A Dark Delicious Revelation (A musing from the naked traffic cop who has since lost his fucking gourd)

A Dark Delicious Revelation (A musing from the naked traffic cop who has since lost his fucking gourd)

You. You are art.
Every line. Every shape. Every curve.
Brush strokes. Waves of acrylic. On canvasses.
Brushed lines of Graphite and Charcoal. On papyrus.
Soft. Full. Perspective.
Lush. Greens. Blues. Shades of Violet. In a darkened scope of color.
On a palette. Mixed. Concocted. Replenished.
Brought to life with drips of Cerulean Water.
The colors water would be if water was as it were in my wide lens.
You. You are all the shapes.
The hourglass. The pear. The rectangle. The apple.  The diamond.
Molded. To create you.

I wrote a poetry! (‘a’ poetry? …i’m keeping it) yay! I haven’t done that for, like, a long time. I actually discovered my (choiceless) creativity with poetry. Writing poems n shit. About women (mostly) and winter…and William Shakespeare (actually, yes, exactly those.

(when I write these things it usually take me a couple weeks to finish them…because I don’t force myself to finish it enough.) BUT ALL OF THIS WILL CHANGE

as I have just signed up for a FUCKEN POETRY MARATHON MUTHERFUCKER…seriously, I’m hard as fuh.
No, but seriously seriously, that’s a thing that is happening. 24 poems in 24 hours. I mean, one time I finished a drinking challenge of 78 drinks in 2 months…how hard could it be? It will definitely be the most interesting 24 hours, I think.

But ti’s (typo but I’m keeping it) exciting. Actually taking time off to create A SHIT TON of art. Every day I try to work on something, a painting, my underwhelming guitar skills, or ugh, my stories (the latter of the three, I will admit, I’ve been lacking in and I can hear my stories crying in the darkness) but this will be different, I have actually decided to devote time to creating instead of adding it to my daily habits of waking up too late and drinking too much coffee

SPEAKING OF DARKNESS, (segways are weird), Halloween season is right now, you’re in it, better get used to it because myself and my people, the other dark and delicious people are ecstatic because we get to be spooky, like, spookier than normal…(what even is spookier than normal…what even is NORMAL) but, like I said, speaking of darkness I have a thing to say on the subject, I haven’t had a lot to say lately, but witness me, if you will. I wrote this to myself sometime previously whence fully authenticating the reality of the darkness within me. It’s here, it’s mine. I’m better for it. Indulge me.

Dark v. Light

Without the dark there cannot be light.” (It is known Khaleesi)
Without the good there cannot be evil. (It is also known)

But, as I’ve discovered recently, the Shadow is not always evil. There are awful things (A LOT, actually) disguise themselves in the Light. I, myself, find comfort in the darkness (it might be my blue eyes but that’s irrelevant).

This is not to say that I revel in doing bad things to people; I don’t want to hurt people physically (most times), I don’t want to manipulate people, I don’t want to damage them emotionally. I choose not to bring about the destruction of one’s existence simply because I fuckin’ get off on it. I don’t. It’s not my style.
If a guy is chasing a girl down an alley whom he has just beaten, I’m going to lower my shoulder and take him to the ground, smack him around a bit, scream in his face and laugh maniacally (albeit mildly) as I wrap my hands around his throat (only so he’ll STop FUCKing SQUIRMing). Knowing that I have all the power and nearly every justified right to kill him.

And i truly believe that these thoughts (and actions, that actually happened) stem from a dark place. A dark place that I live, by myself, amongst the degenerates and the renegades (all my beautiful horror geeks and monsters. The freaks and creeps where, yes, depression is rampant, and it creeps in every so often, as the crushing sentiments of artistic self-doubt usually do [a necessary addition to life for the cultivation of art]), This same dark wood where fear clouds the darkened sky holds no sway over me. I live in this place but I do not live in fear and I do not find pleasure in hurting people or myself in any way, shape or form.
Every so often, a friend of mine or an acquaintance or someone whom I don’t even know will venture down, down…and down into the serene darkness where I live and keep my solitude. It will frighten them. I can see it, mostly in their eyes and feel it in their questions. I know this fear. I walk hand-in-hand with it.

This terrifies them because they don’t know where they are and they don’t know how to get out.

Death, Despair, and Terror, will rear their ugly, putrid heads and unhinge their snakelike jaws exposing angler teeth, squirming in the deepest part of the undiscovered abyss.

The things that live in the dark will close in to do them harm. But, if by chance, they see my blue light, it’s not bright, but in the dark it looks like an ocean of comfort. If they do, when they do…whether by chance, some premonition, some miracle, or their God and own Holy Spirit have seen fit to guide them to me.
I’ll be there.
I’m always there, in the dark, ready to do violence on the things that would cause the terrified harm (that last bit’s from a quote, I can’t take too much credit). My wolf teeth will be barred and the dark things shy away from me. Because they know I am worse than them. The dark wolfish thing outlined in intense blue is not to be trifled with.

I will be prepared to lead them out of the dark, or be with them in the darkness when it turns to blackness. Because darkness, I find, is good. Pitch blackness is not. That’s when people can’t see and start to panic. They don’t know which was is up when they lose their footing.

