WRITING PROMPT: “It Takes Too Long…”
It takes to long to make home made bread And it takes too long to overcome existential dread It takes too long to make dreams come true And it seems to go by too fast whenever they do It takes too long to find the perfect mate But it also takes too long to get the check on every bad date Sometimes I think I’ll fuck anything and other times I think I’ll wait It takes too long to let my own voice be heard Which is why I always tend to come in third It takes too long to do things the way you should And it seems impossible that I’ll ever by fully understood It takes too long to start from scratch But it feels so wrong to let life snatch All my hope about a better tomorrow So I throw up my hands and surrender to sorrow And think about the peace I could one day borrow If I can’t have any that’s my very own that is. It takes too long to save up a down payment Or to fully awaken from our cultural enslavement It’s been taking too long for our next phase of evolution Which is why we’re on the brink of revolution May the light of the divine show itself as our solution Its taking too long for the ice caps to melt Or is that just a gloomy story we’ve all been dealt It’s taking to long to find my happy chewy center The place where I feel safe and few can enter Sometimes I think I’ve glimpsed it, the hedgy labrynth almost clearing But in one anxious breath it vanishes, without anybody hearing And as I search for it again I can almost sense it nearing And that responsiveness is what I find so magical and endearing.
WRITING PROMPT: When I am aligned with my higher self…
When I am aligned with my higher self I am non-verbal. I am uncontainable by language I am enough I am complete I am perfection I am realized realization realizing itself newly for the first time in just this exact way at this exact time I am a prism, crystalline awareness, flawless, Hard as diamond and malleable as marshmallow fluff I am present I am flowing, exuberant. Enthusiastic or not, and if not, I’m gentle about it, full of grace and understanding. I am okay I am full I am well I am better than well When I am aligned with my higher self I am surrendered Strapped in Adding what little skill I can as I lean into the wind and thunderous rain A race car driver in a race car twisting around in a tornado At some point you just have to let go, let the seatbelt fulfill its destiny doing what it was designed to do, letting the tornado do what it was designed to do…and knowing that if I survive this state of surrender, or die and am resurrected anew I am, from that moment forward going to do, fearlessly, what I have been designed to do… Now where did I put those design plans again? I wonder if I truly aligned with my higher self if I’m after anything anymore. Perhaps when I’m fully aligned I’ll have traded in seeking for finding, asking for receiving and knocking for invitations to enter. Perhaps when it feels internally like any door to any opportunity can fling open at anytime with a kindly little knock then outer reality will reflect this expansiveness. And paradoxically, I will be expanded internally by then and the need for outer reality to change to match will no longer exist, though this mirror reality in which we live and move and have our being will shift anyway. It will have to. I am learning to master the art of desire…so desire gives me pleasure instead of pain, a sense of hope instead of overwhelm, a sense of possibility where there used to be unworthiness. So wishes don’t become burdens and the inner judge doesn’t use my dreams like daggers. Mastering the art of how to desire, without burning to death in the raging fire is the task to which I now aspire. Buddha, I’m going to nirvana and beyond….if that’s not too presumptuous.
WRITING PROMPT: I’ve Been Thinking
I’ve been thinking about the future. What I’m going to amount to, specifically. And as dreadfully cliche as this is going to predictably sound, I’ve been thinking about the past. What I was supposed to accomplish by now, and what I’ve lied about, stolen, manipulated and schemed my way into instead of living by faith. I’ve also been thinking about that alternate reality we all have where the past is shinier and the future certain and brightly lit by the flashbulbs of fame and the sunrises of serenity, with a breathtaking view of victory. Which means in the end I’ve been thinking about nothing constructive, nothing worthwhile, nothing useful, ironically, to my future. I’m not even thinking, I’m ruminating. That’s like thinking when it gets committed to an asylum. “Oh, yes, we had that thinking committed when it become prone to rumination,” some great aunt with dementia might mutter as they drove away to leave my over-thinking ass stuck in the bowels of my shit-for-brain mind. I’ve been thinking too much, clearly. And not too clearly I might add. I don’t want to think about what I’ve been thinking about anymore. I wonder what I haven’t been thinking about. I haven’t been thinking about how it could all go right. Or how it could all work out, how I could get the guy and do the twist and shout. Even writing this line feels like a propped up whimzy, because we all know true love is actually truly flimzy. I’ve been thinking its harder to have faith the older one gets in the ruts of their past thinking. Is thinking just like sinking, quicksand with no outstretched hand. Or like a shamed prostitute slinking away in the night Made of nothing but fright and wheat thins. The two minute warning is making me think I should brighten this up bit but we’re heading into darkness, less sunlight, and the abyss of a new England winter. So a clever ending just ain’t on the holiday menu tootse.
