Father's Day

In haste, I catch another angel, put out another fire, try to perfect a deity with my clay hands. Fatherhood is fashioning the future with the past as your only reference. You tend to fill in gaps of memory with imagination. Father is a mystic that changes diapers one minute and changes minds the next, still get some shit on your hands either case but, that's what daddies do.

The less ego, the more you have to give "I want you to be better than me". Couldn't have said that a 17 or 22, but at 32 or 40, of course. I see my own limitations and push my offspring past them. I surgically remove those handicaps with spankings, lectures and exposure to parts of the world I didn't know at that age. I stand on myself and left you up over my head.

"What do you see?"
"Ok, I don't understand, but go for it. Just remember what I taught you."

They come back with little treasures from atlantis, college and friendships with age-old enemies. Strange writings on stones that can be read by younger eyes. I trust the currency I provided will spend in the future. It came from my flesh, pounds of it.

"Daddy, we don't do things like that anymore."

Like VHS tapes, some of my knowledge becomes obsolete and I fight with myself to accept it. My shrunken ego wallows in the past and brushes off the Now as an illusion. My higher self rocks back and forth and listens.

"So, how do things work now?"

Now, I'm the old man being taught by the future. Ego goes to the grave long before me, but I don't miss him. Less tension now. Things are as they are, no interpretation needed. I just am. My children just are. There is enlightenment in just accepting what you experience as it is. Just rocking back and forth. Just listening, just being available when needed. Just fading into memory, becoming a ghost like my mothers and fathers before me.

Photo: Firetruck speeding passed me taken w/iPhone 3GS, Hipstamatic app (Melodie, Big Up)

Ancient Future

There it is, my passage out! A thin door amongst pages of a book. She told me I wrote scripture, my poetry had god-sense. I scribble only what I have seen.

My religion is liberty. A realization that your original mind is all you need to be free. The mind of a child, ignorance of fear. This world is a dream, so live in a dream-state as often as you can.

A scribe with many books in his satchel. Each one written with his feet. Experiences he prints in blood and dirt, dries into scars on the pages. The future reads and changes course. Only then can it really be called the future.

Photo: A journal I bought from Borders Books taken with iPhone3Gs, Hipstamatic app (Kaimal Mark II, Cano Cafenol)

Ashram

It might as well be a temple. As many times as I've retreated to its open solitude. The spirits, the elves, the open doors I've seen in its low cut grasses. It might as well...

A girl showed me how to find four-leaf clovers. Old gods kiss my face when I was anxious about the divorce. I bartered with a priestess for the cookie. I've seen myself walking barefoot through the grass. Once there were creatures gathered in the far corner looking up. I looked up too. We were all blessed.

I am the shadow in this place. The observation of myself is true religion and my path to enlightened.

Photo: Mom's backyard, one of the most holiest places on Earth taken with iPhone3Gs, Hipstamatic app (Jimmy, Blanko Noir)

These United States...

Myself and my fellow Americans complain too much. Liberals complain because Obama acts like a compassionate conservative. GOP complains because he is Black. Democrats complain because Obama continues W Bush's wars. Tea party complains because he's Black.

I work the weekends and.. wait, I'm employed?! Yes, I'm employed and have been all my adult life. I have loved ones not so lucky. I say luck, not because I didn't educate myself, acquired new skills, learn how to get along with people, because I did. I say luck because I'm sure other folks have and they are still jobless.

I am fat (as of this writing) not because of thyroid problems, but because I eat too damn much. There are people who don't have the same access to foods that I do and they are in the same zip code. Lucky, blessed, take your pick.

My beloved anonymous brother and sister, please take this time to celebrate the fortunes you do have. Like this internet enabled device your reading this self righteous blog post on. The Gods, Fates, Probability has been good to us. That picture is of a sandwich I bought from Starbucks. Taste good, but makes you write blog posts like this, so be careful.

