blank blank fullness

Life is a mystery. So is chemistry. We want what we can't have, what's often diametrically opposed to us. Tension is good but we want peace, we have it all within but figuring it out isn't the point. Walk the razor's edge, the tight rope and see...

If you have everything minus one, you really have nothing.
It only takes one
To make everything truly whole.
But we're still seeking that everything -1
One glance,
One step,
One clap, clap, clap
One wish
One love
Is all it takes

Someone to have complete faith in
But who's not to be trusted
and it's ok -- let me tell you why, how....

This weekend. Went away, off the grid. Read books, ate meals with other people, all the time, where we actually spoke; no phones, no distractions. Walked in the wilderness, saw fluffy white deer tails swishing back and forth as they scampered up hillsides upon hearing our steps, our voices. Marveled at the weather, skipped class, bonded. Broke into an abandoned cabin from the 1800s where someone special to all of us used to live and work, serve, and inspire from afar; where he built up a catalog of stories and experiences, austerities and hardships that would inform so much wisdom and sweetness. For us, yet unbeknownst to him, for a future of wisdom and sweetness. Walked through rusted old gates up a long paved brick drive, now engulfed by rich and vibrant moss, its majesty robbed by nature's insistence to grow around, through and over man's hubris. We covered our mouths and noses with scarves we barely needed because it was in the 60's in December. Because the jewel at the end of the brick road was a condemned house, the ceiling plummeting towards the ground, decaying insulation suspended behind plastic, on a precipice menacingly pressing towards gravity as we tiptoed around, so as not to disturb, and towards, through to the door at the other end of the room which was leading, leading, leading to the past, still alive in some places -- in the color of the stained glass, in the detail of the hand-made inlay, the gold and silver, the cloudy mirrors, and clouds painted over a blue-sky dome. A jewel box forgotten and falling apart. You could still feel the grace and import of the space. It hung thick in the cool, damp air. Haunted but bittersweet. All the work of building and painting and paving and staining was done by those with hearts of faith and hands that insisted, paged through books to figure it all out -- how to make that faith into something you can see, touch, taste. And then the altar, a ghostly remanent robbed of that Someone who inspired it all. The One we can have complete faith in, but can never trust. The tides of time turned and trust was... reframed, rehoused...

We wound back out and down, made it to a sun-soaked gazebo far off from these never lands of decades past, to sit around an elder, he'd been there too; gentle and still. He contained so much depth I can't yet comprehend... We sat, waited, absorbed the silence and let his calm and good demeanor inform this thing called life, happening live in technicolor before us. He spoke. Deliberate, meandering. And through the stories and memories, revealed that this gift and burden we all carry can't be trusted. We're dependent, totally vulnerable to the twists and turns, surprises and slights of hand moved by the Source of it all, unfolding a Master Plan we have little (but very little) part in determining.

When I was young I used to tape pages from my favorite fairy tales to the window, over which I'd lay a blank sheet. And I'd trace, imitating the seeming perfection of the original, so that I could have a taste of perfectly satisfying creation. As adults, we're tracing. Drawing our master plans based on what's already here... already perfect. But God is tricky, capable of anything and everything to drag us, lift us, push us, pull us to where we need to go, into who we're meant to be. Our heart's deepest desires, they will be fulfilled. But if we knew in advance how we'd have to get there, what we'd have to go through, we might not insist as much. Even for those who know this truth, there's a blind-side crafted... And so this elder, saying just enough and not too much, revealed his realization that we can and should have full faith in that Ultimate, but not for a minute trust that He doesn't have something up His sleeve; the perfect dose for turning things around -- or upside down, just as we need. 

It was a long week with a long, intense Sunday capping off the action. No rest for the... thinking, doing, loving. I want to turn my brain off but it's still making lists in different places (like my dad and his collection of post it notes strewn about his desk) of projects to be tackled, visions to be colored in and sketched out, dreams to be shaken, not stirred.

I have two unfinished posts, one about Paris which I was working on before the attacks. Now it seems uncouth and... well, deflated.  I feel deflated. But I refuse to give in. Yet.

