“Power can be taken, but not given. The process of the taking is empowerment in itself.”

That’s Gloria Stienem.

Darlings, The government we’re under encourages and stirs up devisions between us all, and we become too blinded by our differences(real and imaginary) to see the transformation of an attempted Democracy into a fascist regime. This is not new or particulaly clever, the lies are just less covert,lazier,dumber.

There is no attempt made at faking honesty now. Satire is more honest than any a state of the Union Address,but that is usually the case.

This is not normal. Repeat with me, love. This is not normal. We are skipping towards fascism, and I’d encourage you to stop the thinking “if the dems can blah, armpit fart noise, things will change.” There’s no ‘Left” left. It is centrist garbage,and when people say otherwise, they’re labeled as divisive. The parties are nearly the same. Are we One country, undivisible, or snarling dogs that feast on the on scraps under tables and die crushed by medical debt, blaming the party we aren’t aligned with? Have we forgotten the power should be in our hands? Did we ever believe we had it? Black men are powerless before a system created to oppress them, women have only had any Real political power since the mid-60s IF THAT,and really, we’re still nearly voiceless. Our lives are in the hands of men who have only their own best interest at heart.

Jack weinberg said “never trust anyone over thirty” and Revolution belongs to the younger. Thirty used to mean a stable income, a care, a home, a family. Thirty is just as hungry as twenty, now. Revolution belongs to those who fight the past with fresh ideas. Generation Z, I’m with you. It’s you that can wrench this country from the hands of decrepit old white men. And we, the mellenians, we’ve read the books, tuned in and dropped out and taken tear gas for the right to choose, the right to occupy public spaces and fight for the rights of all genders. We missed our childhoods and the Crash left us underemployed and forever fighting the man, and now we are an army of men and women with backs like old women from hard work and no health care. We listened to the writings of the reformers before us, because we sought them out. We wrote now revolutionary texts. We have more responsibility to changing this country because we have the anger being a generation of Lost Boys, baristas with highest education,bartender and vigilantes, forever renting and crushed by debt and witnessing the death rattle of the American dream. We support you, the ones just now 16,18, younger. Rewrite the morals, rectify the nation. Run for office. Win. It’ll be rough, but metamorphosis always is.

I am the grandchild of immigrants who were rounded up like dogs by regimes the people supported. My blood boils and remembers things my mind can’t. The blood always knows. It bubbles inside you with generational rage that the ghosts of our mass-graved dead hear from across the ocean, or rumbles in forgotten mounds all across this united country built on the white bones of the original owners.

(Can a stolen country stand on bones so long before it crumbles)

This is the country my grandparents warned would come,and I will fight division and lies with vision and unity, education and planned protest,art and love,and when the need arise, I will fight the way the time calls for. Every act of love is defiance. Every kindness is a blow to fascist control. Sometimes, actual blows are what is needed. Wait for the time for that, however. Control is stronger than fervour. The Revolution can be digital. Organization is stronger than riots.

Satire is powerful, and mind expansion is a tool to mental freedom. Never let them tell you what to think,or how. There are things known and there are things unknown, and in between are the doors of perception, belive that.

One nation, indivisible. Call whatever gods you want, that’s your choice. Mostly, hail yourself.

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everything is endless

I think I need to take you to highway 1. Come for the trees, stay for the living moments beween the leaves and the sunlight.  You’ve told me you don’t see the way that I do, but I do believe you can. You can smell me inside your hear,clear as if I were next to you, what else can you do you haven’t touched on yet?
I was unlocked by the wind whispering old words in trees, and I suspect your heart is in every wave in the ocean, and you can walk around this blue green rock and never be alone because of that connection.  I’ll take you to talk to the ocean. 

Then, Talk less, because I’ll take you to where I see “god”. I don’t believe the gods are ours, I don’t think they’re a power to “envoke”, but the endless voices of  now and then and never,emboidied in ways we’ll recognise: Enegy and spirits older that time showing up when they’re needed most.

