Despite the rather tedious lack of overt action in this player's part in the screenplay played of late, the script's still proven rife and a virtual roller coaster emotional ride, with reworking and refiguring the plot and other players, contemplating roles and maybe getting glimpses of who the players, friends and lovers and purported foes, really are behind veils and facades. All the while maintaining mindfulness and perhaps employing the Verfremdungseffekt (estrangement effect) to engage the audience and other players and Self...unattached to writ role and ascribed character and perhaps inciting the other players (/audience) to transcendent self-awareness as they play their scripted parts in this Grand Play.
Wednesday, June 22, 2016
Came across another nigh inexplicable time-space anomaly: upon leaving Laramie for my last (to date) grand absurd journey, I had an HP laptop with a 17" screen. I had downloaded a bunch of songs on said computer, including, "I guess you're right" and "Love comes" by The Posies, "Muita Bobeira" by Luciana Souza, a couple of Karsh Kale tunes, "I Ka Barra (Your Work)" by . . . etc. Anyhow, that computer died when I was in NY, and I subsequently lost the hard drive when drunken dumpsterdiving a few months ago. I bought a computer from a friend in New Paltz, which also got lost during the same instance of drunken dumpsterdiving. I bought a little laptop from one friend, then was given an HP laptop by some other friends. I rather soon noticed that some of the aforementioned songs were oddly in the new 17" HP laptop's Windows Media Center music library. So far as I know, said application does not synchronize with any online storage, so either is a slip of the veils of maya, or else somebody goin' to lotsa trouble to fuck with me!!!! Weird!!
Thursday, June 9, 2016
Thursday, June 2, 2016
Was just contemplating that sometimes scandal and seeming misbehavior is sometimes dharma, i.e., doing one's divine duty to keep things together. What brought my thoughts to that subject is thinking about the Beatles' guru's purported sexual misconduct...Without said person behaving scandalously would we have the song Sexy Sadie? And in a similar vein, the Panchen Lama said of Mao Tse Tung that he was an incarnation of an angry deity who invaded Tibet to force the dissemination of Tibetan Buddhist teachings...Is misbehavior sometimes one's proper dharma?!
This is not to justify wrongful behavior, but merely to recognize that She works in mysterious ways...
The task that has presented itself to me is daunting, if not terrifying. That presumptions about the most recent four to five thousand years of history, religion and culture are (by some accounts, surely) threatened by what I have to tell the world is only part of what daunts and just a portion of what is so terrible in approaching this task. The theories I have to proffer are likely to shatter the paradigms held by the majority of the people on this planet is not all would cause a writer intending said short treatise some degree of trepidation. That zealots, Jewish, Christian and Muslims and possibly others, might find the secrets I've to tell enough reason to put a price on my head or issue a fatwa for my execution is indeed not the cause of greatest concern for this writer in approaching the task. Rather, it is the danger inherent in uncovering occulted truths hidden by such potent spells obscuring, so much so that those most obvious clues regarding this mystery, clues that should be ascertainable to even the most daft of students, are veiled even to the most brilliant of academics—else the latter are too afraid to tell of what they do perceive of this Grand Conspiracy.
Intricate this nata, this dance this play . . . when is well directed and the stage well set and the screenplay well writ, good timing and yoga flow adjusting sense vibration just so, it doesn't even feel choreographed or scripted, as all we the actors, dancers and players are the Author of this Play.
One thing I like about the freedom of the road: once you surrender to the true flow, your true Self, the question is not what must I do, it's what do I wish to do (...once you realize your real wishes are the same as or commensurate to Goddess's/God's. Most readily accomplished when there are no attachments nor distractions)...this can be done at home too...
Sunday, May 29, 2016
Thursday, May 26, 2016
In a vision (primal as primal might be memory?) I have in mind, the start of the show in each cycle of the expansion and contraction of the universe is Him pressing His linga into Her, a tiny mass of everything reaching out into the void . . . else vice versa to elicit the grand illusory play of duality and maya that is.
Tuesday, May 24, 2016
Saturday, May 14, 2016
Monday, May 9, 2016
One thing I endeavor to keep in mind as I encounter the milieu of information on the internet, tailored to evoke emotional responses and manipulate the viewer/voyeur and designed to alter or reify opinions as it is: remain unattached to both emotional responses and even unattached to one's own opinion, both are transitory and illusory in comparison to one's true Self and Nature.
Wednesday, April 20, 2016
Even upon realizing all you encounter is merely your Self: goodness me how I am spread too and fro across the globe and through the vast universe, and through the whole of time and beyond!! Though conflicts are thus merely you dancing or vieing with yourself, what a mess of tangled twisted webs and weaves, a wonderful and terrible miliuex to dance through as you get to and are privileged to know yourself!!