Photo: Sausage, egg & cheese from Starbucks taken with iPhone3Gs, Hipstamatic app (Helga Viking, Alfred Infrared)

the Evangelist

I heard this fire, these finger tips walking across coals. A sacred dance in Sin City. My reptilian brain was disquieted, he didn't know what to make of this language; the pain and insight of the Blues, delicious chaos of a Hendrix run. How can you put words on invisible tongues.

In 1972 the universe was created. Gods and goddesses were worshipped because they made it rain and the children grew up with a strong sense of cultural pride. In 1972, wars were fought and ended, long hair had politics woven into it. God was Black, Brown and Yellow.

On this sacred corner, wrinkled hands still remembered how to pray to ancient gods. The strings theorized people would pay to hear the gospel during their lunch hour. They was right. I saw all classes bow and toss IOUs at the prophet's feet. Their ears burned, they caught that feeling, then moved on. Prayer changes things.

Photo: Guitarist at 7th & F Sts, Wash DC taken with iPhone3Gs, Hipstamatic app (Lucifer VI, Blanko Noir)

Taste

She didn't call. I saw a light refracting in a glass half full. I could distract myself with disappointment or burn this alcohol in a lamp and write.

My ink spilled a bit, dripping off the table, directing me to look elsewhere for inspiration. At two o'clock, a Cinderella relinquishes hard labour for a short time. Perhaps to meet a writer in his solitude.

I've seen a stone faced barista soften with easy, patient chatter. "Why do you care about my final exams." She says, espresso shots fall. I let the query linger, form its own conclusions, let the seed of curiosity grow.

Let it steam, questions without answers foam in the mind about this caring, well dress regular. Stir in a little politics and some compliments on simple braids and curls.

Can't grow attached to any potential cup of latte. The constant waiting in line or unrequited advances, enamors you to the process. To sip is not as important as that act of treasuring the taste.

Photo: To go cup taken with iPhone3Gs, Hipstamatic app (Salvador 84, Pistil, Cherry Shine)

One Bad Apple

Where has the love gone? Alot of ya'll are new to the game, I know about that Mac SE in college back in '87, I rocked the Centris in '93 and feed my family with the graphics work. It was beautiful.

Here in 2011 I find that Apple is tracking me. Where is the love? Since at least iOS4, Steve has been collecting latitude and longitude data on every iPhone and iPad user. Data that can be accessed by anyone who can access your mobile or computer.

When I read this on Twitter and then Gizmodo, that Apple 1984 commercial came to mind. You 'member - the bleached out white dudes marching toward that huge screen with Big Brother shouting on it.

Then the riot police chase this woman with a John Henry hammer into the hall where these drones are seated. She hurls the hammer at the screen destroying it, freeing the minds of the masses. Inspiring, but that was 1984.

Here in the twenty first century the interpretation is clear. The mindless drones are the Apple faithful (me once). The riot police is Apple, Inc. and the woman with the hammer are the jail breakers. Today Apple is the State! All power to the ppl!

Photo: MacBook Pro on glass table with photos beneath taken with iPhone3Gs, Hipstamatic app (Chunky, Cano Cafenol)

Cream, Two sugars

Is this what they want? Caffeine and emails? A rat race or democracy? In the West, we tend to think it's the same thing. For how can you have the right to vote without the right to purchase?

In America, the tectonic shifting of rich and the government, keep middle class houses under threat. Is this what they want? In Egypt, Tunisia, etc, do they just want the right to choose which elite will rule over them? Is the experiment they seek possible? How do they build a republic without republicans becoming corrupt?

The challenge we face in the West is corporations perverting our democracy. First it was rich land owners that made the laws, now corporations want to run the society like sweat shop: minimum regulations, low wages and no unions. Hope the family in the Middle East can improve on what we call democracy.

Photo: Too expensive coffee and mobile taken w/ iPhone 3GS, Hipstamatic app (Lucefer VI, Blanko Noir, RedEye Gel)

Pooper Scooper

The future is only dark for the unprepared. For those who've lose faith in their inner god. Now the dark doesn't have to be scary. In fact, once you've purged a few demons, you can see in the dark much more clearly.

