So this guy, dark glasses and crystal grenade in
hand, has mastered the game he started playing so long ago. Thousands of people are
affected by every move he makes, and he smiles as he slides down the runway of the
airport. Check in with the stockholders once in a while and move ahead. San Francisco and
other places to visit, all in a day's work.
"We must expand."
And the game will continue, long after he's gone. But
what about him? What happens when he is pushed out of the game?
I sat in the conference room, flashing on the many
times I had been there before, sensing his presence (Power possessing beings posses such
great auras, such gigantic magnetic fields.) And I could almost see the pixels that made
up the world around me.
How many times can one play the same game before it's
time to look around the computer? Maybe there are other games waiting outside. But the
thought passed. My own games called and I was swallowed in a new wave of flash and color.
All dark, pitch black. Then light; flashes of many colored
light dancing before me. A dance of swirling lights within endless darkness. Forms now;
subtle images of bipedal figures floating about, close to me; furniture, lamps,
television, windows and curtains, walls all spinning and spinning and spinning.
Sounds are distorted; small meteors buzzing by my ear at the speed of light, roars of
rumbling thunder propelling me into infinite space, whispers in my ears, voices
"Hey, C-lowcs are you alright, blood?"
"Hey lowcs, you got to let that shit go, man!"
Everythings still spinning
"What are you talking about, bro.?" The words
barely come out of my mouth bodys heavy, cant move my head
hands; just dead weight laying on the
"That shit you do in San Francisco, fool!"
Loud, thunderous echoes
?" Ah, its Gooney!
"Well, what do you mean, bro.? What do you want me to
do? What are you really telling me, huh?"
"Im telling you to stay in touch, punk! I
havent seen you for years, and all of a sudden you appear as if youve just
returned from the Twilight Zone, with that long hair and beard and those funky
Feel like vomiting
the spinning is getting to me
"Oh, I see now
The spinning stops; everything is now vibrating intensely. I
see Gooney, Chango, Hector, Alma, the walls, the air
its all one movement
"This is the Twilight Zone Gooney! None of
us is really here
I know Im not. Im just a ghost, coming to pay you a
visit. But I wont be here tomorrow
we might not see each other for a long time
again. Im dead, bro. I died a long time ago. The only reason why you still see me is
because you have not been paying attention to whats really going on. Almost everyone
you see around you, in your life, is now dead
you just havent noticed any of
it. You are most likely dead as well, homie
Im not really here
go back to sleep! Youre making
This is The Goons youre talking to, fool!"
Run to the corner
Pockets are poorer
Jostle me about
Awakening the night
Cold phone calls
no receivers in sight
Waves of electricity went up and down my spine. I
felt how my head was broken in two producing a shockingly loud sound. I listened to her
and I felt her, she walked towards me. She told me that it was very important that I
receive her message. My body wouldn't respond, it was paralyzed, it was dead. My eyes
stayed closed in spite of all the effort I was making to open them. She would get close
and move away from me while speaking. "It's very important that you get the
message..", she told me. Even though her language seemed familar I couldn't
understand any of the message she was sending me. Her voice was clear and concise...she
seemed to emphasize certain phrases, but as much as I tried I couldn't understand them.
She visited me twice that night...she might come back tonight. Do any of you have any idea
how to host this kind of visitor?
Where can the freeway to the future be
leading? Venturing out among the hyperspeed vehicles we occasionally have a moment to
ponder. But only a moment, any longer and we are bound to drop once again into the abyss
without name. The electric society of scattered communication will come breathing down
your neck the instant you pause to reflect. Dont think about it, move.
Infinite inertia grabs hold to your untied shoelaces. With a firm grip it slows
every effort and convinces you to keep on thinking. Fills your head with dreams of green
valleys and open spaces and then sends you headlong into the fiery pit of hell, or maybe
something worse. This future. This present. When the postman knocks will you let him in?
It might be death, better let him think youre not home today.
An unlimited supply of broken dreams litter the road to the future. In this
dark city you see the faces reflecting a million separate agonies. A million broken
children dressed up and sent out to play way before their time. Up the slide. Down the
slide. Swinging on the swings. Riding on the merry-go-round. You watch yourself passively
listening to the music of children playing and wonder, "What will become of
If we don't live,
turn into flesh,
what we say,
then we will speak lies.
It's better to be quiet.
"Have you ever heard that each one of us experiences
the world in our own unique way? So that everything that we see and hear and feel and
taste and smell is only happening to us? We might be experiencing a similar phenomena,
like a car crash or the taste of an apple; and we might confirm that we are experiencing
the same thing were hearing the same sound as the two cars collide,
were tasting the same sour apple as we wrinkle our faces; but in reality we are all
experiencing totally different events. That crash did not sound as loud to me as it
did to you, and that apple did not taste as sour to me as it did to you. My voice does not
sound the same to you as it does to him.
