Posts tagged "death"
14 Oct 2016Inside the Box
A box with unbroken seal. Received and haunting me now for days. Mourning should be over, I said. All I want it this to be over. But all I can do is stare at the hefty delivery, waiting for me to to carry on. All I want is to carry on. Why can’t I just open the damn box.
Without him, who is family? How am I connected? Where is my home? It’s too late for me – I can’t even go back. Everything has changed while I was confined by a mangled body, too distracted by physical pain and the shame of not being abel to care of one’s self.
Both my body and face have changed. We are heavier and lower and sadder all the time. We have fears and doubt and emptiness. If private, we are frequently inconsolable. Thick … slow and … quiet with night mares.
If I’d been on the farm, I’d have been hugged and offered my shoulder in return. I’d have touched the things that are now sold. I’d have picked up something that no one thought looked important, but might have been my last remaining connection to him. To all of them.
Instead, the sealed box with my father’s handwriting on the outside, stares back at me, reminding me how unready I am. How alone I am with no one. Who understands. That if I know what’s in that box, it’s really. actually. over.
I thought I just wanted this to be over.
When she was dying I dreamed of her showing off a red dress. He loved it and said she was so beautiful. She lit up and danced some more. Then they both came to me, encircled me in their arms and all that was left was a feeling between us. They felt proud of me. For all my short comings, disobedience and unpredictability, I made them proud. I know without a doubt.
Inside the box is a fatal wisdom. To open the box fuses sadness and love indistinguishable and births a heart as dark as it is open once and for all. Never to fly in a fool’s bliss again.
09 Oct 2015If it breathes, it lives.
I think of myself as a reasonable person. With a good head on my shoulders and a strong centered perspectice to observe things from. I don’t reveal this information flipantly nor do I hope it’s true or not true. But
this hotel is haunted
A woman has a sense about her. A way to evesdrop and understand. A woman also has a way about her which brings curiosity from
You may never hear me mention this again: this hotel whispers when you lean out over the indoor balcony. It shrieks at your shoulder when alone in the stairwell. It blurs and shifts shapes while others asleep.
Underneath fresh towels, the breath is real. If it breathes, it lives.
this hotel is haunted
21 Feb 2015Merry Writers of Afterglow
Here we are, the merry writers of afterglow. Composing the scenarios. Orchestrating indigo.
We don’t care, we; the merry witers. If our laughter is in good taste. We are loud if we’re on top and allowed if we’re on top. We; making history, changing everything.
On the cobblestone, wet from air – the damp, cold air of coastal nights. Slowly I turn, step, then chase. Cause everything you radiate threatens my escape. From a muffled winter hangover. Imposing eternity. In the end, Death wins the race.
20 Nov 2013Fearlessly Mortal and Other Acts of Disobedience
Simply asking a touring artist to wake before 9am spells bad attitude.
It was supposed to be an honorable, private tour through the Nation’s Capitol building for the cast of STOMP while we played Washington DC, but it turned into one of the most humbling and accidentally outlaw events of my life.
My cast mate, VD, and I were particularly attitudaly uncool pre-2p, missing those vital hours of healing beauty sleep after rocking another late-night performance and social life after. Our grumps turned to groans as we artists were directed to stand in a single file line to wait as our personal items were gone through and bodies frisked by uniformed guards with very little sense of humor.
Eventually we made it beyond the concrete threshold and a strange feeling crept up my spine as my still groggy eyes made out the vast expanse of giant, square, unforgiving marble tiles I was to follow our political escort down:
I did not belong here.
The ungodly hour, lines, uniforms and body searches screamed “follow the rules” to me and as an artist, I don’t.
From my creative perspective, it was obvious: whomever built and daily fortifies these walls is scared: scared of surprise, scared of genius, scared of coloring outside the lines – scared of freedom and therefore scared to die. Walking inside the lines is controllable, right angles are predictable, concrete is dependable – all the things life is not.
We proceeded down hall lined with looming stone statues depicting almost exclusively old, white men with their cold noses in the air, carved chests puffed up, one frozen hand clutching a lapel and a grotesque metal plaque detailing how they did something “important for the world” like discovering or conquering or ruling. I constantly referred to my girlfriend, VD, for validation; “Am I the only one who feels like vomiting here?”
The nausea turned to satire as we entered the revered dome room, the room where one can whisper from one side and acoustically, be heard clear as day on the other.
So I positioned myself far away from my girlfriend cast mate, took what I felt was a quiet moment to create some political performance satire, and whispered, “Pssst, VD… Look, I’m posing for my statue”. Then proceeded to drop my pants, stick my nose in the air and puff up my chest, as if I had discovered the Mississippi River or something. Apparently, my whisper was well-broadcast, however, thanks to that damn dome, and my pantless display was in no way concealed by whispering either. It took the uniforms no less than 10 seconds to descend upon me and promptly remove myself and the entire cast of STOMP from the Nation’s Capitol.
