|
|
| March 16,1999 |
| Manifestation Rap
Thought patterns kicking up a storm
Ideas flowing no need to be forlorn
Gyrating like a jellyfish volcano
Up from the depths of a TV show
Watching it all from the comfort zone
Doors all bolted but no one is home
Midwestern tornado out of control
With the X files playing on the video
One more thought before we go Winter is coming, turn up your radio!
Tune in to the fascination station
Sync yourself up with the funky vibratrion |
| |
| March 10,1999 |
| Triple
Bypass Worship Free
On bended knee we bow to the Lord. His stony hand resting on our shaking
shoulders. We could have been somebody, if only we had one more chance. We know the
inevitable dissolution of all we see will some day come to pass and yet we still cannot
appreciate the dew on our morning window. I do, you do, let’s all do the do...
Here comes the donation basket. Quick, look the other direction. Avoid the
beady eyes and sweaty hands. Gripping the solemn word like it will last beyond todays
fleeting memories. Burn, burn in hell ye sinners. Repent! For the time for repenting is
clearly at hand!
Stand back y’all. Holy Ghost Power comin in! Speaking in tongues from the
mouths of my serpents brain, wriggling past my cerebral cortex like a mountain highway
gone mad. It’s curves and turns burning up your treads, wearing the rubber right off
those steamy lips. And here’s the wonderful smell of spring showers coming in and
rescuing you once again. |
| |
| March 3,1999 |
| A Rendition of Cognition
Reconfiguring the simple phrases Like,
"How are you?"
And, "How’s the Mrs’s."
Overriding the outmoded programs Like,
"What’s on tonight?"
And, "Where are we goin?"
Juxtaposing the wide equations
Like, "Kinder and gentler"
And, "Trickle down voodoo"
Ignoring the common sensations Like, "Is it raining again?"
And, "Who’s cooking dinner?" |
| |
| February 27,1999 |
| Lawless
The voice from the sky screaming down like the wind in winter, "THIS IS
LAW!" Shaking in his flowing robe the messenger takes the package and returns to his
people. On the way down the hill he began mapping out the consequences of his delivery.
Hmmm...blind obedience to invisible authority, unchangeable, immutable, and written in
"stone." Not for him to worry too much about, he was only the messenger...
The cuffs go in with that unmistakable snap of metal against metal. A shove
toward the waiting car, its red lights flashing like some cheap carnival ride. Inside the
conductor mumbling, "all aboard" as his partner chuckles for the millionth time
at his comrades razor sharp wit. "Downtown, son", he says to no one in
particular as we rumble away from the scene of yet another crime against society...
Line up, face right, face left, look up, look down, step forward, step back.
Two way mirror reflecting our faces, all wondering what sees us on the other side. Trapped
like fish in a bowl. Where is the law now? Where is my plea of insanity? Lost in a foot
high pile of papers on yet another law abiding citizens desk...
Moses returns. The people run away, like any sane person would. A few fanatics
close in on the steaming stones. "What have you there, crazy old man?" "See
for yourself." He hands the laws that can never be written down into the hands of the
believers. They got what they deserved, he mumbles to himself, as he wanders away from the
crime scene. |
| |
| February 15,1999 |
| Windows
If the eyes are the windows to the soul then why am I always squinting? Is the
blur circle on my retina refusing to allow the light to invade my cellular receptors?
Messages scrambling themselves, a code no computer can decipher. Endlessly filling the
pathways to my brain. Localized areas of tension and release coagulating the remaining
muscles.
The wipers in the car go back and forth, moving the dirt around. The late
afternoon sun reflecting off my dusty windshield like a December snowstorm. The fluid
dispenser is empty, another item on the infinite list of things I will do tomorrow. Was
that a red light or a police car? Was that a cat or am I near a McDonald’s? Time to
pull off the road and do some reevaluating.
The fog on the mirror just won’t disappear. Steam pouring off every
crevice in the tile. I run my hand along the mirrors face, for a second I see myself
looking back. Staring into the oblivion of my own eyes while I search out another unshaven
spot on my face. Then the steam clouds return, eliminating every sharp line and exchanging
them with one big undifferentiated blur.
In the dream I stand at a safe distance from the high rise building. I am
downtown but on top of a hill. From here I can feel the rumble and the explosive inhale of
sound. Glass exploding from every window in the hundred story monolith. The sweet sound of
crashing glass embracing the ground.
From here it all seems so
clear, no need to squint anymore. |
| |
| February 14,1999 |
| Symptomatic
When I ransom that symptom of sleep for a hefty sum you will definitely hear
about it. I do not speak of simple cause and effect. No minor source of confusion and
misunderstanding here. I speak of the fearful symptom. I speak of the sole culprit in this
deepening play categorized as "life."
A symptom that knows no recorded cure. This symptom a blur. Flying past you
like the Harley Davidson rumbling up your block and setting off every car alarm in sight.
A wake of screeching sirens and hellish horns, instantly you are on edge. From here the
fall is ninety degrees perpendicular to the ground. No feathers to race either.
The sleep is thicker than molasses. If the symptom were to fade could you ever
dream again? The discomfort of the lies we live haunting every false move. Embracing every
false word that slithers so enigmatically from your tightly pursed lips.
Kissing the symptom fully and without shame on the mouth. Openly mocking the
union of opposites. Positive and negative signs vibrating wildly. Magnets repelling
magnets. The salty taste of static nothingness caressing our burnt and quivering lips once
again. Ah yes, the sweet kiss of the prince and the droopy eye of the toad... |
| |
| February 7,1999 |
| Early to
Rise...
Hunkering down like a frog on his lily pad you test the icy waters. Bathing in
the old friction of daily hypnotism. Drowning in a vat of cynicism. The water is much
colder than you remember. Sliding across the lake two skaters are zeroing in on you. A
third waits at the waters edge, holding a gift for the girl who is soon to be no more.
