Bean.

Wrapped up in a tarp and inside a small tent to protect her, her body lays where she chose to rest while I was inside. I am inside my tent now, and the edges of the agony I feel are dulled in the knowledge that she is still here with me. Forest asked if I wanted her collar washed, and I declined. It now hangs on the mirror of my van.

She always loved going for a ride with me.

I’m drunk. I can’t write anymore right now. I have a lot of work to do in the morning. I sleep now, with Bean still watching over me.

************

We decided that the pyre wouldn’t work. I took her body to the crematorium today, spending the last of my money for piece of heart. I couldn’t bury her. It didn’t seem right. I will spread her ashes on the altar and in her sandpit, and keep the rest for myself.

I did a private ritual tonight on the earth that Albert has called the alter to his loved ones, and let her go with the words she knows; “Okay, girl, go run and play. Be a dog. Okay, girl – go.” Many other words, but not for anyone but myself and the ones who can hear them in silence. I lit a special candle for her, a candle that was lit from the eternal flame of Brigid in Ireland that I have carried for years, dropped some of her blood that I saved on the charcoal. Set her free to be everything inside of me as she always was and is and always will be. I set her free to play.

I still hear her breath, her panting, especially as I needed to do what I did for her. I still hear her following me, and I still turn around to pet her, but when I turn around she isn’t there anymore. She is with me, I know that – but the lack of her physical presence and the way she was makes me ache more than I ever have before. More than any pain I could ever describe. The tears fall, they always will. I miss her poking her head inside the tent, I miss passing her sandpit, then always turning around to pet her and hug her and let her know how loved she is. She always got up to greet and love me as I walked by, and it is hard to walk by there anymore. This place was hers. This place is hers. I have a strange anger to the other dogs laying in it now, but it fades fast after I see it. Remember her. Be her friend. Lay with her.I miss the way she looked at me, understood me. I miss the way she always found me. I miss the way she was always so happy to see me when I returned from my errands. I miss her and my heart is shattered. With this I don’t believe it can ever be repaired. I need to know that her spirit is with me. I need to feel that. I miss her physical body, her beauty, her love. The only love that was always there for me. The only love that I could give all of my heart without walls or worry. I miss her, and my heart is shattered.

Striggy stopped by tonight bearing a gift of white lilies. I have put them in water, and will lay them on Beans’ ashes when I get them back. I will lay them on the sacred space. I will lay them down on Bean. They are hers, and Striggy – if you read this, I can’t thank you enough. Your gesture, your gift, is appreciated much more than you may know. I went searching for flowers for Bean on the property yesterday, and found that there are few. Maybe I’ll try to do something about that in the time I have remaining here. I can’t be who I usually am for you right now, and I am so sorry – but our conversation let me briefly escape and your presence was needed. For one of the first times in my life I am only looking to be held as I fall into dreams, hoping that I don’t dream. You brought comfort with you in the way I was able to not think about Bean for that brief moment. I was able to smile. I can’t think. I love Bean to much to exist without her. I no longer have that anchor to life.

***********

9.30

I wake up, look at the lilies, know that Bean is not outside my tent, won’t be poking her head in with her beautiful smiling face when she hears me call to her, or she simply hears me stir. I take a hit of bourbon to start another long day of sorrow, though my body cries for water. I fill up her food bowl and give it to her, as I have done every morning for so many years. Yesterday I laid it on her body. Today it goes on the ground where she ate, for her and the others. She had a final night in front of my tent, and she had a final ride in my van. She always loved riding in the car. Beruzula offered her vehicle to take Bean to the crematory, but Bean needed to be on the seat that was her home. We took my van. Beru came with me, for love and support, and her tears made me stronger so I wasn’t blinded by my own as much – but at each stoplight I let them fall. The last part of Bean that I saw was her rear right leg, sticking out through the tarp as the people at the vet clinic put her body on the stretcher and carried her away. The beauty in the coloring, part of everything that was perfect about her. Everything was perfect about her. She is the best damn dawwgy in the whole wide world, EVER. I will never see her again. As the tears fall I suck them off of my lips and swallow them. They keep coming. I hear the other dogs bark, watch them play. I hear the trains whistle. I will never know why she didn’t get out of the way, come back to find me. The tears will fall forever for Bean. I don’t believe I will ever be the same. I sweep off the carpet in front of my tent so she will be more comfortable laying there, and see the stains of her blood from the night before. I don’t matter anymore. The lilies are beautiful. Bean’s bowl is still full.

tears fall in ribbons, but still the depth of this sorow cannot be felt. I have asked a friend to remove her canine teeth, they are now being boiled and will be created into something that I will never take off. Tonight her body will be placed in front of my tent where she chose to lay when I was in it. She couldn’t see out when she was inside, and alwas poked her smiling head in when she heard me stir.

