bedroom, moving day

what’s left is a place where i
held me up and wept into
my own arms
and you held me down
for my pleasure

bare floor as our witness
the cats knock over my poor plant
one last time

they go away
and i go with you

—

vancouver - nov, 2025

I recently read two poorly written books. And yet, I received real pleasure and insight from them.

If bad writing can be so impactful, is it selfish to keep our unfinished works to ourselves?

Bad writing lacks stylistic or creative merit. These books, for example, were overwritten working papers that “should have” been distilled into a synthesized final product.

And yet, amidst the tedium, I received novel insights and pleasure. I’m grateful to those who shared these words with the world. Courage indeed.

Would these books have been more enjoyable—and more impactful—if they were well written? Yes.

Does a great deal of valuable work stay unpublished while it awaits edits that never come? Also yes.

Elegant prose is a gift to the reader. It dissolves on the tongue. I get chills from the way sentences turn toward each other. I am enlightened without effort.

Yet, in a life with limited time and focus, the real question we face is this: “Should I share this piece now, as it is—or never share it at all?”

My writing generally gets better with time and effort. But with each delay, there is a chance all will be lost forever. I am easily distracted.

I wonder at what stage in a work’s evolution the world would benefit.

Early drafts are like raw meat. How rare do you really want it?

(ADD tangent on “rawness” — I am obsessed with content that feels raw. But what I really want is something both raw and perfect. I want authentic connection elegantly delivered. Social media creators work hard to manufacture spontaneity. What is truly “raw” versus what is lazy editing?)

A brief case study: this post began as voice notes to myself in the car. Then came spastic scribbles on paper during an accounting call about Section 382 limitations. Right now, I’m typing into Apple Notes on my phone while flipping through the scribbles and slurping pozole.

My standard pattern would be to abandon the venture for days or weeks. If I return, I review the draft with (hopefully) fresh clarity and try a few turns toward a fuller essay. At some point my brilliant, long-suffering mother Karen receives a draft. We review her comments together. Then I move to Substack, choose a picture, anxiety‑read it again, and press send.

The process is often slow. If I lowered the bar quality I could share more things with more people. It could be a curious experiment.

In the spirit of bad writing, these pozole‑stained notes will be dumped directly onto the blog. I will commit to reading twice over and then sending.

Remember dear reader, your bad writing could save a life - or at least save a friend from boredom on a cold winter morning.

—

Vancouver - Nov 2025

At a recent event, touch came before talking. I approached someone slowly, pausing a few feet away. They met my gaze. Nodded. I nuzzled into their shoulder.

What a relief!

There were no words. No pauses. A safe and easy connection.
I squeezed their arm and separated into the crowd.

I want more of this. Hold my hand, dance me slowly. Then I’ll know
if I want to hear your stories.
We are taught to talk, then touch, then f*#k. Starting this ladder tires me.
You are saying all these things, but why?

Touch can be a lie, but it never lies.

Which is to say - your intensions may be confused, but I am not.
When you touch me, I know what your truth is.
I lack this inner knowing when you speak.

Touch me first. Words can wait for the second date.

Vancouver, Oct 2025

When my mom borrowed my Rav4 for extended trips, she used to pay me a per-kilometer rate. I enjoyed the car being used. Karen got a low-cost ride. The cost structure was her idea.

The arrangement fit the norms of our relationship. In my family, parents and adult children are generally financially independent units. Money and time are often shared, but there’s no expectation of sharing. I am not entitled to resentment if someone chooses not to share what is theirs.

My thinking shifted after listening to the Inside Community Podcast. The guest spoke of intentional communities where all earnings are pooled and spending decisions are made collectively.

The idea was threatening—and exciting.

I want to live in a world where we win or lose together. I enjoy the tensions and ecstasies of interdependence. I want to live in a world with more sharing and less scarcity. I have eight housemates. How far am I willing to take it?

In April, I told my mom not to pay me for the car anymore. She accepted and reports that in this new model, she feels a little uncomfortable, but also very cared for.

