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June 25,1998


We were there looking for somebody, nobody special, just somebody in that particular house at that precise time. We went through the early morning rooms, sun shining on empty beds, no one at sight. We kept going through the whole house, there was something eerie in those empty rooms and hallways, what were we doing there? Who was the one we were looking for? Was it important? None of us seemed to care, in fact I am not sure there were more of us. Suddenly the whole scene had turned into something beyond the apparent day to day first glance impression… time had expanded, the sun shone for eons on the same spots. Now we were floating through the hall to the kitchen, something oppressive was lingering in the shadows, an urge was rising inside me, get the hell out of here. We kept walking inside in spite of the fear, then one of us felt like drinking water and went and turned the tap of the kitchen sink on...We were not prepared for it, music poured clearly from the tap, fresh, clean and cool music undistinguishable from that you get in the radio. And whatever it was that was lingering in the shadows before came out and floated in the melody, pervading the whole place with the certainty that we were being changed forever, with the unbearable knowledge that we are not even what we think we are. We were dumbfounded, looking for a person we found the unexplainable, drifting away in the eerie tune, our intents were forever bounded to that lingering presence. We were not us.

We are them.

June 24,1998


"The war in Miceland burst,
Screams were heard, the alarm was heard
it was heard in the exploding of the weapons in the city ...,
but a good little mousy...how good that is!
has hidden under a piece of cheese."

"The battle was hard, cruel and bloody
The dead would fall big and small,
but they kept on fighting, struggling hard
while the good little mousy...how good that is!
was always within the piece of cheese"

"Only ruins of Miceland remained
many big and small died,
but the ones who still lived would jump
on top of the defeated cat.

Out came to sing victory
our little mousy...how, how good that is!
he was always under the piece of cheese!!

June 23,1998

Once Again the Evil Eye

"I read your web page about the evil eye ,but I could not understand it ,can you please explain to me, in simple English ,the cause of the evil eye and how it effects others."

Basically, the Evil Eye has the effect of nullifying life energy. We can talk about its effects at two different levels: the acute ailment and the chronic effect. When an ailment is acute, the disease is concentrated and intensified. Someone with acute Evil Eye disturbs life energy with such violence that he or she can cause plants to die, children and little animals can easily get violently ill and die (usually from diarrhea or other digestive problems), and adults can develop unexplained disturbances ranging from nightmares to incurable diseases.

Now, someone who has Evil Eye doesn't get sick, but he or she causes other beings to get sick and die. The chronic effect of Evil Eye is something that afflicts most of us. In this case, the bearer of Evil Eye is the one who ultimately suffers the consequences of his or her uncontrolled psychic energy. The long term effects are equally destructive of life and energy.

People who are afflicted by the chronic Evil Eye usually noticed that, when they where children life seemed full and abundant. Days were full of light, strong sensations, smells, clear sounds, and beautiful and fulfilling emotions. Every room offered vibrant enjoyment and every person was full of interesting knowledge. In short, every moment used to be filled with magic, life, and divine enjoyment. These people also noticed that, as they grew up, everything begun to change. The world became dull and repetitive, unsurprising, and without life. This is because they got the chronic version of Evil Eye. They also tend to affect those around them, in such a way that they slowly but surely suck the life out of the people who surround them. When almost everyone you know is affected, then life surely becomes dull, predictive, and unfulfilled. It becomes almost impossible to escape and enjoy life once again.

One sure sign of chronic Evil Eye is when childhood dreams now seem impossible, and even the simple acts of taking control of one's life become impossible to implement. The article you read deals with an ancient technique for transforming this ailment into something that you can use to transform yourself and the world around you-in effect bringing the magic of life back into your every day experience.

June 22,1998

Friends are Forever

Those little demons have misplaced my wallet and house keys again. They've stolen my belongings and are holding my memory hostage. "I am missing something," I repeat to myself, but I can't quite remember what. I'm getting phone calls in the middle of the night and I am on the other end.

"Get up and replace all the light bulbs in your house!" I say to myself.

"Tomorrow," I respond.

My paranoia rises at the site of a sunset. Is it real or is it Memorex? The demons have placed there attention inside the minds of certain people I pass on the street. That woman, over there, with the shopping bag from Macy's, why is she looking at me that way? And that waiter at the Sushi Bar, why would he refuse to honor my requests? The conspiracy of nothing mounts and mounts, until it ultimately reveals nothing.

Inside my private enclave I partake of coded wisdom, some from plants, some from books, some from the pixels that fall off my computer screen. He's dead! He has finally passed into the great unknown! Hooray! There was a song he used to sing to me when the clouds were a special blue, "can you feel, can you see, there is only one way to the real....". The metallic notes echo off those memories like soft green jello. Tasty.

