Fallen rain gutter

Abstract Essays

“What would you do if you were experiencing my unfortunate overload of ideas?” I asked Bill today while sitting at a table by the window of the rustic coffee shop, the sun still shedding a little gray light upon us as the day faded. When I came across this familiar coffee shop character sitting in my favorite spot, I was compelled to sit down and absorb any inspiration he might try to share with me. He’s always been a supporter of my slow-progressing novel. He says he’d never met a novelist before– I’m not sure I could title myself as a novelist quite yet, but perhaps if I did, my progression would accelerate.

He pulled out a hand-sized notebook out of his back pocket. “I always carry this on me, because this notebook is like a rain gutter. If ideas are rain, I have to have something to catch them as they fall, otherwise they’ll come flooding down all at once.”

It dawned on me: my rain gutter had mysteriously fallen to the ground about four feet aside from its so-called-secure placement underneath the roof a few weeks ago. I’d called my property management, and this had apparently seemed too daunting a tragedy to fix themselves. They needed a bigger ladder, and haven’t come back since. Not even after the record-breaking avalanche of snowfall– 14 inches in one day! Finally, I moved the fallen gutter to the other side of the pathway so that the campanula could spring up freely as the snow melts. This, however, has created a miniature flood on my beloved unborn campanula that also rains down on my head whenever I leave and come back to my apartment. Of course– it’s all tied into the symbolic and metaphoric Feng Shui concepts I read, religiously, months ago.

My ideas are not being contained to flow in a river-like fashion, gently to the ground. My ideas are flooding atop my head, raining down all at once. As hard as I’m trying to focus on one thing at once, as the symbolic 1234 recurring number keeps reminding me  to do, I simply can’t. What is focus anymore, anyway? 123, etc, is constantly nagging me to finish what I’ve started. Little does it know that my rain gutter has fallen and no one has a tall enough ladder to screw it back on! Not only that, but I’ve made so many different beginnings with all of my endeavors that I’ve become overwhelmed by options in such a wild maze.

I’m not just implying creative writing ideas. I have about ten writing ideas as it is, and as a result, have not made actions towards any of them . I’m pondering traveling to New Mexico for ten days and finishing my novel there. I’m considering starting a blog on either or all of the following topics: crossing paths with certain people persistently, numbers appearing persistently, traveling solo and being a freelance musician and artist, Cheyenne tourism, Downtown Arts, or the importance of herbalism in Western medicine. There’s more to it than that, still.

I am struggling with perfectionist issues such as the “right way” to record my album, how many songs should be on it, and how to do all of this by April 14th. Should I finish recording all my songs by myself, and be left to obsess with worry about the quality? Should I record with my unresponsive friends who say they have committed? What about the magical, sunny  recording studio on a ranch in the boondocks? Yet, how can I begin to decide on any of these options when , by this point, I’ve almost lost interest in my music altogether?

A few days ago, in spontaneous attempt to forget about deadlines for music and writing, I began my spring moon herbal creations. I finally began up-cycling old wine bottles into herbal hair rinses, which felt exhilarating to begin, knowing I’d finally be getting rid of some clutter I’ve kept in my cupboards. I poured my heart and soul into shaking the bottles filled with apple cider vinegar and different herbs, blessing them with the best… but the infusions won’t be totally ready until next month. When to keep up with making those products is another interesting question to worry about.

I did make a couple firm decisions, surprisingly, this past week. I decided I will not only finish my Reiki II training with my original teacher in Boulder on April 8th; I will also do another I and II training in late April from a Reiki master in town, followed by a Cacao ceremony led by a Guatemalan chocolate shaman’s apprentice. I will be doing lots of communing with trees this month, hopefully obtaining a sense how they manage to expand their heights and stay rooted deep into the Earth. And hopefully by this time next month, my rain gutter will be fixed.



1234: Moving Forward


In all honesty, I am not even quite sure of what “numerology” actually means. My definition of numerology may be similar or completely different than the general public’s definition. Regardless, I have begun a new category of my blog dedicated to Numerology because of the mystery this theme presents to me.

