Buy the ticket, take the ride

  There's a part of me that believes that this path chose me, and not the other way around, though I have no way of really knowing because it's all subjective anyway. Whatever it is that you believe in, shapes your beliefs. I, personally, have always put more faith in the mystical spectrum of things, trusting my instinct and feeling my way through life; to me, there is no other way, and it puts me in a tough position to successfully understand where others are coming from but this isn't about beliefs, it's about walking the path that, depending on your beliefs, chose you or vice versa.

  The path in question is that of being a writer; I saw a quote from Kafka recently that says, "a non-writing writer is a monster courting insanity.", and it blew me completely away. It's true, of course, and I haven't been writing. Without its releasing quality, things change inside me gradually and left alone for a long enough timeline, permanent shifts and changes in psyche follow suit. Before you know it, you're not sure you've ever been a writer and have lost yourself once again, deep in the woods of your own heart and soul.

  And this leads me to believe that this path has chosen me, just how naturally it came to be. And lately, I am that monster.

  It goes in spells though, creativity; it ebbs and flows. Periods of intense mental lethargy follow periods of intense productivity, perpetually chasing after one another like Ourobouros and its tail. It's frustrating, and even though I'm no Stephen King with even a single published book, the times they are 'a changing, and there unfortunately are not a lot of people who have or take the time to sit down and read a book. So, despite there always being those (like myself) who realize the power of holding a great book in their hands and appreciating that over any other medium, one cannot fall behind the 8 ball when so much of everything is digitalized these days.

  My dilemma is this: I like analog. I like doing things by hand, the old way or the hard way or whatever you wish to call it. I journal. I entertain myself with my own internal life and have a stack of personal manuscripts filled with time and energy, tracing my writing "career" back to its inception. My life in books, as a book. But none of it will ever be published. It's not for anyone but me. This, however, this is for everyone. And no matter how much my pride goads me to write an epic novel in the vein of Dostoevsky or a grand philosophical tale that would make Nietzsche proud, this is all I have for now. And that's enough.

  I'm getting a little more discerning as I go, now taking more time to finish thoughts and create cohesion than before, though I still hold fast to my sentiment of the rawest original thought and feeling as being the best, and most genuine. For the sake of my readers, I will be constantly keeping up with my checks and balances to keep evolving my craft with my own psycho-spiritual development.

  Like so many other things, it's a constant work in progress. Thanks for coming along for the ride.

Nietzsche-Peachy

To me, the most life-affirming thing is to have soul conversations with similar human spirits. Makes you feel a little less insane and maybe validates your existence and what you're about, just a little.

For instance, sheeple. You know, the unawakened, unenlightened. Those who go about their sleepy existence thinking that this is it, this is as good as it gets and this is how things must be everywhere. Television becomes a deity worshiped on asscheeks around the world. I'm not saying everyone has to share my disdain for how spiritually retarded we've become as a human collective, I just want questions to form in your mind when faced with authority or social injustices and I don't want you to just go along blindly with the popular opinion. Have one of your own! Even if it's not to have one.

What is it that causes one person to wake up, and another remain asleep? Is it choice? Or something else? A condition of the heart, perhaps: A hardening, a great constriction of the thing to hang on to what it holds so true, so dear; a defense mechanism for a world out of sorts.


  I've gone back to reading Nietzsche lately, so you'll have to excuse my recent philosophical bent. The man is my idol, however, and not only that but my literary guru, to boot. Most everything I learned about myself, I learned largely in part thanks to him. No bullshit. Reading him changed the course of my life permanently and I am ever so thankful for this world that produces such people who open our eyes and inspire us, especially when we're bombarded incessant;y every day with the mediocre and inconsequential. Nothing matters. Nothing we're told does, or should, anyhow.
  What matters is going home at the end of the day to something or someone you love, and doing what you do for the betterment of yourself and others, not just wasting away on a little cloud of consumerism and fantasy everyday that everything is just ok. Denial gets tricky, best not to mess with it.