Yesterday I saw the face of one of my demon friends. They show their faces a bit more now, getting comfortable I guess. His eyes were wide with humor and mischief, our glances crossed for an eternal second and then he was gone. Faded right back into the wood grain on my bedroom door. In that moment I knew something very clearly, sometimes I really love those little demons.

June 21,1998

Angel of Death

We cover our death with our everyday activities and concerns. Our ordinary everyday life is actually an elaborate spell to banish the presence of the Angel of Death.

Some magicians, however, have realized that the Angel cannot be kept at bay, not efficiently. They have come to the conclusion that the only valuable way of dealing with the Angel of Death is to confront her, when she comes, in the most spiritual, aware, and truthful manner. So they spend all their lives preparing for this monumental instant. They believe that, if they live the right life, if they think the right thoughts, and feel the right emotions throughout their lives then they will be able to face the Angel with equanimity.

These magicians are correct, of course, but they are correct in a backward manner: the only way magicians can ever be correct.

It is not that the way we live our lives determines the moment of our death. The moment of death cannot be predefined; the Angel cannot be cajoled, trapped, bribed, or constrained in any way. It's the other way, actually.

The manner of our death-how we face it-determines the way we live our lives.

June 20,1998


The so called uncomfortableness of a given situation. It can open some doors because something is in the way and we don’t know what. We’ve been removed from our habitual state in ordinary life, in which we can manage perfectly, with no problem at all.

We’re obligated to pay more attention to the situation because we desperately want to get back to our "ordinary" . It’s not the first time it happens. We always close our eyes to the horror of the situation. What can be different this time?. May be this time you want give this state an end, and try to understand what is happening?. That’s how it is. We won’t have to close our eyes this time. We’ll have to see what’s going on. It’s not comfortable, it’s not easy. But, this is what you are, doubt, fear, etc,. We don’t create anything more than just what we were taught at school ( society, culture, etc,.) when we were little and we still wanted to live.

The need to look for something will make you find the way to know the other side, the vital part that you have and that isn’t used in ordinary life.

June 19,1998


I feel non-sense, I’ve lost sense, nothing makes sense. That’s tough, just like… like nothing. Why am I here like this? Why, this agonizing feeling? Oh! I just can’t seem to get rid of it…

"Aha!!! Caught-ya! The problem isn’t loosing sense! The problem is you wanting to get rid of this… just too difficult, is it? Oh, you poor thing, don’t I feel sorry for you! You got yourself in this, you wanted more than just ordinary comfortable living, so you got it, can’t take it? … it’s your turn now to be responsible for you decision, consequent."

Yes, responsibilities, a very important and difficult issue at the same time. I think one of the most important issues for ones own development. I’m seeing this for myself each day, a decision can’t be made, without being ready to deal with the consequence of this decision, either working out a way you can take it or working out a way that isn’t easy for you and thus be used for your own development.

But the question is: how many more ways is my machine going to use to try and not feel this agony? If only a second of not being aware can be the worst moment, where one is pulled back by the force of the stream, what the hell’s happening to me? I’m really not doing anything or going any where. So is the effort I make when I try and remember myself worth anything if 2 minutes later I shrivel up profoundly in agony wanting to escape from a feeling of zero gravity? Or is this natural? Is this simply the way it’s "supposed" to be?

June 18,1998

This House

Please enter this house
Watch as the light in this chamber cast ghostly pale shadows on the walls.
Do you recognize any of the shadows, residents of this old house?
This is a very old house so step lightly
Many strangers have walked through the very spot you now stand in.
Many like you have found shelter here on many strange journeys.
You may by now feel an odd chilling sensation,
Now that you have entered this house once again,
Welcome home
You are a resident here
You are a shadow cast on the walls of this chamber
Watch as the light guides you home

June 16,1998

A Kind of Death

Would you say that every bardo experience is a kind of death? ‘Cause there were Bardo readings going on like there was no tomorrow…

A knock on the door at 5-something in the morning – I freeze. My eyes wide open, beginning to adjust. It is dark, still and quiet in my room (did somebody just knock?). I sense someone at the door – my attention goes to it. Slight stir on the other side – clothes rubbing against skin, shoes against wooden floor.


"Who is it?"

"It’s Heather…Rick is in jail!"


Her face full of fear and confusion ("They’re saying he fits the description of someone who’s wanted."), her eyes full of tears ("They won’t let me see him and they won’t let me talk to him…").


"Hi, you’ve reached 994…and we’ll call you right back!"



"Hi, you’ve reached 994…and we’ll call you right back!"



"Hi, you’ve reached 994…and we’ll call you right back!"


How about that World Cup, huh?



"…So, what’s happened with Rick?"

"…They say his finger prints match that Guillermo guy’s, so they’re not letting ‘m go…"




"Hi…how are you?"

"Well, not so good…"

"Why – what’s up?"

"Rick is in jail."

"Ok, we’re on it. Call back later…"

How about them esoteric schools, huh? Always doing their stuff…

A moment of transition causing veils of illusion to melt away one by one, suspending day to day reality. And our minds, the last ones to believe…"I can’t believe it!"

