Our Moon

Everything has been connecting.

Each meaningful conversation that I have with others

Launches thoughts that I have had before,

Though I cannot recall.

An internal whisper, “Not only are you not alone, but the homeless woman

Seemingly alone on the streets isn’t either.”

In some ways we are the same. She has the goddess inside her.

I sense that she knows it.

She braves cold weather and has blusterous conversation with nobody,

Or perhaps a lost love. She screams in agonizing pain and in doing so

Shows a strength that I am not using. She is letting go.

Releasing frustration and anger. She is bravely feeling deeply.

I am walking in silence and refusing to join in expression.

I’m afraid.

She is too but she also knows what it is to be feared. Dehumanized.

I’m comfortable being invisible and she may not even associate with comfort.

I’m plagued with the desire for it, but I already have it.

I own a bed surrounded by walls that block out wind and rain.

If I need water I need only walk down the hall.

She engages her own being, made of similar water

Containing magic.

I bet she deep breathes more than I do.

She is whom she knows.

She is wild and living free from time and his constraint.

She is observing the world, aware of relationships, warm soil, sodden concrete,

And the direction of the moon and constellations.

She needn’t Google Maps or social media affirmations.

She dances to the beat of her own drum, which she fashioned

Together with sticks, broken hair ties, and a box of stale fries.

She emanates peace and openness to any kind gesture.

A smoke or change.

We all need a little change, yet we are often afraid to ask for it.

I’m not always willing to ask for the help necessary.

I put the burden on myself, and soak up other’s burdens.

When I extend a hand to help whomever, especially those I love,

I want to die when I’m refused.

Just let me carry your load.

Please accept this glass of water.

Call out my name and desire my embrace.

Validate me.

She more often than not is refused help and that empowers her more.

She just wants to live.

When a stranger or loved one does help, it’s never me. That I can’t understand.

As I said, in some ways, the homeless woman on the streets is just the same as me.

I either insist she take the nourishment I have on hand,

Even if she is allergic or suppressed of appetite,

Or I insist I’ve no change to spare,

As it rattles in my pockets.

More and more I see myself in her.

The Wild Woman.

I wish I knew how to properly connect with her.

I wish I knew how to look her/me in the eyes and confess,

“I understand. I feel your pain. I’m with you now. I love you.”

Disconnection and fear plague me. After passing by the woman, I stop.

Standing still I close my eyes,

Inhale the forthcoming winter air deep into my lungs,

And exhale silence.

I imagine a scream. It’s her.

The goddess resides inside of her and her within me.

She was never homeless. Home is with us.

I turn back and this time we make eye contact.
She was patiently waiting to be seen and heard. We are now connected.

It feels safe to approach her and in doing so, 

I spot a shiny flat sphere upon the pavement.

“Here”, I say. “Accept this quarter, won’t you?”

“I will not”, she responds matter-of-factly, and then continues;

“You found that for yourself, love. That is your moon.”

Somehow understanding, I then sat beside her and offered her my jacket.

Lone behold when I looked up, there was the moon.

My moon. Our moon.

Blanketed by velvet sky and accompanied by Venus, the sphere called to us.

Our names—the same name.

Wild Woman.

We responded in song; a prayer of howls.

Never had I felt so alive.

Inspired by Rich McCloud

Music ignites authenticity and love.

Music engages hearts and forms deep impenetrable connections.

Music invites our emotions to pour from us like water from a shattered dam.

Music calls us to submit to pain and release fear.

Music calls us to submit to joy and not be ashamed.

Music is freedom.

Music sounds like a chorus of angels when the last hour of work comes.

Music tastes like a warm drink infused with dark chocolate and molasses.

Music smells like essential oils and old dog-eared pages.

Music is eye opening like an ego diffusing psilocybin trip.

Music does not segregate or forsake.

Music fuels our souls like spinach fuels Popeye’s strength.

Music requires our undivided attention.

Music communicates truth.

Music attaches wings to our feet.

Music inspires beautiful disasters.

