How Is The Emergence of Spring Like Your Deepest Desires?
The emergence of spring is about blossoming and my deepest desire is to come into full bloom. To flourish and then to nourish The emergence of spring is about warmth and growth and expansion and my deepest desire is to be held warmly, to grow continuously and to expand infinitely Expand into what exactly? Well, that I’m still working on. But I know it includes the external trappings like being a published author and getting my own talk show and having more money in the bank than I can count or spend in ten lifetimes. Those are the pretty and colorful flower pedals that show the world I’m blossoming and beautiful. But it also includes the internal things like peace and stillness and confidence. I want to know tranquility instead of numbing with the cultural tranquilizers of Netflix and marijuana and endless scrolls into the lives of mere strangers This focus outward comes with dangers I want to know serenity instead of making scenes I want to know divinity instead of creating divisions I want to know integrity instead of insisting on ideologies Because each one comes with its own pathologies And then I end up separate from my inner sense of truth and end up needing to give apologies before regret messes with my biologies The emergence of spring bring with it singing and soaring And that’s like my deepest desires to be in harmony with natures roaring And make melodies out of the mundane instead of calling it all so boring Who says we should leave all that to the birdsI’d like my own inner songs to be heard. The emergence of spring is like my deepest desires because its perennial, it never fails to come back around and my core dreams never seem to leave me even when they cycle away for undefined mental winters time and again. The mental winters can feel like soul splinters but when the thaw takes hold and the sun breaks the cold I feel an energy inside me saying its time to break the mold and go back to my dreams And maybe just maybe get that mother-fucking manuscript sold.
Buster’s Broken Umbrella
WRITING PROMPT: Write a scene where a character confronts one of your worst fears. THE FEAR: I chose the fear of not amounting to anything. The rain wouldn’t stop pouring down that day. Buster, a 37 year old bus driver just finished his route and was walking home. The umbrella caved under the weight of the rain and soaked Buster to the bones. He pulled his now drenched and useless jacket tighter around his shivering torso. The weather report didn’t say rain, so what the hail was this, Buster thought to himself. Just then the rain turned to snow and the steam rising from the road vanished as the soft coating of cold white fluff enveloped the landscape, quieting everything. Including, for the briefest of moments, Buster’s tormented mind. In that moment Buster realized he had lived his whole life in the same haphazard way that the weather was now living its life. Ever-changing, reasonless, and most certainly unpredictable. He had been trying to forecast his future since he could climb out of the crib and like every expert meteorologist he got it wrong almost every time. No offense to the weather men, but you can’t contain the unpredictable and your entire job flies in the face of the natural order of things. Just sayin’. That said, it is nice to know, generally speaking, if one should bring their decrepit umbrella that day. Back to Buster who took refuge under the awning of a local pawn shop. The place where unwanted trash goes to die, he thought, like all his dreams and machinations and goals and hopes. They had all been pawned off, just sitting on a shelf next to a bowling ball with a monogram that doesn’t match anyone anymore and a record player from the Pleistocene era. As Buster stood there the snow turned into a forceful wind and hail. Just as gusty as his tornado mind. And the pawnshop suddenly closed. The owner emerged, with a melancholy about him, and when Buster asked what was wrong he said the shop was going out of business. Sure, one man’s trash is another man’s treasure, but sometimes those treasures stay buried on pawnshop shelves that close up, permanently. Buster peered into the dark and closed pawnshop for a long moment even as he was being softly pelted by tiny ice balls that nobody saw coming but most certainly are here. A glint caught his eye. He noticed on the far wall a small object that was definitely treasure to him. It was obscured by a bendy desk lamp and a cigar box, but it was unmistakable. It was what he had been looking for his whole life. Suddenly the sun broke through the clouds, and the wind became a breeze, more like a breath. The hail melted as it fell into rain that became clear blue skies even as Buster realized something. He already amounted to something. The weather might be unpredictable and pawnshops might be junk magnets, but if you look hard enough, if you take shelter when you need to, you may realize that something shiny and only for you is nestled behind the hurricanes and bowling balls, and it will be there for you even when everything else goes so completely bankrupt.