Scared to die. All of them!
Why else do they immortalize themselves in statues, build impenetrable structures out of marble and create a Universe with no variables? On a more subtle level, why do they compulsively reproduce – products, wars, human beings. They are reproducing with the hope that something will outlast their precious, meaningless, short lives. A subconscious fear of death drives them. A subconscious fear of life.
Many years and experiences later, I sit at my screenless window, wide open in Hollywood’s September congratulating myself for breaking free of the subconscious death-fearing system. By surrendering to the financial instability of an artist’s career, by wearing sequins and bright colors and using my body any way I like, by choosing to not have children, by facing my fear dead on (so to speak) and seeing what genius comes of it.
But deep down, am I not still just a small step away from the behavior of the line-walkers?
Harbored in my heart somewhere is the desire, as an artist, to create something so impacting it actually changes the trajectory of human evolution and earns me a fond memory as “one of the greats” when I am childless and gone. I, too, fear death and act out quite similarly to the reproducers.
My human issues just look prettier than theirs.
Originally published in Pyragraph Magazine
31 May 2013You’re The One
You’re the one that everyone likes. They say your name with smiling and attraction when you’re elsewhere. You’re the one who is funny, has excellent taste and seems to understand many things. I know you cause you’re the one like me.
You’re the one who feels strongly – any and every thing. You’re the one who is sensitive and gets overstimulated easily. You’re the one who likes to be one on one or else alone. You’re the one like me.
You’re the one that knows unfashionably much. And hurts when others act choicefully ignorant. You’re the one who hides out safely isolated in bed without interest, sometimes in waking up. You’re the one that felt powerless over it and turned the fire inward. You hurt yourself because you need to connect with yourself. I know you. You’re the one like me.
I’m the one who said fuck you to the system. I’m the one that saved me. I’m the one that constructed a snowflake spiderweb to catch all the damaging debris. I’m the one that knows how long winter, so; how alive save me spring. I’m the one who chose to fulfill myself.
Are you the one like me?
26 Aug 2012Insatiable, Reckless Pleasure Monkey
When it comes down to it, I feel like I let myself down. I’m disappointed in myself and it hurts my feelings to receive that. So I’m a big ball of let down, disappointment and hurt feelings all on my own without anyone else’s outside influence.
Intense introspection and measuring up.
I should have been more prudent.
I should have been less me.
Oh, and that too: why do I have to be so overly ambitious and moving all the time? Am I scared of sitting still? Am I afraid to die? I will probably die if I sit still. In fact, sitting still is death to me. Restriction of any of my energy is dying.
So I’m good at moving. I know what I want and I’m always on my way to it. I know only passion. In life, I’ve known no goal and have never set one. But a life comprised of wants has no gives. Passion has focus only on pleasure attained. I am an insatiable, reckless pleasure monkey and I let myself down today.
30 Mar 2012Idealism and Soul
Communication is kind of sacred to me. It’s like sharing space, but the space is in my and your head and our heads are so vast – it’s divine when you really can get a feel for someone you’ve never met (or maybe you have) through this communication connective tissue. Shoot, I don’t watch tv or listen to the radio or read any news sites or magazines. But somehow I am ultra current and cutting edges. I’m an edge cutter. Because I listen. You know, tap into that collective unconscious. I share my mind space with any mind that is open. The more open, the easier it is to share more. It’s sacred to write and converse and to support others ideas and growth. Everyone grows. Until we don’t anymore. And then we’re dead. Dead is not growing and not changing. But the mind is always changing and growing and it’s really something to have virtual intellect jamming with little words or big words. Just soul and idealism. Idealism and soul. Bring me your open mind.
11 Oct 2011Artwork by Clay Sheff
The first man to take an artistic stab at my new short locks! The talented Clay Sheff has featured my likeness in many of his comic strips and retablos. His most recent piece here is a striking black and white with blood red – the Halloween-inspired witch in me is mesmerized. Last weekend was my birthday and I’ve been going through so many changes, of which cutting off my dread locks is only a surface expression. I decided on my birthday that the next year’s momentum had revealed itself to me as LEVITY. Clay seems to somehow known this before I:
16 Aug 2011Peaceful Way To Die, Maryland
In some shiny, horrible land the water took my life.
I tried to rise, but could not stand. The water took my life.
It shred my lungs – don’t understand this “peaceful way to die”.
Your mother, the ocean, the lake, my betrayal.
You float I sink. You play I flail.
The air that breathes me leaves me. Pale.
With time to morn myself die. The water took my life.
29 May 2010My New Doll