- Published on
All of My Yesterdays
Memories of things,
We can only lose.
Memories of people
Always fuse
Memories of light,
Memories of night,
Of days spent dreaming,
Of nightmares dreaded,
And bad paths treaded,
And today
We are alive.
What does it mean?
I think so I am.
I feel because I breathe.
My footprints in the sand
Time tramples on,
And I am forgotten.
Stripped of the flesh,
Bones from Atoms,
Interred and forgotten,
Laughter,
Tears and farts,
And sickness of heart
Today
In your eyes
I am singing, dancing,
Soon to be sleeping
Where I dream
False realities,
Of a wishful mind,
A tenant renting time,
In debt to death
Forever,
A sobering word
For the unknown,
The nonexistent
That drifts from me,
Threatens
Everything I am
Folded, wrapped tight,
Bits and bytes
Saved and kept
Photographs on mantelpieces,
Trinkets and lottery bets,
Captured motions,
Of reflexes--smile,
Moments beguile.
Forever and always
Today and tomorrow,
And yesterdays
Memories of things,
We can only lose.
Memories of people
Always fuse
Memories of light,
Memories of night,
Of days spent dreaming,
Of nightmares dreaded,
And bad paths treaded,
And today
We are alive.
What does it mean?
I think so I am.
I feel because I breathe.
My footprints in the sand
Time tramples on,
And I am forgotten.
Stripped of the flesh,
Bones from Atoms,
Interred and forgotten,
Laughter,
Tears and farts,
And sickness of heart
Today
In your eyes
I am singing, dancing,
Soon to be sleeping
Where I dream
False realities,
Of a wishful mind,
A tenant renting time,
In debt to death
Forever,
A sobering word
For the unknown,
The nonexistent
That drifts from me,
Threatens
Everything I am
Folded, wrapped tight,
Bits and bytes
Saved and kept
Photographs on mantelpieces,
Trinkets and lottery bets,
Captured motions,
Of reflexes--smile,
Moments beguile.
Forever and always
Today and tomorrow,
And yesterdays
- Published on
New plan ... humility.
Not as foreboding as it should sound, but the excitement for spring has always coupled with a dread of summer, because warm breeze brings realization of failed resolutions ... things promised, none delivered.
Though I do have a way of juicing on self-motivation, believing wholeheartedly that the goddess of fortune will pluck me from the crowd of the discontent, and keep luck tucked away in my pocket, the longer the wait the more languishing I do. So, in the event that luck is a turncoat with a knife, and the wound in my back is fatal, I would like to say, I tried.
That said. I have completed the sequels (two) to The Civilization [of light & Dark] and am playing with the titles: The Gate at Dusk, and Broken Realms. The former is mystical and the latter is on the metaphorical nose. I arrived at the former because of an obsession with Pink Floyd's The Piper at the Gate of Dawn, title taken from chapter 7 of the Wind in the Willows, where Mole and Toad help their friend, Otter find his lost son, which leads to catching a glimpse of Pan while he ushers in the dawn. The eponymous piper being Pan, the ancient pagan god of pastures, rustic (country) music, shepherds and the wild. Pan lives in Arkadia (Arcadia) aka a pastoral paradise (a real place in Greece that has been mythologized)
What does this have to do with my title?
Mole and Toad caught a glimpse behind the curtain of the natural world when they spotted Pan. Ancient peoples created intricate mystery rituals to tap into the wonders of the natural world. If the other side of dawn is daylight and pastures, then the other side of dusk is darkness and what W. H. Auden described as an 'artificial wilderness and a sky like lead.'
The Civilizations series plays with the mysteries of existence and wonder. Like human life, Maruti life is fragile, existing tenuously between here and there, adhering to rules that no one understands but everyone follows. But who are these gods? Books 2 and 3 are all about unraveling the mysteries of Marut and all roads lead to the Gate at Dusk.
Toad, Mole and company might not have breached the boundaries between the material world and the world of gods intentionally, but my characters are all about the journeys of self-discovery, with prophecies hanging over their heads and all. But, as always, these violent delights have violent ends, and in their triumph, die like fire and powder, which, as they kiss, consume. The title of book 3, Broken Realms is, well, self-explanatory.
So, these elementary things got me through the hiemal days. And what will get me through the vernal days?
Not as foreboding as it should sound, but the excitement for spring has always coupled with a dread of summer, because warm breeze brings realization of failed resolutions ... things promised, none delivered.
Though I do have a way of juicing on self-motivation, believing wholeheartedly that the goddess of fortune will pluck me from the crowd of the discontent, and keep luck tucked away in my pocket, the longer the wait the more languishing I do. So, in the event that luck is a turncoat with a knife, and the wound in my back is fatal, I would like to say, I tried.
