E L L I O T T

I was stepping out of the Metro Store and sniveling to myself. Someone had jimmy’d my car door and stolen my $700 cell phone, which meant that I was forced to return to the Metro Store, and walk out with my aunt’s prehistoric flip-phone in my hand, and its brick-sized wall-charger. Not only that, but the valedictorians who jimmy’d my car had ruined the car door altogether, meaning that I was going to have to hop over the passenger seat again to drive, and pray to God that no one saw me. It had cost $7 to reactivate my new number and the moment that I flipped the phone open, prepared to eventually grumble and snap it closed again— it rang.

"Hello?"

"Hello Stephen."

”. . Whose this?”

"What? You don’t recognize the voice of an absolute stranger?" 

I laughed.

He continued.

"Well, I can’t really say that we’re strangers actually. It’s recently come to my attention that you’ve been stalking me, Stephen."

Clever.

"It’s Elliott, Stephen . ."

Suddenly the film jumped and sputtered off the reel, and my casual stroll became surreal and unfamiliar. In a single heartbeat, even the color around me had changed, and I felt like I was in a panel of a comic, a panel where all the extras in the scene were one flat color so only the main character could stand out . . but I was an extra.

The human heart is filled to the burst with moments like these, tiny moments in time where the air catches in your chest for a heartbeat, and my own heart felt like it was swiftly dropping into my diaphragm. It was somehow growing on the way down, and felt like a time bomb.

Elliott . .”

"Look, some friends and I are meeting under the overpass. Save my number . . and come too."

I did more than just arrive. I wore my black wizard hat and my old leather jacket, the one I wore when the two of us would walk to the marshes, play with tarot cards, and pass pear-shaped bottles of champagne back and forth. I brought the tarot deck with me, a handful of frosted green buds, and my iPod, in case we decided to goose-foot on top of cars like we used to. We would always crank the volume on our radio until it exploded with the Digable Planets in those days, so that we could still hear the brass section over the car alarms. Such sweet times. Was I a fool to believe it could still be this way? I was, and that was okay, because all lovers are fools, and lovers never lose.

It was raining when I arrived stomping through puddles to the grasslands along the freeway, and the rainwater was curving over the overpass like a waterfall, making a shimmering iridescent curtain for the entrance below. The water drummed on my wizard hat as I ducked into the underpass, and I hugged a line of familiar faces, all of which were yelping and wearing wizard hats. And next to the parked car was Elliott, leaning against the dark Lexus with his sad dog eyes, smoking a cigarette.

His hair was in messy jet black swirls, and his smoky beard curled around the zippers of his leather jacket. But most important of all, he still had the scar, that beautiful incision that ran from his left eye, across his bee-sting lips, and disappeared beneath the right side of his chin. I pulled out my tarot deck from the back pocket of my jeans with a look of both cunning and innocence, and pulled out one card, smirking.

"The Magician," he smirked back, curling his pompous upper-lip.

It was The Magician, but I think he knew this, because he didn’t wait for me to answer. He just pulled out his own deck from his own back pocket (Oh Gosh!) and pulled out his own card. I became still and I knew.

"The Pope."

He flipped the card over and it was indeed the Pope, also called the Hierophant, sitting with his sceptre. I wanted to cry, and intuiting this, Elliott hugged me deep. He smelled like cigarettes, Irish Spring, and old worn-out leather, and I curled my weak arms under him and clutched his shoulders.

"I wonder you . ."

" . . I wonder you," he replied.

Oh, the rhythmical way that we breath! Our hearts sang bird songs at two different tempos, but in an instant of being near each other, our heart rates had synchronized. Five years.

"I change my mind," he said. "I want to take you out. Where do you want to go, flower?"

"Anywhere," I said. "I don’t care! I don’t care!" I beamed child-like.

And as I crawled into his car and packed a bowl, I felt the hot street hum under the squelching tires, and I shot cunning side-glances at my beautiful companions, singing the Smiths and passing around gin in the back seat.