Music is a miracle.

Music enlightens our minds and erases our doubts.

Music belongs to everyone regardless of a, b, c, or d.

Music takes time, energy, and passion.

Music produces time, energy, and passion.

Music releases spirit.

Music is the guardian angel that keeps us afloat when the tide comes in too close.

Music is prayer written in the stars.

Music is the loudest form of silence.

Music is a breath of fresh air.

Music is alive.

Music is ancestral and extra-terrestrial.

Music takes us home.

Music is in us.

Opening

*This is a piece that I wrote on February 11th of 2015. Two separate stories, one based on my own experiences and dreams, the other based on the animated film "Anastasia, both linked by anxiety,  opportunity, and self-discovery.

Opening

Sleep was impossible that morning, once anxiety decided to pay a visit and fill the small void between the wall and the body at rest, coiling itself around every restless limb. 2:30 a.m. and already it was time to rise and begin another day.  She quietly pulled away the covers, rolled out of bed, and gingerly placed her feet upon the floor, attempting not to disturb her easily awakened roommate. Glancing out the window to the dark, brooding streets that curved around her apartment, she noticed nothing new, just the same path marked permanently by her shoe prints. Not even bothering to wear a suitable amount of layers for the particularly chilly weather, she grabbed her thermos, book, and oversized bag, and hurriedly made her way to the outside.

She slowed her pace when the earth met her feet. She knew very well what was to come as soon as she spotted her destination down the street—the same door that greeted her every morning. She stopped and closed her eyes, allowing the untamed breeze to stroke and chill her cheeks. She had no desire to step any further, until she felt tension course through her as the chill in the air increased and strained her breath, causing her to feel light headed, yet weighed down at the same time—for a moment she was suspended in space, surrounded by endless possibilities that were reflected by the stars, yet unable to grasp them because of the tightly clasped wires that held her in place.

Continuing her path and facing the blundering wind, which had claimed the streets and marked its territory, breaking branches and carrying the fallen leaves along the way, she felt like a sodden leaf left behind, waiting to be carried by this enigmatic force to a new place of adventure and impressionable beauty. Instead, she was to spend more countless hours on monotonous work—in which a more serious, focused attitude was necessary. She unlocked the plain, grey door and stepped inside, anxiety following closely behind like a curious companion.

 There she stood, tall and neutral in appearance, with long brown hair of oak, and scuffed shoes of mahogany, hinged by the monotonous obligations of her too predictable life, like a used door, passed by every day by strangers, neighbors, and lovers alike, faded in the background as an object designed merely to adhere and be silent, expected to open up to all visitors at their convenience, letting them in only to immediately be slammed shut, forgotten, and left to be handled again.

She took to mind exploration, traveling to new and exotic places, relying on imagination to experience newly discovered euphoria, such as that which comes from climbing the perfect tree with branches stretching and reaching new heights and new, awe-inspiring sights, like that same tall, wooden door—the door she was staring at in that moment—for she new that everything would change if only she could reach its threshold.

Suddenly, she felt a shift in her step and she was walking straight ahead toward a simultaneous entrance and exit. Designed with intricate panels, lit by the ever-flickering glow of a candle that danced like a frantic fairy in search for a way around the woods, its presence demanded her attention. She noticed that which often went unnoticed. If not for the inhibited sensation that had overcome, her exuded curiosity would have lead her astray. The door silently mocked her and invited her to step closer to reach for its carefully crafted exterior—a wall with a handle that, if grasped, would certainly refuse to budge; unless of course the door was actually unlocked and left for the sake of escape and discovery, like the wardrobe that contained a passage to Narnia.

She mentally unveiled the cover and anticipated the future, feeling her shoes sink into a surface of earthly sap that insisted she stay and allow more time to pass, for which she chose to ignore. If instead she chose to follow suit and engage purely in the standard, arranged plan, then joy would not become her, and the company of unwanted loneliness and stagnancy would seek her out further. She took a deep breath and reached for the door handle.

