Rant #1: Empath elitism and used clothing

I once read an article about how empaths shouldn’t buy used clothing, and I can’t help but scoff at the concept. Like what, you “can’t deal” with the icky vibes of a previous clothing owner, but you’re somehow impervious to the suffering hands of the sweat-shop laborer that assembled your new crop top from Forever 21? COME ON. What about the cries of Mama Earth as that GMO cotton seed infects the land, round-up sinking into our soil, poisonous dyes seeping into our water sources, all the burned up coal and oil that fuel the clothing industry…I could go on.

Because unless you either know the person that makes your clothes or you’ve somehow found the ethical gem in the industrial rough of fast fashion and source your clothing exclusively from there (which btw, if you have found such a gem, please share), you can count on modern-day slave labor and environmental degradation.

Obviously, if you’re picking up on some bad mojo on that used sweater at your local Goodwill, you don’t have to take it home with you. For the most part though, a good wash before you wear is enough to make it yours. Want some added protection? Smudge those babies up and say a clearing prayer to get rid of any residual energetic patterns vibing in the fibers. Easy peasy.

Repeat after me: EVERYTHING ON THIS EARTH IS RECYCLED. Everything ever has passed through the vibration of someone or something else before it made its way into your hands. There ain’t nothing magical about a retail store that will ensure good vibes. Puh-lease. You cannot escape the suffering of the earth! You can, however, transmute it. Take in the old, and raise it up. And for the love of all, don’t be feeding into the ecological/human rights nightmare of fast fashion just because you don’t wanna share vibrational cooties. We all one anyways, baby.

Song of an addict (liber∞)

I wish someone had told me that
more than chlorine-free diapers and fresh jungle air,
my daughter needed my confidence
that she would withstand any poison 
to seep beneath her skin.
I wish I had understood 
any shaggy old carpet
was still a place to begin crawling -

that self-preservation is one part innate
instinct, two parts experience.

You cannot force inspiration,
you cannot force passion,
you cannot force the creatrix,
the power, the love, the real.

you can only open the door.

I wish someone had told me,
there is no difference between a heroin addict
and one addicted to sex, booze, cigarettes,
refined sugar, the love of a man. 
What are you jonesing for, really?
If I told you
"you already have it"
would you feel disappointed, too?
Don't feel guilty -
or do.
Anyways, God doesn't give brownie points
to the pious, no favours for the devout. 

In wafts the scent of familiar vice, insanity
looping its tail.
Cowardice is to shy away from the thoughts 
that smell like fear (or to take them under your wing);
to cower, to close; a quarantined airport -
the familiar turns rancid, poisons and betrays -
the virus fills the air, covers the walls,
swims in the water,
nothing saved.

And strength? To open, to remain open;
to love. To allow the influx of new winds, tradewinds -
and here, the familiar comforts
softening the hard edges of the strange.
Fear in the gut is tempered
with self knowledge, and

transforms. 

There is no difference between a money drunk
and a user of coke, good will, sadness or sage, 
art, ethos, or the church -
they all lead to the same place. 
None come with a map; each has
its own detours, street signs,
mirages. 

After infection, after rotted teeth,
after blinded sight, blasted ears,
cracked identity and bruised knees,
only the heart
will find its way.