Wednesday, March 30, 2016
Tenuous dance between life and death, the lines betwixt not always readily discernible, nor e'en between dark and light.
Yet abiding through those illusory dichotomies is, in my experiencings, true Self that abides.
Beyond bullets or shotgun blasts, cancer or car crash, beyond the day and night and cycles of the expansion and contraction of the Universe, beyond the many illusions of dualism, there you are, if you ever were at all.
Thursday, March 10, 2016
So oft in recent years spend my time unwinding storylines are seeming someone's writ script plied and proffered to direct this lila I've been living, channeling or dealving into the "akashik records" to determine the dance as is to be danced, my proper steps as some disturbance in the flow has required more conscious effort on my part, it seems, as opposed to the moksa flow I truly know and know true...perhaps there was a change of directors choreographing this nata, this dance, this play? a revision to the script or screenplay?
Layers of mind and Mind and matter, cidacit and such shit: more than a tad trying to be pressed to attend to details I trusted were already in good yoga with the whole good show, to be weighted unduly with others' karma to be transformed, as I rather thought that yoga flow at work well enough that I had no cause for too much concern.
Tensions raised, I suppose, and uncertainties presented to grant a range of sense vibration and emotion broad enough to accommodate life in this tumultuous time; frictions forced to raise that tejas, that fire, that we need to stay warm in the cold reality of eternity...
Tuesday, February 16, 2016
Subtle intimations of tragedy
and bizarre dramas
presented my mind’s eye,
from ancient secrets
of gods and goddesses
at play through the course of history,
to the same game
here and now
and in the dance I dance
with others day to day
and in the seeming mundane.
There is in truth
little difference between
and the below,
and life lived,
for those patterns and weaves
direct the steps and words,
thoughts and actions,
of both the great
and the small,
and it is in fact
not always clear
which is which,
of great and small,
in the play of it all.
Tuesday, February 9, 2016
It was just the other day
I was clearing trails in the Cascades,
and just another
I was sailing the Hudson, exploring Montreal, London, Charleston, sitting sky clad in hot springs in New Mexico or California or Arizona,
just the other day.
Nor was it long ago
I held her in my arms,
just a moment ago
and not too far from there to here.
The calendar might tell it differently,
as might others who've grown gray since then;
and some might contend that distance insurmountable,
from then and there to here and now.
It is scarce a step, however,
nor even one split second in eternity,
truth be told:
All is here and now.
Monday, February 8, 2016
A Cherokee and a Choctaw both,
Hooray and Hoorah,
whose banter and viewing
does raise mountains
In the tumult.
Black and White,
Darkness and Effulgence,
She and He
If any two really be,
Kali and Shiva.
These dichotomies, dualisms,
Self and Other,
do not abide,
and never really were.
Yet what a lovely dance
is this illusion,
what a wondrous play,
these supposed contentions
grant to life's script.
Wednesday, February 3, 2016
Absurd cycles and recycled themes:
sometimes like a broken record we play those through--
too often not learning the lessons proffered,
so we do it all again.
This is why it is said
Siva is enemy to samsara,
as those cycles are too often
cycles of dysfunction
rather than those cycles of bliss
that lead to liberation.
Tuesday, February 2, 2016
Once you understand that we are embodied expressions of the mind of God,
and in fact (however veiled in the milieu of maya) of God Her-/Him- Self,
it stands to reason some might chance purify their own flows so,
that they might become a worthy vessel,
of an abiding if not eternal face of the Divine,
of archetypal perfection.
This is yoga,
root of the English word "yolk."
Such path is all our potential,
all our destinies,
eventually and always already.
The big question of the most recent 5,000+ years of human history is simply "To be or not to be," basically as couched in the Sanskrit terms brahman and Abrahman. That the later of the two supposed binaries (the dividing line between Hinduism and Buddhism, in fact) sounds rather like Abraham, patriarch of the Abrahamic religions, is no coincidence. Rather, such is at least emblematic of the grand dialogue regarding said question as mulled about in the mind of God and via the lives of those peoples are playing out that query as a grand lila, a grand play that lasts thousands of years long. Indeed we are the playthings of the gods, of God, yet that is merely us ourselves, the gods, God.
Monday, February 1, 2016
Mitra and Varuna; but the ceremony being unsuccessful on aceount of some irregularity from the presiding priest: daughter Ila was born. But by the mercy of the two deities however, her sex was changed and she became a man under the name of Sudyumna. And he again became a woman under an imprecation (from Siva) near the hermitage of Buddha, the son of the moon.