I wrote that a couple months ago, I think when I was coming to terms with my darkness. The year has in and of itself been something of a coming-of-age for this guy.

I mean, now I wear my kilt to work. I’m becoming who I’ve always been but have never had the wherewithal to discover.

I’m just like this now and I kinda fuckin’ dig it.

(As a side-note, the rest of the title is a reference to my solo piece that I performed recently at Midsummer Scream for a dark theater production called Urban Death. In this scene, before the lights fade in all the audience hears is traffic sounds (horns, cars driving by and the like, and my whistle. When the lights come up, they are presented with an extremely naked white dude where nothing but a yacht captain hat and a chrome whistle. I then proceed to dance and “direct traffic” as goofily as possible to raucous, uncomfortable laughter)

((pps. I loved every second of it))


Musings of a Psychedelic Inch-Worm Ch. 2 The Grid

Musings of a Psychedelic Inch-Worm Ch. 2 The Grid

Can you see it?” asked the Raven. “Can you see the grid, inch-worm?”
“I can!” replied the inch-worm, happily. “I can actually see it! I can see yours and I can see what it looks like to a person with my brain too!”

The Raven sighed as she looked up at the stars knowing that she finally had someone who saw what she saw. Someone she would have always.

Hello mah people! (a greeting I have adopted since accidentally mis-gendering a trans-boy [a girl transitioning to a boy] oops) It’s been a second, but I’ve been on a journey…or sorts. Well, like, actually maybe also literally too. Those drives man…palm springs is far…what a year, huh? Yo…it’s only May…

I find it positively laughable, albiet, unfortunate the amount of personalities that seem to connect for a fleeting of a second until one, the other, or both realize that it wants nothing to do AT ALL with the other. The rub, as it turns out, is being able to identify that this soul or that soul was brought into a life for a reason and should not be dwelt upon as one would fawn over a long-passed poor decision (a regret, to the layman). (On a parenthetically-theological note, I have trouble believing in a an all powerful entity, just as I’m struggling with my own concept of time and death and the meaning of it all. whotheactualfuck knows). The struggle with this belief does not negate the fact that I believe that things happen for a reason…and I have since discovered that reason…I’m fairly positive. (The Raven I speak of in the prologue has a much better grip on this side of reality than my abstract mind has patience for, for it was she that was first made aware of this concept).

The concept that I speak of is referred to as The Grid.

Cool thing is, this is an actual thing. It’s worth the research. I haven’t researched it entirely because, as it turns out,  it kinda has everything to do with the FUCKING ALGORITHM THAT HOLDS THE FABRIC OF THE UNIVERSE TOGETHER…numbers and shit. My Raven has discovered that she is exceptionally good with numbers. The science of things fascinates her. Which is fortunate because the art of things fascinates me. It’s not that one is more important or better than the other (there’s a children’s novel called The Phantom Tollbooth…read that shit) it’s that each of the two have to recognize that the universe is comprised of both and flourishes when both coexist.

I’ve tripped a couple times since the very first and each has been significant in its own rite. I’ve discovered that the two different psychedelics I’ve indulged in (‘fucked with’ as the kids might say) show me different parts of myself. Parts that I have come (and am still working with) to love. (Not really relevant to the point of the post, but stay with me)
The first time, (See Musings of a psychedelic inch-worm part one) my Raven experienced a different level of discovery than I did, and now, she sees it each time we trip. The most recent couple of times I’ve spent some time catching up but this last time, I actually SAW (like with my fuckin’ eyes) what it was that she was talking about the first time. A grid.

Like an actual, mathematical grid. Something the engineers would work with on paper. HOWEVER this grid (as far as I know) has two different forms. It is different to different mind-sets. IPSO FACTO (or whatthefuckever) there are two (2) kinds of people in the world (usually) NUMBERS people and WORDS people. This is not to say that there are only numbers and words in the world, the world (and the fuckin’ universe for that matter) is a myriad of beautiful things pieced together to create whatever this is that we’re living in. But what I’m saying is that there are people who have an affinity for creative part of life and people who have an affinity for the scientific part of life.

Traditionally (or as I’ve come to find [the fuck do I know])
Words = Emotional
Science = Logical

I’ve had a chance to think (as one is prone to do) and I’ve discovered that my above assertion is kinda actually true. Think about all the egotistical douchesnozzles that take offense to things a person says to them. I mean, you can’t really assault a person’s ego through quantum physics or even algebra for that matter (but you can give an English major an anxiety attack by telling him to pass a statistics test)
The point is, that yes, I feel the “WORDS” people have a tendency towards the emotional side and the “NUMBERS” people have a tendency towards the logical side. WHICH IS NOT TO SAY that either is confined to those ideals. My Raven is a numbers girl and she is one of the most empathetic people I know. Whereas, I have the ability to flip my empathy off (like a fuckin’ switch, it’s pretty nice, but also makes me feel like a crazy person sometimes.

