life is worth more about a million flight delays. And as she felt the plane begin to turn away from the dark clouds, parting ways to a increasingly blue sky, the high-wire tension in her body also began to fade away. But deep down she knew, as did her body, that the tension would never truly go away. At least not today.

writing a day 3

Ring ring ring ring. When did it start? He couldn’t remember, it was just there interrupting the reverie. The cocoon of dream had cracked and the sliver of day had found its way into the walls, voices, and space of the drifting world of his mind. Piercing and shrill, to let it go any longer would be nails on the chalkboard of his sanity. The invasiveness and jarring effect outweighed the desire to linger in the fading reflections dissipating back into the depths of the unconscious. His eyes quickly opened, temporarily blinded by the light filling the room from the west window facing a man-made lake. The neighborhood association kept it stocked for it’s residents to enjoy. But now, it simply reflected morning light and, like hooks, pierced his eyes with a new dawn. 7:00am displayed the phone next to his pillow, blinking in time with the siren sounds. He swiped left on the clock icon on the screen, shutting off the alarm and falling back into the crumpled sheets and the memory foam pillow he found one day, left in an unexplored closet. A treasure to be uncovered at just the right time, the sweet serendipity of simple things. Now he just pulled the pillow over his face, wanting to suffocate the day into submission, bring back the darkness, reanimate the pieces as their recollection scatters with the sands of time. Just five more minutes, he tells himself, shaking hands and making a contractual agreement. Just five more minutes, and I will definitely get up. The mantra is chanted in his head to the rhythm of counting. one one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand. Mmmmm, it feels so warm under the blankets, the sheets so soft, his body still in that delicious state between worlds, as if each particle is softly vibrating into being, enwrapping him in a primal memory of safety, of birth, of the womb. And just like birth, a new day must begin in the same way, thrust out into the cold air of a bigger world. One beyond the folds of safety, cold, airy. Goosebumps trickle along his arms and legs, he feels a slight tingle traveling his spine as he rises to greet a new beginning, a new opportunity, a new moment. Another day, another rebirth, another chance to live and forget the shadow world until it needs rise again.

writing a day 2

Head down he began to write. Hoping beyond hope that the words that were falling forth, tumbling along plodding from one point to the next would have some semblance of narrative. Eyes closed, he dreamed, and yet he forced it as well. Fascist to the diction of vernacular and ideas. Now, eyes open, the words took center view before him. Meaningless in its physicality, the curves and points and intersections of meaning and movement meant little more than just a passing phrase along a turnpike behind the setting sun. Understanding from the point of where he stood in his mind, overlooking the mountain from afar, amongst the alpine groves and smell of fresh freedom and salty air, expanding in the drifting winds of expansive infinitude as blue upon blue stacked towards the heavens left him falling back in its gaze. Falling, falling, falling, back into the cradle of his mother’s arms. That which bore him from darkness, from nooks and crannies, where the hidden things grow and quiver and slither away before prying eyes eclipse the cracks and fill them with questions evoked and answers stolen. A simple sweet lullaby whispered in the nettles and bed of pine needles. The glowing aftermath hazy just above the surface. A reminiscence of a day in pools of clear water splashing and running about. Of knees grazed and skinned, bright as the sun and the sting of bees if disturbed. Shhh, just observe them spreading the seeds of life through their travels. The clouds are lazy, yet so is life. Quick in its cadence for change, and slow in momentum. The timeless dance of movement, many moving parts in synchrony. The watchmaker checks the gears and finds it full of sand, pouring out the billow and turning into glass, glittering and molded by the fires of desire into rigidity. The pace begins to slow, as the mind creeps to a halt, or a crawl, or a hibernation inverted in spring’s eternal rest in the orchards of tomorrow. To sleep, to dream, to become, to transform. Perhaps when he awakes he will be a butterfly and cause a tsunami.

writing a day 1

Like gnawing on a raw bone or maybe a raw nerve,

wondering if it’s now my turn.

I hear the roll call, but the ER is full.

Stomach twisting and turning, forehead burning with thoughts.

What started out as an itch,

has got me running with the drip;

swirling, tumbling, one-way ticket abyss.

Madness eclipses the moon, sun, and stars.

Apparitions adrift in halls of sorrow,

tomorrows scarred.

Uncertainty in droves, bubble universe implodes.

Event horizon black hole

holding hostage goodbye and hello.

Goliath felled by something smaller than a pebble.

-to my dearest, Corona

Remembrance

Again I wake, the faint glow of the moonlight illuminating the horizon. I have fleeting glances. Fading, fading, fading away into the corporeal airiness of a space beyond words. I remember the feeling, I remember the joy. I remember the energy and the beauty of the human spirit. We were free. Free beyond labels and the societies that create them. We were our own people, and we were together. A synergy beyond the simplicity of ideas. We made one another real, and I loved you for that. We were equals. The only motive was one of trust, an understanding that we would share this moment, this path. To join, to merge…to experience. Your soul is beautiful, and its honesty overflows and surrounds me. I want to hold you forever, cradle you in my arms, and tell you, “I love you”. I love you for being free, I love you for being open. I love you for embracing yourself, and for embracing me. I love you for you, and what you give me in that moment…..as my mind wanders into the fog the details slowly recede. And yet, I remember. I smile as I close my eyes.

To Stop Is To Go

There is no path to enlightenment. Life is not stagnant, it is constantly moving. So then, how can enlightenment be a static, fixed goal that one is to achieve? If enlightenment entails a unity with life in totality as one, then can it be realized via a static, structured process that is unchanging or immovable? Can there be a path towards something that is nowhere and constantly in motion?  In that sense, is not enlightenment everywhere and nowhere depending on whether one is awake or asleep to its presence? So then what prevents one from waking and experiencing the truth directly?