Tomorrow morning I will build a pire in the dry creek bed to place her on, and burn her with a ritual. I layed my hands on her twice and poured the first sip of the wine over her twisted jaw. She died quickly. My friends here di their best to make her head look better. There were no marks on her body.

These weeks were the happiest of her life, and I am thankful for that – but I am lost without her. She passed on quickly. Twice I layed my hands on her body, and saluted the trains whistle with a “FUCK YOU”. She passed on in the happiest place she has ever been. She has played like a pup with the othr dogs, she has been fed raw meat that we stole for her and the others. She passed on as happy as she evr has been, not by a car in a nasty street, but wrapped in the mother only seperated by the tracks.

My heart is broken, and I now fear of it being destroyed. No human that has passed in my life has ever made me feel like this – feel so profoundly empty.

I have never been able to believe in anyone like Bean and I believed in each other.

Earlier today she was sitting in the lounge, just looking at me with love. So much else going on, but she was laying there, locking my eyes in hers.

I have no regrets of the way she was treated. As always, every time she walked bu I gave hr a scratch, let her bury her head in my crotch and gace her everything I had.

She passed on. She’s in me, she’s happy.

I am not.

Bean

9.23

Tonight, more things into the box. More bones, some still with flesh on them.

The rings from Jess and the collar I made for her, the book of friendship from Karen, a burnt poker chip from Headless Point, the pin they gave me for dancing with the rhino’s in the Disneyland parade, the small box that Jess got me – the very first thing – from the San Francisco Zoo as she so patiently waited for me to do my work. Other things.

My heart is full of bones.

I collect them, and listen to the rattle of loves and fond memories past as I dance.

**************************

Oh, the hell and eyebrows we raise.
Last night we had almost the full krew – Baruzula, Molly, Virginia, Seth, The Third Line and meself went out to play. To delight and disturb – and we did a find job of both.
First to the Rhizome Collective where they were having a circus party – the cats took a bit to get set in motion so we were a bit late, but managed to make it while Miss Claire, Che and Pierre were finishing up their act, and that blended perfectly with our arrival as it was an immediate call for Gemma to join on stage. Not gonna say what she did, but there were a few people who walked out with their children. The others put on faces of amazement, wonder. I breathed a bit of fire inside and out, then we were off again to see Mote and his band, which I must say kicked ass in a very strange way. He’s always told me that what he does doesn’t make much of a difference because it can’t be heard, and now I understand. I think the most captivating image of the show were the two drummers facing each other with snare and toms, mimicking each other and even sharing a cymbal. If you put them together without the drums they would seem like they were from two different worlds, but on the skins they became one and the image was perfect, a mirror and beauty. Those accompanied by four guitars each on different effects, base, and a singer who looks like your local milkman on a bad acid trip, twisted and elongated and playing a trombone. It made for an interesting and energy filled – and deafening – set.
We tried desperately to create a pit, from running in circles counter clockwise to an interlocked-arm wall of death, but they just weren’t coming along with us. Silly fucks. Give it a shot. Open and live for a second…

Free shots that were procured from a random person named David asking if he could take our picture, and then we were off with my cry of “Third Line ON THE BUS!”.

A beautiful evening indeed. So much delight that I won’t say here, but I am certain that I need to start working out again, Strange acrobatics need to be stranger.

***************************
Feels as if it’s going to be a hot fucking day today. We’ll work through it. Last night Albert was finally able to begin letting his sorrow out – sorrow that I can’t begin to describe, sorrow built up in only a month. Someone let him know when September is over, it’s full of death and suicide and immeasurable loss. I look at my own pain and know that it is nothing less and nothing more than his, simply on different planes in the way it passes. As I watched him there was empathy – I know sorrow, and the tears fell for him as I stood hidden by the darkness. I know sorrow. It is my closest friend.

I say goodnight with something I wrote many years ago:

8.29.96

Is this always pain
a piece in everyone
or is it a gift

a curse

something special, for me.

Should it be gone
chipped away to nothing

and am I wrong
for holding onto it so dearly?

