has set his personal threat level (ratio of personal hygiene:serotonin levels) at 1.6180339887

Just got whooped for the ... let's see... 975th time by my 7 year old in the game of 'chance' called war

An 8 km run on the seawall is in my immediate future. Last run before Sunday?
3 . 16 . 51 . 02

Crazy ass fight-or-flight syndrome was useful 200 years ago, but today it FEELS highly overrated. Stupid autonomic nervous system.

stressed but peaceful. But stressed.

Brilliant sunshine, early office, missed deadline, tapering for Vancouver Marathon.

hasn't had coffee, sugar, dairy, wheat or a whole bunch of other things for 12 days. That sound you hear is either my whining or jonesing.

"If you have understood me, then I must not have made myself clear" -- Alan Greenspan

is off to deploy the project to production. Yowsah.

8 . 19 . 01 . 03

is seeing if he can get a cogent IT strategy sketched in 45 mins.

succesfully finished the client demo.

off to deliver beta (alpha final) to client.

Nice: Limbaugh apology generator
http://ping.fm/qCa7p

Interesting: God makes surprise visit to local church

http://ping.fm/gqsDn

Mez is bitter. 3 hours, 2*cans* of "one second plumber",chemical goodness, tendinitis from plunging,and that bastard is still plugged.

Tools>Options>General tab>uncheck "Allow starting in Reading Layout." Almost as relieving as turning off the 'helpful' paperclip abomination

sense's Sense

All roads started from here

It's not looking for where all the roads converge, it's looking where they all come from.

Yesterday, in the subterranean mall, looking for goods, the smell came out. THAT smell, the smell of Banyen Books, sandalwood and peace, gentle subtle body blanket in through one sense, then connecting with the others and secreting peace and equanimity like a body organ.

I wonder if it's the Ken Wilber Book I'm reading; it's less than 7 days out from it's home in the tomed and fertile womb of Banyen, and as such would carry it's mother's scent for some time; but no - that book is away in the knapsack.

I wonder if it's my hands carrying the scent from the child embossed from the mother, but that too is put to rest - all I can get is garlic from a cooking adventure two nites ago.

Yup, it's clearly in the air, and yes, it's forgotten about until

Later

When I'm outside the coffee store, taking in the smells of That Which I Cannot Have - the bean has been put out to pasture for the last 7 days as I go through this Mediclear cleanse - and will be further excommunicated for another 14 days - it hits me again.

Synapses being what they are, a new connection is added. Now we have Book Womb Scent Child Cleanse. Or, in humanese, maybe the cleanse is finding the blocks and either making them translucent onion soul paper the Sun can shine through or removing them or allowing the Sun to flow around them. Maybe the translucence is needed to clear the other Huxleyed variables maybe

Again!

The gentle sandalwood, in through one sense, now resting, subtle down on the translucent spots, a balm that warms and enters, enters and warms. In and back Aslan, in and back

And as the day goes on the sandalwood finds me:

from the microwave, piggy backing on the inlet air; tasted in the run salt over my lip; from my tea

It's beautiful and appropriate that One Taste started as One Smell, choosing the most primeval of the senses, the most base, sending chemical signals to the reptilian brain stem because bodysense, the physical, the gross, is a part of the whole that has been largely ignored in the search for emancipation.

But now it's gently opening doors to the other senses; not knocking just quietly opening, peeking in and helping itself in

and now

It's not just Sandalwood everywhere, it's Friends everywhere

They're splitting open like corn husks, gross physical levels opened into the souls womb where their light is all; ebullient, ephemeral, ghostlike terrible beauty.

There! On the street corner. Out with the inner, in with the outer. Form is formless, I see with the eye of spirit, they are looking back.

Cramped in the elevator! Family of lotus, peeling back; clothes, psyche, ego left crumpled and forgotten at their feet; just soft lights bleeding into each other; breathing each other; becoming what was always was

And it makes sense, Wilbers talk of the prison of time, beginnings, endings

Beyond language kids, because how can I explain something that simply Is.

