Thursday, December 26, 2013

Round Corners

Is it enough to be a dreamer
a composer of realities
One that bends the lines
rounds corners and breaks light?

What is it to become the dream,
to personify a fantasy,
the walking image whom
manipulates its every angle?

The flesh of the imagination
is bound to the bones of perception
nourished by the blood of creativity
and courses through figurative vein

nails and hair become corrupt
growing and curling like nightmares
draping over and on beliefs and certainties
playing pretend at ones expense

trans-dimensional sketches
dance in poly-morphing rhythms asking
"Could a finite vision transcend
the perceptual walls of the unrefuted?"

It is felt as a sound
a knocking, pulsing vibration,
an oscillating electric punch,
the budding of a fiery orgasm

A broken chord plays whole notes
and dissonance emerges through the chroma
polished by smooth resolving concord
birthing temporary silences between silences

Hallucination stretches
proposing total faith in the immediately visible,
or a fear cloaked in the invisible,
perhaps the invisible cloaked in fear

There is something permanent in an idea
like a photograph, it can be seen
and like a memory, it can be photographed
half forgotten in a dusty index of pictures

Thursday, December 19, 2013

Small Treasures

With no pretence,
or formentioning,
only a smile like hers
could tear through a crowd.

Was I
blinded by the trail of lights,
deafened at the sound?
I was.

My eyes were not my own
drifting ever astray.
beauty gazed at me,
kisses flew from her lips.

Was I
numb to the rhythm,
intoxicated at the scent?
I was.

Perhaps I had it wrong,
could I be the one?
Almost naked in her stare
falling fast to no where.

Were there
little treasures in the air,
crystallizing on the tip of my tongue?
There were.

Thursday, December 5, 2013

Names and Faces / Subject to Madness

All these names without faces
I'm not sure they even exist
who are these people?
who are they to me?

If even one is still standing
I would float in surprise
half chuckling outloud
One half of everything
and half of everything else

They are only numbers and figures
souless and smiling
stacked up neatly into separate piles
And need filing

Subject to madness
the wandering mind
if it wanders too far
out of bounds

warp tomorrow
with the folds of yesterday
or smooth out now
make it easy for a change

My Name

"People with this name are excellent at analyzing, understanding, and learning. They tend to be mystics, philosophers, scholars, and teachers. Because they live so much in the mind, they tend to be quiet and introspective, and are usually introverts. When presented with issues, they will see the larger picture. Their solitary thoughtfulness and analysis of people and world events may make them seem aloof, and sometimes even melancholy."


Wednesday, November 27, 2013

She washed her hands of the mess he left her in.
Standing at the center, everything around her spins.
To her, it was like the problems coming at her wouldn't end.
First this, then that, now she's left with out a boyfriend.

Dryed herself off and met up with her girlfriends
They comforted her suffering soul and told her she "don't need him"
Every rose has it's thorn, and she held a dozen by the stem
She was holding on to old memories and couldn't release them.

Then she started getting wild, drinkin every night.
Looking out for the next one to take her home and hold her tight.
She was high on ecstacy and anything that made flight
and started rollin down those hills once that high hit plight

I'm fighting the evening ritual at the beginning of the day. Spent all night upright without muttering a word. Watched the gears turn the horizons wheels. Jolted my head back and forth in between realities. Saw a man sketching, speaking so little, about nothing with a woman, they had few areas in common. The hair next to me grew thicker by the minute, and much more quiet at every passing hour, I dared not bother her. Saw not my reflection, but reflected on the weekend. Sure, my mind is strong, but is my body weakend? Spoke too many words faster than I could think and, tripped through sentances, stopping to repeat them. Rode into the dawn with my wrist tied in palms. Listened to Joni Mitchell sing like preached psalms. Saturday and Sunday called for more lip balm. Or chap stick for chapped lips, like chop sticks for Asian kids. Thought about conversations the way water seeps into bread. I got soaked up and saturated in my own head. Somehow made due upright in my wicked bed. A loud horn woke me and scared me half to death. And half dead I wandered the chambers of my personal void. I chased down a melody and when I found it struck a chord. The notes shuttered as they rang and stole the clothes off my back. When my body dropped its guard my soul picked up the slack. I was a groovey piece of melon, dripping sweetly across cement. A blue birds worst nightmare, a white crows lament.


