realities

There are so many worlds that we do not know about, though they are right in front of us. Behind the mirror, the window, in the grass under our feet. A network of beings to whom we are something that could never be understood.

These other worlds are everywhere. I read somewhere that the vast majority of ocean life has never been witnessed or discovered. Somewhere in our yards, in our houses, down the street, animals speak to each other and we are in a reality that does not allow us to recognize their language, like so many other languages that we do not hear.

Like one tiny vein in a living body, ours is only one in an infinitely complex swirl of connections.

I think about these other veins, the ones that run along side you and I, and I wonder if they look at me as much as I look at them. I am certain that they do not, and this depresses me and makes me want to hide.


There are lost souls everywhere, not in the same tube as the rest of the beings on this earth. Children who know their friends' phone numbers but not their own, and which play grounds are inhabited by their own kind. They know when dark is coming, and what that means, even when we do not.

They know when pain is imminent, and can run but mostly choose to stay. Sometimes they have new shoes, and some of them have never worn shoes, ever. Their hair is streaked with sunshine, because in their reality this big ball of fire is integral, important in a way that we will never understand.

These children have dark, liquidy eyes that no one will claim. These eyes almost never see water, and when they do, it leaves streaks on cheeks that are thirsty and dusty and beautiful.

I walk along side these children, watch them in the playgrounds. They run beside me, and I struggle to keep up, silently praying that they won't leave me behind, sitting on my shitty wooden stoop, where I watch for people in my own rusty red vein.

Sometimes someone rushes by, but they see me and clutch their purses tightly against their chests. Others walk slowly, never breaking eye contact, and I hold my breath. When they are finally out of sight, I wonder where they went, and exhale. Mostly I am alone.

But along side this tiny vein, a bigger one pulsates and it is the knowledge of this that keeps me here. I can see it, even from my stoop.

bullshit and a drunk guy

I am sitting with a drunk, homeless guy outside of Safeway, smoking many cigarettes.  It is dark and cold outside.  The lights inside are slowly dimming, and the door is locked.

He isn't cold, though, and he starts to talk.  He tells me why he drinks.  A mishmash of different things; a broken relationship, subsequent estrangement from his child, a family who doesn't understand him.  I study his face, and he touches his thick white beard.

"When I shave this off," he says, "I look a lot younger."  I see that he is lonely, and nod.

I listen some more, then think that someone at home might be worried about me, so I hop on my bike and say goodbye.  He hugs me, and as I pull away he struggles to keep up with my bike but is too drunk.  I look over my shoulder and smile.

"Call me!" he yells, even though he has already told me that he doesn't have a phone.  In this moment, I think, he is wishing he is somebody else.  I kind of am too.

So much bullshit, you know?  Sometimes I want to just cut it all out and get to the fucking point.  Albert telling me how his wife didn't like him farting in the living room, and how he sometimes wakes up and doesn't know where he is. This is the easy part.

It's the bullshit that's exhausting

New Paintings

No one Should Ever be Forgotten

I am sitting on my front stoop, smoking a cigarette, and Gary is staring at me from the other side of the fence. His eyes are dark and pulsing with dullness, like
those of a tiger in a cage. I pick at my fingernails. It's hot. He is fidgeting.

Gary lives in a group home next door. We hear yelling from his front yard and both turn to look. Someone else is pacing, talking to himself about the inevitable
invasion of Canada by the Chinese. Gary sighs, and pulls his shirt down over his belly. He clears his throat.

I want to go inside but sense there is something that he wants to talk about. I wait for another minute, deadheading the flowerpots on my front stoop, and I am wrong.
We have nothing to say to eachother. I have done nothing but paint all day, and my mind is cloudy and I am not grounded and I have no earth and Gary is cloudy and he has
no earth and I say goodbye and go inside.

Through my window I see that Gary stays at the fence for a few minutes. I don't want him to see me with my family, because I don't know if he has a family, and he is so
painfully lonely that I walk away from the window, so I can't see him waiting for me.

The next morning, when I go outside for my morning cigarette, Gary is walking home from the corner store. He stops at the fence and today his eyes are different.
They are bright, shining like hematite in the sunshine. He talks as I light my second smoke.

"I have a life outside of this place," he says, and I nod, shielding my eyes from his brightness and from the sun.

"I have a lot waiting for me when I turn fifty," he continues. "I have a boat, and a car, and a mansion. I just have to wait three more years for my freedom."
He pauses and emphasises "Freedom is the most important thing."

I look over into the group home yard. It is littered with garbage and at the present time there are three men outside, sitting in chairs, staring at nothing. There is
one man pacing, the same man as yesterday. My heart is full of love for them, and for Gary. How beautiful that he has found hope in nothing, even if it is something that
he created for himself to keep living in his ghost-house, where forgotten people drink coca-cola and wait to die.

I will never walk by without acknowledging that behind every front door there are beating hearts, and people who used to be someone's baby. No one should ever be forgotten.

blah blah

He is staring at me and I am nervous.  He spreads the cards out on the table.

"You have a lot of beauty," he says, and continues.

"Did you have a drug problem?"  I shrug, picking at my fingernails.

He catches my eyes.  "You have dark forces inside of you." I think I hear the word "entities" and feel the blood drain from my face.

I clear my throat.

"What do I do about that?"

Half an hour later I am on a table and he is pushing at my stomach.  I feel strangely aroused and close my eyes so that I can notice if anything changes.  He works his way up and pushes on my shoulders.   

I am surprised by his strength... he's a really small guy.

"Okay," he says, and my eyes snap open.  He asks if I feel different.

Thinking about it, I say yes, not mentioning that the difference is actually a weird sexual feeling and a bit of dizziness.

I get on my bike and chug the coffee that I left in the basket, light a cigarette and ride home.

People in my life have been leaving me and I'm starting to get a complex.

I think that annihilation.., that point where your ego dies is an important step in the rebuilding of Self.  This is what happened to me a couple of weeks ago at the carnival. I was destroyed, and I thought I was going to die.  Allowing myself to feel that complete annihilation of self is something that, in hindsight, I am happy for.  Because I see myself more clearly now.  I think I put myself in situations, constantly, where I am close to being destroyed, in order to kill whatever it is inside of me that won't let myself be.

If I can hold on, I think it might work. Or I might fall off the other side, which I think is probably more likely.

prayer

O Holy Mother

Recreate me in your womb

Build me again, from conception

Watch me grow

Nourish me with Love

O Holy Mother

Help me to see myself through your eyes

Fill me with compassion not only for others

but for my own Beginning

Different from all other beginnings

love

Damien

walking

A cool blue breeze whistles around my body and I feel as though I am naked on this stretch of water and chaos.  I kick a Pepsi can with my foot and focus on the blood running through my body, boiling as if ignited by the elements that bless me.

Earth hidden by cement and grass and garbage still smiles under my feet.

Reluctant fire burns in the windows of every house that I pass.

My nostrils flare, my skirt is lifted by the spirits of the wind.

Water is everywhere

I wander further, follow the voices.  Three boys with toy guns burst out of a house, shirtless and laughing.  Their skin shines against the peeling paint and I laugh too.  What is behind them, it seems, is emptiness, and they are stepping into life, like babies born on a cool Spring day.

An old man crosses the street while cars wait impatiently, devious machines hiding their master’s soul in the glove compartment.  I am happy to be walking.