with half the afternoon past on an April 28th

sing a little, swing a little – singe my heart, will you?

i never want to take these smells for granted – the conifer russet, the mulch iron, the fuzzy grace of the lilac and the wisteria. i never want it to be anything other than a 3pm April 28th – curled catnap cat napping in the corner of the porch (radiant and perched, he swirls his body lithe). i never want to be anything other than a friday afternoon, deep spring (phase 4 and a half of spring to be exact). i want the alwaysbreath of the willow to lie with me on the days that are not this day. i want the alwayssky of the April 28th to be my horizon, wrapping around me with silver cord. tucking me in to my little garden bed. sprinkle a little soil on my head, and send me on my way. grow, grow, little one – the sun’s come out see you. to let you see. to let you be seen. come out, come out, little one – seeds are only one of the many many’s you are. you will be. you can be.

so sticky, this over-romanticization of life.

and what is so wrong if i want to be a flower? what if, for moments, i want to be lilac-daisy-wilted with the quality of movement as a bourree. do i lose the validity of being a strong modern woman?

it must be my ballet training, it got into my blood and my bones. it makes me want to be sinfully feminine sometimes. and in this day and age, apparently, that is a crime of weakness. so what if i want to be a flower every once in a while? other days i want to be a river. this condemnation of the manic pixie dream girl; this infantilization of the womanhood to a certain set of gruff (near manly) values and qualities. don’t you see how narrowing this is? let femininity be what it is what it is what it wants be when it wants to be a thousand trillion different aspects. wide-ringed thick tree stumps and brave stalks of a flower; everything is planted; everything grows. do not pick the weeds – they are only a social construct.

and men too. when will manhood be manhood be manhood be this and that and a thousand freeing ways to find it impossible to tie manhood down to one thing, one image, one quality of movement. come on, come on, i’m tired of waiting. let’s open up all the doors and let men be vulnerable. and let men be rugged brutes. and let women be flowers. and let women be amazon warriors. everyone all everyone all in the same lifetime, in the same week (or day), sometimes. just fuck it – just fuck it – gender roles and stereotypes and archetypes and qualities and stop fucking shaming the manic pixie dream girl or you will find yourself in the same reflexive judgment pool that you so claim to be 12 feet higher than.


art cannot be a language of decoding. understanding art, understanding dance, understanding poetry, understanding film – these are their own sorts of languages and lexicons, yes. but they cannot only be attributed via a metaphor of decoding or symbols which equal something else in a mathematic, equative way. they are frameworks and lenses and whole sections of mind, they are states of being and raptures and ecstatic portals, they are no longer profane, they are rapturous and they wrap around you. they are a primeval mind state. and a language. but it is not simply decoding. it is a rich language of understanding that goes beyond words and wordplay.


We often fall on such trait resolutions when it comes to evaluating what our emotional signals mean… If we look for more complex ways to interpret and rearrange and deal and adjust to them and learn to be informed by them yet not defined or confined by them then we might find more honest interactions with the complexity of our true selves and our subconscious selves.

Honesty is a hard thing to find… in acting we continually search for this elusive quality – and it’s not an objective truth it is continually in flux; complex; let us always find complexity rather than banal simplicity.

there are just an immensity of pros and cons between city community living and country community living… And I would really love to be able to find and harness a fusion between the two… This will likely only be able to happen after efficient streamlined and clean energy transportation can be truly mastered and movement will be ideal. However, at the same time, there might develop a numbness to the wonders and marvels of travel and discovery. We might reach a state of post-discovery. Which in and of itself will contain its own malaise and disillusion. However, I think people really need to be able to harness all the positives of city communal opportunities and resources and combine it with the benefits of country living. I imagine this crossed in a sort of fusion of successful thriving big-ish small towns that provide the quote on quote Best of Both Worlds…but you will never truly achieve the best of both extremes with this kind of fusion.

there is something vitally important woven into the structure of child raising…Especially with a baby…the contemplative nature and necessity towards grounding yourself; the dwelling in silence; navigating life and providing a new framework through the immense city of silent and foreign experiences. I’m not going to say that everyone needs to have this experience but if you are given the opportunity to find yourself having a baby and can somehow afford yourself this time to be with the baby,  i encourage you to engage with what is presented to you the opportunity to dwell in silence and contemplation.

we keep labeling things in the emotional world as “toxic”. is toxic even the right framework to continually be labeling certain experiences or moments or people? I wonder what the term toxic elicits in us and closes this off to or bars us from. is it inherently too dramatic and psychologically weaponized? Perhaps there is a better word, perhaps not.