  Mr. N and I disagree on a lot of surface things but it's never the surface I'm really concerned with. Something as simple as having a conversation with someone is enough, sometimes. Some study the words spoken, others the tone and timbre; still others, myself included, lose sight of the words immediately in favor of what lies behind them. It's very much like deciphering code.
  Well, in a way it is a code. Our psyches are so efficient and skilled at erecting our grand defensive archetypes that many times we aren't any the wiser about it until one day we are. A lot of times, I don't even listen to what's being said; I space out studying the space the words are coming from and the feeling behind it. It stands to reason then that this is why I've never been a "lyrics person", when it comes to music; for me, what strikes me first and foremost is the feeling driving the piece. What the group is saying, because each member (provided these are real musicians and not some poppy piece of bubblegum shoe shit no talent ass-clowns) is telling you a story.

  This is a huge digression but the nature of my writings have always been a bit rambling and more akin to something conversational (believe me, if you've ever gotten me into a conversation of something I'm really passionate about, you'll hear my neediness assert itself proudly), so they never really have a clear destination most times anyway. But I was talking about music, and for the aforementioned, this is probably the reason I always aligned myself so readily with metal music, though I truly love all types. Like attracts like, and I am attracted to intensity of thought and feeling, to speak to my own. Not saying The Eagles lack this but I'm a true junkie and metal has given me the only fix strong enough to give me that little taste of death they all go for.

  There is no logical conclusion to this entry, but there never was one intended. I just wanted to write a few things and talk about something I was fired up about and inspired enough to write myself (publicly) out of the funk I've been in. Any of you who read me regularly will probably notice it's been a little while since I've posted anything. Well, yeah. For me, the creative process is very cyclical, and just as the moon and our own biorhythms go, my creativity is largely at the whim of waves and mercy. But, it is most importantly a craft, and as such, should be practiced ad nauseum, until it's like breathing.
  I also wanted to mention the actual web site I'm working on (that I largely procrastinated on for months, it seems) is in the works (really) and is beginning to take on some form. I don't know if perfectionism comes with being of a creative mind but it really does get terribly frustrating sometimes, and very unproductive but shit's getting done, and I'm getting excited about it, most importantly. This blog was ultimately just a starting point, a dip of the toes to test the water before jumping in head first, and it's gone amazingly, thanks to you.

Thank you,
Shane

barstool philosophers

  You can learn a lot from the time spent next to someone on a barstool. In fact, some of my favorite, best and most intimate talks were under the influence and with the inebriated.

  I have a soft spot for occasional drunks like myself. I don't hurt anyone, and I'm a lot more responsible about it now than I was in my more self-destructive formative years.

  Alcohol is a drug, and as such should be treated with respect and a healthy dose of discretion (and moderation.. sometimes) but it also has its merits, and is not without certain positive attributes. One of which is the lowering of our carefully constructed defense mechanisms, that are often times put up to keep others from ever entering the fortress.
  Now, you can take that statement any way you like but for my purposes I'm talking about letting people in emotionally. So often we're all shut in and shut off from other people; can't trust anyone, don't know who to trust, you've been hurt too many times and are scarred now, whatever the case the story is the same for most all of us in some way. Alcohol gives us a little window of opportunity to let our hair down and open our hearts without fear of judgement and really, when you're drunk you could really give a fuck less.

  Shouldn't it be like that more often?

  The meek grow mighty (and occasionally unruly, unfortunately), the quiet become chatty or perhaps the chatty revert and begin to listen for once. Results are not typical and it's not the best drug of choice for a lot of folks but for the rest of us, it's nice. Just be nice to yourself and give it the respect it deserves and let yourself open up a little. Try it, you might like it.

"We must cultivate our garden"

I think I finally got it tonight, I think it all clicked now. I'm talking about yoga in the broadest sense of the word, far away from the mat.

Maybe it was digging carrots out of my grandparents' garden, getting my hands dirty and unearthing these lovely creations which in turn give us and other living creatures life. Maybe it was re-connecting with my family members and not being such a fucking hermit all the time (I mean, they live right down the road so it's not like I have a viable excuse not to, given that I drive past them every day).
It's those two things alone that mean anything in this miserable existence: being in the presence of those you love and cherish and living within your means, living in harmony with the planet that gives us life.

