So, at this time of year, you’re not supposed to send ‘Merry Christmas’ messages and greetings to people who aren’t Christian… because that is the politically-correct way, apparently.

Here’s the thing though: politics is everything but correct about anything, ever.

So fuck it. And too, those who moan about fireworks at Eid or having to wait in the car at a slow-moving drive-through. About the weather, toilet seats, spoilers online or handling the things they are just supposed to handle. None of these things are new.

Our species likes to exercise everything to the death, so we’ve gone way beyond consideration into the arrival lounge of zombie-central, where the torque of our truths have been traded for the tepid — excluding our random outbursts of indignance when we think that, for example, Muslims have gone out of their way to ruin our happiness on and around two evenings a year… which, when we get to them, feel like the very first time these things have happened – obviously. And that shock is the amplified sound of our right to make hella noise about it — right?


Except for this: have you ever wondered how Muslim people feel when they hear about the complaints that surround their Sacrifice Feast (Eid) celebrations – by anyone and everyone who is not Muslim? Or how they feel when their grocery store plays Wham’s Last Christmas on a loop from the third week in October (and then for three consecutive months), and is decorated with gold tinsel and some cheap version of sparkly lights?

Now it’s a bit of a trickier analogy to consider, isn’t it?

Ah… the conundrum to be convincingly polite, but still from a place of political correctness…

Conundrum indeed! Show me where this has been profoundly effective ~ please?

Because I can’t think of any cerebrally-sensible examples where the attempts haven’t harked into the pallid.

Just a quick squiz at these 11 Examples Of Political Correctness Gone Mad will make you giggle. And then squirm at just how embarrassing it is to be human at the moment.

We — each and together — live here together. On a planet that is not new, and with 7.6 billion other people who would each and collectively be happier if we just learned to share, better.

Because my idea and your idea of a night that doesn’t interrupt your comfort zone because your pets are confused, is not the same idea to everybody else. On the same day. Or at the same time.

Sacrifice Feast indeed.

And if you want to enjoy your feasts, you’re going to have to make some sacrifices.

Because mine and your ideas are just some of the all of it. And us, with all our problems, trophies, hurt and happiness, are very important! But still, are also just some of the everything here created.

And in that glimmer when yours began — and again when it comes to an end — is where You are the sum of everything here created.

That is Elohim. That is Jehovah. That is Shàngdì. That is Tiānzhŭ, Cheon-ju. That is Nkosi. That is Allah. That is Krishna. That is YHWH. That is Buddha. That is God.

That is Light. 

And we each shine ours in ways that contribute some to the bright of it all.

Your own is amazing, and if it could talk, it would ask you to savour it, and share it by shining it… rather than talking about how important is just because it is yours.

It’s a really odd time in the world. Shining more Light would really help — don’t you think?

You, reading this now, can try. Stick your big toe into the effort — or go full-throttle and be loud as if you need to fill a stadium!

Either version, yet — just start!

Don’t save generosity, compassion, Bitcoins, Donald Trump, Jacob Zuma, ISIS, stupidity or silence. Save Love! And start by shining your Light, because it is yours — and you are worth it!

And whether you know or believe this fact or not:

You are sum of the everything here created.

If this sounds like something you do or could come to agree with, tell someone.

Share the ideal.

And if none of it does, well… sorry for you.




Before Finn, my niece Hannah was the closest thing I’ve known to having my own child.

I say ‘before’ as if that has since-changed. I shouldn’t… because it hasn’t.

For her Birthday two years ago, I made a geeky video-story about how we first met… my-Hannah and I.

Thinking about how quickly the world has changed in just two years makes me inhale sharply like you do when you dive into a pool that surprises you with how much colder it really is than you’d first thought… But you catch your breath (and are then wider awake than before you dove!). That’s how I feel when I catch glimpses of her superlative sojourn, and which — every time — leave me feeling quite sure that there is some truth behind that oft-coy cliche:

Everything is just as it should be.

