Rise of the Morningstar; Truth and Nonsense

A Little Perspective

2010-03-15T19:41:00.001-07:00

One tiny grain of sand,
Came from all this.
The mountain, the sea, the middle:
Between you and me.
And the result of it all is but a single
Insignificant
Grain of Sand.
Hold it to the light,
to examine the mystery
That is
A Single Grain of Sand.
Think of the perspective of that miniscule mineral
The realization that it is but the smallest fraction of this everything.
And the realization that this everything has:
Through time & heat.
Thousands of years of churning beneath the seas.
Collaborated to create:
That tiny fraction we examine so callously.
Just a single grain of sand.
Among the billions that litter the shores.

Only the Lonely...

2009-12-14T13:54:00.000-08:00

The environment that we surround ourselves in, if you live in the City or Suburbs, is all at once a dazzling, fast paced, unforgiving, and enchanting experience that requires either strength or the appearance of strength in small minded convictions. In each case the amount of energy we use to function leaves little else in our internal reservoirs for the subtle pleasures of self-exploration. The moments we do have free are used in pursuit of a leisure that itself is nothing more than distraction. Whether that distraction takes us to a moving picture or a group of friends with drinks makes little difference. The end result is to distract ourselves from ourselves. In movies, games, television and other similar forms of entertainment we are passively taken along. Even in such films that we deem "thought provoking" we are still little more than a vessel for the ideas and notions of a writer, director, and actor. During the film and after we are engaging in material that is secondary from ourselves. In the case of friends we find ourselves actively distracted. Whatever forms of conversation we employ, and there are degrees of depth to each conversation we maintain, we are merely using the forum of words to express and escape the issues that plague us. Perhaps we partake in gossip, using others follies & foibles to detract from our own. Perhaps we indulge in self-evaluation, expressing our inner selves to others as best we can. While it seems obvious that the first act is mere distracting filler, the second action seems noble, poetic, romantic, even self-aware. However the danger is in actually believing that when we give voice to our "inner selves" that we actually are. To truly honestly express oneself, without fancy words or impressive turns of phrases, is a difficult and laborious task. It requires an unflinchingly honest knowledge of our motives, desires, prejudices, and idiosyncrasies that can only be gained when we are given the time to sit silently with ourselves and examine closely our actions, words, ideas, and decisions with a mind willing to accept that : 1. "I" is not important, 2. It is more often "wrong" than "right", 3. It is more subtle, beautiful, and powerful than we believe it is.

To say that "I" is not important is extremely difficult. It requires the detached observation of our ego, taking us to a place in which we can recognize that all the unique characteristics that embody who we present to the world is not that important. Our ego fights this notion. It wants to be the center of our personal world view. It is devious and manipulative in pursuit of this goal, preying on our insecurities, exaggerating our personal accomplishments, and selling us illusions of grandiose. Falling into any of these feelings is very easy and very dangerous. To do so distorts the needs, the voices, the joy, and the pain of others. It allows us to hide behind a stunted perspective that fails to empathize with the world we inhabit. This is not to say we can banish or subjugate our ego in any way. We should not. Even if we could do this it would be dangerous. Our egos, which helps us seek a unique perspective or embody an original persona, help create the diverse beautiful world in which we operate. What is needed is to be aware of our ego, of the tricks it plays upon us, so that we can be open and free to experience the full scope those beautiful diverse people we love, hate, and are indifferent towards. We must live this "I", be aware of it, give it voice, but make sure that the voice it is given does not drown out the voices of "us"

It is a perplexing notion for our minds to admit that it is more often wrong than right. We are raised to be confident (As a society: i.e., America is great, buying is good, you should drink coffee...) to believe in the fine lines of right and wrong, to trust that we are "right" -- as individuals and as a collective social unit. Only in every instance we trust faulty perceptions, notions not our own, media constructions of beauty, strength, passion, and so on. This is important to recognize because we trust so blindly the structures of religion, nationalism, capitalism, and all other sorts of -isms and thought groups. Rarely do we, and even rarer are we needed to, stand alone. But as we come to stand alone, to consider the long progression of human thought, we can begin to see that often we are "wrong": as individuals and as a collective. As we begin to recognize, and then truly understand, that we as humans don't know nearly as much as we thought we can then even begin to let go of these notions of "right" and "wrong". Perhaps the only reason it is important to recognize that we are "wrong" is that the notion of being "right" is so ingrained into our cultural lifestyle that we must, to help us come back to balance, go in the opposite extreme. Doing so allows us, as an individual and with hope as a society, to no longer blindly accept the parameters of the world we can see, but allow for a greater more subtle more wild world than we know. By accepting that we are "wrong" we combat the doctrine of "right", and allow for the world to simply exist and we observe it as best we can without boundaries limiting what we can intake.

That our minds are more subtle and beautiful than we give them credit for is true when we allow ourselves to experience empathy. We have such a long cellular history, such a long collective memory that in narrowing ourselves to function in the world of modern marvels we leave behind the expansive richness that our mind is capable of calling forth. It is in empathy that we can begin to understand this. Empathy is our ability to truly understand, feel, and experience the world that another man or woman is living. By allowing our minds to open up and accept the troubles and joys of another we can see the shared desires and needs of our world. We can begin to understand the connection that we have with the entire living, breathing place we currently inhabit. As we do this we can feel our mind grow stronger, larger, and more powerful than if we were to close it off to the tribulations and successes of others. With empathy in our (metaphorical) hearts we can allow our minds to continue to grow and learn and discover in a way that would unavailable to us if we were only involved in our own successes and tribulations.

Nothing that is written here is a blueprint. Each one of us must be able to come into redefining our world in our own way. The three ideas or tasks are merely one way that this author has found to be successful in helping him expand his sense of empathy and continue to discover the pleasures of being alive. They may not work for you, they are suggestions. Nor could a methodology for how to accomplish those three things ever be created. We must seek and discover our own path, hoping always that it leads us to become better servants of this world we borrow time on, better communicators, better at understanding the beautiful people we share this wild teeming earth with. What is important though is that we never be discouraged by failing but encouraged by the attempt. That we continue to ask for, and give ourselves, forgiveness. That we love ourselves and others with a warm heart that is full of generosity. That we continue to share, discover, and laugh.

