Dream Stones

Dream Stones
Stream of Consciousness, Ethnography, Personal Narrative, Travel, Drugs
Dog
I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, because I don’t believe in writer’s block and even though I’m an expert at naval gazing I know I need to get out of the house and be around people, but no I don’t really feel like talking to them, I just need to watch them and their habits, kind of like how I watched this dog all week, who would wake me up in the middle of the night licking her wounds, a bad habit she’s acquired just like I have of picking my ears, so I’d yell at her to please stop and blame her for the reason I wasn’t really able to sleep but eventually I figured out she actually needed me to lift her legs onto the bed and then she took up all of it but at least she was peaceful.
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So I went out and I watched, I watched, I watched the whole world like I was traveling. I don’t have any money to take a trip but I can pretend that instead of those thoughts on is the path I always take and these are the same people I talk to rather to think this is the first time I have ever set eyes on this place and who are these people and what sort of culture do they have because I remember the time I went to Beijing for the first time and it felt like one week lasted me a whole year because nothing made sense but at the same time everything did because I just saw everything around me and felt free from wanting anything at all.
Dream stones
There’s a certain freedom when traveling but I can’t travel right now so I’m staying in this house with a meditation room and burning Chinese incense that reminds me of when I lived in Dali, Yunnan – the province of the Southern Clouds – and I am almost certain without a shadow of a dreamer’s doubt that in fact the people shaped the clouds descending over the mountainside with their thoughts and memories and dreams and hopes because the marble they mined from the mountain had the same look of the clouds and they sold that marble they called it dream stones.
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When my father came to visit me he went to every little just so he could stare at dream stones for hours before he decided to buy a whole suitcase full and I suppose they activated something in or I suppose it was the kind of shit he saw when he was high so maybe that explains why am I sitting here at breakfast Googling pictures of Ayahuasca for my desktop background because I remember that day after church we came back and ate bagels and talked about Jeremy Narby’s The Cosmic Serpent: DNA and the Origins of Knowledge for hours and how everything the Amazonian shamans told the anthropologist made complete fucking sense to me and now I hope every time I open my computer I can get activated and be reminded that life is not actually this but really that and be reminded there are some trips you don’t actually have to buy a plane ticket to take. 
Bus Stop Jamaica 
Sitting next to a Latina woman sitting at the bus stop, we are both watching the man across the street putting on a tie before he takes out two cases of bottled water from the trunk and I’m trying to remember that word…corbata…la corbata de civilization, it’s something like that, something like a choke hold that puts its arm around your neck and chokes you to death when you are just a man just a simple man and you surrender your whole head to the king of capitalism.
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He’s in front of a tire shop it reminds me of the kind in Jamaica because its yellow small and has some people milling about outside and when I went in 2010 with my jazz band it was the first time I could recall not knowing if I was awake or dreaming and it was the first time I could recall not having access to technology so I couldn’t call my boyfriend for a week and thank god because he called me every day ugh a way too co-dependent relationship I broke free from for a while but so I ended up cuddling with by the piano player in a hammock I couldn’t tell if it was okay to do that even though I really wanted to because there’s a certain way you can connect with people when we played music under the stars and the other piano player almost bought a ‘shroom from a guy on the beach but instead all of us when out to a trampoline on the sea and looked up at the stars and got high and thought maybe they made the shape of a cannabis leaf.
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The bus isn’t coming so I think maybe I should call a car but then I remember how I noticed the people who have white skin like me who have any bit of money don’t actually ride public transportation unless they are going to work, but at some point I learned that I’ll always get where I’m going anyways and at some point I learned time doesn’t actually exist and have you ever noticed that people think they need to be stressed out in order to get anything done and have you ever noticed people here use that word productive a lot but they don’t actually produce anything and at some point I removed that word from my vocabulary. 
Your Unreliable Ethnographer  
What thoughts are mine and what are not mine? I don’t really know anymore. 
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When you observe a different culture, you assume the people you watch are genuinely happy to be together. 
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I picked up a biography of Margaret Mead in a free library on the side of the street today and I don’t know anything about her much other than I agreed with her when I heard she said adolescence might really just be a sham invented by Western culture so why did I ever have to be a teenager I’ll never forget my remembered my first year anthropology professor who told us that when he was in Papua New Guinea the people worshipped sweet potatoes and even ate enough of them that they women used them as a form of birth control I have an IUD and people have all kinds of feelings about it but actually I probably eat like five sweet potatoes so I think I’m good.