Ergo, if two years is staggering… sixteen will floor anyone who remembers those, then. When you were all of the big and the broken of being sweet-sixteen. And, if you can’t (shame, fail!), maybe just having a sixteen year old near you will help? Your own or even one close enough…

I’d kill for You.
And I love You more than lots and lots of many things, but mostly because doing that makes me see, gasp, and grasp my appreciation of those lots and lots of many things too.

So here, for you, 3rd October, 2017 ~ your SUITE | XVI … don’t they go by in a blink?


Happy Birthday Banunkian! 


PS: Due to copyright snags, this video can be watched via YouTube (but only on a computer, specifically [not phone or tablet] or downloaded via DropBox via the option above.


Thanks 🙂




Rare Complexities

One person’s petty is another’s pride… and boy don’t we ever enjoy the popcorn while we’re along for the ride?! 😉

I got all gushy about Miley’s most recent release — Younger Now. For the record: I’ve never not-been gushy about Miley. Well, okay… maybe only since the arguably-adult Miley made Bangerz. Not that I was ever anti Miley circa Hannah Montana, I just never really followed nor got into that. Anyway, I evermore admire her robust, readiness to be raw ~ in both its brazen and its bruising. No doubt, just like every other seven billionth person on the planet, the plan is only ever really for the former, right?

Either way, hers is done with an audience of some and plenty on every continent. Which, granted, she knows — and chose.

Still… she’s (just) 24 years of age, and has done both (the brazen and the bruises) more times than any armchair activist and pacifist alike, wherever they may chum something-choral without anything ever, actually realizing anything resembling capacity.

Yes. She also has a net worth of $160million, so those of us with less than 1% of that may find it easy to deduce that the deuce’s she does are easier to do.

Maybe?! But how will we ever / yet know, for sure?

My point? This: that in our easy-ride craving-culture, it has to be worth noting — and if for nothing other than comparisons’ sakes — Miley didn’t make bank via some faux fvckery that was recorded and then which, ohmygaaadhowdidthisgetontotheinternet
cough… got “leaked” to the media.

Sidebar: The Kardashian family — yes, all of them — collectively donated $500,000.00 to the Hurricane Harvey / Texas relief fund. Miley did the same. All by her own self. Other than the very obvious difference, is that the family made a big splash about their donation. Miley wanted hers kept private. It was only because Ellen was so proud of her, that the news got out! Also: The Happy Hippie Foundation.  

Anyway. I don’t know her any more than anyone could from the other side of the planet/equator, reading and learning from what news is reported (and then assimilating that with as little bias as possible ~ albeit where the fandom fuels). Still, here and with that, I will say, just, that I admire how her art is Lighting her journey, for all of us to see and enjoy… or ignore. Because, yes — I get it: one person’s Miley is another’s Manson.

On a point of order: her latest moved some cogs of my own. And while neither are Pulitzer-worthy pennings, I do place mine here. And as I do with anything that I make and share, I do so with lots of very genuine hope that it moves some cogs for someone else. Anyone, anywhere. And I will also say that mine own humanity makes me both inspired and insecure (in ever-competing measures), so I admit too, that I do also always hope that these things I share, each find their way, in ways where the likes outweigh the ambivalence.

Still, and for whichever: I do it.

I say it.

For me.

And for someone else.



And however it lands, wherever it does, the capacity to be either fiery or fuzz, has everything to do with every immediate moment going on with whoever sees / hears / reads it, as much as it does their every-moments and their everything — before and until.

Ergo… one person’s Sunday-blues is another’s bag-packed promise. One person’s Friday-feeling is another’s happiness-for-hump day… and, one person’s chortle is another person’s warble.

Aren’t these our very intimately real, rare complexities?

♮ ♭ ♩ ♫   HAPPY NEW MOON!  ♫ ♩ ♭ ♮

Galaxy-sized glitter-full, heart-held hugs that tug with the soul that smiles at smelly-Melly!

This year feels like it borrowed its clothes from our 1998.

