What Matters Most

My tattoo is imperfect
just like this poem.

My Bukowski/Buddhist/sugar-skull tattoo is imperfect
just like my brain.
My brain is and has always been imperfect.
It was imperfect the second I was born.
It became increasingly imperfect the older I became.
Now I’m filled with irrational fears
and obsessive-thoughts.
The tiniest details can be terrifying.
A small innocuous act can be interpreted as subconsciously malicious.
A small meaningless imperfection can be the end of the world.
A tattoo, with an imperfection, can make me want to cry and hide away in shame.

But then it dawned on me about the message of the tattoo:

What Matters Most is
how well you
walk through the

Sometimes when I walk through the fire, I stumble.

I carry with me an imperfect brain as I try to cope with existence and make it something worthwhile and meaningful.
One of my greatest struggles is my obsessive-compulsive disorder.

The mind that fixates on my every little deeds
and scrutinizes my every thought.
The monster I always carry with me,
the monster that makes me doubt the most beautiful aspects of my life.
The monster that makes me want to hate myself.
He will always be there,
he will never go away.
Just like this tattoo.

But like my imperfect brain
and like my imperfect tattoo
there are beautiful things to it too
if I look at the bigger picture
if I notice the shadow
and detail
and if I see clearly enough,
I began to realize that this imperfection doesn’t really matter.
It’s part of me,
part of who I am.

I have to accept it
there is no other way.

There is no you without your imperfect mind.

There is no you without this imperfect tattoo.

There is no you without the fire.
And it burns,
it can burn for quite a while.

There are scars
and there are bad memories
and there are tattoos:
self-inflicted wounds and works of art.

They are there to remind us of something,
to bring us closer to ourselves.

And as I’m looking down at it now,
noticing the shadows
that make the lotus flower on its head stand out
think it looks beautiful.

Don’t you think so too?

Image may contain: one or more people


The Rest of Your Live

You try to see meditation less as a fight, more as a cleansing rite, something you need to do to heal your mind. It does sometimes feel like a fight, your lack of attention is your greatest opponent. Your lack of attention knocks you down and when you realize you need to get back up, there are feelings telling you that it’s better to stay down because you don’t belong up there. You belong down here, where you know your place and you are safe. The place where you don’t get laughed at, where you aren’t so nervous, where you can’t dream so much.

Then there’s the spark, something that pushes to get up again and receive a vicious beatdown. You focus on what you need to do and you fail miserably time and time again. You go back to that familiar place down there, it seems so pointless to get back up and so many people tell you so, and your head hurts, your body hurts and it would seem so nice to sleep and never wake up again, but you can’t. There’s a fire inside you that refuses to die. It will never leave you alone. You will always return to that ring, right until your last fighting breathing.
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Voices 02-10-2017

You don’t register it at first, you think it’s somebody goofing around or part of the show…

It sounded like firecrackers…

Suddenly everybody was running…

I used to be agnostic but now I believe in God…

I don’t think he made it…

We need to use your truck, we need to get this man in the hospital…

Was this act of terrorism?

Did he get the weapons illegally?

How can we decide on the line between ideology and insanity?

It’s harder to pass security, so he does it outside of the venue.

I think I’ve been hit…

There are no negotiations, he just wanted to kill as many people as possible…

I don’t think I’m going to make it….

How many more people have to die before they get it…

Congress is not going to do a damn thing…

How dare they push their agenda in a time like this!

I love you.

What the fuck is happening to our country?

This was something he must have been planning for a long time…

He didn’t fit the traditional profile…

Our country will prevail. This country was build on the foundations of unity, we won’t let this man tear us apart…

This country will prevail. Our country was build on beautiful foundations, it will never back down. We will be united. We are strong together…

You see the fear of death in their eyes, there were people trampled to death…

We could never see him do a thing like this…

I’m not leaving you, I’m staying right here.

It’s the biggest mass-shooting of American history…

I wish I was the one who got him…

There will be more casualties…

You don’t think it will happen to you and then it does…

Though there was chaos, there was hope. Everybody was helping each other…

Sometimes these incidents bring the best out of the people. They don’t even realize they’re doing it, they just run and do it…

It sounded just like in Iraq….

