[I really loved this painting. It’s in the works of being a new development now; however. It felt so good making it.]
I am not a Christian any longer. I mean it’s beyond lost faith — when I look at the Bible all I see is aesop's fables of the ancient times. This isn’t hate for god, this is a deep grief of a loss of Jesus. He died on that cross; if that ever even happened the way they say it did. Neither Mathew, Mark, Luke or John can agree anyways. So, I quit arguing with myself and let my childhood die. I buried a god; I buried my old self. I guess this is what they mean by; “I am born again.”
Fuck; I did it. I broke the curse, found my old self — and set the perspective I had upright. I looked out at the view; the streets were paved with gold. The kingdom of heaven is upon us now; in each breath, within each warm exhale lives consciousness that is far from seen. The observer doesn’t own even the vessel that keeps him moving onwards throughout his time on the great mission. My magic and power is inside my creation.
I a m a m y s t i c a l b e i n g
T h i s w h o l e h u m a n t h i n g
I s c o o l.
Breath is god.
Birth is the resurrection.
Death is the merciful one.
Life is all powerful one.
Life is the all sustaining energy.
Life is the all knowing.
Life is the alpha and the omega.
Breath is eternal air
The lungs are a —
Self-sustaining powerhouse of activation
The body is activated by breath.
And I am not some sort of prophet or pretend to know the truth about the after life when I get the same tingles you get when I feel enlightened. Neurology is filled with an astral light that no body fully understands. Life is a fucking hologram for all I know. The garden of eden sounds more like vagina — for all I know.
Is this blasphemy?
What happens the day after you found out everything you were told to believe — and did for so long.
What happens when you find out it’s all fake?
Blasphemy turns funny really quick.
I remember at one of my gymnastic meets with my mother. She liked to stay up late and watch Saturday Night Live. And it was playing on the television and it was a sketch of the Virgin Mary. Of course, it was poking fun of those who believe that to be the case. So my mother got offended; told me it was the spirit of god having me to have those feelings of rejection.
I didn’t find it funny; I also didn’t find it offensive. I wanted to change the channel to watch something else. That’s why I picked up the remote and began to change the channel — met with my mothers praise. I was coxed into saying it was because of blasphemy. But really? It was boring. I didn’t believe in god.
Maybe there was a time I prayed to statues or trees. Or would get all my precious things together and pray really hard — “to get George W. Bush” elected president. I specially remember doing that over the political tension in the house around that whole Florida debacle with Al Gore. That was me — baby republican groomed child of the 1990s.
I used to think bad things happening were fun. It made life interesting to write about. I was a writer when I first found out that was a thing; read all my little book trying to soak out all the nuggets of information from each one of those baby books in my brothers play pen. I said, “I am going to read every book in this house.” And then I found some pretty boring books; only to exclaim I read them all, anyways.
When I was at the school with zero grades — like none. No grading of anything; this school specialising in scrutinising behavior and recommending them tot he nearest psychologist.
And it helps those who are slow at reading; learn to read. Apparently there is that.
I just hated reading out loud; I’d mess up sentences and phrases all the time. I couldn’t (and still can’t pronounce words very well), so I go and I look up the word I can’t pronounce or spell. I deconstruct it — it’s fun.
Apparently I didn’t know how to read
and all those questions I ask
never were properly answered.
(Until I answered them myself).
That’s the difference between me and religion. I follow no moral code except for the one written on my heart.
I do not wish to cause physical or emotional harm; and yet I’ve punched a hole through a wall only to think of some better outlets.
I’ve texted poems to people and then blocked their numbers; what have I learned?
This poem.
so you want to be a writer?
Charles Bukowski - 1920-1994
if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don't do it.
if you're doing it for money or
fame,
don't do it.
if you're doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don't do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don't do it.
if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,
don't do it.
if you're trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.
if you have to wait for it to roar out of you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.
if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you're not ready.
don't be like so many writers,
don't be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don't be dull and boring and
pretentious, don't be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep over your kind.
don't add to that.
don't do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don't do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don't do it.
when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.
there is no other way.
and there never was
Oh, I write because that’s how I have to live now. It’s my aid; the way I get through and see life. I have to write if I want to live.
I finally got my oxygen back?
Tell me why I should go back to school?
I melted. I have tried everything to find another way and be happy with a collective dream of my fathers and my life. He can’t live for me; he can’t tell me what will or won’t make me happy. I cannot follow in his footprints.
This is never what I wanted.
What I wanted? I remembered through the pain and strife. I remembered what I wanted — to be a writer; to be an artist.
I forgot.
That’s why I was so angry.
I forgot.
That’s why I was so depressed and lost.
I forgot.
That’s why I wanted my parents to apologize.
I wanted them to give me back what was never theirs to take; and it is true — it was never theirs to take. I found it, alas. I am but a fountain of words. And one in a few hundred-thousand sentences is poetic and polished naturally like a gem in the mine — I’ve got it.
It found me.
It bit; the bug finally bite.
It’s not hard anymore.
Just find a reason to push through.
It’s inside.
What you like —
Is for a reason.
Follow your joy.
Not mine.
Not my fathers;
Not anyone else’s.
It’s your life — paint,
artist.