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Posts Tagged ‘universal question’

Name

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on August 4, 2013| Leave a Comment »

Forgive me for not posting the last couple of weeks. Walks and concerts and slicing a finger, etc . . . I’ll post again toward the end of the month, but I’ve made an agreement to rest my normal posting schedule until then. So, until the end of the month when the angels WILL return, take this humble offering and enjoy! (And an extra link toward the end of a favorite, short, SNL clip of mine.

The Name

When the name was spoken, it no longer was what it had been; it had become something more; the same, plus. And so the names continued to make it more still, for what was discovered after many names had been uttered was that so had been created awareness by virtue of the fact that a being could point back at those things of which it was a part, and thereby itself.

Before the name was spoken, It had no reason to think in terms of itself. Once the name was spoken, it could. After that was only the simple realization that it could never be named; for if no tongue could exist from the beginning of time to the end of eternity, then its fullness could not be uttered in fullness.

And so has it ever, it speaks its own name alone for any who wish to stop speaking, and listen.

(As promised, click here. Peace!)

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Local Bar

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on September 2, 2012| 2 Comments »

I actually don’t spend much time at bars. Symbolically I think I think of bars as a place of reflection.

Cheers!

A beautiful women is looking at me from the other side of the bar. While holding her eyes to mine she’s moving her tongue up and down the outside of her straw before taking small, dainty sips while never for a moment breaking eye contact with me. I sit with my elbow on the bar and my hand on my cheek watching her as I rest, a half a smile as though to say, “How nice to share this moment with you from across the room, your company is pleasant.” She is beautiful, but I have another on my mind.

I haven’t seen her for so long that it would be stupid for me not to consider the loveliness whose eye I’ve caught as the possibility of a nest that would not be shaken by hurricanes; a place to rest my heart after wandering a desert in hopes that my memory of water is not merely one more accursed mirage. I’ve met her before enough to know she is in every way likeable, but not enough to know what the feel of her hand tells my heart and hers after communicating for five minutes apart from the speech of the rest of me. Beauty looks me in the eye and says we both have a basic common denominator; identity says there is nothing glaring to alarm. And yet my mind reminds me as I connect with a friend from a distance that at a further distance yet is the reason regret may exist where otherwise my mind would have no reason to exist.

But because I have a mind, and it remembers another beauty in another time that made my heart pump blood where before it only knew how to process bile, I can’t help but be reminded of another face by whose light I began to live as appropriate to one who should see beauty in friendship across a bar and respect that every face contains a universe that bears exploring respectfully before creating eternities more calling themselves by individual names always striving to declare “I Am.” And in light of the importance of mind to reason the desire to see another universe created to flourish, I say hello and shake hands when she brings her drink to where I sit, and we begin to discuss what we really enjoy for the rest of existence when we are too sated to eat and quenched to drink.

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Happy Mother’s Day!

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on May 13, 2012| 2 Comments »

The day of this posting being the day for it, I wanted to meditate on Motherhood for a moment. Consider this a sort of Mother’s Day card for all mother’s who may be coming across it, and for those who would reflect upon “mother” as a concept involving the growth of ourselves and the nurturing accordingly.

Big Momma

They call Her “Mother Earth.” They say that beneath our feet, deep down under, lies “Hell.” But, if the Earth is our Mother, then below our feet, could that be Her womb over which we conduct our business daily? In the center of this mass of mass, where pressure is high and friction between forces raises a heat to a temperature where perhaps souls can be formed, might She issue sparks of life to rise to Her anthropomorphic selves who give birth to Her creation through the lives of men and women? Is the womb of every woman where She gives birth to what grows in Her womb?

Every woman giving birth to the life of our Great Mother; all connected to know the beginning stage of the essence of existence as we are capable of perceiving it. We begin, perhaps, manufactured by the grace of existence from the greatest pressure our tiny home can manifest. Grow a body within a body that has sought the presence of the essence of life continuing ever existant for its own sake. Grow outside our planet, outside the bodies from which we were conceived. Perhaps seek out essence of the essence of which we all are, ourselves, that continuance may be manifest. Then, die, and be released perhaps beyond this cosmic body to a cosmic body more souler in nature. A realization of infinite nature from conception to conception; from creation of whole to part to part of whole to full realization of whole.

