Fast Enough America? Write More. DO Less.

Fast Enough America?  Write More. DO Less.

I'm bored.
What do you want from me?
Something new.
Yes, but about what and why?
What interests you and will you even read it?
I dont even know when you do you will really hear the message.
What message? She asks with skepticism and returns to her I-Pod.
I don't quite know.  I can't promise you inspiration, enlightenment or even enjoyment.
So why should I bother?
Because it's what I do.  I write.  I don't do it to bother you.  I do it for me.
Why?
Because I enjoy the sensation of writing something unique, something that frees me from the mundane.
But I don't like to read.
How do you know?
Because.  I dont know.  I get bored I guess.
But not with your I-Pod?
No.
Why?
I guess because it's always changing.  I can find something new and cool and fun to do, like listen to my favorite tunes, text, play games, or just surf the web and find funny videos on you tube.
So what if I write a poem about facebook?  Would that amuse you?
Maybe.  Ya, I guess.  She looks up from her I-Pod. 
What if you try writing something?
ME?  I can't write for shit!
How do you know?
Trust me, I know.  I suck.
Did someone tell you that or is that what you tell yourself?
Both!
I bet you can write something and someone out there will enjoy reading it.
I tried a blog on my I-Pod once.  No comments.
Do you think if you receive no comments that no one read your stuff or enjoyed it?
Well, ya probably!
That is where your thinking is wrong.  Think of it like a practice for yourself.  Not for others.
How?
Start with writing one unique sentence a day.  That will get old quick and you will write more and more and more.  One day you may even have a story to tell.
Hmm.  That would be cool.  But I do have ADD and that makes reading, writing, school, all that, really hard.
Did you know Einstein had ADD?  Only back then, they didn't have a diagnosis for everything.
Really?
So they say.  So let's try it? What do you say?
Can I use my I-Pod?
I'm sure you have a notepad on there so I dont see why not.  However, I would suggest using a pen and paper or at least a labtop just get the true feeling most writers get to experience without the distraction of interruptions like texts, emails and other disturbing pop ups.  Do you know that technology is a gift and a curse for ADDs like us (I am one too by the way).  
Really?  I didnt know that!
Ya!  And, the plus of technology is that it helps us find a way to organize our thoughts and keep track of dates, times, appointment... stuff like that.  But it is horrible for us when writing or trying to be creative.  Too many distractions.  Computers too.
I can try pen and paper.  That's different.  Kinda like how school used to be when my parents went.  Now everythings computers and smart boards.
I know.  Craziness.  It's like the powers that control the world, want to dumb us down, keep us enslaved to the lower class working society.  Even the most talented and genus thinkers of the world are now getting either so caught up in the techno-world, they've settled on high paying jobs with little stimulation, or they go mental or worse, suicide.
No kidding!
Ya.  You don't read The Underground?
No, what's that?
It's a newspaper that's not owned by the corporations.
I thought those were all banned.
Well, sorta.  This one has remained under the radar somehow, but it's pretty interesting.  Whenever I hear about something on the regular news and it sounds fishy, or like, they keep changing the story around, I go right to The Underground and get some pretty fascinating answers.  These people really care about truth.  Not money.  Not power.  Not even fame, although fame helps because it spreads the message, but again, it's a double edge sword.  If it becomes too famous, they find out and destroy them.  Discredit them with some bullshit about aliens or something not many people believe in and that makes them look like conspiracy nuts so people don't read anymore.  They go back to the news.  It's a vicious cycle.  Look what happened to "The Truthers" back in 2019!  
Ya, that sucked bad,  I really liked them.  I followed them on twitter and even signed some petitions.

So anyways, back to writing.... Where would you like to begin?
Hmmm... how about a prompt or something like that?
Sure.  Sounds good!  Hmmm... how about start with something like, "As she put down her I-Pod, it occurred to her, there may be something missing in her life and it wasn't a boy.  Something deeper.  She glanced at her I-Pod, then the mirror and at that instant, she knew what she needed to do.  It had been so long since she wrote, but it just felt right.  She picked up her tattered journal and began to write..."
Hahahaha... that's not really a prompt, Bo.  You're talking about me!
Maybe.  But it's a start!  ;-)
Alright Bo, I'll try.

After a few days of practice .....