Imagine One Day You Woke Up & Could No Longer Feel the Emotion of Inadequacy…
What would be different? What has changed? If I woke up tomorrow morning and could no longer feel inadequateI’d worry less about etiquette And whether the participle comes before or after the predicate I’d worry less in general, about opinions that I now let diminish me And it seems like they all but finish me But instead I suppose I’d feel adequate, And say ‘enough is enough’ to not enough. I’d take a massive hit of the good life, yeah, that’s the stuff. And then I’d channel my enough-ness into my work, my fun, my play, my life, I’d likely feel an ending to so much internal strife That controlled me prior to my self-defeating emotions flying away like carefree birds on a wire And so little would be so dire I might even just take a load off, laugh a little more with a caramel apple sider and cozy up with blankets, and security, and my family and my hope intact, All snuggly by the fire. I’d feel less like a pauper and more like a sire. A king would rise up every day where a gentile use to sleep And that would be adequate enough for sure To take many a faithful leap.
Don’t Get Pizza Wrong!
This piece was inspired by a writing prompt a fellow coach/writer gave in a group: “Write about something you are a snob about.” So here it goes. My thoughts on what makes really good pizza. DON’T GET PIZZA WRONG: The disc must be chewy, and the red drippings must be the perfect balance of tangy and sweet The melted rubber on top should be charred and not burned, like the chewy disc underneath I am generally of the idea that when it comes to the hard things in life you can’t do it wrong if you just show up and put yourself out there. But if I’m honest that doesn’t apply to everything. You can do pizza wrong, and in fact most do. It is not meant to have apples and walnuts for toppings Keep it simple stupid and don’t get so carried away with your shoppings A good classic thin crust cheese can reach the heights of sublimity While a deep with the works can be a blight if the reason you want it is just fast delivery There is more than one way to make really good pizza, But there are infinite ways to make one so terrible it can just demoralize entire civilizations. Don’t serve me flat bread with goat cheese and pass that off as my zaa Because that shit’s too fancy and usually tastes kinda blah Pizza doesn’t go on bagels, no matter what the freezer section of your local GMO factory passing itself as a grocery store tries to tell you. And it doesn’t come frozen period. If you have to defrost it, then you’ve totally lost it. And you might as well toss it. I don’t mean to sound cold, but if I can be so bold, If the pizza you’ve chosen starts out frozen Then I’m afraid a modern version of snake oil is what you’ve been sold This is a story that needs to be told Because pizza can be healing, and heaven When the dough is properly leavened And it can be the stuff of childhood memory and nostalgia But not if it gives you heartburn, or the shits or the tummy tum tums, So remember not all pie is created equal And calzones are not at all to be considered pizza’s sequel Pizza is a stand alone film, a box office smash And it has to be baked with love, not dropped off by door dash. So if I sound a little crusty, or perhaps a little saucy It’s because this is very important so I don’t mind being bossy I don’t normally like to make others wrong, but if you’re using BBQ sauce or buffalo chicken then you’re singing a tone deaf song. You think it goes in a microwave Oh behave Make your dough from scratch, and cook your organic sauce for 8 plus hours, Then bake at 500 degrees, while you finally take your showers. Then you serve your bounty, hot and tasty and divine And create your family memories knowing everything is fine. And that this is how you dine.
If I Were A Ghost…
IF I WERE A GHOST… Could I still be haunted? Could I still be daunted? And I would still get all jealous and sour when people flaunted their shiny objects and expensive trinkets? It’s hard to imagine, but I tend to think it’s quite possible that a ghostly existence comes with similar pitfalls and challenges and mental tournaments; because despite halloween with all it’s ornaments a ghost was once a person, in theory anyway. And the best part of being human is learning and yearning and feeling that ego death churning. We sometimes like to hide under sheets so we already have that in common with ghosts. Or get three sheets to the wind when things get too scary so we also have things in common with a whole family of ghosts. If the best part of being human is the depth of experience and the range of emotion then the best part of being ghostly might be a similar thing or quite another notion or even more depth and range, vaster than the ocean. If I were a ghost I’d glide through walls that as a human I seem to have to keep breaking down or pushing over. If I were a ghost I’d see right through to the heart of the matter and sometimes for fun make my humans jump with an unexpected clatter. I wonder if I’d be more all knowing, or more in the dark? I hope it’s the former and not the latter I’d like to think if I were a ghost I’d be a consummate host not so much haunting the joint as protecting it, guarding it, making it safe for those who live on after. I’d cozy up and watch from the highest rafter. If I were a ghost I’d never ghost you I’d be right by your side maybe causing shiver or chills or unexpected thrills but I’d always toast you. When the goblins or gouls came a knockin’ I’d tell ‘em this is my haunted house So keep on moving, keep on walkin’ there’s no room for any more stalkin’. So I’d be this invisible force slaying your demons and dragons, like a friendly Casper-y, hobbit-y Bilbo Baggins. Just dutifully following my new and glorious quest To look after my descendants So they can maybe taste transcendence And realize they have already passed the test And can finally and fully, in peace, rest. And I’d realize I’m not alone up here but supported by all my dead ancestors And we are all looking down, watching our cycle breakers Shake their money makers And shatter old mistakers Because though I’m a ghost I am with you and so are all the other ghosts that died long ago We are your sacred lineage And we watch you, support you, cheer for you Because we’ve been misunderstood, as you have. And we love Halloween because this thinning veil means we maybe, might just get to say hello again, and good bye, and in that haunting exchange realize that ‘hello’ and ‘good bye’ aren’t relevant anymore, because we are with each other always. Happy Halloween I love and trust you humanity. -Brian
What Are You Saying A Resounding “Yes” To?