The friction within the womb of our common Mother who was sprung from the flesh of suns and bodies besides. The friction between holders of essence creating life within our human mothers, common in nature. The pain of our vehicular existence, the capacity of awareness through natural limitation through which we can seek the limitless of understanding the true nature of existence; the friction of living our lives.

To meditate upon the word “mother” is to meditate on life. It is to meditate on the pain given willingly that we may live. What is a mother? A mother is a source of life who would willingly suffer that we may live. A mother is the place from which we all come. A mother is why life can be!

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Close to Nothing . . .

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on April 15, 2012| Leave a Comment »

As I was pondering what I wanted to write, it occured to me that I simply didn’t have the time to invest in the fullness of a thought if I wanted to sleep. So, here is a meditation in accordance . . .

A Short Story

Picking up his pen he considered his own imagination and the stories he wanted to tell. He reflected briefly on her smile, of course, that which motivated the breath in his lungs, let alone the lifting of his pen. Then he considered his idea for tales at the moment; entering a picture into eternity, a surrealistic rendition of illness, the beats of the drums he listened to in the background, the internal struggle between that which he found himself of and that which he wanted to be . . .

He decided on a prosaic poem that blurred the lines between that which would be created, that which might be created, all that had come before to create the possibilities, and the form itself the indecision in his mind took; he decided that a practice of any kind was superior to the atrophy of the possibility of what might be, even if nothing in particular was created as a result. Whether anyone would read he did not know, but decided that if he didn’t tell that story of his self, there may come a time when he would never give the opportunity for anymore to be read. He decided that in the moment of creating his self, in that moment others’ perceptions didn’t matter so much then as they would later, that if he were to give them a chance then, he must work as ever he could now.

So, he let his mind flow to the page free of the constraints of coherent story, and the energy needed to bind together a tale accordingly. He let his mind work unbound with his hands that his heart may have the opportunities to bind specificity to the minds of others in future tense. He breathed and thought of his breath, and its meaning; he thought that by his breath he’d rather make any effort toward what he’d have the energy to accomplish before long than waste the breath he was given by the grace of her recollection alone. He was grateful to type up next to nothing for his own sake, and perhaps the sake of anyone else even if by happenstance, than nothing at all.

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My Friend

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on February 5, 2012| Leave a Comment »

A friend of mine transitioned a week from last  Monday. I called her Jamie, which roughly translated in French means “I Friend.” She just liked the name and would have preferred to be called that, whether or not she knew the French I couldn’t tell ya. Her given name was Jane. That I am capable of creating with my hands, I owe to her. The last decade or so of her life she awaited death as one who wished to see home after many years in jail, and was severely irritated that it hadn’t come yet whenever I saw her. I figured I should attempt to write something in the spirit of her this week since I regard her as one of my greatest teachers in this life, and will miss her accordingly.

I Friend

“God bless it! You made me laugh! How dare you!”

“Well, look, if you’re looking forward to your imminent decay, I’d like to have at least some happy recollection of you before you go off to feed the worms. And no, I’m not the least bit sorry for it!”

“I’ll haunt you for that you know!”

“I would be so lucky! You’ll probably haunt the maggots for longer. Or with a little luck they’ll regard you as a trilobite in a few million years, but this don’t look like volcano weather to me . . .”

Interlude

That’s about where I have to end this story, it’s odd having a dialogue with a dead person, even if it’s really more indicative of my mind than anything, and  I really don’t have anywhere else to take it, so, I think I’ll try my hand toward a little bad poetry and call it a week. I thank my readership for humoring me, it is what it is . . .

In The Image Of

You take a rabbit,

hippity hop,

chop off its head and feed some flowers,

don’t dare ask what kind,

cut it down the middle to remove its entrails,

and skin it nice and slow;

dinner time before the creative process begins.

When that skin is dry, stretch it amidst a frame,

awl some holes for leather cord,

around the ring hold that pelt in place!

Next pick the flowers that have grown

from the life of your food;

grind them with mortar and pestle,

add just a few drops of water,

let the colors come out,

their natural juice.

Bring whiskers together for a brush,

and point yourself in the direction of sunrise;

the colors will be perfect,

we create in the image of the divine.