I feel greater joy. The inner shift was lasting. Not once have I felt doubt or resentment when she puts mileage on the car. (Though, it was returned empty twice in a row...and I had feelings about that!).

The shift from “mine” to “ours” is powerful, and subtle.

I imagine a pool with all my family’s resources. From it we share and benefit. My car is part of that pool. It is fun to add to the pool, and watch others benefit from what I’ve contributed to it.

A mindset of resource sharing has freed me from a mindset of charity.

Charity: the voluntary giving of help, typically in the form of money, to those in need.

This may have been the only frame I had for giving my things to others. Turns out, I often don’t want to practice charity with those close to me. Donations to nonprofits are fine. But I don’t want the energy of “giving” mixed with friendships on the regular. Despite decades of mindful practice, gifts can still carry subtle expectations and entitlements. Power imbalances are insidious.

If something is already ours then it is already yours. There’s no gift required. I can let go of my side of whatever other weirdness might come with you enjoying my contributions.

The experiment continues. I am practicing sharing more money and assets with others using this income/resource sharing mindset. However, I still keep most of it for myself and the decisions are unilateral.

More joy and ease tell me I am moving toward right relationship.

—

vancouver, bc - march 2025

Sources & Notes: The teachings I have received on “right relationship” come from the Buddhist tradition, where it is often described as winding through the Eight Fold Path. Indigenous American communities use this term also, but I am less familiar with those teachings. If you want more info on income and resource sharing communities, Twin Oaks Community has some materials.

I have a new obsession with hidden beliefs.

It started with a book on sexuality I read recently. The author introduced her work with detailed outlines on how society operates. The views were shared as if they are common sense and the only possible lens through which to see the world. There were zero citations or counterpoints. She did not mention Marx once, for example, despite relying extensively on his language and critiques of capitalism. Alarms went off.

The book mirrored much of the tone and language that my social sphere and I use. We treat complex worldviews as if they require no defense. We have a smooth communal agreement on what is wrong/right with housing, sex, family, god, money, nature. Where is the friction?

Everything is true and not true. I view myself as a person who dislikes holding a point of view without knowing its critiques and contradictions. I am far from that ideal. What scares me more is not knowing I have a point of view. Hidden beliefs parade as reality.

Apparently, I swim with others unquestioningly in a Marxist sea. What other waters can’t we even see? “It’s common sense” is a thought-terminating cliche. “You need to believe this to be cool/sexy/safe” is tribal groupthink.

A short conversation with friend Daniel Oleksiuk made it clear I knew essentially nothing about philosophy or political science. So that was the starting point - twenty YouTube lectures with Karl. Then my first reading of The Communist Manifesto. Last week I dwelt briefly at the altar of the Nietzsche, the antichrist. I relapsed into the arms of Barthes, my former lover.

I enjoy the irony. In college, the only classes I hated were philosophy and ethics. I arrived late to the second philosophy lecture to find the professor pointing at the ceiling and asking us how we could prove there wasn’t a pink elephant in the room. I never went back to class. (I did, somehow, still pass.)

I am constrained in my ability to challenge how I live and how we relate to one another as a society. I believe in my intellect and the value of my perspective. I access diverse views on relationships, economics, justice. But these dialogues are happening around me in a language I don’t understand. I want a framework. Give me a place to hang all these reels, articles, rants.

Relatedly, I am challenged in my capacity to related to fundamentally different worldviews. This shows up right now in my efforts to engage more deeply with Indigenous perspectives from the Americas. I suspect my approaches here will falter until I see more clearly what my own beliefs are made of. Let us drag the hidden into the light!

My intention is to do this project playfully. It’s working! I can feel my mind expanding joyfully.

What next? I prefer hyper-fixations with unnecessary detail over sweeping surveys. However, if I want a framework it seems beneficial to broaden out. I’ve started the “Great Minds of the Western Intellectual Tradition“ series on YouTube (playlist here)—partly because I have a crush on Michael Sugrue. Perhaps some non-Western survey’s will follow. Rabbit holes be warned. Content ideas welcome.

