journal creature

Will Not Settle DownHollywood, CA

2008-05-06T22:31:00.002-04:00

The West Coast Best Coast was settled by some crazy muther fu*kers. No doubt.

Imagine looking at that canyon, one of the seven wonders of the world, well deserving of it's implicated grandness, thinking, "let's see what's on the other side". But their horse and carriages didn't stop for the great chasm in the earth, no, they relented not, they pushed forward, they dreamed big and over the snow-covered avalanche/blizzard frozen gray mountains they persevered. Many surely died trying. Many surely decided the risk was not worth their family's lives so they settled in desert or plains before. But some ... the people I choose to feel an ancestry with, are the believers.

"There's gold in them thar hills!" - an alchemic purity of spirit that existed in this world, worth searching for, possible to find. These are my people. Only stopping when land disappeared - at the ocean, my people may not have discovered the alluvial nuggets that beckoned their impulsive idealism, but they did find something. Every day, setting sun across and aquatic horizon - we are touched and our dreams continue for one day more. The gold rush, I am convinced, is legitimate and lives on.

The mind of the people on the West Coast remains that of pioneers. Things change more rapidly here than anywhere else in the world. The fashion of the moment, the progressive thinking mind, the suggestibility required to try something new simply because it's new and ... who knows how brightly beauty may shine?

But the exact speed at which this city, Los Angeles, is capable of change, not only lays the foundation for eternal youth and sets the stage for the embracing of all modern practices, including cultural arts, science fiction religions and overwhelming international commerce via mass media, but also ignites a convenience compulsion that covets all things that don't take too long, last too long or require too much effort. In other words, the West Coast's Pioneering mind was the first to embrace organic agriculture while driving packing highways single-passenger in lieu of the car pool lane. Disposability is the down side of too rapid a change: disposable wardrobe, architecture and even identity. This change - obsessive change - for change's sake, leaves landfills needlessly where cemeteries and public basketball courts used to shine.

My industry, the film and television industry in particular, is the most excessively expendable industry of them all. The waste generated on set in one of filming a major motion picture, from the plastic, glass and aluminum beverage containers alone, leaves me wondering how I, who goes all the way for clean living inside and out, can possibly be content with quietly reusing my little glass water bottle while dozens are being tossed this very minute with only two sips depleted. If five more people on set are inspired to be responsible for just their water bottle after reading this, then ... maybe it really does matter.

As an actor in the Los Angeles film and television industry, my ability to even get through a casting director's door lies gently in recommendation and reputation, but heavily on headshot. Printed, mailed, dropped off, then resubmitted, the headshot often gets saved when one's audition warrants possible employment, but too often follows the path of common, unsolicited junk mail: straight from the press and into the trash.

The advent of online casting submission services like LA Casting and Breakdown Services allows managers and agents to communicate actors' images digitally, saving literally forests in paper production, hours in time and hundreds of dollars in photo reproduction. And while I wish with all my might that the digital headshot, resume and demo reel will take over as the exclusive professional casting exchange, I still count 300 headshot, postcard and business card reprints every other month in my promotional output.

1,800 shots/year really is something when you add it up. So I asked the photo reproduction facility, knowing that recycled paper is being used in everyday paper items due to it's actually being cheaper to produce than virgin paper and far more agreeable with our precious environment, "What percent of your reproduction paper is recycled?" They did not know, but they were happy to find out; "25%". Now, that's fantastic! "I'd like to print on 100% recycled paper. Can you help me do that?"

It took four weeks, $200 extra dollars and a small sacrifice in image clarity, but I can with near complete assurance state that with only tiny effort, I have become the first actor in film and television to print her shots on 100% recycled paper. This is the industry that so heavily relies on headshots. This is the city of where said industry's epicenter lies. This reproduction house is one of the most popular in Hollywood, and I was their first. They found out for me. And the next time someone else says, "I want to print on 100% recycled paper. Can you help me do that?" - it will be fast. And the twentieth time someone asks the same question - it will be cheap. The paper will be in stock and available.

We Who Travel West ... I stand at the ocean bathing in sunset's magick hour, dreaming that the next rush of gold might be right beneath my dirty fingernails. Feeling like the pioneer of everything that is about to be. Reminding myself that Pioneers are not settlers. My people before me did not settle on the plains. They did not settle at the canyon. And I won't be settling either - especially not "down". So while I welcome with open arms the countless pioneers I see rushing gold one by one, and encourage them to insist on 100% - nothing less, I still press on towards digital exclusivity and the legalization of the hemp plant so that deforestation for paper products can cease altogether - for once and for all.

