Poems. Pictures. Prose. Bits of found inspiration. That's what you'll find here. An inner world projected out...


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    The Invitation By Oriah Mountain Dreamer

    It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living, I want to know what you ache for and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.

    It doesn’t interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dreams, for the adventure of being alive.

    It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon. 

    I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life’s betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain!

    I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it or fade it or fix it. 

    I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own; if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, be realistic, or to remember the limitations of being human.

    It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling me is true, I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself, if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul.

    I want to know if you can be faithful and therefore trustworthy. 

    I want to know if you can see beauty, even when it is not pretty every day, and if you can source your life from God’s presence. 

    I want to know if you can live with failure, your or mine, and still stand on the edge of a lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, “Yes!”

    It doesn’t interest me to know where you live or how much money you have.

    I want to know if you can get up after a night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done for the children.

    It doesn’t interest me who you are, how you came to be here. 

    I want to know if you will stand in the Center of the Fire with me and not shrink back.

    It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. 

    I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away. 

    I want to know if you can be alone with yourself, and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.

    We write to hide our face, to bury ourselves in our own writing. We write so that the life around us, alongside us, outside, far from the sheet of paper, this life that’s not very funny but tiresome and filled with worry, exposed to others, is absorbed in that small rectangle of paper before our eyes and which we control. Writing is a way of trying to evacuate, through the mysterious channels of pen and ink, the substance, not just of existence, but of the body, in those minuscule marks we make on paper. To be nothing more, in terms of life, than this dead and jabbering scribbling that we’ve put on the white sheet of paper is what we dream about when we write. But we never succeed in absorbing all that teeming life in the motionless swarm of letters. Life always goes on outside the sheet of paper, continues to proliferate, keeps going, and is never pinned down to that small rectangle.

    Michel Foucault

    "Never give children a chance of imagining that anything exists in isolation. Make it plain from the very beginning that all living is relationship. Show them relationships in the woods, in the fields, in the ponds and streams, in the village and in the country around it. Rub it in."   - Aldous Huxley, Island

    What is an organic connection anyway?

    Perhaps it is the entirely effortless progression of interaction between human beings — where each exists in the other’s world without forcing development in their own interest. Instead the common practice is to naturally influence the trajectory of life by being present. Each moment of intentional existence is defined by a genuine desire to be invested totally in living creatively.

    Public displays of agression

    I love you for the woman who rides the train barefoot. For the laughing child who inspires stoic passengers to smile. For the spontaneous, multigenerational jams that breakout between strangers sharing heavy beats over headphones. For the sequined bike riding transvestite who keeps men guessing. For the Tuesday accordion player who makes the train his stage. For his wife, and the baby in her arms, who carry a cup to collect quarters in his wake. For the unexpected eye contact and the shy smiles that, for a short time anyway, turn strangers into neighbors.

    Disillusionment is difficult

    But truth is harder still

    And anger turns up so often

    In our search for love

    Dysfunction is natural

    As a reaction to deceit

    Leaving us to wonder

    What normalcy might be

    Now, facts may be formidable

    But intimacy takes the cake

    The challenge: 

    Baring all your parts

    Hoping you won’t break

    So naked, we plead for compassion

    And partners whose peculiarities

    Harmonize in our sighs

    Given we’re in tune with

    What rests between our thighs

    Before we’re entangled 

    In what amity might imply

    Realize, apropos of nothing,

    Spiritual intercourse will 

    Forever catch our eye

    And the cycle just keeps going

    As we struggle for faith

    Clinging to the hope 

    That in time our 

    Consciousness will wake

    The creative writer does the same as the child at play. He creates a world of phantasy which he takes very seriously—that is, which he invests with large amounts of emotion—while separating it sharply from reality.

    Sigmund Freud

    I have to agree…

    (via theatlantic)

    Tell me…
    Why are we together?
    What do you like about me?
    What would you be most willing to give up in your life, right now?
    What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?
    If we only had one more night together what would we do?
    What do you dislike most about me?
    What makes me bearable despite that?
    What can I do to be a better friend?
    How can I be a more sensitive lover?
    What is your greatest fear?
    What holds you back?
    How do you explain inequality?
    When are you the most selfish?
    What’s the last secret you couldn’t keep?

    If your everyday life seems poor to you, do not accuse it; accuse yourself, tell yourself you are not poet enough to summon up its riches; since for the creator there is no poverty and no poor or unimportant place.

    Rainer Maria Rilke

    "There’s no clear boundary between experience and imagination. Who knows what glimpses of reality we pick up unconsciously, telepathically."

    - Norman Mailer

    Let’s face it, rewriting your resume is no fun. Unless of course, you turn it into a poem…So let the shameless self-promotion begin. I need work. I clearly have too much time on my hands.

    I dream of a simple life. A way of being that is not fraught with financial angst nor endless striving for success or fame. An existence where collective discourse is not centered around invisible hubs of social media but rather tangible tribal gatherings of flesh and blood.

    I aspire to be self-sufficient. To know the basic necessities of life. To grow my own food, build my own home and make my own clothes. To live with respect for the natural cycles of life. To connect with the sources that sustain us. To know where the goods I consume  come from. To understand the direct energetic and ethical cost of my choices.

    I hope to grow a family. One that has at its core not only love but friendship and a shared ethos. A tribe whose purpose is greater than the physical safety of its members. A community that provides a spiritual, emotional, and psychological foundation that encourages and makes possible brave exploration and enduring loyalty.

    I will strive to create something beautiful. To channel the genius of the collective mind for the purposes of expanding consciousness. To bring into being some art that is exquisite for reasons greater than its pleasurable interpretation by the senses.

    I wish for a glimpse of the path. To know my Self truly. To accept the mistakes and embrace the imperfections. To be more the woman I spy dancing across the inside of my eyelids as I fall asleep.

    But above all else, I must to learn to be truly present. To no longer dream, aspire, hope, strive, or wish. But instead to be.

    "Eat, Pray, Love" Author Elizabeth Gilbert muses on the impossible things we expect from artists — and shares the radical idea that, instead of the rare person "being" a genius, all of us "have" a genius…

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