June 15,1998

Who the Hell is Guillermo Perez?

It’s 3 AM on Saturday morning and I am confused. "Hands over your head, spread your legs, wider!" The orders are being barked into my ears and you can probably guess who is saying them. Click. Snap. The cuffs go on and my hands are behind my back. In moments I am in custody. A prisoner.

Disbelief and confusion wash over me. I’m shaking, little tremors that start in my stomach and expand outwards. Knees rattle like spastic maracas. I recognize this reaction to fear, it’s not unfamiliar, I remember that it’s okay to feel fear but it’s not okay to panic. I breathe deeply.

"There must be some mistake."

The face of the cop says he agrees but he can’t let me go. A long time ago he agreed to play by the rules. "Says here you have an AKA (also known as) of Guillermo Perez and there is a 1994 warrant out for his/your arrest." The ride to the station is quick.

They stopped me because my car looked like someone who had been fighting on Haight Street. They quickly realized I wasn’t beating up the "gutter punks" on Haight but now they have another, even bigger mistake to make. Is there a theme to this unfolding series of mistaken identities? Who do I think I am anyway?

A short time later I am in the paddy wagon. Headed down to CJ9 (County Jail Nine). I’ve been there before but that was in a past life, and that’s another story anyway. The fear is peaking now. It’s pitch black back in here except for a little square of barred light that dances off our faces as the van turns and swerves. The four of us are cuffed and quiet. I repeat the quatrain over and over, "All phenomena is illusion . . ."

Inside they take a photo of me holding Guillermo Perez’s name in front of my face. This is going a bit far but there is no point in arguing, that’s for the judge. Not these cogs (cops) in the depths of the machine. The cogs all have the same square look. Righteous attitude. Huge bodies. Chests like freight trains, ready to explode at any sign of disobedience. Their guns and weapon belts hang proudly at their sides. They make careful efforts to swagger slowly from position to position. You are in our possession now and you can wait. What’s the rush?

My clothes are taken away. Pants, sweater, shirt, underwear and socks, all exchanged for a unique set of neon orange prison fatigues. I am taken to the first of many cells. All the cells look out onto the sheriffs area, you sit inside and watch them sit around and do nothing while you wait. Then they move you to another cell so you can get another view of them slowly doing nothing. There is a heaviness in here that is oppressive, the fluorescent lights, the low ceiling, the looks of boredom and smugness from both sides of the window. This is one strange place, and I am one of it’s inhabitants.

As I enter the cell the TV provides the first clue I have been waiting for. The TV offers, "...is God trying to tell you something or is this just a random series of chaotic events?" Good question. I’ve got some time to ponder that one. What could God be telling me here? Could he be putting me face to face with my fear of authority? Or burning off my attachments to identity? Or is it something else?

I sit down and take a closer look at my surroundings. There are at least fifteen of us neon orange prisoners in here. Five or six lay sprawled out on the floor sleeping. Others stretch out on the benches. A symphony of snoring fills the air, music to remember. Most of those here are black men, some middle aged and beaten, a couple of gangsta teens with baby faces, a few my age with the talk of "experience" with these spaces.

The hours pass. I can’t sleep. The TV drones on and on. I look up and see golf is on the screen. I begin to understand how technologically sophisticated the torture techniques of this society can be. The golf talk fades into the background, nobody here has probably ever touched a golf club, except maybe in self-defense or attack.

The only other white guy in the cell is doing headstands in the back by the toilets. Earlier he had told me that he turned himself in, thought he could somehow get back to Santa Barbara. He told the cops he was on SOMA. A new designer drug, I thought? Or maybe the mythical mixture was now floating around Haight Street, prompting it’s users to turn themselves in at the nearest police station. I wonder.

"Perez," says the sheriff as he opens the cell door. I jump to attention. I am Perez for the time being. "Your attorney is here. It says here on the warrant that you are a black male. You sure don’t look black to me. Let’s check your prints and get this cleared up."

More hours pass waiting. "Your prints match Perez’s prints." This absurd drama will not end. They need proof even though they sense I am not a black male. These cops are pretty sharp you know, the don’t graduate just anybody from the Police Academy.

In the cell next to mine an older black male is getting belligerent. All the sheriffs come rushing over to the cell door. Pushing like kids at a candy store for a piece of the action. Within seconds they have him pinned to the floor. Seven of them on him. As they chain him up he is crying, "I only wanted some respect, a little respect." The cry is coming from a deep place, echoing out and shaping his whole existence, a lifetime of drama and confusion, straight to this one moment where he lies pinned to the floor with seven cops putting the cuffs on him and dragging him away.