And it's these two crucially important things I take for granted every day. Well, i don't want to anymore.

I'm not saying I won't go back to my hermit-y ways, because that just seems to be a part of my condition but I can at least poke my head in once in a while; it's not gonna kill me. We're only solitary creatures by choice, ultimately; in some ways, we need that human interaction. It's healthy. It's the original and only true form of social media.

And as for the gardening trip I'm on, well, that's not going away anytime soon. I don't want to advance or evolve anymore if it means losing touch with what makes me human, with where we came from as people. Self-sustainability is the dream but it seems to get further out of touch every day, at least on the global scale.

I may not be able to save the world at large but I can damn sure make it my goal to maintain a rich home-life to retreat to; I can live my dream every day, and that alone gives me hope, gives some purpose and meaning to this whole crazy thing.


Now, as for the time spent on the mat, I think I got that too tonight: It's about that time on the mat, with you and your breath. It's about synchronizing the whole of you with your breath. Mind, body and spirit flowing in one smooth direction. Some days it's just plain torture but when you get it, oh boy... you get it. Well, tonight I got it.

It's serious soul fuel, the best hour of my life in some ways.

Day seven of the five day yoga challenge told me that the challenge is never over, no matter how long you make it and that you never stop learning. As with life, it's a journey, not a destination and I'm just along for the ride.

monsters inside us

  Sometimes there's so much to say the words can't come out fast enough. Other times, not a single syllable comes to mind. I enjoy both of these moments thoroughly but especially the latter; the chatter gets a little overbearing sometimes, though I feel I have no room to complain, as no one can fully understand what it must be like to live each day as a schizophrenic. 

  It's funny how some monsters are made naturally while others are "manufactured", as in man-made: spoiled, ruined, broken.. whatever. Nature takes care of her own, and she generally has to run her course, so it basically is what it is. These are the poor souls we're compelled by some inherent compassion to care for and attempt to heal, to fix. But Nature is cruel, and we soon learn that we cannot go against her; we must simply accept her decision and do the best we can to ensure the least amount of suffering for the tormented soul.

  Those that have been created are not natural, and our inherent tendency is of aversion, to avoid them altogether and at all costs. For most, compassion stops where behavior begins and the cycle of abuse renews itself, with the abused becoming the abuser. Manipulation of the emotions and all other manner of negative human behavior become commonplace, and creates new cracks in the caregivers psyches; one becomes cynical, or if the caregiver was already, the bitterness mutates into contempt, hatred. Soon, both parties line up on the battlefield with deception as their sword; trick or be tricked. Tolerate but never trust. 

  As taxing as their presence may be, the monsters we love to hate can teach us an awful lot about ourselves. It's often said in yoga that the pose you struggle the most with is the one you need the most. The same could be said for how we deal with challenging people. Now, philosophy is all well in good in the classroom but often times impractical on the street, and I'm certainly not saying I am the most patient person (you would be surprised at how short of a fuse I have) but it's important to at least keep that thought ringing in the back of our minds somewhere, to keep our eyes, ears and hearts open to what's going on inside us while we're caught up in what's going on outside of us.

  That's where it all comes together. 

  

short thoughts.

Ed. Note: Just a smattering of random shit that's come out of my brain at some point, splattered on notes and scribbled outside of the lines. Enjoy the insanity :)

Frequency-

  I don't think of them as emotions so much as rogue frequencies I've picked up, either from someone else or some thing, some place; I am but a terminal for their velocity.

On Creativity-

to walk the path between chaos and cohesion is not an easy feat. of course, it's wonderful to be original and bursting with raw talent, yet you want people to be able to read and connect to it, otherwise the whole thing was in vain and you're left stroking the flaccid ego in your hand; not an enjoyable or fruitful experience. 

it is my belief that art and creativity are best when they're at their rawest and most emotionally pure form, though that's not always such a marketable trait. when it is, you put yourself at risk of falling into a pretentious pit of despair.