I will not settle down.

I'm Your Favorite BadassHollywood, CA

2008-04-22T13:34:00.003-04:00

It's a king sized bed in a cold, April bedroom. I was just snuffing out so I could enjoy a read about elephants, my most recent spiritual study, but instead I got amped - really inspired and here I am like a maniac trying to write it down.

Writing things can be the first step towards magickal manifestation. It's like the vision is more formulated, more complete ... more real. Picasso and Spare might have to agree.

It seems like the full moon OR the nite after. Yes, the nite after and the entire two weeks after is a time to realize what in the first two weeks was sewn. My dreams became steeped in waking coincidence. Of course, I use that word to communicate, not because I believe in coincidences rather everything I am experiencing is like a destiny based jig saw puzzle and whoa am I inspired!

***

I want to become a working actor. A name actor. By the traditional means: I will audition, I will get called back, I will book, I will prepare and play, I will perform and play and I will be hired again because I am fun to work with, I am easy to direct, and I have great ideas that accentuate the material and a global vision that makes history.

I am your favorite bad ass. I am her unlikely voice of reason. I am his curiosity. I am my own buoyant muse.

Most importantly, I am the face of everything that is going to be. I want to become a name actor by the traditional means, and wait for the age and my inspiration to meet as the audience and movement seamlessly combine and see a beautiful green world sprout up between sidewalk cracks and underneath my very own finger nails.

***

In The City, The Old Gods LiveHollywood, CA

2008-04-17T02:29:00.000-04:00

In the city, the Old Gods live, but you have to assimilate to the geography to know where to find them. Not in the wide, open, fields, plateaus, altars of nature, preferably in an Oak wood, but reigning over the underground pedestrian tunnel, link fence restricted, no light, motion - just the hollow sounds of cars accelerating over. Down where to colder air settles. And guards the openings of pedestrian tunnels or gothic tombs. In the city, the Old Gods live in LED billboards, social contortions and old trees.

The ProcessHollywood, CA

2008-03-28T12:58:00.003-04:00

I keep giving and giving. But it feels like nothing is on it's way back to me. Which of course, is not TRUE, but that's how it feels.

It feels like nothin's been feeding the well and so it's Black Rock City dry.

But still I keep tryin to pull water up, pull water up to nourish other people.

So I'm giving without soul now. I'm giving in action, but in motivation, I'm feeling overdrawn empty well dry.

What I need is love. Isn't love always what's missing. More love is the answer to every question posed problem.

I need to feel more love.

Well, let's work through this then. Let's process. Here's the process:

I need to feel loved. What makes me feel loved?

ATTENTION. I know some think it's wrong, but it's just my way. I feel surrounded by the thing that doesn't touch. It's got power and tangibility and a bulbous moving pressure that reminds me I am alive. I feel loved when one person - not many, necessarily - when one person whom I admire sets their sites on my being with compassionate intensity. I can accept attention one on one like no other. I blossom with attention. I feel loved.

And why not let that attention be touch? Thy type of touch that drills consciousness into the shape, muscle, ligament, spot, microcosm underneath it's pointers. It's listeners. Attention via the listening hands. I can tell, people, who's hands listen and who's do not. I can tell because I have a built in love radar and I know, without touching, whose touch is embued with the depth of what it's connecting with.

Attention and touch.

I feel loved with attention and touch.

My well fills with more to give when I receive loving attention and touch.

So I guess the kickstart to feeling plentiful again is simple: I will hang out with a friend who pays attention to me and buy myself an hour and a half massage this week.

If that's all it takes to assure my clear water, strong center, freedom loving state of being so that I can give more and receive more without feeling depleted or taken for granted, then I'll get a massage every week. Who did I think I was not getting myself massages, anyway?

The Photo ShootHollywood, CA

2008-03-20T02:36:00.001-04:00

She tried to warm her hands before applying the make up, which was clay, to my body. Thick, betonite clay designed to dry out over time. And crack. Like the photographer had envisioned.

The women prepared me as if I was Princess becoming Queen. They wrapped my locks with colorful string and stone beads. The White Skinned Woman cared about which way the hair laid and it mattered to her more than it has ever mattered to me. I began caring, too.

