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I'll tell you about it. Seems like it was yesterday. Really, it was two days ago. Time flies. What can I say. Or drags? I don't know, that seems like math. Math is not my friend. It stresses me out, makes me feel boxed in and trapped. 

So, anyway. It was a few days ago. A week? Maybe it was a week. Or a few months ago. I'm pretty sure it happened to me, but it could also have been a book I read. A movie I saw. Maybe it was an anecdote I heard, but it happened to someone. At some time. I think.

It wasn't something you can really put into words. It was a feeling...almost like deja vu. It was something that lurked right below the surface of somebody's consciousness. It was a tease in the brain, but it brought feelings that soaked you to the bone. Or me. Somebody got soaked, that's for sure. Somebody is all wet.

You can tell this story if you want. Maybe it happened to me. Maybe you. Maybe no one. Maybe someone we know. You tell the story, and that makes it real. That's the magic. That's a gift that is given to you. And me. And everyone you know.

Tell the story. Make it true. Spread it. Maybe I'll hear it again some day.

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How could you be so small minded as to prevent someone from speaking their truth, especially someone you claim to feel "love" or kinship for? You support people you love. You should support people you don't love, too. It's one of the things that makes us special as animals. We have our problems, but we also have empathy. Most of us. We all have things about us that others don't agree with, but that doesn't mean we don't deserve courtesy and respect. 

I absolutely cannot understand why anyone would want to destroy anyone else's methods of expression. You don't like the book? The song? The movie? Don't partake, and shut your fucking mouth about it. We all have the right to be ourselves, to speak our truth, and to feel safe while doing it. You disagree? Wait until the cultural tides shift against you and "your people," and I bet you have a whole different view. 

I pay a lot to live where I live, and part of the reason is that I like to see the writing on the walls, literally. I love to see the protests, even when I don't agree with them. It doesn't matter if I agree. That's not the point. I'm excited that my fellow citizens are advocating for themselves and the things that are of import to them.

You take down the art of a friend of mine...or an enemy, for that matter, and you have joined the ranks of the book-burners. The knowledge killers. The one-minded. Think for your fucking self. That includes deciding what you want to "subscribe" to and what you don't. Don't prescribe for other people - that's not your job.

I'm thinking about Leland, of course, but it's not just Leland I am thinking about. My students are doing a walk out today for racial equality. I support them every step of the way. I want to see the signs in the air. I love to hear dissent in young voices.

Women have checking accounts now. The queer community has safe spaces, and the ability to express their truth. Black people can eat in the same restaurants as white people. Farm workers' rights are not solid, but the idea of rights for migrant workers used to be a joke. These things changed because some people had the heart to stand up, and because people with hearts supported their right to advocacy. 

Go ahead and take all Leland's books down. I've taught them to my students. I have given them to people. I will loan them out forever. I don't give a sweet goddamn what anyone thinks about it. 

I can think for myself. 

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The sickness lives inside of you, but we can all see it. It makes you twitchy, easily startled. It makes you paranoid and judgmental. It is growing day by day like cancer, but it is intangible. They can't lance it or fry it or cut it out of you. Sometimes, you are better at hiding it than other times. 

This is when you become dangerous. 

When you're full on raging, no one can miss it. It's all bells and flashing lights. It's when you almost have it under control...that's when you are the sharpest. That's when you make the cuts that can barely be felt. 

I prefer you flashing, but I know you no matter what. I see you. And I'll keep an eye out. 

Go ahead and keep hunting.

I will, too.

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Once you realize, it is already gone. Slap your pockets all you want. Retrace your steps. Try to convince yourself that your senses are deceiving you. It can't be. It couldn't be. But it is. Acceptance is freedom. Suicide is a choice. That choice is always available. 

Sometimes memories bubble up to torment you. They confuse the process. You question these memories now because they have proved that you are fallible. 

