round 2 part 1

Finally I left Montreal, it was a solid run. I kissed my sweet angelic French Canadian Burner one last time and we watched each others eyes water up.... A sweet goodbye.
I sleep on trains, and I slept the first 5 hours of this 11 hour trip, waking often to adjust, tell stern custom agents that my box had a typewriter, and to piss. My body is a mess right now from awkward sleep, and carrying all my gear around city after city..... meh, boo hoo.

The train ride was fine. I had a bunch of new music that my French gal gave to me so I enjoyed slightly meditating on that. The scenery was gloomy as it was raining the whole way..... another sleep aid.
Finally we got to Albany and I ran into an Aussie who was having a smoke break as well. We were instant buds, or I should say mate. Rad ass dude. Tim his name is. Train hopper, philosopher, DJ, dreamer, lover, poet, badass..... dude had stories. He was finally on his way back to New York to catch a flight back to Melbourne the next day so we set a date to go hang out at Union Square. I would type, he would read, we would switch rolls every once in awhile. We smoked, we drank, we shared, we criticized the zombies for wishing they were more dead. I loved him, he was my first brother on this trip. A soul rebel, traveling purist.... my friend, my boy. I wrote him a poem, he said he would cherish it forever, we will stay in touch, and I will see him again. My homie Tim, respect.

Time came to some kinda end, I had made a few bucks hustling poetry like I do, making friends and sharing shadows. Good experience, but I was ready to meet my Couch Surfing host at Columbia university, at a dorm..... yeah, I am currently in an Ivy League dorm.... it really is not a big deal, but I thought it might be.

Her name is Maria, the second name of my dear mother. She is literally the sweetest girl I think I have ever met. 20 years young, tri-lingual, film major, artist, darling..... how did I get so lucky. She immediatly was curious about me and my project and I was caught off guard by the immediate questions, but soon became flattered with the admiration she was showing. So up we go to the fourth floor where we walk to her room, say hi to some of her hall mates who probably can not help but wonder who this gypsy is crashing there dorm, but Maria had told them all..... she is so well prepared. She opens the door to her room, and I did not know what to expect.... but it is as basic of a single dorm room as you can get, and on the floor is a blow up bed with purple sheets, and fuzzy purple pillows.... ahhh.... purple. I felt very lucky..... she truly is inspired by me. I would lay my head to rest ready to conquer the big city in the morning.

French Connection.

Another missed train.
Hipster corners in Montreal. They call it a cafe....  I call it appropriate.
Stars in her eyes, yes I have spent the last 3 days with a French Canadian beauty. Yes, it was amazing.
This could be a dream. She cries when she hears a violin, she has since she was a young child.

I still stress what is next, knowing that I should realize by now I will be okay.... still I stress.
Fame is not the goal, though it is a minor dream. Fame comes with wanting to share your story and soul with the whole world. I want my soul to be famous.
I will write love songs, and sad songs and you will never know the difference..... You can not control love, love happens, love is happening.
I have been in Montreal now for 5 days, I will not miss my third train tomorrow.
I spent last night celebrating my french beauties birthday. We ended up on the 8th floor rooftop loft of her friend who is a straight burning man G. Sound engineer, film director, 8mm, badass. I got to catch a glimpse of the city scape and watched myself fall in love again with travel, and the possibility of always venturing to new experiences... it is the way, it is my way. Love.

I took a 3 hour nap in a park, the ants were vicious but I did not mind. I listened as a fountain played white noise and called on the wind to fit my poetic mood. I napped for 3 hours as lingering conversations passed though my state of half asleep naps.

I saw an ex lover the other night, we danced. She is more beautiful then ever, I wanted to tell her but she has a boyfriend. Her eyes however suggested she was also happy to see me, and that she remembered how special it was. She was my first kinda girlfriend, and the best dancer I have ever dated. What a fairy.

The only thing I am addicted to is fairy blood.

I stayed two nights in a hotel with my French Beauty, paid for by her. She had just ended a long relationship and was couch crashing at friends.... we opted for hotels and privacy.... she took such good care of me. She even bought me a new pair of suspenders. Ahhh.... do I deserve such treatment? She certainly thought so.

I ran through the downtown of Montreal, it was a downtown. Some great architecture, still a downtown.

Montreal is first city I have been to out of the Untied States. It is absolutely French dominated, and they intend to keep it that way and push more so. I often was intimidated by my American status, however after a few social events where I got to show my dancefloor charm, I felt confident that any mild judgement on me would be lost in how freaking cool I am when I dance..... yes arrogant, but I needed that to push towards confidence of myself.

Life is swell, I can not wait to take on New York again. Time is running short and I am still struggling with waking to a new day with a grabbing how exciting life is right of the back. My body hurts from all my walking and awkward train sleeping. I need to pace myself early, stretch, breath, drink water and move slow. I know my pace will pick up, but I am groggy first thing.... it has been like this since I lost my mother 16 years ago. I am still stuck believing my frantic dream state is easier then what my waking life will hold for me that day.