The lake is thin here, only enough ice to hide the frozen blackness below. The
female skater struggles, resists, protests, yet follows. The male skater leads her farther
and farther into the zone of danger. The exit point. Roles practiced over many dreamtimes,
only to be forgotten again in this instant. She slips, falls, spins downward into the
quickly collapsing emptiness. Screaming for help as the sheltering comfort of hypothermia
rests its hand upon her shoulder. Not yet! Help me! Please...
For many silent hours the wind rattles the bones of the one waiting. Where
could she have gone? She seemed so sincere. Foolish to believe she could even look at him.
He leaves the gift on the shore. His tears an offering for the future that will never be. |
| |
| February 7,1999 |
| I got the fear
Some days, but not really that often, I find
myself rereading these flashes of stream - of - consciousness. Seeing patterns that make
me feel that it’s not all that random after all. I can’t begin to number the
items that begin with someone running from something. Like in my dream last night...
..I awoke in the jungle, the man with the long sharp knife is coming nearer,
there he is, planning his attack through the swamp. Impulsively I run, past the guards on
the outer reaches of the jungle, past the freeways of motorized abandon, past the faces
that blur into nothingness. A beach town approaches, over garbage, through kitchens and
camera factories, we flee to the beach. Only to hear the flash of gunfire over our heads,
forcing us to run in the other direction. I awoke in a garbage bin, looking out for the
police and anyone else who can steal my "freedom"...
What am I running from? Who pursues me so relentlessly? What primal fear has
triggered this endless chase? Could it really be that the whole human race, the entire
civilization, including yours truly, is in a constant state of panic?
Are we really overreacting to a terror that faded long ago? A terror that was
gone before our monkey bodies jumped out of the jungles, gone before we could speak, gone
before the memories started. Can someone tell me, where did the fear go? |
| |
| February 6,1999 |
| Tired
So many ways to feel tired.
There's the tired of a long day
of grueling manual labor
the muscles ache
the bones pulsate
sweat slowly dries on the skin.
There's the tired of a long night
of detailed mental reasoning
the mind is a jumble
the thoughts are convoluted
ideas quickly flash through your brain.
There's the tired of long years
of painful emotional work
the chest is contracted
the memories accumulate
tears rush softly to your weary eyes.
And there's the deepest tired
the most hidden
the most heavy.
Tired of doing nothing at all. |
| |
| February 4,1999 |
| Climbing
This whole process, the path of awakening or of
moving towards life, has been likened to a ladder. These days I think of it more as a long
climb up a mountain, there are no clear steps, no clear next point on which to rest your
feet, your brain, your aching chest and no constant, comfortably predictable repetition.
And there's more than one mountain. You can climb a
little one, and rest for a while, but sooner or later you'll have to come down. And the
next time, the mountain will be taller, the caves will be in different places, the
surfaces will hurt your hands with their utter strangeness. Whatever you learned on the
last one might be somehow useful, but be ready to drop the assumptions, face the new rocks
with new tools and start climbing, from scratch and without a past.
And remember, no matter how high you get. All it
takes is one false move. |
| |
| February 4,1999 |
| Just a
second
So, I am walking down the street. Nothing too unusual about that. The
skyscrapers filling the space above me are flawlessly rendered. My mind accepts everything
I see as ordinary. The entrances to these temples of money vibrate in sympathy with the
hummingbirds wings. Nothing too unusual about that.
Inside we go. Flying upwards with no visible effort. In the box we try hard not
to look at the others, it’s dangerous in such an enclosed space and we wouldn’t
want to make anybody angry. The doors slide open and slide closed, revealing a flat
emptiness scrawled out in the faceless ones that exit. A moment of indiscretion, a flash
of tomorrows meeting, a hunger. A caffeine nicotine adrenaline urge possessing the read
only memory for a second.
In time there will be words for this. But not today. |
| |
| February 1,1999 |
| Experienced
When the funnels are emptied of their dry and salty liquid, when the tart
indicators have sharpened your edgy taste buds, when the DJ spins another, when the
reclusive habits have burned away all contact, then this day will have arrived.
This day like any other. Nothing out of the ordinary sweeping you off of your
feet. No revelations. No sudden, penetrating insights into the hidden agenda you’ve
been forever hiding from yourself. No spaceships landing in your backyard and transporting
you to dimly lit corridors where memories are stolen and replaced at no cost to you. No,
nothing like that. This is a day like any other.
Whatever it is that you do, you will find yourself doing those things.
Occasionally wondering why it is you must have the paper with your morning coffee,
wondering why the cereal must always be a mix of three different boxes and never simply
one. These issues are better left for the day when the earth begins to shake from the
inside and dishes crash noiselessly to the ground. There is so much time on this day, so
much expanse between the night and the morn that to stop the flow would be the ultimate
crime. One you might enviously read about in the paper but never imagine having any part
of.
Some faint memories begin to take shape. Bank robbers that escaped without
detection, embezzlers soaking up the sun in tropical hideaways, murderers and rapists
running free on your streets looking for the next predictably unaware victim. Shaking your
head, waking from the momentum of a disturbed daydream you once again swallow the bitter
taste. Curving down your throat and mixing with the latest news and current dramas being
played out in the bowels of your stomach. 24 hours of non stop excitement down there. Open
every single day for the rest of this life. |
| |
| January 22,1999 |
Nervous JervisJervis swallowing
another cup of
tiny photography
Shaking like a leaf
that never showed
it’s autumn color
He could never
believe the money
back guarantee
Easily forgotten
it is often
better that way
His employer
watches the way
he decides
Film unfolding
into open hands
overexposed
Jervis yielding to
impressive figures
once dreamed of |
| |
| January 12,1999 |
| In a Field
The curve of the hillside reaches out to brush your cheek. Clouds barely
visible whisper soft melodies. Horses swaying in the wind, waiting for riders to arrive.
