P

"plink, plonk" the pennies plunked
pushing and pulling, the parrots parred
primp and pomp the peacocks pranced
pushy and pranking the porpoises played in the Pacific
prickly and pinching are those pokey pineapples
purple and plump, those plums are ready for picking
plush and poofy is how i prefer my pillows
let's splish and splash in the pool at the Palatine
and please pass the plate of pumpkin pie
while i try to pen and paper playfully in Pampalona

makes my heart beat

per mia musa.

Pop! Squeak! went the Peep inside the pineapple. Fun times playing rodeo on the rhino’s back. Royksopp says it’s happy up here. Drink up the smoothness, the frothiness, the cold refreshingness of a daiquiri made by honey bees boogey’ing to the "plunk-pop," that shakes the walls of this pineapple. Who can say no? who can resist? I sure tried for a whole measure. Peep’s jiggling pinkness gets you hooked. Next thing I know, I’m shimmy’ing around the ring of refracted lights made by icicles tickling the sun rays as they come in through the top of this sub-tropical disco. But hell, you already know I really like it.

i dream when i close my eyes,

i live when i open my eyes.

and in the blink of an eye,

those dreams can live or die

-selah

the Moment

Wanderlust for the thrill, the gleam in my eye, and sense of adventuring stirring inside, I am ready to blast off. To the left or right, above or below, behind or ahead, anywhere I go. Clarity. This is now. Nothing matters but my breath, the blood circulating through, the mind's eyes gaze forward, and fearless blankness encapsulates my body. Be ready and steady now. We close our eyes and dream, we open our eyes and live. So I pray, dream of good things and live to fulfill them.

colored viewing glass

YELLOW. the mellow when i'm in the shade. the blaze radiating rays of excitement and thrill in the daylight. i ponder this while conjoining with my yoga ball in silent meditation. "ohhmmmm," says I. teeter totter. nothing would be better than a cold mug of brew swishing along w/ a big "yo ho." imaginary mug in hand (it's more of a prop, really, appropriate for the merriness jumping in my tumminess), who knew, things can be so fun? giggle with glee, hop and flop, hum a tune, and laugh like a mad man.

BLUE. deep, dark, and possibly dangerous in the ocean depths. expansive, open, and pondering up into the sky. reflective, shimmering, and diffracting where the two meet. i dream of big things and small. splish-splash. ideas and fantasies meld together in fantastic shades and schemes. "follow me lucky charms," says i. we are abreast! wind in the hair, excitement for us to share, and props to compare, "andiamo!"

GREEN. green with envy. green with ecstacy. yellow and blue. mix and mesh, time to sing and dance to the rhythmic tune of bongos energizing the day and night. 1. 2. 3. ho! ring around the fire, touch the ground. touch the sky. we're in for a ride. viva! it's alive. we grow from the ground into the sky.

dance with me

i understand it now. i am dancing with the devil. there might be a good chance that things won't turn out so well for me. the fear, the excitement, the dread, the Intensity. my pernicious nature draws me to this dance. but it's all with the intent for love, desire, longing, hoping it is mirrored. there really are only two choices, take a bow from the dance. or dance through the night, the day, into weeks, months, years, or even a lifetime if it has to. death is not what i fear. rather, looking into eyes that will cause me insufferable torment, chasing me even to depths i cannot hide. hold on and do not let the eyes stray.

fragola e menta

mint that strawberry, mulling pestle fisted in contemplative thought. lost in thoughts: clouds of fear, carnal lust, and rage. steady rhythm to sepulcher impulses clawing desperately the innards. ice, honey and water, mixed in with mashed pulp 'di fragola e menta' soothes and cools as it goes down. yet, peace does not come from incessant lightning storms of neuronal triggerings.

resolved to walk through the thick fog, the devil is loose. he is blood-lust. rampage his mood is not. eyes cold, he cares not.

where is the cozy warmth, the love? he struggles to find and understand it. did it exist before, to be quelched over time, or did it ever exist? would he recognize and acknowledge if he came across it? questions that cannot be answered. Time might tell. but no one asks Time expecting a real Answer...