I mentioned I had been to CJ9 before. This was a good thing, believe me. The prints from six years ago had been waiting in the files, waiting to be used to prove that I was who I said I was. In those six years a lot has changed but my prints were a constant, a solid point amongst this confusion and false accusation. More time passes as they compare the prints and fix my records on the computer, it appears they are going to let me go. "98% possibility," says the sheriff. I wonder what the hell is up with this other two percent but I don’t say anything.

As quickly as my identity was taken away at 3 AM, fifteen hours later it is given back. I am free. They say it wasn’t their fault, Guillermo Perez must have got your information and given it when he was arrested. But what about the prints? I know it was a bureaucratic screw up made by some one even farther down in this mess of paper, somewhere deep in the bowels of this creature.

They take back the orange clothes and leave me with a wristband that says "Guillermo Perez #140675" as a souvenir. The final door to freedom slides open and Heather is waiting for me at the other end. We are outside now. There is sky and air. The water reflects a million pieces of sun and the wind is moving through my hair. The skyline of the city is behind me and for a moment I can actually taste the freedom that was there all the time.

June 14,1998

The True Man Show

Great documentary that "Truman Show" playing in the theatres.

How horrible it would be if that were to happen to me. If my world were to be fake, if everyone I knew and everything I did were but a setup designed for the sole purpose of keeping me the same. If every attempt to escape was thwarted, and the more will I mustered attempting it the more opposition I found from the world, fate, and from myself... If the worst barrier to freedom were not others, God, or the devil but myself, my fears, and my day to day needs... If to be a TrueMan I had ro persevere against everyone, myself included; and I had to triumph against nature, society, the world, and even my nature... If the only real thing were the memory of a squizophrenic woman who didn’t fit... If the whole world seemed to revolve around me... If I discovered that I’m not a true man until I challeged the Great Magician, discover I’m a traveler, realize that I can’t go anywhere because a character is never going anywhere outside the confines of the story and the studio set... If the only chance of scape was to pretend to live exactly as I’ve always lived, act as usual, never changing anything other than my perception, my attention, my being—but always working with intensity and definiteness of purpose on remembering who I was and where I was until the one break, the one opportunity when the universe distracts itself for one instant and then I, seizing the opportunity, put all into the break.

How horrible if all that were true.

June 12,1998

From 9 to 5

I was inside of a small apple, dark and slimy worms moved all around me. Each one would order me and would ask for something different...could I...can I have...can you give me...

They would ask and ask, and within that apple there was nothing I could give them because it was empty. There was nothing more beside me and the worms. Even so, they would ask and I would give them what they would ask for...NOTHING.

Can you give me a little bit of "nothing"?

Yes, here it is.

Could I have a little bit of that "nothing" and another little bit of that "nothing"?

Of course, it is my pleasure.

I would end-up very tired. To give and serve everyday a bit of nothing would drain my energy.

I left that apple and I looked for one that wouldn’t tire me as much and where I wouldn’t have to be dealing with so many worms. And I found it...there isn’t as many worms and what I do is different.

Could you write me a little bit of nothing?

Yes, of course I can...

Could you alphabetically file all of those documents that don’t have anything?

Of course I can; it is a pleasure for me...

From Monday to Friday, from 9 to 5 I am a bit busy doing a little bit of NOTHING...and what do you do?

June 11,1998

Groundhog Day

On a day no different from any other day a man and a woman are driving a car on their way to a familiar place. They are driving on a long stretch of asphalt. The man is driving the car and the woman is the passenger.

"The car has lost power."

"The car has lost what? No! This can’t be happening again. Baby, are you sure?"

"Yes I’m sure. Lets go to the call box."

There is no phone only an assistance button.

Now what do we do? Now we wait. Our car broke down just last week on the highway. I can’t believe it’s happened again. Its seems as though I’ve been here in this same car on this same highway with Carlos time and again. I know what comes next... we wait and wait and after that we wait some more until a tow truck driver comes to tow our car. Carlos falls asleep as usual and I wait and look around. Oh no! I have to pee. I can wait until the tow truck comes. Don’t think about it. The feeling will go away. Let me see, I have a book in my backpack. I can read that. Damn! I forgot! I took it out. No matter. If Carlos can sleep maybe I can fall asleep. I can’t do it. I have to pee soon. I don’t think I can make it. Maybe I can pee outside. No I can’t do that! Someone will see me. I just have to wait. Ouch! It hurts. Don’t think about it, the pain will go away.

Thank goodness! There is the tow truck. Oh no! It’s already towing a car. Carlos the tow truck driver is stopping. I’ll go out and see what he says. She will have to come back for us. She? Yes.

"I have to go pee baby I don’t think Ill make it until she returns."

Okay! I’m going to have to go outside. I don’t care if someone sees me... well I do but I have to go now! Ahhh! That’s much better. Now, I can wait in peace.

After hours of waiting, a peaceful nap and a long battle with the bladder, the couples' car was pushed off the highway by a tow truck driving bearded woman.

