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This is for my own sanity. I must put it in order in the digital universe or on a private piece of paper kept secretly under my bed. Your voice is all that keeps me, yours and my own. I give private ceremony to my dreams. I sing in little rooms to people who believe in ghosts but have never seen them. I pray the song amazing grace to folks who believe in angels but have never met me. They smile and I shed a tear for us all. So far away from the gates we may not see it coming down. There is more dedication in rock and roll but I will still belt it out to the congregation for the hope of it all. All we have now is the songs and magic. Black magic in large doses filling up our small bodies. Like swamp people surviving a hurricane by never leaving home. So many people want the world to end. But it won't you just die and we live on. Not every one has a cosmic origin, some of you are the meek here to inherit the Earth. I've touched your grave stones on a mere accident looking for ancestral dust under dirt. You could have had it all but you wanted something you could never have and the things you never dream of. You only get what you dream even if you show up. That is funny too. Eli tells you everything but few ever listen and most have forgotten this is not a lifetime but a spiritual mission.
All the poets smile at me and ask me to dance. I always say yes because they really do know best what is going on around here. We pay actors to mesmerize but magician do it for free. I lock myself secretly into small private libraries because as usual the public has become too mainstream. I ask the old and dying important things. They always remember the answers and point me in the right direction. I sit in private rooms with rich artists hashing over the things they feel they could not touch. They point me in the right direction to remind the bored of true love. It comes from great suffering and self respect. I now know all is well and nothing can ever be lost. Why do I miss the nothing so much? I sing to the sweet and the endearing hopeful dreamers while my peers attempt to be famous, or rich without checking their personal inventory. We give away what we want so much on the way. I see this so clear, so I sit still and cry the smallest tear to his voice. We all know it but can not hear the trumpets that also sound. A beautiful man saves us all as we drown together.
We could wait until the end but that is just the beginning. We can enact revenge but one never understands why one is truly screaming. So I come to you with my faith in my hands. I remember every shaman I ever kissed or embraced. Every member of my star family I ever met face to face. They gave me my faith and it can not be tarnish though it is black as a cosmic map. I've gone from beautiful girl to raving maniac and I will say it is a wonderful world. I feel sorry for the ones who will never let go. The ones will attempt to hold it all by the seams and never hear the sound of...the great all there is. Who consume but never create. Have you ever been stopped in a street so a crowd can form to ask you what you dream and how it inspires them so? What does it even mean that I have? I've come to remind those lost we are now found and the stars do glow for us. A breath is all it takes to bless the nations of gentle souls. Keep going. Allow the heart to expand. Smile through the tears and meet the family half way up the road. They will appear as angles of color and fire. I feel them all. Running and singing all the familiar songs. We have it all right here inside of us. I forgive you all the ones who I think are weak or cruel or maybe just liars. It's not my cruelty. It's not my weakness. They are not my lies. I am here for the stars and the bright lights. I am here as he lives. So it will never happen again.
This could be my last breath. I have said it all. I share my soul with the ones who wake me at night. I've cried in the arms of the great men of my time and I have said it all. I repeat myself as a form of art. I have listened to the desperate pretend they see magic in nothing. I have heard the ones who feel weak attempt revenge on themselves. I am done. I am a golden nun. I believe in it all and have seen it come true. I have been tied down to beds for pain and pleasure. I have driven my masters mad. I am alive and I have played dead. This is my personal apocalypse. I have seen the bravest ones create cults and try hard not to kill them. I have seen the beautiful destroy it all and play the villain. I have created so much art the ink stains are like my lost children. My dream is now. I have wept over Van Gogh and it is not enough. I have stared so hard at Monet and Rothko you'd think my heart could never let go. I have run and turned the cards at midnight naked in the emptiness. This is my dream come true. I am the thing which I have become in secret. I am home though I wish for greater...what...hearts and minds to speak to. My fingers hurt from creating. My heart is a full cup. The old masters have taught me the old ways. The youth has shown me how to modernize and I have become a winged creature. Blow harder my dears. Blow harder.
I am Josalisa and this is a RiOt
Ceux qui marchent entre nous viennent en rêves les plus profonds.
