Viva Las Vegas

Sitting in the hotel room in a new sort of quiet is handsomely rewarding as it gives me a moment to think, to ponder, and to figure out the expressions I dare hold within my breath. Early morning traveling has conquered my three companions, though I daresay I expected nothing less as sunrises are plentiful for me alone out of this gang. My boyfriend and his mother are the ones who stay up latest, and sometimes forging on through the night till predawn before turning in; my grandmother whose recovery from surgery is going very well though the effort of travel and movement tires her still; and myself who lives for a community of work-goers craving energy first thing in the morning. My 4:15 wake-up call came as a nearly nonexistent hinderance, even though yawns pervaded the motions. Others were less fortunate than I. My love found himself startled awake partway through the night with rummaging in the house and our guard dog barely able to contain herself, my grandma's restlessness and excitement seemed to get the better of her deeper journeys away from the waking world, while my soon-to-be mother-in-law found it easiest to remain wide-eyed and bushy-tailed for her 5 am bus ride to the airport. And now the beds are all utilized and I sit on a chaise-lounge looking out the second story window into the foliage of a tree unnatural in this barren landscape.

A landscape that has transformed into a haven of supposed joyful sin. Mind you, I enjoy this place as much as any for reasons as similar to any who come here yet my perspective misses the sin of it. If you can find rest here, as easily as my three companions, then what wrong have you encountered? What wrong have you possessed within yourself? What mark have you missed? Truly gaining the ability to travel to such a marvelous city as this, one whose wealth has stemmed into the acceptance and portrayal of fine art on a grand scale (and on a small scale as well), and finding pleasure in whatever way within the acceptable limitations (however few) afforded here does not garner the denotation of such a loathsome word as sin! Our lives are meant for experience and knowledge, the foundation of which can bring us to love and enlightenment -- but how do we accomplish this? Well that's easy: find situations that open your mind and push your limits and expand the possibilities within the world. Sure Las Vegas isn't a city for innovation (outside architecture, art, gambling, and entertainment), but it seeds the hope of continuous joy.

Now don't get me wrong, gambling in an extreme beings little joy, love, and appreciation for life. Seeing the faces of high rollers stacking their thousands, if not millions, on the table, eyes glued in furrowed expectation while lips are pursed in frustrated loss, shows me the dark side of Vegas. Even the overabundance of sex, lust, and drugs phases me less than the absurd amount of money that flows from the richest pockets; yet I know they sleep as soundly as this hotel room through the early morning hours (to wake up to sorrow, and hope of winning their losses again). Which brings me to my point: what I want from Vegas can't be as bad as the experience of high rollers pursuing riches they already attained.

Pleasure. Simple, honest, evocative pleasure is all I seek from Vegas. Whether that be intoxication of the mind while joyfully spending twenty-five cents in a slot machine or a group of beautiful men touching each other in order to satisfy some physical climax or simply learning about the intricate history of this divergent city, pleasure is my "sin" in Las Vegas. My eyes seek the beauty of Vegas, my ears hear the wonder, and my body feels the pulse. My experience is a roller-coaster of emotions when coupled with drugs (alcohol primarily...) and the sightings of the dejected. But all-in-all, Vegas has a special place in my heart, in my mind, and in my desire.

So here's to a week in Vegas with family coping with the thrills, desires, and sins the world can throw at me, all boiling up while I sit in silence in a fabricated living space intended for short term rests.

Sunset

These are the last moments of a day, where filigree splashes across the sky in bright torrents and the land is forced to mimic the reflection of the sun. Ironically the jagged horizon spites the brightness with a deep and vibrant purple seen once a day as the rest of the world turns to passionate fire. Speeding northward on 287 affords one of the best views: Long's Peak crowned by the effervescent spokes of our Sol, slopes falling onto golden pastures ready for harvest, the occasional green tree standing tall amongst the shorter stalks, the lonely farm wrapped by its own fields and the encroaching end of day. My breath was stollen as we drove home last night.

It's not often I witness the sunset, nor the sunrise, but last night was a joyous moment to behold with my love. We drove with silence between us, apart from the sporadic exclamation of wonder, as time pushed onward and we flew homeward. Questions crept into my head once we arrived. Why don't I appreciate moments like that more often? Why can't I appreciate every moment in the same way as this particular sunset? What can I do to mend my perception of my time, my space, and the free flowing experience which is my gift in this world?

One easy answer is to write; to create moments that will forever exist in one form or fashion. Here I am, writing down the basics of a short drive home as the sun set. As I continue to birth new ideas, new pleasures, new ways to express myself, I realize this is the one passion which always draws my attention. I've painted, played music, and I sing often; but writing, putting words to paper (or digital code), and filtering through the myriad of words available for one feeling gives me an immense sense of completion.

I long to paint this vision that came upon my love and me last night, last eve. I'll share that with all of you as soon as I find it on the pages in front of me; and then my words will have sight as well. 

