I am Not a Dancer....

Some Have Influenced Me Profoundly.


I don't really connect myself to the Dancer lineage. I feel that those artist master their craft beyond what I can do, but I see now that there are and have been influential Dancers in my life. As I get older I am finding a long yet loose thread to some kind of lineage. Maybe my teenage angst is finally receding. Now I can except my elders more respectfully.

Maybe the first Dancer was Michael 'Boogaloo Shrimp' Chambers ,"Turbo" in the movie breaking. His sweep piece still sends chills through my body. Ko Murobushi, which a couple of years before his passing followed me on FB...just a lil possibly meaningless accomplishment. Of course my long time teacher/ sages the Tamano's. I learn something new each time just interacting with Hiroko Tamano. Lessons beyond movement. She is the closest I have experienced to a sage in my life. The closest that has changed it. Thank you profoundly.

Yesterday I saw one of these few influential Dancers in my life perform, Oguri. Oguri is based in Venice, Ca and like the others I mentioned has continued to develop his craft throughout his life. Seemingly ageless, something about his and the Tamano’s form that seem to not fear death but embrace the existence of the body, not to destroy it but be in it, sense in it, exist in it, understanding its fragility, and respecting it. Not to say they wish to be immortal...not at all. They stare at mortality and make it their intimate friend, not their over indulgent co-conspirator. This and their soft view on life and movement I believe slows their existence...a stroll to smell the flower on their chest.

I always have a profound experience watching Oguri. Yesterday was no different. In his form I see humanity, its ugliness, its silliness, its frailness and the way trauma can fracture it; transmuting these pieces into something wholesome, and healing. This piece I saw was about death and how our love ones from our childhood become the lovers of our present. How in dreams and memories these things blur, we embrace, this embrace becomes a holding of what was once before, a hope to remember a warmth from the past. We are just children hoping to be loved. Hoping to hold a familiar warm hand. Hoping to have someone there to tell us, it’s ok. To hold us to their chest and kiss us on our small foreheads.

Yet in life we sometimes are alone. Sometime we are scared. Sometimes we are broken. This is life, without this darkness the washing that is love would not feel so sweet.

I wonder why memory, for me, is so fresh in soreness. This lesson of memory as a warm fire, is a new one for me, it is something I am learning.

Thank you to my elders, thank you to the people I love.

My darkness finds home in your light.

Rememebring Something that Comes to Me at Every Life- A Rose Perished

I do miss you, a rose that perished.

I imagine your color is much more yellow. Your smell much more sweet. I hope your roots are stronger and your highest vine higher than before. I still think you were the perfect one. Despite your beauty you were contained and restricted by a cancer of doubt. A cancer easily developed. Something I to felt. Delusions of your form are always present. More vivid when I sleep. I have no answers only questions. A bond through the ages, maybe, destined to always be almost. I fear to reach out because your space is sacred, I rather leave it to someone else's doing. I had your image in my mind before I knew you, therefore I can't forget what was there before me.

Future Loop

Music uploaded by artist data mined by AI. AI used to produce pop music and music funded by a panel voted through swiping on initial appeal. Laptops are given to artist in impoverish areas to have a variety of demographics from which to mine from. Artist soon start using the hacked AI software as well.

Proposal For Human Resources LA Decolonize LA

Proposal for “Raze the WhiteBox”
To raze the WhiteBox will be a symbolic action of a greater deconstruction. Working within models of colonization will only develop concepts consumed by colonizing behaviors. Dismantling of this gallery space would be the only method to decolonizing it.

The WhiteBox (any gallery or museum space that hermetically isolates artwork) in its design and conception will always contain/own an object or thought. Property and borders are red flags of colonization. Dismantling a structure which is designed to contain objects and thoughts within 6 sides would be the action to decolonize it. Cement is not fertile ground, it is dead inactive space. A public space that allows community, inspiration and creativity does not exclusively exist as a collection or claim to ownership as does a museum or gallery. Community, inspiration, and creativity by their very nature will always remain fluid and un-owned. These three concepts only empower when used by the collective mass. The process of decolonizing spaces will involve replacing structures in which people collectively perform these concepts.