And so it goes....
Overly passionate is not the right term, but I am almost insanely passionate... it makes me tired. I am overwhelmed always with all of this beauty and my desire to share it with everyone I can. One day at a time Ryan, one foot in front of the other. Work hard, please work hard. Say your blessings, you are blessed... we are blessed. Continue to share, inspire, believe, and know you are doing well. Head up, heart strong..... so it is, the life of a dreamers. I dream big.

Montreal, my dear.

Evening stroll

It rains. It pours. It stops raining.
The evening stroll.
The wet city of a foreign nature
The trees leak
The puddles gather in gaps
Wandering on.
A new street.
A newer perspective.
Pink scarfs
Flamboyant struts.
Poutine slobber
A lover from the past.
A smell ignited
This place I was, some time ago.
Jaguar games
Childhood remains
Stained liver
Cupids quiver

Pre Montreal Adventure Blues

A rainy day is all it takes.
Today is a day I feel set back.
I feel lost and uninspired
This all coming after getting the most social media attention I have received.
Maybe it is the partying and not getting laid thing. Maybe it is the weather. Maybe..... maybe I am lost in translation in this city. Maybe....

Perhaps I am unsure of myself at times.
Likely, I take things too personal.
Moreover, I want to nap, shower, and get the fuck to exploring.
Rain.
I feel lazy, and unsure... still.
I miss female companionship
I miss cuddling, and puppy dog eyes.
I need less nightlife and more sensual touches.
Less Dance floors, more cuddling please.
Montreal.
I knew I was just checking you out, and it was not suppose to be serious.
But honestly, I need a nap.
Then I will brace the wetness
And risk Jolene's and my safety
In order to share such words
And hopefully meet
Many a muse.

Lucid-Step and Lovers Quest

This post contains sexual content.

"That is, I do not want to lay it all out for everyone to see in some confusing light that may be too intense for the mild hearted (normal folk?)."

Music : Phaeleh "Lament"

I suggest you listen first.
You should surely watch, later
** please read this poem softly while music plays to get near where I was when I wrote it**

When I listen:

I think sex, deep sensual, mystic sex.....

I also think and feel
Romantic Ninja Saves goddess from forces of mystery
Ninja reviles himself to be lost lover
She thought no longer existed
They embrace
Magic moonlight dream
Ecstasy in eyes
Neck kissing
Toes curling
Moans of sweet, sweet harmony
Beat rolls on.
Clothes fall off.
Like stars in a wishing well
This a dream come true
Wind blows perfectly
Kisses are in sync
Chills, Chills, and more.... chills
Moonlight on her skin
Ninja has been waiting for this moment all his life.

When Bass drops he enters
Her Back bends
Moonlight dreaming
Magic breaths say it all.
Everything is perfect.
The dream of dreamers,
The dream of sexual romantics

Their motions are a dance
prince and princess
doing alien tribal motions
hitting kick drums
in euphoric harmony
stars are now shining brighter
when the time comes
she lays on his chest
stars twinkle to say thank you
for such an amazing show.

A quote I like, and why.

Quotes:

"Passion has little to do with euphoria and everything to do with patience. It is not about feeling good, it is about endurance. Like patience, passion comes from the same Latin root: pati. It does not mean to flow with exuberance, it means to suffer."

— Mark Z. Danielewski, House of Leaves

** I have been looking for a way to some up the pressure passion causes. This made me happy, to know that the word itself is rooted in a struggle. I not to long ago announced to a bunch of people and a particular girl who was insanely beautiful and insanely hard on me that I wish to disperse my passion internally and with more patience. That is, I do now want to lay it all out for everyone to see in some confusing light that may be too intense for the mild hearted (normal folk?). Rather I wish to be still with it, let it swim and leak out in gentle flows that do not drown those surrounding me. This trip is proving to be an excellent exercise is patience and taking it slow, because truthfully there have been moments where I was so overcome with passion and emotion I thought I was going to burst into a mess of confetti and potentially poisoness candy like some mexican pinnate. And it is life and all of it's beauty, all of it.... so much of it!!! Oh no... it is happening now!  CABOOOM!!!

Come get a piece of me. It will either be delicious or poisoness..... maybe both.  **

The Writing Season

This is a write up from a dear friend.  Please visit her blog. She is as wonderful as her writing suggest.

www.thewritingseason.com





Feature Write #3: Ryan Ashley + Untouched Poetry

This entry was posted on 09/15/2012, in Feature Write. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment

A few weeks ago at the Pearl Street Farmer’s Market, I grabbed my intended veggies and an unintended poem.

Just after filling my bag with spinach, red onions, garlic and honey, and just before entering Sexy Pizza, I noticed a line of people standing in front of a guy with an open suitcase, an old-timey typewriter and a sign that said, “Poems for Sale.”

Poems for sale?

I froze.

And zeroed in on this guy with suspenders and a hat, white t-shirt, rolled jeans and flip flops, who click-clacked words onto a little square piece of paper, pulled it out of his typewriter, and read his lines to perfect strangers who had given him their special order. There was a name or a subject on their mind, and he resourced the formless to give words to those things on, below and above the surface.

