Falling and flailing, it seems wildly, but, in fact its what we’re programmed to do when we’re falling. I can feel the jet streams taking me, not unlike a leaf. I was in the clouds, but now I’m falling and the mantra in my head: trust the ground. This happens every time I’m falling like this. And just when it feels like I’ll be falling forever the ground reaches out and takes me from the air. Like getting smacked in the back of the head. I am absorbed into her, I am her, and then filtered through her. This is when the ground becomes the clouds and I’m dangling with my head in my new set of clouds, waiting to fall again.

Joe Campbell

I had a dream I was walking with Joseph Campbell, down the city street, he said something to me, which now in the foggy remains of memory is only muddled with incoherence (because it wasn’t important). We continued walking, saying nothing. Building construction clangs and the workers clamor. I thought (in my dream) here I am walking with the preeminent mythologist and philosopher of our time, and we walk in silence, what’s wrong with me?

Nothing, it turns out, silence is transmission and images say more than words. He was much taller than me, same with the buildings under construction. The noise drowned out any words I might speak. And the occasion had me feeling small and reduced; insignificant.

And then I wake up, and forget what it was all about (determined to do it all over again). Energy rising, like the distant train rumbling through my chest and reverberating through bone and aura.

Yips and Slips

While you slip into sleep the dog yips, from dreams he dreams halfway across the room. Spiders spill out your ears. While you half-think the dreams your dog dreams, he yips and you slip.

After reading Takashi Hiraide’s For the Fighting Spirit of the Walnut… and dozing in the afternoon heat.


I awoke from a nightmare. Though, it wasn’t the images which disturbed me, it was the resonance of this simple thought, this mantra, repeating:

I’m always writing,

always written.

Always writing, always written. I’m always writing, always written. Always writing, always written.

i’m on the other side—
by the light
that once
illuminated my

I’m always writing, always written. Always writing, always written. Always writing, always written…

Thug Raid at 4 a.m.

The raid happened swiftly. Under the cover of night where the moans and groans would be a little softer and the insolence suppressed by the tremor of wakefulness. RV’s lined the street sandwiched between an industrial park and rail yard. The police ushered all the campers out of their RV’s, took their names, or whatever form of identification they could get, and politely told the squatters they’d need to find somewhere else to go. A young loner gets escorted while he wails about his plight. The cops turn up some opioids from his den. If they couldn’t move their vehicles the city would have them impounded. By then the grumblings and the protestations of the campers were drowned out by the big rigs hauling in the bollards, tow trucks arriving, and the crew setting up floodlights.

By early morning city sponsored trash bags filled with things, which were already once discarded, then picked up with a hope for some future purpose, fill the empty space behind the concrete bollards. A tent had popped up sometime in the hours between and a social worker would be onsite by mid afternoon. Amidst the emptiness in the air is the sense that perhaps all of this amounts to only the amassing of things. Regardless of social status, the only thing we can all be said to be doing is collecting for some greater future.