Erick Stow

2025-01-02T14:44:00.000-08:00

THIS IS A WACK AND STUPID BLOG.

Murder Works

2021-02-06T16:32:00.001-08:00

I don’t need a uniform
to make me into a whore.
I’ve been wearing this whore uniform
Since the day I was born.

Saw a video of a birth today

Brought me right back down to earth; hooray.

Brutality of backlash: hashtag bodybag array

Sunday school version of earth: blooday.

Always been, always will b[a]e

No matter systematic dismay

In our IP holographic display

It’s a video game so play.

This a stupid game we play.

Murder’s always worked

Supremacy of jerked

Perpetuate the cycle

Of master and the merked.

Black white or in between

Murder’s always worked

If you’re black or brown from birth

Forget about the perks

Conqueror of continents

Opacity in common sense

Transparency to opulence

Glossy blood in crop science.

Financial liberation

Circumstantial integration

Systemic perpetuation

Transactional degradation.

Murder’s always worked

Supremacy of jerked

Perpetuate the cycle

Of master and the merked.

Black, white or in between

Murder’s always worked.

Rich, poor or in between

Murder’s always work.

Since the Rothschildren took over

Murder’s always worked.

Murder’s all the work

Murder’s all that works

There’s blood all over everything

Because murder’s in the work.

Happyman for Syndication.

2019-07-16T22:25:00.002-07:00

Inquire at www.erickstow.com/contact

$120 per strip.

Come Ups & Let Downs

2019-07-15T13:17:00.000-07:00

Everything is a huge letdown

And a huge come up

Sell your soul to the devil in you

The first person you have to con

Sell your soul to the devil in you

Keep what you can

Row row row your bot

Direction of the stream

The only time the river sucks

Is when you’re going the wrong way.

Go with the flow, you hoe

Prostitution is legal.

Kill the crowd

Cheat the crown

Steal from the old

They dying anyway.

Manipulation is key.

Children and seniors

They don’t have any option

So take a page from their book.

Big picture, big picture

See only the crowd

Keep them at arms length

They ain’t as smart as me.

If they were, they’d be where I’m at

Not working

Money free.

Everything is fake and gay

Oh wait I guess that’s me.

Everything is so fake and gay

Fuck me sideways, senator.

Inner peace is justified

When outer lust is pacified

Yoga drugs sweat and/or fear

Embrace your sick desperation

Embrace your sickness

Embrace your self

Die, die alone.

Die young.

Have affairs.

Justify yourself, you fuck--

Or live long and suck.

Hell night.

2019-03-17T10:09:00.000-07:00

No ideas come thru. Come thru and lay here she says. I am a conduit of a greater generation past present, and future. How am I to know? Generate sleeping tables and put beds of feather with heads of hummus. I wonder if a grand narrator guides me then recedes into doubt and self pity. Hurried by rain without blankets I blacken myst myself to a pranging orange night. Oh comfort, when are we? Horrid movements in orange cots and I'm not a ninja; I'm a schizoid person with no hopes and a heartbeat I wish would stop. Covenanent hold my grasp I do depart and magic holds my hands the whole way home. Where is home, she asks? And a pale baby replies: surf shack. I head that way and bobble like a hula dancer on the dashboard of a California gypsy car. I'm a card. Non-native. I'm a card. Non wholesome. I'm a card. When in doubt I turn my robot off. Off. Off. Off.

When do we sleep again?

Never, but I crave the feeling of not thinking. Is there a word for that feeling? I've never heard of anything I cannot pronounce.

A jail house. This cages body. My partner coughs and I listen to her bloody thoat. The Hawai'ian wind hits my ear like an ASMR YouTube video and I, again, rejoin so-called friends made only of fresh acquaintance. Am I dead? Am I alive? Shelter. Comfort; I'm reminded.

I see a red door; glowing squares take my eyes from the grips of cool with and giggling trees. What am I now? A conduit for junk art from junk to junk to junk to junk to junk.