I try to wrap myself in the light and sandalwood; the first step of contraction out of I-I; forget mySelf for minutes hours days? And wonder before I enter the amnesia again when next grace will again bring the Sense back to my senses.

namaste

is hoping the virtual machine config completes soon so we can finish testing and get the goods to the client tomorrow.

a 7km run did a nice Jerry.

That which transcends the body was being blocked by the unhealthy body, and is now becoming clearer through the healthy body.

(fecund smell and sound of personal shame abating) 11 years late, I finally get the white russian and 'dude abides' references.

Complex Simple Words and Truths

The thought came as I got out of the tub

"Just be yourself".

And not in a lite pop pyschology affectation but a full frontal assault of truth; soft and swift; cotton sword.

Then

"Be"

Then

"Remember, be"

And then "Remember, Be Here Now".

The seed for these was reading Wilber again; the light and ferocity of intellect, the truth that shines through realization.

Yet another pointer, his writings in One Taste. A summary of everything; all levels of my being; the dreams or visions I've had; the experiences

Kid: touching the mind or subtle; realizing I could actually inhabit the imaginary spaces; replaying a Zoom TV show in my head with clarity and brilliance

Growing up - into and out of born againism; I've developed out of that traditional mode, but there were moments of truth there; heart to heart presence with a personal god; some taste of surrender and purity of spirit in other friends from the time

Growing up - The fire of love; consuming my emotional center; alight with universal possibilities; purity and innocence; then dashed against love's reef; each point of ego in me an emotional spirit snagging me to the reef so I would remain there then be pulled as well, ripping tearing, suffering, refining

Growing up - Sitting in John's office, looking out from behind the eyes; unbeckoned witness. He noticed when it happened - not necessarily its specifics, but that something signifigant had happend

TM when I first started it got to a point where I could sit down from normal activities and within a few moments be there, in the Space

TM - getting to a place where body all but disappears; nothing much beside the breathing, a bit of head and the mantra, and sometimes, even less

The dreams - at least twice - the terrifying cloud or stormish cloud / hurrican spiral in the ceiling; an absolutely terrifying force that had something more as well - being pulled up into it and ... just out of reach - (good) spiritlual consumption?

The dream - me looking at myself. Goatee-d jerry, shir off, heavy, a bit flabby, cold and fleshy, tatoo showing; I was dead; I was rolling over a dead me

The awakenings - Big mind - tasting; being big mind big heart

Non dual awakenings - many times just simple clear non dual perceptions walking to work to be forgotten until I walked to work to be forgotten

Having no head - reading Douglas Hardings book and before reading the experiment, having an idea that it was stepping outside of me, taking the perspective of awareness behind a hand pointing at me. I didn't have it exactly. And yet I did. And then having those clean no boundary perceptions, looking out from space to space. even now, hands extending from nothingness to the keyboard

Non dual writing - Greg Goode - localizing where "i" exist - and is that a marble shaped piece of conciousness behind my eyes Jerry? And if it is, if I am aware of it, "i" must be separate from it. Awareness 'contains' me, not the other way around. The same with everybody else. We're all this non-local awareness, peeking out through billlions of differnt bodies.

Music - emotional satori - the ability to lose myself - no time, just pure creative spirit thorugh the voice and fingers and word and music and harmony

All of these strands, braided together and burned in the fire of One Taste to become a single thread of awareness which itself, too, is just a manifestation of that which was never born.

I am.

Thanks John, Greg, Paramahansa Yoganada, Swami Sri Yuktewar, Lahiri Mahaysa, Babaji, Neem Karoli Baba, Ram Dass, Buddha, Jesus Christ, Douglas Harding, Ken Wilber.

Thanks, Love

Namaste

went for 3 laps around Como Lake with two tweens. They're half my age, and twice my speed.

Good luck tomorrow Brent!