It’s the only thing that I know and
when things are a little strange
I can always open that door.

It’s the only thing that I know
that has always been there for me
when
it just doesn’t seem right
and I’m sick of playing the game and

am I sick for bringing back
the pain
just to feel human and
just to pretend

that I’m alive

?

**************************

The heat is oppressive today.

I see images of a past float by, pictures from another life haunting me. When everything is given everything needs to be taken away, and it takes a whole lot of bourbon to make the nightmares leave me be. I dig under my skin to peel it from there, peel away the passion and love for them and wash myself clean of their scent preparing my heart for a new home. Fuck you and your business. I squeezed my heart of everything it had. Soon a final Good Bye and then it will be done and no more, a package of the past sent away, only leaving an immaterial sadness which will be healed by time. Everything healed in time. Farewell and Good Bye. I am not a part of you anymore, nor you of me. I wash my hands and am done. The only way out is through. I’ve got more important things to focus on.

**********************
9.25

Two guitars. A Mandolin and a fiddle. two banjo’s, a steel guitar, an accordion, a saw, voices that sounded like heaven – and me on the spoons – I had to do something – and strangely enough, I was pleased for my first time on ‘em. It seemed to be agreed on. So much swimming around in this sea of creativity. The passion these people have – Whitney and Cole would fit right in, Kevin would fucking love it, Mark would be even more revered than he is in San Francisco, and would be able to play in a setting that fits him better. For most it would be more home than they ever could have believed. It is for me, in a way. It seems as if there are no dreams here, or, more appropriately, they live in a dream which doesn’t seem to reach to far – but that’s all they seem to need. Hopping trains to get to where they need to go, living life to the best of their means, which aren’t much. It doesn’t need to be – they’re happy, they live the life they want. They do what they can. They laugh with all of their hearts.

I am immersed in a song by Tom Waits – surrounded by tramps and hobo’s, young but far from fresh, their lives are the beats of the trains they travel on.

A impromptu jam session tonight – I love this place. I love these people. The South certainly has its qualities.

***********

Yesterday we went to the water – a couple of the waters they have here. One was Hamilton Pool, the other Travis Lake. I won’t describe Hamilton Pool to the extent of it’s beauty, I can’t – a deep pond fed by a trickling waterfall, all I have are pictures. I got a good one of Stumps (not Stubbs, my mistake) as the sun set on the lake. I love the solitude in it.

*************

I guess it feels so much like home because of the solitude. The loneliness that the whistle of a freight train brings in the quiet of the night. The loneliness of the walls that we create when you never know if you’ll see that person again. Travel has its downfalls. We want someone, but fear for them. I collect pictures, and I do my best to set you free. Go home. You have no business here. Live your life. Create, destroy, and do everything in between.

I have a box of the past, of dreams that are but memories now. I will take it with me when I go. I will leave it for you. Collect your things and remember me. That’s all I want. That is all I have. Remember me. Love me. There is no blood to follow; there was no blood to begin with. As written earlier: When the tale is a myth, the author gets to choose his own end.

I have not chosen mine yet. I live only because I choose to.

So much beauty, so many things I want to do – but I am weary. Each dream that is ripped away leaves a scar that I would rather not deepen anyone else’s wounds with…

***************

Silly little self absorbed girl. My dreams have moved on and you are not a part of me anymore. My dreams are lost, but somehow larger. I will always find more. I have separated, detached. Detachment is my gift, given at birth, and though I have found a way to use this gift seldom, the twisted wisdom remains, and you don’t exist – it’s as simple as that. Apparently the Good Bye wasn’t heard.

Of course I have the information you want. I spent time and time and time and all of my heart in gathering it, and it is mine. My property and for a brief time, my life. Thinking I would so easily give it to you takes courage, but it is a courage based in your own needs without consideration for anything else but yourself and your needs are no longer mine. Go Away. If I find the time to get that information to you, I may. I have no use for it, but I don’t have any inclination to make your life easier while at the same time taking precious time out of mine.

I may.

*********

9.27

I just watched you walk away. The silver compliments the blue, but I couldn’t say that. That would just sound stupid. For some reason I watch you walk away and say nothing, only thinking of things to say after you’re gone. I couldn’t say anything I wanted to, only having wit and charm when you are no longer around to hear it. I was wrapped up in the words at my fingers, the ones I needed to get out, and as much as I wanted to say ‘hello’ I barely spoke at all. I apologize, but that is the way when things need to be released from this head. It’s better this way. Too much going on inside not to let it out.
Somehow captivated, right or wrong I don’t know, but the frustrating familiarity is there. I envision long talks over bourbon or bottles of wine where we briefly allow ourselves to know each other, breaching the walls in the knowledge that I am a short timer and with that there is the safety. With that there is no obligation, and we can invest in something that we are sure that will go exactly the nowhere that we wish it to, except in the dreams we carry with us. You fall into the pattern I now see as I look back – Cole, Betsy, Blair, Courtenay, Gemma, Tracy, Zoe, even Michelle. The list goes on. I always leave or make sure they will, always the stranger floating through your life. Always keeping that safety net and they always agree. The ones I can give everything to and the ones I can leave or know that they will leave me. Give me everything, I’ll give you the same and dream of you in wanting, leaving always my heart under your door mat. Someone somewhere sometime I want to call someone my own, I want to call someplace home.

It seems to me that dreams damage, and dreams are still and always only that. Don’t invest anything in me, don’t give me your heart; give me everything because that’s what I need and that’s what I will always love you for in the sharing. I will offer you mine if I know them, if you ask what they are. I will always hold them closer than you might ever imagine. Step on the devils tail, live in the moment. It’s as lonely as the rain, but gives us all what we need. I love you, and I will keep that with me, always. I am nothing but what you want until you have it. I am the gold you see in rivers, I am the diamonds on the highway. I will open myself and give you everything I have if you promise to hold it near to your heart. You will always find someone else to hold you as I say farewell to all you are and all you have given and whatever I have given you. I follow my dreams and they never cease ripping me apart, and maybe one day there will be something inside of me that finally falls to rest.

Only when you walk away. You probably don’t read this – which is probably good. I am a hopeless romantic, I am lost and poisoned. I have stopped taking those pills that have kept me alive for far too long. Someday, I might be able to show you something that even the solitude of dreams can’t reach. Someday I might even make a little bit of sense.

I don’t know when I will see you again – and a strange insatiable insufferable romanticism is awakened, and digs another deep scoop out of an imaginary hearts grave. In cards it has been said that I am the Sun, and in ways perhaps I am – but The Fool has always seemed more appropriate..

The dawn awakens, I fall into it and yet again fall asleep, as already and again I have given too much – but this is me. I will never be a safe bet, but you never need to take the hand I deal or stay at my table. I give you every option to leave. I try to warn you in these words, but I don’t ever want you to let go of me. As much as I can never admit it, I need you. All of you.

***********************
9.28
Things are quiet in Austin for now. I have too much time to think.

Scott came by last night and filled us in on their efforts in New Orleans – they have two mobile clinics, a bunch of useful volunteers, tons of work. Some places are still under 20 feet of water, I think I heard him say. They’re going to the rural areas making sure people are taken care of – the people the government forgets. They are helping. I look forward to getting there.

9.28 9:33pm

She never wanders off. She sits in her sand pile or in the driveway until I return. I was only gone for about an hour. Maybe she was playing with the other dogs, I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. nothing matters. She was found with one of her stuffed animals still in her mouth. Bean was hit by the train.

My Bean is dead.

pieces of time

9.20

A few of the Third Line Cirkus people are still here, the rest having left yesterday for Baton Rouge to connect with some “Mardi Gras Indians” as Claire called them. Gemma needs to wait for a fuel filter or her bus which will probably be here on Monday, then she and the remaining five or six are off to meet up with them. Meanwhile, we’re having a ball.

Stubbs plays the steel guitar, we have two banjo’s, Gemma picks up one and starts belting out a tune that couldn’t be anything but made up on the spot, and is absolutely amazing. People sitting around in the outside lounge, talking, laughing, playing music and relaying their experiences on the road. It’s the sort of atmosphere where I expect Tom Waits to come strolling into and be greeted as an old friend.

9.21

Last night Miss Gemma Jones taught me to eat fire – pretty damn easy, actually – but don’t tell anyone. All that needs to be done is getting past the “I’m shoving fire into my face” trip, abandoning the impulse for self preservation. On Tuesdays many of the fire artists from around the area come here to practice – some of the better ones I have seen, and not just spinning Poi. Many different things – one guy even had a rope with two torches at the ends and was doing that “Kill Bill” thing with it, swinging it around his neck, legs – impressive. I got a chance to blow some fire as well. I love that.
Now, back to the Lounge – I think I heard some more people show up…

*********************************************************************

My tent is beautiful. My tapestry hanging above my bed, lace hanging over the window for privacy, christmas lights, fan, clothes rack full of costumes, floor covering, Clotho sitting by my bed with the external speakers hooked up – this fucking rocks.

