Last night I was awoken by crippling fear. I had a nightmare of course, something I can’t quite remember; one of my reoccurring dreams, of places far away – not the furthest, but the gateway places that lay at the border of terrifically far and manageable. Our friend Lindsay lives there, and we visit her there. But that is not at all what made the dream a nightmare, that is what made it reoccurring, just the place, being on the edge of very far away, and visiting Lindsay.

What I do remember is waking up with this fear, physically seeing red, turning on all the lights in the room, making my way to the bathroom, being sure not to look in any mirrors, being sure not to move suddenly in one direction or another, or to look out the corner of my eye, making my way back to the bed, reluctantly turning out light and lying down in bed in the same exact position I had woken up in, realizing I was about to return to the same nightmare I had just left. I could stay awake and have the horrible things come, I could already sense them taking form, they’d manifest as a man or woman standing by my open window; or I could fall back asleep into the clutches of the terrible dream.

I then asked myself “why?” It has been so long since I have felt this horror. I almost returned to the aged routine of pleading with the dark haunting spirits that I am not ready to be plagued by them, or to ask the intermittent God I speak with to lift this curse from my room so that I might return to peaceful sleep. But that routine is tired, and it does not answer “why?” The details are blurred, but I had a notion that the terrors haunting me came from the busy run round that has defined my existence for the past year plus. A symptom of my hurried pace and the sickness that has stricken the neglected “artist” (that reflective, intentional, inspired, quietly listening, noticing the subtle and slow) within. A waking symptom, perhaps more obvious, is that I had set 3 day time alarms for myself, to take 10 minutes, to sit quietly and do nothing, and think of nothing. But I had simply turned off the alarm each time, intending to honor those moments of quiet, but had inadvertently, but almost unapologetically, continued to work at my maddening pace.

Now (in this moment of waking horror) I decided it was this neglect for self-care that brought my ghosts, and the only cure was to treat the cause, and so amidst the flurry of whirling nearly corporeal beasts I closed my eyes, took deep breathes and let the images go. I thought of nothing, but saw so much. Of course the spirits moving from my right brain through my left, the tall black boots and creeping hand of the man outside my window, the would be heroes that would protect me, let those go as well, ideas of how well I was doing or how poorly this would go, pride of my self-awareness and how this might be a good exercise for Quen to use for her night terrors. From useful to junk, the ideas entered and I let them go again, from right to left. At times I’d focus on breathing, and that was a nice distraction to focus on. But sometime I didn’t need that either, and could really focus on nothing, and that brought me closer to my peace. My power animal came for a short visit, and for a duration, the thoughts entering and exiting were no longer dictated by my conscious mind. A sort of waking vision played out. And I let that go as well. Soon enough I was asleep again. Waking this morning with words to write, and three new alarms to set on my phone.

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Trust in the

Trust in the unknown.  First you have to believe.  Or take enough time to convince the matter surrounding.  Persistence can be a tool.  Sometimes ridiculous-persistence will bend space.  Simple parlor tricks – illusion can build the fodder for “real” magick.  Then the question comes: “what is real magick?” Or better (further) still is “what is real?” The truth’s subject to the moment and perspective.


you are preaching the same words as if you think you’ve discovered something.


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More or again

Needing more magick; the dark and the light.  The sinister feelings I’ve had of Aleister Crowley and the warm filling up hearing three (two old white men one young Asian man) magicians discuss sleight of hand and double-sided cards.  I see the enormous fox stop and look back on past-midnight full moon mountain turns.  And the cooler air rolling off the steep hills into the canyons below.

I need to reinvoke the artist and stir the crazed poet, the die hard romantic has been dying.  The musician should bang away on tuned percussion with rhythms as arrhythmic as his own tempo.

Plenty of caffeine, gold pressed leaves, late late nights, early earliest mornings, keep your mid days I am asleep with Italy and Spain!

I won’t make climbing sport or reason.  It is the intense “need” that compels the going and planning, thought and process only catches up by necessity.  Consideration shows up on occasion.  That is of course the balance that defines function or dis.  The boundary man or the mad.

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new work on stone

For many many years I held a practice of carrying heavy things.  There were branches, bundles, wheel boroughs, persons, abstractions of course: “the weight of the world!”; the bonds of so many friends, the promise of a purer life, the cruelty of man, the division of our souls from a unifying spirit.  There were animals, stalled cars, wood for building, produce for grand parties or huge juicing endeavors.  The weight of secrecy, modesty, or personal space, on the other hand, were not burdens of mine.  And the weight of a fragile or needy ego appeared and vanished manically for years.

Probably the most significant weight I managed was a stone.  I’ve carried a lot of rocks.  And I’ve moved heavier ones, bigger ones than this one.  I helped Rob Hite make stone benches and stone walls and stone walkways.  I worked with stone on Hudson Valley farms by monasteries and trains dressed in crisp autumn days with long rays of sun, perfect apples, beautiful horse girls… I’ve also carried ungodly heavy things that moments before wouldn’t budge by my effort alone, and carried them through spaces too small leaving other beautiful hip women in fashionably adapting ballet inspired clothing jaw dropped – almost in horror by the seeming magick of bending space and confusing mass – the physical tricked only by unreasonable persistence and maybe disenchantment with the so-called laws and absolute truths they had reluctantly abide by.  (I don’t remember if they were wearing ballet clothes.  I just like to imagine.)

