As Janis Said

Have coffee and explain to me the importance of jumping into the water. Tell me, looking at my eyes, that I will not jump alone, and if I do, remind me, I will only hit water.

Make me: a lot changed. Explain to me that I will regret more not jumping, or jumping later, than simply jumping. Make things become visible to me.

Time as precious. This idea, that metaphor, that concept made real. Help me think I have to talk. I can see myself tall, proud, with integrity, at the edge of that conversation. Make it past tense. Make it done.

Make your words and imagination let me understand there is no room for delays in claiming self. I have known this for a long time.

I still don't know what is self worth, what is the extent of claiming self before becoming selfish?

I still wonder to what extent I can walk into authenticity knowing it is so? But things have become clear. And more and more, they speak out themselves.

I see my life today, there is not past, there is not future. There is present. There is today. And us, here.

Whatever we want to happen, it may not. Whatever we accomplished, it can disipate quickly.

Everything we do, today. And nothing else. Everything, in tact, in ear, in smell, and in mind. What a pleasure it is to connect with body parts. To observe them. To see the air spread. Everything, illuminated. Everything, dark. As it is.

I realize:
- Attempt to find a value measure for self worth
- Be specific and give examples of self-affirmation
- Relay how it is I have grown
- Have a clear idea of what it is to be free

As Janis said, you are all you got, do not compromise.

It is Easy to be New Away

Over the past 24 hours, riding a camel, I seem to have made mine this dire earth's desire for water. I seem to have made mine the desire to thrive under the extreme sun, to endure extreme conditions, and to persist within draught. Now, there is an an ocean of sand, shades of red confusing themselves with the intense blue that fills the sky above. The sun, impressive, shinning still, as the day ends. The heat, at the late hours of the day, manageable. A dozen camels, resting below the dunes. Sand dunes covering the horizon and spread around in every possible directions. Mountains of gold, of silky sand, untouched by the billion people that populate this subcontinent.

I am in a remote place. I am in a remote place. I am in a remote place. I am in a remote place.

Gold and blue in shades my eyes have not seen before. I stand here in the Thar Desert, about 60km away from Jaizalmer, Rajasthan's largest city furthest to the West, equidistant from the Pakistan border. There were camouflage military bases, military vehicles, and peacocks flying freely on the way before reaching this point. I stand in an area of intense international conflict. An strategic point between two of the world's nuclear powers. An area that has seen hoards of Hindi and Muslims disagree, fight, destroy, and combat. Combat for beliefs. Combat for land. Combat for history.

In the single moment, I too stand here combating, disagreeing, fighting, feeling nuclear against my own history and the present moment. Desertic oceans do that. They make moments, ceremonial. It is easy to be new away. Away from history. On an ocean of golden sand.

I walk on the profile of the summit. And I remember. On one side shade. On the other, the sun, as a perfect circle, setting down. My heart looks aside and suddenly discovers the perfect opportunity for action. The perfect opportunity to allow greater excess to this extraordinary moment. The body craves to run downhill, at full speed, down the mountain of sand. No repercussions. Just run. I run. 45 degree slope. I run. Feet reach deeper into the sand. Hit whatever I have to hit in the way. Fall whichever way. Just run and toss and turn. Be free.

Running downhill leads to trampolines. Of the childest kind. Running downhill leads to laughter and the heart pounding ever faster. Running downhill presents you with the summit yet again. It reminds you, of the opportunity, for mastering the day, through the simplest, single moment.

This pilgrimage continues. Experiences, brutal, transformational, find shape. India is a revolution to the heart and mind. I can only find minutes to uncover fine moments. The desert was one. I hope, to find structure to all of this. The journey, itself, is meant for that. For now, I remain, running downhill, falling whichever way, discovering India, tossing, turning, in awe, admiring, being eternally grateful for this amazing privilege, understanding it, and, every day, being less metallic, less aluminum, and a more compact soul.

Bring on the Repercussions, Repercussions, Repercussions.

A camel is a monumental animal. Honorable and brutally strong. Persistent, quiet, quintesentially tall. "Raju", said the local man leading the zafari in basic English, "is his name". He raises his hand to height of his white turbant, and with a rough tone, he directs you to mount Raju. You mount Raju and after 12 hours reach your destiny.

The desert shows itself vast and imperious. The land around is pure gold. The horizon, further ahead, red and rocky. Perplex shadows of green appear timidly, scared, against vast plains of soil that extend below your feet. Plains of soil that extend, like flawless geographical plains marked by vectors that must have been drawn on a draft for a renacent work of art. Your body feels like an aluminum compass. Vertical. Your feet, like a pointed needle. You stand atop an infinite sheet of coarse paper in Western India.

