An Ode to my Stolen Bike

Posted on March 30, 2013 by Steve McAllister

I loved my bike
She was silver and sleek
But alas, she left with another man
I don’t blame her
I tried to love her the best that I could
But I shouldn’t have complained about that time she hurt my taint on that really long ride to South Lido
We enjoyed so many adventures together
She went with me wherever I went
Always taking her down the nicest roads
Never pushing her harder than she wanted to be pushed
Gliding through life with the elegance and grace that only comes with true love
It hurts me that I never took her picture
And have nothing but memories
Memories that accompany every step I take
As life grinds to halt
And slowly reaches forward
With somber footfalls
And pedals sorely missed in their absence
I don’t blame her for leaving me
In the dead of night
Leaving the door open
After her exodus from the best life that I could offer her
But why?
Why sweet Jesus?
Why did she have to leave me for such an asshole?

Steve McAllister is the author of The Rucksack Letters and How to Survive an Estralarian Mind Meld. He posts regularly at InkenSoul.com, and sometimes posts at Anything Arts, Sarasota Music Scene, and Elephant Journal, and is currently the Director of Operational Development for the Common Wealth Time Bank in Sarasota, Florida. Follow him on Twitter, Facebook, and YouTube.

Are You Searching Too?

Posted on March 29, 2013 by Steve McAllister

The road gets lonely at times. And although my hitchhiking adventures had introduced me to quite a few men who wanted to spend some cuddly time with the long haired young straggler with the bright blue eyes and pretty mouth, I wanted to hold out for the affections of the fairer sex. However, they’re all crazy. It can be a wonderful kind of crazy, and it can be a ball twisting kind of crazy. And though I’m thankful to have spent some time with some extremely vivacious specimens of the feminine variety along the way, as I was out there doing my thing, there’s always been the hope that I could find someone who’d actually want to do my thing with me.

Are You Searching Too

All that I can give you is my time and all my heart and soul and everything I am.

Sometimes it ain’t much. I think I’ve lost enough.

Can you tell me what’s in store if I give it away once more.

Or are you searching too?

Are you seaching too?

Can you make my wandering end? Are you here as a friend?

Are you another foe? another closing door?

another stop along the way, the end to another day

a day I’ll come to rue, or are you seaching too?

Are you searching too?

Can I stop this infernal search? Are your stained eyes my church?

Are you a goddess I can praise, a love to last my days?

Is sanctuary in your arms and comfort in your smile

or should I walk another mile to find what my heart needs

a way to make me bleed, are you the answer to my call

Are you my all in all, or are you searching too?

What’s a broken man to do? Could I say I love you?

I’ve been alone so long, my rights have all been wrong

Will you listen to my song or will you hum another tune?

oh, have you sung the blues? Are you searching too?

Are you searching too?

Do I find cause to celebrate? Is it too soon to wait

for an answer to my plea to who you are to me

or should I be more concerned with the lessons that I’ve learned

The times that I’ve been hurt and old flames that have burned

or should I try to see instead of what you are to me

what i can be for you, are you searching too?

Are you searching too?

Do the scars upon your heart rip when it beats?

Have you been fooled by cheats?

have you been hurt before, are you afraid of more?

cuz what I’m looking for is time tested and true

and I’m looking right at you, are you searching too?

The Renaissance and the Unbroken Path

Posted on March 28, 2013 by Steve McAllister

A few years ago, when I started writing the book that would become How to Survive an Estralarian Mind Meld, I started piecing together this concept I’ve come to call The Unbroken Path. Developed from the interweaving of various orders of understanding, The Unbroken Path is that journey toward ascension that the majority of our religions and philosophies point toward. Yet the journey is not just about the destination, and the Unbroken Path is not just about its completion. It is the constant cultivation of those ideals, the progress of the steps that truly makes the world go around.