Even when Elliott is focused on the road, out of my periphery, I still feel like he’s watching me, staring at me gently with his sad old dog eyes. I used to think the same thing all those years ago, when we would drive in the same Lexus and go on our numerous adventures. And that’s when I knew. That’s when I knew that Elliott wouldn’t be leaving anywhere ever again without me. That’s when I knew that I would follow him, and struggle for him, dance for him, and look at ugliness for him, and be there for him, for the rest of my life, from that day forward.

Freewrite #15

Lord Alphabet cleaned the sweat from his ringed fingers and leaned his head back, so one of his chelas could wipe his forehead with damp cloth. When he saw his opponent’s forces arrayed along the desert horizon like a black wave of oceanic noise, he approached his wizard and spoke with command. “Triangle-Walker, the Dream-Eater’s forces are enumerating toward our battalion intending to push through and imperialize our lands. They have archers and knightsmen and brawlers and assassins. With your wizened eyes, what secrets do you see?”

 The Triangle-Walker looked into the desert and saw the writhing militant mass of the Dream-Eater’s forces drawing near and quaking the rockland region with vibrations and hums of the womb. “There,” the wizard whispered hoarsely, his throat dehydrated and full of sand.

"Pardon?"

"There are no numbers," the Triangle-Walker wheezed. "There is but one, an illusionist, dream-weaving the shapes in the heart of the vision."

"You mean there is no militia?"

"There is one wizard, and a ravine of bomb jelly beneath the sand," the wizard answered.

"The Dream-Eater is clever," Lord Alphabet smiled. "And imagine. He could so easily and foolishly sacrifice his wizard in such a way. So hasty and wasteful!"

"Ay. There are those who treat chestnuts like diamonds, and those who treat diamonds as chestnuts."

"Triangle-Walker, I would never discard you so thoughtlessly," the lord beamed, puffing up his chest. "You will never leave my side."

"Never," the wizard wheezed.

"Now . . ignite the bomb jelly."

"Sir?"

"Tell our militia to hault and save their energies. Once we have scorched the desert in flames, have the vizier order the men to dead-check any survivors. Offer money for recovered armor. There will be none, but it will raise their morale. What do you think, wizard?"

"Diamonds and chestnuts, sir . . Diamonds and chestnuts . .”

Hi.

Twirls at the Latin Stage

I reminded myself of the power of intention, cleared my mind, and made a space for you. I made space for someone I had not met yet, and I didn’t ask Source for him. I thanked Source because I didn’t even have to ask. I thanked Source for always fulfilling its promise that everything I intend in its name shall be, and I thanked Source for what was done. I went to Oakland Pride and twirled beneath the Latin stage.

I spun and spun others and hooked arms and stepped to salsa and Cumbia. That’s when my darling Pisces dove brought you over to me. My age, blemish-less brown Latin skin, a wavy fohawk and your septum pierced. At first, I ignored you. I’d had a bottle of gin and some Jim bean. I wanted to dance. But you were there, serendipitously placed, when we flocked to sheila e’s stage too, and we brought you with us to our car for cigarettes and green dirty dancers.

You wanted to know about our sun and moon signs, and you said you were a Taurus sun Pisces moon. Serendipity strikes again. I told him that I was an astrologer and we spun a web of glamour and science and silk. We talked about our fathers. He told me that he works for non-profits, advocating for the Latin minority. We sang “Ex-Factor” together, he sang the adlibs. He was hugging me a lot, looking into my eyes. Drawing me closer.

He could intuit my sensitivity for my friends, for strangers, for reckless driving. He repeatedly told me to relax, and to keep talking to him. We talked about God, racial discrimination, and prophetic dreams. He laughed when I was comically crass and held me when I let myself be true and innocent. I was being that more and more, which meant more hugs. I was thanking Source in my thoughts and smiling at you. I sung you J*DaVeY.

