What may be true for others
May not be true for some
So they say there’s no truth
And deem the job done
Swimming downstream into moral-less banks
Dangerous roulettes and tricky heart games
But could it be that “truth” itself
Has been given a poor introduction?
That perhaps truth really -is- the confusion,
the multi-viewed song of collective perception?
I had thought of the truth as a single tree
Until I saw the forest as one,
an interdependent ecosystem of truths,
And when I understood, the water touched the sand
And there was a blast, an impression
It was a vision,
A watercolor landscape of infinite possiblities
Burned fixedly in time as temporal truth
Directly from the mother of mysteries
To ripen but eventually rot and return to earth
"How can the future be fixed if there’s choice?"
I fool me once again, because I haven’t a clue
But I do see these paintings, and these paintings come true

Real

I performed energy work for the first time, and my partner said she could feel waves of heat coming from my side of the massage table. Moving energy is so much more natural than I thought. I was so focused on my client that I felt entranced. Our breathing synchronized, energy points opened in my own body as I moved through her Jin-Shin points, and I felt the energy current blip just before my client’s body would twitch. My client said the experience was unreal. She could feel my electricity running through her. When he came to school, I said he would have been proud.

After clinic, we all went to Little Bird’s apartment to get high and go swimming. We walked to Safeway like a line of comical geese. He and I popped our collars and pretended to be Greasers, I carried the Lioness’ beer, and I raced Little Bird home, where we ate pizza. He wouldn’t eat. He apologized for leaving me so abruptly during a massage a while ago. I told him that I just wanted to know why. He skated around the answer, but said that he didn’t feel like he abandoned me because at the time we were “one”. I said that being one means he can’t just see things from his point of view, that he had to take into account how I felt too. He hung his head and apologized, and I told him that its okay, because he’s stuck with me. He was glad.

"We just got real for a second," I smiled. He grinned. "It was nice."

We smoked and drank beer and talked about judgments, reflection, projection, poverty and quantum physics. We changed into our bathing suits and went to the pool. We had cannonball contests, dunked each other and raced across the blue. We saved a bee carcass and prayed over it. And then, when the girls were talking, and Little Bird was floating somewhere, he (sneakily) pressed his body against mine beneath the water, and in the perfect way so that no one would notice . .

He wasn’t leaning against me, or simply near me— he was pressing against me. Maybe I should have called him out. Maybe I should have wrapped my arms around him and submerged us beneath the water. But all I did was freeze. No one was noticing. How could they? What was he thinking? Finally, when I had the strength, I said, “I’m moving over hereee . .” and began to swim away.

Except he curled his leg around my leg, so I couldn’t escape.

I flailed for a bit, and then he used his other leg, and pretty much had me in a leg lock. I couldn’t keep afloat because we were in 8ft, so I thrashed my arms about. Next thing you know, we were both laughing, and I used the window to finally swim away. I didn’t bring it up for the rest of the night . . but I remembered while we sang Pocahantas back to the apartment.

We talked about the invisible world, our mentor, and sex. When we went around the circle and asked when we each lost our virginity, I said that I still hadn’t had butt-sex and everyone laughed with me. Dare I say, I felt accepted? Little Bird says that the perfect guy will come, and I’ll be glad that I waited. I thanked her. She also said that she understands what its like to want and want and wish and wish and be impatient. I just smiled.

He said he wanted to draw me a diagram, because he felt like I would understand it. It was a diagram of “the sea of perception”, our perception, the perception of others in the area, universal perception, and the third dimensional reality. In the car, I told him about meditation. I said to go deeper. In a world of metaphysical inexactitude, having our inner guide is invaluable. He said he was in touch with his previous incarnation. I mentioned that his guide’s “scope” can be even broader. He said he liked our energy, and then he went home.

In my dream, he met me in a dark empty lot between two buildings. We had selected a time to meet in the dream. In the dream, it was one o’clock. When I saw him the next day, I asked how he slept. He said that he stayed up really late, because he felt bad that I had to get so little sleep. I asked if he specifically intended that. I asked squarely. He said he did, and I told him about my dream.

What will become of us? I care so much for someone that I can hardly trust. Just when I think we can finally just be friends, he does something to demonstrate that whatever “this” is isn’t over. What am I to do but surrender? What am I to do but let Source have Its way with my feelings? It was my Higher Self that told me to keep quiet when he pressed his body against mine in that pool. I’ll just keep listening. Source can do the “doing”. Just play me the Smiths . . and sing me to sleep . . 

The opposite of love is not hate, it’s indifference. The opposite of art is not ugliness, it’s indifference. The opposite of faith is not heresy, it’s indifference. And the opposite of life is not death, it’s indifference.