************************************************************************

I love it. The property is right next to some train tracks, but still shrouded by the trees. Because of a few close by intersections, each time the train goes by is sounds it’s distinctive whistle.
A perfect compliment, like bourbon to a banjo.

9.22 6:41am

Waking with the dawn as I do these days, though usually only to say hello and fall into sleep again. Today is only slightly different.

Rita is coming, preparations need to be made. We will be as ready as possible. Something else new, everything new but nothing new to the wonder in my heart. Stubbs & I talking last night, he seemed surprised that I was new on the scene. In many ways I’m not I think, simply haven’t created the freedom for myself until it was given to me. Zoe called me an incorrigible vagabond. Zoe told me I have stolen her heart, and I told her that is the only thing that can never be stolen unless it is offered to be as a gift, and thanked her for it, gave her mine in return – but she has had mine for many months. Just one of the things that happens and just one of the things that I will always give freely to people who I feel deserve the whole damn thing, and I worry about those who accept it – a heart like this may be more of a burden than a blessing. One of these days the road may lead me to Caracas, but I’m always concerned about meeting people who know me from my writing – I’m just a man with a boy’s heart, and nothing more. I write because I need to and for some reason people are drawn to that. I write because that is what I have inside and I write because you will never hear me say these words. Read me only if you are strong enough to know the beauty of the darkness inside. If you don’t then don’t be surprised if I’m silent, as I already do to many things with my mouth and my heart tends to go to my fingers instead. I have seldom been one to invest much in what people say in the spoken way, and find their beauty in their actions. Words are too easy, but still somehow I caress with my voice and still somehow I sometimes say what I need to if there is someone I can trust to listen. I don’t talk pretty and I don’t spout bullshit. If you listen you will hear the bones rattle and there may be a strange music to the sounds they make. We wash our sins away inside, we wash ‘till the water runs as clear as our dreams.

Stubbs was teaching me the steel guitar last night. Goddamn, that’s the first time I have ever picked one up, and a steel guitar is a heavy fucking instrument, but worth its weight. It played well for me. I have found a new friend. There was even a bit of foot stompin’ as I played…

************************************************

I have given my worry to those who thirst for it, it is not a part of me anymore. Those people are not here. There is no worry, only action and excitement. I watch closely the actions of all of these people, this new tribe, and especially the amazing miss Gemma Jones, a rare and beautiful being who is one of the few people I have ever met who is so incredibly true and honest that it makes me ache in wanting to have that freedom inside. A woman who belts out at full volume any song that comes to her mind, usually made up on the spot. One of those people who don’t give a fuck, and give all of their heart. Welcome always in my bed and by my side.
I have given my worry to the sunset – it doesn’t belong to the dawn or a new day. Bury it in the sunset and say Good Bye.

The light of the day increases. It is now past the beautiful loneliness of the pre-dawn, but still in my mind the solitude continues. I am in my tent, I am in my heart, I am home. Everywhere is home, and I have nowhere to call my own but everywhere. A new breath a new life, and I am the Incorrigible Accidental Vagabond Extraordinaire. I am kSea flux. In passion Gemma cried out the full name I chose years ago. A name chosen on a whim and in knowledge. A name chosen for the only mother I have known that has given me life and its answers. A name chosen for my perpetual unrest. I am kSea flux, and that and this is my life.

Again, the train goes by in music.

This is the flavor of life. I roll it around on my tongue, savor it, and hungrily devour all that it offers me.

9.23

Digging up the Bones

The past in a box of memories kept, promises to stay in touch always broken, the letters and notes haunt me, so many different addresses they were sent to – San Diego, New York, D.C., Phoenix – the ultrasound of Blue falls out of a card from Michelle and I stare at if for minutes remembering those days and reading the dreams and wishes and sorrow in her words, the arrowheads my dad found growing up in Wichita, the apron my grandmother used to wear at work, a scrapbook given to me by Kathy to keep all the letters from her and Kyle in. Sock puppets made for me by Michelle so my hands weren’t empty faces as they sang along with the music in her car, this Equinox I think of one many years ago when we went to the sweat on Yaqui Indian land in Mexico. Old concert ticket stubs – George Clinton at the Apollo Theater, The Who in Oakland, others. The notebook full of the days and nights Maria and I spent when we first met in Phoenix writing back and forth, seldom saying any words, just writing, drawing pictures, doing speed. Little pieces of jewelry that have been left in my homes – an earring, a small pendant, a broken necklace – memories of past lives, past loves. I never stop loving them.