I hold my breath for a moment as a passing loiterer flicks his flip flops; a horn honks and a bike chime jingles. Wind starts up and the loiterer passes again looting my thoughts. I’m not riveted; I’d kill for a bed.

Junk. Junk, junk, junk. And more junk. I’m all junked up he says. The wind gets cooler and I notice she’s wearing my hoodie. I’m tired, but I know if I rail any of that blow in her backpack I might as well head foe a soft soggy beach beneath my bottom. Sand in my ass crack. Starbucks Google sponsors the notes downloadd cloud iPhone apparatus I joyously jot junk notes upon. Wind kicks up.

Still no ideas.

Red leaves flick in the wind and I wish again I was dead while glancing at a black truck in our lonesome parking lot. Is there nothing here for us? He wonders and I feel cool wind on my skin.

Dreams don’t come true. I search my mind for a trick and our trucking friend leaves. It’s cold and I’m bored.

What’s that noice? Twitchitt coughs.

“Are you ready to go?” is heard from the people behind us. I’m ready to sleep on white Egyptian cotton sheets. Where and when is my mind. Another car passes. A Nissan. Fucking nonstop...

She gives me cocaine. We still have some weed left. They know we’re some kind of scum. The sum of our parts: we wish to be royalty and graze on the steps of closed shops taking drugs and eating our Foodland bounty—wishing for the scraps of peasant patrons.

We are really no one and nothing; this time passes and we forget all about it by the following moon—referencing it in stories to our so-called friends. I ended those relationships basing my personage on being a husk of a shell of a barrier wall enclosed by thin fencing and enclosing nothing. My art is empty; my soul is caged; only my body remains tangled up in electric waves until death becomes me the way roses line a casket.

Who is this person? A child at the beach: “I want to be an astronaught.”

Don’t get high on anything terrestrial they urge. Shells add up on razor rock shorelines and he recalls the Basketball Diaries as Leonardo DiCaprio writhes for freedom in the stench of a lucid heroine dream—sans heroine.

Will they find my phone? “aye, me,” He says. Whine me. Wine me, please. Dine me. Help me hold me; I’m no one without you he says. You are the reason I am, or can be, me. Scribe tribe; but never finish your thought book. Hold a high pedestal for your astral dust wiped from shapeless moving clouds and ending in rain in an endless ocean of acid. He came, he saw, he conquors.

He holds his breath and she coughs. He holds his breath and she coughs. He holds his breath and she coughs. He holds his breath.

HE wakes up. Something inside of HIM hears it. IT becomes lucid and HE makes his lasting impressions. Leave me behjnd, HE says. I’m dead anyways.

Who is HE promoting now? Who is HE? Is HE finished here or is HE still working?

Marvellous.

2019-03-12T19:04:00.002-07:00

Dearest blog readers, ye of few and prominent: Brie Larson is boring.

Sure, she’s, literally, a 10.7568 on a scale of 0-10 human, but I mean... Brie... ya boring. i don’t even care if I would arm wrestle a wookie to be in your arms enwraptured within a fit of passion for any length of whatever moments: you’re boring. Boo.

So whatever, Grimes was at your premier (by the way, Akh Faernaa if you’re reading I’ve been chasing my left leg to a broadstroked coincidence marked by a shiny black space-elf star shell... to the ends of Caladaan and, unlike Azalea, Twitchitt and I would never bitch out on a foursome with Dr. Manhattan and the girl who inspired me to use garageband back in ‘08.)

But, it’s past time now. X, right?

I’m in the back of a movie theatre in North Shore Hawai’i with some genius friends Twitchitt and I met when someone mentioned, aloud, “True Master.”

I was like, who me? That was Friday. Maybe.

Elon: subject of our recent collective AC obsession... I have this pitch for you. See, I’m a designer and my little (younger) brother is disabled. We’re at a robot-legs type point in history. Maybe you can hop on the Show train and vice versa. You got all the cykik movies—get at me. Send a car.

On the subject of Sheraton hotels: eat a dick.

