caffeine modification 11/6?/2015

discorporating to integrate

what I should and can’t now by now

standing on the street

outside looking in and I

genuinely forget how old I am. (23, 24?)

Is this it? The slippage of time? How long has this been happening?

we all rely heavily on

family albums to remember what came before our

conscious forgetting

who we were and the where we came from.

Every notch in the story-stick is there for some reason.

The tree rings DO retain the lesson of each wet to dry season.

Walking usually means practicing to fly but today it was a swivel, the natural samba os snakes rhythm, belly flat on the ground, the cool pavement and collaged debris of November  damp and folding in on itself like dough on the table.

Every write with a place to know, this sense of the roots, can distill that light and vinegar in a glass jar to be dug up and read by a hungry pair of eyes not quite ready for setting. And those eyes recall this:

Milky Way kaleidoscope sky spinning out above, between, inside us (all the time) and coming up the hill in the pitch blackness of pre-dawn, sitting in the truck eating pancake breakfasts and now,

spilling through grape vine leaves, that same light, past the cream curtains and unto the wooden floor that lines the bedroom she keeps clean to evoke the inner dojo.

The stone and cement pathway between the houses, mosaic and slippery when wet, the humid density of bodies in the house eating, animals eagerly watching for scraps, the peace pipe passed between friends and wondering,

“am I doing enough?”.

Time is dripping on a binary pathway

or marching

or the days are just unfolding and the in-between is suspension

without the machinery just

tying knots with story recorded on hand-marbled paper I’m about to send in the


Morning is lively with songbirds or lazy rumpled warm sheets in bed.

I don’t forget what I’m walking on, just what I’m moving towards.



Nobody is going to take care of you but you.
This means, no one is going to worry about what you’re eating,
nobody will prepare you the healthful things you need to thrive (^ survive).

This means, you have a sense of responsibility to yourself. Brie, don’t let this slip! Listen to your body and your headspace. If you want/need something, go get it.

Nobody owes you love, admiration, acceptance, praise, and so on.
What kind of standing ovation bare you waiting for that an air of grace and gratitude couldn’t solve?

What dreams are you letting die a little everyday?
how are you going to reignite them? When are you going to reach our form the center to make moves?

What happened to the simple and important wish to be strong? Where is your resolve? Hold unto your integrity. Go on more walks if only to loosen your joins and breathe outside.

Do not lose sigh of the practical sacredness of the moon and the sun, the way these paths have shaped our days, forever.

Work hard at work but clear your head and body of it daily–what are you polishing the mirror with now?
need to create

Even the simpler altered states of consciousness (dreaming, dancing, coffee) profoundly remind that this world is a thin veil, our vision constantly clouded, waiting to be stirred by something beautiful…

Admitting there is no divine purpose to me being here, what am I creating that purpose to be? A bridge? Why do I feel I am falling short? Try to remember you are a vehicle, a vessel
the fish and the ocean
the ruby and the sunrise
the micro and the macro

More streams

Stream of consciousness stuff. I’m sober except for caffeine.

This isn’t method acting.
This isn’t method at all.
The only modeling involved takes place
in my bedroom.

The boys come over,
say they want to play dress-up.
Open up the doors and pull out
the velvet dress,
the magenta knee-length beauty,
the yellow-polka dot crop,
the sequins all sprawled across the bed.

Its meaningful because we make it so.
Its magical because the way we walk ignites.
It’s okay to stop and ask questions but not
when we’re dancing.

Observe this drunk dance as religion!
Join a troupe that shows you how.
Invent your own games before you forget
how to play.

So, you lose yourself for a bit in the grind.
it happens to all of us.
Be forgiving, most of all with yourself.

Yes, it’s stupid to stress over
serving other peoples food
(“All they talk about is how much money they make!”) but
you didn’t design this world.

Do what you can to break out of it.
there’s no guilt or shame that can’t be
cut free.
Tether yourself to no shore.
No place.
No person.
No feeling except
perpetual motion;
The wisdom you find on pre-autumn wind.

This consciousness has no goals,
Probably no meaning outside of itself.
How does that make you feel?
Alone? Foolish? Humbled?
Hows about motivated?
Might as well put out
What you can
While you can
Occupy space with
Even if it doesn’t matter anyway.
Surely, you’re sharing this space.

It’s a boarding house.
It’s a co-op house.
It’s an elongated dining table.
It’s a row of hammocks on a riverboat
and only some of the occupants are visible.

Have you ever been lying in bed and felt the pressure change?
Like someone is getting up or rustling next to you but
your eyes are open and nobody is there?

Don’t forget this. Don’t murder the child in your head.
This world is as elusive as the next.
Don’t pretend for a second you’ve got a grip.
Let it go.

Being a lover means
meeting people in certain life-seasons –
you pass time together
when the air is just

For eyes that meet in Spring,
There is the heart-quickening –
a pace
a time-signature kept by the bees
busying themselves with powedered sex.
And, the brisk walking weather that escorts budding romance to the park
to the plants
soft and calling but still,
partially hidden,
a woman’s body beneath her cotton dress.
Lovers of Spring are the anticipation,
adorers of the beginning.

Summer love lends itself to fullness
As fecundidty runs the greenness of a garden.
It is heated
by the sun
as veins rise to meet skin’s surface,
a pair of hands already waiting.
It makes use of warmth that is not always there.
Every time you open your mouth, saliva.

And that is why lovers of Autumn are so nostalgic.
So walking the full-moon line in a meadow when all that’s left is
gold grasses.
They know that being in love is bittersweet
and respectful of one’s own complexity.

Which the lovers of Winter are
( I assume) not speaking of
as they pull a wool blanket over them
and listen to the wind outside the window.
Or do they hear anything at all?
It’s hard to know;
I haven’t been one yet.

We hiked to the lake
hooked on a seamless thread of
that healed borders between the neighborhoods
the causeway
the highway
and pine meadows
that become home as soon as you spread a sheet across them.

Sometimes walking feels like spinning
in the woods when ridges
replace walls and
dirt becomes the brine your soul settles into.

Ah, the liquid glory at a sun’s grand farewell.
It must be mineral alchemy
as waves are copper plated and
comrades are building fires on the shore,
leaving clues to our wandering.
Throwback to Gatsby’s wanting.

The Mystery is the shin-deep dark water,
that grass-laden bath that is a snake’s imagination.

“Do you think you could paint this?”
Maybe in the million years it takes to speak to
the undulating crimson, navy, silver, tangerine cells of
myself swimming out before me.

We are kissing underwater.
learning how to breathe.

Curtains close and West sky takes an exit.
Here come Moon’s ascending graces, (al)luring
bats out of trees and turning
boats into playthings as she
dances with clouds, we swim
around her circumference
(Do you see how it outlines the sphere of the sky?)

I’ll tell you,
it takes a while to clean your lungs of
You’ve got to work and
sweat the sweet stuff of love out.
Kneeling to the fire and breathing life into it,
feeding small sticks,
appeasing the living,
wild things never meant to be tamed.

And the kindling,
those wise and mighty children who are the reverent sacrifice.
You owe everything to those who ask for

If I walk down the street and smirk like I’ve got a secret, it’s because I do.
A returning mischievous mug of keeps the game going- infinite play.

I want to turn to the waiter and say “fuck your job!” and “have a beautiful day!”

This is as good a place as any
for building a biography.
I can write about the woodworker,
the love it takes to get our shit together
in this existential despair.


How have we come to know fear before
What name could you give to
that does not already constrict its meaning?

It is insignificant this life
That pours into the vacuum of space
(the Mystery Darkness
before and after our
People’s History)

But still, make art-form of
Bless the lips of all
A claim to truth lives in this

(summer nights,
living folklore).

Against ripening.

Waiting around

for love to ripen, fall, and

paint the ground (June mulberries)

is just that.

Waiting around.


And I am sure we are worth

much more than

a passive allowance of



Value these days of bathwater air.

Let your feet wander to

mark your own time.


Let your veins rise up to

greet this currency of sunlight.


Remember not to hide things from yourself

lest you forget how to find them.


Unless your heart is full

or bound together by some other pair of loving hands,

you will always be bleeding into other people.

Your freshest wound will flow,

painfully, through heart fissures and

into conversations, text-wrapping in front of your eyes.

Blood will probably mix with some other stuff:

Saliva and the salt of sweat and tears.

But in the end, it’s more blood.

I strategically stuff my trauma with cottonballs, fistfuls at a time,

so I can keep it together long enough to

meet new people

with their own bleeding worries.

I’ll spend some time until something congeals.

But eventually, I’ll skip town

realizing that more people isn’t the level of gauze I need.

It’s solitude.

And all this bleeding is pretty unsanitary.

Late night thinking.

FOMO aka Fear of Missing Out is a term brought about from our culture of technologic alienation/isolation. We are wrapped in our emails, working on our tablets, and constantly engaging with the hologram of our “reality” (which might, in fact, itself be a hologram) via our smart phones. While there is great potential for connectivity and solidarity thanks to the internet, it is all too easy to become overwhelmed with the crushing weight of knowledge. Daily, we see images and read articles about environmental destruction and human oppression happening all over the globe. This sense of recognition and dread is soon followed by absolute apathy.

The information technologies do indeed inform us but they offer no real solutions. And how could we possible solve all of these problems, anyway? Where does one begin?

No doubt, everyone must find their own way to fight apathy. For me personally, I believe living in intentional communities is an incredibly powerful way of combating isolation and actively creating alternatives. American society has evolved into a myriad of cities and suburbia. Rural areas are left to fend for themselves against multi-national corporations and outsourcing of jobs. The alternatives lie in living outside of or altering current living situations.

Growing up in a suburban middle class neighborhood, many ideas that are now absurd to me are completely normalized. The notion of the (isolated) nuclear family reigned supreme. Front porches and stoops were rarely utilized as a gathering space. People put up fences for privacy and fretted over property value while spraying chemicals to “treat” their lawn. Knowing neighbors on an intimate, familial level, was something rare and special. Rarely did we make time to share and socialize outside the activities of those immediately related to us.

I think I always yearned for something a bit more and living in an intentionally with others for 5 months allowed me to restore some semblance of organic community. Not the kind that is regulated by school or the office but the kind that grows out of having common goals and investing time, love, and energy into shared resources.

When most or all of our interactions with others exist within the traditional capitalist economy, it is only normal to feel the pervasive sense of isolation and exploitation. But if we consciously choose to make alternative transactions (bartering, gifting) with those we have something in common with (or would like to learn a new skill from), the sting of the prolific economy is lessened.

People underestimate the value of doing “nothing”. When I get off from work, I need to unwind. Being there, even on a good day, is soul-crushing because I could be doing a million other things to grow and stimulate myself but…bills have to be paid.

Doing “nothing”, to me, means a number of things. It could be taking a walk purely for the joy of walking and observing the world around me. It could be getting lost in a bookstore – deliberately ignoring the time and devouring as much as I can. Tonight it was sitting on my parent’s back porch. The summer wind was blowing to the trees so they seemed to speak to me – their bodies moved in a graceful dance and the air is warm and blowing…

Sitting on the back of my parents porch doing “nothing” but thinking. I think about the importance of solitude. How I need time like this to have some conversations to myself/about myself. I sit there and ask myself the hard questions; hold up a mirror to the best and worst parts of me. I look at the leaf-shadows moving on the house and think of my shadow self. What does it consist of? Jealousy, I hear myself say. Possessiveness.

I breath and remind myself…the opposite of this is self-assuredness.