May 23, 1998
Ups and Downs
Even the most minimum
noise distracts me.
I dont know what Im going to
write, words dont come to me to describe the trip.
I know that at every moment there are ups
and downs. At the moment I feel as if there is a "down" where all the trip
members are in disorder or muddled.
This is because we dont know what is
going to happen or if this trip is going to take us anywhere.
Was it ever different? Or
have I just uncovered what was always there...
May 22, 1998
|...even if your head gets hot!
When a person does or says something with the intention of placing two
persons against against each other, in good old Salvadorean it is called, "head
About one month ago, during a long telephone
conversation, somebody warned me: "Dont let your head get hot!" Curiously,
several days after, another person gave me the same advise: "...even if your head
Listening to this for a second time made me question
myself for several days about the origins of this saying: Why do they use the word
"hot"? I would ask myself: What the hell are they referring to?
The uncertainty seemed to loose vitality, and I
slowly began to forget the matter. But it wasnt until last night, when in a strange
dream, I received what I could call the answer.
The dream started with a voice that clearly said:
"...even if it gets your head hot!"
Without pronouncing a word I asked: "And what
does that mean?"
And the voice, which I later identified, answered:
"When you want to eat a potato, you first warm it up, you let it soften and then you
eat it"; immediately, in front of me appeared the image of a person eating the
The voice continued: "When some one wants to
mold the glass, he or she first warms it up, because that is the only way in which the
glass flexible." Again, another image formed, and this time it was that of somebody
working in a workshop. In this moment is seemed to me that I understood everything, and I
"Ha, heat makes the food eatable and the glass
This was the whole dream, at least as far as I
This afternoon, returning from work, I passed in
front of a clothing store that was announcing big savings for mothers day. I saw
many people crowded within the store, and some other few people coming in and out, without
stooping. Suddenly, an image came to me that the store was an enormous monster, feeding
itself with warm food, soft food, easy to chew and to swallow. "Hot heads," I
thought, "these people got their head warmed-up." I walked a little more, and
everywhere I turned, I found myself with "the hot heads".
May 20, 1998
This is not a very normal day, the best thing to do is not to think.
From this side something
could occur and I dont know if I will resist.
I feel that they have chosen me, for eyes
follow me. This, someone already told me about it, that when one goes out one feels
asphyxiation. But this, I never waited for: who can live in this pressure? Again in my
element, but in a small space, there is no above, there is no below, everything is
And now, I believe I know that some being takes me to a
great place. I think that I am about to go out, for the asphyxiation I feel again, and my
body falls on something gray and the water begins to drain.
Hasnt anybody noticed? or is it my new
Hasnt anybody noticed? or is it my end...
May 19, 1998
Do you remember when we flew on top of the world? Over those
green hills, feeling the air against our faces and the sun on our backs? I the guide, and
you the voyager free of spirit, like the eagle, you flew as I held your hand.
Do you remember the cave? That dark, obscure and mysterious
entrance into who knows what (the unknown!) on the side of a lusciously green hill
majestic mounds baking under the unrelenting blasts of light from the sun (do you remember
the yellowness of it all?). Remember how it appeared all of a
just when you thought you had seen it all
when you thought there was
nothing more to see in this world?
What did our guide say? "Go to it," she said.
"Go to the cave and see whats in it."
And then what happened? Remember? Did you make it? Did you
get to see what was in that cave?
I once had my own little cricket. It would always check-up
on me, asking if I had done this and if had done that, always making sure I was on the
"Pure intention"? What about "commitment?
Does that count? I mean, you talk about there being "other, higher" (more
advanced?) beings in this Business, and you talk about things that happened to you while
you were there, and about these "currents" that are moving you towards where
youre going; but it feels to me as if though youre just leaving everything
behind for a mad jump into something that may or may not lead you to an abyss not unlike
the one you experienced before. It feels as if the Center never meant anything to you, or
at least as if it had stopped meaning something to you at some point.
"Maybe hes still searching." Maybe you are.
"Maybe he hasnt found his Work yet."
"The whole trip, everything
ever since I got on
that plane, it felt as if though I was going home
Do you know how many times Ive heard you say just that
on many different occasions while on our way to the Institute?
Where are you, bro.? Where are you going? What are you
Just now, too, when this Center is being put to the test to
see if it really provides the Training necessary to do the Job
We were flying together for a while, there, vato!
May 18, 1998
|Taste the Difference
As the final light caressed her frightened face a lone
dog was barking in the distance. "Help Me, Help Me!" I could still hear her
desperate cries for a path away from the one she was headed down. And down. Drowning and
drowning in a liquid sea of memories and fantasy. What would her final breath taste like
as it floated past her soft lips?