Those with the upright direction and finish line focus. Infinite speed crawling forth from
the distance. Coming closer.
Letting the earth finally inhabit the solar system of your defenses. No more
satellite systems necessary for the present second. No unseen missiles are being fired
from hidden bunkers deep in enemy territory. No rumors of fear invading your home through
mostly obvious means. No catch phrases, no lingo, no hip, no passe, no thing here to hide
inside.
In this field of electric vibration we rest for a moment. Slowing down the
piano as it continues its descent from a dark and troubled sky. Strings going in and out
of tune. A simple painless melody before the familiar dissonance inevitably returns. Can I
come back? Can I stay? How can I lie effortlessly in this field? This field, this horse
heaven of momentum waiting to be dreamed. |
| |
| January 5,1999 |
| Howling
Dogs barking. Stumbling in the dark hours of this night. Swimming in a sea of
faded photographs and broken memories. Gathering them closer for a final breath before the
real wind comes. An air so wide no Christmas carol can save you. The garbage cans go
rolling down the street, jostling a hundred sleepers for a moment, then asleep they fall
again.
A moonless night fills the starry sky. Into the wilderness, a voice beckons us
closer to the yearning. "Could you help me?" His gnarled plea reaches out
without care or pity. He begins running into the night. We, having no choice, follow. Only
his speed keeps us moving. Many times we lose the moment, many times we suffocate the
scent, many more we have forgotten.
Annihilation. One more time. "He is behind us now," you say to me.
"How can this be?" I say to you. "Time is a circle, and we are moving
slower than the speed of his light...he is giving us another chance to follow."
Gunning for the most precious star, a bullet is launched, the powdery remains
of nothingness coat our tongues, curdling those dusty moments once more. |
| |
| January 4,1999 |
| The Absence
He allowed his fingers to run lightly over the
strings, producing no sounds... the room was dark and mildly cold, the amplifier was
turned low and the guitar felt strange and heavy on his legs.
So many years away, so much time lost and now... can
one begin again?
When the fingertips finally pressed down on the
strings they felt harsh, like they felt that first day so long ago when the teacher
dropped an old guitar on his lap. What was it then that made this object so hypnotic, so
irresistible? What is it now that makes it so foreboding?
The notes started to flow out slowly, with frequent
clashes, strings flapping, fingers sliding... is it possible to start over? |
|
| December 22,1998 |
| Beyond the
Glass
My eyes remember yours. Those black abysses of ink floating in a snowstorm.
My attention wandering from the edge of winter toward arctic ice flows.
"It’s not me, it’s not me..." you used to repeat. My ears filled with
fantasy and wax. I heard nothing.
"You cannot see me..."
I wandered toward the mirror once again. Pleading and practicing my lines over
and over. Searching for the right rhythm but never quite finding it. Always a bit sour
when it came to the crucial moment of decision. "The time isn’t quite
right...better wait till later..." Praying for inspiration. Still waiting for the
reflection to reach me.
"You cannot touch me..."
Into her hands the fragile fingers of her daughter fall. There is weeping from
distant churches. We wait outside as the bells ring and ring. Dust fills our lungs. We
search for words we never seem to find. "...mommy, when can we get out of the sun?
it’s very hot in here mommy..." Soon, my thoughts seem to answer. Soon the
winter will be upon us.
"You cannot remember me." |
| |
| December 19,1998 |
| Flounder
Only a few more pennies left. If only I hadn’t spent my money on that
Sinatra CD. It might have made sense if I had a CD player but now all I can do is look at
this shiny plastic and pretend to hear Frank crooning in the distance. So much music and
so much time to imagine it.
Only a few more colors left. All the crayons were eaten by my dog.
"Springer Rage", the vet told me. What the heck is that? I wondered. It’s
an inbred insane gene in springer spaniels. They seem to be fine one day and crazy the
next. Hmmm...how odd, how strangely odd.
Only a few more seconds left. Of course there is time, of course there is. Come
back tomorrow and we’ll talk again. I know we’ve only scratched the surface
here, later we can go into the details. Why don’t we schedule an appointment. I have
an opening on Tuesday. How’s that for you? |
| |
| December 12,1998 |
| Human Jungle
Yearly grenades
Bouncing bombs
Shivering ignition
Nagging Moms
Sitting in the elevator. Waiting for the door. I thought there were only ten
floors here but I just heard there were hundreds more. Signaling me with electric eyes. I
recognized the exit.
Kinder gardens
September recess
Explosive hostage
Bloodied regress
Sleeping in the subway station. Waiting for a bus. I thought there was only one
way home but now I can’t choose which. Licensed children begging for a coin. Tugging
at my sleeve. I recognize the entrance.
Hunger spasms
Wailing secret
Zen koan
Self destructing leaflet
|
| |
| December 7,1998 |
| Smile
Hunkered over his plasma machine the scientist breathed a sigh of relief.
"Not yet, my search is not over yet." For a moment the terror of completion had
filled his square little head. Oh, the nightmare of another ending, the pain of beginning,
not again, not just yet.
The plasma was colored lipstick red. A girl he once knew floated through his
mind. Smoke swirls undulating off her cigarette. "Can I give you a light?" She
looked up, not seeing him, and so their affair began. Nights of cognac and chemistry, days
of croissants and calculus, a match made in a test tube. But those days are far gone now.
Perfecting, ever perfecting the formula. A million obsessions sacrificed for
this simple equation. Years of tenured satisfaction traded for a murky red liquid. Heat
applied with inhuman precision, distilled with no guarantees. Cold blue furnace welcoming
another experiment.
