Dear Facebook Friend,

Dear Facebook Friend,

I hate to have to tell you this, but the real world misses me. I want to still be friends but I cannot see you as often. It’s not me, it’s you. It is definitively you. You suck as a friend. I never see you at my kitchen table. I never hear your calls. When I am around you, I feel less than, as you seem so together all the time. So perfect, so glossy, when my own life is filled with challenges and doubt.

Hello Facebook Friend,

The Book of Faces is not your friend. It is a machine quietly designed to creep into every facet of your mind until you cannot think of anything else. You forget your friends and family. You are late to your date. You are distracted over dinner. Your nervous system is primed to respond to alerts and notes. You are designing posts and pictures in your mind.

One of the biggest mars on the face of kinship was smote by the Book of Faces when they took our precious word “Friend” and used it in their cage of dreams to destroy people’s sense of personal boundaries. You share things with total strangers that you would not mention over tea. Your real world friends think they know how you are, based on the words that flit from your post to their page, so they never call. They are comforted by a cartoon of your multidimensional being. All is lost under the page, the presence of one warm body relating to another warm body, the psychic queues, the quick glance, the nervous tick. We are all cartoons, my Facebook Friend.

The technology used to create this machine, the cage of dreams, is a set of tools with unlimited power. It can connect people across the globe, fuel artistic spirits, form social movements, influence governments. However, the way it is organized, it is meant to confuse and mistake our minds to think that we can source from virtual reality things that can only truly be found in realtime. The game is lure and enchant, keep you wasted, keep you awake in the virtual reality until your face goes pale from lack of sunlight. They would wrap you permanently in their spells if they could. The only reason they are not able to lock the cage is the frustrating truth of our free will.

And free will we must use. Some of us are capable of moderation. We beat the machine by diving in, getting what want, planting seeds, putting down trails for other to follow and then getting right back out. Only the strongest of heart can do it regularly and come out unscathed. Countless others are drowning in the sea of thought-forms and suggestions.


We cannot forget who’s the boss of our minds. In order to regain sovereignty of ourselves, we have to step back. We have to be able to turn it off and turn it on as our tool. It is a technique to slow the rush or stop it for as long as we want to. Our lives are here, where we sit, with who or what is physically around us. We must return to clear mind, focus on one thing at a time, make decisions on what we think, how we think, change things in our lives that we don’t like. For if we do not, the world will not change. Facebook isn’t going to do it. The Koch Brothers aren’t going to do it. Ecosystems are being eradicated, populations executed over oil wars and our power to stop it is based solely on our ability to regain control of our capacities and our free time. This power struggle does not require money or guns to win, merely strength of mind.

If we do not clear our minds, culture will die. True genius is reliant on mental quiet, a stillness that allows the passions to sprout through with new creations. And we, the community, the people sitting across from you on the metro poring over our Facebook Pages, need that. The world has had enough imitations of imitations. Indulgent screentime of any sort is dangerous without a constant grounding in the realtime reality. You know this, you say, but to say it, know it and not do anything about it is the same as an alcoholic who says he is in perfect control as she hails over the bartender.

Please, my Facebook Friend, come out into the light of your own world and help me to do the same. It is better to struggle on a playing field where we can form our lives into ways that delight us than to languish in a reality where the rules are changing unexpectedly by people whom we will never meet. We can find nourishment in realtime and source what the world needs.


We must never be deluded into thinking that the Place of Faces is a benevolent one. It is a major corporation striving for profit. The Book of Faces may be a virtual experience but it has brick and mortar buildings, over 20,000 employees and is worth over 59 billion dollars. The popups that annoy you, the behavior of an access(friend) connection, the rules you are allowed to use as a group administrator, all of this was configured by some millennial sitting in a cube somewhere in California.

The structure of the cage of dreams is pre-designed, limiting and focusing the pathways of how you may communicate in their world, suggestive of confusing, false intimacy. Agenda decides which factors determine what content lands on your Wall, what information floods into your precious, precious mind every time you jump in to play. They intend to make you want to stay. Like a bad friend that knows that you are tired and need to go spend time with your kids before they go to bed, they hand you another glass of wine, night after night, until those kids start to wilt from the lack of your sun shining into their delicate, malleable hearts. Replace kids with creative endeavor, loved ones, self.

And our missteps, our disclosures to people we don’t know, our private chats, the flame wars and the rants, they are all quietly recorded by the state, easily searchable by some other millennial in a cube somewhere behind the walls of the NSA. No boundaries at all.

Bless you, my Friend, Be safe. Be strong. Be effective.

~ ~ ~~ ~ ~~ ~ ~~ ~ ~~ ~ ~~ ~ ~~ ~ ~~ ~ ~~ ~ ~~ ~ ~~ ~ ~~ ~ ~~ ~ ~~ ~ ~

Join this “Limiting my Screentime” support forum:


Raven Speaks

The Raven, she is relentless.
She won’t shut up and she makes no sense to those that have not tested their trail.

