Ride high Independence.

The struggle to maintain connection to Divinity continues. It’s challenges set forth in each moment to be content. While wholeheartedly in this moment, I do not feel it for myself. I am bored. I want someone to entertain me. I am not entertaining myself.
Claddagh desperately needs to go for a walk, I am an unwilling companion. Unnecessary attachment has me wondering about another individual, too immersed in these thoughts, am I, to “just be here, now.” What a bad example I am setting. Today I am not in demand. I am not working, bored, and pretty awake. My body needs to move, I want to dance, but there is no music. The integral part. And yet, I don’t want to be seen dancing.
EWWWW, today is a cluster fuck of clashing feelings. If satisfaction were perused, I am sure to come up short. It seems as though, when I ask internally what I should do, I come up blank. There is no answer and this discontent isn’t conducive to how I WANT to feel, what I want to experience.

The signs say to retreat into the woods, to think, to not react. To distance myself so that I can re-commune with a clearer head, and a wiser heart. The child says, “NO”.

At times the teenage rebellion keeps me from what is best for myself…still the Faith of connectivity with my Higher Self, prevails more often than not.

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Apparently I am missed, but I was never lost

Apparently, I am missed, but I was never lost

In a world of wanters’ wanting to be wanted, spring has sprung. Pheromones float in the air, beyond sight, ready to infect the masses. Winters nesting melts away into the stir craze of spring. For this particular individual, it seems as though the pot o’ love is just about ready to boil over into a frothy and unpredictable spectacle.
I call this segment of life, Six Beau’s, a Dame, an Old Dude, and me.
Finally for the first time I can remember, I am being called out and appreciated.
It appears as if I have created my own motley crew, an entourage if you will.
None of these followers hang out together. I am pretty sure none of them know one another. I am the Princess of the Ports. Somehow, someway, the hormonal aching of spring has drawn some unlikely suspects in perusal of the Princess of the P.
Firstly, we have the Israeli. We met haphazardly last spring. After required service to his country, this ex-military turned bohemian was spending the last few weeks of the ski season hitting up Eldora. Minding my own business as usual, I was embarking on a frosty brew and a heady writing session at the pub. Tokman, as I will refer to him, brought about a certain nostalgia in my mind.
Who did he remind me of???
Ohhhh, right, that guy Tyson I had a crush on in 7th grade. The guy who treated me like shit, and wrote “dyke” (though spelled “dike”) in my 8th grade year book. Yeah, Tyson fuckin’ Grebe, who dated my (at the time) best friend Lisa. Tyson, whom I ran into at the age of 24, working at a gas station in Cheyenne. Good ole, bad assed, Tyson, who found my face familiar but my name escaped him. Tyson, who has the worst case of “monk hair” anyone has seen in this era of plugs,sprays and implants. All this, probably due to all the harassment he gave people like me back in the day. Yeah, Karma can be pretty heinous.
So, dear Tokman, resembles Tyson, in his youth and once hairier prime. Tokman, however, lacks much of the abrasiveness I associate to Tyson.
Two weeks after our initial meeting this traveler was bound for foreign seas. Apparently I made an impression… a year later he is back in Colorado’s western slope and anxious to hang out… My biggest mental deterrent is knowing his hooked up with a red light district Miss, in Amsterdam.
Next we have the pleasantly reclusive artist, we will call Bud. After a momentary interaction, I have realized that artists that reclusive must be sought out if they are to be interacted with. I ride my own rainbow, and honestly going too far out of my way to hang out with someone who isn’t “that into beer,” leaves a dry taste in my mouth. As luck would have it, the crazy spring vibe must be tickling him too, because he just started calling again.
Respectivly in line, is a handsome Punk Rocker. Dark, robust, pleasant to the palate, and more tattoo’s than me. The universe would have this hard-kore hottie living in the rough’s of Denver. It seems we can never connect via phone, and I am dying to see his band perform, because from what I hear, there is stage diving and EVERYTHING. The truth is, I have never been with a musician… my ego wants someone to write me awesome songs, to call me muse and a find a fountain of inspiration in knowing me… This is something I may need to wait for. In no way am I even assuming that this specific rocker things I am song worthy… it just gets my imagination roaming.
Now… as if three fine young lads wasn’t enough, we have number four. Tall, ironically Jesus like in appearance, and very, very Southern. I can’t help but slip to a silly drawl when I imitate the things he says. This fine example of chivalry found himself in my way during a Lotus show. I only had a severe warning of flailing elbows for him, so he moved. Past the first set, we found ourselves sharing a smoke… and well, let’s just say he is anxious to show me all the South has to offer.

And finally, and most wierdly of all… Missed Connections on Craigslist, has recently allowed me realize someone from my long lost past of lifeguarding and high school dances, still flirts with the thoughts of me that run through his head. I am almost certain I know who he is, and I wonder if all this nostalgia is just a quarter life crisis. A crumbling moment most likely found in inebriation when one realizes all of the friends from their wily youth are either married or with child. Realization that the singledom that was so bravely fought for in our early twenties is now slipping away into a need and desire for a partner in crime, not just any partner though… No, a partner you want to sleep with.