When I was talking to Reverend Clay Thomas about installing The Labyrinth of the Unbroken Path at First Presbyterian Church, he said that he would be more able to publicize the event if there were more scripture and Christian theology in it. For me, the scripture is evident as it was written on my heart when I was just a child and, as promised, has not departed. As a matter of fact, I have often said that the Unbroken Path is my portrait of Christ.

Indeed, in the first Renaissance, much of the art was infused with religious imagery. Now that we have reached this particular chapter in humanity, as we make our transition from the Information-based society to the Wisdom-based society in what I refer to as the Second Renaissance, there seems to be an influx of religious fervor rising once again to the top of our collective consciousness. Obviously, we see this in politics as dogmatists struggle to legislate their accepted morality, but also people are seeking out the more gnostic and estoteric meanings behind scripture and its true place in our collective evolution. I believe that the Unbroken Path is guiding us a little more toward that.

The Easter in Estralarian

Posted on March 27, 2013 by Steve McAllister

When I started writing The McAllister Code, there were certain words that leapt to mind, insisting to be used in the establishment of the new universe I was inventing. First came the description of the mind meld, for a regular mind meld would not be good enough, only an “Estralarian” mind meld would do. And as for the names of the aliens that would guide me through my quest, “Iman” and “Yewell” seemed to pretty much name themselves.

I think I was about a chapter or so in when I started giving more thought to the derivations of the names that had squeaked their way into my brain from the ether. It was the aliens that spoke to me first, for in saying their names together, I got the term “Immanuel” and instantly remembered it as the name for Christ, “God with us.” As far as the mind meld itself, this weaving of thoughts into a vortex of love, intention, action, and passion, it was pretty apparent that “Estralarian” was some sort of derivative of “Easter” and that the way that I was being shown was an avenue of resurrection.

Now, it may very well be that I have some latent Christ complex issues or that the layers of Judeo-Christian rhetoric are much more evenly deposited throughout the strata of my brain that I’ve let on, but I do believe, and have felt so from a very young age, that there is something to this whole “Christ” thing, and that, although I have largely dismissed the futile attempts to organize a religion based on a faith too simple to need any organization, and although I have washed my hands of the practice of promoting the selected holy book of my tradition any more than the selected holy book of any other religion, I do believe that there is a message that must be gained. Although my starting to read my account of my Estralarian mind meld publicly happened to fall smack dab in the middle of holy week, again, it was not a conscious plan. Nor was it my plan to align the release of my book, nor the beginning of my fifth decade, with the end of the Mayan calendar and whatever new world the supposed “apocalypse” is supposed to reveal with the lifting of the veil.

Nevertheless, here we are. Although I am sure that the book will be received with both adoration and revulsion, as every idea of man is as it is passed through the terminal of acceptance into our collective consciousness, it is my hope that the essence of the truth behind the story will shine brighter than the story itself, or even the religious iconography that seems to accompany it. For I am not trying to sell a story, or a tradition, or even a way of life, merely offering an alternative to the stories that we are currently telling ourselves based upon tradition of selfishness, greed, and scarcity which offer a lifestyle of imbalance, injustice, and disharmony.

Perhaps these simple phrases are the work of my subconscious, the driving force of my youthful fundamentalism screaming out for some sort of validation. Perhaps they were directed by the Mind of God itself for the hope of humanity as we move our way from the limitations of the revolving doors of agriculture, industry, and information in order to ingratiate ourselves with the wisdom that is our birthright as the seemingly most sentient beings on the planet. Or perhaps its just a bit of entertaining fluff that popped into my imagination via an active culture of hero worship and idealism.

Regardless of where it came from, it is a really good book, and I am looking forward to sharing it with my community. For in each day outside of the book, in the story I tell with each breath, I celebrate new birth, the possibility of resurrection from whatever occurred before, and the magic of the phoenix as I continually make cinder of my conceived limitations and rise into a new existence each and every day. For although I want very little, if not nothing to do with the religion which has bastardized the name, ultimately, for me to live is Christ, and that is a story I may never be able to fully explain.