I cannot speak for anyone but myself when I say that this is not really where you want to be. ideas are great, and i love brilliance, especially when it teeters on the verge of lunacy but one has to be ready to accept their own martyrdom when embarking on this path. I respect it but the more practical, logical and reasonable side of me rejects it as immature horse shit; having to prove something to someone, anyone but mostly yourself. I still struggle with it, that's probably why I've not completed anything yet.

/

there's a television on that no one is watching. a light on that illuminates no sentient life forms..

/

car sex is a way of life. 

come, be a sex nomad..

/

WWIII should be the least of anyone's concerns, especially considering we've been in the trenches for years already; it's just that the battlefield looks a little different this time. Its internalized, fought in the hearts and minds of the millions of dead and dying souls in this once great nation, world even. 

You can dress it up any way you like, put any positive spin to it that will help you sleep at night but the fact remains that we're fucked. Those in power and those with money have had us by the balls and throats as long as anyone can probably remember, and we've given in. Revolutions are too time-consuming and tiresome, dangerous even, so let's continue to over-indulge in slow poisons to numb the pain we all see too clearly but refuse to accept. It's painted on everyone's face like a mask of death. 

Be careful with dreams and fantasies and do not for one second underestimate the inherent evil in man. True, for all those born with evil in their hearts are just as many as their opposition but these numbers do not have the same totalitarian control over the masses. Most of these numbers have given themselves up to fairy tale and prophecies, waiting for someone else to come and save us all from the wretchedness. I'm here to tell you that you're wrong. No one is coming, it's just us. 

/

far, far away I would love to live outside the boundaries of this infernal death machine, this rat race march of lemmings off unspeakable fucking cliffs to impale ourselves on the spires of greed.

/

if only there was a way to genetically pre-determine whether or not someone was bound to become an asshole we could promote sterilization at an early age, before they're any the wiser. 

/

It’s an unfortunate circumstance as the result of a bad temper but I’m a firm believer that sometimes you just need to break shit. Material items are just that, and can be replaced. In fact, it’s probably good to destroy something that’s only meaningful because you attached meaning to it to relieve yourself of one less crutch. Dependence is not sexy in regards to anything, but especially to inanimate objects.
Was it always like this? Or is it just more apparent now? Imagine the Earth being stricken with a massive solar flare, knocking out the power grid across the nation, or even world, then imagine the reaction. Needless to say, people would freak; myself included, but how would that be any different from day to day life? It’s no mystery that we, as human beings, can be the most unruly creatures on the planet, but only blind optimism would try and tell you otherwise; another matter entirely.
Regardless of how bad it could ever get, what would be worse is if we still felt this aversion to being comfortable within ourselves as if it’s a sin; it is to some, I suppose, but it’s best not to take anyone’s word to be the absolute unless it’s your own, and not just the result of some kind of influence or promise you’ll only cash in on after you’re dead.


/

"You're still alive, huh?"

She wasn't thrilled. I was, but thought I caught the faint glimmer of a smirk in her eyes.

"At least you still have a sense of humor"

"Yeah", she said. 

The conversation was red hot. 

I hadn't seen her in about two years, the last time being in a picture she sent me of her sugar daddy and her; cuddling in bed, taken by the reflection of the mirrors on his ceiling. That was an interesting day. I thought of our bodily fluids combining; we might as well have had sex together, him and I; we have been the whole time anyway. 

When i think of cheating, I think first of the deception and second of the bodily horror; just which one is worse I'm not exactly sure, as both are equally appalling. I thought of David Cronenberg.  Blood, semen, fecal matter from shopping cart handles.. I thought about the bacteria that collects on your dick if you don't wash your hands BEFORE taking a piss: all these things just hanging out in a warm little incubator that we both penetrated, probably within hours of each other.  He knew about this the whole time.

I wanted to tell her she was a bitch, that I hated her more than the smell of vomit but I didn't. I wanted to drive two hours to stalk her house, looking for two shadows eating each other so I could get really inflamed and the bile would creep up and I'd use the combination she gave me to the front door lock box and creep up the stairs and burst in the door saying, "A-HA!", and proceed to kicking the dick off the guy and the shit right out of him, then I'd drag her by her hair and throw her out the window or down a flight of stairs and I'd sit there and smoke a cigarette because I quit so I can have one and I think I fucking deserved it.  