An Intimate Longing…
WRITING PROMPT: Write about something you want so badly. What is it? How does it feel? Good emotionally connected sex with a person I feel completely safe with, at home in, and who’s skin electrifies mine. And not just the sex, but the short-hand familiarity that comes from years in each others mind caverns and soft arms. It goes by many names, but I’ll call it intimacy. How does it feel? Alluring and terrifying. Seductive and destructive and realizing I don’t know how to cultivate it has been instructive. It feels exciting but out of reach, like when you see a movie filmed in your hometown but what you really want to be is a movie star. It kinda scratches the itch, but like poison sumac the scratching calls fourth more itching Until I’m nursing my blue balls and won’t stop bitching About a connection that could be so enriching If the thought of it didn’t leave me stitching The seams on a broken heart That’s all but fallen apart, but not from being run into the ground, but being neglected, like a childhood toy that rots under the porch while nobody on earth even cares or remembers its there. I hide behind the excuse of neglect Because I don’t have the courage to correct A trauma that keeps me from being able to select A mate who matches my resonance So I wither away in hesitance As misogynists become presidents Or should be in an assisted living residence But I digress I went off topic Because the subject of my love life is so myopic Couldn’t we just margarita, or something else tropic? I had my heart of my sleeve, but’s its time to retire So I take now my leave, unless you’ve found me a buyer?
This Might Surprise You But…
WRITING PROMPT: Write about something in your life that might surprise people. How do I know what’s going to surprise anybody else? I was surprised to learn, at age 10, that Santa Claus wasn’t real, and neither was indestructible parental trust. I was surprised to learn that evolution and gravity and germs are still just theories. I was surprised to learn that our government has signed treaties not to use weather modification technology which supposedly doesn’t even exist yet. How dutifully responsible of them. I was surprised at my 18th birthday party. I was surprised when the nursing home I used to work at had a bomb threat called in. I was even more surprised to learn, after trying to help a 90 year old woman out of bed, that it was just a drill. I was surprised to learn that people earnestly believe the US two party system gives them real choices. Do any of those things surprise you? How do I know? So how can I know if my measly little traumas and triggers, or set backs that get bigger will surprise you? How do I know if my film festival laurels or screenplay awards will surprise you? They certainly surprised me. And I was even more surprised to learn that none of them came with cash prizes. Though I suppose I shouldn’t have been. Would it surprise you to know I’m bashful? Everyone just assigns me the role of extravert because I can hold my own at dinner parties. But what nobody sees is the hot bath, fat doobie, and 1/2 season of crap TV I need just to patch myself up after a social gathering when the plastic smile sometimes seems to melt into my face, burning me and hardening that way. You can be entertaining and an introvert. You can nail a punch line, understand sarcasm, be handy with a zinger and still be shy. You can dish it but not like to take it, despite whatever stupid limerick you were taught about heat and the kitchen as a kid. It just so happens I like the kitchen but I don’t want it to to be hot in there so I’ve installed Central AC, metaphorically speaking. I can’t actually afford central AC, I’m an artist, and a student for Pete’s sake. But no I cannot take the heat, and no I will not leave the kitchen. Thank you. Would it surprise you to know I fear my own shame and I’m ashamed of my fear? Life coaches don’t have those right? They’ve supposedly taken the cure and seem so secure But I just let my imposter syndrome run me through like a skewer Until my thoughts have gone tumbling down into the sewer Sure that I’ve seen it all and there is nothing newer Would it surprise you to know that I’ve been a thief? Or a drug addict? Or a user, a liar or a cheat? Because I have. But would it surprise you to know this cheat has also been a benefactor, a lover, a forgiver, a giver, a hugger, a kisser, a friend, a coach, a healer, an artist, a dreamer, a child, and a fellow human. You’ve been all those things too. Don’t act so surprised.
I’m the Main Character and I’m Comfortable with that.