Everywhere on this known earth has gods on every bit of land. I like to think each culture that came though our own new Colossus carried in charms and pots and lace the gods exiled with them in the name of “progress”.
(A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles)
Personally,  have a suspision a few made it out to this  Currently -united state’s golden side in 1959 en masse whisperin’in ears of burning blind, hysterical minds the thoughts we needed in the ryrthm of the times, Anthems and chants to start revolutions,  I suspect there were as many gods in black leather jackest and black Ray bans, aiding the Party of Self Defense againts the hate-twisted words of an old book made legislation by men with no mind to what god(s) really meant.
Whenever a prophet is murdered in his own country, A journalist marytered for reporting on human rights violations, there they are in the midst.
I suspect gods stood in tienemen square, suspect they burned with arms wrapped around monks who sent the odor of commitment and sacrifice to the sky.
God met me out there in the woods one time and I wonder if he hung around. He wasn’t a solid thing but raining light voice and he opened up all my eyes until I saw for endless days and only seconds.
Don’t figure They’re the kind of thing that stays in one place very long, or  stays one thing very long. The last time I saw Them, they were crossing the street and the middle of Santa Cruz, walking a pitbull. Another time, they were a little girl who know me from the last time she was a little girl. I didn’t know her at all. 
I do not know that there are gods, my darling. I do know my own belifes, my own life. I suspect there exixst more in the Spaces between that we have words for. 
 There is no hyperbole to what I am about to say.
I was possibly 12, angry, walkman,pants with a velvet dragon on them. I believed in nothing, maybe less.
I saw a man pass me  on my left. I look in his face and saw eyes like worlds on worlds, blue hollow worlds,and as he passes, I watched him walk away, and then he was gone.
Gods or no, there’s more that we can put names to.
 Find a new word for god. demystify the mysteries through communication.
listen to yourself.
I know nothing.
So do you.

Older names

In one of the beginnings of a world and time that may or may not be this one, something saw fit to assemble me, and I can only guess (given the nature of the universe) a few others with an odd collection of extra bones, memories not our own, and eyes that see beyond the world of most.

Someone poured the wind inside me instead of breath and give me a heart deeper than the sea, and broken as a shipwreck.

If woman was made from Adam’s ribs then I am no woman and am made from the backbone of some other-gendered thing. While I have no doubt I have a soul, I have a deep and enduring suspicion that half of it is wandering around without me like the shadow of Peter Pan, while pieces of other Souls leave their memories of screen doors and architecture and faces I’ve never seen, inside my head.

At night I dream of crows and strangers ask me the directions to a place they assume I know and I’ve dreamed the dreams enough to be afraid to ask myself why I have the answers and know the way.

There’s no guide book for explaining the sensation of feeling spread out across places and times. I’m beginning to wonder if there are no gods anymore because perhaps they spread their souls out among the people with no explanation. No matter what mythology you choose, the gods never think too carefully about the consequences, do they.

Whatever made me gave me a heart that is spread out across every city in every corner of the world, strung together by a silver cord I wrap around around around as I struggle to collect its pieces in alleyways and cityscapes and in the eyes of those who shine out fluorescent-like when everyone else’s seems to be lit by Edison bulbs.

When I was younger I used to say my head was too full, and a glow would start in my chest and explode through the top of my head and I swore that I would break apart, and often wished I would. I saw things at night that only children’s hearts know the real names for; old things that are the antique reason all humans fear the dark. Eventually I learned to pretend I didn’t see them.

When I was younger I knew I held the winds inside me, and maybe something else that made my mother believe the devil could be pulled out of me by men who likely slept at night never seeing anything but the back of their own eyelids. There is no devil so far as I can see,but In my experience, Pious men hold the devil inside them far more often than not.

At the age I am now (younger than my tongue, but older than my teeth) I believe in everything and nothing. I see and watch everything and pretend that I don’t. (I am not an oddity To be collected)

Maybe I stand with one foot in this world and part of the other somewhere else. I have few answers which is still more than I had and I will never run out of questions. I know this,

We are more than we have been told and less alone than we have been led to believe, and one doesn’t have to stare into the abyss in order for it to turn it’s gaze your way.