A Wonder

2009-11-24T09:37:00.000-08:00

What we have,
Until its gone:
A wonder that we never realize
until its gone.
The wonders of all we are.
We are wonders.
To be wondered about. To wonder ourselves.
As we wander about.
This way and That.
Here and back.
From New Delhi to New Amsterdam.
So consider it thus:
That we can consider at all
Whether to butter our toast or eat not at all…
Breakfast in bed, noon time lunch, a dinner with friends, a late night munch.
Such possibility in just how we eat.
And that we can even eat all.
On a grander scheme we can consider quite more,
than the individual meals of our own.
The amount of growth needed to maintain—
this balancing act we perform in the stars.
Of cycles of water, or cycles of soil,
Of cycles of rocks, cycles galore.
Or perhaps just a cyclist is all.
A lonely figure pedaling alone.
Striving, struggling, straining… to move along.
Can you picture that figure?
Chuggin’ along…
So so very alone?
Not anymore when you picture that figure and 6 billion more.
Mouths to feed, people to clothe, more more more.
Crying little ones coming all the time.
And they bring so much light from were it was they’ve come.
But they need so much life, just to survive at all.
To even think of love in this mess
is a wonder that can not be missed.
Try it with the doubt, you’ll see it doesn’t mix;
What one needs is faith, its opposite twin.
Of doubles we speak, then remember to meet:
With Triumph and Disaster.
And please,
treat both those impostors the same.
Hold your head high when you can walk on your own —
And never be ashamed to need help to walk at all.
Then let us wonder what these little lessons mean at all.
At the tiniest fraction?
Nothing at all.
At the largest part?
Nada, Nothing, Zilch. Z-ro.
It is somewhere in the middle that we can even begin to notice these moments at all.
Like a notice on some strangers door
Or a letter to love, thanking it for:
Existing at all.
And that is the wonder, the wonder of all:
That we exist to wonder at all.

And The Leaves That are Green...

2009-11-17T22:03:00.002-08:00

Like a lightning flash it's gone
Never to return no more
Like your lover that’s left through that door.
As Dylan sings along
To the soundtrack of all that is going wrong.
So you think to yourself:
There are days, there are hours, when love leaves you
Without a word to bid you adieu.
Through the front door, into the cold.
Down the steps, you watch her go.
Fading into the night, like a poem you once meant to write...
Ho Ho.
Some days you’ll be happy. Others you’ll be saddened.
But as an equation, the summation is not that different
Than those days before she came.

The Joy of Song (Or, Why we Sing)

2009-11-17T22:03:00.001-08:00

Tumbling…
I’m tumbling upwards.
Into the arms
Of
Blackened Stars.
Chaos mounting
In the cool sliver
Of life’s empty embrace
Visions of passing worlds
Ice and Fire playing in a field of heather
Billions of Voices crying out:
Alone Alone Alone
Like the solitary figure of
The UN-breakable redwood
Breaking. Crashing. Tumbling
No more No more No more
And I am alone no more
Upon this residence of Earth
Connected by:
The bustling market place
The sounds and scents of the farmers work
Ripe bursting ovaries of the earth
The sweet juice of the strawberry
Trickling down a child’s face
Like a stream that rushes headlong to the sea
that vast endless ether
In which the whale sings
For no other reason than to sing.

A Mile in Death's Shoes

2009-09-03T00:06:00.000-07:00

I asked you once what it is you saw.
The fields of war, empty rooms of a hospital floor
Perhaps the crumbled forms that are the victims of your work.
Did you attend the funerals of those you took?
Or perhaps you sent a messenger to overlook the last of your deed.
You responded to me that what you see is more than just these cursory scenes.
That I have failed to consider your vast and endless hospitality.
The souls you accept, the willingness of your mind to not be prejudiced.
You offered me the chance to see as you see, to be as you be, to live once as death so that life could be clear.
I accepted the offer, with more than a little hesitancy.
I arrived on the day we had pre-arranged.
I had no idea what I could expect.
I remember it all, so clear as today.
The hands of the sick, the laughter of the free.
The healthy ones, the crying ones, the lonely ones, the prideful ones, the smallest ones;
All freed by a touch, a last gasp, a dying wish that the earth may yet fulfill.
And I saw the world, just as you see:
The way it is, the way it ought to be, the cost of living, the debt we all come to pay.
And
Through the eyes of Death I have learned:
The glory of Living.
And, in Living I have learned:
To let things die
By letting that which must pass
Die
I have found the limitless of my Love
And, in Life, as in Death
I have learned that only in Love will we have no limits.

The Birthday Gift

2009-09-03T00:04:00.000-07:00

When the package came you seemed so bright.
A birthday gift for you tonight.
You tore the wrapper from the box at once.
You couldn’t wait to see what it was.
You hoped for a toy, perhaps a new game, a ticket to a show, a CD, anything…
What you got surprised both you and me.
A set of wings, as beautiful as any I ever did see.
The colors were bright and the fit, so right.
And you tried them, with a smile so large
I couldn’t believe how happy you seemed.
I encouraged you to try and take flight.
You were tentative at first, not sure how to get it just right.
I offered instructions, when you needed them most,
And in no time, Time, you were swaying the breeze, floating high above the trees,
Flapping once, flapping twice, singing to the sky
And then you were gone and I was left behind.
Through it all I never realized how heavy I had gotten, how tired I was.
In the mirror I saw me, older than I once believed.
And I smiled at your memories that you left for me.
Ah, time old friend, you flew away from me, though you left me with quite a smile.
To think, Time, that you even gave me of your time was simply enough for me.
And this time I will remember to breathe and appreciate what you do for me.