I think about how I saw her on the grass that night,
how she glowed in the dark,
and how she captured me when our eyes met.
We were like magnets,
bouncing off of each others positives.
And when we  spoke,
sharing nervous laughs and subtle gestures of curious nature,
I already knew.
He's got a magnificent brain. In the silver-white gleam of the mirror on the passenger side, through his eyes, I could almost see his mind working. His eyes were busy with the city, scanning the tall stretching towers, the distant houses, the nearby cars. "What is he thinking?" I thought. He seemed to be entangled in enchantment as we drove nearer to our destination. Our friend, and driver, made jokes with us as we hurried off the freeway.

The drive up through the Berkeley Hills seemed endless in all respects; endlessly traveling through endless green, past endless trees and shrubs of endless sorts, 'neath an endless, and undisturbed, warm blue ceiling.

The parking lot was full, but not yet completely occupied, we found parking rather quickly. Other visiters were scattered about the park, each one more anxious and more pale than the next, I was a proud execption, tan and timid. The other hikers looked like money; polos, khaki shorts, baseball caps, sunglasses, sweaters tied loosely around waists', Newbalance shoes. I observed them with skeptical eyes. (incomplete)
Chilling at my place,
in the comfort of my room.
I hear the sirens starting up
gunshots shook my afternoon.
OPD is swarming
calling out for assistance
someones boy is laying in the street
he needs that ambulance.
You're a jagged edge
a smooth, and lovely cliff,
off of which, I am anxious
to dive.

You are the wind
the deafening, whisling,
screaming, amorphous whisper
she thinks he's charming
the way he talks about his life
and how he works so dedicated

I talk above them
letting my voice fall
You are in the sound

Your hard heart will tear us apart.
Wrapped up in stone, laid in concrete
Stomping something fierce down the street
Your hard heart will tear us apart.

Monday, November 25, 2013


I sent off on a leaf
escaping the reach of my branch
drifting further from my tree
hoping to grace you
allowing the ends of my rigid veins
to trace you
your soft cheeks reside inside of me
and are deeply rooted
hidden, protected

Friday, November 1, 2013

Tip of the Day

"You've undoubtedly encountered products or services that have frustrated you. Keep a notepad or a tablet handy and write down whatever is upsetting you. There's a good chance you'll find a business in those notes."

Read more:

Wednesday, October 30, 2013

Sea Dream

"Where to begin..." I could ask myself that question every moment of every day and never get bored of it. Daydream a vision of me out at sea on a shipping freight all alone, except for the hesitant fish and occasional fowl blowing by, jotting down ideas and far-sighted philosophy in my ninth notebook. The salty air is crisp and cool. Intervals of strong wind rustle the wet mass of long shaggy hair on my head, paired with the thick beard wrapped around my jaw, they keep me quite warm on these waters. This is only the third month and I am only a mere 2-8ths along on my journey. The wavy road ahead is promising, and the reward for carrying out this one-man journey is prosperous in monetary transactions and soul cultivations. Stopping for a moment, letting the pen rest on the page, a cold winded thought trembles my sentience, "Four months from now how will I be sure if I am writing in the book or if the book is writing me?" The pen bounces on my lips as a northern waves subsides. I scribble some finalizing sentences and shut the book for the hour. The Sun peaks out from behind a cloud. There is a fluffy mass in a slow and steady approaching crawl to the East. I am sailing towards it. The cottony fluff holds my gaze for fifteen long minutes, there are almost no thoughts going through my head. Finally, I retreat to the den to inventory my rations. The rocking boat shook free some of the canned good from the shelves. A mess of rice is scattered along the floor, little grains fall through the creaky wooden floor panels. An easy sigh leaves my lips. "Where to begin..."

Friday, October 18, 2013

Thursday, October 3, 2013

Distant Planets

We know so much
about distant planets
stars and dust

Whent the comet comes
we make preparations
pointing the big laser beam
ready to break through

inside the ocean
there's a world we've never known
where creatures think not of us
pillaging their home

A man inside a starship
sees the world as a whole
no borders, no separation

the scientist in the lab
prays to God before he sleeps
that when he wakes up from his dreaming
his faith and work will make peace

Ultimately, everything leads to THE SAME THING.
So, be bold. 