A sand dune, the largest and tallest of all the dunes in this golden cordillera, stands ahead. You set yourself on course to climb it. Prior, you realize: "I am, no longer metallic. I am, no longer, an aluminum plain, a center of vectors." You remove the turbant that was tightly wrapped around your head since the early morning by Mr Desert, himself. You no longer wear the camel-saliba-and-sweat-stained-fine-white-cotton-thread-shirt you purchased in Rajasthan's basari on the eve before. Your body is bare. You let loose of your shoes as fast as you can. Your feet, no longer touch the camel's stomach. Rather, they discover a new touch. Silky sand, feels cold, perfect. You step, for the first time, into an ocean of sand. There is no shade on this side of the dune. The sun reflects on its top but no longer hits your face.

You climb. You look ahead yet find ways to turn around, to move sideways across the dune. It is difficult to not turn, difficult to not find ways to distract yourself before reaching the summit. Silky sand, tuning this unexpected, new, ackward body with the desert. Ultimately, the distraction owes to one single fact. That is, knowing, understanding, and been certain that what you will see at the top of this dune will be vast. It will be absolute. It will be something more than a vision. It will be a memory, that will become permanent, relevant. It will be about mastering the day, through the single, simplest moment. You are sure and certain, this moment, on the summit, will have repercussions.

Repercussions. Repercussions. Repercussions. Distract yourself from the summit. Repercussions.

Bring on the repercussions. Summit reached. All particles seem to have returned and form your body's core again. You are compact again. You think, and better yet, you know: "I am new. I am new. I am, too, desertic."

A Mid Year Wish

Hindsight is a powerful concept for the ignorant. I fall in this category. While I adapt and flex to roll with the changes life brings, I am not one to predict accurately life's events. It would be difficult to explain how reserved I was about leaving my flat tonight. Christmas is a grand sacred tradition where all things infancy shine. The 24th and the 25th are important on many levels. Given the outcome of these Holidays, I was not willing to adapt and flex. I said nay to all invitations and distractions. I wanted to walk a bit into me. To make the solitude palpable in a special and not masochistic way. I wanted to use the grand ocassion to meet me, once again, and converse a bit. And then you appeared. Hindsight. You in your special-ness and amazing-ness. With your palpable wisdom, inteligent insight, and caring heart. It was one of those eves that will be reserved for the books. It is the second of my life that departed from tradition or the way I have always held it. And it ranks upward in the memory books already. I hope 2012 gives you back a tenth of what you contribute to the world and those around you. I hope leaving the "cubicles" gives you a chance to wander crazy around others, to get a palet of self that is new, as an adult away from the corporate world, where you get a sense, first hand, first self, first feet, to be you seeking your satisfaction, your passion, your fulfilment. A great way will be ahead. I cannot wait to have you in the world exploring life again, new, starting that first day in the life all over again. Enjoy this year's end, disconnect, let all happen and come back to London to close this journey. Hindsight will bring it all one day. I expect to be around to be the first to smile, award, and aplaud. Until then look forward to relaxed fun exploration of London and wing-man you in the best of my ability. Merry Christmas, Happy 2012, let it be the 2012 of all...

Random Tube Snippets: Thirty for Thirty

There is no containment of emotion A journey looming My epic time: an epopeya frame On a pedal But no longer repeating myself Born to bloom There are ripples and jiggles In the stomach it's all wiggles A route undiscovered The Old Continet at night in a tent Will I be robbed? Will I be run over by a truck? Will I be forgotten? Will I disappear in a gipsy's guitar? Life as it happens A new project into the unexpected The risk of testing the body Of elevating a commitment Of taking on the challenge of celebrating 30 How do you raise knowledge of what 30 means? How do you capture the craft of living three decades? Of the evolution of sounds heard and of friendships felt? Of love never felt and the void of no drawer sharing space? How do you account for the primary makers of you who have dissipated? How do you thanks the ones who remain? It rocks like 30 It smells like 30 How do you do single out three learnings? How do you allow yourself to more love making? How do you pause to claim that what you are is what you want? A virgin? Always A guru? No longer A rocker? Yes please What 30 accounts is just rapid living Growth into own for many Decoupling off the body Off from what we once were and what we now are We are young We are stronger Will I become reptile? Will I have a broken heart? Will I get to gratitude for this freedom of movement? Known present Craft knowledge Cut edge Forward it Craft your master piece 30 for 30

Opening Eyes, Seeing It

At summit high oxygen prevented heights: clarity.