I am a broke-down temple with no gods to speak of, but I (like you) am infinite.

Militant dandelion

I’m standing at the top of Bishop’s Peak, eating a mango like an apple. My backpack is painted in dust with a suggestion pasted to it suggesting correctly that (for me) ‘death can wait’. I am crusted in dirt and a sunscreen resemblent of a thick, white paste not unlike like Elmer’s Glue. I’m basically in my underwear, drinking a tepid combination of water and sugar free monster from a canteen covered with stickers bearing slogans about feminist topics and one or two from the Airfield Supply Company, Twitter, and various breweries. I look like freckled, happy Delores Park Trash. The beautiful blonde Cal Poly kids that started the same time as me, just reached the summit and look like death, with their collapsed and sunburned little shoulders.

I feel great. I could keep going, like a small, disheveled mountain sprite .

~~~~~~~Later

I made it down.

On the descent, the rocks were too hot to touch and the dirt radiated heat back up at me, like an asshole. An asshole complicit with the sun.

I need food.

Bishop’s Peak, you’re a beautiful thing.

Cymbalta: a terrible party for your brain. Also, cat litter.

A few months back, a doctor placed me on Cymbalta as part of a course intended to help alleviate some of the nerve and back pain, because I am not living my best life with this ish.

This is the previously mentioned doctor of the rather pretty Russian accent who told me I had fibromyalgia. I very likely do not have fibromyalgia, but do have severe spinal issues.

So of course the Cymbalta worked wonderfully and a great impact on my mental well-being. Right?

Well fuck no, it didn’t work for anything barring me flatulating so so so so much that I had to run all over the place at work in order to not just have a giant stink Cloud around me. (That is the least favourable Cloud to have surrounding you when bartending, BTW.) It also interacts SO BADLY with alcohol. So. Bad.

Ive spent 2 months tapering off of Cymbalta, first going from 60 down to 30, then staying on 30 and coming off. The withdrawal. From this medication is absolutely nightmarish:

here’s a fact-checked article about some of the side effects, many of which I am experiencing.

Just, For the Love of fuck, if your doctor suggests Cymbalta for whatever reason, Especially if she suggests flippantly, then insists that it will definitely work off-label for some unrelated shit, run like fuck You Beautiful bitch because this is garbage.

Speaking of garbage:

My little tabby, Hermes, just walked up my back as I write this from a somewhat tortured version of child’s pose. I now have blue bits kitty litter gently sprinkled on my back. Litter boxes are garbage. There has to be a more effective way of not constantly having your house covered and a thin layer of crystals that may have cat piss on them. Someone desperately needs to invent a better litter box.

I’ve not been very good at writing anything at all lately. My brain isn’t working at top speed, and I honestly have a lot of stuff to do. That last line is a frequently used excuse for not writing. If you want to write, you’re going to write. I just have to get better at making myself, and somehow finding a way to do it whilst Cymbalta withdrawal throws a terrible terrible party in my brain.

Tonight I’m headed over to dinner at a friend’s house with my husband, and in the morning on Saturday, I’m driving to San Luis Obispo to hike and experience an actual Beach.

” Well, doesn’t the San Francisco Bay Area have beaches?”Is something I imagine you asking…

Why yes, yes we do if you enjoy cold, somewhat rock-bedazzled beaches that are mostly for bonfires and walking dogs. San Francisco bay area beaches are pretty similar 2 East Coast beaches: Rocky, full of dogs(bonus) and really great for sitting, staring and pouting. Not so great for being half-naked and playing volleyball, which is the kind of beach that I like to interact with.

So. San Luis Obispo, because I want to be around warm nature, and also because I want to be alone and write a tonne of words that I’ll probably delete.

All right. I have to pack. I love you, and remember:

Dissent is patriotic, organization is key to proper Revolution, and for fucksake, don’t climb the Statue of Liberty, that does literally nothing.

Peace.

There are two instances where I believe it’s totally acceptable to create or experience your own reality: one is your spiritual life, and the other is anytime you’re under the influence of hallucinogenic *medicines.

At all other points in time, Reality is the truth. Truth is based on facts.