"I will have to push your car of the road and then we will go to my office so you can call Triple A."

The tow truck driver, like all the rest, works the graveyard shift.

"We got stuck on the highway just last weekend."

"Oh yeah? What are you going to do next weekend? Maybe its Groundhog Day."

It would be an enourmous blessing to learn from our mistakes...

On a day no different from any other day a man and a woman are driving a car on their way to a familiar place. They are driving on a long stretch of asphalt. The man is driving the car and the woman is the passenger.

June 10,1998

Bardo games

My machine and I were walking in the street when suddenly, bam!, it hit me. I looked at both sides of the street and noted the buildings. I was in the same place I was in 3 days ago, in the Old Town, while playing tank. Though perceiving a different time, and what appeared to be a different place (out in the street vs. sitting in front of a computer indoor), it was indeed the same space. The only thing that hung in my mind after this incident was "the model of the thing is the thing itself." I realized that there is no difference between moving in a bardo game in a computer, and moving in the street outside a computer. Hence Bardo teaching can be, and is, passed through the medium of computer games.
If you would like to experiment with such Bardo games check out http://www.fairgame.org/godd/index.html for info and downloads. What are you waiting for? Start voyaging now.

June 9,1998


 Well, let’s start :

The first thing is to wash oneself. One has to take all clothes off and scrub oneself with a scourer and bleach, 'till all the dirt disappears. One has to really scrub oneself well, make sure all the accumulated dirt of many years disappears.

Then, we will cure the organism. A kind of purification of the body organs. We won’t go to into details on which cleaning system is the best, all you need to know is that you need to purge yourself now!. Oh, my god! The smell comes all the way here! Don’t loose time- you know, contamination, bad habits, our messed-up ideas on how we should live… all these spoil everything.

Once we’re apparently clean, as far as our organism goes, the best part comes next. Now we have to have a clean-up our small and mixed-up head.

The first thing you have to do is to shave your head. Once you have your head looking like a billiard ball, we’ll go to a hardware store and we’ll buy a well sharpened knife. When we get home, we’ll look for a good spot to carry out our operation. Well, we place the knife at the forehead height and with strength we make a big fracture around all the skull, next you remove your bone protection, and with a little help from a mirror we’ll spot a black viscous smudge, similar to a slug that sucks our energy from us, that normally is located in the middle of our beloved brain. Once spotted, we’ll remove mentioned being and proceed in closing our head and sewing the split ( with scotch tape or whatever else is available). After this surgical operation, we need to rest. We need to sleep.

After we sleep for 40 days we ask ourselves:




That’s not all. This will continue.

June 8,1998

Place Your Bets

Where are you right now? Look up from the fascination of this computer screen and realize where you are. Notice the ceiling, the pictures, the floor under your feet. Take your time. I’ll be right here waiting. Really notice where you are. Try to find some detail in the room that has escaped your attention. It could be anything, a photo, unopened bills, even the dust on the light bulb.

Place your attention on this newly discovered detail and let it stay there for fifteen seconds. Then come back to the computer screen. Go ahead do it. I’m only asking for fifteen seconds of your precious time. Go on, it won’t bite.

Okay. You are back. While you continue to read these words attempt to keep a fraction of your attention on this detail you spent the last fifteen seconds with. Have you forgotten about it already? Try again to read these words and hold a small piece of your attention on the newly noticed detail. (Feel free to reread this paragraph over and over until you get a sense of what I am trying to communicate).

Now go back to your usual mode of reading. Forget completely about the "detail", put it back into the oblivion you brought it forth from. You are reading like you normally do, stop doing the experiment.

Your attention is energy and can be molded and shaped in a variety of ways. The way our attention is now is similar to a glass with many holes in the bottom of it. The energy we take in goes pouring through and seeps unconsciously into a million different crevices. It need not be this way. You can learn to focus you attention, gaining energy necessary to begin the process. The process of waking up. It starts with fifteen seconds, only you can decide where it ends.

June 7,1998

Sleep is Good

It isn’t quite so, when people say that the root of our suffering is the fact that we are all asleep. Sleep is good. There are few problems in slumber. The deeper the sleep, the better. In sleep we are comfortable, secure, at home. Anything I do, in sleep, is forgiven and forgotten. Nothing hurts, nothing threatens.

The root of all suffering is to begin to awaken. The problem is not that we sleep, it is that we became a little bit awake. Something happened that stirred us of our slumber, and we are trying with all our might to go back to deep, nice, cuddly sleep. We are in that in-between state, where we dream we are awake, where we fight to go back to sleep—but we know deep down that sleep is now impossible, and to fully awaken is too hard and painful. It hurts. It feels like an eternal cage, an endless torture. And there is no release but in sleep.