The aftermath of the workings that my brain takes part in has led me to these revolutionary (embellished?) conclusions about myself and the world around me. Pretty awesome stuff. But, wait, what were we talking about? Oh, yeah, THE MUTHERFUCKIN ALGORITHM THAT HOLDS THE FABRIC OF THE UNIVERSE TOGETHER.
The Grid…as it were.
My Raven sees it. I see it. But only when my mind is amplified on psychedelics. My Raven actually has seen it after a trip (incredible if I do say) Her grid is perfect, perfect lines, up and down, left to right, proportionally immaculate, like something one could use to build shit.
My grid is, as recently discovered, like abstract brush strokes. Something like calligraphy, or if someone was painting the tranquil surface of the ocean.  As if one creator (Numbers) created something for the science people and another creator (or the same, who the fuck knows, but Words) created something for the artsy people. Both are needed. Both balance the fabric of the universe.
And both need to use their gifts to upload their discoveries, inventions, creations, theories ONTO the grid for others to tap into later. We need to. We don’t have a choice.

That’s what I got for you now,
Until the next time you fuckin’ Beautiful, Wild people


Pre-Pre Interlude-Interlude (I think it’s called an intermission)

Pre-Pre Interlude-Interlude (I think it’s called an intermission)

My beautiful fucking people. I’ve discovered something. Something that might change the muthafuckin’ ballgame. I’m going to launch a Patreon. Somewhere you can scope my stuff and somewhere I can get paid to keep making it. AND now somewhere I can send you my Art as a thank you for supporting my artistic endeavors.

If there is anything in this world I FUCKING hate…it’s money and asking people for it.
conversely (contrariwise)
If there is anything on this earth that I LOVE and will continue to LOVE and will keep loving until it kills me. It’s art. Muthafuckin’ art. Dancing, Music, Painting, Drawing, and Storytelling.

Which is why I am going to launch a Patreon. Combining the things I LOVE and HATE to create this weird balance of Light and Dark to support the only thing on this world I was put to do. Fuckin’ create shit. (There has been a disturbance in the force for some time now…a balance had been lost…and now was fuckin’ found…or whatthefuckever)

Creative people have been using this site for a few years now and have actually been able to support themselves through their art by doing so.

I’m planning for a slow start. BUT this will not deter me from putting my shit ON THE FUCKING GRID (that concept will be explored upon in the next post, btw, I just had to get this off my chest and make an announcement {Also also finishing a piece of writing [something I haven’t done for a minute] is very therapeutic, also within this exact realm…or whatever}
I think that’s it. This means I’ll be on Tweeter more (*some voice in the background* wait…wait, what? it’s it’s called tweet…tweet? Twitter? gawd that’s fuckin’ stupid) Twitter, excuse me, I’ll be tweeting on Twitter MEANING I’ll be using my twitter handle which is my stage/pen name…wait for it..
Killian C. Wolfe…how cool is that? I came up with it myself…mostly
Once I build my page thoroughly and completely, I will make anotheranother announcement. Put that muthahfuckin internet to work for me.

til then,
stay fuckin’ wild, beautiful people,

Musings of a Psychedelic Inch-Worm Ch. 1: The introduction to the mind of a Pisces on psychedelic mushrooms

Musings of a Psychedelic Inch-Worm Ch. 1: The introduction to the mind of a Pisces on psychedelic mushrooms

I LIIIIIIIVVVE…that’s a Mushu reference. Get it? Little dragon (cuz he doesn’t do that tongue thing), Eddie Murphy…Mulan?? CMON! I’ll make a man outta you? (the only Disney song that a metal version needs to be composed. Ever.) Know what? Don’t worry about it. It’s not important.

tell ya what is important. It’s extremely important that I attempt to communicate to you beautiful people my first ever trip on psychedelics.

Do I have your attention? excellent. (by the way “fish on psychedelic mushrooms = Pisces (me) indulging in opening my mind’s eye for the first time) cuz that’s exactly what the fuck it was.

Now, for those of you who haven’t X’ed out of your window in disgust, I will admit that I have experienced a revelation of sorts (as most drug induced realities are wont aid in) Almost everything that I was told about drugs was negative and toxic and only ever that they’re mind-alerting (yes), dirty (sometimes), disgusting (sometimes) pieces of expensive (yes) shit (not always) that will ruin your life upon indulging in them even once (neRP. no.)
I was also under my unfortunately impressionable mind’s impression that all the people ever to do/deal in/deal with/hang around/ think about drugs are not worth my time (muthafuckin’ LIES) LLIIIEEEEES. lies.

The truth that I have discovered is that (like ANY.FUCKING.THING) the individual should moderate their drugs and the usage of them to make that individual feel the things they feel. Everyone has their drug (don’t act like you don’t) and any thing can be a drug. Food. Sugar. Alcohol. Exercise. Gas Fumes. Meth. Heroine. Acid. Pharmaceuticals. Cocaine. Weed. I could go on. SEX. but I’m not gonna. PAIN. k I’m done. But do you see what I’m getting at? Some drugs, of course, (and not without a little over-exaggeration) are much more harmful than others, and I’m not saying that the continued usage of these drugs is healthy; (as with any fuckin’ drug) some even destroy lives.
What I’m getting at is that Open-mindedness is the key, my people. There’s more to say on it. There have been countless book written about the separate experiences (most likely while high as fuh) that certain drugs do for people. Read one. It’ll make you…
gawd forbid
…think…? (sh, the government is listening [you’ll have to catch me first mutherfuckers])