This is the thing that wakes me. From the oh so sweet slumber of a warm bed. This is that which bothers me and will not let me sleep. That and I had to pee just now. The think positive crowd have to be the most annoying set of creatures to walk the Earth. Yes Dear Readers, this is one of those rants where everything is brought into question. Really what is is to think positive? I keep feeling like this is really an uniquely American idea. Looking on the bright side of life and ignoring all that sits right in front of you. Sometimes I feel like we are all one step away from suicide but we smile and try to get over it. Now me I fail at dying, so I get up everyday and do the living. It works out just fine. But much like the Instagram photo is a bastardization of actual photography, the think possessive movement is destroying actual living conversation. No one ever wants to face anything. Or that is wrong, facing things or not is no choice. But real discussion has been abandoned for the it gets better crowd. Isn't this why people drown themselves in drugs and alcohol or pack themselves into night clubs full of strangers who can't see or feel from all the makeup and Molly that has been popped? I really need a Russian right now. In Russia there is a saying, I'm not going to tell it to you in Russian. However here it is in English. "Life is hard right now, but what are you going to do?" There is the truth of it all. We all want it all to look a certain way. Like the Los Angeles pretenders who glamorize this shit hole that I desperately want to leave. But look at that. Even that is bullshit. Who wants to leave a place but stays? You know what happens when one stays in a place they should have left a long time ago? When the very first of my personal artistic caravans headed East in hopes of...well anything really. What happens to the fearful who stay? It's fucking decay. I feel and smell decay. I believe it makes me a better writer, but it is not doing a damn thing for my artwork.
Have you ever been attacked by nothing and then you finally realize it is yourself? I can not be among so many and feel so separate. Mainly because we are all being so positive. But get a drink in you and the tears flow. I put all my pain on paper or pound it into a keyboard. So by the time the light of day actually shows up I do feel a ting of positivity. But Dear Reader, I thirst for something bigger than all of this. I hunger to smell new smells and to run free. I never really feel free. Like I have felt a bit of freedom alone on the mic somewhere, but not real freedom the way I dream. I am in the business of turning what I see on the inside to that which is tangible. I live in the same city of many of the great writers. I feel the burden of their past upon me even now. That is what keeps me going. They are alive in little rooms typing away at great works, or sitting somewhere reminiscing about how it was all going to be so beautiful. I'm not really into too many positive writers. So what the hell are so many of them doing on the Best Sellers List? Who the fuck put them there? The think positive crowd that is who. You blind bitter bastards, the lot.
It's not even really the Best Sellers List that bothers me. But yes it is. You see there are virtually no real bookstores left so we have no Men and Women on the from lines of literature. Telling people what to buy are at the very least pointing them in the right direction. So pretty much everyone is left to there own devices which leaves us as a culture utterly fucked. So you have Adults reading novels from the Young Adults section, people reading way too many self help or pseudo spiritual books, and then there are the Graphic Novels. I love Graphic Novels. Like I can't even begin to not love graphic novels but still, read a book every once and while people. The poor pathetic Graphic Novels. You know the thing most movies are made of these days. I won't get started on the state of American Cinema in this post because well. American Cinema at one point was created in the bookstore, or other gathering places of intellect. Which seem obsolete now, so we have a entire nation packing into cinemas to see cartoons or things based on Graphic Novels. Or books that are not very good but no one is around to stop any of it from happening. What ever happened to the bitter screen writers? They were replaced with lazy fucks who hope to become rich and famous and who will read any crap and turn it into a film. Re-invited Biographies are the norm here and I won't even get started.
So what is a writer to do? Sit among her peers and absorbed the beauty that is the craft. Look bitterly out into the city by the sea and wonder is it the pot or the juice that makes everyone step over the bums and smile? You see they are looking on the bright side of the homeless epidemic. Or is it really a shared delusion? One that can not be ended because we are in a spiritual time and intellectualism is not the norm. Truth has become really subjective. Most people live in relationships that are lies. I live in one full of truth. A truth that even I don't always say. Togetherness is the norm and separation is a illusion. All we really have on this rock are each other and the animals. So be kind. That does not mean be positive. Positivity leads to fascism really. Mainly because you have to only look at the good things. Ignore the sick and the old or the poor (especially if you are one of them) and the dying and just smile and take another hit, or drink, or pill or change the fucking channel for God's sake. Don't even get me started on God. But I am trying. I believe things can be better and also accepted. How bad is it really? What if you asked a stranger how her day was and she just looked at you and broke down? Just told you every truth without holding back? What if you just stood in the middle of it all and gave her a minute to let the real tears flow? Standing there among it all hugging a strangers in real tears. Well it happens to me all of the time. Maybe I just have one of those I can take your heart faces. Maybe I am always on the verge of jumping off of something high and the whole world knows it. But the real truth is I don't want to die. I want to fly. Now ain't that a conundrum.
This is Josalisa and you have just experienced a RiOt.
