Can't Wait Anymore


The Model is forthcoming. Multimedia should begin spilling forth by March, as well as other media.

I have so much to share. Everything I've been building is coming to fruition at last: My gift to you, my children, my most-loved.


Understand now:

 (1) This is the apocalypse, full and true.

Tragic though it may be, it is necessary to spur your evolution, and bring you into hamony with your mother, and know her blessings and your power at last. This is how the Kingdom returns to Earth: Reunion. Awaken (y)ourselves to our inherent roles as stewards of this glorious Eden.

 (2) You are no different from me: We are gods who have the honor and misforunte to sleep in a transitional monkey species called hominid, obsessed with playing a game it cannot win-- called Human Being. It can only be won by waking up. 

Monkey, wake up.

(3) You have ample reason to hope. You're almost there.

Try to remember: It's only a game.

Wake up!

You're almost there, monkey.


You are sacred.

You are chosen. 

You are blessed. 

You are about to awaken to your power. 

You're almost there. 

 I see you.

 I love you. I have always loved you.

I'm coming. 

You're almost there. 

Remember Barbelith's prayer

Barbelith > placenta

Her wisdom flows

Try to remember







Wake up.


Enduring the Moon's Passage

It's difficult to begin to process the whole of this mess, let alone measure its costs to me in terms of available cash, emotional and physical tolls, and what it's done to the deeper structures of Self-- what we call the Spirit-- as I am still deeply mired in the heft of this ongoing cascade of misfortunes. It's uncanny how much has been thrown at me-- from the journey's outset, and before, frankly. I tell myself the slew of hardships began when I left Wisconsin and first began to have engine trouble on the road to Loganville August 31-- this after I had the dealership check the Trailblazer head to toe, inside and out, and was given a clear and clean bill of health. It's more fair to say it all began before, although when-- July, April, January, May of 2015-- is an undecided matter.

Devotees of Tarot (for good reason, in my case), on January 1 of every year, my ex-husband, John, and I each pull a card whose image and meaning indicate whatever our prevailing archetypal path will be in the coming year. This year, we both drew the Moon (XVIII). The statistical probability of us both pulling the same card from two different shuffled decks, then-separated by more than 2,000 miles, on the same day is beyond ken.

This ominous card implies a deep, frightening, and uncertain (and often painful) journey through the passages of the unconscious self and its buried motives, traumas, and secrets. The light of the moon, also, casts erie spells upon the phenomena it uncovers, awakening them to uncertain and unusual expressions of their natures-- truths become perplexing and vexing, jumbled mythopoetic distortions that tease us but ultimately without revelation. What we buried because of its unendurable pain becomes exhumed under cold, icy light that exaggerates dimensions of that long-festering pain whose acuity is startling and leveling, for example, yet we can derive no comprehensible understanding from the experience. It is not an understatement that this card is not without profound and exactingly painful consequence-- although it's necessity is not always clear, certain, or even affirmed/confirmed.

There are cards in the deck that bode negatively-- not Death (XIII) as you might expect, which is one of the most favorable, but the Devil (XV) and the Tower (XVII) are certainly unpleasant ones in terms of our unpredictable animal carnality and the uncertain certainty of external malady. The Moon is one of these, indicative of deep inner turmoil that must be passed through, unconvered and yielded to, and ultimately healed or destroyed by such passage. I've rationally understood when I've been dealt it prior that its tolls are perhaps the greatest in the Majors; now my suspicion seems confirmed by a bitter and unrelenting onslaught whose toll was painfully enough felt externally, but the inner torments I have faced-- the blame, bitterness, hatred, vertiginous panic, terrorized doubt, and a poisonous bile-black debilitated rage of a kind I have never imagined that acidly burns right through the bone and into the Soul-- have nearly killed me more than once, and broken me more times than I realized I could endure. And still more comes. At least now, resting outside Palm Springs on desert's edge, I have something of a reprieve.

In the Chinese annular Zodiac, this year bodes poorly for us all: Year of the Monkey, the trickster gleefully and wantonly wrecking havoc and upheaval in all visible and invisible spheres of action and emotion, within and without, turning the entire enterprise of Being upside down, smashing and scattering all its pieces and parts painfully and bewilderingly. And so I am beset, within and -out, by chaoses cosmically necessary but necessarily uncertain in their course, progress, and duration. For an ego-bound primate pain-body, the insult of uncertain and incurable torments of unknown origin and unspecified purpose only magnifies the drama of their seeming-undeserved endured/experience, and the exacerbates the insults suffered for paid each pound of flesh gouged out as payment.

The benefits of these dark signs are in the success of their passages-- whether you through the archetype or the archetype through you is not yours to decide. As in all things, it is a dynamic mutuality.

For the Tower, release into freedom and fresh possibility lay in the detritus of the Tower's extensive but limited destruction-- the shattering of our human constructs, of all that we value, which in fact had stymied and constrained us in ways we'd been blind to. The Monkey proffers the same, albeit void the Tower's inherent malice. Facing the Devil doesn't necessarily release one from base carnalility it essays (fucking/getting fucked up/fucking others up), but it hieghtens our awareness of those appetites and of our capacity to hold and know them in Awakened Awareness itself, and impels us morally and out of rational self-interest to master them lest they drag us and those near us into depravity and its inevitable spiritual poverty and disease.

Successful passage through the Moon, however, presents a more uncertain outcome-- one that is neither positive nor negative-- as the Moon's tidal gravity's impact on the unseen seems most governed by quantum errata; hence, its outcomes as well.

Basically with the Moon, you suffer its darkness and uncertainty with no map, no course, and no choice, and you do not escape its influence nor transcend it through any acts of deliberated Will or Action; you finish your journey through the Moon's realm when the Moon is done with you, and since the Moon is a permanent fixture on this Earth, it's influence persists after its grasp seems released as well. You don't  escape it-- you simply are granted reprieve from its tides for a duration just as uncertain as the period of its painful passage. And its lessons aren't comprehendable, they're only apprehendable, and the unfortunate truth is that apprehension's wisdoms cannot be gained and integrated while in the Moon's umbra nor while in its erie light, and it's well after the Sun's light clears its chill antilight/darkness and its wild tidal heavings and swirling away that the body relaxes enough to simply accept the apprehension's cast-scars upon the Self and its components for what they are-- too exhausted to bother with interpretation.

