Friday, December 13, 2013


My footsteps echoed instead down neighborhood streets, my breath materializing beneath the thin lit night. It wasn't love but an opportunity for a warm winter. And I was rather gone in the unknown.

The other morning there was this beautiful preface, one of those tiny intro paragraphs starting the story one way, only to unexpectedly change humorously. It was about a young man and the world of love and how the immeasurable swell opens up previously overlooked doorways and larger, larger, expands everything that is known so much so that a brilliant evolution occurs. Then, however, it was with much dismay that this same young man's time in that spectacular world was about to conclude. And he was to begin.

I was reading the Brothers Karamazov when my own trio was thrown into disarray with a crime. I'd never encountered a re-questioning of trust prior, but its happened and now I know why it leaves people in such disarray. Reality, you learn, is prone to illusion. But I'm not talking about illusion in that grand metaphysical sense that lights two people up when they can relate similar terms about the spiritual and invisible together. I'm talking about the day to day, year to year, slow-drawn illusion where trusted notions are not black and white by any means but where, with time and our own wishes, we can still be utterly, vacantly, polarized and then fooled. The act is not the magician's alone, but belonging equally to those with present attention and hope.

What I mean to say, is that I've been walking. The soles of my Converse are tearing from the rest of their shoe, almost like an acknowledgement that they belong to the street. I have been alone more than anyone I don't know. I walk and observe these little bundles of marvel apporating in the scenery and in myself. Then I either let them go or figure out how to share them in some tangible metaphor but a lot gets lost in the initial process and then even further disappears in the attempt to actually bring it to another. Occasionally, I can sprinkle the gold dust of the experience to where it lights up again. And I live for these occasions.

But Venice is getting ruined like San Francisco and every time they call it Silicon Beach I want to blow up the world and I am a hypocrite because I use Gmail and this very stupid blog is of that service and eventually if given the opportunity I would live in something contemporary in these neighborhoods but not because of any boutique or industry but because I put my ear to this place and listen and climb the coral tree late at night and detect the subtle changes in atmosphere and pick up trash from the beach every morning and it's really, what it really is, is that it's different because I have had and lost and had and lost and when you lose enough of your life living in a place you tend to take an ownership of the location because it's the place that cradles you, it's the place that communicates with you when no one else will or when no one else knows to and it can happen quick or through time but it can happen and then you know yourself in a distinct way and you are someone who can not be mapped or bought or written about and you can call yourself home.

*Apporation is a mystic skill used to summon an object vocally, as it disappears and reappears in hand. Harry Potter Wiki