"Death is no enemy, but the foundation of gratitude, sympathy, and art. Of all life's pleasures, only love owes no debt to death."
these great dis-united states have poisoned the well of the world
not to place blame
but
oh wave that flag of capitalism, Mr. Smith
o'er a land shifting faster than we can stand
that's just the dawning of the age of
information
dis-information too
but these cameras don't lie and you can try to hide the truth
but once one heart wakes up
there's no turning back,
no turning back
that wave will eat others up
and waking up
hung over
after too many bright lights,
pretty little lies packaged like lifelines
the soul begins to shake
and we flush it out
beat it out
the sugar rush has left the kids down and
the mommas on wine
and the daddies can't control their minds
both heads spinning with the sads
pop them pills,
hear em ca-ching for your partner in crime
holding a knife, waiting for you to die,
but not too fast let him get another stack
and the itch traveled faster than we could plan
to the great not-so-distant wisdom lands
ancient cultures awash with our left over glam
scraps of cloth, metal, and fads
can you blame them?
we hid the fall out so well
now we're slaves to the ones we bound
the Japs and Paks, the land of Mao and Tao
veins of culture we can't break down,
but here comes the new wave now
they bought what we sold and
wouldn't you know
made it better, faster, stronger
cause we poisoned the well, the well, the well of the world
well, what are we to do
no land to return to
as long as we keep running on false fuel
mo' material solutions
mo' problems
wake up sleeping souls
and turn on those dreaming parts of your brains
activate the only truth worth riding on
harmony my brother
harmony my sister
from every cell
every job and station
harmony with the sky
harmony with the earth
harmony between every nation
harmony with the only ONE
worth, worthy, the corrupted word
the big G
in your heart,
a personality,
a wave of energy
yes, all three,
the holy trinity
it's all any of this is worth
you can't feed a family on violence in the name of greed
you can't sustain a life on chasing lies
the tides are turning
swim to a holy shore
or drown in the poison
forever more
[I wrote this in November of 2015. It feels like a draft I wouldn't mind sharing. The last sentence is as true now as it was then; as it might always be for me...]
Lately I've been having flashbacks to a time in my life when I couldn't help myself. I couldn't say no to the offers, to the wants disguised as needs. Part of me wanted to and part of me didn't. Part of me tried to hold back and part of me let go, held on tighter to the comfort of darkness; the night hours, the sex, the partying, drinking, and substances that could've killed me, clinging to the one who I swore was the one who might save me. I had moments then when I'd step outside long enough to know that I wasn't doing right. But I just couldn't help it. It was as if there was a hand on my back guiding me, pushing me further and further along. There was seemingly no way to step out of reach of that hand.
I've been remembering one night in particular. I chose to stay home. I knew he would be there and that it would be another chance to lose myself in the haze, to throw off the shroud of solitude and wrap myself in my friends and maybe some love. It would be an easy way to pass the night, an opportunity to edge in closer to him, uncover who he kept hidden during the day. I stayed home instead.
There was no internet in my apartment. I was tucked in a cul de sac of Paris, gardens around my bedroom and a gate on my kitchen window where I'd stand as the tea kettle heated, winking past the bars at the crescent in the sky, night dreaming. I paced my place, desk to bed to kitchen to closet to bathroom. I must have done a face mask, organized my closet, left a mess, gone to the kitchen to get a snack, then to my laptop to organize my iTunes, which, in many ways, was his iTunes. I labeled his playlists, black sharpie on CD ROMs transferred to some digital order. 'Breathe, Stretch, Shake'. Flopped down on my bed and flipped through that giant book on Buddhism I borrowed from the school library. I distinctly remember reading about the sole items monks own: a begging bowl, a few saffron cloths, a razor... I was impressed, but bored.
Something burned in me that night, especially before I'd received the "where you at?" text. It burned less after that. My mind kept nudging me to imagine what they were all doing. Was there a new girl that showed up? A friend of a friend perhaps... she'd probably be hitting on him. Burn. Whatever, you've got to do you. Burn. It's only 10:45?? Burn.
