Butterflies don’t fly on the moon

I wish 
I could be 
A butterfly 
Flying by 
Flying high 
I have 
Visions of suicide 
Take me away 
Help me erase.
What else is there to say of this world? It could be said that Italians do not eat peanut butter, that love is not what we think it is, that sex and music are humans’ two greatest languages, that blackberries have no qualms with blueberries, and spider wasps provide great metaphors. 
It could be said that magic is real, that a girl with loose auburn curls and the smile of a child could easily arouse it in your life, but that it takes considerable effort and intention to arouse it within yourself. 
It could be said that a cherry pie knows everyone’s deepest secrets and still has room left for filling, or that hamsters — given the right diet — could make an entire island invisible. 
It could be said that the Shaman is actually the second coming of Jesus. But it could also be said that he’s a lunatic with a weird grin and a past too sad for movies. 
It could be said that a caterpillar must become soup before transforming into a butterfly, that disrupting the process could ruin everything. 
It could be said that she is happy, and fulfilled, and that you have no idea what’s real anymore. 
It could be said that the wheel is finally grinding to a halt, and that something else is there winking at you.
It could be said that I am not a writer at all, but an animated clump of flesh that will one day make a great dinner for a family of worms. And that any attempt I make to articulate the seering mystery of things is about as useful as a carton of old milk. It’s not going to do you any good for me to tell you how to live your life. 
I was a child once. 
With dreams. 
Big nebulous dreams 
Some of them nightmares. And that child has grown into a tangled mess of paradoxes. She’s basically a box of Christmas lights wrapped in garden hoses. She’s basically the human version of an alien. Her curls have been known to pick up radio transmissions from space, and every one of them sounds like Don Knotts playing the washboard. 
Zero is more of a number then ten will ever be.
Twin flames are real but that doesn’t matter much at all.
Sometimes angels will tell you important things but you’re addicted to your cell phone so you’ll miss most of it. 
Sometimes you write in the second person when referring to yourself. 
I wish
          I could be 


To me this is a matter of unraveling. I have in my life been made a bundle of paradoxes and unconscious impulses. To sift through and untangle them is to unravel my stuckness — to manifest what I feel to be an immense potential at the core of my being; potential for what I do not know. But I know it is there, waiting for me to figure it out — to unravel completely. 


Begin to make moves in the direction of a strong, well balanced, drama-free artistic, literary, and musical community flourishing by the sheer effort of its members. 

Begin to walk away from the energy suckers, the phonies, the manipulators, the emotionally reactive.

Begin to extricate energy from improper circumstances and relationships. 

Begin to limit endeavors. 

Begin to hone them down. 

Begin to focus clearly and consistently on positive feedback loops. 



Lo-Fi sounds.

Soul felt lyrics. 



Short stories. 

Make money simply for the sake of existing and supporting life.

Stop apologizing for being selfish with personal resources. 

Wake up. 

Break down old structures.

Build up new ones. 

And begin. 

Begin where the self already stands. 



Am I in control of my own life? 

Do the voices of others,




Get to dictate my decisions? 

Trying to please people 

Trying to keep the eggshells intact.

Trying to walk lightly 

And live well. 

If I could just make my decisions 

Without pressure from the outside 

That would be great. 

Following my own compass.

Living my own right. 

Instead of your wrong.


I begin to think something, an inkling of something. Possibility. My potential capacity to actualize aspiration. I feel the edges of my unlived life and quiver at its magnitude. I begin to think I am capable of incredible feats. A life of health, wholeness, joy, and deep commitment. So what stands in my way?


I can feel myself growing with each day. 

New opportunities are presenting themselves. 

For love. 

For work. 

For art. 

I am leaving behind what distracts me. 

And working hard to face what is in front of me. 

Breaking out on my own. 

Finding a space that is entirely mine. 

Setting boundaries with people. 

Finding myself within my own field. 

Cultivating peace and inner security. 

It is my inner strength that is bringing all this to pass. 

Taking refuge in the jewel of my own heart 

And thriving there. 

This is a new world I’m treading in. 

A new world of possibilities and satisfaction. 

Of needs met and passions pursued.

What starts from within will inevitably make its way out. 

And so I am beginning with the blank canvas of my soul, 

Forging ahead with a new life. 

One grounded in love and care and strength and resilience and fluidity. 

And I am excited for the day when finally my dreams come to pass 

Somewhere there is a layer of skin I no longer need, 

A shell going back to the earth 

While I rise 

Little by little 

Into the heavens. 

A Journal Thought

I don’t know what there is to gain from all this. The Sun is low, hiding behind some drab cloud. The river seems to be moving at a stand still. I am back in this place where all I have is time. Time on my hands. Time to write. To think. And read. Surely there is some contemplative nugget, a gleam of wisdom waiting for me in the woods, if only I am willing to ask for it. My mind returns unceasingly to love, or the lack thereof. It returns to her. Why after all this time I do not know. It is not as if I have done nothing to extinguish the flame. It is not as if I have remained inside, kneeling at some altar. No. I have lived. And yet still the image conjures itself before me.

What does it mean to break free of it? To release myself from its muzzled grip? To wander in these woods without the thought of a ‘once was’. Without the possibility of losing myself in some old reverie; a reverie which ultimately whisks me from reality into a land of dream and vision where anything is possible. And yet, here, here in this place and time, things remain as they are. They do not magically transform to my whims. They set upon me delicately. They offer themselves to me but without the mystical air I yearn for.

The horizon is dull. Hills sloping like wavelengths. River water muddy and green. The woods wait for me to step outside. To embrace them. To gaze fully upon their fresh colors. The violet pinks. The cranberry reds. The whip-whoo of pileated woodpeckers. The long vowel sound of the Earth discovering me.

I sit at my desk as though nothing has changed. As though a month has not gone by since my leave. The leaves outside my window still flutter. Most of them are still hanging on. The dust still collects on my keyboard.

And something within me wants to knock itself loose.

Something within me wants to be released, to find its way back to source.