I didn't do any of that. I think of Hollywood's influence on my mental state.

Hold on, back up here a minute: she started it. Real mature, I know, but the truth is often stranger than fiction anyway so let's build a bridge here quickly and I'll get on with it. Better? Good. 

It was the worst thing to happen to me since the last worst thing that happened to me, which was actually a girl, too…

I think it was Facebook but I don't remember; all that matters is that she found my best friend whose name isn't important because you don't know him anyway.  Well, it was the day he and I were leaving for Tennessee for a music festival. She shows up, lookin' all good with her nice hair and her nice nails and tan legs and short shorts and large fake breasts and, wait a minute... She has breasts? When did that happen? It's not important because I figured she was there for for him, but she wasn't. Gulp. It usually doesn't take long to get awkward between three high school friends when the girl your best friend had a crush on all through high school but never did anything about takes a shining to you right in front of said friend. Not that it was that obvious, but it was that obvious. She hid it well though, considering we had actually been corresponding for about a week before that via email; at the time, I just felt sorry for her. Towards the end, I just wanted to help her put herself out of my misery. 

Weeks go by with daily text messages and e-mails that were getting increasingly more intimate and personal, and it was unknown to all but us. The thing about a dirty little secret is it's incredibly sexy. It's also very dangerous. Maybe that's why people cheat but hell if I know; I was always the sap on the receiving end of that particular misfortune.

 

She was a Gemini sun/Scorpio moon and her eyes were abysses I just couldn't help but dive headfirst into. Miles Davis had the same configuration; the two became one in my mind, it was my personal soundtrack for emotional demise. I thought of Bird. 

It's always been the weird little things that caught my greatest attention. 

Don't sweat the small stuff. 

Right.

…and it's all small stuff.

Exactly. 

 

8.12.13 20:28

  Same day, same place, different times, different space; head, that is. It seems a lot of my writing recently has been in the form of blog posts or scribbled notes, but not quite as much pen to paper contact as I'd like, not much journaling, either. I'm indifferent to it at this point but after reading Walden, by Henry David Thoreau the past few days, i can't help but wonder what that great American would think of this modern day.
  I mean, I honestly feel I'm about as rooted in classical literature as one could be, living in this day and age. I really think I was born two centuries late, as I'm much more at home in the 19th than this one. But that's not to say I completely abhor the modern world: I am more attached to my cell phone than I care to be, and would be lost without my MacBook Pro I'm writing you on now combined with WiFi.. and don't even TALK about how I'd get along without internet access.
  The whole of it is very bittersweet for me, and maybe for more than just myself, however, there seems to be a noticeable gap between our beliefs and our behavior, or at least just mine. In other words, I talk a lot of shit but at the end of the day, I still go home to my first world little house on the prarie existence, enjoying the finest things life has to offer. Do I feel guilty of this? Sure. But I'm also not gonna lie that I don't enjoy it.

  My guilt and feelings of discontent are philosophical, lacking a specific texture of emotion and it feels hollow sometimes. I feel guilty but would I give it all up willingly? It's doubtful, unless it was a catastrophic world event and shit was really starting to go down; then survival instinct kicks in and you act accordingly.
  I think about Christopher McCandless often, and especially now that I'm reading Walden, one of the many books he read before taking his journey. In case you don't know who the hell I'm talking about, look up Into The Wild.
  I envy Chris for what he did, for the courage and determination it must take to be a true soul rebel and go against the whole of society, to burn it all and leave no trace of yourself. You become a ghost, you cease to exist in exchange for the ability to truly live free, the way ( I can only surmise) we used to.
  It was stupid and careless and selfish, yes. He met a lot of kindred spirits along the way but died alone with slow poison flowing through his veins. Just another stupid kid. Or was he? I think he did what we all think of doing, wish we could actually pull off and do ourselves but that idea quickly gets dashed to pieces by what we call reality: Our job, our mortgage, etc.

