Blog Archives

What’s your passion?

Tonight I was walking into the corner store and sitting outside was a man smoking cigarettes and asking for change. Usually, I decline them, but tonight something moved me. When the man asked if I could spare any change I said, “Sure. I’ll give you all the change I have if you tell me something.”

He said, “What do you want to know?”

“What’s your passion?”

He looked at me quizzically and said, “What does that mean?”

“What fills your heart? What drives you onward?”

Without hesitation he answered, “Love, brother.”

As I was giving him my change, I asked him one final question. “What have you been doing to pursue that lately?”

He shook his head sadly and looked away. “Hell. I don’t even know anymore, man.”

I’ve been thinking a lot about this lately. I have a list of passions that fill my heart. But when I ask myself what I’ve been doing to pursue them, I have to admit to myself, “Hell. I don’t even know anymore man.” And why don’t I know? Why have I given up on all these things that add meaning to my life? I suppose for the same reasons most people do. Because we let life get in the way. We tell ourselves, “I’ll start on it tomorrow.” The only problem with that is Tomorrow never comes. It always turns into Today. And it’s always so hard to find the time today; there’s too much to do.

But what is passion? What does it mean?  Ultimately, our passion is what we were put on earth to accomplish. What we individually do to make and leave the world a better place. But that has been distorted and confused. We live in a world where passion has been mistaken for emotional outbursts. Look at reality television. It’s nothing but cheap emotional manipulation saturated with advertisements. The same can be said for social media outlets. Every time I scroll through a feed I go through a range of emotions. This post makes me angry. This post makes me laugh. This post tugs at my heart-strings. This post wants me to buy a new razor. And on and on. These things aren’t passions they are sleazy emotional ploys. We shouldn’t be filling our heart with them. They give our lives no meaning. In fact, they only take from us. By the time I get to the bottom of the feed, I feel empty. I usually slam my computer shut in disgust and tell myself, “Way to go, genius, you just wasted another 20 minutes of your life.” So what’s the alternative? The answer to that is easy: force a change. If you know better, do better.

We let ourselves become convinced that happiness is this false sense of security called the American Dream and we’ve sacrificed our passions on the altar of this great god called Mammon. We’ve been conditioned all our lives to believe that if we do everything according to plan, go to school, get a job, make money, get a house, fill it with shit, then we are supposed to be happy. But that’s not the case. I see more and more people unhappy with their supposed achievements. But this doesn’t necessarily mean more and more people are realizing what they need to be doing is following their passion. Too many of us are immersing ourselves in an ever-expanding myriad of distractions in order to ignore the fact that we’re miserable and unfulfilled. We are all guilty of it. We can’t really blame ourselves too much, I mean, it IS the world we were born into. But it’s not the world that we have to live in. It’s not the world that we have to leave to our children.

Things are how they are because we’ve been fooled into accepting a fiction as reality. We CAN change. We CAN refuse to accept the lie and start living in truth. But in order to do that we have to start TODAY. Are you ready? If so:

What’s your passion?

And what have you done to pursue it lately?


Present State

Awaken young minds!
To the Theater of the Unattainable Dream.

Marvel at the many puppets dancing for the pleasure of your kings.
Sitting on their thrones—fleshy, bloated, filthy.
Living in perfect accordance with the morals of Mammon.

Through it all,
leering demons stuff the orifices of our souls with hopes and dreams
stolen while the tainted innocent slept.

So sing you forgotten spirits!
Sing your joyful songs of death and suffering,
off key as they may be,
they are lovely hymns for the delicate ears of angels.

To Whom It May Concern: Sincerely

To Whom It May Concern

To Whom It May Concern: P.S.

Apparently the Devil has taken a fancy to me. Not that it’s a bad thing to be showered in her blessed glitter, that’s not what I’m trying to say. I guess what I am really trying to say is that there are these patterns I keep trying to figure out. You know, those quaint little idiosyncrasies of humanity that define us, labeling us WHO WE ARE (or something like that). I have a secret to tell you. A hidden answer to confess. You want to hear it? [When you felt like absolute harmony every moment was wrapped in some kind of indescribable honeysuckle fantasy.] A gift under the influence of an abstract concept. What does it take for people to dream together? Do you know? The results are in! The Princess of Swords is on the rise, closely following the fiery Princess of wands into abandonment to desire. (You can call it surrendering to your aching need. That’s what I do.) Cool World. This doesn’t seem real sometimes.