Tonight, though, I honed in on a little notion. The power of allowing. Allowing things to be as they are. Approaching work with this in heart and hand, remembering the magic of doing without claiming, of allowing without directing, controlling, commenting.

And exhale ::::::::::

Wishing you a peaceful week of productivity through loving allowance. No judgement needed, no wrestling with reality. Just being.

Love,
A

An unfinished life stared us in the face
Back of a glittering cafe
Record player crackled over the plates
I'm in the booth awaiting my fate
Where I sat so many years ago
Waiting on a ghost to show
That I wasn't in it all alone
Dig me out of my soul
The sadness, missing life at home
Those friends let go
A new life I wasn't quite ready for
Two jumps up and out
End of week I'm laying flat on my back and the tears 
Running faster than I can
Put the keep up down
Let the rest crowd around
Meteors, dates with fame and family in danger
I'm hiding from the worst in my dreams
Chased out of my comfort zone I can barely breathe
Don't you know those tidal waves won't quit me

Please don't let me forget about you in the midst of all these material negotiations. Day in and day out, they pull at me; in all directions my mind is called to attend, to engage, to show strength and courage.

Did you know that you are my courage, you are my strength, my inspiration? You didn't ask for it, as far as I know, but then again, I know so little...

My dear, without your presence, my life becomes rather mundane. The thoughts again become enamoured with the shiny flashes, the subtle jockeying for some unreal position and, I'm embarasssd to say, that Love which once electrified my every intention seems to disappear. How easily we forget, when we forget each being is... Can be... My dear. 

I must admit I've wondered if you're indeed even necessary, I've wondered: why don't I just find it on my own, remember the spark and work from there? But then I try and... something's missing. I come back time and again, to the ashes of what once was, and my heart begins to flutter from beneath the rubble, remembering that it's all about relationship. Of course it is. 

But oh, how I've been conditioned! out of relationship and into selfishness. Always adjusting for my own wellbeing... It's quite a bore after a while, isn't it? Changing outfits like a rabid animal changes character. 

So that is why I humbly beg, don't let me forget about you as I wander like a madwoman through this material world. Be the eyes in the back of my head, looking out for you, for me, for the love of God. 

So I write this with the hopes of reconciliation, in as many ways as there are days. With the hopes of rememberance. 

A play on words that tumbles off the tongue

When you find the group and place

That leaves FOMO in the dust

Quick!

Hold it, hug em, not hard to

Feed it

You'll stay

And it will stay with you

the capacity for love 

in your heart, a hollow drum,

can stretch on and on

one ocean into another

filling endless beats

the guacamole of love

is always free

wanting all things
all lives
to experience the happiness you experience for your self (especially when you're a cookie-jarrin selfish scrub),
what a selfless sweetness
embracing each soul you pass with eyes of ears of listening of receiving
all parts witnessed by the third high eye, third eye high
how you gonna recover from your original sin
one nation of bodies rising from
the double edged swords of our words
when not aligned with love
a double-edged cup of pouring to receive
which side's best?
oh give they say but how can I give what I don't get
get?
get?
it's not for getting,
why do you always want to get?
yes YOU?
and you and you and you and every karmically bound fool
and
yes
me, too, oh me too
IT,
it's for having
awakening
to the reality
that you are loved
no holes to fill
and the ones that are left lost
empty in the dross
well those my friend,
you don't have to want

After some time, time between reflection and expression, back to reflection, your realizations may seem sophomoric. A little sheepish, you shrink into the shadows to quietly contemplate in private.
Or if, by the grace of deep seeking, you've been put in touch with sources that satisfy, you come into periods of consumption, contemplation, testing... Less apt to extend out and share, spell out, pledge allegiance, you simmer in the practice of what was initially simply declaration.

I've always sought to share in the spirit of timelessness, or if not, at least in jest; which is a sort of get-out-of-jail-free card.
And the brevity of poetry (and dang twitter brain) satisfies the desire for expression with a lightness of open-ended meaning. You don't have to invest...
But what does that do,
to push progress?
Eh.

I'm stirring the pot, hoping to pull out some things worth sharing again.
It's been a bit too long...

Can't wait for him to blow up and make more cool shi::::::

New old soul, where You be,
can You bring me up the mountain, flow Me down a river
release my whole being from this body, deliver?
while still on Earth, still turned on by breath
O but will You imagine with Me the possibilities
beyond our telescopic lens?
Birth the words of time immemorial by Your speech;
That it's not just all about you and me
Tell me the real real good stories;
Subconscious shared memories
Can You take it to the place before this mask
Open as I found my Self at the lowest?
But unalone

and rising
The substance behind the noise, playing to the melody in perfect timing
Can you dig it?
Can you take Her hand?
and dance, dance, dance
run, let Her heart lead the way
Lead you back home to You
at the end of these days

ALove Supreme The album is a four-part suite, broken up into tracks: "Acknowledgement" (which contains the mantra that gave the suite its name), "Resolution", "Pursuance", and "Psalm." It is intended to be a spiritual album, broadly representative of a personal struggle for purity, and expresses the artist's deep gratitude as he admits to his talent and instrument as being owned not by him but by a spiritual higher power.^[2] Coltrane plays exclusively tenor on all parts.

This doesn't just exist within the corporate realm, although that environment creates the perfect hermetic seal needed to divorce consciousness from truth, the heart from essential nature, from love, from the present. This can happen to anyone: artists, mothers, models, athletes, politicians, doctors. It can and does happen when we as humans, with all the best of intentions, are driven by the fruit of our labor, by the appearance and eventual (momentary) possession of ideals; ideals painted by the mind instead of heard by the heart. This can happen when we place material at the center of our lives, and place ourselves at the center of the world, seeking to serve the rabid and undying hunger of the scared dog, the defensive dog, the dog all about survival. There is another choice. Feed the dog within that gives, feed the dog that loves, the one that seeks to understand instead of control, the one that seeks to serve instead of being served.

The central tenant of wisdom traditions is the antidote. It is this: do your work, but, give the fruits to Me. Work not with the intent for self-satisfaction, but with the understanding that when we work to give and love, our minds can live in ease and truly taste the joy at the heart of life.

Wake up from this nightmare:

Life teaches you how to let go
With each betrayal and each fall
Another brick stacks around that feeling,
There goes another wall
And life teaches you how to test
After being tested, failing countless times
You learn the art of questions
Avoiding giving answers,
Seeking them, your law
From whomever holds up their end through each round
Watching: will they sustain the long haul?
Can they make it through a layer..
Or four
?
Time seems impossible as a child, like a horizon stretching out forever
Bestowing each circumstance with the permanence of
Boundless joy or terror
As you learn its flexibility, by some newly blurry sight
It starts to fly by fiercely,
Passing in the night
And by the time you're ready,
To accept its ebbs and flow,
Here's a breakaway set on your step
That takes you with its call

It's easy when the stakes are low.
And terrible when there are so many expectations, so many, be they real or imagined, people depending on you
Not always, doesn't have to be..
It's enough to have a family
But what about raising the vibration(s)?

This film Frequencies got me thinking so clearly about what it really is to strike a clear note, perfect pitch. Effective and impact-full living. It means sacrificing humanity, machine-like in the execution of duty, of a life that goes according to plan and grandly effortless.. On the higher end of the spectrum
And those that struggle, perhaps of a more frenetic or out-of-tune vibration, can live with empathy and compassion, with the boundless ability to love and take others in, showing that inner space, messy and embarrassing as it may be.
Taking down the pressure
Mounting the integrity-backed action
Just Do It

It's more important to be connected up to your own process. You know the sweet spot, what it feels like, how you get there. For some it means meticulous organization, for others it means diving right in to a stanza or scene that is full of meaning and importance and building around it. Same with getting dressed. Some need a whole look. Others can riff off a scarf or pair of pants or great boot. Just as nature has limitless variety so does the human expression.

This was just a little blowing steam train of thought, I want to ride em more.

Love is funny. It's definitely work, it takes work to keep engaged, or rather, to keep the negative space engaging you. In an uplifting way, moreover. You know what I mean? The gap, the blank, the breath of air between the living colors of memories; the outline that defines the space.

Dysfunction is when that negative space is, well, actually negative. Filled with the silent treatment, passive aggressiveness, wandering motives, plotting for wholly selfish fulfillment.
Healthy negative space is stimulating. It creates that fondness, it's the right amount of fodder for yearning, for the height of loving feelings, the kind that can only exist in separation.

Like a baby who comes crashing down, and is about to wail, that breath of silence before the flurry, in it we are delivered to fully face pain, and through it, to come to the experience of love, it serves as a journey of development. From one point to another, the mind, body, soul has space and time to piece together, to become conscientious, to become ready for the next bout of fullness and the presence that it requires.

If it hasn't changed you, was it love?

Here I am the epitome of cliché
sitting in an East Village bohème-chic café
belly full of Momofuku and tongue acrid with the burnt bean of artist's dreams
cramped in a tight corner, lap top on my lap because that's where it was made to be, and comfort compromised with not a thought about it
not when we know what we want, are rapt in the process of manifesting.
Warm; good because it's grey-slap-your-cheeks cold out there,
and fiery on my insides, burning with a hunger to create and unleash
suppression might not be healthy
But here I am, battling back after months of attack,
approaching the writer who must be shrunk away in some corner,
cowering like a neglected child in a dark basement,
terrible but true [thanks SVU]
maybe some drama-inducing duct-tape strapped over her mouth
or hands bound to a chair of her own carving, cobbling
little toothpicks digging into her skin, mouths cleaned out of all meaning
Anyway, begging this writer to make herself heard again.
God damn day jobs.
What are they good for, really?
Ah roof, ah meal, ah some sense of stupid security
To hell with it
wait, wait -- let's not put the book before the horse
and anyway, some astrologer once told me something that's twisted my mind away from print publishing, personally
My mystic moon movements take to these nuances and believe... mind over matter but come now, does it matter if I don't mind?
I am the dreamer of the dream
Being dreamed by a dream beyond my wildest dreams,
Lord all mighty why won't you show yourself to me?
I really wanna see you, really wanna be with you
:: sorry, (not sorry) music break ::
Where was I?
Maybe it was the two days of sitting in an apartment, banging my brains against my skull against a desk working on the stuff of nightmares.
A kind of boring I cannot tolerate
machine I am not
So why do we do it to ourselves?
the narrative builds?
Well, stepped out and took a walk and the words started writing themselves on the clicks of suede boot heel (judge a wo &/or man by his shoes, don't be shy, you know it kinda matters) against the path to said cafe where I was, honest to God, planning to continue my brain-banging work
but you know what? TGIF
Thank God it's fuckday.
Approaching the muse with the seed of an idea, it's all you need
and some bravery to let it roll, to trust the thought to unfold you more and more and more --
Just some nice ornamentation to bring us to the head
crescendo
A build
just like in bed
just like in the movies,
songs
...takes some time to learn the flow
or maybe you're a straight-up animal and you already know, know you know, that is
If you only knew how much magic --
the level of magic that happens when you create, express, publish, ship.
It's crazy, I don't know if this is some Pavlovian conditioning
but --
this silly little white box - to-be-blog -
It excites me like no other. The ability to hit publish and call the magic forth
My potions are in thought and word
Some other people, like Rene Redzepi, find it in nature, in the alchemy of tongue and imagination.
What an inspiration,
Genius cannot be less than freakish sensitivity and deep, deep, desire, excitement, sourced within and aimed out at the world like a divinely-inspired fire hose of "can I show you how I see it?" 

Putting out the flames of delusion
I'm like a man desperate for some flesh after being locked away for some misdemeanor crime.
I'm like a housewife who imagined the wrong dream and got what she wanted, hanging over empty trivialities, knocking over and over with the hopes that what she needs but doesn't know of answers.
Fuck the shiny manicures, leather bags and walk-in closets, toss aside the bottle of 4pm Pinot Greej and empty bed, heart, head
Time to come home to your baby and get what you've been missing so long
And then it shows up on your door, virtually, unexpected and the riptide sweeps you off your feet and you say hell yes, I'm letting go
And you run away
Run on the words
Run on the grass
on the fragrances and subtle and smack of it in your face, slammed into the surf,
blood coursing better than the little games you make up to play,
Pulling your clothes off the shelf, a bag you don't even think you'll need, getting its fill of the past, just as security, a memento so you know just where you're coming from
though some part of you can see, through the crack, the opening of rage-in-action,
you can see the future holds all you'll need, and the present is broad and spacious enough to let you not give a --

"They trespassed upon my thoughts. They were intruders whose knowledge of life was to me an irritating pretense, because I felt so sure they could not possibly know the things I knew. Their bearing, which was simply the bearing of commonplace individuals going about their business in the assurance of perfect safety, was offensive to me like the outrageous flauntings of folly in the face of a danger it is unable to comprehend. I had no particular desire to enlighten them, but I had some difficulty in restraining myself from laughing in their faces, so full of stupid importance."

I want to fly 

I want to paint

To sing and dance and breathe the winds of the ocean in

Exhale the mountains

To dream my life into being

To walk with inspiration

I don't want to wait

I want patience made of faith and vision,

Understanding higher messages, missions

Hearing when I'm lost or unsure

Knowing growing upon knowing as the intuition roots deeper and deeper

I want to sweep away the stagnant

Put the world on hold to hold my lover

I want to live in truth and laugh with joy,

Open to the mysteries of each new day

And open to the people that come my way

I want to be self-realized

And compassionate

Remember the down days when someone needs a hand up

I want it to be effortless

I want to feel what yes means in my bones

No more confusion

No more moans and groans

I want to wake up to a day before me with inspired action aplenty and my own decisions guiding 

A schedule of right mind and left action

Meditation, love, interaction

Soft and strong

No more waiting

Time for Flying, celebrating

fruits tumbling, mossy notes and straw baskets
sweat equity at its peak, born to the careful farmhand
hands salved in salvation, owning his station
"It ain't fancy but here -- take a bite"
fragrance precludes the watering
like a root thirsty for the whole tree
the nose gets the mouth gets the body gets the soul
ready
to experience that simple bliss
of a first taste
and when you've been on the journey
for the length of the year,
picking out seeds
preparing the ground
consulting almanacs, the moon, feeling the wind on your back
a push from the elements, all aligned
planting, persevering along with the sprout, a spout
supplying water
or
Indra, responding to the grains, the fire, the
thank yous
offering in return a bit of
quenched desire
to grow and grow and
that magic-trick of a little bud
still green, still young
pushes forth
this is how the man can be the mother
and the mother, the man
with just a little work
and just a little listening,
waiting
for the ripening
for the harvesting
of the bounty of September

...which was apparently banned in much of Europe and the US. Too many good/powerful messages...

You know that untapped percentage of our brain? It's actually a treasure trove of eternal / timeless knowledge and wisdom, deep psychic abilities -- radio towers / signals with which to communicate without words; a dream-power so intense, it will actually project out into reality, as if a hologram took it to the next level and bound into atoms and solid matter. And the puny percent we do use? Well that's just a storage locker for new information, a small allowance to take in certain temporally-influenced, circumstantial realities. Trouble is, we're cramming that tiny locker with information, with reflections of reflections, distorting the original film, blocking the harmonic, universal rhythm, it's compressing in on itself, short-circuiting the whole system.

The huge trove? Picture this: a brain with only a tiny section lit up in colors, sparks, motion, commotion -- the rest is grey and dead-looking. That grey matter? the untapped, forgotten well-of-all we'll ever need? Fully equipped. It just needs a good dusting, to be plugged into a higher source. Tesla on to it, the capstone of Egypt? Check. Vedic scripts? Yip. All these under, above ground truths in myth.

____________

I saw God in a new way today. Well, not entirely new, but the rasa, the feeling, was newly nuanced.

God could be our best of friends, a well-wisher supreme, but we exclude Him from our lives. Like, how would you like it if the people you introduced and help get together just started hanging out without you, having tons of fun on your dime, on your resources and, let's say you're an inventor and artist, on the things you've built and designed? Would make you feel pretty annoyed huh? But if we were to include you? Guess what, you'd probably be super happy and want to share more of your discoveries, your personality, more of your light. Yea, God too.

_____________

This life is actually a hologram of a higher reality. It's not that the invisible, higher platforms of thought, action and existence are manifestations beyond reality; it's that they are reality, and we are living a dream, and these days, an increasingly darkening dream. I find it painfully ironic that in order to maintain 'security' (ego security), police forces are using violence and causing harm. Oh how the natural order has been reversed.......