I could do nothing to help. I could only watch as that unseen hand pulled her
farther and farther under, deeper into the watery grave. There was a desire to swim only a
moment earlier. A way of traveling so much more direct than those crazy footpaths leading
back upon themselves. Then I was stunned by her cries, stunned by my desire to watch this
illusion unfolding before my hungry eyes.
There were voices here, parts in a play that I had lived but now was seeing
acted out in front of me. I passively remembered the confusion I had felt when those
scenes were real to me. The sunlight is shattered into a million beautiful fragments as
her hand reaches upward for another trip down memory lane.
The rings on her hand are reflected in solitary droplets of water, the
thrashing for survival goes on and on. The sky is so completely blue right at this moment.
I can see for miles until the dream of water comes close enough to land on my tongue and I
can taste the closeness of death. A sweet taste it is.
May 17, 1998
|What do we learn in school?
I ask my college students: "Whats the purpose
of a higher education school? What do they teach you?"
I wait for the initial wave of mechanical answers; those that come out of their
mouths before they have had time to digest the question. They recite all schools
propaganda. "We are here to learn to be productive citizens," "we learn how
to think", "to solve problems," "to earn a living," "to be
inquisitive," "to do research," "to know," "to question
authority," and many more.
I explain. I try to show that most of them dont really come out of school
knowing these things; that, in fact, there are some people who manage to learn some of
these things despite the schools. I then give them a hint. I ask them to pay attention to
those things that they actually do. I ask them to be specific. They decide that schools
teach them to read and write. They also teach some mathematics, and some basic history. In
the more advance levels, they also teach the students to argue, to appear important, to
convince others that they know something, and to find out data. These, they all agree, are
the basic skills that actually make them capable to make a more or less profitable living.
I agree with them on this point. I concede that, if they stick with higher education, a
lot of these characteristics will rub off on them. However, I also point out that all
these things could be taught much more effectively at an earlier age. Also, I argue with
them that there are techniques that would allow them all to do all these things without
having to go through so many years of anguish and stress. We would then be done with
higher education in much less time.
They argue that we dont just want to learn these vague skills. We also
want to learn a trade, they say. Thats why they agree with the necessity of learning
so many facts, of memorizing so much, of passing so many exams. There is an embarrassed
silence when I point out that all these things theyll really forget, and that all
working skills will have to be relearned over and over when they are actually working. I
give them another hint. I suggest that perhaps the basics (reading, writing, arguing,
etc.) are the necessary building blocks through which the university can pass on a way of
acting, a way of being, and a mood. I further suggest, quite unsuccessfully, that the
skills taught in higher education were the cement with which the school solidified and
made these acts, postures, and moods a permanent fixture in the lives of the
studentswho later would become the building blocks of society.
Finally, I ask them to see, to pay attention, to what they actually do. I ask
them what is in fact the state of being in which they find themselves more often. I
suggest that it is not really a state of knowing, or a state of questioning, or of
enlightenment, or of wonderment, or of performing a working skill. What they do, in fact,
is to live in a state of constant worry, stress, competition, fear. They learn that exams
are important, that convincing others of your knowledge is essential, that they need to
stress about the future, and constantly hang on to the past. Above all, they learn to live
in a state of periodic stress.
This is when they all tune out, exactly when I tell them that all of this is
not for their benefit. They no longer want to hear that all their trouble is not making
them better in any sense, except as cattle. That what they do, what they are becoming, if
for the benefit of something else. They reject the notion, as expected, that they are
being created, molded, and placed in specific positions to serve as food and clothing for
beings who have nothing to do with the students enlightenment, knowledge, and work.
May 16, 1998
|Waking up in a dream
Im dreaming the usual dreams of night sleep which
will be forgotten before the dreams of waking sleep come to replace them. Intoxicated
dreams, unconscious dreams. I dont know how it happens, but four officers catch me
holding an illegal substance and put me in the back of their car. Why such bad luck? I
cant believe this is happening. I am absolutely terrified, and try to hide the stuff
which will surely send me to jail. I know they are observing me, but they do not seem to
care that I am trying to hide something. I know that they are communicating with one
another in a way that I do not understand.
Then it dawns on me that these are not ordinary police. They are short, slight,
dressed in black. I cannot tell if they are men or women; they do not seem human.
Realizing that they are not from this planet, I wake up in the dream.
The dream assumes a quality that is somehow more real, more intense and vivid,
than ordinary life. My fear becomes even stronger. When they stop the car and let me out
of it, the energy around my body is so intense that I am vibrating back and forth, around
and around. I am powerless to stop this movement.
They hold me in place, and I understand that I am to look ahead. In an ordinary
road at night, a golden, glowing bridge opens. I feel that walking over the bridge would
lead me to other worlds. Why am I so afraid? As a child, I felt that I was living on the
wrong planet, like an alien in human skin, and longed to return to a home I could not
remember. Could this be the bridge to that world?