White lab rat in a frightened maze. Red walls reaching around every u-turn.
"I can smell the food, I can smell it." Sensation crowding into the laboratory.
Standing room only for the nightly show. The saxophone player is all tuned up, piano
player ready, and so the silky voiced singer with those murky red lips begins her final
song.
"Sweet, oh so sweet..." |
| |
| November 27,1998 |
| Hanging
Above the ferris wheel is a woman spinning yarn. She sits and watches me as I
fly by. "Take a look, but don’t linger," she whispers to me as I inch
towards her trembling lips. My surroundings are foreign, memories not yet lived, images
uncataloged.
Below the loom lies the hundred year soil waiting to offer its fruit. Metal
pins soar toward the moon. Circling the pins are angels carved from marble and stone.
Muscles and curves like Michaelangelo’s David. They are frozen in time in perfect
sequence. Eternal balance.
"Look closer, your time is almost gone..." The eyes of the woman are
beginning to fade. The cloud is coming closer. White through and through. "Remember
the pattern..." The electricity is preparing for one final jolt. Skyward I fight back
the blinding reflections. For an instant so short I can see the place.
Why had I never thought to look there? |
| |
| November 27,1998 |
| Realization
As the days passed by, the objects around me became
less and less clear. I would hear voices but not quite make out what they were saying,
maybe a word here and there. They were never speaking to me. My bed was nowhere to be
found and I wandered up and down the stairs trying to act as if I had something to do.
Later, I heard laughter, but from a young girl. There were no young girls in the house.
At one point, through much effort, I managed to get
close to the window and I looked outside. There were many streets out there, they all
crossed in confusing patterns. I retreated, making a firm decision not to look out again.
As I turned around the house itself seemed different, rooms had appeared that had never
been there, a hallway was where there should be a wall, and I heard old women talking.
I got down the stairs again and I heard her voice,
the only one I could recognize.
"It's ok, come to sleep."
I nodded and closed my eyes. I felt better already. |
| |
| November 24,1998 |
| Rhythm
"Gots to keep the beat going, man! No getting around that one. I paid my
dues, I did my time, I practiced till my fingers were blue. I was given the scrolls, those
parchment preachings. Now you try and tell me that you are looking for an eazy way. Let me
tell youze a thing that you won’t even believe. There ain’t no eazee way. Just
gotta keep the beat man. Keep the rhythm. Flowin with the rhyme. Rhythmin and rhymin,
yeah."
Stepping away I manage to find my way back into the crowd. The many limbed
creature that aches for adrenaline and nothingness. Where is the rhythm here? All I see is
fear and the doubting reflection of time. God, what is this? The crowd swallows me again,
another hunger passes by unnoticed. A destiny built on fantasy and forgetfulness welcomes
me into its icy chamber. Fire, fire, burn this den of wisdom to the ground. |
| |
| November 21,1998 |
| Paper Frame
When the stars cry for tomorrow, returning softly to the bang of bigness.
Forgotten past of moments to reconsider your daughters final touch. Small hand recoiling
back into the womb. Fragile nails pounding metal into wood. A spreading of dust. The foot
path reveals itself to be bare once again.
Eyelids cracking open a heart hidden within.
"There is a piece of paper on your desk. The pen cap lies near. Soft
shapes and more angles then you can calculate." (Fade to trembling hand.) Examining
the words you read aloud, "Little Girl. Sweet and small. Cock does crow. So do you.
Merry voice. Infant noise. Merrily, merrily to welcome in the new year." |
| |
| November 19,1998 |
| Free Verse
Moon-dark night.
Silver slivers waxing full
Illuminate our world.
Slipping slowly towards empty bowls of blackness
We struggle, then submit,
Transforming sunlit star-stuff
in the crucible of the heart,
Becoming joy to lighten
The sorrow of our god. |
|
| November 17,1998 |
| Jettisoned early
sound barriers
fill hulls
disintegrating
half opened
falling
human sized
bright ness
jill and jack
a pompous pair
gummed up
no hair
staggering
up the stair
"do you sleep well?"
"the draft is getting to me"
hunger fills the room
steam evaporating
unified in one
poor home child
waiting for the call
curious
spindled
exonerated
guided by symmetry
jettisoned early |
| |
| November 16,1998 |
| The Big Nowhere
Out there, beyond the safe confines of my skin, lie
great mysteries, shapes that would escape my fingertips if they could even reach them,
thoughts that would contort and twist around my memories so rapidly that they would loose
all meaning and become rainbows of color, feelings that would rip my contained melancholia
to pieces, throwing my sadness into the maelstrom, my happiness to the winds. Such dark
love, such cold compassion... incomprehensible, fearsome...waiting.
|
|
| November 14,1998 |
| Dying
for the Moment
In a dreaming, swallowing the scent of fire eaters. I awoke. The ramp to the
other side was tilting and I decided it must be flat and level. "The teacher is
dying! The teacher is dying!" Cries from the other room caress my panic. The map had
been carefully prepared, the signals all in place, the exit point marked with a red X.
They await you with open arms.
An ocean of unanswered letters arrives in your mail box. They are all written
in your handwriting. You open one. Unfold the paper inside. It reads, "To whom it may
concern. Your time will commence shortly. We are still awaiting payment. Have you
forgotten about us? Thank you." Your signature is crawling across the bottom of the
page. You have no memory of this.
The wailing from the other room is getting louder and louder. Is he really
dying? He can’t die, can he? The room is spinning and your empty envelopes are
dancing in the open air. So much text and so little time. Words waltzing with alternating
catastrophe. A science of the moment.
A book opens. Page 241. A young boys face looks back at you. Sticky eyes that
you can’t move away from. Underneath, a description. The machine is coming back into
phase. Build your spaceships well, for time here is a precious commodity. Rarer than fire.