Geez, I don’t know. First thing that comes to mind is that I’m saying yes to being broken. I have a broken tail bone and I’m embracing this down time. I’m going with the flow, learning and growing, right? Or am I simply escaping into television and cannabis? Am I crawling out my life and into someone else’s? Am I crawling out my mind and letting the plant float me up away from my problems? Or am I being too hard on myself? How do you “face your demons” when everyone knows demons are too scary to look at? Um, that’s why we have television, dummy. So we can look at that instead. Higher Self: Yeah, but sometimes the TV has demons on it? That’s different, those demons are fake, and mostly always loose, so it’s good. HS: And some would say the TV itself is demonic? Okay, well I think things have the meaning we give them. HS: Yeah, but I mean, the emf waves that come off your TV. The CIA released declassified docs saying that the waves from old TUBE tvs can be used to effect the nervous system of humans. Really? HS: Yep. So what am I supposed to do, say “no” to TV now too? HS: Yep. I’m supposed to be thinking of something to say “yes” to, though, remember. HS: Say “yes” to your health. Ooof, I felt that one. And I just realized, saying “yes” to my health might mean saying “no” to other things, but the YES is larger and more long term and more important than all the “NO’s” that get me there. HS: Yes! *Brian blushes at his higher self. So wait, tho, are you saying I have to stop watching all TV? HS: No, I’m saying that when you saying “no” to some things you love, realize that it is because you are saying yes to something else far more intangible, but often far more important to you. You’re in a physical body so the immediate is always more palpable to you. But the long term, the small changes over time that lead to massive changes in who you are and how you live, those are where joy is deep and everlasting. You kinda lost me. HS: I’m saying believe in yourself. Be gentle with your self. Make piles of small changes. And when you find yourself lamenting too many “no’s”, try and remember the larger aspect of your new life that you are really saying yes to in that moment. Um, examples please: HS: When you say no to sugar you say yes to fitness. When you say no to grudges you say yes to tranquility. When you say no to certainty you say yes to exploration and discovery. When you say no to a night out you say yes to rested body. When you say no to an old habit you say yes to a new one. Okay, that’s pretty clear. HS: I thought so, yes! So what am I saying a resounding yes to right now? HS: From my perspective you are saying yes to expansion, yes to trusting the divine, to having faith in the design and to no longer being bashful about how brightly you know how to shine. But what does that look like practically? HS: I think you know. I want you to say it. HS: It means you own your struggles, and your journey, and you share it, and know that any rejection is really our protection against whatever isn’t meant for you. That’s very scary. HS: Do you think you can say a resounding yes to it. Nope. Not yet. I can say yes, but whether it ends up being resounding or not, I’ll surrender that to you. HS: Perfect, now you’re gettin’ it.
Describing the Most Beautiful Sound I’ve Ever Heard (A Sensory Piece)
Is the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard a ringing? Is it a steady sound or a wavering sound? Could it be a dinging, or am I more in search of a pinging. Perhaps it sound like a clanging But definitely not like a clanking, that’s more an awful sound, I’d imagine oft used in pranking… Or spanking, if it were being done to a robot with a metal paddle. Is the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard a singing? Is it the musings of a human voice, or a hand on an instrument stringing? Does metal make this beautiful sound or is created out of wood Is the beautiful sound a whooshing, or a sloshing, would that even sound any good? Sometimes when I wax poetic I’d like to say its the sound of my own voice that’s so beautiful. That’s not at all true, it’s really the idea that contains the beauty, and ideas come from something much much smarter than us. The vibration of ideas comes from much much higher From the clouds it can transpire that an idea ignites in a way to inspire, and create an almost holy fire. Like freedom and equality. Electricity and running water. The mother fucking cronut. Perhaps the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard is a rumbling The kind that comes from a groundswell brought about by those same kinds of fiery ideas that caused institutions to start tumbling, and politicians to start bumbling. Maybe the most beautiful sound is destruction, because like a climatic, cathartic crechendo a the end of an impassioned orchestral plea, it hits every note, blazes a trail of glory impossible to follow again even right down to your cells, destroys your ego and leaves you humble and breathless in the face of such creativity. You know, like a forest fire does. But I actually think the most beautiful sound is the sound perfection makes when humans laugh at their monsters and their imperfect, even offensive jokes. When taking things seriously becomes seriously out of the question. Yeah, that sounds beautiful, I like the sound of that for sure.