A Re-Introduction

This feels rather rusty, like old cogs turning with a squeal in the dark; for I am in the dark. I've brewed ginger-garlic tea, not because I am ill but for the enjoyment of comfort in a time of unknown and the possibility such a tonic will permit me health without the aid of others. So recently have I been in that sterile environment, closed in with white walls, women, and wherewithal. What else could I do but assess the values of my life when such a clean slate presents itself? Once value I treasure: I am able in my functions within this society. A value I humbly embrace: I live a blessed life. Then there are the ones I instill as ably as I can: to learn, to see, to hear; be kind, love, appreciate; seek beauty, wisdom, and the future (whiles knowing the present is all). I fail occasionally, but my effort remains on this path. Four years ago I would never consider making myself a tea strictly of ginger root and fresh chopped garlic, to which I would add apple cider vinegar and an organic juice; tonight is different: fresh pressed ginger-garlic tea with rosemary for memory and beauty and honey to help sweeten those synapses.

Something within me called for a healing medicine. I know a few methods to heal wounds, but not all. I went to the emergency room a few days ago due to a laceration of my left forefinger, an injury incurred while fighting jalapeños, a primary ingredient in green chili, at work. Normally preparations would have been made by me, continued on course by myself, and done away with a precision only I could hope to muster. The cut is fairly deep, and to this day it looks a little scary with five stitches holding it together; my remedy calls for a traditional American remedy: superglue. The doctor's prognosis was to keep my forefinger erect, allaying the possibility of a snapped tendon (one such nicked by a stainless steal blade). My naivety would have caused me further injury, and this band-aid for which I think to remove for the first full night since the incident would have remained red and I could have lost far more than blood and dignity -- jalapeños should never conquer an hispanic, right? Regardless, the issue remains that my own perception of healing fell short of the necessities for such an injury, and after even a few days I feel rusty at the modes to which I need to heal myself.

An age ago, though that sounds melodramatic, my life changed. I realize now that change took more away from me than I thought I would garner. Perhaps that isn't entirely true. The world into which I stepped gave me a whole mess to deal with; and after four and a half years I've realized that mess is still around. To be frank, nearly half a decade prior to this moment I broke away from a past which seemed to be hindering me from actively engaging with the world as myself. My desire to please love was causing a blockade to hold barren the passions of my personality, to store away a freedom of expression. Though love was my witness in these atrocities, I couldn't justify true love when my self was hindered from being by me. A life, or two, then ended.

Possibility reigned for a short while until I realized I was far broken and aiming wildly into a future I couldn't imagine. My memories of this period are as dark as the room I sit: light filters in from the kitchen and radiates in soft glows from the television before me and the golden-red lightbulb barely energized above. It seems I lived life at night, hidden from the light of day, the truth of moments. This is not to say I could not remember the time spent between January and August of 2011 -- but I feel remembering this summer of nightfall is to question my life now.

My band-aid is not ready to remove.

I've pulled off the band-aid upon my finger between delicate sips of hot tea. The itch demanded liberation from the suffocating permanence of safety. My heart thrumbs in a chasm deep between two lungs. Soft clicks tell me my mobility is not hampered by the cross stitched curve atop my index. My mind slows the progress of the flashing vertical line dancing before me. Such action feels rusty, unpracticed, and forced, when it once flowed as freely as the visions of other worlds flickered in the darkness of my eyelids. There is a bandage here, something blocking me from myself again. Writing is its sky. Words will fall upon the leafs blown in autumn winds.

Summer is present again and questions brought by the gentle night press against my brain. Bubbling persists, words dance in colorful attitudes pressing me to find answers without thought, and fear wafts from behind veiled clearings bathing in the sunlight -- or the moonlight. As days progress, words will come; and the pages of this artifice will expand.

Words

Words, or whatever you wish,
fall slack upon this page.
They've overturned themselves
pouring the unmistakable, the black,
upon springtime snows
like churlish smatterings seeking
the unknown expressions lost within.

Pointless ballpoint pens,
void keys clacking onward,
hazy disillusionment of
     measurable ambiguities,
compression leaving marks on my chest...
I stand at the bottom of an emptied pool.

Blue never looked so isolated,
delineating regulatory spacings.
Please pardon my white legs--
They tast not he freedom of language
     turning leaves like
     unprecedented heat waves.

I fear a recessive winter's eye
peering between two lungs.
Perhaps summer's burn will brown
unlike the scrawling phallus
whose pleasure is permanence
     in symbols
between the mournings.
Do we know best that which
     darkens?
     Keep us white?

Where vibrations soar in unvisualized
     mediums
signification clings to no answers,
like the burdened charring
upon unfettered clouds.
We'll fall in pursuit, hoping
our tools will free us from
     the emptiness.
Thus here we are...
     But from where,
     and with what?

