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October 1,1998


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.

September 29,1998

The Goons

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…


Intoxicated again…

"Hey, C-lowcs – are you alright, blood?"

Must’ve passed-out...

"Hey lowcs, you got to let that shit go, man!"

Everything’s still spinning…that’s Gooney!

"What are you talking about, bro.?" The words barely come out of my mouth – body’s heavy, can’t move my head…my hands; just dead weight laying on the couch…dark…spinning…going…away…

"That shit you do in San Francisco, fool!"

Loud, thunderous echoes – "wha’?…where…?" Ah, it’s Gooney!

"Well, what do you mean, bro.? What do you want me to do? What are you really telling me, huh?"

"I’m telling you to stay in touch, punk! I haven’t seen you for years, and all of a sudden you appear as if you’ve just returned from the ‘Twilight Zone’, with that long hair and beard and those funky clothes!"

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…everything breathing…it’s all one movement…one rhythm…

"This is the ‘Twilight Zone’ Gooney! None of us is really here…I know I’m not. I’m just a ghost, coming to pay you a visit. But I won’t be here tomorrow…we might not see each other for a long time again. I’m 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 what’s really going on. Almost everyone you see around you, in your life, is now dead…you just haven’t noticed any of it. You are most likely dead as well, homie…I’m not really here…and neither are you…"

"Blood…go back to sleep! You’re making nonsense…This is The Goons you’re talking to, fool!"




September 28,1998


Run to the corner
Going bananas
Pockets are poorer
Assembling antennaes

Gutteral demonstrations
Jostle me about
Inklings unpenned
Hunches unhemmed

Embryonic cry
Awakening the night
Cold phone calls
no receivers in sight

Friendly fears
Creeping near
Weeping tears
Icy ears



September 27,1998

The Visit

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?



September 25,1998

Future For Rent

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. Don’t 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 you’re 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 them?"



September 23,1998


If we don't live,
make real,
turn into flesh,
what we say,
then we will speak lies.

It's better to be quiet.

September 22,1998


"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 – we’re hearing the same sound as the two cars collide, we’re 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.

That’s 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?"

September 21,1998

Coming 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?

September 20,1998

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 wandering thoughts.

Listen to me.

This is a prison. Words are a requisite



September 19,1998


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."



September 18,1998


Of all choices,
the hardest
is allowing
them to happen.



September 17,1998

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 Gate?"

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 head.

"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.

September 15,1998


The message keeps on coming but I refuse to believe it.

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.

September 14,1998


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. You’ve heard the rumors, tiny nails in the coffin. Did this happen before? How could I have forgotten something as loud as this? There’s even a chance that they will return before beginning. Oh, precious paradox of multicolored treasure speak to me from thy heart!

September 13,1998


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?"



September 12,1998


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

September 11,1998

House Bound

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. It’s 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 can’t stay, you can’t go, all you can do is wait for eternity to change the unchangeable. An unlikely event if ever there was one.



September 10,1998


… and when I look at you I don’t know what I’m seeing.

Is it a photograph of me, or is it you when younger?
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.



September 9,1998

The 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 machine’s movements, and whatever you find yourself doing, especially when experiencing a strong negative emotion, try to remember "I am not that."



September 8,1998

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?



September 7,1998


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.



September 6,1998

The Alchemist

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 life’s 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 guide.

The Work proceeds in secret, hidden from all eyes. But the alchemist’s 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.




September 5,1998

Reincarnating Again Today

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 night’s 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. Haven’t 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.



September 4,1998

Night Sight

Fog swirls
wispy memory trails
Sand spirals
visions of nails

Timeless eons
stretch out before us
Fifteen billion
moments in the forest

Waves sounding
people you knew
Heading toward
imaginary views

Heavy rocks
circle the earth
Starless nights
the milleniums birth

Apocalyptic echoes
resonating pain
Fiery shadows
lacerate in vain

The touch of time
slips from your grasp
Ashes to ashes
through the hourglass

Dark driving
rain in your shoes
Tunnels approach
Which will you choose?



September 3,1998

Kitchen Boy

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 couldn’t do very much except sweep and clean up after the others, but I said: "OK, why not? I don’t 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 didn’t 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 don’t 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.



September 2,1998


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 Juan’s 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 won’t get to the moon by just climbing up a tree."

"Perhaps not," agreed Juan, "But I’m getting closer!"



September 1,1998


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!" we’d ignore it thinking:"It doesn’t mean me, I’m 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 don’t 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 all creation.

My suggestion is that you find yourself a teacher, a good teacher. It won’t be easy since the good ones don’t advertise in the Yellow Pages. But ask around. Read a book. Among the many available guides I could recommend Robert S. de Ropp’s 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. It’s only through practical day to day work that Eve learned how to see, and once she arrived at that point she wasn’t 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, it’s faster and safer when you are in a group of experienced voyagers.

See you soon!



August 31,1998

Where did we go?

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 Twinkies gone?"



August 29,1998


One time, Juan Tepozton was taking a math class. This was before he became the boy who could do anything. In this class, Juan’s teacher called on him and say "Juan, quickly, what’s the color of Napoleon’s 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 precision?"

August 28,1998

Swimming Upstream

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.

August 27,1998

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.

August 26,1998
White Dog

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.



August 25,1998

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 was acting.

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 forever!"

"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.



August 24,1998
The City of Light

Above 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, "It’s not you moving through the city, it’s 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.



August 23,1998
The Opening

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.



August 22,1998
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 boy’s 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 woman’s place is in her home."

Second,  one doesn’t need to strive to form a soul and a higher consciousness. All true transformation comes on its own. It doesn’t 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 life’s 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 can—sometimes—react with a simple, clear, obvious state of being that shines from within—like a rash.



August 21,1998
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
It’s a technical term
Sploogee on a stick
It sounds like a germ

No way to explain
No way to even show
Maybe it’s the ego
Letting these words flow



August 20,1998

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 long!"

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 saying goodbye.



August 19,1998

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 that’s 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 York.

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 weren’t like her. I realized that the audience wasn’t even aware of the story unfolding before them and didn’t 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 didn’t even know it--too proud.

It all made me wonder how much of the show I had missed just because I couldn’t get out of my own head either. Maybe I should use more heroin.



August 17,1998

We seek to enter the Work, or search for an esoteric school, motivated by different concerns. Let’s take one motivation from our Alchemist friends:


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 Being.

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 the horses!

Why would one want such things? If you want an immortal body to live forever, you won’t 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 understanding.

When I say that these can’t be the aim, I don’t 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 doesn’t consist entirely of linguistic forms. The Work can’t be said, it has to be done. We can talk about it, however, when talking about it increases our chances of doing it.

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 you’ll get a powerful aim towards the Work. (Unite and be conquered.)



August 16,1998
Acting It Out

Going forward
Like a runaway freight train
Pulled and Pushed

By a malfunctioning head brain

Out in the city
In the shimmering night light
Without direction
following sympathetic sight

The drama unfolds
It’s 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
Faces contorted
in an unlikely romance

The drama unfolds
It’s a mechanical fashion show
What will you wear?
What words will you know?



August 15,1998
Looking at the fourth wall

You have arrived there, again
To the blank point of the emptiness,
Where memories and pain are annulled,
Where thoughts
Suddenly stop...

Don't worry
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.

Don't worry
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.

Don't worry
You have only turned
And you are now looking at the fourth wall.



August 14,1998

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 couldn’t resist.

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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