Fear

2009-07-13T18:38:00.000-07:00

I am a creature full of fears. Often they lay dormant, waiting for a moment to pounce. This fear has many faces, many ways of extracting their desires upon me. They assert themselves upon every moment of doubt, every moment of lost focus, every moment of compromise with myself. These fears can blind me. They can fill me with a selfishness, a sensation of distrust for even myself. It is easy to feel that these fears are something we face alone, that no one can understand our fears. But the heart of fear has no center, instead it diffuses itself into the world, into every creature, every moment, every chance we have. Fear can become our action, our method of thought. Fear, when it is so encompassing, is unhealthy. It clouds our ability to see the situations we are faced with, to understand what it is in front of us. Fear should not be discarded though, it does have a place in lives. It must be recognized and used to fuel us to become better. We must face our fears head on, with the courage of a clear-mind, the strength of self-understanding, and the dedication to ourselves and our fellow people. We can not run from fear – we can mask it – we can not conquer it. We can recognize it, accept it, and move forward with the best interest of ourselves and our fellows despite it.

The Search

2009-05-03T00:32:00.000-07:00

Our conscience mind is a curse.

Spurred forth by senses that deceive.

No agent can stay the suffering.

No remedy can kill the pain.

Injustice wears the crown of Kings,

And the streets respect only brutality.

People are enamored with cruelties.

And the good deeds of many are lost to the sea.

There is no way to disturb the gears.

For centuries, across empires, the richest hopes of song;

Die as they were birthed, beneath the ground of the earth.

And

All that remains is the elephant graveyard

A cold wind that howls, wordlessly, through the mammoth skeletal remains

The mighty towers of steel and intellect have crumbled into the sea

The dreams of men only the whispers of rain

But Love exists.

Not as an escape but as a chance to be Free

It requires more of us than us of it

It demands our pain to return it again,
More alive, more complete.

But it hands us the power to rewrite our fates,

And it guides our Self through the infernos of hell.

Accept Love. Devour of its feast. Provide it freely the joy it will eventually take.
And
Learn from love what it brings.

…Relax.

Dream.
&
Play.

Yes, child, Play.

From the Begining

2009-05-03T00:31:00.000-07:00

In the end, from creation, comes destruction. As such, this will be destroyed. Forever more. To return to the soul. The soul is another realm. Of questions, unanswered, desired, sought, given a category to be found. And in creation I am found. Of course, there may be a God. And if I create that God will God be more powerful than that I? But what power holds the I? That of sight. And sound. I has sight and sound. To see a bounding doe. To hear the rustling leaves. Is that the scene? Stop with the questions. It is obscene. To ask too much of the God. I can make more Gods if the one is not enough. It is enough. Perhaps too much. Power is a dangerous thing. I envy the weak in this. There are those of weak wills and those of weak knees. Never trust those of weak links. There is a link to this. Some undercurrent you must divine. And it may rest in the divine. Or it may have nothing to do with such notions of… can we name the notions of that which has no name? We can. Though then it will gain a name. And a name is all for naught. It brings nothing but grief. To I. Again. Always returning. Through time, past lives I lead. Not a chance for God in this mess of I. No God can give I a chance. Do away with it. The God and the I. We will lose the ability to see. There was never much need to see what the I could see. As far as it could see. And in the dark it can be quite lonely. With the lilies. In the field of dreams. This must be just a dream. And when you awake you will again begin to see. You not I. We are free. From the infernal I. The all seeing. But it never leaves. I keep returning to this scene. It’s a crime. As if the entire dream was how to kill this thing. This thing… it feeds. On the dark matter. On the destruction we needed to create. But it is our means of creating new creations. Stagnation is a terrible thing. Full of disease. But the diseases must recreate. To delete. It wouldn’t be hard. Just a simple solution to the dilemma here. One stroke can destroy creation. One creation is meant to be destroyed. It all must be destroyed. But first it must be created. A finished production, a long-standing action. Life after this. Will never change. Nor ever be the same. Except that life must change, which never changes a thing. Change can never change. It’s too fluid to be done. Try and transform what is always on the run. I could never. Though the I is limited in every case. Subject to change, that unchanging beast. Not I! Came a shout. In empty space. So it filled the space. And so returns the I we so desperately tried to leave behind. It brings God with it. Gods this time. There are now multiple solutions to a problem we never had. Which solutions works best? Try out each one. Though each solution is an all consuming one. Now we are consumed by the solution, a problem we never had. That means it is new. Creation strikes again. We can destroy this before the end. At least at the end, well, it will be the end. Though there may be no end. So it goes to follow there was never a start. And it is not often that the start will follow the end. That is why order is of importance. In the courts. Of opinion. I has opinions. So do we. And so do the Gods we have invited to the scene. It is becoming crowded and each crowd has an idea of the order of things. At the start of it all… we have yet to figure it out. I, though, has an idea. I have no idea what idea I could have. Quite a trap. Though it is not like there is anything to trap. Nothing. We will trap nothing. But I will trap we. In chess it is check. In check it means look. Only I can look when I can see. And I can see. That’s it. I can see. The scene. Again. Naturally. How natural it feels. It must be of nature, this being. Though there is no being that is free. It is always confined to the prison it needs; Of needs. I need. To eat, sleep, and shit. That makes three needs. The rest are created, just as the first three. And with each creation we lead another to destruction. There is a total balance, though you can never see the balance sheet. Some Gods claim to give you a peek. Those Gods are plenty. Very few claim to give you nothing. Each one fills a need. Each need is a balance to something. Each balance may just be a dream. And this dream is creating disarray in the scene. Every time we must return. To where? Ask a God. You’ll soon learn we return to the place where I began, before I was named. There is no I in such a place. In such a state. Of being. Being Begin.

Only 2 years of our Time

2009-01-27T12:28:00.000-08:00

I saw the bags
strewn across the floor
I could feel your excitement grow

Don't worry you'll be fine
What if no one listens to me?
What if?

And the bags remain
Another reminder
of time passing, moving, wasting
waiting
for the day

It'll be ok. You'll find someone new.
What about you? Be safe... I'll visit.