One day while she was walking near the hermitage of Buddha, he became attached to her and beget on her a son named Pururavas. After his birth, the noble Rishis, desiring to restore Sudyumna to his sex, prayed to the glorious Vishnu who is the essence of the four Vedas, of mind, of every thing and of nothing and who is the sacrificed male. By his mercy us: once more became Sudyumna, in which character he had three sons, Utkala, Gaya and Vinata.
On account of his having been formerly born a female he did not receive any portion of his paternal kingdom. His father however at the request of Vasistha conferred upon him the city of Pratishta, and he gave it to Pururavas.
Of the other sons of Mann, Prishadhra, on account of the
sin consequent upon slaying a cow, was degraded to the conditions of a Sudra.
Sunday, January 24, 2016
If history is seen with a view to the grand cycles played, those somewhat scripted storylines we naturally play through as individuals and peoples that are indeed better read as mythology than in the manner of reading traditionally writ history . . . In this guise, Adolph Hitler has become an interesting figure in my deconstructions of discourse and mythology, matter and mind, as I've endeavored to understand history and life in terms of the most abiding and ancient constructs, with myth and metaphor in mind and a reading of the texts as if they were telling truth when they speak of gods and goddesses, magic and providence.
It has occurred to me that in no slight sense, thus, Hitler played a role not dissimilar from that of King Nebuchadnezzar who was, according to the Hebrew mythology and scripture, “the hand of God” in smiting the sinful Jews so they might be purified enough to return to their homeland of Israel from captivity in Babylon. Cycles of captivity or exile is one of the central themes of the Jewish discourse regarding the sacred and the life of their people, and thus it might be argued that Hitler merely played a role in fact manifest and in fact requested by what the Jewish taut as their sacred history and important cycles of penance and reward. Now i would certainly not endeavor to argue, as the Panchen Lama has regarding Mao whom the Lama considered an incarnation of an angry deity manifest to force the dispersion of Tibetan Buddhist teachings. That is, I would not argue that Hitler was any such noble player as a deity in this grand lila (nor would I contend that such a bizarre twist is impossible in the real lila/Divine Play of history), but I would note that when a people lauds a certain cycle, said cycle is not unlikely to be repeated in the life of that people. Two years after what would thus be rendered the Hebrew people chastised by the hand of the twentieth century Nebuchadnezzar, the Jewish people were granted a homeland by the United Nations proclamation.
Again, the subtle absurdity of dualism. I think the Holocaust is rather too recent an occurrence for Jewish prophets to start proclaiming Hitler as “the hand of God,” however. Many other subtle and between the lines storylines do tell very different versions of “what really happened” than the official discourse doth acknowledge . . . more on those later.
Sunday, January 17, 2016
the great illusion of this age,
played that 'I'
might raise the fire of forever,
lovely and warm.
She directs this Grand Play perfect,
with apparent dischord
and seeming disharmony
the tropes and tensions to keep us awake and attendent to the story,
to keep us entertained with eternity.
Death and loss and sorrow
the themes of this lila,
as are life, love, ecstasy and joy,
bad and good,
for all those are not
our abiding Self,
yet grant the impetus
gives us reason and potency
to play on,
to plod on
towards that perfection
that's already ours
and who we are true.
Nothing lost nothing gained.
Sunday, January 3, 2016
Saturday, January 2, 2016
Saturday, December 19, 2015
The Kennedy Ranch was 100,000 acres, neighboring the Flying U where I was employed as a hand for the summer, a spread somewhere around 10,000 acres with another 100,000 acre ranch on the other side, and the scene was as vast and grand as any vision of the proverbial or Hollywood Old West. After breakfast Ralph and I walked through the pitch black to the truck and trailer where we'd tied the horses for the night, saddled our mounts and rode down the wide one-lane dirt road to meet the others gathered to ride out to meet the sunrise and to gather and brand the young of the Kennedy's herd. As the cowboys and cowgirls started down the trail a nearby coyote howled a sweet song to serenade us and to tell of the coming dawn, still only portended by a faint glow over one tiny corner of the broad horizon. The chorus of howls continued as other coyotes answered and their song echoed off the hills and through the valley.
