Cool, evening air, updated technology, a beginner again! Finally, an adult in my home town, left alone to discern the shape and color of its hollows, lines. And yet, lost again, with my own genetic doppelgänger, with my Parent cloak donned. What a year for such matters, two thousand and twelve, a year worth writing the letters, pausing with space between words, letting the mouth rest momentarily in oral asanas.
It was only yesterday, warm and startling for mid-march in cny, and after a five mile date, that I stumbled upon a most impromptu healing ceremony. I had decided to stop in to a local metaphysical shop where soon I was rolling along at the speed of sonar with a beautiful healer/ channel goddess, when up to the shop pulls a police officer. In full, it must be heavy wearing those weapons/responsibility for justice swagger, the officer entered the shop bringing conversation to a halt. Remarking on the usual cause for police presence the shop keep giggled a bit, as she bravely probed his cause of arrival.
What insued was, in the kind of thing nations and diplomats strategically plan for months, nothing short of an intergalactic counsel. Despite our outward appearances, and much to the thread of prior conversation, we entered a wave, a channel that pulsed with a vibration so clean and open I would have thought I was back in the bay, summer of 2006. Only these were strangers. One, understandably, the massage therapist turned channel, but the other...two time Iraqi tour vet, police officer!
I was mostly too shocked, and skeptical to engage directly,and so I wandered the shop touching stones in silent awe. I soaked it in though, three real whole people beyond, no, WITHIN the fear structure, (aka mainstream world of business, etc), and still radiating the real, the now. As rhe clock told fit I left with two stones, one a sort of psychic soul thumbprint reader(!) and two words written on a postit, the name of a being to contact, perhaps for an upcoming journey.
For now, I rest.

Love Letters, con't.

Dear Lover,
Somehow the Us has become an ocean...where once there was only you and I; momentary glances from distant sides of neighboring counties, now has opened Infinity. Have we really invited, allowed this presence to take form through us?!! It reminds me of when I studied the Tibetan Book a bit, where the only way to transcend the karmic wheel through death was to look directly into the brightest possible source at the time where everything you knew to be real outside had been stripped away. So when, in these moments I become frozen in fear near you, and my words come out inside over and quaking, I know it is not a lack of confidence or ability, but my willingness to stand at the edge and feel my way into a possibility of convergence upon a single point.
The effects of this undertaking are as Mr Stephen Hawkings did write, with squiggled diagramming and rippling waves of undulating energy maneuvering spatially. So I will often focus on the face you make when your thoughts consume you, your laughter from another room, or those sometimes all too rare moments when I find the skin on my neck flooded with the touch of your hand. I mix this with daily tasks and new skills, friends and parenting. Do I hallucinate or discover at the suspended correlations between Our tempered intensity and reward?
I have faith in the crescendo-ing of trust, in me, in you. Mostly. Gravitational singularity and extensive training become pertinent.
To add the subtly shaken whipped topping of this phenomenon, we as individuals have complete power to chose in any second  the level of exposure to this "god in the living room experience." I stay today because this site of learning speaks an inter dimensional dialect and the lines between our respective graphs make music.
In joyfear and....,

Me

Today

With midnight creeping towards, I wat h for a moment, fantasies of us, filled and exhausted by the hot day's working. We move together into a somehow better than alone sleep cradle. They slide idly through the roll; a slow moving double scroll over-lit from behind. I think again about Plato's "Allegory of the Cave," as an earmark that refreshes the course of a path into the sun. I feel deepening roots, non-assumption, that curve around our conversation with simple exercise.
There continues a settling, my innards slow back into normal operating procedure, and five years of experimental chaos melt. Numbers and states become offerings, the most fulfilling come, just me and lightening, into the sweet field Desire has abandoned.
Somehow, I have the patience to listen, sifting, until the pertinent information contains shape. nOw I sit, wriggling inside the beyond pressure of hallucinogenic fear.  More than half of the day's chores have been entertained, my chest resumes breath work, and I am no longer the creator of the seasons, trees, etc. Mostly. This time I swallow sugary pellets with remedies that sift guilt from me like leaves of tea through hot water. I can see a path opening. Excited, I think it is possible to hold on with a grip that might become a moment's satisfaction.