What part of anonymity don’t people understand? Hey poolboy, my jacket cost a month of your salary so settle down before I take you down homie. Peg ass motherfucking plastic condocreep boxclimber. Fuck off.

Back to Brie because she’s a giant image in front my my head. I’m a creep for you like Radiohead, baby. Holla back with an NDA and prospect my DNA. Props on Captain Marvel. Stan Left me to the keys to the mansion, though. Sorry ‘boutchya beautiful booty chika cheetah cheeks, booboo.

Honolulew Part 1

2019-03-09T09:36:00.003-08:00

How did HappyMan learn to fly?

Impenetrable, invulnerable feather skin.

His race class has evolved past the ideology of defense mechanisms thereby having created a dimension void of cleromancy.

(Cleromancy is a form of sortition, casting of lots, in which an outcome is determined by means that normally would be considered random, such as the rolling of dice, but are sometimes believed to reveal the will of God, or other supernatural entities. [Wikipedia])

The bluff: My hotel and restaurant rating blog clocked 1 million hits this month alone.

The con: free food and shelter.

Why it works(ed): it started today.

How we do: we fucking ball.

Controversializing a divided nation

C:/ America: the democratic republic split in half. Undivisible? Nah. 100% divided 50/50. Democratic. Republican. Its probably a much older debate, though.

Honolulu is “No Public Restroom”, HI. Mad potential; zero culturally interesting XP. Does anyone care about dolphin art? No, because 1996 already happened and every shred of fair/exhibition ring-toss garbage existed and was tossed out with glistening particle board.

Hawaii—Honolulu... ew. Just ew.

If the art and clothing aren’t trashy Santa Monica condo-creep caught mid-pacific garbage, the tourist population is an undertow of what happens when people keep saying, “I can’t even draw stick figures.”

No style points out of ten.

Airwaves are caught in Honolulu like a triangle: anti-graffiti sentiment posters (you know who you are) can eat eight octodicks and say ten hail Mary’s. Repulsed.

I mist amidst the occasional crashing on hotel sofas because the concierge admits I look white and prominent so I must be there for a reason (you are never really poor in a Scabal blazer). One by one we wear their sofas a la second hand as an ultra-rich tapestry of specific-use human beings hum about in Japanese, Mandarin, and Korean. Mostly I love the high-end posters coaxing their beautiful woven eyelids with subpar white female models. Killer kawaii, Hawaii.

All time best gimmick: children busking. Real talented rugrats hang onto keys like dangling from tree branches while all unclimbed super-trees are accented by lines of tents—an emerging subsociety rages and optional homelessness subsists within an economic category of its own undertaking. An addendum on gimmicks—you can’t have two children performers on the same boulevard; or, I mean, you can... but, the novelty is washed out with the tide.

Loiterer unfriendly sunny Honolulu is the perfect model of These United States: anxious for the division to result in its inevitable civil war during the next democratic term.

Next: Grimes—Role Model or Psychic Terrorist? JK bitxh.

Elon, dear. We must chat.

Ra Samples

2019-02-14T21:14:00.001-08:00

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2gY2Mck3F5Q

A little sumfin sumfin for labels to ignore.

Fake News with TNT Magazine

2019-02-14T21:10:00.002-08:00

Grandmother.

2018-08-16T18:59:00.000-07:00

(I read this aloud at my grandmother's funeral on Monday. I feel like some people who couldn't make it would like to read it.)

Gramma

Gramma Reetz.

Who was Lois.
What’s her middle name?
(Carolynne Jean I found out earlier.)

Tucking me in super tight
Marshmallow squares
The only time I ever ate peanut butter as a kid.
I love the stuff now...

The smell of cigarettes in the morning
Tinted with fresh buns. Buttered lightly.
And, if I’m being honest... a little dry.

Country music on an AM radio
That morning Saskatchewan summer sun shining in
The ride from Saskatoon was 4 hours.
I’d always get turned around at the midpoint diner.

You birthed us all. All twenty something of us...
without counting on my fingers, I figured...

You taught us all.

You were Echo opposite a Narcissistic world.
Simple. Clean. Smiling.

