One thing he doesn’t understand:

Those images traumatized me.

It’s like they triggered my PTSD-

At any moment my instincts

could tell me to go into battle.

But I guess it doesn’t matter

to him

Because you see,

they’re such good friends.

And so it seems,

I’ve been making

love to the enemy.

Willing Myself Off The Couch

So, moments ago something brilliant happened: I knocked over a glass of water.  At first, I did not think it was very brilliant, in fact, I cursed at what had occurred.  Because now I had to get up, grab a towel, ya da ya da, so much effort, right?  I was really enjoying just sitting there.  

But then my brain went back to the split second before this incident occurred.  And what my brain was telling my body not to do was knock over that glass of water, spilling it all over me and the couch.  But guess what?  It fuckin’ didn’t matter because my body didn’t listen, or perhaps gravity wasn’t paying attention, or maybe… I willed it to happen.

By merely entertaining the thought, perhaps I invited that situation into my life.  And if that’s the case, how often do we do this?  We create things all the time that begin as nothing more than a mere inkling, the very vaguest of ideas, which could have the power to transform the whole world, or at least our own lives.  The fact that I can write these words onto a page (because originally I wrote this out on paper!) that started out blank is just an example.  Other artists do it all the time: turning nothing into something; bringing their ideas to fruition and watching them grow as they begin to inspire others to develop their own theories and abstractions.

But then I think: don’t we all do this?  Our life is a work of art if that’s how we choose to see it.  But first, we must will it to be.  Do we choose to labor with love, commitment, passion, and drive?  Or do we choose to confront our lives like I did when I spilled that glass of water?  “Fuckin A!  I don’t want to get off the couch!

writing to inspire

writing has always been my outlet.  so naturally, I tend to write more whenever I’m grappling with something that calls for a shift in awareness.  it is my way of processing, organizing, controlling the way I think about a thing.

and since my outlook these days has been pretty grim given the pain and confusion I’m trying to sort through so that I might begin to make some sense of it, some of my blogs have been concerning to friends and perhaps misconstrued by others.  I’ve exposed a lot of myself on here; offered a window into my soul.  it ain’t always pretty.  I’ll be the first to admit that.  but I think, I would rather be able to name my demons than pretend they don’t exist.

to go along with Buddha’s insight into what he described as the Eight Worldly Concerns, we need to embrace that there is both good and bad, light and dark within each of us.  and so I’ve decided that while I may need to get dark and heavy because yes, those parts do exist within me, I will write to inspire the light within us all.  but above all, I will write.


as a mirror

Maybe in a relationship, the thing that keeps it from going anywhere is the fear deep within ourselves that we are imperfect beings capable of hurting others; capable of feeling hurt; capable of destroying; capable of being destroyed. When we become intimate with another imperfect being, tensions do arise because building intimacy requires that we reflect as a mirror to the other person both how we see them and how they truly see themselves, deep within. And sometimes we do not like what we see; we loathe what we see whenever how we feel inside isn’t congruent with the reflection of ourselves in the mirror that is our partner. We feel hurt. We feel destroyed. We feel the need to hurt. We feel the need to destroy. And so it goes; an endless cycle between creation and destruction.

We create stories in our head that we tell ourselves to hold on to; we replay them over and over in our minds. We eat these stories; we drink these stories; we dream these stories, over and over and over. They become us and we become them. But what if there is more to the story than what we are allowing into our self-narration? What if there’s another truth of ourselves? One that’s deeper, and richer, and more fulfilling? Wouldn’t we want to follow that, to use our mirror’s reflection to better ourselves? Wouldn’t we want to create ever more of this type of dream, instead of destroying our only hope for everlasting redemption?


“I’m married to the ocean,”

a sailor once said to me.

“My heart wandered by the shore

and became a captive of the sea.


Sand beneath my feet,

I have sank into the depths of her.

I close my eyes,

let myself go,

and drift with abandon upon her tide.


The ground below quickly becomes

the sky above my head

As she pulls me ever further

into her womb

And surrounds me with her love.


Never was it so easy

to think myself worthy

of such a genuine embrace;

Allowing me to float away so freely,

Welcoming me always

as though I had never left.”


With one more quick breath

he turned to bid farewell,

Stepped out into his beloved’s

prismatic waters,

returning like a mollusk

to her warm shell


Isn’t it
a grand view of the world
way up high,
all alone,
yet all you love within sight?
The calm you may know,
the peace you might feel;
for a moment
soaring without flight,
for a second
breathing without breath;
your own air becoming
the gust of wind
along which you coast
travelling through time
remaining off and on
in the in between,
finding perfection in the pain,
understanding the loss
in the gain.
Would there still be
a place to call home
in limbo?

Labors of Love

An idea that represents
a labor of love is
one which you cannot relinquish.
You must feed it with experience.
It grows from careful thought and discipline;
consideration always given
to that which will allow
the idea to flourish and thrive
among chaos and strife.
All the dirt and grime
of tarnished souls
kept at bay
lest evil spirits get in the way
of one’s glimpse of the divine.