As the glory of the cowboy sunrise approached and we rode lazily down the trail, I contemplated the distance between where I was, astride an old mare riding on a dusty trail with real live Old West cowboys on the vast high plains, and where I was before the summer started, just some Prep School kid in Laramie who'd never had a real girlfriend and who just never quite fit in. Here on the range and ranches of northeast Wyoming I seemed to have a respected, if not revered place. On the Flying U I had learned to drive tractors, to ride a horse proficiently, to do carpentry and mechanics. Here I was where I generally longed to be when I was young, out on the land in some semblance of wilderness, some place I could feel I was free and for real. Even as liberal of an education as I was receiving at the University of Wyoming Prep School, said state of being still felt stifling for a child of the mountains. To be bound to a desk arranged in rows and columns when the sun was shining and the Wyoming wind was beckoning me is tantamount to child abuse for the likes of me and many a wild child. This adventure as a cowboy felt like heaven to a wildman growing up in the institution, if admittedly an institution where hippies and PhDs were our teachers and if in fact raised in a family where the wilderness ethic was strong and ingrained from an early age.
As we approached the herd we were seeking, some portion of the cowboys and cowgirls split off to bring the cows and calves into a tight group. As we started pushin' them doggies towards the corral I was told to ride towards the tail end of the herd and to keep stragglers from straying. It was quite a sense of exhilaration as I would spur my mount to a gallop to retrieve whatever cow or calf or group of same would try to run up a draw or otherwise escape the coming violence of the branding, an experience the mamas of the herd certainly knew well enough from their own time under the hot iron and from their offspring of previous years having been thus tormented. At the time I did not give much thought to the upcoming event, the castration of the males, the brutality of dehorning and the repercussions of antibiotic injections and growth hormones implanted, not to mention the pain exacted as hot searing metal was pressed against the flesh of these young bovine kind. Only years later after I had realized myself a yogi would I contemplate my own part in that play and find my own purifying fire awaiting me on the Hudson River to cleanse myself of that violent karma.
I quickly learned to imitate the calls of the cowboys, “Yip!! Yip Yip!! Common!! Hyup!! Hyup!!” and felt my senses livened by this dance of cowboys and girls and cows as we made our way towards the corral. The sun was well above the horizon by now and we had ridden somewhere near ten miles since we left the ranch house, eagles and hawks and other birds watching from high above with curiosity as a herd of people on horses, dogs and cows and calves traveled on down the trail.
As we arrived at the corral, out on a flat with no other significant structure in sight, the cows and calves were pushed into the pen and the gate closed. After a short rest from the ride, at least one of the women went in along with a cowboy or two to cut the cows out of the herd until only the calves remained in the corral. The swift movements of the cutting horses and the skills of the riders, their movements timed together with a tight synchronicity to meet the maneuvering of the cows endeavoring to stay with their calves, soon emptied the corral of all save the young.
The cutting horses and their riders them left the arena, and the old cowboys with their lassos readied rode into the corral. Pairs of young men, mostly teenagers including myself, would wait outside the gate as the mounted cowboys would whip the loops of their lassos under the hind legs of the hapless calves, tighten the rope around one leg or two, then wrap the loose end of the lasso around the saddle horn (if you ever wondered what those were for . . .), then drag the bawling baby cows out of the corral and to the two cowboys waiting outside the gate. One of the two would then grab the tightened rope and pull one way while the other would grasp onto the critter's tail and pull the other. Once the calf was flat on its side, the cowboy or cowgirl who'd taken the tail would pin the calves shoulders with a knee on either side and bending and binding the upper front leg of the little beasty, and the one who'd grasped the rope now had to secure the hind legs of the bawling babe, which of course were want to kick to regain freedom and to stay the torments to come. The hind legs were held in place by a pose where the cowboy sits on the ground, one foot against the lower ankle of the calf and hands holding the upper leg back, legs spread wider if it was a male calf so his balls could be ripped out of his scrotum after slit open with a sharp pocket knife. Rather a violent asana.
The brand was kept hot by a propane torch, a modern take on the sagebrush campfire which was used of old to heat the iron shaped to a particular combination of letters and shapes to tell of ownership. The smell of burning hair and flesh fills the nostrils as the cowboy or cowgirl brandishing the brand pressed it into the calves side. Another would come along with a blade readied, check the gender and remove the testicles if a male, then another with a hypodermic injector that places either hormones and/or antibiotics under the skin around the neck, then another with a tool with a circular blade with which the horns are dug out to the root, a centimeter or two deep in the calf's skull, while the calf cries out with a gruesome and sorrowful bawl, eyes rolled back and tongue lolling.