Wordlessly, the aliens communicate to me that they have brought me there to
show me the bridge. Now I remember that I have forgotten being here before. I am not ready
to walk across it, but this time I will not forget that it exists; I will remember this
experience. I understand that this is an important moment, and reflect on it after
returning to ordinary waking consciousness.
Today, I wonder what the bridge was. A bridge to other worlds? Dimensions?
Levels of existence? Who were the alien police, and why did they come for me? Was the
dream actually more real than waking life? Was it metaphorical? Or was the dream just the
product of a random firing of synapses? What does it all mean?
These are questions I cannot answer, but perhaps the answer is somewhere within
the process of asking the question, of remembering it and living with it. Perhaps it is
better not to have a definitive answer, for I would become content with such an answer and
perhaps even forget the question existed. An answer given as definitive could all too
easily become fossilized and dogmatic. Acknowledging that any answers will be incomplete
allows for openness and flexibility, opening the door for continuous growth and
transformation, for infinite possibilities.
May 15, 1998
Deep endless waves of blue and black
Electric energy captured in red
A Polaroid of my soul on canvas
In many colored beads upon a golden thread
The doors to many travels, dreams
And waking moments in a voyage
By little pudgy fingers from those not yet asleep
Multi colored masterpieces
May 14, 1998
A dangerous space made of turbulence, unpredictability
and chaos may be a path that you might travel in. Moving particles forming currents,
deforming currents, clashing against each other, and in all directions, would easily
decompose the particles you are made of and scatter you all over with its force. Such a
space does not consider stiffness, or any stable morphology; it will simply tear you to
It seems that one must blend in so as to become transparent, shapeshifting to
be able to cross such dark transitions. Discipline is of utmost importance to hope to last
through the start of such path. Attention and presence are the only tools you really have,
and the only ones that can save you from disintegration. Being repelled or attracted by
anything, even a tiny bit, means "good bye cruel world." To light your course
you must have purity of intention. Otherwise you will get lost, until the game is over
(meaning, no more player). Arent you curious what you will find on the other side?
May 13, 1998
|What do we do?
I am very often asked this question. In many forms and with many connotations
or assumptions, the question keeps on reappearing. Sometimes it implies a result: what do
we accomplish? What is there to gain? What's in it for me? When does the reward show up?
Other times it implies simple curiosity: What happens when you're together with the
others? What does it look like when you're alone? What is in your hands? What goes through
your mind? What do you repeat softly under your breath? Yet other times it implies a quest
for historical knowledge: What words do you use? What gods do you follow? What rituals do
you keep? What lineage do you come from? What influences your practices? Who taught you
what you know? Who taught them? Where does it all begin?
How can such a question be truly answered?
Move sideways with me and stare out into emptiness,
just as your eyes open for the first time on a world of serious faces and a woman's tears
of joy. Look at all the eyes that surround you, all the ones who are there throughout the
day and the ones who come to visit the new one, the tiny little body that was just
expelled from the comfort of your mother's belly. Look at the straight lines of the roads,
the curves of the trees, the distance of the clouds, the warmth of the sun. Feel the edge
of old ice as you slip into a desk, as you hear ancient sounds repeating in your ears and
chalk moving over blackboard, as you slowly learn to repeat the sounds, to code them on
paper and dream them at night. Sense the midnight passing of innocence and the quick
descent into sureness and boredom, into "things have been settled and now it's time
for action". Hear again the counselor's voice and point at one word over another as
you take the long trip into adult training that will culminate in a piece of paper and a
solid block against starvation and the cold of the rain and the wind of the streets. Open
your eyes to the alarm and slide softly into the endless rhythm of the office, the gossip
of your officemates and the monthly rush of an envelope with frozen energy inside. And
then feel again the late remembrances, the sweet painful nostalgia for what has passed and
the old questions resurfacing just as the brain is about to stop and the ancient codes are
breaking down within you. Then close you eyes for the darkness comes.
Now tell me:
What do you do?
May 11, 1998
|Lost in Space?
Where was it that I was headed when I passed through that
last doorway? I scratch my head again, feeling the familiar confusion well up inside me.
It is a comforting feeling to the machine, visions of cherry plums dancing through my
head. A distraction that seduces me slowly and patiently. "I remember myself as the
voyager whose deepest nature is the Clear Light itself." I repeat these words as I
pass through the next doorway and then (like the last time) I crash my head painfully on
the door frame thats a few inches lower than I am expecting. That hurts. I stagger
forward and wonder why this keeps happening.
I remember now that there are forces at work that are focused on keeping the
machine asleep. The longer I hold them back the stronger they push, and this wont
change for a very long time. If I am looking for rest it isnt through that doorway.