_____________

The Six Loving Exchanges:

Offering gifts in charity
Accepting charitable gifts
Revealing one's mind in confidence
Inquiring confidentially
Accepting prasada
Offering prasada

are the six symptoms of love shared by one devotee and another.

More of these, please. Always.

______________

Krishna's birthday is this weekend.

______________

What are we living for? What are you living for? Is it your family? You career? A good salary? Your community? Satan? God?

Which of these things echo into eternity and which, like the periodicals that land in the litter box, turn over and pass into history, forgotten and buried in the sands of time? How can we develop understanding of the former, and remain cognizant of the latter, checking the ego towards the pursuit of what is inherently beneficial instead of what twinkles and fades? To develop understanding of eternity... huh, from some little contact I've had with yoga, 13 years of my 28,  (such a drop in the ocean) I've come to understand that being properly situated is half the battle. So many distractions today, I certainly get caught up, especially the political ones... Hmm, like father like daughter. And seek the balance in the spiritual... Hmm, mama I owe you. So, so many distractions. Seemingly benign. But our most precious resource, our consciousness is sapped... I find solace in the yoking of the two. It's not that we reject the world and its delights, it's that we include God in our pursuit of it all and fit that last puzzle piece into place; so that we can find some measure of completion while we still have time to breathe... With the right association and friendship, anything is possible.

Three of my favorites:

If one offers Me with love and devotion a leaf, a flower, a fruit or water, I will accept it 

Whatever you do, whatever you eat, whatever you offer or give away, and whatever austerities you perform -- do that, O son of Kunti, as an offering to Me.

In this way you will be freed from bondage to work and its auspicious and inauspicious results. With your mind fixed on Me in this principle of renunciation, you will be liberated and come to Me.

It's nice to spend time with new people sometimes.

With the right consciousness (reality) we can transform our lives (dreams, they take shape and fade into the night with the dawning of death and a new life). It's just a little consciousness that needs a polishing. The lens of the heart needs some dusting. Prabhupada said that the heart is like a camera, it takes so many pictures, snapshots of memories; hurt, love, joy, pain, celebration, mourning; and they compress into the unconscious mind. These layers become so heavy, our wings fold down our backs and we forget how to fly on, float on the miracle of here, now, all together as soul. We need to clean that lens, the mirror of the heart to see clearly again. To see the true picture. Sound vibration. The most powerful energy there is to aid in this cleansing. Mantra. From man - Sanskrit for mind and tra- to cross over. Seed sounds which originate in another platform, the transcendental platform, of life and reality. When we utter them, from the heart, sincerely, listening with all of our ears, inner and outer, we begin to become transformed. Something softens. The layers caked onto the heart begin to dissolve from the powerful acid-like potency of nectar in sound. Every time, I shit you not, every time I'm mad or my mind is running a story, a cheap and ugly one, maybe, a junk-food thought, I chant and immediately it's pacified. The sensation increases hundred fold when in a group of people doing the same. We all might have different reasons or experiences, on different rungs of understanding and acceptance, of devotion and insight, but the brilliant thing is -- that heart is getting clean.

_____________

There was a period of time when I was annoyed by "Waiting on the World to Change". I thought it was so defeatist. So weak and lame. I understood the general gist, but it felt impotent. It made me feel jipped. I didn't want to get messages telling me, subliminally, to give up, or worse, not even try. But then I realized tonight, it's really just the wheel of time turning, and when it's our turn, how are we going to handle reality, and temper the dream?

I really do believe it's our turn. So, are we going to act selfishly, or are we going to share resources, share our toys, playing with each other through the consciousness of the divine as our lens, inviting God to the party, working together with hostility a faded shell, buried in an ocean of grounded bliss.

DISCLAIMER: I wrote this to myself (now, to whom ever can relate to these words & find inspiration) a few months ago… I'm kind of a natural teacher, an impulsive sharer. If it isn't shared, I think, what's the point? Just like ol'boy in 'Into The Wild'… I just won't need to starve myself and forage alone in the wilderness to figure it out… Here goes nothing: