All of my seed flown into the world.
I ride the train as a child through the rocky mountains. In all of this sea will I encounter any that take away this human feeling? The maudlin, the melancholy, the somber tones of healing make the music of tonight.
Are white people reading this thinking that I am so ridiculous? Are black people passing me up for more interesting pursuits? Does my family play corn hole in hell?
These sentences are given to me when I go to the place and wait for little cotton blossoms to land on my skin.
My skin is hot in the Albuquerque sun. I am by the river. There is a rusty metal pipe sticking out of the ground and I can hear the highway. I turn to the left to see the graffiti beneath the overpass. If I choose, I can turn my head to the right to behold the volcanoes in the distance. They are framed perfectly by the cottonwoods that grow on either side of the big river. Do these waters flow from death itself?
Of course I am sitting on the eastern side. Why would I go to the western side? I went there once to run, and I saw a coyote and have never gone back.
Have you heard of the wolf that the curanderos made to scare the white people? He was running on his hind legs alongside the jeep. At night.
Ben told me of this, and it feels like true terror.
Such loneliness that I may as well enjoy the feral life, passing time in the hunt. Emotions like colors of the sunset. I do not miss them because I know no past while I have meat to feed on.
The days pour freely when there are few salmon swimming upstream. What brains bless us with knowledge of cruelty and pattern?
I feel the gods would discard me as a sniveler. I would sit alone and wail my case.
My questions held too much in the essence of your fear!
Rarely do I allow myself to expose myself yet I constantly betray.
I will go until I have no readers left, until I've dragged them all through the sands of my self. This is what happens when Brodie is consistent. This is what he writes when he writes often. When he gives little it seems innocuous enough to keep around. Like a pet bird that doesn't chirp. Isn't it nice?
The maudlin, the melancholy, the somber. These are the three sisters on the horizon, the mothers that will spew lava and melt wood and bone.
They will all fuck you and leave you.
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
Thursday, August 2, 2012
Life without war
I will wash my body in water and salt
Separate are they and should not be
"should not be"
This he says to me
Plumb and flush, how I've been cut
Is how I like to be
"I like to be"
This he says to me
And then, out of the red one's pocket, a note, "things worse than death are things living men will know"
The boy in mind, calmly
Against the wall, where
Patience is good and free
"good and free"
This he says to me
Separate are they and should not be
"should not be"
This he says to me
Plumb and flush, how I've been cut
Is how I like to be
"I like to be"
This he says to me
And then, out of the red one's pocket, a note, "things worse than death are things living men will know"
The boy in mind, calmly
Against the wall, where
Patience is good and free
"good and free"
This he says to me
Monday, July 30, 2012
Champagne Problems
The word of the day today is "Spoonerism." It is a noun and it means this: a transposition of usually initial sounds of two or more words.
Example: put the words "Fishing Lesson" through the spooner machine and they become "Lishing Fesson"
Now you know.
Personally, I am largely bent towards a sort of superstitious mode. I love the idea of hidden messages from inhabitants of the ether. I look for them.
Every morning I wake up and read the word of the day, and I wonder how the next 24 hours will come to fulfill whatever notion has been put into my head. As a part of the routine I counter this by remembering Marcus Aurelius' caution against allowing the potential moods of each day to infect one's spirit too deeply.
So there I am, somewhere in between, again.
I think, Ok. I... am trying to change. Look at the universe. Same things, different places, different arrangements, sameness.
ok. suffering.
I'm trying to change.
I recall the first time I was cubed: my cube was an iridescent metal of no earthly origin. Even in a static position it's surface would move and toss light. One couldn't even be certain that the light it reflected was not a reflection at all but just it's own.
It was alien, special. Unique.
While it is beautiful that I desire to be so special, I can also tell you that all I wanted to do was crawl inside that cube where I knew there would be my mother's suburban living room.
Fuck.
Suffering. I am trying to change.
I can no longer navigate this house of mirrors with the agents I've chosen thus far.
I make so much unnecessary work for myself in that I ignore my nature while trying to bend. I wish for a different nature, a different palette altogether. All of my energy flows into the imagination rather than the agency I have at my disposal.
So, we return. Spoonerisms. Two words, they represent the whole of the universe in all of it's parts. All of me in my parts.
Rather than wish for new words, new letters, a new soul, one can simply rearrange. Suddenly, a lishing fesson. What a relaxingly new thing this lishing fesson.