14 . 20 . 44 . 40

Have done 2 x 20 kms, 2 * 30 kms, lots of little runs, shiteload of intervals. Two weeks taper, then showtime.

validated the fix we put in brought the system back from the dead, did an 8 km run on the Seawall, am now basking in general awesomeness.

The Bloom Between

The Bloom Between

Three quarters done, thoughts drifting from the weather up there to the weather in here (tapping the gut). The good doctor and a lot of bright people claim it all starts here, the little brain, the serotonin producer, and I wonder, day 2 into a cleansing regime how much the cleanse will help and hinder my quest at marathon number (counting) Seattle, Vancouver, Vancouver, Victoria, Denver, # 6.

Everything below the waist is fine - dead ass heavy and tight, but ok. And the weight and tightness is not unexpected, given that Saturday was a 32 km run, followed by one day off and 7km, then the next day (today) a 7 km.

So much for outside exteriors and interior-exteriors. What about the interior of the interior? THAT, kids, was focused on feeling a bit beat up and week, ruminating about body functions that might or might not have to be taken care of on the run, and some mantra work. As always, good for so long, but it's time to slip into the IPOD now and

sweet Jesus musical anesthetic. It's hard to feel down or heavy or steeped in self-ruminating obsession with the run when Let There Be Rock Comes on. Or a ballad that reaches up through the troublesome gut and tendrils out through the emotion centers. This...

THIS

is what it is so easy to forget about the long runs. Like pain - so real then ephemeral in the time it takes to change breaths - emotion can hit like a ghost. This, friends, is the deepest of deep tissue work. Alexander? Bowen? Hah! I give you the long distance runner

Into hour 2 or 2 and a half, the first level mind tricks are gone, the easy points of motivation used up, the clock is floating in front of you like a demon 40 days in. The clock is the worst, it is the most pain at the most naked. How in fucks name am I supposed to keep running when the legs are tired and the gut is not happy and there's still 2 hours to go and I look at the watch again and

good mother of god, it's only been two minutes

and so on.

It's the gentillion candle power of will that keeps it going at this point - and maybe through the whole thing. And it's 2 hours and a half in and the salt is drying white streaks on my face and the clock is bitch slapping me and then

then

Thunder Road comes on, sung this time by Melissa and Bruce.

Deep red rose blooming in my heart center and thorning up in terrible beauty, spearing the emotional centers and hidden chakras and brilliant, fecund energy boils down into my legs and up into my head and its all summarized by

The tears that well

THEIR genesis is that dark and secret garden below the heart center that stores the parcels, some half opened, many dark and yellowed with age and as the thorns break open they throw surprises like a noire jack in the box

And I cry

And the tears dry

And I'm amazed at the privateness and openness of the moment. Interesting too, the clock was forgotten - more like it just ceased to be in those few minutes.

Music, god's anaesthetic, powerful stuff. Took the pain away, and washed me with the blood of my own crucifixions - some imagined, some real - all real, as the imagined has its truth as well.

And I'm lost in the altar of music - the temple that I took up housing in for 15 years is such a holy place

And it's connected.

I'm most of the way through the run now, know I'm going to make it but still playing games with myself to keep the clip clop stodgy pace going and I need to take the earpiece out for a second and holy shit

Satellite by DMB is playing into my left ear, AS WELL as my right ear - which would be fine if the earplug wasn't hanging down the front of my acrid shirt.

It's the car I'm waiting for at the intersection. And it's not just playing a close approximation to where I am in the tune - it is note for note the same. The light changes before I can act on this strange synchronicity (what would I do anyways - hey buddy nice playlist I've got the same one?) but there is a moment of eye contact before the convertible drives away

And it's me looking at me.

Like that dream I had, except in that one I was rolling over a dead me, weighty, fleshy, shirt off, tattoo showing.

This time it's just a subtle-body realization that I'm looking at myself but it's crossing worlds into the gross and I don't really get it

And maybe I don't have to.