He’s tired, we should bring him home after the song is over…
Znalezione obrazy dla zapytania vegas shooting


Good Game

So many people play this game,
nobody knows the rules,
perhaps there are no rules.
Some make them up as they go along.
So follow rules set by their ancestors.
Others pretend they follow no rules.
We rarely remind ourselves that this isn’t a competition,
nobody really wins in the end.
It all goes away,
your suffering,
your happiness,
The story ends. Sometimes just like that. Sometimes with a deafening whimper. Sometimes you watch death flooding your lungs.

This is the game,
some tell themselves that they are immortal,
perhaps they are right.
Perception is everything.
But since you’re now at the end,
and you can’t move and have no choice but to reflect,
you hope you plucked out all the hidden goodies.

We make something of this life
and we hope we understood what we were supposed to do.
We hope we can be proud of ourselves,
lying there with a head full of good memories,
in a deathbed surrounded by the ones you love.
We make ourselves complete.
And when when we finally lose,
we hope we get to the shake the hands of our souls, 

congratulating them on playing a fair game.

Picture made in Bremen, Germany


He Ran Through The Flames: a Tribute to Harry Dean Stanton

He was like all the others:
a soul trapped into the phantasmagoria of cinema.
Once you enter, you can never escape.
You’re in the collective unconscious,
you pretend to be other people
while the people who watch you pretend to know who you are.
It’s all projection,
we mourn our icons not because of who they are,
but who we think they are.
This world of endless identities,
method acting,
and countless deaths,
belong to the actors alone.
Your face has to be on the screen,
your name alone is not enough.
He was one of the faces, people remember the faces, they wonder about their names,
they look them up.

Wasn’t he the singing convict in Cool Hand Luke?
Wasn’t he the first victim of a grown-up xenomorph?
Isn’t he from that one movie where he snorts speed with Emilio Estevez?
Isn’t he that sad old guy whose afraid of death from that Twin Peaks movie?
Wasn’t he the brother who had a stroke in that movie where Richard Farnsworth travels on a lawnmower to see him?
Wasn’t he the guy on the tractor that got blown away in Arnold Schwarzenegger movie?
Isn’t he the lead of that movie about the ninety year old atheist? It’s called Lucky I think. David Lynch is in it too.

They look at their faces,
sometimes with shock: oh man, he’s got so old!
And sometimes with comfort: oh good, he’s still alive! If he can live so long drinking and smoking, I might still have a chance!
They reflect ourselves,
but they become more human than any of us.
It’s okay if they fuck up,
they can escape in all these different kind of roles,
the face might stay the same,
but the soul can travel in all these different vessels.
And then they die.
You watched them on the screen as a child,
you hear about their deaths when they are an adult.
So you sit still,
Then you begin to mourn.

Mr. Stanton,
I was hoping to meet you one day.
I would imagine leaving the meeting,
telling the world that you were so down-to-earth, friendly,
your wise words would never leave me.
I would tell my friends about my meeting with you; this is what he told me, isn’t that great? It gives me hope for the future.
Tell you the truth, your death isn’t a huge surprise.
You were ninety years old,
I recently told my father that you were probably on the list.
But goddammit sir I hoped you would prove old age wrong.
And you already did, your lifestyle was your own, your dignity was never taken away.
The way you inhaled that smoke,
you never quit like I promised myself I never would- but I have, because I’m not as brave as you.
the way you drank,
your crystal clear words in interviews- you were a greater poet than I am sir,
the history of your sad eyes: I can see you were beaten, your heart was broken, but you survived.
You survived the war,
and at some point in time, you might have wondered if you could survive death.
None of us can, the rules will always stay the same, but I bet you pissed off death when you raised your glass at him.

Your wrinkled face wasn’t the convention of beauty,
but you were beautiful to me sir.
You were a real man,
and you left this world,
leaving your mark,
your performance in Paris,Texas- if that would be your last role you said, you would be satisfied-,
seeing your enjoying your cigarette and looking into the sky in Twin Peaks: The return- only for that peace to be shattered by the brutal death of a small boy-
I’m sure your final performance, the leading role in Lucky, will be incredible.
You’ll play a defiant atheist pondering his mortality,
in a town full of weirdo’s played by incredible character-actors (I know you hated that term, I’m sorry, but it just fits this poem).
It’s a role that seems to fit you perfectly.
In a trailer you sing,
you perform yoga,
you look so damn old and so cool.