I’ll start, I suppose, as one does, at the beginning. And when I get to the end, I’ll stop. But only until the next time. Because, *sigh*, and I apologize to the people who would not advocate my experimental drug usage, but I will be doing this again. (author’s note: having written much more than anticipated and finally finished, I will warn you that the italicized narrations are meant to illustrate as close as humanly possible, the interactions in reality and in my mind that had happened, combining them into a story that I can only hope is easy to follow. My compliments and gratuitous appreciation to Mr. Lewis Carroll for having set this illustrious example)

The spiritual experience was far to fulfilling to limit to only once. Let’s being then, shall we…
Kava, from my exceedingly basic understanding, is a root that can be diluted in a tea and drunk in order to ease anxiety. A natural muscle relaxing agent. Something meant to ease one such as myself into his first trip. The root also doesa crackerjack job of igniting ones metabolism while simultaneously tasting like a pair of pitbull testicles (a flavor I’ve never sampled, but I can imagine tastes something like an ounce of vermouth mixed with stale pickle juice…shit’s nasty). A truly toxic tasting beverage with magical properties, both mouth numbing, and anxiety reducing. The two cups of kava were then followed by 2 cups of mushroom tea and half a shot of orange juice that had been infused with mushrooms in a way that our ‘guide’ (a very good friend who claims this sort of shamanic spirituality to be his religion) essentially wrung out the rest of our drugs into the juice that naturally has chemical properties that amplify the potency. All this combined with an 8 hour fast both nutritionally and sexually would equal something that I was prepared…but entirely not ready for.

5 minutes or 332 hours (whatthefuck is time?)  later, I was grabbing onto the counter-top of our other dear friend’s kitchen, either bracing for impact or trying to stay on my feet, my mind wasn’t sure all it knew to think was that I was “taking off” a sensation for all you non-druggo-peeps known as “the come up” (as opposed to “the come down” naturally).

My brain was swimming. A sensation I’m unfortunately quite familiar with, and consequently, a sensation I utterly detest. I cannot stand (in fact it makes me angry sometimes) when my equilibrium is offset, especially if the cause is drug induced (which I’m quite aware I have myself to blame, shut up). I promptly grabbed my notebook and pen  (having previously made the conclusion that I was going to document my trip, completely unaware that I would remember each kaleidoscopic moment) exclaiming that “This is stupid (and) I’m sitting in a corner.”

That advertisement was the last thing I wrote down amidst the laughter of my friends who were also on their come up before I realized that I didn’t want to hold anything, anymore…ever. And so I sat. In the corner of a little kitchen in a little apartment in Hollywood. Flanked either side by the cathartic 101 freeway and the beautiful, yet suspicious Scientology Celebrity Center. I sat and my mind swam deeper into itself.

[After a sabbatical, it’s incredible how vivid the experience still is]

One of my favorite people joined me on the floor of her kitchen. From my perspective, her beautiful face drooped and melted, then returned as she smiled. She told me to experience the lights.
I looked at her like I was crazy and put down my notebook. This, I realize only now, was an essential step to take. As I’ve said before, I do not enjoy being impaired by substances (a detail that my favorite girl had the wherewithal to point out). So realizing, and having the ability to finally let go, and allow my mind to swim was incredibly liberating. Liberating indeed.

(Colloquially) the “come up” I experienced was something akin to a rocket’s lift-off, through the atmosphere, into space. At the time I was unaware, but being completely aware now my personal “come up” was something closer to being shot into the water in a rocket propelled submarine. Shot airborne from a dry dock onto the stormy sheen of the ocean. Exploding through the waves and white-caps in a flurry of bubbles, and smooth friction that only the sensation of traveling underneath a body of water can provide.

A loss of gravity (or at least the sense of it). Down was up, left might have been right, and the only way I could think to maneuver myself was by slinking on the hardwood using my heels and butt like some kinda upright, psychedelic inch-worm.

(“isn’t it sad,” thought the inch-worm as he slunk about, “to have feet and have no desire to use them?”)

After which I had the clear, concise, and not-at-all nonsensical thought that I understood why people roll themselves in butter (…what? oh, as I’m tripping balls I STILL manage to make pop-culture references to myself about things that may or may not be widely known within the interwebal-hemispheres…)
(“but I get it!” thought the inch-worm, triumphantly. “I finally understand why people would wrap themselves in a sleeping bag, roll around in butter, and slide around the kitchen floor!” The inch-worm was so wrought with exuberance, that he, himself, slunk about jovially.) 

Turns out, I’m an asshole. (whothefuck knew?) On the back end of my ‘come-up’ I was not very nice to a couple of the more sober spectators of our party due to reasons not quite known to me other than the fact that I am, in fact, an asshole. I’m not going to ask for forgiveness but I will say considering the chemical reactions happening in my brain…the content of my outbursts was simply myself amplified.

(“is that her?” asked the inch-worm, concerned. “Yes, inch-worm,” replied the Voice. “is she crying?” “Yes, inch-worm, she is, but it’s a happy cry,” assured the Voice. “does she need me?” asked the inch-worm, not convinced. “No, inch-worm, she’ll be just fine,” replied the Voice, patiently. And something about that answer comforted the inch-worm, who then slunk back to his place in the corner to watch the shapes.)  