After the task at hand was completed, the last calf set free to rejoin its mother, we started the ride back to the ranch. On the way back to the ranch house on either this occasion or on the occasion of a later like gathering of neighboring ranchers to move a herd at the Schuman ranch, I rode up on an old cowpoke who'd dismounted and was hopping around a sagebrush bush and cursin' up a storm. As I approached I realized the silver-haired cowboy was dancin' with a rattlesnake, endeavoring to pin the serpent to the ground with his boot. After I watched him twice or thrice press his worn brown boot into the sagebrush only to jump back with a whoop, finally he stomped down on the neck of the snake and then reached down to retrieve the furious serpent, it's mouth turned 'round and clasped onto the toe of his boot. As he firmly placed his fingers on the back of the rattlesnake's jaw to prevent an inadvertent bite, he held the snake up for the onlookers to see, and then tried several times to get back on his horse, who would have nothing to do with a rider holding a live rattler aboard. Finally the old cowboy decided to kill the snake and keep its rattle as a memento. He told me as we rode on that he had a tank at his place where he kept several rattlers at a time to milk for venom.
After my summer on the Flying U my family moved to Indiana for a year, as my dad was on sabbatical to do research in liquid chromatography at Purdue. I then moved to Oklahoma where I lived with my grandparents, finished high school and attended college, became a preacher then resigned and renounced that, went to grad school in Chicago and then returned to Laramie. After an unsuccessful search for employment in my home town, I found myself on the road and discovered the remnant hippie trails and lifeways still (and to this day) to be found across the land long after the sixties. I began to practice yoga and wandered the country for several years before I ended up living on a Bristol 26 sailboat upon the Hudson River and a tributary thereof. Whilst aboard for this mostly misadventure I would often sit on the settee next to the hatch into the cockpit with one foot propped in the hatchway and posture representing something of a modified asana as I would meditate and contemplate my sometimes sorry situation, as after sailing out from Rondout Creek and onto the broad Hudson I only made it so far south as Beacon before a storm beached my boat. I contemplated the semblance of an asana seemed to be my posture and pose for hours every day and considered it rather like the position one holds while holding down a the back end of a calf for branding. As I sat in sometimes agitated meditation and discomfort on the settee with my right foot extended and propped in the hatchway, I considered that, rather than living the good life of a carefree sailor my time on the Hudson seemed rather more like a tapasia (purifying fire) proffered to allow me burn away karma of days even long since passed. The Sanskrit root of the English word “God,” by the way, is “go” which translates as the English word cow, as in those domesticated bovines which intone the sacred syllable “mooooo . . .”
Wednesday, December 16, 2015
- Indus Valley Civilization
- Rig Veda
- Pasupati and the European Horned God
- The Mother
- The lila of the Indian Diaspora
- Abraham goes west and inversions
- Circumcision and incest taboos
- Yama and Yahweh
- Shiva/Pasupati/the Horned God and Devi Lalitha rendered as “the Devil,” Chetanya as “Satan”?
- Dispersion from Indus Valley Civilization to the east and the American Indians, to Africa from the land of the Zulu to Egypt and west.
- Buddhism and Abrahman
- Trimurti and the Abrahamic religions
- The Play of Cultures and Religion as a conversation/meta-narrative/riddle of the Gods
- Culture and counter-cultures re-present the ancient stories, memes and mythemes and archetypal (even Brechtian) responses to the Grand play, artists, beats and bohemians, hippies, anarchists and punks playing out and voicing most visibly those dispositions of discontent and critical response to societies official renderings, the dichotomy and dualism providing the plot of this theatrical illusion. Plays of opposition that might prove both compassionate and virulent expressions of dissent and differénce (a la Derrida). Often the freer to foment true self expression means freer to find true Self expressed.
Wednesday, November 11, 2015
Tuesday, October 20, 2015
The Hebrews believe that "the righteous" go to a place called Sheol or "the bosom of Abraham" after they die, awaiting judgement day. This place is underground and is translated into Greek as "Hades," in other words, Hell. Essentially, the Jews' god Yahweh is Yama, who is actually a good guy and who is in fact the dude responsible for the teaching and schooling of those not devoted to the true Divine, both above and below ground, despite recent (most recent two thousand years) Western mythology touting that the Lord of Hell is "the Devil," who is represented as evil. It has become clear to me that in fact the mythology about "the Devil" is essentially an attempt to turn God and Goddess, Deva and Devi, into the bad guys. The figure of the Devil is largely drawn from the Horned God, who is more than akin to Shiva, God the Destroyer, and likely Deva Shiva's Consort Devi Parvati, the Mother of the Universe, who is known as Devi Lalitha in Her most playful form. Lalitha is who the Jews turned into their "Lilith," one of their most reviled "demons."
Abraham and abrahman (Sanskrit for "no God") are quite clearly related figures/figurations. Buddhists taut abrahman as one of the tenets of their belief, thus most Hindus call them atheists. From these obvious analogies, apparently Jews, Christians and Muslims are children of someone who's name seems to mean "no-God." More on this in later posts . . .
Namaste . . . Namaskar