No Ragrets

Carpe Dium.  Better to do, then ask for forgiveness, right? Burn that shit to the ground. Cram it all in there. Do all the things you want to do before you die, or else be doomed to be a boring failure who will look down from heaven and regret their boring, mediocre life decisions, right? You only live once! Be urgent. You will never have another chance to do everything ever. This is it, then you die, forever.

Wait, what?

YES- DO what you want to do, you're free (with repurcussions) 

YES- sometimes it's better to do and be like " oh shit, that was a mistake" than never knowing if it would have worked out. 

SAY YES to shit that will break you out of your comfort zone

DO what makes you happy

Life is a play. 

BUT-Fuck! NO! 

Don't ever feel bad about needing rest. 

Use discression sometimes when it comes to saying yes.

Everywhere else on earth besides where you are, there is something happening without you. 

Doing what you want sometimes includes doing nothing. 

There is no hurry.

My theory is that no, you don't only live once. 

Everything, and I mean everything, is experiencing its own reality all at once. 

Each of these individual things identify with being individual things. 

All at once.

 Not only is the all thingy one thingy out of many, it is many thingies out of one.

 There are multiple universes in which every possibility that can ever happen ever happens forever.

 You have a lot less control over that than you think. 

You are participating in THIS possibility. THIS story has you doing THIS. And THATS perfect. 

Don't WORRY. 

this has been my 2 cents. Now stop being dicks to eachother in the name of living life to the fullest. 

The Moment Is Forever Happened

     I'm practicing not viewing life as "before" and "after" a certain event. Using your past to define your self in the present doesn't work. Oh yes, people do it, a lot. But a lot of people are wrong about a lot of things. 

     

     For most of life, people go about being wrong about things. In fact, everything we know is most likely wrong. Some folks get super anxious about that. They start questioning the meaning of life and existence, and that's where they get into trouble. People try really really very hard to prove that wrong is right. And it IS right, without it having to prove anything at all. 

     I, by the way, fall into the category of "people".

     Three years ago, something happened that changed my view on life extraordinarily. Although it hasn't necessarily made me a happier person, I'd say it's an overall better outlook. Someone I spent hours of time with everyday and intimately knew accidentally took a stage dive into infinity from a 16 story window. Our collective story is quite the tale for another time, but it's strange to start a love story with the twist ending. 

     I was still going through the pain of splitting up with him, trying to get over him, remembering how he treated me in reality over what I'd like to see. I'd have his image stuck in my head as this character. And what a character he was. But I couldn't shake the fact that character isn't the only thing to look for in a partner.  

     But when I found out about his fall, my entire world spun on its head. Now, the character I was trying so hard to let go of, to slowly and smoothly ween out of my intimate life, was on every eyelash. Hearts were spilling open all around me. Shrines were erected to this monumental person that effected so many.... so many people. It was like my grief in which I had already come to terms with as a lover was now taken back out of the test tube and magnified by 10,000, and shared with the whole world. 

     I told myself guilt was a very silly thing to feel and immediately stopped. I wanted to use my grief for good, not evil. I suddenly felt more alive. I could see every color so much more. I could smell. I could hear every tone. My senses were heightened, and my emotions became a source of this new found amplification. I am still alive. How? How? Why does this make sense? It doesn't. Nothing makes sense. And thats perfect. Nothing makes any sense at all. I am free.

     I will never get over this guy. He will always be the magician I met in a park one day and fell madly in love with. I will always have the image burned into my heart of a bowler hatted man on a unicycle, silhouetted against the Santa Fe sunset. I will remember green eyes glimmering in the sunlight, simultaneously reaching out and pulling in the world. I'll remember running my hands through his thick, short black hair, tracing every dot on his freckled pale skin, running my hands over the raised ink in the form of a passion flower on his right arm. His pinstriped pants. His chipped front tooth. I loved him. I still love him. 