  He took soul searching to the extreme, and I respect him for that but there is always a better way, and maybe not an easier way but a more practical one.

  Dislike it as I may, the real world is what we're stuck in, and it's what we have to deal with and make the best of. We do it every day, and maybe do not give ourselves enough credit. Some go home to escape it through their favorite tv show, some through drink or drugs, some through sweat and some through the mind. Whatever the means, the end is all the same, so, I guess that it once again all comes down to balance; that's all it ever is, a delicate balance and a power play between our hearts and our minds, our hopes and our fears and our setbacks and aspirations.
 
  The way out is through. Winston Churchill said "If you're going through hell, keep going", and that's about the long and short of it. What else can we do? I think a part of us all wants to return to a more natural state, my part wanting to have that homestead outside of the reach of humanity and its eternal ignorance and technology, let come what may and if I die, at least I first lived. But I'm not there, nor am I ready to be, and it's just not practical at this point. It is not impossible though; nothing is, and one day I hope that we all get to taste our own little slice of heaven on this mortal soil but until then, I guess you're stuck reading the words that I type and I'm stuck typing them, wishing for paper.

What's it all about?

  So if you've been following me or my blog, you've no doubt heard me throw the word yoga and meditation around a lot, maybe even spiritual or spirituality. What, though, do these words mean? 

  I'd wager that most everyone's initial thoughts are some skinny Indian dude contorted like a pretzel with weird paint on his head, or a Buddhist monk sitting in lotus position chanting OM. Well, you pretty much nailed it but most times that's where our western understanding of these esoteric practices end. When you begin to dig deeper, you begin to realize that you know nothing at all about it. The purpose of this post is not to delve into the rich history of the practice but instead just clear the air on why one might choose to practice, so as to shake off that "cultish" vibe it's seemed to acquire over the years.

  I got into the game late; just less than three years ago but yoga had caught my attention and curiosity long before that. Like most, I thought it was weird and cult-like and I didn't really understand it - but I've always had a penchant for pursuing a level of understanding in that which I do not. So, I waited and watched, and one day it seemed right to pick up a mat and some videos and give it a try. 

  At that point in my life, I was fresh off quitting smoking and looking to get my body back in peak physical condition, so it started as exercise, and nothing more. I didn't like or fully understand the chanting and prayer and to this day still find it slightly distasteful (I mean, I wasn't born in India and I can't read Sanskrit, much less pronunciate it properly so it seems a bit contrived to me) but I would still put my hands in prayer and just bow to that silence and inner peace I was filled with; It's a very rare thing. For anyone, I imagine.

  

  I continued in this way, following the same Shiva Rea video for months, just getting the basics down, as well as the P90x yoga video, which I was drawn to for it's intense level of athleticism and strength. Shiva is great but I'm a bit too dark and moody to stomach all her flowery prose all the time; it got a little cloying. However, she is a marvelous teacher with a deep knowledge and understanding of the subject and so I respect her for that. 

  This eventually led me to find my one true love: Ashtanga. One thing you do need to know about yoga is it doesn't matter what school of thought or "style" you practice, the end goal or result is always the same: enlightenment, a complete union of mind, body and soul and all that snazzy shit. Yeah, it gets pretty deep, and I know that's why so many either don't know where to start or just get overwhelmed and do more mental harm than good to themselves. One thing is for sure though, whether you believe in the mumbo jumbo or not: it's a very powerful practice, and if you're just doing it for the physical aspect, then you will see gains in every part of your life, not just muscle tone-wise.

  It doesn't matter that I'm diving deeper into the classic texts, trying to get a handle on my understanding of it, it doesn't matter how much anyone knows or who has on the hottest new yoga pants because when we come to the mat, were all equal. We're all dirty and ugly and flawed inside but we go there because we want to cleanse ourselves, purify ourselves. We want to try and be ok with ourselves, and it won't always be easy but it will always be good, even if it doesn't seem so right away. 