We engage, then, in many adventures. We undertake endless quests, perform tasks, even struggle to enter the Work. We do all this, not to fully awaken, but to be able to go back to sleep. We fool ourselves. We tell ourselves that we are trying to awake, that we struggle to flee from sleep. But we all want the slumber. Everything we do, is for the sake of sleep; to go back to paradise, to innocence, to the perfect state of being in constant union with the Mother. We try everything. We do all we can to go back to sleep. We keep doing everything over and over. Eternally. Until we become aware, fully aware, that the only thing we have never, ever at all tried is to be fully awake.

June 6,1998

30 Minutes

30 minutes, quickly it is now 11:00 am. I only have 30 minutes...think, think...where could I go this time?...there has to be something different, a place where I have not yet been...it has to be close—I must be back in 27 minutes. THE HOTEL!! It’s been a while since I visited it. It is very big and there’s sure to be new and interesting twists...mmm...but what if I get in trouble?...I’ll tell them that I’m a tourist and that’s it...or maybe that I’m lost. Quickly, we now only have 25 minutes. Hey!!! there seems to be something right over there...WOW!!! how luxurious!...and those paintings are...BE CAREFUL!!! some one is coming...be natural...Whew! that was close. Aha, that seems to be a secret door...could it be open?...YES, IT IS!!!...where could these stairs lead to?...I’m going up, HUY!, it’s kind of dark, a man could appear before me and surely he will do something bad to me...well, if a man does appear he would have to be an employee of the hotel, and for sure he would speak Spanish...I’ll tell him that I know somebody who works here and that I’ve come to look for him. Let’s go upstairs then...these stairs are getting me tired...and there’s still a lot more to go!...one more and that’s it...Aha! another door...BE CAREFUL!! we don’t know what’s behind it...THE SEA!! and I can also see the piers, the bridge, the people...and the HARLEQUIN just over there...WOW, I can see it all from over here, I seem to be flying...the world is so tiny...WOW!!! this time has been good, GREAT!!!...OOPS!! I’m already late, I have to go back perhaps—through this door...good! I’m back in the hotel...the elevators—that way is faster...run, run, because for sure you will get yelled at. Just in time!!! there seems to be a lot of clients...well, I’m back..."Hi! May I help you?"...

June 4,1998

A Doll's Life

I come here every day. Each day I hope things will be different. Unfortunately, today will be the same as yesterday and the day before that, and today will be the same as tomorrow and tomorrow will be the same as the next day. Well you get the Idea. Right! I keep thinking that I really exist. The sad thing is that this world that I may or may not live in is full of so many beings stumbling around like the walking dead. Well! It seems we might just have hit the zombie on the head.

We all walk around like zombies. Sometimes I feel like one of those dolls that have a cord coming out of their backs. You pull the cord and she says a few phrases. The problem with those dolls is that they keep repeating the same thing over and over again. The question is: am I the one pulling my cord over and over again. Could there be some one else pulling the cord? Could I cut the cord or change the recorded message kept within the plastic shell? Or am I destined to walk around with a plastic smile hoping that tomorrow will be different?

June 3,1998

Driving in the Bardo

I’m traveling late at night. It will take me five hours of driving and crossing two state lines to come home. A good opportunity to observe the machine in some of its mildly disgusting primate manifestations, like gobbling junk food, but, as usual on long road trips, I get caught up in thinking about, and planning for, things I need to do at the end of the journey. Having had very little sleep, I nearly nod off at the wheel. Or am I asleep already and only dreaming I’m driving on this nearly deserted road? I’ve traveled this route many times, but somehow tonight it looks strange and different. Maybe it’s the haze of pollution in the air, or just my highway hypnosis.

Again I almost fall asleep, this time nearly hitting a guardrail. Or did I fall asleep and crash my car? I’m beginning to wonder if I could have died already. A few phases from the "American Book of the Dead" come to mind. Is that my memory, or is someone who is alive reading for me? Am I traveling out of body or in my car? Am I practicing the Idea of preparing for the Bardo by acting as if I’m already in it, or am I really in the Bardo? Is there a difference?

I cannot allow myself to fall asleep again. Time to get some coffee, so I stop at a convenience store. I’ve traveled this road before at this time of night,and these stores are usually almost deserted. Not tonight. At 3:30 in the morning the parking lot is full of people. Some are waiting outside the store and are not permitted to enter. The clerk says if they were allowed in, they would steal, so only three at a time may come in. This is bizarre; I pay for my coffee and leave. The people outside look strangely distorted. Are they hungry ghosts or am I having hypnagogic hallucinations?

The latter seems more likely, probably because I don’t want to be dead yet, even though I’ve died many times before. But while fighting to keep from dozing off, I reflect on traveling and the possibility of awakening. Tonight the familiar seems strange; other times, like when I encountered the ideas of the Institute, the strange seemed oddly familiar. Perhaps the Bardo is also a state of transition between the comfortable and the disturbing, the old and the new, the familiar and the strange. Brief moments of Bardo awareness, partial and fragmentary glimpses of awakening through the seemingly endless fog of sleep, can help to encourage continued effort.  I continue driving, trying to keep the veil open at least for one more instant before it closes again.

