The human race is the only race to be run. It’s a class war that we need to fight, together. The only color that always, always wins, is green.
Like cattle we are fed, and we feed ourselves out of the hands of fools, then see ourselves prophets. Our bellies filled with answers, dancers, human cancers, and things that justify our yesterday’s experience not understanding that our yesterdays were built in the days, the hours, the moments, that came before now being now. Survival, we are spending our days surviving the life we have built in the moments before the now came to find us. We are in the future, right now. What we do, here, now, is building what is about to happen.
The numbness between our footsteps, carrying us through terrain we never see, a world we never touch, or feel. Mutant human robots, controlled from a distance, by their shopping cart. Buying image, ideas, club memberships, and information bubbles in the global glass of champagne. A glass of champagne we never drink from, a glass, like a fishbowl, we only swim in.
And that glass has grown into our palms, becoming a part of the human anatomy. Like a Siamese twin, a doll that looks like us, but only plays the games we make up.
We think our feet so solid, yet refuse to walk amongst each other barefoot. For fear they will be cut open and vulnerable to life. So vulnerable that the only outcome, be death.
Being human is a gift. Experiencing your skin and the electricity beneath it in all the voltages. With and without grounding. And sometimes the only grounding, the only footing, is to a soil considered filthy, and a soil that only ever leads to stains on the living room carpet, or on the knees of your jeans. A stain that cannot be removed, no matter how hard you rub. Yet this fertile soil has grown, seed after seed, after seed…
What is soil if not manure, rotting, fermenting, and filled with oxygen.
Growth feeds on filth. Insects feed as the vultures do, off rotting flesh. The earth absorbing the next chapter, the new form, the new function, the life after skin, meat, and bone.
Some seeds survive and are now trees, with trunks beyond the hug you own so proud… Trees that have roots, like bamboo, reaching, surviving on nothing, and somehow, still reaching.
Some trees shall be sawn apart, sewn together, split apart, and some with branches suddenly cut off at their fusion, with a self, ever growing.
We are all feeding off a soil fed by our own comforts, our own mediocre understanding of ideas, a soil designed…
The orchid, and the Sycamore, the rose and its thorns. The potato is no less a truffle, as the truffle is no better than the pig.
Together builds the vineyard, the soil, the sun, the tilling and rock pieces watering iron into its blood. Together brings the fruit, the wine.
Impatient, we can’t wait, to discover, uncover… We can’t wait in the moment and reach further than what our fingers dare touch. For fear of filth, disease, and the unseen animal life, otherwise understood to be, the unknown.
Impatient in our skin, it tingles, it’s aches to move. We are impatient, not out of excitement but from feeding the needing to be somewhere else, all the time.
The idea of being “comfortable” disgusts me in a way. But yet, I crave peace.
Emotionally unwilling to be uncomfortable. That, is death.
Being scared of not knowing, or better still, thinking you don’t know. We always know.
Beyond what floods our own heart with blood. Be it fear, excitement, or death. Death can only come to the insides that fears knowing, the truth. The truth of the human experience, the joy in understanding, and knowing, the truth. All truth, all knowing. The never-ending human experience.
If we were raw, and could smell emotion, consciously. There would be no questions, only understanding, and a primal agreement. I see you, and you see me. I don’t have to tell you how I feel, I just need feel it. And you will understand.
Return to your skin woman. Return to your skin man. Return to your humanhood being.
I can smell people’s feelings, and my insides feel them, like familiar dinners, or the flavor of musk. They come in pictures, in waves and tsunamis, in whispers and screams. But I can feel them.
We define ourselves by what we understand. And we have decided listening is someone else’s responsibility. Because we are all so desperate to be heard.
When we look to understand others, we learn about ourselves, and we can find ourselves in places you would never imagine. In moments, in smiles so powerful, When you understand, questions evaporate.
Manifest little one, for you are always young, and you will always need to feed an imagination that is dedicated to bringing your imagination straight to your doorstep. So, feed it well, and live in joy.
Be not afraid of feeling fear, denying yourself the feeling of terror, is denying your understanding of peace. This is not to say you design your life to experience terror, but should you face it, head on, breathe into it.
I am no longer going to calm my excitement. I am very conscious of my mutterings, and the speed at which I am happy expressing. I am well aware it makes those with tired minds uncomfortable. But being any other way, makes me feel sick, physically sick. Trying to calm my heart down from being excited to a slower, more understood speed… This makes me physically ill. So, no more denying excitement. Being excited is somewhere I want to live, it feels good, and to a starving smile, it’s a dream come true.
The outside is dangerous, people, there are people out there. She takes a deep breath, she needs to find her feet, her face, her skin.
I wonder if he is a wolf, with every step, scanning, thinking, listening to the chatter, the discussion at the roundtable of thoughts and ideas breathing through the splinters. We all need to discuss everything, all the time. All, the, time.
Each step he takes, each individual splinter organizing, deciding, pitting oneself against another and drawing endless conclusions, each one, slightly in opposition of the other, and all of them, possible. All of them a study of variables, smells, memories and logic. And all of them at once.
She fixes on him, on his gate, the shape of his legs beneath the fabric of his clothes, the weave, is it wool, or is it cotton? His height, tall, he’s taller than her, most of them are. The color of his socks. You can tell a lot about someone in their sock story, or lack thereof.
In the three steps it takes for her to smell him, she asks herself…
“I wonder if he will try to hurt me.”
And then he is gone. And the most rudimentary of story possibilities becomes truth. He passes her, in his own story chatter, in his own curiosities about the animal approaching, although it seemed he himself was staring at the concrete, mesmerized by the idea of the ground moving beneath him.
She is released, unharmed, unless you count the time it took to create a plan of escape, in three steps…
I have been known to be filled with rage at time being stolen by strangers I can never know. But this time spent, making plans, had proved profitable too many times to just abandon. One plan or another coming in at intervals similar to the space between the white lines on a highway in a car traveling a hundred miles an hour… These plans had been needed, and are still needed. For the jungle is rife with the hungry. And those of us with a groin to grow babies are prey, even if our date of procreation has run out, besides, procreation is rarely the intention of the wolf, he has other threads woven into his coat.
We are a dying bird to a ferrel cat. We are a play thing.
Without one’s lungs, one cannot breathe, and without a plan, one cannot, and will not survive.
To deny the time it takes to inhale can only end in suffocation.
Back into the moment, of what’s next? Another man approaches, and the new plan discussions begin, again. This is part of her skin, her blood, like her chemistry, or an appendage. It is connected to her, and it is the mason, stirring the mud. This is a vital organ, if not, the only organ, that can reason survival, into reality.
The polished tool of intuition. Our intuition is our humanhood. It’s what saves us, or gets us killed. We either live in the moment, and use our mechanical self with all the information take over and decide, or we think…
Thinking is like bread dough…. Thinking, it’s what makes the dough rise, it's what breaks it, never to be used again, or, its chemical recipe is perfect, and the dough becomes bread… But thinking is done prior to the moment, as the moment, lives in the now.
The soil, of the earth of self. It’s where everything lives, all at once. You already have the answer you think you don’t have yet. It’s primal, it’s animal, it’s the shiver that comes over your skin that you can think past. It’s embracing your existence beyond what you know to be existing.
The design of any life, is designed by us. Faster than imagination… Where does imagining come from? This asking to know the unknown, and then making that unknown into something. And that something, becomes our language, it becomes life.
There is no unknown. There is only listening, and deciding.
It’s humorous to me. The idea that there is an, unknown.
I am the knowing, not what is known.