Professor, I’m finally ready for that philosophy class.

—

Vancouver, September 2025

mourning dove

that's the mourning dove,
he points a small hand
toward low branches,
and then curls into me.

snow outside. a fire here for us.

odd times, when happiness is suspect.
quiet is privileged. have you done enough
to lay down your head?

resist a revolution
that blames those who suffer.
you deserve rest.
and ease. and comfort of every texture.

joy is our transgression.

—

kimberley, bc - march 2025

the prompt was to write about an invincible superhero. ‘the teflon tomboy’ came to mind. (s)he’s queer. forever lean and in his 20’s, wearing black & teal lycra. apparently, invisibility requires abs.

a decade ago, an angel gave me this prayer as I stood at the corner of market and church street.

god, help me to imagine what it would feel like to act without fear in this situation.

and that is who I would be if you could prove i could not be hurt.

i would’ve danced more in high school. asked for help at work. believed every compliment. skiied down that cliff in the purcells, avalanches be damned. i would’ve asked out leo and dan and luna and the others, rejection bouncing off like bullets, until someone said yes.

invincibility would also be handy as I fall in love. safety in the in-between places. i could walk toward awaiting riches - morning cuddles, consensual non-consent, my person - and never be harmed.

and fuck you who is shouting that intimacy is reached only through vulnerability. this is my comic strip. i get everything I want.

—

april, 2025 - grand cayman

On the advent of great decisions, a reflection from the Marin headlands.

Some things are easy to say from afar. Some things are easy to see from afar.

From her sanctuary, our mother Julian of Norwich testifies,

“All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well".

And so it is! Your son shall be well.

As far as what is seen - this child, through much effort and blessing, stands in a wealth of love, resources, and gifts. Each of these can take us toward dreams. Each of these is a safe haven in the night.

As for what is unseen - we cannot know what lies behind the door.

I can tell you that every door is blessed. Wherever he stands is the path God has chosen. Nothing can change that. So we walk in the peace of knowing that no sin, nor work, nor fault, nor rest, nor glory can take him from the goodness the Creator has made for him.

How, then, do we choose when there is so little to fear?

Which step do we take when every path holds blessings?

Perhaps we choose with ease. And hope, and curious expectation.

—

Muir beach, California

—

note: some edits were made for anonymity and clarity.

morning poem

chase me brother round and round
let’s get lost until we’re found
the child on her rising swing
loses touch of heavy things

what do we say to those who play?
those who dance? those you lay?
asleep! are we who rest and know
there’s nowhere to be, there’s nowhere to go

—

muir beach, jan 2025

notes: the final line of this poem is inspired from tara brach’s meditations, listened to many years ago.

i have two questions

how many sadnesses can you stack
one on top of the other?

which star
can make me tall and this suffering small?

—

muir beach, jan 2025

a call with kate

driving. disembarking.
dog
chase
home
like a Rilke poem
on the radio.

geranium
petals at my feet.

i’m a daytime movie star
if you watch
the handsome
things that happen to me all the time.

—

san francisco, jan 2025

as i drive in the rain today, i continue to dwell in these spaces.

one of these rooms holds thoughts that distill to this:

if you choose to disconnect from those different than you, do it because that is what you need to thrive. don't do it to punish them.

where has retributive justice gotten us? does it give you the relief you are seeking? the thought that people who believe certain things should be cast out of society is common. i suppose, the logic goes, if you vote for trump/harris then you deserve to be punished. the study of what people ‘deserve’ is a dull one. i am more interested in what is helpful.

another room holds a large banner:

whenever you see tribalism, be cautious. be curious.

my desire to ‘other’ is persistent. i want so badly to be different than those i fear.

revelstoke - december 2024

I have not been writing. The reasons for this vary, but distill to this: I am stuck in things that I am ashamed to still be stuck in. I don’t want to share about these things. Sharing is a muse for my writing. So I do not write.

