I felt really tall

Then I fell out of the world, fading away through strange landscapes not like anything ever seen in this world and knowing my girlfriend was there, protecting, she was it. I remained there, simply being for some time, it felt right, the world and worlds within worlds were within me. When we are like that we are not ourselves, we are the divine primal energies that in combining and dividing have formed all creation. Our bodies are merely servants to the sacred currents that emanate this earth, the sun, and the moon manifesting what they show, following our dreams and breathing novelty and mystery into all things. Words cannot describe the act of brushing my teeth and watching the water go down the drain, the still divide of sun peaking from around the trees that neither of us sees but we both speak of. Deeper than this even.
The earth is alive and the people are excited, I can hear them through my family, though we were splintered by misunderstanding for a long moment, now all is quiet, and there is no feeling. There is no emptiness drawing in. Slowly, water rushing through my soul, and my girlfriend's loving embrace... all things rushing into a unknown understanding, a great loosening of knots and spilling apple juice on waxed wood. Far away, who knows how many couples are gazing lovingly at eachother, relaying like postal workers that universal message of love to every nook and cranny of these eternal flatlands. I strum guitar, my girlish muse hanging on by the threads of strings. Still all in all, we are too small still, to face the mountains and big cities alone, though they seem to bustle with equal intensity somewhere within us. I am a child spotting a UFO in a field, rushing home not knowing no one would believe anymore. But the world is still live, so different and yet so much the same. I remember wanting to touch you, to hold you, but how could I, I waited for the perfect times? We sat and beheld the golden sky drizzling from under the roof of the playground slide. We talked about the lines of joy and doubt in life, and I turned around. So much and so little. There are no boundaries. Everything was resolved, yet we went on.

bears and fox.

Then next thing I know I'm back home, smoking a bowl in the basement, building up some sense of realness among all thats gone. Through I see its all so far away. The dashboard of the car, the passing road, and one bag of clothing, piecing together not much on a thread in my mind. More just pulling the old life slab to the molding board, as comets impact from above. These holes, whole like whole wheat bread. A fullness found on irish fields where monkeys once joked, writing time effortlessly with water and kiwi's. The nice refreshing spray of fashion hit my face and I was beached on the luxuries of greater straight society. I found disgust and seduction and the fake plastic faces of the sex change factories pulled me away more, but in cold airs a stone is no shoulder to lean on. I remember arriving at the door of the communist neighbor, looking for my friend and finding her mother offering water. The monkeys long gone now in this high up world of table talk. I told her to be sure to eat your sog, and left like it was some primal transmission and those were my last words. She said something about a call, but I never got it, and moved on. Weeks passing in a cycle between depression and weed and what friends I could filter up, and then that too was gone. Pushed out over the fence and out among the world as I've never known. So much talking to myself, and pointless figuring, until I get fed up and decide to ride the apparent hopeless waves and find some island out there. Some uncharted land, not battered by some bizarre improvement dream, some feel of lacking.

Theres small portals everywhere like Nani's apartment, with gas leaks.. where small fires seemed prone on every inch but never seem to spark, I slept by the heater, next to my shoes, leaving outside behind. She was talking about food, but I said Tat vam asi. Left her groceries alone and lived on the amrita flowing from my upper palate like a yogi. It was funny, and I learned the sun rays compacts as we rise our vibrations, until they look exactly like lettuce, and drinking from park fountains. In the city I listened to the conversations bitted together on the open breeze, passing politicians and hipsters, wondering where was this empathy. People walk by and ignore themselves on the side, screaming about mushrooms, a ghost party around the drummer at the circle. But couldn't stay there too long and the greenery and wildness of nature gets my head straight, the drawings of grass on the wall only held true or so long, so I cut out back to the suburbs and closer to home. My girl, Mira was near and we'd meet sometimes, proverbing guitars and books, holding hands and laughing at our silly ways. But in between these times the quiet roadside and quick rivers prevailed, there was a tree I went to most days looking like a flame blowing away in the wind. It seems like everything was going well, all people held themselves strong, I climbed through it with self described grace.