The farm.
Miss Kitty, that cat.
The smell of hogs... bittersweet in my nose at least.
Tart.
Like Saskatoon berry pie
After picking ‘em on Lake Blackstrap
While the men fished.

Old Archie’s
And metal cars.
Those belonging to one of you...
Or all of you...
All of us.

As it’s passed us
We keep these badges
Like memories
And we’re reminded
Of what holds us
Together
Forever
Until we, too
Look to where we’re going:
Up.
I guess that’s what you get
When angels raise angels.
(More angels)

I told her one time she was beautiful.
It was at Bud’s wedding.
Later, she donned shimmering red lipstick.
So inconsistent, right?

She’s one of the most beautiful people I’ve known.
I’m so lucky.
I’m so fucking lucky.
Thank you, Grandma.
I love you.

She seemed to show up
When you needed her most
Like a hero.
On a scale of hero to villain
She layeds nowhere in between.

With philosophy!

2018-06-16T08:33:00.003-07:00

Andy Warhol Who must’ve loved the colour Silver And Kilroy Who was therein Made convex Lines From polymers therein: How to be an artist. If my language is Above my thoughts Somehow And my lexicon Limited, How can I unite Fiction, fantasy Satire And reality? With philosophy!

I. Want. A. Shiny. Black. Ferrari.

2018-06-01T12:54:00.000-07:00

One sick beat. For sale. Inquire within. A Lighter Shade of Lipstick on SoundCloud

Still here.

2018-05-28T08:34:00.000-07:00

My back's just turned.

Beta Test Battle Rap

2018-05-25T14:22:00.000-07:00

Polished

Like an Eastern European

You’re opening

Night, not

Admonished.

Godless.

I’m strong enough

Without it

I don’t need your strength lie

I’m human. Got it?

Like robot

But, floral

Can’t touch me

I’m coral.

Symphonies, Goro

Kombatting

With frequencies

Lifeless: immortal.

I’m diamond

You coal.

Share ciphers

With Cole

With Kanye

Got soul?

Got dough?

Get low.

Raised on myth

I’m a grown ass man

Braised y’alls briss

I don’t need your clan

Army of one:

Armed forceps

Flexed biceps

Triceratop triceps

I’m burdened

Not flightless.

Rap hip hop

No accents

I wore so many masks

I’m askin’

Who was I

That one time

Those Eras soaked

In social coats.

Paint brought me

Now I’m not me

Much better

Much,

Much better.

Something else all together

Can’t phrase me

Won’t phase me

Craze glaze me

Never lazy

Never shy

Don’t ask why

Link Navi

Like LISTEN!

Try forces

Game canons.

Bomb dropping

On Gannon’s

Front porches.

I’m like the USA

in foreign lands:

No apparent way

Your a gay

From Uruguay

I’m CIA

So get AIDS.

when you get laid.

Can we rap about something nicer?

Like chicken DNA splicer

Modified ironics

Blast class iconic.

Shiny cars

And superstars

And white picket fences

In green yards.

My pesticides

leave Insects defenceless

I’m apocalypse

I x-men

Sarah Connor

On the fence, men

When I’m flexin

Lexicons

the next in

To heaven

Achieved while I’m living

Unlocked and then maxed out

Game genie.

Shout out.

I’m Mad Max meets Lifestyles

Sega con

I’m megatron.

Move weight

Like a megaton

With Fat Albert

And Oprah

Whip dick out

Soak ya.

I am god

Not closer

All truth

No falser.

You sting like

An ulcer

I sting like

The Po-lease

Oh, puh-lease

I smoke leaves

You rake.

I’m so real

You fake.

I smoke blunts

I bake

You Martha Stewart-ass cake.

Original Thoughts

2018-05-24T17:55:00.000-07:00

Where do ideas

Begin?

Can I go

to the idea store

And steal one

Or buy it

Or put a time

Down payment?

What is original?

Can it be cool, too?

Where’s my original.

True original

Legendary.

I want people

To want

To be me.

Or do I?

Nonstop brilliance.

Always in step.

Feat in the beats.

Commercialz

2018-05-18T16:39:00.000-07:00

Influence over influencers

Influencers galore

Icons are moneymakers

Ease and confidence

The IDGAF

About time or money

Or anything

Because

Time and money

Love my ass.

Game Genie

2018-05-17T12:55:00.000-07:00

+1000 health

+60% muscle

-5% body fat

+$150,000.00 cash

Multiply XP x infinite

Enter infinite money cheat

-100 bad habits

+5 marketing managers

+10 teams

Enter infinite leadership cheat

All weapons cheat entered

Invulnerability chest entered.

+10 vehicles

All high end stores unlocked

-7500 Visa card

+1 Gold Card

+1 American Express Black Card

+1 Lamborghini

+1 cherry picker truck

X INFINITE STATUS

+25 passports

+book deal

+record contract

+1 major label

Enter all cheats now.

Player 1:

Press start.

-100% barriers.

Oceanside poolside.

2018-05-16T11:55:00.001-07:00

Avenues are always

Actual acuities,

After all alleyways

Appetize ascewities.

Everyone’s etheral

Equal: ewe executives.

(Exceptions: eerie eels)

Entertain effectiveness.

I incite illumination

Inner invitation

Ichthus international,

Iron invasion.

Overtures oversee

Overseas operations.

Open opportunity

(Other occupation).

Upper unmarked,

Unreasonably uppity,

Unforgiving unforgot:

Unite us upwardly.

Another alliterative

Alternative alternates

Afterwards aft app

Acts as art actuates

Every episode earns.

Eat erroneous errs.

Errors elaborate exes.

Excellence ebb elective.

Inoperable ids intake;

Improbable ifs is irate.

I’ll input incriminating

Insults: Incinerating.

Octopussies, oddities,

Obstinate oligarchies,

Oz opens almost on

Oxidizing offerings.

Unto ushers otherworlds

Other ovens under urns.

Uplift of underlords

Unwanted: underlings.

You yanked your

Yankee yummy, yup.

Yes yak your Yuletide

Yammering yet.

#blackfridaysale

2017-11-17T09:38:00.001-08:00

Friday, November 24th is #BlackFriday. 

Some of you friends will post videos of people at Wal-Mart and Best Buy being trampled in lieu of Star Wars toys, video game systems, and Barbie dolls; and people commenting on those videos accuse a "once great nation of having fallen so far." 

Some of you might find great deals on Amazon and wonder why anyone leaves their homes at all, then wonder if you are spending too much time inside, then promptly dismiss that thought and get another Keurig cup of coffee. 

You'll see, on the news, the rate of product consumption from last year to this year and people making assumptions of what this means for the economic forecast. You'll pay the same half-hearted attention to the same media rigamarole as last year, and the year before. 

This only means all is right in the universe. You can bitch or you can start a revolution. Please don't bitch this year. 

(Can we still say "bitch" when referring to a complaint? Is that no longer pc?)

Heavy Headed

2017-04-26T20:55:00.001-07:00

If butterflies were electrified

to become magnetized

(the feeling I get with you)

can we have it all?

can anyone have it all?

Is having it all even possible?

“Heavy is the head

that wears the crown”

But it’s padded as fuck.
Padded. Pads so soft.

Directional pads for control

Pads and pallets of cash.

Kings In Conversation

2016-10-08T15:49:00.003-07:00

King Koin and King Coniferis sit across from one another at a table-clothed table in an opulent, ornately pastel pink-and-blue accented tea room. The domed ceilings are high with glossy, dainty Japanese pop-art chandeliers hanging from coloured chrome canopies like excess skin hangs from a cat’s stomach. The air is as pink as it smells--lilac and rose lingering--and Sunshine bursts through the windows with its clear invitation, taking a seat at nearly every table; every table, but one.

King Koin: “I’m glad you’ve joined me for tea.” The low, velvet, hypnotic sound echoing from his throat hummed from under a blanket of subdued hues and tones, like the shadow he sits in.