The Perpetual Conversation That Never Really Was…
This fictional conversation was inspired by the writing prompt: “Imagine your inner lizard is a character in a fictional scene, write about a moment when something triggers its fear.“ Brian sits next to a crying teenager, comforting them. A parent approaches. PARENT: Why you tryin’ a tell people how to live their lives? Who died and made you God? ME: Well, actually, we’re all God, in a sense. You see the universe is a fractal and we are all just individual reflections of a greater reality. PARENT: Sounds like garbage. Some woo woo crap. ME: I assure you it’s not its… PARENT: Well, do you have all of your vices under control? ME:Well no, but I — PARENT:Exactly, so you come in here, a bag of dysfunctions yourself and you think you can tell me or my kid how to live? ME: I don’t think I’m a whole bag of dysfunct— PARENT: My God, such arrogance. Who do you think you are? ME:I’m sorry, I am definitely not trying to tell anyone how to live, or how to behave? Only what works for me to lessen my own suffering. PARENT:Well, la dee dah. Who asked you? ME: I didn’t have to be asked, it’s sort of my calling. *Parent rolls eyes ME: Well, like not a calling, but you know, like a purpose. It’s like, what gives meaning to my minutes. PARENT:Meaning to your minutes? Are you a poet now too? ME:Well, I’ve never been published if that’s what you mean, but otherwise, yeah, I guess I’m a poet too. PARENT: Listen. You are a dysfunctional poet who isn’t even sure if he has a god damn mother fucking calling or not, so while you figure it out, how about you stay the hell away from me and my kid. *I don’t look up, I can’t. I just nod. PARENT: Come on, Karen, we’re going to leave. This man-child can’t help you. Some degree from the Martha Beck school for energy specialists or whatever, forget it. I’d rather you get a nose job and have friends. KAREN: Um, thanks. I think. Parent and Karen walk off. Karen looks back and waves at me. I smile back, hoping she’ll remember the body compass techniques I taught her for when she’s picking her major. I take a few deep grounding breaths as the thought storms rage. The accusations, like gale force winds, knock my illusions and assumptions around like straw in a hurricane. Am I a fraud? Do I have a right to charge people for something I feel called to do? Am I dysfunctional? Am I really that dysfunctional? Do I have to be fully functional to help people? I’d like to think of myself like a fountain of healing. But like a soda fountain. So yeah, I’m not in tip top condition, the Sunkist is broken, the Diet is empty and if you try for Hawaiian Punch you get squirted in the eye. But all the other flavors work perfectly and no matter what you choose I can help quench your thirst every single time. The soda fountain analogy falls apart here because soda is toxic and poisonous and all the things are wrong with it, but besides all the foundational ways in which this analogy doesn’t work, it also does work. And that’s a lot like being a life coach while still trying to get your own shit together. *A new client calling on my cell. This time I answer with a new greeting: ME: Hot Mess Life Coaching, helping you keep your shit together while mine falls apart. How can I help you?
I Wish I Had Paid More Attention When…
How can I answer this, it is impossible to know, because I wasn’t paying enough attention to this on going show I wish I had paid more attention when I was feeling content. What was I doing? What was I feeling? Believing?How was I behaving? Hell, what was I eating? How was I sleeping and who was I sleeping with? I want to know, remember and recreate every single detail of past contentments, past joys, past triumphs, if only I’d paid more attention. I wish I had paid more attention when I was vital and young Where did that time go? What had I planned to create? What did I aspire to and who did I admire? I see now how minutes stack like bricks one on top of the other to create structures out of habits and patterns and, and decades and cement bars Maybe I’d recognize something useful in this time cage, if only I’d paid more attention I wish I’d paid more attention when I was living out what inspired me Instead of concentrating on all the things that tired me And required me to perspire and pull energy from anywhere like a reluctant vampire Inspiration is what freedom tastes like. It’s what makes liberation liberating and it makes the contents of moments matter even though they are formed out of the formlessness of atoms and thoughts. I’d love to be able to recreate it on demand, to live in it, bathe in it, drink from it, and I’d live there, soaking in it, minute by minute, if only I could remember exactly how I got there. How did I find inspiration or did it come hunting for me once? And now I’m just a trophy on a wall without even knowing I’ve been shot, drained, stuffed, groomed and now live all eternity decorating some hunter’s fire place, a deer head, forever caught in the headlights of my own failure. I’d love to find inspiration again, if only I’d paid more attention.
