The last 6 days have been full of it. Pages and pages written in several states of mind. All rehashing the life experiences and blunders. Blaming each for cultivating me into the flexible and yet endearing individual I am today.

This morning was calm enough, hanging out as usual at the Bakery. But before I could leave. Before the morning could end in perfection, a lecture sat on the horizon. Not from my father, or my boss. No. Advice from a relation we will leave at once being a closer friend than as of recent.

This lecture was ALL about what I NEED to do. That is, based off of the perceptions and programming that are reasonable to this individual. Maybe I am wrong… maybe I am not the only one who knows what I NEED. However, I live under the life philosophy that “no one knows what YOU need, better than you.”

I found myself caught in conflict. Do I argue my point? Give examples and persuasions toward the benefits and freedoms of my lifestyle? Or do I sit silent, nodding, knowing inside what my Truth is?

So what, if I am okay being a Bohemian? Whose business is it but mine. I am not imposing my lifestyle on anyone. I take care of my own business; no one is supporting me, I am not living off the government. I make my way with peace and piece of mind. I am drastically underpaid, and yet I work hard with a solid ethic. These things are praiseworthy. However my desire to live in a tent, or to work minimally for a while is seen as bad and terribly unconventional. My “friend” says that I can not live this way forever.

Who says I can’t? I suppose if I choose to, and I am suffice to live with it, than I will do just that. I haven’t spent any of this life time trying to mimic anyone’s behavior for any other reason than jest, why would I start now. If we ever want to see a less conventional, free willed, free-spirited world, (which most wish for in jealousy, and few follow the path of,) then we must embody those traits individually with intense uniqueness.

I am more than ready to embrace this part of myself, despite what anyone else thinks is best for me.

I appreciate the concern, I admire the audacity to vocalize such concerns, but I am fuckin’ happy being me with out the burden of illusion. 40 hours a week in a job I find emotionally and physically draining may be conventional, but it isn’t for me.

I’ll side by passion, I will commune with nature and breathe expression, in this way, you may call me crazy, you may shake your head, and I will simply ask “why you are so fucking concerned with my life… I am living mine to the fullest spiritual creative expression, can you say the same for yourself?

Money is good, but faith that all good things come in time builds a patient heart. The Universe only asks us to focus on our best possible selves in the NOW. It’s a tough enough task. Let’s all just agree to make the best decisions we can for ourselves without impeding on anyone else’s path. Perhaps we will all find there is plenty to work on, and no time to burden our minds with what we can not change in others.

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.

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.

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 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.

My life like a glass pipe, blown into perfection at one time.
Detailed color runs through clean glass, a delicate solid; hoping to pass the test of time.
With time comes wear and tear. Exterior beat with heat and elements from the Earth, acting as a hearth for herbs and smoke.
Define my life by a pipe; I just might. A smooth design under swirling pigment as individual as me, yet created by someone I have never seen.
Seems a metaphor for existence.
Tough but fragile. For it while it functions near perfection.
Chips and nicks may break me, but I still function.
Sharp edged cut you, if you do like you want to.
Listen to me, grab carefully or I will cut you.
My pipe and I survive until the time of her life has passed us by.
And now, I find myself with a pile of shattered glass.
Glass coated in resin stinking of time invested into a pipe.
How raw material made what once was intact, ready to act upon request.
But like the best, we all eventually die. Pieces of us live on in sections of glass pipes and bongs.
Like personal kisses, I remember every pair of lips that kissed my pipe.
At night, in dark allies through more than one state of mind.
Passed into hand after hand.
My pride and joy from the Haight.
Couldn’t wait to use her, take her home and admire her.
Watch as I light fire to her.
She glows. She knows my smoke of choice.
Sweet and green. She gleams in the light of a match.
Alive and kicking for only two years.
The tears fell that day when she hit the tile.
All the while, preparing to take me to a higher place.
I knocked the glass to the floor, in one instant, she was no more.
In awe I scooped her up and slid her to a plastic grave.
I save her body on my shelf.
My first one, the best.
Pieces of glass to show homage to the past.
Sections of me built delicately into a new piece of art.
Broken and reborn.
Images torn by time.
Something mine, all the while changing form to fit a new phase.
The rays of hope shine into tomorrow.
No sorrow for broken glass or shattered pasts.
Smile at the chance to begin again.