Doctors and Fairies

I remember laying entwined in her universe, singing The Beatles, The Beach Boys, the feel good vibes of optimism and positivity, whistling the tune of love, which floated up and through my eyes, blinking acceptance and patience in both. I never saw the slap, the spin, the crash crush coming…

…FLASH…

My eyes roll out of my head and back to her, fuzzy, wavy orb to definite form. She pushes a raft with my bloodied skull upon it, further, further into the cool, blue ocean tide. She never jumps on, instead she heads back to the sand made of chains and the trees made from brains. She stands there waving goodbye or hello as I slip into unconsciousness without her kiss.

Do fairies exist? She dances tiny in my palm, sipping whiskey, wine and gin. Is it a dream? She whispers curiousities into my ear with the lightest breath, which creates a wild whirlwind within. The raft breaks, cracks, smashes, tears, capsizes. I reach out to her. She spits words of hurt and hate and flies away with another, who takes her by the shoulder. She follows because they have that thing in common.

Washed up, I find some solace, a place for the storm to quieten on the inside in a hot room with The L Word and icecream, huddled under blankets. If I crawled the walls, I don’t remember, but I’m on the ceiling. I stay here emptying the water from my lungs, heart and eyes, before life begins biting at my arse like an over excited dog wanting to play. I can’t ignore it. The heartbreak is leaving and in its place comes the healing.

Rat Race

Indian Aaron bounces over the Las Vegas casino carpeted ballroom floor in bright white sneakers, with small shiny beady eyes that dart here and there and a long nose which runs down the centre of his triangular face below a flat cap, I’m surprised at the absence of a long, skinny tail trailing behind him.

“There is a different kind of yoga; the idea is to burn it all up.” He says, after jumping onto the stage and seeing a yoga mat.  “If someone wants to be an alcoholic because they think drinking is the best thing in the world, they drink and drink and drink and drink, until they realize it’s poison, then they won’t drink no more. Burn them all up. Do it now. Then you’ll be free from desire and enjoy everything with joy because they’ll be no desire, attachment or suffering.”

He runs a long, slender finger over the strings of a communal guitar.

“Everything people have told themselves they are, they’re not. They’re something completely different. Do it now, without fear. Burn it up. Reality is whatever we make it.” He jumps off the stage and runs along the side of the ballroom bar, disappearing out into the oozing neon street.

SaViNg ThE wOrLd WiTh A sMiLe

We’re saving the world with our smiles because we have love in our hearts and we want to share it, show it, and spread it. It’s the simplest, smallest, most effective gesture we can use, it brings lightness to being and it can flip the day around, bringing sun ray waves to dark mood shades and rain puddle splashes to desert dry sadness.

It’s easy for the mouth to curl upwards and the heart to beat a harmonious tune to skip along to, when the bounce in the step takes us over the moon and through the stars, rolling in Venus and spin twirl dancing with Mercury.  It’s a little tougher to remember, when circled by armour and weaponry, where flurries of attack are delivered with tongues or grey, concrete walls, spanning far and wide loom gloomily, where the only contrast in colour is from a sign repeating, ‘No touching, no breathing, no living allowed.’ Or stepping, slipping, suffocating in the quicksand blob of a broken heart. Still, these are the times when it matters most to remember, remember to love.

When we fill ourselves with love in the darkest desolation of our days and the brightest revelation of our nights, we live with a peace that remains throughout all the wild storms that may come and go. It’s not always in the gesture of a smile, ‘We can’t always can,’ says a Spanish Jane Russell, fast becoming a best friend. A great reminder, that we’re not machines on the crystalised conveyor belt of darkness or the sticky thick syrup belt of happiness. The light guides the way, but it can also blind the way. However, the truth and the magic live forever in the feeling of love.

Spare Some Change? Make A Change!

The bums, the homeless, the drunks sheep walk through the streets, scavenging for a dime and a drink, mumbling mind madness like a string pulled from their gullets with words upon it, expressed in slurry monotone mumbles, where the only difference in pitch comes from an anger that erupts sporadically like a volcano with hiccups.

I wonder if I’ve become jaded and tainted by seeing this so frequently, no longer do I make eye contact or pass change with a smile. Now, I deny their presence. I walk by as though the mumbling mad men and cracked out angry eye rolling, teeth grinding women do not exist.

I mention this one afternoon, walking with a wonder flower on a mission down the mission, as a zombie in ripped clothes, moves towards us with an outstretched hand. He doesn’t get his feed, our feet move by him quicker than he can literally blink.

“Instead of giving spare change, what if everybody saved it and put it together to open up a space where hot meals could be prepared and given out daily.”