The remaining land, once this WhiteBox is dismantled, should be a network in which Peoples (any groups that have internalized a colonialist ideology) can regain a culture, but also regain what mother nature once offered in its harsh but nurturing way. The colonization of a People resulted at times with a simultaneous colonization of the land as well. Returning the land to its state of natural symbiosis will plant the seed of change that is necessary for this wounded earth to remember its role and for us to see its glory. This demolition is the only holistic therapy/ cathartic ritual that will remember the many forgotten People, forgotten knowledge, and resources that the colonizers either stole or destroyed. A WhiteBox and its confining walls symbolically and literally censor the past and the land onto which it has rooted itself.

The demolition will be followed by the introduction of indigenous plants and animals. This will inhabit the majority of the land and be integrated in whatever else is built. Some land will remain for agriculture and a stage/ gathering area for community and artist use. In the decolonization of this WhiteBox we must not forget about the inheritors of the colonized state of mind, the children. A place in which children could learn how to engage with nature and relearn the art of symbiosis would replace the structures that now exist on 410 Cottage Home St. If any structures will be built, they will remain small, since the land itself should provide a stage or setting for most things. Monetary means are intangible compared to community action and the blood and sweat of artist and activist. The land will be kept by its users.

If life is art how can life exist in a vacuum? Can the only definition of what art is be contained within a closet, which doors are only opened by someone with the means to own this space? Art removed from life, suffocated in a crate... Is this inspiration? Is art an object free from worldly interaction? Is it a phenomenon sheltered by the very thing that causes its chain-reaction? Transporting artwork produces waste, does this ill benefit this earth? Is a space built like a fortress a structure that welcomes the collective mass?

The brick unit is the beginning of growth. The straight lines imprisons the dirt, the self, the ripple of effect. - Raze the WhiteBox: A Think Tank of Change

May 1, 2016

On Art Practice and Corporeal Reformation

The practice that is this work is not about criticizing colonialism, it is a allegorical response. A very personal response that I might sometimes consider a universal response. The hope is to filter down not the philosophy but the intent, to get to that universalism. A simple state of being that is efficient only in its holistics. Free of biases and specialization, my hopes is to find a way to learn and observe, to live and exist, to breath and touch, to forget by remembering. For now I see this universality as growth, be it cancer, population or regeneration. Finding the precise balance to explore the external and the internal self is one of the challenges with this exploration of this growth. Why the self? It is the first sensor that we are given to understand this Growth. I theorize then that this must be the best at understanding this Growth, holistically each part of the self canceling out the inherent biases.

This exploration as it pertains to the physical and movement I have called Corporeal Reformation. Corporeal Reformation is the act of remembering and learning. It seems to me that performance work is the most radical thing I can do with art. It sets no boundaries between active and passive. We all become part of the community once again. My question would be which community is this we are suddenly a part of when experiencing a performance. The performer or the audience? Are we invading or uniting? Depending on approach a public performance can be a continuous state of colonizing. I think the only way to remedy this is by the passive and the active both being in full effect, and transferring between the hosts (the colonized and the settler).

So it seems that the act of decolonizing can be many messy deeds. In a post-colonial system the colonized and the settler becomes muddled and both become agents of each others restrictions. They both share the initiation rituals of the colonized. Both share symbols and stories in which the powers that be, the first settlers have establish. The colonized start to assimilate the settlers approach, find new land, growth credited partly from new places that one has never seen nor understood. The settlers lost in empty promises lose their own heritage in hopes that assimilation and whitism will provide more than what came before, since it has made a few wealthy and untouchable. Little do they know that the settlers are cattle just as the colonized are the human resource that is a staple of an industrialized nation.

Thoughts on Central Ave. Jazz Festival

I have been tinkering with this idea of source.