You took us to a bar, my first bear bar, with black light art on the walls, ornaments hanging from the ceiling, and really generous bartenders. You talked about fighting for minority rights in a corporate non-profit sphere and being fired. You talked about the day yer dad called you a “joto” and how you wore the name proudly. And the time when you protected your sister by punching a drunk while hailing a cab.

I said he was one of the bravest men that I knew. He didn’t believe me, saying it was what it meant to be alive . . but you said it with your hand on my theigh. In the car we held hands. We talked about Sailor Moon, Mighty Max, destiny and potlucks. I taught him some numerology too. He wanted to see us again . . but I let you go without your number, and now I can’t find you on Facebook. My heart bleeds, and yet, you were exactly what I needed, the perfect omen that Source is with me. I will find you, Pisces moon. And I’ll write you beautiful letters, and let you read my prolouge.

I’m going to tell you something important. Grown-ups don’t look like grown-ups on the inside either. Outside, they’re big and thoughtless and they always know what they’re doing. Inside, they look just like they always have. Like they did when they were your age. The truth is, there aren’t any grown-ups. Not one, in the whole wide world.
Neil Gaiman, The Ocean at the End of the Lane (via elige)
Coastal-postin’.

Coastal-postin’.

“If then you do not make yourself equal to God, you cannot apprehend God; for like is known by like.
Leap clear of all that is corporeal, and make yourself grown to a like expanse with that greatness which is beyond all measure; rise above all time and become eternal; then you will apprehend God. Think that for you too nothing is impossible; deem that you too are immortal, and that you are able to grasp all things in your thought, to know every craft and science; find your home in the haunts of every living creature; make yourself higher than all heights and lower than all depths; bring together in yourself all opposites of quality, heat and cold, dryness and fluidity; think that you are everywhere at once, on land, at sea, in heaven; think that you are not yet begotten, that you are in the womb, that you are young, that you are old, that you have died, that you are in the world beyond the grave; grasp in your thought all of this at once, all times and places, all substances and qualities and magnitudes together; then you can apprehend God.

But if you shut up your soul in your body, and abase yourself, and say “I know nothing, I can do nothing; I am afraid of earth and sea, I cannot mount to heaven; I know not what I was, nor what I shall be,” then what have you to do with God?” 

― 
Hermes Trismegistus

Thought #1

We like to wear the same clothes on the same days, and once a week we wear flannel button-downs and watch sci-fi movies, but only the really spiritual and informative ones. We’re writing a story together with two lead protangonists that resemble us. He takes me to resturants to eat Thai food and everyone stares at us. We are okay.

We plan appearances and then cancel them together, preferring to stay home and lay about. We can simply lay and whisper to each other. In our space, we throw blankets and pillows on the floor and tell each other secrets. We began the game with only a few secrets, but we realized that we could spend days remembering private moments . . When we were ashamed . . When our teachers embarrassed us . . When we felt alone . . Who we liked . . Who broke our hearts . . Times where we felt like God . . Times when we felt lost . . When we cried . . When we felt in harmony with all of the universe . .

We are cuddly and giggly. We look at each other when we travel around rooms. One looks and the other is smirking, waiting. Or we see each other at the same time and snicker. We stand up and sit down at the same time. We do things at the same time. We do things after discussing it in our heads. We read each other’s minds and spend quiet evenings under the moon, listening to music in the car because it has the best speakers.

We go on adventures. We feel it when it comes. We go far away. We hug each other. We dance and sing together. It makes us so happy. It gives us so much energy. We chase each other. We are at the beach. He is trying to tickle me. We lay in the sand. We whisper secrets about when we first met, how we struck each other dumb. We became one so fast. We are like one thing. We move together between places and between times and ideas. We are together always. We are easy.

We are laughing. We are laughing with tears. We are feeling our hearts spin open. We make each other vibrate. We can find each other. We move together. We dance similarly. We fit. We are easy. We’ve known each other always. The future is oneness.

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 . .