I realize now that it wasn't really me. It wasn't true, although it felt and seemed and was so real.
The shitty part was waking up with anxiety, a feeling of dread in my belly and an unending rolling-in of questions, thoughts, possibilities, and the unknown.
Being so far away from it now, I realize that it was the weed hangover. The serotonin depletion from too much all-night Parisian partying. But this morning I woke up with a similar feeling of distance and dread and I haven't touched that stuff in a decade. And so I'm wondering; is it a lunar thing, a planetary cycle, a life cycle? Or perhaps my soul hinting to me that I'm off the path and I've gone too far. The aching and pain is the sign to get back. I'm invested in a worthwhile project. I'm giving my life and mind and time, all of it. But something's yanking at my hem. Something's being ignored in exchange for what's worthy and needing my all.
There's something in me that is begging to be excavated and put to work.
I've been remembering one night in particular. I chose to stay home. I knew he would be there and that it would be another chance to lose myself in the haze, to throw off the shroud of solitude and wrap myself in my friends and maybe some love. It would be an easy way to pass the night, an opportunity to edge in closer to him, uncover who he kept hidden during the day. I stayed home instead.
There was no internet in my apartment. I was tucked in a cul de sac of Paris, gardens around my bedroom and a gate on my kitchen window where I'd stand as the tea kettle heated, winking past the bars at the crescent in the sky, night dreaming. I paced my place, desk to bed to kitchen to closet to bathroom. I must have done a face mask, organized my closet, left a mess, gone to the kitchen to get a snack, then to my laptop to organize my iTunes, which, in many ways, was his iTunes. I labeled his playlists, black sharpie on CD ROMs transferred to some digital order. 'Breathe, Stretch, Shake'. Flopped down on my bed and flipped through that giant book on Buddhism I borrowed from the school library. I distinctly remember reading about the sole items monks own: a begging bowl, a few saffron cloths, a razor... I was impressed, but bored.
Something burned in me that night, especially before I'd received the "where you at?" text. It burned less after that. My mind kept nudging me to imagine what they were all doing. Was there a new girl that showed up? A friend of a friend perhaps... she'd probably be hitting on him. Burn. Whatever, you've got to do you. Burn. It's only 10:45?? Burn.
I realize now that it wasn't really me. It wasn't true, although it felt and seemed and was so real.
The shitty part was waking up with anxiety, a feeling of dread in my belly and an unending rolling-in of questions, thoughts, possibilities, and the unknown.
Being so far away from it now, I realize that it was the weed hangover. The serotonin depletion from too much all-night Parisian partying. But this morning I woke up with a similar feeling of distance and dread and I haven't touched that stuff in a decade. And so I'm wondering; is it a lunar thing, a planetary cycle, a life cycle? Or perhaps my soul hinting to me that I'm off the path and I've gone too far. The aching and pain is the sign to get back. I'm invested in a worthwhile project. I'm giving my life and mind and time, all of it. But something's yanking at my hem. Something's being ignored in exchange for what's worthy and needing my all.
There's something in me that is begging to be excavated and put to work.
|
Walking around this beautiful place, on my own, statuesque as I catch a glimpse of myself with a sidelong glance, the mirrored glass in the storefronts I pass. Flowered dress, tailored and prim. Dressed down with flats and a canvas sling. Saturday and I emerged at noon, the sun burning into already darkened skin. All these things whirling in my head. I feel so strong, and my body is too, so much so, is it too much for my own good? Bracing myself, lonely yet free. The flowers soften it all, or perhaps heighten the air, that I'm so hard to get, living somewhere up there. An island, an island, sometimes it feels like I'm an island. But less than before, now I don't long for a shipwreck to land on my shores. Nothing to fix, no one to be, except for whatever it is I need to be for me (and He, I guess, I try, I leave room for that piece of the pie). I say it's a phase, and take advantage of this time, the flight, the ease, the space that's all mine. But that night as I lay, alone on my journey, an old friend calls with news and what seems like an answer to the wondering. As he speaks I catch sight of nature, doing it's thing, in the corner of the ceiling, a bug gets caught and it's dinner for the hungry. It's ironic, he muses about love and men, me and my strength, "Don't take this badly, because it's not, but I can't see you with anyone, you're too strong for the lot. Heterosexual men are not deep and smart enough." And I sigh. But there must be! At least one... There's the answer, the intuition with it's calling, nature, doing it's thing. We can try to interrupt it, but darling, what good would that bring?
sticking around when the one you love turns their back on you.
