Month: May 2026

I have not the power of gods

We got him to the city shelter where he got some proper meals and veterinary care. He’s been adopted by some lucky person somewhere.

Happy ending ❤️

A Sepsis of Wishes

I have these dreams:

— to create little eco-village artist retreat in the mountains of New Mexico 

— to produce my play

— to finish my play

— to make a living selling my stories

— to produce audio books, and… and…

They form delicate little glass balls filled with hyper-detailed scenes of my desire.

These little ornaments get packed safely away in the dusty attic of my mind, since they’re always in the way when I’m trying to get the laundry done or do the exercise required to keep the body in working order or grocery shopping or—

So they collect there in the mind’s attic, and sometimes they give off the eerie glow of night lights, guiding the way to the toilet from the bedroom at 4AM.

But sometimes they sprout spikes, and like a pile of puffer fish they roll down the stairs into the conscious living room of my mind and the sheer number of these desires, their incompleteness, the years they have patiently waited for a break in the laundry and the sadness and the errands overwhelms the space.

One or two poke into each other, oozing. Their spikes prickle me, and I take in the leaking poison until I develop a sepsis of wishes.

The rushing demands of the world are relentless. The egos of small men demand an economy in which we all live as bonded serfs in their AI panopticon, unable to rest for fear of unreasonably rising rent or medical bills or car bills or —

Some days I feel all I can do is tread sewage ‘till I drown or my blood turns against me, poisoned by my own unrealizable dreams.

By the way…

I’ve got to run to work, but I am a little bit proud of myself for finishing a thing.

Tending the Fire

campfire at night

Disjointed, joined thoughts:

I read Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way last year, and ever since, I’ve been chewing on the idea that all art we produce is an offering to the gods and spirits. 

Another idea that’s been rolling around in the slipstream of this grey matter is Gustav Mahler’s famous assertion that “tradition is not worshipping ashes, but tending the fire.”

In Taiwan, most of the Taoist temples have a stage attached. People gather in the courtyard to watch divine theatre, holy puppet shows. 

I’ve also deleted all my social media and have been spending a lot of time writing longhand, using a 100-year-old typewriter, and making music on a Dobro from 1972. It’s not hard for me to lean into this more analog existence; I grew up in the ‘80s and ‘90s. 

I went to a Bread and Puppet performance this past fall; it was glorious.

I grew up doing theatre. Performing poetry. Open mic nights. 

How Music Works by David Byrne made me think about the event of people, making music, in a room. It made me really consider the difference between recorded music and live music.

Perfection is flat and soulless. It’s reified. Unattainable. The art we make should be meaty. Sweaty.

It should have dirt under its nails.

Heathenry, animism, dirt-and-tree worship — this should definitely not be a reified thing. It must be meaty and sweaty and real. It must be in-person. We must join hands and pass cups.

I remember that crochet is impossible to replicate by machine, and that makes it special.

I have been sewing my clothes, making my jewelry. I look more and more like a piece of my own art.

I want to stitch all these ideas together. Some kind of coherent artist’s statement. But coherency still eludes me. 

That’s all right. I don’t have to be an essayist today. Tonight, by the new moon, maybe I can tend the flame as a poet.