I cannot allow myself to fall asleep again.

June 2,1998

Why, Why, Why!

"Why must we keep wasting our time writing articles for the Web? Why aren’t we using our time more efficiently. I didn’t come here to write articles. Why don’t we, instead of writing articles, just concentrate our attention on Zen Basics or something like that? You know, something that develops our attention in a more direct way."

I am reminded of the movie Kung Fu, where the young "Grass Hopper", tired of working, demanded to know when his kung-fu training would begin. After all, he had been there for almost a year (I think) and mopping, sweeping, and scrubbing was all he had done at the temple so far.

I suppose it is normal for an individual to believe that he or she is there to learn and nothing more. It is normal for somebody to expect a School to be a place where one can be taught a bunch of esoteric techniques for applying attention and presence or where they can learn how to wake their machines up. And that is true…in a way. I mean, one can learn or not; that’s not the point. The point is for you to do the work…

Yep, work is the name of the game. The school is not there to provide you with training for your own personal satisfaction. It is there to provide you with work. You can’t expect the school to spend a great amount of its time training you to use your attention while carrying on with everything else that needs to be done during a day without having you pay your way through the Work with work. And work means work – not a hobby, not a game, not something interesting…just good old work.

So stop complaining about how your abilities are not being used to its fullest potential and about how we are wasting a good chunk of your time and energy by not training you more and more. For one thing, you cannot see the big picture; you can’t see where the group is going or what it is doing – you only see as far as yourself goes at this moment, nothing more. And the other thing is that it is you who are here to work with and for the school, not the other way around. We are here to provide you with the space and the opportunity to work, and that’s it, nothing more.

June 1,1998

Telepathic Potato Salad

One day I was eating at my favorite corner sandwich shop. I had ordered a foccacia sandwich with a side of potato salad, the usual. Next to me there was a contractor barking orders into his cell phone, filling the tiny store with echoes of, "Do that now!, Where is he?!, Tell him to wait there for me!"

As the tension began to build within me I took a deep breath and started to eat my sandwich. After a few bites I began to hear a strange faraway sound. My first thought was that it was the contractor next to me, his cell phone rant continuing at full volume. But as I listened I discovered it was coming from somewhere much closer.

As I turned my ears to this faint voice I realized it was coming from within. It was not my own voice, of that I am sure. and it was getting more audible. I was finding the frequency, tuning some strange inner radio to a distant station. Finally I was able to make out a few words, things like "mountains", "movies", "madness". Was this a mystical message of alliteration or was it something else?

I carefully scanned the room until it was clear to me that I was the only one hearing this voice. The first sentence I could make out was, "The guide could be anyone, anywhere, anything, even the potato salad sitting right in front of you." I slowly looked around again, did anyone hear that?

Had all those strange books, odd friends, and late-night work sessions finally taken their toll on my precious sanity? Or was the potato salad itself trying to remind me of those memories I keep forgetting? Could the guide really be sitting right in front of me and I not be able to see him? Could I be that blind?

I figured it was time to start looking closer for the guide, that one who follows me around but never reveals himself. The one who is a shape shifter and a master of the mysteries of time. I nodded a thank you to my potato salad and quietly exited my favorite sandwich shop. The light outside was bright, brighter then I last remembered. This is good light to find the guide in, good light indeed.

May 31,1998

A Dying World
from an eight year old child

Why do we try to race
down the ancient river of life,
passing everything around us?
Not seeing,
the world we live in.
Turning the song of rage
into an exploding bullet,
destroying whatever is near.
Using the stone shield of fear
to keep us hidden
before we strike,
scarring the earth with cruelty.
But if we use our fire to scorch
the memory of a peaceful world,
it can burn the shadows.
Without the darkness,
we have nowhere to escape to,
for we are doomed
to a dying world.

May 30,1998

Final Fight

Bye… Bye… Bye… Bye…

Yes… No… Yes… No…

If you don’t do it now, then when?.

I know that now is the moment to jump.


I’m already in the tunnel. I’ve closed my door.

I have a sensation of relief but at the same time my body is shaken because it doesn’t know what’ll be on "the other side".

The tension and the fear I left behind are catching up with me, the battle is still not over. It’s still not enough. Still more effort is needed to destroy that, that doesn’t let me "live".

The trip is a state of transition. Nothing is secure. Only one step has been taken (the first step); but this means nothing, the battle continues. You are strong but the enemy is also strong. Every moment more efforts are needed to reach your goal. The other side. There isn’t much time. This battle must be as if it where the last.

The final fight for one’s self.

May 29,1998


Read and then HONESTLY answer the following question.

DO NOT read past the dotted line before answering the question.

""If you could be anywhere right now, where would that be?"


The very first answer that popped in your head is a result of your current state of presence.