I didn’t quite know what to do with myself as my brain dove deeper into itself, so on the kitchen floor. I inverted my body, laying on the floor and crossing my legs to rest against the cupboards closest to the floor and contented myself to close my eyes. Geometrically perfect shapes and colors burst against the backs of my eyelids, each more pleasant than the last as I still dove deeper into the ocean of my mind. I understood almost immediately why some artists created the things they created…because, in short, they were tripping their faces off.

The only thing I wanted to do at that point was to explore the ocean inside my head. I was on the verge of of coming into my own, when our friend (and guide, if you will) a man whom I love, invited me, and with the best of intentions, to stand up and experience the wall hangings in one of the bedrooms.
The absolute last thing I wanted to do, in fact.
I was of a mind to yell and curse at him for attempting to slow my progression into myself. A compulsion that may also be due to how my brain-type functions under stress. Solemnly, I was stressed, I can admit. My mind was experiencing a release of chemicals that it had not known was ever going to take place and I was going to handle it on my own. I managed to answer with a smile and a shaking of my head.

(“Stand?” said the inch-worm, scoffing to himself, “in my inebriated state? No, thank you, please.”)

Suddenly, the room that we had cultivated to be our sanctuary became too bright, and the few people, who, to their credit, were speaking lowly, became too loud and I needed to escape. My submarine was diving deeper and it needed to be darker. I realize now that in my rantings about things being too bright and too loud I was really referring to the big picture. The world…there’s too much noise, everything wants to be heard and advertised and bought and shown off. I wanted way from all of those things.

(“It’s too loud in here,” said the inch-worm to the Voice. “do you need me to turn down the volume?” asked the Voice, concerned. “no,” said the inch-worm, “that’s not quite what I mean…” the Voice was confused, but let the inch-worm slink about anyway)

I found solace in the bathroom. As it happens, the bathroom of a 2 bed/1 bath apartment in Hollywood is not the place to be when the are 7 people occupying it, 5 of which are experiencing the distinct sensation of attempting to occupy their own mind as well as a space in the world (let alone an apartment. Psychedelics are a hell of a thing, man).

(“inch-worm, could you move, please?” she asked, politely. “I don’t think I can” said the inch-worm. “Of course you can, inch-worm, don’t be silly,” said the Voice, smiling.)

After a bit of mild coercion, I relocated to the bedroom that, at first, had the lights on (an ailment that any room might experience, that can be remedied simply by flipping the switch…who. knew.) and remembered why I had slunk to the bathroom in the first place. Attached to the wall was a blue night light of a classic crescent moon and star (what I originally thought to be a wave, go figure, Pisces…shutup)

(“Inch-worm, would you like to move to our room?” asked the Voice. “We could even turn off the lights and cover the windows.” “That would be delightful, I think,” replied the inch-worm slinking over to the darkness. “Can I bring the blue light?” asked the inch-worm. “Of course, inch-worm,” replied the Voice, smiling.)

I was finally where I wanted to be; where everyone wasn’t (the first of my revelations). Not that I didn’t want their presence, of course. I love my people. It’s just…I’m extremely introverted. You wouldn’t be able to tell because I’m also moderately charming and mildly articulate in social situations. Something of an anomaly, me. After those interactions, however, I want absolutely nothing to do with anyone. At all. Ever….until I get invited out again (which totally happens sometimes. Besides the point). I wanted to be away, but still close by. I wanted to be in my ocean observing everyone on top from under the surface. But not yet, there was exploring to be done.

The darkness was delicious.
Not a pitch, or even something that was ominous, the nightlight saw to that. The crescent and star cast a liquid, blue light on the ceiling that came and went in flows as if I was, in fact, a fish swimming deeper into an abyss that desired to be explored.

(“Shall I shut the door, inch-worm? asked the Voice accommodatingly. “No, please, thank you,” replied the inch-worm as he settled, finally, onto the floor to squirm about contentedly. “But if you would keep it open just a crack?” “Of course, inch-worm,” the Voice smiled)

I laid on the floor and closed my eyes, moving and flowing and feeling the music playing in the background. Upon closing my eyes and reveling in my space amongst the delicious darkness, I experienced colors and creatures and motion and warmth. I remember very vividly feeling the kind of warm that one feels when their body is submerged in a pool, acclimated to the water.

I flowed and swam deeper until I reached the bottom of my trench, it was there, in my mind’s eye, that tentacles appeared. They flowed with me. Encouraging, not menacing. I don’t particularly remember being curious as to their origin but I followed them anyway. What they led to was an entity, one of four that stood out to me that evening. This massive kraken that invited me into the corner of my ocean that it occupied. It spoke to me, more a telepathy than actual articulation (cephalopods don’t exactly have mouths).

(“Welcome inch-worm, you’ve finally made it here,” said the Squid. “What do I call you?” asked the inch-worm curiously, “‘The Squid’ seems a little mundane,” “You may call me whatever you wish,” said the Squid, it’s eyes closed slightly, as if in a mouthless smile.” I think,” thought the inch-worm, “I think I’ll call you The Monolith.” The Squid thought a moment then its eyes smiled again. “Then The Monolith I will be.” “I have quite the amount of questions, probably more than I can think of right now,” admitted the inch-worm. “Don’t think about those,” replied The Monolith, “instead savor this place you’re in, explore it. Then mediate and return.”)

