Show her

It doesn't

You and I were always We

1/26/17

One year ago today, I wrote this unusually positive-leaning piece.

I had completely forgotten about it and stumbled across it just last night.

I'm glad I found it. It speaks of a really positive time - one that I'll never get back.

This will always be my little time capsule.

So grey

This was for someone
Who was often sad
Beyond the point of sadness
So often 
They lived without the sun
And that made me sad

Dreaming, part 2

Click here for the full story.

To live: love

This little piece has been floating around my brain for 12 years. I think I can finally lay it to rest now.
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Thanks to the friend who helped me finish it. You know who you are.
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This piece was born from a suicide. If you or someone you know is struggling with suicidal thoughts and plans, contact the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-8255
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It gets better. I promise.

If they do

Take me back

Sky

But You...

Hand Over Heart

Paper Sands

This piece has a bit of a story behind it.

I wrote it in a few minutes while traveling down the 183 highway (one-eighty-three) listening to a music piece titled "How You Feel". I liked it, so I wrote down how it made me feel. Words came pretty easily that day, but they don't always. Having help from another individual's artwork can be very inspiring and freshening, sometimes. Sometimes it just makes you want to throw all your own work away because their work is so good. 

Traveling down the 183 reminded me of when I used to drive the 101 in Los Angeles, and suddenly, it was as if the environment around me slowed, and for a moment, I was back there. I couldn't really tell you why, because the 183 is nothing like the 101. I don't know if it was a certain smell or just the combination of all the sensory input from the hum of the VW beetle, the oncoming rush hour traffic, the smell of pollution and the unforgiving sun that day, I don't know. But my brain reached back somewhere that brought that particular sensory memory for just a blink.

It was nice. 

Not too long after writing this, my best friend from my time in living in the Los Angeles area took off suddenly, without telling anyone. She boarded a plane and left for the sands. 

She always was folding paper airplanes and going back to the sands. 

I think it fits. Unintentionally, but I think it's a nice tribute to her - even though she was a turd and didn't tell me goodbye. The original last stanza actually spoke completely in plural third person, but I changed the last line to have "she" instead of "they" when I came back and read this after she had left.

Anyway. Here's Paper Sands.

Have you ever had someone that mattered leave without a goodbye?

Moments

They say a picture says a thousand words.

Sometimes I like to add more words anyway. Real ones. Ones that you can see.

For the most part though, I want my photos to speak for themselves. That's why I like Instagram so much.

Summer Days

Reminiscing about summer days and the beaches on the west coast today.

Where would you rather be today?

Scissors

Realities are hard things to deal with sometimes. 

Some situations remind me of this old my mama always told me saying: 

"Don't run with scissors unless you want to get hurt."

And yet people still run with metaphorical scissors all the time. You know what I mean. 

Care to share an experience as such? Drop me a line. I'm curious.

Weston

I lost a life in my care this past weekend.

He’s the second horse that’s been euthanized in less than two months where I work. I’ve seen plenty of death, but it doesn’t get any easier. I love my job, but I hate this part of it. Older horses, often times with a variety of health issues are very common in the equine therapy world and therefore fairly regular death is a common theme. Being an equine therapist is a very hard job, and those who qualify are often nearing the end of their lives already which is a damn shame because each animal that is a good equine therapist is worth their weight in gold.

I remember when our Weston first came to the ranch. He was this tall, awkward, long legged Tennessee Walker with a beautiful dark coat wandering around by himself in a private turnout, not giving much of a care to the fact that he was in a completely different place. I squeezed into the pasture and he came up to say hello, and for the next 30 minutes hung out with my brother and I as we loved on and groomed him.

The other horse’s death, Rocky, I think had a bigger impact on me. Not even going to lie – I loved Rocky more, and he had influenced me more. But Weston was different. Weston was always just there, doing his own thing and being an insensitive, stubborn brat but the most kind, loving, gentle animal around children. Even when that animal was in terrible pain I never saw him intentionally lash out at any human. The most he’d do was make angry faces at the other horses and talk a lot of smack. No one blamed him though. Weston loved his job, and as soon as Weston could no longer do his job or be a free horse, he became miserable. Who wouldn’t?

Weston was different.

I didn’t always closely interact with him closely every day, but in the last few months of his life I always make it a point to keep an eye on Weston. With his gazillion different health issues he needed constant care, and he was worth sparing no expense to just see if maybe, we could save him.

But we couldn’t. 

On Friday the 15^th, he started acting off in the morning. In the afternoon, I was walking down the stall breezeway and someone told me Weston had lain down.  As soon as I saw him, I knew.  He was done. Not too long before the four of us who work most closely with the horses had all agreed that if Weston went into colic again we were not going to let him suffer even more pain.

Weston stayed down for three hours that day, and with each passing hour the dark reality of the situation became more and more apparent. He couldn’t be comforted and his distress and irritation kept building until he finally pushed himself up and asked to be let out of his stall.