The pain increases before it subsides. Can I hold it back? Now it presses down
on me, mercilessly flattening my efforts. The resistance. Why do I eternally resist? Why
do I say "tomorrow" when I am asked to work today? Why do I deny the help that
waits in front of me? There are simple answers waiting in the silence. But as a thousand
psychotic madmen chase me into the abyss I am having trouble finding the silence. Is it
there? Or there? I missed it again. Choosing the first open door and running frantically
down the stairs I am alone in the dark. In this momentary space of rest I now that it is
time to start over once again.
May 10, 1998
|HaikuDark, white, and golden clouds
gliding between earth and sky,
How difficult, to work at night!
May 8, 1998
|Games without frontiers
It is a festival. A large crowd of people, some almost naked, some
dressed in all kinds of colorful paraphernalia, dance around the band which has been
playing for the last several hours. In fact, they haven't stopped at all for the last two
hours. Songs around here start with verses and lines, but end with one single line
repeated over and over, while there is running commentary from the main singer, the
instruments and the crowd. The line is simple, direct, profound and almost ungraspable:
"Sadness has no end, happiness does."
As the line repeats, the crowd becomes more and more
hysterical, the dances more intricate, the sweat proliferates and the screams grow louder.
It is as if with each passing through the barrier of the mind, with each slight memory of
the reality being sung before them, the truth penetrates a little bit deeper, just a
little, and the brains stop their chatter, the bodies stop their refusal and the heart
opens up to the infinite possibilities before them, the endless voyaging through the
light, in spiraling confusions and intricate imaginations.
And whatever wasn't happening before, probably won't
be happening later. And nothing was happening before. And everything has already happened.
And the truth of it finds another foothold and digs even deeper.
"Sadness has no end"
Forever within time.
Eternally outside of time.
The drums keep on beating. The dancers keep on
moving. The tears keep on flowing. There is no end in sight.
May 7, 1998
|Inside or outside?
There are so many people who are truly looking for
a spiritual path. Somehow, perhaps intuitively, they know or they sense that spirituality
is connected to the non-phenomenal nature of reality. As a consequence, what they do is
exercise, practice, pray, etc., from within their mental centrum. Catch my drift?
Its all imagined, holographically created by the head brain. Ironically, this is
what keeps them from actually doing something that will help them spiritually. There must
be a connection, a bridge, or a fusion between the outer and the inner worlds. This can
only be accomplished by using the brain as a moving centrum. In other words, the head
brain should not be producing involuntary thoughts but rather focusing and concentrating
attention, and therefore bringing the awareness to the present. Only in this state it is
possible to work in a spiritual path, whatever the form or means happens to be (through
prayer beads, going to church, cleaning the house, combing the hair, eating, etc.). This
is the key to DOING something real for spiritual work.
May 6, 1998
|Little Old Man
What I've come to realize is that every night I go to the same places, only
in different configurations and sequences. Yep, there's the long shadowy corridor, and
there's the big houses with white walls, and over there are the spare trees with kids
playing underneath. I could even venture to say that it has been the same places all
along, but I've simply failed to recognize them in my drunk reconstruction of the events,
early in the morning.
But lately I've had a visitor. It is a little old
man, dressed in some kind of bright robe. He is probably about half my height, with a long
nose and lively eyes. All he does is follow me around from space to space, room to room,
situation to situation. He never questions my decisions, never disagrees with my choices.
He just smiles and echoes my visions.
"Oh, yes! Time to step into the garden!"
"Alright! It's time for the long corridor!"
"Okay! Let's go to the houses!"
It is somehow reassuring to have him there, always so
happy to follow me into any situation, no matter how strange or troublesome. He has made
me realize that I've taken all the options before. He obviously has them all memorized,
and he enjoys them in the way you or I would enjoy a good song that we've heard a thousand
His running commentary is having a secondary effect
though. Suddenly I feel an urge to surprise him, to show him places he's never seen. And
so I walk into the old corridor, but turn at the wrong moment to find a door that was
never there before.
"Let's go through here!"
The little man smiles.
May 5, 1998
The Saga Continues
Sometimes I find myself riding in my car,
wearing a prisoners outfit. All by myself, riding in my car, I usually forget that
Im in prison. This time I find myself in a different kind of cell. I find myself
inside of a huge prison, a prison with no walls and no bars, just an endless landscape of
mountains, cities, oceans and skies. As I park my car on the edge of a cliff, overlooking
some mountains and a sunrise behind them, I somehow realize that I am the only prisoner in
this place; everyone else forms the guards and the police. The whole world is made up of
thousands of guards and one prisoner, me. And much to my surprise and somewhat to my
relief, I can see that the guards dont know that Im a prisoner. They are just
like robots, going from place to place yet always remaining in the same spot.
