39 million

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39 million people are gone.

Because of a virus our divisions have allowed to ascend.

If the Holy Bible is to be believed and 2014 is the number of AD years we’ve existed, we’ve had plenty more than that to learn just one thing: united we stand, divided we fall.

Through thickness and thin.

In sickness, and in health…

But we haven’t united, have we?

Holy Bible – or bland book of bullshit –  either way: we divide habitually and without fail.

We ridicule. We shun. We spit at. We turn our backs on… to the point that, that which takes aim to divide us – can win.

Like HIV.

So I wondered… what words this combative cultivator of cunctation would say if it could… It’s our selfish spite and stupidity that gives ‘it’ such a convincing case.

I am where fear is trumped in the search from love’s lost
I am where mortal humiliates the humiliated-already – them men who look like ghosts
There you go like ants before the queen, ordered to safeguard secrets…
– all your advances are flushed as expendable by your gathering greed’s digress

How there goes your distance with untouching, formidable feast?
Something your rioting righteousness won’t see as Mark of the Beast
You did it. You do it. You are it – at best
But blindly convinced of your stay deserving on God’s floating nest

You handwrote my invite and put me on your VIP list
Now that door is one you can’t close for that never-would-leave guest
I’ll wither. I’ll weaken. I’ve galloped in here on Trojan Horse
To humiliate the humiliated-already, them women who look like ghosts

Pharmaceutical. Untactical. Expendable. Digressed.
Incubated by fear within islands between love’s lost
It always was, has … and always will be –
Those you call rebels who teach posthumously

Your Bible brought stories from around campfires at day’s rest
All you had to was listen to pass the soul’s Truth-North test
Compassion by connection is all you have left
But you’ve shunned it to gun it and bowed deep in greed’s feast

I’ve withered. I’ve weakened. Arrived welcome on Trojan Horse
I am the fears you discarded – I am the Mark of the Beast
Not something physical nor mineral that you can touch
But because you turned on each other, denying love from love’s lost…

Helen of Troy – I am not female nor boy
My gender grotesques through my dodging and ploy
I sirened as I weakened and withered your rebel-best
So cowards be left to live with me, I am Mark of the Beast 

It always was, has and always will be –
Those you call rebels who teach posthumously
You say idols are bad, goats interrupt goading piously
Your gadgets are 666 that underpin your Boxsciety

I’ve felt my backbone bend before I mix and contort
I’m running out of islands as you defend last resort
I too searched the darkness for compassionate companion
I found none in your nest, so here I am: your Armageddon

Your cavalier disconnection from your neighbours in the nest
Is what your mirrors – though full – have failed to reflect
I sirened as I weakened and withered your rebel-best
So cowards be left to live with me, I am Mark of the Beast

So cowards be left to live with me, I am Mark of the Beast

 

#WritingStoriesDifferently

 

© Dylan Balkind

FLOODBACK\You, again

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The lookout deck is just a hand dealt with distance.
The inevitable win or lose can only come when all the cards have been played.

This deck is not deliverance…
It is where you dine on credit at airport prices.
Its safety is by distance, not by deity.
Because lessons are only learned when we live them.

We know this.
But we tardy this traction with (denial-driven) hope that we won’t need to at all.
Willing… that maybe… somehow… our delaying might deal a different turn of truths that suit our what-ifs more.

My delaying has – just this week – walked into the FLOODBACK.

Yes I (am) have started thinking about you again.
Yes I (wish) feel the days of that fireball dynamo as if they were today’s yesterday.
Yes I (ceiling-stare) wonder the alternate outcomes –– and then buckle at the butterflies born to burst in my belly.

FLOODBACK feeds the powerlessness-pangs that I’d pain privately in the departure lounge of purgatory.

The board’s update is one-word smug: “Delayed”

I can’t certificate survival as successful with this carnival of skeletons I cohabit with.

Procrastinate honouring your heart’s hopes to heal, and hell will surround with scorn that reads “Delayed”.

In theory, we know that every step forward is a step in the right direction.

In practise, we don’t take those steps for a long, long time.