Is this fast enough for you?
If I try to write and you don't like it, does matter what I say?
No, because I'm free to do as I please, 
I need to sacrifice my own ego and let the spirit guide me.
This journals been untouched for so long, 
It'd be easier if I could just sing,  Then I'd sing you a song or tell you a story,  
But I'm hungry for inspiration and I got nothing.  
One thing I do know is I need to let go of a lot.
Bo's right about my I-pad. That will be the first to go.
At least for a day.  
Nah, let's take it slow, and start with a couple of hours, next I plan on taking a meditative snooze to rejuvenate, then some yoga should do the trick.  I feel like I've been on hyper drive since I got the chip.  I will play with the dog, then try to write some more.  But for now this is all I got because, I swear something happened to my imagination since the V-chip.  Independent thought is almost impossible-  (for those who may not know, the commercial interruptions become overpowering especially when you are out of the chip points)

Time for a nap.

To be continued...



   

Bo's Rant - Soundcloud

Paper Love

Paper Love:

The First Year's a Gift,

the rest, Hard-Work

and a Mystery

Staring at my paper cup,

rim saturated with lipstick, coffee stains and honey.

I wonder where the remnants

of our love resides, when the days get stagnant, cool and gray.

There's a place where we can go,

when in need of a love fix in case of disaster blows.

Finding it, this years mission,

so we can go there when the tide gets high and the waves, rough.

Gazing at paper letters;

Dented up reminders of my frustration, eyes get wild...

Wet hazel and troubled breath

blind truth hides behind lonesome shadows of desired caress,

Too disjointed yet to kiss,

but you made the miracle happen with your warm embrace.

Paper receipt; lunch for two;

green paper exchanges made way for big changes that day.

Paper note folded in fours...

refolded, crumpled, flattened, recycled, torn

A tapestry of rainbows;

Our ever-lasting inertia of dreams guiding us home.

First year is a miracle;

Forever flowing, undying bliss will need true love's kiss...

keeping our hearts strong and pure,

like the roots of a tree where paper derives and love stirs

thinking about paper love.

The True Story of Santa Claus

A brief synopsis of my new publication - (will be ready before Christmas through Solstice Publishing)...

Every child, in one way or another, has indulged in a fantasy world.  It’s part of our human development.  Our nature.  But there comes a time in one’s life where we begin to question everything and that world slowly drifts away, and we see things in a new light.  This transition bothered Darlene.  She is getting older and starting to wonder about the mystery behind “Santa Claus.”  She wonders, “How on earth can one man travel around the world on one night and deliver all those presents?”  and “Do reindeer really fly?” and “Do elves really make toys in the north pole?”  

When she confronts her mother with some of these questions, her mother decides it’s time for her to hear the real story of Santa Claus.  Passed down from generation to generation, the story of how the Santa Tree Foundation began fascinates Darlene and her curiosity only grows stronger every night her mother reads to her, she asks more and more questions.  When the truth unravels, she feels a sense of pride knowing she now knows the truth and it’s not as grim as her what her classmates tried convincing her, which was that there was no Santa Claus.  

This story within a story captures the innocence of childhood and the magic of Santa, in a way never revealed before!  Shhh… the secret is out, but only to those ready to hear the message.  A heart wrenching story for the young and the young at heart.

Roots

Where am I from?

I am from the roots of a tree

without form;

a river with no depth

a canvas with no paint

An untainted, un-tattered, untouched, unknown divine miracle,

the unborn.

-------------

Without form,

there is no name, no label, no habits, no judgment, no scorn,

no pity, no forlorn misery, no shame, no fear, no blame, no ignorance…

just a heart beating wisdom of, the Sutra,

a reverberating light chanting, the Mantra.

Without form,

there is peace, an awakening; room for impermanent change

because everything and nothing changes,

thus, the irony of meaning and purpose;

the paradox of life.     

---------

Who am I?

I am a she, a daughter, a sister, a child, a human being.

Alas, as she wakens, she becomes real!

She begins to feel, as she bonds with a mother, who’s one;

one with the earth, wind and the sun;

one whom once too had become.

Blossoming into life,

Breathing the air,

enjoying simplicity without credence or despair.

Every new scent,

a discovery,

an exotic revelry,

beautiful and true,

a precious unity.

II

But as she awakens to the world around her,

Her fantasy will break, her heart will crush and her brain will rush,

forgetting what she knew as a babe,  

forgetting the universal gift we call the present.

Lost in a maze of endless possibilities and unclear deliveries,

She will freeze up, calm up and jam up.

She may even loose it all and forget her gratitude cup.

She may wallow in self-pity, curse God, her neighbors, even the old oak trees.

she will eventually become forlorn

and fall to her knees, in prayer, like a newborn again

she will forsee, things will not be as she once believed,

through the blood, sweat and tear stained blindfold,

finally shredded,

she will see truth expose itself as suffering

dreaded fears will unravel,

stumble her into regret, un leaded.

