Mining The Chaos Inside

Creme brule.  Undestroyed by human appetite.  Smooth, hard surface winking like a frozen pond smiled upon by winter dawn.  I must call upon the predator within to crack the hard, sweet shell of protected perfection and reveal the thick sea of heavenly cream within.  I call on the tigress inside, that I may slide easily beyond this fear of landing on the page.  I never imagined I’d become someone who grazed elbows and danced slow with writer’s block.  I wrote because I had to.  Because there was so much inside and if I didn’t pour it out, the darkness would engulf me.  But today I am not her.  I tremble half wilted and desperate at the precipice where silence becomes voice.  I beg Love to use me.  I beg as a tiger begs.  With thick, strong claws and a soft, lyrical growl, a dangerous, hypnotic purr.


Why am I here?  Because I believe in love.  But I don’t want to write about love so that it tastes like a mouthful of skittles swimming in granulated sugar.  Love so much more than sweet feelings for a selective bouquet of “nice” people.


Rrrrrraaaar this is hard.  It’s starting to rain.  The girl at the bus stop across the street is fondling her buoyant turquoise balloon.  And jazz flows through the atmosphere of Pizzaiolo with its own compelling, fluid buoyancy.  I must back off and stalk this topic as the tigress slinks amidst jagged jungle shadows.  The words are coming slow.  There is a density in my chest and a tang, like lemon juice surging toward tiny and fresh open wounds.


On thursday I turned thirty three and Nikki gave birth to a baby girl.  On friday my beloved friend Brian and his buddy drowned while vacationing in Kauai and Judy gave birth to twins.  Life and death have risen from the depths and now play on the surface of fresh days.  That’s what I’m driving at.  I’m awake to the fragility of life.  I’m also aware of holding myself back on the page because I’m trying to write for “YOU”.  A you who might not even exist.  I can’t write for you.  Because then suddenly I am pressed between two heavy stones named “right” and “wrong” and the quicker they smash me to death, the better because I’d rather die than flail about in a sea of bullshitty pretense.  Yes.  I feel angry.  Maybe I’m not here on the page to blaze in love.  I am on the page to express myself.  And yes, I’d wage a head-turning penny that after the storm of life as I know it deluges this page, the after-calm would surely smell of love… but for now?


For now, love is an excruciatingly cheapened word.  And it is not a word that I have earned the right to preach on.  2013 and I am lost at sea.  Violent, choppy sea.  Here come tears as I rip at the skin of my consciousness, desperate to reveal the vulnerable, ugly guts below.  Martin Luther King Jr. day just passed and I am present to the possibility of living (and dying) for something pure and true and ultimately meaningful.  And then there is the life I’m living.  I dance.  I eat.  I take naps.  I think about myself so much I am drowned and suffocated in existential mania a thousand times over.  Please God, let me open and spill all this poison upon the page that I will be left empty and available to truly serve.  Fuck I just want to cry for a full minute, an hour, an ocean.  Because I want life to add up to something and… all of the meaning I’m mining is hollow, shallow and false.


Fifty minutes until Pizzaiolo closes and I can run from this bottleneck of bullshit in my mind, this thick, clogged pore that is my soul in the infinite body of God.  Forgiveness.  Athena… Give up trying to sound wise or brilliant or seductive and dedicate this next forty-seven minutes to forgiving.  God, please!  Come with me in to this dense black cloud and shine a single audacious beam of light that perhaps, with your grace, it will dissolve and I might be left standing naked and bathed in the glorious light of truth.  I am often awestruck as I revisit the revelation that I need never wander alone again, for I can always call on the ever-indwelling presence of the Great Love.  The idea of egoic aloneness is an old-world indulgence, a holographic, anti-caloric banquette of masturbatory nothing.


My heart is struggling against an invisible fist, clutched in a frivolous death grip.  Please God, let tomorrow be a better day on the page.  I hate today.  I want to shout it again and again on the page I HATE TODAY!!!  But I have renounced using the word “hate” forever.  It’s toxic and cheap.  Now are my words ejaculating like a frivolous fountain into a sea, dispersing into instantaneous meaninglessness like an ocean of cold, salty alphabet soup.  My lips are hard and unsmiling.  My face is in a state of self-important rigor mortis.  What if I just smiled right now?  Not must my lips, but my eyes, my chest, my belly.  The soles of my feet…


I want to make a difference in the world.  But first I must face the terrifying, yet vacant possibility that I won’t.  Maybe I’ll live and die in a pathetic, desperate clutch at survival alone.  Only to be born again in the same intoxicated spell of delusion.  Om hrim haum namah shivaya.  Om hrim haum namah shivaya.  Om hrim haum namah shivaya.  I stand in half awake titillation as I wait for inspiration to rain from the hidden sky inside me.  It feels wrong just to stand here… but I don’t know what else to do.  Except maybe dance.  And say more mantra.  Oh and of course poke some irreverent fun at myself for being so fucking self important and serious in the face of this massive cosmic joke otherwise known as life.