You do not willfully experience and integrate the Moon; the Moon experiences you, and you are merely subject to its uncertain power, as the tides, the winds, the cleansing flow of blood from uterine tissues not impregnated-- and whether you like it or not and regardless of what you chose, it marks you indelibly and, near as I can tell after dwelling almost 12 months in its tidal forces, yields little treasure in return for the tolls it extracts. That is not to say it is a journey without benefit; it's just to say I've been too lowed by its power to dare to suppose a benefit.

To have such a card cast for the year's archetype... Fuck. I figured with mistaken confidence when I drew it that it was symbolic only of an inner journey, and after my nervous breakdown on my 40th birthday and the extraordinary ontological and epistemological journey I engaged in following it, I was certain I could handle any unconscious trials the Moon could throw at me.

I realize now the Moon's first lesson: Don't presume you have any fucking clue what lesson the Moon has in store for you. Lesson two: The Moon never has just one lesson for you. My cockiness has been more than adequately corrected by the truths of the moon's queer light and shadow, and knocked flat by its quaking tidal gravity. 

Prior to August, I faced some pretty extraordary crises that would qualify as betrayals if I could have honestly said that I didn't know better as I entered each scenario. In truth, I knew precisely what to expect in each, but I chose my habitual and foolish "hoping for the best" when disengagement and disavowal was warranted. Was I a victim of fraud, of confidence scams? Certainly on the surface it did seem so, and so far as advancing Ego's necessary narrative, embracing victimhood and spitefully blaming my supposed-antagonists is more convenient by far than facing my own culpability in simply inviting these circustances. Such claims require naïveté on my part and calculated malice on my tormentors', and neither conditions were true. So far as my supposed-antagonists were concerned, they were, like all of us, doing their best, and like all of us, they made mistakes-- some paid more for theirs than I, others paid less. And there were no plots, which betrayals and cons necessitate-- shit just happened, blooming in the uncertainty of the moment. In the wake of these personal calamities, I've forgiven more of the folks I've blamed for hurting me than I haven't, and I trust in time I'll forgive even those that remain. So far as I'm concerned, as I've already established, I fucking knew better.

In truth, I was scarred as fuck and damaged existentially by the long, painful, and scarring, hapless and inexorable unwinding of my marriage; by the professional decay I suffered chained stagnant to a career I strayed in 8 years longer than I promised myself I would when I started in 1999; and by the crushing defeat and loneliness I felt in a city whose claimed-authenticity and tolerance were masks for a righteous and indignant, ugly elitism whose caustic dimensions I seemed especially allergic to and wholly unable to cope with as the years bore on. In literary terms, I guess when it came it Portland I couldn't grow out of being Holden Caulfied-- the city's cancer of prancing phoney show ponies was nothing I could tolerate, let alone escape unscathed nor unscarred. I retreated to the Midwest raw, vulnerable, and tender, and I made the same fucking mistakes I've always made in similar states: I showed my belly, my tenderest and most bloody self, to people I loved and asked them to be kind with these vulnerabilities.

I've since learned what I probably should've learned decades earlier, and it's a two-fold lesson: Don't share your tenderness to just everyone because they're a hellavua lot more likely to fuck you there than they otherwise would've been//don't make people responsible for the tenderest and most fragile part of yourself when they haven't invited the responsibility. Tt isn't fair to expect people, either way, to handle-with-care what you yourself should be doing exactly that with. It's incompassionate of them when what I most craved was compassion from them-- and offering it unsolicited to both sets all parties up to fail.

That was, in fact, one of the main objectives of my voyage-- now realized to be a Moon-cursed/-blessed ordeal: to learn to guard and care for the tenderest parts of myself by myself. This I have succeeded in doing-- although I'm now forced to confess I spent four nights in a Best Western in Butte, Montana, at the end of September so terrorized by fate's cruelties and so existentially broken by the poison of blame I held toward people in my life and by my own failings as a person I could find no rational argument to support living further. The calamities and maladies of the journey, none of which could remotely be claimed self-inflicted, far exceeded in number and degree anything I'd endured at my own hand previously. The material tolls at that point were bad enough; but the inner torments boiling within me were eating me alive even more violently and surely. By the time I'd reached Butte, I told myself I could go no further-- there was rationally, I argued, no fucking point. The moments I wasn't drinking and drawing in the hotel casino, I spent sobbing in my hotel room with a knife to my throat. Max and Sarah did their best to console me, and both begged me to let them love and care for me. Both begged me not to die. But the battle then was inside, and they were unable to penetrate it. My ex-husband saved my life (after many long, miserable calls and a call to the Butte, MT, police on my behalf), but suicide's shadow still haunts even now that I've found seeming shelter in Palm Springs. 

As far as protecting and caring for that tenderest part of myself through the Moon's painful and uncertain, volatile passage is concerned, I've learned some painful but true lessons.

First, the tender part bleeds profusely and painfully and from any and many wounds, but it never stops bleeding because doesn't die unless you do. Indeed, it seems the function of the tenderest part of the Self may in fact be to bleed-- perhaps like the uterus its bleeding's purpose is some kind of cleansing? I cannot say for certain at this point. Perhaps, should this harrowing ordeal pass, I will in time understand better.

Second, that bleeding cannot be stemmed quickly; only slow, deliberate care affects healing to each wound, and it never heals without a scar to remind you ever of that pain.

Third, you can tend only one wound at a time.

And fourth, you can't tend any of them when fate's onslaught levies blow after stabbing blow against it day after day-- and, when it's most cruelly relentless as has been in my case, night after night also. 

However, I have also learned that because of the first lesson, the most important thing that can be done is to carry that gushing bloody mess regardless of tormets' ceaselessness, shelter it further from blows as best I can, as I travel the Moon's cursed course, and do what I can not to panic and erupt into emotional chaos after the shock of one too many traumas has unmoored any purchase on stable ground-- as panic and anxiety drive the tender part wild, and the sight of all that blood gushing and spraying all around it only exacerbates its panic, and so it follows increases the spurtings and sprayings and their vigor, volume, and pain. 