She is loud,
even in her scrapes
because every sound that comes from her,
rings of the truth.
Truth we don’t want to hear.
Truth we bleed for.
Truth of the spaces we missed, of the things we buried.
Truth of the lies spun around us.

Truth of impending doom if we do not follow her into the darkness to retrieve what is ours.


Blood Orange Sun

The world I hold in my heart is crumbling
into ash as the fires burn in Canada.
The world I hold in my heart slowly dissolves
as continents’ edges drown in hurricanes.
One end cracks under the heat while the
other snaps in the cold.
There is no place to hide from our sins against
the mother.


The consumer looks up, wishes for reprieve
on her way to her morning Starbucks.
The consumer drives deeper into the core
for gold, for oil, for coal.
The four-leggeds run for shelter
beasts of sea tangle in our webs.
We are breathing the bones of our ancestors
as the one-leggeds crash to the floor.

The spirits will always be spirits.
The mother will balance herself
as she steadies herself and her people
means death to those of us left.

Turn back the narcissist from the wheel.
Turn back to the mother.
Turn back the narcissist wound in ourselves.
Turn back to the mother.

Final Reprise


When the warrior finally reaches the green pastures and sunny meadow,
when the warrior puts her weapons down,
she feels the heat rise from within her and lies down to rest
under the high grass, smell of lyrical flowers.


Further no purpose, no quarry in sight, she dreams of battles
and then when she rises, all comforts greet her body
and she sighs, and she sleeps again.

When the warrior has found her way out of the darkness
into the light of her own heart
there is no longer need to strive

for arrival is done
and the land is still.

There is nothing left to seek,
yet the song still awaits, as she waits for the song.

Soothe the jagged remembrances of evil;
remember the misplaced soothing of jagged affairs.

Awake she is, like never before and
like never before, she draws from her sleep,

every fiber,
her being whole now,
glistening and listening to the holy voice within.



I asked, “Once the debris has been cleared and demons faced, transformed, what is left in the sacred vessel of the shadow within us?”


and I heard the reply,

“That which one is connected to, but has no words for.

That which gestates and must not be disturbed, lest it be damaged in the process.

The Great Mother, who holds us, who nourishes and who weeps and cheers for us.

This is also the realm of the White Raven, she who has been burnt through and through and yet still lives. She who is Grace with a thin cloak of iron unseen and unshakeable. She who is container, soft as feather, hidden power capable of those very things she yearned to do when in pain but put down as soon as she was able. She is Death, she has seen and understood every aspect of Death and yet she has no need to bring on Death. She holds forgiveness, her compassion gently touches us with the naked light of presence aware.”

Once stagnation is broken in the sacred vessel of shadow, once the river is flowing freely, dreams of the Gods come quicker, our journeys clear in the slipstream of their inspiration. Then when we tell, we tell from a place of the Gods.

This is all I know and I pray for.

That Engine

I just finally got underneath the car and fixed it.
You know, that rattle, that pulling back when I am trying to move forward, that shaking, threatening to fall apart while I am distracted about what is on the road before me.

The adventures I have chosen have been filled with potholes to move around (dropped a wheel a few times), filled with close scraping branches (no bother until the scratches start to rust through), filled with high winds and some furious storms.

Well, I stopped the car and got underneath it and fixed the darned thing. And when I got up, wiped my hands on my jeans, a road opened up that was level and open. The sun shines down and the engine purrs and I think, “Wow I could’ve done it before.”

But I didn’t. So I did it now and the ride will be so much better now.

DSC00686-2 copy


That seashell white. That clear space.

We are all innocent.
We will always be innocent,
that place inside us that sings, that wonders, that can’t make sense of unkindness.
That place that didn’t mean our own unkindness.

There is a space for our young child
we need to protect so that she/he may flower.

bloom copy
The flower that risks so much,
without knowing it is risking, to be open and delicate.

Perhaps the blossom itself,
it’s own effect is what causes the world to leave be,
except the honey bees and humming birds,
kissing and propagating.

Our young child will grow,
find the wisdom in boundaries,
learn to protect

Yet our innocence remains.



Blessed in gentle play.

This, our most sacred self.

To not wield

The stillness stretches across the horizon and whispers without words,
with the force of emptiness so loud,
our every fiber can hear it.


We have heard nothing, yet there is so much.
This silence so potent, the only true path, acceptance.

Allow ourselves to regain our strength.
Not the kind we put on the morning.
The kind that moves as we breathe, that breathes as we move.
The kind that we cannot feel, but moves others without our knowing.

We cannot begin out of folly. We cannot begin.
To begin now would be to return to the blindfold.

We gather. We wait.
There is more. It is coming.
We wait.

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