Having been haunted by the demons common to man. I've learned their trick is making you forget they're visitors, not part of your essential self. Demons, like the ego, are baggage that we pick up along our material journey. While on earth, we get mud on our shoes, motes in our eyes and spinach in our teeth. That's a big deal for someone who didn't have a body to start with.

Ego isn't a bad thing, its a pet, an animal that needs taming, an ape that can smoke. If you ever think its civilized - watch out; you could get your face ripped off. We only need the ego for comfort and to talk to egocentric people. Those few of us that shed the ego before death or old age - I'll see you in the dog park.

People free of ego's domination are interesting to talk to. They seem self-contained, comfortable in their own skin and adaptable. Folk around them tend to adjust to higher frequencies. The egoless are centers of gravity, contagions, forces of nature.

Once this state is achieved, time for departure is near. You see, not only is the ego a pet, its also an anchor. The buoyancy of the little god can easily overcome earth's pull without an ego weighing it down. A low pressure system forms overhead, then a whirlwind brings death to the body. So when people say "the good die young" it's because of the weather.

The path to achieving this state of egolessness is boring and wonderful. One technique is to progressively free oneself from fear, learn life's lessons and accept that everything and everyone "out there" is really in here - we are all one. With these elements in place, buoyancy is increased and the spiritual eye opens.

There are all kinds of adventures to be had by just accepting who you are and that you define who that is. No religion required.

See you in the dog park.

Photo: Metro platform from inside subway w/ reflection from window, taken w/ iPhone 3GS, Hipstamatic app (Helga Viking, Float)

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Soul Food

What can you take with you? I guess only what fits in the mind, but our memories have holes in them, so only really big things can be stored there.

The heart has some carrying capacity, but its hard to open without right feeling to retrieve the right item. Hashmarks or tags our feelings are. You need the right combination to open the lock.

Scars are a pocket most forget about, but it's pretty reliable as a carrying case. We have bought many a troublesome item from one life to the next in scars. They're sturdy, you always can find them when you need it, but they get a bit heavy after a while. Can slow you down.

The last place to store things is prayer. If you have people that love you back in the physical, my understanding is that prayer is a reliable way of acquiring things you forgot. Children, spouses and living parents will regularly send precious care packages straight to your door. Alas, after the grieving period ends, the packages become less frequent and for some souls, they stop altogether.

That's fine. You've been here awhile and it's time to release the priorlife and embrace the after. You don't need that much to get by around here anyway, all you need is you.

Photo: my latest attempt at homemade bread. Taken w/ iPhone 3GS, Hipstamatic app ( John S, Alfred Infrared)

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Tunisia and Egypt p1

What's my motivation? Voluntary slavery with the hope of owning pieces? I take men and resources, advancing across the board. Hands - invisible corporate hands take comrades in and out of play. I watch people reduced to rooks and pawns giving me the illusion of progress. Tunisia, Egypt peeped the game and started moving on their own. Rejecting the players, the regimes.

So many in America and Europe are restless. The fast food and cable television aren't enough to dim the light of the mind anymore. Pieces are quietly moving on their own in the States. Calls for calm from the State Department may soon be read by Homeland Security. The pawns are getting restless. The rooks are meeting in coffeehouses, knights are moving money overseas.

The only winners are the pieces who don't play. The empty, invisible hands of the Market form a fist at first, then wring themselves before a fearless population. There are calls for calm on the chess board, but nobody is listening.

Photo: my crystal chess board taken w/ my iPhone 3GS, Hipstamatic app (Lucifer VI, Pistil, Cadet Blue Gel)

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Weekend Metaphor

It's quiet out here in space. You don't so much "hear" as much as "feel" and there's little going on out here emotionally.

Sitting on one of the rocks that make up Saturn's rings is.. different. Not awesome, but a crazy bright reflection from planetside and a lot of rocks and dust.