Wednesday, September 25, 2013

Tuesday, September 24, 2013


Look at me.
Just look at me.
That is all it takes.
Grip me into a concussion
with only your eyes.
Only with your eyes.
Despite cliches,
some cannot afford to pay attention.
They reach out with a
subtle invisible stretch
and avoid expectations
at any expense,
retract and bite back
attacking only in defence,
picking away and punching holes
in their white picket fence.
Its a game, I know it's all a game.
We pay to play.
We pay the price.
We eat the meat,
but refuse the rice.
Look at me!
Nothing is wasted,
not even memories.
Time is no commodity,
but a man-made infrustructure.
Are you worth anything to me?
My five minutes, my half of an hour,
my afternoon, my evening,
my morning, my whole day?
My forever? Time is no
commodity. Time is a symbol
to remind us that life is short,
another man made idea.
My life is long, as is my pride,
as is my love, as is my vast,
unending, unbound, unyielding,
annoying spirit.
I will annoy you.
I will employ you.
I will emplore you
to not marry your hand
in vanity.
To not pour gold over
your ambition, but to
reveal your ambition
as it truely is; pure gold.
All else is silver.

Monday, September 23, 2013

There is a bond
shared over years
of much good humor
and ties of trust
Each makes his own sound
no matter how coarse
or loud, or long,
Each makes his own
Once that sound was uniform
it happened all at once
There was a structure
invisible, but audible!
It scared the newer neighbors
they even complained once
but a guardian kept the peace
allowing the sound to build
until the bolts of that tower,
that noisy sonic wall,
its own pieces toppling over
onto itself
There was a period of
But, just as the flattest surface
is not perfectly flat
or the most curved orb
is not perfectly round
the quiet times merely
the tiny noises
All still make noise
some short
some tall
some loud
some quiet
some smooth
some rough
some dissonant
some in beautiful concord
and sometimes
those boys bring their noise
to bury one another beneath it

Thursday, September 19, 2013

Homeless man finds $42K and turns it in, receives $78K in donations

Glen James, a homeless man living in Boston, found nearly $42,000 in a backpack this week and turned it all in to authorities. He was hailed as a hero and honored by the Boston Police Commissioner for "his extraordinary show of character and honesty." The tale could end there as an excellent Good Samaritan story for the day, but there's more. A man from Richmond, Va., who has never met James read about the story and decided more could be done to reward him.
Ethan Whittington launched a campaign for James, who says he has been homeless since 2005. Whittington said he wanted to raise some money to "help this man change his life," thinking he might raise a few hundred dollars. As of Wednesday, more than 3,100 people had donated more than $78,000. Wittington said he is talking to an organization that will help James manage the money, and hopes that this is an example of how we can all help each other if we make the effort. "I feel like, if everybody could come together and create one goal like we've done for Glen, why stop with him? Why can't we influence more people?" Whittington told WSFA 12 News. 

Tuesday, September 17, 2013

Cup of Tea?

When Sub-Inspector Jadhav asked what Vijav Patil was doing at a tea stall in the town of Kolhapur one mid-morning, he was unhappy with the explanation of "cutting chai" - grabbing a quick half-glass of tea - reports the Times of India. So it seems the officer arrested him under a law that allows preventative detention of someone suspected of being about to commit a crime.
However, Mr Justice Gautam Patel, at Bombay High Court, was not impressed and ordered police to drop the case. "We were unaware that the law required anyone to give an explanation for having tea, whether in the morning, noon or night. One might take tea in a variety of ways, not all of them always elegant or delicate, some of them perhaps even noisy. But we know of no way to drink tea 'suspiciously'," he's said to have ruled. Prosecution pleas that Mr Patil was known to the police reportedly cut no ice with the judge: "Cutting chai is permissible, cutting corners with the law is not."

Thursday, September 5, 2013


It is so important to be healthy, both physically and mentally.
Am I a fool to think life isn't as short as some say? I say, 'no.'
But, to be one thing in one way is to be all ways in one thing.

Or maybe not.