That said. I have completed the sequels (two) to The Civilization [of light & Dark] and am playing with the titles: The Gate at Dusk, and Broken Realms. The former is mystical and the latter is on the metaphorical nose. I arrived at the former because of an obsession with Pink Floyd's The Piper at the Gate of Dawn, title taken from chapter 7 of the Wind in the Willows, where Mole and Toad help their friend, Otter find his lost son, which leads to catching a glimpse of Pan while he ushers in the dawn. The eponymous piper being Pan, the ancient pagan god of pastures, rustic (country) music, shepherds and the wild. Pan lives in Arkadia (Arcadia) aka a pastoral paradise (a real place in Greece that has been mythologized)
What does this have to do with my title?
Mole and Toad caught a glimpse behind the curtain of the natural world when they spotted Pan. Ancient peoples created intricate mystery rituals to tap into the wonders of the natural world. If the other side of dawn is daylight and pastures, then the other side of dusk is darkness and what W. H. Auden described as an 'artificial wilderness and a sky like lead.'
The Civilizations series plays with the mysteries of existence and wonder. Like human life, Maruti life is fragile, existing tenuously between here and there, adhering to rules that no one understands but everyone follows. But who are these gods? Books 2 and 3 are all about unraveling the mysteries of Marut and all roads lead to the Gate at Dusk.
Toad, Mole and company might not have breached the boundaries between the material world and the world of gods intentionally, but my characters are all about the journeys of self-discovery, with prophecies hanging over their heads and all. But, as always, these violent delights have violent ends, and in their triumph, die like fire and powder, which, as they kiss, consume. The title of book 3, Broken Realms is, well, self-explanatory.
So, these elementary things got me through the hiemal days. And what will get me through the vernal days?
- Published on
I know the song lyric is 'wake me up when September ends,' and maybe 'nothing lasts forever, even cold November rain' is a better lyric, but either way, the post is dreary.
People are leaving Twitter (yes, I'm deadnaming it). By people, I mean the privileged--middle class, affluent, elitist-orgs, celebrities who are tired of ... being challenged about their dogma? Peasants talking back to them? Elon Musk acting like a rabid fanboy?
It's not clear.Twitter has swung from heavy left-centric to shifting right-centric. Neither option is good.
Bluesky or Threads are all the rage (for now). My old ass tried the former, found it dull and hostile, and now I'm trying Threads after accidentally finding myself on there. In an ideal world, the introvert in me wouldn't be on social media. But the hussle as a small-time author with a small publisher means the job is never done.
That's not the point of this post. I don't like November. The first week of the month should've been the greatest moment and yet the sulk has kicked in--the book release of The Civilization versus the anniversary of my mom's death, a fender bender, the scale, and the cold. There's a delicate unravel as the dark days are here--no more Halloween/pumpkin pie season.
Nothing lasts forever, even cold, November rain. But do wake me when it ends.
People are leaving Twitter (yes, I'm deadnaming it). By people, I mean the privileged--middle class, affluent, elitist-orgs, celebrities who are tired of ... being challenged about their dogma? Peasants talking back to them? Elon Musk acting like a rabid fanboy?
It's not clear.Twitter has swung from heavy left-centric to shifting right-centric. Neither option is good.
Bluesky or Threads are all the rage (for now). My old ass tried the former, found it dull and hostile, and now I'm trying Threads after accidentally finding myself on there. In an ideal world, the introvert in me wouldn't be on social media. But the hussle as a small-time author with a small publisher means the job is never done.
That's not the point of this post. I don't like November. The first week of the month should've been the greatest moment and yet the sulk has kicked in--the book release of The Civilization versus the anniversary of my mom's death, a fender bender, the scale, and the cold. There's a delicate unravel as the dark days are here--no more Halloween/pumpkin pie season.
Nothing lasts forever, even cold, November rain. But do wake me when it ends.
- Published on
I don't get nervous. I try not to get excited. I am not used to 'good things' happening to me. I am superstitious. Will I jinx myself? What if this is all a dream? So many dreams die in the womb of imagination, never quickening into existence.
It's closer, getting closer, and yet I still can't feel it in my grasp. When is it okay to feel it? When is it okay to say it aloud? Am I an imposter? I feel safe in the liminal. I feel content in the drift of never knowing, letting the rip tide of the mundane soak me through, never letting up.
But the mundane is so safe for so long. So calm for so long.
And then it begins.
And how will I handle it?