When you are striped from your past removed from the source, mechanisms to make the real reasonable are distorted, reality keeps for the Other.  In the past few days I have been thinking about lineage.  at this moment I feel lineage is what helps memory retain the reason and the drive to move in the desired direction.

This weekend I attended the Central Avenue Jazz Festival.  There I witness lineage and connection.  Majority of the attendees were very aware of their lineage.  Locals that have lived through LA’s  segregation/ or separation that still leave noticeable divides in the land. 

I try to comprehend what it feels like to be fenced into a certain sector of the geographical scape?  What kind of thoughts would you have if it was still hard to live in any other place?  What if they told you, you were wrong.  Wrong for thinking there was still such a thing as segregation.  What feelings would you be able to construct when White Reason (I find it twisted to use this faulty binary race code)  still does not explain your present condition.  In the while the Other imposes on your community.  If you can understand what it is to see the affiliated family you adhere to still being seen as alien natives, African Americans, what sentiment would you gain.  Here as long as any other non-native, yet acceptance only for the "positive" end of this two sided spectrum. 

While walking around the festival, when I wasn't stuffing my face, I saw a community holding on to a genius culture but subjugated to self hate, which has attacked other communities as well.  Still I saw so much joy and love.  The music was enjoyable to every last note.  The caliber of musicianship brought to the doorsteps of community was too much for me to contain.  At this time in my age I find perfect joy in seeing others bask in spectrum's I only peek at.  A stare of the two.  Exchanges that only two felt shaping them as old memories and last favorites.  This community is rich with decades and elders, talent and unapologetic genius.  Roots are deep.  Lineage is strong. 

Me, my name is as generic as josie j.  End trails of clustered culture attached behind me.  Too strange to forget the past, subtly remembering mine, actively constructing its future.  The un-anchoring both forced and sought.  I hope to find some lineage.  I might see how lineage finds its flower at the end of a long system of tendon-roots infinitely connected.

How connected?  Live in LA long enough and the roots will grab you by the leg.  Major Garcetti, old jr. high schoolmate Anthony Wilson (son of Gerald Wilson), played a surprisingly clean small piano solo, a bit shaky at first but pleasant. As I can attest to live a life time in LA and you would see yourself another character in this interconnected landscape. On this same day of July 25 2015, LA dedicated 42nd and Central Ave as Gerald Wilson Square.  Gerard Wilson of Shelby, Mississippi arrived here in 1940 because it was a place that welcomed and allowed him certain access.  The Dunbar hotel located on Central Ave. was the nicest hotel that welcomed black musicians.  Gerald Wilson remained in LA living a few steps from his community, historically rich Leimert park.  A jazz giant.  An artist uniting his community.  He lived with his wife Josefina Wilson, modestly.  Artists construct our reality we owe them for our sanity.  They all should live a bit above their choosing of comfort.  An Artist and a teacher Gerald Wilson was everything an artist aspires to be.  Influential, respected and remembered, a good man. 

I walked along the festival streets and write this as an outsider, welcomed in a beautiful culture that I see myself a part of.  Born on foreign land removed from source. A different character connected to a lineage of colonization.  A crusade victorious in embedding its symbols and drives.  In this binary you can only fall on one side if you are heavy with color and conviction.

The Búto Flúto: Reflections on Self Derived Relics

I am Media.

I am the Media.

We are the brick wall woven into a circle.  A flat sphere with no borders.

El centro es el ojo.  Aqui los encontramos.

El Central, donde se cerra el ojo.

Si se manifica se repete.  

*      *     *     *     *     *

The Búto Flúto

A Self Derived Ceremonial headpiece.

Made of mahogany reclaimed from an old Baptist church/ Pentecostal Church in South LA.  The Búto Flúto also consists of poplar wood, steam bent ash from the city of Long Beach, purple heart wood, a hacked Gakken Anolog Synth (SX-150), a custom pre-amp with circuit bending copper contact points, wires, a mic and speaker which is the wooden conical shape. 

It has been with me since 2008.  It has broken many times and can be fussy. 