Wednesday, September 4, 2013

My heart is a candle in the dark. 

Thursday, August 29, 2013


Critical thinking I

Strategies for critical thinking in learning and project management

Critical thinking studies a topic or problem with open-mindedness.
This exercise outlines the first stage of applying a critical thinking approach to developing and understanding a topic. You will:
  • Develop a statement of the topic
  • List what you understand, what you've been told
    and what opinions you hold about it
  • Identify resources available for research
  • Define timelines and due dates
    and how they affect the development of your study
  • Print the list as your reference
Here is more on the first stage:
Define your destination, what you want to learn
Clarify or verify with your teacher or an "expert" on your subject
Topics can be simple phrases:
"The role of gender in video game playing"
"Causes of the war before 1939"
"Mahogany trees in Central America"
"Plumbing regulations in the suburbs"
"Regions of the human brain"
  • Develop your frame of reference, your starting point,by listing what you already know about the subject
  • What opinions and prejudices do you already have about this?
    What have you been told, or read about, this topic?
  • What resources
    are available to you for research
    When gathering information, keep an open mind
    Look for chance resources that pop up!
    Play the "reporter" and follow leads
    If you don't seem to find what you need, ask librarians or your teacher.
  • How does your timeline and due dates affect your research?Keep in mind that you need to follow a schedule.
    Work back from the due date and define stages of development,
    not just with this first phase, but in completing the whole project.
Summary of critical thinking:

  • Determine the facts of a new situation or subject without prejudice
  • Place these facts and information in a pattern so that you can understand them
  • Accept or reject the source values and conclusions based upon your experience, judgment, and beliefs

Wednesday, August 21, 2013

Big Sur Pt. 1 - Arrival

Big Sur last weekend. Camped by the beach. Woke up to, and slumbered against, an infinite deep blue backdrop, crusted by a sharp and bold cliff side. Toward the North, a magnificent blade of hard Earth curved along the coast, and protruded outward toward the Sea. The East mountains, wise as ever, rested low, and climbed into the heavens, piercing the occasional thick white fog that solicited the shallow skies. The road vanished behind the campsites Southern grassy knolls. The marathon bicyclist and sports car fanatics were not shy to scurry by and by. The West was watery and delightfully wicked. In the morning, the Sea and her mate, the Sky, kept us warm beneath a thick blanket of cotton-like clouds. None would wake up to the busy Sun, for to do so would be to exist elsewhere, something I cared not for.

We arrived later than anticipated, around eleven a.m., and were excited to find an available camp space. At first, we were confident that all spaces had been seized, but after speaking with the Camp Official, we were reassured that there were two plots to our avail, and we hurried to occupy the first one we could find. The site was very close to the road, at first I was concerned by this, being that the road was immediately behind our camp space, and that we could see and hear cars passing by at all times of the day. My second concern was with the overall proximity of the camp spaces, our neighbors were very close and in plain sight! I thought this an obstacle for the expected mid-day and late night debauchery. None-the-less, we unpacked our tents and bags, and immediately began our tiny colony.

It was a popular location, and for good reason.The site, which boast about twenty-or-more camp spaces, was perfectly adjacent to the incredible ocean, which could be seen from any of the spaces. There were, however, better views of the ocean, certain spaces offered a more intimate setting, and would prove ideal for enjoying an uninterupted sunset from ones camp with ease. Ours however, was perfect for us. We picked a nice grassy spot, that had more space for leisure than any other site I observed. And our neighbors were as young and crazy as we, however, not nearly as mean and certainly not as cynical; we are a crude bunch, like a bowl colorful sour grapes, but also playful and nourishing.

The local wildlife made themselves known. Cheerful creatures of different sorts scampered around in the dirt, or grass. Black birds, blue-jays, robins, and other sorts would flutter by and grace us, often lurking nearby, hopping along, searching and waiting for discarded foods. Shaggy-tailed squirrels praced around the cars and BBQ pits with playful expression. A small hare chewed grass near the neighbors car. There were few insects, none that were bothersome, not even one timid mosquito.

 Once all was set up, we cooked, ate, smoked, and drank our way into a pleasant existence. We were well equipped with food, snacks, beers, and strange medications. I enjoyed a Corona and a smoke before retiring early to the tent for a mid-day nap.