He was let out and walked to the back where he could get away from the commotion of the barn. Three of us sat ourselves down on the grass as we watched him pretend to graze and move around, and brought up the elephant in the room. Since we were all on the same page, the vet was called, we took off his halter, lead rope, and boots and let him roam the property and enjoy being a horse for the last hour of his life – something he hadn’t been allowed to do for too long as it was too dangerous to his health.

At around 6pm Weston was humanely euthanized in a field of bluebonnets with the four people who loved and cared for him more than anyone else. The stubborn bastard went out as stubbornly as he lived his life. First he wouldn’t go down, and then he went down so awkwardly I was scared that he would break his legs. It took all of us to pull him over to his side.

Then his damn heart wouldn’t stop beating. I curled up next to him and listened to his heart race as his body broke out into a hot sweat, stroking him and telling him to let go. The vet kept checking his pulse, alerting that the next breath might be the last, but it wasn’t. Not until he had had more than the usual dose did his body finally start to let go. 

I felt his heartbeat slow and the twitching stopped. He let out a huge sigh, and a few seconds later, he took one last, quiet breath, and I felt the life leave his body instantly, taking all the warmth with it. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the smell of sweat, salt and blood that hit me as soon as it was quiet.

I hate this part of my job.

Maybe Someday

Why I Left Religion

It was killing all of my life and joy.

If you want my reason in a little nutshell, that's it.

Beyond that simple statement, I could talk all day in an abstract form about my whys. Letting go of the chains that tied me down for so long is something my brain is still reeling from, and thus I still cannot perfectly articulate in the way I would like best all the reasons that stand. Maybe someday I'll be able to take a deep breath and move past the mayhem completely, but for now, everything is still fuzzy. So I'll try to keep this simple and to the point.

I grew up in a religious family. As people who have grown up in strongly religious families would be able to relate, I was taught that this is the right way and the only right way so live this way because it's the right way. And that was all fine and great, until it wasn't.

Too many questions were left unanswered, and forbidden to be asked for too long. Eventually I started having an on and off relationship with my faith. Sometimes it was fine, sometimes it was not. Soon enough, it was not fine more often then it was fine. This was right around the time when I was supposed to decide what I wanted to be when I grew up, because hello college is right around the corner and everyone and their grandma is asking you where you'll be going to school. So I chose Bible school. It was a last resort to convince myself that everything I had been brought up in and had been learning my entire life was worth hanging on to, even though it pointed against integral parts of my inherent nature. Just one last chance.

I loved every minute I spent there. And contrary to what one would think, by the end, I had truly taken the first step to leaving. That in and of itself is another conversation entirely, and if you're curious and catch me at a good time I might tell you about it.

A few years later, all was said and done. I was finished. No more. I was done with everything. I didn't like the person religion wanted me to be, I didn't like the association with the title, I was ashamed of so many representing the title and I was tired of fighting my nature. Little by little, over the years, I had been dropping out parts, til one day, I realized I was living a lie. I decided I did not want to be miserable anymore. So I left, and started fresh. Ever since then, I've been happier, healthier, and in a much better place.

I don't hate religion, I just found out it wasn't for me. It's been a very hard lesson for me to learn how to cut out things in my life that are effecting me negatively, but thankfully I learned before I tanked completely.

Religion has taught me a lot of things; some I never want in my life again, and some I'll always have with me. That's why I got agape inked onto my skin. In spite of everything, religion, specifically Jesus' philosophy, taught me the importance of unconditional love. The kind that's patient, kind, good, gentle, and selfless. That's a philosophy I want to carry around with me forever.

However, I am done with religion. Not from a lack of knowledge, but simply because it was no longer improving my life. Since writing is my way of processing, and so many still think I'm a person who no longer is, it didn't seem right to keep silent anymore.

Just my two cents.

Part 1

The poem (this one) I posted before this one is actually a response to this one. The subject of this piece probably has no idea they are the subject, but the subject of the response knew exactly what was going on. That's why I had to write the second part.

These two people are soulmates. This fascinates me. They will forever be a part of each other, but they should probably not ever be together ever again. It's just one of those things that will always be, but mustn't be. It's a beautifully tragic thing.

So for your reading pleasure, here is the first.

Could've Been

In a span of about 15 minutes and a few prompts, I wrote a piece to tell the story of a struggle that is not my own.

It started out with my showing her a different piece I had written which brought out a rather intense reaction from her. It was to be expected. That piece was the voice who is the subject of the piece below. So I asked her if she wanted me to write something for her, and she gave a slight objection, insisting that it'd be a pathetic and sad story. I knew it'd be sad, but pathetic? Nah. So I asked for two emotions, and as she spoke, I wrote. The result is what we have below.

When I sent it back to her the emotional response I got indicated that it was a success. 

That's what art should do, I think. It should rip you up, tear you down, drag out every bit of color you've been hiding away and translate itself in a way you've been feeling and expressing all along, even if it's created by someone else. 

I think it's odd sometimes that the things I write are rarely happy and lighthearted, yet somehow, in a way, once the words become the darkness the inspiration has been carrying, they themselves are left void of the weight.

I guess that's why art can be great therapy.