The boys face merges with the darkness. You fall directly into the cold mirror of
friction. |
| |
| November 9,1998 |
| Juggling
the Hundred Faces
Come out and play. The weather is great. Smiling. Lollipop smiles. Who’s
it for? A parent, a teacher, a dead friend swallowed mercilessly by the past. Anger. Why
did she have to die? She was so young and unusual. I remember reading stories about her
twin who drowned at an earlier age then her. Unfair. But the story was funny, something
about a plate of broccoli and a garden party under moonlight skies. Nostalgia. Lapping the
sides of a slack-jawed human like a dog in heat.
Honest. I wouldn’t lie to you. I don’t even know the look in your
eyes in these final moments as you move away from here. Patience. Waiting for a train or a
decision to seize the moment and run out of gas the next. Where did I put the recipe for
burning coal? The house was only ashes by the time I returned. Disdain. If only she could
have been a little older, a little more jaded, a little less perfect.
Lies. All lies. Pouring out of my fingertips quicker then money from a beggars
hand. Dirty lies. No change today, sorry, maybe next time. His face aimlessly follows you
around the corner. Quickly forget you ever entered this room. Again. |
| |
| November 8,1998 |
The Loneliness of the River
Creeping
In Through My Pores…
Never have I felt so lonely,
As when I am an outcast.
An animal trapped in a cage full of clowns,
Screaming clowns with ugly faces and nasty looks,
Evil smiles with angry screams,
Calling to me.
"Shut up!" they yell.
"Get up, you lazy bum…work!" they command.
Work they do not mean…
Censor my mouth they want,
With fear as their weapon
Ignorance their ally,
And stupidity their master.
Turn me to stone they will,
If I don’t fight
For my right
To suffer…
And cry in pain.
Make me a slave they can,
If I take their bread…
And their comfort.
To not have control of my destiny,
To not feel,
Not think.
An outcast Wills…
Freedom I Live! |
| |
| November 6,1998 |
| Tank!
Dark alleys of my mind, never-ending nightmares with
monsters that hound me, heed my pleas no more. Have pity no more; destroy me; haunt me
down; devour me; tear me apart and shred my insides. I fear you no more – I have
survived Tank!
Centuries in the pits of piss; eons in a cemetery where I
was buried thousands of times; eternities within the labyrinth of G.O.D.D.’s Tank.
Until one strange night, as in a dream, I awoke within a
meeting of spiritual beings – magicians of all sorts. All of them powerful and wise,
and they all whispered a secret. And back in Tank, I collected p-h-e-n-o-m-e-n-a; and I
saw illusion; and I learned…not to fear you.
I now happily dance beside my fellow voyagers.
And, yes…I have driven a Harley in the rain! |
| |
| November 5,1998 |
| DARSHAN
It’s all about seeing:
Beginning from the outside
The sound of your voice,
Your shape,
The positions of your body.
And then we have your ways,
The intricate patterns of your being,
The subtle breath in a delicate touch
The unseen paths of your intentions.
The fragrance of your shadow
Surpasses none of the above;
There are no allegiances here.
Thoroughly you are so wonderful
Like everything else is... |
| |
| November 4,1998 |
| Sentences
This sentence is written in anger.
This one, with compassion.
This one, with impeccable indifference.
This one, with pride.
This one, in utter confusion.
This one while distracted.
This one, in amusement.
With this one, I’m lying shamelessly.
In this last sentence, I’ve absolutely no idea what I’m doing. |
| |
| November 3,1998 |
| Climbing
the Ladder
In the dream I am moving the ladder effortlessly, why didn’t I ever try
that before? The lightness of what I believed so heavy surprises me. That is all I
remember. The following day I find myself in this so called material dimension, moving a
ladder around. And yes it’s lighter then I imagined it would be, lighter then a
feather. That is all I remember.
So you tell me, where does the dream that comes in sleep and the dream that
comes in "wake" leave off? Could it really be just one continuous flow of images
and disorienting thoughts flowing unconnected one after the other in an endlessly
meaningless succession? Or could it be something else entirely?
In the light of dusk the moon rises silent and yellow. Its rays reflecting the
guide from far beyond space and time. I do see the eyes of the moon looking down upon me,
trying to convey a question to my futile answers. Trying to step up the ladder with me. |
| |
| November 1,1998 |
| Nitro
Diamond
The mythic feast is being served. Aromas reach out to us, tender and heroic.
Salivating like hungry animals eyeing injured prey. There is no one else in this room. The
wood is crackling in the fireplace. The candles are lit. The plates are prepared, steam
rises in wispy currents toward the ceiling. Faraway an unfamiliar music plays in the
background.
Suddenly a voice. "Please, join me."
Slowly we turn to see ourselves seated calmly at the head of the table. A
welcoming hand reaching out, indicating a seat to occupy. Our hunger overwhelms our
confusion and we begin eating. It seems like centuries since we last had a meal that
tasted like this, and actually it’s probably longer than that.
Days later we find ourselves swimming in a slow moving stream. Floating
effortlessly down, letting the current lead us. The watery womb reassuring everyone that
we are headed home. |
| |
| October 31,1998 |
| Teachings
in the Books
Started reading the introductions to the ABD and at the same time some
correspondence had me thinking about the difference between interactions which I’m
aware of and interactions which I’m not aware of. Then I happened to come upon an old
diary and as I looked through it, I thought (as I always do), how profound. How could I
ever have written that.
Then it hit me that some unconscious part of me was actually affected to the
point of being influenced, possibly somehow remembering or at least using that piece of
profound truth which the conscious "I" that once wrote it had now completely
forgotten about. As though a conscious "I" gives lessons to an unknown audience,
the (many?) unconscious "I". The student(s) are affected by the lessons, their
live(s) are changed forever by it. Masses of work is done and the poor old teacher (the
conscious "I") completely forgets about the lesson, fails to consciously profit
from it, moves on blindly to the next event in life.