And so I did. I gazed upon that kraken for a few moments more until I let myself wander my mind. This is when a few other entities in my mind made themselves apparent to me (and I would be very curious to see if they appear in future trips also) I remember 3 plus The Monolith. One was a beautiful, shapely, redheaded woman with blue skin a red lips, another was a three eyed Siamese cat (I know, cliche, but fuck man, I didn’t think it up on purpose and the last was a little sprite, that was only a beautiful dot (which I would later come to find was manifested through little more than the reflection of the blue nightlight on the underside of a spoon’s handle, hanging out of a bowl, that had been left on the bookcase…curious) It was only a beautiful reflective speck, but for more than a moment that speck was my universe. And as I explained, I would be curious to see if these entities returned to me. (I wish I could draw)

There were themes that coincided very much with how I conduct myself that I was unaware of until my being was amplified through psychedelics, the first and most prominent being my hands, They flowed like I was improvising some sort of contemporary water choreography and they wouldn’t stop. Not even after I left my ocean. They were incredibly flamboyant throughout, which led me to consider, subconsciously, how I conduct myself, there are times where I find I exude a bit of a sassiness that can only be described as flamboyant. My hands made sense.

The quiet, and the darkness came as one beautiful encompassing entity. Something that I always knew I would relish in, but wasn’t aware of just how at-home I would feel surrounded by a soft, opaque, blackness and a little blue light. I believe it was the combination of the beautiful darkness and the hour(s) long musical track that brought to the places that this inch-worm affectionately refers to as “His Ocean.” The deal with this Ocean in particular is that all who enter have to be quiet. Any and all are allowed, they just have to be quiet.

(“Inch-worm, can we come in?” asked his friends. “Of course, my loves,” said the inch-worm pleasantly, “Everyone is welcome.” And everyone played in the ocean. She stopped and had a thought. “Inch-worm?” “Yes, Darling?” “I love your mind.”  “Thank you Darling.” and the inch-worm let his hands flow in the water of his Ocean as the others played.)


I have found that I have significant ties to the ocean and its dark wonders. But this is where I’ll leave you for now. Thanks for listening, until we meet again.

(editors note: This post is currently unedited, ain’t no one got time fo dat)

Cheers, beautiful people,

Down With Big Brother (Laments to a Cheeto vol. I: a politically charged rant)

Down With Big Brother (Laments to a Cheeto vol. I: a politically charged rant)

Fuck man. (said the white male) prepare yourselves. I might say things that not a lot of people agree with. (Was I ever one to say the agreeable thing? I think not.) This is simply a rant to show where I’m coming from. (If anyone cares) I know of maybe 3 people that actually might.

I’m proud. I’m proud to be affiliated with beautiful people who are decisive, and know what they believe in. I’m proud to know people who will fight for what they believe in through peaceful demonstrations such as organized marches. I will be honest, I’m not entirely sure what all the beauties are marching for/against/to who are involved with the Women’s March today (said the white male), but I know that it is a good thing.

As a white male, and a white male who is very much aware of the privilege that that lack of melanin bestows upon him (which is stoopid, I know). I, of course, feel I have nothing to march for/against or /to or either and/or all (huzzah for superfluous wordage!) I could cruise down to Downtown L.A. brave the traffic. Brave the crowd. And stand in solidarity with mah people, but to me. It’s noise. True, there are good things that come from demonstrating the ability of the people to rise up against tyranny (because that, I believe, is the sentiment and passion currently) but, ugh, ok, I’m gonna say it…

I don’t understand what the big deal is? (said the while male) If one of my beautiful people (preferably a female) can tell me, I will gladly listen. If my pale, gender assignment & identity didn’t keep me ignorant, this rant wouldn’t exist. A the honest truth is, I do not see what the big deal is. I understand that the man who has become the president of the United States is a sack of…

Alright. I’ve completely lost the purpose of this rant. And maybe none of it matters because, we all experience life. The pleasure, the pain, delicious sunsets, replenishing cups of morning coffee, rainstorms in the desert, the smells, the flavors, the laughs, the feelings…
We experience being human, and then we fuckin’ die. That’s the long and the short of it. I’m gonna say my piece and do something productive, like write fiction or some shit. ehkay, here it goes…

It FEELS, to me, the offended white man, that the majority is scared. No, it doesn’t even feel like that. That’s what it is. People are terrified.

What I want to say is ‘fear not.’ You cannot live in fear. I understand that that is what the rallies and the protests and the marches are for, but I want you to actually feel it.

FEAR NOT. Do not live in fear of the higher power, continue on, live, find beauty, stand up for what’s right. Find your courage, and I will be here. Standing with you. I will be watching.

I, myself, do not believe in raising my voice to be heard in the rabble of all others. I believe, and always have believed that actions speak louder than words.

I believe in justice, I believe in retribution, I believe in vindication
I!…I!…I sound like a crazy person…

I believe that if it comes down to it, and the thread of American existence is threatened due to the choices of a political regime, I will stand against those choices for the people. And to preserve the American way of life.

I will remain vigilant in the shadows until it is my time to come forth from where I watch and take those who are frightened and put them behind me. I will stand between your life and those who threaten it. I will stand between you and what terrifies you to the core.