I love you my friend. May you be irritated by this life no longer!

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Me to Us

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on December 11, 2011| Leave a Comment »

It occurs to me that the appeal of writing in dialogue is that it gives me the opportunity to converse with myself. I make a statement, then I respond. The story that arises is almost secondary to the exercise of meeting my own mind. The story told, then, is often the story of myself. I suppose then the hope is that as I reflect myself to the world, the world sees something about itself, though not quite itself, useful in what I find in me.

Finding One’s Self

“Who are you?”

“This is a trick question, right? Do you not see the name-tag on my chest. Isn’t that why I’m wearing one of these things, so that you don’t need to ask exactly that question?”

“I mean aside from the name. Who are you?”

“Well, the name is a designation assigned to the circumstances of my creation and the history that followed up until this point in time. I would answer with the name you see on my chest, but it is merely representative of what my singular point of consciousness has perceived up until now. I would describe myself as that history designated by the name upon my chest, but, in my humble opinion, that would take too long, and so again I indicate to you once more reading the tag for the sake of saving time.”

“So for starters, you’re easily irritable, verbose, and take your time about dwelling in sarcasm?”

“I’m also fond of concision. Have I more or less answered your question?”

“So you believe yourself to be your history, not your present?”

“I believe my present is a representation of the entirety of my history. I am also that history combined with its interaction with whatever stimuli exists at present; in this case your question and the pressure of our audience.”

“So you are your cumulative experience combined with the experience of the moment. You are your uniqueness as an identity individuated, combined with the circumstance created by all other individualities?”

“Sounds about right. Who should I be?”

“Who do you want to be?”

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Fun House (Sort of)

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on November 19, 2011| 5 Comments »

For those whom have read my book, this might seem a little familiar at first. You’ll find quickly that while I touched on similar themes in one direction, I developed other themes entirely. If you’ve read my book you’ll be relieved to find here not a drop of blood, and all bodily facets completely intact. Enjoy!

Mirror Mirror

When I awoke I found myself encircled by mirrors. And then spoke a voice with no mouth; an utterance without vibration to my ear; a certainty penetrating deeply into my brain, “Choose correctly that which you are or forever be lost.” Looking again at myself surrounded by myself times twelve, it was then I noticed the knobs low, mid-right, in each reflection.

Turning to myself I saw myself different. My face to the face in a fun-house mirror; bloated, contorted, my stock thin and frail. A door I’d choose clearly and easily not to open. And beside it the same in reverse; a face better for a tooth-pick, a body that could not be moved upon legs liable to snap under less wait than “my” torso seemed to contain. Tallness and shortness being options at the other end of light refracting versions of me lacking myself, I resolved I’d not find myself well if the truest me could be found too-easily as mere carnival amusement. Other reflections were not as easy to dismiss.

One mirror, one wall, was I as I was. It annoyed me to look at myself as I’d never again wish myself to be; certainly no one I’d wish upon myself at present, brief terror quickly retreating to consider that my truest self had not overcome an existence I’d worked hard not to know now. And facing this mirror opposite, myself newly born. Almost, almost a desire to return to relearn all of existence as though I’d never seen it before. Knowing that to begin again means to arrive where I am; I could not exist genuinely as I know myself to other parents at another point in time. And so being reborn, even if it would make me as I am would create me ultimately again to this room, a me that is not me if I wish to exist forward and not, again, merely as I was.

Two more mirrors telling stories similar as I have never been; a future me that I could not recognize for I had not existed as I saw myself, myself cradled by the arms of death as my tombstone was being ready to be carved. To not choose death was even easier than not choosing a life I have never lived. Even to see myself as I would want to be, I could not exist as now, I could not identify myself to the mirror, I could not tell myself how I became who I was, let alone another. To become myself future would be not to exist if all that made me was merely a choice, and not living that choice through to the point of time of my own existence. To choose myself future was to choose non-existence. To choose death was to choose the same.