http://www.historyguide.org/intellect/allegory.html

unKoan

Quiet assimilation in the early hours. I pick up the journal that was once my bridge between spirit and home, and the words have lost meaning. The moon thickens daily, passes still among layers of clouds that hide an astrophile's quest. On the verge of explosion, i breathe, renewing the contracts again, again. I stop for a moment to wonder what will happen with this new sharing, possibilities of creation flood my mind. I hope that i can continue to play with authenticity, releasing the habit of molding myself to reach a certain destination. Sometimes i feel outnumbered by those deep carved synaptic hiways. I blink, seasons change, and we are now on a whole other level. The daily tasks hold me fast with a kind of sticky pleasure and i offer my wandering mind to their mundane ritual.  I am flooded with tears receiving the gifts of mothering: someone else's words beside a pink print of Aleia's right hand, tea parties, her hugs as my words fuse with emotion. Death bleeds from me, an acrid tinge into blooming sweetness.

tulips

Today the earth sorts people, cultures, like archaeology moves dirt and relics with a sifter. In our delirious training toward eternal life, we crack and pour among the stretching and prayer of this mother-body, hoping for a sign. Our gathering signals the flowers as the songs of birds speak into the ear of spring. Again the moon courts seclusion and the grey sky bows, akimbo, to the spreading smile of me.
This sacred conglomerate of flesh and calcium delivers me into the arms of everything. I writhe in paradox and take pleasure in becoming the worm who, when pinched directly, has the chance to go in two directions simultaneously. My mind plays along the edges of waters whose depth holds the enigma of a man whose game caught the eye of the world; violence. The shore is prickly beneath my bare winter feet. My daughter sits calmly waking. We turn on the TV and catch images of a palace burning, hear the story of death specifically demarcated between other and self at a national level. She expresses sadness with a straight face.

robins

good morning spring, again. from the ancient art of dreaming i just arisen, might take to baking cakes. how pleasure does unfold, thin lines of me moving out among the places that have agreed to another day.

the spongy me delights in discovery while the waterwashed stones of my underbelly assemble until the outline of the seer becomes nearly more than a shadow. i make my dali list in a logical fashion, and a glimpse of the sun sends my heart romping into worlds i long assumed dead.

if there could be a deeper explanation of possibility, if we could permeate together the heart of this mystery that in silence and song, belong to responsible abandon, there might only remain the sweetest memory of light. with two hands the exploration continues, i close my eyes, then open.

my tethers to this earth have come from far to play. i think about a river of words rushing through the space between mountains and a shelved dictionary. today i want to be an anonymous observer in the middle of everywhere. i turn in my "responsible for responding" pass to wander unencumbered. perhaps RuMi invaded me between the soothsayers and irony of my dreaming. this orgasmic breathwork is line and shade as i organize plans for the new orchard.

it must be the growing up that allows me to sit quietly folding laundry as i wait for thunder.

n

nightingale

i am floating on the back of motherhood, waving like a reed underwater in these undulating currents. i chart the moon into darkness, falling upon the valleys of transit with exhaustion and a collaborative ecstasy. inquisitions move through me by the thousands. huge ships filled with endless party-goers they pass, chanting riots in the phantom sun; could it be that after her voice walked into our morning grey, i will be filled with the fast beating of heart any time i hear her sing again? what does this have to do with me /you? my mind wanders into making new combinations of letters into meaning.

i find myself braiding, each thin strand mesmerizes as it lifts, catching the light before falling into the thickening sheen. i think i'm preparing for a quiet ceremony. while i have learned the quantum benefits of letting loose in the garden of appreciating, i stand close enough to the acrid smell of tragedy that it gathers like smoke behind my tongue. we talk about death and the peace of beginning to feel again bleeds across my big screen.

the lights of the car behind me signal to pull over and make friends with the law, i decide to just be the sleepy regular human that i am feeling. this decision leads me to a river of authenticity. i skinny dip with a smile.

i drink jasmine tea well beyond midnight, folding deeper into this most intimate sanctuary. my fingers cool quickly as blood slows into sleep. will i dream again in shadow boxes? maybe.

nmw