Earth’s Obituary

See me, I’m a rock on the edge of the Earth

Take me away to the day of my birth

Only I am so little to the rest of the void

Poor me with my toxins I am being destroyed

Though my head is dizzy I have been spinning around

Only it is you who can feel when I rumble with sound

Remembering the beautiful skies I once tasted

Then you came around and the flavor is wasted

Under my skin you bury the carcass of your slaughtering

Rotting forever is there nothing more bothering

I alone see my changing face losing my hair not so easy to replace

No never you mind I just chalk it to life, ever giving everything I have ever

Gracious planet wife,

Earth

Earth’s Obituary

See me, I’m a rock on the edge of the Earth

Take me away to the day of my birth

Only I am so little to the rest of the void

Poor me with my toxins I am being destroyed

Though my head is dizzy I have been spinning around

Only it is you who can feel when I rumble with sound

Remembering the beautiful skies I once tasted

Then you came around and the flavor is wasted

Under my skin you bury the carcass of your slaughtering

Rotting forever is there nothing more bothering

I alone see my changing face losing my hair not so easy to replace

No never you mind I just chalk it to life, ever giving everything I have ever

Gracious planet wife,

Earth

Earth’s Obituary

See me, I’m a rock on the edge of the Earth

Take me away to the day of my birth

only I am so little to the rest of the void

poor me with my toxins I am being destroyed

though my head is dizzy I have been spinning around

only it is you who can feel when I rumble with sound

remembering the beautiful skies I once tasted

then you came around and the flavor is wasted

under my skin you bury the carcass of your slaughtering

rotting forever is there nothing more bothering

I alone see my changing face losing my hair not so easy to replace

no never you mind I just chalk it to life

ever giving everything I have ever gracious planet wife,

Earth

Who Have I Been?

I need a fix cause I’m going down. The first lyrics of the Beatles Anthology Album. Things don’t happen on accident. There is a network if unseen synapses that bind the universe into one massive web. What touches the north will vibrate the south. The still moments that the spider waits for movement are the moments reserved for strategies. A time to collect the energy necessary for an effective response regardless where on the web the prey lies.

I too have been building a web but if you were to look at it through the light of the morning sun you would find that the pattern is off. Although there would be connections and perhaps every so often symmetry this would not be the web photographers would love to capture after a light drizzle.

Give the spider a drop of lysergic acid D and the web would appear delusional. That is me.

Who have I been.

I have no one to hold me accountable for the structure of my web. So long as the spider capture the fly and wraps it than the web is effective.

My web has been effective. Effective just enough not to starve. It is because I rise in the morning before dawn and go through the motions of connecting the lines and appear to be busy. So long as I produce the strands of adhesive shit across the tree line there will be fortunate events that occur.

I have been, for too long allowing my work to be just that. Dull and dumb, faded and forgettable.

Who was I and who did I become?

I keep log of the seasons of my life that can be analyzed and restated to reveal one truth. It was in the times of cleanliness that my web was most beautiful. It was a time in which I had faith in the potential of what my efforts could be.

I would think and believe in dreams that only a mad man or obsessed genius could fathom. Yet, here I sit a sad and broken Humpty Dumpty alone in the silence of the struggle that can only be mine. To declare my weakness would be a decree of failure and not one of a lesson for success. The story cannot be told in the present. It can only be well documented. And so therein lies my epiphanies.

I will make an attempt. On this very day I will attempt to discover who I have been. Masked and concealed behind the vail of a shadow so powerful and secret that only the angels and demons can converse over their true impact on my potential.

I can no longer deny that my pursuit of a more permanent flow state has been watered down and medicated to the point of obfuscation. Blind to that which has been right under my nose only to pass through my lips in an attempt to hide the truth.

The truth that I am powerless against the force that draws me towards great things. No matter how hard I try to negotiate with the gods of reason there is no more room for compromise. I cannot give into my demise so willingly and so indefinitely inevitable.

When the spider agrees to the dose he cannot predict in the moment how long it will last and if he will meet hit angels or confront his demons. He must sit patiently and wait for them to appear in the forms that only the gods can reveal. the gods and time.

Give it time.

Just this one day.

Allow the seconds to pass and merge into minutes. Allow the minutes to melt into hours and then the sun will set and you will know what you are. The moment of defeat or victory over the unseen forces that tear at you perhaps only pull on the delicate strands in the morning.

Just wait.

Allow the universe to reveal the natural beauty of the sunlight that you have been avoiding for nearly 20 years. Covered in sheets and shelters so that the truth cannot be seen. Afraid of what might be if I actually faced myself in the mirror. Naked and alone.

Just be.