Eight doors that I’d not be leaving through, four to choose that I might be. Of these four, two as glaringly obvious as the others. In one I saw many of myself in all forms taken in the other eleven mirrors, and several forms in addition. Like looking into a spectrum of myself as any and all possible existence. It made my stomach queasy, and was the most obvious of all that potential aside, I could only exist as I was as one at a time, or if I chose all my possibilities simultaneously, I’d fear an attempt to live as such for the charge of hubris the Gods must level against me that I presume existence as a being all at once simultaneously. And facing every possibility, I saw a mirror from which stared at me nothing at all. And so I moved on to the last two, a challenge posed to my mind.

In one I saw myself, and in the other too. In one was I clothed.

Having seen myself in ten, not myself, the contrast to seeing myself as I was was stark. As I looked to my own hand and followed my wrist to the sleeve hiding the rest of my arm, I saw that the mirror revealed me clearly and perfectly as far as any eye could tell. But then as I began to roll my sleeve back, I saw no change in the mirror that showed me beyond what the cloth covering me might show others. I contemplated removing my clothes, considered that then one mirror would reflect the other perfectly; one would begrudgingly concede what the other already held to be the truth. I considered whether any of the mirrors knew that it distorted light and being; I contemplated that any of the vessels of image knew itself in terms of light, knowledge, reflection of genuine existence versus the image it held for the sole pair of eyes reviewing them to distinguish to the best of their ability.

And contemplating thus my gaze passed once more on all versions of myself I couldn’t be, refused to be, or flatly rejected by my choice. Glancing around, I came again to the mirror that showed nothing, though it faced the reflection of all possibilities simultaneous. And reviewing it I saw what I’d not noticed before, assuming it be it’s opposite’s equal at a glance. Staring back at me, with lid but no brow, was a solid eye in suspension hovering before an otherwise infinite self-reflection of mirrordom. I stared into an eye, and as I did, it began to fade. As I blinked it returned as though never faded, but when I stared at it without ceasing contact for an instant, its image grew faint until all but gone. It was there to be seen, but as something whose sole existence was only to see; it faded away to let what could be seen be shown.

My clothing was not me, the mirror of nakedness showed something more pure than what I chose to show others, or used to keep myself separate from one force in life or another. But was my body who I was? A clearer version of myself than 10 others, but while my existence was defined by my physical needs, was I? And the other mirror, it did not show non-existence as I’d thought originally, but something else entirely. Would I fade away to choose myself as nothing? Is that the choice I’d be making? And what was the difference between that and death?

“So let me get this straight. You’re going to choose yourself as a vampire?”

“Pardon?”

“As a vampire. You know, they have no reflection.”

“I’d actually never thought of it that way before, Billy. I was just about done with my story though, if you don’t mind . . .”

“O.K. but Mom gets to tell the next story! S’mores just go better with scary stories about axe-wielding maniacs–”

“Eww, I hate stories like that Billy! They give me bad dreams. Dad’s story might be BOR-ing, but at least I don’t have to worry about nightmares.”

“But Sally, he didn’t tell you about the psycho clown that comes out from behind the fun-house mirrors with bloody pick-axes and is about to kill him when–”

“MOM!”

“KIDS! Kids, settle down. This was a true story that actually happened to me and–”

“Yeah? Then who put you in the room?”

“Well, Billy, maybe there is a bit of hyperbole thrown in there, but, anyway, if you’d just let me finish. Here, have another S’more”

“Phwank you.” Billy acquiesced through sticky graham-cracker encrusted lips.

Anyway, as I was saying . . . My body defined me to a point, but if it was all that I was I’d have frittered away my time pursuing only . . . S’mores . . . and never would I have attempted to be something more than an animal. What made me me was those moments attempting to put aside my body that I might be able to become something more than exclusively trying to fuel and enjoy myself. And the frame-work in which I strove to become more than myself was the rest of existence; the apparently infinite existence compared to my small ability to perceive the concrete reality surrounding me.

It was not my body for which exclusively I labored. It was not merely to interest my mind. The heart in my blood pumped at times for others perhaps more than myself. And no view of myself could encompass those whom I loved as I did myself, be “they” person or thing. It was life itself with which I could be identified if my body was not present. Watching my own life, it’s interactions with all of life of which I was a part, determined by my physicality in part, but superseded by my desire to watch life around me thrive by the actions of my hand that were not otherwise invested directly with feeding the needs of my body, that was what I truly was.