WRITING PROMPT: Write about a moment the main character feels awkward, out of place or uncomfortable. You are the main character of your life. And I am the main character of mine. Even if you are a wounded people pleasing kiss ass like me who feels very comfortable in the sidekick role you are the main character nonetheless. It just happens to be in a show where the main character is a wounded people pleasing kiss ass, but he, she or they is still the lead. The starring role. Inside the world of a world-class sidekick. Now that we’ve established who the main character is. Yes we have established it, for you it’s you and for me it’s me, couldn’t be clearer. So it’s firmly established. You and/or me is the main character. Or whoever else too, from their perspective. So, now, as the main character I wrack my brain for an out of place, awkward and uncomfortable moment. The flood gates open and I find myself instead in a sea of out of place moments, bopped around by the awkwardness and overwhelmingly uncomfortable, searching around for a moment I felt in place, a buoy in the storm where I felt comfortable, and like a good fit. That’s the unicorn. The moments of belonging, like precious gems hidden in the rock cliffs of a life lived on the edge of comfort, sometimes over that edge, always edgy. The moments of belonging don’t seem to belong to me. Instead I belong to them, owned by them, covered, protected, nurtured by them. I don’t just belong, I am absorbed, enveloped by an energetic acceptance that comes only when I allow it, for it never stops pushing its way toward me except for my refusal to allow it. I am actually in a sea of belonging, but my emotions tell me I am out to sea, that I cannot see, that the only grade I’ll get is a C, or god forbid a C-, the polite nod of pathetic pity from a teacher who didn’t have the heart to fail you. Well, failure is just feedback in the land of those who accept themselves. And a C- is a badge of honor for those who eschew social status for self-exploration. And a moment of feeling out of place is the realization of a lifetime lived out of sync. And that, my good friends, ends right this very moment.
What Is The Meaning Of This?
WRITING PROMPT: Everything you write must be a question, in the form of a question, or a request. What have I always wondered about? Do I want to know about the nature of reality? Or the secret meaning of life? Is there even a secret meaning or is there really just vast impersonal permission to do whatever I want save for the obtrusive intervention of government and other people? If there was a secret meaning, and it was for some god-forsaken reason shared with me, would I be able to understand it? Know how to implement it? What would be my responsibility then? Would I be required to share it? Or live by it? Would it change my purpose, knowing this meaningful secret to life? What if there is no secret meaning? What if there is no meaning really other than meanings I decide about with the brain and the cocktail of chemicals mixing around in there? And did I even decide which chemicals would be produced? Did I decide which synapses would fire together? Or are those things just happening in an invisible but inescapable chain of cause and effect and they are deciding me? Is the idea of decision at all a total illusion? Is free will an ego-centric mind delusion and I’m just a coincidental collision of molecules that happens to be able to ask complex questions? But are they meaningful questions? Do these questions matter? And who decides if they matter? Certainly I’m not the decider, am I? In some Hindu culture they claim we are all God, don’t they? And in Yoga they say the divine inside each of us is made of the same shit, right? So is it possible I am both the decider and the decision? Is it possible the idea of decision and decider as separate entities is the delusion, like the idea of a flower being able to thrive without a bee? We see the bee and the flower as separate entities, but are they? Or do the bee and the flower arise together, intrinsically linked, an eternal response to each other? Is it like that with us, the decider and the decisions we are making? What do I do now with all this new wondering that seems to have me floundering? Does all this pondering just keep my mind thundering; drawing me savagely nearer to blundering or gently closer to surrendering? What do you think?
The Sweaty Warmth of Skin & Sun (A Sensory Piece)
WRITING PROMPT: Describe the most vivid texture you’ve ever touched or felt. I can’t decide between the thin sheet of warm sunshine on my sweaty skin post marathon or the warm sweaty skin of 35 year old male lover muscles after a hot shower. Both generate heat. Both knock me off my feet, but in different ways. One touches me during the daytime and one slides in at night. One of these textures comes from a million miles away And one snuggles right up and holds me tight. One of these sensations can cause a burning on my skin And the other one causes burning too, but that’s a fire deep within The sun that hits cold wet skin feels like an immersion, a comforting, an invisible electric blanket on a cool spring day when all you want to do is rest in the muscle-y arms of your lover and watch the sunset one last time as you trade one feeling of warmth for the other. The warmth on my skin giving way to warm skin.
