Who am I now?
Who am I now?
We are the same, we are different. I believe we want the same things and some of us want more and some of us want less. Some of us dance on a thin line of insanity, some of us are the walking dead. I believe we forgot our real face and few people show their real face to me. I believe women are more raw than men. They rarely show real face and men. We become like the soldiers of war. The blankness of nothingness appeared on our face and we cannot see with the vision of the days of brave and reckless youth.
I have known woman who showed me their real face, their real voices. I loved the women who told me like it was and like it shall be. I loved the women who made me listen, made me love with madness, made me pray and made me see the real world. Somehow we accepted the world as-is. We need people who are willing to get drunk, get mad, know how to cry and know how to scream in anger to the sea.
Today my face is a stranger face. No-one had seen my real face in many moons. The scary part, my real face, my real thoughts and my real dreams. Been dead and buried for many years. I be-faced my life with strangers now. Even in my home, I have photos of a brave man and books of poetry written for a wild man who wanted to save his world. I am a ghost of what I was.
I wanted to be Ernest once, I wanted to travel like Jack London and I wanted to taste the bitterness of Kosinski words. For 10 years, I gave-up everything and I drank in life. In my days of roaming Highway one in California and Highway 35. I told the world to leave me alone and f-off. I found people like me. I found surfers in California, who befriended me and they taught me to be part of the sea, part of nature. They taught me to stay up all night, drinking till you could not. They taught me life can be wall-less and free. I didn’t need the damnation of big house, fancy car and pretender I was important. The surfers taught me, be fearless, live hard and you cannot stop death. Dear Highway one, taught me I could write, be more than a slave to money. I became the dark poet for a New York second
I loved Texas. Kindest and truest people I ever known. They loved you or hated you. I befriended many and I became the poet I suppose to be. I dated the most dangerous women and they accepted me. Beautiful dancers danced for me in the safety of their home and I wrote words for them. They taught me to make love with the light on and they showed me their secret places. I saw them glad, I saw them sad and I saw them crazy. I learn when you love someone, you accept their crazy and they accept your madness too. The day of being bare-ass all day, drinking the vodka and juice. Not caring about the world trying to kill the freedom we knew. I loved those ladies still and I hope they remember the days of loco. Once a Texas beauty, and I, we befriended a Apache near Fort Hood. We roamed for three days with him and his family to his home, to private land, blessed land. We create a sweat lodge of free wood, burned sage, drank the desert juice tequila and we spend a day barely cloths in the sweat lodge. We drank peyote tea and we dreamed. My kind Apache friend allowed us to stay in a cabin with the Texas desert in view of open windows, empty of noise. A beautiful quiet. He was kind to me for two years and he taught me. I was one with earth, I could be a spirit of hope. A warrior for peace. I learn to love my Ojibwa blood.
The people of Texas made me laugh, learn to dance the Texas two-step and life need to be celebrated. I loved the Texas girls, they were fearless. I once believed the California girl would be the wild ones. The women of California, they were easy in spirit and they knew a deep calmness. I did love them but my spirit prefer the surfers. Men and women who screamed at the sea, sang song to the moon, sang song to the sun. Who loved the sea and they danced with her.
Now I dream of Big Sur, now I dream of Austin Texas. I know Johnnie is gone, the mad poet, the dark poet and the midnight dancer and drinker is gone. I fear I became Salinger. I gave in and I accepted silence. I wanted to become a famous writer, to save someone or something. Now 10 books laying stored away and I now wrote my words on the internet to people who are kind enough to read my work.
Maybe in the quiet of the coronaviras, I will go to Lake St. Clair and scream to the beautiful water. I need a wild soul today to make me dance with the sea, walk in the clouds again and for me to be brave. Maybe this year I will publish my hidden words, maybe I will stand on the corner with a sign with words. No-one win in war. Stop war before she come to your home. Quit being the silence man.
I know we decide our place, our ending. The question, all of us should ask ourselves. What did I do in my life? Did I do anything good? Was I a blessing to earth or just another thief stealing the gifts of nature? I cannot find my real face no-more. Maybe I need a sweat lodge, clean-up the waste in my body and mind I am drowning in. Please be safe, please be kind to yourself and be kind to strangers. This is our world and maybe if we show real face. The truth would be told.