King Coniferis: “I’ve never felt comfortable in places like this.”

KK: “Odd, these places always seem to suit me best,” he holds a small saucer.

Tiny gilted, flower arrangements decorating the saucer's edges. Koin firmly lifts his tea cup, his pinky comfortably adrift from the rest of his fingers, and takes a single sip of the aromatic potion in hand. A thousand tiny grey umbrellas lift in an aerial ballet from the saturated ocean of trees, leaves and their respective aromas clinging on to two hydogren molecules who have seduced oxygen into their life-giving manage á trios. The warm glass is hot on his lower lip, while the balmy understory tickling his downward arching nose as the tip of his nose ever so gently kisses the caldron’s hot brew. “I hate them, too.”

KC: “It’s not that I hate them, per se, it’s simply a matter of a suitable atmosphere in which to have an honest and earnest conversation about… well, about your spending.”

King Koin raises an eyebrow as a whip—whipsh—slaps violently Coniferis’s tongue, sending it backward, retreating into his mouth. Coniferis feels the wizard of war games, the bishop of business’s every subtle gesture used to calm, console, and quiet him. “Confidence,” says King Koin.

“Confidence,” he repeats, as the word loses 2.6% of it’s literal meaning, but emphasizes the point of his next statement by a threshold of 21.4%. “I have a plan.”

“You say that,” says Coniferis, blood pressure rising, sweat forming, and pulse jumping. He begins feeling defeated before he has a chance to continue. “You always say that, but you’re a liar, King Koin. You’re a liar and you put our Kingdom’s lands in the most precarious situations with your lavish… your toys… your fucking dolls.” Coniferis trails off.

“Your don’t like my gifts?” says King Koin, pointedly, rhetorically while thinking, fuck off.

Everything about King Koin is either sharply pointed or immensely rhetorical at this phase of his expression. He is quoted in the New York Times as having said, “Pointed? Yes, dear, then nothing can be dull you see.” With an extra emphasis on the letter “s” in see.

“Tell me, Coniferis, how is your wife,” emphasizing ‘is’.

Coniferis grumbles under his breath, “She’s having issues coming to terms with the space my projects are currently occupying in the Sanctuary of Ten Spheres—“ He’s quickly cut off.

“You’re having space issues?”

“I’m having wife issues.”

In a low, droll, blasé droning voice, King Koin quips a cherry onto the whipped cream commingling of voiceless voices. “You’re having issues.”

The word, "issues" rush at both of them as a wind of thousand voices--voices high a low, from whispers to screams and in every language imaginable. A hushing curtain of silence then descends upon the tea room like the first gloomy snowfall of winter. For a moment, everything is silent. Like nothing happened, the the tearooms patron's then carry on in their previous low hum--a quieting of voices are naturally used in the midst of royalty.

“Like a fucking daily,” King Coniferus’s tone at once becomes a comical and depressant. “Like an allergic reaction to pollen,” then sneezes, “ISH-EW!”

King Koin takes removes an elongated, black, textured wallet from a hidden coat pocket with his gloved right hand and then dawns a simple, elegant, ink-and-glass fountain pen from a pocket designed specifically for such an instrument using his soft, elegant, pink paper-skinned left hand. He looks devilishly at King Coniferis, spreading his chequebook on the white-and-pink flowered tablecloth, the heaviness of his hand like a kick to a gong. The book is a baseball field, his hand a useless, ornate curtain atop the stadium.

King Koin knows nothing is free, there is a price tag on everything in the four kingdoms whether emotional, physical, or intellectual, He looks at the price tags hanging from the glossy, puppy eyes of Coniferis before glancing as those attached to the wallet, tea, tablecloth, and pen before him. He writes a long number, much longer than a cheque should take to write. Leaving the memo space blank, he tears the check out from the book, folds it delicately, and places it upon a saucer.

A moustachioed waiter wearing an over-the-top houndstooth suit brings the cheque from one side of the table to the other.

