[How tiring to be weaving wings from the feathers of freedom while grinding the ground out from under my feet with the shovel of shame]

The dream was an overwhelming consensus (thriving, even, within the head) of Seba stood and stared at the uppermost top hat as the windmills spun with some volition beyond his eye's comprehension. The patterns of colors flashing above the smokestack black of each hat's flat top whirled with the wisdom only color can lend to some thing in formation. He sunk so low into the poem of colors that he missed the first part of whatever the third top hat's mouth was ending with "and damn divinity for creating in us the imaginings of perfection while being bound by our faults from calling it forth."

So here we have our intrepid adventurer admiring him's elf in the mirror of the mind. Abstracting the void into shapes or devouring the frantic becomings that arch out of the fathomless deep beginnings disguised as antipathy to our fragile fleshy kind. He's not devious, even if the faces he is practicing blend into danger where his eyes' receivers mesh with the emotional mechanism - down there be a squeltering admission of faith in the process. All the emotive clusters of twinges and tickles bellow the same deep breath - 'Tantilize us!" No matter the defeats his ego has clamored away as memories to rot into food for angels assigned to clean up after our haphazard paths plowed thru this glorious creation. They are barred from all but watching and singing some.

Seba's more aware of his emotions than most bipeds, but he's still attached to naming them, like pets or any type of color, forgetting even the dismal shreds of boundaries all such labels apply upon things that then are rooted in time, say, or space. The space of his heart doesn't often remind him of his head, though the reverse is often the case; until his heart finds space among all the straws grasped and piled to breathe between. Hollering in thumps it can easily drive awareness to the outer body, by raising temperatures and squeezing the lungs with a tightness least often found lying around after sex or, more likely, in the cracked open vein of a secret. That is what is rising in Seba's mystery - the intuition of what time has seen fit to obscure until what will soon be now. The dreams are all jumping towards the sky in the hopes that the sun's warmth will take them up to leave him cooler.

This world holds a thousand fascinations such as one extreme making a calm way for its spectrum's specter, its opposition in force or freedom, the unmaking is never undone. Seba's cloak of wishes sewn from a thousand mid-day desperate decisions only warms him with enough hope that the world will drift apart with nary a squeal, only serve to weigh him down long enough to walk, but such disparate desires never really carry one in a particular direction so much as draw out the deepest farces of emotion. The emotions tinged with fright are often found rising to the top because of these antiquated flesh sacs' need to keep in functioning order and the flavor of fear being so bitter as to drive action up from the marrow. Looking about him he's seeing how the whole of the world shatters whenever he blinks but there's no clue as to how existence is re-crafted with as much speed as it takes his mind to sharpen the colors of his eye back into shapes its grown comfortable operating among. Such dilemmas have brought Seba to the brink of laying down for a breather but even his practiced breath holds only onto the relative shallows of the deepest pocket inside his core - which is barely keeping afloat as an outlying orbital around the truer, centerer, center.

"Love fits in here" the airs whisper as if pointing, but look where he may the flatness of gravity still seems to keep even the roundest surfaces without love-shaped holes that it seems all of everything burrows towards the sun in search of filling. Seba plugs his ears to better taste the air's waste and let some fashion of electricity pass between his ears. Not knowing how his hands become encharged with the very pulse of the universe has yet to stop beings from harnessing the divinest forms of form or is it energies of energy?

None can be unsure of anything enough to really divest the soul from its previous struggles. Yet we try to remember our past as if it were a part of our future though where, in the dankest slices of self, can the last thing you were hold forth without its meaning being churned by the ever-nowing spin of one's perspective moving into the eternal horizon? Here on the cusp of everything the distances fall away creating space for an entire being to unfold all its corners of self-assumed functions, everything from draining the life from nutrimentations to the vanities every glance implants in a mirror. There's nothing different within us from anywhere else, so long as you can step back from your own head long enough to circumnavigate the currents fed from the well-spring into anything that you have yet to be in this world among each of us. The divinity we so desperately wish to touch us is beyond our grasp because it arises from within each of us. And for some damned reason inversion of the emotions may be played, but inversion of the self takes so much of a lifetime as to render the practice of anything else moot with the decay time wafts behind like an odor but even sharper in the skin than the nostrils.

Seba's lungs were never up to the task of breathing in life, which makes it handy his body can run on oxygen clustered among nitrogen. It never has been death that woke fear but often the fear of time itself and its deliberate wiggling in between each and every portion of the world he has come to move his head around or his heart towards. But the rules of this world bear little resemblance to the ideals (for calling them ideas carries not enough emphasis upon their innate desire to occur which fills Seba's head as he thoughtfully welcomes them) he would have arranged a life such as this around.

Having awoken with such distances between all the happinesses he had known and where he finds his noggin often spinning our explorer into the cyclone of the past spent in futilities, intuition is tried and he charges his guts with treason. Intuition doesn't exist in the past so much as gets blamed or congratulated as the present. So to attach his head back on right this morning, after it rolled through the valley of dreams, requires aiming it in a different direction - a direction of unexpectationalism where the past has no bearing on this next future but serves as iconic portraits his brain has painted in its best attempts to digest the times he's made it through and to better able him to share him's elf with all the others' elves wandering among what are called sunbeams, but desire to be known as God.

