The Killing of Comet Trails by the Phone World Filter Clan (Warrior Poet Mental Yoga 241)

A lady and her young daughter walk into the restaurant. They walk up and sit at the sushi bar. The parent has a faint aura of pretentiousness and lack of concern regarding any external perception about her. The child is relaxed and smiling, with sparkling energy flowing constantly in, out, and around her essence, like tiny comet trails of excited stardust. Her vibrant posture possesses no discount or disrespect for any of the world that swirls about herself and her comet trails.

They sit down. Mom immediately buries her head and all of her attention in her phone. The child, who seems to understand this mommy behavior as the norm, quietly refrains from intruding into mommy’s important activity. The little girl’s head remains up at all times and she keeps quietly observing the entire world of the restaurant. Is she looking around for something specific or just looking around to see if anyone else in the room actually notices her, actually sees her, I wonder?

After a few minutes, without any other engagement, mom pulls her phone out of the downward cradle of her hands, out of her own bubble of isolated existence, and points her phone world at her daughter. There isn’t really any verbalization or look of communication in the process, only a controlled pointing of a phone world filter at something organic, living, and breathing, which seems used to not be interacted with except in this given manner. The child doesn’t even turn or move for the first few snapped pictures. Then the photographer mom of the phone world filter clan apparently decides the pictures might be improved upon. Remaining as minimally interactive as is feasible, mom reaches up and moves the little girl’s flowing mane of curls slightly further towards the back of her head. Then, silent click, silent click, silent click. And maybe I’m imagining it, but now mom appears to feel like she has something to be happier about. . . a digital prisoner doppelgänger held perfectly in her own phone world filter of the alien organic-living-breathing entity that still sits right next to her, yet also apparently a million light years away.

The young girl eventually giggles and laughs at her photo session. Small meaningless words of empty banter bounce back and forth between the mouths of mother and daughter for a moment before both return to their previously adopted (or should I say adapted?) roles in their separate worlds of fictional crossover coexistence and union.

Their to-go-order eventually escapes the kitchen and is delivered unto them in a neat, nice, and immaculately folded paper bag. Mommy and daughter rise back up out of their seats as good as any strangers might do and then together, without words or gestures amongst themselves, stroll out of the restaurant so obviously happy in their unified familial bliss that I can barely stand it.

Cribb          2018

Monster (Warrior Poet Mental Yoga 237)


So we were up
Throwin’ dice in the dark
I saw you late, last night, come to harm
I saw you dance in the devil’s arms

The night kept coming
Really nothing I could do
Eyes with a fire, unquenched, by peace
Curse the beauty, curse the queen

So we come
To a place of no return
Yours is the face, that makes my body burn
And here is the name that our sons will learn
Curse the beauty, curse the queen
Curse the beauty, leave me

So when you’re weak
When you are on your knees
I’ll do my best, with the time, that’s left
Sworn with your spirit, you’re fully fleshed

So fuck your dreams
And don’t you pick at our seams
I’ll turn into a monster for you, If you pay me enough
None of this counts, if you do, cloud up

So we come
To a place of no return
Yours is the face, which makes my body burn
And here is the name, that our sons will learn
Curse the beauty, curse the queen
Curse the beauty, leave me

Mumford and Sons

Songwriters: Benjamin Walter David Lovett / Edward James Milton Dwane / Marcus Oliver Johnstone Mumford / Winston Aubrey Aladar Marshall
Monster lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group

Orgasm, Agenda, Assimilation, Need, and the Tides (Love vs Sex 249)

But fun for me was sneaking off to peer into a tidal pool to grasp the intricacies of the creatures that lived there. Sustenance for me was tied to ecosystem and habitat, orgasm the sudden realization of the interconnectivity of living things. Observation had always meant more to me than interaction. He knew all of this, I think. But I never could express myself that well to him, although I did try, and he did listen. And yet, I was nothing but expression in other ways. My sole gift or talent, I believe now, was that places could impress themselves upon me, and I could become a part of them with ease. Even a bar was a type of ecosystem, if a crude one, and to someone entering, someone without my husbands agenda, that person could have seen me sitting there and had no trouble imaging that I was happy in my little bubble of silence. Would have had no trouble believing I fit in.