57 Country Woman tried to warm her hands before applying the make up, which was clay, to my body. And I become covered. And the clay dried chalky white over every inch of my nude body. And the women's hands were drying, too. So they took paints to my eyes, and took the color from my eyebrows. I saw a gorgeous albino woman looking out from white cracked skin behind wise blue eyes. And then they adorned me with artifacts. I held around my neck snake vertebra and one of the two-toed sloth's toes. Beaded loin cloth from Africa, embroidered tassels from Peru, arm bands from the Amazon. I carried the child sling basket - these, the 57 Country Woman brought back with her as costume ideas. And today there were costumes. And today an American Tribal Queen they decorated was not lost, not rude, not tired not once.

And four hours after the onset of the preparation, I found myself in front of a camera. With a man attached to it. And he was looking through the magnificent magnifier to see if the Queen had arrived. With palms painted gold, she had.

Things Are Going So WellHollywood, CA

2008-03-15T06:39:00.002-04:00

I'm not one of those people who walk with a goal in mind. I'm not aiming for anywhere because I can't see that far. I'm actually one of those people who innately enjoys the journey.

I don't look four feet in front of me - I can't even see past my nose. When I walk, I don't see anything at all. I feel the motion. I walk because I enjoy so madly, the feeling of walking.

It's important for those of us who do not look ahead to remember to at least once in a while, stop. And turn our heads to look behind. Just note how behind you today the scenery is so different than a year ago today. So far you have come walking, just enjoying the feeling. Some credit is due. This is your creation. Take a bow and blow kisses if it makes you come alive. Or just learn to smile the deep inside smile.

Things are going so well. Jasmine is in bloom and I don't have time to clean my own apartment. For like, five months for real now. But that jasmine is in bloom, so all is right in the world. Things are going so well. I smell jasmine.

We Who Travel WestHollywood, CA

2008-02-19T18:49:00.002-05:00

She sat down in front of me and pulled out one of those long, skinny cigarettes. Waved it around with dainty grip in a way that told me her petite frame is made of iron.

I won't ever date someone who smokes. I did once for a second. 10-year-long second (I wish I were mortal unto the aeons). But since I'm not I'm not gonna waste my mere year-tallied time kissing someone with an evil furnace boiling from their depths. That private incinerator only an intimate associate will share. The red hot devil rotting a hellion's death in each close up breath.

Maybe this person has a bad attitude fueling their furnace. I won't date that either. But even the best attitude does not make it pass my fresh-inside kissometer. Let them eat avocados. And love them. In front of me.

Back on track. The residents of Hollywood have made bold choices. If not only just by association. Whether it is the continually morphing street flavor of this happy-face county, Hollywood in Los Angeles in Southern Cali - I wonder why people who live here are surprised when I say I love this town. I love living in Hollywood. Ain't no Atwater hill house or downtown ghostown loft that would compensate for the uniqueness and diversity of Hollywood East of Highland and I watch the pretty girls who take care of themselves fuel their trashy cars and I watch Mexican men jump for jobs outside Home Depot or sell strawberries, mangos and pineapples on residential street corners for $5 - talk about fast food.

That's my Hollywood. And when I get up from this jazz amplified Euro Coffee Shoppe I'm gonna unlock my pink cruiser with racing flames, wide, white wall low rider bike tires, and peddle my athletic ass back to my apartment leaving a trail of wind blown dread locks behind me. I am someone else's Hollywood.

Who, when the west wasn't won, imagined from the prairie that things could be better. The unexplored virgin landscape with snow covered mountains, expanses of real, no-life-supportin desert, natives protecting their established tribes, a canyon easily deep enough to be considered one of the seven wonders of the world - who are these people who said, "Come on, honey. Pack up the house and get the damn kids, let's see what's on the other side."

Western settlers believed in gold. They were rushing for gold. They were alchemists of sort, elevating spiritual and physical matter into gold. Searching for the philosopher's stone. Some stopping at quick silver. But some ... making it all the way. All the way to water. The end of their travels. This is our home. This is a pure cultural lineage. American Alchemists: We Who Travel West.

Our progressive minds. Our possible momentum. Our ability to change quickly and without attachment our power. Bless the actor and her research of the human condition. Her desire to know on the deepest and most complete of levels, exactly what it means to be someone else. Someone(s) else. Someone else's. She began smoking because she thought it looked sexy (it did). Then she became attached. Another consumer marketing success story.