But somehow the unconscious "I" surely gets the lesson back to the
conscious "I". But how?
And as for the unconscious interactions, all those blind dates I never knew
anything about. No wonder I never seem to feel lonely any more when I’m alone. |
| |
| October 30,1998 |
| Gone for
a Moment
We regret to interrupt the regularly scheduled broadcast that pours forth from
your fore brain for this special announcement: "The moment of remembering will be at
hand very soon, yet some questions remain. What will you remember? When the certain
dissolution of all you hold so dearly occurs, when all you treasure with attachment and
pity is swallowed up by the limitless void, what will be left?"
"That concludes this test of the emergency broadcast system. In the event
of a real emergency all we can say is that you had better be prepared. Thank you."
And the chatter continues. There are moments when we glimpse a vision of a
deeper reality. Memories that rise from our bones and melt our preoccupations like ice on
the surface of the sun. A reaction. A nuclear reaction. A message straight from the DNA.
So clear and concise we can’t ignore it and swear we will never forget it. And yet
the chatter continues as usual.
Today I will do nothing to change the dream. I will float effortlessly past the
murky river of illusion, not holding, not wanting, not dreaming. Tomorrow I will return to
the way I was before, or thought I was. Who am I after I see the veil? Not even behind the
veil, but a moment when I actually remember the veil that entrances me so effortlessly.
Reels me in like a fish on a hook. I know the food is not what it seems but I cannot
resist, maybe this time it will be different.
Who am I after I watch this happening for the millionth time? |
| |
| October 29,1998 |
| Responsibility
I awoke this morning with the thought of the unfathomable extent of the
responsibility one has for one’s thoughts, words and actions. So much is accomplished
through those three but we tend to think they are only private to ourselves and we
don’t need to take responsibility for them.
That thought was followed by the words: You cannot be denied.
That means that every thought comes true. Every word comes true. Every
intention comes true. Think of the damage you would cause with the wildness of your mind.
Now that you can’t be denied, you have to take complete responsibility for everything
you do, will do and have ever done, fact, fantasy and humor included. |
| |
| October 28,1998 |
Cleaning the Room
Cleaning my room; aware of contamination; aware of my habits
– how hard it is!
How hard it is just to get up – let alone begin the endless walk on that road again.
That road where more times than not one wonders what the
heck is going on and why the hell one took that first step into it in the first place.
You ever wake up to see how far you’ve strayed?
Where are the rest of them?
Them who came and said: "Come with us…"
Did they retreat to the safety of the familiar, just like I did?
Isn’t that what’s-his-name in that room?
That room is his castle – he feels safe in there. Walls
that have surrounded him most of his life; where the lighting is perfect and the sounds
are right; where the smells and the temperature are usually pleasant; where all of his
favorite objects are, his musical instruments, his books, his games, his movies; where
countless memories are stored.
Yeah, that’s him all right.
And his companion? Ah, there he is.
"Well, back to the brute dimension," he tells me.
"Ha, ha," I respond. "No, but really, what dimension is it back home?"
"Oh, that’s the hell one! He, he, he,"
he’s joking. "Nah, it’s human, definitely the human one" he concludes.
So there he goes, taking on a mediocre "ah, it’s
better this way" kind of posture, back to the human dimension.
I had a strange dream in which a hermit in the mountains
showed me the reflection of my being and a witch in the woods taught me how to clean up.
When I awoke, I found my self within a suffocating black cloud of dust, dirt, lint,
cobwebs, dead insects and all other kinds of filth. Throwing my arms out in front of me
and wildly swinging them all around, I realized that I was sitting on my bed, and that I
was in fact in my room! I couldn’t believe it – the stench was nauseating; the
air thick with dust and dirt, making my eyes squirm and my nose congested; and my ears
were numb and plugged, thudding-out all sounds. I thought: "Where did everything go
– the walls, the mirror, the computer, the books, the air, the light? Where did all
this filth come from?"
Cleaning my room; aware of contamination; aware of my habits
– how hard it is…well, at least for now, I can see my companions again! |
| |
| October 27,1998 |
| The
Unknown House
Several times I have awakened in a dream and found myself here. There is a gate
in front of a house that I never see clearly, although I know that I have been there
before. I feel that some kind of important knowledge is imparted here in ways that I
cannot understand or even recognize, and that it remains with me even though I have
forgotten whatever happened here before.
The first time I woke up near this house, it was in an area around on the side
of the house. People were sitting around tables. We were taking a break from whatever we
were doing in the house and talking about what went on during the meeting. I realize that
although I have participated in some class or workshop, and have been talking about it,
that I cannot remember what has happened. So I fall asleep again. The second time, I was
in line outside the gate, anticipating something I did not understand but wanted very
much.
The third time, I was standing in the circular driveway, waiting for the
session to begin. I know that I know the others who are there, although I cannot remember
them. I cannot remember what it was like inside. Perhaps a different level of awareness is
needed to remember.
I do not know how many times I have been to this house, received something of
importance, and forgotten. Again I am outside the gate, waiting to enter. This time, I may
not remember, at least I will remember that I have forgotten. |
| |
| October 26,1998 |
| Departure
from the Waiting Room
"Always tomorrow, always tomorrow, there is always tomorrow," says
the begger to the thief. "When will the day come when there is no tomorrow?"
"Sometimes there are no tomorrows," replies the thief. Silhouettes
fade and reappear, recollecting nearby, moving up slowly. "You are my angel. Your
eyes are on the dark side. An electric metronome that knows no rhythm."