Crouch in the center of the web. Allow the warmth of the star to cover you soft brown hair. Feel the breeze pass through the opalescent creations. The heart of the sun and the heart of the spider beat in a rhythm. The universe will help you find your weakness and allow you to build on your strengths. If by faith alone.

Be patient and be silent.

I am not who I was. I am not who I will be.

I am.

Is the World Too Big or Am I Too Small?

I have hit backspace on this writing 3 times because it is hard to describe what I am trying to describe.

Sometimes when I am traveling and I see a shopping center from a slightly elevated perspective I have a rush of emotions that tap into each one of the business in the complex. This feeling goes something like this.

Wow look at all of these individual efforts to stake their claim in the free world. There is an owner behind that billboard. A man or a woman who wakes up early and worries about how they will get customers into their hole in the wall restaurant. There is a vacuum repair shop who comes in on their terms and perhaps does not need the income this store produces. How could they. They are never open. There is a woman trying to “Crush it” in the woman’s business world as a clothing reseller but displaying a few select blouses in the window. Yet right next to her window is the water store with a faded poster in the window for a Chinese dance company tour that has come and gone over a year ago.

I become melancholy over the realization that this world is crowded with so many people trying to make it in their own way. Some have big goals and some have no goals at all other than to keep their small local business open long enough to enjoy their weekends for the rest of their lives. Not that they are hoping to pass along an empire built on cigarettes and hookah pipes adorned with Bob Marley t-shirts on a half empty rack accented by a worn out cardboard sign with the words sale hand written and taped to the end post. As if somehow this will be the thing that will finally get rid of this shit.

Am I insane to be tortured by the sense that I am so small in this world and that because of my size I should be intimidated by its size and therefore rendering my potential to a fate of mediocrity regardless of how hard I try.

I mean. Look at me. I am an almost 45 year old man with the mind that can only be compared to an octopus on LSD. I got hands and arms flying in multiple directions trying to grasp that which cannot be categorized in an effort to find my storefront of life. Tha at some point I will come the that “aha” mount that will be the result of my speaking out and someone listening. Then paying for me to say some more. Or that I would create something with my hands and that some one would ask if I have more. I suppose Theron lies my fear. That when someone enters the store of my creations that one would look at the random items along a series of shelves and they would ask if I have something else and not more of the same.

This would mean that the goods that I felt were worthy of putting on display were actually of no worth to anyone but myself. That Some how I was not tending to a store but that I was a docent at a Meuse university of random acts and creations of a renaissance man with now clear direction. That I was holding open a gallery for people to come in, look , be stricken with awe or perhaps mild curiosity and then leave.

Yeah, this worries me greatly. I spend a tremendous amount of time learning and hone in my ability to understand social media, sales, networking and content creation yet I have nothing to show for it.

A bank account that with one adversity or tragedy would have me on the side of the freeway twirling a sign for that very same store owner selling hookah pipes and cigarettes.

I push forward with such tenacity and force that if only someone in the corporate world would look at this in awe and find a place for me to clock in and clock out in a trade for the security free of worry and toil. The variety of my routine would in many ways defy the groundhog day theory and yet looks very similar to the yesterday.

I wake, I meditate from the porcelain throne for a few minutes as I stumble through a few social media channels then make my way to a couch with a cup of coffee and a laptop. The the direction of the day is building upon the next couple of moves I make. Do I end up falling back asleep? Do I dump my thoughts into text awaiting a glimpse into flow? Or do I allow YouTube to carry me away into an abyss of videos on motivation that by their next suggested video will land me up on Dr. Pimple Poppers Greatest pops of 2014? Next thing I know 2 hours have passed and I still don’t have shit to show for my early morning purpose.

I believe I get this way because I have, since a very young age, always felt as if I am going to do great things and will one day be rich and famous. This feeling carried on from childhood until about my mid thirties. The theme shifted to, being “Under the radar.” That for some reason I am worthy of fame and fortune but only when my time is right. That the universe is holding back from giving me access to abundance because I am not mature or responsible enough to no blow it all on hookers and blow and end up dead on a Las Vegas hotel room floor.

The Father at the Fairgounds

A delicate balance between eating like shit, spending way too much money knowing that this is a staple of raising kids and being a family. Gathering the memories to rotate across an LCD a few years from now courtesy of Facebook and the “x years ago” memory feature. Footsie wootsie, time share vendors and carnies alike audibly reaching across the noise to sell you on the next adventure. People watching til sunset, then the drunks come out clearly dehydrated and sun whipped from trying to perform more exercise than they have done in a very, very, long time. Everyone is either looking for someone or deciding between touching exhausted farm animals or going on the ride. The children’s eyes bulge from the chaos of an abundance of sugar and a stimulation of way too many lights above stuffed animals that will clearly cost too much to win and will take up way too much room in the car. The parents struggle to negotiate for the more practical prize but the little one insists on the massive poop emoji. Dad wins and mom rolls her eyes knowing that this behemoth of uselessness will likely make it’s way from the bedroom to the garage to the trash or a garage sale. Yeah, this is the life. The Orange County Fair.