I won’t march. I won’t protest. I won’t be heard. Not until I need to be. And, my friends, I will know when I need to be heard. When the time comes, I will lead that revolution. You will be find me on those front lines. When we need to physically fight, or be overcome.

I stand against that tidal wave. I’ll face that demon. When it comes, I’ll face it.

Cheers Beautiful People,


How I became The Punisher

How I became The Punisher

Hello again beautiful people,

It’s a new year, thank gawd and with a new year comes NEW SHIT
THAT”S RIGHT, same fucked up world, New Fucked Up Shit.
I’m being dramatic, it’s really not that bad…it’s not…I’m fine. I am. really.

Ok, I got that goofiness out of my system. I’m actually gonna level with you this time around and tell you a story of an event that I’ve always secretly had the desire to take part in, but never actually thought about what it might look or feel like. I have to admit, it felt better than I could’ve imagined. Alright, here it goes…

It was, in fact, a dark, rainy night in Los Angeles when I pulled my car into a questionable, albeit signless parking lot next to NoBar in North Hollywood. January 10th 2017, for those who didn’t know, was the one year anniversary of the death of the iconic David Bowie and my lovely friends planned on drinking, reminiscing and playing Bowie tracks on the juke box all night. A perfect night, if I may say.
After driving up from Orange County after a particularly positive and productive band practice and still in my high school football shorts and cross-trainers, I made my way towards the bar.
It was after hopping a puddle on the uneven residential streets of suburban NoHo that I heard a distressed scream echo from the alley behind the bar and its adjoining complexes. This obviously female scream came from someone who was not having a good time. Someone who may even needed help.
I looked in the direction that the noise had come from and saw two people struggling against the wall. One of the figures escaped and ran in my direction. Phone, keys and wallet in hand, I broke into a run, discovering in the process that she was being chased by a guy.
I intervened.
This guy was running at me like he was going to run me over. A boldness I have to admit that I admire, but having played contact sports from the time it was legal for me to hit someone, I was no stranger to this sensation. In fact it was extremely familiar. One of my favorite feelings that I can remember was laying my shoulder into some poor mutherfucker who had the misfortune of being smaller than me, wrapping my arms around him and driving him to the ground; feeling the air escape his lungs and the fuckin’ fight retreat from his soul. As this current mutherfucker barreled toward me, I lowered my shoulder, wrapped, lifted his feet off the ground, and drove him to the uneven, gravel-ridden pavement of the alley behind NoBar.

I then situated myself in a completely dominant position on top of his waist, just below his stomach, finding the time, and energy to calmly place my belongings in a neat stack off to the side where they would not be crushed in struggling with this piece of trash. I was prepared to get into a scrap; start throwin’ ‘bows, as it were. But none were thrown at me, so I only took hold of his wrists lest he reach for some weapon I had not seen. Any fear of that had escaped me.

The mutherfucker in question then proceeded to plead, beg and implore with who I would later discover was his ex girlfriend whom had since filed a restraining order against him, while I was on top of him yelling at him him he 1)wasn’t going anywhere and 2) that it was far too late for forgiveness. The only thing I managed to hear from her was
“Keep him down. Please don’t kill him.”
He screamed that he loved her and that he was sorry. I once again screamed at him that it was too late for that until I finally had the chance to look up and see clearly the face he was talking to.
Her left cheek was swollen as if she was keeping a baseball tucked inside her cheek, and blood was running out the corner of her mouth, down her chin. I clamped the bottom of his jaw in one hand, the back of his head in the other, and made him look up at her.

“Look! Look you piece of shit! Did you do that? Did you hit her?” I had never felt my voice that genuinely fierce before. It felt good. It felt really good. The piece of trash actually replied.
“Yes.” The response was pathetic.
I reached an open palm over my head and brought it down hard across his face. I hadn’t ever struck anyone in the face with the intent to hurt before that moment. Once again, it felt good.

He continued his incoherent babbling as we struggled and I told the girl to call the police.
In between talking shit to me, saying he didn’t know who I was (chyeah, like THAT fuckin’ mattered) calling me a bitch (to which I remember getting real close to his face and screaming “I”M NOT THE ONE ON THE GROUND YOU PIECE OF SHIT”), he mentioned something about having a son.
Some sort of manic, disbelieving laugh escaped my mouth as I growled in his face, “You actually procreate, you mutherfucker?” My open palm crossed his face again, harder. Then I dug my forearm into his neck and pushed his face against the wet, gravely pavement and told him to shutthefuckup.

Sheets of drizzle continued to soak us. I couldn’t feel the areas where my skin grated against the gravel. I knew I was probably bleeding but my shins had gone numb. The struggling didn’t stop. In fact, the mutherfucker underneath me was periodically overcome with spurts of boldness, taunting me and telling me that I’d better just kill him. I could have. The thought crossed my mind of how it might feel to drive my elbow into his cheeks and shatter the bones in his face, or to bring my fist down on his nose over and over again until he was unrecognizable. But I didn’t.