May 28,1998

Where the illusion ends

There is a place where the illusion ends,
There the light is no more.
There, there is no passing wind that tells of the world of man.
There, there are no memories to look back upon,
Thoughts to ponder,
Futures to look forward to.
There, there are no dreams to make souls sore.
There, there are no nightmares to chill ones core.
There, there is something much more terrifying than any nightmare holds.
There what frightens man runs rampant,
There, lies mans end
There only resides the void
And there is where the illusion ends.

May 27, 1998

Out of the Hospital

Beginning Message 0000001; Describing: trip from Ibiza to San Francisco; Method: Image-narrated; Opening written message:

I was in a hospital-brown room, the room before the cardiac surgeon. Had been visiting this place for years. Since my childhood, my parents and educators brought me punctually to this place, so that certain manipulations in my organism could take place, and, surely, these were to affect my psyche. And, by the way, these manipulations were conducted, and continue to be conducted, in secret, darkness for me. All of a sudden a little bird perches on the window and, just as it is doing now, this being sings very high and rhythmic sounds ,a simple but merry and penetrating tone. To begin with, I don’t hear anything, I hear it a little as if it was on the other side of a thick prison-like glass, and I can hardly feel his little presence with anything but one of my eyes.

Then, between big and sticky clouds, I am able to tune into, or put myself in the little animal’s position, then silence.

(Time After.) All of a sudden something or somebody puts me in a trolley-bed, and without taking one more minute, drives me at 150 Km/h through the hospital passages. I see rooms go by, with people connected to different machines, gases, (blood cleaners?) , with amputations or bandages or bleeding or crying, and even if there are photographs of people smiling and happy on the Wall, the atmosphere is heavy, and with the particular smell of a hospital.

Once in a while I get, out the corner of one of my eyes, a glimpse through dirty windows or see-through curtains. Red and arid mountains and deserts with dark, indefinable, thorny figures appear and disappear; flyers of black feathers in brilliant blue skies with multiple suns and moons, dawns and sunsets and both simultaneously and empty nights or of pure sky and faraway stars. My heart beats strong and quick. It’s the music of stones.

(Time After.) In my mind blocks of projects are built and destroyed, questions, answers, fears, confusions, sorrows, doubts… I am being accompanied. I accompany others. There are discussions and fights and misunderstandings and bad feelings and irony, and doubtful conspiracies for power, and farce and treachery and passion (Paradox 0000001: We left our uncomfortable hospital beds leading to the anthill, for unknown places, with our vital insides bleeding, bruised, bandaged, half-scared, … End of paradox).

There are moments in waiting rooms where more unknown people meet with us and we are taken to other rooms, whispering voices can be heard around us and sometimes words or inquiring looks or criticisms or compassion… (Foreigners note Z0000001: I saw recently a bit of a film about zombies, notice anything?).

Seems like somebody says something about smell and cold. Till in the end we’re deposited in the carcass room, but, are we dead or alive?.

End of the message.

May 26, 1998


Anger traps us in violence.

It gives us pain,
fear, and darkness.
It devours our soul
until we can take no more.

Cruelty turns our heart to stone,
our flavor turns bitter
and creates a poisoned apple
that we give to our friends.

May 25, 1998

Are u Down?

The only way to really know is to be down, do what you say and not make a show of it. A nice little theatre piece acted out for mommy and daddy. Clap, clap, now it’s time for bed. Down? Downer than down? Is it more than talk this time? Another harmless lie?

There is the taste of spring in your lungs now. Breathing. The tiny heads of spinach and arugula peak out from their dirty wombs. There is a renewal, one more chance to live it all again. Time to get back to the basics. Lets play the scale really slow this time. No need for a piece of music, just up and down that scale. How could you have missed all the subtleties in each note? In one note? Let’s try playing one note over and over. We keep forgetting we are always playing one note over and over.

Trapped again in this trick of spring. Again. Fooled into letting things happen. It’s the same pattern, you get glimpses then fall asleep. You need help and the guides appear. One can’t go this way alone and yet the pull of rebirth, the doorway of spring is open and new faces have appeared before you.

They carry weapons of power and magic. Tools and knowledge. Medicine. You know the path and yet are pulled by the possibility of power, still you deny it. No more down now? No more down? They don’t know you, they haven’t uncovered your weaknesses, exposed your machine so relentlessly in the name of friendship, in the name of Work.

The first time is always free. That first kiss. That first song. That first touch of psychedelic union. Now you are under the spell, but it fades and then the work begins. The spell fades and you see the bleakness that surrounds you. You cannot escape. There is nowhere to escape to.

Are u still down? Only you know.

Click here for the articles ending on May 23, 1998

Click here for the articles ending on April 25, 1998

Click here for the articles ending on April 10, 1998

Click here for the articles ending on March 29, 1998

Click here for the articles ending on March 22, 1998

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