That's my Hollywood.

If someone lights up a cigarette, every mouth on the dance floor will tell them to put it out. But if someone lights up a joint, well, that's medicine, now, you know?

It's Too Heavy To Lift AloneOrlando, FL

2008-01-26T19:33:00.000-05:00

You know you have matured. The lessons you are learning now are different than before. They are internalized and personalized and evaluated at a private level.

I know what having a partner feels like. And it feels nothing like being lonely all the time. I am not going to die of loneliness anymore. But I may still fear it.

I am maturing.

We think of ourselves as conscious and evolving. And we behave with a common individual journey towards betterment without taking it seriously. Because this is too serious to take seriously.

It's too heavy to lift alone.

Newgrange still stands, water tight, untouched by torch. We build things without believing in them. We budge blue sandstone for decades. We add a coat of paint to a wall built when my great grandma was just born. We occasionally leave food where stray cats might find it. And in the meantime, we allow what isn't working to smoothly and expeditiously melt away.

This moment sacrifices everything and arouses a conscious conception. This moment is a revolutionary. The birth of Ideal. Ideal rising from the flames. Appearing in glistening grandeur as star flakes nibble skin that is soothed only by your hand gently listening to the endless echo of Hollow Evermore rattling around inside my soul.

This Is BigSan Francisco, CA

2007-12-28T14:21:00.000-05:00

Everythings okay in San Francisco when it rains.
Sidewalks slip I save my life and would do it all again.
It is December and what a year is turning 'bout to end.

Secret healings dream up nightly how am I to sleep.
I didn't believe I didn't consider but now I do - must heal.
Low clouds cover naked starlet's sky - this time it's big.

In San Francisco rain I get to save my life again.

Merry SolsticeChicago, IL

2007-12-23T22:52:00.001-05:00

I went vegan at age 17 and I swear, for at least 4 Christmases afterwards, my mom and dad continued to stuff my stocking with milk chocolates, toffee nuts and other sweet, off-limit atrocities.

The first Christmas this happened, I thought maybe mom and dad just didn't realize that these Kisses had milk ingredients, so I said nothing and ate nothing.

Still, the next year, busting over the rim of the stocking: butterscotch candies like Niagra Falls. I think I dropped a solid hint that I don't eat this stuff anymore and then of course, there's the whole not eating of it thing that should have been hint enough.

The third year my parents were full-on suspect. At the sight of another chocolate Santa, I gave a verbal shopping list of exactly what would make me light up like Cindy Loo Who next stocking season: nuts, dried fruit, something creative. My parents so flaunt their creativity. What's up with this parental pressure, anyway?

It was finally a face off on the fourth year. I demanded answers as to why Kris Kringle hadn't updated his reality. Bless their hearts, my awesome dad and mom replied sheepishly that they "just couldn't imagine not giving their daughter chocolate in her stocking" - they thought I was a "good little girl" every year (which of course I am!) and they just wanted to give me those time-honored special "good girl" treats.

It dawned on me then that often times people gift others what they themselves want or wish the other person wanted. When we all know that opening a gift that is so tailored to your personal wishes shows someone has been paying attention and is thinking solely about you.

This year my stocking was stuffed with peanuts, Brazil nuts and walnuts. And it didn't seem to disappoint mom and dad at all to know they gifted me exactly what I always wanted. It may not be traditional, but really ... what fun would that be anyway?

I am thankful for my family this season.

Merry solstice ...

I Stereotype MeColumbus, OH

2007-12-06T01:14:00.000-05:00

The curse of Hollywood: Indentity Crisis.

I get called into a commercial audition today. Casting for "vegan - preferably with dreadlocks". Let's see if I can pull this one off.

So I am getting around for the audition; cruelty-free, mineral make up applied, locks tied like ropes into braids on each side - it is time for the clothing. And I find myself toiling over what the writer might envision a "vegan with dreadlocks" wearing. Earth mother, hippie clothes likely (of which I have none), when I realize that I am exemplifying the curse of Hollywood: Identity Crisis!

I AM a vegan with dreadlocks and instead of trying to become what I think someone's stereotype of me is, why don't I just become more of myself and ... wear precisely what a vegan with dreadlocks would wear to a commercial audition on a rainy day in Hollywood.