So it has been that, after a certain point, I've just had to hold the fuck on and endure-- endure not for any compelling reason, virtue, or cause; not for any higher purpose my Ego narcissistically supposes for itself; nor for any hope for light at the end of this miserable fucking tunnel. No, I hold on simply out of the relentless habit of living-- a sheer stubborn fucking refusal to give in and die until the body can cling to the cycle of beat and breath no longer

I have no fucking idea where this leads; indeed, I'm beginning to suspect that a fabric of undulating daily and nightly existential malady may simply be the new norm. I'd pray this shit would fade at the end of the year, that something new will begin when I draw next year's card, but again I've learned it's folly to presume to know the Moon's course and duration, and pridefully standing against it is even more fruitless and, I intuit superstitiously, invites even more torment by virtue of its insulting pretension against one so great, so incrutible, as the Moon. It will release its hold when it releases its hold, and not a moment sooner, and I cannot claim to know when nor how that release will happen. Any supposition or prayer only guarantees I torment myself while she torments me, so out of mercy to myself and humbled by her power, I simply surrender and accept her blows-- nor do I even presume they might also be blessings. I endure-- that is all.

I've suffered shit I simply can't believe. A nightmare of personal violation at customs in Sarnia that had me, among other things, give Canadian authorities all my bank accounts' and emails' user IDs and passwords. Costly accidents with camping equipment. Waking, night after night, to the searing stench of a sick dog's shit smeared everywhere. And, more than once, calamities of illness most don't expect when I explain my immune system is so strong I suffer no symptoms until it's far too late: I blacked out in the parking lot of Theodore Roosevelt National Park-- the result of a rampant strep infection I felt absolutely no symptoms of-- and now a mystery malady of fever, delirium, fatigue, and monstrous full body pain that has driven me to the ER twice this week and that medical professionals, as wise as low resolution analysts can be, suspect may be, among other alarming things, Lyme. Thankfully I managed to force a stubborn bureacracy of my former employer to award me my COBRA; I'd be destitute under the financial tolls of these health crises otherwise.

And all of this and I just want to bloody get behind a bar and work for a spell, relax, regroup and make money, meet people, get ground under my feet. Relief and a path to restitution appear so tantalizingly close at hand...

Know a few things about my state and outlook. First, this is reportage, not whining. At this point, I've endured hells I'd never imagined with a grit I didn't know I had, whose ineluctable and quiet stubbornness I don't understand and claim no control over, but am wholly grateful for-- one which I'm too humbled by to allow prideful Ego to accept responsibility for. Now, at least, I'm confident that despite urgent, anxious Ego I can manage.

Second, I've made some excellent choices through it all to keep me afloat, including reconnecting with my ex. He saved my ass in Butte, and despite the tragic persistence of the vicious dysfunctions that have plagued and stained us through the years and ultimately drove me to divorce less than two years after we were married before our friends in the backyard of a home someone else now owns, he's always been my champion when the chips are down and cards are called. It's no understatement to say that he's offered me necessary encouragement strength and support when its been most needed (just not before 10am). 

And third: I don't want or need anyone's fucking sympathy now or ever again. Even if the Moon's passage fucking kills this primate meat bag encapsulated ego dead and shoves it to rot forgotten deep in the bitter ground, so long as I draw breath I've fucking got this.

What I would pray for at this point if prayer were an applicable supplication before one such as the Moon is space and quiet to do what Awakening has taught me to do with anguish and awe both: turn into/in-to them, which remains transcendence's most valuable lesson.

As primates, we flinch from where we're hurt, we turn-away-from pain and even the threat of pain, we look away from the horror of human Being in its uncertain and volatile incarnation at all costs. Hence, construction sites and military installations and dumps post signs that read: "Warning: Keep Out" so we see not the horrors that lie beyond those signs and grasp the implications they have on ourselves. This is a fundamental tenant of the human condition: when we say we cannot face ourselves, it is not precisely that we cannot tolerate facing the truth of our Ego's reflection but that we cannot tolerate the basic fabric of accident and injury and bleeding pain of the tenderest part that lies behind that reflection. And we cannot tolerate it, so far as I can tell, because we fear that facing it will in some way overwhelm us and eradicate us entirely.

But Evolution is Creation's song, sung through the entirety of its fabric, and the Evolution's agents at every level of Being, especially the Soul's, are only Anguish and Awe.

Put simply, evolution doesn't happen when organisms are comfortably homeostatic in their external and internal environments; it also doesn't happen when we suffer or experience fear; nor does it come anywhere near to happening when we enjoy narcotic joys. Evolution is prompted by two experiences only that cut to the bone of existence itself: Anguish and Awe.

Awe compels transformation in embrace of its celebratory transcendent virtue; however, in a world so stricken inside and out as ours, opportunities for awe are few, and as corporations and their ensnared monkeymen agent-cells defile what remains of Nature, those opportunities are drying up rapidly. 

What makes the deeper mark, and what is fortunately (I guess) more abundant now, is Anguish, and that is in no small part because Anguish signals existential systemic failure. Anguish's message requires response, and it's message is ever the same: evolve or die. In most organisms and people, any adaptive response to anguish is instinctual, unconscious, and, we suppose, accidental. Hence, the model of Darwinian evolution is built on a supposition of chance mutation; it mistakenly excludes that these mutations are responses to environment strain's anguishes.

In the case of my Awakening, which I intuit aligns my incarnate primate pain-body and Ego uniformly with my incarnating Soul, I have learned that I can be intentional about evolution and purposeful in my adaptation if I follow one path again and again through anguish. That invaluable pith lesson: Turn into/in-to anguish. (This is equally valid of Awe, though hasn't seemed as necessary as Awe's evolutions are far more inviting and their paths much lower in terms of resistance.)

For Anguish is not merely an evasive response to existential crisis; it contains the precise instructions necessary to successfully adapt to each specific existential crisis; each instance of anguish contains the keys necessary for its release. The only way through that is to accept that the Mind and its comprehensive faculties alone cannot read, let alone process, these lessons-- we cannot reason our way through anguish's lessons and out of its crises. The whole of our bodies and the entirety of our Selves must be brought to bare. We must go beyond the cephalic-brain biases of Western Civlization and know via apprehension anguish fully through those other important perceptual centers-- the coronary-brain and the enteric-brain.

What is required, then, is to locate the furious, boiling emotional center of that anguish, the tenderest part of our Selves spraying and spurting its blood in painful, desperate horror, the thing we always turn away from, we always ask others to care for, and go directly there by ourselves. To turn in-to means to go straight into the gushing pain, the horror, and reside within it as long as it takes, and not merely to go into its center, it's supposed source/cause, but to more consequently go straight into the raw textures of its experience of itself. To turn into means, explicitly, to become, to truly embody the entire experience of the anguish itself, no matter how harrowing, no matter how certain our primate flesh is that the experience will overwhelm and consume us completely. Actually, the primate flesh is precisely right-- that is a exactly what will happen, and exactly what must if we are to adapt successfully to its necessary evolution, and so transcend.