I am stuck in the same things I’ve been thinking about and moaning about (and therapizing) for years. I am annoyed. I’m bored. I wish I had new problems.

Do you know what it's like to be sick and tired of being sick and tired of the same things? I am ashamed of that stuckness. 

So, what do we do with shame? We bring it to the light. What was broken in a relationship can be healed in a relationship.  

Places I am Stuck:

1. Overeating.

2. Criticizing my body. 

3. I live in a city but long to live somewhere else. I long to live where I can hear no human sounds, save the vibrant community I live with. 

4. Compulsive screen use, especially late at night. 

5. Getting a dog(s) / cat(s).  

6. Having kid(s). 

7. I feel alone too much. I lack relationships with whom I feel safe spending time in the ways I want to spend time (e.g., being together but in silence, deep empathetic listening without solving, erranding). 

8. I lack a satisfying romantic partnership.

9. I seek vitality and deeper fulfillment in how I spend my time. Healing work? Teaching work? Creating work? New company building work?  

We can choose to use the negative positively. I will attempt this rather than just wishing things were different. 

Sharing about these areas may be one way to give them meaning, and in giving them meaning, I may be able to use them up. I have this inner voice that says, “Sure, sharing about challenges may not heal you, but healing others may heal you”.

—
puget sound - november 2024

each day the dark comes faster and i am not ready
i could leave
go south, where she waits longer to close her eyes
pay the boys to hide me from aging
i never want to feel lonely again

—
vancouver - october 2024

also - not that related, but very cool, today i learned about the irish goddess cethlenn. she was a powerful warrior associated with darkness and winter. “cethlenn’s embrace” is a poetic term from irish mythology symbolizing the onset of winter.

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whoever brought me here will have to take me home. 
we are left on a shoal and told to walk
when we don't know even to breath. watch, i return to the place
where a child is passed from one mother to another. 

they say there's no memory of what came before. 
i remember everything. 
the brilliant darkness. the way i was made by 
water and dissolved back to it. selah.

notes - the opening line of the above piece comes from rumi’s poem “whoever brought me here”, translated by coleman barks (book here).

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During the past week, several members of my community made vitriolic posts challenging the gender/sex of Olympic boxer Imane Khelif. 

I am shocked by the enthusiastic bigotry with which this story was shared by people I know. Khelif is cisgender woman, but the media roped her boxing match into broader anti-trans narratives, so I will focus my energy on this theme. 

I am horrified by the demonization of transgender people in our society. There is also an ego hit when digesting the posts I saw the last few days. I thought “we” (my extended network of relationships) were a few steps along in dismantling the gender binary and celebrating the magical diversity of human experience. It appears not. 

So, as Joris Lechene says, time for school.  

I share here some questions to reflect on when we see headlines evoking fear and rage at transgender people and their rights (and/or the “liberal conspiracy” supporting them): 

1. Is this story actually veiled anti-trans bigotry? We live in a world where violence and phobias against transgender people dominate. There are many who will take any opportunity to interpret a media situation to complement their fear-driven narratives. Openly attacking people who are trans is (thankfully) not socially acceptable in much of society. So, those who wish to voice anti-trans agendas need to find stories that appear to be about something else (e.g. fairness in sports, women’s rights, the safety of children, etc) to demonize trans people. We can all agree there is limited public interest in women’s boxing welterweight qualification standards. So, what is this story really about?

2. Is this story actually veiled racism? When you see the world attack people of color due to a white person’s tears, please pause. Much of the initial Khelif media coverage featured images (like the one above) and headlines focusing on the weeping face of her light-skinned Italian opponent. As Ruby Hamad has reminded us, white women's emotions have a long history of being used to justify racial violence and maintain white supremacy. 

3. Will my actions do harm? In light of the daily violence faced by trans and gender-nonconforming people, what is the potential impact of my words? Open debate is vital. However, that does not mean everything must be said in all forums. Let us be mindful of our speech and its impact on others. For some, the tone of our “debate” impacts their immediate safety and survival. 