Life is too short to wear clothes you don't like to impress someone you don't know to get a job you don't care about to make money you don't need to buy more clothes you don't like to impress someone you don't even know.

Life is too fucking short!

Thank MeHollywood, CA

2007-11-21T16:26:00.000-05:00

Thank you for these gifts.

Who am I thanking?

I feel so thankful.

Mom? Dad? Yes! Yes!

Me? Me, too?

Absolutely.

Thank you for these gifts. Thank you for a body that moves. Thank you for crows that notice me when I walk their territory. Thank you for avocados. Holy guacamole with Fuerte and lime.

Thank you for commissioned graffiti walls in Hollywood, especially that two story heavy metal skeleton biker on La Brea Ave's Von Dutch north face.

Thank you for days without alarm clocks and thick mist so moist at nite.

Thank you for lesbian women over 30 who don't dye their greys. Bless them especially.

I am blessed. I am loved. I am good at something. I love something. I care about things bigger than just me. I dance my gratitude.

Thank you for the dance.

Ice Age TheoryHollywood, CA

2007-11-07T22:41:00.000-05:00

Wa wa. Cry me a river about ground water pollution and rising gas prices. The cost of health care and internet neutrality.

In fact, cry yourself to sleep about solar flares and reptilian Masons. Weak dollars and single parent families and lack of quality programming on your satellite locatable, internet accessible, Bluetool compatible communication device.

And just plain shut up about black female candidates of twenty twelve when?

There's an Ice Age comin' whether we reuse our drinking water bottles or not and if you are not gonna let that get you down, then I suggest doing what you are doing anyway while the WGA is on strike and urea is the integral ingredient in Mercede�s Blutec engines - in the face of your created conspiracies ... fortify what is precious and live the best way you know how. Without relent, live now with full conviction, full idealism, full passion because one thing is for certain; ain't no one gonna make it out alive.

We all die next month or next decade or sometime in this or the next century by some cause for some reason at someone's hands indirectly or directly maybe our own. We all die and the only thing left to do is live it now. Like you wish it had always been. Like you wished it ever could be. This may be the single most important thing you can do in your imperative, insignificant life.

I'm not saving the world here. Everything will be as it evolves and I�m personally banking on a little epigenius. There is nothing to save. Ice Age comin. In fact, it's a little over due in spite of our efforts to speed it up by altering weather patterns with global thermics. Sometimes the realization of impending Death is the ultimate motivation for true freedom.

Come alive. It matters.

Come alive.

Out DoorsHollywood, CA

2007-10-24T22:31:00.000-04:00

It's cold now, I guess, but I'm not shutting the windows.

I grew up in a home my father built with his own hands. With plenty of glass door windows on seven out of it's eight sides, sitting indoors reading a book on the couch was undifferentiated from reading a book outdoors on the porch swing in this house.

As soon as the weather got warm enough to shut off the furnace in spring, the windows would open and they would not close until the furnace fire was lit again. Even then, the windows might have remained open had we not cared about wasting electricity.

Which of course we do.

So ... I'm riding through my first full-season autumn in Hollywood and you know, I totally judged SoCal autumn, calling it wanna-be, comparing it to sugar maples turning every shade of sunshine and soil, and then falling to the ground in a final flamboyant display of creativity in say; real autumn-havin' locations.

Oh, Midwest maples are too brave for their own decoration. Naughty, nekkid maples.

But comparing the two is like a mom actually answering her son when he asks whom she loves more - him or his sister. Because both are pretty, girls, and honeysuckle just erupted in Silverlake - roses are near-wild near the Larchmont mansions. Angel's Trumpet and lemon trees are looking good in the 'Wood. And the heftier fruits such as Ju Ju Bees, figs, apples, grapes, persimmons and pomegranates beautify the local farmer's stands. Yes, this is autumn, too, and there is no other autumn like it.

The sun is still warm during the day, but the wind is cold. And it moves quite a bit faster and with voice, across my meditating form stretched across the floor rug, still refusing to shut those windows even at nite when I have to admit; it's probably too cold.

For what? For something. I forgot what for, so ... then wind moves across my floor-rug-stretched October cadaver meditating on how nicely this relent is sitting in. Intuitively I feel like relaxing. The push is over. And now I reap what I've sown, ride the two coasting wheelz, and sentiment over how unpredictably went this year and what a notable push it was. I guess it doesn't matter what part of the country I am in in autumn. I get to feel this way even in Southern Killa California.