“Exactly! I don’t give them anything,” she says, stomping forwards. “People say they are against Bush and all he stands for, but then they support it by throwing money to these guys who will head straight to the liquor store or crack dealer.”

There is a way to change.

I’m in the middle of a bunch of hippies on a joyride through the city. I listen to stories of getting drunk, so fucking wasted, puking and falling in it and my mind spins. These kids aren’t twenty. They’re not new to this malarkey. There’s some kind of rotten stench of a contradiction in the beliefs of, Wake up! Wake up! Wake up world, when there are wishes to fall asleep by noon, floating away in a bottle of gin. There is a way to change and things are beginning to move, but it has to be at a higher level.

The jingle jangle gypsy Jew and the sparkle eyed hippie share their ideas and visions, which shines a light through the midnight rain. We sip coffee and tea, eating cake in a diner down the Castro talking philosophy, sustainability and love through the night.

“She’s writing a book about love.” says the jingle jangle gypsy Jew.

“That’s great.” smiles the sparkle eyed hippie. “I believe love is seeing each other. I mean, really seeing one another. Everything else is bullshit.”

“You mean, without the layers, the façade, the ego?” I ask.

She nods wide eyed like a rabbit, a rabbit munching cheese cake.

“It’s harder now because the culture has changed, it’s becoming more individualistic. People look for love and connection in all these other places in the outside world. When a community is formed the basic need of being together is met, so there’s more contentment and love. Instead of individualism, we should all be tapping into the one big consciousness.” says jingle jangles, warming her hands on the steaming coffee cup in front of her.

 

Talks of finding land and beginning communities brings joyful bounces and happy hands willing to help, that high five in union, in agreement that there is a way to change.

Needed is a team, a team of lovers whose first priority is helping the land and the souls who roam it without excess, addiction or paranoia distorting visions. Rising above the ego in all its slippery sneaky guises is a major freaking plus. The fame of being a hero on the other side of the tracks, the political activist lost in political activism, the labels that are slapped upon us by others to kill, to still their fear of the unknown, labels we slap upon ourselves when we pat our backs, well done, only cover up the true meaning of why we are here.

There is a way to change and the pieces are slowly coming together as likeminded lovers collaborate and create with a balance of theory and action and logic and dream.

Make.Love.Share.Love.Be.Love

Destruction and Creation

“There’s aluminum in deodorant.” she tells me, wide eyed. “Chemicals in tinned tomatoes.” she continues. “Mmmmmmm, Chanelle mmmmmm, a squirt of cancer behind the ears, on the wrist. Lets make it easy. Aim for sensitivity.”

Her movements are quick and bendy. It’s like watching Jim Carrey talk politics on acid on fast forward. I sit with the bendy beauty painting countries blood heart red as she plays Cairo riots on youtube.

“That sound is lead bullets.” she says, turning to me.

She appears devastated just before bed.

“I need some beauty in the world.” she says, rising and sighing from her folded arms on the table.

We watch roses opening to classical music and magic mushrooms growing, phallus like erection, up and up, nature’s design grows and opens to the light.

The Split Daze

A sunny day in the park, perched on a bench, I sit reading with head bowed, absorbed and hiding in the shadow of a word, like strength or desire, mingled with bums who sleep on benches next to their mobile homes; trolleys filled with black plastic bags. I sit as Asian women dance together, spin, step, twirl and laugh, genuinely. Their eyes do not dart to others to fill their cup. They are overflowing. Couples lay cocooned in one another’s arms, breathing, believing, being. Others stand in awe of the beauty the cathedral possesses, where Marilyn Monroe and Joe Dimaggio posed for wedding photos. The cameras rise and click. I dive back into the open pages and swim in the tranquility of acceptance for a chill wave second before the undercurrent of confusion and ego begins to pull at my feet.

A shadow appears on the ground before me, I do not look up, as assumption grabs me around the neck, choking compassion and starving oxygen to an open mind. I ignore the shadow, but it doesn’t leave. Instead it moves forward, becoming a foot which nudges mine. I look up as David smiles. David and I were once colourful neighbours, dressing in tie dyes and rainbows. We aren’t neighbours anymore, now David appears in a sunshine blink to walk a block at midnight, reciting poetry on love and philosophy or turns a corner on a hazy afternoon offering freshly picked rosemary before disappearing back into the city. He sits down next to me.

“I’ve seen you before I got sick right?”

“No, what’s up?”

“Oh man, I had three heart attacks. I’ve only got forty percent of my heart working now. I lost my sight. I’m getting better. But through it I realized more than ever is all we have is love, all that matters is love. The rest, forget about it. I mean, sure we gotta pay our bills, but we gotta love sister, y’know? How’s your love?” he asks, bowing closer, bring his face close to mine and smiling.