The sound... it does some interesting things that I am still figuring.  Do to the mic and speaker in close proximity it does a feed back loop similar to most of my wooden speaker box art sculptures.  Because it is a noisy circuit (not very well insulated) It is sensitive to magnetic fields and radio waves, which add interesting behaviors coupled with its SX-150 sound. The circuit bended pre-amp has a flutey sound to it and can rise and lower in pitch when finger are slid along the copper.

There is a track playing in the back ground but most of the sound is the Búto Flúto (on a loop pedal) since it was recorded through its built in mic and speaker. The recorder was held to the speakers funnel.

It has developed it own meaning which I am still understanding.  Steeming from punk anarcho angst, indigenous stirrings, reflecting respect for the ancestral trees, experiments with electricity, now turning into a critique of transhumanistic ironical twist which requires me to add metal hardware (on a piece once only made of wood joinery) for speedy assembly and transportation, but mostly do to damage from performances or general use. A work in flux. 

I hope you get to hear it sometime.  I will be with me on tour.

Photo by Vishal Goklani

f

resh and new

2008

no syth, wings were once longer

Photos by  Jeremy Eichenbaum

2014

Photo by Brenn Lowe Graphics by josie j

Tuesday Night Post # 3.5

Workers,

Work is a way to live for death.

-DBL





I misalign go home on my back I realign.
This vehicle of growth even in death does it find a way to dine on misfortune.

This is the irrational growth that I fine myself wanting to explore
This is where phenomenon we still don’t fully understand relate. From this comes seemly chaotic growth. Cancerous on one end, self healing on the other.

a genetic pattern, a fractal existence, a war unending.

A bread crumb deliciously place at the end of surrender. Allowing Wealth to unwind. Towers that tall they fall with vengeance, adding numbers to the body count. Punishing as it loses stature.

A glitch in your terms. numbers deconstruct as they reconstruct adding distant to the equation. They do not fully explain a multi-dimensional phenomenon.

A larger arch that I don’t see but sense its there. That is my hopes to find and explore. A bit vague this descriptions are. My hopes is to leave the space that is need for ideas to Growth.

Tuesday Night Post #3.6

Dear Visitors,

Options are there, third party System.

Creation

Evolution

Ancient Astro-not


-DBL








Musings on DivineBrick


Any good start begins with a solid under-structure. What keeps the pieces together is the frequency the negative thoughts trigger the self replicating behaviors. As before,... the Ouroboros, the irrational numbers, the wheel of life, the cycle of abuse. Positive feed back methods to induce the basic structure, decomposed.

DivineBrick methodology (at this state in time) is to deconstruct the self, which represents the collective self, in doing so belief should be expelled. Attacking the collective self, ripping it wide open, exposing faults and control mechanisms.

Building brick by brick encasing the blue gem. This is not a wall nor a pyramid. It is a path way flat and endless. No hierarchy can represent life energy manifested.

Bricks are square but bricks are made of bare earth. Human hands forcing shape, earth obliges. Human children played with mud, shaping, wishing, playing. Playing and Ritual, that is what we do. Breakthroughs or Beautiful representations. This is what we do. Pretend. We role play the Maker, the Grower, we replicate what we do not understand, our external world. External forces wakes us, teaches us, shaping us. This transformation no matter the method is a privilege and some how a birth right we have.

This Belief methodology is an alternative choice that I choose to choose, a cozen gift to not take lightly. My re-search lead me to the simple building block.

the brick
the cell
the room
the space
the net
the fabric
the self
the unit
the piece

This is the DivineBrick Methodology. Searching from the roots pulling on vines.

Tuesday Night Post #3.3

Programs,

System Reformation. Belief Reformatting. Corporal Reformation.

