the dog wishes
for play and food.

the dog listens
to the sound of a voice,
of the wind.

the dog feels
the invigorating touch
of gust on every fur

the dog sniffs
the rich and curious scents
with unfathomable sensitivity.

for the dog,
trivial deliberation is impossible;
the pure Now enriches
its experience.

within the dog,
an emotional wheel spins, rolls,
darts off this way--
¡no! that way!
¡all ways!

the dog pants,
its heart and chest pump rapidly.

the dog circles, plops,
becoming slowly still. . .


the dog finds
. .a deep slumber
. . . that comes
. . . . as simply
. . . . as breathing

. . .zzzZZZzzzZZZ. . . . .

I find creative work. . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .isolating,
because to truly create I push
into My own unknown. . . . . . . . . . . . .



I embrace the life of a monk, and connect with my Self.
I contemplate. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
I appreciate . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
I breathe. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I realize. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
that it's impossible to feel isolated,
when I connect with my Self.
I am never alone.
I simply exist. . . . . . . . . . . .
on this Earth. . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . .as. . .Me. . . . . . . . . . . .



inspiration. . .
is a Spark. . . .

a Spark yields flame. . .
a creative Fire. . . . .

I create a Spark with My own tools and effort.
I explore an ever deepening connection
with the Tools I choose. . . . . . . . . . . .
I notice them in my Hands. . . . . . . . . . .
and at my Fingertips . . . . . . . . . . . . . 

How does it feel
to use them....?

I gently flex muscles that nudge Me into focus.
I feel the world around my Self:
I feel the touch of each object. . . . . . . .
I notice shape. . .texture. . . . . . . . . . .

How do the objects respond
to My touch. . . . . . . ?



I dream big. . . . . . . .and think small.
while I dream, I use my Heart and my Mind.

I discover a meaningful concept,
rooted in a Truth I can call my own.
I sense a deeper emotion. . . . . . 
it is fuzzy. . .
and undeniably present. . . . . . .



breathing. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
I inhale, soaring into a sky-high dream state,
the view is better up here. . . . . . . . . .

I exhale. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
and land in focused execution,
there's work to be done on the ground. 

this. . . . . .
this breath. . .
this breath. . .
is a cycle. . .



despair is inevitable.
so is inspiration.

sometimes the ground gives way, and I fall, . . . . . . .
but the pits of despair tend to feel. . .more familiar. .
the despair is deeper. . . . . richer, and brings Me back
. . .to inspiration. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .



when it’s time to touch the Ground
and do the Work,

I focus.

at this point, I need a clear, concrete idea
of what I will accomplish next. . . . . . .

I celebrate each accomplishment.

every
single
one. . .
brings me joy.

every
single
one. . .
brings me closer to my goal.

in each accomplishment,
I find there is always more to learn;
. . .more to explore.



I find creative work. . . . . . . .difficult. . .
yet there is glory in a challenge,
especially when I am the only one who knows. . .

I urge my Body and Mind to take breaks. . . . . .I rest.
some days, it feels like I rest all the time. . . . . .
what a gift.
a gift that I give to my Self.

A gift born in privilege, nurtured in discipline and joy.

I find. . .that when I rest,
unheard voices whisper in subliminal conversation,
unconscious forces go to work. . .
forces that conspire to inspire.

forces nourished in play, in laughter, in connection
with the work of humanity in nature.

I. . .wonder. . . . . . . . . . . .
if I need both
rest and work
in order to create,
is there truly a difference. . . . ?



I play in all things, and frequently space out. . .

I. . . . . . . .
. . .sleep. . .
. . .walk. . .
. . .eat. . . .
. . .drink. . .
. . .train. . .
. . .read. . .
. . .cook. . .
. . .clean. . .
. . .talk. . .
. . .party. . .
. . .shower. . .
. . .sleep. . .
. . .in any order. . .

these are all accomplishments
I celebrate.

If I feel unsure. . . . . . . . . . . .
I become curious
about the competing voices in My head.
what do they say. . . . . . . . . . . ?
why do they say these things. . . . . ?
what is the consensus. . . . . . . . ?

¿ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ?

I am.

how much did you sell my birthday for?
what's its value
right
now?

. . .

how about now?
how much is my birthday worth now?
talk cents, please.

how about my sister's birthday?
is hers worth more?
less?

what about the fact that i have a sister?
two sisters?

just how much are these bits worth to you?

never mind.
you probably couldn't tell me anyway...

. . .



you know,
you and your kind
give me nightmares. . .

. . .i drift. . .down into the darkness of sleep. . .
. . .i fall through a clouded reality,
into a deeper consciousness. . .

my heart beats faster.
and that's when i see it:

that ghastly, inhuman ship;
ever sailing.
sailing in a swollen sea.

a sea of birthdays
and synthesized context.

how the craven crewmates
slither in their ghoulish tasks,
slather with their specialized mouths.

this one sucks on the artificial wooden deck.
that one spews cursed discharge overboard
into the thickening, rising tides.


some crewmates spy intently
for new terrainium victims,
so they may inform the captain
of many heads and infinite eyes.

some, slack-jawed and glass-eyed,
pretend to look through a telescope;
stumbling over their own wooden legs.

they threaten to join the heap of their peers
already piled on the cursed deck.

other crewmates roam,
blind to the misery that surrounds them.

with their ragged, specialized mouths
they greedily slurp bits of souls
from all the luckless land lubbers they can reach,
swallowing the bits whole
to digest without understanding,
devoid of nourishment.

they defecate in ecstasy.
the subordinates rush to contain the mess of material.

there are no screams;
only dim, echoless laughter.


those below deck toil in constricted silence.

the deck's surface shifts like a hungerless serpent,
disintegrates in scaled patches to grant a glimpse
into suffering
and joy.


the massive ship swirls around a deepward, distended vortex.

it swirls around
in an attempt to reach a mountaintop,
and drown everything else.

for a rising tide lifts all vessels, correct?
never mind what happens to those of us on land.

. . .

don't look so nervous.
i didn't think you were even capable of it.

i will continue.


some terrainium victims don't quite feel
their bits of soul slipping out to sea.

to them, these bits perhaps aren't quite
tangible, visible, psychically available. . .

but oh yes, to some, these bits certainly are
sensible, plottable, deliciously profitable
--aren't they?

. . .

still others on land
perceive their own bits of self drifting away,
and celebrate in hollow, graphic fervor.

mechanical laughter careens dully out to sea.

. . .

yes.
i'm sure you'd prefer me in such a stupor.

instead, i feel a byte
near my neck.

. . .

could it be that you find these bits of self
sucked out to sea. . .
amusing?

. . .

hmm. amusing. nourishing, even.
to your very own personalized sickness.



all gaze out to an ocean that few perceive,
and none living can comprehend.


where is my birthday within this sea?
is it in that ocean wave mixed with my parents'
and cousins'
and aunts'
and uncles' birthdays?

what happened to my grandmothers' birthdays?
they died, after all.
are their birthdays at peace, too?

...or do even they still serve your inhuman purpose?

and...where is the sea itself? how to get there?

have you even been?

can you comprehend it?

i glimpse it now and then before melting into a mirage...

i find myself. . .
unable to distinguish
between true pleasure and mere compulsion.


. . .


so, this sea. . . . .
. . .hmm?
where is it?
. . .what is it, really?



. . .



never mind.
i don't really know how to swim
in that kind of water, anyway.

scatter my ashes there instead.

bits of wax dripped
onto my face now and then,

but i rarely noticed.

drip.

when i did notice,
i noticed in a dream, or a nightmare...
memories destined for oblivion.
forgotten.

drip.

or i noticed in a moment shattered
into private tears,
behind closed dorm doors.

drip.

each tear, each drip of wax:
another step
in a departure from Humanity
onto the promised stage
of glorious Reality.

drip.
drip.

this is the life i always wanted.
this life requires some personal sacrifice,
i'm told. . . .

another bit of wax to crystalize these tears,
but first:
stuff some cotton in my ears

. . .
yes, gladly.

hmm...
these bits of wax...
just
won't
do...

after all
wax softens in heat,
melts in the presence of Fire.

plus, those that Observe closely
may catch a glimpse of the hu--
never mind,
that's not important.

no.
wax won't do at all.
not for you.

what we need...
is plastic.

cold, molded plastic.
softens in heat? sure.
but the heat simply fuses it more closely
to the flesh of your face,
rather than running down those cheeks
in hot, streaking tears.
how ugly.

from your ugliness, beauty:
this plastic mask is perfectly obedient
to my particular...
specifications.

i'm sure you'll find my proposal quite logical.
familiar, even.

still,
indulge me this explanation;
lest you forget your lesson...



ahh,
plastic.
smoothly turning under my tongue.

i can taste them now.
those great Creatures
who once swam these seas,
who once walked this earth...
dominating all other life.

what a feast they might enjoy today.
instead they hunger,
utterly extinct in their graves,
decaying for millenia.

yes.
their time is over.
today
is my day.

today.......
i dine 
on what
i deserve.

and i don't save room for dessert.
can i spare it?
it doesn't matter.
i will gorge in righteous ecstasy.

i consume
every
last
morsel.
these are my just desserts.