If I only live 120 years, I'll only ever see 120 autumns. I'm not missing this one. If these windows weren't wide open, I'd be outdoors anyway.

Will Not Be IgnoredHollywood, CA

2007-10-14T17:45:00.000-04:00

Autumn practices voodoo with acupuncture needles. All kidney meridian pin sticks and permanent appetite point piercings.

She's the Wicked Witch of the West Coast.

And when it rained last week for the fourth time this year, it was because of her drum and bass rain dance. Or her potent banashing ritual performed on the Dark Moon.

So ... happy New Moon, Autumn.

She'll rip your hat off and sendx it down the street the wind.

She'll play chicken with you on the sidewalk, then fake shy if she thinks you have expectations of her.

She'll deposit a Lover at your doorstep without even signing the card, and when you are the only one awake, still basking in passion's bliss, she will distract you with song at the top of her lungs riding past your apartment on her bicycle broomstick.

I do not have to seek anymore.

Autumn will not be ignored.

Worth the WaitHollywood, CA

2007-10-09T05:47:00.000-04:00

Slightly fermented pomegranate seeds smell like wine. And have much similar effects.

These are the things we can not know without age.

Manifestation In The AshesHollywood, CA

2007-10-05T05:06:00.000-04:00

So, I guess I can't assume that you know the language of astrology, just because I wish you did.

Great voice. Smart man. Really pushing consciousness. How many observers do you have, that you are aware of, at any one time?

The way I can study Alchemy is by parusing the art, I've discovered. So much art and the symbolism is so cared for and exact and ... it's a great way to get to know a science before Light.

I wonder how I am an alchemist? I always thought of it more like wings on fire - too close to the Sun - and oh, isn't it all for the manifestation in the ashes.

Wicked Witch of the West CoastHollywood, CA

2007-10-02T00:48:00.000-04:00

She might as well have been riding a broom stick, the way she flew down the street.

With no metal surrounding her - no frame, no seat belt, no air bag - the midnite Air element in full communication across her face. Two wheels and all the freedom in the world.

Speed proportional to her strong limbs� whims. In the moment soaring on momentum.

She was flying down the street Wicked Witch of the West Coast style on a bike magnificent as the countenance of pleasure on her face. She obviously enjoyed riding. Very much so indeed.

But she was shy. Or pretended to be. Either way, I could not get her to look toward me as she rocketed by. What world is she living in? Oblivious to how oppressive long summer can be. Her world full of mystery and saturated with levity. Her own little game she is winning every day. I wonder if she cries sometimes like me.

Yes, she does. Autumn cries. Autumn soars and Autumn pretends and Autumn, the cousin I never had, finds me every year no matter where I am, though this year I was sure she wouldn�t come. I thought maybe she died. Or forsook the United States altogether for some other romantic land where everything moves in slow motion and no one remembers their given name.

I'm younger now and something tells me that adoration is cultivated separation and so I choose to suddenly and successfully be Disenchanted - no longer will I seek. You don't look for something you've already got. I�m ready to be. I have a place here and it is important, what I am doing.

Autumn � and you still have use for me.

Bright Sun: Deep ShadowHollywood, CA

2007-09-20T05:41:00.000-04:00

I give up! I give up! I give up! I give up!

This always happens this time of year!

Autumn.

Autumn is happening again and this time it's in Los Angeles. I can safely say this is my first autumn in Los Angeles. I usually try to be somewhere ... witchy as October sets in. Somewhere where the things I feel like doing are right outside your back door. In the woods. Oh, how dark an autumn woods can be.

But this year autumn's in Los Angeles and something is in bloom again. Oh, devil, it is violently seductive and holds instant access to whatyourelookingfor. I live in a city of 3.8 million people proper, and I smell fantasy in bloom every season. I am hypnotized and I remember turning on my window shield wipers tonite. It has been since February since it rained last. Not that what I swished off my goggles was rain, mind you. More like mist. But enough of it to need one window shield swipe. And then it was over. It rained in LA in autumn tonite.

I detect a pattern emerging. Maybe I'm the only one who doesn't see it, though I try to keep insightful. Here it is: everytime I go to the drum and bass club I come home and write the shit out of my head because I am so high. High for three days from Technical Itch pulled off the stage, ending with the brownest bump of all midsentence. That's a pro. And I got high. And now I am flying on my broomstick through what feels like the most gentle, most urban eerie onset of autumn ever.