Thats amazing to me! To realize that I stand here in a
world of my own, where none of you really exist; that everything that I hear and see and
feel is only happening to me; and that you guys are all in different worlds, listening to
totally different sounds and looking at different things. Wow!"
"Err, excuse me, but do you mind if I ask you a
question? Are you on acid?"
down from the Mountain
Sweat flowing off foreheads, great rivers of anguish. Drowning helpless
parasites in waves of misdirected liquid motion. One moment when the path shone like a
great star of redness in the distance. So close we could almost breathe in that holy air.
Muscles aching from every broken joint. Pulsations of pain from proximities unknown.
Longer paths we have known, but willingly forgotten. Why recall the birth of
nothingness again and again? One foot in front of the other, one step closer to the
descending ascent. A man without hair, a woman without teeth, a dog without manners, a
farm without green. Stairways escalating yearly resolutions carry you back up to the
pristine, untainted view. You cannot stop this path.
Just falling slightly down, getting gracefully tossed from the high backed
horse. Mister Ed is surely laughing now. His hayseed teeth glimmering with glee. Animal
magnetism pulling you closer until there is no sign of ending. No voice from above saving
you for acts you never did. No query so quaint that oxen fall faint. Sleepy eyes dreaming
of mountainous meadows where the downward spiral ebbs so evenly.
Autumn atmosphere invades open nostrils as the mountains last gleaming echoes
before your final breath. There is yodelling in the distant silence. Filling your eager
ears with cautious comfort. The spatious spanning offering a cold question. What icy path
have your ten toes tumbled on today?
No Think No Walls
Words are a requisite. Let's type something in in
Spanish, bueno? Will you be confused. Transfixed by strychnine? Coerced by
certain hidden thoughts (best left alone). When does the mailman come to your house?
Did you sit around waiting? Flipping through the TV channels idly?
Coming to that realization that you've been avoiding
all this time. The check's in the mail. Gruel for my inner fire, while I sit
around spouting electrical forms. Elf like creatures that offer no refuge for your
Listen to me.
This is a prison. Words are a requisite
A certain warmth washes over me and I stare into
nothingness. It's beyond me to ask where it came from, to know if it will stay. The
foremost question is to find the responsible agent, the culprit, and reward him or punish
him as need be.
"But will you still love me... tomorrow?"
And I turn around, over to where the waves are
crashing, and the thunder is rumbling, the wind flowing above me... everything right now,
no promise of tomorrow. No safety anywhere.
"Yeah, I'll love you forever."
Of all choices,
them to happen.
Help (I need Somebody)
As I turn the corner, it becomes clear I've made a
wrong turn again. Too late to fix it. And I'm supposed to be guiding this little man
behind me... maybe if I asked for directions (but won't that look stupid?).
It's late and there's no point in avoiding the
inevitable. The street is dark at this time and there aren't that many people around. I
look in all directions, the little man staring at me innocently, completely devoid of any
suspicion or distrust. I spot a homeless man, a little way after the pile of trash cans in
the middle of the street. I walk up to him and smile.
"Can you tell how to get to the Golden
He smiles back, yellow teeth and broken lips.
"I can, but it will cost you!"
I search in my pocket for change but he shakes his
"The more you need the information, the more
expensive it gets... give me some bills man!"
I take out a couple of dollars and hand them over,
somewhat reluctantly. Once they're in his hands he would have no reason to...
Days later I find myself in the middle of the bridge,
no little man, no homeless man, all alone. It seems that a new day is starting.
The message keeps on coming but I refuse to believe
In a movie, the hero manages (after bypassing
terrible dangers) to arrive at a certain monastery, hidden among the fog of the lost
mountains. He is full of pride at his accomplishment. But the first thing he is told upon
entering is that he knows nothing, that everything he has believed in so far has been pure
crap, completely false, and that his only hope is to start al over, right from the very
beginning. "This can't be!", he proclaims,"I have mastered all kinds of
martial arts, I have complete power over my mind and my senses, I control every movement
of my breath... you must be confusing me with another!" And the monk smiles at him.
All of us in the audience smile with the monk.
Ah, the foolish hero. Can't he see that this is only
the beginning (the movie is barely starting!), can't he see that now is when the learning
really starts, can't he see that he's putting up a barrier, that his objections are pure
arrogance? It's so clear for all of us sitting here comfortably in the theater seats,
eating popcorn and slurping coca cola.
Later I knock at a certain door. No mountains, no
bald headed monk, no strange symbols on the walls. My objections spill like water. This
ain't no movie.
The thousand hearts pound in wild anticipation. In moments the scream will
erupt, flowing echoes of electric ascension. Stepping onto the stage with nothing to lose,
the heroes emerge from battle. War wounds mark their billowing faces. With microphones as
weapons they fend off the enemy.
The style hides those on the other side. The cigarettes dangling limply from
the hip lips. Smoke escaping in little ringlets around the pierced navels. Where is the
Marlboro man in this haze of darkness? Is it about time and beer and where did you go?