The Vacation of The Mind

Sitting here at six thirty a.m., long before anyone in the vacation rental rises, I gaze across the recently saturated landscape of golf course grass. The sun lifts in haste and evaporates the dew from each blade of grass and the day begins. Tiny gnats and large flies dance and dart across my peripheral vision but dare not touch me. Not today. I came prepared. I brought bug spray and covered myself and probably got some in my coffee. My lips tingle with the disgusting flavor of the chemicals. I sip from my cup. This stuff should come with an ointment you rub under your nose to neutralize the stench. Nonetheless, I am on vacation.

There is something about the foreign sky and the clearly different construction of the local buildings that make me become aware of my attempt to remain in the moment. The unfamiliar would become commonplace within 6 months if I was to live here. People would come from all over the world to enjoy what I take for granted. Even those who live in paradise lose the nostalgia for their home. I know this because I recently experienced this.

I was living in Riverside county for so long that each time I would visit Orange County it was a place that held promise and wealth. Somehow cars were cleaner and the streets were lined with potential. After 13 years of living in a more rural environment, I became enamoured with the thoughts and dreams of one day moving back. Yes, back to Orange County California. The place that I would consider to be the real California. Just outside of Los Angeles and thirty minutes from Hollywood is the home of Disneyland and the Lad of Gracious Living. Yorba Linda, California.

I knew five years ago that I was in desperate need of change. I once tried to convince my wife to move to the center of Los Angeles to let me fulfill my dream of becoming a writer. Although, at the time, I had only written massive amounts of works that reside in a large briefcase under the stairs to this day. Yet, I could not shake the feeling that I was destined to be a created, dare I say self manufactured into a modern-day cross-breed between Charles Bukowski and Hank Moody. Minus the drunken womanizing.

I began feeling the desire to become a great writer long after I had written in journals for 25 years and hundreds if not thousands of short poetic stories. I never imagined that I would profit or even share my creations. Outside of a few small poetry readings, I just never wanted that. It was as if I was earning my rights to become a legitimate artist without the draw of the opinions of the audience or the attractions for a financial gain. I went from sharing my ideas with a pen and paper to submitting them to a still obscure platform like a blog. This blog. I refer to my lack of recognition as flying below the radar and I justify my lack of success to the gods of fate and chance. I convince my self that if I was to be noticed and rewarded for my unique creative talents and it led to fans money and fame that I would have ended up dying of an overdose of some sort like a Jim Morrison or maybe more a Jim Belushi. So it is as if I am giving myself an excuse not to share or promote this brand of me so as to not fail.

I will never forget the moment that my dreams of becoming the greatest creative mind of written thought and prose was diffused like a bomb in a Michael Bay flick. My wife was the slick know it all who was single-handedly responsible for clipping the green wire just in the nick of time. It was on the 10 freeway as we were returning from viewing a small, and I mean small, old, and I do mean old, apartment behind the La County Museum of Art. This place was about three thousand dollars a month for two bedrooms built in 1930 with a kitchen smaller that the master closet we had. It was on the corner and there was a small basketball hoop in the back of the building in an alley that the kids immediately began to make friends. I felt it though. The energy and the vibe. Naive and ambitious and ready to take Hollywood by storm. Then came the 10 freeway. I was online scouring the web looking for anything that was within earshot of Beverly Hills and Studio City. Then she uttered the four words that would revoke my hall pass to the future I was to manifest.

“What about Mission Viejo?”

“Orange County? What the fuck? Did this sound me trying to get out of Lake Elsinore or was it me trying to get into L.A.?”

I closed the lid to the laptop and stared at the passing freeway off ramps that one by one was ticking farther and father from the fantasy and into reality. This was the end of the longest orgasm of flow state that I had yet to experience.

It took a few more years for this to morph into a settlement of North Orange County. Because the beauty of the town we were in had gone from a 4 beer goggle, one night stand, to a case of beer just to allow a hand job from that ghetto whore of a town.

I still have a love hate relationship with the town that is mentioned in the opening paragraphs of my first publication. The town that adorns the lake and the mountains that roll into the Pacific.

To be in a home or to call any place home for 13 years is like marrying a high school sweetheart just because she was there, falling in love by proximity and then end up with a family before you got your first grey hair. Only to realize that the one was built on convenience and not passion. This in turn leads to a desire to run far away in a sort of midlife crisis in an effort to reclaim a false dream that even in the motion pictures never ends well. The moving always ends with the quarterback gone big coming back to the hometown only to reunite with the high school sweetheart that almost got away.

