soul magma

(via fuckyeahpaganism)

This morning everyone else was still asleep and I awakened at six forty seven with some sort of fear inside me as to what to expect from this particular anniversary. It was raining and that soft green muted under the drizzles of cool falling from above. I decided to go to the beach, that is one mile away from me and which I have been to maybe a dozen times since moving here.

Everything there was quiet and as soon as I stepped from the car I took that deep nasal inhale, to feel the salt on the roof of my mouth, the flavors of ocean and wondered absently if this is what cunnilingus tastes like. The breeze is more persistent over the water and I moved towards it with my head bowed against the now sharp flecks of water smattering me from the heaven, scanning the ground beneath me for stones which are turned, and tumbled and made smooth with the washings and pushes and pulls of the mother scrubbing them, where we all came from. I walked all the way to the edge and left just my toes where gray water crashed and saw in the distance, the curvature of sand keening towards,  being pulled towards the sea, and watched as someone else far away but visible sailed, a small speck of knowing they were there, having their own wrestling match with nature. I tried to listen. Just seagulls cawwing and shhhhhushhhhhhhing curls of foam tumbling steadily, sandpipers that ran along of the edge of the tide, pecking with fecklessness for anything that might provide nourishment, and i turned from the sea to walk back uphill and towards my car, when a stream of the sea stopped me and I stooped. 

It wasn’t a tide pool so much as a tide river and within it were so many stones again smoothed by the sea, but also a few shells I’d wondered when I was going to see, still tiny and apparently occupied. I picked one up and turned it over to see the undulations of some sort of sea snail in a state of WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING RIGHT NOW so I returned it to the tide river, and looked from those tiny living things that live because that is what there is to do, is be alive, and to my left where the sea-stream widened, and a gull dropped into the water, hunting, and a sandpiper picked up and choked down some tiny piece of evolution, and further still the sea expanded and beyond that the ocean, and then the world, and just in front of me were only these tiny sea snails in pretty little shells and i lay just the tips of my hand into the water and breathed, and waited for a second, then walked back to my car, and came home. 

me irl

(Source: vintagemickeymouse, via sweetdeltablues)

explore-blog:

The little-known art of beloved physicist Richard Feynman, born on May 11, 1918.

(Source: )

(Source: togifs)

There is was who you were, who you are, and who you may become. And that is all.. You can live for the full and die for the fall; you can forget walking tall and carrying a big stick, because the gist of it all is how you see fit to move like you are called to be as cleansing as the sea, as bright as the light on the foam, the mist on the loam and as wet as the moan of a hungery beast ready to feast; as cold as the ice on the field, and as full of burn as it takes to discern how to turn glass to Hawaii … I defy that I don’t swim around you and confound you and collude with the very part of you that wishes to be true, that quietest whisper dripping with plea, ” remember me?” I’m here to splash you in the face, to stew with friends; to make the day more tolerable, more keeping in time with the turn of the clock, the shine on the rock in the stream … Of the dream you had … Before I woke you up

I love you more than Kool Aid loves Red.
I love you more than Emos love Dead.

I love you more than chickens love corn.
I love you more than e-nerds love porn.

I love you more than Pens love Ink.
I love you more than Socrates thinks.

I love you more than Obama loves Change.
I love you more than the playa loves Strange.

I love you more than Grenadine loves Sprite.
I love you more than the stars love the Night.

I love you more than children love bubbles.
I love you more than teenagers love trouble.

I love you more than a bullet loves guns.
I love you more than Cyndi Lauper loves Fun.

I love you more than Bowie loves Fame.
I love you more than the first time I came.

I love you more than the sky loves the clouds.
I love you more than speakers love loud.

I love you more than sunshine loves daisies.
I love you more than Haldol loves crazies.

I love you more than Asians love rice.
I love you more than Vegas loves Vice.

I love you more than Doms love Leather.
I love you more than old folks love weather…

I cannot tell you, I am sure
All I know is I love you more. 

<3

I am the ignition
I am the spark
that starts 
the motor of your mind,
what you find in
the whistle of the tune in the trees, 
in the bees’ knees….
And the hum in your throat
and the reason hope floats
and the exchange 
across your cell membranes
I’m air; do you dare
to exist without me
to doubt the need of me and
the patient gulping greedily
at their last chance with me?
I’m the chill of the winter,
the gloom of December
and the warmth and the rush
of August’s flush
and the tide of the scent
of Spring
and things meant to be.
You forgot you needed
the breezes,
the laughter of a child
the skies run wild,
the leaf lollygagging 
on the sagging boughs of Autumn…
I can leave you numb.
I can warm your heart and your hearth 
and eviscerate,
And carry the messages of Hate
and Love and shove you into 
being alive and thriving.
When you are sighing, you are with me.
And my purpose is to share, without care
Love from above,

Air

All of anything tangible, including ourselves, is the emptiness within spinning electrons,and the quantity of energy created within each atomic structure. The magic, or divinity, is in both the emptiness of space comprising the real tactile objects in the world, and whatever tipping point throws those electrons into motion.

So this is also true that because what we think is firm and solid around us is truly a quivering bundle of molecular nothingness, then so are we nothing. Being that all is nothing, then it holds true that being nothing is being everything as well. If then, emptiness is everything, then spirituality is the magic, it is the underground entangled roots that we each thrust into the universe, and by which we are all connected to one another. We all share this singular thread, and whether the faith is in the certainty of atomic physics, or in the sacrifices of millenia old martyrs, or in the comfort in rites performed from the dawn of time to celebrate the turn of the wheel, or even yes, even the belief that there is No Greater Thing, even that is an expression of what I know as connectivity of souls, both to all those I know, and all that I do not. It is also being connected to the earth and wind in the wisteria, the limb of a branch of a tree, the lapping of the sea against a stretch of shore.

Yes. God is merely the //belief in// something, and therefore, in believing that what you sit upon, what you breath with, are all manifestations of the emptiness of space with the wild whirling of molecules and matter, then god is everything you know to be true for yourself. It is even, as someone once said, the atheist’s atheism, for that is what they believe in, and hold to for strength. 

So, you think you know Sorrow…
How bout you borrow the time
Of the daughter of mine
Wrestling with the tatters in her 7 year old world.
How bout quietly sitting and knitting
with your mother lying dying next to you,
with the best of you and your potential
Yellowing in her jaundiced stretched flesh,
Wilting like some forgotten novel in
The dustiest corner of the library of life.
So you think you know Strife?
You could put a knife between the
Mattresses of rest to cut in two
The blue, the cyan, the aquamarine
And make sense of this bizarre scene to
Enjoy the me. In you. 
And you in I.
And live your life.
And know you sigh, and people may lie
and mothers will die
But we return to the burn of the globe
in the sky
So you think. You know me
Hell, I don’t even know me,
I don’t know how to be 
what they say I’m supposed to
What I’ve proposed to
Achieve, except to bleed out my thoughts 
in black and white, if life had 
that strict a game book the nook 
would be easier to navigate and 
I couldn’t hate any single part of it.
And I can’t. It’s the directive from somewhere…
It’s my Perspective from there…
It is. What it is, and you just. Marinade in that,
Let your mind get fat with 
Loss. And Gain.
And Hope and pain and EHVEREE THANG…
That’s all we have, all we are, all we will ever be.
How we perceive.