Will you want me too? Of course.
Things change
we will... I might... you might

Who knows? Time...
Moves forward

the bags eagerly wait
Tag them, first
under & over

And my floor is clean
And you're not here
And I want you:
to Learn
to Grow
to Love
to Love me

Ceasing to be

2009-01-27T12:26:00.001-08:00

I Seek:

A field of blue flame
Over a cool black pool
And inside the waters
I can rest with no name

One Fine Day

2009-01-27T12:24:00.000-08:00

One fine day, while walking to school
I lost ALL of my marbles
It is tragic, but true.

Now, of course, you can imagine the trouble it caused.
I had just gotten the set and they were finest in stock.

I couldn’t stay to look I was running late for school.
I simply gathered my books and ran right on through
hoping I’d to find them on the way home.

In class I began to feel rather funny,
Something was off,
Something was loony.

I didn’t know exactly what:
It could have been breakfast
(Oats are like gruel, real cruel)
Or yesterday’s lunch
(Ugh, Cafeteria food)

When the teacher asked for the capital of Peru she called on me,
expecting an answer somewhat close to the truth.
I knew it was Lima (At least I think that’s the one.)
But all I could answer was:
How do you do the things you do as you do the do you do?

The kids all laughed
And I looked like a fool.
And Teacher was mad, Oh, she was a piping hot stew!

“To the Principals Office!” She shouted at me. And I left the classroom wondering: What was becoming of me?

I waited in the waiting room, staring at the clock. It was a quarter past nine said the hands on the clock. Next they were swaying, singing and saying: 1,2,3,4 I declare a thumb war! The big hand was winning, the little one was not, and it is safe to say I was in shock.

The sight gave me a fright and I must have given a shout because Ms. Figgerty behind the desk yelled:
Quiet down! Quiet now!

The Principals door opened and he gave a severe look, “Come in.” He said like a rather deep brook. I marched, head down, into his office of fear and sat upon a sad, lonely, old chair.

“What’s this I hear of you acting up! There are rules you must follow, there even written in a book.” His hands fell on his desk with a loud cracking thump. It was so loud I even gave a little jump.

He held up a book, it was simply called: RULES
And he went on to lecture about numbers one through two hundred and two.

As he spoke a strange thing started to occur – bats crawled out of his earhair – Well, you can imagine my fright (I hated bats, pudding, and night.)

I couldn’t take it any longer. I needed to act. So I smacked the two bats with my book bag. It was wrong, I know it, but the bats were really a bad scare.

The principal turned red, he gave out a shout. “I’m calling your mother and kicking you out!”

When she arrived she looked ready to cry as she heard the long list of my crimes. (Oh, they were really not mine… Just a misunderstanding that made me feel like slime.)

She drove me home in silence as I wondered what she would do. But my attention was diverted because the world was acting, well, a little … weird.

The colors were off, the order was wrong. I saw a dog walking a man and a stroller doing a dance. I saw a flying car and a purple Giraffe in pants. Such wonders and strangeties I really did see.

My eyes were deceiving me. My nose must have been too. Everything smelled of eucalypti, sage, and dew.

This was really quite bothersome. I was unsure of what to do. And when mother asked, between her sobs, “What’s wrong with you?” All I could answer was “Fiddldee diddldee poo I miss my marbles as much as you.”

At home was no different. The bread tasted like licorice and the cheese went “Moooo!” And Terry the cat was acting a bit scary too. He wouldn’t meow anymore and he was wearing a top hat. He looked at me and smiled then he said: “It’s tea-time you know. We must brew up a batch.
Please come and help me old chap.”

I gave out a yelp and left the kitchen then and there. But I could hear him from the next room chatting up a chair. “See how rude some children can be!” This was something I couldn’t believe.

I was quite flustered, tired of bats, cats and other such prat. I needed a nap! My dreams were no better… they were wild and unruly. When I awoke I was scared:
I didn’t know what was happening to me…

Then father came home and he talked up a storm. When I tried to explain he said: “Now is not the time for your jokes! Bats don’t live inside of earhair and no cat in a hat asks for tea with a chair.”

I was really quite ashamed and I tried to tell him so, but all I could say was:
“Wink, whack, what is that? I like stinkies, dinkies, and stacks!”

“Go to your room!” He shouted at me.

I went with three tears coming down the side of my cheek.

That night for dinner I could hardly eat. The macaroni was dancing with the cheese while the broccoli wouldn’t stop talking about physics and math. The plate, meanwhile, was whispering plans to the spoon and the bread was acting like a fool.

I went to bed hungry (Could you eat with all that?) hoping tomorrow would change this entire upside down day.

Now, the years went on by and the world stayed this way. I’ve learned to adjust, though sometimes I may act a little strange. It’s only a new way of looking at things: A new way to see ever since I lost my marbles that bright blue school day.

So if you encounter a new view, a perspective lets say, think on my story and how fast things can change. Don’t judge every action the same for we all act a little insane!