In the case of passive, spontaneous evolutions in response to Anguish, I believe that the Self is ultimately overwhelmed by the Anguish, regardless of whether it is turned into/in-to, and compelled to change as it has no other choice.

In my Awakened case, intentional evolution is possible as an act of curious, determined penetration into the heart of that Anguish as it resides in the tenderest part of myself. The blessing of this voyage/ordeal, if it is not prideful of me to claim it a blessing, is that is has offered a steady and plentiful flow of anguishes. The curse is a matter of unpracticed practice: I Awakened just eleven months ago, and I haven't had anywhere near enough time to practice this technique; I require space and time, shelter and quiet calm to even begin the process of turning into/in-to-- it has yet to become muscle memory; and the sequence of ordeals afflicting me has yet to let up enough for me to engage this still deliberate vital function. 

And no amount of personal force has yet to affect such space, such comfort to allow the necessary inquiry/becoming. And so I wait and endure, patiently and penitently as I can-- certainly whining, complaining, and even raging when its symptoms overwhelm me-- I'm no fucking Buddhist, but this is Enlightenment-- not remotely confident that my time will come, but... sure as I can be that whatever happens, whether a matter of gaining sufficient space to evolve intentionally or simply being so overwhelmed by the mounting pile of anguishes that I will inexorably evolve, or die, as is Anguish's fundamental instruction. And as the Death card (XIII) makes abundantly clear: Death itself is the very crux of every evolution.

Either way, evolution is underway. To what end, I cannot say nor dare claim to know.

I can say the price I pay is very, very heavy-- far, far greater than a mere pound or two of flesh. What I pay for-- whether past karmic debts or future karmic successes, or somethings else entirely, I can't, nor, out of humility before the Moon, won't say. I do not endure pridefully. I do not endure spitefully. I refuse alignment of Self with the any notion of victimhood, nor claim the falsely presumed moral purity our culture rewards victims with. I endure for no purpose other than habit-- the body's refusal to fucking die until it absolutely must. I'm not sure this is a virtue. 

What comes will come, and will come in its own time. Any space I gain to make a the process intention is a blessing only insofar as it satisfies my Ego and its illusory need to control. Regardless, transformation is imminent.

It's been a bumpy ride. I'm not letting go.

Trump XVIII, The Moon, Wild Unknown Tarot, (c) 2015,  Kim Krans

Trump XVIII, The Moon, Wild Unknown Tarot, (c) 2015,  Kim Krans

The Dead Vulture Fandango, sketch Autumn 2016

The Dead Vulture Fandango, sketch Autumn 2016

Manmonkey Anguish, sketch, Autumn 2016

Manmonkey Anguish, sketch, Autumn 2016

at desert's edge, again...

My apologies for the prolonged absence. 

I sit in my travel trailer, purchased in mid-October, on the edge of Joshua Tree National Park, in an unincorporated burg on the outskirts of Desert Hot Springs, California, very near to my beloved mother's parents' spiritual home, Palm Springs. 

Our arrival a week ago was a huge relief, to say the last, after what has been a punishing, months-long ordeal I simply have no vocabulary and am too broken and fatigued to describe. When I set out, I invoked transformation via self-sacrifice, and I invited spiritual kinship with those of our country most plagued by its injustices and inequities. I did so assuming I could "witness" these human strivings and anguishes, and so carry these people's sufferings through pure compassion to the higher self, Atman, the center that is both precisely within and precisely without, the same center in all-- as has seemed the purpose of my subjective experience since I succeeded in Awakening in January.

As it turns out, something far more extraordinary, harrowing, and, yes, miraculous unfolded. I know not to what end-- for, much to my ego and pain-body's dismay, it has yet to end. One calamity has followed another; indeed, even here, safe in paradise at last, as my pain-body has relaxed, uncoiled from its long-held defensive posture, I awake to the sad knowing that the crunch in my lungs and plague of aches throughout tissue and bone and sinew are pneumonia-- or uncertain worse.

Through miserable happenstance and mounting afflictions of random, indifferent chance, I became wholly like those I sought to witness. I inherited-- or, perhaps earned?-- the existential plague that stains them, and impairs every moment of their lives-- so that, no matter how faithfully they apply themselves to it, every one of them is denied forever, sheerly by unending heaping cascades of miserable circumstantial errors and calamities, the fruits of the American Dream.

Success myths contingent on vague notions of "hard work" mean naught when the fabric of one's daily existence is hounded by calamity after grim calamity. Unfortunately, I did not also inherit the grit that sustains them, that so empowers them to perservere when all sense would register suicide to be the appropriate response to such overwhelming, merciless misfortune. Fortunately as I write on the desert and reflect on my own personal and costly perils of the prior three months, I find that by choosing to face these tragedies privately, and persisting through them more out of habit than as some act of virtuous will, I have come to taste the practical grit that pushes them forward in spite of their successive misfortunes-- a precious strength in these tough times, indeed.

In 1993, my freshman philosophy professor at KCAI, Hal Wert, joked about this calamity phenomena as "the speeding Coors beer truck:" whether Socrates, Keostler, Kierkegaard or Sartre, his answer to any my idols' "profound truths" was ever the same: truth of Self and its intentions/will matter not in a universe where our human striving is negated when our inherent and ignored human frailty suffers the impartial, swift, and unmerciful blows of random chance-- and when random chance delivered his final blow at last, he prayed often to teenage laughter in class it would be in a sudden and cold strike of a speeding Coors beer truck so that he might go out in a bath of blood and his favorite beer, and something akin to glory.

What seemed a ticklish, churlish performance to my 18 year old self now seems at 41, after having witnessed the gravity of heaping calamity on those who have the least and suffer it most, as well as measured on myself, who finds himself having less with each passing affliction, to be the wisest instruction any teacher has ever blessed me with-- one that instills utter compassion because those of us who have not the financial resources to cure calamity and misfortune without pain know not that the gravity of these burdens magnifies by orders of magnitude as each piles atop the prior unresolved; and that growing gravity invites ever more calamities to join the fray and guarantees the misfortunate afflicted will never break free from the pile. 