The brighter the sun, the deeper the shadows.

Sex and DeathHollywood, CA

2007-09-13T23:55:00.000-04:00

I'd have to disagree with Freud, the creative genius inventor of psychoanalysis, that repression - specifically sexual repression - is the defining motivation to our personalities.

Now, I might be psychoanalyzing myself here, but I think it's Death. It's not some opposable digit, biped motion, or language capability that separates us from our hairier four-legged counterparts. It's that somewhere in human evolution we were there watching another of our species die and instead of simply feeling despair or triumph over their plight, we had the lightening flash that: I, too, will die.

A random, accidental event births "ego", solves the missing link and instigates all sorts of historical repercussions including insanity, violence and the need to obsessively use right angles in architectural design (you can't walk down the street without it, people).

Me? I just choose to think about Death every day. I won't expand too much except that I've come to the realization that to every yin there is a yang, every coin has two contingent sides, and the complimentary opposite to Death is not Love, as some might expect and neither is it birth. It's sex. Sex and Death are exactly the same only completely polar.

Sexual repression and mortaility repression: maybe Freud was closer than we thought.

Can't Possibly Top Myself AnymoreHollywood, CA

2007-09-09T02:41:00.000-04:00

I give up. Release me, thorn. You've stabbed so deeply the skins grown over and I've lived with you buried all this time.

A constant slight, my limp is your cadence.
Like a canine, I have run stoopid smiling forward, undaunted in my quest for enjoyment and wincing only when no one is near.
Like a surgeon, I have taken needle and scalpel and sliced in, bringing blood again, I have dissected everything inside.
Like an idiot, I have accepted myself with injury included - even going so far as to give grace for the graze.

And all this meditating and questing and educating has beget me is more of the same but with different responses.

I'm not looking for peace. I'm looking for the philosopher's stone.

I stop midstride. I clutch something sore. I dream everything shades of grey with no country I haven't already been and no city I care to explore because it's all just grey and I can't possibly top myself anymore anyway.

The scent of a lover long past, crisp forrest floor nostolgia, drifted through the air today.

I mark the end of summer.

No-thing SpecialHollywood, CA

2007-08-21T23:13:00.000-04:00

The Disenchantment continues.

I am not special. I am nothing at all.

I am no-thing. I am shapeless. I am far grander than the identities I have shaped myself inside of.

I am scared to be so big sometimes. I feel sometimes that I might loose this body I am so vast - my body ... the cage I covet for a chance at life.

This type of life. So precious. So fragile. So fleeting.

Everyone I know will die and today I don't care who I told you I was. I'm not that right now. I'm no-thing right now. I am brave enough to have no shape and be not special, not special at all.

No More Obese TeenagersReno, NV

2007-08-13T23:33:00.000-04:00

I went raw because ... everything in my life was leading up to that moment and always still is.

But really. In retrospect, I went raw more than anything because as I was deciding to come off medications for Manic Depression for the third and in my intentions; final time. I wanted to become healthy. Whatever that meant. I had no idea. The only thing I knew then was what healthy wasn't. I had myself as an example.

Raw foods make me feel good. Emotionally/intellectually. I eat raw food not because someday in the future I might not die the same way a burger-chomper might, but because eating raw food makes me feel good right now. And if I knew I only had one year to live, I would still eat raw food every day that year because it gives me that much joy every day right now it's a great way to live.

Yet, I'm about to talk to you about something else that makes me feel as good - or better even - than eating raw food.

After two years raw a lot of 401-fooders find that they are indeed more energetic, more resilient, have shed pasta puff, are better spiritual magickians and are running consistently at a higher vibration whateverthatmeans. Vibrating totally high like sunshine. The sunshine we eat.

So full on sunshine, now what? We got here because we wondered to ourselves, "how good can it get?" and that intrinsic inborn instinct in us does not go away once we're raw. It amplifies. HOW GOOD CAN IT GET?!?