Actually an anti-vampire, if you will, so did I turn toward the mirror, the door, in which, apparently, my, one floating eye stared back at me. And as I stepped closer the eye slowly dissolved into the infinity seen in the face of mirrors reflecting their own infinite nature; the infinite nature of light itself.

The knob was turned, and so through did I pass, grateful, so very direly grateful, for my own existence.

“And the story for the night being told, it’s time for bed. Throw some water on your faces, brush your teeth, and head for your tent.”

“MOM!” They cried in unison, Billy taking the lead, “Can’t we have a real story before we go to bed?”

Of course Sally was more interested in the S’mores and the warmth of the fire. She cherished these times of sweetness and warmth, even if the price to be paid was the occasional ease of her slumber.

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A New Era (For Me Anyway)

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on September 25, 2011| Leave a Comment »

If you read my post last week you know that my blog is switching format a little. I’d originally set up my blog hoping to gain interest in my novel (a link for which is located conveniently to the right of the screen). After a year of rambling on about a version of God hopefully a bit more palatable for those disinclined to read Mother Goose as though an exact history of the reality of all existence, I have decided, for the sake of having time to do my real art, to begin writing short stories and posting them here, since, I have come to the inevitable conclusion that either I have time to blather about the divine, or write stories, but not both. Not to the exclusion of observation about the whole of the universe, if anyone wants my two cents on something pertaining to theology, just ask and I’ll be happy to answer in this medium.

In the meantime, my inaugural work in this format will be substantially shorter than what I’ve already written. I have much more in the works, but the first thing to come to mind was short, so that is what I’ll be sharing this week. That, and, it is some coincidence that my new software cannot be set up fully at this time anyway, so, I actually have to write the whole story out again, blessedly short though it is, rather than having the convenience of “cut and paste.”

Bear with me these first few weeks as lately my writing seems to be more expressive of my own mind than something pondering a universal question as I have been accustomed previously.

Without further adieu:

Porch

Loudin sat down by his father’s side and asked him a question. “Dad, what’s the point to living?”

His father thought but briefly as a smile arose to his lips, “My son, not so much you, or your brothers and sisters, but your Mother.”

That said, they sipped sweet-tea on the porch as the sun set, the crickets chirped, and the lightning bugs began to dance to the sweet music of the cicadas.

photograph courtesy Philip Greenspun

photographs courtesy Philip Greenspun

Namaste!

Photograph courtesy of Philip Greenspun

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To Serve

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on February 19, 2011| 1 Comment »

When I think about organized religions, especially the western ones, and I compare them to the way I perceive God, it looks to me something like this:

Many, maybe most, not all, who subscribe to the organized bunch generally seem to have some, if not in the very unfortunate cases all, of their thoughts on the matter written for them somewhere in some book, or thought into their minds, without a direct experiencing of what it is they think they believe. I have trouble believing something in a book, no matter how old it is or how many people buy it, because, I have read a lot of books. What is on a page, and what I can feel with my hand, seldom mesh. Mother Goose and Grimm is nice in its way. Porridge is better than starvation, and when one falls down a hill their likely-hood of death does increase. But, on a whole, I’m able to perceive that a story is not necessarily written to be congruous with my life as I am living it. It may contain a good example of something. Maybe make me think of something that does have an actual, real world, application. But on a whole, a story is a story, and when I’m not a crazy person, I can usually leave it in the book it came and walk away happily.

But when one can’t tell the difference between a story in a book, and the life they are living, there seems to me to be a problem. When a person takes the words of some man, or woman, and believes that the validity of their life rests solely in the words written by a human being, they have stopped seeking their own individuality and have stopped seeking their own connectivity to the divine form the perspective of their own unique individuality.

So, since everything, from my perspective, is God, and since every person is given the capacity to choose, if they choose to use that capacity, I see a metaphor for two distinct approaches to God. In this metaphor one has no choice but to serve the divine. One may be serving the adversarial aspect of the divine, HaSatan, but nonetheless, no one has choice but to serve wherever they are best suited to serve, within the context of an Omni-Divine universe. That being the case, the choice lies in this: In one version, in which one lives out the words of a book as though it were their own perspective, one chooses slavery to a God they choose never to want to have a direct interaction with. In the other version, one chooses to serve God and take their orders directly from a living entity creating existence in real time.