-DBL

can systems really be about destruction?
de-constructing what is not understood
breaking apart what needs to stay
exploring touching reaching for a core that does not substitute
voices recall the past reformed
tongues collided fire revolves
center to the draft of senses
of need
of taste
of knowing and recalling

systems feel
do they feel?
does human well being involve feeling?

feeling is core?
this narrative of sight belongs to us
me the vision seeker-the Light bouncer
deforming planes confusing eyes
deceiver of the Light



efficient divider grower of worth
on this dividing line that she sensed
cubs were lost blood lines severed
her four legs knew this rhythm well
its the constant motion that delivers this sense of vast space
space so vast there is only self
the outer reached it limit
the inner reached a depths profound
Deliverer of Light she will never forget your smell
She tasted you once, strike you down
severed member searcher of Light
She sees no road
She sees no inner end
She pounds on pavement, crumbled glass
soft sands of beaches along the coast
tracking lacking worth

Tuesday Night Post #3.2

Lovers,

Its tuesday

-DBL

At this moment I am frustrated.   Dealing with caves of pastured  hills I resist but I enter, knowing what will occur will be a sense of being outside in the darkness.   Just as the walls are moist, so are the chilled blue blades of grass.  This is where I end up tired and achy.  On trips to wild reactions and decisions I take my naps in institutions.  Naturally the seeds that germinate from this conclusion share the same commitment as my execution.  Dialing the proper number to call the doctor, to fill the prescription that murders the patient, in this proof your fail is the solution.  Redialing context of dissolution I stand proud on broken and swollen legs.  Tree trucks left to spoil, finding necks long and hard, wheels in mud stuck, the child cherishes his freedom.  

With growth and pain rounded fingers feel around as wealth regains.

With repetition I find nostalgia when nothing changes assuring I remember the following.

With repetition I lay my head at the feet I adore without no standards.

With repetition I assure the memory deforms in dome or shelter bending as needed for the assault.

Gems, found in beds left for dead.

Tuesday Night Post #3.1

Fanatics,

#c0z3n

Man has taken from a womb.  Destroying as he creates.  

Stealing as he rapes.

A newer thought of a feed back loop that spreads thin

evenly across a surface

Of a man given a gift which he sees it as that

the structured thought was the first to notice

Repetition makes the group

Consumption closes the loop

In this act in his behavior he climbs

only to end up face down

People seed in their weight

end for them left in a gram of ash

Tuesday Night Post #3.0

Select Few,

Art as religion.
Art as Prayer.

-DBL





Laying on three rocks. My left foot on the noose. My right on the skull. My back on the wood.
My friend the only friend layed below. A beckon of red hanging from his throat. Loyal and true he laid on small thorns.
Just another ripe vision of true. A twisted repulsion to rearrange this off hue. Each turning shadow replaced by her at once.
Lil witch with power summon defaults. Make them special for others that are lost. Take them in kindly, choose them full.
Give them violence, put them down on moss. Slight adjustments of light are strong enough to confuse. Who follows who, paradox of the muse. Set it balance, sphere and cube.
Step into the darkness. Walk among elders, grab a limb. They swing you distances, as you loosen the leaves. Failing to see how distances bleed. Set it balance, puddle of gore and pile of ash.
On a high rise, looking down at her virtue and benevolence, remembers the frost. Memories of canopy high, bare feet on moss.
Forgetting the chaos, stepping ahead, circuits converging we are all lost. Set it balanced, flesh and mind.
That hazy air that finds you on an off day, that's where I laid. A faithful friend he will follow me as far as any liquid end. With his beacon of love he’ll help me up. No fear is pending. Vacuum of light where no one began.

T and Light

I only started to under-stand what she said that early morning. Now that I have legs. Strange as she was she painted long strokes of inconsistencies that assure only the wealthy in doubt. I could feel my throat sing in the waters we stood. She answered the question who she wished she was.



“Describing a self which is unlinked from the flesh I will attempt to do. Any concepts obscure or actively trending I find myself attractive to. Finding answers in odd places, when found became quite normal. A maker, a builder, my hands must be occupied. My body is my medium knowing every medium is an extension of the body. Survival of the old world I have kept my teachings. Seeker of new land, I recognize the direction. Always seeking, deciphering the roots.”


I am no fool simple mind still sees light in contaminated waters.