Burne Hogarth

One of my favorite artist
My Mother bought me his book Dynamic Anatomy when I was young
It introduced to me the human form in powerful, vidid, and wild detail
The men with massive arms, wide chests, and rigid legs.
The women, so soft and elegant, yet bad-ass and intimidating
All nude and free as the body ought to be
I have since purchased several other of Burnes publications
and plan on studying his ideas and techniques in depth
. Thanks B.

Tuesday, August 6, 2013

Winter Girl

Small, tender, wild, and untamed.
Bright, pure, honest, and ripe.
Loud, quick, hungry, and anxious.
Impatient, impatient, impatient.
But, patient enough.
Eager, willing, and motivated.
Naive, at times, but aren't we all?
Slender, thin, and trim.
Tickled, sweet, and young.
Summer, Spring, and Fall.
A hot chocolate kind of Winter girl.

Tuesday, July 30, 2013


So this is what God made man for; sitting and staring at a

computer screen, copying and pasting amounts of monies from

one document to another, not speaking to anyone, letting

your eyes go slowly blind, feeling your fingers cringe with

stinging arthritis. My hair cannot grow happily underneath

fluorescent light bulbs. This morning, like many morning

before this, I purposely laid in bed past 8:30, knowing

well that I had to be at work at 9:00. It is clear, I do

not want to be here. I am asking myself, "So, where do you

want to be?" I'm good at questions. Answers are a different

story. My bedroom is cluttered with toys, toys for a young

man. Several guitars scattered about, effects pedals, amps,

recording hardware, paints, canvases, pens, pencils,

markers, inks, brushes, books... many, many books. Some days

I feel I should limit myself to reading, fully submerge

myself in books and information. Can't go wrong with static

knowledge, can you? I keep telling myself that God made me

for a reason. Has the reason become any clearer since I

first bothered myself with this inquiry? Again, I am good

at questions. So, I roll around in bed, the blankets

neither here nor there, I am buried in endless folds. I

think about Sylvia, my boss. What will she think if I call

out sick for a third day? Probably that I am unreliable, or

that I am actually sick. What are my co-workers thinking?

Boy, I am just the most interesting of all philosophers,

aren't I? So involved with ME. Nothing interest me more

than ME. Call it a generational malady. My alarm clock is

ringing ringing ringing. I am in bed. I want to get up and

play guitar, but the guitar and I both know that I will

only ramble on and on for hours playing unrehearsed garble,

stringing along broken phrase after broken phrase,

pretending to know which scales go with what chord, which

chord goes with which chords, and in what order. Though, I

am particularly good at harmony. Yesterday I tried to sing,

but nearly choked at just the sound of my own voice. Even

when I speak, it feels as if I am forcing air through some

jagged narrow canal. My voice is either raw and ripe, or

cooked and rotten, I can't tell anymore. I remember singing

high notes over well placed chords. I remember at least

being daring.. Daring enough to try. These days I try, but

I have been lazy and discouraged. I am careful with my

words... God, my Mother, an my Father, have placed upon me

great awareness of the power of words. I am what I speak. I

speak what I am. How is it that I can observe the things

that trifle me, but would be cursed with them if I were to

discuss them? Even with myself! Some days I wish to not talk

at all. Nor be talked to, not even by God. Some days I wish

to gracefully float away and become a cloud, one that is

keen enough not to ever drift around the Oakland or Los

Angeles. But one that hovers neatly above my Fathers farm,

or the beaches North of San Francisco, or some forgotten

place in Europe where animals know not of any man, and

birds that are so curious that they would peck at me in

order to be sure of my legitimacy. That sounds ideal. And

what would I do then? Having ditched my alarm clock and the

shroud of scheduled labor that comes with it. Today I

thought of Thoreau, and how he built himself a house. Long

has that been my desire. To build my own house... To be

totally in charge of me and my own means. For at current

state, I would punch each and every landlord in the face

for being so malevolent to the human experience. For that

matter, I would hang each grocer, too. And flay the

doctors, burying them in paper graves; documents, bills,

fees, late fees, diagnosis, descriptions, pills, and

prescriptions. Oh, but where am I? I am sitting in the

administration building of a local health clinic. HA! I

would trip and fall trying to dodge the irony. 