Thank you, for You.





Looking back on a littler-you is a brave and eye-opening adventure.

I wandered upon some of my own outpourings from a time I was all-unrequited – and not just a little all-consumed by it…

Having a glimmer back to then – and without any arrogance – I can proudly say that:

angry-me writes some pretty things. 

Still… those Minds Like Midnight and Bluff Diamonds feel all identity-like-hot-ice now…

You know that feeling that you get when you look through old photo albums or your sport’s almanacs, or those maybe not-really cringe-worthy journals you kept … and your truth feels both unnerving and unanimous at the same time?!

Going there often implies that the looking is how you know you’ve moved forward…

On the contrary! It may be the remembering of the feelings you felt then and there, that big-brother you now and, ergo… teach you all over again.

It’s been one month since Women’s Day, so here the flip-side to #GirlUp

To the big-siblings – adopted, self-appointed and anointed – and all the Gently-Men in my life who gifted me with the bits that built the brave that I sometimes find enough of in my life, know this:

we have the chance to turn the pages over…
we can write what we want to write…

How long can we look at each other, down the barrel of a gun?
Before we can actually answer: 


Sparkles always shine bright when the time is just right…
like now, when I look back on a time mine was all minds like midnight.




CONSIDER: This post was the one-month-later, follow-up to my Women’s Day share, called Girl Up



You are not the malt, the rat, or the cat,
not a cow with crumpled horn,
nor a maiden all forlorn…


You are the start and the result of what the Galaxy wrapped as a gift.

From all of its wields and all of its wilts…


Plant your passions — and then hold them close.


✯ ☆ ✯

In Splash it was Darryl Hannah
the hors de oeuvre for what would become my manna
Jim Henson’s The Dark Crystal had Kira and Jen
and cartoon’s had me wishing I too was outlined with black pen…

The freedom to surf in imagination back then
not so distal or woken by reality’s pistol
everything there without the hint to own guilt
and the space wasn’t noticed between the wield and the wilt…


This is the Rouse My Art Built. 

The bricks of the tricks
that would be how I’d test my own best
and build defense from my learning
from some of our world’s wily storming…

And when I’d big-up my successes too soon
the quick-hiding would mend on other side
of the lessons I would croon
all lost and all won by them wield and the wilt…


This is the Rouse My Art Built. 

When weak like straw from the raw of a heart called sore
and the howling that follows them wolves that are hollow
with their hate rattling the gate and their roars that shake the door
the discovery of recovery would only come
from all that I wield and all that I wilt…


This is the Rouse My Art Built. 

If the numerology of my biology could become a colour in CMYK
perhaps the rungs my lungs must breathe my life through
could find recharge in that plum
at night
and at day
like a colour I connect to
when I close my eyes and start to pray
or paint pretty over the smart and the stupid things that I say
All peaks and valleys in the gallery of DNA
to ever wield and to wilt…


This is the Rouse My Art Built. 

like music is the muse for the feels that I run
and the signal to start is another gun
that becomes what covers paper by pen
and ‘done’ becomes the diary of everything call ‘back-when’
like the much and the minimal explained as spirit animal
maybe this plum
is sum
of my everything here summated

…from all that I wield and all that I wilt…


This is the Rouse My Art Built.


© Dylan Balkind 


♔ ♔ ♔

Thank you Kim for passioning with your fingerprint for where ours
ink in such similar ways. And look! We got to see
some of our Edgeless Boxes — which is really all you!
Thanks Nundi for being the very first-version ‘Rouse’ sounding board,
and Kim McClure for humouring the surprise of it too when I sprung it on you, then.
It’s a little less heavy now, I hope… 
Caddie, you’re the re-light flame
when my candle flickers, and I appreciate you more than I’ve ever let you know!
Sasha — you’re the kind of Angel-with-edge that this world needs
much, much more of!
And… my Niki-noodle! For your beating heart
that always hugs mine back into fine!  



