Circadian Fall

I sit at the table, order a scotch and light a smoke. The barman knows me, “don’t be calling me son again, mister! Whiskey is it?” The room half full. Deadbeats and alkys line the walls. They search for anything to wake them from their shitkicking existence. A sudden surge of pleasure is all that’s needed to make them forget. As for me? I’m only here to see her. My need is for her to recognise me, to remember how it was, before it all went separate.

The light fades while the curtain goes back. A tree stands centre stage caught in the spotlight. Drums beat, and she makes her way out in front of the crowd; naked as the first time I laid eyes on her. This nest of losers stare silently spellbound. The dance enchants and seduces them. They drool as she rolls herself around the tree, the snake slides down; it stares into her eyes.

“Looking for anybody in particular?” A huge black guy leans on the chair to my left, “Bubba Pimp, I know everything there is to know about the whoring business.” He nods towards a dark corner of the room where some scantly clad twenty something fakes a smile and strokes her crotch. I turn my attention back to the stage, “how much for her?”

Im going to tell you a story; before I forget. You see, a Man can live a whole day in a story, a lifetime, many lives, to make one story, and then forget. Climb out of bed to a history he can’t remember. Thrown into a day he neither foretold nor requested. And that’s how my story goes. How it plays out, each and every day…

A room. It seems familiar…but the girl? I don’t recall. Naked. Skin soft and warm, her breath light. She rolls away, lost in some dream. Instinctively I grab the alarm clock with moments to spare.

Each morning the same struggle. I wonder how I ended up here, managing this hotel – ‘Paradise City’. its beautiful gardens buried deep in some stinking concrete jungle. I smile at the passing guests. My skull thick with whiskey; constantly they bark requests as the mind’s eye shows me things I was never meant to know. Eventually the darkness lands. With a flash I’m gone, out the door, pulse racing with an urge to see her.

I trudge uptown brandishing the stick at the swarm of oncoming human traffic. The city bursts skywards. Giant advertising screens flash baseball stars and sportswear.

“Fucks your problem?” screams some fat cunt in linen pants and a fedora.

“I come in peace, son.”

“Ain’t your son shitbag, watch where ya walking next time. Fucking cripple!”

Without breaking stride or looking back I wonder at how many times Ive heard this and smile. The night air warm and sticky; taxi cabs blare horns, the smell of hotdogs drift from the street vendors. I push on.

La temptation’ Gentleman’s club and Bubba Pimp is in full pitch, a girl on each arm. The crowd of losers holla at the show, throwing twenty bucks a pop. The snakes tongue flicks at her snatch as she writhes on the stage.

“You couldn’t afford that one,” he says.

“Oh, I’ve paid for it.” I laugh, “many times over.”

The snake rises to attention then dips back down flicking its tongue across her nipple. The audience goes wild. My heartbeat reaches critical as fingers tighten round the stick. Urge turns to rage. I’m up and out of the chair stick held high. The reptile turns it head. It taunts me. I see my reflection in its eyes. Teeth grind, my chest thuds and I swing heavy. The branch from an ancient tree shatters its skull. The bums go psycho.

“What the fuck is wrong with you,” pleads Eva “Why don’t you just leave us alone?”

“Axel, son of man, pleased to meet ya.”

“You’re not the son!”

“What ya talking about?”

“Don’t you remember? You didn’t want us.” She points at the snake, “you’re not the son… he is!”

The serpent disappears, a half-eaten apple takes its place.

A voice shouts across the room, “you’re not the fucking son!”

“Not the son, not the son, not the son…” Faces chant, charging towards me. Stale whiskey and body odour rise with the heat; a nightmare scenario.

“Bitch” I shout, raising the stick towards the oncoming human traffic.

“Not the son, not the son…”

Blows reign in. I’m on the floor. I feel the snake slide against my leg. It’s soft and warm. I hear my breath gently moving in and out. The taste of whiskey sour in my mouth. Instinctively I reach out, grabbing the alarm clock with moments to spare.

Guests at the hotel come and go, forever needing something. They are always asking for help. I tire of smiling at them and take a walk in the garden. My buckled legs ache and the damp shirt clings to my skin. It will be dark soon, almost dark enough to see her again. I sense an urge and it begins to rise…

“If I were to begin life again, I should want it as it was. I would only open my eyes a little more ” ~ Jules Renard.