Numbers have had their way of attracting my attention for about 4 years. I’m not saying I was ever a big fan of math class… but when I was, I was translating professor language to my deeper-understanding-of-the-universe language. Yeah, I had some huge philosophical revelations throughout my latest stages of math. It all came down to balancing the negatives and the positives in order to create an equilibrium.

And so it is with life.

But I’m not just talking about the positives and negatives, the yin and the yang of numerology. I’m talking persistent 111s on every corner of every street that so many people are catching onto nowadays. Well, for me, I don’t just have 111s following me around. I have 222s, 221s, 211s, 311s, 511s, 212s, 555s, and 444s— sometimes sequences of 18 4s in a row— nagging me to WAKE UP and notice them. And finally I asked, WHY?? WHAT ON EARTH ARE YOU TRYING TO TELL ME?

They said, We’re not just on Earth. We can’t answer that question. So, okay, Universe. Okay, larger sums of the vast oceans and skies. Okay, magical thread that ties us all together. I’m listening.

This is my mission to uncover the persistent patterns in numbers occurring on multiple occasions throughout my daily life. Numbers are everywhere… pay attention to your total when you’re buying coffee, dinner, gas, etc. The other day, I asked HP (see “On Signs from HP) if there was any kind of knowledge I could benefit from by the sum of my gasoline price. I had a nearly-empty tank and gas was running about 1.43 per gallon. I’d kind of forgotten about my question as the tank was filling, until the handle automatically released and the rapidly changing numbers came to a halt.

$12.34! (#PerksOfGoodGasMileage+LivingInWyoming, Right? No. That’s not the point.)

I laughed out loud and smiled to the heavens. I knew clearly what message was being relayed; it was something I’d been questioning all week. Was I really getting anywhere with all my endeavors in life? Was there really any point in trying to be motivated? And they answered yes. 1234 is a consecutive increasing number sequence. I translated it to mean I Was gradually moving forward, even if I didn’t feel like I was. And somehow, I felt I was supported by beings and ideas I could not see.

My feet had bee in chronic pain, like all my bodily energy was drained to my feet, stuck, getting crushed with each step. It is not until I am writing this that I realize how this correlates to my pain with moving forward. It physically hurt me to move forward, and I hadn’t figured out exactly how much heaviness had stuck on my feet until this moment.

It was my fear of imperfection. It was procrastination.  The numbers 1234 were encouraging me to move forward. They said, Stop procrastinating. You can accomplish anything you choose. We believe in you. What if “we” was a whole lineage of encouragement? Today, four days later, my feet feel light and my energy is high. I actually feel as though I’m floating on my feet, like the ground is as soft as Cloud 9. I have created an organized plan of steps to being successful in music, writing, and art. For the first time in awhile, I believe in all the dreams I’ve had for four years.



Lamentation of the Absences of Ghosts

Abstract Essays

The ghosts that haunted that place had perhaps moved on, no longer caring for it.

We would have never suspected that such a magnificent, magical place could have such a short life. It is now like an endangered language; technically still in existence, but only kept alive artificially, mostly by those who don’t understand it. No one will ever understand that place like we did.

And it will never be the same. We lament over this fact, because where will we go when it’s snowing and we need someone to talk to, someone to make us free warm beverages, someplace to find comfort in four-hour-long conversations that will forever change our lives?

We understand that everything has to evolve. We understand that the world has evolved over millions years, from vast landscapes and undisturbed scenery to a mass of skyscrapers and chaos because of the people who took it over. Everything has a life, and everything must die.

But why did such a small place in the world have to evolve so quickly, banishing everyone who made it what it once was?

Then again, we were the ones who abandoned it. But we had intentions of coming back. And it had already been quickly evolving before we left, becoming more endangered with every passing hour– we couldn’t have possibly saved it. It was losing magic that could not be easily restored, and certainly not with inhibiting forces gravitating against us.

Where did our ghosts go?

Someone a Legend Would Admire


They said that when life became a hectic storm of chaos, art was the first to get blown away with the wind.

I realized at that moment that I would have to be the exception to this. I would have to make time to create beauty in the world with my hands and with my mind. I would have to transform everything that made me distressed into inspiration. I realized that I, too, would have to retain the words directed towards me– even if in an abstract way– and take them to heart. I would have to allow my own heart to be exposed to the world and everyone in it.