Tuesday Night Post #2-27

Greeting from the mobile,

At airport picking up a friend. On this post I send a nod to the creative juggernauts that make to make. To the ones I know personally. To the ones I see bunkered down only knowing one thing. Seeing you make your work lights a fire beneath me. Making me realize I can do more

-DBL

*****

Change the face that we are greeted with
Propelling the idea that we do not see
Without a hint to know that we do well
Grabbing every thought that we make in others
Seeing how you work despite the fleeting hours of the day
You are the make of this state

Tuesday Night Post # 2-26

The Infectious,

I would like to take just a moment to recognize the many brilliant minds that have fallen.  Precisely this moment is for the onesthat were chopped low before that brilliance could be seen.  Seen by others or seen by the ones thatwere born with a different view, a proper view.

-DBL

*     *      *     *      *

AsNatural as Walking

There is no way to destroy a Force that has but one direction

A direction that is a different form of Consumption

This definition is one forgotten and is more human than we will remember

Error are the ways of present thought

Weaponized for ill

Chosen are the ones built to fail

Severed are the ones hailed as agitators

Sneak the sliding hand

Send it low

Channeled low into a deep valley

Dark

Deep

Light don’t shine in tinted windows

Imagination cannot fly with bars on squares

Put them on a bus to a place where they are forgotten

Let the children see that the exercise to think will only follow with distraction

Starve the child of thoughts renowned let them boast their sickened frowns

These children you took would be the anchors

A brilliant light reflected low for the rest to follow

Burn the end in the morning

Drink the thought in the evening

In a box they will learn

You are mistaken if you think this is
a comment on the present educational system

There exist a place where even you are unfamiliar

A box set aside for the young to rot or fall inside

Self reflected they become dejected

Waiting to be passed from one failure to another

A radiant mind would only find consuming ways to self destroy

This is for the ones that knew before they were broken

There are better answers

Than the ones we hold as tokens

For you the few that Consumed every ounce of satisfaction

That this world is a puzzling sensation

For every question you felt there was an answer

For every point you turned to get it

You found a greater sense that it was out there

All you got was strange reactions

For the moment when you forgot to remember to care

For the moment you died and you cared for no affair

You still had a chance

You left the next a reason to fear a brilliant rant

I won’t forget you child

Your sense of wonder

A simple question brave

For you we fight this plague that
We still try to evade

Tuesday Night Post #2-25

Patient Naysayers,

Lets end the argument.  Lets agree that there is nothing to believe. 

Time is short, well this night is.  All I wish I will do, so I cut this short I’m going to spend the rest in a dance. 

-DBL

*     *     *     *     *

The Wasi’chu, the Pariah

This keeps falling out my box

Just as you opened up all those sealed tombs

Few to take the blame

Fewer to explain

As I empty my box of the things that don’t belong

I try to reorganize all the things you took from the encoded songs

My vision is only a weak connection with the past

The same one you took so you can last

As I get closer to razing the WhiteBox

Your growth surpasses the one I try to resolve

You and I see the desperate fight

Of the two sides that give the Force to a body upright

You and I see the change

The question is not what to believe or not

Let the adults fight

Forgetting that in truth it ends

In questioning it begins

For you its about the respect and awe that kept us in flight

A choice is yours to spread your wings of copper

It’s my choice to make mine in something I find more proper

As you approach a single moment undefined

It looks like I turn away left alone a path unrefined

Mine is the voice that you tried to forget

A nail looking for the force that could get it set

We know lots has been answered

Past the stage of assessment we are engaged in application

You want war you want a destruction of what came before

Turned away I keep it in

I am myself I dance in myself

Nothings true at this state

Until the end I keep it straight

Tuesday Night Post # 2-24

Unknown Lovers Made of Substance of the Stars,

Believe that what we know will change in a present time, tomorrow.  Be ready to accept things your child self would have had an easy time.  Prepare to love the things that same child longed to see.  Forget the ground that you find so dear rejoice in the urge to resist the voices that pull you here and there.  Never forget the lover that made you who you are.  Smash the thumb that keeps you all but a dog.  Let your minds eye tear to clear the fog that smears your fear.

