think about it...

"water that is too pure has no fish."

falling is good.

there was something i wanted to write about, but i just can't seem to pull the words together. perhaps i am too lazy to extract them from my head and physicalize them on this computer screen-- i enjoy writing with my hands a little more than typing. actually a lot more. there seems to be a stream of energy that is far more individual and captivating than typing perfect print and using the delete button. i guess there is more room for editing while typing. which, of course, is one of the reasons why it is so wonderful, especially being a journalist or something of the sort. however, i argue against this technology for the sole fact that it's not raw anymore. i like raw. raw is nice. it's refreshing, sometimes harsh and crude. but refreshing nonetheless. it's insightful and it helps. it helps the individual materialize and organize their thoughts and it allows the reader to evaluate the writer and themselves in a far less critical and judgmental fashion. however it is very true that our psyche inhibits us from writing "all-natural." while we mature we are so easily influenced by the people and things around us. they influence our choices, our judgements, our behavior, our tastes, our dislikes. we are like prisoners to the world around us and it is extraordinarily evident in our writing. so about this writing. i just want to write without editing or judging or evaluating or even thinking. i just want to write. words pile up on us day after day. we hear them, we feel them, we touch them, we breathe them, we think them, and we manifest them... some good, some bad, some tall, some short; some brown, some yellow, some pink, some blue; some fat; some smelly; some sweet and some sour. just all off. all gone. just to write exactly what's on my mind. like a child. i guess it's a process. something like stripping. or peeling. it's a question i like to ask myself, what's really on my mind. what am I thinking about. just write it i guess. the closest i get is when i just sit down naked. after a shower. with just some water or burdock tea and just write. at first i formulate the words. they slowly stain the off white paper in my journal. but after a half hour they start to fall. my brain gives a little i guess. like it's sleeping, but i'm still awake. sometimes the words fall out of my mouth and onto the paper before i finish my thought. there are tingles sometimes in my hands, maybe from being tired or maybe from some type of divine universal power holding my side. i like the feeling of this kind of writing, naked-tea-writing. introspective at times, contemplative at others. and for the most part complete gibberish. but it's part of that peeling. the stripping. it's good, sometimes dirty and uneven. other times sweet and quiet. sometimes they itch-- scratching, scratching my skin until they fall off. red and swollen, but at least they're off. other times they fall like dead leaves. dry. colorful and settling. the stripping is good. naked. burdock tea. it's good. it's a good start, a good new. i like writing. with an ink pen and paper.
falling is good.
naked is good.

summer love'n

Our yesterdays are but dreams,
Tomorrow is merely a vision,
But today lived well
makes every yesterday a dream of joy,
and each tomorrow a vision of promise.

om shanti.

bum- bum bum bum bum.

my dewy-eyed disney bride, what has tried
swapping your blood with formaldehyde?
monsters?
whiskey-plied voices cried fratricide!
jesus don't you know that you could've died
(you should've died)
with the monsters that talk, monsters that walk the earth

and she's got red lipstick and a bright pair of shoes
and she's got knee high socks, what to cover a bruise
she's got an old death kit she's been meaning to use
she's got blood in her eyes, in her eyes for you
she's got blood in her eyes for you

certain fads, stripes and plaids, singles ads
they run you hot and cold like a rheostat, i mean a thermostat
so you bite on a towel
hope it won't hurt too bad

my dewy-eyed disney bride, what has tried
swapping your blood with formaldehyde?
what monsters that talk, monsters that walk the earth

and she says i like long walks and sci-fi movies
if you're six foot tall and east coast bred
some lonely night we can get together
and i'm gonna tie your wrists with leather
and drill a tiny hole into your head.

Thank you Andrew Bird.

words... it needs work.

there is this sensation, a sensation described solely by physical and mental experience. it's a movement that originates from the earth and moves through your hands and mouth and into the hands and mouths of others. they can penetrate our skin like thin needles or they can heat our bones like warm milk. they move water through our eyes and make us laugh and cry; they move our spirit and tickle our kidneys; they warm our hearts when we are loved and they tremble our hearts when we are lost.

they obey the laws of arithmatic, adding subtracting letters and characters to create sensations. sensations of sound, of sight, of smell, of touch, of voice, and of taste. they are words. 

words are sensations. there are millions of them, many of which share commonalities to create simple and complex languages. they define our culture and create organization and structure. they fall out of our mouths and onto paper or the hearts of those around us. they jostle your bones and layer themselves on paper to create sentences, chapters, and stories, they can be words of meaning, words of love, and words of hate, words of description, and words of analysis, words of debate, ancient words, and make-believe words. words that are long and words that are short. words are sensations, they move us and stimulate us, they haunt us and they inspire us.

songs are words. they are words that move by themselves. they float in the sky and reverberate through our minds. they dance and hop in the air and enter and leave our dreams. songs are like rivers of words that flow and move and glisten with the sun, they conjure sensations of joy, hate, sorrow, love, and dissapointment. these moving words speak to us in the air and through our ears and manipulate generations. they can move through us shaking our bones, or they can warm our hearts and nestle our souls. often times we lose ourselves in moving words, we lose our thoughts; our pains, our sorrows, and our struggles. other times we breathe moving words and we engross ourselves in the very words through which we breathe. songs are words. they are words that move by themselves. they float in the sky and reverberate through our minds.

pictures are words. they are words with details and forms. words with detailed definitions. sometimes they are animated forms with colors and layers and textures and emotions. they are layered words. they layer on top of each other, stacking themselves to create textures, colors, shades, and shapes. they can be simple or complex, stacking to create layers and layers. These layers of words make up forms. animal forms, human forms, plant forms, all different forms. they can be one dimensional forms, two dimensional forms, or three dimensional forms. pictures are words, they are words with details and forms. words with detailed definitions.

moving and dancing are words. they are specific words that fit together like puzzle pieces and create beautiful moving pictures. steps, phrases, and techniques are all words. they can be beautiful long words or short and abrupt words. they are words that move us and our bodies, they are words that move through our feet and out our hands and our mouths. they are silent words that you can't hear, but you can see. they are words that manifest themselves through the body as shapes, and colors, and sounds. moving and dancing are words.  they are specific words that fit together like puzzle pieces to create beautiful moving pictures.

what a privelage it is to know words, to experience words, to feel words, to speak words, to see words, and to breathe words. we are blessed  with words, to know and understand words. to be able to write words and speak words. let the words you speak be who you are, and let who you are be the words you speak. let this be truth. words are sensations.  they move us and stimulate us, they haunt us and they inspire us. 

playing.

omg, school is over!! it's funny to think that i am entirely done with my prerequites for med-school. i'm done with all of the basics, boo physics and inorganic chemistry. now for two more years of microbiology, cell biology, genetics, physio and anatomy. it's going to be heaven on earth. better yet, a nutrition class would almost be sinful.

i just had too. i had to go downtown. i love it downtown. i'm obsessed with the west village. the experience is euphoric. it's a surreal time warp for the self-stress induced upper east sider -- aged cobblestone streets cry to be danced and ran on, old buildings sing tunes of prohibition, sexual freedom, and the American dream, and the souls of those who’ve lived there creep up and draw green portraits against brick and iron backdrops. the buildings reflect the thoughts and ideas of gothic and european architects. most remind me of my grandparents -- deep wrinkles, cripple bones, heavy accents, broken English, funny sunspots, and an overall amnesia as to why the narrow streets attempt to run parallel to the hudson. an 18th century universe- "little bohemia" roots itself before the Comissioner's Plan of 1811, which is responsible for the creation and execution of the infamous grid lines, which now consummate the streets of manhattan. there are plenty of schools down there, as well. Farther east is the Bobst Library, NYU’s center for academic exploration and nerdy study groups. the streets are lined with cars and yellow taxis often struggle weaving themselves in and out of the tiny west village town streets. McNulty’s, perhaps the oldest coffee shop in manhattan, is situated right on Christopher street. The smell and taste of ground coffee is so dense you can almost see it, and the atmosphere is more than perfect for an intimate date—a perfect date actually. At least perfect on paper— pretty eyes, intelligent, self-disciplined, funny, slightly nerdy, gregarious, six pack abs, nice arms, and a total romantic. Dark hair, sunkissed skin, soft hair, and a sexy persona… what more could you ask for? Smart, sexy, great taste—a west village date, with robust espresso, delicate food, and two young souls making sense of the world around them—perfect right? Or potentially perfect?

There was something missing—I don’t know what, I don’t remember what it was—but there was something missing. Perhaps chemistry? or sparks? Or maybe fireworks? Or maybe butterflies in the tummy? Or that shiver in your kidneys? It, whatever "IT" is, just wasn’t there… sure there were moments, excitement, lust, and laughter… but nothing manifested. It didn’t work—maybe we didn’t fit? It was a failed reaction....too much base, not enough acid…

… "IT" will come again. soon enough. right now, New York is "IT." the West Village is perfect. New York is perfect. I love not having school. i am raping New York for all its worth. central park, washington square park, shows on broadway, comedy shows in the east village, cute restaurants, historical monuments, amazing museums, international food, superior academia, dumpy clubs, amazing pilates & yoga classes, and human contact-- touch and movement. New York is an amazing city-- it's the perfect city to grow and play in. george oshawa's motto was that living a life without playing, was a life not worth living at all. he coined the term makrobios, consequently being interpreted in the West as macrobiotics. there is so much more to macrobiotics than what we eat, and that's why i love it so much. i'm blessed to be able to eat brown rice and play in new york...

i love playing.