Chopin & Vaporized Wine

At night, alive in the room, there’s a dark blue feeling coming over me – it is here I make myself overwhelmed. Oh, my. You still haven’t shared any of your photos of Friday Harbor with the Others. You’ve yet to share enough of yourself. You still haven’t opened. Listen to Chopin and cry your lower back out of alignment. Continue reading


making arrangements

When I materialized back into my body, I realized the coma had broken. There he was, the body I thought I had, but aged slightly, a year, or more, maybe 5 years there resting under the eyes, wrinkles from frowning covered by ¬†beard, it is a seasonal, he told himself, this only happens during the fall transitions, he thought. I am not going insane I am just losing my chlorophyll, bleeding green as it were, and heading into hibernation after hibernating all summer and barely eating enough roots to keep the cave warm. Strangely, and with great hope, I feel I am in the process of resurfacing. Making plans, looking forward to things, all some weeks after becoming shockingly 25 years old and feeling the same sense of estrangement as the 16 year old cigar smoker buried somewhere in the lungs 9 years aged, the wooden heart metaphor, yeah, sure. Nesting dolls. Fabric covering the body no longer fit in. Larger sizes. Mental pingpong. Gasping for air, breathing for the first time in months air unfiltered through a straw or a pond reed or here it is the moment of transition, again, and again, the bursting forward. Is it ever going to stop? Will I ever want it to? This hope for the future always happens in the resolute fall. The endless winter looming. Matt says, “Fall’s always been our season. There’s something in the transitions.” and I can’t argue. I’m no summer lizard (at least whoever I was summer ’16 was not a lizard, more a different species of something hibernating… the unseasonal human boy until fall when everything becomes practical and shares mortality and breathes with cold truths and shoves trees through houses and powerlines and all that.)

I am awake and alive and feel okay.

Say often.

I am alive and okay. Awake.


I am alive to my feelings. Something internal gave the okay to wake up.

Okay, now. Wake up.

Here I am. What good will come of this day now I committed to it.

may 18th

Morning Free-Write (meditation in the form of words. an untangling.) 

Of all the things to dream about. Cheering of a crowd to the lashing of a friend when accidentally thrown under the bus. I need to let the wall fall down and the pure bleed of thoughts spritz out of me. There are barricades to this form of subconscious. First wall is the skull. The second wall is exterior distraction. The third wall is my own self-consciousness when I think of audience or burning coffee or the curvature of my spine and straighten up abruptly, too abrupt, I’ll feel that later. Continue reading

morning meditations

I’ve had difficulty waking up at the allotted time. The time set into watches, carved into sacred stones. this morning I hear machinery. I had the foresight upon first waking to pee and make a pot of coffee and then set an alarm for a half hour later. Still, the hot cup, the bubbly black liquid, the Amsterdam mug, the garbage truck. Not quite working. I will try a different tactic. One thing would be to meditate and to focus the meditations on an intrinsic fight or flight response. Here we go magic. (imagination begins). So here I am walking up a trail in the cascades. There is a meadow on my right and a heavily wooded hill on my left. Scent of flowers coming from the meadow, scent of pine from the woods. Thin clouds veil the sunlight slightly. Perfect temperature. I could just stand here forever. (lay here forever). A rustling in front. I stop. A young bear cub comes clumsily out of the woods and stops on the path to look at me. I freeze, amazed. This little furry creature, snout and claws and puffy ears. Transfixed, I barely noticed the much larger rustling behind me where a soon-to-be defensive mother bear is about to discover me as a threat.

Obviously run into the meadow, for dear life. This moment of decision. (reality again) if I could somehow mentally make myself feel as if I’m going to be literally mauled by a bear if I do not get out of bed might be a good tactic. How different could it be than to imagine yourself floating down a river in order to fall asleep? We use peaceful meditations to get into that sleepy consciousness, so we must use frightening thoughts to wake us up adequately. Bear attacks. Sinking ships. House on fire. What have you. An earthquake. An avalanche. Come on, be creative. And make me believe it. I want to wake up every morning like the only other option is death of everyone I’ve ever loved. Some fire lit under me. Something to propel me into the day like a rocket and not what I now feel like… still floating down a gentle river. Fearing nothing. Hearing not the splash of a waterfall down river. Not feeling the current pick up speed.