Write the World

Posted on March 27, 2013 by Steve McAllister

I write the world
I write the world letters
I write the world poems
I write the world sonnets and essays and moans
I write the world songs
I write the world scenes
I write the world through books and emails and zines
I write the world happy
I write the world sad
I write the world temperatures between good and bad
I write the world coming
I write the world gone
I write the world of the Kingdom Come
I write the world truth
I write the world lies
I write the world bargains, pleas, alibis
I write the world sober
I write the world stoned
I write the world guilty and oh so alone
I write the world hopeful
I write the world glum
I write the world decoratively and deliciously dumb
I write the world for you
I write it for me
for the path
that leads
to We

The Search Begins

Posted on March 25, 2013 by Steve McAllister

I found the address on Orange Avenue and looked again at what I had scribbled. Sure enough, the address was correct, but the sign on the building said “Life Skills Institute.” This couldn’t be the right place. I stared at the building for a moment and considered my options as my fingers drummed the steering wheel.

I’d been duped, that much was for sure. But by whom? Who would write such a thing and go to all of the trouble of inventing a PR company to get it printed. A book about aliens? It’s never been a genre I’ve really gotten into. Whoever wrote it must not know me very well. Aliens. Somebody was trying to make a fool out of me.

Then a strange yet familiar sound echoed off of the oak trees surrounding the parking lot. I’d heard it before, and recently. I closed my eyes and listened.

Spinning lights darted across my eye lids and they popped open immediately as the sound came to an end. It was the sound I’d heard the night before when I saw whatever it was that I had seen.

I looked at the building once again. Aliens?

I’m not normally one to get spooked easily, and though I often pride myself on unabashed bravado, my instincts on this occasion had other plans. I turned the key to the ignition. Nothing happened. I turned it again to no avail.

I popped the hood and got out of the car to have a look. As I surveyed the maze of wires and metal, I wondered what exactly it was I was looking for. Even if whatever was malfunctioning was visible, I wouldn’t know what it looked like. Short of finding gremlins playing jump rope with the fan belt, I couldn’t offer any diagnosis.

I closed the hood and reached into my pocket for my cell phone only to find it empty. As I looked at the empty passenger seat, I realized that I’d forgotten it when I left the house in haste. I looked back to the building. If I was going to get someone to look at the car, I was going to have to use their phone. I smiled and shook my head. Aliens indeed.

I gathered my wits about me and walked toward the entrance. Each step seemed to echo off the trees, crunching fallen leaves underneath my feet, emitting a spine tingling sensation that had my hand shaking by the time I reached for the door knob.

I peeked my head inside. A large desk sat unoccupied in the center of the room. Cheap artwork decorated the walls, and the room smelled oddly sterile.

Stepping fully into the room, I called out. “Hello?”

This is an excerpt from How to Survive an Estralarian Mind Meld. Order your copy now!