You are gone now,
left this world for another.
You’ve gone to meet Sam Shepard,
who gave you your favorite part.
You’ll smoke and have drinks with him,
in the place where barflies never need to drown their sorrows.
He’ll write you a transcendent sequel of Paris, Texas; where Travis finally finds happiness, where love comes back to save us all.
Or perhaps his tragedy is where we should end.
It’s such a good story
and that story will never go away.
Just like your days as a Repo man,
sharing the prison confines with Paul Newman and George Kennedy (both there with you),
in Missouri playing an outlaw alongside Jack Nicholson and Marlon Brando (he’s there with you too),
in a dystopian New York with Ernest Borgnine (gone as well),
walking the green mile just like angelic Michael Clark Duncan (they all go, even the young).
The stories will never go away,
but we’ll miss seeing you in new ones.
But it’s like you said:
eventually you’ll accept all of it,
suffering, horror, love, loss, hate.
”It’s all a movie anyway.”

It will take some time for me to accept your departure,
but I know I will,
we have no choice in this life.
We know how this movie ends,
we move on or we let life destroy us.
We die inside and live another day.
I think I’ll take a page from your life,
and try to survive this movie as long as possible.
I don’t think my movie will end as gracefully as yours,
I don’t think I’ll be as beautiful as you were at the end of your life,
but that’s because I’m Chris van Dijk
and you were the great Harry Dean Stanton.
Znalezione obrazy dla zapytania harry dean stanton smoking



Sometimes I think it’s better to be indoctrinated into a certain style of thought, than roaming the wild west of ideas. The intellectual gunslingers waiting for you to draw. The preachers are trying to convert you into their cult. The scientists tell you all the facts. The artist tells you to ignore them all. It’s full of secrets but so many of them turn out to be lies. They all mock each other. They say that if you follow them, you’ll evolve, you’ll be enlightened, you’ll be happy, you’ll be awake. There’s so much violence, there’s blood on every wise thought. They shoot themselves, they shoot each other, they tell others to shoot for them, the gun explodes in their hands. When you’re indoctrinated you have a home. There is no need to be lost because you were born with all the answers. The questions that are left are inconsequential, they will reveal themselves. The things you don’t know, you don’t need to know. Inside the church of your choosing, you have an established identity. There’s no need to search for one, you can laugh at all the others who try to define you. You have your own morals. You can be a loner. You can condemn those who are praised by the majority. It feels good knowing who the real bad guys are. It feels good to SEE. It feels good knowing that those who are not part of your church are blind. The others seem so foolish. They wear stupid hats. They abort their babies. They eat their young. They are petulant savages. They don’t know how to make love, they only how to fuck. They have no souls or at least they don’t believe they do. They fuck too much and make too many goddamn babies. They fuck each other in order to fill the hole inside their rotten souls. They have no higher purpose. They will never fill the hole inside them. The pursuit to fill that hole will lead to our destruction. It feels good to condemn people. It feels good to be a judge. It feels good sentencing people to death, watching them hang on oak trees. Fill the syringe, watching their eyes lose themselves into the void. Watch their bodies fall like paper sacks. It feels good to not be lost. It feels good to know why you joined the army. It feels good knowing why you fight this war. If I go outside, I’ll have rediscover myself. I’ll probably find out stuff I don’t want to know. The indoctrination included the willingness to let side and perform certain evils. I don’t want to be aware of this. Sometimes when I look outside my window I see a great fire in the distance. I know that if I find it, if I engulf myself into the flames, I will know everything. I can outdraw the intellectual gunslingers, I can be the leader of the right cult, I have future peer-reviewed studies inside my head that tells you all you need to know about the human body, the human brain, the universe and how to make a perfect society. I can spend hours making art and never doubt my abilities. If I reach the fire I can destroy the ego. I will be eternal, I will know all the celestial truths. I could travel through time and space. I can make the human world run on love. And sometimes I go looking for that fire, leaving my church behind. Sometimes it seems like I’m right path and I’m so close but then it seems to move away for me or maybe I’m standing still, I don’t know. Somehow I get lost. It makes no sense, I was so sure in the beginning of my journey. I ask people for directions and they all point to different directions. The fire seems to be there until I discover it’s just a reflection. There are so many intellectual gunslingers I kill along the way. But they wound me too. Sometimes I need to crawl to the fire. Sometimes I hallucinate the fire. There’s something in the water, something in the air, I don’t know. There are times when I feel that I’ve reached it, that is until I realize I haven’t changed at all. I become discontent again. I’m so unhappy I want to fucking die. I really gave the wild west a chance but it’s too much. It’s so vast. it’s too hot, it’s too cold, it’s too much of everything. All these awakenings, all these gods, all these interpretations, all this suffering, all this science, all these lies. So many suffer because they believed, so many suffer because others believed in things they didn’t. It’s too much. I can’t climb every mountain. I can’t look around every building. I can’t make sense of this science. I don’t feel the love of these gods. I can’t SEE everything. Perhaps the answer lies in knowing everything but I’m just a human animal, filled with countless limitations. There’s only so much you can know until you start forgetting the most important things. Just tell me how to go back. I found home once, I can do it again but I lost my way again. Tell me how to go back and I’ll never leave. I promise. My feet hurt, I walked so far. I met so many people, I can’t remember their faces even though they meant everything to me. There are so many people I loved that left me. There are so many friends who abandoned me and I abandoned just as many. I didn’t want to but something compelled me, I thought staying with them would never make me find the fire. When they said stupid shit, I couldn’t abide by them. They strayed too far. I can’t keep track of them all. I try to keep in the pack but I have others to think about. I have ME to think about. I’m the one all alone out here! Can someone please tell me how to go home! I forgot the address, I don’t have money for a cab. I’m a little disoriented. I haven’t eaten much. Sometimes I feel like I’m going insane. People looking down their phones, hoping if they look long enough, they won’t care for answers. I do that too but I keep looking for answers in there. There’s so much information available, but none of them have the motherfucking answers. I’m so tired, I’m about to fall asleep. The fire burns bright and maybe I’ll dream about it. If you find me, wake me up, point me in the right direction. In the fire you’ll never be cold again. When I get there, I’ll be indoctrinated by the Gods and I’ll tell you all how to live. I’ll write you a map and tell how to get there. You can all join me on condition: never tell me I’m wrong. If you’re not sure, burn alongside me. The fire will make you all look the same. The fire will make you all think the same. You’ll realize there was never any reason to doubt me……….