— Elie Wiesel

Sailboats on Pluto
Sail east to go west
So to itch his own feet
He scratches his chest
He jumps into crowds
To reflect and to think
And stuffs poems down drains
To wash down the sink
Atlas can suffer without using his arms
Wishes, intentions, and gold occult charms
Legendary tendencies demand morals and bone
Yet no psychic pillar should be left alone

The leonine nymph yanks the fruit from the vine
With moss-colored eyes that are just out of reach
She closes the door on the perturbance of time
And indulges in jewels and what’s good to drink
She stalks through the jungle with pillows and mugs
With cutting-cunt language and languishing hugs
The dry mouths suck on stones of salt
Love can die, it’s not her fault. 

Soft

During guided meditation, I was in the in-between stage between asleep and awake, and I saw Muir Beach, and all my friends. Deeper, the vision became like wallpaper, and two technicolored lizards flew across my inner-sight. For a glimpse, I saw Eve and someone else outside the dojo, and when I came out of meditation, I thought, “How odd. I can’t want to tell Eve what I saw.” Except Eve wasn’t in the room. She had stepped out of the dojo during meditation, to talk to Janet.

Later, I used acupressure points and guided a classmate through a similar meditation. I had her build an island, then sit in a garden, and I told her there was a visitor. The visitor had a gift. Then I told her to take the gift to the ocean. This was all done very slowly. When I brought her out of trance, she held back tears. The visitor was her father, and the gift was him asking for her forgiveness. She became a five-year-old girl again, and watched her daddy disappear into the ocean waves, and she waved goodbye.

When she guided me through a similar meditation, just before she pressed my third eye, I felt a tug on my crown chakra, and I heard my name spoken by multiple voices. She pressed my eye and the tug vanished, but came back when she let go. I told her, and she said I must have felt her hesitation, because she wanted to touch my crown at that moment, but didn’t want to mess up my fro. So amazing.

As I drove home, the little woman in my tummy told me to see my friend Lars. I obeyed and rang him up. We got lunch. Lars and I have known each other for years. He’s my psychic buddy (and I’m realizing I have lots of those). We’ve been on so many adventures, been through so much, and he’s so kind. So gentle. Always bearing gifts. Always using his gifts to harm none. He goes to some extreme “places” in meditation and sees strange things, but he’s harmless as a dove.

We bought pitas and he asked me about school, so we went to the roof of a parking garage, and I told him about ****. And in middle of my story, he stops me, and he tells me that he’s bisexual. I had always suspected that Lars was bisexual, but I always wanted him to feel safe enough to discuss it on his own, and he did. We talked about sex, chastity, psychic perception, confusion and heartbreak. He said to be compassionate and see ****’s confusion through ****’s eyes. So kind. So gentle.

He told me about when he hooked up with a guy. He had met a man at his work, a black man who was into Reiki. Lars went over his house where this man showed him stones, gave him massage, and then . . beyond. Lars said no one had looked at him like that, other than me. He said that he thought of me during the experience. He thought that if he were more open, he could be more like me. I played the moment very cool, but I remembered.

The next day, he almost ran to the mountains to be with this man, but his parents stopped him. I realized that bisexual confusion doesn’t have to be so messy. It can sweet and honest and safe. It can be understanding. It doesn’t have to be so mean and manipulative. Today, **** was late to school and I asked him why. “The girl I’m sleeping with turned off my alarm,” he says. It’s so cold, how comments like that can still freeze me to the core . . and yet, a shade of my heart smiles . . because there are men like Lars in the world . . who would never hurt me that way. I’m reminded . . that the world is still a beautiful . . and soft place.

Brother, stand the pain. Escape the poison of your impulses. The sky will bow to your beauty, if you do. Learn to light the candle. Rise with the sun. Turn away from the cave of your sleeping. That way a thorn expands to a rose.

— Rumi
Roots

The Scorpios guided me into a store in the mall, where we browsed through clothes and Raven tried on a purple cardigan. We left the store and Raven asked where you were. I didn’t know, so I returned to the store to get you. I walked past the dressing rooms, past other shoppers, through the back of the store, and the lines of hangers became leaves. The insulated wood floors became outdoor tiles. I had walked onto an outdoor terrace surrounded by ferns and rosebushes. At the far end, you were in a hot tub, wearing nothing. 

I walked over, and I knew what you were doing. “You’re rejuvenating your leg with the healing properties of the water, aren’t you?” You said you were and invited me in. “You want to roll around in the sheets with me?” you asked. I hesitate, and you leaned your head back. “I guess I’ll have to find someone else to roll in the sheets with me then . .” I tell you that you’re the strangest person that I’ve ever met in my entire life.

When I woke up, I knew you wouldn’t be coming to school. (It may seem like a stretch, but the images aren’t enough in dream interpretation. It’s the feeling that the images evoke . . that certain something.) You didn’t come to school, but you came to clinic. You said you just didn’t want to come. I told him that I knew he wouldn’t be there. He asked if I had asked the ether. I said that I dreamt it, and he was surprised. I only say that I saw him healing his leg in water. He said the metaphor for his sciatic root was why he didn’t come to school.

If that part of the dream was true . . Could the rest of the dream be true too?

Saying things that don’t make sense.
Sitting, straddling, on the fence.
Autumn-haired satyr,
wide-toothed scholar,
shirt-stained boy wonder,
you ask me what I am.

I am a wish.

This body is the wish for three dimensions.
This soul is the wish to know itself as Source.
"Stephen" is only stars, just as "you" are only smoke,
for the wish beneath.

Bleeding eyes and bee-sting lips,
eyeballs on your fingertips,
you ask me what I see.

Do I see dancing monkeys in the smoke?
Cartwheels into the ocean floor?
A get-away car to avoid the flash?
When all he ever wanted was to crash?

No.

These eyes see only a wish … . . the wish . . to be seen . .

Return

I made tomato-sandwiches with onion and red peppers today, between slices of flaxseed bread and mayonnaise. When I was a young wizard, I would throw open the doors to my karate dojo, pry open the metal pipeline cylinders, and look for frogs. I was thinking about him today, that young wizard, and realized that it was time to return myself. There was a boy with stars in his eyes and frogs in his pockets, who was alone outside that dojo, and he prayed for magic, and miracles, and people in his life that loved him— people who could see him.

I’m twenty-five years old now. 

I have prophetic dreams every night.

I have a circle of amazing guardians in my life.

And I’m fully aware of my subconscious mind, my treasure-hold of occult knowledge, free-flowing energy, solace and strength.

It’s time to give myself back to myself.

When I’m in class, every thought that I have echoes back to me. I can be thinking about nectarines, and someone across the room will say something, in passing, about nectarines. Every intention that I set changes everything around me. I am a sender of thoughts. 

There was a time where I thought that I had found someone to love, someone to be intimate with. As I peeled back layer after layer, I realized that I am faced with my greatest challenge, maybe even my worst nightmare. He drained someone of their energy during clinic. He drained them. I ask myself, how could this be the one that I’ve dreamt of? How could he be the one that held me while the lights dimmed? Today I realized that it wasn’t him.

Experiencing this was so necessary. I know myself as a wizard now. I will not invade the privacy of others energetically. I will not siphon their forces as my own. I will maintain respect for all the beings that I encounter. As an extrovert and a sender, one who naturally raises the vibrations of my biosphere, I will be responsible for my gifts and not abuse others around me. I learned that from watching you.

Also, I’ve learned that there’s no need to be tricky. Poems dripping with subtext and loaded gazes are beyond me. Unhurried, steady, honest and forthright action. No need to probe into the hearts of my brothers and sisters unwarranted. Let everything be done in the light, with willing hands. I know who I am.

I’m getting back into my old habits. I’m sober again, I’m eating raw foods to elevate my mood, I’m writing down my dreams, and I’m reading. Hell, I may even start weight-lifting again, but hey, baby steps. I’m also meditating. Guided meditations for a while, to get back in the swing of things. The feeling of having nowhere to go is uncertain and fabulous. The space between my thoughts missed me.

I’m returning to myself, but I’m different. My heart space is open. Perhaps the righteous one will walk through it this month. Perhaps my astral lover will reveal himself. When he does, I will be ready. I have fantasies of kissing in the woods just before nightfall, skinny-dipping in rivers and beckoning with a coy curl of my finger. I dream of cuddling and forehead-kisses, gift exchanges and long drives. I dream of listening to music together, and feeling so close, because the swoon and cry of the violin.

It’s time to return to the waters, to ride the waves of changeable futures with wizened eyes. My heart space is open and I am alive. Come forth. I am swimming . .

“Most of the greatest achievements on the planet
are unknown to others- private overcomings,
silent attempts at belief, re-opening a shattered
heart. The real path of champions truly lies within- the
transforming of suffering into expansion,
the clearing of horrifying debris, the building
of a healthy self-concept without tools. The
greatest achievers have found a way to believe in
something good despite being traumatized and
fractured on life’s battlefields. No matter what
else they accomplish in their lives, they are already
champions. One day the world will realize that it is
much harder to heal a shattered heart than excel at
athletics.”

— Jeff Brown