The bones are reverently placed back in the box one by one, to be added to and brought out again another time.

I will hear them rattle in my heart for days.

I wish I could just find my fucking Social Security card without having to go through all this.

snippets

over the days…

The full moon shines through the trees, through the screened window of the tent Bean & I moved into today, and the one we will probably stay in until after Halloween. Good. It’s a nice tent. Tomorrow I will decorate with Christmas lights and anything else that will be fitting, set up my clothes rack to hang things that haven’t been hung in months, and make it home. The zipper works on this one, the mosquitoes can’t get in.

My lovers have always said that I smell good. Up until now I enjoyed that – but apparently the mosquitoes feel the same way. I have 53 bites – on my right arm and hand alone. I wouldn’t be able to count them all.

I don’t like mosquitoes.

We took in an interesting evacuee today – I can’t recall her name right now. She hitch-hiked from New Orleans, only to be turned down at the convention center as they are only accepting people with family there now. She’s a young, odd, small thing, with her ex-husbands name tattooed somewhere I didn’t look to see and “Bitch” tattooed on her belly right above her pubic line. She says that it was going to be “Your Bitch”, but thought it was too much. The way she talks, her mannerisms and all of her strange little ways remind me of the poetic desolation of a J.T. LeRoy book.

“I’ve been strippin’ since I was eighteen! It’s my thing.” she says proudly says to us.

When we went to find a tent that would suit her, she saw mine and asked if I wanted a room mate.

I politely declined.

It’s interesting here.

========================================================

Twenty feet from my tent is a 35’ sailing yacht, old and aching and beautiful, complete with papier mache rocks along it’s side to make it appear as if it has been wrecked on the shore.

And Che shows up on his way to New Orleans with the beautiful freak Claire, lovely Becky & the Third Line Circus, on their way to get the Second Line’s back. Good to see a face from San Francisco, great to see him. The world gets smaller. I consider going with them. I have prior commitments, but if it’s only for a couple days…

No. Bean.

I’ve entered into an agreement with the mosquitoes and created a force field around myself. It is a warning. If they go into this energy they will be killed. The bites have very nearly stopped. The old ones are healing well.
I don’t know why it took me so long to simply remember and use the energy we all have.

===================================================================

Bean has been spending her nights outside these days, in her own special sand pit where she spends much of her time, shaded and cool.

She seems to understand that this entire forest is her home for now.

I still leave the bottom corner of the tent door open for her now that the mosquitoes leave me alone, and she still comes in to check on me if she hasn’t seen me for a bit.

When I first come out of the tent, she is usually sitting right in front of it on the rug I placed down on the sleeping mats for her…

===============================================================

The looks I’m getting walking around in my skirt in Texas are hilarious. They don’t know what the hell to think, especially with my knife strapped to my hip if I’ve needed it for work that day.

Too fucking hot to wear pants.

===============================================================

It’s been discussed and decided.

After the end of the Halloween show here, I’m heading to Louisiana and meeting up with the Third Line Circus, and joining them.

Running away with the Circus, ma.

If only I had known – it’s as simple as chocolate…

A recent conversation with someone I have never met:

______ wrote:
Tell me the answer of the day… i am afraid
i
lost my memo before reading it… and the
circular filing bin keeps swallowing my face
when i try to see in.

kSea flux wrote:

Don’t worry about the answers, sweetheart.

For now, enjoy the questions, and find a love
for the wonder of not knowing, and the way that
makes your eyes shine like a child’s spirit.

The answers will come in time, when we’re ready
for them.

Much love to you,

~ Casey

________ wrote:
How long is a spirit capable of wandering lost,
knowing that they recognize no familiar landmark
in the distance, before the spirit goes crazy
and starts to shake, breaking out of the body,
sending atoms of Self flying in different
directions to taste it all? Does love for the
wonder stop the fear of the pit beneath your
feet? And do the shining eyes make me forget
that I am blinded by a too bright, too hot
sunshine that is all too foreign?