In the center the waiting begins. Youve heard the rumors, tiny nails in
the coffin. Did this happen before? How could I have forgotten something as loud as this?
Theres even a chance that they will return before beginning. Oh, precious paradox of
multicolored treasure speak to me from thy heart!
And so it came to pass that I found myself wearing
it. It was sometime in the middle of the night and I woke up to realize that I had been
wearing it for years, that its original purpose was long gone (even forgotten) but its
presence lingered, pasted on my face, obscuring my vision, making it hard to breathe.
How many lies had I told from behind its comfort? How
many did I believe myself? What was I afraid of when I hid my lack of bravery, my animal
nature, my anger? What was I really protecting?
But at least now I knew! So my hands went up and
pulled on it, calmly at first, then with harshness. It would not come off. I became
desperate. Banging my head against the floor and on the walls, scratching at it with fury.
It stayed in place. Eventually I was too tired and fell into a deep sleep.
She woke me up with a smile and kiss on the cheek. I
smiled back and said:
"Good morning! How are you doing?"
I hurry in everything I do, then I can
do something else
And days go by
A merger of a simple car
And the endless edification of a Gothic cathedral.
Through the windows of my swift car I see,
Everything I know, everything I love...
Books not read, words not told, caresses not given...
And somewhere myself
Confronting the void
Breathing this life
All the doors are locked from the outside. The windows are boarded shut. There
is no more electricity and the generator is running low. Your companions are fraying at
the edges, melting into the sticky wallpaper. Candles light your way as you head down the
creaking stairs for yet another look into the darkness.
At times the situation seems hopeless. Especially right now. The zombies are
pounding at the door, dead thuds from heavy limbs. Shaking from the fear you wonder how
you ever got locked inside here. You were simply driving down the road, doing your thing
like you always do, and then some bright faced girl on the side of the road flagged you
down. Her car has a flat and you helped her change it. Its blurry after that, at
some point you came back here and it began to get darker and darker.
Escape is out of the question. Where would you go any way? The undead will
follow you to whatever chamber you create for yourself to inhabit. They are your constant
companions in this dimension. You are house bound and there are no locks on the doors and
yet you refuse to leave. You cant stay, you cant go, all you can do is wait
for eternity to change the unchangeable. An unlikely event if ever there was one.
and when I look at you I dont know what
Is it a photograph of me, or is it you when
Or the computer screen. Or a blank piece of paper.
Or an excuse. An oracle. An empty chair in a table
Surrounded by a circle of friends.
Question of Identity
Who are you?
Your answer to this question may suggest indicate whether at this moment you
are identifying with the numerous fragmentary identities of the machine or with the
nonphenomenal source of attention and presence.
Perhaps all of us have the same chief weakness, which is identifying with the
machine and its activities. Observe the machines movements, and whatever you find
yourself doing, especially when experiencing a strong negative emotion, try to remember
"I am not that."
A Bored Machine
Staring out the window
Anywhere but here
Boredom squeezing my head
Like ice in winter
Where does it come from?
Where does it go?
Why is life sometimes like
A bad TV show?
The walls are closing in
Too hot to breathe
What did you say?
Are you speaking Japanese?
All the colors are flat
There is no dark or light
Time to change the channel
And readjust my sight
Where does it come from?
Where does it go?
Why is life sometimes
Like a bad TV show?
The ego can be made to blossom and grow rich in juice, flavor, and smell. The
ego is the fruit that matures and ripens. At the right moment, the essential being who is
the seed at the center feeds off the flesh of the fruit-which is the ego. Thus can the
seed grow into a soul.
When I was very young, a poem by A.A.Milne entitled "The Alchemist"
delighted and stimulated me. Its effect upon me was so profound I demanded it be read
again, and again, and again. Decades later I came upon that poem and realized that in its
few lines were contained my lifes story.
Alchemy is the map which guides us in our work of transformation. When its
teachings are viewed with the rational mind we enter a labyrinth of strange figures and
seemingly impossible tasks. And yet, as we practice it, certain mysteries make sense to
us, certain images become recognizable. We realize that changes have taken place within us
so that we can identify with the substances of the Great Work. If we persevere with
inexorable and unwavering attention, the biological machine we call the body is enabled to
perform a transformation of these substances. Our inner self recognizes and assimilates
the products of the operation and proceeds through the labyrinth using new landmarks as a
The Work proceeds in secret, hidden from all eyes. But the alchemists
mirror reflects the unmistakable traces of the upward spiraling process. As we apply a
steady constant heat we await, not impatiently, the next alchemical event which marks our
place on the map of the labyrinthine path . Deliberately, we continue towards the First
Cause, the deep change occurring in our essential self.
SOLVE ET COAGULA
How many times have you heard the phrase "Every day is a new
beginning?" Although this statement may be said with good intentions, it has become
something of a cliche.