I had come back home and had been having this thought on non-duality. Theres something I want, but I already have it and don't need it. So where do you begin to explain? Walking along the river, talking about music, waiting to see you again. I remember though, sitting in the dark how I felt all about this before, I guess this is compassion. And really it has no effect, instead of a huge effect. When I'm wondering, how do you return to the source, it could be said there is no returning or having found these words, we got to look to our pass. How did I get here? But theres those who would say this is no source and go home.Walking on water, well snow, the river moves. Theres not much to say, standing here, letting life go through me, going through life. Its not really a story, but its that this place reminds me of what I already know. I don't know any thing. But whatever it tears through me, and the people outside, words appearing in the distance like foggy signals. I'm just sailing along the dictionaries, eyes falling over the interesting phrases. Above the page is where its really going on. Three cents, I threw all my money away, I realized.. its not necessary, these natural things... its all over, we really know how to grow. But what does it mean? I've been having this thought on non-duality, I was like, and they keep going on about how it doesn't matter and the loneliness and depression are getting to them. I used to just think of that stuff as my third and fourth hobby, but now with that lunatic otherness life, we're equally alone. Listening to music, wondering how all those rhythms worked together, Nirvana, and Kurt Cobain romping. Never really understood his appeal, but that movie where she wears the dress, I found some solace in that for a while. But really, I'm losing cognition of the difference and in helping out my sister, my friend, in helping myself. You taught all those kids to smoke weed and read spanish... Why? These are the fugitives of our societies story time hour, here leading off distant trails. Being like "Source!". Once my mom bought me a magazine, so I wanted to right the most amazing poetry, that would explain everything and capture every feeling of anything that ever happened. But I was too self centered. So I just sang, and you know, that was good. It was strange to be explaining every action and keep reaching back into the church. Like, why was I at a church? The feeling in my hands were not fooling anyone. I just wanted to pick up that statue of some old fellow, and throw it as far as I could. And that was the best intention. But who knows? Days pass so quickly and seem slow, and the bright 3 a.m. sheen that comes around now and makes all the world the north pole is my only clue in to how much I'm really enamored by the fact that its all here. Few people find their way out of this maze here, I was rolling the earth and eating leaves off the trees at the best of times. Maybe it was good, just that poetry I was trying for, missing the page the many times, looking into people's faces and imagining all the strange things that could happen. While none of them did, this was what saved me many a time. Because I was so self-centered, the second place I found was further into the woods and I thought about people, dancing and jamming, making love and walking around in sweaters. Those charming idiots, how could I ever untie this knot? I'd say, I'm a goddess with pearly wings, and they would look but only a few as bored as me maybe could see. Building a treehouse, lay out the twigs. Lets start this fire, over the years, I've been wondering and pondering, what is this fire thing? In a warm house where the bear with a coffee mug creeps out over you waiting there, under the covers in fetal position. I don't know, I feel I'm cheapening it with this intellectual kid staring over my back, but you know.. train of thoughts get lost. Sparking the birch on oak through tender knees on the side. I'd never see any knees. I'd just analyze it down to sun on earth. And did I even need to be around here anymore? Just naturally fading out, slow like this margerine melts, thinking of non-duality and love and fuzzy backs. Thorns scraping up my legs. Fuck, dude, that certainly wasn't very meaningful. It was like a lot of lights on the road side, walking around really high at night get confused for stars which is vaguely poetic but still lacking. Walking out the door, this lady decides to tune my guitar, she's an old punk I guess, but I wish she'd chill and not touch my guitar. Trickster! Yeah, I've been reading a lot of myths, but mostly I've been thinking about non-duality, and thats what gets me through the day, because soon this is all gonna be gone and I'm okay with that, only because I've accepted reality at face value, I mean, this means quite a lot. I feel like this is the most important thing I've written because its saying something, its like let me tell you my life story.