***

“He opened a wall”, the orphan Anya stated in revelation, curious as to how it could have been possible, and amazed at the improbable recollection. Indeed that was how she and her grand mama had escaped from the evil man’s curse of death upon that distant fortnight. The Romanov line had not been eliminated and she had a lot to be grateful for, especially the opened wall, like a door secretly waiting to be discovered: a door with an ability to transport a desperate passerby to another realm of freedom and safety.

“I’m sorry, that’s impossible, walls opening…” Anya concluded in disbelief, after further consideration.

Then again, if it had not opened, how had she escaped? Because she had… she had escaped and, though her true identity was still an unsolved mystery, she did know that the memories flooding her mind, like a deep body of water filled with opulent, re-surfaced treasure, were vivid and felt increasingly real and paramount. As she continued to think about the night that had erased her memories, like a cherished photo album depleted in an unforeseen house fire, lying scared and alone across the pavement, and accompanied by the bitter frost of freshly fallen snow, she recalled the fear that had occupied her every fiber for the short time that she was held captive.

Images of the room appeared, shaded and small, with one window concealed by striking red curtains that lightly draped over an old doll house, set by the sill, from which a flight of green demonic creatures emerged, filling the air with streams of deceased dreams and awakened nightmares. At the time, Anya whole heartedly thought that was the end and that her body would be left to rot in seclusion, until a young boy, whom she had seen before from somewhere within the castle, appeared from opposite the viridescent stained doll house, and motioned for her to join him in the mysterious spacing behind the wall.

However, she could not. Exhausted of her former independence, Anya found that her legs were suddenly paralyzed and devoid of all feeling, The boy saw her desperation and plead, “Come this way, out the servant’s quarters!” and quickly grabbed her hand, then pushed her through the door-like opening, which led to a hidden passage and, furthermore, to Anya’s deliverance. Everything she had known was left behind.

Kassie's 12 Rules For Life

1. Encourage curiosity

2. Colour outside of the lines if you want to--just do it with intention.

3. Treat yourself the way you want others to treat you.

4. Embrace ambiguity and seek oneness in the grey areas.

5. Always be open to further revision

6. Stop focusing on what you want to say when "listening" 

and instead concentrate on what is being said.

7. Create more than you consume.

8. Do not get behind the wheel unless you are at least 99% confident.

9. Every light casts a shadow; therefore, do not judge others for their choices,

because even the purest of hearts are drawn to the darkness.

10. If someone has something in their teeth, tell them.

11. Devote some time to spiritual pursuits.

12. Be kind to the Earth and use less plastic. 

In response to Jordan B. Peterson's 12 Rules For Life.

E(ART)H's Silent Refuge

E[ART]H’s Silent Refuge*

We are not of the Earth.

This barrier of silence cannot contain me.

I look outside the window and can see the beyond.

Earth waves to me like leaves falling from a tree

Dancing in the breeze.

Its branched arms extend outward, inviting me to play.

I envision the nature of things.

Earth

And all that it encompasses

And all that it is encompassed by

Is a Spectacle to be explored.

Seen and unseen

Everything has been gifted to us

By the hand of the Creator.

He worked carefully, intentionally, time completely

Relative. He is the master of all Art.

He created us—the pinnacle of all creation.

Ever-changing, ever-drifting masterpieces.

Communicators of limitless dialogue.

Silence resides in the Secret Annex.

A space behind the bookcase, where we are hidden,

Quieted by the sounds of sirens.

Warnings.

Threats.

Searching for good people.

Searching for the fearful.

Searching for my family and me.

We are all created equally in our diversity

To sustain the growth and love of every detail

To appreciate Art

To thrive on creative pursuit

And through the creative process, a desire to hone

In on an ounce of His craft.

The Creator is the most pristine of all.

We are the subject and focal point of His final piece,

Carefully constructed in shape, value, and color,

Placed before a galactic backdrop—body, veins, heartbeat,

Breath, life, a figure of divine thought, passion, and purpose.