I've stared into the page,
beneath the walls perpendicular to my eyes,
soaking in the emptiness...
until I decided to start with


               Words.

Weapons Range Qualifications

Basic instructions:
     1) range of intent
     2) special field qualification detection
     3) marking multiple timed targets
     4) conduct field-fire standards testing
     5) alternate targets
     6) mark
     7) phase single target
     8) observables
     9) conduct timed training
     10) record rifle marksmanship
     11) alternate courses
     12) section intent

Drug Abuse

Methods withdraw body and mind.
Scientific drugs rehabilitate strictly necessary
futures.
Entrepreneur Wellbeing, his dependence overcome,
can't be bad for you.
Calculated facilities -- abusers tried misuse;
Reduce life, fix chemicals!
Getting together, that slippery slope,
freely admits symptoms tested
in effect, brainwashing addiction.

Skiing

Time the of most bills your pay.
Still... and day powder every ski.
Possible as little as work:
To how here's happen, lifestyle.
Bum!
Ski the make, actually you do how.
Answered be to question
Important, an there's us
upon is.
Winter that now.

Moving in with your parents

more than
ages
living at home in
at least
.com found
in
their early
saving up.

Shoplifting

Prevention provides programs:
     Petty professional property...
Problem: poster people.
Promoting pay, Peter
paces personal potential's
perceived plans. Physiological
paybacks perhaps profit
PAIN PARADOX PERCENT:
Personal Pulled Pressure.
     peer primary presents.
     prior publish prevent.

If you hate your life, then 2 equals naught.

Conditioning of the impervious existence,
where the undeniable contracts within constant forward motion...
We see, we feel, we are, we choose:
and the choice to pleasure
             experienced and given
is the choice which defines the ruts we tread.

 What when the choice is negative?
Negated negotiation of expectation:
What is foundation is lost in nothing.
It is between the two, a space of reason
from choice and chosen --
           sunshine and void
           teeth and absence
           One and one

 Love and hate shifted paradigms of choice.

           What choice, when one makes all for naught?

How does the world reconcile love and belonging? It feels disconnected sometimes: love inhabits the undeniable a d belonging inhabits a space somewhere outside the realm of possibility. Perhaps belonging is in the mind, I admit... I will always learn from the obvious truth that perception rules the cosmos more than truth. A truth: my boyfriend and I don't belong together. He belongs with his own, I belong with mine... And I don't know what mine is... I thought I knew who I was, where I belonged, and to where I would go... It seems I was wrong.

Well, one thing is true: I know what I will do, where I'll go, who I will be... The trouble is always in the moment. Moments change the mind more drastically than truth.

I can't let this moment change my mind. I'm happy. But I'm not fulfilled. I know why, I'm just scared to face the truth. My uninhibitedness has waned drastically.

Would Messier See Me Falling?

The arrows move

     drawing me down

                         onward toward the inner dark --

                         whiteness berating noise --

                         neither in nor out --

Falling into the inner horizon,

     diving where known cannot be,

to be torn apart as

                         thoughtless instability drifting in space

                         creating new space

                         in spacelessness

I look to the sky:

underneath calls beauty black --

     spreading wings into a nether

     we fly down

                         like arrows in gravity

                         turning language into dust

                         air becoming the throne

Emit

caught in the lines of imaginary rainbows

     absorbed lines cutting in the void.

     My mind falls

the words are gone.

                         Sitting alone with peers

                         grasp endlessness with a desk

                         intent slips into an anti-verse.

Distraction

1) Surfacing discomfort
     coupled warmth and
          [incomprehensible] (agendas)
--a meaning hazed-- drowned in language
skimming consciousness
--
     They mumble
          something[s]
about importance
                         [learning][teaching]
stuck by a chair, in [without]
     (what thought [-----])?
. . .
               Droning on,
                                    I slip away into . . .

2) jealousy another
--what love has wrought--
     waves crash, bring
     (what was already brought)
     [love] [him] [him]
like a choosing
     no choice -----
     Abundance, overly!
          I say I love [          ]*
          I say I want _____
          I say I am.
. . .
               In love, broken amongst many,
                                   searching what's found . . .

3) words flow like red rocks from the mountain top, molten rivers creeping upon the lush splendor of fertile habitats. This, the language in black, moves through the [vestibules] [wings] like tormented zephyrs (waiting to speak [a godly] truth about what dares [not] be known)_. [I] listen ([un]consciously) and feel the pen scrawl across the symbols like a soothsayer pointing at my hea[d][rt].

     She whispers
                    "you [don't] know what [they] [you] want.
                    "you [can't] know what [they] [you] need.
                    "you get what you hold."

4) I [hold] love
          Three, four... five
               too much.
I [hold] want
          Freedom, one... all
               too much.
I [hold] need
          Together, apart... commitment
               too much.

5) "Turn in your essay questions."
I'm lost in the trails of my thoughts,
wrapped in
          love for
                    too much.