  Don't let the charlatans and snake oil peddlers fool or sell you, because chances are they know less about it than you do. The practice is not equatable to status in life; it gives you no advantage over anyone else whatsoever. It does, however, give you a greater understanding of yourself and so this affects the way in which you interact with the world in many different subtle or not-so-subtle ways. It's not just postures, it's practicing to be a better person, a better human being. Most importantly, it's for all of us, regardless of race or creed.

  So my friends, I invite you to indulge your curiosity, if there is such a curiosity, and pick up a mat or don't, and try some yoga. Try different things until you find a style or teacher or method that resonates with you and begin your own practice of being a better person; just be patient with yourself because nothing happens overnight and there's a lot of material out there to sift through.

  Go out and dig deep my friends, find the hidden gems that others missed; give your own meaning to your yoga practice, or, just practice being a better person without the contortions.

Post-Existential Uninhabit(at).

  Time is not our enemy friends, it's the perceived importance we've placed on it that is. Indeed, our entire culture would likely crumble into the dirt if suddenly there were no such things as 'time' or 'money' but would it be such a bad thing? What one sees as chaos or anarchy, another views as a return to a more natural order; the way things ought to be.
  We did it to ourselves, though; we always do. A novel idea becomes a crutch, a necessity of every day life but more like a slow cancer, in reality.

  Time ceased to exist long ago, it means nothing now: It's just numbers we stress out over fitting our days around. We make up rules and consequences for not abiding by this, for being "late". How ridiculous! If time, if money, if your precious schedule or the material items you own don't mean a pinch of shit when you're dead, then why should we think any differently of it when we're alive?
  This is our one chance, and we have to waste it slaving away to make money for someone else while all ours is being taken away?

  I normally don't voice my opinion of such things publicly. When I do, I'm already prepared to hear grumbles and scoffs and "that's life". Fuck you. We've forgotten how to live. Worse yet, we've never even been taught how to, we have to find this out later in life once we've blown the better part of it making all the wrong choices or none at all.

  You either decay actively or lethargically: choose wisely. 

  
  I was feeding the fish tonight, and it struck me that this is how life should be, this is as good as it gets and it's really all it's about. We used to build gardens, now we build cities. There used to be farms but now it's apartment complexes. It makes me sad only momentarily. What it makes me is angry. Furious, more accurately, and it should make you feel the same, god dammit.
  Trading resources natural to this Earth we inhabit, that all are entitled to but only the select few own the title to with glorified monopoly money. Ink on paper. It means something because we made it that way. There is no meaning to anything save for what we put on it, and we put meaning to the most meaningless things. 

  Wake up. Count your blessings. If you can do that, it means you're still alive and sucking air and there's still a chance for the whole wretched lot of us. Stop putting the control in someone else's hands and take it for yourself, for us all.

The Yoga of Ink

Imbued with this feeling of gratitude shining forth from my chest that’s nearly ready to burst with the goodness of it all…

I didn’t tip my tattoo artist.

I didn’t know I was supposed to—it was an entirely new experience for me and I learned as I went. Two sessions. The first session was for the initial consult and I was scared shitless. Yet I was invigorated to show someone my art, which I wanted permanently displayed on my skin.

It’s not so much a piece of art as a coat of arms. It says something about a person, and mine seems to inspire questions and wonder in those who gaze upon it, so I feel that’s fitting for me.

But I have a problem with exchanging money for such a positive and enlightening experience as I had there, and I’m not exaggerating one minute amount to say it was life-altering. Definitely affirming. I wanted to do something. Hippies don’t exchange money, but hugs only go so far

A basket filled with hand-picked organic fruits and vegetables, preferably local, is what I decided on. Also, some other vegetarian and vegan staples—lentils, quinoa, nuts, seeds—clean food.

To my mind, me picking these items out by hand, and with only the best and most positive intentions is the only true way to show someone how much you really do appreciate their efforts. I paid cash for the work itself, but I want to repay the artist with heart and soul. I want her to feel what I could not even hope to put into words or express in artwork. Some would call it paying it forward. The semantics of it are unimportant, all that matters is the expression itself.

How can you put a dollar amount to sitting sunken in to a well-worn couch, waiting patiently and unhurriedly for your tattoo artist to arrive, who is 30 minutes late, when the owner of the shop walks in the front door locking eyes with you in a split second of complete spiritual knowledge?