We prefer to triage the punishment… to trump it for what-ifs, while we secretly tap the door we’d professed to close and hope it opens to let us back in.

Courting cannibalistic-carnival…
…that’s not overall strength come from a place of sadness:
That’s sadness lacking strength because it is all over the place.
But don’t turn toward the tempt to frown upon it. That blinding bide is beautiful on its own – as and when it must… and as and when it must… and as and when it must…

To FLOODBACK . . .

Foreign as a feeling when it does.
Fluke, even.
Almost.
But with flint in fist, and tinder tiding its time…


…this fluke will conscript a courage lit like a fire from underneath.

© Dylan Balkind

If you like the mix, you can download it here.

 

REASON\ADINE

I am the giddy aphonic, un-cool catatonic, rubbernecked note-taker of this trip, propelled by the generous honesty of these raw-tellings from a heart that can roar because of how it was ravaged… My arrival as a writer – from 1995 and to date – is care of one storyteller, like none I have known or found anywhere … or in anything else…

Here, with trembling trust, the third in the Alanis trilogy for
#WritingStoriesDifferently

Passion really is the outcome of both joy and pain.

Thank U

© Dylan Balkind

REIGN\ADINE

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While I thought I had this military-mapped in my mind (currently being driven mad by the blunderous bandwidth), I receive a note from ‘my’ Nundi. She’s invited me to open something* I’ve never seen before, and when I do — Kismet! The first two words I see there are tantamount to what I was hoping to tangible (tangiDyl?) here…

JUST LOVE 

Ecstacy is your birthright.

You do not have to earn your freedom.

Our history’s done its best to show us otherwise though… hasn’t it?

Ergo ~ ‘can blindly continued fear-induced regurtitated life-denying tradition be overcome?’

Intimately? Internationally?

To be okay with someone’s passive when I am aggressive ┉

To believe in the beauty of how it just is ┉

I

We

Us

Here

It’s hard though.

It’s hard work.

It’s heavy work.

The point — I think — is that there is no fail.

There is only the moment and then the moment is gone.

And that whatever we did or felt or said there — has its place in the boundlessness of (our) beauty — whether benevolent or beneath…

Before we break it down ┉

Before we beat our brows ┉

Before we bend ┉

Before we bulwark ┉

Before all this — we are just effortlessly cool.

Where confidence holds the door open for arrogance and ignorance…

And when, if we can’t be that then, it’s still a perfect day… and the superlative supreme never need be under rug swept.

Any of it.

There’s courage in finding yours. Fuck! There’s courage in just thinking about wanting to.

And — as this pretty smart guy I know once said: courage like that is catching.

Another pretty smart guy is Carlos Ruiz Zafón. He said: “Time goes faster the more hollow it is. Lives with no meaning go straight past you, like trains that don’t stop at your station.”

That’s effortlessly cool, don’t you think?

Because:

“If a train doesn’t stop at your station… then it’s not your train.”
— Marianne Williamson.

Here’s the second in the Alanis trilogy for 
#WritingStoriesDifferently

Thank you to the effortlessly cool Catherine — my kinsperson.

Your creative-kindness is soul food.

I salute you for your house you’ve fully decorated in that sense.

 

© Dylan Balkind

www.daniellelaporte.com

DIVIN\ADINE

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On June 13, 1995, a then globally-unknown Alanis Nadine Morissette released her first international album: Jagged Little Pill. Its raw reverberations reflected in the record 33 million copies it sold. One of 33 million made its way into our home – purchased by my sister in the very spirit of divine sisterhood-defiance that drove the album’s success.

I was in Standard 9 that year. Seventeen. Closeted and conservative as far as matters of the heart went, so that jaded lover that was jaundiced by the jilt of some joker who decided to do ‘better’ elsewhere, wasn’t something I knew about, personally. My experience of this came from watching my sister belt the crops of this woman’s burnt and broken.

Its airplay lived long (unlike the churning of music’s ornaments today). Even 13 months later and in the July of 1996 – when my German exchange student joined our choir – we sang Ironic a million times to Ballito and back in my sister’s green Citi Golf. Even though our knitting only happened a little later, my amplification by way of hers couldn’t be clearer (to me).