“To live a spiritual life we must first find the courage to enter into the desert of loneliness and to change it by gentle and persistent efforts into a garden of solitude” ~ Henry J.M Nouwen.

“You don’t know my mind, you don’t know my kind. Dark necessities are part of my design” ~ Red hot chili peppers.

D&O in Fresno

Road to Realisation

Sleep Diver Part 5 (Final)

Road to Realisation – Texas

Continued…

Outside the small town of Realisation, Texas – A gunfight takes place. Two cars stand on either side of the road, their occupants shoot frantically at each other.

On the backseat of one is a suitcase containing $100,000.

One of the shooters is hit in the chest…

“You care for a drink White Man?”

“As a matter of fact Chief,” I reply, “yes I do.”

“Sorry, looks like we’re all out.”

“Aint that a shame,” I splutter. “Tell me old man, you God?”

“Hell no, though I know of Him.”

“The Devil?”

“Acquainted, but again no.”

“Then who?” I ask.

“Isn’t that obvious?”

“Maybe to you.”

“I’m everything you cant let go of Eli.” He pauses. “I’m the weight around your neck.”

Blood trickles from my mouth; I cough and more of the stuff bursts forward. It feels like I’m choking.

“I had a strange dream Chief.” I struggle to breathe, “you were in it.”

“I know,” he says.

“The girl, the runner… the boss.” I gurgle, “all in this dream.”

“You only loose what you cling to.”

“There were others, some guy at a table.”

“Let me go Cryl.” He smiles.

I’ve never felt this cold before. “I’m dying?”

“Sleep Eli, dive into the sleep. Dive in deep.”


A phone call…

“The mark escaped Ma’am, I’m afraid we lost them.”

Silence.

“Theres one more thing… Cryl, he got hit. He’s gone!”

“The money?”

“Sorry Miss Lou.”

“Ok Stan, thats slightly unfortunate. Clean up then come home.”


El Paso – Mexican side

A car speeds towards a crossroads. Dust rises from its wheels. A black Sedan is parked at the junction, its heavily armed passengers lean back on the vehicle smoking cigarettes. The car pulls along side.

“Señor Dan.”

“Zorro.”

“I hope your journey was a pleasant one.”

“We made it.”

“You have my money?”

The suitcase sits on Marcie’s knee. She holds it tight. Dan takes it from her and passes it through the open window, “Its all there.”

“Well done my friend.” He opens the case, takes out a bunch of notes and drops them into Dan’s lap. “Buy your lady friend a sombrero.” He laughs. “Welcome to Mexico.”

A Diner. Upper West Side, Manhattan

“Hey handsome,” says the waitress. “You want more coffee?”

“No thank you.” He looks at the empty seat across the table, “I just take the check.”

“You been stood up again?”

The Kitchen Table Man gives her $20, “It happens.”

“You’re a regular finder of lost children ain’t ya!” she says.

“Somebody’s gotta do it.”

“Maybe they show up later.”

She walks back towards the cash register as he says, “he’ll get another go; we all get another go.”


A little beach somewhere in California – The sky paints crimson again; this time its Sunrise. Exhausted, I wade through the water and crawl across the sand to the trailer.

Inside I find an old woman stood at the cooker, “Good morning Eli, how would you like your eggs?”

“Easy over, with some home fries,” I reply.

“Salt and Tabasco?”

“You know me too well,” I say, still not certain who she is.

“Indeed I do.” She laughs.

“Eva.” I begin to remember, “Lou.”

“That’s me sugar, sometimes ‘Shawn’.”

“Eva Lou –”

“Eat your breakfast Eli.” She puts the plate in front of me, it smells delicious. I feel a warm glow come over me. It feels good.

“Where next?” she asks.

“I get another go?”

“Sure do, still plenty left.”

“Home fries?”

“Experiences,” she says.

It all starts to come back. Different places; different times. The sensation washes over me like a Déjà vu.

“How many left?”

“A few…billion.” She cracks some more eggs into the frying pan. She looks a lot older than the Chief.

“Is there any reason for any of this?”

“What, you mean for living every life that ever lives?” She smiles, her eyes are so friendly, her skin so wrinkled.

“Gonna take a while.”

“You have a better idea on how to walk through eternity?” She scoops an egg from the pan and catapults it onto my plate.

“I get to choose?”

“Hmmm… you can suggest.”

“Somewhere warm.”