Serotonin is released during exercise. I paid high costs for seven years of toxic medication to "treat" Manic Depression when ... every time I exercised I felt better than the anti-epileptics ever did. I felt that natural seratonin release. If you want to take your health to the next level, an exertive and consistent physical play program is good for your now visible raw muscles. They shape. They work. The communicate with you. An exercise program is good for your Lover. They run clean. They look sexy. They love getting to know your body running clean and looking sexy when you both work out together. Dancing, hiking, roller skating, surfing, building, biking and a rotating combination of all of the above are good for your body, your Lover's body, your father's body and your daughter's body. No more obese teenagers. They learn how by watching YOU before you thought they were old enough to comprehend. Do situps while you talk to your family. Get them used to it. Stretch in the grass at the public park. Show others how. Give people you don't even know permission to do what their bodies, too, are calling for. Isn't your world is better when everyone in it stretches and feels good, too? No more bad mood bosses.

Then you don't feel so highschool wondering if you "have the right" to use your body in public. You don't need a gym pass for permission, but if that is the trick, then for goodness sake do it. I use my body not because I am trying to prevent some future ailment, or to lose weight (although all of the above are beneficial side effects to exercise as medicine) - I use my body because it literally makes me happy. Right now. And if I knew I had one more year to live, I'd do sits up several times every week until I died because ... it feels god to be in a body that does sit ups. It's as simple as that.

I don't like to work out. I don't like anything with the word work in it in fact. I don't like to hurt and I don't like to force routines upon my flow. So I find endless games to play that involve my body. And I don't have to take my pulse rate or watch the timer or measure anything when I am exercising. Because it IS the moment in my day that time ceases and I feel all my rhythms coming together. Life makes sense when I play physically. I get high and then I rest. And I can't wait to do it again.

I feels good. My lungs are large and capable and my heart is powerful and responsive and my brain produces skyrocket serotonin. I am high when I exercise. I get higher when I exercise than after a three day wheatgrass cleanse. Who needs anti-depressant and mood stabilizing "medications" when our brain works perfectly fine - if we use our food and our bodies to assist it in what it does naturally.

Using my body keeps my brain happy. And my emotions flowing. And my sweat pure fruit water.

How good can it get? It's time to go to the next level.

Disenchantment TheoryHollywood, CA

2007-07-29T19:00:00.000-04:00

I come home late every single nite. I experience my neighborhood quite differently than the other black windows here. One room emits a space alien glow - a intellectual computer socialite educating himself and bringing down the system. Keep thinking, man. And a blew dancing shadow - somebody's sister asleep on the couch with the television on.

But otherwise it's just me and the giant raccoon running half assed from shrub to palm tree. Me and the blossoming whateversinseason. All year long there are scents wafting glorious late blossom nite. Not even the birds are making noise. The downstairs neighbor dogs don't even wake up even a little.

And this is my world. Coming home late shutting down the DNB club. Outlasting dancers 11 years younger than me. I felt it tonite. DJ Meche pulling me in and shaking me against the walls like a decomposing death rattle. Deconstructing. Disenchanting. Leaving only what's real right behind my belly button and just two inches lower.

Sometimes I have so much passion for the things I love and so much ignition energy that I only know how to keep creating every minute. I start. Start again. Start again better. Ride it out. Even higher start again - that I never give the whatitis time to insert the hand of reciprocation.

If you leave your world alone, it turns like a new lover to look at you. It does everything in it's power to keep you happy. And when you look at it in the eye and thank it for being so generous, you see that your genuine happiness is making the world happy too.

The beginning of my Disenchantment.

Someone Just Like Me(without even a once over)Hollywood, CA

2007-07-23T05:28:00.000-04:00

I guess I'm what they call a "personality".

I've too much energy to be in the background. Too much assertation to be the object. Too much spunk to be the love interest.

That's okay. Those are the easy, lame roles anyway.

Instead I get hired to be myself and do things that ever more deeply express and expose my personal artistic authenticity. I get to be a real life super hero. I get to serve aspects of me, the everyone, in a fruit bowl. I've watched someone just like me create a cult icon.

The new cult is pure renegade. The new renegade is a pioneer. The new pioneer is healthy and happy and in ripe raw love, like we just squirmed out of the ground. Or the mud. Totally dirty clean.

Pure renegade system breakers pioneering a world we finally wish to sustain lives on. In.

In.

In.

In.

We go in and we find the reluctant and exhilarating place to challenge first. Just to see if we can do it. In fact, we already know exactly where to start.

We discover and we create and we end up, each one of us, "personalities" - unable to be emulated and coveted for exactly whom we are.