I Am- Alive, Free, Responsible and Thankful.

I made a decision to be free. To live, according to me.

Dismantling the concept of career and destiny from my day to day, I began my efforts to experience moments genuinely.
Fuck success. I crave to perceive and to feel.

In so doing, I unexpectedly found myself embarking on a path of self-healing. Consulting nature, science, psychology, and art…apathy, empathy, love, and anger…calories, diets, meditation, and exercise…sex, abstinence, and, all kinds of chemistry….
Ha! The wonder! The ecstatic catharsis of being— of being well!
How’s that for success?!

No stranger to pain and illness, this path has set me free beyond measure. I’ve found that there is no need to measure, but rather, a demand to embrace and appreciate—to live consciously. To be consciously aware of the moment that is happening now.

Yesterday is gone and tomorrow is a potential line drawn to and from infinity.
So, I witness; I participate—today.
…Because today is the here. Today is where I am. Today is my now, and I am enjoying it!

Still, in embracing, appreciating, and consciously perceiving,
I am finding that freedom requires responsibility.
Responsibility and commitment to the very vessels that facilitate my personal freedom and resulting enjoyment;
Responsibility and commitment to the vessels that are my spirit, mind, and body.

My freedom lies in how I see what I see, but so too does the cycle of entrapment.
It is a vicious cycle of the dualistic modalities I have come to accept as a member of the conditioned acculturation of the wanting and needing paradigm, of the fearing and loving spectrum.

I am human.
I am no saint, no sinner, nor confined to ethos of a belief structure.
I am.

Still, responsibility and commitment are key to ensuring the doors of freedom are never locked. It is responsibility and commitment that brings about palpable healing, authentic freedom, freedom in being fully present, freedom in the NOT running away.
…Because, you can’t be Albert Hoffman if you don’t know how to ride a bike.

I seek and see. I dually engage.
I aim and am actively achieving synthesis between fight and flight.

I am responsible and accountable for my spirit, mind and body and how they are reflected onto others.
I am committed to remain aware and thankful.

INSPIRED BY : Recent decisions in my personal life and Cellular Enlightenment 

Advertisements

Shared Nature.

I do _____ , and get my heart going to remember how it beats.
Nervousness connects us to our humanity; to the ability to apply psyche to fight or flight. Our new nature.

Consciousness is our engine.
Just as the breath in our lungs was cultivated by the elements and the botanical alchemy of atmospheric transformation.
Just as the love story that evolved into mythology and mysticism.
We are beyond eukaryote. We are beyond mutating DNA.
We are aware.

Consciousness bred communication, communication is parent to understanding and the modifications that have become the structures and patterns the can be described as culture, or, our new nature, our Shared Nature.

In propagating and amplifying our civilization, we have enhanced the scope and abilities of our perception—Consciousness has and is continually extending from and into our milieu. Our milieu is continually extending from and onto other milieus. In so doing, we are accessing other minds. Call it empathy, call it telepathy, call it mirror neurons, call it society.

We are as much ourselves as we are the world we live in.
We are our experience. We are self. We are other. We are our culture.
We are Nature—in movement.

We are evolving from biology into something, else— just as we evolved from stardust into complex biological systems.
We are utilizing our own engineering of society to re-create ourselves and have thusly sparked a Shared Nature.
In so doing, nature has connected us and we have connected nature.

Reciprocal, symbiotic, inevitable development.

A meta-cognitive, semiotic dimensionality!
A vibrationally enticing cymatic like manifestation!
A creation of a new reality!

In sum, forks in the road should not be separation, but rather, a meeting point. Consciousness has brought us to the intersection of spirituality, art and science. Mind, soul, and body. Father, son and holy spirit. Each were meant to course through particular paths to understand their own very nature. Separating to unite again.

We wish to know. We will to tell. We find we know that we know and thus we establish. We classify. We theorize, we test, we believe. We societize.

Sacred love.
Sacred art.
Sacred science.

Redundant through humanity. Redundancy, yielding infinity.
We find nothing else and thus find ourselves in everything else.

So, be natural- SHARE.

Unsensed Nociception

Love only happens at arms length when paper meets pen.
I am numbness on the verge of feeling pain,
But too callous to be aware of afference.

Clear skies only happen through my window,
Step outside, into grey clouds that ease from sun,
But I corrode amid this humidity.

I describe a day a kin to me like a brother,
I describe a day that is like any other.
A day when you shine bright and I opaque your light,
A day when you stand ground and I take flight.

I am frozen by your flame,
I am frozen by your flame,
I am frozen by your flame…

Loved, in vain.

Remembering through Mandala, Loving in Merkaba

  March 5th, 2012

We used to find, not just remember.

We were once curious about uncertainty…
Now we are just afraid.

Did we find comfort?
Is that what we sought?

NO!

We wanted adventure, mystery, euphoria.
Instead we found chaos, pain,
Utter pandemonium!

And so—
            We Loved. We Learned.
And Now,
            We remember to know,
            Because we know to remember.

Still, we Love.
And continue because we know the pattern.

The pattern. The flow. The cycle. The way.

            Remembering is our Mandala
            Remembering,
            Remembering,
            Remembering,
Counting—one, two, three, four,
            Remembering,
            Remembering,
            Remembering,
And finding once more:

Remembering is our Mandala.
            Love, our Merkaba.

We repeat patterns because there WILL BE a different result,
Through perceptions evolved.  