     He later came to me in a dream and told me memories don't matter. They disappear after you die. But the moment.... The moment is forever happened. It will never disappear. It will go on for eternity, existing just as it was (and as it wasn't), forever. 

     The Moment Is Forever Happened.

     Now I want to kiss the sky every time I see it flash. And I still get mad. I get mad that it makes no sense. I want answers. I want to figure it out. To not be wrong. 

     But we're all wrong, most of the time.

     

Whitesause and a Crawfish Named Mom

     I now have a room, a boyfriend, a cat, a banjo, 5 plants, internet, a job, acquaintances, air conditioning, and a pet crawfish named Mom.
     Mom was found by my roommates (lets call them Ding and Quoth) walking down Frenchman street on mother's day, alone amongst the guttermilk and feet tires. They rescued her, and Quoth filled a tupperware container half way with miracle grow potting soil and a bit of water, set some fake flowers on top and plopped Mom right in the black and murky water. The flowers sank. 

     Bork, later in the week, decided to buy Mom an aquarium. Now she lives in a 10 gallon tank with two feeder fish and a waterfall. She eats kale and tiny shrimp.
     Bork also boiled 70 lbs of the critters alive last night, in a huge pot with veggies including artichokes. There was also pineapple, frog legs, turkey necks, and a whole rabbit. We stood around a steaming mountain of moms and sucked out their brains for hours, then we returned home and dropped some more kale in the ten gallon tank.
 
 Morality works in mysterious ways.

oh yeah, and now my hair is pink. I think it was the crawfish that did it, I ate so much I'm like a flamingo.

Our cat is named Whitesauce. Its name may have once been Whitesox, but not anymore. Whitesauce Alfedo Roux is at your service. He lets me pet his belly, but I wouldn't introduce him to mom just yet.

Motorwasps

They zip through the concrete arteries
with their exoskeletons and muscle shirts.
Their buzz trails a millepede
of sirens behind them,
all blue and red and iridescent.
Don't let them fool you,
they're both carnivorous.
The chirp of streetwalker's
call and response...
the defensive prey,
they are always on the lookout
for something.

Work is a Noun.

Im tired. I tried. I have insouls in my shoes but no idea where my my shoes are in my soul. Where does the week begin? Does it start on monday, when the melancolic mobs miander their way to monotony? When the week was discovered, did it start it right away or did they wait a couple days to record their findings? How much money is an hour worth? Is it necessary to sell hours of life in trade for a better quality of living? These are the questions that put me to sleep at night. We've all been fighting this battle that seems to go on and on. We are priveleged and cursed with the choice to make what we love our means of survival. Yet, I am suspicious of this choice. I think it is an illusion. People are making things they think the world needs so they can provide a service that can only be used by people who are better at selling what the world doesn't need.
In other words:

"Suppose that, at a given moment, a certain number of people are engaged in the manufacture of pins. They make as many pins as the world needs, working (say) eight hours a day. Someone makes an invention by which the same number of men can make twice as many pins: pins are already so cheap that hardly any more will be bought at a lower price. In a sensible world, everybody concerned in the manufacturing of pins would take to working four hours instead of eight, and everything else would go on as before. But in the actual world this would be thought demoralizing. The men still work eight hours, there are too many pins, some employers go bankrupt, and half the men previously concerned in making pins are thrown out of work. There is, in the end, just as much leisure as on the other plan, but half the men are totally idle while half are still overworked. In this way, it is insured that the unavoidable leisure shall cause misery all round instead of being a universal source of happiness. Can anything more insane be imagined?"

-Bertrand Russtle, In Praise Of  Idleness, 1932

The goal is to trade those hours of life for something extremely worthwhile, and perhaps not even trade. Its not an exchange. It is all life. It is all action, there is no static time for time catch and release.

And on the other hand, there are infinite universes happening, with all of all possibility unfolding and you yourself are incapable of imagining every opportunity. Or ARE YOU? There is no possible way of missing out. Or IS THERE? More on this later... Ive got work at 7am tomorrow.