The puzzled beggar wondered where he was.
The thief continued, "The borders of your people are fixed by the breath
of divine beings. Watch their measured dance as they float through the corridor. Severed
lines, invisible and physical."
The wait was increasing. Time passed slowly as the thief spoke in riddles.
To himself. To the passerby. To the toy people. The weight was increasing.
Gravity closing in like mushrooms of fire beneath the mold. Letting the days pass, echoes
of the past. A teardrop on the black flower blossoming in the hand of death.
"I must leave now," says the beggar. |
| |
| October 22,1998 |
| Guide
Sometimes you just need some one to tell you
where you are and what is happening…
When your clothes feel heavy on your body,
When you feel light,
So light that it feels like you are floating out of your body,
When the walls seem to gently dance like the flame of a candle,
And the floor and the ceiling begin to come closer and closer together,
When you feel as if you are about to have convolutions,
And as if you are running out of air,
Until you cannot breath anymore,
When you feel the panic rushing in,
Fighting for one more breath,
One more moment in time…
"This is what it looks like when the
veils of illusion slightly move aside, when the world that you have been so accustomed to
suddenly gives way to raw reality. The world that you normally inhabit is what the great
books and timeless stories refer to as the "illusion". And the event that you
are experiencing now is called ‘a momentary awakening’. There are many things
you can do in this state, but you should only try it with some one who can show you how
– some one who can serve as a guide. And remember that it doesn’t have to be the
image of some thing or some one that appears to exist outside of you and looks pretty much
like a bipedal of your variety. It can be some one or some thing from within you –
perhaps a part of your self that you are not ordinarily aware of. " |
| |
| October 20,1998 |
| Behind the Desk
Red face, pearls of sweat, no tears. A glass of
whisky and a tie undone. Dark tinted windows and a hooded figure at his back. Quiet all
around him and so much space...
"I didn't know it would be like this..."
"Nobody does... before it happens."
He smiles, shiny white teeth and a wrinkled nose.
"There's no turning back?"
"There is no turning at all."
"One mistake, huh? That's all it takes?"
"That's all... that's why there's so few of
us..."
The door makes no sound as it closes. It will never
open again. |
| |
| October 19,1998 |
| Remember
Me, In Case I Don’t
In the dream he finds himself running. Stairways toward unknown castles beckon
his frantic steps. Up and up he goes, the stairway is spiraling, no end in sight. Tomorrow
someone will want to know what happened, someone will ask for a story, will he remember?
In the dream he finds himself swimming. Bricks line the walls, the ceilings,
the floors. There is no light, yet it is not completely dark. Always around the next
corner he feels he will find her. Always moving in the silent dusk that echoes endlessly.
Will he remember?
In the dream he finds himself dreaming. No place to go. Nowhere else but here.
The panic of nothing rises like lightning, greeting every moment with electric empathy.
The room is so small. Empty. Sitting on the floor he begins to draw a circle in the dust.
Songs from the phonograph his grandfather used to play taunt him with melodic simplicity.
A circle within a circle. Turning. Memories within memories. Burning. Will he remember? |
| |
| October 17,1998 |
| How it is
I don’t how it is for you. I don’t know how it was for you when you
woke up this morning—or whenever it was you woke up. I don’t know if you noticed
that you woke up inside this stuff, or surrounded by this stuff—all this stuff.
Luckily, some of the stuff communicates. Some of it moves around, or seems to, pointing
out clues of some kind. Luckily, some of the stuff closest to whatever might be called you
and me, has names attached plus files of information related to itself and the "other
stuff", which would seem to be continuous except for the files having boundary
criteria about which stuff is you and which is me, and which is someone or something else.
The trick is, or so I thought—although thought from where and how, I
don’t know—is to have all this happen, or seem to happen, and it will seem to
happen very vividly—is to have it be okay to wake up in this situation—in this
very vivid field of information, right in the thick of it—without necessarily buying
it...or renting it...or, or something...
For all we know, we really just got here today. All the stuff in the files
about our personal history, who we are based on who we were yesterday, what we
did—all those embarassing or otherwise emotional moments which we can actually still
feel or sense blasting through electrically as an odd charge from a story which the stuff
says happened yesterday when so-and-so did such and such—well, probably that stuff
relates to all the other stuff—but not to us—we’re newbies. Not only that,
we only get this one day to play.
It seems unfair, considering all the history—past, present, and
future—that’s folded into all this stuff. Myself, I’d vote for more time
here, even knowing how mixed up with all kinds of stuff I’d get. But when I woke up,
I got the strong sense that this is about it—one day—maybe even less—or
bust.
Is this how it is for you, too? |
| |
| October 14,1998 |
| The Acrid Taste
In itself it has no purpose, it comes unbidden and
leaves behind no results, other than a bague feeling of loss and regret. My mouth twists
into a grimace and I feel my heart pounding. Today it surprised me. It came and it went.
And I'm here with only the taste for a memory. |
| |
| October 13,1998 |
| Idleness
I sat on the steps of the building and watched.
All those busy people, all those purposes, all those destinies flowing by me, a mind full
of fantasies and yesterday's news.
The wind touched me and I shook for a moment.
It is clear that time is passing
but I refuse to believe it.
A certain building, a shower of colors, the knowing smiles and a vibrating song bouncing
off the walls.
But I keep on sitting,
waiting for that day to come. |
| |
| October 12,1998 |
| Direction Unknown
Moving through the mists
Under cover of night
Before me stands a stranger
Giving a cigarette a light
The air is cold
Colder than arctic hunger
He asks for directions
To the rumbling thunder
I point to the right
The rain begins falling
His need seems strangely clear
An echoless calling
From the depths of his being
A flower is sprouting
Following the sound
Of soundless shouting
With a nod of his head
And a flick of the wrist
Struck by lightning
He returns to the mists |
| |
| October 11,1998 |
| Argument
What a tiring thing, to see two people skillfully arguing, holding some measure
of truth in their hearts, and completely blind to each other. One with true sight would
see that both hold truth like a skillful archer holds an arrow in the midst of a
battlefield. But, sadly enough, both are blinded by the dust, sweat, and blood. Both
aiming at the wrong target. Great warriors you are! And fighting with shadows!