✯ ☆ ✯


Madonna is 59

If the creative combination of fashion, video and music birthed Pop Culture, then She is its Mother.

If boundaries broken are braved by the brash belief to keep on believing — even when ruthlessness may become the rough-side product of that resilience… and if predictability was pressed into the paving of each new pathway conceived, all of this avant-garde — although scary for the pioneer — should be documented with respects for the all of it… and with same by those who are given it.

Even if later, just to litter…

She is not a one-trick pony. She is not a fool. She is not a Kardashian nor to be presumed like some flash-in-the-pan. Proven. Again and again. With the sweats… the bruises… and ergo, the bank balance to show for it.

Happy Birthday Madonna 




Mental Health is quite like religion. Very few of us give either our 24/7-attention — until crises or catharsis (the former seems more frequent though, because: life).

Religion used to mean talking about Jesus on a Sunday while colouring-in pictures of him as depicted on many of the lauded installments in his bionic embryonic befittings to bind a species. This usually precedes doing much more of that parrot-fashion-proving required for passing — called school.

Thereafter, whether through University or other, the school of life (all the cool kids are calling it ‘adulting’ now) teaches you to think, which leads you to think:

What was I thinking, before I was thinking? 

And then whether you argue about the wrong or righteousness, and whether you stay close to it or go as far from at is you can possibly get yourself, the truth of the matter is this:

We all do religion. 

It may be where you go on a Sunday because of that place and the passion that goes with is leaves you feeling filled with what you know is right, because of how right you feel when filled to feeling like that.

It may be how you feel when you garden, walk your dog, feed the parrot, drive your car, get a message from someone who you hadn’t thought of for ages but brim-to-blinking lots… because they just thought of you.

I refer to that glimmer of gravitas as Light.

Whichever it is that does that for you, is yours.


I once told some people that I think love is more durable when regarded not as something that is great, but as something with grace.

I can be quite a profound smarty-pant around some parts.

I should go there more often myself  😉

Health, like wealth isn’t something you can hoard. Stocks will fluctuate… and rolling with the punches is something you will never be greatest at. But it is something that will teach you grace — if you let it. And making it through the long queues means you get to be in the front row — with popcorn. To see and feel the right you know, because of how right you feel when filled with Light like that.

Sometimes these cathartic reminders arrive with song – as is most-often the case in mine. Ergo, my go-to gets another go-to.

I wish for You a grace that is ever growing, and as much Light as You can see!






Long before I figured out the fitting excuses to get me out of playing cricket and soccer, I knew I would need to.

I remember being in Seventh Grade (Std. 5) and helping two girl-friends through the footwork choreography of their indoor mace duet routine. It was late on a Friday afternoon when the school’s grounds are mostly quiet and the dust glistens along diagonal shards of light toward that middle-point on the hall floor.

That’s where we were.

Our principal was the successor to the benevolent, brilliant Mr. Landau, and that new uninvited blood vessel-burst face had come upon us, as it did too often, forming his bearing-down billboard that fronted his lead-with-fear campaign.

Big man.

To an army of, at oldest, thirteen year olds?

“What’s going on in here,” he pried, rhetorically.

And while Wendy and Mandy’s attempted reasonings weren’t inaudible, his scoff-back was alcoholic-confident as it gavelled “…you should be playing soccer…” before he dissolved off (to taint some other formative-flickerings, no doubt).

There are three kinds of loves: self love, romantic love, and community love.

What Wendy and Mandy were doing when they put themselves between he and I while explaining, from the formative minds of twelve year olds to the grown, shifting adult that stammered there, is both the first and the third in that list.

At least.

That was 1991.

The world has seen some years come and gone between us then, and to my knowledge, holds fewer men that seethe statements like he did.

A lack of awareness, and awareness with indifference are so desperately different.

In the year 2017, with every nuance of noise about the need-to-know — from both the social and/or media experience — means that awareness-lacking is simply because the one lacking it is simple.

So… is it off-base to have something to say about Women’s Day, if you aren’t one?

And then, if so, is it still as off-base if you … ‘throw like a girl’?

And when you do, you’re completely okay with that?

I am.

And that’s because of the self love, romantic love and community loves that I have learnt about because of all the women I do — and have been blessed to know.

Men learn different things from women, which has everything to do with the ways in which we participate with them. There’s no rule book, and even if there were, it would be out-of-character to abide by it completely anyway. I know that my perspective is completely unique to myself and, because I couldn’t ever fully communicate that to anyone, ever, I could never expect anyone to understand my or anothers’ … or be able to explain what those feel like to them, looking back at me and mine.

Still, through the Loves3 I’ve come through, I have learnt about the inroads toward respecting my own sensitivity. I’ve learnt about the importance of listening. I’ve learnt to dialogue, the value of trust, of space… and I’ve learnt that courage is both delicate and durable — and to hold that knowledge close. Moreover, I’ve learnt that the most affecting life lessons will come in the form of both those things we like to hear, and the things we don’t, from both people whose audience is afforded them because they stand on the world’s stages — and those who have had just my ears to hear them.

Courtney Ferrel gave a TED Talk called The Secrets to an Extraordinary Life, something that — because of her genuine gusto — was so gripping to me. Granted, I have no doubt that those same traits would be what others might find annoying. But she had the forum and something to say, and she did it! Her way. And I think — even here in 2017 — we aren’t as aware as we could be, of how lucky we are to live in a time when the space to say what we feel about the spaces we feel in, is available to us…

…as quietly or quicker in quantum to the quora of society – as receiving as it is or isn’t. And while we don’t always desire to be loud, we never ever have to be quiet.

So for the quora who come here… Happy Women’s Day!

© Dylan Balkind 


Excerpts of the spoken word include: Thuli Madonsela, Charlize Theron, Alanis Morissette, Tony Porter, Madonna, Meryl Streep, Courtney Ferrel and Chimamanda Ngozi. 

While this collection could have been endless – and is loud in missing so many – it too is just something with a beginning and an end. This ‘mashup’ collection’s musical, song(s) and/or sound samplings include: Lira, Bette Midler, Beyonce, Betty Who (covering Donna Lewis), Florence and the Machine, Tina Turner, KT Tunstall, Celine Dion, Suzanne Vega, Natalie Imbruglia, Alanis Morissette, Sade, Doris Day (and other cover), Birdy and Mutya Buena (covering Tracy Chapman), Kesha, Nicole Milik (covering Pink), Ariana Grande, Cyndi Lauper and Miley Cyrus. 

No copyright infringement intended. This composition is not designed for any remuneration purposes, and is shared as only my own creative-outlet as a version of storytelling for a tapestry woven via the bits from many others. 


CONSIDER: One month later, I created and shared the “guy” version of this post, to be seen at Gently Men



come with me

On the radio while in the car the other day, they (either 5fm or 947) were doing that feature where they let one business rep’ call in and have just a few short seconds to do a promo shout-out about their offering.

The guy who got to, spoke about The Butterfly Foundation, and explained its basic premise as a forum where people who have some time and a shoulder to lend, can give that to someone else who is having a rough time and needs one to lean on.


So simple… and so seldom celebrated as sought.

It moved me to write and make this:

when down days
make meaningless of the crown days
and the plentiful spites look like that many in a view over some city’s night lights

but what’s remarkable isn’t the sparkle
and the boulder is stubborn when you’d really just be loving
a shoulder
to rest on
to not be tested from
and while all of this is easier to know than to speak of
or even if to hear yourself say it
out loud

as if you’d feel deserving of any hearing
even if you found the moment to ask

irony isn’t that it’s something dark you need to wake up from
because for all you can remember
is no time recent enough when your eyes weren’t stuck in too-wide open

still, open can be broken

what pains
I wonder
preempted Mark Twain to say:
“The best way to cheer yourself up is to try cheer someone else up.”


