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What does it mean to write? Why does one even attempt to ascribe a mark of ink to the dry pressed ascriptions of bark in a world of physical movement yet guided by electronic impulses throughout our lives?

The very idea of translating the aspects of the mind into a permanent institution is fascinating - and at the very same time - incomplete. The time it takes for a true feeling or idea to culminate in the mind is in an instant. I find myself contantly in a state of confusion in order to even identify what is most important in any particular instant…everything is so beautiful and dreadful at the same time.

Why do I never write anything down?!

But the more I read, the more I live, the more I travel, and the more I experience others the more I find that there is so much not said to each other, and so much remains the same which is not expressed. Maybe it’s simply that it cannot be expressed, or it is not wished to. What would happen if we expressed everything down to our deepest fears and worst thoughts?

It’s hard enough to get on day to day in this world, but especially confluent and embarrassingly terrifying when confronting who we really are in all our hypocritical ways.

I am not just a man. I am also a woman.

Am I lying to myself?

We all seem so sure when applying the labels that define, which understandably are not completely untrue, though it is impossible to surmise the mystery and conflict of what lies beyond that. Can it be that we are transfused with that which happens to us? I know I have the weakness of continually attributing my experiences to the universal and transcendental, but excepting trifles of superfluous musing in certain moments I can find no other way to make sense of things.

I am a man, yet I feel vulnerable and feel somewhat kindred with the suppleness-the softness-in myself and in Nature. I feel the surrender of conquest to the symphony of nurturing. To differ from the grandiose, I want to be more tender. But it would be dishonest if I were to say that I do not have the capacity to destroy.

There is certainly an aspect of my deepest self that revels in watching everything burn, and wanting to burn myself. Maybe it’s the unending desire to be congruent with disaster, the ultimate seamstress of chaos. Maybe it’s cultural conditioning to be ready for war, in whatever form. Why do little boys always want to play cops and robbers, anyway? I somehow always felt I was peering 75-200 years into the future and the past, anyway. Was that some sort of gene mutation?

With women it seems inevitable at times that they inhabit and work for a better world more holistically. Just go to any area that has mostly women living there, and it will be a necessarily inviting and engaging environment. They also almost all will be doing the daily tasks needed to have a working and nurturing environment. At the same time, all of us have internalized patterns we are not totally aware of, and we would have to push and work actively against in order to change them. It would possibly even mean upending an entire system to start that attempt, much less get to the bottom of how we feel.

Tomorrow there could be an earthquake, or a national coup again, or nothing will change whatsoever. All of these have consequences.

…

I don’t know why I’m here, or what my purpose is.

There are so many strange things that happen in the world, and the more days I am here the more I am confounded and hurt when others come to accept some of them as normal merely because they were simply here when they experienced them. As if being able to go about one’s daily life as normal means that everything else actually is normal.

I suppose I have some penchant for, some strange problem of, or a deep insecurity creating a compulsion to constantly question and define what isn’t being done; what isn’t being noticed.

It all comes back to what we knew by the age of 5. Adults don’t really make any sense, and they make up continually creative ways to not address very simple questions.

Maybe my role is to work through that maze to those simple truths. Maybe I just have nervous energy from some resounding abuse or unworked out diagnosis I am just not coming to terms with in adulthood.

Maybe I’m becoming crotchety.

I do know I don’t accept things as they are, unless they are of the present moment and are humane. Anything that destroys our divine rights to be here, and to achieve our unique realm of unimaginable power and light in individual expression, must be fought inexhaustibly. That force is unending, and so is our purpose to provide the grounds…the surrounding catchment…to be the thriving illumination of the obelisks we must reclaim from our earthly conditioning and transform into the bursting of stars which we were determinedly mixed within the cauldron of universal sanctity at and before birth.

All that may sound suspectedly mystical. But we are much more than we are given credit for in today’s world if we are not already billionaires when we come into the world, and we must remember that, whatever words any one of us may use.

I may never come to know a fully integrated purpose for myself, but one thing I will NEVER do is allow myself to forget that state genocides and imperialism are crimes against humanity for this very reason - and we are all complicit if we do not resist them, speak out against them, who have the ability and the know how, which all of us in the West and especially in the United States do who are not currently in poverty or just above the food stamps line.

I fail at this in so many ways; but I will find ways to use my time, my mind, and my voice (and hopefully these written words to the extent they are more helpful or even comprehensible) to ensure this is acknowledged.

That there continue to be witnesses, and

that we have the ability to do so much better

than our worst powerful and despicable men that happen to have what we are required to call money

driving what happens to the rest of us, along with our children’s children.