“Afghanistan?”

“A little too close I think, hows about Hawaii?” I’m starting to like the sound of this.

“Pearl Harbour 1941 looks interesting.” She begins to chuckle.

“Really.” I say, “I get to experience everything?”

She leans forward and runs her hand through my hair. “No Eli, I do.”

THE END

“One day your life will flash before your eyes; make sure its a show worth watching.” – Unknown.

“When we reach out to what is unknown to us, we let go of the notion that we can control what we experience.” – Ken McLeod

“We’re all just asleep, dreaming that we’re awake.” – Unknown.

The journey is the reward.

— Taoist proverb

D&O in Fresno

Down the Rabbit Hole

Sleep Diver part- 4  ‘Down the Rabbit Hole’.

Lou’s Place – NJ

I walk through the door into a darkly lit foyer. An old man sits at the counter.

“Didn’t I warn you to stay away from those Preachers!” he squawks.

“Grandpa??” Horror kicks in.

“I ain’t ya Grandpa Sonny.” His face changes.

“What is this place?”

“Members only,” he says. “You got an invite?”

I pull the card from my pocket, “just this.”

Without looking at it he says, “Ok go on in.”

A curtain pulls back… Lights flash; the music’s almost deafening. I step forward and into the Club. From behind I hear my grandfathers voice… “A lively bender is only a good mans fault Eli, don’t you ever forget that.” His laughter trails off as I make my way to the bar.

“Usual Sir?” Asks the Barman.

“And what would that be?”

“Wild Turkey of course Sir, what else!” He pulls a bottle straight from under the counter and pours me a drink.

I’m on the verge of freaking out. “Do we know each other?”

“You know everybody here Mr Cryl.” He begins to laugh. At first warm, friendly, then it starts to change. Quickly it turns to hysterics, followed by an evil cackle as tears stream down his face. I throw my head back and down the whiskey.

“Another one Sir?” He stands calm, composed, no sign of the laughing freak show.

He refills my glass. I take a 20 from my wallet. “On the house Sir,” he says.

“Why would that be?”

“Its your party Mr Cryl.”

“Really?” I reply. “And whats with the Tux and Dixie Bow? Bit over the top for for a place like this.”

Smiling as he polishes a champagne flute, “Its a special occasion.” He nods towards the podium.

I lean on the bar and turn my head; the place begins to fill up. The lights flash to the beat of the music. I glimpse faces in the crowd. They somehow seem familiar.

Briefly I spot old Mr Henderson my high school english teacher. It cant be, surely he’s dead by now! A couple of the boys from my old army battalion. A dancer on the floor reminds me of a photo grandpa kept of my mother.

I’m brought out of shear disbelief with a firm slap on the shoulder.

“Eli old buddy, how you been?”

I turn and face, cant believe what I’m seeing, “Stan?” Total shock. “What the fuck you doing in Jersey?” I have to raise my voice above the drumbeat of the music.

“You think I would miss this?”

“We agreed, once the deal was done, never to meet again.”

“Yeah yeah Eli.” He slaps my shoulder a second time, “its good to see ya man, tell me, what did ya spend the hundred grand on?”

I cant take this in. My head swims. I need another drink.

“Cumon Eli, what you spend the money on?”

I look for the bar tender. Nowhere in sight.

“Invested it.”

“Oh Yeah.” He looks puzzled, “what in?”

“Me.”

Just then an announcement is piped through the PA System, “Ladies and Gentlemen the management would like to thank you for joining us tonight in our special celebration.”

The room goes dark. A spotlight shines on the ceiling then begins to dance around the walls.

“Drumroll Maestro please…”

The sound effects end with the noise of corks popping. The spotlight finally lands on me. What the fuck is going on here.

“… can we all show our appreciation for tonight’s guest of honour – Mr Eli Cryl.”

The lights go on. All eyes are on me. Glasses are raised and a rendition of ‘He’s a jolly good fellow’ bursts out across the room. Something feels very wrong. I’m about to turn heels and sprint for the door when the room darkens and the spotlight stops at the podium.

The music now sleek and seductive. She steps out from the shadows and onto the stage. I’m frozen in time, glued to the spot unable to blink… Marcie.

She begins to dance. I’m captivated, almost hypnotised. It seems as if she’s floating towards me, above the crowd. My heart pounds, but there’s something else. I struggle to think what, but theres something…

“Enjoying the show my friend?”

My head spins to the left. Its the Kitchen Table Man, laughing in my face. He’s drunk.

“Where’s my money?” shouts Louise Wishbourne, stood at my right.

The crowd all turn to me.

And then I realise what that something is. I’m cold. Very cold. Deathly cold.

“Eli…”

The room goes silent. Again a second time, from behind… “Eli.” I turn to see Dan at the exit. Stood there with his arm around Marcie, “Where’s my rent?” He laughs. ”You’ll never catch me Buddy.” Its at this point the whole crowd dashes towards me… Screaming.

The terror is overwhelming and I begin to shoot. I fire rapidly as they snarl and grab at me. They just keep coming, I’m going under. And then…

…the glitch kicks in!


The buzzing fades. The sparks leave my eyes. I’m flat out on my back looking at the sky. The sun beats down on my skin. Its hot. The air is dry. I feel cold. Very cold. Gunfire echoes from either side…

A big old Indian stands above me. Looking down as he says, “care for a drink White Man?”

To be continued…

Sleep Diver

A Noir thriller series; part 1 – Introducing Eli

Little beach California: somewhere on the coast – I’m laid down horizontal outside our trailer trash apartment; the waves lash against rocks nearby. I snap back the ring pull on a cold one and take a drink. Home from home. Face like a hot stone in the pale sand, my legs whiter than a Klansman’s hood. Its a long way from New York City. 

Crimson paints the horizon as the Sun begins another game of hide and seek. 

A picture perfect moment as the hole in my soul packs up and leaves. God damn she is so fucking beautiful; skin gleaming as the ocean drips from her body.

“Hey sugar tits, one of them for me?” She says, walking towards me. “Sure is darling.” I smile “Why don’t you sit your pretty ass next to mine, the sand’ still warm here.”

She stops mid track, “Eli, you hear that?” Her head turns sideways. “I thought you promised no telephone today! Jeez mister when ya gonna quit and give me due attention?” 

I hear nothing except waves crashing the rocks. “Not a phone or any other thing for miles baby. Come on over, lets fool around.”

“Fuck you Cryl.” She gives me the bird.

Then I hear it! The shrill of the telephone, louder, it rises louder inside my skull. 

The Sunset, the waves, sand and Marcie all dissolve…

My head screams! Sparks fire rapidly into my brain. My ears buzz and the skin on my face starts to boil.

Sweaty hands grab at the nightstand as I knock the phone sideways. The volume reaches critical. Fingers scramble the floor, clipping it, sending it further out of reach. In a semi-conscious stupor I half sit up. The couch bellies under my weight. “Christ sake already you better be fucking serious.” 

Surroundings become familiar; a shithole of an office, apartment, drunk tank, mortuary, rocking the high life up on 125th. Harlem. I’m home!

I get a grip on the instrument of torture and punch the accept button.

“Whats up Dan?” the words echo through my head.

“Cryl you gotta guest. Shall I send her up?” he replies a little too loud.

“Her?” surely not Marcie! “Give me a moment bro I’m not decent.”

“You’re the most indecent mother fucker I ever had the misfortune to be acquainted with.” I like Dan! “Hurry it up Eli this ones bad for business.”

I mull over that statement and struggle from the couch. Jim Beam, half empty bottle, stares across the room. I draw hard on the whiskey and open the blinds instantly wishing I hadn’t. Razor sharp daylight floods in. What time is it; what day is it? I haven’t the fucking slightest idea! 

A vortex of shit surrounds me. An ashtray in need of emptying sits on the old bureau desk and spills its guts. Yesterday’s shirt hangs over the computer screen. Beer cans, trousers, and socks cover the rug. Twenty square yards of me, my couch and I. No sign of shoes! 

I take another hit from the bottle and dial back down. The phone rings three times. I hang up. A door slams, stairs creak, footsteps approach. I pull on the pants, don the shirt and try to impersonate somebody not resembling a total fucking jerk!

“Mr Cryl I presume.” She stands silhouetted in the doorway, legs long, tits high, looks like a million. 

She lights a smoke “May I?” 

Don’t mind me lady I just live here. “Of course Miss, why don’t you come in Miss… Miss?” 

“Mrs actually! Mrs Louise Wishbourne.” She interrupts my stutterfuck!

“Those in my service call me Miss Lou.” She breathes hard from the cigarette. 

And I cant help but think they do: This stranger, this broad, leaning against the door jam, short skirt, fitted jacket, appearing every inch like Ingrid Bergman! Bad for business, wasn’t that what Afghan Dan said?

I reply “Eli Cryl at your service. Why don’t ya step inside Miss Lou.” I feel seriously underdressed, “Tell me, to what do I owe this pleasure?” Don’t see many of her type in this neighbourhood. Eyes on mine as she says “The pleasure Mr Cryl, I assure you, is all mine!” 

“Ok Ma’am, so how can we help?” My head thumps! “In what way can the EC Fugitive Recovery Service be of assistance?”

Cryl’s Story

It was a night that war fever ran high in the US Airforce Base ‘Incirlik.’ We sat restless on the Iraqi border with the battle for Kuwait over. Ole Saddam’s boys had scuttled off back to Bagdad while we all waited for something a little different to hit the menu. It turned out to be the Brits! A running pitch battle with those crazy fuckers. They took the base by storm just for the hell of it. We had drank together, went into war together, and on this night would batter each other, for no other reason than there was nobody else left to fight. The MP’s had other ideas – Dogs! One of the snarling bastards locked onto my face as a truncheon put my lights out. My war was over; the scar a permanent reminder!

Landing back Stateside I had dreams of leadership. Hadn’t the boys praised me as cool under fire, best section commander in the battalion? My talents would take me to the top. I was sure of it!

I took a law course and obtained employment as an Investigator for an insurance company. The drive to the top was on. I’d prove to the world I was important. An early warning showed up regarding drink. I almost failed the law exam; too drunk to write or think!

Somehow I scraped through and the firm sent me to Los Angeles. Big investigations equalled big bucks. For the next few years fortune threw money and applause my way. We parked the Winnebago on a small secluded beach; me and Marcie. We were happy…for a while!

Drink took an exciting, important centre stage. I found plenty bar buddies before it all got too serious. The morning drink continued right through the day and into the night. Remaining faithful to Marcie due to love or been too drunk to fuck, who knows! Plenty chances came my way with the ladies but many rows accompanied. They viewed me as a pest: A bomb and a barfly. Fuck em, who needs em! 

I became a lone wolf and for short periods drank less. Then I would explode with a bang. Violence would erupt on a shoestring. A fight with a taxi driver made the press. Let go in disgrace we headed home to Brooklyn and moved in with Marcie’s parents. I hardly drew a sober breath in the years that followed. Liquor became a necessity. Things got worse and I would kid myself; fantasising about control till I could take no more. I woke up. It had to stop. I made promises to Marcie. Surely I could do it for her? The girl who gave me the look; the one that was the one! And so I could for a while. The goose hung high and dry for a time till… 

An old army buddy sought me out. We met up over a few drinks. I listened to his proposal. It netted me 100,000 dollars on a drug deal. More importantly I was back on the sauce. It felt good for a while, til my brain again raced uncontrollably. The morning madness returned. Marcie prayed for my sanity as the DT’s put me in dark terror.

Admitted to Belmont Detox Facility off Central Park; I returned to find Marcie gone. She left without a note or goodbye. I’ve never seen or heard from her since!

Fear sobered me for a while. But I was back in Detox within a few short weeks. Chance introduced me to a good doctor. Shortly afterwards he sent a guy to my house; a real decent fella! 

Sat at the kitchen table drinking, I listened as he shared his story with me. He  knew his stuff about the liquor problem. What he said made sense. I still see him. We meet up regularly. Me, him and many others. Ive done ok in patches; some periods of sobriety. Still those periods of drunkenness, but I keep at it, maybe one day.

I have this little business of my own up in Harlem. Only white guy in the Neighbourhood. Me and Afghan Dan. One up one down. The work focuses my mind. One sickness replaces another. Still, I think I will keep meeting up with the Kitchen Table Guy, see how it plays out.

And just how is that working out today? 

Well just for today she is stood in the doorway, her legs long, tits high, looking a million.

She holds my gaze and lights a smoke.

Don’t mind me lady I just live here. 

I notice her head turn as she scans the room. “Lets get down to business shall we?” 

Im not sure I like the look of disdain on her face. “What is it you need Lady?”

“I need you to find somebody.” I thought she would say that, educated guess!

“This somebody have a name?” I reach for the cigarette packet next to the whiskey, pausing a second, I decide to wait till she leaves.