Me, I can move. I am the only one that can move
through them while remaining invisible in this place. They just perform their duties day
in, day out, always believing that they are genuine living beings, never realizing that
they are just robots programmed to keep me and those of my kind my brothers
prisoners, here, to be slaves.
They must be mistaking me for one of their own,
because theyre not looking at me the way they should be. They just pass me by
without the smallest concern for my actions and intentions, as if I were just one of the
many thousands of robots forming their community. That is why I am able to move so
swiftly, because everywhere I go, in every short moment, everyone who sees me believes
that they are looking at something ordinary, for they are machines unable to distinguish
anything out of the ordinary.
So I get out of the car and walk downhill, hoping to
find a way out of here, hoping to not be recognized by the guards, and hoping to find my
freedom once more.
I reach the bottom to find myself in the middle of an
immense clearing, with the cliff to my back and a small river with a little bridge in
front of me. On either side of me, on the edge of the clearing, there are trees. Beyond
the river in front of me, far away into the horizon, there is a gigantic city, with
skyscrapers and complex highways and freeways and streets and alleys. The whole city is
full of concrete, asphalt, machines of all sorts, wires and tubes, full of cockroaches and
rats and birds and humans, animals, monsters, demons. The city roars louder that all the
beasts that have ever lived in this place put together.
All throughout and within the green, grassy clearing
in which I am , there are police men and police women, with their furious police dogs
(nasty, bloody teeth always showing as they snarl) sniffing away at everything, trying to
find those "on the loose" prisoners like myself.
Here I awaken, and I remember the bridge again. I
move towards the bridge, maybe a little too fast and too suddenly, for the dogs
immediately recognize the scent of the footsteps of an awakened being, and they turn to
look in my direction, but they still havent seen me. The guards act as if nothing
unusual has happened, but I freeze in place nonetheless, for the dogs always recognize me
when I move fast.
This time I seem to have moved a little bit closer to
the bridge than last time (or do I always believe so?) and I can see a doorway in the
middle of the bridge, a dimensional doorway out of this world, out of this prison of mine.
But the dogs are not as stupid as their "masters" and they can always detect
unnatural phenomena; they sensed my move towards the bridge and they come in my direction,
sniffing everything in their path all the while, getting closer and closer to me, still
unable to see me.
I look towards the bridge once again; the doorway is
still open, inviting me with its promise of freedom. Many more guards than before are now,
all of a sudden, closer to the bridge, moving fast from one spot to another, reminding me
of a busy anthill just after someone has stepped on it, making it harder for me to move.
Im frozen, and I dont know what to do.
Intense vibrations run all through me on this moment as I try to decide what to do. If I
run towards to bridge now, I might make it (Im sure Im closer than last time).
The dogs are now much closer, and they have smelled me they know who I am.
Terrible, loud barking from the dogs reaps through
the air like the alarm at the prison hall within which I now sleep. The cops let the dogs
loose and they dash towards me; they will tear me apart again the second they catch me if
I try to run. If I remain still, they will wait for their masters to grab me and chain me
up taking me then back to my cell, to wait forever again for another chance
Well how could I not hesitate upon recognizing the
doorway? For all I know, that doorway could always lead to a lower dimension, where it is
harder to escape. And where the heck is the guide, anyway? Where are they when you need
them? How come I cant recognize the guide? Is there a guide?
I remember the book, what did it say on the book?
What were the instructions I read so much? Where is my memory now, when I need it to
remember the descriptions, the instructions?
If only the guide would tell me what to do, where to
go... Where is the guide?
May 4, 1998
I find myself in the same room once again. There are no windows.There
are drapes in front of these non-existent windows. Fluorescent beams reflect flatly off of
the forest green carpet and the peach walls. The smell is familiar, the smell of death? or
is it just a broken air conditioner?
Around me are many others, I sense their machines crowding this little space,
their minds running wildly from thought to thought, their agitation annoys me.
In front of us a woman spews words. She cackles like a fire with only a few
remaining embers, one that refuses to be extinguished completely. She is anxious to leave,
to be free of this room, to return to the spacious sky and sea of her Santa Cruz refuge.
I am doodling. Dragging the black ink around the white paper until I see
something interesting. I proceed as usual and start sketching an eye, then another eye,
and then a nose, and soon some sort of alien face appears on the page. It looks back at me
with a curious gaze. "Who put you in this room?", I hear the alien say,
"Why did you just create me?"
I start to answer but am distracted by the sound of cars crashing on the
television set, a symphony of crushing metal and twisted iron. I look up to see the face
of a woman, she is trapped in her smashed vehicle, her mouth is full of blood, there are
police officers surrounding her. They are trying desperately to cut her out of the car
using the "jaws of life". Her eyes are full of pain, dazed by the split second
change, one moment a waitress returning home from the night shift, the next a broken
machine inside of a broken machine. "It happened so fast, I just want to get back to
my life," she says later from her hospital bed.