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I went out to watch the world like the world wasn’t watching me
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When I got here I joined the spiritualist subculture because I started doing a lot of Kundalini Yoga too many days of the week until my body was beautiful and blissful and I had a killer set of abs but it’s about being spiritual right not the superficial way your body looks after a year of training so after I left that community I still found myself just as disconnected from people as I was when I lived in a place where I couldn’t speak the language.
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So turns out your manic pixie yoga girl thinks fondly of her favorite anarchist Christian anthropology professor who had us question multiple interpretations of movie Jesus Camp and who told me to read David Graber when he met me in the park for a beer and who had us read an article called “Spiritual but Not Religious” which always sounded good to me but it seems that anytime I really sit with myself I remember I was still raised in the Presbyterian church and turns out so was Donald Trump and so fuck you Calvinism and your theory of predetermination and welcome to the terrifying side of something I need to come to terms with. 
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I’m just here. Writing in a notebook and helping children climb up on top of the statue of Joan of Arc. Remembering no matter where I go in the world, this is what I’m destined to do every day. 
Yoga
There’s a man with white skin walking past some women with white skin lying in the grass on yoga mats and he laughs to maybe a woman who is his wife and says “Look – I could do that, just lie there” oh to just lie in the grass for a moment off my feet, it would feel so good, oh it would feel like I’m going home.
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Now watching this couple a smaller man maybe of Asian descent and a woman with brown skin and I’m not sure if they’re not a couple couple but the very adept yogi man doing handstands is helping this taller also beautiful woman try one for herself and you can tell it’s hard for her so then he shares his watermelon with her and she looks nervous sort of to have this gesture of human kindness but at some point in her life someone told her to just follow her heart and for some reason she thinks to share some fruit right now just really feels right and good and loved.
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Later I see her dancing around with two white flowers in her hands in sort of a freedom dance and she’s I wonder if this like a mating dance she’s thinking of that yogi guy from earlier and how he helped her with her handstand.
Drum Tribes
A lot of the people here have different colored rainbow hair as I imagine the Capital in the Hunger Games while on the inside I know they are caught up in an Arena of the heart, competing with each other to be sexier, slimmer, more booty shaking style smooth. 
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There are two drum circles and one side people say these are the real musicians who are commemorating a man who died and on the other side people are just banging really loudly and there is a guy playing a drum set and from this statue I can just see everything and it’s the best seat in the house and I can hear feel smell taste the palo santo burning 
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A woman with blue-colored hair is dancing and banging on a pot with a spoon and dancing with a guy who was spinning sticks with the people who reminded me of some traveling clowns I met in Argentina once who could juggle and had teardrops drawn under their eyes and the girl with blue hair is having fun and looks like the way I felt in a dream once. 
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A man with white colored skin is playing djembe pretty well and sitting next to him a girl wearing a black wide-brimmed hat with a button on it and she’s cute but looking kind of bored so I wonder maybe she’s a poet so I’ve noticed a lot of girls around here wear hats because so a few months ago I bought a black hat to make me feel like a New York Patti Smith or maybe a New Mexican Georgia O’Keefe and to make me feel like maybe someone would pay attention to me while I read poetry.
Bathrooms
I buy a cold homemade drink from a girl with brown skin wearing a black value hat selling juice from a cooler and it makes me have to pee and I can’t believe there is only one public bathroom for all of these people plus I don’t want to wait in line so I go back to observe the human phenomena even though it’s not going to leave and will still be here once I return but I keep feeling like I need to see more feel more be more do more
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I check my phone to see when I can catch the metro and I start to walk towards it but I can’t even last that long, and when I walk back and I girl walking with a boyfriend says I like your outfit! to me it seems like a friendly version of anonymous female-to-female catcalling, so I go back to the park to pee under a bush and it reminds me of that friend in college who insisted of peeing every time we went to the park to drink or get high and I walk back to the stairs and see this interesting inlet in the stone stairs and two women ask me if I’m looking for the bathroom because apparently this is where it used to be and I say no I just find it interesting looking, I just peed anyway in the bushes and they don’t reply back so is that appropriate for their culture I don’t know. 
Prayer
When I get back the drummers pause for a moment of silence for the man who died and I wonder is this how the tribes pray together? I’ve never seen anything quite like it except for in this temple of air. 
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Can You Take a Wrong Turn?