Yet a real truth may lie beneath this expression. For how can we know that last
night we did not die and only appear to wake up in ordinary reality? Perhaps our habits
are deceiving us when our surroundings appear to be the same from one day to the next.
What if when things look subtly different it is because they really are? Maybe each
nights sleep is a miniature death and each day is literally a rebirth.
Try preparing for rebirth every day, especially before bed. Drift off to sleep
with the intention of taking rebirth tomorrow in the Sun Absolute or the human dimension.
Havent we had days that feel like the realm of the hungry ghosts or purgatory? Maybe
they are. Then in the morning give thanks for another opportunity to practice the
teaching, however imperfectly, and another chance to wake up. Effort counts.
wispy memory trails
visions of nails
stretch out before us
moments in the forest
people you knew
circle the earth
the milleniums birth
lacerate in vain
The touch of time
slips from your grasp
Ashes to ashes
through the hourglass
rain in your shoes
Which will you choose?
A number of years ago there was a teacher who invited me to
come and work in a community of farmers and artisans. I was an intellectual and
couldnt do very much except sweep and clean up after the others, but I said:
"OK, why not? I dont have anything better to do at the moment." Days and
weeks passed. Little by little I learned to do more. Most of all I learned to work at
whatever task I was assigned with care, attention, knowledge, and exactitude. I began to
see others arrive who could only do less than I.
Then it happened. It was the big event of the year when the
entire community packed up its goods and journeyed to the city to show its work and sell
its wares. We were coming out of the cloister and playing different roles for a few days.
It seemed as if the Rule was being set aside for the duration of our holiday. There were
some unfortunates who had to stay behind to tend to the flocks and do daily chores. I was
happy not to be among them.
It was like traveling with a circus troop. Everything was
organized down to the smallest detail. But when the work assignments were handed out I
felt devastated. I was to be Kitchen Boy and spend the entire time behind the scenes with
pots and mops, scurrying to keep up with requests and orders from anyone appearing in the
kitchen. Suddenly, the glamour of the event evaporated as I set about my work.
It was long and tiring, but slowly a different sense of what
I was doing crept over me. "Why not? I didnt have anything better to do at the
moment." After we had packed up again to return to the farm I noticed an entirely
different attitude in my behavior. As the outing faded into memory my working changed and
improved. I was given harder tasks and even more responsibility. I seemed to thrive.
I dont remember when it was that the teacher casually
mentioned that the Kitchen Boy was one of the most honored roles in the community. At
first I could neither believe the truth of this nor understand how such a thing could be.
But as the experience grew deeper and deeper within me I knew what she meant. I now saw my
self, my entire life experience in a new clear light which continues to guide me to this
day. And I never shy away, now, when the call for a Kitchen Boy is made again.
One time, before Juan Tepozton
became the boy who could do anything, he told the people in a village near the
Topocatepetl that he could get to the moon and bring back to
the people a piece of silvery, cold, dull white light.
This way they would always
have a permanent source of illumination. The whole village then gathered around in
Juans patio to observe his take off to the moon and witness this extraordinary feat. Juan Tepozton proceeded to climb the tallest coconut palm tree in his
patio. When he got to the top, he remained there ... just looking at the moon.
After three hours of doing
this, his best friend-Xipe Totec-came to the bottom of the tree and said:
"Juan, I think you better come
back down now. It is obvious to everyone that you wont get to the moon by just
climbing up a tree."
"Perhaps not," agreed Juan, "But Im
Hebrew scriptures relate the old old tale of a garden in the east where human
beings began working out the life-task that distinguishes them from all other living
creatures. Within the confines of this Garden of Eden we find three earth-bound beings:
Eve, Adam, and the Serpent. Their lives had proceeded unchanged since the days of creation
until the serpent whispered its secret knowledge:"Your eyes will be opened...."
When Eve heard that, she became aware of other possibilities in her life and went about
doing what was necessary in order to grow to her full potential.
Yoga philosophers know about this evolution of consciousness as well, and they
have named the process of awakening SERPENT FIRE (Kundalini). Visualized as a coiled snake
sleeping in a hollow at the base of the human spinal column, Kundalini represents creative
energy in a static state. What Eve learned by listening to the whisperings of her inner
voice was how to ignite and unleash this Kundalini, this "Grand Potential" of
the human biological machine.
Not many of us ever hear that still, small voice, and, most likely, even if it
shouted "WAKE UP STUPID!" wed ignore it thinking:"It doesnt
mean me, Im already awake." But perhaps you are one of those who feels from
time to time that you are going through life like a sleep-walker. Well, then, what can you
do to wake up? Kundalini is there to help.
Now, you already know something about snakes and about fire, right? you
dont go poking about with sticks or you might get bitten or burned. You have to be
much more subtle about it. You have to be really subtle. You must become "Sly
Man" in order to get the best of our friend Kundalini, the most subtle creature in
My suggestion is that you find yourself a teacher, a good teacher. It
wont be easy since the good ones dont advertise in the Yellow Pages. But ask
around. Read a book. Among the many available guides I could recommend Robert S. de
Ropps books ( try "Self Completion" available at our Bookstore or at
Gateways at www.slimeworld.org). However, for
thousands of years the recommendation has always been: find a good reputable teacher to
lead you on the path to Kundalini.