As the TV reluctantly releases my attention I return to the stale smell of this
eternal chamber once again. The alien has leaped off of the page and is jumping excitedly
about the room, disrupting everyone's attention from the TV set. "Wake up, Wake
UP!", he yells loudly but to no avail. The people are running away.
They search franticly for the jaws of life, some magical weapon that can cut
them free from this chaos of twisted memories, shattered illusions and broken dreams that
fill the lives of those trapped in the human dimension. But if the jaws of life were
suddenly to appear in front of them, its sharp teeth snapping wildly for fresh meat, they
would probably run away in search of a room with a TV set and a man doodling small
characters in sketch book. Back and forth and forth and back we go eternally in search of
May 3, 1998
Exhausted after pulling an all-nighter I decide to take a
walk outside my hotel room. My head is full of noise. All the details of the current work
projects keep repeating themselves, alternating with financial worries, intermixing with
thoughts of loneliness for being far away from the family and the fear of not having
enough time to write my dissertation. To this increasing cacophony the mind adds thoughts
of work on self, of spiritual possibilities and speculation. Thoughts become plans. New,
exiting possibilities appear before me, making me forget all worries. Even the tiredness
from last night vanishes in the excitement of future possibilities, as if by my planning
them they had all become a fact. All worries and loneliness give way to fantasy work, to
imaginary fulfillment, and to a mechanical way of dealing with pain by replacing it with
It is in the midst of this turbulence, when I am too identified with my monkey
mind to even notice the silliness of it, the pain within, the fear... it is in the midst
of all this that a most magnificent desert sunrise stops me in my tracks. It comes
unexpectedly, as if I just walked into its space. In this space, I find myself surrounded
by the powerful beauty of the Arizona desert, the clear air, the colors, and the sun. The
As the expression goes, I was arrested.
Then I wondered. Is this what the fugitive, the criminal, the illegal alien,
the drugged adolescent, and the sex offender feel when they are first arrested? I wonder
if there is that moment of silence for them, when all previous machinations of the ego
come to a sudden and full stop, and nothing remains but the silent presence of self in the
midst of a powerfully charged space.
I also wonder. Is this the true reason why we keep violating the Law (human,
natural, or divine), just so that we can relive that one moment, however brief? Do we all
betray our essence over and over, only because we have found no other way of regaining it?
May 2, 1998
|The Strange Case of Mr. M
Within the garage, there is a medium sized freezer. At some forgotten point
in the past, he found his way into it and forgot the way out. Now he dreams of the dim
places he remembers, the forests, the valleys, the streets, the people. Sometimes kids
play outside and the noise awakens certain yearnings within him, a darkness falls upon
him, a feeling of certain doom, of being forgotten and of having left so much behind. But
then the kids leave and he can rest.
"Mr. M, are you in there?"
"Yes, still here."
The lid opens and a tray of cold food is dropped
inside. The hand is soft and slender, the voice is kind and sweet. He bites through the
soft, slightly rotten sandwich and the drinks the stale milk, while hears the footsteps
moving away. Then sleep comes again and the voice is confused with the sounds of
electricity and dripping water. In the midst of the dream, he is transported to the day
when he opens the lid and stands up, his eyes exploding in tears as a reaction to the
strong light. It is too much and he is back to that day when he looked all around him,
made sure nobody was following, walked quietly into the garage and allowed himself to drop
into the little freezer, away from fear, away from danger, away from the light.
May 1, 1998
"Will you give me a sheet of paper to paint
"And I want another one
well, if there is
The table smelled of acrylic and sweat. We
moved frantically, interchanging colors and brushes. I concentrated on painting, but at
the same time, I observed all the concentrated energy at that moment. I was filled with
enthusiasm and I moved with a lot more liberty, letting my brush strokes move fluidly and
spontaneously. We were creating one only
being, one thing, one invocation, and I could see that, until
"Listen, what youre painting appears to
have a lot of influence from mister Gold I can also see a lot of influence from
your mother in law."
I spoke without ever lifting my face from the
"Yeah, and whats wrong with that?"
"Well, you should have your own style."
"Do you mean like EJs and my mother in
laws own style?"
I laughed sarcastically and said:
"Well, let me tell you, that EJ does not have
only one form or style of painting, and that my mother in laws style has been
affected by the style of other painters, who have, in turn, been influenced by others and
on and on it goes
which said fact indicates, at least to me, that all painters are
the same. In other words: There is only one painter."
I continued working, assuming that the conversation
had finished, feeling a little less concentrated and out of place. The conversation
continued. I asked for silence because I wished to continue painting, but I was talking to
the void, and it wont ever keep quiet.