And at a certain point in relationships, I think we need to sort of Frankenstein together a network of people that satisfy all sorts of emotional urges within us. What is more toxic (hah) than believing that we are only supposed to be sexually intimate with one person is believing that we are only supposed to be emotionally intimate with one person…what is the role of a relationship then?
Is dependency necessarily unhealthy? Can it be profound?
Healthy? Who gets to divine what is healthy? If I say, Okay, I’m unhealthy – what do I do with that then? Do I only bring myself back to a state of healthfulness and then I am complete until I have rendered myself unhealthy again. Perhaps this terminology or framework presents something that is to objectively simplistic and qualitative for me. Perhaps it is too reductionist, materialist and finite…and I always find it interesting that there are fellow humans determining what is particularly healthy and what is not according their own subjective delineation. I always want to come back to this humility of human frailty, human error and the marvelous missing…and at the same time the limitation of that…and always remember to keep myself humble in the knowledge that we are always constructing everything – constructing our consciousness, our words, our language, our connotations and that we get extremely caught up in the belief that all of these things are somehow objectively true. To believe objectively in our constructed reality is almost to believe that there is something outside of us that has constructed this making it objectively true. Somehow constructing a god. And in fact to continually bring ourselves back to the complete awareness of how constructed our reality is that is when we find ourselves truly in a world that is valuable and real and not deterministic and strangely in our own hands…perhaps united or pulled or one in the same or confined or fused or weave together with a Creator or with a creative force or with the creative force of the universe around us within the universe but still within to some degree our own hands. So if you want to believe in the efficacy of human free will or human existence or meaning beyond simple determinism from an outside objective Creator…continually remind yourself of the constructed-ness of our entire social reality. From our words to our thoughts to our consciousness to every strange and bizarre tradition that we have come to cling to. is there any objective truth that is truth beyond truth? to me what I feel instinctively in my gut and in my heart where my compass guides me to what is true against things such as violence or injustice or meanness…Is this too rooted in the simple ancient line of the history of social construct? Or is it objectively true? And what is that objectivity? Is that God – is that what we are always pointing to? that internal guiding compass and the wonder as to why we all feel compelled towards reaching out towards one another? is that it? all it is? the compulsion to reach out to one another? the impulse to reach out beyond yourself to the other – beyond the narcissism of ego – perhaps that is the thing. that is the thing we call god (sometimes).

a painful array of painfuls

draped across the ceiling – like a bed
or, perhaps
your teeth – Cheshire and fervent (a little boy, or a little wanderer)

the obsession i have with last tuesday 6 years ago,
the obsession i have with the memory of your socks in the drawer clanging together like bells

the obsession
is a healthy one
if I do say so myself
and these days
i’m the only one diagnosing (so i get to call the shots)

when i reach towards you with my webbed appendages
i only remember
swimming towards

i never remember the edge/ the weight of your hairs
piled next to me on the pillow

i only remember
swimming towards

hot blooded Christmas afternoon – dolphins in the waves (you spotted them;
I dove under and felt their hulking gray gracing towards me like a lullaby

i only remember
a painful array of beautifuls
swimming towards me / webbed hands;
webbed appendages;

dolphins, or you, or the obsession i have with last Tuesday 6 years ago

wild fire

how do you remain brave enough to feel it deeply, and strong enough to know when to come back up for air?

your skin so luminescent/mirrored pale and reverent/you splay in your car seat staring at the shapes that swallow the sidewalk – we bumble, we rush, we slide through the landscape; the landscape is glowing – satin pinks and lavender spines, trees curled in yellow fantasy. you are humming, your little hairs their own masterpiece. you are mumbling, i am learning always the depth of your spirit and wonder.

little one, i remember when you were womb-swimming and cotton-spun-spinning still, and i worried and i worried and i paralyzed myself with biological thoughts of fear. and the only thing that kept me strong, that kept we away from the black hole of SIDS, of birth defect guilt, of general new-mom psychosis was this image of you that i knew was true. i could feel you out in space somewhere – 24 years old, bold, beautiful, rock solid as an oak tree; burrowed on strong feet; a head filled with ideas; loving someone, maybe; someone loving you, maybe. i knew you’d be okay, no matter what…if i held on to this image in my head of the you that you are. of the life that you’re going to live when your identity is trickled out and seeping/ when you are no longer sleeping by my side. when you are just a memory of a little one and the true, strong picture in front of my eyes can hardly give way to this little splay of muscles and babyeyes. i saw you strong and living – a life of a man (or a woman) huddled on the horizon. i was giving birth to you; but more and less and less about me; more about you; a vessel for your entrance, for your creation. you are your own life, and when doubt and fear swallow me – i see you strong; maybe bigger than me now, firm and wide-eyed; full of wonder and maybe even your own beautiful heartbreak. and your own ways of coping with it. and your own tools, your own thoughts, your own vision. you are a life of your own.