Yet even as my husband wanted me to be assimilated in a sense, the irony was that he wanted to stand out.

“Ghost bird, do you love me?” he whispered once in the dark, before he left for his expedition training, even though he was the ghost. “Ghost bird, do you need me?” I loved him, but I didn’t need him, and I thought that was the way it was supposed to be. A ghost bird might be a hawk in one place, a crow in another, depending on the context. The sparrow that shot up into the blue sky one morning might transform mid-flight into an osprey the next. This was the way of things here. There were no reasons so mighty that they could override the desire to be in accord with the tides and the passage of seasons and the rhythms underlying everything around me.


Jeff Vandermeer          2014

Possessed Purple (Warrior Poet Mental Yoga 233)

If you possessed purple, had found it or it had found you, and you loved purple, knew that you loved it as much as you could ever love anything in your life with every fiber of your awareness and being, could you be content and happy with that possession and such a finality to your supposed greatest desire?

That purple might need some polishing and refinement to achieve the greatest essence and expression of purple that it was meant to be for itself and the rest of the universe, but nonetheless, purple it was and purple it would always be.

Or would you throw that purple away, that purple and its finality, because you desired to strive and chase and pursue and dream of finding purple more than you actually ever wanted to hold it and love it?

Would you need to ignore or banish that purple from your life, so that you might instead take red and focus all of your will and desire on turning it, turning a completely different color, into purple?

Would you spend your irreplaceable and forever lost time choosing to futilly mix blue into red forevermore, claiming that one day, one day far off in the future, that you would obtain the purple you always dreamed of in a fairy tale ending?

And in the meantime, while pursuing this steadfast goal, would you explain away all of the inherent fear and anxiety you keep cradled in your heart by scapegoating red in anger and resentment for its inability to mix and morph catalytically with blue according to your well thought out plan?

Would red become your blame for unhappiness and suffering as a sacrificial lamb of perpetual dissatisfaction even as it is continuously implemented as the essential willful distraction to your denial of the bliss and love that is so easily available to you in the finality of possessed purple?



A Drug for Friendless People and the Expense of Interaction (Warrior Poet Mental Yoga 227)

The pubs were open, oozing sour whiffs of beer. People were trickling by ones and twos into the picture-houses. Gordon halted outside a great garish picture-house, under the weary eye of the commissionaire, to examine the photographs. Greta Garbo in The Painted Veil. He yearned to go inside, not for Greta’s sake, but just for the warmth and the softness of the velvet seat. He hated pictures, of course, seldom went there even when he could afford it. Why encourage the art that is destined to replace literature? But still, there is a kind of soggy attraction about it. To sit on the padded seat in the warm smoke-scented darkness, letting the flickering drivel on the screen gradually overwhelm you—feeling the waves of its silliness lap you round till you seem to drown, intoxicated, in a viscous sea—after all, it’s the kind of drug we need. The right drug for friendless people. As he approached the Palace Theatre a tart on sentry-go under the porch marked him down, stepped forward and stood in his path. A short, stocky Italian girl, very young, with big black eyes. She looked agreeable, and, what tarts so seldom are, merry. For a moment he checked his step, even allowed himself to catch her eye. She looked up at him, ready to break out in a broad-lipped smile. Why not stop and talk to her? She looked as though she might understand him. But no! No money! He looked away and side-stepped her with the cold haste of a man whom poverty makes virtuous. How furious she’d be if he stopped and then she found out he had no money! He pressed on. Even to talk costs money. 