And yet,

We are nothing. A single dot in a collection of infinite dots

Twinkling amongst the cosmos.

A shadow hovered over an intricately designed

Grain of sand.

An unrecognizable, unseen speck in the fantastic universe

Where earth is nothing.

And yet, where earth is everything

A platform of creation and life.

We are never to go outside and roam freely

To smell the blooming daffodils

To taste decadent ice cream cones

To hear the laughter of children jump roping

Or to join in.

We cannot feel the fresh air stroke our skin or draw

Our hair in a spontaneous dance.

We are an energy source waiting to collide, contained and made

To exist in a state of living—everything perfectly planned.

I am trapped. Stuck.

Our energy goes beyond its barriers

Just so long as we see and know the creator

Who chooses to color outside the lines,

Split boundaries,

And instill boundless imagination within us.

Left alone with my one source of comfort. My Diary.

Blanketed in a checkered pattern of red and white.

Even when confined we can take a walk within our head,

Take out a sheet of paper and pen and scroll our own path

Along blank pages

Beauty discovered around every corner,

Between every line,

Words, sentences, and paragraphs,

Stemmed from natural curiosity and creative inspiration.

My words are kept safe and protected

For only my eyes to see—except for the one time I let Margo take a peak.

We imagine a journey outside where the light touches

Sidewalks

Marked by used, red chalk,

Where hope blooms new daffodils to be picked

And placed in a journal for keepsake.

Nature is an invitation to approach the creator in solitude.

We climb mountains to further reach the stars.

We climb trees to feel an envelopment of rooftop leaves

And branches of outstretched arms, welcoming us to sit

And view the world in comfort.

We feel power when heightened and enclosed in a space

Where we cannot be touched.

And yet, we are powerless without the freshly inhaled air supply and contact of earth-grown trees.

The contact resides in the pages.

The freedom resides in the words.

Stories

Questions

Observations

Musings.

Amongst the soil, water, and stars,

A heightened sense of awareness to our bodies can lead us to a truth.

It is only my written words that cannot be taken from me.

They speak loudly, shouting across the page.

My Diary listens intently like a dear friend.

When the sirens pass,

Ink glides across blank pages, and I am not heard.

When mother yells, cries, and rejects my feelings

I silently write—secretly shed light on her faults—

And diffuse the tension.

I record the words of famous writers.

Charles Dickens—my father’s personal favorite.

My words are powerful.

My Diary a suppressor, like the Secret Annex.

For now.

I close my eyes and picture the stars.

Varying sizes, distances, and luminosities.

All encompassing this shared world, which they make up.

We are small. We are nothing at all.

And yet, we are everything—a vessel of free will and creative functioning.

We are the stars, and in our differences we are beautiful.

I see a world where hatred, suffering, pain, and judgment

Deflate. Like a red balloon released by a child,

Floating

Rising higher and higher

Until it is no longer seen

And then pops.

Pop!

We are free to pursue the beyond

The seen and the unseen.

Fragments     of     red     burst

Disappear in the sunset

And blend in with the stars.

One day, I will be free to be me.

And my diary will be published and seen.

And my story will be heard.

But for now, I will continue to write and pray

For we are free to use the earth as our canvas

And mark upon it our personal narrative

A story encompassed by art.

Where silence resides, in the Secret Annex.

* I constructed the piece "E(ART)H's Silent Refuge" in 2015 by combining two pieces from my journal: "Powerful Words in Silent Refuge" and "E(ART)H". The intent behind this piece was to expand upon what I wrote from the perspective of Anne Frank—a reflection on her diary and nature—by incorporating “E(ART)H”, which includes parallels to her words. The process of interweaving the texts was a bit arduous, trying to form connections both clear and thought provoking, but I felt that writing this ambitious piece was more intuitive than anything else. The story of Anne Frank has always deeply struck me and I find that every day she is relevant. I got to experience for myself a walking tour through the Secret Annex where Anne Frank resided at the end of her profound and too short life when I traveled to Amsterdam in the autumn of 2016.