April 30, 1998
I looked up the word communication in the
The dictionary definition is as follows: the exchange of
ideas, messages, or information, as by speech, signals, or writing. The definition,
however, is incomplete, lacking its true meaning. I dont believe communication is
only achieved through speech, signals, or writing, those are just some of the forms used
to communicate. There may be forms of communication that are deeper and far more reaching
than that which we have become accustomed to. Ive had the sense many times that true
communication is not through speech itself but through a form that most of us dismiss
because we are simply unable to describe or perceive.
For example, have you ever been in the company of a close
friend, and every time you open your mouth to say something your friend beats you to the
punch and says exactly what you were just about to say? This is just one of many examples
of those other types of communication that require no words, physical signals or writing.
This type of communication is achieved with a special kind
of attention that Im not yet certain of but may have used, since I feel it is the
form of communication all beings are by nature designed to use. This method of
communication may be transmitted through many vehicles and takes on many mysterious forms.
For example, about a month ago I was doing a project where I
was supposed to pick a name for a character that was going to represent me; I chose the
name Solimar. Two days ago my sister was born. They named her Marisol.
Coincidence? I think not. I believe there is actually a
connection between the birth and the name picking of my character and of my sister.
It is too bad that most of us limit ourselves to the
incomplete definition given in the dictionary and take for granted the real art of
April 29, 1998
...But, where am I going?
Why should you go anywhere?
I seek,... yes, I'm seeking, but here, something
isnt working, its very easy to fall asleep,..., I need a strong push, a
situation in which my attention is demanded.
So, that at the same time as I demand my own
attention, this becomes a necessity for me.
...But, then, where am I going?
Im looking for somewhere, where I can express.
A place where madness has a space... here where I
live, the "insane" are locked up.
"Youre crazy!, how can you think about
leaving all that you have to go to nothing? Here you have it all, how can you just waste
it all ...and, so young, with a lifetime ahead of you! ... going there, where people live
so badly, they are poor, what misery!!, and youre going there? I dont
"Why have you got to go so far? Thats what
I cant understand. And just at this moment, just when things are as they are and we
havent made up, I feel you are so far away and now...even further."
There is no communication, things will never change
just because I try and wait for the best moment, the best moment is only in the present,
and if you understand this, that is all you need to know, you will never go anywhere...
So, I left my small island to understand the
importance of the present, and here I am in a situation where I am having to live the
present. Its certainly stimulating.
I try and feel myself, its difficult, but the
truth is I have come all the way to San Francisco , after spending two weeks, living from
day to day through events that are cleaner than ever, I have been able to see how every
decision (no matter how small) I make ( or they just happen in the worst of cases) changes
my direction on a road full of crossroads. This also happens in ordinary life, but in a
situation where one is so "comfortable" one cant be so aware because there
isn't a need for it.
These last two weeks, externally, have just been
passing by like a film sequence (possibly, as the impressions are so strong, one tends to
embrace one self in a kind of a shell) where I didnt feel I suffered from a great
inflation from all the new things I came across, and this is certainly not normal in me
when I travel (even though sometimes something jumps out to feel more).
But I believe that the reason why there is that
dispassion (externally) is because inside the movement is stronger, attention is required
from me, and that is a job that has a great effect on one. Even though there might be many
moments where its not possible to do, the perturbation or upset is still working its
way, and the sensation of anguish still remains.
So, a trip to find ones self means that one
comes across situations where one mustn't control. In a state where one could be in front
of a mirror and not see it (like in ordinary life), and one must be responsible and
consequent when one recognizes himself and can see. Thats the point!!!
Its way more dangerous than anything the people
I left behind could think of, when they worried about my economic situation in a foreign
country...will I really be able to confront this that I am seeking, when its face to
face with me?
Im looking for a place where madness isnt
covered up, because I believe that in a moment of transformation, madness shouldnt
be covered up.
And I need a place where nothing and nobody will
slice in half this moment of transition. To only get half way through would be a total
So, then, where am I going?
Whatever direction I make, the decisions, made from
moment to moment, will take me.
April 28, 1998
The young prince sat on top of a rock in the middle
of space. Far in the horizon and all around the young princes little sitting rock,
the mountains and castles and forests of the Kings domain could be seen resting on
top of a flat world more like a flat, ring shaped rock floating in infinite space.
Other than the flat world and the young prince and his little sitting rock, only billions
of brilliant specks of light being vacuumed at the speed of light within a black, empty,
and infinite space could be seen.
The young prince was thoughtful; he looked a little
troubled. His father, the King, who, except as a presence, was really an altogether
non-existent being by nature, came to the young prince. On that cold, lonely moment, the
King gave his son all of his attention
"Dad, suppose you had been part of a Working
group for almost two years now, and that, for the past month, month-and-a-half, for some
reason, you had been trying your hardest to avoid the ever-increasing work that had been
given to you," said the little prince, creating thunderous ripples of sound that
would fly forever through never-ending space.