But of course what is that? All I knew was it was good to eat the macaroni and cheese out of the microwave, it was good to talk about psychedelic journeys, and hint at the possibility of another with the scene. What is more healthy. The psychological space that surrounds the bed is thick with creation, and life force. This is the stuff dreams are made of.

I don't even know what I was striving for, maybe not striving anymore, because I'd sit idle and it would come slap me in the face, with a bizarre humor that I couldn't help but be dumbfounded by over and over and over again. I was addicted, I admit, but to something a big as life, what is my crime? Love? Hope?


Abraham Lincoln was a pessimistic in his day. The lights shone off the banister. Young, yin yang discussions in the car. A flower filled field, and strawberries growing in the grass. Dragging sticks around, learning. Adding ten to a hundred, falling down and scraping knees. Bugs, girls, boys, dolls, dresses, catwalks. Freeing the soul to float free among the hills. Was there no great vast expanse, a mountain over an ocean pass. Airy pastures. More dropped away.

Yet

small eyed
angry

touching the long trapeze that hung under fallen goat hides. I picked up the cotton sheet and sighed. What is this here? Something gathered up and woven, the thread thick and going both ways and all direction and colors like the things of this world. We move through eachother, energetically bound in rainbows and darker colors as the sun hits the pavement. The ice has been melting and then as we find the last traces a new storm. Weather, so strange a temptress. Free in the night, climbing high hills for glimpses of the moon and stoned meditation times. I hugged the curb and began thinking of the cabins and aberdeens.
Deer spotting sure brought us back to smile. Dear Prudence was playing and the streets were wide, glistening old western cowpoke days. My gown adrift in the setting sun. Outside few were sitting in front of some of buildings, drinking all manner of whiskey and beverage. I cried many times there.

The sun was blue, monsters attacked. Within in all a pleasant sense of indivisible joy. And Within that the deepest terrors and fears. It seems at every corner we journey on these strands of heart and emotion to a truer us a world where we can understand eachother finally. For so long it feels like these words go no where, but now they are heard, they are seen.

The morning comes and people dance over their bedsides, hanging out to meet the sun. I sit in the bamboo and sing to the sky, not knowing what the world is doing. Theres stars that move, and walks in town. I get a sigh on sundays, hearing something feint. Mouth open blowing the sand across the shore. Harmonica, on a bench?
Original, astounding. The commentary was short and dispersed so beautifully.
we laughed trying to put it together, then cried knowing it would one day be taken apart.

We moved on into the night and went our seperate ways.

the galaxy, the first two people, stepping through eachother in no space, stretching...
from underneath everything came a sense of darkness. and then from that, the first land was a baby. This world, a human being, our minds and souls, soaring together, lets find the brightest of them, how we hardly notice the sun among the fires.

Me looking for a pipe in a room, the peak of our civilization

Climbing up the steps to the ceiling done up in cobwebs. The scattered mulch on the floor really brings one in, when the room is on you. The sun comes in through holes in the tin roof, and below theres planks.