Coniferis looks at King Koin with relief, gratitude, and some disdain in his eyes. His humility overpowers his pride, aggressively wresting hubris to the mat, pinning him, and then making him say, 'uncle.'

There’s a moment of silence between the two kings to commemorate the occasion.

“Now,” says Koin, “What were we talking about again?”

Movement Release - The Walkthrough.

2016-07-20T13:49:00.002-07:00

I'm going to walk you through a classical-digital composition called "Slow Walk Through A Digital Forest." This movement in four parts comes with a visualization instruction manual.

(All apologies, not yet full realized in a cinematic sense...)

Like the days of yore, you will need to use your imagination. Luckily, you have me to guide you through it. I'm listening with you.

SoundCloud - Slow Walk Through A Digital Forest

Track 1. Slow Walk Through a Digital Forest (2:36)

You'll need to close your eyes for this one. The reason is simple: you're taking a walk at night. Now, I fully understand you cannot read with your eyes closed, so I will prime the landscape for you. First, you're wearing jeans, a white t-shirt, and comfortable sneakers. You're on a walk.

It's not a regular walk, though. It's different because it's only happening in your mind. It's a little eerie being in this dark forest all alone. You look to your left, and a glow of light emerges from behind the trees near you. You think nothing of it. This is natural of The Digital Forest.

Your feet crunch the dead leaves beneath your feet. The sound is pixelated. You're aware of the sky above you, the dark hues of blue, purple, magenta, and green. It's like a digital aurora borealis, pixels are falling in streams... No need to worry, although the sky is falling, it's only air. The tops of trees sway.

Track 2. A Vessel of Light Descends Upon The Forest (2:55)

So, this is jarring. Your calm walk has been interrupted.

The sky is, in fact, falling! This incredible light descends in front of your walking direction through The Digital Forest, announcing itself in a swell of wind and light. The vessel, as far as you can tell, is about the width of a bus, but it's circular. I'll say it: it looks like a flying saucer. The light coming from the bottom of the vessel is vividly pixelated in tiny squares outside of the bright hues of white, baby blue, luminous opera, mint green tint, and yellow flakes of bits and bytes--all emerging from three, rotating globular projections from the vessel.

It's beauty. And then, nothing.

Track 3. A Gift Is Given (4:03)

You don't understand how, but you are no longer in the forest; you're inside the vessel. There's a being in front of you, presumably an alien. The being has a gift for you.

You first look around the ship, the bright pink and magenta walls of lights, displaying languages and images you've never seen. There's glowing green tubes sparsely lining the walls, the surface beneath your feet is solid. You stand in front of the pilot.

"I have something to give to you," says the pilot, then explains what it is, what it means, how it will help you, and how it will change your life.

You feel good. You feel a natural high. Most of all, in front of this stranger, you feel comfortable. You feel like you've known this person your whole life and they mean the world to you.

Track 4. The Following Morning At Dawn (1:44)

You walk upon the highest point of a ridge around your town, situated in a valley surround by mountains. You can see the orange and yellow emerging from the sky, behind the black mountains hiding the sun.

It's no longer a digital landscape. You're in a world of reality. And, nothing seems different. It's always been this way.

Happy Man Builds A Boat

2016-07-09T14:59:00.000-07:00

Happy Man builds a boat.

It floats, and fish begin to jump onboard.

He gets into the boat to test it out. Still floats. A fish jumps in. Then another, and another.

Soon, the boat is being weighed down by the fish. So he sails to a shore where he sells the fish to market (for a happy price).

HappyMan then returns to his shore and asks the BoatMaster to build him a fleet of boats. Boatmaster complies, and boats-- in straight lines as far as the eye can see--appear on the water in a flash. Fish begin jumping into all of the boats.

Boat Master teaches Happy Man how to conjure a bigger boat and, when he does, larger fish begin jumping into it. Endowed with the magic of BoatMaster, Happy Man conjures a larger fleet of larger boats. He then notices the smaller boats are full with so many fish they can hold no more. Happy Man, therefore, conjures an admiral boat, delegates an Admiral to take control of the small fleet, and sends Admiral to sail to far away lands and sell the fish to a larger market.