I finally wrote a series of poems about my trip to New York.

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Can You Take a Wrong Turn?
  1. Wrong Train
I got on the wrong train towards East Village
And fretted – will It ever stop?
Will I ever get off?
Do you ever wonder?
How many people boarded a vessel to come here?
By choice or by brute force?
More likely, some combination of both
After hearing two girls talking about the slaves
Harvesting sugar cane in the Caribbean
You can feel that New York City
Vibrates on a level of
Everyone who has come and departed 
Looking for a better life
Only to be caged in coal mines
Profiting from industry
And the cleansing of the countryside
To think we all that we had something
Together
Fusing steel to sky
To see it all
  1. To Be Appropriate
More than death in the Civil War
Burns a cultural vapid hell 
Some envy in knowing where you come from
Some hold resentment for those who drink
From the well
Sitting on my hands and clear separation 
I’m thinking this shirt from West Africa
Fits better than yoga pants
He said, “As token of appreciation 
For more than a minute
Of your understanding.”
  1. Revolutionary Sister
The Lady Liberty in the Brooklyn Museum
By Dingha McCannon
Stands taller than 
Her green-eyed predecessor 
With bullets on her belt and flag-pole hair
Gazing in at the room of Judy Chicago’s
Goddess gathering
Suppose that no one would have invited her there 
“How do you get to Harlem?” she asked
“A-train I suppose” 
I didn’t need to know New York
To know the Duke taught me that
  1. 23 And Free
Other so-called nations don’t trace their
Generations into the pathways of ghosts
Question their DNA
We’re forced to wonder “What am I?”
Search in codes of chromosomes and hormones
Leftover from McDonald’s chicken nugget bones
For the soul only knows “I am”
And that bodies are just individual homes
  1. Bad Juice
Seems like everyone struggles with
Knowing they were born “bad”
Born a conqueror or born a slave
Born to be broken or born to be made
Thank the gods of industry for bringing me
Comfort in a mason jar of freshly pressed juice
For only ten dollars
Get a cleanse for your soccer-ball soul
Make you right, give you better eye sight
So I gave her my credit card without looking twice
  1. Prayer
Shaman says:
Oh Great Spirit
Visit me again tonight
Take me away
Heal my bones
Comfort me and remind me
No matter the sins
Of our Ancestral lands
That the end
We all go home

 

Civilization Concept

\\\ Civilization Concept \\\

I am here in awe of my own humility
In gratitude of what remains
Holy supper, simple flame
I have known you for only so long
Yet you have been here my whole life
From boundaries of this house, not solid
I found doing nothing is doing something
Oh, oh, so much more than something
Rather, the process of becoming everything
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The lights of autumn they bow to you
And fill your cup
But now is the time for mine to fill thine
To undercut and rewind
Ages of second-guessing
Who was the one to come, to save us all
Rather known, inside of us
Then he spoke about glory
About Hallelujah
But who are we?
We are no bodies of belonging
~
I sat, forsaking those
Given names
Weighing heavy on my heart
You know them well perhaps, after I
Left to become a local celebrity
Returned to nothing more than
flattened trash, blackened asphalt
roadkill, Saturday shopping sprees
Shreds of nothing
Why such then do I live
~
“I found my own self-worth when switching to Geiko. Namaste”
And suddenly the rage of 3 armies
from a heart so small
It is not true.
It is not true.
It is not true.
To denounce the church of a
    mighty capitalist is one thing
To leave him is another
When still need your money
   if I am
To walk on solid ground
But what then, if the ground
never invited me to remain
  if I have perhaps
always been able to float?
  Fly, even?
What then do I make of
 your eyes
     your pyramid
          your martyrs
     Now I know
You only told us that to
     Justify your
    civilization concept
Comprised of indentured servants
     and African slaves
That never agreed to build
         your holy homes
From the roots of sacred ground
Of course, the wanderer asks
  what if we had only allowed
their children to
  play?
Away from silk submerged greed
   In what light then
would we write
   our creed?
One could only hope a true beginning
I need the Atom for my Eve
A molecule to send us off
on some trusted noble steed
🐎🐍🌸🌻

snowbyrinthian

Snow-walled sidewalks
Labyrinthine twists
Body glides along
In these moments
You are closer to god than others
(Or moving further away).
Minotaur’s horned head stuck in my own heart chambers
I place my spine on her spine
My tree.
I ask her heart to beat with mine
Seated on a snow drift
“Give me some answers, please?”
Then a voice –
Is it him ?
Did I meet him on a walk one morning?
No, just men jogging.