Fairy Tales and Letters


Dear Brilliantly,

I think I told you this before, back in the beginning…. But Since it fits so well with the end of our conversation last night, I’ll repeat myself. I’ll try to be brief. I kinda feel like the story I’ve been enacting all starts with what you said…


I think it was in 2009….

I became completely fed up with the cycle of love and loss. I had already tried free love and open relationship. They all ended in pain, hurt feelings, broken hearts and spirits. By 2009 I was completely sick of it. You know I deeply I love. How much I give to a relationship.

Maybe it’s not healthy. It’s a kinda of neediness. Perhaps too much attached…. Gratification for a hunger a craving…… Maybe it’s an addiction….. A seeking after something I was never given. Some crazy idea of love that I created while I was huddled in a corner alone as a child. Or yelling at my mother “you don’t love me!.”

Or some such psychoanalytic madness……

But it’s there and been killing me forever: This pattern love….. And loss……

This feeling of not being fully accepted.

Ya, I said feeling. A kind of thought without intellect. But still not a reality. Not really really real….. But the love and the loss both feel real enough.

I get consumed in them.

I’ve seen this for years. I’m sure I never articulated them like this, but inside I’ve known.

I die a new death every time.

I don’t know how it happens…..

….. So anyways, I was telling a story that started in 2009……

Maybe I shouldn’t be writing this to you. I want to ask you not to respond ,just hear it?

It’s a story that keeps repeating itself. But all stories are just a re-telling.

When I was in grade six, Karen Coleman broke my heart at a school dance. My mom found me walking the 12 km home in the dark crying; Crushed. I don’t know how long we sat in the car on the side of the road talking: her trying to calm me down.

It’s been pretty much the same ever since: If I’m not crying because she didn’t accept me, I’m crying because I didn’t have it in me to accept her (a weakness in my concept of universal love that i abhor in myself). They both kill me….

I’ve gone months living fairly austere monkish lives: Studying, practicing, writing, keeping it simple. And then out of no where comes a connection.

Who would have thought we would have met; you and I? You were just there on the same road as me. And we just walked together like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And I want to say we will walk different roads now, but here I am still on the same road as you. I guess it’s just that you don’t want to hold my hand on the road anymore. And this gives me sorrow.

Always the same sorrow so intense; consuming for days. Always the same.

Maybe it’s because of all the moving my family did when I was young. A nomadic heart that idealizes stability.

Oh how I want someone who will always be there. Someone who I can really dedicate my life to.

Or maybe something would be good enough. Some task of duty I could dedicate myself to…..

…..I suppose, when I’m not with someone and not working like crazy, I’m writing…..

Maybe I just go into relationships because I just want to be heard….. I write to be heard, but there’s no audience to my journals. Maybe thats why I was able to sustain my love, my commitment thru four months of e-mails. Maybe all this email correspondence is enough for me.

My craving satisfied with its audience of one.


I started writing this story I’m telling you in my journal. More like a story than this. It’s been going good. My mind is staying on top of it planning it and writing, keeping ahead of myself.

I thank you my audience of one for listening.

I hope you can listen and not comment.

Don’t imagine me frantically writing this. At least no more frantically than I write the mundane facts of my travels in my journal.

But this is the heart of my story….. Of so many stories:

“free love… love… closeness.. intimacy…….. unless i m hundred percent in love ann ready to commit for the rest of my life, it doesnt seem like i have the right to make a move……. cause it always slaps me back”

In your words.

The last words you ever spoke to me.

Dear Brilliantly,

My voice changed in the writing. I hear it. It’s because I changed audience. I wasn’t really writing to you any more. The intimacy got lost. I suppose that’s what makes you a good audience. The whole thing feels a little weird. It creates a little tension for me. I would still prefer if you kept mostly silent……. This tension is good for me. Gives me space to open up in a different way……

I promised you a story a little while ago….. None of this is that story….. That story has been sitting on shelf waiting. My story’s to you are all “once upon a time….” Fairy tales about little boys and girls with hopes and dreams and imaginations…….

I met such a boy once…… But he’d lost track of his dreams……

He was an average boy, nothing special, independent like all the rest, worked hard at hard work. Did the things that had to be done….. And then one day, he found himself on the side of a mountain as far from anywhere as you could get. And he realized, he could not have dreamed of being where he was doing what he was doing. He was absolutely amazed at life: what it presents (and what it withdraws). He’d gone beyond his dreams. It felt like he’d just stumbled his way there. His dreams were no good any more. His dreams had proved no match to his real life. ….. It was a beautiful point in the life of a boy….. Wow…… But suddenly his hopes and dreams and imagination crashed…… Wow….. Double wow……
But carried by the first wow life went on with a boyish charm.