Picture taken in Wisla, Poland


That Small Part

”I used to consider myself a writer, but then I couldn’t find the words anymore. I hated every word I put down. They seemed disingenuous, hackneyed, soulless. When I looked back at my earlier work, I was horrified. It wasn’t that it was filled with clichés- even though it was- it’s that I couldn’t get the clichés right. It all fucking sucked. To even call myself an amateur would be insulting to amateurs. Amateurs can have careers in their particular craft, they can become professionals. I don’t know how to walk this path. I find it, then I turn into the forest. I keep getting lost along the way. I remembered them to have promise, I would read the works of others and feel that I grasped something they didn’t. But it was all just a dream. We get lost in our dreams, some never come back. After many pitiful attempts, I decided that the best thing for me was to give it up. I just didn’t have it. There’s talent, a lot of luck. Some say it’s nothing but hard work. Perhaps but the right ones get better. The right ones learn of their mistakes and figure out how to make things work. I couldn’t do this. It’s okay, I will be just like most people. No more stories, no more poems, no more imagined novels. You’re not a creator, you’re the one that appreciates the creation. Nothing wrong with that. Artists are dicks anyway… But then the words came back! It came flooding back, every word seemed right, the sentences kept coming, the poems seemed meaningful, the stories seemed to be about real people. I was a writer again.
And then it happened again. Another painful break-up. I lost my mind again, there was the edge and it seemed so right to jump. You will go there anyway, might as well jump. Nobody will pick you up from down there. There’s nobody there. It’s a place where everybody goes but nobody’s there.
But I decided to save myself. I stopped writing again. I promised myself once more: don’t write another word. You don’t have the right kind of insanity to be a writer.
I haven’t written in quite a while but I feel the urge coming back. Sentences assemble, ruminations that turn into reflections, stories, limericks. There are these moments between people, or by ourselves; a human experience, sometimes tragic, hilarious or even wonderfully mundane, that deserved telling. But I know I can’t do them justice. I’d only screw them up. Nobody would understand why they are valuable.
But the words are there… I just need to write them down…
I know I shouldn’t, I know how it will end. But I keep thinking about death, the void, the nothingness. It seemed the only way to combat is by writing. The thought of not leaving any words around scares me. I could die at any moment and all the words, stories, poems, novels in my head, would die along with them. They are so dear to me, even if I never seem to find them.
If I don’t write, the void will take everything. If I leave some words behind, the void can only take parts of me. Even if it takes most of me, that small part will still be out there. That little part will never go away, that small part will make me immortal…”

Picture taken in Wisla, Poland