This stone was very much bound by his assumption of being real.  It was as real as we assume: stubborn, rough, dense, heavy, mass.  The weight – the carrying was bound by – conducted by my brutish self.  No illusion.  No “cheating”.  Just whatever fodder I house that can be related to “man” – or bear and beast.  And maybe that thing is gone, spent, hibernating at least.  I’d like to think the passive, reflective, and quiet human being I’ve become is something more of a man – not to compete with myself (the time past version).  Just a residual clinging to images and definitions of role – tangible ideals, a measurable identity – if only redefining.

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Adventure Time Songs

So Jesse (me bro) asked me to write a couple songs for Adventure Time and they aired!

Here’s a youtube link:

Breezy Songs


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village tea room

Golden, red.
Bleached and red.
Tattooed pale arms.
Teeth and squinting.
Dark rimmed eyes
paint scrapped windows
through inside walls
and up stairs
eyes each time tromping up and down
eyes stuck up stairs and red dresses and black tights
then wide smiles
and clicking assurances
.     giant teeth!
jumping from behind corners
with caffeine and sweets:
sugar plum.

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3. Carrying

Buckling, burning, failing, so quickly, three, maybe a fourth step and he lurches forward and the stone stops in the exact place it lands.  He arches back amazed by the relief and in so much pain, everything screaming.

A few minutes to breath and build the will back up.  Then right the stone, to its point, rest, breath like a horse, rest, keep the toppling at bay, wrap hands, point toes, press chest and cheek, look to the sky, lift, walk forward, lurch, toss, and scream in agony.

This is not manageable.  A half-mile would take a day!  If he could even repeat this for hours.  Maybe right the thing onto a ledge, step below it and carry it on his back?  Risky, yes, but he might walk a dozen yards or more that way.  There.  There is a short wall.  With some struggle he can slide the stone onto the top slab.  It is not becoming easier.  Grit, grimace, spit, strain, under the edge, push again, back, thighs, calves, toes, and will, the stone reluctantly slides on top of the wall.  “Christ!”  And he paces back and forth breathing out like a horse again, even shaking his head back and forth and screaming out a little to keep from feeling sick.  Right it onto its edge.  The same.  Breath and curse.  Needn’t bring it to its point, thank God, fit it to his back instead, cupping hands under the edge, belt below the edge as well, head tilted forward for the bulges in the stone.  Let it topple slowly.  Slowly!  Cry and carry!  Carry!  Carry!  Stumbling steps.  Carry!  Carry!  Shuffling, jerking feet.  Carry!  Throw the thing off, oh God!  God!  Hell!

That was further.  That was not a good plan.  Boy is sitting by a tree staring at the stone.  This stone is heavy.  This stone is so much to bear.  He feels sick.  He feels terrible.  This is the right stone.

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2. Lifting

Second or third largest?  It is the largest that he could budge, and budging is something completely different from lifting and carrying.  As pretty as the stone is it is awkward: taller than the boys torso and head, blinding him or forcing him to walk sideways; wider than would allow him to wrap his arms around the front, to squeeze with elbows, chest and hands; thick enough that his hands can’t pinch the edge.   The “point” of the stone – the corner that can be imagined as the point to the arrowhead – should face downward, leaving boy with the most manageable width and a sloping edge that would let him cradle near the base without having to work his fingers between the stone and earth – no pinching or crushing – though the angles would quicken his clock against gravity – slipping, not just the anticipated weakening grip.  And the task of setting the stone onto this point is its own challenge: brutal of course, but delicate too.  Precise.

Right the thing.  Turn the stone to its edge.  You might expect that he would try once and barely lift an edge, and the second time he would lift with grimaces and spitting exhalations and muttered cries from his navel, driving up with more steam as he can get a full arm and shoulder under the beast, then using his thighs, calves, and toes push the stone to the edge, too forcefully past the edge on the uneven ground, trying to catch the sudden falling away with outstretched arms and an already overexerted back…

Yes, once.  The second time (third) after recovering exhalations, panting, pacing away and back again with hands on hips and head tilted back, he fashions a surface for the edge to sit, and a line of rocks to aid in the catching.  And with an effort no less dramatic he rights the stone – to its side…

Now to the point.  Learning from these previous efforts he kicks smaller rocks into place and others out of the way.  He even unearths a perfect divot for the point to sit in.  And again with anguished faces and grunts and spit, sliding feet, dropping knees, and strength unimaginable from this waif of a boy the thing finds herself balanced on her narrow point, always threatening to topple mercilessly.

Boy hugs her, wide legged and desperate to catch any breath that might regain his balance let alone the wide stone’s.  Exhaling through closed loose lips, he understands the horse working hard, and laughs that he’s made the same sounds.  Even after he is done laughing about it, he breathes like a horse, and closes his eyes, holding the stone, feeling his sweat and the breeze.  And with his hands wrapped around the thickness, toes pointed east and west, his chest and cheek pressed firmly against the granite slab, and eyes to the budding canopy, he lifts the rock.

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1. Choosing

There is a heap of stones.  At first the seemingly twiggish boy chooses the largest of the bunch.  But giving all his back – “all” save tearing lean muscles from thin bone – he can’t shift the thing; not one grain.  He tries his hand a few times beyond reason but not so much to waste the day, then goes about choosing a better stone.  This one, the second or third largest, is a better shape: a gigantic arrowhead.  Lifting this rock will prove a brutal task, but when it slid a foot across the pile with his second push, he was certain.

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A sparrow flew by me and for an instant he was a white owl.

The sparrow owl landed on the ground and looked to me
with knowing eyes and as much of a smile as a sparrow owl can muster.

“That bird is a magic.”  I know.

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