There is something to be said for minimalism. For not tying your happiness to objects or things or money. Money is potential things. All this can be a burden, but it feels like security. You have to determine for yourself what safety means for you. 

Maybe there is freedom in loss. Lose your things, lose yourself. See what you find. Isn't that what the hippies were yapping about before they became plastic-loving financial advisors? Before they bought their Beemers. 

I like water because it is a lost and found. Water is the life giver. Water is a playground. Water takes so much, but it always gives it back. Speaking of which, I didn't know that dropping out also meant filling your kids with micro-plastics. Choking out sea turtles.

Live and learn.

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Lay your head down, right there in the pine needles. Feel the mottling of the sun as it passes through the branches. Close your eyes and listen, smell. Sight is cheap and easy for most of us, but we are multi-sensory by design. 

There will be crawling things in the needles, but they are not your enemy. Imagine going about your day, doing your work, getting something to eat and then a giant comes and lays down on top of it all. The red ant's will bite, but everything will bite in the right situation. 

Life bites harder than anything.

You can trace the indignities down your body, feel the deep muscle bruises that don't rise to the skin. On the surface, your skin is pure, healthy. Inside of that skin is a collection of pain that never leaves. 

He knows how to hurt you so it won't show. 

Imagine that. Imagine having that kind of thought process about someone you supposedly love. How can I hurt you and get away with it? These sick fuckers are everywhere. I don't know how they rationalize their actions, but they do. 

I recently found out about "blanket training" - the idea is you put a baby or a toddler on a blanket on the floor. Then, you place a favorite toy off the blanket. If the kid tries to get off the blanket, you slap them. Pinch them. HURT them. Apparently, this is all the rage in some very conservative religious communities. 

What does this teach the baby? Babies are supposed to be immune to the ugliness around us. They are supposed to feel safe with the people who are responsible for them. I can't imagine hitting a grown kid, but a baby? That's so fucked up it makes me want to cry. 

Sometimes I wonder where school shooters come from. And, sometimes, there is no doubt in my mind .

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Let me tell you about the muffin man. Little Jack Horner. That bitch with the spiders. That motherfucker who jumped over a candle. They were all bullshit, and you swallowed it thick. Those stories were seeds to plant inside your mind to see what would grow. 

When they told you about the golden rule, they left out some important info. Gold is malleable. I would much rather have a steel rule. A titanium rule. Fuck gold...the bane of indigenous people. How many innocents had to be killed because folks were enamored with a shiny, soft garbage rock? Not suitable for work or defense. Valuable only because of rarity. And because we like shiny things, just like crows. 

We are a murder all our own. Don't even think about African diamond mines and they way they abuse, use, kill. (but...but...SHINY! RARE!)

Maybe you should just focus on wellness. That's the new panacea. That's the bandaid we're expected to wear to help us deal with the fact that we fucked the world up for momentary comfort and ego. Yoga will make it OK that migrants die in the desert hoping for a tiny portion of what you take for granted. Don't worry about the moral implications. Worry about Instagram. Worry about the drag queens.

Keep letting politicians grab power by pitting normal people against each other. Keep doing that Pavlovian shit when they ring the bell. Sit up straight. Look presentable. Bark when you are told to bark. Be shiny. The shinier you are outside, the less they will notice that there is rottenness inside, eating you slowly while you traffic in paranoid misery. 

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The cool of the evening settles on the valley. Day animals burrow and nestle and scurry in for the evening, while the night animals sharpen their claws. The sky is clouded, and the night is made for deception. The shadow sounds move swiftly, and they do not follow the rules that light enforces. It is night. Night is death. Death is coming.

This is the cycle, and it is what you make of it. Depending on your resources, this is bounty or famine. You may test your mettle against the night. That is part of what the night is for. But, be careful.

If you are lucky enough to see the sun rise, put food in your belly. Hope that the sun comes out. Let your full belly sit in the sun and be alive. This is what the sun is for. This is what the full belly is for. 

This is why you come to the light.