plastic: a magnificent petroleum triumph...

if only you were there during genesis,
then maybe you could understand...


the great mechanized beasts
plumbing
the depths...

stretching
their reach past the crust,
beyond the mantle,
into the very core of prehistory...

extracting
whatever they can in molten material
with calculated, enviable indifference.

discarding
uncounted, nameless carcasses.
i call this Progress,
and such Progress is inevitable.

extracting
the ancient remains,
so those swollen, bug-eyed smithies 
might forge something worth killing for...


the ends predate the means.


the screams.....
no one,
not even i
seem to hear them any more.
and there's nobody else with ears to listen...


ahh, the sweltering, sweating smithies.
their silhouettes glisten in the utter lack of sunshine.
the ash blots out what's left of the sky,
clings to their rotting flesh.

an alchemical process unfolds.
the smithies toil in service to
unspeakable protocols.
unearthly protocols.
necessary protocols
for the sake of Progress.

some smithies look over their shoulders,
dripping fearful sweat into the mechanical forge.
their flesh tattooed with scars, like flayed clay.
they work in service to a hope-filled future.
a future that i shape, according to my will.

other smithies simply can't help themselves,
feeding on the excrement of their superiors,
slavering drool into the glowing maw.

all stare into the blinding glare before them,
searing retinas rendered useless
in the absolute darkness that surrounds them.

waxen tears drip
from their faces.

hidden masters bite at their toes,
feed on their fingers,
cackle in manic solitude.

drip.
drip.

the forge accepts the base offerings
with grim indifference.
its flames burn brighter.

the synthesized polymer emerges,
glistening flawlessy.
ready for precise molding
in my eager hands.


glorious Shell begets your very own shell. . .


don't you recognize this beauty?
don't you appreciate the convenience?

. . .

have you no gratitude?
you see, this plastic shell is for your own good.
i made it for your survival in this harsh world.

here! try it on.
i've got one in your shape and size.

. . .

how do i know it fits just right?
oh, i'd never forget anything so...
personal.

surely there's no need to tell you that.

don't bother to even remove the wax, child;
my specifications already take
those hideous bumps and streaks into account.
calculating account,
that's taken generations to forge.

. . .

¿what of the past?
¿what of those generations?
sure, i benefit from their perspiration,
their sacrifice,
their muted, trained pain,
¡but i work hard!
so i deserve it all.

¿don't i?

. . .

this is why you must not simply
put on the mask,
but fuse it onto your very flesh.

never mind your crystalizing tears,
¡just put it on!

.....there. 

isn't
that
better?
it becomes you.

deep breaths now.
it will take some time for the mask to...
take hold.
and for you to grow accustomed
to its unique embrace.

do you understand now?
this is mutually beneficial, a win-win.
i scratch your back, you scratch--

hold on.
no.
don't scratch at the mask.
!fool!
it will only make this worse.
¿now, do you get it?

. . .
i--i think i do understand
what you mean.

life is so much simpler this way.
i feel no pain anymore, beneath the plastic.

i simply let it smile
on my behalf.

though it takes no effort,
i feel...drained. . .


. . .i drift forward in desensitized time. . .

why do i need purpose
¿when i have a role to play?

¿here? i stand here?
¿stage left? right?

. . .tell me when it's my turn to perform.

i know all my lines. . .
i've heard others recite them
a thousand times. . .

¿the applause?
i still find the sound of it...hollow.
it rings dully in my cotton-filled ears.




why settle for empathy
when i have an overriding intellect?


. . . .a river of trivia flows
from what was my mind, past my mouth,
into what you tell me is a stimulating conversation. . .
stimulating...what exactly?

¿what is stimulation to a being so completely numb?

. . .

you're right, i shouldn't ask so many questions.
there is a script, after all.
improvisation is for the weak-minded, the unprepared--
for those without the capacity to learn
the value of plastic....


. . .m~m~m~m~m~m~m~m~m~m. . .
how safe i feel in my eternal cocoon.
we are nearly one, now. . .

¿without metamorphosis,
is a chrysalis any different
from a cocoon?
¿from a tomb?

. . .


i feel such thoughts rattle feverishly within my head,
bouncing off the inside of my skull,
disrupting neurons as they fire incoherently,
setting off
panic, paranoia, hysteria, anger
that mix into one another to
inflate and shrivel and explode and shrink and strain,
crescendoing into a nightmarish orchestra that drowns out
my world.
i hang on to this life and sometimes i don't
know why--
until i snap
into a numbed reverie that i now call my own:

	. . . . . . . . . . . . .
		i'm so grateful
	 	you taught me
		nothing more
		than how to be.
	. . . . . . . . . . . . .