



We are Riders of Entropy. The Wild West of a young Universe. Big bang, young man. Nirvana is essentially to “blow out” and there is that poetry of blowing out a dandelion Seed pod and taking a snapshot of the flecks in stasis in the photographic Heisenberg state of UNCERTAINTY. Are they spreading? Are they…

Do I tell this story? Should I tell this story? Have I already told this story? Forgive me… this year has been a lot. In addition to the malestrom of late-stage capitalism’s decline into oligarchy, I’ve been spelunking the depths of my own personal cave. Dante wasn’t kidding when he told of “rings of hell”…

Castle Hill, Sunrise, Urban Poetry, The Great Wave, Kanagawa, Winter, New York City, Industrial Beauty, Morning Light, Smoke, Resilience, Atmospheric, Winter Landscape, Cityscape

“If you slow-cook the same soup on low for 8 hours for 30 years, what will you end up with? I became a teacher because the braise was causing my meat to fall off the bone. I was tender… but gelatinous.”

The dramatis personae of any school is enriched and enlivened by a healthy variety of demeanors. If my intention was only to diminish those “unlike” me, I would be simultaneously devaluing their contributions along with my own. What makes us unique is often what makes us great. I have become the teacher I am today,…

Buddhism’s soul wheel exposes a haunting truth: the Preta, or hungry ghosts, symbolize our relentless yearning in a world of scarcity. This echoes late-stage capitalism’s cruel nature, where insatiable desires imprison souls. Long before capitalism was birthed, its essence was foretold—a zero-sum game of denial and loathing affecting us all.

I can write about Cerberus—The Performer, The Gatekeeper, and The Ice Monarch—because at various points in my career, I have tried to be them. We are often drawn to the masks we admire, or the ones we fear we lack.

If I had my way (and I probably never will in this regard), I wouldn’t burn books—knowledge is sacred. But I would take every piece of bureaucratic, gatekeeping, money-making crap from the College Board industrial complex, pile it in the center of an empty field, and surround it with sage. I would light the sage,…

I vacillated on the publish button. This is the story of the 17-year-old kid holed up in the dark, the 5-year-old in the hospital, and the Red Thread that ties them together. A journey through the ‘Posterior Lie’ of trauma to find the gold hidden in the mud.
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