I decided to trip, the dxm was good enough, I've found all chemicals have their benefits so I was meditating before to get myself in balance. I went upstairs and sip it down with an orange to help the taste. Then I sat and listened to music as the effects came up. The orb was almost the only thing smooth enough for me to stand but it was amazing, I felt like the house had began floating through space, in other dimensions maybe, across natural green alien landscapes with strange hill forms and plant life. The voices in the song were guiding us, kind of like tour guides. This continued and then coming back to earth, I decided it was time to smoke the herb. So I went out back, noticing by this time a small off kilter feeling, like things could tip out of whack with each movement, but nothing happened. I smoked and the night was peaceful and white from the snow, it was beautiful and there were no stars in the sky, I wasn't even really thinking. I noticed before my thinking had gotten repetitive loops, but now even though familiar thoughts would return occasionally, mostly it was just blank space, something hard to describe, maybe just not based in the part of the brain that uses words for information, more feeling and image. I went back upstairs and listened to more music, deeper and deeper into this strange land I went, thoughts and images just appeared out of nowhere, but I kept remembering a poem I had written about an owl and a traveller sitting by a fire, then I was there, somewhere in the woods under a blanket, feeling at home under all the stars in space, every action seemed connected either to a positive or negative force, and these forces came together to form the countless changes and forms of existence. The fire somehow was the source of all this. I looked into it, building a fire, there was always something magical about that act. It seemed to be the starting point of civilization and also the end, campers returning to the forest. Heat, like a womb. The seed. I was lost in a reverie on what it meant to build a fire, and humanity's place in nature. Finally I started hearing my mom in the other room and for some reason her presence was kind of strange to me. I went downstairs or maybe I was already downstairs, this a blur, but I stood up and felt as if things were sailing along without friction, I would turn my head and the whole room seemed like it turned and would keep moving in that direction for some time. I wondered if I was walking normally, it certainly felt very different. The next thing I remember is laying down and these light beings appearing before me, they were like patterns of small dancing lights in the shape of people, and they were just saying nothing but consciousness was expanded to the point where it seemed like every experience was in a way something being said, and they seemed to envelop everything, beyond them was the vastness of space. In a way, they seemed like people I knew, and feelings I'd encountered in life, but at the same time I wasn't aware of my own existence. I was just an observer somehow, watching the cosmic fairies revel in the loving unity of it all, hanging onto identity by a drawn picture of people I knew and things I'd been thinking lately, seconds seemed to stagger and last forever, then there was nothing. I got up and the look of everyday things was so bizarre to me, I went upstairs and wrote. As I wrote the phrases would appear vividly in my mind as if they were happening to me and everything felt charged with an amazing energy, it was almost too much like a lot of caffiene but even moreso. Still I felt very good, and eventually went to sleep, giving way to the lethargy that had been building in me whenever I laid down. The next day I woke up and felt pretty good.