care for children as the deepest souls; the most primal chunks of people’s brain wirings. care for children as magical beings in and of themselves/AND as the primeval seeds of magnificent full-fledged human beings. but they are more than seeds – this image too, is reductive. they are not latent somethings for the future, they are something present here. with their own wisdom, their own existences (fleeting, faster than death; the baby jamie, the jamie at 1, the jamie at 2, all different beings, all one being). they are something here and they are something there. time is a paragon of shapes and keep reminding yourself of the splay of the circle – of all the points laying against one another and not just this one, but how this one fits into this one and this one and this one and that one and how they are all real. they are all meaningful. they are all powerful. they are all magnificent. and they are all people. they are all their own life. not a strange creature come to annoy you or destabilize your precious life and timeline. they are their own life curled around your timeline in the most profound way. the deepest friends. the strangest wanderers. that we will know and know and know more intimately and uniquely than anyone else. because they showed us all the pieces of themselves wrapped inside the other pieces. they showed us the wide open gaseous landscapes of their most honest hearts. their true self within their true self within their true self.

i love children because there’s so much more truth. because social constructs have not begun to constrict and conflict and contort and generally bamboozle the wild fire that sometimes is so hard to feel burning in an adult. whoever said adult life was more interesting than a child’s magnificent world of splaying wonder? fuck the fantasy of adult supremacy – we lose so much when we enter the conditioning treatment of society. and so many falsehoods and so many plays and so much theatrics and so many postures and so much distance we travel from our true, open, brave hearts. for what? for what? the sham of the sham that we all lie to each other and say is more interesting, more true, more fulfilling than the honest, open heart we were born with. we learn to cover, we learn to hide, we learn to subdue, to stuff, to slink away. and why the fuck is that so great? why the fuck?

keep the intellectual growth, the complexity of understanding, the fascinating world of symbols and meanings, but also please, let us learn how to retain the wild fire. please, let us learn how to retain our bravery, our open hearts, our willingness to live, our fearlessness in discovery, our organic and ever-present ability to feel, to commit to feeling. to commit to life.

keep the magic, fuck the pretension. follow the growth – forget the contrivances, the cages, the constructs.

self portrait at 26 of 22

upon being 22
in a nation clean and bright – whistling, courageous but out of step with the sea and the sight of the shoreline
i raged orange peels through paint drips, sallow metro cards, wallowed shoes caving in at the center
i broke my arm in a tiny fissure
i healed my arm on a purpled couch under the overhang of the bypass; painting under the leaky shower where the pink rings stuck on the sink
i tucked myself in to the bus stations; i tucked myself in at night (i fell asleep
in arms or blankets or pillows or on top of the wooden slabs called floor that kept creasing in the corners)
i hurled myself around this suburb called Toowong, i read a biography of grace and goodness traced onto the city steps
i tried to find the culture, sandwiched in between the pacific and the pedestrian – i found my own pretension, i found the pretense that a place is more than a past and present tense
i pressed hard – there was a
road to keep rumbling;
i radiated outwards.
i swallowed donuts/couscous/raw flour mixed with eggs (desperate for cookies but where is the time)/sushi that rolled inside and out

i blend my memories now – toothbrush and horse hair, i swirl them around like a seive
i mirror my memories now – tunnel visioned and circumscribed (i, the scribe, you, the scrivener)
i hunt my memories now – filo-pastry-doughed and fleshswollen – bits of something real comes seeping over the edges of the pot (i always let it boil over, i always let the yeast rise higher)
i bake myself (my self turns brown at the edges if you watch it carefully/burns black if you forget to keep an eye on it/singes white if you remember everything at once)

revel, revel; revere this day

tuck me inside your pocket, i am a breath of earth. soil-curled and wild-flowered, i am a warrior – a sun-shadow stealing through the season. this is the season, this is the one. this is the air i come home to. this is the meaning i come running for. i come running for this season – i come running for the spring. i come barreling out of my body – winter-shed and snow-shaving, i pearl my body towards the newness. i wrap myself around the roots and i hold on for dear life. saying burst, burst. let’s go. let’s burst again.