But I’ll come back tomorrow.  I promise, I will.  If I am still alive, that is.  And maybe something great will happen.




Voguing As A Spiritual Practice

Welcome to Athena Graceland.  Close your eyes and imagine vivacious, sprawling terrains saturated of inky, pinks.  Inhale and smell watermelon and pheromones and pine sap and sunlight making out with mountain earth.  Feel the sensuous tickle of finger tips dancing gracefully about the wilderness of your open skin like an olympic figure skater on holiday in the Swiss alps.  Yes, it’s a heavenly slice of nowness in here today!

But I thought I’d start this blog with a confession… you know, just to reveal my humanity and draw you in.  Left to my own devices, sometimes I like to appear to have it all together.  At least on the dance floor… Grin.  But the truth is, I feel like a massive DORK when it comes to the art of voguing.  I flail myself into wilting frozen poses who lack sass and precision.  Frown.  Maybe I just need to practice in the mirror at home.  Voguing as a spiritual practice.  But isn’t it true that ANYTHING can be a spiritual practice if you engage in it with repetitive, devoted totality?  I’m gonna vote affirmative on that hypothesis.

Are you like me in that you take pleasure in the most fractional and mundane crumbs of existence?  I just smelled my own hair and went on a whole inclusive, romantic inner journey as a result of the spontaneous synthesis of heat and scent and silken texture.  And my big, strong body guard spilled our popcorn at the movies last night (which tickled me in itself… a shower of crunchy, savory clouds plummeting to dark earth in waterfall fashion…) and as we were leaving, I made sure to step right into the heart of this snack-a-delic cloud puddle and savor the lively, sonic deflation underfoot.  Now I am snuggled up at a communal table in the Lakeview library, and WHOMP!, it really does have a lake view… I see a man out the window doing star-jumps (formerly known as jumping jacks) and some sporty girls clad in tight, athletic gear flailing their legs in the air in the name of fitness.  LIFE!  It’s really happening!   It’s never not really happening… except when I close my eyes… 😉

This is my first blog of twenty thirteen!  Even just typing that, I feel my body reverberate with prismatic, rapturous echo.  Call me a New Age Space Muffin, but I must assert that the world truly DID end a few fridays ago.  This world IS new.  To the clothed eye, it may seem the same… but come on… don’t be shy!  Strip those eyes naked and now take leisurely, luxurious peep.  It only appears to be “the same as always” to those who are lazy and unimaginative.  In truth, this world is a head-on collision of myth and magic and a homeopathic dose of mundane.  Think about it– how many times a day do you gasp or scream or wiggle as a result of the beauty and wonder in which we steep?  See?  At least affinity, right?…

In one of the classic tales of the life of Lord Krishna, he opens his mouth and his mother peers in and sees the ENTIRE UNIVERSE inside… but how is this different than looking into the eyes of the one who is next to you right now?  Don’t be afraid to really look!  …Or be afraid and do it anyway.  Honestly, sometimes I get frightened by the intimacy of such presence.  When this happens, I remember a course in miracles and I actively seek out my own innocence in the vulnerable, luminous depths of the other.  I always find it.  It’s just a matter of remembering to look.

God, maybe I should write a whole book about the contemporary practical application of mythology!  I have a world to say on this topic… How bout I toss you a bite sized sample?  (that reminds me of shopping at the Woodland Market in Kentfield with my mom when I was just a Thumblina sized rendition of myself, and the butcher would always give me a baby hotdog as a treat.  He was my best friend.  I lived those tiny weenies…)  But I digress.  Once upon a time in shimmy pop class…

My outrageously shakti teacher, Samar was riffin on how amazing Marilyn Monroe was.  Samar said the woman was a genius.  Bludgeoned by my own boundless curiosity, I asked her how she knew this.   Samar replied that the hollywood starlet had a massive IQ, for starters.  And, she added, just watch her act!  It’s obvious.  As Samar gushed with admiration for this timeless, iconic goddess, her own brilliance swelled to blinding, like aflame devouring oxygen molecules.  That’s when an older woman who had been in class chimed in.  I bet she was in her late fifties… She disagreed, arguing that Marilyn Monroe was a bimbo who was victim-ishly confined to the strangling cage of an unapologetic man’s world.  She started to dribble on and on about the travesty of this predicament and I empathically tasted the internally imposed repression of her own archaic mind and strangled spirit.

Meanwhile, up in Athena Graceland, I was marveling at the stark juxtaposition of these two projections.  One woman, clutching stubbornly to her own sweetly familiar image of victimhood, and the other, awed by her own intricately fractaling dazzle and genius…

And naturally, this caused me to consider mythology.  Perhaps the indelible spray of familiar, iconic faces of a myriad pantheons are just that- holographic paper dolls, whom we artistically dress in our ancient memories, desperate hopes, deliciously scented wishes… Time-defying idols, serving as generous respites between the perpetual gap between language and silent inner knowing…

Twenty thirteen.  It’s now time to dress our archetypes in chic, racy, inspired threads of heaven…