The Red-Velvet Palace

Orange penciled yummy dummies drinking cream soda on the edge of a pool with sunny honey. Yes! Telling stories of jumping in and out of a melting raspberry igloo. Woah, it’s chilly in here. Kachoo! “Haha!” Said the jelly belly with its bright-red fire engine helmet and sloshy boots. “I zee zi creamsicles playing hokey pokey in the puddles of sweet, tarty raspberry sauce. But where is zi music?”
“Wha?” you don’t hear it? say the orange creamsicles, gyrating in unison. I heard no melody, no hum, no beat, or singing. Ahhh. Mr. Resonance, he shakes and vibrates all that is around him, the air, the ground, the body, and even… the walls. No, we don’t want Mr. Resonance to compromise the integrity of the raspberry igloo walls. We must shake our hips, our bodies with, shhhhh! quiet ecstacy of dreamy delight! Splash the berry tart sauce. Shake, shake shake… your bootay! But don’t tickle the melting ice blocks of this raspberry discoteque. Jelly, Fire Marshall, Belly, bewildered and concerned, is not sure what to do to with this group, reveling in silence. The occupancy limit was not yet reached, but he was called here because of concerns regarding the structural integrity of this melting joint. Ah! Who cares? Creamsicles were enjoying it more and more as more the spitter-splatter of raspberry sauce falling down increased with their dancing vigor. It’s raining raspberries!
Ah, the memories! Sipping their new-found delight, pineapple cream sodas, under the canopy of palm trees, the Creamsicles bask in their tropical hammocks, planning their next bedlam of ecstacy.

Heart wrenching past the incomprehendible signals flashing all around. speed through and feel the gut bottom out. memories start flashing back. dark depths of fearsome creatures closeted. the closet shrinks, but sometimes something jolts it open. loathesome terror ensues, and I start getting sucked in. sometimes i'm dragged in kicking and screaming, and sometimes i enter with volition.

slapped in the face, something pulls me out, it takes several moments to see again. seems like waking up from a frightful dream. i can see clearly now, and the rain is gone.

r.i.p., matt seeve.

Gold Lion

shrinking. down into depths, far below the surface of a pool, there is no bottom. the pressure was neigh unbearable. crushed in from all sides, the pressure of these depths might just put me out of this agonizing misery. it's too late to ponder the questions that would normaly precede this type of excursion. why, what, or who induced this risk for all things good and righteous? the impulse was unbearablely strong, there appears a glimmer of light at the other end of the murky bottom. at some eventual depth, bones and everything else are crushed. there is not enough left to sink any further. obliteration is slow but complete. i open my eyes. i no longer have fear.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aO5iOxKhfs0

the Storm before the Calm

drink up. drink up the anger swelling in those eyes. the lack of will power to swallow Reality. helpless or powerless seem to be thin shades of the same thing. dealing with it. the frustration of not knowing what is going on, but just enough to know all is not Well. thirst for blood blinds, but it's not just the blood lust. cloudy judgment from criss-crossed wiring wreaks havoc and confusion into an already bewildering madness. the storm must pass through before there can be clear skies. survive the storm first. will it blow in new beginnings and clear out the Dirty Mess? only time will tell. but not now.

Magical Cheesecake

Graham crackers. the base of a good cheesecake. as with all things made with our hands, there are levels of artistry involved in this base ingredient for a good cheesecake crust. In consideration of expediency and time, the task of mulching the graham cracker into a powder to be mixed in with softened but not melted butter has largely been relegated to the food processor, churning the crumbles with blades. to get an even finer granularity though, nothing quite beats the crushing of a motar and pestle, or even the delicate pressure of fingers squeezed together.

Time. a fine product, smooth of wrinkles, exquisite in taste, a sculpture, an inspiration, an enlightenment, and showing a distinctive level of skill and artistry requires time. yes, mastery of skills can cut down the time. ask anyone who has achieved that sort of level of mastery. one common theme lays rest as the basic foundation to all works of artistry. time invested.

Appreciation. many are content with the lesser quality of a product that does not have such a level of artistic creation. each person is entitled to their preference, me to mine. i wonder how much you can appreciate such artistry without understanding the time put into a creation. and what to do with when a creation is not fully appreciated?

Magic. there rarely will be anyone who can understand or appreciate that level of artistry. how can one really understand when they had not taken the road less traveled on? understanding all the time that went into how something or someone became to be requires some self-inflection as well. when this self-inflection mirrors another's artistry, something magical occurs.