We’re living in a world of our own creation, where facts are being twisted it is something utterly ridiculous, and a lot of times, I think we just go along believing them because we like the rhetoric. This is bullshit, friends.

Get the facts. Know them, remember the truth and hold the truth inside your soul.

Y’know.. Don’t believe the hype, to quote Public Enemy.

Right now the American government is attempting to create its own reality. It’s attempting to dictate the news. There’s a laundry list of things happening right now, and I’m not going to go into them, because that’s not my point right now.

We must continue to live in reality.

Fact-check.

Be rational.

Act with our hearts open and our eyes clear.

I personally believe it’s my job to be the candle burning in the window and the light in a dark place. I’m still figuring out what that means in the middle of all this mess.

I love you, whoever you are, Wherever You Are.

Happy solstice. Remember to turn your face to the sun like a flower perhaps literally, but definitely figuratively.

* you’re not going to catch me referring to psychedelics or marijuana as drugs at any point in this blog.

Somewhere over Greenland.

The soul of humanity lies in quiet shadows of sadness in old mens eyes, so easily brighted by acknowledging what hides behind them. There’s softer thoughts than you’d expect, tucked away.

It lives in silent knowledge of other’s wounds.

It takes me by surprise on long flights, when everyone else sleeps and I stare at our shared moment, contained by a (possibly) decade-old metal tube somewhere over Greenland.

I’d like to think there is a great web of deities, all of different viewpoints preserving us, ever so slightly. My greatest fear is that we only have ourselves.

Humanity’s soul lives, planted in us all.

It thrives in kindness.

Please, let it thrive.

TimeemiT

I’m doing something I never do.

The  sun cuts through half-open blinds, and the not-yet setting light rays hits my seedlings,(or whatever you call plants that aren’t just sprouted , but too.. wobbly to really be plants) and  my bike,out on the patio. The torn-off fronts of craft coffee bags are tossed around me, and I’m trying to think of how to decoupage them onto the coffee table I’ve been covering for over a year. It’s nearly finished. Mr. Robot is on; I Remember  hearing  Pop Culture happy hour talk about it while I worked out at my old Gym in San Jose. I think that means this show came out in 2015?  It’s good so far. IMG_20180509_182340.jpg

I never watch anything new alone, because it almost feels meaningless to do so, somehow. I’d rather re-watch, but then I end up with pop-culture FOMO. I don’t sit on our couch at 7 pm and drink coffee and watch TV shows I haven’t watched before ,alone, as the light streams in through hanging blinds. I don’t do crafts instead of running errands, reading, or going to the gym, or any number of other things that keep my body and brain moving. I’m trying to slow down and be present.

I don’t think there’s even going to be enough time, somehow. I look at my husband and the sun and all the other brightest things I know, and think that.  I tell My husband this sometimes, Never enough. It’s possible he thinks I’m being morbid, but I hope he knows it’s just how deep down the love goes, how much deeper  I  go. Never enough time.

Maybe I’ll spend more time gluing hipster coffee bags to my coffee table.

Bruised fruit

Throughout my life,bruises have stood as shrines to the things I have loved that have hurt me.

I used to tear the skin off of my little kid shins while running through fence rows filled with blackberry vines, and then go home sticky with blood and joy, purple with juice and bruises.

I’ve had collections of Chartreuse and black bruises from falling down skateboarding, bruises from dancing, bruises from people who loved me, from people who hated me, uncomplicated bruises from sex that left me happy in the pit of myself when I saw them. I’ve had several people’s share of the bruises from nights that are devoid of memories, nights when I’ve drunk so much I can’t remember details. Some of the things that have bruised me have almost destroyed my life.

The ones below are from trees. I’ve never been able to climb a tree and not be bruised like an apple. I will move my body ,coiling along the limbs and bruising my inner thighs, and slam my shins against the branches until they turn purple. I don’t know that it’s ever been comfortable to climb a tree, but it is joyful and invigorating and wild in a way often forgotten as an adult. So enjoy my bruises, because they will always be here, visible and vulgar.