Post Jagged Little Pill’s deathless days – and amidst a planned hiatus – Alanis saw the rough-cut to City of Angels. Virtuoso vocalised, the unplanned Uninvited was born and arrested her audience/s once more – myself the most! – or so it always seems when you’re inside of intimations by artists who share that which fuels our “…ohmygawdthatisexactlyhowIfeel…” stories.

Quite simply, it stoked the starving for Jagged’s follow up – a famish which was finally fed in November 1998 when Alanis dropped Supposed Former Infatuation Junkie.

I remember lying on my bed and pouring over each page of its CD-booklet. Right out of the gates, Front Row floored me. Layered lyrics that sung two stories simultaneously. The wakening of those words woke something in me: I’ve always maintained that Alanis taught me to write. Other people tell me I always could and my connecting with hers simply helped.

Nudge or nucleus, how she wrote her voice fuelled me finding mine.

On the last four days of December 1999 – just before calculators, world computers and every/anything run by a date were supposed to implode – our extended family ‘roughed-it’ and rowed eight rafts down the Orange River in Namibia. One afternoon – I’m not sure which – and in the respite between rapids, I lay buoyant on my back as the water I floated in slowed to almost still. Out of the corners of my eyes, banks broke the river’s edge before climbing into the cliffs that considered us as we floated by. The voices of the other 15 subsided and the closing lines to No Pressure Over Cappuccino sirened through my head… over… and over… and over again.

God bless you in your travels… in your conquests and queries…

Be who you are – at any every cost.

Something about the combination of that message, its meaning, my place on the planet in that moment and its imminence to some sort of (hyped) historical magnitude… It was the closest to peace I have ever been.

I cannot forget that.

Quite something then to learn that ‘Alanis’ means precious awakening.

She is mine.

My lightning in a bottle.

My spirit animal.

The rarity of the thread she’s sewn between few others and myself is as special as it is sparse.

Not to everyone’s palate… but one that pulled Catherine Jenkin and I together; one of four willful women I contemplate consistently in the Alanis context. Pam Doyle Pillay, Kerry Ellis-Williams and Gillian Read are the other three.

After the other #WritingStoriesDifferently mixes I’ve made, Cat requested I do an Alanis one…

Thank you for launching an absolute labour of love!

Ergo, it is as unfinished as one should be, right?

Not to everyone’s palate.

But, if it is to yours too, then here ~ feast on this:

© Dylan Balkind

Here I leave my story ┈

Life…

You’ll form friend-bonds with people who aren’t friends…
You’ll form trust-bonds with people that shouldn’t be trusted…
You’ll form family-bonds with people who aren’t family…

It’s that need to fill a void.
Not opened by you to start with…
…but there nonetheless.
Visceral. Yet vacant.

So? For that which has no timeline? Well… to memories and/of merriment anon!

“The highs and lows and heres and theres…
These aversions and these cravings…
Push me beyond identity into pure awareness (we’re already here)…”


#WritingStoriesDifferently

Seven Billion Stars

Charles Bukowski said that, if something burns your soul with purpose and desire, it is your duty to be reduced to ashes by it. Funny, because that’s really how things go!

Then, from your ashes – and after the wound-licking that we love to do – we rise and ready ourselves to have our passion and purpose burned all over again.

This periodicity is how passion ebbs and flows.

Our endless rhythm’ing as we Phoenix from the Ashes.

And from each hell that we rise from, we say: “Hello world. It’s nice to meet you!”

Music mixed by me, for me – and you :)

#WritingStoriesDifferently

Atman | Woodkid | Madonna | the Moon landing | Lykke Li | John Williams | Charlie Chaplin | Thomas Newman | Sara Bareilles | The Cardigans | Ewan Mc Gregor | Nicole Kidman | Lighthouse Family | Ellen | Colin Farrell | Foxes | Aloe Blacc | One Republic | Oprah | Paulo Coehlo | India Arie

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