It's closer, getting closer, and yet I still can't feel it in my grasp. When is it okay to feel it? When is it okay to say it aloud? Am I an imposter? I feel safe in the liminal. I feel content in the drift of never knowing, letting the rip tide of the mundane soak me through, never letting up.
But the mundane is so safe for so long. So calm for so long.
And then it begins.
And how will I handle it?
- Published on
September is orange, pumpkin orange, or is orange the fruit the same color as pumpkin.
Either way, I know September is a transitional month. Before the bright days become dark nights. September is pumpkin colored but October as dawn blue, and winter is misty black-- my favorite season.
I did started autumn shopping yesterday. On the weekend I will gather my acorns and oak (around the neighbor), for my home décor and potpourri.
Autumn is also soup season--squash, mannish water, and fish.
Last Hallow's Eve no children came and I had to donate the candy out of fear I'd eat it all.
Autumn spices: cinnamon, clove, parsley, and cedarwood, nutmeg, rosemary, ginger, orange slices.
Either way, I know September is a transitional month. Before the bright days become dark nights. September is pumpkin colored but October as dawn blue, and winter is misty black-- my favorite season.
I did started autumn shopping yesterday. On the weekend I will gather my acorns and oak (around the neighbor), for my home décor and potpourri.
Autumn is also soup season--squash, mannish water, and fish.
Last Hallow's Eve no children came and I had to donate the candy out of fear I'd eat it all.
Autumn spices: cinnamon, clove, parsley, and cedarwood, nutmeg, rosemary, ginger, orange slices.
- Published on
Watching the Olympics and protesting the Olympics at the same time.
It's weird hanging on to youth or pleasure, because the things that once brought you pleasure can so easily slip from your care.
Few things interest me.
It's a fight.
Struggling to write, struggling to sleep, struggling to eat.
This isn't a cry for help but direction.
I understand deja vu --I have been here before --day in and day out.
The sameness, the lameness, the aimless.
When will it rain?
It's weird hanging on to youth or pleasure, because the things that once brought you pleasure can so easily slip from your care.
Few things interest me.
It's a fight.
Struggling to write, struggling to sleep, struggling to eat.
This isn't a cry for help but direction.
I understand deja vu --I have been here before --day in and day out.
The sameness, the lameness, the aimless.
When will it rain?
- Published on
The world of food is an exotic mysterious space. It's worldbuilding.
Coconut Cheesecake recipe . P.S. all my ingredients are lactose-free.
Crush coconut cookies and mix with butter. In separate bowl: mix other ingredients.
Set the cookie-base in an appropriate dish or baking pan. Spead the cocunut cream mixture over the base. Add extra coconut flakes if needed. If using white chocolate, melt it, let it cool a bit, and then pour it over the surface of the cake.
Put the cake in the fridge for 2 hours.
Remove and serve.
Coconut Cheesecake recipe . P.S. all my ingredients are lactose-free.
- Coconut cookies as base (Dare 'breaktime' brand is good). 1 or 2 boxes.
- Unsalted butter (lactose-free) - 1/2 brick
- Cream cheese (lactose-free) - 2 tubs
- Plain yogurt (lactose-free) - 1/3 cup
- White chocolate (or condensed milk or white sugar) - as much as you like (may need to control for sweetness).
- Coconut flakes (1 cup)
Crush coconut cookies and mix with butter. In separate bowl: mix other ingredients.
Set the cookie-base in an appropriate dish or baking pan. Spead the cocunut cream mixture over the base. Add extra coconut flakes if needed. If using white chocolate, melt it, let it cool a bit, and then pour it over the surface of the cake.
Put the cake in the fridge for 2 hours.
Remove and serve.
- Published on
This post is a ramble. To quote Nina Simone, "this is a showtune, but the show hasn't been written for it yet."
I am forever trying to understand my own mind, likes, wants, desires, fears, cares and the whole gestalt of who I am, and what makes me so, and whether I can call myself a good person.
I call myself an empath.
Empathy is intrinsically the base trait of goodness, defined as how we treat/relate to people and living beings around us, even the environment. But, empathy may also leave you vulnerable to abuse, being taken advantage of, being disrespected, and carrying emotional burdens that weigh you down mentally over time.
The moral of this story? Lash out when you're being disrespected, regardless of the consequence.
Over the years, I have worried about the unsaid things that swirl in my mind, what I often refer to as the noumenal locutions that I cannot express, both because I am resentful of needing to do so, and because I simply have difficulty expressing myself, often not being able to find words until well after the fact, and never in the appropriate moment when it matters.
Thoughts and ideas that I struggle to express leave a lacuna between who I am and how i present myself. That Liminal link thins and increasingly makes it hard for me to fully express myself.