Keep the Aspidistra Flying

George Orwell          1936

Hyper-Emotional Addiction versus Love (Warrior Poet Mental Yoga 221)

My love, instead of growing, had come to a standstill, and a new sensation of restlessness gradually invaded my spirit. Loving was not enough for me after the happiness I had known falling in love. I longed for activity, instead of an even flow of existence. I wanted excitement and danger and the chance to renounce self for the sake of my love. I was conscious of a superabundance of energy which found no outlet in our quiet life. I had bouts of depression, which I tried to hide, as something to be ashamed of, and transports of violent affection and gaiety which alarmed him. He notice my state of mind before I did, and proposed a visit to Petersburg; but I begged him to give this idea up, not to change our mode of life, not to spoil our happiness. And I really was happy, but it tormented me that this happiness cost me no effort and sacrifice consumed me. I loved him and saw that I was all to him; but I wanted everyone to see our love and put obstacles in its way, so that I could love him in spite of everything. My mind, and even my senses, were occupied, but there was another feeling — the feeling of youth and a craving for activity — which found no scope in our quiet life. Why had he told me we could move to town whenever I wanted to? If he had not said that, I might have realized that the feeling which oppressed me was pernicious nonsense, for which I was to blame; that the very sacrifice I sought lay right in front of me — in the suppression of that feeling. The idea that escape from my depression could be found merely by moving to town haunted me, yet at the same time it seemed a shame and a pity for selfish motives to drag him away from all he cared for. So time went by, the snow piled higher and higher around the house, and there we remained together, always and for ever alone and just the same in each other’s eyes; while somewhere far away amidst glitter and noise multitudes of people thrilled, suffered and rejoiced, without one thought of us and our existence which was ebbing away. Worst of all, I felt that every day that past riveted another link to the chain of habit which was binding our life into a fixed shape, that our emotions, ceasing to be spontaneous, were being subordinated to the even, passionless flow of time. In the morning we were bright and cheerful, at dinner polite, in the evening affectionate. ‘It’s all very well . . .’ I thought, ‘it’s all very well to do good and lead upright lives, as he says, but we’ll have plenty of time for that later, and there are other things for which the time is now or never.’ I wanted, not what I had got, but a life of challenge; I wanted feeling to guide us in life, and not life to be the guide of feeling. If only I could go with him to the edge of a precipice and say, ‘One more step, and I shall be over; one more movement and I die!’, and then, pale with fear, he would catch me in his strong arms and hold me over the edge till my blood froze, and carry me off whither he pleased.

My state of mind affected my health, and I began to suffer from nerves.

I fancied he did not want to talk because he thought me a child who could not understand his preoccupations.

But no, he must needs suppose I shouldn’t understand, must needs humiliate me by his lofty composure and always be in the right against me.

I eventually said to him, ‘Why do you suppose I can never help you with anything?’

‘Not help me?’ he said, throwing down his pen. ‘Why, I believe that without you I couldn’t live. You not only help me in everything I do — everything — you do it yourself! However could you get such an idea! he exclaimed with a laugh. ‘You are my life. All’s well with the world simply because you are here, because I need you. . .’

‘Yes, I know all that: I’m a delightful child who must be humoured and kept quiet,’ I said in a tone which made him look up in surprise as if he were seeing something for the first time. ‘I don’t want quiet — there’s enough of that and to spare with you,’ I added.

I was now finding it very pleasant to disturb his equanimity. It annoyed me that he should be all serene and calm, whereas I was full of vexation and a feeling akin to remorse.

Happily Ever After

Leo Tolstoy          1859


Judge Others Lest You Might Judge Yourself (Warrior Poet Mental Yoga 219)


If you believe

the alcoholic,

the pill popper,

the meth head,

the cigarette smoker,


the sex addict,

all to be

intolerable, insufferable, and pitiful,

in their contribution

to all of humanity

due to their inability

to function in any meaningful way

without their “god-crutch” obsession,

try putting down your wallet for an hour or a day;

stop spending money and purchasing shit relentlessly;

take a good hard clear look at what,

if anything,

contentedly remains of yourself and your relationship with those you supposedly love,

after you remove your “god-crutch” obsession from your routine.