The image of SERPENT FIRE is a powerful one but it can also be misleading.
Its only through practical day to day work that Eve learned how to see, and once she
arrived at that point she wasnt sure she liked what was ahead for her. So, for sure,
go ahead, discover Kundalini for yourself. Use the human biological machine as an
apparatus for transformation. But like any perilous journey, its faster and safer
when you are in a group of experienced voyagers.
See you soon!
Where did we
There was a time when the words, the movements and gestures of the mouth, would
flow so effortlessly. When the sound of your own voice could send you abruptly into
another dimension. It mattered nothing what flowed forth. Who knows if it made sense or
not. That was the least of your concerns.
The energy emanating from the heart, cascading upward, vibrating the vocal
chords and bursting forth. At times you could sit in the room and listen to your own voice
from a distance, unaware and unattached to those strange syllabic sounds.
Others are joining in now and their voices are building to a crescendo. For an
instant you see it from the outside and wonder: What the hell are these people doing? The
pull of the resonating chamber dissolves that thought like a raindrop in the ocean. The
wave is peaking now, everything is crackling at the edges, soon there will be nothing
left. A voice emanates from those gathered here in one unified thought. Summing the group
question up in a simple and concise formulation. "Where o where have the Astral
One time, Juan Tepozton was taking a math class.
This was before he became the boy who could do anything. In this class, Juans
teacher called on him and say "Juan, quickly, whats the color of
Napoleons white horse?"
Raising immediately from his seat with the attitude and posture of alertness
and the quickness of lighting, Juan smartly said: "Five, teacher!"
"Five?" repeated the teacher incredulously, "Five? How can you give such an
obviously wrong and obscure answer?"
"Well... ", said Juan hesitantly, "Did you want speed or
Images flash before me, where do they come from? Where do
they go? For the last few days I have been remembering a story I read a long time ago
about swimmers. The plot comes in vague outlines, a blurred middle with no beginning or
end. There was a group of friends, they would swim at night, far into the dark sea, one
night someone almost drowned. I can't remember when or where I read this story and I can't
recall how it ended. This murky water of memory washes over me, day after day.
Deep into the dark sea we would swim, in a battle to the
death, to prove something. Always saving some energy for the long trip back to shore.
Conserving with every stroke. One of us reaching forward, leaping into the fog of night,
diving beyond our sight and reappearing among the distant waves. The memories, why do they
keep returning? They could have changed a million times from the moment they happened and
one would never know. The air here is dense with the weight of dreaming.
Inside the fortress of perfection they wait. Their vacuum
cleaners set on maximum, their eyes open for every little clue. An eyelash here, a patch
of dead skin, a lock of hair. Anything to place you in the dream, to create your destiny
from the strand of DNA you happened to have become ensnared by. The smell of the ocean
fills the nostrils of every good detective. Clears the sinuses and lets him inhale the
mood of each room he steps into.
The sound of the waves beckons us beyond the fortress, calls
us back to the ocean of memory. Our friends and families wait there for us. Hearts beating
wildly in anticipation of the return. The coming back. The reforming of the life into the
way it was before those shattered dreams invaded our minds. I can see them now. Their
insane strokes beating wildly on the surface of the sea, pounding out a constant rhythm.
They are shrinking into the distance. Saving nothing for the swim back to the shore.
Disappearing silently into the other side.
I covered my face with the cloth and a searing pain burned through my
whole body, fire caressing (not too kindly) the insides of my muscles and my very bones. I
felt the end was coming and I wasn't ready (how could I be?)
"She's going away..."
The pressure increased, my heart was beating wildly,
cracking an intense rhythm against my rib cage. I held on to the cloth tightly and at last
I felt light, an explosion of white in the middle of the room, from within and beyond the
reality I had known.
"Let her go..."
The tears came all of a sudden, expected but feared.
Once they started flowing, they only increased in strength, wet good-byes sliding down my
cheeks, in little rivers of nostalgia and lakes of regret. I tried to open my mouth, tried
to speak, but what came out was a loud, barely human gasp.
"Could it really be? Can someone be completely,
totally and utterly wrong?"
I shook painfully with the sobs, swimming in the
realization, letting it flow through me and into the cloth on my face.
One day I felt the presence, very subtle, somewhere behind my eyes,
behind the usual me...
I had seen him before, running around behind me,
chasing after other dogs, getting lost in carnivals and fairs. I would wrap myself around
it, feeling its deep white hair covering me like a warm blanket, his tongue reaching out
to me and licking my face into different shapes. But he would always go away early in the
morning, as the sun came up and the official character, the one that has to face the other
people, clocked in for the day.