WORD – a ten part poem in eleven parts

Posted on March 24, 2013 by Steve McAllister

I wish that the letter

were big enough

to encompass

all of my thoughts

Yet

in what it is

as a

limited

single form

unit

of direct information

encompassing so much

in so little

the visual equivalent

of DNA

only

or a

or a b

or abc

or abcdefg

or abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxy

and z

merely 26 shapes

or is there more there

for in the symbols that preceded them

the pictures

that were drawn on wall caves

and on parchment

before our accepted letters were accepted

before they were first written

before they were imagined

and before that

when the images existed

as life around us

all that was

all

all that what

which we encapsulated

in the image

which we sketched

as the letter

and what we created

as what we create

with our acceptance

as the word

logos

truth

Word

Logos

Truth

abcdefghijklmnopqrustuvwxy

and z

our 26 letters

the building blocks

for our interpretation

of the world

and before those

Alpha to Omega

the beginning and the end

of a lost civilization

of an old world

but here

in this world

in this new earth

where we serve as cocreators

with our God

and gods

and thoughts

and actions

and words

and letters

we write

we write the world

we use the symbols of

thought

interpretation

manifestation

of meaning

the

purpose of interpretation

the necessity

of communication

of connection

of agreement

of growth

with these few

most beautiful

symbols

we write

the world

letters

poems

stories

essays

stories

speeches

stories

Stories

we acted them out

we told them

with our bodies

we re created what we saw

moving our bodies

in action

and in dance

in emotion

and passion

in gleeful splendor

we have played

we have played these roles

we have told these stories

we have created new realities

in our actions

even before letters

before words

after thought

after emotion

because

we could

because it was fun

because it was engaging

because it brought us together

what stories do we still tell

what actions do we take

what roles do we play

what stories do we tell

what realities do we create

in our actions

with our letters

through our words

after thought

after emotion

because

we can

because it is fun

because it is engaging

because it brings us together

be it

religion

be it entertainment

be it compassion

be it anger

be it sorrow

be it joy

be it peace

be it love

after a

bea

be beautiful

engage us

bring us together

be it

be it religion

be it entertainment

be it compassion

be it anger

be it sorrow

be it joy be it peace be it

love

Love

what we do

what we feel

what we speak

what we write

how we act

how we feel

how we speak

how we write

why we do

why we feel

why we speak

why we write

why we act

we act

out words

built from letter

built by feeling

built by speaking

built by writing

built by acting

out

what was in

what thoughts were

what words became

that which unified us

we were all

one

with the word

with the words

with the letters

we agreed

we were one

in our thoughts

in our actions

in our symbols

we added 2

345678

and 9

to our 26

letters

3+5

plus 1

of our 26

of our 35

ink

and soul

ink

of soul

inken

soul

ink

for soul

inkensoul

will

put together

these letters

these sacred 26

and these new 9

to do

to speak

to write

to act

to create

to write my world

as it is

and how it will be

Gee

what else can I do

Where are the other nine

what can they do

what can they create

what can they write

of how it is

and how it will be

let’s

see

let’s play

let’s write

let’s create

the world

how it can be

so that

we can play

we can write

we can create

the world

Give Harvey a Hand

Posted on March 22, 2013 by Steve McAllister

The first time I ever heard of Harvey Milk, I was at a Radical Faerie commune in the middle of the Tennessee hills. One of the residents performed a 45 minute long one man show about the first gay politician. As Anne Kronenberg said, “he was a visionary. He imagined a righteous world inside his head and then he set about to create it for real, for all of us.”

Harvey_Milk_by_aposcar

Though I’m not running for public office, as a man creating a community space, I am rather inspired by people who have done it before me. Regardless of his sexual orientation, Harvey Milk was a man who helped direct the flow of our civilization toward greater tolerance and understanding before our insanities kicked in and ended his too-short life. I think that his victory in teaching us to participate in life and break down antiquated conventions should be celebrated with music, hugs, and community celebration.

Last year, I had Shannon Fortner, President of the Harvey Milk Festival, on as a guest of my short lived web series “Dare To Be Different.” I talked her into letting me install The Labyrinth of the Unbroken Path at the festival, but fell ill and wasn’t quite up to doing it. This year, it will be installed in conjunction with flow artists and aerial yoga.

I’ve gotten involved with the planning committee for this year’s Harvey Milk Festival, which will take place from May 16-18. We’re most of the way toward our financial goal, and have a Kickstarter campaign to help us make it the rest of the way. If you want to have a vibrant music festival at Five Points Park in downtown Sarasota, please invest in the cause.

This year, the Harvey Milk Festival will include an intertwined music, art, and film festival, starting out the three day celebration with a screening of I Am Divine at Burns Court Cinema and culminating in the gathering at Five Points Park. With the quality of bands submitting their applications to play at the festival, musically, itś going to be a transcendent experience. I look forward to seeing how Sarasota embraces live music downtime this time around.

Happy New Year

Posted on March 22, 2013 by Steve McAllister

There was a day

There was a year

when I felt like I was the man I could be

when I felt like I was reaching the potential that was laid out for me

in the celestial sphere of possibilities

as the gods gathered in the maproom

and set up the model

for the way that life would be

and clued in my parents

on how to not screw things up too much.

