It's a strange fruit.

Part of me wants to buy a one way ticket to somewhere, anywhere, and leave my life, forget everything, my love, my family, my dream, and beg and pray as I follow the sun, going to the next place G-d directs me to. Living like a vagabond, ready for adventure. Forgetting the signs, the fortune tellers prediction, the life I've mapped out for myself (including the apartment, the dog, the college degree, and the career), drop all the psychology I'm sorting out in my life, and just live in the moment, totally unattached to the outcome or what any of it means.
It just seems totally cliche for my personality to do something so typical like that, live a circus dream, on the road, chasing rainbows, pretending like G-d is somewhere on this escaping pony to Nirvana.

The path of engagement.

I wish I could become the skin of my child, when it was new,
before it became torn and bore battle scars of self reflection.
I wish I could love the part of me that never got it together,
that never figured out what or who to devote myself totally to.
I wish I could bare the tongue with ripe fruit,
and exotic verbs, but I never learned the language of the world.
I wish I knew how to express the parts of myself that you'll never understand,
but I trip so clumsy every time I speak with effort.
I wish I could lay in bed, next to someone, totally engaged,
without pretending my life couldn't exist without them.
I wish I could forgive the parts of myself that have been wounded by my mother,
and the parts that she has engulfed of me.
I wish I could become the lotus, with a breath of silence,
fully realized,
and forgive every part of my life that I haven't lived truly,
and every part of it I have.

so many things.

I've been helping others get organized in their lives, but I feel like such a hypocrite because I need to be doing that for myself. If they only saw my room, and the state of my mind, and how dis-organized my life is. I have clothes piled, scattered mail and documents I barely have time to get to, a list of to-do's that never get done, a pile of books I start and barely get through. I have a travel bag filled with clothes right by my door, as if I'm on my way out. Maybe it's there to remind me of leaving soon, and not getting too settled again. Perhaps my subconscious is ready to go on the road again... But yet the thought of leaving so spontaneously feels like the wound of my unsettled business... I'd love to just leave it all and travel like a vagabond to nowhere, but that's pretty much what I've been doing my whole life, except standing still. I'd love to call the shots, be on the road, forget responsibility, but what am I really trying to be with that? It's not just about making these emotional reactive decisions. It's about being clear on where I want to be and why, which is really confusing because that could be so many things. I guess that's why people get into ruts, because there are so many things to process, so many roads, so many road maps, so much information, it's almost easier to be disorganized in a sea of dis-illusion than it is to sort through it all. I have this idea that one day I'll be clear, it will all be easier, I'll wake up having it together and be able to just be like everyone else, I guess... It's a lot easier to pretend that you have it together than it is to actually have it together, but for now I'll pretend. The universe definitely brought me these dis-organizers to examine myself. The reflective mirror of my life. Now I just need to put it together.

do adventures call for such love?

we laid beside each other,
in a foreign bed,
in a room that's been visited
by many traveling hippie folk.
we finally made it into bed
after a seemingly endless night
of psychedelics, our heads throbbing.
i wanted to feel his warmth
and allow this moment to become of us,
whatever our minds could venture.
the need for sleep seemed uncertain,
though i delighted at stillness.
he was hesitant,
his body dancing through immense change.
i could feel the different stages of his growth
becoming all at once,
sometimes of a hand motion,
or an irregular lung,
perhaps a few heart spasms.
i wanted to be still for once,
and he wanted to be unsettled.
all i could think of was the empty bed
on the opposite side of the room.
there is calm there.
should i venture alone to the other bed?
do adventures call for such love?

There is a city outside.

I am staying on the side of a church, in a house that used to be a nunnery. There is a seat on the window in my bedroom, it overlooks the church towers, I feel like the church is my home. This house is now occupied by hippies and local Montreal artists, free spirits, and humble revolutionaries.
I don't spend to much time away from the house. I know there is a city out there, with fancy shops, and real artists roaming the streets, but I am content in the church, with the soft city happening as an afterthought. I guess when you come from one of the most hyper cities in the world, the idea of being entertained in another city isn't the most important part of the experience. When I come to Montreal, it's always to contemplate and be. I never come for fun and parties, though they happen spontaneously. I come here to sit and move slowly with the pace here, so that when I go back home, I can take some of that humility with me. It is gentle here, and it brings me into a gentle space. I dream of being that gentle, that artistic all the time. I would like to dream here, unending-ly, and not feel obligated to move at the speed of an entire hyper metropolis. The kind of New York urgency is felt for miles, at long distances, I can't escape it when I'm there. That is why I escape to be with my love here, my dreams, my ideology. I am more carefully here, though no less forgiving. I am never ready to leave here, though I feel too edgy to ever fit in.