Thought #5589

I have had prophetic dreams ever since I turned twenty. Sometimes I wonder if I’ve always had them but I’ve just lacked the ability to co-relate waking life and dream life. I forget my dreams often, and have a poor memory in general, so I’m sure that contributed to the problem, but now I have a dream journal, thanks to this class, and making connections has become easier and easier.

I used to wonder about what made me different from other people when it came to dreams. I read occult books, listened to gurus, and practiced all sorts of strange experiments with my third eye—but I’ve just accepted that it’s simply a gift from God, and letting the Universe take the credit feels truer than any other explanation I had before, in an instrinsic way, and it takes loads of weight off my ego.

Once, when I was living with my grandmother, I dreamt that I hovering in the air, watching a burglar break into her house. I was sleeping in Berkley at the time, having just hitched a Greyhound bus from LA, and I was sleeping at a friend’s house. My grandmother lives in Vallejo. The burglar entered through my grandmother’s basement door, came up the stairs, crept through the kitchen and stalked into the hallway. My grandmother was there in her power chair, and when she whirled around, the burglar ran into the bathroom and dove out the window.

I woke in a flash of sweat and woke my friend. “I just dreamt that my grandma’s house was broken into!” He shrugged it off in typical lazy Leo fashion, and he told me to rest. In the morning, after he drove me home, my grandma was waiting on the porch with news. “Stephen, you’ll never guess what happened last night! Somebody broke into the house! I think he got in through the basement door, but he saw me in the hallway and guess what? He jumped out the bathroom window!”

This was my first experience I can remember with prophetic dreaming, but I was always reluctant to share my strange experiences with my grandma. I had felt a ghost wrap its arms around me once, and my grandma called her pastor and his wife over, and they drilled me about the war between God and Satan, and how serving in God’s army was so good—so good. But being a homosexual, an African American who knows how religion has been used to oppress “the other”, and simply as a smart American, I decided I was better off illuminating the mystery alone, and if God existed, God would pop up along the way. And She did.

Once during a dream, I was late to work, rushing, and I was totally distraught. When I arrived into the laundry room, panting and uniform disheveled, I apologized profusely to my co-worker whom was folding clothes. She smiled and said, “Don’t worry. You don’t even need to be here.” I woke to the telephone ringing. When I answered, it was the very same co-worker. “Hi. Just wanted to tell you that you don’t have to come to work today.” And of course I shouted, “I JUST DREAMT THAT YOU TOLD ME THAT!” She said it was because I loved her, obviously.

With the seductions of the internet and all the dangling jewels of other people’s philosophies, having prophetic dreams can be weird. I seek guidance, but I’m finding more and more that gurus, religions, fixed forms of occultism, and even well-meaning friends who share the same gift only cloud my own judgment. Instead of finding a set of rules to pattern my life against, I’m choosing to relax, and calmly and exuberantly watch my own destiny unfold. 


The silence of my house, or my ex house at 10:38 pm sounds like,
The first time you sleep alone after a long drawn out break up.

You wake to a nightmare,
Clench the bed sheets,
Hold your right boob, I’m alive,
You pull yourself out of bed, turn on the lights, and like a child drink three full glasses of water.
I always imagine crawling into bed with my mother.

This silence is like my first experience touching a vagina, surreal, honest, and naturally magnificent.

Though, today’s silence brings upon the dawn of the ghosts.
I feel them crawling under my skin, I feel them tickling me in my sleep, waking me up to strange noises, crawling under my bed,

I miss the idea of you.
When I held you tonight,
I felt the ghosts in my chest plunging at my lungs- get me out of here,

I still miss you.

He tells me about his new lover,
And I breathe deeply and laugh and laugh and when he leaves I push my back to the door-
And feel a river underneath me.
You never talked like that about me.

You never treated me like love.
You never held my cheeks and said,
I’m in love with you,
But you did put a ring on my finger, and your mom still tells you you’re too good for me.

