This side of death is proving to be quite a whirlwind, grooving somewhere between points A and B, the music is getting deeper, sexier, like dancing to Marques Wyatt on a floor with the perfect amount of slide. People have been thanking me for coming to the party, a party I had no hand in throwing mind you, it tickles me and all I can do is embrace and breathe heart fuzz tingle. 

It's no mistake who I have become thus far. An expanded version of the freckled 9-year-old, sitting in Social Studies staring curiously into the large pull-down map (the proper one too, not the arrogantly American-centered one.) Eyes calculating borders and lines while wondering what people do in pink China and orange Angola and how many Fiji's fit into Finland.

Fellow gypsy mystic junkies, Gabriella and Dune, blow through Miami on a little love layover. Howling, wine-soaked tales of our defying.death.grateful.to.be.alive! existences - living 'wow' instead of 'how' - time and distance existing deliciously different for this trio, with an elasticity undetected by everyday cubicle types. Travel springboards to real-time practice of the ever-oscillating, fuck up/succeed point, where design and resign tango skillfully as opposition in balance on this tantric tightrope, complete with it's physical and psychic tattoos.

Semi-inebriated intersecting allows us to fling open cosmic closet doors and plot like chess champions. Gabriella is wearing a new name, Mayana, perhaps to activate the illusional, mysterious, shape-shifting property of Self. Expanding her inner world as outer world continuously unfolds. Love is the cliff we hang from, one finger peeling away at a time, until screaming YES while falling through puffy clouds. The question is how tight are we holding? Why so badly need to see the bottom first before letting go? 

Step into the fire of Self, 
imagine yourself as torch 
in the cave of your love

you are that
being influenced by that 
and also influencing that..

love as drishti 
look without eyes 
seeking the obscure
awaiting what arises from the
churning origin 
as a skin cell birthing 
old ones dying off 


we never see the former 
shape of self
the collective slough 
a dandelion blown apart
by wind
to spread its seed