I just watched Stephen Colbert tell the story about how he knew his wife was the one. And he tested her by letting her go, turned his back and gave her the chance to get away. When he turned back around, she was still there. Smiling.
Love is sticking around when they turn their back on you; not in a disempowered, weak way, but when you know in your gut that sticking to it is worth it.
I just watched Stephen Colbert tell the story about how he knew his wife was the one. And he tested her by letting her go, turned his back and gave her the chance to get away. When he turned back around, she was still there. Smiling.
Love is sticking around when they turn their back on you; not in a disempowered, weak way, but when you know in your gut that sticking to it is worth it.
there's a fountain at the end of my breath
which I can only swim in on the exhale
so I breath in, a necessary sacrifice,
to immerse my being in the amniotic fluid
the hum
of holding out at the top
waiting
feeling
diving deep
and then finally,
letting go
only to rise again
which I can only swim in on the exhale
so I breath in, a necessary sacrifice,
to immerse my being in the amniotic fluid
the hum
of holding out at the top
waiting
feeling
diving deep
and then finally,
letting go
only to rise again
That feeling when you wake up happy
It seems to descend
No, it doesn't come from within, necessarily
But sure, that's where you feel it
A perfect storm
Of sunlight streaming in
Skin
Remnants of a dream, inconsequential
A blank slate,
Regardless of to-dos and to-sees
It's fleeting, as most things are
But it has time
Takes its own
And whether or not you are
Alone
You don't feel
Alone
Somewhat all together
This sweet morning happiness
Fills
Sweet soul, you might be angry or sad. Please have compassion for me. I break things. I don't trust sometimes and I'm still learning how to trust myself. As solid as I am, I'm also so soft. So sensitive. Needing things impetuously and warily. Grateful yet wondering. Waiting for the shoe to drop. Well I tossed the old bugger didn't I? Ripped it from the roots. A lonely insole floating in the same space lost socks do.
Pity me if you will, whatever might get through to that part of you that you're still mending, might always be mending. It's hard.
It keeps things interesting, at least. I try to spin it.
We mend on the go, in the dark nights after long, exhausting weeks. Amidst crowds, circles, crickets. S p a c e. We have more in common than maybe either of us let on (words say less than knowing, feeling does).
And the to-do lists and the ambition and the hunger to run won't ever let up, I reckon. Blinded by this life.
I misrepresented myself. Or maybe it was just that I was perfectly honest, entirely too vulnerable, showing you the little parts that are otherwise displayed after some time. I tend to do that, work in reverse. Sew it back up. And really, I don't show much at all, shy somehow. Cut me open.
Like a gordian knot in pandora's box.
The irony is that while I don't entirely trust men, I'm all-too gullible. I take people at face value in one moment (and turn around and declare the whole racket a conspiracy). It's not an issue, it's who I am.
You threw these contradictions in my face and as subtle as the toss, it landed; as if anyone is perfectly clear on the inside. As if anyone can stand there with feelings swirling and turn their cheek in denial of a little brokenness. Maybe you do, or maybe you just didn't want to catch it.
Oh, I weave. Imagination for days. It's my bread and butter. The vege meat and potatoes of that landscape that, with the passing of time, gets broader and broader, harder and harder to pin down, share in reasonable stretches of time. It's probably why people used to settle down so soon. Less to drag into the whole shebang. Doesn't matter does it, you still keep painting; hills, forests, mountains, valleys, oceans.
And me, I can unpack for the rest of my life. But I also have so much on my plate. So maybe no, I can't unpack (oh but that's where IT is). I have to keep going. And life -- that getting to know, learn, understand; it's really just holding all the bits of yourself together as little trinkets, memories, inside jokes; each one valuable whether beautiful or ugly. Finding hope in the possibility that at the end of the day, you are the one you've been waiting for. Forgetfulness and scrapbooks and all.