Looking with this new headirection with nothing but him's elf to see in the world he explodes in the realization that God felt the same way in order to begin the universe: to have company! The worlds forms and functions viewed under this light reveal entire dimensions that are unsealable without the soul's recognition of purpose beyond it's elf. "There's nothing here but mes" he's yelling off the balcony at a street waddling to and from. Heads turn, undoubtedly, to scoop up some particle of perspective on this occurrence so as to better report it to whomever will listen over the next coffee; but Seba is not able to see such actions partitioned among fleshes because it is the very colors re- flected and -fracted from beyond everything as color as touched and fed by the sun's proximate light.

Masks of Mine

Today I woke depressed. My meditation was shot full of holes of thought demanding my attention louder and with strength such that the silence in my core was adulterated by worries and wonders. Each morning of four months now, I've sat with my's elf in the company of my breath, and maybe a friend or two - ipod & Mindfold. We go looking for the deepest recesses, or at least they seem deep as are covered by the thickest wafts of thought taking often a hundred words, images or feelings (its so hard to distinguish things nowadays) to run their course so that I can glimpse the more lasting self who always is pleased at my return and does very little to 'help' me plan or try to entertain me during my stay. There is very little I can say about myself at this point as my's elves are so often chattering about their's elves as to make heads or tails out of silence.

Layer after layer. Peel enough away and you will either find truth or nothing - can't be ever too suspectful as to know what lies behind the junctions next face - or fear. We all are defined somehows. And here I am, more real than the storyful descriptions I cast about as my shadows falling through the worlds of these pages as if my inverting into my's elf could create some personalized black hole with which to recondense all these intrusions into the fabric of matter we all share and wrap my's elf tight ever tighter into a singularized coccoon to demand of existence the expansive birth that the cosmos at large purveyed into every one of our souls all at the same before time and with each of us in mind such that the whole of me could be the same as the parts of the surroundings that each of me might mistake as some thing or some other.

And here I am still feeling insaner in this life where I have no real desire other than what comes floating past me as the deitrus of surprise or the mangled dreams that I have seen fit to carry with me thus far but without the continuing, or true, desire to unfurl for all the world. Often I can be in honesty by saying that I care not for this life or world and my dreams are to not have been born in the first place or to have the sweetness of death give my soul release from this damnable body I must look after and feel at all angles and all hours. The surges in my chest are wonders: does God not wish, at any time(lessness), to have thought twice about this infinite eternity of being around one's self posing as others?

Toned down for mortal consumption

I just can't do it. The thoughts come so fast that I have been guzzling beer in an attempt to slow things down, but the practiced tolerance of drinking for 2008 (for honest, I have averaged, AVERAGED, 7 alcoholic drinks per day - I can drink two bottles of wine and then wake up and do it again the next day, hangovers are non-existant and somehow I can still eat one full meal throughout the day, keeping my weight at the sultry 125lbs.) has left my attempts flat on the brain lag and too expensive to continue without more income.

So the last couple of days, playing The Financier have left me face to face with the fear that i have wasted the last 8 years of my life trying to learn the game that rules the world; and now that I have no upward option but to get back into finance and accounting and making money from numbers; I can see the future: it involves me drooling in a straight jacket. Have you seen the movie Quill? All I want is ink and a pen. All I have is a calculator and a new haircut.

The desire of my soul is to dive into psychology. The bent of my mind is to think of philosophy. But the skill of my training is the opposite of these.

I thought I could reconcile all opposites in myself by playing along with them but have found I am only human, though I don't seem to have a human mind, for it dreams of things that are not in this world. How can I have ideas that are not compatible with the present situation of the world? Do the dreams that drive me mad tumble into the psychic compost for more determined minds to grow from? Is my role that of the pioneer and then to be forgotten? What do I care if it is? I won't be making it out of here alive, be it in a coffin or legends, its death all the way down.

I don't want to reproduce because I could never give possibility to these sorts of pains in the heart and head. I have seen that most people admire my ability to think, but can I tell you what a curse it is? This seeing the extremes of all these worlds that make up our variance; this obsession to explain the feelings that posess this damned body of mine. And the knowledge that there are things worth this pain and rewards worth the troubles, but from this troubled mindstate, I can easily discard them to make room for more of the sharpest feelings that I know, those of the extremest of extremes. Sometimes a loving hug draws me, but in truth its no more interesting to me (although to my biology is another story entirely) than a funny tv show...so says the downside.

How i've tried to speak with professional mind-explainers and verify that I am human, but to my chagrin i know more about the mind than those who have received papers saying they know more about the mind. Its not like I am a genius because I don't know how to apply all these marvelous thoughts I live for, but there is undoubtedly some intelligence that is beyond the normal, or at least, habitual, human comprehension - leaving me to rot under the glory of my imaginings.