Her glow was almost ethereal. Almost supernatural. Almost an otherworldly manifestation of something… She became the moonlight, if only for a fragile instant. That’s what I like about it. Sometimes it is a quiet aura from a delicate soul. That’s where an aspect of the nature of beauty lies. What does it take to compose the legends of a tumultuous time? What does it take to preach the significance of soft moans and tender caresses? These are stories of their own. Legends in their own right. What if I told you that these two things were some of the gateways to splendor? Its circularity is mind boggling to say the least. I could try to say the most, but there aren’t enough words in the history of language to achieve that Herculean feat.

Life needs more piano solos. But fingers can talk in a plethora of exciting ways (all it takes is a journey into the depths of your creativity.). Romanticism is not dead; it has merely become passé. That is the fault of those who forgot what it is to experience passion. Their bodies have no life, have no connection to the Flow. There was a sparkle there. I know I saw it amidst the blue. What was it? Was it an explosion of the soul? It could’ve been bad lighting. Who knows?

It is a process. Like moving on. Memories are absorbed (made a part of you. They are a kind of patch for the soul. For everyone needs soul patches to cover the former resting places of those delicate stolen pieces.). This is called “moving on.” When memories become a permanent and unique trait about you. They are vessels of change in the smallest increments. This is why leaves fall. This is why the monkey falls. This is why cycles continue.

I spoke to Death. He was in the form of a patriarchal scorpion (caught in the fish nets of life). He told me he desires you. Desires for your universe to become his own. But fear not, the Hierophant carries the lamp of illumination that lights the pathways to the Sun. Follow him, things will be alright. Control is a four-letter word. An ordered manifestation of a universal concept of containment. This drives you mad, I can tell ( I see your restless spirit longing to be liberated. Aching for the wanton freedom of the Foolish air.
Fire is the key to this, the catalyst to the Star. Order and structure must fall. Emancipation must be achieved and maintained, if not; you will be lost to the all consuming forces of Dominion. These are the obstacles on your path: Reckless impulsivity. Fickleness. Addiction. Unfounded fear causing violent outbursts of panic-stricken anger.
These are the things to be aware of. These are the things to rise above. Lust is connected to Death is connected to The Fool is connected to the Devil (and the new Aeon begins.). The Great Jester is attracted to the Fallen Son. There is something inexplicable about him. Something to draw her curious and flighty nature to him (this is because puzzles are always intriguing until they are completed and the mysterious excitement is gone forever.) Ah, but the mischievous ram knows things. He understands the harbinger of change and welcomes it. It’s all connected…

Sometimes I feel homeless. That is part of it too, I suppose. It feels like a cold November night. The kind that is cold and windy and rainy and smells of broken hearts. In those times, I really want a home. Some place I can go to rest and be comfortable. We need a revolution of 3. But that’s hard for some to see (those of us whose number is “i” We wonder if we even exist. [Can imagination possibly be reality?]). This honky’s gone to heaven. Once upon a time, all roads led to Rome. Then the mother fucker burned to the ground. After that, all roads lead to a memory. I wonder where the roads out of memory lead. Where do those new paths of experience and excitement take those who decide to tread gingerly upon them? You were right about St. Christopher. He’s forgotten. Where do saints go when nobody believes in them anymore? Maybe they go live with the fairies and all the old gods…maybe. Or perhaps they become the new supplications of St. Jude who has no other choice but to champion their lost causes. I’d rather go live with the old gods, at least they knew how to have a good time.

I don’t know…everything. It all seems blurry every so often. I do know that I can’t stop. I can’t stop searching, can’t stop hoping, can’t stop living. What if there is more power in words than people think? What if words were what made the world what it is, made people who they are? Even though we are so much more than words, all we have are words to give us meaning. That is an intriguing thought in itself.
But how can I use words to describe it? The way it feels? How can you describe the sun consuming my nerves in golden pleasure? How can you describe the refreshing waves of soft sighs as they lap against the shores of ecstasy? How can you describe the soulful explosions in your eyes that are ignited with every smile of numbing joy that plays across your lips like a brilliant sonata? I can’t. I try, but I can’t. This is me with my head in my hands weeping tears of inadequacy and frustration. This is me wishing I were a god (because maybe, just maybe, then I’d finally be worthy.). This is me not understanding what the hell I am trying to say. This is me fading like a white fog. This is me becoming perpetual light trapped in November clouds. This is me when I’m the color fluorescent violet greenblueredpurpleburntsiennamotherofpearl.