Not everyone who claims to be a victim is (and not simply because said person means to deceive-- psychopathy). Sometimes, you can scream and cry that you are right and still not be right.
Lawsuits or tears? Pick your weapon of rightness. We equate tears and cries with victimhood. If you cry, literally or figuritvely, you must be the one worthy of sympathy. But this is not true.
Did Lance Armstrong not sue people who accused him of doping?
As paradoxical as it is, you can like/love a thing and still recognize imperfections and problematic aspects of that thing. I can like Star Trek Discovery, while still admitting that the show has many flaws. Flaws within a thing or person doesn't make them disposable.
I have some thoughts about internet culture, black lives matter, and the frustration of hearing viewpoints dominate the mainstream consciousness that lack , well nuance.
I hate mob mentality.
Internet: you are cancelled.
Me: This is absurd
Internet: Let's get Bill Maher fired
Me: Let's not. He's entitled to his opinions.
Truth: I hate arrogance, vanity, narcissism and phoniness/insincerity. That explains why I hate celebs, which is a generalization (I don't hate all). It explains why I avoid reality show stars, influencers, social media stars, and attention-seekers. And the distaste Prince Harry's wife leaves in my mouth.
Truth: at the end of the day, a person's character matters more than melanin.
My Mind works like this: Nuance
Internet: you're either with us or you're with the terrorist
Me: Here's an analysis of A, B, C, and oh, also, D, E, F, G, H...
Internet: you are blocked/racist.
FACT: Racism exists on a spectrum. You don't have to be a card-carrying Neo-Nazi to be racist or harbor racist sentiment.
Amy Cooper would've voted for Obama a third time if she could.
Internet: only conservatives can be racist
Me: I don't give a damn about your political affiliation
Internet: you give a pass to Justin Trudeau for blackface
Me: I have no power over what Justin Trudeau does/gets
My mind works like this:
Me: Is Lea Michele guilty of racism or bullying/diva antics?
Internet: it does't matter. Her victim is black.
My mind works like this.
Internet: Sasha Exeter is a victim of Jessica Mulroney's white privilege
Me: who's Sasha Exeter?
Internet: Influencer
Me: nevermind.
Internet: self-hater
Internet: Tomi Lahren is racist
Me: I don't care about this person and don't like you putting this person in my consciousness.
Internet: Tomi, Tomi, Tomi
Me: silent pouts, shuts down, shut off device
I am forever trying to understand my own mind, likes, wants, desires, fears, cares and the whole gestalt of who I am, and what makes me so, and whether I can call myself a good person.
I call myself an empath.
Empathy is intrinsically the base trait of goodness, defined as how we treat/relate to people and living beings around us, even the environment. But, empathy may also leave you vulnerable to abuse, being taken advantage of, being disrespected, and carrying emotional burdens that weigh you down mentally over time.
The moral of this story? Lash out when you're being disrespected, regardless of the consequence.
Over the years, I have worried about the unsaid things that swirl in my mind, what I often refer to as the noumenal locutions that I cannot express, both because I am resentful of needing to do so, and because I simply have difficulty expressing myself, often not being able to find words until well after the fact, and never in the appropriate moment when it matters.
Thoughts and ideas that I struggle to express leave a lacuna between who I am and how i present myself. That Liminal link thins and increasingly makes it hard for me to fully express myself.
Not everyone who claims to be a victim is (and not simply because said person means to deceive-- psychopathy). Sometimes, you can scream and cry that you are right and still not be right.
Lawsuits or tears? Pick your weapon of rightness. We equate tears and cries with victimhood. If you cry, literally or figuritvely, you must be the one worthy of sympathy. But this is not true.
Did Lance Armstrong not sue people who accused him of doping?
As paradoxical as it is, you can like/love a thing and still recognize imperfections and problematic aspects of that thing. I can like Star Trek Discovery, while still admitting that the show has many flaws. Flaws within a thing or person doesn't make them disposable.
I have some thoughts about internet culture, black lives matter, and the frustration of hearing viewpoints dominate the mainstream consciousness that lack , well nuance.
I hate mob mentality.
Internet: you are cancelled.
Me: This is absurd
Internet: Let's get Bill Maher fired
Me: Let's not. He's entitled to his opinions.
Truth: I hate arrogance, vanity, narcissism and phoniness/insincerity. That explains why I hate celebs, which is a generalization (I don't hate all). It explains why I avoid reality show stars, influencers, social media stars, and attention-seekers. And the distaste Prince Harry's wife leaves in my mouth.
Truth: at the end of the day, a person's character matters more than melanin.