Learn to Breathe

2008-12-22T01:09:00.000-08:00

It is presumptuous for me to speak about death’s after-life. I breathe; and as a result, know only the first veil. It is not, however, presumptuous to seek understanding. Too often we stand help-less against the specter of death – as if it lurks in the shadows and any mention of its name will send its cruel henchmen after you. This is not the case. Death, if it were to stand naked before you, would be no more than a frail body. Much of its mythology is of our own making –our own egos standing before us drenched in words and half-banal truths. But what do we know? Death is the haunting grounds of the living –A place for grief and tears and familiar embraces; a well worn name; and; life that still could have been lived. That is the true crux of death’s iron-vise grip upon our consciousness and imaginations. The sense that more could have somehow been coaxed out of life; that we can cheat death out of a few last glorious gasps of air. But what do we gain out of the last breathe? Nothing more but that which we now posses, breathe. We can cower and do all we can to thwart the inevitable. We can beat our cheats and commit feats to convince ourselves of our bravery and fortitude. But the inevitable will occur. You will stop breathing. That is all. You –Nothing more than that and nothing less. It is a large word; a world in and of itself. Certainly, to the individual it holds certain worth and platitudes. With a bit of discerning taste one could argue that you might even be good, or, full of moral vigor. So what? You can keep composure better than him or her, you know a certain rule of living and the governing principles, You lived for lack of a better term a “good” life. And I ask again; So what? Centuries from now your body will be the compost for others to ohh and ahh over while patting themselves on the back for how far they have come. You know the true worth of civilization when it can hold itself in the mirror and arrogantly pronounce I can do it better. Only the real question is: When am I; when are you; when are they; going to live? And what does that mean? Consult experts and texts and sages and fools; none of them can argue with one simple rule. Breathing. That is the simple fact of living. No matter the manner in which you go gallivanting about the town with your breath, you must have it. The perfect drug, so to speak. Well, what of it? It is a wonder isn’t it –how little we realize and how fragile this whole universe seems; always teetering on the edges of disaster, when the only disaster is not realizing the wonder of what we have. No one is immortal. No civilization, no person, no artist, no Man or Woman can fight that. We can try –The Mayans, The Romans, The Egyptians, all proud bearers of that attempt; and all failures. We are just part of the latest failure. Don’t delude yourself into thinking anything else. But we can live: learn, laugh, cry, hate, achieve, passionately pursue and disastrously desire. We can look to shoulder the world and carry burdens and make burdens of ourselves. We can share foods and warmth and conversation and intimacy. And we should. Always with the full strength of standing and saying “I am living.” When it is all done it will be done. No matter how you “left” or, if you were brave or a coward. In the end the only real coward is the person who did not stop and fully appreciate the capacity it is we have to wonder, and be wondered about. And when you realize this, then you can stand before death and undress it. It is nothing to fear and/or revere. It is merely an old friend, a lone whistler, a weary worker, embittered lovers, an empty bottle of wine. Yes, an empty bottle of wine. And the wine? Drunk. Drunk and Drunk. I drank. I will drink. I have drunk. I once drank. And we are drunk on the nectar of life –A grape to be plucked and enjoyed in harvest. Drape it in definitive definitions, give yourself the illusion of thinking you have penetrated the mysteries; And all I see then is a fool. It is the mysteries that make it worth while –not the answer, but seeking an answer and the lives that will be lived in pursuant of whatever it is that lays on the horizon. Then you are not stagnant, not waiting for death to come, but embracing it because you realize that death; death in all its forms is what makes living. Death, in its own right, is light.

Selah

2008-02-12T21:20:00.000-08:00

I do not think that the measure of a civilizationis how tall its buildings of concrete are,but rather how well its people have learned to relate to their environment and fellow man.

chippewa medicine man - sun bear

A small Meaning (Meaning Everything)

2008-02-09T10:27:00.000-08:00

Lately it seems that everyday I am surprised by how little I know, how wrong I have been and will continue to be, and how much of a dichotomy the human experience is. Preparing for the world is such a demanding task and the toll only becomes higher as we mature and face the battles of trying to live a life with meaning. Even deciphering the meaning is a task that many better men and women have failed at. It is hard to not feel small and overrun by the forces that mount before me; from corporate drudgery, environmental disasters, failing education, poverty; and; friends losing grip, family members aging and passing, feeding myself … Even the daily hustle of waking up and shuffling through a day when it seems there is no light and that all the words I comfort my soul with are just as cheap as porn dialogue belittles me. You have to remind yourself of simple joys, at least I do. Moments when a stranger or friend said the right word, a small and beautiful present, and the strange perplexing wonder that existing is. I will never be the person I wish to become. I hope I never do. That sense of striving to better myself keeps me riveted to a future that is both daunting and exciting. I fail so often that I can no longer worry about what it means. Still, fear is my constant companion. Fear that I am not going to be loved, fear that I will fail someone I love, fear of failing my convictions. Maybe most of it is a transient smile and fading memories of friends and lovers; just a haphazard confusion of dust and gas. It is possible. I’ll accept anything as possible. It is in the execution of what is possible that I find my executioner. Too many negative thoughts, not the right gene structure, not enough time, man-power, ideas and so on. Trying to make sense of this is asking too much. Still, I would like to believe, that that does not give us a license to merely get by. Time for me and you and everyone is so frantically uncaring that without a question, a hunger, or a curiosity, it will be just as Thomas Hobbes once said, “Short, nasty and brutish.” I do hope I will love someone new, that maybe they will love me, that I can learn how to dance, to fulfill a lover’s desire, to build a home, to bake cakes, to shoot a gun … This is not a career path, not a life-plan with a 401k retirement plan. I know that. I just would suffocate any other way. I wish I could do it all. I know I never will. Even now I fail to convey to my friends and family and teachers their worth. Even now I waste time knowing how precious it is. I use Styrofoam, don’t make conscious decisions, and fall in line. So many days and nights have passed in a hopeless stupor. And many more undoubtedly will. But I keep moving, knowing how futile and small and unsuccessful I am and will be. It is all I have. That and the strange grace of people who help me along the way, despite what is my obvious undeserving person; But even that I don’t always believe. I don’t think there is one thing I can produce that deserves unfailing belief. For me I would not see the point to it. Once you discover a treasure you have nothing left to look for. Just meeting life is enough, even if it is my small cruelties, my warm conversations, my past indiscretions, my honest moments, and with hope, a moment where I give something of worth to someone else.

Pursuit

2008-02-09T01:59:00.001-08:00

We waste infinite time on our vanity. The collection of trinkets, the perceptions of others, the pursuit of our fleeting pleasures, build everything we know. To question this is wrong. There is no other alternative, seemingly. From minute one we are bombarded by the images of this pursuit and the traps created to coincide with our desires. There are feasts everywhere, for everyone privileged enough. Worth is wealth and wealth is the only measure of worth. The soul does not exist and will never exist in such a world. We know ghost-like glimpses of this idea. In song, in book, in broken mornings, in religious fervors; the soul will whistle by. That we never keep it is the fault of grasp, the fault of our greed seeking to gain from something that does not understand consumption. The soul burrows deep and knows only the paths of empathy as it shines in the molten core of our world. Warmth is the center. Warmth is life and a gift. From fire, to sex, to love, to companionship, to walls of a house; we pursue warmth. Not as a measure of greatness but as a means to live. We seek warmth with relentless vigor at times, because we are degenerating, constantly moving towards death and fearing the results. Never realizing, as we hurtled on, that death is precisely what brings us life and illuminates the precious beauty of its frailty. What worth is the mountain that will not crumble? Or the tree that does not rot? We are ephemeral. Transient and small, meant only to pass on our seeds to the next phase. Soon we will be nothing, and in nothing will return to everything. Our names will be lost, our bodies decomposed and I will be destroyed and in doing so we will return to the heat of the earth’s core; cycling back to become the mountain, the soil, the tree, the bird, the man, and the woman. Always always always always always recycling into the warmth of the core.