My Home

This is not the house I was born into. Though there are some remnants of that house, most of it was either torn away by acts of Nature or by my own hands. Having been a really large, grand house, it took a long time for it to be stripped or torn down to what it is today. Some of the decorations, furniture, walls, and structure remain, and except for some of the inner quarters, most the interior is exposed. A part of it is to test its exposure to the Elements, but some are still exposed because I have not had a chance to refurnish and rebuild it, and some of it is because I am still deciding how or what I want to do with it.

The challenge of inheriting a house is that, though it might be a great home, it is not my home. It was designed and built by someone else. Some might be perfectly happy and satisfied with such a house, and there is nothing wrong with that, but sometimes the previous builders or designers did not built the house with flaws, or they might just not like it. My inherited house had some issues with its structural integrity, plus, I did not really like some of the furnishings. So I am remodeling. It is extensive.

Most of the house is torn down or what remains is just the skeleton. But, I wanted to build it to my own specifications. I am still deciding how I want to design, build, and fashion parts of my home. Others, I am not sure if I want to build over, and I might just tear the rest of it down. Right now, I do not know. In any case, much of the house has a lot of work to do, and I will probably continue to remodel my home as long as I live.

The land the house was built on is expansive with great features that I have largely left untouched. More rather, most of the work done on the landscape has been some minor removals or replacing a few items and plants, but there has been some slight improvements here and there in general. There are parts of the house and yard that I have yet to explore. That is how expansive it is. The yard and surrounding property is quite expansive, and I don't always have time to tend to every part of the yard. People come to visit and hang out with me there. Though most people are welcome anytime and the main gate is usually open, it's hard to see from the road, and the side bordering the road is fenced off. I do have guard dogs and some security, but they are pretty lax about blocking people from entering. People usually have a hard time finding the place than being turned around from entering.

Though there aren't many, some guests stay longer, so I make rooms for them so that they are comfortable. The ones that stay longer, I generally build larger rooms for them because they need more space. Sometimes, they have their own wing in the house or they just become a neighbor. Unruly visitors are generally asked to leave, but I usually do not mind as long as they are respectful or are not too intruding. Largely, I hang out with them outside because there is more space there.

Though still in some degree of being worked on, there is a general design to the home. Some parts of the home may appear incongruous because, well, I was influenced by many different forms of architecture, and it might depend on the mood I am in. I decided to design and build the house myself. I found that is how I like it most and makes me happy most.

The other day, I had a really cool visitor. I had been briefly introduced before, but I had invited them to a small party I had. We got to spend some time hanging out, playing, and talking. The visitor told me they liked my place, and from how they described their home, so I became a guest in their home. The more time I spend with them, the more I wished the visitor would stay longer, and the longer I wanted to stay at their place. I was inspired by their landscaping and the design of their house, which was very big and full of furnishings. I am hoping they become a neighbor, because it would be great to live close from each other. Maybe they can give me ideas on how to build or design other parts of my home.

The Heavens

Full moon in tow, I jig in its light
This means one thing,
It is time to reap what I sowed.

Rays of moonlight filter through the smoky
Haze of smoke trailing up from my pipe,
It’s hard to jig whilst a lit pipe jostles amongst my teeth.
Nonetheless I have made my sacrifice of sweet,
Virginian tobacco to the heavenly moon goddess
To a good harvest, I pray.

Fire and brimstones not quite just yet

The lackluster days this has become dredges something fearful and funny inside. It’s all I can do to restrain myself from laughing like a maniacal madman. Call it moon voodoo or whatever you like, but these are trying times. Though no where near close to be considered friends, this uppity and whimsical character, went prematurely South for the Winter, far from its home on Wall Street. Some say, nay, it went South far much later than originally predicted. In any case, it’s good to be short in these times, especially if you’re into selling.

Candy-colored moon-lips on a Belgian waffle

Too many times things go hay-wire before someone grabs the reigns and keels the proverbial, “Woah!” By then, it’s too late, and we’re looking at the poor, unassuming guy with banana crème pie oozing down his face. Of course, it’s a lot easier for us to see the humor in it. After all, WE saw it coming. I mean, I saw it coming. That is why I stepped aside with my tongue sticking out, hoping to graze some of the banana crème as it whizzed by. I imagine it would taste better that way. But that’s not to say that everyone was as fortunate as I was. Who knows, maybe they were distracted by the m&m in red, high-heels strutting by. Personally, I wouldn’t mind the distraction of a nicely crisped Belgian waffle, strawberries on top, with a dash of whip cream to give it shape. Then again, some would like nothing better to see that m&m, red high-heels and all, doing the Cancan on said Belgian waffle. Too many distractions, especially if it means being faced with a flying pie.