1. I’m the bees knees, literally. I speak love, I’m a romantic, I want to literally grab your heart and hold it while it beats.
2. You never let me in, and felt like I took up too much space.
3. In a poem you said my thighs were to large. Did they swarm your face into suffocation?
4. I speak goddess, like wind breezing threw your thin hair in spring time. That was me. Blowing fairies into your dark fucked up emotionally tainted eyes.
5. I am enough. I was always enough. I was always, enough.
6. I’m always going to be enough.
7. Why did you lie about loving me? When I held you twitching and vomiting- that would have been a good time to say, “I love you like a friend.” Instead you insisted it’s different. You even made me cum seven times. When you were dripping sweat, shitting your brains out, I should have left you in the rain.
8. I should have left you a long time ago,



Thought #66276

I’ve been thinking a lot about harmonics. Harmony is defined by Merriam-Webster as: “the combination of different musical notes played or sung at the same time to produce a pleasing sound”. I like to sometimes meditate on the times I’ve been surrounded by different musical notes, and still managed to create harmony. I ran errands and got dinner with Kal— my knight— the other night, and it was mind-blowing how in his presence I realized how much I had been pretending with others.

Kal and I are two people who live on the edge of societal consciousness, because of different traumatic experiences that have triggered psychological processes in us that can’t be turned off. My experience was more metaphysical, supernatural trauma, while Kal’s experiences are more self-secret. We like to joke that I am his wizard and he is my knight, but the reality is that no one has ever protected me like Kal has, and my magic has effected his life in similar fashion. 

Because our natures are natural antidotes for one-another, we touch a space in each other that few can penetrate, hence my realization of all the acting I’ve been doing without him. When it comes to lovers, friends, and peers, we are simply in a category of our own, not just because of intellect, but because of our psychological processes.

Finally, at that dinner table, we surrendered and relaxed into the realization that we are complex people that can’t forge deep relationships with the instantly gratifying motifs of today, that we require something explicable, something mysterious, something that is sometimes hard to imagine existing. But we’ve surrendered— and something dawned on me.

The mysterious element, that inexplicable quality, was represented by Kal himself, in pure clarity. I told him this, that if I were ever to fall in love, it would be with someone like him, and this gave us both peace. Because if we could both find each other, then the possibility existed that someone was waiting for us in the shadows of our attention, waiting to make sweet music with us. It meant that the impossible . . was possible.

Still relevant. Besides discussing the power of the imagination to inspire nations, and how music with a message can liberate the disadvantaged, Janelle Monae’s “Metropolis” saga is speaking on Uganda, Russia, gay human rights, feminism, “the other”, and a whole kaleidoscopic whirl of spiritual and ethical subjects. Still relevant. How did I not realize this before? The woman is a soothsayer.

"A revolutionary is part of the political world; his approach is through politics. His understanding is that changing the social structure is enough to change the human being. A rebel, as I use the term, is a spiritual phenomenon. His approach is absolutely individual. His vision is that if we want to change the society, we have to change the individual. Society in itself does not exist; it is only a word, like “crowd” – if you go to find it, you will not find it anywhere. Wherever you encounter someone, you will encounter an individual. “Society” is only a collective name – just a name, not a reality – with no substance.

"The individual has a soul, has a possibility of evolution, of change, of transformation. Hence, the difference is tremendous. The rebel brings into the world a change of consciousness – and if the consciousness changes, then the structure of the society is bound to follow it. But vice versa is not the case, and it has been proved by all the revolutions because they have failed.

"No revolution has yet succeeded in changing human beings; but it seems we are not aware of the fact. We still go on thinking in terms of revolution, of changing society, of changing the government, of changing the bureaucracy, of changing laws, political systems. Feudalism, capitalism, communism, socialism, fascism – they were all in their own way revolutionary. They all have failed, and failed utterly, because man has remained the same."


Dear Young New-Age Thinker, I see your anger. Masked as passion, masked as ideals, I see the violence within, dripping.

Dear Young New-Age Thinker, I know how hard it is to not start a sentence with “People don’t . ." or "If people would just . .”