The Karma Police are a series of intangible ideas made real by you the viewer. Similar to the Dream Police who go to work on your subconscious wants. The ones you share out of fear or deep rooted respect for the listener. Depending on who is listening the idea can be somewhat deconstructed but never really destroyed. Those who do not create can never honestly destroy anything at all. They are only capable of giving something a bad name. The element of destruction though often coupled with the creative element, does not live in the same sphere. Those who destroy are often lost or neglected. Mainly by themselves, but dig deep enough and you will find a small child abandoned by a cruel or thoughtless parent. I want to destroy everything often means. Mommy and Daddy were not there and now I am still lonely. I sometimes direct these types to my guru. Father is quite gentle and he does oh so often make house calls. Yet as you may not know he does not accept applications and the self destructive must meet him half way up the road to Dreamersville. Also madness is not recommended as a cure for itself so maybe stay clear of certain Shamans who wash their blood over the likes of me.
Have you ever wondered what people really want? The ones who come in search of me or who I have casually allowed under the big top. I wonder about these strangers who would seek out strangers. What the fuck do you all want? To join the show and chose a character. I see you playing them out. Los Angeles is a very small city when your soul was created here. I see you all claimer to return to the same places and pretend you are having new experiences. Oh my God that shit is too funny. Let me take a moment to read that sentence again. How can I judge you at a distance? I can't really but if the boredom that is does not affect you then you know what? It is you. Thoughtless drifting floating by high on stupid things pretending you are someone else to anyone who will listen. And those with the memory bored watching the parade of souls night after night ascend again and again.
I am the most gentle Black Witch one could ever dream of. I gave away my past because dear readers, that part of me is dead. Only alive in the memories of those who experienced and witnessed the debacle that is my life in ruins. I am now only a writer climbing the staircase with my lover. We are going to some secret place we created long ago. We see the destroyers, but remember your first instance of destruction? When you were a little child maybe you built a sand castle. I won't assume you had Legos or Lincoln Logs...those are for the cared for. But maybe you did. You made your little building and tore it down. Now remember...even then dear child no one gave two shits. But you must have learned the lesson. Destruction can only come from creation. And one can only kill oneself. Now you are thinking of ax welding murderers. Or the haunted. You dear child are not one of those. You are the weak and the frightened. You probably have not even fucked the living this month, have you? Poor thing are you even alive? Or are you that fucked up witch that lives in your head?
As for me the damp with pity. I shed not another tear. I dance not to another song I did not create myself. I see too much with my eyes closed and I do, oh my dears I do often wonder way too much. I contemplate the nothing like it is a thing of substance. What I really want to do, well it is being done now is it not? So why do I search? For people I have lost so long ago. No not the ones like them. I mean the dead. I search and speak for the dead. It's kind of like my job. Given to me so long ago I like to pretend I was not there. But I remember and I do it well. The sad part is if one can call it that. I feel a separation peeking behind the curtain. I feel a stillness that helps me see you the living wicked. The part I hate the most. How can one being be purple light and silk and the other be voice and empty still? Why does it anger me? My own gift upsets me. Because it will not let me forget what I have seen and heard. But most importantly it will not let me forget my interpretation. The thing that is in my head. Calling out the empty, searching for the the dead. Laughing as children dressed as men kick over sand castles. This is a another morning in the metropolis. And I dear souls feel sorrow and joy at the same time. Such as life. I have seen the Karma Police and sometimes they work so swift their victims don't even know they have been paid a visit.
Turn another card and you are dead. Looking for a speaker like me. Turn another card and you are forgiven but not by the likes of me. I do not forgive and you do not forget the dirty things you create. Everything you see is real and shall be played out in your own life. All that you think you stole was a gift from your most wicked relative. Tell me about it soon. I shall listen then consort the souls for interpretation. But can one really care when her living soul has been given to another? Only for a moment do we trade hearts with our Masters. Most will never see the stronger people in this world because they want to be them. The secrets of this day are not the same as the past ones. This vortex vibrates on it's on. Ask the Angel wearing your dead Aunt's clothes. I know things you are too greedy and afraid to ask. I'll tell you one. Look to the future not the past. It is all happening right now. And it can not be destroyed.
I am Josalisa and this is a cypher for the Cyber Punks.
It feels like everything is being taken away from me. Everything I never cared about. Being replaced by secret things I am ecstatic about. I have an endless supply of secret hobbies and books that must be read. Secret thoughts that must be expressed. Both the bored and the dead things have begun to shun me. To peel away like dead skin. I understand what is happening all around me and I am thankful. Still as I grab on to the lost like cold wet clothes that have been discarded after walking home in the rain. Do I miss anything I do not have? Do I desire to be closer to anyone? I do, but is that a real feeling? Or one of those things people say is the right thought to have. My madness has freed me from so many of my burdens. I still feel unknowable guilt. But the disconnection, I crave it. Seeing the world at a distance and still knowing I am part of it. Ticking away deep in my heart. What can be taken away anyhow? Is it not all an answered prayer? Should we really watch what we ask for? Or ask away knowing you just might...well...have to get it. I am drunk with hope and alcohol. And yes I still judge every person I have ever loved. I think they are all liars and insincere with every movement. Is that a reflection of me? I have never really gotten over my need to judge every single word said to me by my friends and enemies. Do I really have enemies?