My Mind works like this: Nuance
Internet: you're either with us or you're with the terrorist
Me: Here's an analysis of A, B, C, and oh, also, D, E, F, G, H...
Internet: you are blocked/racist.
FACT: Racism exists on a spectrum. You don't have to be a card-carrying Neo-Nazi to be racist or harbor racist sentiment.
Amy Cooper would've voted for Obama a third time if she could.
Internet: only conservatives can be racist
Me: I don't give a damn about your political affiliation
Internet: you give a pass to Justin Trudeau for blackface
Me: I have no power over what Justin Trudeau does/gets
My mind works like this:
Me: Is Lea Michele guilty of racism or bullying/diva antics?
Internet: it does't matter. Her victim is black.
My mind works like this.
Internet: Sasha Exeter is a victim of Jessica Mulroney's white privilege
Me: who's Sasha Exeter?
Internet: Influencer
Me: nevermind.
Internet: self-hater
Internet: Tomi Lahren is racist
Me: I don't care about this person and don't like you putting this person in my consciousness.
Internet: Tomi, Tomi, Tomi
Me: silent pouts, shuts down, shut off device
- Published on
It's a state I long for--all my life I wanted it. Stability of mind, body, soul and place.
I hate moving. I hate changing. I lust and long for comfort.
I gave my self anxiety attacks over my fear of being forced to leave.
So I have a new place and I'm hesitating to fill it with things. My fear hasn't left me. I might be forced to leave. What if I am expected to leave tomorrow, next week, next month, six months from now, next year, or so forth.
My logic works like that ... minimalism in a world of uncertainty. I fantasize about not having too many things, about being able to walk away confidently from everything.
I like things, but don't like acquiring them. Why am I accumulating things? I need to get rid of things. Things equal permanence, attachment, stability. I want fewer things but keep acquiring more. I wake up and think, I should get rid of stuff, but then I wake up and think, I should get this. I am restless. I return things to stores and I feel good, but then I buy more things and I feel guilty.
Permanence is a fantasy and a dream I fear might be too costly to invest in.
The old adage is that as you get older you need stability and permanence. I feel more restless, and do not want a bond to the world and its machinations. I don't know if I'll ever not have these feelings.
Funnily, until a month ago I had nothing except clothes, shoes and some minor household items. Now, I have far more. A bed, televisions, furniture and a townhouse. I have complicated my life more than I needed to.
I keep thinking about that abandoned house on the web. It has all its furniture and even a car in the garage. The theory is that the couple that once owned it died suddenly. And no one claimed it, after. It exists, trapped in its 1970s decor, slowly succumbing to the entropy that decays all things in time.
The arguments for and against permanence are strong, either way. I could die today or live for the next sixty years. So, I guess I am forever restless.
I hate moving. I hate changing. I lust and long for comfort.
I gave my self anxiety attacks over my fear of being forced to leave.
So I have a new place and I'm hesitating to fill it with things. My fear hasn't left me. I might be forced to leave. What if I am expected to leave tomorrow, next week, next month, six months from now, next year, or so forth.
My logic works like that ... minimalism in a world of uncertainty. I fantasize about not having too many things, about being able to walk away confidently from everything.
I like things, but don't like acquiring them. Why am I accumulating things? I need to get rid of things. Things equal permanence, attachment, stability. I want fewer things but keep acquiring more. I wake up and think, I should get rid of stuff, but then I wake up and think, I should get this. I am restless. I return things to stores and I feel good, but then I buy more things and I feel guilty.
Permanence is a fantasy and a dream I fear might be too costly to invest in.
The old adage is that as you get older you need stability and permanence. I feel more restless, and do not want a bond to the world and its machinations. I don't know if I'll ever not have these feelings.
Funnily, until a month ago I had nothing except clothes, shoes and some minor household items. Now, I have far more. A bed, televisions, furniture and a townhouse. I have complicated my life more than I needed to.
I keep thinking about that abandoned house on the web. It has all its furniture and even a car in the garage. The theory is that the couple that once owned it died suddenly. And no one claimed it, after. It exists, trapped in its 1970s decor, slowly succumbing to the entropy that decays all things in time.
The arguments for and against permanence are strong, either way. I could die today or live for the next sixty years. So, I guess I am forever restless.
- Published on
Not sure I like it. Screwed. In the renovations process--drawn out and expensive.
Haven't gotten any writing done. I am existing not living. I am tired.
Been budgeting --stuff adults do, I guess.
Been dealing with things like utilities, mortgage and renovations.
Overwhelmed.
Where has all my free time gone?
Spam mail and all kinds of nonsense.
I am ready to go off the grid.