Because this isn’t just about being a creative soul. This is about running against the wind, and becoming someone those legends who became separated from art at some point would admire.


Cultured Narratives

I admire those people who walk into a coffee shop late in the cold night just because their souls are attracted to the sound coming from within… Then they just stand there in the back wrapped up in their trench coats and I can’t help but unconsciously stare at them the entire time I’m singing on stage because they’re so mysterious and beautiful. They stare back at me, not knowing I am paying attention to them. Foreigners, almost— though now I am a foreigner to my own city. I fear leaving it, but on the other hand I want to travel. The city of magical mysteries and skepticism is difficult to resist for some, difficult for others to stay in.
We’re all connected here; that’s what draws them from the street and into the dimly lit café to warm their hands and heart and soul… Because of another person’s creativity. Including mine.

Stealing Smiles

Abstract Essays

Some people doubt that I have the capability to do anything morally wrong, ever.
Those people are mistaken.
I am a thief.
Ever since the day I realized I could possess something belonging to another, I have been stealing on a daily basis. The things I steal are more valuable than any jewel, any car, or any amount of money—because they belong to someone. Not economically, not materially, but physically. I covet specific features of a person; things that one would assume can only be a biological aspect. This theory is a myth, and I have proven it wrong through many years of hypothesizing and experimenting.
It’s an uncontrollable urge.
Whenever I pass people, I like to make eye contact. This is an innocent action. But then, suddenly, their lips will curve upward and sometimes—even more suddenly—their teeth will be exposed and my own lips are forced into an equivalent shape.
For most, this common gesture is referred to as “exchanging smiles”. But for me, this is not the case. Even after “exchanging” the briefest smile with a stranger, that smile latches on to me and it happens so quickly that I am not able to return it. Later in the day, I will often find myself wearing that same smile in place of my own.
One might say that smiles are contagious. I think so too, but I don’t think others quite understand how this phrase could be translated in other languages (or perhaps in some very abstract minds).
The way someone smiles—quickly, timidly, vividly, etc.—can be contagious. If I see someone smile in a certain way, maybe in an unusual or out-of-the-ordinary way, I catch that person’s smile. I capture it and keep it captive as my own, because there is a chance that I may never be able to catch that smile again, and any mastered thief knows that no time can be wasted in the process.
The methodology of stealing smiles has evolved over time. Today, some thieves prefer cameras to steal smiles. Because of this contemporary method, nearly everyone who has traveled to densely populated areas has had their smile stolen. I, however, prefer the traditional method, because the naked eye and a memory can capture smiles (1) more quickly than a camera and (2) without the subject ever knowing.
I consider myself among the highest rankings of thieves, because the treasured items that common thieves accumulate will eventually lose their value. Smiles, on the other hand, never will.


Abstract Essays, Small Miracles

A.k.a. “How I feel about writing”.

The power of words is timelessly underrated. The consequences of words we have handwritten late at night because we couldn’t contain them any longer have become the bases of our own lives’ mysteries. Words in letters we write to people within the realms of our minds–and never send– somehow have to capability to be transported straight into the receiver’s soul so that our words never go to waste after all. Words that we have written long ago, forgot about, then thought so much of later and put so much hope into them have become realities because some great spirit heard them and let them radiate across the universe.

Once the mind is free of constraint, God only knows what it is capable of. We have shoveled through topics that are supposed to make sense to us but have no meaning in real life. We have all been captives in some way or another…

But when we write, our souls are freed.

When I write, miracles are formed and released at a time only right according to the universe.

There is something magical about writing with my own hand. The words spill out onto the paper in front of me, and later I gape at them in astonishment, wondering where they came from. How can ink hold such lovely memories, such abstract dreams, and reveal what is hidden within the depths of my soul? This ink forces me to see what lies inside of me—it forces me to understand the reality of my self and others.

Most often, I explore lives and places unknown to me through the process of swirling blue ink across white paper between two thin blue lines. This happens subconsciously, and it is my thoughts becoming something existent. They are no longer hidden; they are swirled blue ink obvious to the naked eye.

And now my words shall be rewritten in electro-black ink, visible not only to myself but to you.