Year Reflections

2008-01-31T10:40:00.000-08:00

The hotel opened up like a delightful grand maze. The colonial architecture only fortified the idea. With just enough imagination I managed to melt away the obvious signs of modernity and feel the same warm distinct night of the Conquistador roaming his hallways. The metamorphosis is instant and unsettling. It takes a certain amount of concentration though to ignore the primal shouts and whoops of the party-goers I arrived with. The clock was slowly winding down for the year and in the back of my mind I know it is only seven days more for 2007. The leap seems inconsequential. They always do.
What is the truly frightening aspect are the internal rages that fueled the year. At which point I wonder, did the Conquistador challenge the same neurosis? Was the self he fought greater? More simple? The question slithers me into the skin of Ghenis Khan, conqueror of many lands. The words he discovered thousands of years before echo loudly in the artificial Colonial Mansion that was really just a hotel. After achieving his monumental campaign throughout the Asian continent and knowing the riches of the great kingdoms the Khan could only scribble on a pillar, “I turn to simplicity; I turn again to purity.” I wonder: Can I achieve this? What would it take? I may spend years chasing that dream, coming closer and closer only to realize that time has no regard for my quest and interests.
So 2007 becomes 2008 and I mark it with everyone else: 2008, only seven days away. Compiling a list of my accomplishments and failure is cruel and mind-wrenching. How do you explain spiritual resurgence? Can you simply mark-down new found strength? The deed is hard, unbearably hard. No, only history makes sense in the soft light of the Mexican night, roaming hallways like a ghost while your friends rot away their liver with liquor. History and the forces that drive it and the numerous failures and the numerous successes are all that matter. But why lie? There is more and I know it. I know that the year brought something new and that sorting the mess out is a daunting task. A list obviously won’t cut. So I sit and compose a story, a poem, a long winded memoir; grasping at some central idea or thought that could piece this year together.
All that comes is a phrase: I eat, sleep, shit, and the rest is guess work. Just that phrase, a dim-witted one at best. There is so much to put; lessons, new adventures, new challenges … even the tears. Like the success of my first scuba dive or the haunting visible deterioration of my Grandparents. You can not quantify or convey it fully. These things are personal and, in light of the sand, minor. Instead what erupts is a wounded idea about Conquistadors, Genghis Khan, and the redemption of a pillar. That is what drives my year-end reflection. Ugh, how serious and moribund. And finally after all that walking, with an empty bottle of beer, I decide to sit down. I find a grandiose patio that retains a sensuous charm. And just there, on the edge, overlooking the vast obsidian ocean is a chair. I sit down and I realize: The chair is soaking wet.
So I laughed. Here I was considering myself so grand and compelling when it took a cosmic joke to remind me I was never special. I had a wet ass. That was my year, all of it: an endless search for a wet chair.
The lesson is the laughing. You need it. When you do laugh, at yourself first, you can relax and pay attention to the beauty. This is a sensation history knows, the simplicity of watching a beautiful scene, whatever that may be. In this case; a black night, a restless ocean, and a lonely wet chair I spent a year searching for.

Should Death take me, for we never know...

2008-01-22T05:48:00.000-08:00

To those left behind- This is a life fulfilled. Life is always fulfilled when you live. Time is short. I am writing this as I go. Not to any place a ticket will take you. This is for family, friends, and lovers. Will there be wisdom in these words? Maybe. Pain, probably. Love, certainly. It is all I have to give, love. My meager words must shine with the deep well of love I hold for each and every one of you those past, those here and those to come. I won’t apologize. I did the best I could as I improvised my way. Some days were good. Some days I surprised myself, both in cruelty and in goodness. Others, well, how mundane. But I loved and fought with my heart. Never could you say better for me. Don’t cry when I leave. Leave I must. Don’t waste sadness for the place I have left unfilled. Smile that you knew my presence once sparked your creativity. I only wanted to ease the process of imagination to free you from the pain it can bring. I have no words on how to live your life. Only you can find the path. Just recall that even in my fear I followed the voice of my soul, sometimes without reason, always scared, but never did I turn away. So with a smile, madness and a dream plunge into the path your soul has deemed destiny. Do not let it pass for it would be the biggest insult you could ever give to my memory. Worse still, it would be an insult to the image reflecting in your mirror.

Love

2008-01-20T09:25:00.000-08:00

Love is strange. Try and define it, categorize it, bottle it and you will try forever. You can only feel it. Like the breeze in the sweltering sun, the consoling touch of a friend, or the wetness left behind from a lover's kiss. Love will find you only when are ready to accept its flow. You can not force -- You can appreciatte. You will be baffled. Love will enlighten, as if the all the world is cast anew in the light of a sleepy eyed dawn. You will remember what it is to be the child who wobbles scared with eyes wide open. You will be challeneged. Love will never leave you the same.

The Moment of Truth

2008-01-20T09:19:00.000-08:00

The clock ticks. The clock tocks. You stare limply at your watch. Mintues to hours, hours in minutes. You think. And think some more. The decision was made. You know. Sense it. Sense your fear. Below, the glimmer of giddy rebellion simmers. Like a fever. Waves of madness, coupled with rational sadness. If you are wrong? Too late. Your eyes never leave the clock; As if the synchronized movements will soothe your nervous flights of fancy. You wonder where to begin. You wonder when it began. There is no guide or map. Either way everything has changed.