“I’m going through a breakup. It’s O.K.”

“Jerk. It doesn’t matter though. We have to accept and forgive. If we have forgiveness, we let go and can love again tomorrow. Without forgiveness, people hold on to that shit for years. Even if ignorance is involved, you’ve just gotta love, accept and forgive. I’ve got old girlfriends who are married and had kids asking me for answers. ‘Shall I try and make it work?’ They want me to tell them what to do. Jeez, none of it matters. People break up. It happens. It doesn’t matter. Sure to the ego it’s damaging, but let go and love.”

David’s arm is hanging over my shoulders as he talks.

“This is why I’m like this now. I haven’t got time to pretend like I don’t care.” He wipes his nose with a tissue. ” I love; I want to show my love, so I do. I’ve felt a kindred connection to you from the moment I met you. I love you. I’m old and ugly now compared to when I was a rock star, but all these people come at me wanting answers. We attract people. If they don’t feel enlightened by us, they expect us to fuck them. We have a different kind of struggle, y’know. I’m rambling on. Hey, I just read a cool quote from E.E Cummings, ‘Trust your heart if the seas catch fire, live by love though the stars march backwards.’ Love, love, love, that’s all that matters.”

Doug Delivers

Doug, a middle aged Christian, stumbling across the western plain for the first time, accepts it all gladly with a smile on his face, a chuckle bounce to his belly walk and a youthful twinkle in his open eyes. He is after all, born in the week of acceptance.

“San Francisco is the only city you can ride a bike, naked, smoking a joint and not get arrested. I saw that last night.” He says, sipping his coffee.

His eyes, gentle and kind glaze over as he replays the night’s events in his mind. He nods and says yup, as he sips his coffee. His vibration is calm, time does not exist here, only the distant sound of waves on a shore. I wonder if he’s made from shells.

“Hell, maybe I’ll go out today naked, smoke a joint and bike around with my tour book or a T. Shirt that says I’m From Texas.” He says, chuckling.

Nine x Nine = Forty

Forty days and forty nights, the waves, the good days followed by the bleak daze. Freedom swirls of limitless unknowns pump heart from rib cage to skip and dance to the moon, where mind and body is light and free with no gravity.

To flash bang, free falling, meteorite exploding, no parachute, no warning, drip dreaming of invisibility with frantic motion to be seen. Crash shatter broken bones upon the ceiling from crawling up the walls, like splintered mirrors reflecting all the horrors of the nines blinking in eyes that deny the unequivocal truth.

Blink… blink… blink… Wake up slow, freedom breathes for a moment before an inhalation brings recognition as the sun slips behind a lumpy grey cloud bringing tears that choke a throat, but fail to fall and roll down cheeks. There is no truth in stutter uttered words. There is no release. The curtain goes up; as I hear the bells jingle from a hat.

For every thunder echo tick of a second booming through a stone walled labyrinth of mind brings with it a slow rolling compression, that leaves pine trees once shooting up to the stars, knotted and gnarly, crooked and stripped. It brings with it the tremor of an almighty earthquake, like the rumble footstep stride of an angry giant above the sky. A whisper from the tremor promises, beyond the petrified shakes of heads, to shatter all in its wake.

Flash! The lights come up, a woman dressed in stripy tights, corsets and feathers in her hair swings back and forth across the vast candle lit room, above tables filled with wine glasses, thick moustaches, rosy red cheeks, round men bobbing back and forth with laughter, buttons popping from waistcoat, women giggling daintily patting the corners of their mouths with brilliant white napkins laid upon their long, deep red skirts. Lion tamers stand in top hats next to lions roaring. The swirl flower carpet grows. The woman swings above like a pendulum, hynotising eyes into make believe. Until a giraffe gallops through, clicking fingers, blink breathe bringing another reality, where a silent fight with jealousy unfolds. Nobody knows. Two days later, jealousy weak and hungry stumbles off in search of a rise to feed off. Clarity appears, silently offering a chair to sit upon, where I remain, content for days.

There are no straight lines in nature. The heart beat rises and falls like the breath from bosoms that brings both pain and joy. Without one, the other doesn’t exist, standing in lines, red light stops, green light changes, one step forward, marching machines…

We move like water and we have hearts that feel. We are unlimited! If only we could really see it, truly believe it, then we’d sit on the moon, we’d swing from the stars, bathe in the magma of the core, our hearts scarred and open would melt the chains that stop connection and we’d all explode into one another. We’d leave lasting impressions from the scent of a lover to a notion behind the deep dimples of a smile, which would be remembered three lifetimes later, when a tiny, delicate flower in the middle of nowhere holds a man captivated for hours by the fragrance it possesses. At the same time, the flower would dance, affected by a melodious tune vibrating from the man’s soul. Yet, if a passerby happened to come by the scene, untouched by it all, he may walk by the flower and the man without a double take or he may believe the flower was moved by the wind, on the stillest, quietest day known to all of humankind.