After a while he began to make new dreams: trying this and trying that, but everything was a little out of focus. He needed a challenge; a dream more difficult to surpass in life; something to really strive for.

Not that he really thought about it that way. He probably didn’t think about it much at all; he was just a boy after all…..

But then he started thinking about love and he asked god to reveal it to him.

It happened like this you see. He wandered into the woods and fell in love with a river. She taught him many secrets. When it was time for him to leave she offered him a final secret: that no matter where he looked, he would see her. He would see her as he wanted to see her; as he needed to see her. But everywhere would be her…….

….. This seems a fitting place for my battery to be dying: two stories left open…… The fairy tale will have a happy ending, the other tale has no happy endings; it’s another kind of fairy tale….. Have a good night.

1 October 2013

Dear Light,

It’s good here. Got swept into the thai massage right away. I’m enjoying it and think I’ll likely continue. It’s much harder than I expected…. Which I suppose I should have expected…. 😊

But I feel like massage has something more to teach me…. A way of relating with people thru touch. A way of purifying myself before touching a beautiful woman; before even looking at a beautiful woman. This really just seeing people as they are, all the same, all different, beautiful thriving people regardless of gender, or ability or disability. Just people who want to live more comfortably in their bodies; in their minds.

Feel like I’m trying to put a new life back together. Looking for some new focus. Reaching out to acupuncture and massage for some ground.

Chiang Mai is an easy enough city and I tend to get lucky in finding nice guest houses.

It’s intense: the massage, the healing, all the travelling and heart opening and should searching and just trying to figure it all (something?) out. I’ve been around the world in the last year and most of it went from idea to reality in less than a couple weeks. It sometimes feels like a kind of self punishment. Something in my subconscious trying to shake me up and I’m not listening so it just shakes harder and harder), sometimes i feel like i don’t appreciate what I’ve been able to do and see. All that time in my head and missed it I guess. So much in life gets left behind.

Some people work too much and don t have time to reflect on life; others have too much. Either way it seems true life gets passed by.

The days have felt like years. Two weeks ago feels like a lifetime. Immersed I guess; busy. A whole future laying before me… ….

I wish you beautiful present…. May the moment shine… 😊


Dear Brilliantly,

I feel like I’m caught between two stories and not wanting to go back to either of them just yet. The story is unfolding; the lotus petals opening one by one. But what kind of Lotus is this Pathetic Story? Is there no joy in life?

Of course there joy, but this story is not about all that; joy gets enough publicity on Facebook. But if you look between the lines of every story of heartbreak, there is the story of the hearts fullness; the blossoming of the lotus.

It occurred to me that both my stories are missing any kind of true protagonist. And it’s true, my story does not have any protagonist. I am my own enemy and lover and friend. At times selecting some unwitting person to play a role for me, but I have to take sole responsibility for the script.

Boys in fairy tales can’t act alone though…… So….. A third story…..


Once upon a time there was a girl. She never lost her dreams like the boy, but her dreams were so beautiful that they haunted her. Such dreams as no boy could imagine. And she was no idle dreamer…. She went off in search of her dreams….. Wandering….. Her eyes always open lest she recognize the lull of a dream; some path to her unconscious……

So the boy, who lost his dreams, see’s his darling river everywhere; a dream if I ever heard of one. And the girl with a head full of dreams sees only cold reality.

What it must be like to see your beloved everywhere. Every word singing sweetly upon the ear, every gaze a tantalizing invitation….. Bliss…..

But to have to deal with reality contrasted by such beautiful dreams is quite a different matter. If life were but a dream, she would say to herself. But it wasn’t. Her life did not fit the fairy tale profile. She had to work and make money and find places to live and establish some kind of safety and security over and over again as she searched for her dream. The more she looked the bigger her dreams became, and the further she felt from them. She worried sometime that she might loose her dreams; they were the dearest thing to her heart.

But I don’t want to leave behind the biggest dream of all. This dream that was only too real in the eyes of our boy hero.


Once upon a time there was a river. There was nothing special about this river. Just a river that ran its course. She blessed every person equally. She materialises desires for all who ask of her. She engenders absolute faith and trust in her benefice. She is the great mother as all who have ever looked into her life giving waters knows. She is not passive and tamasic like the majestic Himals; she is active and transformative and pure sattvic. SHe is the moons grace to a hot dry land. She is the adhi-shakti, the senior most shakti; she is the original shakti thru whom flows the original stream of desire from which which all desire and all creation and destruction arise. She is senior more of the great rishies who has come to Earth support Β and the eldest of the plaides star cluster come to earth



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