(I will likely regret posting this later, but its not stopping me...)

Chinwig

The fourth (unsolicited) chinwig grab occurred last night. El Capitan and I are in an Irish bar finishing the night off early with a last beer. He is Mindfolding the patio while I am looking over the terrace feeling the friday night's pregnancy of revelry readying to explode like streamers into the dark night. The neons colors and overlapping of loud musics thickening the air. I am caught up and floating more than standing, until a short frenchman speaking english that I am not listening to has breached our night. He's trying to cheers us, El Capitan makes a deft move of raising his glass within millimeters of a perfect, mug-centered clink with the man's. Now he is turning his fragmented attention to my distance and pulls me back into my body with harsh sounds, which I find to be him speaking to me when I turn to give him an empty look.

He tries to raise his glass to me, but I am more interested in the distance between things right now, than bringing them together. So I turn away from this intrusion. He doesn't understand or thinks I am being funny, but I speak not a word and turn back to the night that has swelled more in my absence. He's trying again and I am wasting valuable thoughtspace ignoring him so I turn again to say No, when he grabs the chinwig and gives me a swift waggle.

That settles it, I hold up my mug to his lowered glass of some sort of liquor and cocacola drink on ice. This makes it simple to clink my glass at a higher angle than his and pour a good dollop of my beer into his drink. In his condition there was no way for his eyes to reach all the way down to his hands to catch this so we both turn away happy.

I go back to staring at the sky above the city and hear it calling me to dreams. We leave our beers unfinished and head back to the room.

Seriously, what is with this? Four men have waggled me by my chin in the last month.
(How can I get the ladies to join in?)

Into the Fold

Once at Shooters I seemed to have stepped into a voidhole and fell into myself. Deepression and ignoring everybody all night except to order a drink or two. Even when folks were referencing me or speaking to me directly I was ignoring. I was feeling not thrilled being in Quito after the idyllic Mindo, but after a couple of hours of this deep silence something clicked in the back of my head or somewhere near the back of the head and I decided to move into interaction.

Just a bit ago when I was writing the outcome of the JW Marriot escapade at the bar here, one of the patrons tried to speak with me as I was writing. I ignored the words because my head is already full of them and that's why i'm writing can't you see that? So I got to the end and the click and I said,
"thank you for your patience, Atlanta and No."
Like I said I had gotten to the end of writing at that moment but faked it a bit more to let her mull it over. Yeah, I'm a player, but its an entirely different game i'm into.
"Wait, oh, let's see...where are you from and, wait, no hmmm. I can't remember the second question."
"I set down my pen, removed my glasses and was rubbing the bridge of my nose..."
"Uhm" she's had many beers at this beyond midnight point "oh yeah, are you tired?"
"Correct." And I pull the Mindfold down from my bandanna over my eyes.

The world shrinks as the majority of my sensory intake is reduced to a vast black (with the rare faulty pinprick of light from the nose area that needs to be revisited by the manufacturer; might just have to buy the whole company to fix this issue) not a complete eradication, mind you, for when the eyes are open within the fold they are still active and the brain portals they feed are still open accepting the darkness as if it were the picture of the world currently surrounding the mind. The initial urge is to fall into this security and act upon it as if it were truthed. But in this instance the dispellation of such comfort was in the shape of a crowd's roar at something I mentally picturated as a whisp of draft by my cheek that did make me reflexively jerk my neck and head back a half an inch.
"The bartender's sister just tried to kiss you." El Capitan is chuckling and probably rolling that 50 centavo piece across his knuckles while standing behind the bar.

I sat on this for a moment trying to imagine why the initial gambit into this Mindfold was for a stunningly gorgeous girl to sneakify me in such an abrupt manner. We certainly have not exchanged any meaningful words across the language barrier; now you can see why my theory of how stunning I look in this attire is brewing! So I realize I need to play this one cool and I turn to the asker of drunken smalltalk questions, and say "can you tell her to try again?" I sit back with a lilt to my head and stroke my chinwig. She starts "por favor," and I jump in both hands on the bar "I didn't say please" and flash that looney smile that I can't hold back at times. If they are going to be introduced to the Mindfold I ought to make sure its memoric. Too many beers girl swings her voice hole towards my unseeing sound receptors and I focus in on her head which says "it doesn't translate without the Please." I could care less, I've made the ruckus, now I settle into listening for silent movements and am rousing laughters with my dodgings that most times were for nothing, surely not kisses.

The girls of the bar enjoyed this and similar sillinesses narrated by El Capitan's experienced Seership over the situation. So much so that they invited us to go dancing. Which is when the following Mindfolded recordation of the conversation on the previous page of my journal captured the hilarity of the night's merciless pouring of darkness into the Mindfolded open to receive such nonlumination. The next day the sightless writing was easy enough to make out because it took up the whole page.
"Wanna go dancing with us?"
"I didn't even go dancing with my wife."
"You have a wife?"
"Not anymore, I wouldn't go dancing with her."

For pete's sake, its Reggaetone. Have you ever had to listen to that schlop?