You just know where each other are coming from without any formal exchange of words. This is the reason you chose this place, you say. Nice work, he says. A simple thank you, and he goes off to begin his own work.

You still sit there, completely content and having not a care in the world. You simply thrive in that space and time, caught between moments of past and future.

Later, when your artist arrives and is actively scratching ink into your skin, he says how he knew something awesome would happen today, not only for the amazing piece of art on your arm, but also for the complete calm you exuded in waiting. Total acceptance. He says you were just being. Being. I could have cried and in fact did feel a slight sting in my tear ducts. Happiness.

Little moments like that just validate your whole goddamn existence, they do, and the beauty is overwhelming to me. Words really fail at times like that, but no positive action falls on deaf ears. Your every fiber of being seems to remind you, so you don’t forget and soon you feel compelled to do something good yourself, for someone else. Good decisions that lead to more good decisions by others.

After much spiritual and philosophical conversation, all of it meaningful and with purpose, he shares a glass of kombucha he brewed himself, a direct exchange of life and love from one organism to another. Let food be thy medicine, and so shall be my gift to my artist.

It won’t be fancy but it will mean something. It won’t pay your bills but it will nurture your body and spirit.

Sadly, we miss this experience anymore. Shopping complexes only complicate matters.

Live simply, live well. Most of all, live with a goddamn purpose—a meaning, and make it good.

Buy two of something and share it with your neighbor—spreading your joy even if they don’t offer anything in return. The gesture, though not reciprocated instantly, will not easily be forgotten and maybe one day, at your funeral, they will speak up about the time you did something really nice for them and that they never forgot it and this speech will sparkle in the hearts and minds of all in attendance, and it will inspire someone there to do something nice, just because.

It all comes back around, the good and bad.

There will always be those that tell me I’m going to regret getting this, because it’ll be with me for the rest of my life and what it might look like when I get older, but I really don’t care. I’m not there yet, am I? Even if I were, I would still never regret it because it was something I waited to do for years, patiently waiting for the right time and place and person to translate it to my skin for me.

It’s symbolic of why you shouldn’t rush things, and it reminds me that things will almost always work out somehow, some way, even if it’s not exactly what you thought you had in mind.

I look in the mirror and I see life reflected back at me, I can see the love in it, the peace and tranquility and see it bristling with positive affirmations.

To most, it will always just be a lot of ink on my arm. Permanently.

I’ve never been one to enjoy life inside the box, though, and I will never regret this experience because it found me truly feeling this moment.

Permanently.

kinetic intelligence.

  Exercise, which I will define here as any physical movement or activity that is repetitive in nature and with a clear intention, moves your blood. It increases your airflow and thus, intake of oxygen. That red red kroovy then forcefully flows through your circulatory system, hitting all parts of your body; some of which that constantly scream for not getting enough of the stuff.

  Your brain and mine is one such part.

  

  It lies dormant for most of the day, at least certain centers within it; ones that open up when things are flowing smoothly from one neuron to the next. It makes our grey matter very pleased to be awakened by an influx of oxygen, and we deserve it to not only ourselves but the whole of our human race to indulge it in its request. What do you really have to lose besides your intelligence and wit?

  Embrace your sapio-sexuality. 

  All this focus on exercise but the focus is empty, there's no substance to it; it's all a vain pursuit for our own personal holy grail. Of course a toned body is a very beautiful thing but then what? It becomes vapid, the least common denominator, the one who gets cut from the team. Suddenly something happens but no matter what, it's more so that one just doesn't allot the time for it anymore; it becomes unimportant, and this begins a series of negative and wholly holistically detrimental compulsions, such as smoking or mindless mastication.

  

  If you're going to do anything, do it mindfully with your complete attention and intense focus. Make it the only thing in the whole world and you have nothing but to complete your task. Make it a mission, some sort of spiritual pursuit. Make it mean something, make it fun. 

  There is no good, no bad; there is only intention and purpose. 

  Tell me, what is yours?