But then that day he was there, right beneath the
shining sun and right in front of my friend talking. And I realized it wasn't the first
time and how often it had happened and how often I had chased the presence away. I felt
him move underneath me, a second body beneath my skin, a second set of eyes trying to
sneak a peek from the middle of my chest.
It hurt. I was uncomfortable. Better do something.
I threw a stick at the wind and watched him run for
it, and I was left alone again, hoping that it would come back soon.
And looking for another stick in case it did.
In the middle of the afternoon, she found that she had lost her way.
Several years ago it had all been clear, and it had kept on being clear, through the many
mazes, the new faces, the strange ideas and curved challenges that came her way. But now
suddenly, without warning (or maybe after a warning that had been ignored) she realized
the way was lost and she was standing on a stage, back in the school where she studied as
a kid, holding a book in her right hand and trying to make sense of the play in which she
The big room was full of screaming kids, questions
and answers were exchanged between different members of the audience, they weren't even
paying attention to her performance. She turned to the other actor on the stage.
"Do you have any idea what you're doing here? Or
are you as lost as I am?"
"Lost", he answered but then he smiled.
"I was searching but now I can't remember what
it was that I was searching for."
He turned halfway towards her and raised his hand,
pointing towards the screaming kids, the audience.
"Maybe you found it. Maybe you never really knew
what you were looking for."
"So what can I do now? I can't stay here
"You probably could... but you won't. The search
will begin again, sooner or later. Unless..."
"Unless what?", she sensed that the room
was beginning to fade and she wasn't even a she anymore.
"Unless you learn to seek, to find a new
question at every moment, and no longer yearn for the answer."
And there he was, a new room, much smaller, and he
had been talking to himself. Wondering what happened... feeling that a new question had
been asked, feeling that itch in the chest that calls for an ending.
|The City of LightAbove me the clouds fill spaces in the blue between
skyscrapers. Falling like memories from a shipwrecked ocean liner. Millions of thoughts
flowing through, behind, over and inside me. One thought sticks. No reason why that
thought should stick any more than any other, but it does. As I look toward the massive
dream unfolding in front of me I hear, "Its not you moving through the city,
its the city moving through you."
The illusion accelerates and I remember how simple a truth I was just given.
Not trying to direct or change the illusion, not even participating, just watching it flow
by like a rainbow colored river of lost meaning. For a while the city kept moving by as if
I was in a fast moving car on the freeway, but then a thought, a desire, a distraction
crept in and I grabbed on to it for a second.
The rhythm that had been caressing me was abruptly tripped up by this
unexpected shift in tempo. As it came to a hectic halt I became aware of the music that
was surrounding me while the city was flowing by, the sonic reverberations of the cosmos
bouncing off the walls of my carefully constructed cityscape. Then I was off again,
absorbed into the fascination of another forgotten moment.
What I found, when I pushed forward, was a small amount of
resistance, a kind of gooey darkness, a sucking sound, a mouth full of black water waiting
to swallow me whole. I pulled back and my shoulders hurt, my arms would get tired, my
whole chest would squeeze painfully and... Better stay still for a while. I have to figure
out how to get out of here.
"You're in a dilemma, huh? Can't go forward and
you can't go back...we warned you!"
"Yeah... but I figured, that's a warning for
others, not for me... you know... ME!?!"
"Yeah... sure... the point is now you're
realizing it was real, it was a true description of what could happen, one that you
chose to ignore."
"Yes... now what do I do?"
"We told you that too. Nobody can do your work
for you... you're on your own, buddy."
I heard steps walking away. Pushed again into the
gooey darkness, chills crawling down my spine. Maybe if I pulled back... and my chest
started breaking apart.
Better stay still for a while. I have to figure out
how to get out of here.
|Boys and Girls
In the first place, few people understand that the
formation and conscious adoption of a work aim is a boy thing. It is quite necessary to
leave the girl alone, pure, and virginal while keeping the boy occupied with one quest
after another. In your case, as in mine, where there is a girl trapped in a boys
body, the trick for transformation is to keep giving aims to the boy part (i.e., you keep
the machine occupied on one task after another) while leaving the girl to her own devises.
A lot of Fourth Way students completely misunderstand this.
They keep the inner world busy by making the girl think, talk, and desire things that are
not real. They force their inner side to strive for "higher consciousness" or
other spiritual aims, dismissing the fact that they are destroying her with that. Keep
giving the boy, the external, things to accomplish while allowing the girl, the inner, to
simply be present and attend. If one attends to only one of these aspects of the Work, no
transformation is ever accomplished. This is the meaning behind the ancient esoteric
saying: "A womans place is in her home."
Second, one doesnt need to strive to form a soul
and a higher consciousness. All true transformation comes on its own. It doesnt
come, however, as a consequence of struggling with concepts or ideas. This struggle is
only meant to keep one distracted. The teacher gives you totally false and quite useless
ideas, so that you get confused and put your mind where it can do less damage. As you make
an ass of yourself while pretending to be in the Work, the teacher can trick you
surreptitiously into becoming exposed to the transforming radiation of the
macrodimensions. As a result, you change. Transformation is a defense mechanism against
our unhealthy exposure to the Work. In this sense, objective spirituality is like a bad
rash that ought to be kept hidden from polite society.