Wednesday, July 24, 2013

Tuesday, July 16, 2013

Open Letters

I'm not stuck. I'm just.. crawling... backwards. At least I'm moving.. I notice the back of my head start to tense up. This has been my life... churning thought into stress and then into physical trauma. Trauma is such a graphic word. Open mouths displaying teeth, arms desparately reaching and searching, whips and chains, a torn and worn out stretcher, perhaps a cot with a devious alterior purpose... Trauma. Trauma and drama. Maladies.. Tumors... Sickness.. Dying...  black cancer... herpes... A.I.D.S... stupid stuff.

All incredibly black thoughts, if you ask me. Black thoughts and fears. These are my modern day fears. Bleh.

Pt. 2
So, how do I overcome these fears? Certainly these are not enemies I wish to someday face, at least not personally. Though, I do think it would be amazing to be a part of the team that discovers how to prevent these things. Much more than prevent, dissolve completely. The purpose of disease is to be overcome, thus propelling the once afflicted person into bliss again. Because we are all blissful, should we allow ourselves to be. It is really that simple. Just be happy. Take your own advice. Discover your personal comfort zone and break it over your head. Build a new one. This is a part of the essential alchemy of day to day human happiness. It helps to be adaptive, asertive, precise, certain, sound, and curious. 

At least, this is my nature... I can stand back and say "Wow!" to give myself encouragement whenever I need it... and I always need it.

So, this chapter of my life takes me from "Aw" to "Wow."

I'm drenched in excitement. 

Wednesday, May 8, 2013

Tuesday, May 7, 2013

Not So Daft

With regard to the artistic control and freedom:
"We've got much more control than money. You can't get everything. We live in a society where money is what people want, so they can't get the control. We chose. Control is freedom. People say we're control freaks, but control is controlling your destiny without controlling other people. We're not trying to manipulate other people, just controlling what we do ourselves. Controlling what we do is being free. People should stop thinking that an artist that controls what he does is a bad thing. A lot of artists today are just victims, not having control, and they're not free. And that's pathetic. If you start being dependent on money, then money has to reach a point to fit your expenses."

 ~Thomas Bangalter
                   of Daft Punk 


Monday, May 6, 2013

Further Thanks

1. Feed your fitness. Starve your mediocrity."

2. “Where you are today isn't a product of your ability to succeed.”

3. "Don't think of it as a challenge, think of it as an opportunity. The universe will never give you more than you can handle."

4. "Strength doesn't come from your muscles, it comes from courage."
5. "It's delicious."

6. "Work hard, so you can play harder!"

7. "Give up, give in, or give it all you've got."

8. "Feel the fear, and do it anyway!"

9. "If they're not burnin’, you’re not workin’."

10. "Last set! Put it all out there and leave nothing behind!"

11. "This is not only the place where you come to strengthen your soul, it's also the place where you achieve success."

12. "Close your eyes, ride your bike, appreciate your body."

13. "Every time you step in here you’re getting closer and closer to your goal. Stay determined."

14. "Some people want it to happen, some people wish it would happen, others make it happen."

15. “You made it here, now make it worthwhile!”

16. “You are changing your body in this moment!”

17. “Don't quit when it gets hard; that is when you build strength!”

18. “If you want enlightenment, lighten up.”

19. “Sometimes what is in the way, is the way.”

20. “Average effort yields average results.”

21. “Find an excuse, or find a way.”

22. “It's not about the strength of your body; it's about the strength of your mind.”

23. "The best things in the life are the ones you work the hardest for."

24. “Pain is temporary, but results last forever."

25. "You gotta give it to get it."
Today I went to Merrit College.
I updated my application
and I'm good to enroll for classes.
It felt like a step in the right direction.
Today I am one step closer.

Thank you.

Thursday, May 2, 2013

At the Clinic

Beautiful girls,
coming and going,
talking and waiting,

Old women and men,
hand in hand,
sewing and chewing,

Young couple with kids,
tiny scoundrels,
loud screeches,
running wild.