To My Unborn Daughter

2008-01-03T20:30:00.000-08:00

Dear Daughter Yet to be Born,

I mended your wound, the one you have yet to have. Kissed it once for pain and once for the soul. You were still small, even now before you have come. The first day of school you cried so hard you almost never went. How could I send you to school covered in a flood of fear! But go you will, to learn and be, make friends and love the summer ease. My sweetest. My love. Only your mother I have yet to know can claim such a place inside this heart. Daughter of mine, name still unknown, I already feel your beauty will rival the world. The first bike I've yet to give, your first love I've yet to meet. The world is harsh, cruel and unkind. I will protect you in this house of love. I will make mistakes, this I know. Yell or Snap, the kind of tactics one should never resort towards. Please forgive this, it is just, I have grown old. You will come and shine but rain as well. Nights of worry have me worried already ... When you are still young, yet growing so old. I know one day you will become a woman in full. Be a lover to someone, seek there arms in the cold, enjoy your first drinks and many more. If only you could never suffer disappointments ire. Never experiance a hang over, nor a broken heart. O Daughter I have yet to know. I make this promise before you are conceived, for your mother and the house yet to be. Destroying is quick, a task so easy. But I will work to build, listen and learn to create our home. The work will be hard, but worth the load. To bring you into this world in a family with love and hope. So to my Daughter yet to be born, know I will scour the world to give you a warm place to grow.

Your Father Unknown,

Mark

To the Ocean!

2008-01-03T00:14:00.000-08:00

I am bringing my Illusions
and
All of life's confusion

You bring your baggage,
full of wounded wings and sadness

We shall hike a mile, or two
Till we meet the ocean blue

Over the cliffs our belongings go

Down
Down
Down

to drown ... in the ocean blue
Let it go, no longer to bother you

Then we'll smile and dance so sweet
And we'll remember:
To laugh
And that life really is a gift.

Love is a Hard Rain

2008-01-03T00:11:00.000-08:00

"Love is a hard rain"

I am not sure what it means,
That is what she told me
Just before she decided to leave.

When the door closed behind her
I went searching for dreams,
Till I found I was chasing
nothing
But schemes

I returned stronger, thinking:
'Now I believe!'
So I chased down new lovers --
Only to be left with no cover

Now I wait, patient, for what chance has to offer.

Cause and Effect

2007-12-24T23:26:00.000-08:00

Juan Rodrigo came to the illumination in the midst of his deepest depression in years. The lucid light did little to alleviate his suffering as it came at a moment when he was rendered impotent by means of his own labyrinthine mind. The self-inflicted wounds of modern psychosis were simply too much of an obstacle to mount. Nor was Juan Rodrigo in any condition to attempt such a reckless undertaking. Sitting at the bar and drowning in tequila is a sure means of wallowing and watching the world swim past and his only solace. In all fairness Juan Rodrigo was never before so inclined. His drunkenness was merely the side-effect of the cruelty of the inefficient bureaucracy that ran the General’s office. While the proof of his brother’s innocence was substantial and aptly demonstrated he had arrived too late. His brother had been shot two days before in response to a clerical error. The young woman who caused the error was unaware of the consequences and if she had been would have collapsed beneath the stress. Already she was showing signs of coming apart at the seams. The nasty cat-calls of the soldiers that patrolled the front of the office, the spreading sickness of her mother, and the fear of her little sister’s involvement with a notorious drug dealer were mountains of weight. Her mother had undiagnosed cancer and wallowed in the hammock from day to day, filling the house with a dread that was tangible to touch. All the known medicines had been shown to be useless and every day was a vigil till the end. Juan Rodrigo was slated by the heavens to meet this young woman, a meeting that would have ended in an alleviation (to various degrees) of everyone’s suffering. However, as it were, the meeting was postponed by two days because of a storm that was meant to pass through the northern countries but was reverted by a whim of the unknown. The storm knocked down a number of power lines and forced Juan Rodrigo into extra hours at the grid sector controls, postponing his trip to the General’s City by two days. He believed he had extra time since the execution was to be done in three weeks time. Needing the job for money, after all he did have a niece to support, he could not leave just then. This led to the untimely and innocent demise of his younger brother who had been mistaken for a rebel leader in hiding. The resemblance was uncanny to the Rebel leader, but the charges unwarranted.
In the same time, the same set of actions, another scene creates itself. This one sees the whimpering brother being released to tears and embraces. The clerk and Juan Rodrigo do meet and begin a friendship that proves deep and lasting, though never carnal.
Again, only now the storm does not change direction and Juan makes it on time. The normal clerk is off, her mother had begun to convulse and she needed to stay behind to care for her.
And so on… Numerous and minute changes that flesh together a story so varied and vivid, and all just possible. Hope and despair teetering on a tight rope held together by maybes. Wrapped within these stories are the choices made, limited or grand, marked by the ripples they produce.

The eyes never lie...

2007-12-24T16:12:00.000-08:00

Round and Round the mulberry bush and when we stop I am going to be sick…

The three kids sat beside each other huddled from the cruel winds. The structure was nothing more than a fiery mass now. The havoc was gorgeous. No one would be coming, no mad-cap rally to save the old place. It was going up in flames. With a sense of departure they watched. How many hours had they spent wiling away the years inside the abandoned halls. Little flakes of charcoal fell from the sky in a delicate way. The ones that landed on the three did so little. Each one of them had their respective accomplishments up to this date – small moments, large in perspective. The kids awed at the open heavens and presence of stars. Everybody moves on and now they would too. The eeriest sensation was the eyes. Three pairs staring right back at them; scrutinizing, calculating, contemplating. From inside the house no less they stared out. Only the three huddled masses had no fear for the owners of those eyes. It was too distant. Like a dream. Just like a dream and the only thing they wondered was when they would wake up.

The Moutain

2007-12-11T20:11:00.000-08:00

Our deeper mind is a mountain. The petty and trivial concerns that consume us are nothing more than the passing clouds or a beating storm. So teaches the Rigpa, a type of Tibetan Buddhism.

I agree.