if clarity was like gravity
seeking it
beseeching it
guessing if the lesson is anywhere soon to impress in

when chaos theory transforms the dreary
because the smallest change
makes for the tallest rearrange
of the everything that looks so strange
like it’s all something from outside
with a chalice-malice that insists on deride
until from somewhere cocoon
comes a hand like medicine spoon
and says:

stop doing that stride
get off that ride
that you never even bought a ticket for 

and there from the ledge of danger
your perspective is rearranged by a stranger
who replaces boulder with a shoulder
and says without words:

come with me 
leave your swords 
their rusty will just get dusty, anyway 
in the city we’re off to build 
our guild 
and the rights to your smiles 
will be the lights that shine for miles 
and dreary-teary will be gone from stronger
the new (from old) you 
and a little chaos theory will flap a ripple through the breeze 
so that your gauntlet reinvents that grey
with a forest of green that is bigger than the Milky Way 
and when you’re ready
you’ll be the steady 
that rearranges a boulder with your shoulder 
for someone who needs you to show them how to see 
when you say without words:

come with me 


© Dylan Balkind 



one day, when the interested see interesting
from the breeze we swing with
and the mystery of history makes sense
when the time between those
whose prose
like an Angel’s song goes
leaves you breathless
with reverence

and if their stint
the glint
on eon
still left a mark that lights the dark
on our collective character reference
like fingerprint
then wouldn’t it be a proud moment to know
as if we could
that we stood with humblest of them
as if hovering on horizon
like a star



         Nelson Rolihlala Madiba



Temporary Genuine

Franky. Yanky. Play hanky panky. Promises with fingers crossed behind backs like so skanky. Give gifts. Receive same. Sign that you know of Liberty, then take it. Trade it. Wage it like commodity. What proof can you hand our youth when uncouth action is the retraction of truth? Constant. Arrogant. Their memory sieve, should at best forgive…

By hook or by crook, if lenience is the title on the book — then where be benevolence? Forgiveness? Understanding-sought-deliverance? Deliberate is the duck-diving convivial… when book not in first-language written, the understand of behaviour behaved-back is invisible.

The fragility of accountability is embossed like braille over an earth seen from heaven. Hope. Faith. Truth for rent… from leaders all temporary genuine.

I wonder how often reflection trumps deflection when not insistent on being first to have their say? Do they every wonder about these things I call the Gallery of DNA?

This is our time to try to turn… temporary genuine, into contemporary genuine.


The Bright of the Moon

Every maker has his marks. When mine are written, for some subconscious reason, ‘ergo’ is the word I cannot forgo.

I heard it roll off Julia Roberts’ tongue. The wan of four letters unknown to interrupt, I had to look that up, which now props me same for fitting connection within descriptions. To salute and say and there to share ~ this is the rouse my art builds.

When by music I make mine, Madonna’s quote is never forgot. Not for the reasons readily read as obvious, but because of this: just when I thought my Dad might say “I’m tired of all this Madonna that you always wanna… show me!” He didn’t. There, he stared. So still. In the secret of his ill. He watched until it was done, and then he said ‘Wow! She really is quite something.’ But, like he meant it, you know? It was that clip. With that quote. Of all in her catalogue, there and then, he heard the truths from that monologue. So as someone unique, and rare, and hopeful to be fearless, I salute the spirit of that when I compose to say things in my own way, that I share like rooms in a house, from the rouse my art builds.

I labored such leaning and loves for The Light of the Sun that I shared on February 18, 2016 (and no doubt worked on, up to, and all through the 17th).

How happy I was to have and hold that, there, then, when I did. And then too, to watch as anyone else did, that day and over the time unconsciously used ~ and therein becomes evermore unpaused.

Babies of benevolence should have their siblings — of sorts. That something yang for the yin and yadda yadda yadda… Because, well isn’t that the very design that decorates the hall in each and every Gallery of DNA?

I like to think so.

It’s like an Opus.

Like… Mr. Holland’s Opus.

