At Virtual World Studio, located atop the Norther California Redwood Forest at the FuturePeak Solar Powered Video Garden in Boulder Creek, we are producers of personal media reflecting our lives to the future. Think of us as scribes, archivists, community historians, and inventors of sacred social technologies that evolve human connectivity, expand artistic creativity, and connect conscience and heart to enhanced sacred memory.
A person is a mystery in a universe unfolding. The time it takes to enter space, explore the grace, win the race, remember all the faces, forgive all of the disgraces, celebrate and leave no traces… well,
T.S. Elliot said it all so well:
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
A memory of my parents lingers as I ask myself
why am I alive? Both went to an early grave,
and I have had a nice long life to forgive them
for their mistakes, and also mostly me for mine.
I’ve become accustomed to being a ghost
in the eyes of my long lost sisters
as I have grown invisible
to their children and
But in the words of Dame Maggie Smith about life
long after the death of her beloved husband,
reflecting on the missing love of my unborn children,
reflecting on the unfinished adventures I once started in my youth,
reflecting on the long days and tiny whisps of love from my aging lovers,
feeling the fears of abandonment that deepen my creases and darken my freckles
I wonder sometimes
“What’s the Point?”
Shall I take a moment,
as my friend laments the pain of her grandchild and a brain tumor,
to remember that life is a one way boulevard.
Openings and Opportunities Originate daily.
All that is required is complete surrender
to inevitable challenge and unending struggle.
Each new generation starts a clean slate,
arrives all ready to newly create sacred life,
repeats mama’s prayers and fairy tales
learning to speak much more than listen,
forgets past lives and the very moment
their souls chose this birth and this earth,
blames foolish ancestors and their traditions
for all the woes of a crazy world doing the best she can
tosses away the burdens of history
then reinvents the same illusions,
works hard everyday, chasing dreams and dollars,
diminishes the happiness of childlife in the garden,
learns to defend a spot in the game, to earn some turf, and play to win
until their many important inventions spin the wheel of fortune once again
and show them their prize in the lotto.
Did we do anything to bless the future?
Did we do anything to end some pain?
Did we find a way to fix one broken thing
without breaking another thing, canceling the gain?
What’s left for the next looming window of time?
Is this a world I would want to come back to?
Just sayin! Now reverently, I passionately choose once again
to be happy, helpful, humble, hopeful
and make my mom and dad wherever they are
proud we all took the leap of faith!
They say on the day each person is born
That marks the day of one definite death.
In between these two marks on the notch post of time
is everyone and everything that matters in one life.
After 47 years on a job, among friends,
there were birthdays and holidays,
maybe a romance or secret honeymoon.
There was delivering the daily news,
watching the clouds and the sunsets,
fixing the broken things, tossing the trash,
waking in a dark room, letting the light in,
asking after the neighbor’s flowers,
speeding past the sounds of ceaseless existence
in a KSCO car with radio tuned
to avoid traffic jams and lousy weather.
Particulars forgotten, kindnesses remembered,
the big 89 earthquake calmly weathered
with all the rest of the insanity of becoming human.
I imagine the sad last definite day of Don’s sweet life,
coughing until too weak to keep breathing,
emerging from the panic into the endless calm…
Flying into the light
luxuriously remembering the recent dream of life…
Marks like growing an inch since last year,
learning to swim, riding a bike,
closing eyes for that very first kiss,
inhaling smoke after a fire,
operating the control board,
teaching newbies the ropes,
finding love, trouble, ecstasy, tragedy.
Radiating gentle kindness, caring concern,
making a little difference each day
in the gigantic world of the living.
And the long wind of change blows the sails of this voyage
through choppy waters and glassy swells
always toward the light.
When you look back on it all, so few things are certain,
and so many adventures remain unsung.
You are missed and remembered well, kind friend.
At 4am I saw a rising waning moon light the sky. Too tired to climb to the hot tub at the top of our hill, too warm in my bed to brave the cool night air, I let the stars and trees enjoy the naked time without my company. I stared instead at my old iPad, and looked for a love note from my sweet lover. I found him on a facebook post announcing that he had found Bruce Damer at Center camp, a picture of them smiling and dust free, burning man goggles as costumes around their necks, ready if needed to see through a white out.
No response to the message I sent, I wonder if he found it, or if the bandwidth is barely enough to upload a jpeg, but not download an email. I notice how lucky and longing I feel for the daily posts he makes to tell our tribe his fav moments. I look for the sunset shot of the day… I know he got one, but maybe can’t slow down enough to share it from the Thursday night playa.