Because they think that stepping outside of their book and having a real relationship with God is too scary, one would bow their eyes below the light of the divine and see its light cast only on a man-made representation of the world. In the other version, one serves actively the creation of the world as it exists and is being made to exist by the light provided; their eyes resting where the intention of creation is at hand.

Not that one can’t derive good inspiration from some words passed down over the ages, but at the point in time in which one has been conned into being afraid that someone believing something different is damned to Hell, they seem too over-joyfully to begin creating that Hell amidst us on Earth in order to save us from the very thing they are so anxiously afflicting upon us living folk. At which point the desire for death to “go to Heaven” or in different terms “make it stop” suddenly becomes all too clear.

The alternative seems to be to eat our food with bits of salt. While understanding what we are creating in some moments hinges on once glancing and cognizing a handful of words in a book, it is the results we live outside that book that is the real test of the validity of our capacity to serve all creation in all its form. And may we be able to serve all its forms well, for appearance may deceive, but a kind action from one’s own hand never lies.

TTFN

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Good V.D. and How We Got It!

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , on February 13, 2011| 1 Comment »

Well I wanted to open with the video from the movie “True Stories” for the song Love For Sale, but was only able to find the video with someone else’s music over-dubbed. So, instead of artsy to cultivate a point, I’ll instead settle for “I dare you to find a nicer song for the holiday” and I do expect comments with links . . . And here’s where I’ll begin:

Happy Valentines Day Everybody!

So, in honor of the holiday, a little about it’s Catholic origins because, contrary to popular belief, Hallmark did not invent it . . . they just perfected it . . .

So, for starters, most of this info, if not all, is gleaned from this site and this article: http://www.history.com/topics/valentines-day and I’m giving the short version that I think is particularly interesting and pertinent to my ongoing theme, etc . . .

So apparently, before being commandeered by Christendom for the sake of converting more and slaughtering less, February 15th was a major Roman fertility ritual. The Roman’s would sacrifice a goat, a symbol for fertility, at the cave where Romulus and Remus, the alleged founders of Rome, were supposedly raised by wolves. Boys would then take slices of the hide of the sacrificed goat and dip it in the sacrificial blood and run through the streets of Rome lightly slapping the crops and the faces of young ladies, who were happy to have the blessing of fertility. Then a lottery would commence in which the boys and girls of the town would be paired up according to lot, which often led to marriage.

Given peoples misconceptions about relationships, and confusion of what love means after watching one too many Julia Roberts movies, I totally think we should bring back the skinned goat. Compared to today, just seems more civilized, but, I digress.

So, once the Christians took over, that went away, but they needed to convert the happy Heathens somehow, and enter the legend of Saint Valentine, or Saint Valentinus as he is sometimes known.

Now, the legends are apparently murky at best, but, according to this article, at least two stories about Saint V seem pertinent to me. Supposedly, around the third century, one of the emperors, Claudius the 2nd, decreed that young men couldn’t marry because he believed that unmarried men made better soldiers. A priest named Valentine was said to have then performed clandestine marriages between secret lovers, thus securing him a place as the patron of love. Claudius finding him out and having him killed, secured him the sainthood.

The other legend is that Valentine, while in prison for performing marriages, fell in love with the daughter of his jailer. And remember, it wasn’t until well after the third century that priests were no longer allowed to marry in Catholicism. In fact, it was at least a good thousand years or so after Christ had kicked it that the church began writing in its new policy of child molestation. Anyway, again pardon the digression, the point is, Valentine, while in jail, was said to have fallen in love. And before he was killed he was said to have written his love a letter signed “from your Valentine,” and hence the valentine giving on Valentine’s day was born.

So, that’s the interesting bits, more or less, of how we have arrived today with the yearly ritual of stimulating the production of oxytocin in the minds of the women we love, as well as bringing them flowers that cost way too much to compensate for the fact of any who should probably be bringing them flowers a lot more often when the price is reasonable.

In a modern world, where we are blessed to love as we please, may anyone reading this have a blessed day to celebrate happiness. And if one’s initial impulse is lacking in happy, may you find a big box of chocolate to take the pain away!

Happy Valentine’s Day!

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