True Happiness Cabbage white on lavenderI think what makes me happiest is knowing that happiness is found in the truth.


To be a child.

There’s a picking bird underneath my brain, pick pick picking.  Between the conjunction of spine and tissue, in a dark little place. A dead little bird.

There are many who boast of their love of truth, who, in truth, are only interested in what they see to be “new” and are quick to make their nobility known. Does one consumed by noble desire have time to complain against lies?

There are also many who believe in “common sense” as a virtue – as the only of the every – and that deviation from this common carries folly. Have current convictions been immune to the spiral of history?

The tragedy, is that the young are getting younger, and the old are getting foolish. Innocence broke a long time ago, and though the larger shards have been gathered, there are still so many grains and slivers without meaning. What are children now but ignorant screams hushed by ignorant ears?

Now, little bird, listen.

I cannot stop you, you have been given authority. I cannot kill you, you are already dead. I cannot silence you, you are too quick for me. What I can do, is give you the attention you never asked for, and ask,

“Who are you?”

EDIT: [9/11/14 12:46 – Something just clunked into the window next to me. I’m not certain, but I think it was a bird!]


It is easier to sew a garment with too much cloth than too little for the finished product, yet when the fabric is cut, can you really deem it “too much”? It is just what you needed. Giving grace first before giving critique isn’t abnormal or extra. It’s nature. Love is normal. Every THING is normal. The un-things are abnormal. This is the holistic view of existence.

The terrors are alive, for now, as are those who follow them. What will they become when dawn shows nothing was real compared to love? Will we remain afraid? Only if we chose error. The imprint of imperfection, once sealed by hatred, will never fade as shadows do. I still wonder, “Does death defy existence?” That is a question that I hope to answer, but probably not in this life.

The homeless man down the street believes he is the new Messiah – the loneliness, the drugs, the pain, the drama is his choice. Or is it? Is his mind still wondering inside? Still responsive to stimuli of reason? Maybe so. He may still have opportunity while darkness lingers. Or perhaps he is too deeply frozen for time.

Err on the side of perfection.

The People, The People.


Hollywood has a black heart of strings and mud – no sane person would deny this. But the people of that place are a sharp and passionate people. They have great masses of wisdom that have been stomped upon and discarded. It is true that often the wise fail to appropriate their wisdom to the proper use, but you cannot deny the fact that they do indeed know some measure of Truth.

They know it so well that they sell themselves to it. Their fragment is their spear into the yonder. The long nights of quiet focus. The shuffle from one inspiration to the next. The magic of fast food. The rare love. The echoes from starlit nights past.

But now we have it, a regurgitating of all the deceitful years. The filth is everywhere, the corruption is everywhere. The lost dreams are piled high, in a maze of prosperity.

And prosperity is their one claim to the goodness of the earth. They understand it in a tragic sort of way, to the point of forgetting it’s name.

There are fights to be fought there. It is a dark, dark place. I have been there once and despised that endless sun. But am I bitter because I haven’t joined the fray? No, I am so deeply moved by the countless interviews of its veterans I have seen. They are so brave, but so wrong. They hold so much tender truth in their hands, but they don’t understand. So much truth, so little light.