Who invited all the damn crows

I dream almost every night, and for the past 3 months  I’ve tried with  a reasonable success rate to write down what happens when I’m asleep. This means that a black leather book lives beside my bed, it’s heart  filled with tiny scribbles of varying legibility, the messages running the gamut from seemingly symbol-Laden- probable gibberish, to complex storylines that feel like ghosts around the edges of my waking life. 
I write down my dreams in this book while my brain is in that hazy, San Francisco Fog State between asleep and awake  so I often have to go back and rewrite when fully awake. I feel like one’s brain starts to forget what happens in dream worlds very quickly so it’s important to do it as soon as possible.

Some patterns have emerged. I’ll highlight a few of them.

  • I dream about fully fleshed – out people with names. Sometimes I know them, often I don’t. 
  • I dream about sex  with women. (don’t we all) 
  • I dream in muted colours 
  • I have no idea what my face looks like, but I am very small, my hands remain the same: long, thin, and boney. Sometimes I am aware of my hair, which is long and in my way
  • I dream the same dreams often . Some of these dreams have been recurring since I was a child.
  • There are, so far as I can see, 5 worlds  that are connected to each other but don’t exist in the same time. They seem to be connected with a subway line of sorts that I can exit at any point, and the train is also a part of different times. My   real-life fascination with fashion seems to mean that my brain is created wardrobe as an identifier for time-period.The worlds are as follows :
  • An apartment where a number of people who reoccur in these dreams live. I don’t know how many floors it has but it seems endless and is More or less in the present. Sometimes there’s a fire pit in the common area. It’s very gray and always night. 
  • My own childhood time-period,during the late summer. 
  • A junkyard (I guess) but in a sort of soup ladle  shape, basically hanging in nothingness. 
  • The weird-ass Subway 
  • An old west construct.(this makes no sense because I have zero attachment to the Olde West, western films,ect. Even while I’m having the dream, I feel like “wtf is this corny ass shit”. 
  • Somewhere that that feels very old,  is slightly cold but not so cold that I am uncomfortable, and has no noticeable buildings. I have been inside structures on this world, but I couldn’t tell you what they look like from the outside. This is the one that bothers me because when I’m awake I feel like I remember it randomly and it makes me feel as that I’m out of time. It seems to be nothing  but trees and cliffs and I feel very very small, physically.

 Some other noticeable patterns are these:( at this point I’m going to point out that I practice lucid dreaming so I have decent amount of control in some situations. I’m not great at it and I’m off and lazy and don’t try to use it) 

  • So many crows, why all the crows. Who invited those  assholes. 
  • I am completely capable of using the internet in my dreams. Or at least my phone. I don’t see the face of it or anything but I know that I’m using it
  • Sometimes there are clear messages that are just one sentence. Sometimes these repeat themselves and they always make no sense within the context of what’s Happening
  • The most noticeable is this. I am helping people in my dreams. I am always helping people do something, find something,  get somewhere, Etc. Sometimes I know them, usually I don’t. And often times it’s something sad. I realized  this a long time ago: That often the dreams that I dream don’t feel like my own. They feel like something I am doing for someone else,  whether or not I want to.

I’ll write more about this later. But I wanted to get the outline of how I’m dreaming out there first before writing about this further here. This probably seems strange to you, all this listening to what happens when I’m asleep  but as long as I can remember I have been dreaming dreams that that are big and strange and pointed and recurring.

Its 6:30 right now and I’m slightly jet-lagged. I desperately want to grind coffee but I also don’t want to wake up Alvin who is so peacefully asleep in the other room. I think I’ll probably just poked my head in there and see if he’s on his phone or not and if he is, then all bets are off. I’m grinding. It’s the second day of the new year, and I’m wishing  that you’re having the best  start to your year  possible ,  and maybe, maybe, I’m dreaming about you.