Long lost are the days of misunderstood youth, and awkward moments of teenage alienation. I have found my worth, and now those around me share their appreciation…

All the while, I am starting to wonder where the hell my sex drive went, because despite my ever broadening options and my wanting to be wanted, I know I don’t need to be needed, it just feels nice to be held once in a while…. So until someone get’s those old fires burning I guess I’ll let my imagination run wild, there really is nothing safer than masturbation.

Throw the guy a frickin’ bone!

Okay, gripe session here we come!
So to bring us into this piece, I am first going to set up the parameters for understanding.
Now for those of you, who have ever worked in the “tip reliant” service industry, you realize that tipping is of the utmost importance when it comes down to survival for tip-ee. Having that experience allows you to tip appropriately. Rarely will someone who has worked in this field, leave their server empty handed, regardless of service. It’s just common courtesy. When one becomes knowledgeable about the affect and effect of circumstance in a professional (regardless of how casual) environment, it then becomes easier to perpetuate equitable energetic exchange.
Last night I wandered into Aspen with some people for a show. The venue, called the “Belly up” is a bar/venue. The band on Marquee was Infected Mushroom TranceKore from LA. Toward the end of this very energetic show, ladies (though not acting like ladies..) from the front row, seemed to make their way on to the low stage. Unconscious toward sharing space with the actual performers, these girls one by one crawled on stage and attempted dry humping the singer.
Cordially he kept smiling as the stage guy escorted them from the stage. Over a 3 song stretch the same three girls keep crawling up and get escorted down. Finally, one of the girls really goes for a crowd reaction by pulling down her tube top and showing her drunk ass tits to the all ages audience. The audience is pleased, the singer is trying hard to keep smiling, disguising his disgust.
Now just like anyone who has been a server, knows how to tip… Anyone who has ever been a performer knows it’s just plain rude and obnoxious to take your drunk ass on stage during someone else’s performance. No one paid $34.00 bucks to see a drunk chicks tits.
The stage is like a bartender behind the bar… you don’t cross that bounder unless you are invited.
My guess is this girl only performs when she is drunk… she uses it as her excuse as to not know better. The truth is she is probably too much of a coward to go up there sober.
Drunk assholes are always trying to take center stage, no one appreciates this except for the dipshit jumping into the spotlight.
Anyone who knows better is less than captivated by such a sloppy performance… My advice to those of you who feel it necessary to act in this way; is to leave the stage to those who respect the space and integrity of true entertainment.

In Honor of my fellow Irish…

Hear YE, Hear YE! I propose a clause in respect and honor of my fellow Irish, and partial Irish sister and brethern!
Times are tough in these days of jacked up gas prices, and high cost electronics. Consumption of good foods, and good times leaves a hole in the pockets of some, especially after a long hard weekend of pre-St. Patty’s day partying. Surely though, most of you (mostly non-Irish types) have planned ahead by adding some extra padding to your St.Pat’s party fund. This year the fateful holiday lands on a Monday, leaving Friday through Sunday as a pre-party priming time.
My proposition is this; That in honor of such a rightous holiday, one which glorifies the consumption of beer amongst friends; I encourage each of you who isn’t the slightest bit Irish, to buy your Irish friends a beer. Perhaps you are always buying your Irish friends beer, perhaps they are drunks. Well today is the day to buy your last one for them, until next year. If you are reluctant to buy your Irish friend a beer, help coerse some other non-clover to buy it. Excuse yourself from buying it by buying some other (better looking, preferably lady type) greenie a brew.
Of course, this is my selfish way of trying to catch a little St. Patty’s day buzz like the rest of ya, the green is a little short these days. If you have the love, why not spread it. Besides, you would’t be on your way to being shit faced if it wasn’t for me, I mean us, Irish.
Oh, and for those of you who agree to this proposition, no coping out by giving your buddy a PBR… no, only the best for the Irish on this holiday. Please pass me a Guinness.