“Yes indeed he does. A gentleman by the name of…”

To be continued…

Disclaimer: Its obvious a certain section of this ongoing story has took inspiration from another (as in writing, recovery, and life).

Reminder: This is a ‘Just for Fun’ & ‘Not for Profit’ creative exercise (as is writing, recovery, and life).

Till next time… 

D&O in Fresno 

The 4th Step Flamenco

“Those who do not recover are people who cannot or will not completely give themselves to this simple programme, usually men and women who are constitutionally incapable of been honest with themselves”.

 

The first thing apparent was something wasn’t quite right. I had no idea what and even less of an idea how I knew. But I knew. Of that I was certain. Simply put – my insides didn’t match others’ outsides! But no way was I going to say that out loud. Who would? Even though I had the love of some beautiful people, I knew from the word go I was dancing this one alone!
Looking back there was a few who could see and one or two who tried to raise the issue but that door was firmly closed. Besides all this I quickly found a solution and it was to accompany me every step of the way across four different decades. The journey with the illusion had begun 

Flamenco;
Noun- a style of dancing (solo) that is strongly rhythmic and involves vigorous action (including clapping of the hands).

 

Humans in general have nothing more than a nodding acquaintance with self-honesty. Everybody is quick to point out the other mans faults and almost blind to recognise them in themselves. The funny thing is, we don’t need to see them to be aware, we just need to listen. My problem is no different to anybody else’s. Its not that I chose to look the other way it was more a case of “soak in the praise and reject the appraisal”. Basically I surrounded myself with people, good or bad, who through no fault of their own, co-signed my bullshit. The delusion was in full swing and the masks fitted comfortably… for a while. Drink, drugs, violence, disastrous relationships, all from an early age had me believing I was some Romeo in a porno show. But whatever it was that was apparent first thing just kept clapping louder and louder until enough of the self imposed crisis routine embarked me on a journey into honesty…  

Education and information are wonderful things. Personally I love them and happily endorse them but on their own they are a fucking horror show. Since the invent of Google and social media everybody is an expert and a world leader in their chosen field of the day. Just so happens that since the internet made an appearance the insanity level powered up a few notches. Our planet is now the mental institution of the Universe and all sides think the other side is to blame. Infants in charge of an ego – dangerous game!
Thats where my issue with others has to end. Quickly I recall it all started long before any digital mindfuck and even if the Matrix really is a public information film instead of an action movie what good is that going to do me. The Flamenco is a solo dance but never danced alone, it requires vigorous action. There is action and more action… 

Throughout all the chaos, peppered with high octane excitements and soul crushing lows, the dice landed favourably enough often enough to warp my perspective. Education, information and greater efforts all mean jack shit without an awareness. What is awareness other than honesty in action. Am I honest enough to see my resentments are not the responsibility of somebody else’s efforts or can I see that Im a resentful fucker regardless. It matters not who’s name is on the list, it could be Micky Mouse, when it asks ‘Who is resentful?’ Its always my name in that column. Its the same with fears. It looks like the world and his wife have all got some form of anxiety disorder they are popping pills for. But honestly when I ask myself why I have them isn’t it because self reliance reminds me Im applying for Gods job but Im not qualified to sit in the interview. What about conduct? Does selfish self-centredness explain it with any justice? All I know is when it came to sex, money, prestige, there was never enough for me.

Whats the common denominator in all this? Me? You? Us?

“The first thing apparent was this world and its people were often quite wrong. To conclude that others were wrong was as far as most of us ever got. The usual outcome was that people continued to wrong us and we stayed sore. Sometimes it was remorse and then we were sore at ourselves”.

The first thing apparent was something wasn’t quite right. What was wrong? I thought I could and would dance this one alone. But we are never alone. There is no me, there is no you, there is only us. Talking of honesty, there are some people that I will never like, some that I tolerate through gritted teeth. But it doesn’t matter. They are as much a part of the ‘Us  equation as anybody else. None of us qualify for the interview. The same life force, the rhythm, that flows freely through me flows through you flows through us. Separation is the illusion.

We don’t mature through age, we mature in awareness~ Byron Katie

“The fundamental delusion of humanity is to suppose that I am here and you are out there” ~ Yasutani Roshi

“Whatever you do to the least of my brothers and sisters, you do to me” ~ The Carpenter 

D&O in Fresno