Me in my office,
clicking absurdly,
thinking abruptly,
How could he have been so cruel to her?
She is, after-all, just a girl
She reads probably more than anyone he knows,
and quite swiftly.
And writes!
What a shame it is that he did not get the chance
to read one of her journals.
What a shame, indeed.
Though, she was a bit crazy,
childish, and a drunk,
she still cared, longed, tasted,
and touched
very much
like a human being.
How could he have been so careless?
The heart is both resolute and fragile.
Had he not ever before had his heart broken?
Smashed! Corrupted! Shattered! in a similar
manner to what he did to her?
Yes, in fact, he had. By those before her,
and those before them, and so on.
Though, he is a bit crazy,
he still cares, longs, taste,
and touches
very much
like a human being.

Tuesday, April 30, 2013

04 30 13

I'm searching for the deeper meaning in my life. That means I'm on a path to discovering the topic that I have a strong emotional bong with. I've had much advice offered on this choice of lifestyle, most of which has come from inspirational speakers, radicals, revolutionaries, healers, gurus, writers, philosophers, artist, and musicians. The phrase "do what you love" occurs often.

But, if I weren't already loving what I was doing, then why would I be doing it at all? I must already love what I'm doing in order to keep doing it. Otherwise, I would consistently be doing things I didn't love. So, I must analyze what I'm already doing, and learn to appreciate it, learn to love it, develop a capacity to continually respect what I already do.

So often, like my Mother, I ask myself "Why aren't I more like those other folks? The ones who can do these amazing things, make amazing money, and produce incredible productions? Why not me??" Why not? Because I haven't worked as hard as they have worked. I haven't yet developed the Masters work ethic. However, I do have the potential.

I do, however, ponder upon divinity, fate, and Gods will, as well as natural talent, benevolent genetic traits, circumstantial skills, and of course, luck.

Am I lucky? Does God have a plan for me? What am I naturally talented at? How am I sharing my gifts with the world? What is the next move? Where am I going? How do I silence the noise? How do I focus on what I want? How do I know that I'm doing the right thing?

Being content. Such a refreshing, humbling, and saddening thought, to me.

Suddenly dropping all of the materialistic ideas I had for myself.

Suddenly living for something more than fame and fortune.

Suddenly, I stand corrected.

Suddenly I am sorry.

Suddenly I know how to love.

Suddenly I am alone.

It all feels surreal.

Everything feels surreal.

As if I need rescuing from the veil over my eyes.

As if I need to be brought back home from this madness.

Ongoing madness.

Tuesday, April 23, 2013


Do the hard things first.

Take your own time seriously.

Carve out space in your schedule for projects you care about.

Maximize your mornings.

Keep the long-term goal in sight.

Speak up!

Actually stop multitasking.

Sweat the small stuff.

Remember: Face time counts.

Practice self-compassion.

Friday, April 19, 2013

I can't stop laughing!!


Quiet Nights (What Am I Doing With MY LIfe)

Vanity. Everything is vanity. My soul is crippled with vanity, but much like Maya Angelou, I rise. I rise out of mud and clay, kicking off the excess, flinging the muck down, back to where it reveled. And above, reveals itself to me, but of course, vanity.

I woke up thrice today. Once at 6am, again at 8:30am, and again at 9pm. 

So.. where am I going with this. 

Centering. I am at the center of my universe. I AM the center of my universe. I am in the middle of everything. And everything is around me. Literally, figuratively, rhetorically, and dramatically. I am in the middle. Always. Not one or three... Not black or white... Not happy or sad...


Centering. I see success all around me. I measure success (figuratively) in different ways. Different successes require different measurements. A lot like finding a pair of jeans that caters uniformly to your fleshy uniform. If it fits, success! If not, buy them anyway, after all they're on sale, and the idea of going to another store leaves a growing lethargy deep in your bones. That, too is a success. 

Enough about jeans, more about success. I am surrounded by success. By successful people. By ladies and gentlemen who have made smart decisions, who have taken care of their responsibilities, who have listened to the inner voice, to the greater voice, who have paved their own way. 