Dear Young New-Age Thinker, teaching your father about vibrations won’t make him love you. Dive deeper.

Dear Young New-Age Thinker, life isn’t a video-game simulation. Death isn’t real, but life is still sacred.

Dear Young New-Age Thinker, don’t avoid suffering. Learn how to suffer. Learn how to unclench and relax into harrowing, because kindness has become so intellectualized. People need to suffer. They need to suffer so their kindness can be refined and made genuine, not intellectual psuedo-spiritual societal rehash.

Dear Young New-Age Thinker, can we stop talking about religion? My Friday night is dwindling . . 

Dear Young New-Age Thinker, update yourself on Merriam-Webster’s definition of “harmony”, then look for it in coffee shops, in strangers, and by eaves-dropping. Learn what a “chord” in music is.

Dear Young New-Age Thinker, morals and religion haven’t defaced the world, extremism has. Distinguish.

Dear Young New-Age Thinker, distrust anyone who makes you choose between “ego” and “spirit”, or “mind” and “no-mind”, or “order” versus “chaos”. The extremists of old have always chosen, and to their detriment. Blend opposites into a cohesive picture. Bring “meditation” into the “mind”, blend the “ego” and the “spirit”, bring “desireless-ness” into “desire”. That is oneness. That is wholeness.

Dear Young New-Age Thinker, positive thoughts bring positivity. Natural thoughts bring growth. Osculate.

Dear Young New-Age Thinker, you are not discovering yourself, you are creating yourself.

Dear Young New-Age Thinker, it’s okay to have desires, but desires are brilliant servants but terrible masters. Be above your desires, then let them guide you to illumination, because I tell you truly, gurus desire to teach the world desirelessness. Meditate on that.

Dear Young New-Age Thinker, it is okay to weep for the world, but learn to write it down so you don’t confuse people into despair when you orate. 

Dear Young New-Age Thinker, let your definition of God continue to flower. Don’t stifle it upon conception.

Dear Young New-Age Thinker, science is becoming magic again. Be patient with it.

Dear Young New-Age Thinker, remember to live on earth. If we were meant to stay spirits, we wouldn’t incarnate. Jump out your mind and touch my hand.

Dear New-Age Thinker, when someone says they’ve found the truth— run.

Dear Young New-Age Thinker, I love you. You are the future. When my ghost prepares to leave my host in old age, I will be relying on you, and the world you create.

Thought #777

Every time that I’ve kissed boys, I’ve gotten compliments on how I kiss (except that one boy that one time where we kept colliding teeth). This always baffles me, my kissing abilities, because I’ve never once felt the “spark” of energy that people talk about. I only feel mechanics, and plumbing. To me, kissing is robotic. Squeeze here, tongue here, moan here— the boys melt, but no one yet has awoken the animal within, the wizard in waiting, and I always thought that I should just settle into something and stop being picky. 

Accepting that I am too advanced for this shit. Bitches be playin’ in Candlestick Park . . while I’m on a moon of Neptune . . but I still try to maintain the illusion. I stay tryna “test” folks— with books, mind-blowing ideas, precognition, telepathy, thinkin’ that one day they’ll pass the test, become Adonis . . and stay.

Over it. Today, I’m inventing an alter ego, and this person will embody every hidden beautiful thing I am, the animal that remains dormant, the wizard watching through the lense of multiple dimensions, the seeker pursuing the truth, the voice that cannot be silenced, the form that cannot be defined, the divine chaos that dwells within, and worship him with my every breath.

Actually, I’m going to name him after a moon of Neptune:


The Way of the Wizard

Thought #00009

Philosophy is self-serving. Advice is good intent. People come and go, their views change, and being twenty-something rarely means illumination. It usually doesn’t mean sunbeams have touched our leaves. It usually means that we sense the sun . . somewhere . . and we’re violently breaking the shells of our seeds to reach the unseen goal, the ideal vision, and praying for the relief of rain. But a tree never asks another tree how to grow, so I guess I’m on my own, as far as eye can see. But hey, that’s just my philosophy.