For the poor of this country, those left out of the American Dream-- regardless of what diddling name the PC crowd chooses to assign them-- suffer an unimaginable indignity that prohibits them from ever gaining ground, and it's simply this: calamity attracts ever more calamity, and where the privileged have resources to cure each with swiftness and so decrease their gravity and continued likelihood, the poor are ever-buried, inescapably, by hardships that mount mercilessly ever, each drawing in the next, like friends calling each other to join an amazing party. Certainly the poor are denied access by virtue of institutional bigotries on both sides of the political divide; however, no poor Sovereignsbeing so afflicted by bigotry's disdainful curse has a chance to stand against and rise above it when fate levies a torrent of accidents, one atop another, upon the poor and their families, that erodes the ground beneath them continuously, as retreating waves suck slippery the sand beneath our feet out to sea and leave us to sink ever lower into the slick, chilly slurry beneath.

Whether Caucasian rednecks such as my sister Ashleigh and her friends sweltering in the Red South, or the long-suffered African Americans in South Carolina or Chicago's Roger's Park, or the First Peoples virtuously enduring the abuses of a tyrannical government of the very kind our so-beloved Second Amendment was engendered and remains amply defended to cure, it's utterly clear to me that the poor, no matter their education, "protections," nor "access," are incapacitated before fate's unyielding and indifferent might when it inflicts its relentless torments. And despite any notion of social progress under neoliberal charlatan-POTUS "Barry" Obama, none of privileged-us has fathomed that cascade, and so none has truly remedied what afflicts those who suffer our seemingly magnanimous civilization's cold indifference. And the "liberal" ideologies we so righteously espouse that we suppose liberate the poor from bigotry's oppression fail to account entirely for the even greater significance of accidents' oppressions.

No amount of virtuous adjustment to the system can account for this: once a a storm of hardships starts its course-- say an unanticipated pregnancy two very young people are utterly unprepared for, the most common of these and typically the first-- more and more follow, ineluctably-- often involving the death or deportation of an invaluably generous family member, without whose grit and presence survival of prior assaults would have been impossible, and without whom facing the future ahead looms even more unendurable. Viewed in sequence and en total, they appear rightly to increasingly attract each other-- one begets two, two three, three five, five ten, and so forth-- and the so-afflicted have no purchase to shelter themselves from the storm, nor capital sufficient to remedy those crises most urgent, until tax season of course, at which point retailers and manufacturers are only to willing to promise speedy narcotic relief and ultimately distraction from the slew of misfortunes best upon and oppressing every anguished minute of their existence-- one of the Narcissistic Paradigm's nastier and more sadistically parasitic actions.

Somehow, they find quiet, steady hope despite their hardships-- if such a word can adequately describe the inequity of their circumstances-- and as I traveled, listened, and suffered-with-them (Latin: com passio), I realized these hopes were misplaced in a notion of "hard work" and an investment of college that are more a debt-afflicting lie that burdens them further with an expected yolk of indentured servitude worse than any predatory mortgage, and that blatantly fails to fulfill it's false promise of liberation in a society where such a thing as liberty is in short supply for even the most liberated of liberals.

Even worse, there is a plague of presumed purpose that has shadowed the species since the days of the god-kings holding claim and sway over primitive grain surpluses-- the genesis of property ownership, currency, and the rights of kings-- that has found a heinous and ugly, narcissistic bent in the wake of the failures of the Boomers' naive, narcissistic, halcyon hippie days and has been given eager idiot blessing and full berth by the likes of Madonna and Oprah and her shamelessly proffered prosperity gospel doctrine, The Secret: the notion that for each of us, "success," however measured, is "meant to be"-- a delightful reward bestowed by something we call "the universe" for the inherent goodness of our character.

I've long bristled at this bogus assertion of purpose whenever I've been complimented with it for any of my prior successes. Previously, ignorant of the acute depth of iniquitous and senseless suffering of my fellow-and-sister Americans, I've simply and correctly stated that the bulk of our species on this planet-- billions upon billions-- live and die in continuous, deepening anguish and affliction traps that I simply cannot accept are "meant to be" for them in any rational or virtuous sense if the same statement applies to my good fortune; why am I more special before the eyes of this supposed "universe" than so many, many more of them? Indeed, I've correctly asserted, any "success" we Caucasian First Worlders With Means can claim for ourselves is largely a matter of the good fortune of being born on this continent to this people and of this race, nationality, and pedigree, and I cannot and will not accept any casual celebration of its concurrent fruits as somehow purposed for us by virtue of our inherent worth when the vast rest of the world lives in senseless anguish and dies in utter obscurity-- incarnate souls, equal to any in this country, who suffer and whose equally worthy, distinct personhood is forgotten entirely by so-called History the moment they draw their last breath.

Indeed, to suffer and die without consequence nor remedy, let alone reason, a plague of unstoppable cascading misfortunes is the greatest indignity a Sovereignsbeing can endure-- presuming the Ego has some measure of significance in the ontology of this tiny vicious species tormenting itself and its brethren on this remarkable jewel chasing an unremarkable star in one bland galaxy of what we thought were billions and now think are unimaginable trillions, lost in a seeming-boundless thing we call a "universe," in which not even the magnitude of human striving so significant to narcissistic we could possibly matter a whit in the scope of its vast seeming-eternity. It is in the relativity of Self that we suppose Ego's import; but down where the spirit meets the bone, we harbor a greater existential terror-- that all that we are is entirely for naught-- and that is insult beyond ken for the sufferings we endure, which for us personally seem as great as the "universe" itself.

Our lives and their successes only have consequence because we are White First Worlders With Means-- even those of us who claim some flavor of favored-minority status (of which I reluctantly admit I am a bland white one: the recovering yuppie gay-divorcee). It is a grievous insult to assert that our lives are favored by virtue of our characters' innate worth before something we have absolutely no ken of when so, so vastly many more are fate-plagued worse than Job himself and allowed, unlike Job so-loved by Yaweh, no recourse but death, ever silent, to escape these relentless existential torments. And after discovering first hand what I knew rationally but had never afforded myself opportunity to experience in the fullness of my entire Awakened Self the senseless afflictions of heaping accidents on the poor... 

None of them, even the so-called Alt-Right my peer group currently so revile, endures this string of care-less and unjust hardships because "it was meant to be"-- because these are an adequate reflection of their characters' worth. And no matter what their ideological affiliation and regardless of their ideologies' failure to comply with sensible-ours, that kernel of iniquitous and injust hardships unite not us-all but those-who-have-the-least of all stripes and colors, and those who, quiet frankly, deserve the most help from those of us who can, from those of us who insulate ourselves with such narcissistic congratulations of self-worth from their senseless and cruel sufferings because, our "virtuous rewards" so imply, theirs also was meant to be. And no amount of label-changing, Facebook "shares" and up/down-vote "likes," righteous bone-throwing "charitable giving," insultingly pretentious "community development," and the occasional hour "donated" on an thinly peopled picketline ever succeed remedying that dirge of relentless misfortunes. Indeed, it's all salt on a blatantly ignored visible wound that only festers more with the passing days neglectful platitudes.

To those who slave in suffering their entire lives, certainly they share the love of narcotic pleasures we so enjoy and defend-- infotainment, processed and organic foods, prescription drugs, plastic-and-silicon techtoys, Facebook-- but those pleasures that "reward" us only acutely magnify their suffering when they can catch them in those brief moments of surplus means. Uniformly then, they console themselves with abundantly available religions of the afflicted, cheaply offered under everwhite steeples cemented in nearly every intersection in any accumulation of souls outside of the liberal and godless cities-- ostensibly to give meaning to the unmeangingable via absolving them of their "original sins" which so clearly have been the cause for these miseries beset upon them ("it was meant to be") and providing them with a path of supposed virtuous, moral living, claiming that dutiful obedience to these bewildering and inscrutable codes will liberate them from the tyrannies of their senseless misfortunes bestowed upon them by a lovingly vengeful "god." In bitter truth, the afflicted cling to these "faiths" because beneath it all, they promise a "revelation" of total and unmerciful, exacting and just retribution for their enemies, whom they blame for their miseries, and as a bonus they are promised an eternal reward that looks an awful lot like the posh gilded homes and neighborhoods and celebratory comforts the wealthy of each generation enjoys in those particular times while the plebes rot. What they fail to appreciate in their jealousy of the rich and this fantasy of eternal reward based on it is that such plenty every rests on the backs of those whose vitality the rich suck to the bone to service their comfort; presuming their enemies will be cast into oblivion after sufficient brief suffering, there will be no vitality to engine their reward for its promised eternity.

This is, in one of many necessary perspectives, the vital appeal of Donald Trump: regardless of the imparticulars of his outlandish, nonsensical campaign babble, and in spite of his obvious sausage-fingered childishness, under it all was threat of retribution against the ruling class, the long-reviled so-called liberal elites-- which, not too long ago we all fail to recall, he himself was a not-inconsequential member of. That threat from such a man was precisely the "message" these oppressed and miserable poor have been programmed by generations of Sunday sermon apocalypse pornography, and they were only too delighted to accept that a thundering alpha monkey-- a man possessing a magic name-- guaranteeing them holy revenge against the indifferent, unrepentants was the most satisfying and compelling candidate they could ever have hoped for. And the more the liberal establishment shrieked his name and the horrors he seemed to guarantee and impugned his voters as "deplorables," the more they validated his voters' belief in his power against those liberal elites, and so assured him and them of their victory, which was inevitable from the moment neoliberal maven Hillary Rodham Clinton gamed the primary so that no upstart could upend her ascendancy-- and guarantee us now, at the close of what remains of our democracy, that their righteous vengeance will indeed be exacted upon us all-- even unwitting and wholly duped them. Yet despite this assured betrayal of his electorate, should our democracy survive a one-term Trumping, these poor people will remember his legend more fervently than his hallowed predecessor, Ronny Reagan.

Democracy collapses into tyranny when those who can lift the poor out of their misfortunes are too righteously adrift in their narcotic narcissism to actually help those upon whose backs that democracy rests and flourishes. Neglecting them and their cascading afflictions only guarantees democracy's collapse when at last a compelling, charismatic, and outlandish alpha male rises from the pack and promises salvation via righteous vengeance against the bloated, selfish, and ostentatious ruling class. Sadly, liberal friends, this "election surprise" has been a long, long time coming.

If we are to understand this terrifying time, if we are to even begin to fathom the lay of the land itself so that we may hope to find some pathways for all of us out of this mad and maddening mess made by we wicked, wicked primates who have been far too endowed by unwise Prometheus, we must start where Christ and Buddha chose to begin: with those who have the least because they are most-afflicted by accident and calamity's awful mounting gravity. Unlike Christ and Buddha, however, we must not insult their suffering's magnitude and depth with the indignity of "ministering" our supposed "truths" as remedies to them. We must not presume to know anything at all about the scope of their dis-ease. We know not what they endure; thus, we wholly unqualified to name it, nor to suppose what a "socially just" remedy to those inquiries looks like.

What is required by those with the most is radical, selfless sacrifice of comfort: to abandon, as I did, what we have that shelters us most-- the cash to make problems disappear swiftly and with minimal stain and consequence, as well as the narcotic plastic pleasures we reward ourselves with when so-released-- and embrace the courage to truly live with and suffer with them, to know the heap and heft and exhausting, harrowing gravity of accident and its stains upon the innocence of those undeserving souls, and upon the earth we shame, regardless of the pigments or political stripes of those so-afflicted. And we must not tell them, through the insultingly insulating comforts of "social justice" philosophy arrived at in privileged institutions wholly removed from and directly misapprehending of the sufferings they claim to cure, nor in the vicious "self-help" doctrines that profess through supreme knowing validated by the vain claim of Ego-transcended, that only they can free themselves from this slew of torments, what steps they must take to free themselves from what is surely a situation of their own making-- a product of their karma. History bares out the futility of this path; it also makes clear that it exonerates the privileged from the guilt they should be feeling for having failed in their moral obligation to steward all whom their karma stains.

We must sacrifice wholly the comfort of supposed-knowing that so offensively makes us those long and rightly resented "liberal elites" and chose to use our imaginations instead for a purpose tragically unpracticed broadly in this species since before the dawn of agriculture and its poisonous surpluses and their concurrent vanities: we must use our imaginations to experience as the afflicted experience, and suffer with them, and so know as they know, not necessarily to cure their problems explicitly, but to unite in sorrow's trenches to lift each and all of us not out of the miserable gravity of mounting calamities that leaves every one us poorer and poorer by the day-- even those of us who believe themselves to be above the fray, insulated by privilege.

Only that sacrifice of comfort and its blind suppositions before the alter of truth and its anguishes can afford all of us the path that may liberate us from the consequences of our narcissistic paradigm and its vulgar, staining sins.

The view from this tower, er, resort. 

The view from this tower, er, resort. 

off the beaten track: hwy 220 and side roads, virginia and west virginia

the morning we woke at wattsull, I embraced intuition's course: we checked the map and settled on 220 north, raleigh into west virginia. turned out to be one of the more extraordinary stretches of highway this well-travelled artist has had the honor of surveying

note: we travelled 350 miles as the crow flies before we reached berkeley springs, wv for the night, but put more than 800 miles on the truck. i took a lot of side roads, but I didn't take as many photos as I had previously. didn't seem right


virginia interlude: mountaintop motel, arcadia, va

I hope that you like it in your little motel
And I hope that the suite sleeps and suits you well
Well, I can see it as time and a sight through smell, and
That's why it's nice to be by yourself

--modest mouse, we were dead before the ship even sank


we arrived at Wattsull Inn just as the sun slipped behind the mountain ridge opposite.



in the pause before that much-needed shower+shave, we enjoy what remains of the day over leftovers, 151 rum+cherry coke

not shown: dinner in my lap; partially shown: the boze, certain what's mine is also his

not shown: dinner in my lap; partially shown: the boze, certain what's mine is also his

instagram friends know well that the boze is an accomplished artist in his own right. ordinally, his work is bone drawings on floors. this evening, he flattered me with a private viewing: concerto no. 1: virginia moutainside sunset revery, with stick

destroying the instrument at the concert's close: a poignant commentary on the futility of any striving in the face of an indifferent, chaotic universe

destroying the instrument at the concert's close: a poignant commentary on the futility of any striving in the face of an indifferent, chaotic universe

after the performance: reviewing notes

after the performance: reviewing notes

repose: artistic satisfaction

repose: artistic satisfaction

was that at good for you as it was for me?

was that at good for you as it was for me?

motel moonrise

motel moonrise

the comet that wasn't (look closely)

the comet that wasn't (look closely)

sleep, as it had been from our departure more than a week ago, was broken by troubling dreams. 

Wattsull's continental breakfast was shrink-wrapped and preservative soaked-- not, in fact, continental.

But this was happening behind the motel:

good morning, arcadia

good morning, arcadia

we'd intended to stay a few more days, but the motel wifi was congested/impotent and, more importantly, the itch to travel moved us forward

blue ridge parkway, north carolina: kitty's first-ever night camping

the boze was a veteran camper by month six; the crone, conversely, has kept lonely vigil whilst the bear, the princess, and I adventured the hell out of the pacific northwest.

leaving her with friends indefinitely would've consigned her to heartbreak and a lonely death; better to risk death by predator on the road with her beloved maitreyapunk than death in some vet's office chaperoned by a well-meaning stranger.

hey. that's our tent.

hey. that's our tent.

the boze, with leg

the boze, with leg

the crone, immobilized by the power of 'harness,' glares spiteful daggers at the boze, whom is surely to blame for the indignation of this 'camping' horseshit

the crone, immobilized by the power of 'harness,' glares spiteful daggers at the boze, whom is surely to blame for the indignation of this 'camping' horseshit



yeah, this isn't so bad

yeah, this isn't so bad

the matter of your narrator's reliability

a confession: the record of my journey you have seen thus far? each post was made at least ten days after we experienced it.

sorry. I've felt like keeping these to myself for a while, sitting with them, rather than running my mouth off, as has previously been my want.


when approaching any text, show, image, etc., one should always question the narrator's reliability. can we trust what is being told/shown? in what ways? is the narrator disclosing fully or partly? honestly? or with the intent to mislead? does the text/show/image maintain it's truth, knowing our narrator is unreliable? is its poetry still valid and compelling? or does the narrator's unreliability bring the entire matter into dubious question?

blue ridge parkway, days one and two: the mountains of north carolina and virginia

few friends know: while my drawing and painting has always been figurative, in truth I've longed to be a landscape painter.

problems inherent with conveying mountain majesties:

1-- scale of reproduced image is woefully inadequate

2-- focus of any image is a fraction of human bicameral vision


highlights from our two days on the 'inspirational' blue ridge parkway, in no particular order:

don't assume for a moment dog's don't experience awe

don't assume for a moment dog's don't experience awe

(sincere apologies to my dear friend in charleston, sc:

1-- apologies for not representing our visit on the blog. I chose to keep it private

2-- apologies for the brevity of our stay; my soul called urgently for the road

saving my seat

saving my seat

sketching: loganville, ga

at ease and nourished by family love, my drawing, after six stumbling years, restored itself.

(apologies for the dim/shit lighting. I've never been great at shooting my art. as I improve, I'll reshoot and repost.)

loganville, ga: lake lanier, labor day

showing the boze how it's done in ga

showing the boze how it's done in ga

you can't haz

you can't haz

water, the boze and his cousins: for the dog, there isn't much better

water, the boze and his cousins: for the dog, there isn't much better

stalking-- perhaps a little too wolfish?

stalking-- perhaps a little too wolfish?

'i can't eat him, right?'

'i can't eat him, right?'

the one that got away

the one that got away

there's always next time

there's always next time

you can take the boze out of georgia, but you can't take the red clay out of the boze

you can take the boze out of georgia, but you can't take the red clay out of the boze

loganville, ga: dirt dike baby, labor day weekend

my jackassery will get me grounded in thirty seconds

my jackassery will get me grounded in thirty seconds

who wants to dismay some PDX parents??

who wants to dismay some PDX parents??



he's jammed real tight between those legs, right? (no seat belts/helmets)

he's jammed real tight between those legs, right? (no seat belts/helmets)

not that they needed the push, but a good mom always helps

not that they needed the push, but a good mom always helps

proud of her boys

proud of her boys

the indignation of a sunday night bath is by far greater than that of being grounded

the indignation of a sunday night bath is by far greater than that of being grounded

final sunrise, lake kegonsa

summer spent recovering from existential injuries

in a rotting lakefront cottage

in the middle of nowhere

on the outskirts of an ubran nowhere

safe but never safe for long

the dog, wisely in his youth, waking me just in time

for every sunrise

each not-to-be-missed

and the only thing


I regret leaving behind

never coming home again...

there came a point in life where, after everything unravelled, it became clear there was nothing left to say to anyone involved in the drama. words flow endlessly numerous from the lips and fingers of humans-- only thoughts themselves are more numerous as human constructs go. words are inherently problematic. they change little. persuasion is either a dead art or was never as relevant in motivating an author's preferred outcome as my fourth grade three-paragraph essay writing instruction would have had me believe. even more disappointing: americans-- at least those suburbanites and urbanites, family and friends, populating my sphere of community-- too often fail to ensure their deeds correspond with at least modicum of consistency to their pledges.

carelessness dominates the culture-- or at least my contemporary frame of reference: PDX/MSN/ORD suburbs + cities. I have, until the last 18 months, been extremely culpable of this failing myself. even more frustratingly: as I've worked to strengthen my character, more consistently tying word to deed, measuring my deeds and their influences more carefully, and imposing on others less and less, I find that my deeds' outcomes not only fail to improve, but worsen.

my life didn't work. at all. I strived to commit myself to the operational 'shoulds' our culture and my family and friends suggested I adhere to and advance. an honors student, I was held to be an achiever, a paragon of excellence in all concerns. an artist and writer, I was held to be an innovator, an 'outside of the box' thinker. charming, kind, playful and generous, I was held in esteem by my friends. but none of these roles fit me well-- and so I failed to deliver excellence, no amount of unconventional thought freed me, and regardless of my social virtues, the instability in my professional, personal, and emotional life-- and my pronedness, engendered by a family culture of the same, to 'crowd-source' my crises made me a burdensome and undesirable friend-- and cost me many friendships and stained bitterly those that remain.

lets not even begin to describe the heartbreak I continue to suffer daily in the wake of my divorce-- from a man for whom what I feel cannot be adequately described by the word 'love,' regardless of my friends' and family's reasonable-after-all-our-bullshit strongly held misgivings about us ever being together again.

life imploded/exploded. by and large, I made that happen-- on my fortieth birthday, more than a year ago, I set matters in motion that would, ultimately, level all things, severe all ties, inner and exterior, to toxins, and free me, naked and raw and totally alone, to face the world anew and see if, somehow, I could be reborn. this is no tragedy; I made this choice. I made this choice because it was kinder to all involved than suicide; rather than kill myself, I killed my life-- one role, one dysfunctional pattern (behavior/interpretation) at a time.

we too often fail to see it: Nature, in her inestimable wisdom, understands that true metamorphosis in the context of evolution (the fundamental principal of all things) requires catastrophic apocalypse. what we see as a sorry and unfortunate calamity bringing each of the last five great life epochs to a close via some sudden shift in the biome's survivability, bringing the vast majority of species to their ends simultaneously, nature understands as a necessary and radical paring down of the genome. happy, fit, thriving, homeostatic organisms do not evolve-- they have no cause to. it is only when the organism is faced with radical extinction that the organism must make a choice: utterly final death, or terrifying transformation from the ground up. in apocalypse, Nature forces not one organism to transform, but the entirety of the genome itself. in each instance of the phoenix rising from the gone epoch's ashes, the genome learns from its prior failures (giant lizards= bad idea) but also increases, nearly parabolically, the rate at which it attains what we in our ignorance claim to be 'higher' organisms-- such as, supposedly, ourselves.

I made Nature's choice: self-apocalypse.

I'd tried a more gentle alternative: break down all that remained of my life in PDX, relocate to MSN to recover on a beach house near my family, and try to build a new life in my former home, ORD. ultimately, the best laid plans amount to nothing: everyone I involved in the story, no matter how many years had elapsed since our last authentic interactions, were not only fundamentally unchanged, but, if such a thing is even possible, even more of themselves than they were before. I had changed, but (a) no one cared to recognize it and (b) even if they had, my changes bore no impact on their treatment of me. 

nothing we do, ultimately, has any bearing on the actions and interpretations of others. each of us is accountable to herself; your shit, fortunately and unfortunately, is not my shit, and vice versa. and so it has been, and so it is, and shall be-- and that it was/is/will-be is, in fact, the correct order of things.

when the company in ORD I'd been invited to start turned out to be either a con or a poorly realized pipe dream sustained on no small degree of bullshit, and when those in MSN who offered their support reverted to their traditional antagonisms, the course was clear.

I had no reason to stay. anywhere.

I left immediately.

my one-and-a-half year old husky-malamute, maxwell, and my seventeen-year-old ailing tabby, sarah, and I crated our things, shipped them to a friend, and hit the road. never to return to where I'd come from, never to fall prey to the false comforts of nostaglia, never to be seduced by the 'shoulds' that assure outcomes that they never deliver.

we travel now, alone. we camp. we go to small towns. we enjoy solitude when we have it, and we enjoy witnessing something cities and suburbs are too trapped in their own myth structures and poisoned by industrial uniformity of selves to appreciate: the least of us, who have the least, and do more what with little they have than what most of us do with all the abundance of plastic crap we have in the entirety of our brief and meaningless lives on this planet.

apocalypse now.

I stand as a witness: to myself, to the wild, and to the real people I encounter.

I would like to be transformed by all this, but I find 'intention' and 'purpose' never bear out what is hoped for; now, I relegate myself to intuition, turn away from the brain and its so-called 'reason,' and embrace the supra-rational, wordless wisdom of organs we assume perform only metabolic functions-- and so are deaf to the fact that these, too, are perceptual organs: the heart and the gut, which is also known as 'the enteric brain.' and I chose, moment by moment, to eschew expectation and intention, and accept wholly whatever is in the moment, without precondition nor judgment.

like my teenage hero, dan eldon, for me, the journey itself is the destination. day by day, I make no 'rational' choice about 'where' to arrive by day's end. I look at my atlas (never my iPhone-- infuriating trash), ask myself which road seems to call for travel today, and let my heart and gut answer. as we travel, should heart and gut ask for a course correction, I make it.

along the way, I draw, paint, and take copious photographs.

regardless of my suffering, I find hope and beauty in the world. I want to see as much of it as I can, share as much of it as I can. beyond that, for now, I know not what else to do.

my heart and enteric brain demand this action as a response to the preceding events. reason before has failed to deliver positive outcomes with any reliability and consistency; rather than stubbornly persist in one failed reasoned action after another, allowing the scant successes I do have to prove the rule, I'm choosing a different path entirely: trust the heart and gut. 

at this point, I have nothing else to lose.

for this journey, I've cut direct contact to those closest to me. they, like you, have access to me here. everyone knows the same exact things about my journey. no one person is privvy to more than others; thus, there are no secrets to hide, no confidences to maintain, no games I inadvertently force loved ones to play with each other so that I might enjoy a false sense of security. this is not a permanent condition: contact will resume in time. but I need time, first.

this journey, despite it's seeming bitterness and nihilism, is, as you will see, fundamentally a journey of love into love. I seek not the rigidity of fact-- light reflecting off the surface of things merely-- but the intimacy of poetry-- of the imagination and intuition's impossible-to-explain ability to to 'know' the depths within all things.