There was this couple going on and on about him TO him, and then there was this lady who, upon reading his poem, fell into tears.  I loved this moment.  She needed to be moved, and he moved her. After a sweet hug between the two of them, she walked away hunched into the supporting embrace of her friend, poem in hand.

I’d never seen anything like it.

On the spot words.

Combined.

Just like that.

Ready to go, to be given away.

Just like that.

I could never do anything like that.  I think and re-think, and feel and cry and re-read and cry and try again, and walk around and go through tragedies before I can whip out a poem.  So, once I actually finish something, I usually harbor it for myself. I hold on tight.

But he put his words together in seconds, and then just…gave them away.

Just like that.

Well. I had to have one.

But I had no cash left, so I headed to the free-standing ATM which is located right next to the fresh squeezed lemonade stand and the live folk music. It was broken. How could it be broken?

And I remembered about the other ATM which is all the way down the street past the all-night coffee shop and right in front of the old house that has been converted into an attorney’s office.  This attorney got a bright idea and stuck an ATM outside his front door so he could make a few weekend bucks off the farmer’s market goers.  I guess his suitcase was open too. His sign should read, “Cash for sale.” I was thankful for his bright idea.

After waiting FOREVER for the two guys and then the young mom to get their intended cash, I finally got mine and rushed back to the spot where poems happen.

But he was gone.  All gone.

A farmer’s market tragedy.

So, I plopped onto the steps in front of the blue house on Pearl Street aimless, wondering what I had missed.  Maybe the gods and the angels had some words for me that day, and if only I would have passed on the raw honey this week, I would have had the cash to fill his suitcase and a raw poem to guide my path.

But then he re-appeared.

“Are you done?” I snagged his attention.

“Yes. It’s so hot.”

“Well. I need a poem.” I didn’t give him a choice.

“Um, well, let’s..let me..I’ll bring my typewriter over to you in the shade. It’s so hot.”

And he wrote me a poem.

And we talked.

Turns out there was a lot of emotional energy in the air that day. He woke up feeling it, and sure enough, the woman who had read his poem, the one who left in tears, had come to a point in her journey.  She was 20 minutes away from having that conversation with her mother.  The conversation where boundaries need to take place. The conversation you shouldn’t have to have with your mother. For her own reasons, she had come to that decision, and the hour was upon her.  She would leave the Pearl Street Farmer’s Market, supported by a poem, and head to her mother’s house to tell her that she could no longer be in her life.

Heavy.

Turns out the poet was embarking on a journey of his own.  A 45-day trip across the United States via bus or train, to as many cities and as many farmer’s markets that would take him, his typewriter, “Jolene,” and their combination of words, magic, delight and energy flow. A 45-day trip to his unknown.

I don’t know why, but I mentioned that I teach journal writing.

“I need that.”

Turns out I didn’t need that cash after all.  We would trade.  The poem, in exchange for a few journal writing techniques.

This is my kind of life.  I dig this. I dig being with people just on the verge of their journey. Taking a risk.  Doing what they know they need to do.   Stepping into faith whether they know it or not.  Testing what they are made of.  Opening themselves to what may be real about them.  What may be true.  Finding things out about themselves that they never would have known if they wouldn’t have embarked on the journey. I’ve been on this road.  Still am, and it’s always worth it.  These journeys are the ones that, in the end, expand you, make you fuller, make you whole, tell you the truth, break you and then heal you.

We met on Thursday.  Green tea to keep us warm from the cooling Denver night.

Journals on the table ready to absorb all that there was in that moment.

Turns out he has some things to face.  Turns out his beautiful, loving, Spanish mother was murdered (in front of him and his siblings) by his father.  He was in junior high at the time.

Heavy.

After I named a few of the journal techniques, he felt drawn to the “Cluster” technique.  Says he’ll use it on his journey.  Says it expanded his mind.  Says it gave him information that was good for him to know. I think that’s what he said.  Maybe it’s just what I heard.

But.  He liked it enough to come back for more.  We met again at Mici in Cherry Creek North where we both enjoyed an adventuresome “List of 100.”

He left the next day for his travels, wanting to devour the universe, typewriter in hand, blank paper in his pocket, ready to be filled with words to be given to farmer’s market goers, who will show up on a Saturday for their intended veggies and leave with an unintended poem.

Just like that.

A POEM FOR A MENTOR:

“TOMORROW IS ANOTHER DAY

ONE THAT WILL NEVER COME.

WE WILL SURELY CHASE THE DREAMS

AS IF THEY’D HURT US.

WHEN WE WAKE UP

FROM THIS MADNESS OF TRYING.

OUR WORDS WILL FEATHER OUT

INTO A FOREST OF PERSPECTIVE.

GIVING US THE FREEDOM WE SEEK

TO BECOME ONE WITH THE GOD I CONSUME.”

~Ryan Ashley, Untouched Poetry