But when can we finally do away with these stories and ideas like they were the dreams they are and fall off into something real, or is there no real really? In the fraction of a second it takes to put down a letter
one is taken up, the thousands of possibilites. Its nothing that won't drive you insane eventually, moving around in other places thinking hey, now I know the true significance of the washing machine or something equally adventuresome. The psychedelic miasma of these scrolling images that pass each day and the games we play. I look to those more fed up with a lack of imagination, taking up shamanism, breathing life into their own dreams while anthropologists play the stoner. Theres nothing even to say, they who follow every thought, are they more harm than help? I guess ultimately with knowledge is it sometimes better to say nothing? Of course but every thought seems to be a living thing telling its own story, behind blades of grass little scribes have composed epics. But what does it all mean? Its bullshit, the ravenous table top, and reedom ringing, bringing something back up like a fish out of water. A flying fish, time, music and peace. Dreams I have building a true world not in this time, but its already made, just a matter of stepping over borders or not moving. This in a bent page end in a book, its the indentation of thousands of years of culminating spontaneous activity. Its just bunch of text without any apparent value. I stare into the walls and find love, and thats real but only so much help in seeing yourself after the atmosphere changes everything in your being. Theres nothing to bring back from trips anymore just that ever growing bliss in the middle of my life, being still and letting the wierdness pass. Those around me are like hollow stalks, writing is a brisk rainfall, or something equally awkward. I lose myself on the boundlessness of life, I push words forth for no reason, and is it psychotic? Well yes, like all action is, for what purpose are we aspiring to? Our own pitfalls are the heights. The thought of the distance some travel in their life, for now I can just wait and hope what they say is true about not doing anything. But maybe theres not even hope to talk about. Love is a battleground, man. Its love that does you up like this, and no just love for another person, but love for life and any ridiculous notion that would leave people in a state of reckless action. I reach into my pockets sometimes and pull out lint. This is reckless action, and it shouldn't really be written here. But its there maybe by fate or for the greater good, as if some kind of sublime intelligence had all this scheduled out. But chaos is all thats apparent. The ridiculousness of even being around anymore. I just dive into the easiest path, this efficiency somehow is seen as a good quality, but its just looking for people to lead me further into myself, maybe even away from there, to someplace where I get lost. The words are maybe like that, so sentences are laid down, and houses are built. But Some words will never be written. Sometimes ice melts from underneath and its hard to cross a river with certainty. But its so romantic when the loner returns to human kind. The trees then are loud, the sky is bright, or something equally easy. What could bring one back though? Across all that, just to return to the endless clatter of civilization. Still just an imprint in our own minds, lost there where things mean so much more. But from one room come the seeds that bring about a nation. But anarchy is found only in someones wild head, and drunk reasons like; shes going to leave because I did nothing, what better time than to go smashing rocks and crying. There are no other idiots as well prepared as me for situations that are impossible. But if the rain ever falls up I'll laugh, then I'll know its a waste and its only amusement in the void, like the dharma bums. This world is just a huge strange fantasy, welled up in sexual energy so we keep going more and more, the intense highs and lows and repition brings about a frenzy like trance in every man, woman, child, animal, plant, and mineral. We all go together, in complete darkness to whats going on, no instructions. We've probably crossed every boundary possible, but here we are again, and still theres no reason to do it but enough time in the world to do it 50 times usually. But the worlds ending now. We delve back into the great mystery and I stop and think about myself once more. I was with people sometimes, and sometimes I was alone. I was comfortable enough. I'm not even really dying. I just imitated everyone who seemed cool, and came out ok. There was no big thrill behind it all, except for the times so far beyond this writing that who can say they were really there and not just the fables and propaganda of some paranoid government agency. The way things are is I am a hypocrite, like the rest of the world, logic is an old wives tale, and I just want them to stop cutting down the trees, so people can wander once more, without having to stumble through so much bullshit. Why is it so hard to live as we were meant to be, without all this fake shit? To live with my own hands, not that I know what that means. I just wander blindly into instances I am in no way ready for, oh well. I mean, fuck. The world, so many people, so many assholes, trying to impose their views. What can we do? Sit there like jesus and feel good about it all. Everything is equal, non-duality. Yeah... I stood up and flew away... down below me the trees looked so nice, I smiled and spoke about wonderful things that I can't remember and birds passed and looked on. I flew all the way to the moon and there I stopped and looked in my backpack. I got my zen incense, and my weed, and I smoked a bowl there, after lighting the incense. I said "Bom shiva". These seemed the right things to do, all the people on the earth could feel the vibrations emanating from the bowl, and it brought about many years of peace and celebration. Aliens came about and made jokes to say hello. When I returned though, I found that nothing had happened actually. I was still a gardener in the middle of a drought, and nothin crossed my mind except two things, politics and spirituality. Spirituality, I thought was the best way, there was so much to know, so much to experience, to float away on the wind and be enigmatic like nuns and famous writers who always had the right thing to say. Or to just instill a burning desire in some kind to spit. I had no control, I was slow, perhaps the laughingstock of the town. What did it mean? Some deep rooted childhood issue, I just needed to head out, to find love, to pursue simplicity. So I pursued simplicity and found love and now I say I'm happy and I feel okay, but my mind is changed and I don't know if I've just been fooled. My bed needs making but, the perfection of the room makes me proud. I smile every time, I think of the museum that it will one day be featured in, where people will reach over railing and set off alarms in remembrance of my designer skills. And yeah, my husband, he's so cool, he's my muse, sometimes I'm not sure what that means, most of the time we poke around in our own worlds, when I know him, its usually good, or at least very funny. I walk away and life is in my cup again, but I pour it out, disgusted with the commercialness inherent in even intelligible statements, if I really am the only one here, how have I become so concerned with inconsequential things, the answer I know is lack of better material. Those travellers picked up dictionaries and ate them... all I've done is looked into the window of a rug merchant. Thats where I found myself shattered again. What was this foolishness I was upholding out of habit. I stopped talking, and balled up in the fetal position finally I was comfortable, but on the way to get food eventually I was distracted, and I ended up here again, taking part in the same wierdness. But I guess, its okay, in a way, it must be my own secret desire, but why over think it, why not just go back to how things were? When the right time comes, at least I'll be rested enough to do something.