The rocks only get pretty far away, like some people in your life. Up close they have faults, prejudice, petty territorial squabbles. At a distance they have genius, personality and wonderful memories.

My rock perch is full of holes from small collisions; like my face in an Earth mirror. But far away I too become devine, a seamless part of the cosmic whole.

At a distance, with the ego as a point on the horizon, God's presence feels closer than at any religious service. You can see that you are a part of what primitives called Spirit.

So don't be afraid if you're drifting like a rock in space, remember you're part of a beautiful sky. All your holes and imperfections make up a ring. You are a Saturday floating around a Sunday. That's an amazing weekend.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Upside Down World

When I realized I was a reflection I wasn't sad, it answered so many of the questions buzzing in my head. Questions like why the goals I chase run away, but things I wasn't thinking about come effortlessly.

Why a dry heart produces tears? Why dirty hands create beautiful works that inspire purity?

Once I realized I was a reflection, that took all the pressure off. The outcome and I divorced. The journey became the love of my life, the destinations alone the way - just friends.

Once I realized I was a reflection, I wasn't even curious about who the "real" person was at all. I figured it didn't matter. Religions chase that real person, philosophies question he's existence. I guess knowing who I am is enough.

I figure just as long I do me, this reflection will always have a smile on it's face.

photo taken w/ iPhone 3Gs, Hipstamatic app (Melodie, Pistel)

Code Orange

It's been there for hours. People started crossing the street to avoid it. Whispers directing traffic.

No police were called in to investigate, just self imposed butterfly caution, zip-zagging around an unknown unknown.

When a man came with money for the meter, folks at the bus stop laughed. Feeling stupid is funny. Irrational fear and moving in herds opens a million year old window into us.

Sometimes the van is white, sometimes brown or beige; but to our mammalian eyes the unknown is always colored bad.

So we avoid and whisper, til some happenstance reveals the situation then we laugh, but we don't learn. The next van gets quarantined as well.

Only the drivers recognize this pattern, some exploit it, some try to teach. Historically, teachers are eaten by the ignorant because they get too close. By those standards the exploiters seem wise.

Let's not be afraid of the van.


photo: taken w/ iPhone 3Gs, Hipstamatic app (Melodie, Ina's1935)

The Commute

This cold wet suit, this nightmare of questions. How will I do? Will I remember the signals? Will I hear my guide clearly through this clay?

But I sat long enough in the sun. I've feasted on colors unknown in this dark world. I've heard universal intent like a bass in my chest. I have tasted all knowingness. Now I must go back.

Vertigo, spinning on this flesh wheel as the body develops. My thoughts go inward, I kick myself. Had to be done though, some things must be lived to be understood.

The time is near... Time? What a ridiculous concept, such a distraction from the happenings around you. Maybe I can ignore it this.. time.

Ok, remember the landmarks, will feel like Deja Vu. Remember my classmates, will be my friends. Remember my teachers, I will hate them. Oh yeah, must remember to cry, I hate being spanked on the ass...

photo: Metro platform subway. Taken w/ iPhone 3Gs Hipstamatic app (Melodie, Ina's 1969)

Secret Window

Found this haunted house where all the ghosts are on the outside. Ok, maybe that makes it a haunted yard, but inside the house is amazing.

It's warm in there, very pleasant colors. The walls are ornate, its quiet, sound seems to get lost down the hallways.

So, how did the ghosts get on the outside? Two enemies shared this house back when it was new. Over time their hatred led to both killing each other in the house.

Some years later, children of the two found love and married. They moved into the now long abandoned house. A priest came to bless the house and discovered the disquieted spirits. He asked the couple how to proceed.

The couple had ignored the slamming doors and chairs moving by themselves. They were fearless. Once it was determined who the ghosts were, they had them exorcised, but not completely, just to the yard.

The idea was if the malevolents could see their love through the windows. Perhaps they could learn to find peace.

After that night, no doors slammed, no chairs moved, but the roses were trashed, grass turned brown. Even as the couple approached their golden years, flowers still died in perfect sun and soil.