I remember how moved I was by that story. The layered labours of a man who wants to make with sound, and then with it to ultimately meet his deaf son somewhere, where they can.

The movie tells of Glenn Holland’s story as a musician and composer who takes a teaching job to pay the rent while — in his ‘spare time’ — strives to be true to that vow only he really knows, to vibrate closer to his goal…

Michael Kamen wrote the score. He was born in the 15th of April, 1948.

I green-eye composers as the most capable artists, forming theirs from passionate compassion, where EQ leads IQ into symphonic storytelling that must look something like the Milky Way.

He also wrote the score for the 1991 Blockbuster Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves.

As a loudmouth for what losers I feel bullies are, the tale of those who take from the rich to uplift the poor is tireless and all torque to me.

Historically, currently, globally ~ and locally now if not (arguably) more than ever.

Because the absence of such fairplay-fighters produces persecuted populations that recoil inside rings of ice… like ours, here in South Africa today. A place where Prince of Thieves has taken on an entirely new meaning, and would be a fitting signpost for out front the R246million-home of where our highest hideousness lives.

But anyway…

Back to me, who — four hundred and eighty two full moons after I merriment’d my way onto this speck we float through some giant warehouse of wonderment on — would like to share something of the sum, with this:

My pocket full of compassion pulses because of that which lives in my chest, and is as bright as what rivers nudge along mine network of veins.

I know it because it kneads me as much as I need it.

Ergo, and still:

Torture is alive.

Talent is alive.

Telling the truth of how you experience the difference between the two, to those you talk to — or the mirror — is a service you owe your soul

between The Light of the Sun 

and by The Bright of the Moon. 

Thanks for coming to another quick-change I’ve quivered and quaked through here.

And for it, I hope that whatever you do with the rest of your day, please take this with you:

You are The Light of the Sun, that grows in that and too beneath The Bright of the Moon.

Don’t shine your Light where others won’t shimmer theirs as salutes back at you.



© Dylan Balkind



Julius Caesar lost out to 23 conspiring cowards for what history calls his last day, this one, the Ides of March. Isn’t it fitting that to them, he was the only exception? And they, for his downfall (and any coward collective, anywhere!) may be aptly described as Casual Juries.

Quite the shoe-fits as an anagram of Julius Caesar. 

The threads that hold us together – or fray for forays of confusion before confirmation – are sewn where we seed them because of our need to sometimes-sample and sometimes-snuff what comes of that farming.

Inside it, or in the prowess of looking back upon, the denial or dancing-after respectively is some anagram of our pain. Shuffled. For different gleaning, meaning, and preening.

Ista Quidem Vis Est ~ or throw me to the wolves at night, I’ll fight a good fight. Throw me in the wildfire, I’ll fight the good fight… Caesar, Joan of Arc, Noah, Nat King Cole or Alexander McQueen… would know the same inside-perspective of the days of delight and dark to them, as each of us do – to us. As shuffled. For different gleaning, meaning, and preening.

So whether more hark or lark, finding one anagram for IDES OF MARCH to read FIRMED CHAOS is mine here.

Welcome to the Church of Me.



Gallery of DNA

When it comes to walking the talk of putting ourselves first, most of us are very good at the talking parts…

And why is that?

Sure, no one wants to be walking as the always-moaning irrit, or as the guy who’s always making sure his own war-cries are top of the agenda. Because that would almost definitely put you, she, he or I into category: ugh. There where the references rallied go “…that guy like totally literally has an excessive interest in himself… Like no jokes. Bible!”

A narcissist.

So we anagram our pain.

An anagram is a word, phrase, or name formed by rearranging the letters of another. Like ‘pain’ for example, which can become ‘I nap’ – quite funny when you think about how most of us handle that example, yes? Even though underneath it, we always know something isn’t as sharp as the tools in our shed should be.

‘Heartbroken’ becomes let me keep busy, call my cousin or the banker and see if I can go on a holiday, and no doubt because ‘lonely and scared’ is easiest buried when we decide it’s a good time to load new land scenery. 

