Santa Cruz, and why I can't be a hippy.

'Definition: pronoia is the antidote for paranoia. It's the understanding that the universe is fundamentally friendly. It's a mode of training your senses and intellect so you're able to perceive the fact that life always gives you exactly what you need, exactly when you need it.

Hypotheses: evil is boring. Cynicism is idiotic. Fear is a bad habit. Despair is lazy. Joy is fascinating. Love is an act of heroic genius. Pleasure is our birthright. Receptivity is a superpower.

Procedure: act as if the universe is a prodigious miracle created for your amusement and illumination. Assume that secret helpers are working behind the scenes to assist you in turning into the gorgeous masterpiece you were born to be. Join the conspiracy to shower all creation with blessings.'

- Rob Brenzy


I went into a store which had the sign 'hippies use the back door' in its front window. The lovely young couple who ran it had based the store's 'concept' on Pronoia. There were some beautiful quotes.

I brought a necklace and smiled and spaced out and waved goodbye to them and wandered to the beach, where I wrote:

'It is wrong to say 'I think', one ought to say, 'I am thought'.'

'I am thought'; and whomever thinks me is the creator who has love - for to create you must love. to do anything you must also know its opposite and choose one way. I watch a wave crash to the sand and as it curls it is eternal and all-important, otherwise it could not happen. If every place, movement, moment, thing, was not eternally important it could not happen as things cannot be only past or future they must also be the present or else they do not exist. You must choose to accept all as eternal and important or as non-existent.

If everything will cease to exist there must be an appointed time and place, there must be a moment of cessation. And as its end must be eternal, so it must be eternal for its end to be so. To say 'I loved you' is to say 'I love you', for, if something has a past it must have a present. And so all things are eternal, in truth, and all things are holistic and unforgettable. Each has its opposite, and it is a matter of percieving your choice. Will you be the moment of balance, or the moment of fall.'


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I think I may be lost.

None of that makes sense. It was meant to be an exercise in capturing a voice, that strange vibe which comes off peace love happiness writing. Perhaps a sprinkling of weed.

I've had tobacco in almost all the ways I can think of now. I've drunk it, I've smoked it in a cigarette, both rolled by me or izzie and factory made, and in a 'hookah'. I've steered clear of weed despite the number of times it's been offered to me. I've had one vodka and orange juice, and a couple of glasses of wine, and a cocktail of something or other. I've been called a 'escort', and I've had a few strange encounters and escapes. I've had long and vaguely meaningful conversations with multitudes of strangers, almost all men. One even gave me a book for no reason at all, which is making me laugh a lot. I wonder if this counts as being a crazy teen being irresponsible.

We haven't gone to a single museum. Or any churches. Except, Yosemite IS a huge museum, church, everything. Maybe.


Words spinning inner thoughts through my blue hair no brainer. The dry gold of the hills shows me genesis as strangers steal only your most drunken of words. Songs of saints - cruz-ing charismas. Tired and dehydrated under the painted blue waterfall, dark and smelling sweetly of stones. Everything is blue blue blue seats, camp, sky, hair, half-remembered eyes, sweets, ink, windows, lights, drugs, frames. Is it my perception or its projection which dyes my fingers blue with residue?

Lucky, sad, sorry, clear. Ruinous. Bursting, bleeding, bubbling blue. Makes me obsolete and omnipotent. Mountains in the distance, too far away to manage anything but blue. Blue boy, blue room, blue curtains, blue carpet, blue bottles, blue packets, blue promises. It has to come from somewhere. I have something to say but my mouth cannot escape around the sides of the bulbous blue word. It takes my tongue captive until it throws itself forward to steal your kisses from my lips. Blue. Blowing blue bubbles to you. I don't know how I came to blue out a wash of universal colour. Every shade under the sun and we stare at blue, midnight, navy, bright, light, sky, powder, brilliant, dark, damnable blue. Blue smoke. E x p l o s i o n s as you disappear.



I feel found and lost and found and lost and dropped and picked up with an armful of smiles.

I don't miss tea. I don't miss my own home. I don't miss the countryside, or the 'quaint' smallness of everything. I don't miss the food.


'Your face is true and your hair is perfect and I love you. You make boats in my dreams and you speak without words and I love you. Your fears unnerve me and your questions amuse me and I love you. I love you not only for who you are, but for the interesting person I become when I'm with you. I say I love you and love you and love you until the words become the constant song of your voice in my head and the original ache of memory in my soul. I love you more than life and death, more than everything that's in between the light and the dark. Do you believe me? Try harder. Do you believe me now? I'm always with you, which is why I know you will never abandon yourself.'