It was . . . so real

Dreaming of my old neighborhood(s) in New York City. Rolling over the past in my sleep, unconsciously in(ter)jecting new thoughts and experiences. In my dreams there is less concrete and more wood. The decay is still abundant.

After all the haze and horror of the 80s, the 90s was a time of hope, even among the rubble. Music, art, creativity, yoga and spirituality merged and emerged from the grayness and dust of the city, of the darkest places. It was like swimming, like falling, in a deep pool of inspiration, so many ageless children diving down and willingly sharing, exchanging, the pearls we’d found at the murky bottom.

It was a time.

I remember Jeff Buckley surfacing.

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I'm a rock-n-roller poet who left the Big Apple for the Big Sky Desert where I've been letting it be and grooving with universal love, singing to the gods, dancing with the muses and bicycling with dreamtime messengers. I like altering my reality through imagination, movement, breath, and makin' stuff.

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