-DBL

*     *     *     *     *    

Isolate the crooked bone

Wind that urge that leaves you to believe

In that seat left occupied with the heat

This is fiction resolved to exist to replace

Known is objects hide in plan sight

Reasons creep in stride with shadows

Never can shake the black skirt

Willingness to love the space in which it spins

In a warm bed in a cool room lies the resistance

This birth that there will be            

Will be the fight we will leave

Change the cheers of pride

Make them tears that one can not hide

Blank will be the paper that will unfold

All the things that could not be acknowledged

Running from the fear of being left alone

Charge one to keep this throne

Swear sweep stare share all that needs to repeat

Scar the flesh that has more strength when it reverts

Gentle finger guide the palm

Into the intersection of numb and hooked resolve

Age passes on a wave of control and comfort

A step towards vocal call is a call to dissent

Feet assemble on a platform of love

Burning their soles in the crucible of misguide empathy

Tuesday Night Post # 2-23

Distant Strangers,

  Find it simple to let it pass through you.  Like a chill that you can't control but feels free and pleasurable.  Wild is a thought a irreplaceable fear of morning light.  What do I search for?  An empty space to stay.  That thought that reminds you what you once understood is actual something you never could. 

-DBL

*     *     *      *      *

 She Died Cold, I lived  Seeing Her Mold

(Stories of the Two)

A rising step from heel to toe

Keep this thought close around ample room

Deep in a place a light sequesters a hope to grow

Back when you found it hard to say

Everyone has their way to not to show

Now I get the hints reliving sounds eyes rising wheels turning

Sudden vision of you practicing your gifts

Maybe then I had no way had no help devils live in quiet

To really share manufactured hearts broken machine stuck to stare

Never new just confused often found

Sent away in hopes you would be around

In my heart never true

They tell us sacrifice the new

In a dream walking near

With those heels I never fear

Stretch the time of every night

Details never lost as we engage in this artificial recited flight

Words we choose always right hazy dream teasing me

As before I left you there quiet safe high above the stage of fear

Revisit that one place there you stand always full of grace

Safe to dance wild swing arms climb the vine

Chasing that thing you missed before chasing it just a kiss to adore

Breaking down expose the want finally you are content grab it tight

In this heart never true

Tell me to sacrifice the new

In this scene you walk near

With those heels I never fear

In that thought it was right adjusting for the windy sight

A shoulder pressed hard and strong on a wall of nether thought

Holding back the words guarding back the choice to break

An honest theft to not show you wrinkle you scold you

Had it all never needed to adjust the screw

Just pretend all is grey find it better than to stay clouds cover rancid mildew

Lets spend the moment that follows looking at the line of our dearest desires

A simple map of that stage we never cleared standing on the liquid grave of fear

Always moving always flowing always chases us to empty glory

At the bottom of the pool this rose bathed and pruned drowned of smoke and booze

In dark there is only nightmares but for me

There I find my curse I wrap around this cold fire choke in smoke

Drown your heart kill the true

Show me you sacrificed your new

In my vision you walked with me

In your heels you seemed free

Tuesday Night Post # 2-22

Ritualistic Self Healers,

In a bit of pain I am posting from the mobile from my bed.

The Hunter House show was a blast. I'm glad so many people came out and really enjoyed the performance. Sometimes when making art in a bubble one never knows what response one will get.

- DBL

*****

With every new pain understood
I acquire another to understand
Exploring the mechanics of this pain threshold provide the manual for repair
Sometimes the process requires a filing of priorities
One feeling of disrepair is set aside to degrade and dissolve
For another that has more chance of actual change
One must forget the signs of warning for much more caring signs of growth
This moment of self healing becomes a state of ritual of the self
Awareness comes at the heels of the belief that a string runs through me
If pulled I come apart
The same string is use to move me providing an anchor of self navigation