Germ to Seed

            Seed to Flower

                        Flower to Fruit

Fruit to Flower

            Flower to Seed

                        Seed to Germ

Remembering is our Mandala.
Love, our Merkaba.

Germ to Seed

            Seed to Flower

                        Flower to Fruit

Germ to Seed

            Seed to Flower

                        Flower to Fruit

Remembering through Mandala,
Loving in Merkaba.

Our pattern, our flow, our cycle, our way.

 

Standing With Caffeine In My Eco-friendly Cup… And Love— (Blank Sheet. Light On.)

 Feb 28th, 2013

Love is the wave we flow,
Love is the way we know.

Blank sheet.
Light on.
I cannot call myself a writer if I am not writing.
I cannot call myself a dreamer if I am not dreaming.

There are no words to this song,
Questioning hope for days to dawn.

Blank sheet.
Light on.
I cannot call myself a writer if I am not writing.
I cannot call myself a dreamer if I am not dreaming.

Betray my pen,
Stray my view.
Smoke my pipe,
And let the herb construe.

Brings the castle down from the sky.
I may not be tall, but sure as hell am high.

Blank sheet.
Light on.
I cannot call myself a writer if I am not writing.
I cannot call myself a dreamer if I am not dreaming.

Somewhere along the way the ink bleeds through and the words fall askew.

Is it my eyes that cannot recognize my reflection?
Or is it my reflection that cannot recognize my view?

Not I,
Not I,
Not the “me”,  I thought I knew.
Not I,
Not I,
Not tea,
Still, the thoughts steep.

Deep, deep, deep into the abyss…
I will not,
I cannot fall victim to this!
Deep, deep, deep-
I cannot,
I will not settle for anything but bliss…

Blank sheet.
Light on.
I cannot call myself a writer if I am not writing.
I cannot call myself a dreamer if I am not dreaming.

Look away, turn away—
Fall astray.
Look around, turn around,
Find the miles,
The distance that makes you stay.

Blank sheet.
Light on.
I cannot call myself a writer if I am not writing.
I cannot call myself a dreamer if I am not dreaming.

The thing is, I am not sleeping.
In fact, I am wide fucking awake.

Eyes open,
Past closed.
Uncovered from bed sheets,
Bathed in motivation,
Dressed with intention!

Standing with caffeine in my eco-friendly cup…
And love—

Love is the wave we flow,
Love is the way we know.

Blank sheet.
Light on.
I cannot call myself a writer if I am not writing.
I cannot call myself a dreamer if I am not dreaming.

Blank sheet.
Light on.
I cannot pretend I am something I can no longer be.
I cannot call myself a writer because I am here to speak.

The thread of an instant that weaves the fabric of eternity

She stands there, plastered before my eyes as I lift one hand to touch her skin lightly.
Looking, needing, silently.

Hair soaked, head heavy.
Moist discomfort, familiarizing—steady.

Tear ducting clouds, uncandid trembling of the now.
Sky shedding rivers, whys, wondering—how?

Splattering and lathering- translucent stain.
It’s obvious. It’s wet. It’s rain.

A gentle caress?
No, no… No—she remains motionless.

It’s cold. It’s cold.
God it’s cold.

Locking herself behind the open door,
She directs her attention to the mud-forming floor.

Optimistically and subtly seeking grace,
I lift the blindfolding strands of her hair away from her face.

Entreating an ample weighing gaze,
Discountingly, her glance shoves into drifted daze.

Why? Why?
Why doesn’t she say anything?
A mere indication, a look, a sign of noticing?

Why? Why?
Why does she keep me waiting here?
This far is furthering— by the very proximity of near.

Why? Why?
Why can’t she at least make a hurtful sarcastic remark as she has so many times before?
How can I swim in the sea, when rejected by its shore?

Weather bending knee,
She does not see me.

But it is I, I who came!
Thus she, she is NOT to blame…

And so, I wait.
I wait for a word, a smile, some form of warmth to ease this chill.
I wait for anything to nurture the fading verve of my will.

Longing for, venerating her touch,
Needs are little, but still too much.

And it’s cold. It’s cold.
God its cold.

Finding faith before it comes undone,
I surrender and look towards the sun.

All of a sudden, a glimmer of light makes way in the sky!
She turns up, commencing a half smile and I begin to cry.

“You’re alive,” she says to me.
“I am now,” I reply.

Her eyes spread into perfectly round sapphire spheres.
I grabbed her hand, the warmth to dissolve my fears.

A tinkle of laughter unfolds from her crescent mouth—she is happy.
Liberated, potentiated, as though moon free from gravity.

Inhaling her scent I whisper,
“Your beauty makes me weak.”

Kissing my lips and wrapping herself in my arms, she says,
“Your love makes me free.”

Muse of Memory, Song of Now

May 19th, 2013

Skin and bones,
Pitch and tones.

Hands and feet,
Heart to beat.

Where am I?
Where am I?

Am- I?

Pulse derranged,
Heart astranged.

Where am I?
Where is the “I” self defines?

Near and far,
Far is here…

Hindsight, retrospect;
Self-alleged, self-respect.

Crown on thorns,
Love deemed torn.

Time eschewed,
Life renewed;

Love- subdued.

Now is how,
Now is here.

Moment from moment to moment and on,
We flow to the tempo of our own song.

Far and near,
The things we steer.

Now in the now,
It is ever clear.