"Suppose, dad, that for about a month-and-a-half
youve been pretending to go to your on-call job at least three times a
week, wasting valuable time and energy in endless, worthless pursuits of personal
pleasure, knowing damned well that the job does not exist any more," the young prince
said, only this time in thought.
"Lets also pretend that you have been
purposely getting involved in your familys drama and have been spending many days
draining the energy of your group. Youve been wasting it in worthless attempts at
trying to (in a very ordinary and illusionary way) fix your familys insignificant,
trivial little problems of daily, contemporary, monkey existence," dreamed the young
"Wow, wait a minute there, son," the King
intentionally interrupted at a strategic moment in the young princes existence.
"Thats enough dreaming and pretending there. We have the famous Five Spaniard
Workers coming to visit, and theres just no more time for illusion right now."
"But well just be pretending, dad, like
always," insisted the young prince.
"Well just pretend that you became one of
the most useless and worthless little pieces of crap that have ever walked the face of
your world, dad. And that, as a result, for the last month-and-a-half, you wasted valuable
time and effort which could have otherwise been used for the benefit of all beings
everywhere," the young prince dreamt once more.
"Let us just pretend that you have been avoiding
all of your responsibilities as a labyrinth guide apprentice, as a Reader for the dead, as
a representative of your School and of your group. Lets just say, dad, that, worst
of all, you have been putting no effort what so ever into making any sort of sacrifice or
intention towards waking up from your messed up state," he just would not stop
"Let us pretend, dad," the young prince,
this time in a nightmare, suddenly experienced, "that, you completely identified with
your machine, giving yourself pleasure for lifetimes at a time in front of your life
theater every day hiding from all of your group members behind a wall of
The whole illusion could very easily have been seen
as a phenomenon that could just as easily keep the young, inattentive prince asleep
forever. But then, at the same time that a rush of electricity that felt as if he were
being given a jump start, the young prince received a special surprise of the coincidental
variety from a "Galactic Department" or a "Planetary Office" of some
sort or another. And also at the same time, "Joder!" was heard across the
universe in a Spaniards accent
the visitors had arrived!
That whole incident incidentally caused the young
prince to momentarily wake up, and that was much to the Kings relief, since there
was now a lot of work to do. The young prince, taking advantage of his seemingly
accidental but actually coincidental awakening, pondered, "Dad, is it true that there
are certain octaves during which one might need a little outside help?"
"Well, sure there are, son," informed the
King. "Why do you ask?"
"Dad?" the young prince automatically
"Yes son?" the King attended.
"I just received a gift, and I must immediately
return to the kingdom if I am to have it it is necessity
oops, hehe, I meant
to say necessary," the young prince, a little embarrassed, puffed-off
April 27, 1998
|The Quest For Questions
Why are we here? What happens when we die? How can
I serve other beings? Many questions fill my head but I am thinking about the nature of
the question. Could it be that a question is a living being, full of life and wonder.
Feeding on many things, curiosity, confusion, and occasionally actually something real.
The essence questions are what I am talking about. The ones that come from the heart, from
the deep places of our beings.
The habit most people have when they are asked a question is
to answer it. A question carries a charge with it, a charge most people want to shake off
as quickly as possible. The deeper the question is the stronger its related charge. The
charge isnt in the content of the questions though, it comes from the place where
the question emanates.
The impulse to answer and be done with a question as quickly
as possible is a step toward death. The question is alive, its answer rarely can be so
vibrant. A teacher knows how to give an answer without killing the question completely,
leaving a space for the questioner to quest for his own answer. The only answers that
really matter are those that we have come upon through experience and vigilance, those
that we have discovered through our own efforts.
April 26, 1998
|How to remember
In the comic strip BEETLE BAILEY, the general entered a
room, and asked this question:
"Why did I enter here?"
Then he thought:
"I should maybe go out and maybe Ill remember why I entered,"
and when he got out, he wondered:
"Why did I come out here?".
This is what happens in life to most people. They
get a life to do something for a particular reason, possibly to learn a valuable lesson,
or have a special experience, then they wonder why they took on life. Then you turn into
an angel again, only to wonder, like the general, "Why did I get here?" Then an
angel/person does the same thing yet again. The angel/person doesnt remember why he
is where he is. He then decides to take on a life to find out, to remember. This will keep
happening until one receives the power of awakening. To be awake will make you remember
why you entered life because when you are awake, it makes your mind quiet, and you
remember what it was like when you were a baby, and that was the moment after you decided
what your purpose in life would be. You will keep going in and out wondering why you
entered here and why you left there, thinking that the next room will remind you of why
you entered the last room. And when you do enter the next room, you will forget this, and
this shall keep happening until you acquire the special attention that allows you to
remember yourself as you enter each room.
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