I think breakdowns happen a lot more often than the ones that take us down, but just because we hurt in ways that aren’t halting or necessarily harrowing, doesn’t mean we’re not held to ransom by what we’ve deemed ‘stuff’ less than worthy of its own headline.

Until the headline reads:


There are actual medical equivalents of this subdued willingness to keep the unnoticed just that. There’s the silent stroke that shows no outward symptoms, an absence seizure for epileptics, and a silent heart attack (which discriminates against none). While without announcements, a silent stroke still causes permanent damage to your brain and there will be scars left on your heart no matter how quiet any attack there.

So we hear about someone who knows someone who met someone who endured this happening to them, and follow that up on cue with the freak-out, first: that these happen, second: wondering whether you have had anything like this, and third: acknowledging the lingering-becoming-louder paranoia, humming how am I supposed to help myself if I don’t even know it’s happened?

So how is it that paranoia almost-always trumps our passion to treat ourselves to some *cough* narcissism? Or at least, sooner than we do. Before we’ve cleared our timetable of doing everything for everyone else, and finally like totally literally, decide it’s okay and shouldn’t pose a problem to anyone else if we take a gander through the Gallery of our DNA?

If it sounds bad, there has to be a good side, right? 


Life leans in ways that will have us riding square wheels through its hard-time hills, which – whether it feels that way or not – also discriminates against none. And we know that we know this, when we see, hear or read about others’ hills they rode, once they’ve come to where they are when they can war-cry about it all.



Depends where you are among your hills when you hear them, I guess.

The James Baldwin excerpt (included in my mashup below) speaks of poets and their re-telling our truths – for the healing we all need, and that which comes with reflection.

The artistic metaphor is not one I stand by exclusively. I believe that, just like writing and music are The Church of Me, a person who loves to garden, weld, knit, fetch the kids from school and get them ready for extra murals, build muscle in the gym, wage war in a computer game against unmet friends made through an internet connection, take pictures, look at pictures – whatever starts the smile from inside their chest – there is every he/she in their own reservoir of goodness. And there is the hallowed hello from your Church of Me.

Just like these little trip-ups eventually call our attention into headlines – triumphs work the same way. There on the other side of the breakdowns, when tremors become more thrilling, and the building you began work upon starts to look like something more than just a dug-out foundation with materials set aside it, your chest-smiles grow and eventually present something composite of your new architecture.

No jokes. Bible.

Maybe you could enjoy some nonresistance to a little narcissism?

Mine for the purpose of this share – though surbated – are summated here … as / in / from and for ~ DRAGONFLY LEA.



Some stories need pictures – moving or otherwise… others don’t.

You’ll decide when you craft your own – as and when you do.

Whether that is out loud for anyone to see and or hear… or just between you and your thoughts while you’re in the shower or the traffic, or when you have one of those pretend-arguments in your head where you get to say all the things you would have said – when you weren’t so on the spot…

Because you feel them, then, and they make such perfect sense to you in that space!

There are always going to be minutes, months and moments… that do, and that don’t matter.

So… with that in mind, does it then make more– or less sense to you when you hear the words:

“Time goes by… so slowly…”

Because there are always going to be minutes, months and moments… that do or don’t, and that did or didn’t matter. Still, dance among them we will! When they are sacred to us – sounded-out through pain or pride… prominent and bold or in the bereaving between us… because you feel them, then … and they make such perfect sense to you in that space.


when you think back 

over that 



and months 

more brat 

than pleasant 

like crescent 

before the dip 

of a trip 

you never took the pill for 


that floor 

that swallowed  

that door 

that hallowed 


your name 

into a game 

you couldn’t stop 

or opt out of 


never pass begin 

a year 

you laughed about 

until it swallowed you in 


but how can you make 

too much of a noise 

about what you thought 

a little lacking in poise… 




See it


Sound it



© Dylan Balkind





Some stories need pictures – moving or otherwise… others don’t. Hello World. I am here



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