Within three months of each other, the couple carried their love to the Other Side. But the stubborn generation continued to fight over rose petals.

So that's why the house is so warm and peaceful, because it's haunted by love. And why nothing grows on the outside because its haunted by unforgiveness. Funny, to some people even a rose garden can be Hell.

photo: taken with iPhone 3Gs Hipstamatic app (John S, Alfred Infrared)

Artificial Dreams with Commercials

"Don't go to the Light! It's a trick!" my roommate said. Guess it's not a crime to be pessimistic on your death bed. But I could see the light, even with my eyes closed.

The light I saw had character, lights within lights. Nuances of color, nothing as garish as a rainbow. These colors were whispers of intent and they expected something of me.

Once I saw a man in the light. He made it clear that "his skin" was reflective and what I was seeing was my own projection. It was awesome.

Later, after much more listening, I didn't need the illusion. I perceived true spirit. Don't know what "he" is other than a friend.

When I spent more time in the real world than this dark one, my medication was increased. That made it harder to concentrate on our dialogue; I would drift off into artificial dreams with commercials.

I willed a pair of scissors. Slowly cutting each silver thread that kept me from floating away. My family weighed me down with prayer and ego.

A wise preacher moved these bricks away with psalms and comforting words for my loved ones. I became a mist - at last.

Wish I could tell them I'm really awake now, but they can only hear me in their dreams.

photo: taken w/ iPhone 3Gs Hipstamatic app (Kaimal Mark II, Ina's 1969)

Zen for Critics

A train indecisive up a hill. I study her, she ignors, forward and upward. Stream whispers. I know it's just a dream.

In this hot kiss of summer, I sweat memories. Rewind buttons drip toward earth. My companion in this exercise, struggles against her own ingenuity. A little closer to a perfect angle. A little more naked before god.

Memory and whispers answer to no one, a free expression of mindlessness - zen for critics. When we lose ourselves in our labor, we be. We really just be.

I see the ass of the train, a beautiful way to imagine a brief companion. Whispers can't be seen now, must have stopped talking to herself. Convinced, of the rightness of her expression.

photo: taken w/ iPhone 3Gs Hipstamatic app (Helga Viking, Afred Infrared)

Tunnel Vision

Had this vision of the future. It was filled with a communities of people who spoke in twitterese. They viewed their blogs, open mics and photography as their life's work and their 9 to 5 as a necessary evil. Success is getting off the plantation. Everybody was counting down.

There was a these souls walking under a beautiful black sun, eyes a flame. Sharing tales of their escape and messages from the North star.

We huddle around the water cooler, warming our hands with stories of publishers returning calls and concert dates. Dreams are fire.

When one left the plantation. It was like we were all half way there. It made the electronic cotton lighter, backs ached less, vision got clearer.

I see the route for my escape. It's a five year plan, but should keep me and my family out of servitude for generations.

When I close my eyes, I see stars I need to follow out of here. There's joy in this journey and thorn scarred fingers make great fairytales.

photo: taken with iPhone 3Gs Hipstamatic app (John S, Pistil)

Elevator Conversations

There is a meditation I use from time to time; after centering myself with slow deliberate breathes, I imagine an elevator.

In this elevator I press the sub-basement button, then I feel the downward sensation of the car. At each floor, the doors open and a wise man or prophet gets on and we chat; Martin Luther King, Jr., Gandhi, my Grandmother and so on.

On a good night, before I get to the bottom, I become so captivated by the conversations I lose track of time and my body.

During one meditation session, once I reached bottom, there was no elevator. I looked "down" and saw stars. I decided to go to one of the stars. I would move toward them and they seemed to move away from me. It was beautiful and frustrating. I had little awareness of my body, but felt the need to escape from it through one of these shiny portals.

I did escape eventually, but not this time. For now, I'm just moving through space chasing stars.

Photo: taken with iPhone 3Gs & Hipstamatic app (Lens: John S, Film: Pistil, no Flash)