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.
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Thoughts on the usage of”what’s your objective opinion  “

I think what’s happening when someone asks for an *objective opinion is an untethering of you, the asked, from the protection and safety of polite social niceties. You’ll notice I said “protection and safety”,not “crushing niceness” or whatever. Maybe this is key in how I think about this. Whether or not we claim to like them, polite social norms often protect us from saying what  we really think in situations where it doesn’t matter  what we really think.
When a friend asks for an objective opinion, they are asking to cut you free to possibly  hurt them. They are cutting you free from safety to tell them that their paper isn’t up to standards, that their wardrobe could use improving, that their kid is a shit, that they are going bald, or maybe they are really codependent. They’re setting you loose to give an honest opinion from your heart, and they are not saying that nothing you say will be held against you.

They’re not giving you permission to be cruel.

This isn’t coming out of anywhere in particular. Occasionally I just spend inordinate amounts of time thinking about word usage and why we think the things that we mean, may not mean exactly what we think they do. (could I have said that more confusingly? V unlikely)

I love you. Be nice to each other.
* I don’t really think there’s such a thing as a genuinely objective opinion.

Enjoy these here 🍌 🦆

The best ever deathmetal band outta Denton

My hair curls up too much for convention on one side of my face while the other hangs straight, as if its  decided to represent differing parts of my genetic make-up. It is yet to be seen how business will go today, so I’m writing this behind the bar. I’m feeling nostalgic and thinking about my cousin with her, long straight blonde hairs, always dyed an extraordinary colour ( long before galaxy hair entered the pop-culture zeitgeist) and the tattoos of gentle things up and down her arms and chest. I wonder if she ever got a “bake cake” knuckle tattoo, but all my Instagram stalking won’t reveal that, TBH.

We didn’t make good friends after childhood. We didn’t make good friends as children. Family forced us together, and as adults it  was me who forced us apart.

I still love you ,Jasmine, and when I find your name on those stupid name-license-plates, laughter comes up.

Also and more aggressively present in my mind is   that it’s been 4 years since the man who taught me about Bukowski, made me love Radiohead and forced me (against my will, sometimes) to love myself passed. Memories come up out of nowhere and beat the dust off forgotten parts of my soul every year, about a month before this date. I feel dread when the radio plays, and a thousand little things that’d mean nothing to anyone else rip at me. My worry sometimes is that I’d turned the man the may have been one of the most militant of Atheists into an Idol in my one mind, some sort of Sacred Sad Boy.  He left a Tribe of us sad kids behind, missing him and (in my case) consumed with the fear that we could’ve stopped something, but did not.

I hope he was wrong sometimes, about everything ending in nothing.

(we all hope for what we need)

I hope he’s somewhere happily scattered around the universe so that he can see that when lights explode in the American night sky in the beginning of the summer heat, His tribe (all scattered ) look up , and see him though all the smoke and dust and brilliance.

Happy July Fourth.