I am sparkling like a star in a deep blanket of blue
There is a sense of growing, getting to know myself through knowing you
and it’s a feeling of mind-gasm
I have internal heart spasms at this evolution within me
Motivation through integrity, Enjoying the moment it’s hard to see the future
Not that it matters, it’s just that psychic connection again
I am blessed to have such friends, they push me to the ends of existence and back
My heart is under attack by demand of love’s arrow
it’s been punctured deep, how far it goes is unknown to me
Regardless I am finding freedom through love
learning to move, grooving on a whole new vibe
These thoughts remain, taking me from morning to night
it’s an ecstasy of unexplainable proportions; at times fading to return to me renewed
I have a slew of emotion, I am not bold enough to show
I only know what’s happening on this internal plane
attempting to show this love with no shame
no time for games in the play of appreciations
no time to delay external satisfactions
Overwhelmed, gushing inside
excited I have you in my life.

Who does this?

Remember the great writers of the most recently retired generation. The Kerouac and Thompson era. Those journalist trippers taking to the road, ( and not always the high one) making a story as they went along. The intricate weavers of an American subculture. Remnants of their lives describe eternal youth and  the adventure of virility few in this day and age can experience without some hindrance.  Even those books were riddled with hurdles and nay-sayers, but these writers weren’t necessarily writing with the mindset of being the voice of their generation. Instead, these creative minds were merely taking time to observe the human condition from a new perspective; brilliantly commenting on the social climate. They are the record keepers, the traveling linage of pioneers ready for change and personal breakthrough.

The karmic struggle of a writer, is to conveying a worthwhile message. Anyone can write, but few can write well enough to captivate audiences for years to come. Those literary artists stepped beyond the front stoop and took a bounding leap into the unknown. These are the characters found to be the most inspirational.

Who will be the next great writer of my generation? Who will take the open road exposing eyes to things unseen, and yet there all along. Which one will stand up with vigor and enthusiasm for the new paradigm, a master of words and action? Why will masses follow along the journey, what will make it profound and worth recommending to a friend? What is it, as a growing society, that we still need to learn and assimilate? Who is worthy of such a task? Could it be a woman?

Few know author, Joyce Johnson. She wrote the memoir “Minor Characters,” a journey of her evolution as a writer and her love affair with Jack Kerouac. Joyce, was indeed, a minor character in the underground life of some of the most recognized writers of that time. She was amongst one of the few women allowed into the inner sanctum of those well known beatniks, Burroughs and Ginsburg. Her accounts of the time she spent learning, loving, and living in the shadows is poignant and captivating. “Minor Characters,” brings to mind the question as to how; with her writing skills, keen observation, and warrior spirit, she remained overlooked as a complimentary commentary on the day and age. Perhaps we have been so caught up in the taboo stories of fierce and flagrant men; as is common in American culture, that those softer voices have been drowned out. Just as the admired men of her time were openly defiant to the social norm, tagging along the ranks was Joyce. In a time when women were expected to get married, stay home and have babies, Joyce was expanding her mind and sexuality. Her involvement with Kerouac never turned into marriage, and though he was 12 years her senior, he highly respected her as a writer and confidant. Still, few recognize her impact on Kerouacs’ musings… truly a minor character.

I took the leap into the unknown some 10 years ago now. I have traveled the open road, and talked with strangers. I have stayed in the homes of people met merely hours ago, only because it seemed like a good idea at the time. I have observed the bizarre and beautiful array of life bleeding behind closed doors. Empathy is more prevalent in my life due to scenes so heart-wrenching and real, no script could do them justice. Trickles of poetry and sketch have formed from the surreal nature of observational participation. What is it I am destined to convey?

I have been treated with love and disgust, invaded and ignored. The path has been dirty but rewarding. Perhaps the only rewards are stories. Maybe it is the ability to slip into the personal lives of others. To walk, invited into all the swells of struggle that humans desire to share, and yet feel too ashamed or isolated by, to know how to. I have been there in one way or another. Crying with strangers, sleeping with soul mates, laughing at nature, embracing the sunset. The fabric of our lives is a quilt work of words and experience, a colorful co-creation in a constant state of evolution. Each of us, without knowing, are active in our participation. The blessings of momentary meetings, the rush of brilliance shown through Truth. You may not know it, and you may never realize the silent impact you can have on a writer. I could write poems about a certain strangers’ smile. Those things may never be published, the muse may never know they were influential… and yet, words however private spill forth like a fountain of expression. A writer’s “full release.” Just as life force spills forth from every man until his death, words worth writing fill the page of eager hands. Some times in life are less inspirational than others, and still it is only a sign that the wellspring is in the process of change and revitalization.