I was ready for a sliver of an answer years
ago… and then i clutched at that sliver and
lost it in the splashing seas of absurdity.

Tell me, for there must be a secret to trapsing
through the world when you are perched so
precariously on a single thread of wonderment…
tell me- what is the secret to a tightrope
ballet?

kSea flux wrote:

How long? I don’t know.

There are many times where I wonder the same thing, and each of these days I am living now are fragile ones. I look to the future and see nothing anymore, and all I can do is believe that it will work out as it is supposed to.
These days that is the only thing I have, and honestly, there are a few times that I was seriously considering contacting someone who offered to come pick up Bean and care for her, and asking them to do so so I can simply take myself away.

The fear is always there. Accept that and call it yours, and thank yourself for it, as without this fear you would be only a fool. All you can do is work with it and let its fire put the wind under your wings – or give up. If you give up, you have lost – and what if tomorrow is just a little bit better? This is a mantra I need to tell myself every day.

The Sun is the same one you’ve known all of your lives. It changes little, but you continue to change under it. Keep changing, keep falling into the pit and climbing back out of it with a new knowledge. You will realize that the pit is as essential to living a passionate life as the things that let you float above it. In there is a knowledge that most people are afraid to find – one that will carry you through the darkest days – the knowledge that we have the power to decide, and the knowledge that we can and will change.

I feel like I am talking out my ass right now, that I am being horribly hypocritical and false. I have fallen and there is as much terror for me in the pit right now as there ever was outside. More. I can’t seem to find a way out. The threads seem to have all worn thin and keep breaking as I grasp them, but I try to believe that there will come one day where I find the thread that can support the weight of this scarred and heavy heart. All I can do is trust, and hold on tightly to the few remaining threads of that.

I have no secrets to offer you, only a promise that you need to make with yourself: Vow to see and feel inside yourelf at least one beautiful thing each day – something that let’s you remember the wonder of life – and though you may be crushed, ripped apart, shattered or lost, never let yourself be destroyed. These two things are up to you.

These are your decisions.

All I have for you are the things I’ve learned through my years.

I hope that something in here helps you.

Love,

~ Casey

______ Wrote:

It Has Been Confirmed.
When you are a __ year old girl no scar of realization will ever be too inflamed that large ammounts of chocolate (even of the white variety) and a good friend holding you and telling you that you are beautiful (even if you know he is just saying it and at the moment it is complete crap to you) can not calm you down, mellow you out and make you at least lull into that sleepy. complient state that everyone else seems to be going around in. Half of me wants to get down on my knees and thank a god for comfort foods… the other half somewhat wants to puke.

Good advice, and I thank you for it.

That, and getting a set of fire wings brought over- a girl can’t help but squeal when boys bring over flamming toys 🙂

Each small thing I hear about how the evacuees and remaining residents
of the Katrina disaster are being treated nauseates me.

I was actually in front of a television for the first time in weeks
today watching a show about it on PBS, and it took everything I had
not to break down sobbing, but the tears would not be denied and
rolled down my cheeks as I did my best to keep a bit of composure. I
have no faith in any institution anymore, save for the way we can help
personally, one on fucking one – and that’s what we need to do.

No one else is helping them. We need to take it into our own hands.

Furry, please (if you haven’t already) post your request on Tribe and
anywhere else you can think of. It’s up to us, entirely. There is
nothing else we can count on. We need to make shit happen for them in
every way we possibly can. There are people in Algiers who are trying
to sustain their community with very few resources, there are people
in Gulfport who need to go out searching each day for water as the
government trucks drive by without even slowing down – if they drive
by at all. Most haven’t seen anything in any way of assistance. Each
one of them need us.

DO NOT donate to a government agency. Find a grassroots place that you
can give to, and make certain that it will be personally delivered by
them. In the camp I am volunteering at, we had a caravan leave this
morning.

What do they need? Everything, but of course, WATER, food cards, gas
cards, phone cards, something very good would be wheatgrass (with
instructions to grow their own) and wheatgrass juicers – you name itm
they need it, and it needs to come from us. All of us, as far as this
email can possibbly stretch, and I ask you – please make it go as far
as you can. Send it to everyone. The cities don’t exist anymore, but
many of the people do – and they need our help – desperately.

In the little that I’ve seen, they are remaing as strong as they can,
but need as much as we can give them – directly TO them. Every small
bit that gets to them helps.

Please.