How Do You Define A New Life?

What’s so good?



What do I do?
Here I am updating my LinkedIn profile, and back to being twelve. 

I feel like my kid-self gushing to my kid sister:
Look what I can do!
See what I just did?

Her forehead wrinkles.
Her eyes drain.  She cocks her brow.
Her chin turns up and her mouth turns down.
She looks away. Then turns back with a disinterest and 
that tone.
Her and LinkedIn, both.

What have you been doing for the last few years?

Yes. And?
What’s so good about that?
Oh yeah?
So what?
Yeah. But, what’s so good?

LinkedIn’s haughty smug questionnaires are a different kind of third degree.
Why, only that?
That doesn’t answer the question.
From when to when, and what exactly?

How does that add up?

I’m painting myself into a corner. My instinct is to back away from these intimidating forms trying to get me to trim myself down into a formula.

What are your accomplishments?

Even if I had been working at a conventional job for the past few years, I still wouldn’t up-sale my heroic accomplishments like most guys would.
I’d still be down-playing my worth and value like as many woman do.

What have you been doing for the last few years?

Do you really wanna know?

I didn’t think so.


My Origin Story-“Hate”

“I don’t understand hate.”
“I will never understand hate.”
“Yeah me either.”
“Just don’t get how people can hurt other people”.

I found this deadly conversation on Facebook by artists authors thought leaders the ones who are entrusted to know better. Sadly our short collective memory blanks out how very close to yesterday back in our church days if you were one of many of the popular American religions you were taught to believe homosexuality led to Sodom and Gomorrah being destroyed. A whole two cities devoured by holy flalmes for tolerating that abomination.

It’s all interpreted right there in both Christina and Muslim religion’s holy writings. So, it’s something way different from the catch-all phrase “hate” that is causing so much pain and death discrimination and hurt.

For a minister at least one in this case the one in California to stand up and celebrate someone finally doing God’s will is pretty natural. It’s part of being “right”.
I’m reminding myself that my ancestors and my culture up till now have been violent. We wage justified wars that are still going on. We lynched black folks and have disrespected and rejected “sodomites” for centuries now.

Not long ago it was legit to kill Catholics then in turn Protestants for being Catholic or being Protestant then both killing Muslims. I’m pretty sure my ancestors being faithful and devout men and woman participated in all the holy killings back then because they continued right up to very close to the present being devout and holy killers. Being faithful and devout myself, I thought the “right” half of that crap was all good.

Holy killings. Fighting for whats right. Soldiers for freedom. We still do it. At least we can do is admit we do understand “hate”. That we are it. Whatever that word has come to mean. We do it. We have been doing it together.

I have. I understand “hate”. I have lived and continue to live hate.

Now I just wonder what I can do about it.

Wonder with me.





Walk The Line


Experienceing the line between reality and fiction tastes indescribable, feels reality bending.
Reality, sometimes fluid often pliable can be the original awsome, even creepy, depending on the cultural vocabulary of images you can reach for when you attempt to describe what the hell just happend, or didn’t, either way, to yourself.
The universe isn’t so dull, is it, that each experiancer, always gets the same “unimaginable” experiance, always clearly describable in no uncertain terms, predictable, always positive or always negative or always neutral?
The boring-est movie ever is just like that. Zero ratings is just like the way I notice expecting my reality to behave: bland, unsurprising, predicable, all done before then institutionalized in some Bible or other. The terms, the code rules my experience snuggles under, folds into and creates itself by must be wearing a mass uniform.
My expectations must be so I can pass the boring enough test,  sane enough test, scientific enough test, has it happened before enough test.
Then, if it happens to pass those tests, these ones will weed it out: The is it possible? imaginable? repeatable? duplicatable? Even the just credible tests I lay on myself cuz I sorta want to fit in turn my world pink and elephantine.
Does my world exsist?
Squishing this me into a tiny cell I give myself as a sanity challenge doesn’t only look weird.

Squashes brain, constricts heart, deflates lungs, feet and hands cramp and tingle, tucked in tight.

I am gonna fit in. I wanna live in the world.
To live in here, is to fit in here.

Toes can’t even wiggle.

Wooooot! I am sane!

That and love began to exist the precise instant science figured out how to prove it does.
Before that, it didn’t exsist.

Inner Beings Outer Beings  Artfully Sync