4. Do I want to be the genital police? I honestly thought we had a collective ambition to stop dissecting women’s bodies. We stand on the steps of government and churches shouting, “GET THE F@$K OUT of women’s bodies!” We post endlessly demanding we stop telling women what to do with their pregnancies, their weight, their hair, their time. Stop telling women how to be women. Yet, here is my feed, with friends of all genders jumping over each other to say this person is not a woman. In the horrifying comments, people are demanding to know this athletes genitalia, blood work, chromosomes, medical history, medication regimes, and testosterone levels. “Prove to us you are a woman!!” “You don’t look like one to me.” Do you want to take part in this inquisition? Or do you wish to work to dismantle these chains?  

5. Is my rage misled or misbalanced? We have real problems. The world has abusive poverty, wars, genocide, 25+ million sex trafficking victims, a climate crisis, etc. In the US and Canada, it is completely legal to throw people out on the street when they have nowhere to live. Many beings are suffering in ways that can fuel one’s emotions and actions. If you find yourself angrier about the specter of a transgender human’s existence than these issues, I would ask you to reflect on why that is. Who benefits from you believing trans people are a threat? If you hang out in churches, communities, news sources, etc., that assert a small, marginalized community of gender-nonconforming people is a dominant threat of our times, are those people you want to spend time around? 

Transgender people are not the enemy. It is a common belief in the Western world that the genitals you have at birth are the fundamental guide for how you should act for the rest of your life. These genitals, so the story goes, are imperative to define how you should dress, speak, love, f(#k, and be. This obsession with genitalia is weird. It is harmful. It is violent. People expressing their truths differently than yours are not the enemy. 

Gender-nonconforming people are a guide to liberation. They are not responsible for liberating us, but they are a source of inspiration and hope.

Vancouver - August, 2024

Today, I attended a service in the Mayacamas Mountains. The minister, wrapped in white robes and soft beads, took prayer requests from the congregants. 

An attendee asked for healing in her relationship with her mother. The leader paused and asked, “Would your mother want to be part of our prayer today?”.

I was surprised. What a beautiful question!

The minister noted later, “We pray only for those who welcome our prayers.” 

I don’t know the intention and boundaries of this guidance. It holds a tender wisdom. I imagine the person I pray for sitting in the room with me. Would they feel loved? Would they feel honored? This is a healthy test of my respect. 

As a child, I was surrounded by prayers for sinners, non-believers, gays, unwed mothers, etc. I regret I took part in such sanctimony, no matter how sincere. If the subjects of our supplications were with us, many would have felt violated and shamed.   

The belief that we know what others need is a sickness at the heart of Western Christianity, and perhaps society aswell. The sincerity of these prayers belies their violence. Our willingness to force a “right way” of being in the world ravages our communities and spirits. Who knows the right way to be male? Female? Sick? Human?  

We suffocate our diversity. We fear our neighbor. We disembody ourselves. 

All belief systems - be they spiritual, educational, political, etc - are vulnerable to the seduction to claim the truth. It takes humility to return to the place of not knowing. “This is what I believe and hold gently” does less for the ego than “I know the truth!”. It takes labor to stay curious. 

Prayer is one way we can practice nonviolence and curiosity. 

Let the ground continue shifting under your feet. Each day, the world preaches a new gospel. Trade not the sensuous wisdom of the body for dry words and lost prophets. 

How do I pray for the current US President as he rains bombs on the people of Gaza? How do I pray for the last, and perhaps future, President as he foments hate? If they were sitting with me what prayer would they welcome? Where can we stand in integrity as we see and appreciate one another? These are not easy prayers. They emerge slowly from the boundaryless place within.

—
California - July 2024

Notes - Prithiviraj A is at https://unsplash.com/@prithiviraj

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A Letter to the Community at Green Gulch Farm
July 12, 2024

Friends, 

I am so thankful for you. I am moved to tears in my gratitude to know you are there. You are dedicated to compassion, to community, to silence and action. I feel your presence. The earth you touch is proof of the work of your hands. I wish to live on your outskirts, drawing from the well you feed in your practice. 