-----

Saw blood, felt pain.  Saw greed, felt envy.  Saw madness, felt confused.  Saw dealth, felt grief.  Saw injustice, felt anger.  Saw corruption, felt useless.  Saw war, felt sadness and fear.  Saw addiction, felt desire.  Saw ignorance, felt frustration.  Saw shame, felt doubt.  And the list goes on and on and on…

-----

At times, but for the most part, she will still be the tree without form, yet it may take a lifetime to find her source again, her beauty, he perfectly imperfect grace, her creativity, her spiritual space.

As her world drifts in and out of consciousness and her beautiful, perfect emptiness is replaced by an orchestra of colors, splashing from a palate to a blank slate so fast like Picasso.  

Never looking quite perfect.  Never looking quite sane.  Never looking cautious.  And never, ever, the same.

How do you then explain to a young lady, that she is perfectly imperfect and that’s what makes her so beautiful?  How do you explain, the lies behind the masquerade?  

How, when everyday for her is a battle.  

----Bullying----

Cyber wars, silly name calling games-

Twisted words

spouted by two faced girls!

Worse when the worst is when they whisper hushed comments under Doritos stained tongues about her lack of style, nervous twitches, braces and goofy smile

It’s only a five minute walk but feels like she just ran a mile.

And those words still echo through her head, daily,

Making her mind crazy

She’s been cut down to the bone,

Throwing her of mommy’s little princess throne.  

----Teenage angst----

Where am I from?

I am from the ocean tide.

My mother?

Who was she?

Where is she?

Still lost at the sea where she left me?

Maybe.

I am from another place.

Sometimes alone-

like in outer space.

Ya, minimize and call it “teensage angst” if you must,

But I am NOT coming back,

So don’t worry come dusk.

Feel lost and abandoned without a trace.

Nowhere to hide in such a mysterious rat race,

I can’t keep up the pace.

Who am I?

I am just another number.

860-988-1324- my cell

What a disgrace!

Is a number a person?

008-30-1236- my S.S.

Fuck!

I am so confused.

Where am I from?

I am from blood shackles and stale tears....

lonely echoes of dirty caked faces and inbreed fears...

cracked out bottomless bottles of despair...

Freeze dried tears to save for future years…

Where am I from?

I am from the institutions of regret.

Like a teacup shattered and glued back, but never the same.

Never again the same.  

Broken.  Impossible to tame.

Zig-zagged and ridged.

Crazed and fragile,

No more shakin’ the rattle.

Boiling water pours through me everyday.

I stand strong because I like it that way.

Standing tall. Proud.  This is me.

But there are cracks.

So please don't laugh

Just cut me some slack…

Where am I from?

I am from the comfort and solace...

God gave me when you left my empty palace-

the root of the tree with no name.

A place where fear resides but shallow cries

break free from shame.

Turn me into a spark.

A spark that ignites the coals.

The black, crumbled coals.

A spark that sings a song of red-orange tones.

A spark that warms the restless walking in the cold.

Now I am fire.  

Destruction!  

Everything and everyone crossing my path is gone.

I am alone.

So don't touch me.

Don't hug me.

Don't even try to love me.

I am alone.

I want alone.

I need alone.

I die alone.

Where am I from?

I am from emptiness.

I am from despair.

But God gave me the tools to give a care.

So I will take the dare and move on from there.

The real question is not

“Where am I from?”

but “Where will I go from here?”

Snow Tide

Gray - faded, color -wrinkled

leaves buried under mounds of snow.

Slowly falling flakes dancing

gracefully upon their descent.

Each textured flake unique

And oh so sleek.

"Oh so beautiful" sang the man on his knees

to the barren trees.

Every last remnant of fall is gone-

Ice from the storm glimmers off the tree limbs.

Beauty and grace

mask their

disheveled

naked

figures,

emerging taller

sturdier-

and oh so so bright.

Images of winter reflected through the child-

eyes of blue...

Through icicles glittered brown specks of whites, golds and silvers too...

My soul cries out in pure delight.

Never before have I seen

such a magnificent sight.

Tide comes in strong

in the form of wind and sleet-

As if in vision while in sleep.

How does one explain what can only be seen 

by tired eyes and a tarnished soul?

Passing on slowly-

I have no regrets.

Slush, slush...

Mush, mush...

Boots splashing in muddy puddles.

Walking on...

Standing tall…

Steps of pride...

I'll never forget the obsolete beauty

of the snow tide.

How lucky for a tarnished soul-

to be forgiven

by the divine

then given

the gift of tranquil eyes

to see beyond societal designs

of misery and cries.

Snow tide.

Grace, my God, the universe,

I thank you for the eyes to see

through the ego masked over me.