Finally, The Work is the second worst thing that can happen
to one. It is not only utterly incapable of solving lifes problems, but increases
them a thousand-fold while introducing new exotic varieties of sufferings and itchiness.
This, combined with the relentless emission of mixed signals coming from all around,
below, and above is the only good thing about the Work. All else are trappings and mere
adornments. It is as a result of being bombarded by these mixed signals, itchiness,
pressure, demands, confusion, lies, truths, and everything the mind of an imaginative
teacher can create that we cansometimesreact with a simple, clear, obvious
state of being that shines from withinlike a rash.
|Impressions from a Jobsite
Constructing a house,
How many men does it take?
Running through the hallways
I hear belching
The hammers are cracking wood
The jokes are cracking men
Pounding out a rhythm
Of mirthless mayhem
A Hundred and fifty foot crane
Is arriving tomorrow!
Picking the axe from our brains
Dig! Hombre! Dig! My brothers!
Such a patronizing way
Shouting all day
Yelling out orders and
Barking like a bluejay
Eight and a half?
No! Eight and ahead!
Eight and a half?
No! Eight and ahead!
Sploogee on a stick
Its a technical term
Sploogee on a stick
It sounds like a germ
No way to explain
No way to even show
Maybe its the ego
Letting these words flow
It's the same complex mansion as always, this time more connected to my
grandmother's old house than to anything else. But the promise of secret passageways,
corridors that come from nowhere, rooms that appear and disappear... it's all still there.
I am upstairs, in a little visitor's room, looking for my shoes. (No such room has ever
existed before this moment, and it will probably evaporate the moment I leave.) People
seem to come and go through my little area, a lot of them. There's a lot of noise
coming up from downstairs.
I finally find my shoes and walk down the wooden
stairwell. The waves of nostalgia are already invading me. I haven't been in here in such
a long time. I walk into the main room, surrounded by family, friends, people I've never
met but still remember (maybe their family, their friends... there's so many).
"Hello, how have you been? It's been so
The waves of feeling are too much. What is it that I
remember? What happened with each and every single one of these people that makes me want
to drop to my knees and cry, sob hungrily like a baby:
"I can't believe I'm with them again!"
I go to my old room, looking for water. I find it
full of refrigerators and glasses, all kinds of drinks for the greatest party this house
has ever hosted. I grab a glass of water, full of ice and stories, and sip from it, while
I watch the maid dance with a little violet between her teeth, the guard clapping and
singing to urge her on.
So long ago. So far away. One last celebration before
Recently, I was watching a talk show--you know, "reality" TV. Real
stories from real life. The focus of the show was a woman who had it all--a beautiful
family, a glamorous job, money--and lost it to drugs. Or drugs and an abusive husband. Or
drugs, an abusive husband, and the failure of her business. It was never made completely
clear to me how she lost it all exactly, but I guess thats real life.
In any case, she lost it all. Hers was a story of a
life falling apart, spiraling from splendor into squalor. She left her husband and three
sons (for some reason), began using, and found herself living in subway tunnels below New
It was also a story of her life spiraling back up
(she was on a talk show--and a classy one at that), but that was not the focus of
the show. Her redemption was not an issue here. Whatever else was going on, the thing that
was most interesting and provocative to the audience was her leaving her family for
heroin. How could she do that? Even after she explained that she left first, and then
found heroin, the audience scorned her for leaving her three boys due to heroin. A mother
does not do that.
No amount of explanation as to the power of heroin
(or abusive husbands or anything else, for that matter) made any difference. I was amazed
(cutely naive, I know). The audience seemed wholly uninterested in understanding her
plight, they were completely without compassion or empathy. Mothers do not let things come
between them and their children. Then I realized that what the audience had was pride and
lots of it. They werent like her. I realized that the audience wasnt even
aware of the story unfolding before them and didnt really want to be. They
wanted only to be proud of themselves.
I felt sorry for them. She was aware that heroin had
come between her and her sons and she had kicked. How many times had pride come between
audience members and their families? And they didnt even know it--too proud.
It all made me wonder how much of the show I
had missed just because I couldnt get out of my own head either. Maybe I should use
We seek to enter the Work, or search for an esoteric
school, motivated by different concerns. Lets take one motivation from our Alchemist
This term can be broken down into:
1- To gain a continuity of memory/awareness.
2- To form a soul.
Both of these reasons (specially the second one) are going to be controversial.