The Meditations

The music is very beautiful. Reggae. Fluid Vibrations sway the crowd while bar maids man buckets of beer.
Rasta Brotha’s sell swag to fans while new community members shake old locals hands. This is a night brighter than most fridays in this artists’ cove by the dam. There is music that everyone is ready to pay for, in a place where music is usually free, it takes a hot degree of radical tunes to glue a crowd together.
The weather is clear, the road is alright and it’s a night to be Erie. Vibes run through this motley crew of mountain dudes and their ladies. It’s a maze of bodies in this mountain town bar, it’s a far cry from a Monday night.
These walls hold history, the stage lay before me and I see musical history being made upon it’s planks. It’s held musical heavyweights and those on their way to melodic history. These walls have absorbs songs from way long ago, older than most of those who occupy this place. The space was recently cleaned in need of a benefit function wine reception and silent auction. But this night is busy and vibrantly moving more alive than that function for the preschool. Now the crowd is way cooler, hip and into it, diverse and with cohesive grip, they move smoothly, swaying away a tired week, consciously they seek relief, unconsciously they reach toward Source. Their bodies feel the tingling touch of love. Tropical and warm in November, take your sweater off and stay a while. Groove and smile to your neighbor, buy another beer, try a red stripe, ride the Erie vibe. Take a toke on the porch, then come back inside and ride high upon funky right rasta jives. Admire Tosh on stage, breathe and sway. Imagine warmer more peaceful days, where the best thing to do is sing to Jah, chill beach side, sit rasta style. These boys take their groove to the road, instrumental load and situational consequence. They work the late night. I am sure it requires some driving, and some times when they are left to their own devices. It is an adventurers life on the road, it’s long open highway waiting to be explored.
Adoring fans, and best laid plans. Celestial guidance, reliance on talent. Challenge that life, imagine a daily revival causing crowds to loudly stir and whir with excitement. This is not a normal Friday. This is Reggae. Get down and get groovy its a blue spectral night, tomorrow is a portal day. I have no where to be but home when the time is right. Enjoying the sight of happy supporters of this tropical art and music that strives to soothe the soul. Be awake and ready to dance close to someone you may not know. The bar is crowed, that crowd is loaded, the band is ready to show it and they are on stage now.
Alcohol will inebriate, but instrumental interlude will satiate thirsty ears weary from top 40 radio and slow tune from light FM.
Musically we sit inside a rainbow of drumming soul, strumming high, linguistically few imitate. Girls slowly ungulate hips and boys hold tight. Each drink takes us further into the night and slow grinding leads to urgency. Aphrodite comes attacking through ear canals. Alcohol loosens bodies, smooth grooving leads to languid undulations under dim lights. Do the boys from this band grind as hard as their shiny haired fans and dreaddy hipster sisters who swear they haven’t heard good songs like this in sooo many moons.
The journalist asks exactly where guys like this stay? In a place like Ned or down the canyon in Boulder where they may keep it cheap with Super8 or LaQuinta, nah they don’t seem like cheapskate. It can’t be too comfortable in inconsistent circumstance. Will this writer get a chance to ask? Damn I slipped in too late.

More from the Old Broken books

Unfolding, and I spend far too many hours wishing for sleep in a comfortable bed and almost any bed is comforting when I do not own one of my own.

I am avoiding the inevitable… the trip home bound  calls and I have been too irresponsible for my own good.

The wind is screaming things today and I am still wanting sleep and to allow my dreams to weave magic with this howling outside my window.

I’ve been told I will thrive at anything I stick my mind to.   And for now my thoughts stick to the wind.  As soon as they are there; they are gone.

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Sometimes I find it hard to put my finger on what I REALLY want.

Afraid of serving a cause of a ego maniacal need.

To get what I want, would pertain to success I’ve not been ready for; yet.

But today is a new day, a new reality.

 

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living, doing being

eating, drinking, entertainment

taking every opportunity

freedom

finding love

loving

making things happen

going with the flow

having faith

being aimless

responsibly reckless

reflection while moving forward

accepting of blessings

unconditionally giving

moments found breathless

letting go

accepting of change

feeding the mind, body, and soul

diving deep

enjoying moments of rest

accepting restlessness

 

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Goal-less and soulful

sad stories

i’ve  got an earful

some with a humorist twist

my whole world is shifting

conventionality slips from my greasy finger tips

 

i grow in talent, but i want to cash in these chips

i’m just sick of barely surviving

 

i’m lying to myself

 

saying

no one can help the helpless

 

i’ve just been stressed out at the proposition of asking

there are creative tasks that need blasting

and i am the task master for the job

i have a repertoire of craft

make  you think

make you laugh

but despite the fact I find lacking

 

this hermit has been in hiding

 

God damn the man in this reoccuring dream

Not sure why he feels the need to still bleed into my dream space

Haven’t seen his face reflected in reality in years

In these dreams I am needing him with intensity, wondering why he left me

Wondering why he returns, only to burn me again

He gets me in that soft space, that naked place where our skin is the sin we slip into

I fall harder in the dream, because it seems to me that I have control

I can have you now, forever

Then the weather and climate change in this ethereal brain

And you pull me close only to push me away

again

Repetition, again and again, searching in the safe space for you

Unsure what it’s showing me, as this part grows in me a seed of confusion

The illusion is purely in my mind this time

I try to deconstruct this reoccurring mind fuck

it’s been six years, I’ve shed enough tears,

I have shared you enough in these dreams

Now I want to go back to me

It isn’t serving me well to see you this way

after all of this time has past

I think we are beyond the rehash

Not sure anymore what I hold you accountable for

as our relationship has changed

from once in reality to now, all in my brain

….”she said it’s all in my head, he said so’s everything, but he didn’t get it…..”

A portal of inner exploration