The difference, the make or break here, is sight. Waking up the great eye and putting it to use. What elements are at work here?
Then, play. Enjoy the potentially infinite permutations.
Then, relax.
Relax.
Example: put the words "Fishing Lesson" through the spooner machine and they become "Lishing Fesson"
Now you know.
Personally, I am largely bent towards a sort of superstitious mode. I love the idea of hidden messages from inhabitants of the ether. I look for them.
Every morning I wake up and read the word of the day, and I wonder how the next 24 hours will come to fulfill whatever notion has been put into my head. As a part of the routine I counter this by remembering Marcus Aurelius' caution against allowing the potential moods of each day to infect one's spirit too deeply.
So there I am, somewhere in between, again.
I think, Ok. I... am trying to change. Look at the universe. Same things, different places, different arrangements, sameness.
ok. suffering.
I'm trying to change.
I recall the first time I was cubed: my cube was an iridescent metal of no earthly origin. Even in a static position it's surface would move and toss light. One couldn't even be certain that the light it reflected was not a reflection at all but just it's own.
It was alien, special. Unique.
While it is beautiful that I desire to be so special, I can also tell you that all I wanted to do was crawl inside that cube where I knew there would be my mother's suburban living room.
Fuck.
Suffering. I am trying to change.
I can no longer navigate this house of mirrors with the agents I've chosen thus far.
I make so much unnecessary work for myself in that I ignore my nature while trying to bend. I wish for a different nature, a different palette altogether. All of my energy flows into the imagination rather than the agency I have at my disposal.
So, we return. Spoonerisms. Two words, they represent the whole of the universe in all of it's parts. All of me in my parts.
Rather than wish for new words, new letters, a new soul, one can simply rearrange. Suddenly, a lishing fesson. What a relaxingly new thing this lishing fesson.
The difference, the make or break here, is sight. Waking up the great eye and putting it to use. What elements are at work here?
Then, play. Enjoy the potentially infinite permutations.
Then, relax.
Relax.
Saturday, July 21, 2012
I hate it when....
... Human beings romanticize consciousness as a tremendous advance in tooldom. That they may even deem themselves capable of determining what is and is not advantageous in such a complex world! I see it as being on the same plane as any trait any organism could possess.
One could say that Consciousness is like a giant limb that we are born with as humans, and it is only effective to the extent that it is utilized, worked, exercised. If it is not fully utilized it is a dead weight and no advantage at all. An organism unburdened by consciousness altogether (if such a thing exists), has an equal chance at survival and an equal certainty of death. Perhaps they are even more efficient.
How many days have I spent thinking about the life that I live?
How many times have I watched myself through the eyes of god, beasts, other men?
Stress. Trouble borrowed. Grip and greed. These are born of a conscious mind.
Action. Action heals all the wounds of modern life.
All I mean is, I'd like to think less, much much less.
As for all of you, well, I hope you enjoy a good ole' fashioned hypocrite.
<3
One could say that Consciousness is like a giant limb that we are born with as humans, and it is only effective to the extent that it is utilized, worked, exercised. If it is not fully utilized it is a dead weight and no advantage at all. An organism unburdened by consciousness altogether (if such a thing exists), has an equal chance at survival and an equal certainty of death. Perhaps they are even more efficient.
How many days have I spent thinking about the life that I live?
How many times have I watched myself through the eyes of god, beasts, other men?
Stress. Trouble borrowed. Grip and greed. These are born of a conscious mind.
Action. Action heals all the wounds of modern life.
All I mean is, I'd like to think less, much much less.
As for all of you, well, I hope you enjoy a good ole' fashioned hypocrite.
<3
Thursday, July 19, 2012
Men are Mad to see the Inside
When the essences begin to swirl in my gut, I feel so moved to act that almost nothing can satisfy the pull.
Is this statement true? Perhaps it is the plug, the untruth that keeps all of the truth contained. Alternating colors. Truth: I'm feeling anxious to create a post.
I am afraid of seeing myself. I am afraid of that which is stale. But. In this time of my worm I have called upon myself to move and be moved. To give and ... be gived.
Ok. The plug. is...coming out....ffwo8fr up9823yr[ 29p38r[39hfblehhhhhh.
gurgling...
drip drip drip
drip.