We know this mind during our more introspective and challenging moments in life. We use different words to describe it. Sports use the idiom “he’s in the zone” ,or, “she is in the heat of the moment.” For the religious it is the sense of being in “God”-“Jesus”-“Yaweh”-“Allah”. For the more secular of us it is “deep relaxation”, “wonder”, “awe”. Albert Einstein would call this state of mind his “Thought Experiments.” Those are names, I call it a mountain. I call it a mountain since it makes it easy to visualize.

Visualize:

I am the mountain and I can explore this mountain. There are caves in my mountain. Imagine a person exploring/spelunking the caves. In the center of this mountain is a well. The explorer discovers the well. He looks inside. The well is deep. The water is glimmering obsidian. The fear of the water is great. You don’t know where it goes, nor what lies within. Can you even breathe? The explorer has fear.

He overcomes it. He dives into the cool obsidian. Swimming he feels at home. Breath is no problem. The well opens wide and runs to the center of the world. There, at the worlds center, he sees the twirling heated metals and stones of the core. The core pulses and reverberates. The molten material moves upward and out of the core, like arteries, exploding into the seas and the lands to detstroy and create. The heat that does not escape moves with convection currents, keeping the earth humid, warm and able to sustain life.

The explorer is there, in that center. From here he sees the connections of life.
The connections that Ecology show us, global markets demonstrate, and family & lovers teach us. It is inter-connection; life working as dependent relationships. And the explorer remembers that his path to this place came from the center of his mountain.
The mind is a mountain.
The mountain is connected.
The mind is connected.

Alone at Sea...

2007-12-07T23:52:00.000-08:00

There is a gentle rise and fall. It makes you feel lonely. The storms come and go. Sometimes we meet someone on the way. They stick around for a bit, then the current drives them off. Just you again, now; And all that blue. You may get tired of it. Yet; Sometimes wondrous things occur. A frenzied fight for food or a pack of playful dolphins alleviate the tedium. Those moments make you smile. But most of it is blue, vast and lonesome. The oars can take you somewhere, but the current really pulls you. Ships come and go in the night, shore-lines pass, the rhythm and weather change on whims you don’t understand. A few people get out, but we don’t know where they go. Nights are cold, days are raining, the sun can burn and other times it is pleasant. The ocean is so vast, you are so small. Even when you find others and join their ship, on the occasion when you stare outside of the group you remember how small you felt, how small you are. And everybody is fishing for answers, line out, waiting with patience. When one bites it is best to remember you only caught a truth. Nobody ever catches the Truth.

Love and Compassion

2007-12-05T19:23:00.000-08:00

Poetry, religion, novels, movies, etc... often purvey the idea that love conquers all; That love is the balm for all wounds. I take offense to this. Only because it is inaccurate. What is often characterized as love is more akin to compassion. The two are intertwined, certainly -- like DNA helix's constructing something gorgeous and genuine. There are differences though, subtle as they are. Compassion is religious or poetic love, the ability to empathize and appreciate and accept. Love, as I have come to know with friends, family, and lovers, is more tumultuous. It will shake you, change you, and keep your ego and vanities on a teetering see-saw. Compassion can be extended to all creatures, to every man, woman, and child. Love, though, requires a more immediate and passionate participation. Buddhism cites that love and compassion are the same (not all sects). How though? Compassion can be complacent. Active compassion may very well have elements of love, but this does not mean they are interchangeable. So often when we say "love will conquer all" we truly mean compassion. Compassion is precise, it is a word that means I understand and I want to help. Love does not always do this. At its best it will. But love, its failing at least, is that it tries too much as a word. While we as collective people can construct infinite rumors of celebrities and fad diets we have trouble coming to terms with the word love. It is important. Look up love in a dictionary and at least 20 different definitions arise. We need to re-think and renovate the word. No easy task. For my own part I propose we make love more personal: a strong upwelling of emotions directed to a person in whom we believe in. Compassion can suffice for the more impersonal and broad uses of the word love. By recapturing this word in our imaginations perhaps we will be more careful in dolling it out. Still, one must not be too careful, eh? But then again, what do I know?

An Explosion of Fate

2007-12-04T11:04:00.000-08:00

I was passing my eyes through my old room today and my attention ended on my bookshelves. There, in front of Marquez’s biblical Hundred Years of Solitude and a stack of collected articles, five tranquil bullet casings loafed. They taunted me, mocked me with their serenity.
I blinked for a second. I knew their trick. I had it down: those bastards were playin’ possum, just a waitin’ for the right second.
Only they were done. Those five lonely bullets spent their one brilliant blast charging a flimsy paper target. The scene was horrible, horrific. The unsuspecting paper was riddled with 47 bullets. Three just inches from the heart.
And to think such violence is sanctioned. I committed this crime with the blessing of the Israeli Government in Bat Yam Mall. The place was a cave scratched out of an undeground parking structure.
I was with my uncle, an old Army officer, a good man and better shot. He turned to me as we stepped out the car, “Do you want to shoot?”
Twenty minutes later my hands were wet, gripping the warm steel of a Colt 9mm. I held my hand steady. And then . . .
Pure power surged from me with the flick of a finger. Now we were getting somewhere. The second, third, fourth; boom, boom, boom, clink, clink, clink. . . Then reload . . . Here was the power of gods. Here was thunder, fire, and lightning. Speed and viciousness erupted from the metal beast within my hands.
Pure ego fed me, pumping my blood, the deafening sound just a whisper. All attention focused on the target, thinking just how powerful I am. It is the ultimate gavel.

“If we give you a rifle will you fight for the lord? But You Can’t kill the devil with a gun or a sword.”
George Fox

But you can kill men, millions upon millions. Let them fire away at each other, cry out for an idea. Hear the moans of freedom, the wails of the wounded. The gun is mighty.
And it gives little, takes much. For the gun is a pure sensual greed and when treated right a fine machine of destruction.

Now, watching those sly devils, I see their purpose. Bullets jump at a command, go where they are told.

How comforting...

As comforting as fate; Fate pulls the trigger and you tend to fly wherever she takes you with no regard for anything else.