My Thursday was filled with small victories, like unloading a washer & dryer & a Uhaul of obsolete junk and recycling at the Ben Lomond Transfer station. Mark and Kelly drove down the scary steep FuturePeak hill together, already amused and used to the idea that in the case of any tipping over, they will leave this world together. They are enjoying the fascinating mystery reserved for new soulmates, discovering amazing similarities in their treasured memories, and affirming synchronicities of their unfolding destiny.
I drive the lead car, iPhone hailing frequencies open, intending to pick them up after dropping off the rental truck on Ocean Street in Santa Cruz.
After all the days pleasant chores, the garden watered, dinner dishes put away, we tried to turn on a movie from Netflix. The screen was black or blue, the Septre TV set seemed frozen, and Kelly and I did all our techchic magic to make our media dreams come true, to no avail. Mark showed up, unplugged and restarted the set, the apple tv, and clicked a button on the remote. Suddenly he found the previously hidden HDMI channel and it worked. We watched the icloud images from Al’s stream and told stories as we relived the memories. Almost fell asleep alone on the couch. The lack of an adequate blanket nudged my somnambulist mind to make the journey to my empty bed.
I definitely wonder as I wake up alone if I should resist or admit I am feeling older these days. I imagine young men when I think of moving heavy furniture, and keep a distance as I speak in case my breath smells like a dragon. I feel strong as ever, just more cautious and patient. I am enjoying filling time with spaciousness, and not speaking at all as the crickets chatter all night. Have I already done what I came here to do? Can I see well enough to read or find something small in the fuzz and blur without glasses? Will I ever lose twenty pounds and feel like wearing my old sexy clothes that are just too tight? Shall I give up and give them all to Good Will, or gift them to my younger friends? I don’t want to rush, but I must say the transition over the hill is fully underway.
Grandmother spider is considered the weaver of the stories which create the living world by the original people of America. Her web, which shimmers with dew and light each morning, is considered the dream catcher, the mirror of the awakening mind which can still remember the spirit’s journey during sleep the previous night. In a drop of water hanging from a thread of the web is a hologram of the living world, with all the fresh possibilities of a morning reflection, with all the light of a rising star just peaking over the horizon.
The creatures in this living world are called by the native people “All our Relations. We are evolved perhaps from ancient river monkeys, who evolved perhaps from ancient frogs, and fish, and sponges, and countless nameless forms who came and went during eons of natures accidents and experiments. As each new being took form, new classes of lifeforms took their place on the tree of life. As inventive, sentient monkeys, we continue to evolve toward lifeforms yet to be conceived. We learn from nature, and imitate through our inventions, with all our inherent accidents, discoveries, and intentions. In so doing, we create new forms of being that have never before been seen in the natural world. What will it take for us to love all our children, even if in some future world we no longer recognize our relations?
What we in the modern world have invented to mimic this creation of our ancient ancestor is a new web, one that catches the dreams and imagination of the whole wide world. In the new web, the new dream catcher, each person who reads or listens to a story or a song is a thinker in the emerging mind of a new baby, a planetary being named Earth who has seen the light of day many times over the last few billion years.
Passing each NOW in a fog of loving mystery
Soaking warmth together in bath of sudsy harmony.
Planners wait, Dancers mate, Watchers Celebrate
The fleeting flirting forever precious N:OW.
If it were me empowered by decree
To set each atom of infinity
On each endless lifetime journey
My wish, my will, my prayer would be
To weave each thread of harsh reality
Lovingly, softly, artistically.
What does that mean? The unseen
destiny embraced like a little baby
stepping free from the arms of safety
dawning wings as falling blindly
trusting fate with all that binds the
loving mothers and helping fathers
to surrender to a vast and curious
cosmos already done with the past
sailing fast, flailing to grasp
delightful threads yet to be spun.
Creation in our choices.
Love in our Fun.
If it were mine, I’d stretch and paint Time.
I’d sing a song of vast vibrations, inspiring spirals to cluster.
I’d mix dark and light forming every element, discovering every luster.
I’d cobble a brush made of gaseous stardust and dapple the pallet with stars.
I’d throw it in lumps on a spinning wheel.
I’d blow it slowly to cool and congeal.
I’d design a mindful cupful of slime.
I’d pour it in the ocean and listen a long time.
Then I would wait forever and watch
each now unfolding
Our Mother Source, the speeding star
Enflamed by vast creative juices,
Bravely races on her cosmic journey.
Surging future-forward in her galaxy,
Forever escaping yesterdays,
Even though knowing they are but
Shadows who hide on darkened sides
Of her captured planets, spiraling wide.
A star with gravity tow line spirals, reeling in
Time travelers bursting with all evolution
Keeping close to light and warmth
Her little flying family.