Archive: This site was live from September 6 to October 24, 2021
Come to My Side of the Story
I am becoming aware of the many privileges my life has provided. One is that I was “homeschooled” as a child by parents who honored me with incentives to create entirely new active conceptual structures (within myself and with others), as well as tools to ease my dependency on greater social expectations and norms. I was encouraged to deeply question any easily consumed narrative. (There have been times I’ve deeply resented this.)
With that said, I don’t know you and you don’t know me, either. No matter how close we get, there is a depth of knowing that will never be. So be it.
Is your favorite place a real one or imagined? When your tongue first hits ice cream, what dance does its flavor do as it runs down your spine? What was the one experience today that struck you hardest? You know, the one that lingers? You know what, though? I’ve noticed there’s freedom when we realize maybe it doesn’t matter.
But tell me anything. Really, anything. And all I can really do is smile and nod. Because really, it’s probably not my business, and when we get to this level of free will, it doesn’t matter what I do anyways.
The cool thing is, I can feel. If I feel you, my business is my responsibility with those feelings. If you feel me, that’s your business, your responsibility. This is now the space you and I are taking up in this world. I intend to be as clear as I can about what kind of sensory information goes in and work every day to build a hyper-awareness of what information is created as a result. In this work, I am building a sensitivity to the experiences that make me feel health, and those that make me feel yuck. I will make mistakes until I don’t anymore. I forgive me, I forgive us all.
Truth is, my truth is always shifting. My memories are pliable and as elastic as the emotions that gave them life. I pray for this ever-changing truth to shift history, to disrespect linear time and crumble fact again and again. I pray to change my mind to incorporate ever-informed levels of awareness.
From this life work, I have found the more intimate my creative expression is, the more honest my voice. From this work, I have found the more intimate I am with myself, the more present I can be with all that I encounter.
Non-fiction and the Supernatural
Thank you for the safety to speak of energy. Of the sensations of the soul—feelings. Of vibrations and frequencies, tickled consciousness and spiking awareness.
I have a Master’s degree in Creative Non-Fiction writing. Let me tell you what this has done for me. Fiction has become damned as I see it as a grand buffet of options and I am severely disappointed with the plates I am served. C’mon humans! We are speaking the future forth. Is this all we got? Where does imagination end and experience begin? The conversations about Non-Fiction are dampened with colonized fact—science that fails to truly believe in itself. Self-help yourself via someone else’s journey through victimry? If that’s your yum, I don’t intend to yuck it, this is only my evolving perspective.
I read, I bask in pieces of creative expression from architecture to food, sculpture to painting, song to mechanics, to find moments where the supernatural spills forth magic to guide me. I find it most outdoors and on the edges — pulling weeds in a thunder storm or reading channeled texts.
The more I consciously feed my moments with these experiences, my ability to identify higher frequencies gets stronger, and the more consciousness I get to eat.
And here we are. Nourish.