Unfortunately, the lesson only survived a generation.

But screwing up is better than screwing down

for it gives you something on which to climb

instead of a thing to remain immobile.

I don’t want to remain immobile.

I want to climb and swing and dance the hoochie coo among the stars.

I want to build a tower to the sun and let it fall down

so that I can build it again better.

As long as I am reaching for the sun

stretching toward that radiance that glows in the moment of joy

the source of the sunbeam that powers the planet

and the intensity that comes

from burning up the missteps

and the stronger steps that rise from the ashes.

So that I may smile at a new year

by smiling at a new day

and simply be the man that burns.

Independence Day in LA

Posted on March 20, 2013 by Steve McAllister

This was written about a dozen years ago, but I found it and felt like sharing…

It’s another Independence Day and I’m at work. Decide what you will about what that says about the state of my patriotism. I’ve managed to attain employment as a Production Assistant on a new reality show crap-fest currently running on Fox called “Paradise Hotel.” Though I am apt to take a negative stance on the question of whether or not the surge of reality television is disintegrating our society’s moral and mental fiber, it has become a case of me feeding the beast so the beast can feed me. The symbiosis of Hollywood.

The basis of the show involves eleven nubile twenty- and thirty-somethings alternating between superior gender numbers as week-by-week, the inhabitants of the Acapulco resort, kick off whichever member is not shacking up and vote on another stranger in hopes that they are more willing to have casual sex. The show is a little different from the others in its vein. There is no money to be won or prize to be claimed other than the chance to be on television and have lots and lots of sex. All that matters is what is going on. I think is has a very Zen quality to it. Alan Watts would be proud.

Nevertheless, if any of you are so inclined and care enough about the outcome of the weekly decisions to ask me to betray my solemn of vow of confidentiality to my employers and reveal what the rest of America must wait two weeks to see, I shall decry you in public as a nitwit and mock your name eternally for your involvement in this most nefarious ruses of artistic expression which is the Fox Summer Lineup.

My job is basically making coffee, taking out trash, and running errands. The errands are my specialty. Using my second and third greatest assets – Attention Deficit Disorder and a motorcycle – I find it a great way to make a few bucks.

I’ve been trying to do that much more lately – use whatever I’m given as a strength. I still have weaknesses. They are often rampant and harsh. But I don’t really have catastrophe anymore. And believe me, to the wary onlooker, my life has often looked that way. But personally, I have yet to really fall on hard times. I haven’t even fallen on very difficult times. But that’s not to say they haven’t fallen on me. They just didn’t take me down with them.

After my motorcycle accident – a minor spill on a new bike – I used my broken collarbone and library card to learn more about this trade of screenwriting. The language of the screenplay is a dialect I have never been quite fluent in. It involves using words succinctly and steadily with as few letters as possible. Whereas, when I usually write, the words can drip on for days and spread a single idea of a grassy meadow to the length of a paragraph – one of gigantic proportions that makes a gregarious reader dance through the sound of the wind bending grass and images of dandelions in bloom, of jackrabbits playing in noble deer paths and a girl dressed in white with a bow in her long, blonde hair – but can be summed up in a screenplay with EXT. So learning this art form has been long and tenuous. But I learned how to do what I wanted to do, and then I did it. I used my second month of unemployment, when no jobs were available anywhere, to finish the first three drafts. The week my motorcycle was in the shop was used for draft four. And my day off last Tuesday was used for draft five. Drafts two and four were written on a manual typewriter, exactly as I dreamed it would be.

Life is good.

InkenSoul

…with inken souls we write the world…

Monthly Archives: March 2013

An Ode to my Stolen Bike

Are You Searching Too?

The Renaissance and the Unbroken Path

The Easter in Estralarian

Write the World

The Search Begins

WORD – a ten part poem in eleven parts

Give Harvey a Hand

Happy New Year

Independence Day in LA