ecstasy, the rapture. we have all forgotten this. the fragrant power that squirrels in our stomachs. we can weep for the sight of the sun, we can weep for the dew on the grass. we forget, we forget – the majesty deserves your worship. the earth deserves to be kneeled upon, to be kissed, to be honored, to be reveled in. we can worship this season, and we can fall into ecstatic sight. the glow of the light through the fresh lime-green leafbabies/the scent of the blossoms on the tepid wind/the rush of chlorophyll back to the grass graceland/we can fall, we can fall; we can fall to our knees and praise. we forget, we forget, how much it gives back. how much we receive when we give thanks. we forget how much we get back when we honor. when we revel, we revolve, we evolve, we remember. reverence is a certain power. let yourself reap the benefits of gratitude. let yourself revel in the awe, revere the rapture, experience the ecstasy – just a moment, if you like. burst again, burst again. we forget what value worship gives us. because we have contorted, we have connoted, we have conflated, we have elevated ourselves beyond the power of praise. reclaim your ancient rite – for yourself, for your own meaning system, for your own values, for your own sense of what is powerful and true and vibrant and enlivening. make yourself come alive. by surrendering to the great power we find in gratitude. in bending your head to the bosom of the spring field, and saying thank you. in falling in love with the small bud bursting forth next to your eyelash. in falling in ecstasy in the morning – at the sight of the dew on your pupils. fall in ecstasy. fall in rapture. revel, revel, revere this day. revel, revel, the spring has come to stay. praise, praise, the world gives you a say.

Wedding, 4/8/17

I don’t have any shame
about sitting alone at a wedding
tucked into a windowsill, tapping into the bloody bones of a small phone (smart/ brilliant perhaps, but a leash)

The people
wild, hungry,  consuming,  devouring,  restless in the outreach towards the sociability of normalcies and ritual of construct

I have no issue
sitting in a windowsill watching the sun douse the Delaware river in golden flecks of love remembered (a Saturday in April more precious than the reflection of yachts on the harbor)

I recognize the moment
I greet it / I fumble towards it with my palms like fans / I sit in the windowsill / I watch Philadelphia turn crimson. We sing the songs of ritual. We do not call them initiation, we call them wedding words and traditionvows.
I sit in the windowsill.
We do not call it initiation, we do not call it a spell. We have lost our appetite for these words. Now we devour Hibachi-buffet-tempura by the handful and call it a night.
I sit in the windowsill,
I recognize the moment
I greet it

life is a curtainrod

i feel the weight of my own hunger for meaning practice through me like a prayer. i feel, i feel, i promise myself i’ll keep feeling. i’ll keep trying to feel.

i’d like a few more years to be alive, on this earth, please. i’d like a few more springs – i think i’ve got magic to witness, air to breathe, zucchinis to grow. please let me wander a bit further.

i am always a prayer i am always a prayer. you are always a hunger.

here i am bright day, wide sigh, angled curvature of love. here i am wishworld. here i am, bundlebones. life is bold reckoning towards the sky. life is a curtain rod – stable; pulling; hanging; always meaning something.

John Mayer – Madison Square Garden – April 5, 2017

glowing purple-indigo I thought for sure I’d remember everything. how it felt to be part of a collective, singing. how it felt to grow up with a piece of art wrapping around you – captive, surly, pillowing. what a magnificent world we live in that words can mean this much, that song and melody and creation can carry this many people towards the swell of the earth. that poetry can mean this much to people – the poetry of lyric, of song, of memory. and John Mayer said thank you to all those people who have told him his music has been the soundtrack of their life. and that miraculous thing – that creation – to give that to so many people, to have carried people up on the buoy of your words, of your songs. what a beautiful world, that we can create such understanding between ourselves. that we are a collective singing back the words that carry us up. that we glow in the satin-blue light. that madison square garden swells with the collective. with the worship of creation. with the post-post-modern gods and goddesses of creation that we lift up. that lift us up on the buoys of their creations. that creation pushes through them like a wave, and we sing it back. and the words curl around our spines like braces, form us like jagged corsets, teach us like sallow birds. that we all sing together, sway together, swell together. forget the reasoning, remember the radioactive radio-waves that cast personhood up on a wave of their own narrative. that we see each other in each other’s stories. in each other’s words. in each other’s songs. and that we sing back.

in celebration. in ecstasy. in gratitude. in creation.

in worship. of the many-fingered hands of creation, and the way they play.