Thank you for early morning visits. They are perfect little dreams of surreal reality that make the day beam with valiant confidence. There are smiles sometimes…I think they are supposed to be a secret. But when the eyes smile too, they tell everything. It’s not their fault, their joy is innocence. That’s where we find truth (inside those tiny vertigos of light). I apologize. I may not have the hang of this yet. I guess what I’m trying to say is————-

I can’t even remember my dreams anymore. They have been stolen from me. So please lie to me. Just like the newspapers told us to. Lie to me. Tell me they are all good dreams. Tell me there is no fear or pain or tears. Just joy and happiness and good times and perfect ambience lighting. That’s what I need. That’s what I crave. I don’t want to forget. This is going nowhere. I’m getting too old for this shit. My heart is very weary. I need to find some kind of peace. What am I trying to say? I can’t even care anymore. How fucking sad is that? How fucking sad is this? we are all broken hearts and tortured souls and emotional roller coasters. We are not ok. You are not OK. Nobody is fucking OK. Wake up and admit it, for fuck’s sake. I’m tired of weeping for you. I’m tired of weeping. I’m feeling so hopeless right now. I’m feeling like love and romance are meant to be played out by other players (I should probably stick to the fleeting minor characters from now on. Just to be safe, you know. Boundaries and all). I’m feeling like all instances of these memories in my life are a façade. What lies underneath the surface is nothing more than foolish hope. Imaginary emotions applied to realistic situations at an attempt for an interpretation with meaning and validity.

But the games never stop. They just keep on playing themselves out. Different innings or quarters or halves or however you want to divide your twisted engagements. I don’t want to be full of fear and phobia and anxiety about life and things anymore. I want to let it all go. Become somebody new altogether. Now, if I could only remember my name………………………………………..

This is an anthem for lonely mules everywhere. Would it matter if I started dating this? Does the fact mean anything? Does it make a difference? Does it matter that the Tree of Life has all of its secrets in divine strings of numerical words? So I fall again, the phantom planet tells me so. The light in the kitchen reminds me of a horror movie. That sick flickering before it sputters to life bathing the linoleum in florescent disease. Right after that moment, a dead body is usually discovered…or worse. I hope that never happens. Why don’t you meet me at that place we used to go? That place where we had those conversations that seemed to change lives. Fancies tickled with feather dusters. Cupid in a French maid’s costume. It seemed classy like that (to me, I think because I wanted something elegant. Like an old movie with a good story). Maybe I delivered the message to the wrong agent. Did you ever think of that? Out dated help controls where Buddha goes to laugh and play amongst his fields of sunlight. These mysteries are now explained. No books, just mirrors to other realms. Almost Alice, but without the growth spurts. If only tickets to Wonderland could be found wrapped around chocolate bars. It would almost be worth it. I really should be enjoying myself. I mean, it is the Apocalypse after all. The end all of all end alls. This is humanity signing off. At least we tried (well, some of us.).

God’s Dream

What is it you need? For you to remember? Can you? Do you even bother? Or is it still just a vague clump of stars? Once upon a time they meant something. Once upon a time they were a memory.

But what is that, really? He says this to the void but it doesn’t answer because the void can’t hear.

She tries to understand this, but the voice on the other end of the phone has long gone silent. She thinks the phone is dead and hangs up with a sigh. This isn’t what she’d dreamt of as an innocent girl who was still full of hopes and dreams. To her, back then, the world was an enchanted place filled with magic and wonder.

It’s her tears that miss those days the most. They paint their wistfulness on her face in angry lines. They have the answers to all the questions she or anyone has ever had. But nobody asks them because that’s the greatest secret of the universe.

If we didn’t ignore it, it wouldn’t be a secret anymore.

I know this, so stop screaming at me! He screams and the hollow walls of an alley scream it back to him. Things could end up with a knife in the back and a stain on the cement. But that’s not the way of things. Not now, not tonight. Tonight he loses his wallet somewhere between the bar and the taxicab. Later, he thinks the pretty woman he was desperately hoping to screw stole it from him.

He’ll never know she was really a man who only ever wanted to feel like his mother would feel those nights she got dressed up to go out dancing. On those nights she didn’t come home until really late. And sometimes she came home with strange men who stank like his daddy used to all the time. And sometimes she didn’t come home at all.

But that’s the story of a lot of mothers.

Yeah, but that doesn’t make it right. She tells him this matter of factly because she’s tired of hearing his excuses and lies. I wish- Sadly, she can’t finish. She forgot what that means, what it really means.

There are young and excited eyes squeezed tightly shut. Even so, she can still see the dancing red outlines of puny candle flames. She wishes so hard, she wants this one thing more than anything she’s ever wanted before in her whole life and if she gets it she promises she’ll be real good and brush her teeth every night and morning and not pull her little sister’s hair anymore and she’ll pray every night and she goes on and on. She makes it real. She believes she will have it. And why shouldn’t she? Suddenly, bright blue eyes, deep like the lazy summer sky burst open and a large and dramatic breath is taken in before—she exhales and all her wishes come true.