It seems so easy for other people. It's never really easy for me. Or if it is, I drop it and run as fast as I can. Me and everyone else....
This was different. Clear yet foggy. Tense yet clear. I had to shake it up. Take control somehow. Take back my gift. It was too good. Too soon. I'm impatient. Hasty. Full of grace yet graceless in the moment passion knocks on my heart, or simply knocks my head off my shoulders. Perhaps this lesson learned can be returned, rewound. For real this time.
Perhaps its good exists only in the future. At some far-off destination where it belongs. With the right one.
So I guess we'll stand with loneliness in our hands, for a bit, for a while. For however long it takes to take back the reigns and with a little more ease, relinquish control in just the right way.
Pity me if you will, whatever might get through to that part of you that you're still mending, might always be mending. It's hard.
It keeps things interesting, at least. I try to spin it.
We mend on the go, in the dark nights after long, exhausting weeks. Amidst crowds, circles, crickets. S p a c e. We have more in common than maybe either of us let on (words say less than knowing, feeling does).
And the to-do lists and the ambition and the hunger to run won't ever let up, I reckon. Blinded by this life.
I misrepresented myself. Or maybe it was just that I was perfectly honest, entirely too vulnerable, showing you the little parts that are otherwise displayed after some time. I tend to do that, work in reverse. Sew it back up. And really, I don't show much at all, shy somehow. Cut me open.
Like a gordian knot in pandora's box.
The irony is that while I don't entirely trust men, I'm all-too gullible. I take people at face value in one moment (and turn around and declare the whole racket a conspiracy). It's not an issue, it's who I am.
You threw these contradictions in my face and as subtle as the toss, it landed; as if anyone is perfectly clear on the inside. As if anyone can stand there with feelings swirling and turn their cheek in denial of a little brokenness. Maybe you do, or maybe you just didn't want to catch it.
Oh, I weave. Imagination for days. It's my bread and butter. The vege meat and potatoes of that landscape that, with the passing of time, gets broader and broader, harder and harder to pin down, share in reasonable stretches of time. It's probably why people used to settle down so soon. Less to drag into the whole shebang. Doesn't matter does it, you still keep painting; hills, forests, mountains, valleys, oceans.
And me, I can unpack for the rest of my life. But I also have so much on my plate. So maybe no, I can't unpack (oh but that's where IT is). I have to keep going. And life -- that getting to know, learn, understand; it's really just holding all the bits of yourself together as little trinkets, memories, inside jokes; each one valuable whether beautiful or ugly. Finding hope in the possibility that at the end of the day, you are the one you've been waiting for. Forgetfulness and scrapbooks and all.
It seems so easy for other people. It's never really easy for me. Or if it is, I drop it and run as fast as I can. Me and everyone else....
This was different. Clear yet foggy. Tense yet clear. I had to shake it up. Take control somehow. Take back my gift. It was too good. Too soon. I'm impatient. Hasty. Full of grace yet graceless in the moment passion knocks on my heart, or simply knocks my head off my shoulders. Perhaps this lesson learned can be returned, rewound. For real this time.
Perhaps its good exists only in the future. At some far-off destination where it belongs. With the right one.
So I guess we'll stand with loneliness in our hands, for a bit, for a while. For however long it takes to take back the reigns and with a little more ease, relinquish control in just the right way.
|
I woke up with my insecurities and mind-stories lingering as dream. Bits and pieces from the past few weeks of reality mingled with fever programming. Night sweats in an indigo caftan, with intermittent jolting awake in a coughing fit, sleep's become a tangle of sheets, tissues, phlegm and vague hallucination. The X's and O's, 1's and 0's, colored my transition to awake with a hazy blush. A blush of desire or anger?, it's too close to call...
How could it have gotten this far, in just the tiny few inches of my headspace? It does stretch further than the eye can fathom doesn't it? The mind... How was I going to get the answers I needed?
I woke at 6:24am to the alarm. And then to a snoozed alarm. And then to my friend leaving. And finally to the irritating dream that was him kissing me goodbye to go on a date with some unknown other (was there one, was he seeing others? It's unknown) and forgetting my name. But his face was that of a comedian. He makes me laugh. I did enjoy turning on my heel and walking away, throwing up a middle finger without looking back. Redemption through alienation, how bittersweet indeed. The ego is fucking sticky. Especially in dreams.
How am I going to tell him all this? No -- you can't fucking tell him any of this! Be cool. Ugh I'm tired of being cool! And the ping pong goes on...
I finally woke up. Called my sister in Berlin. No response. Text my friend in the Middle East for advice, the check marks still grey by her name. Tick tock. The blanket like a weight I gave into, not yet ready to make anything of this day; I turned over again. A vague resolution to make it to the coffee shop, out of this apartment, eventually, at least, hung over my obstinance.
I didn't write back to A or J or give into K's advances for this guy. I deleted Tinder. Fuck. I like him. He's probably got some other chick. Or maybe a few. Oh God. Am I alone in this?!
But I can't fucking tell him. Yet. How the hell. This is torture. (Sweet and definitely maddening). Another giant indicator that massive shifts are afoot. And my rib cage rattles thunder in cough. It's all breaking down.
I just want to get in an RV with him and drive away. But first, who's gonna text and break the silence?
And questions of negligence to my own cause shoot up like arrows from my own back. I shot them, like boomerangs they followed me as I ran from the answers. Ran to some blank page in my journal where figuring it out might take place. But I pace from the stove to my typewriter to bang out halting refrains. We could make good music together I bet... And the phone rings.
"You never call me betch. Ew.", I drawl. My sister. She commiserates while at the same time sighing in relief that she doesn't have to date in this crazy climate of flaky whatever the fuck.
I end up breaking the ice. It all seems fine, of course, with his sweet replies. And that inner gnawing is softened some... Until next time the pressure in my head becomes too much.
Oh God do I love this shit? Only as much as it lets me know I care... Isn't there a better way?
I took sugar in my coffee. I need some sweetness. I kind-of rejected it from him. Or at least teasingly chided him for sending me a funny video after I announced in a panicked, emoji-laced text that OMG Prince. I don't do this well do I?
I said I wasn't going to drink coffee anymore. I managed to throw on some clothes and rise out from under this upper respiratory flu shiz to walk to the coffee shop.
Goddamn the weather's fucking beautiful.
I think I get it now why some people just stay checked-out in life. It keeps them from realizing too much, from the fall that eventually comes with the head trip. I wrote some depressing shiz in my journal -- "Adulthood is realizing whatever choice you make, you're trapped." Who the hell do I--? I get it now. Why being too smart for my own good is shite. So I vacillate between a rote daily grind of actions I know I can tackle and handle and ace and casting aside that basic-ness in exchange for the desperate creation of what I'm not sure I can own (it's not mine to own) but must at least try to tame, hone in on, extract, play with. Fuck. Sometimes you just need to fuck the truth out of yourself.
Or fuck yourself back onto the path.
Keep walking.
|
Light in the world—
World in the mind—
Mind in the heart—
Heart in the night.
Pain in the day—
Strength in the pain—
Light in the strength—
World in the light.
- Owen Barfield
If you want to change the world… love a woman, just one woman.
Love and protect her as if she is the last holy vessel.
Love her through her fear of abandonment
which she has been holding for all of humanity.
No, the wound is not hers to heal alone.
If you want to change the world… love a woman
all the way through
until she believes you,
until her instincts, her visions, her voice, her art, her passion,
her wildness have returned to her-
until she is a force of love more powerful
than all the political media demons who seek to devalue and destroy her.
If you want to change the world,
lay down your causes, your guns and protest signs.
Lay down your inner war, your righteous anger
and love a woman…
beyond all of your striving for greatness,
beyond your tenacious quest for enlightenment.
The holy grail stands before you
if you would only take her in your arms
and let go of searching for something beyond this intimacy.
If you want to change the world…love a woman
to the depths of your shadow,
to the highest reaches of your Being,
back to the Garden where you first met her,
to the gateway of the rainbow realm
where you walk through together as Light as One,
to the point of no return,
to the ends and the beginning of a new Earth.
-Lisa Citore
Love and protect her as if she is the last holy vessel.
Love her through her fear of abandonment
which she has been holding for all of humanity.
No, the wound is not hers to heal alone.
If you want to change the world… love a woman
all the way through
until she believes you,
until her instincts, her visions, her voice, her art, her passion,
her wildness have returned to her-
until she is a force of love more powerful
than all the political media demons who seek to devalue and destroy her.
If you want to change the world,
lay down your causes, your guns and protest signs.
Lay down your inner war, your righteous anger
and love a woman…
beyond all of your striving for greatness,
beyond your tenacious quest for enlightenment.
The holy grail stands before you
if you would only take her in your arms
and let go of searching for something beyond this intimacy.
If you want to change the world…love a woman
to the depths of your shadow,
to the highest reaches of your Being,
back to the Garden where you first met her,
to the gateway of the rainbow realm
where you walk through together as Light as One,
to the point of no return,
to the ends and the beginning of a new Earth.
-Lisa Citore
Get Out Of The Materialism Trap NOWDo you own things or do things own you?Channel: http://youtube.com/erinjanusMailing List: http://www.erinjanus.infoTwitter: http://twitter.com/erinjanus
Posted by Erin Janus on Sunday, April 3, 2016
|
It's funny when you come across random writing you quickly composed months ago, thinking not much of it, and are like "huh, that ain't too bad"
Maybe I'm a silly idealist, but in my heart, I know that this is the realest.
For Tomorrow from Kriyate on Vimeo.
|
I planted the creeper of love
And silently watered it with my tears
Now it has grown and overspread my dwelling
You offered me a cup of poison
Which I drank with joy.
- Mirabai
And silently watered it with my tears
Now it has grown and overspread my dwelling
You offered me a cup of poison
Which I drank with joy.
- Mirabai
Saul Williams... have loved his poetry-in-sound since I first got a taste in 2004. Classy and classic - a pure mix of goodness - rhymes, beats, instruments, feeling. Consummate artistE. There's a message, an emotion, a connection in his work that satisfies because it's not about self-aggrandizement or pandering. Nor is it simply a new twist on the least common denominator. He's an ORIGINAL. Elevates the game!
Anyway, I hadn't heard much from him lately and came across this most recent interview. It's so refreshing to watch and hear someone speak who is clearly thinking and thinking clearly before words come out of his mouth. Articulate, intelligent, cuts to the heart. Plus his voice is fresh!
Be inspired:
EDITED TO ADD SO GOOD:
For writers/thinkers/artists ;)
Anyway, I hadn't heard much from him lately and came across this most recent interview. It's so refreshing to watch and hear someone speak who is clearly thinking and thinking clearly before words come out of his mouth. Articulate, intelligent, cuts to the heart. Plus his voice is fresh!
Be inspired:
EDITED TO ADD SO GOOD:
For writers/thinkers/artists ;)
In this world of reversed order, where contradiction, quarrel, and hypocrisy abound, we must each take it upon ourselves to go deeper. We must each step forward with strength sourced in faith that there is something, there must be something better -- for ourselves, for each other. We must each hold the magnifying glass up to our personal habits and face the music, asking: is my way of life sustainable, truthful, inspired, joy-inducing? And we must do this every. Single. Day.
Go deeper.
This process must not be avoided for fear of difficulty, boredom or failure. Indeed, once engaged with, this process can only liberate the chains of unconscious habits and relationships, dis-ease. It can but lift us higher and higher, while rooting us deeper and deeper. It may require the abandonment of toxic people, places and practices but there’s no shortage of health and true happiness to replace those things.
Go deeper.
This process of examination and honest aspiration is the natural way of life, and as we are faced with so many unnatural manipulations of mind, body, Earth, community — it is the only way to evolve, even as entropy beats down the door of life.
With each day, reclaim the vow to examine and apply change with an eye towards purification, harmony, tolerance, and love — the kind of love that seeks to serve and appreciate.
Purify. Appreciate. Serve.
Repeat.
Go deeper.
Examine your eating habits; not with a vain eye, seeking to obtain (to then flaunt) a so-called perfect body, but with a holistic mind, seeking to address the source, sanctity and sustainability of our body-fuel.
Go deeper in your self-care. Have you been going on unconsciously? Swept up in the day-to-day survival and frenzy of providing, sheltering, caring for others? Or worse, selfishly indulging in temporary pleasures that are undoubtedly wreaking havoc on your organs, vitality, wherewithal and happiness?
Go deeper.
Insist on time for personal reflection, prayer, meditation and education. Our minds should be serving us. The mind is a terrible master. We should hesitate to fall prey to the wandering, speculation, back-talk of the mind, following it into trap after trap, dead end after dead end.
Go deeper.
When you do meditate, pray, reflect, intend; seek the cause of all causes and communicate there. Insist on an honest inspection, a consistent conversation. When the mind wants to take you to easy, hurtful, untruthful BS: stick to your guns and come back to the mantra, breath, heart. GO DEEPER.
Go deeper.
Tolerate the intolerable; the external situations that seem to have been imposed upon you, the why me? Say thank you, look for the lane to get up and get out and go deeper. Give respect to all others, and, here’s the clincher: EXPECT NONE FOR YOURSELF.
These are age-old, time-tested directives. Grab em and go deeper.
Stare fear in the face and be generous. Generous with kind thoughts, generous with kind words, generous with kind actions. Seek to compliment on something other than surface. While a “cute shoes” is kind, a “I really appreciate you in my life” helps the system in a deeper way. Try it.
This is not one and done. This is day in and day out. There is no limit to the bank of kindness.
Go deeper.
We can see the alternatives around us everywhere. It’s no longer acceptable to go on unconsciously, accepting darkness as light and light as darkness. We can’t ignore the need to go deeper, live smarter, be better; not in some vain way to impress or attract followers but in the fullest way, to clean up the pollution of so much wasted life lived in selfishness and fear.
Go deeper.
Money. How do you earn it?
Time. How do you spend it?
Sex. How do you give it?
Be selective.
Educate yourself in the macro and micro. Get to know yourself inside and get to know the truth outside. The subjective and the Absolute — harmonize them. Let them also stand side by side, simultaneously one and different. Accept you cannot understand it All. Accept that there is something greater than you. Then serve it.
Go deeper.
Abandon false prophets, false idols, false traditions; be wary of flash (as shiny, cool or nonchalant as it may dress itself up to be) and be impeccable in your search for knowledge and truth — when you seek it, the real deal will make its way to you, and you to it. Then — yep, you guessed it:
Go deeper.
Revolutionize your experience of fun. Reject the artificial. You probably know it, as it’s the status quo, and it takes so much tiresome effort and ego. Instead, embrace a permaculture solution i.e.; something that feeds the system it comes from.
Align yourself with an eternal identity.
You are not your body, gender, race, nationality, political party. The only way to true equality is to recognize and identify with the unifying force underneath all the masks. We are, each one of us, spirit soul: sparks of consciousness, bliss, eternality and truth. Let’s drop the labels and see the soul in each being; each human, each animal, each precious plant. If it’s born, grows, decays and dies -- behind it lies a spirit soul.
To see with this vision is truly revolutionary. Adopt it, share it and… go deeper.
Please join me in this pledge. I need you. The world needs you. The Real YOU needs you.
Let's go deeper.
In the midst of an immersive time
here and now, I feel the call to come and spill, a little something I've picked up along the way, this way that's been stretching on for years,
what's so special about this day?
Well, nothing
And yet,
Everything...
I miss writing
I miss it
And yet I won't do it.
Well here I am
stealing a little time from the stolen
to just do it.
A simple call...
Mostly, I miss that emotion
pouring through finger tips that makes you want to go go go and say it with words
like a swift river current, electrifying my body
setting fire to my mind and all the little shells and stones its collected to string together when some decorating is due
I wish I could share everything I've been taking in with you
Like a magnifying glass, the expression back illuminates when the taste is shared
and when it lands.