I feel distant and everyone else looks closer to the others as they have ever been. Tittered to strangers in hopes of forgetting themselves. And it worked. Many seem to have a forced amnesia. Why I sit here and remember then react and judge. Pushing digital words out of a keyboard like pregnant women having miscarriages. To me it is better to be among highly intellectual strangers and dying rock stars with a boner for it all and nothing. Bleeding gurus dreaming of a psychedelic past they never were old enough to participate in. I follow masters of doctrines long ago forgotten, especially by them. I create art while some are archaic. But the rituals must be done. The songs must be sung and I must remember all I have forgotten. In order to appreciate my own life. Learning sympathy for strangers is a classic thought of mine. But what does it bring? Something, it all brings something. But if one stares enough at anything does it not become grotesque?
What are we really but spinning astronauts. Is that even a right way of seeing things? Why look for a way anyhow? Why not just mow down a path to the dreaming? I see the things I dream in my daily life. That is all it has ever been. Does that make the entire world a dream come true? Is that dear readers, the reason it is all happening right now? We can believe in it all. Have it all. Know it all and see it for what it is. Beautiful, unknowable life. Yet still we may wonder. Is this truly an ancient miracle? Inside of me something is starting to boil. Father was right to tell me to abandon it all. Every action is unnecessary. For the real magic happens in between our own actions. We the power visualizers....do not force the force upon the world. We live among the thoughts and see them for what they are. Invisible strings pulling us towards the nothingness. Insanity on one hand, great clarity on the other. Never shall the two meet without real compassion. The kind we are suppose to have for ourselves. Beyond this there may be nothing or something alien to me. Why does creativity weigh on me so? Why must I think and think and think? Why must I never forget? Remembrance of things long ago considered. Comparing and contrasting to see if it all fits together. What story is this I am living? How long must I spin on a giant ocean towards a giant ball of gas?
This is Josalisa live from Planet RiOt.
I shall complain as always. I shall scream and shout then break things (mostly my own). Only my own. I shall fight but really just fall and injure myself. I shall laugh but still be very angry. Still this will not remove the thing that I believe should not be. I shall wander and run. I shall sing loudly with beautiful rock n rollers. I shall sing sweetly with humble church ladies. I shall make songs about the love of dead things. This will not move the thing I feel should not be. I shall write on machines. I shall scribble on paper. Make lists in journals. Confess to the ones I love. Judge the ones who bore me. The thing lives on. I shall confuse myself. Numb myself and then remember everything. I shall feel dizzy and drink lots of water. I shall eat three very healthy square meals a day. Yet the thing lives on. I shall stab at my own heart. I shall sit in a quiet room alone in the dark. I shall see my elders and join clubs. I shall look to people who march and those who have many children. I shall visit the saints and the sinners. After all of this the thing will persist. I shall go to rich men's cities and dine and dance. I shall go among the poor and pity and laugh. I shall live among the middle class. But the thing oh the thing which should not be is still here inside of me. I shall speak to the dead and shun all the living. I shall win all my dreams and think about quitting. I shall go out late at night and stand beneath the stars. I shall walk at the first hint of day. I shall see you all the sneaky conformists and the gay. Still the thing lives on each and every day.
Gunshots shall rain as I type. I shall make music so gentle in the dead of night. But I can not be convinced of any less than this. I do not like it here. I want out in out in. I am not your friend. I never understood you. You have studied me before. I have become a metaphor for your life. I have gained nothing. Not even the smallest insight. I shall weep but I am not really sad. I shall beat the thoughts right out of my head. Answer all the stupid questions put to me. This...it just should not be. I shall reveal it all and say nothing. The reality is plain to see. I don't belong in this emerald city. I never wanted it. It has always wanted me. This is the place the vampires feed. And I kill things with words. Last of the dying poets. Still alive today. To witness all that is dressed up and boring. To filter out the pain (yours and mine). I would become a cynic but I never liked becoming things. So I'll stay this, a bitter writer staining things. Maybe it will all be so clear one day. As for now all I can see. Is the thing I know that should not be
I am Josalisa and this is a RiOt.