Pumpkin Pie

The mere thought of pumpkin pie can cause an interminable yearning. As if hibernating the year until around Thanksgiving, showing its sweet, spicy self for a few weeks, the elusive pumpkin pie goes back into its place in cookbooks until around the same time the following year. By far my greatest weakness, I can hardly ever pass up pumpkin pie. Between its soft texture, and the flavors swirling around in my mouth, pumpkin pie conjures up a warm, sweet sensation through all my synaptic nodes. This past weekend was like pumpkin pie. In fact, nearly this past whole month has been something like pumpkin pie. I think I have found the secret to pumpkin pie. Hehe!

The Bitch With Its Bitch

3rd Street Promenade, Santa Monica. The white puppy seemed to know that I was taking a picture, and posed for a few good shots. The two dogs were chained to each other by the thick cable you can see. Around them, people were salsa-dancing to the music thumping down the middle of the walkway. These two did not seem to care to watch what crowds were gathering to see.

Colorado in Late Summer

Officer's Gulch, a few miles west of Lake Dillon on I-70. Maybe I shouldn't be telling too many people about this place. Friends, Tarek and Bryan, and I camped out a few hundred yards beyond the lake. We fished in the rain for all of the next day and caught nothing. needless to say, it was very relaxing and fun. Except for the getting-wet part.

Down the Barrel of a Colt 45

Reading Fathers and Sons by E. Hemingway, I come face to face again with the ugly beast that lurks behind shadows in my soul. How have I come to be here today? It seems to only get progressively worse and worse. This torment that racks my mind against itself, I fear, will consume me one day. The self-deleterious vision is clear. Sometime, before I knew what course I was set on, I sat in my seat and was tracked in without instructions on how to brake or to maneuver. Is it fair to tell my impending fate? Partly unaware, I have agreed to it, and nothing can possibly change it. It is more really a question of how long it will take and will others be ready for it?

Change.

I’m sure if I searched hard enough, I can find research articles on this subject. Lately, this has been an obsession of mine. Brought on by the quintessential question: “How can I change?” of course, in exploring this question, I came on to a few more. What is change, first of all. After some contemplation, I broke it down into two main categories: the real and perception. There are impetuses that cause change to the real, physical world. Scientific and technological discoveries are mainly in this category. The other deals with ways someone/something has led to a change in perception of the real world. For example, religion oftentimes tries to bring a “higher” meaning to the real world and its circumstances. Art can take colors, on a canvas and convey some feeling, thought, or idea in a new way.

Now, if you look at people and their careers/jobs, just about all jobs relate to one type of change or the other. I am sure there are jobs that accomplish both types of change. What type of change do I want to incur? So, part of the resulting theory of understanding how I can change is to direct that path into what I want to change or transform into. And further, to what level do I want to bring about change?

Breeding

For centuries, man has bred dogs to highlight certain traits and qualities. This includes appearance, stature, personality, and even mental abilities. Though humans have become even more diffuse in the last few centuries, were also part of their own, sometimes sub-conscious, selective breeding. As unpopular as the theory goes, and despite the flaws in the original argument for this, what’s there to disprove that certain groups of people have a higher capacity for intelligence? Studies have shown that DNA can alter its expression over a person’s lifetime, but that doesn’t preclude an individual from being already set with a certain selection of traits controlled by their genes.

Probability

Probability and mathematics are great for understanding many macro-related studies. Just as there is a certain probability that I will get a full-house as my poker hand, there are probabilities of survival, acceptance into a certain school, getting a job, etc. However, at the individual level, how often did the prospect of probability get in the way of one achieving something? Because there’s a 95% chance that a patient diagnosed with stage IV cancer won’t live past 3 months, should that person resolve to live no more than 3 months?

How does religion consider probability? They account for probability to the will of the god(s). Isn’t it convenient that either way of the outcome (either it happened or didn’t happen), the will of the god(s) have been executed?

My odds

Between the largely undeniable authority of the genes that control our life, and the probabilities that we are born into, what real chance do we have at controlling our destiny? What are the probabilities that change can be accomplished? I have come to terms with these Elements to some degree. And I am quite certain that the probability that I will live past 65 are very slim. True, there is an extent of a self-fulfilling prophecy such as that, but why fight it? Hell, it certainly makes looking down the barrel of a colt 45 much easier to swallow.