 

Take Good Care

Weight: Three pounds. Contents: Tent, sleeping bag and raincoat.

“So I don’t have to struggle.” smiles Glenn, who often sleeps outside in the woods.

“The only time I see people is when I shop for groceries. I eat tomatoes, spinach, cabbage and I eat it all raw. I just eat a lot of oats and nuts. I’d be by myself, smoke weed and embrace nature. I’d see so many animals and just talk to them. I’ve seen many things. I walked along the beach in Peru for hours not seeing anybody. Nobody sunbathed there; if anyone was there it was to work, to collect shells. I watched a bird fly through the air and swoop down, diving into the water. It broke its wing and got washed up. I sat and watched it. It knew death was coming and it waited patiently. Two vultures joined the party, they didn’t fly in and peck its eyes out, no, they also waited patiently for death to come. I sat there and watched it all. I felt the bird fly through the sky, to feel what it’s like to dive down for food into water, to crush, snap and break bone and to wait. I watched two tiny birds fresh from their eggs try and push a third out, to push the weakest from their nest, so they would have more to eat. I saw it with three little birds in a nest and I see it everywhere, greed.” Glenn says.

“It’s survival.” I comment.

“You’re right. I’m a peaceful man. There’s no place for me here among these creatures, these predators. I can last a little while, but two months and I’m done, I head back to the woods and camp. It’s all about guns here and who can destroy who. I was in California in the sixties, I knew a guy called Owsley who made and distributed LSD freely and to everyone. We got houses and invited people to come over, to embrace the earth, to feel it breathe, to appreciate the beauty of which we came from and where we dwell upon, to feel the mystical delight of the earth. It was great. It lasted about three years and then the cops began arresting anyone who showed peace. Really, can you believe that? The president said we looked like Jane, acted like Tarzan and smelt like Cheetah, I hated that son of a bitch.”

“What do you love?” I ask.

“I love here, feeling alive, it’s great, jeez. I love feeling the wind. I love seeing the wind pick up a bunch of dead leaves from the floor and swirl it around, making something dead alive, bringing it to dance. I used to think I knew what love is, but it forever changes. Love was something when I was twenty and it was something different when I was thirty and different again when I was forty and again when I was fifty. Love isn’t going around sniffing arseholes, but at twenty, jeez, I’d found love, but no, it’s more than that, it’s different from that, but only from growing did my idea of love change and it always will. It’s not a set thing. I was in love once.” he grins, filtering water at a table by a window and the morning sun.

“What happened?”

“I got tired of it. I got tired of living in the same house, of sleeping in the same bed, of eating the same food. So one day, I wrote a letter, left it on the kitchen table and left. I’m confused by it all, paying for a house, and all that stuff. Women are powerful creatures. Women are much more in tune with balance because they understand where they came from because they give life. They control all men; men have been programmed from the beginning of time to protect women. Women point the finger for the man to shoot the gun and it will never be at herself, right?”

“How do you think the world will be if it was the other way around, if the majority of people were conscious?” I ask Glenn.

“I think the sky would be different. I think it would have a different colour and when people had ideas it would shine out and sparkle reflections. Nothing matters, so do whatever you want to do, be a prostitute if you want to, be a gambler, a priest, do whatever you want to do because you can walk away from everything, nothing matters, do whatever you like.” he shrugs, grinning eating organic cantaloupe. “It’s not so much about changing people’s minds; it’s more like finding a way to live together comfortably, honestly and peacefully.”

Ten Classic Markers

The sun shimmers on the surface of the ocean. It twinkles like the stars above, moving on the bobbing high tide waters. Here, ten thousand jewels move. Here, ten thousand jewels sparkle brighter than any rock or box could dazzle blink surprise. The flash size weight of a ring expresses in its distortions the amount of love one has for another, measured in money. The ocean is not a possession, not a fancy tag to say your mine, he’s yours, and she’s hers forever. The ocean has no understanding of these words, for all it knows is breathe and that’s without letters in a sequence. If you’re mine, leave, be free because we aren’t supposed to be each other’s, we’re supposed to be ourselves. Side order of cheese, table twelve. The rocks drown so many, only a few float on the stars.