We're all in a band, old familiar friends
just looking for the bass to your drum to my guitar
to your cymbals to His keys
the key to harmony
is taking stock,
look how much we've hoarded and consumed
how clear is your palette?
there's no undo
on that computer of your mind
so be a little selective
of what goes inside
and whatever it may be,
may it match the tune of your heart
so your whole life
is a symphony in step,
a wonderful outstretched hand
offering gifts no man can't understand
here and now, I feel the call to come and spill, a little something I've picked up along the way, this way that's been stretching on for years,
what's so special about this day?
Well, nothing
And yet,
Everything...
I miss writing
I miss it
And yet I won't do it.
Well here I am
stealing a little time from the stolen
to just do it.
A simple call...
Mostly, I miss that emotion
pouring through finger tips that makes you want to go go go and say it with words
like a swift river current, electrifying my body
setting fire to my mind and all the little shells and stones its collected to string together when some decorating is due
I wish I could share everything I've been taking in with you
Like a magnifying glass, the expression back illuminates when the taste is shared
and when it lands.
We're all in a band, old familiar friends
just looking for the bass to your drum to my guitar
to your cymbals to His keys
the key to harmony
is taking stock,
look how much we've hoarded and consumed
how clear is your palette?
there's no undo
on that computer of your mind
so be a little selective
of what goes inside
and whatever it may be,
may it match the tune of your heart
so your whole life
is a symphony in step,
a wonderful outstretched hand
offering gifts no man can't understand
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
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.
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
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
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
My dear,
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 mind is a tricky piece of work, always seeking to maintain a wondrous image at the front lines of shifting truths, setting stars, changing leaves. It is a wonder, isn't it?
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.
For the good of all that is good.
Yours truly,
Alexandra
|
When you hear something special
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
|
did you know
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
this video, these people, this culture, these names, this sound
"The chorus alludes to the famous prayer of historic saint, Queen Kunti, who prayed that her attraction be ever drawn to the Lord, as a river forever flows to the sea."
"The chorus alludes to the famous prayer of historic saint, Queen Kunti, who prayed that her attraction be ever drawn to the Lord, as a river forever flows to the sea."
"Like a River is the title track from the debut album of Jahnavi Harrison, 'Like a River to the Sea', released on July 24th 2015.
The track features a refrain from the Govinda Damodara Stotram by medieval saint-poet, Srila Bilvamangala Thakur and is a meditation on protecting sacred environments internally and externally.
The film features the landscape and people that live alongside the holy Yamuna River. After years of constant protest and petitioning, as of March 2015, the Indian Government has promised to make drastic changes to divert industrial waste and sewage, and restore the purity of the water."
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
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...
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
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
|
HAMLET: Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue. But if you mouth it, as many of our players do, I had as lief the town crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air too much with your hand, thus, by use all gently, for in the very torrent, tempest, and (as I may say) whirlwind of your passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance that may give it smoothness. O, it offends me to the soul to hear a robustious periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings, who for the most part are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb shows and noise. I would have such a fellow whipped for o'erdoing Termagant. It out-herods Herod. Pray you avoid it. Be not too tame neither, but let your own discretion be your tutor. Suit the action to the word, the word to the action, with this special observance, that you o'erstep not the modesty of nature. For anything so overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was and is, to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to nature, to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure. Now this overdone, or come tardy off, though it make the unskillful laugh, cannot but make the judicious grieve, the censure of the which one must in your allowance o'erweigh a whole theatre of others. O, there be players that I have seen play, and heard others praise, and that highly (not to speak profanely), that neither having th' accent of Christians, nor the gait of Christian, pagan, nor man, have so strutted and bellowed that I have thought some of Nature's journeymen had made men, and not made them well, they imitated humanity so abominably. Reform it altogether! And let those that play your clowns speak no more than is set down for them, for there be of them that will themselves laugh, to set on some quantity of barren spectators to laugh too, though in the mean time some necessary question of the play be then to be considered. That's villainous and shows a most pitiful ambition in the fool that uses it. Go make you ready.
