We. All. Deserve. Love.

Seventy-five minutes. Sourced with hope to open the book for the bored, the boring, and the basic – who have more boring to bake with rather than be bothered…

Sourced to shed Light on the lady; on the value behind the lens; the authenticity of the artist, and the profundity that informs her philanthropy; how that red-letter can – by the combination of both her conscious realisations and her recognition – start something that can raise what appears to be so ruined.


But so many conclusion-jump.

They don’t know much about the muchness – which is annoying on any topic when the confidence at which they will loudmouth their latherings is numbing. My friend Larissa says that it is because she’s such a controversial figure, and that “…most people never actually open the book.”

Each of us is our own.


And many will go unopened.

Many will misplace the masterpiece that stands within.

Most of us will shamelessly edit our own… masking it to march like a number with the masses in mediocrity.

Where is your masterpiece buried?

Where is your maxim to be authentic, defending your truth against the delinquent war of devotion that collects to derail it?

And by the way, where does their dire, darkness’s need come from anyway? What is this idle undertaking to upset?

The alternative is so much more accessible, right? And so much more attractive for all assembled here – wherever your here is…

Maybe your here is here, headed towards holding the hands and hearts of 7 billion others.


But keep a lookout.

There are always going to be those who don’t want Love to have the last word.


They live here too.


Sewn up for the senseless salutations that waste rather than recognise:


So deserve it.

Defend it.

And then deal it out…

The authentic generosity of your genius, your goods, your goodness, your gifts…

And there you will see that beauty’s where you find it, and that no matter what: brutal simplicity cannot survive in sin.


Let’s conversate.

But … behold! If you enter the bullfight – best you be in your Maletilla.

Between now and then, I promise to myself, to amplify my advancing as I age, always, and never abate or be abated again.

I am an artist. I am authentic.


I hope you live yours too.

GIMEL | Part 3  

BET | Part 2  

ALEPH | Part 1


© Dylan Balkind



There is always someone with something to say about something that someone else is doing.

Negative feedback.

The redundant review.

I have a big mouth.

I’m trying to be conscientious about choosing my moments.

Context is consideration.

A stake is sincerity.

Simply adding to the no-end-of noise and the no-end-to nausea is just needless.

And needless is nasty.

I don’t mean humour or jovial-jeering. I mean the destructive, dysfunction of over-confident dorks who will always choose to sit rather than surmount.

Problems are plenty. Our political landscape is proof ~ and that’s just as a collective. So? What are you going to do about it? And if not for us, then at least for you? What are you going to do about those uniquely intimate problems on your path?

If you aren’t going to get up – shut up.

Dignity. Respect. Tolerance. These are only on loan to you while you market the moments that matter enough to have lifted a love within you – enough to commit to caring about any one- or many things – and so adding value.

Even if how you reverberate is in the conscientious choice to steer clear of the clash.

That’s still sincere.

That’s still something.

And something doesn’t just sit.


Bet | Part 2 



Part 1

© Dylan Balkind


Screen Shot 2013-08-01 at 4.27.46 PM
Songs have a scent like the sea has its hug,
when I acknowledge these feelings as anything but smug.
I watch my mood file through space like floating kettle mist,
but I can’t recall what it felt like before I was kissed…

You flit like particles that glide on the sun’s streaming rays,
preempting some very long nights and some of the hardest of days.
I’ve tripped on this sidewalk, I know I should cross over,
where nothing will change still about our differences–polar…

Riding this out doesn’t need to be like torture,
and I’m on my way to learning that there’s design beneath disorder.
Freedom comes to you when you learn to embrace your part,
and know that there is nothing wrong with seeing the world through your heart.

The cycles are unbalanced bubbling under heterogeneously,
which translates into this whim that is not taken seriously.
The clock ticks and will turn my time on a dime,
when the heart forgives itself for the gravity of its crime.

The force of renewal starts when you decide to unplug,
and hear the songs that have a scent like the sea has its hug.
Nothing is by chance in the melee of complicated bliss…
as our lives file through space like floating kettle mist.

THINGS© Dylan Balkind


Scene of the Crime

If we are the architects of our destiny, why do we knowingly subject ourselves to such torture rather than head straight for the sublime? There’s no avoiding it anymore… I’ve been summoned to a performance review with my heart and, before the verdict is delivered, I think I owe it my sincerest apology. Encouragement is not always the best way forward, clearly.

It is hard not to goad the giddy and ignite entitlement to joy. But it’s not just me – this heart can be a problem child too. Like someone who grew up according to the rules and then discovered all the pleasures and temptations a little later than normal and hasn’t stopped to catch his breath since. And this brain? Not much better. Like the evermore School Monitor whose advice – although often true – is not always invited.

Still, an apology and a little more listening are in order. They do, after all, both speak the same language. And… rather than continuously returning to the scene of the crime, it’s time to return to the Light. To diffuse the chaos around that happiness-delay and not expect this duty to rest with another.

Ritu Ghatourey says that we wait all week for Friday, all year for Summer and all life for Happiness. We do… but… why wait?


© Dylan Balkind


These numbers grow. Others join at the front of this line labeled admirers. More eyes follow. More hearts treat the beat and this cuts a strut through an urge I thought was over. Sometimes not having something means no one else is allowed to have it either.

Lamed Aleph Vav

This phone screams in the silence that is hers. It is annoyed. Frayed… and unfulfilled in feeling unfulfilled. From here I can hear the silent roar at mirrors that may no longer confirm she is the fairest of them all.

Lamed Kaf Bet

The universe and all in it since this known forever have amassed much sage advice. Be true to yourself. Be kind to others. Listen to your body. You only live once. Dance. And… sometimes… it’s not a bad thing to look behind you.

Ayinh Lamed Mem


© Dylan Balkind

Every soul’s one religion


The triangle of the Foundation, Intelligence and Wisdom lives deep inside us.

It is not animal nor is it mineral – but it is the glittering compass of life.

One day, after many chum-pal back pats, calls, walls and flown-off-handles, the chorus of exhaustion was multiplied in the skies again to where enough was just enough. The Cipralex / detox / retox / Xanor treadmill was exhausting and no longer a welcomed cilice.

Close lines were blurred and yet again you went from zero to manipulation and emotional abuse in a nanosecond. Your back peddling spoke loudly of your ludicrous laments, petulant and petty in that psychological warfare – yet always immature, unprofessional and embarrassing still.

The triangle of Yesod, Binah and Chokmah lives deep inside us.

It is not animal nor is it mineral – but it is the glittering compass of life.

The silence was ridiculous and retarded. But – like a suited-up superhero – I’ve climbed from where you lead the chorus with the echo of the farewell-call that I made because that Cipralex / detox / retox / Xanor treadmill was chiselling and I no longer wish to welcome that cilice.

Every soul on the planet is unified by one religion – to dream.

Don’t let anyone ever take that away from you.


© Dylan Balkind

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