I am on the adventure, you are each adding to the journey, the goal is unseen. The struggle is to learn how to really LIVE a life of expression and integrity. Each interaction bring to light a new concept or facet of totality and unity within our humanity. May the words of sages and wise women be a spark into the flame of greater creativity in each mortal soul. Eagerly we await a greater acceptance of our bond as humans, our Universal Minds and Hearts. Each time you read words of inspiration, contemplation, revelation and resonance, heed the message, though mass produced, it was written specifically for you at that time. There is no time in Truth, and Truth is timeless. May your soul recognize your journey no matter what time it is.

Easy come Easy go

The constant shuffle of this world is one that requests our undivided attention and ever evolving flexibility.
People come and go at their own pace. It must be accepted that they will and do as they please.
We are each granted that gift.
No need to tarry when direction is evident.
Assimilation of lessons is fast when recognition is made at the soonest point of action.
One step in front of the next. Leads one closer to certain destinations and farther from others. This is the way we live, this is the way we move.
At some point it is asked that roots be made, that growth up and down coincide.
That flexibility comes from the branches rather from aimless tumbling.
I will tumble until I find the grove of my admiration. A spot worth rooting in.

Once Upon an Abscess.

Once upon a time, a bad nasty thing happened between this girl and some guy. They once were madly in love, but then the ruins of Truth set it… it was a pheromone attraction full of lessons in abandonment and respect. All escalating in to a night neither would forget, but he would never mention… and I, well, I would use it as a good bar room ice breaker.

The night in question, was tinged in inebriation. As sometimes things go, an after work cocktail poured strong, and a long conversation with a co-worker, biding time as to not go home to an angry beau. One drink turned to three, before I felt the need to leave.

The drive felt so sober. I obeyed all the laws, and pull up next to our lawn, it was about 2 in the morning. I left the lights on in the car, and opened the door, when a blue suit pulls up. He questions me about my connection to the car, smells liquor on my breath and issues a sobriety test. I fail to spell my own last name correctly… luckily he is easy on me, unable to prove I was driving.

The beau of my home exits, and admits this is my residence, the police bid me good night, and warn to stay inside. Then my “lover” walks me to the threshold. He tells me to sleep on the couch, disappointed in my behavior. I am warned not to bother this one who is to wake up early. I lay on the couch, somewhat blacked out and all I can guess is my contacts needed removal, and my bladder needed empty, but when I enter the bathroom, he yells at me “TO LAY DOWN OR I WILL LAY YOU DOWN” but none of that is on the 911 call.

Somehow, some way, this starts a brawl. I hold on to his hair tightly, afraid he will hit me, and all is a tussle until he pulls away. Tufts of hair lay on the carpets and on the tile. It gets crazy, and the dog goes wild. My man says, I need to leave, but not in my car, not with my keys. He says he is going to pull the plugs, and I am raging, blacked out and dumb. I pull at his shirt and boxers in the January rain, I fall of the stoop and he stumbles onto my face.

I crunch, my nose, broken, eye sockets shocked. I am bleeding and he retreats to the house, locking me out. Picks up the phone, dials 9-1-1, and this is when the fun really starts. I am pounding on the double pane window, asking to be let in. My eyes are swelling, and there is blood on my chin. I am scared, adrenaline filled, I know someone will go to jail. Eventually that pounding on the window is enough to break both panes. Glass dispersed, and yet a piece remains.

In my chest. the side of my left breast, over my heart. The last shard of all of that chaos and love. Somehow since 2005, that tiny piece of glass has survived in my tissue, and now it is starting to abscess. I am ready to get rid of this last piece of him and me. Tucked ever so violently in to a sacred place. His face I only see in dreams.

I hope he is on a path with truth and love, I hope he understands what we both have done, and is working at becoming a better man. I know daily I strive to be a better woman, and a better lover, to consciously enter into communication.

So as this wound sort of blisters and breaks, I take back a piece of my heart that was breaking for him, and all of our mutual sins. Final stages of healing bring me free wheeling into my personal reality, it’s finally good to be home.