Now it makes sense. The beginning and the end remain part of the same. Like a ring of unavoidable tragedy and highly sought after ecstasy we will continue to elevate the cycle to higher plane of better times. Indeed these are the best of times and the worst of times. Yet I am in control of the perception of time. the great equalizer. Time. the one thing that makes me better than Steve Jobs and inferior to Elon Musk. One being dead and one alive and both leaving a legacy that which I too am working on.

Legacy.

The tin man found what he thought he lacked. The lion and the scarecrow too. I am also walking down the yellow brick road looking for what I want. What is that? If I could have one wish what would that be? It would be to capture that bliss that led me a blind faith and ambition so strong that I was willing to pack my family into a sardine can in the ghetto of the city of angels at the cost of three thousand dollars a month. I would be the ability to bottle the essence of that feeling which can only be described a a distinct and intuitive perception that this is the best possible wold and that this moment was the only one I have. The ability to live and exist in the now without any fee are fo pain or suffering. A sensation that selfishly has me staring at my children in awe of their potential and yet frantically creating content that will also fulfill my potential too.

The ability to become aware of that which is only reserved for high functions autistics and a few entrepreneurs and artists micro-dosing the interact with the responsibilities of the “real world” and yet coherent that the reality is a matrix. That the sense of timelessness that happens only after we die I can sense here.

This is why I vacation. I go to new locations and I get up early in the morning to write frantically and meditate on the potential of tomorrow and reflect on the successes of yesterday. In an attempt to engage in a flow state that will not only allow me to release the volcanic pressure to give more that I took and leave this place with a smirk on my face.

I met a man the other day who called me out on this intention. He led me to believe in my voice more than anyone has in a long time.

I sit here on the edge of a golf course gazing now across the awakening of the dawn in Indio. The flies are gone and the grass is no longer glistening. Just as I begin to hear the sounds of the family moving about in behind the sliding glass door that I deliberately opened and closed along with the night shades so as to avoid being jolted from this moment of authentic creative writing. The smell shifted from a misty waft of fresh-cut wet grass to a light breeze of dust and dirt not seen by the naked eye but distinct to the senses.

It is this sort of awareness that bring me to the intention of this writing. That I would be so captivated b the nothingness of a location that to some is a getaway and to others nothing more that just another Sunday morning. It is perception. It is an awareness of the moment and a never-ending vigilance to fend off the questions of the future that do not even exist and the answers that the past hold but are not necessarily capable of repeating itself.

Achieving the awareness of the beauty that is the present lies not in a question or an answer but in a statement that is by definition, undefinable. It is the ability to lift your eyes to look across the grassy knoll and not wonder about the days agenda but only the moments expectation. The ability to know that this is exactly what you want to be doing and that this location is the place to be. Like a child we must look to our immediate surroundings like a fun zone. You can take a child in the poorest of environments with nothing more that a full belly and plenty of rest and they will find entertainment and fulfillment in the way the dirty puddle of water splashes as they stomp. Yet, here we are, as adults grimacing at the LCD when we disagree with the mother letting the child play in the dirty water wondering why she is not providing. Meanwhile, her child sits ten feet away looping videos on YouTube of families having fun making videos and sharing it on the internet.

Perspective. For one it is never enough and for another there is not enough to give and for another it is plenty and for some they give it all away. The difference is in expectations and in perceptions.

Soon the wife will come out and tell me to hurry up and do my yoga so we can get to brunch. I will be woken from a slumber of complacency to join them inside as we woefully pack our belongings most needed into luggage and drag them to the car. I will begin to come out of my fantasy land slightly buzzed from what happened this morning and by tomorrow I will either forget that I can still be on vacation in may own home or I will just turn on the business phone and prod cattle through the field in an effort to build a nest egg meant to finance my future and a few vacations.

Perhaps this is why I am obsessed with endurance sports. The ability to sit on a bike for hours at a time or run for long distances is my way of forcing the mundane and commonplace of my abode to be throttled into a place where only the moment of stress can feed my desire to shut down and turn on that which escapes me behind the veil of the familiar.

Maybe I just don’t want to believe that a permanent high is possible. I wonder about those who have a belief in a god that has their back. I wonder if I too should attend a church so that I will chase this imaginary motivation coach that lives inside of me and guarantees me with promises of a heaven and that it will be hard but worth it. A god that will assure me that nothing I do can fail because with god all things are possible. But I cannot. Not just yet. Although I would think it keen to have a supreme being giving me permission to be myself, I would not be capable of being myself if I was not unable to confront the motivation behind my power. I am other to smart too believe or too stupid to understand faith. I suppose this would be the curse and the cure to my desire to become the best version of me that I can be.

Perhaps if I could imagine that I am on vacation from the afterlife then this world would actually be a far more interesting place to visit.