“To renew people’s sense of wonder starting always with my own”

the lovers, the dreamers, and me. 

For those who find themselves longing for poetry amidst the prosaic.  

For those who thirst for color, ever passionately seeking the creative and weird choices hidden amidst the loud banter and banal behavior of the collective repetititon.

For those who find the original, the playful, the improvisational stepping stones scattered inside the predictable slog of mundane life; for those that cannot live (truly) any other way.  

For the rare ones who refuse to settle for roboticism; dissatisfied and restless with the illusion  of being bound to mass produced, assembly-line, groupthink script and  track. For all those who starve and live for real, profound, heart-to-heart, weird, wild, squiggly jazz-conversations with friends and strangers alike. For those bravely vulnerable enough to show their weird first.  

For all those children who—though they have taken many trips around the sun—have never lost their wonder for existence.  The Lost Boys and Girls who still see Earth as playground, life as gift, and all as a bizarre, beautiful, sacred fantasy. The ones whose curious eyes still see the endless worlds in smaller spaces and the infinite angles by which to play with reality (the soverign storytellers; the magicians of meaning).

For those who know that it’s all right here, right in front of our faces, and always has been. And for those moments, however rare, when we snap out of the spell of amnesia, and remember the bliss-ness of is-ness.  

For the children and inner children, the seekers and the mystics, the sassy beloved Muse and the Grand Mystery, for our sacred, paradise planet, for the passionate, the romantic, the artist, the poet, and those overwhelmed by the beauty and absurdity of everythingness. For lila.