However, there is great value if one uses these insights as tools for the development of
The esoteric idea of the formation of a soul has been erased from most
religious and philosophic tenets. However, it is one of the keys for understanding and
applying the techniques given by such systems. These two reasons for immortality, however,
are backwards in regards to immortality. What I mean is, immortality as a goal is
destructive to the formation of a soul and the consciousness of the continuity of
existence. It is generally more productive to go the other way: by forming a soul and
consciousness of the continuity of existence, you attain immortality. The cart is before
Why would one want such things? If you want an immortal body to live forever,
you wont get it. If you want it to avoid death, your search will be fruitless. Any
results of actions springing from this center are counterproductive to your aim (whichever
this might be). See, for this quest to be successful, one needs an aim. But the aim cannot
be immortality, avoiding death, lack of pain, continuous consciousness, evolution, or
When I say that these cant be the aim, I dont mean it in a moral or
ethical way. I mean it in a practical way. These things won't happen if you desire them
for their own sake. A higher motive capable of synthesizing these minor aims is necessary.
This aim has been called the Work. The reason I cannot just blurt it out is that it
doesnt consist entirely of linguistic forms. The Work cant be said, it has to
be done. We can talk about it, however, when talking about it increases our chances of
If I just give a reason at this point, you can read it, consider it, ignore it,
misinterpret it, argue about it, insult it or believe it. All that would be useless. If
you struggle for it, it stands a chance of doing work even if you then decide to ignore,
misinterpret, argue about, insult, believe, or embrace it.
So, an experiment: consider the high and the low. Consider the Absolute as the
source of the Creation and of all consciousness. Why does it do what it does? What does it
do? What compels it to vomit the creation? How does it become trapped in it? Ask the
Absolute: How do you do? How are we feeling today, Absolute?
Consider now the low. Whatever the microcosm is to you. At the biological
level, you can focus your sight at the bottom of our biological existence: the DNA. What
are they doing? How do they do it? Where are they getting their command from? If you go
down to the subatomic level, it's the same thing: what is its command? What are they
creating? What is the order of the day? Both considerations might give you a powerful
motivation for the Work. One is voluntary, the other involuntary. Unite the two, and
youll get a powerful aim towards the Work. (Unite and be conquered.)
|Acting It OutGoing forward
Like a runaway freight train
Pulled and Pushed
By a malfunctioning head brain
Out in the city
In the shimmering night light
following sympathetic sight
The drama unfolds
Its a mechanical fashion show
What will you wear?
What words will you know?
A tension is upon us
Our character takes the stage
Piercing snake eyes
We hear the turning page
Sumo wrestlers battle
In a never ending dance
in an unlikely romance
The drama unfolds
Its a mechanical fashion show
What will you wear?
What words will you know?
|Looking at the fourth wall
You have arrived there, again
To the blank point of the emptiness,
Where memories and pain are annulled,
You have only turned
And you are now looking at the fourth wall.
The walls speak to you
The people are illusions...
You can touch the sun by simply jumping,
And the sea fits in your pocket.
You have only turned
And you are now looking at the fourth wall.
That melody that you already know
and that you listen to wherever you walk
is the constant sound of the things,
the things that are on the other side...
the hidden side behind the fourth wall.
You have only turned
And you are now looking at the fourth wall.
Chopping the Tree
ll the air. The sting of sweat blinds you. Again you lift the axe higher,
letting the weight carry it upward. Its force comes crashing down on the tree, shattering
off fragments of wood. Your body aches and you wonder, "How long can this go
on?" The weapon you have chosen weighs a hundred tons and yet you must lift it,
control it, focus its power into the tree again and again.
The waves on the rocks sympathize with your task. For centuries they have been
washing away the mountains of stone, not yielding to boredom or fatigue. They have seen
the big picture, they have seen the impassable cliffs that are now sand. The ocean of
infinite universes that now flows through every crevice in your toes. You look down and
see the magic dust pouring silently through the hourglass.
Time is running out as you struggle to lift the axe into the sky. Force versus
force, atom against atom, the invisible battle continues to wage within your burning
muscles. "Where is Paul Bunyan when you need him?" is the only question that
fills your mind. This task is beyond your comprehension, the trees fill the sky, you
cannot see where they end.
If you had only known when you started you might have kept on walking through
the forest. You remember the day when you had been wandering aimlessly through the woods,
not sure where you were coming from or to where you were going. A small dwarf character
had tricked you into giving him a hand chopping down, what appeared at that time, to be a
very small tree. He had promised you a magic trinket for your troubles and you just
Somewhere along the line you realized that the more you swung the axe into the
tree, the stronger the tree became. And yet you are compelled to keep swinging, ignoring
all logic, all reason, letting the weight of the axe be your guide. In your fondest dreams
you can hear that beautiful word echoing throughout the forest:
"T I M B E R!"
For a moment you would be able to rest but then another tree would loom in your
path, and after that forest another forest, and on and on.
You pause and notice where you are. You breathe in. You place your attention on
the axe and continue swinging, setting a rhythm you can easily maintain. The moonlight is
filling the forest and the little creatures are watching you from the shadows, wondering
what strange creatures these humans are.
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