At views of Machus, of Pichus, of glory: revelations.

At all times, the world in front: see it.

http://youtu.be/WTrio5vJzlc

Week-Day, Issued to You

Revisiting the glance of a room
Stare-down of four walls
Exposed brick
Industrial metal
Naked interior

Clothed and draped
Behind smart glasses
Of tall stature
Pull-up structure

Floater over a gorge
Corners with fillings
Ceiling beams horizontal

The rust, the oxide, unnoticeable
It's pristine
It's clean
Is the structure of Week-Day issued to me in London
Crisp rainy and fresh air

No pressure, no self right-hood
Just water glass dropping
Just vapour soul frolicking

Its good to stop to want to love
To love oh do much

Master of Ceremonies

Flashing hearts applaud
Fingers close the shutters
Mind draws in

Adrenaline juice
Podium Fire
Focus pokus

Honour as blood fluid
Eyesight passion: competition
Ruthless sweat

My heart pounds yours
I will Destroy you
I will Outgrow you
I will record break you

I have become Olympian
in blue starlight powered wheels

And then time, again and over.

My draft off sends me
Beaten
Destroyed
By age
By time
Wound licking on a Porsche

Become white trash?
Disappear in black noise?
Coach armies of untalented idiots?

I dance off you
Off your arms
I am Olympian heart

Me Giant

On downward sloping mountains of peak glacier water I raft down. Me in hay form: me yellow, me light, me trespassing bushes, me unbeaten by the fish, me fostering microbes. Me as now wet hay. Undrouned: transported by rapid current flow. Its a raft in the world tongue's saliva.

Petite singer facing human traffic unloaded from trains. In their eyes: hurry. On their hands: digital music players. In their ears: blasting noise. In their hearts: the inability to stop. Me soul music. Me vocals between mouth's teeth. Me notes projected to the tile. Me as song. To pause. To consider that woman's voice. So hell raising. So air touching. Human current charged. Vastly exhausted. Moving everything with it. Moving tiredness, vice, concern, ambition. Living they are. Hoping for a holiday. Hoping for a limited escape from reality. From a break away. From this insane movement. Why temporarily? Why not shift entirely?
It's a tunnel current in the worlds throat.

The journey of a sperm. From incubation to deception to conception. Beautiful unique and coded. Transparent and see through. In the mans body fluid of contempt. Of preservation and disaster. An ever drying current. My guys. That one that made it through. Proximity to internal only. Travelling through membrane human cells and clusters. By the push of an impulse. By reaction to a tease. All that is. It's a molecule in the worlds loins.

The steps that I give. Becoming giant. Growing atop townhouses. And shanty towns. The stupidity of becoming giant. Sturdy but clumsy. Eat flying seagulls in becoming larger. Accepting this pace. Accepting this phase. His page. Her take. Their Gaze. I become giant. I become giant. My feet outgrow my shoes. My body from its clothes exploit. My head proportional grows. Now the joy. Of being naked. Of owning nothing. Of being too big for anything owned. Giving everything Away. Even that smaller mans ego. It's just not appropriate for this giant anymore. Is been outgrown!

I am giant
I am giant
Me is going to simplify
Me is going to simplify
I am unassuming
I am giant
Nothing from before fits
Nothing from later will
Bare
Bare
Minimum

Walked-Walk-With-Much-Talk

Marching on: a piano, alone, at the end of a wrecked street. Vapour, like fumes, rising in the cold.

Marching on: at the opposite street's end, an ocean blue, a palm tree, a tropical beach. Air is bright, blue vibrates.

A long way down, it has been, a life, notes, pianos, wars, destroyed civilisations that rose in the heart, all bombed.

A walked-walk-with-much-talk. A random-evolution-trancing-pacing-facing-wow.

At tail's end, is one, on it, now: on life. As it happens. As it steers. On it's tail end. Where improbability rises.

Where all is possible in oceans of black-swans of one-off blasts that forever remain.

Where is that lightning? Where did it go?

This piano touches soul and faster it goes:
- You loose weight. Who do you do it for?
- You have not got love. That, you know, you would do, for you.
- You look at past and future. That, you sense, present is not.
- You want it simple. To start. And to end.

The beach plays with the fumes and there is a lost woman's shoe along the way.
A cinderella taken away by the fast speed of the war.
A whore awake in the early morning.
A woman who got lost on the way home.
The world is dark when it wants to.
Specially at early morning.

When the beach strikes: Take the moment. Be selfish.
Jump on water. Be wet.
Criss-cross the air. Welcome to the day.