We stayed in a perpetual struggle until two police cruisers showed up. They told us to get on the ground, and stay on the ground with our hands spread. Of course, almost as soon as I was off of him, this piece of shit tried to run. Fortunately, due to our yelling, we had attracted a bit of a crowd. He was cut off by the bystanders and put into handcuffs. I was asked, not told, to stand up. The reason I wasn’t told was because when an organization with authority (i.e. The fuckin’ cops) had arrived, I was docile and compliant. I had decided that whatever happened after that point was in their hands.

Two more police cruisers showed up, cuz that’s what happens when the cops show up, and compliantly, I was put into handcuffs. If you’ll permit me to brag, I was not put in one pair of hand cuffs, but two. One pair for each officer that had be assigned to hold the 6′ 240lb suspect (because at that point I was still a suspect until they got my statement). They didn’t know what was going on, my pride wasn’t hurt. After a minute or two, the cuffs were removed and my statement was given. My hands and shins were bloody as I suspected but the falling rain felt good and a dirtbag was in custody.

I cleared the lights of the last police cruiser to see my beautiful friends coming around the corner from the bar. The first thoughts I could muster were something like “Oh good, they know I was involved” and “don’t worry, I’m ok” and “I could use a drink.”

I’m recounting this story because I want it to muster a vigilance in men everywhere. If asked I’ll tell it again and again.
The world is filled with piece of trash human beings, particularly on the male side of the species. There are males (not men) who think they are owed something, that women are weak, that they can take what they want without consequences, that they can take liberties without being called out.

I’m asking you, men of the world, to call them out. Don’t go looking for them, that’s not our job. Karma/The Universe/God/Whatever You Believe In holds the balance of the multiverse in its hands, that’s what will seek them out. Our job is to remain vigilant, remain aware and to act when (not if) the situation arises. However big, or small, Act against the bullies of the world, for they know not their place. It’s next to every other human being.
Things said, things done by shitheads to anyone will not be suffered while I live on this earth.
I ask you to join me.

Until the next time, cheers Beautiful People,












Confessions (Untitled Blah vol. II)

I’ve come to a few realizations…I like to think we all do, but I dunno probably not cuz people get complacent and don’t wanna change a gawddamn thing about anything they’re doing.
but maybe, maybe some people do and they realize that that’s healthy. It’s healthy to grow and change because if you don’t then you’re just staying static and that’s bad.

Know what happens when water stays static? Fuckin’ mosquitoes. Don’t be a cesspool. Be open-fuckin’ minded about shit. Weird thing, maybe a bit uncharacteristic, but, uh, this is actually incredibly relevant to everything I’m about to come forward with and that was not originally my intention, but here it goes anyway.

So, I’m surrounded by millennials (my generation) they’re stupid and they suck…k that wasn’t it.

Here it actually is.  I’m an asshole. I’ve said this before, but yeah, I’m sayin’ it again, know why? Cuz I’m an asshole. And, like, I’m totally ok with that. Lemme tell you why, buckle down, shit’s about to get real.

So, I’m about 50 percent asshole, the other 50 percent is comprised of what makes me an awesome person (my karaoke voice, my shameless-yet-moderately-endearing-goofiness, my ability to make staring into space relatively attractive). Of course, the only proof I have that these attributes are acceptable in social situations is that no one has punched me in the face for no reason…yet.

I’ve shared this sentiment with a couple people whose opinions I value and the response is the same “Oh you’re not an asshole. You’re just–” Imma stop you there, yes, I am

The thing is, I’m not the asshole you don’t like…catch that? Meaning, I’m the quirky, goofy, mess of a human being that you enjoy having around because my inherent snarkiness makes you smile and you don’t know why. I’ve begun to know why, and I have my mother to thank for the example she set.

I’ve stopped caring what people think about me and I’ve just been me. What you see is what you get. It’s incredibly liberating and I wish I had the opportunities to express this more often, to, like, actual people, in, like actual, real-life. I could go on about my personal manifesto, but I would be getting too preachy. What I REALLY wanted to say and the reason for the title of this portion of my interwebbal (it’s a word now) amphigory (actual word, look it up, it’s one of my favorites and completely relevant)…

Is that, in the past, especially when I was growing up and learning how to conduct myself as a man, I’ve been a DICK. Which is not an asshole. I’ve been a stupid boy to the girls in my life, to the friends in my life, to the gays in my life. I’ve never been a bully. I despise bullies. But I haven’t been especially considerate of my actions in the past.

I’m sorry. An apology might not be warranted, but I’m sorry either way. If anyone I’ve wronged is out there and wants to talk with me about it, I currently find myself in a very humble and docile state and would make for fantastic conversation.

I will HENCEFORTH be an advocate against the shittiness of people being shitty to each other.
I’ve found that I LOVE calling people out for being shitty even if it’s not exactly in a way that they understand. If I know I can get away with it, I’m condescending as fuck, especially if I know someone can’t handle grating sarcasm. And I do this on purpose. That’s how you can tell I’m not having fun. This is why I’m an asshole. Best part about that?
I’m YOUR asshole.
Ya, not better. I’m working on it.
Only thing I want you to think about after I leave you here is all the “nice guys” there are out there, and think about how they act towards their people…hmm??
Don’t think too hard.
Imma do a little research, and next time we’ll talk about the mutherfucker who wrote the “How to approach a woman wearing headphones” article.
until then.

Cheers, beautiful people,