Ordinary Beauty
WRITING PROMPT: Describe something ordinary in a way that captures its beauty. One of the most ordinary things I can think of that is also generally not quickly linked to beauty is garbage. Specifically garbage trucks. And more specifically garbage day. And if I’m going to be down right particular about it, I’m talking about the entire Swiss watch of an apparatus called the local sanitation department that connects to the ganglion of other sanitation departments creating a national sanitation department brain that somehow, for all it’s handling of, management of and sorting of garbage single-handedly does a most pristine, fabulous, and nothing short of extraordinary job of keeping our streets, towns, cities, states and entire sprawling nation clean, and well, for the most part pretty dang beautiful. Garbage men with beautiful hearts doing a job that requires beautiful discipline to create the result of beautiful neighborhoods. This happens repeatedly. Systematically. Consistently. Without failure in a way so dependable and regular it takes on the hue of a sunrise. And indeed in most places on most mornings it happens before dawn or as the day dawns, a literal beauty truck secreting away our ugliness before the day breaks and we are forced to look at our waste and trash and gratuitous choices. But the sanitation system scrubs my conscience clean along with my streets. And I am grateful. Like Garbage Island in the pacific ocean, all of the trash in my brain has been localized in one spot, ready to be cleaned up, dissolved or hauled off when I’m ready. Until then the sanitation department, looking at our grotesque societal underbelly week after week without judgement, without faltering, is a true, steady and unshakable thing of beauty indeed. Don’t ever talk trash about your sanitation department. That’s a sure fire way to get yourself kicked to the curb.
Believe It Or Not…
Believe it or not there is no such thing as solidity The concept of matter has almost no validity When the quantum investigator looks at atoms she finds mostly empty space sparsely dotted by electrons and protons, which, if you zoom into those are also mostly empty space. Mere sparks, made of quarks. The studiers of such things are starting to think solid matter is really a matter of perception Based on how we perceive We experience a world we each conceive Based on what the mass of grey matter between our ears decides to believe But what if it has been deceived? About anything? Or everything? Then how would I know if I know what I know or if I know nothing because maybe there is nothing to know, or maybe there is nothing, like if nothing is solid then there really is no thing out there. No things at all anywhere. Or are we all just one thing, in which case the idea of being solid or not would suddenly become irrelevant And if we are all one thing then it seems logical that nothing could be considered irreverent Because it’s all being done by agreement In this matterless life that’s made of space but feels hard as cement A strange paradoxical existence I admire and simultaneously lament I don’t know how to be alive Because nobody’s taught me Everybody’s forgotten Or nobody ever knew how.Or perhaps there is now “how” to it after all. There is just being. Just what is in this very moment is also the mastery of that very same moment. It can never be improved upon because it will never return again. But if another like it comes I can be more ready, more alert, more prepared to handle it with grace, all this circumstance that’s made up of mostly space. I’ll look it in the face But like a psychedelic fractal void of intimidating color it doesn’t blink as this geometrical gaze stares unflinchingly back at me, penetrating me. I want to say it is becoming me, but just at the moment I realize how absurd that sounds I also realize something else. Of course it not becoming me, that is absurd for it has always been me, and there is nothing but me in existence in all the world. Not “me” as is Brian, but me as the consciousness that connects Brian with everything else. “me” as in the empty space that science has figured out how it works or what to call it, so it is ineptly called simply “the field”. I am the field, and I feel it fully. There is nothing to learn, there is nothing to be, there is nothing to achieve because there really is no thing at all. And so I just start laughing.
If My Favorite Mood Were A Type of Food What Would Be The Recipe to Make The Perfect Batch Every Time?
I suppose the main ingredient, like the base, the flour would be a belief in my inner power. Without that I can’t make anything at all. Have you tried making bread without flour, the enterprise is dour, and the mood becomes sour. So once I’ve measured out my six cups of inner power I’d need to add some water….the ingredient that can transform inner power into something bankable like dough. So the water is my imagination, that makes my power kneadable, and malleable. When imagination and inner power are mixed together you can beat it down and it retains its shape. You can break it apart it but it just transforms into the raw ingredients for biscuits instead of loafs. You can’t make imagination and power useless. Even without anything else involved it came become flat bread. So once I have the perfect combination of imagination and inner power, my water and my flour its time to get clear on what I’m making, so that my imagined desire can start baking. Perhaps I need yeast if I’m trying to rise to the occasion Perhaps I need salt if I’m trying to enhance a situation Perhaps I need herbs if I’m looking to spice things up Or some cheese sauce to fill my cup. Or some strawberry jam if I’m trying to create more sweetness Or just a warm, secure oven to bring my vision to completeness The recipes I could make are infinite in number I could make a salad of emotions, or use only cucumber The trick is to find pleasure in the various combinations To be a world class chef learning to bake with skill So that when life brings its inevitable tribulations We are eating what we choose, and are bellies always full.