Perhaps one of the greatest questions to put to an american of my age and race and economic background is: What to do in the absence of convenience?
Isn't it so nice when one is in the car, and suddenly all forces coalesce, imparting an expansive feeling of euphoric grace. Celestial bodies sing to accompany my speech, my every move!
Well, this is true, but it is also true that they are singing constantly for they can do nothing else. They sing many songs and none are less songy than others.
Song of war, of brutal murder, of hate, of understanding, of confusion, of remembering something very distant that may have been a dream.
Song of chaos.
..
Fine.
How graciously and courageously can I accept what I have given myself?
To submit oneself to sensitivity is to give up convenience.
My fear is that if I reveal my fears, all of the people at the cafe will see me. They'll see me walk in the door and they'll just see into me. All of these eyes caressing me like a billion rough hands in an unfathomable darkness. This, in the entrance of the cafe.
As a person, and those closest to me can validate this, I really keep very few things private.
...
Hm. I say this, but then another voice immediately responds, "ah, but we are so tricky. you know how we are tricky."
And yes, there are many organisms that create my body and that need my body and all of those organisms are one with me. From the moment I entered the birth canal I began sharing my worm with other beings. Playing host is the price of admission.
What of non-physical sharing? What organisms find a home in the ethereal places that I protect? I suspect that my constant revelation of uncomfortable truths to those around me actually carves out a very subtle hiding place.
I confuse. I dazzle.
Marie at Melt one day said that I reminded her of the snake in The Jungle Book. The one with the swirly eyes that would put you to sleep.
And, now that I've mentioned it, I can think of a few things I haven't shared.
To one who truly sees, there is nothing hidden, for in every gesture, every feint, all is completely betrayed.
One night in the Pecos Wilderness I was with friends and we had built a structure out of large logs and sticks. It felt very primal, as if we were able to flip a switch and suddenly our bodies just began doing what they knew better than our brains to do. I suddenly cared very much for the safety of all of us and did not want anyone's building body to be crushed in our attempt to protect ourselves. We separated by gender. Laila, the only girl, tended to the fire, and the men built the house. We called it The Aegis. It was a terrifically beautiful structure and we slept in it that night. This is the Aegis that I sing of in the song Damien's Face.
I began thinking so much about men and women.
Later that night we ate mushrooms and I became terrified of the inherent madness of men. I said, "Men are mad to see the inside."
Fine.
Fear.
I'll end by saying that once upon a time I showed myself to someone and they loved me anyway.
Is this statement true? Perhaps it is the plug, the untruth that keeps all of the truth contained. Alternating colors. Truth: I'm feeling anxious to create a post.
I am afraid of seeing myself. I am afraid of that which is stale. But. In this time of my worm I have called upon myself to move and be moved. To give and ... be gived.
Ok. The plug. is...coming out....ffwo8fr up9823yr[ 29p38r[39hfblehhhhhh.
gurgling...
drip drip drip
drip.
Perhaps one of the greatest questions to put to an american of my age and race and economic background is: What to do in the absence of convenience?
Isn't it so nice when one is in the car, and suddenly all forces coalesce, imparting an expansive feeling of euphoric grace. Celestial bodies sing to accompany my speech, my every move!
Well, this is true, but it is also true that they are singing constantly for they can do nothing else. They sing many songs and none are less songy than others.
Song of war, of brutal murder, of hate, of understanding, of confusion, of remembering something very distant that may have been a dream.
Song of chaos.
..
Fine.
How graciously and courageously can I accept what I have given myself?
To submit oneself to sensitivity is to give up convenience.
My fear is that if I reveal my fears, all of the people at the cafe will see me. They'll see me walk in the door and they'll just see into me. All of these eyes caressing me like a billion rough hands in an unfathomable darkness. This, in the entrance of the cafe.
As a person, and those closest to me can validate this, I really keep very few things private.
...
Hm. I say this, but then another voice immediately responds, "ah, but we are so tricky. you know how we are tricky."
And yes, there are many organisms that create my body and that need my body and all of those organisms are one with me. From the moment I entered the birth canal I began sharing my worm with other beings. Playing host is the price of admission.
What of non-physical sharing? What organisms find a home in the ethereal places that I protect? I suspect that my constant revelation of uncomfortable truths to those around me actually carves out a very subtle hiding place.
I confuse. I dazzle.
Marie at Melt one day said that I reminded her of the snake in The Jungle Book. The one with the swirly eyes that would put you to sleep.
And, now that I've mentioned it, I can think of a few things I haven't shared.
To one who truly sees, there is nothing hidden, for in every gesture, every feint, all is completely betrayed.
I began thinking so much about men and women.
Later that night we ate mushrooms and I became terrified of the inherent madness of men. I said, "Men are mad to see the inside."
Fine.
Fear.
I'll end by saying that once upon a time I showed myself to someone and they loved me anyway.
Monday, July 16, 2012
Drive wit it.
So. As a few of you may know, approximately once a year I muster up enough... something to make a post in my blog. I have this... complex. I like to quit things and leave places and fuck myself over and such so that I remain virginal. I dunno. I've been saying to people that right now I am working at sitting tight and rooting. Something I've learned though about myself, for better or worse, is that seeing is believing. Fine!
Sigh. Cornfields fly by outside the window. The AC blasts, and only my arm is cold. Somewhere in the buzz of the engine and the blaring of 80's hits I hear the familiar sound of my mother responding to shocking news on the telephone. We've been driving for almost 20 hours, shaking off the echoes of erie Colorado.
Funny, at this point in the drive a sort of blissful resignation sets in. The mania, the stress, the boredom, they've come and gone. I put my hair in a ponytail and entertain my mother and brother. Once I've worn it out I think, I want to blog and share this inspiration... That blossoming love feeling that the cure's music exists to worship. Suddenly I'm every character in every movie looking out the car window at passing time, passing life, appreciating.
And all the time I think about myself, every chance, every little space. I fill them all with Brodious wonderment.
I've been reading anais nin. Her diary. It is just so amazing. I read it and relate to it like a novel. Oh, I'm so much June, craving orgies of all types at all times, seeking constant escape from the power of my own being. But I am also Henry and anais herself. Just like in fiction I become a mosaic of all i take in. This work just seems so crafted, so planned, didactic. I can't believe it is a diary. I find reaffirmation for the notion that each person resonates certain karmic themes in everything they do. Then it occurs to me, she must have had another diary. A REAL, secret diary.
But it gives. Like I want to.
Everyone is a lock to be turned, and there exists one key. It is compassion.
I invite you, all the rest, to invite me to leap into the pit of choice. I feel a great churning and compressing in my gut. I think I will create something diamond like very soon. I need to be reminded to share it, I can so easily reside in fear, withholding myself.
I am so much what I must be free of.
Love me
Love you
B
Sigh. Cornfields fly by outside the window. The AC blasts, and only my arm is cold. Somewhere in the buzz of the engine and the blaring of 80's hits I hear the familiar sound of my mother responding to shocking news on the telephone. We've been driving for almost 20 hours, shaking off the echoes of erie Colorado.
Funny, at this point in the drive a sort of blissful resignation sets in. The mania, the stress, the boredom, they've come and gone. I put my hair in a ponytail and entertain my mother and brother. Once I've worn it out I think, I want to blog and share this inspiration... That blossoming love feeling that the cure's music exists to worship. Suddenly I'm every character in every movie looking out the car window at passing time, passing life, appreciating.
And all the time I think about myself, every chance, every little space. I fill them all with Brodious wonderment.
I've been reading anais nin. Her diary. It is just so amazing. I read it and relate to it like a novel. Oh, I'm so much June, craving orgies of all types at all times, seeking constant escape from the power of my own being. But I am also Henry and anais herself. Just like in fiction I become a mosaic of all i take in. This work just seems so crafted, so planned, didactic. I can't believe it is a diary. I find reaffirmation for the notion that each person resonates certain karmic themes in everything they do. Then it occurs to me, she must have had another diary. A REAL, secret diary.
But it gives. Like I want to.
Everyone is a lock to be turned, and there exists one key. It is compassion.
I invite you, all the rest, to invite me to leap into the pit of choice. I feel a great churning and compressing in my gut. I think I will create something diamond like very soon. I need to be reminded to share it, I can so easily reside in fear, withholding myself.
I am so much what I must be free of.
Love me
Love you
B
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Keep. Pressing. On.
...Thus spake coincidence, and at the time it seemed rather sick.
There I was, finding myself in a place. I have found myself in this place before. That thing where you see something over and over that touches you because it reveals to you the nature of... yourself.
I was sitting by the window, as I prefer to do when possible. Inevitably, I began to hear a buzzing that sounded a bit like morse code. In this case, the message was one of distress. There was a bug. A flying bug. It was thrashing itself against the window. I suspected it was near the end because it was spending more time in stillness than in thrash.
Whenever I encounter this situation I become very upset. I want nothing more than to help the bug attain it's goal of reaching the outside, however pointless it may ultimately be. I don't know when I became aware of the fact that I deeply identify with bugs in this situation, bug ever since I did, the relationship has grown in depth and scope.
I almost always try to help the bug. If I refrain it is because of a certain mood that I may find myself in. Today, when this occurred, I was feeling pretty emotional. I tried once to lift the bug on a piece of paper and take it to the door. It wouldn't stay on the piece of paper. Of course, I understand. From the bug's perspective, a ride on a moving floor is the LAST thing it needs. After all, it's going away from the outside, which it can see is so close! It's RIGHT THERE!
So, today, I was not particularly tenacious. Maybe it is because I was in a coffee shop surrounded by people with different agendas than me. I was afraid I would reveal myself. I was afraid they would see me and think, "Wow. Look at him trying to help that bug. He's relentless. He must really wish for spiritual guidance as he thrashes against his own mirage in life." I imagine myself turning to them with the piece of paper in hand, tears in my eyes, saying, "It's TRUE! I'm helpless and desperate and exhausted!"
The most insane part of this particular occurrence today is that, as I sat there, bleeding out for that bug, I noticed the song in the shop. It was a crooning soul song. The voice was that of a weathered black man. He sang, over and over, "Gotta keep pressing on."
I mean, for fuck's sake.
I love it though. This is what I call experiential harmony. As if certain environments within an environment have certain pitches or chords. Sometimes they line up or stack to support each other. There was my emotional environment, the physical environment, the bug's emotional environment, the audial environment of the shop, of which the song was only a small part, etc. And... really, harmony has no particular nature in order to be itself. Even the most dissonant things are harmonious. Well, anyway, in this case, the resulting chord was so complex and beautiful. In my opinion, nothing speaks more of the complexity of a thing than the presence of hilarity. It really was hilarious! It was as if I was being reminded to not take it so seriously, all the while being in the throes of such a heartfelt place. Such a classically human place.
Oh, the meaning. It doesn't end there. It causes me to wonder... How many beings, greater than me, can see my struggle? Maybe they watch me and say,"Brodie! No. God! Just! ARGH@!!" and I'm like this little bug with a Brodie head thrashing myself against something. Fiser, my cello professor used to always say, "And I got you there, kicking and screaming!"
This makes me also consider the nature of greater beings. Gods. They're just like you and me. Mortal, self obsessed, and limited. After all, we're all in the same universe. This bug encountered me at random, a god, who felt for it and wanted to help it, but was too shy to see it through the gate to freedom. Another god may have just killed it. Another may not have even noticed it because it identified with something else. So, we're all gods perhaps, and we're all united by our connection to the web of an infinitely unknowing universe. The bug probably couldn't even see me. I hear that bugs surrounding a light are not actually attracted to it, but tricked by it because of the nature of their visual perception. Whenever they try to fly away from it, they end up going in a big circle. So it seems to us that they just love to fly in circles around a light. What makes us think that the things we observe organisms doing over and over are the things that they love to do? What makes us think that the things we see organisms doing over and over are the things that they hate to do? What do we do with all of this brainage? I suddenly feel overwhelmed by all the carelessness and it's inevitability.
Whew. Well. I'd say that this post has become one large case in point. But then again, what else is there but case in point? Everything we perceive, is everything that we are. Have I ever seen anything that I cannot somehow identify with? Am I capable of taking in data that I cannot process? Wouldn't it just bounce off or destroy me? Eyes take in light because they are made from the sun. They are the opposite of the sun. Our pupils are black pits that take in debris from the one big white ball. The negative to the positive.
...................I'm cutting myself off.
Cut. Snip.
Cut off.
Let us, friends, simply enjoy, or rather... listen to the harmony today as it passes over us. I pray to the mortal gods to help me release harmony as it leaves. That is my difficulty. I'm a gripper. A clinger.
help. please.
help.
Love,
bc
There I was, finding myself in a place. I have found myself in this place before. That thing where you see something over and over that touches you because it reveals to you the nature of... yourself.
I was sitting by the window, as I prefer to do when possible. Inevitably, I began to hear a buzzing that sounded a bit like morse code. In this case, the message was one of distress. There was a bug. A flying bug. It was thrashing itself against the window. I suspected it was near the end because it was spending more time in stillness than in thrash.
Whenever I encounter this situation I become very upset. I want nothing more than to help the bug attain it's goal of reaching the outside, however pointless it may ultimately be. I don't know when I became aware of the fact that I deeply identify with bugs in this situation, bug ever since I did, the relationship has grown in depth and scope.
I almost always try to help the bug. If I refrain it is because of a certain mood that I may find myself in. Today, when this occurred, I was feeling pretty emotional. I tried once to lift the bug on a piece of paper and take it to the door. It wouldn't stay on the piece of paper. Of course, I understand. From the bug's perspective, a ride on a moving floor is the LAST thing it needs. After all, it's going away from the outside, which it can see is so close! It's RIGHT THERE!
So, today, I was not particularly tenacious. Maybe it is because I was in a coffee shop surrounded by people with different agendas than me. I was afraid I would reveal myself. I was afraid they would see me and think, "Wow. Look at him trying to help that bug. He's relentless. He must really wish for spiritual guidance as he thrashes against his own mirage in life." I imagine myself turning to them with the piece of paper in hand, tears in my eyes, saying, "It's TRUE! I'm helpless and desperate and exhausted!"
The most insane part of this particular occurrence today is that, as I sat there, bleeding out for that bug, I noticed the song in the shop. It was a crooning soul song. The voice was that of a weathered black man. He sang, over and over, "Gotta keep pressing on."
I mean, for fuck's sake.
I love it though. This is what I call experiential harmony. As if certain environments within an environment have certain pitches or chords. Sometimes they line up or stack to support each other. There was my emotional environment, the physical environment, the bug's emotional environment, the audial environment of the shop, of which the song was only a small part, etc. And... really, harmony has no particular nature in order to be itself. Even the most dissonant things are harmonious. Well, anyway, in this case, the resulting chord was so complex and beautiful. In my opinion, nothing speaks more of the complexity of a thing than the presence of hilarity. It really was hilarious! It was as if I was being reminded to not take it so seriously, all the while being in the throes of such a heartfelt place. Such a classically human place.
Oh, the meaning. It doesn't end there. It causes me to wonder... How many beings, greater than me, can see my struggle? Maybe they watch me and say,"Brodie! No. God! Just! ARGH@!!" and I'm like this little bug with a Brodie head thrashing myself against something. Fiser, my cello professor used to always say, "And I got you there, kicking and screaming!"
This makes me also consider the nature of greater beings. Gods. They're just like you and me. Mortal, self obsessed, and limited. After all, we're all in the same universe. This bug encountered me at random, a god, who felt for it and wanted to help it, but was too shy to see it through the gate to freedom. Another god may have just killed it. Another may not have even noticed it because it identified with something else. So, we're all gods perhaps, and we're all united by our connection to the web of an infinitely unknowing universe. The bug probably couldn't even see me. I hear that bugs surrounding a light are not actually attracted to it, but tricked by it because of the nature of their visual perception. Whenever they try to fly away from it, they end up going in a big circle. So it seems to us that they just love to fly in circles around a light. What makes us think that the things we observe organisms doing over and over are the things that they love to do? What makes us think that the things we see organisms doing over and over are the things that they hate to do? What do we do with all of this brainage? I suddenly feel overwhelmed by all the carelessness and it's inevitability.
Whew. Well. I'd say that this post has become one large case in point. But then again, what else is there but case in point? Everything we perceive, is everything that we are. Have I ever seen anything that I cannot somehow identify with? Am I capable of taking in data that I cannot process? Wouldn't it just bounce off or destroy me? Eyes take in light because they are made from the sun. They are the opposite of the sun. Our pupils are black pits that take in debris from the one big white ball. The negative to the positive.
...................I'm cutting myself off.
Cut. Snip.
Cut off.
Let us, friends, simply enjoy, or rather... listen to the harmony today as it passes over us. I pray to the mortal gods to help me release harmony as it leaves. That is my difficulty. I'm a gripper. A clinger.
help. please.
help.
Love,
bc
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