Remember: the bamboo shoot sweeps the path to the garden with its shadows.
But it raises no dust. |
| |
| October 9,1998 |
| Circling
the Houses
Remodeling the house can be a tremendous undertaking. Every space needs
attention. The cobwebs have become deep snow in the armpits of many rooms. Dust thicker
than molasses fills your nose. Where is the gas mask? Dark sticky things hang from the
ceiling and grow from the floor. Home sweet home is no more.
Does Hoover make a vacuum for this mess? I have a sinking feeling they sold the
last one long ago. Now it’s up to us, using the tools we can find to clean this chaos
up. "Maybe we could just set it on fire and start again," a voice from the
corner inquires. That might work, but chances are it would end up looking like this in a
few months and then we would have to burn it down again. Endless fire returning.
Focusing our meager attention on the smallest, inconsequential items we begin
our task. Quietly working away. We must be careful to not let the house notice what we are
doing. The house has a strong preference for keeping things the way they are. Who knows
why, but houses just tend to be this way.
Whistling while we work we step through the front door. |
| |
| October 8,1998 |
| YOU GO, BOY!
Where do you draw the line? How far do you dare
go? How deep is your yearning? How powerful your desire?
On the quest for knowledge... You will challenge the
Universe; give your life to tear away the veils of illusion; seek the Hidden Ones, out
there beyond the realms of your reality, to guide you -- and you will endure the pain and
the loneliness.
And for what? To find the origin from where
you’ve never left? To learn what you’ve always known? To escape from what is not
really there?
Why? It’s beyond me.
But go...go! Go on and awaken from your pleasant
dreams; become exposed to the burning radiations of raw reality. It’s all a little
strange to me...but go! Go on and leave the wealth and power trip behind, the animal pain
and pleasure...leave it all and begin the moment of your death. |
| |
| October 6,1998 |
| Bruto Reminisces
I remember listening to the first lie – there ended my
innocence.
That same day, out on a balcony, looking up at the rooftops,
the volcano, the sky, the orange sun setting, crying with all that I was to any god for
help, the Seed was planted.
I recall the only sunset.
And I saw the world for what it was.
And I learned that people are not aware of where they are,
that they do not see most of what’s out here in our world, and that they do not know
how to live their lives.
Although I did not realize it then, it was also that day
when I betrayed my true essence, and I – confused and terrified of the existence of
the illusion and the reality of my life – swore never to hurt again.
I was five then.
Since then, I have lied, I have raped, I have tortured, I
have killed. |
| |
| October 5,1998 |
| Stun
The dreamer said to the dreamee, "How long is this river? How many times
can we go through the wide lakes, the narrow caverns, the rushing rapids, only to be
reborn in yet another glassy lake?"
"Let’s check the map."
"I remember there was a place named Camaroon, we were once headed there,
before the stars deceived us with their refracted light. I can hear the drums ...I can
hear the drums in the distance even now."
On the map there were a thousand island skeletons, ragged edges yellowing in
the morning sun. The smell of the sea was beckoning us, further into the illusion we
sailed. Sometimes slaves. Sometimes friends. Sometimes silent days lingering forever.
"Have I left you in the fade between the macrodimensions? I will readjust
your TV, please be patient." The clipper ship hung in the distance of a childhood
room, uninhabited for centuries but now alive once again. Voices echoing nonsense, the
switch is here somewhere.
"Forget it. Let’s take a plane."
We stand on the landing strip. An explosion and then lift off. No approach. No
casual release from gravity’s grip. No ladies and gentlemen fasten your seat belts.
Boom. Gone. |
| |
| October 3,1998 |
| WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?
The lonely road ahead -- it goes on and on.
Maybe your childhood dreams are never-ending.
The rhythm of the galaxy under my fingertips.
What is it?
Who am I?
What am I doing?
No return from your origin.
There was never a way.
Who can say, "any way"?
All we’ve ever been told used to be a lie.
Now is not even here.
Go figure -- football is on tonight and my wife ain’t home yet.
But who am I to argue?
I mean, when I itch down there, I just go for it!
You know?
I want that rippling sensation all over again.
So if this don’t make no sense for nothing at all, you might as well be home...before
you get gone. |
| |
| October 2,1998 |
| Song of
Tumor
The fragrance dissolves effortlessly. Inhaling the sweetness you are
transported backwards to simpler times. The age of information was just a glimmer in your
grandfathers half-blind eye. His voices proclaiming loudly the echoes of prophetic
visions. The unidentified scent slithers under the closed and bolted door. A yellowish
light fills the darkened hallway.
The silk curtains are pulled back. A crescent moon hangs in silent space. Night
time is the right time. A lone figure looks upward under the street lights silhouette.
Smoke billows in great signals of hidden meaning. The cigarette is flicked. End over end
across the sidewalk. Arching. You watch its path with distant fascination, all movement
coalescing in one discarded moment.
Yearning memories beg for your frail attention. Soft fingers pressing on the
back of your neck. The blood trickles from your nose. Muscles tighten. Ignition in a
distant car catches fire. Do you want to be there? Can the smell of rich Corinthian
leather coerce you into the speeding automobile destined for a final fatal crash. Metal
twisting and breaking. Angelic harmonies. Swimming in the bloodied nose you reach for the
empty sky once again.
Anywhere but here.... |
| |
|