You are also a refuge where I seek to meet with compassion the indoctrinations of my past.

The church I belonged to thought itself a beacon on a hill. We said we had the light of truth. I am broken-hearted, for we were lost, and our singing led many to darkness. We told the holy they were unworthy. We made God’s love a riddle and purity the key. 

I came into this world craving spiritual connection. I faced chaos at home and outside. I sought orientation. I sought meaning in a painful world. All of these needs were met, if imperfectly, in the religious community that surrounded me. But the price was very high. Cruel are those that make acceptance in spiritual spaces contingent on the abandonment of self and the denial of the body. 

Flee my children! May the glory of your inner knowing guide you.

Lost are those who kneel before the altar and not at the feet of their sisters. Lost are those who look only to the dead and the exalted for wisdom. I tell you, it is better to walk alone than to follow the blind who claim to see. 

To the stewards of Green Gulch, this is a letter of gratitude. I hold in my heart the days I spent seated with you in silence and sharing your table. I walked your trails today and reconnected with the hope of your sangha.

This is also a letter of action. No doubt you carry struggles and hypocrisies which are unknown to me. Such is the stuff of human community. I ask, if only for my selfish needs, that we take this time for humble examination. Not knowing is most intimate. The desire to make others wrong is natural, and it separates us from each other. Judgment of any kind cuts us off. Vulnerability dissolves the pain that drives us to harm. I ask your strength, that I to may look within.

Blessings to you, 
Matthew Cooper

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I was happy for two hours this morning. I ran the Marin bluffs wrapped in fog. Farmers gathered in a circle before their hands touched the soil. I was first to greet the chickadee and rabbit. 

The mist gave me a few steps ahead as my guide. When my feet found sand, I dropped my clothes and I walked into the sea. 

I wanted to stay and do handstands on the beach, perhaps capturing my humorous attempts in pictures for Danny, but I've created a life with somewhere to be. 

At home now, I curl back into bed. Down the cliff, the surf plays on. Luxury, to me, is moving fast and then giving myself over to rest. Fatigue comes in waves. 

An anxious voice says pleasure is unreliable. This is too much leisure. It’s a work day. What if I get used to how joyful life can be? What if it goes away? This makes a sort of sense - it is better to keep myself from joy than to hold it and have it taken away. 

A great delusion of this age is that we have something to do.

This belief might serve us if the call were to vulnerability or play. But the thing we are meant to do is dominate and possess. When we value one another by what we produce, all action leads to fear.

So warped am I by the ‘lies of doing’ that I believe two hours in twenty-four is too much. Two hours to move my body as it loves. Two hours to listen to the mist. Loneliness. 

Two minutes is too much if there is no time. Oh, human doing, stay busy, and you can stay safe!  Happiness is out there. Keep moving.

I am proud to say that I'm a non-compliant robot. I try to do faster. Do better. But on the assembly line my hands always wander, and I find that I am still an eagle, a tower, a great song. 

—

July 2024 - Marin, CA

Notes - The final sentence is no doubt inspired by Rainer Maria Rilke’s Das Studenbuch (Book of Hours).

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midcontinent 

500 kilometers
each generation moved south
from the bering bridge to 
a foot on tierra del fuego.

see her, at midcontinent, 
brow soft, knowing she
would rather die tomorrow 
across the mountains
than stay here.

no tribe could dissuade her, though 
the hunt around them was sure.  

i alone followed you,
one foot beside 
and the other behind, 
until i deserted,
and backtracked alone. the fear 
was mine,  
but I know you doubted too
when the night held us.

now I come back, expectant, 
but find an empty clearing 
where we spent 
those last days. 

i trace the grass,
our cups,
the sky

they whisper only this:
you found another 
where I left you.

—

san francisco, aug 2015

notes: editing by matthew cooper - photo from magical Åmotsdalen, norway

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