My new route home, the long walk in the lower Oakland Hills, helps me to think much about how to obtain what I desire. I am aware of how inner desires can be clouded, however, I think it that desire IS the cloud and that, it's OK to not want anything. However, I also think that it is perfectly OK to want something. It's like science. We were fine before science, we're fine with science.  Before sciecne, we (humans) had certain characteristics that many people in the modern society would find unfavorable. But, life was life, things were cool, so long as you didn't get sick, or have...

Ok it's nothing like science. But it is also everything like science... it requires more thought than I am willing to commit to in this area. My focus is elsewhere. Perhaps I'll provide a deeper analysis in a later blog. 


Weilding your little green plastic and metal pipe, I sat down in front of you. "So, this is broken." I said as I extended out my hand, two peices remained of what was once a whole. "Tuan didn't know which side twisted off.. and he accidently broke it. He is sorry." Your face changed, but only slightly, to anger. And angry words dripped down your lips. Resentful slurs, thick like molasses, poured on. Keeping calm, "It's just a pipe." I said. But still, you seethed. As you went on, boiling about your disparted  piece, an ambience occured. There in your heat, you were just as you always were; stressed, bothered, vexed, cursed, and projective. Your mouth moved, but as I watched your twisting face, there was only silence. I was safe in my ambience, proud of my subtle air. You were a witch, thrashing at your heir. And finally, a moment of true silence, when your mouth stopped, my mind quieted, and there was nothing left to say except, "Well... I'm sorry it broke." We sat in the quiet tempered space for a moment longer, the catalyst still in my palm, and reflected quietly. I stood, turned, and retired to my bedroom. Afterall, there was nothing left to say.

Saturday, February 9, 2013

Press Play

Tuesday, January 22, 2013

Further reflective thought and script...

I am being humbled, whether I liked to admit it or not, whether I realize it or not.
It is true, everything they say about me. I am a drifter. I have been drifting. I have been going with the flow..


Less ellipses.

There is a reason they treat me the way that they do. It's because they know me as this person.

Earlier tonight, while in my room toiling about the Internet, I overheard my Mothers conversation in the next room. She was talking to my sister, and had her on speaker phone. I thought I heard my sister mention my name, making an accusation of some sort. Curious, I wandered into the kitchen. My Mother was frying up some onions and herbs in a big pot, another pot filled with boiling water and softening noodles rested on the opposing heated  coil of the stove. "Did you break one of Azharas plates?" my Mother asked me. "No, I did not." was my straight faced answer. "Oh. She thinks you did." I asked my sister, who was still on speakerphone, what happened to her plate. "You tell me!." was her response. I told her I didn't break it, and that if I had, I would have told her. Dead air on the phone. Moments later, I asked my Mother, rhetorically, if "I was the kind of person that would break something and not say anything about it." "YES!" was her loud response. I reflected on a silly moment in my childhood. I was nine or ten. We had an odd television in our living room. The 35 inch screen was in a wooden casing that rested on a rotatable base. Atop of the television was a pretty purple vase, one that my Mother received  recently as either a Christmas or Birthday gift. The curves of the vase were brilliant, the long and smooth form was pleasant on the eyes. I wasn't watching TV when I broke it. I had my feet on the glass screen, rocking the device back and forth by pushing it with my legs, my idea of fun. The vase took a hard tumble behind the television and broke, a large chunk of the vase had broken off, but it was mostly still intact. For a moment I was frozen, and in that idle chill, terrified. I had a history of breaking my Mothers treasures, mostly wine glasses. In those days, I learned that the deepest wounds come from a words whose edge is sharper than any piece of broken glass. I didn't want to tell my Mother about that broken vase, so I didn't. I turned the vase around and hid the monstrous gap. She came home later that day with a smile, excited to be home from a long day of work. When she saw my face, she knew something was wrong. She turned her head and stared straight at the vase and discovered the result my treacherous activity. She was torn on the inside from the sight, and her mouth then tore at me, and perhaps that day, her hands tore my backside, but of that I cannot be sure. Tonight, after my Mother affirmed that I was the kind of person that would break a plate and not speak of it, I stood to correct her. I reminded her that I was speaking of myself in present day context, not that of a young child terrified of being scolded for his mistakes, and that if I broke something, I would take responsibility. Dead air in the kitchen. 

Monday, January 7, 2013

Succeed at stealing
another ones spoon
and you shall not eat