But she doesn’t remember things like that, not anymore. He tells this to his strictest confidant. His oldest friend. But the void doesn’t listen, because it can’t speak.

Somewhere, when God mumbles, there is thunder. Somewhere, when God screams, the wind rips apart the very fabrics of our silken reality. Somewhere, when God smiles, light parts the clouds and illuminates the skies with a subtle narcissism. Somewhere, there is a rainbow. But no one has the balls to go over it. That’s the story, the legend, the scientific fact.

I guess I’ve always had an overactive imagination. He confesses this honestly and openly. But the void doesn’t ponder the point. Because it opts not to think. And it doesn’t care if you get too tired to go on. That’s the point I suppose. Another big secret of the universe for everyone to ignore.

There, I told you. I gave you all the information you need to make yourself an enlightened being. But what does that really mean? I’m saying, when we get down to the brass tax, do you (being inherently human or otherwise and thus inherently flawed) have what it takes to master it?

I smell the cigarette smoke as it singes my nostrils with eye watering proficiency. They sing their thanks to Jesus. Now, eyes water for a different reason.

It’s his tears that remember. That really remember what it was like. And he let’s them just wash it all away. He lets them escape into oblivion…into the void…and never gives it a second thought. Who deserves anymore chances?

Let’s just throw them all to the hells. Those nasty irredeemable pestilential souls. Let’s kick every last one of them to hell’s tropical and romantic resort of unending fiery torment. First Class, baby. Just like you always wanted. That’ll make the Christians happy. That way they can finally give the world a big:


She can’t remember the last time she felt so good. She can’t recall the last time that life was translated with an esoteric caress. Those occult kisses that stimulate the right charkas remind her body what it feels like to be desired. She laughs and hugs herself. The rain doesn’t bother her despite the chill. And everything is up in the air again.

But that’s not the point. The point is: You saw it, didn’t you? When you were younger, you saw it and it scared you shitless. Your parents told you it wasn’t real, but that didn’t matter. Because you saw it!! And if you try hard enough, you can remember just how real it was.

So I told her, Let’s get. it. on. Hell yeah I did. She didn’t expect that, neither. But I mean, she should have. I mean, she was practically begging for it. Come in the place all dolled up like that. Did you see that skirt, man? Hell yeah, is what I’m sayin. I could really dig a girl like that, man. I mean, I could really dig on her. Sumthin’, I dunno, classy or sumthin’ about a girl like that. I mean, she’s a total slut, you can tell, but she has class or style or sumthin’ man. You dig? You really dig? I could use another fuckin’ drink. I mean, I could really use another fuckin’ drink. I’ve been dry for like ten minutes or sumthin’ man. Can you believe it? Ten whole got damn minutes!

Minutes turn into eternities when confronting the mirror. He looks at himself and wonders who he is and how he came to possess this body, these thoughts, those actions. He can’t remember. He tries, but he can’t remember. Then the moment fades into absurdity.

But that’s how it’s been lately, I’m telling you. An afternoon Bloody Mary waits, untouched by lips of any sort. …It just…waits…

Then the world just seems silly. It’s like completely foolish, all of it. Everything. All the people and places and even the tiniest actions that people do. They all appear to pointless to a degree of absurdity that is pointless in attempting to describe. When that happens, I just want to sit down and go away. You know? Leave my body and just float away. It’s very lonely. This she says to the sleeping figure laying next to her. She doesn’t bother listening for an answer.

I know it’s alright already. I just like saying that. It, I don’t know, it makes me feel better being able to vent like that. You know?

It’s dead is what it is. Dead like a doornail. Whatever that means. Dead as a doornail. What the hell does that mean?

This one time, the world was spinning and it just keep turning over and over and over and over like being caught in an infinite loop-de-loop ride. That’s when I went to the desert and got scared because the void was coming to get me. And then it did get me and I was floating in it and I swam, like a little froggie in the pond, over to this beautiful face b’cuz I knowed that if I could get there, I’d get away. And then she touched me, she was an angel. She was! And when she touched me then’s when I could remember my body again. And how I knowed that she was an angel is that she brought me back. I even said so lots of times. I said; I’m back, now. I’m back. And I was just hugging the angel and hugging her and feeling so glad that I was away from the black void. B’cuz that was a scary place. Is this a child’s dream? I think so. Is this a dream to be conquered? I think so.

And somewhere, far above our conceptions of Him, God rolls over and mumbles thunderous supplications to Himself. He’ll sleep a few more minutes and then He’ll get up. Then, there will be work to do. Just 10 more tiny minutes…Then, the world will change…

%d bloggers like this: