last light

Where would we be without the light of these screens?

When we forgot the warm glow of early morning sun, quietly making its way through the windows, across walls, sitting onto the floor.

We gave up living in rhythm with it, for the caffeine of industry, machines, consuming our dreams. Now we live by something else that illuminates the night, makes it harder to sleep. There were once fires burning eternal.

It split, from torches and campfires to wax candles and oil lanterns, lamp lights in the streets, in houses, to fire made from gas, then on to electricity, something that feels even dirtier then coal, but cannot be seen. Until finally came the false illumination that emits strange waves and particles.

The last light before we close our eyes.

Don’t go into the light.

Wait in darkness and one will come to you.

It may be a loved one lost in this life, or they might be in the form of an archetype of which you’ve grown familiar with here.

Do not go into the light. For that tunnel is night.

A false light leading you to a rebirth in this system, a system of slaves working away while being fed upon by despots in dark places above. Do not be led back into it by the beautiful music or sights you are shown. There are traps upon leaving these bodies, just as there are now. Do not be like the moth caught in unnatural light.

We live at the end of an age, to awaken to the traps and tricks that are bound to keep us repeating the same mistakes, living the same lives, over and over again, as ourselves in slightly different forms. This system of which we were born into that we depend upon to live, it is not the only life. There are places we will remember again if we just learn to wait in darkness. Some of us chose to come here, others were recycled.

I’m sending you this letter in hope that you will remember.

Dark Light꥟

Some people are like dogs, others are like cats.

Some of us live our lives upside down from others. We are born like old men from the graves. And as we age we become younger, so that by the time we turn forty, we’ve done our sentence in the desert, in the dry land that yields no fruits, and where life is scarce, yet hiding just beneath the surface, coming out at night when the sun has gone away.

Forty years in the desert, wandering, not knowing ourselves or others, and so we become surrounded by those who never knew us and we never knew them, and harm is caused from it. Others are born like new babies, they know who they are and what they are not, and they go for what they know they want in life, and they usually get it, in some form or the other. But not us, not until we have done our time.

Forty years wandering in the desert, the old archetype we heard told from those old book from which people love to quote and remember verses. Forty years, just like forty days is the life cycle of the fly, we do our time, in the wastelands, just trying to survive the hostile terrain that we feel unfamiliar with and soon grow to understand, but we still hate it.

After the forty years of acting like old men we begin to see the world clearer for what it is, because we have undergone the journey, the rite of passage that we never had given to us at the age of twelve, because all of our tribes and villages are gone. We go through the trials of the rite one way or the other, in different forms, turned upside down. The unconscious rites of passage often take the form of chaotic events, and plunge us into the depths of the abyss of the soul. Until we come out either alive or dead, and find the light that lives inside the darkness, to become a new man, or woman.

For many it is war, or pregnancy, an accident, car wreck, drug overdose, fighting for your life on the streets, homelessness, bad marriages, scraping by, and for some it is the forty years in the desert. The slow rot of years upon years of living like old men in dark places, away from the crowds, so we can hear our own voice.

Our rites of passage in this era have become different than they were in the civilizations of gold and silver, and even bronze. Now in this dark age that stretches out across mountains and forests, to be concentrated within cities and suburbs, and maybe even farms, we learn to live through the horror of the dark night alone, in in terror, until the helpers come from within us, from remaining in the darkness, which either destroys us completely or gives us a second chance, a new birth.

Some of us wait well for many years in the dark, alone with ourselves. And we learn who we are by seeing what we are not. That we are not like the others who know who they are when they are born. We are not the ones born young, but old. We grow slowly into new men as the years pass us. And by the age of forty if we are still here, alive, we receive a new life that comes from the old.

Our old ways become new, and we now have the life that lives inside of us like a child, and we are growing into youth. The time to come out of the desert and into the promised land will undoubtedly eventually begin. We will live like children, and as the old book hymns say, “Our later years will be our greater years”, even if it is in a diminished civilization, there will still be light in the darkness that guides us to new lands.

We will no longer be old men groping in the night, but young men growing younger each day. With renewed strength and vigor. A vitality that comes from dying while still alive.

There is light, even in suffering; we just have to make it through.

The Signal

Someone once said, “where love rules there are no laws,” yet there is a sacred hierarchy. A mind is a terrible thing. A mind is like the economy and god, everyone seems to believe in it in some form or another. We have Greek philosophy to thank for that one, the idea of separation, of having to work our way up to higher levels in order to reach divine enlightenment to dwell in the abode of god. And some how the concept of a mind plays into this formula, it being higher than the body and brain, and all of the organs, and then there’s a spirit and a soul, and gnosis, and things living that remain unseen.

Well I’ve had enough of belief. And I can’t fucking stand most atheists and agnostics. So I’m not sure where that leaves me. But this whole idea of a mind is ridiculous. It’s the same shit as Santa Clause, ghosts, angels, demons, Bigfoot, the Loch Ness Monster, gods, an economy. We have no solid proof or evidence that it even exists, so why do so many go down to their graves with the idea that we have these things called minds, which helps them stay caught in the process of cognitive dissonance? Maybe the idea of a mind is all part of the trap of this life, in this place. I mean if you listen to yourself speak, or anyone else for that matter, it seems like two of the most used words are either god or mind. “Oh my god.” “That blows my mind.” “God damn you.” “He lost his mind.” How do you loose a mind if there was no place to put it in the first place?

I think those Greek philosophers were just as full of shit as the religious zealots. The ones who got cocked on wine and swore they saw an angel of light come to them in the pitch of night. There must have been some type of hallucinogenic substance in the liquor back then, that or they had very active imagination that people today live lives further away from because we are crowded in on all sides by great concrete masses of mass produced structures that have no life of their own, so it feels like death, or dying while still alive.

Who created the working class? The kings of labor who rule with an iron fist in this dark age that seems to go on forever. Caffeine, coffee, and tea, keeps them moving, working, plodding along and feeling productive. Produce they say, keep on producing, so you can live in a house, or an apartment, or under a bridge in Florida. So you can have food like products to consume, and television programs to be entertained and distracted by while the things that lived inside of you as a child slowly die.

There are no true craftsmen left who make things for people to live, only to buy or consume, if they have the extra money after the bills have been paid, the children fed, the cat and dog, the plants left in the sun too long. I long for that good old hierarchy of olden days, when men knew their place, they had a fraternity of men to teach and guide them in the ways of their craft, to help hone their inborn skills. We knew the limits and gifts of our makeup from day one. There was no pretense, no pretending we could be anything we wanted to be. You were born the way you are.

This blog is turning into a rant. Some sacred humdrum circle of moaning and groaning about the way things should be. I need to quit whining and figure out how a super recognizer makes money using his unique skillset. The hope of earning money hasn’t visited me in a long time. But now I know my one shot in this game. The one thing I can do well and with little to no effort. If they need me to identify their faces I can do it. And they can pay me for it. I just need to find how in the hell someone gets recruited for a job like this. It’s always been the narrow path for me. It never seems to come easy. Always digging and unearthing, and keeping the light on for that one hope that a ship will soon pass us by. Sending out the S.O.S. and here’s hoping that somebody will pick up this signal.

We longed to go home like young men cut down along beaches of blood tides.

We stood on the dark edge of time.

And the bees have retreated back into the woods. To build their hives further away from our busy lives.

I listen to the sound of their wings, get down low among the clovers, and watch them do their work.

Something buzzes within me, a longing for a home that can never be taken or moved away from.

A retreating back into the woods, where the bees know, to make their honey where men can no longer harvest it.

Where the sweetness of life has not completely spoiled in the sun, where shade and moss still grow.

And the earth is still covered with the leaves of last Autumn.

Somewhere where things still grow. Where wild things live.

Where madness does not move down through the wires, and green lightning is still good.

Tell it to the bees for they know the ways in which man should go. They remember the things we’ve lost.

Furry sprites dancing along the clover blossoms singing a song with tiny little instruments.





Hard Light꥟

In this dark night, this hard light, when the rains came down sideways. The grass stood still for days as snakes crept into chain link fences to rest. Playing dead for boys with blue eyes and lightning strikes to poke them awake. Fire grills smoke in the distance like chimneys billowing up into the damp sky.

Pray for more rain as the tides came to break the foundations of our lives away. Clouds hang in the air like men from trees with nooses around their necks. Hallow light of dying ages grace us with your ending time and stories of riddle and rhyme.

Take us to the long and forgotten places of youth and golden milk which flows from the bosoms of the lonesome valley floors or rock and root and remembering the nesting gods of our old lives caught in-between the lies of our mothers and ex wives. Where the sea grass stings the skin beneath our knees and trees bend low for noble souls.

We come bearing gifts of no material value and need not the coin or mammon of the industries that sweep away our sweet dreams and the cream of morning dew that rests upon the toes and feet that run to bring good news.

Alas death has lost its sting once more, and the birds and the bees have no need for the honey of love. In hard light and death of renewal these waxing figures cumbersome to our spirits move about in clumsy ways.

Ninety-Seven Degrees

Stomachs stretch from the meat of yesterday and muscles tear for tomorrow because nothing else will grow. Where the brass of bright lights sound into the night by stretched out horns and ancient lullabies. The days pass us by in summers sordid heat as we drown the chipmunks one by one, with water buckets and sunflower seeds. And the gardener snakes dye and dry out in the sun. Everything in us cries out for a change to come swiftly, as death does by sword of double edge blade. As mowers mow grass and gasoline burns in engines giving off a swift smell of industrious labor and smoke of old chimneys and whale fat lamp lights shine in the streets of our old memories. As we pour alcohol down on our hearts and they swell and sail to new places long forgotten but never gone forever. Soak the meat in our bellies for another day and let it stew with the dew of next morning, as we dream away the pains and labor of our masters and slaves. We must consume the calcium of our creators, ingesting their soups and stews of dead mens bones and vipers too. The suns of the devil will shine down in darkness and we will know it is god. Old Beelzebub and Lucifer too, our neighbors and cats, and dogs will sting and sweat and perspire like we do. The land of the dead dwelling in all four seasons, in green, brown, and white snow, frozen echos of tombs drip down like our ice cream cones and popsicles in deserts. The teaming green forests and watered down yards with sprinklers will hiss like freeways and snakes. Winding down into the lonesome valleys of our ancestors to dwell.

Sardine People

The place where we once wore rings on our fingers for each other, driven from green island shores of good soil and strong bones. Now glass eats up the stomach early in the afternoon sipping spirits of tea and smoked salmon. If everything is changing then why does every day feel the same? If love were electronic would we see it alive in blue screens dancing in the light of our terrible hearts?

Blue monkeys of mist wearing brass and gold folding their hands together as lost ones hope and pray in great mass.

Their dreams held no genii secrets for me or my siblings and scattered tribesman of real red, white, and dew on the grass like sacred food from heaven.

These words keep getting weaker by the day. Muscle fatigue setting in. Time to take it easy in this terrible light of summers heat beating upon the windows and down melting streets. We can sleep at daybreak and work in night. The sounds of living so close to people is something I’d never experienced before, not in any previous life.

Not enough trees and too many people. We can’t keep living too close to each other if we feel like strangers.

Spirit Lords Of Light

His hands shake under the weight of days, in the trembling dark of forked lightning strikes.

The spirit lords of lost lands and forgotten realms returned to us in summers. Where roads stretched out across our bodies like tattoo lines fading with age in green light of mad moons and the stillness of forest tombs.

Bringing back to us the days of bravery and noble birth, where young men would not work for what the wheels of war gave them back in return. When we tiptoed along the evergreen edge of nowhere to find our homes, built together with many hands.

Timber cracks and bon fires bigger than night, listening to stories told long ago before the nothing came to take everything away.

Green Bottle Light

Some people make children so they don’t need fathers. Because they too learned how to survive in this way. It hurts to hate the things we make in the beds we lay beneath blankets of bright dying stars all moving further from you and I, and the homes we grew up and once knew.

I can hear the trumpets of our lives sounding in the deepest darkness of nights. They reach further and farther in-between like resounding elements of gold and brass. Like a Rocky soundtrack. The trees dance in the deep wind for what you and I have lost or never had. They move bright in darkest of night in a pale moonlight.

We can hear them breathing as if under blankets like the stars that moved in our rooms when we felt left alone. All of these things will still move for me and you, and we will one day meet ourselves in each other.

From distant fathers onto the shores of new hope, leaving behind mothers, sisters, and brothers for a while.

His broken beer bottles have made a cathedral of cans inside my heart.

We used to take them down to the recycling center for money, and go to the penny candy store.

The life of the electric keyboard light is dying.

Down to only six percent.

There is still a chance.

A Winding Wind Of Wasps

The wasps have made their home again under our noses, next to the tulips, geraniums, and roses. Or above our heads under decks and porches where we go to look out and drink our coffee in the morning light.

Easiest way to dispatch a nest of wasps is with soapy water in a spray bottle. You just blast their baseball sized paper mache home with numerous sprays. They suffucate from the soap which clogs up their breathing holes along their bodies. They don’t breathe like you and me, they are of one mind, the hive, which is dictated by the queen.

I watch as they move in eccentric circles further out from the nest as a response to the attack on their home. They sting at anything that comes close enough while they panic in hopes of saving the young, and moving them to a new location. Two drop from the ceiling hitting the wooden floor. There look to be about fifteen to twenty-five of them left. I wonder if they feel anger or fear, or if they only react like a machine that has its programs. Are we any different than them? Some are not. Some have received a program so ingrained within them that they can only live life like a computer with a virus.

The wasps move in still, in places that are left alone for too long. They will sting if you get too close. They don’t breathe like you and me. They move together as one entity without individual consciousness. Moving in eccentric circles further and further out from where they have felt your fear, your breathe, the heat from your body closing in.

Letting too much light in the windows early in the day sometimes hurts.

From now on I will make coffee from a pot.

The chemicals are leeching into our lives.