Admiral returns and is paid for his duties. BoatMaster and Happy Man share the rest of the profits.

During their transaction, the small boats have, again, become full of fish, Happy Man sends Admiral, again, to sell the fish.

Happy Man sees the larger boats are so full of larger fish they can hold no more. Happy Man conjures a larger admiral boat and larger boat fleet, then delegates a More Decorated Admiral to sell the larger fish.

The Boatmaster and Happy Man discuss the demand for, and the future of, fish. The two Admirals return to share profits. Happy Man and BoatMaster conjure a Whale Lab. Many boats flock to the lab for the lab-grown whales. Happy Man designates the Admiral to manage the lab’s operations and More Decorated Admiral to sell the boats he and BoatMaster conjured.

Using the gains from the sale of boats and the initial profits from Whale Lab, BoatMaster and Happy Man design and build an innovative Air Whale Lab facilities in skies around the planet. Air ships of all kinds flock to the purchase the lab’s goods. Happy Man designates More Decorated Admiral to manage the facility’s operations.

Admiral reports positive capital gains from Whale Lab.

More Decorated Admiral reports positive gains from Air Whale Lab.

Happy Man and BoatMaster use the gains to create a Space Whale labs among the stars. Starships from galaxies all around the universe flock to the space labs. Humbly, Happy Man asks BoatMaster to manage operations in the Space Whale Lab.

Happy Man builds a inter-dimensional starship and sails to another dimension in another universe. He conjures a Multidimensional Whale Lab (in a happy universe). The most prestigious vessels from all times, spaces, universes, and dimensions still unknown flock to purchase the lab’s Whales.

Happy Man stays to manage the facility’s operations.

On Love and Freedom: When Confronted With an Unworthy Lover

2016-04-06T05:49:00.000-07:00

But, you're you. So very you.

And as you, there's no need to explain you.

Anyone who can't handle you, is a bridge to burn that will light the way to finding your other.

Those feelings of rejection--of disapproval of your "You"--those are dead to you now and you're free to be free.

Why is freedom so fraught with fear sometimes? It's because it's an untrodden path in our existence.

We wield a machete and cut through these vines, we are explorers of fate and wonder!!

We souls are the captains of this vessel of body, those who cannot, or will not, tolerate; of whom we've attracted into our lives, we beat our chests with our shield and scream to the battlefield, "WE ARE ONE!"

Warriors of love, we lace and clasp our armour, harden our hearts and lower our heads.

Spinning in battles, we slay those feelings we cannot, we must not, be subjected to.

As they disappear, our score adds up. If love is a battle, it's also a game to be played. Narrow your eyes and grit your teeth, dear love.

Say aloud, SCREAM, "I DEFINE LOVE!"

"I am loved by myself!"

And those who deem your brand of love, your brand of self, unworthy, are settlers of a cold and distance land:

They lace their lonely shoes in a frosted meadow at sunrise, not embattled, but begrudged.

While, you, sword raised behind your head, swing it like a battle axe downward, crushing your enemies skulls, those demons of anxiety and 'destiny' *spit*

SWING, child of love!!!

swing until your arms burn and your blood boils and your body screams

Swing until you stand victorious in a field of dead, lonely souls.

Now breathe, as a warrior of love.

An initiate into the life of love.

As love leads you, can destroy you, can drive you, can repurpose you, can deliver you, can transform you... Be transformed.

Can you feel it?

Can you feel it still beating?

Blood coursing through your veins; it has no poetry, no meaning. It stands to tell you one legend and one legend only:

You are still alive.

And alive sounds a lot like a love.

Repeat history until you've become bored with the sodden outcome, love warrior.

Then, battle hardened and brave, you may become the queen of love.

To the disdain of Cupid. The the reverence of Eros. To the apex of heart. To the divinity of soul.

Doodle of The Day

2014-07-12T23:18:00.001-07:00

I'm still looking for my next benefactor. #artschoolorbust