Maybe it's just god looking at me through the same eye that I look at him with

A moment of bloom between here and there, the place where all the mantras collide and settle and end (or just continue fueling the hum under the universe)

And in a moment, this too is gone

Here-ephemeral-here-gone

Time for a shower and lunch.

Chop wood, carry water.

is crunching numbers pretty well, for somebody who has the numeral literacy of a grade 3 elementary student.

Who do you call if you have Rock n' Roll pneumonia?

just ran 7 km in the sun and is now trying to eat quinoa with a fork.

I was staying at the Marriott With Jesus and John Wayne I was waiting for a chariot They were waiting for a train

is testing MS Scarepoint to a background of Amos Lee.

Several years ago, I gave two prize winning blisters from the start of my barefoot running days names: "Morning Glory" and "The Problem"

Not-Choosing Predeterministic Runs

A little more leveled than some runs, but there were still enough ups and downs to give one emotionally sore ankles.

The first 13 kilometers were a mottle of beauty and challenge. Towering trees on both sides; sidewalks that should be having identity crises - yes they were utilitarian, but they were also an artist's conception of what a sidewalk COULD BE, spiraling around that tree and this, over the little Grimms' brook then back out roadside.

The challenges seemed to be four fold. Breath, muscle, stomach, feet. All wrapped, held, and dictated by mind.

Easy to deal with when there was just one. Out of breath - you slow down, concentrate on that problem statement, bring the pulse down and the breath follows. Legs burning from the hill but breath ok? Slow down, delve into the bag of tricks, zigzag up, or laterally run up. Stomach - not enough sugar - have some gel. Need a bathroom break - take it. Stomach upset - try and use the mind tricks to get around it. And feet. On the sidewalk, too pebbly - hit the road. Traffic comes, hit the sidewalk.

The problem is when you have more than one problem set to deal with -breath and muscle; foot and stomach. Puts you into a mind space of can't be done, hopelessness, can't meet the goal - ness. Then when you recover, back into ones problem at a time, you're a little weaker for it.

That would be the second most difficult part of the run. More than one problem PLUS - then recovered back into a non-whole, fragmented space.

The MOST difficult would not be to do with pain or the above. It would be the malaise, the can't do it it feeling - some of Dragonsloth's seed in there - but it's an undercurrent, a constant companion on the run, and sometimes even trying to radically accept it / surrender to it just makes it worse Which could indicated that I'm NOT actually accepting it.

It's the feeling of 'can't'. And the main thing, seemingly the only thing that gets me through it is to try and put the feeling into the side view mirror, not directly look at it, and just rely on dumb, strong willpower.

It's the feeling after the first 8 mins when the muscles are burning to warm up. Can't do 3 hours.

It's the feeling up the first hill - burn - can't do a long run.

Those are the short lived spikes, the longer ones are more like subtle body iron maidens, stretching me out and refusing to be resolved with a quick one-off anecdote.

That's when I'm into km 21, finding a pace, looking at the GPS and trudging on. Anesthetized by the Ipod, feeling I'm tired but over the latest hump and then BANG

I'm walking.

Check out David Darling's reference of the researcher that finds that a good deal of our 'conscious' actions seem to be put into play quite a few milliseconds before we are actually aware of 'consciously' deciding to act on them.

Like a predetermined run.

This is what I need to address in the next runs.

Run it slow, but keep running. Through the pain and the grit, and out of the self imposed predeterministic sheath.

Run Ferris run.

19 . 19 . 37 . 14

ran 32 kms, and was weeping like a baby at km 24 when Melissa and Bruce sang Thunder Road. Running is strong therapy.

Jerry discusses Simon Cowell's emotional incontinence through animated dialogue.

http://ping.fm/JNaJN

is boundary testing Costco's return policies.

22 . 19 . 02 . 48

is stuck in Aritzia~hell. May god deliver me from this o'er~branded hellhole

webkinz running~hat mall giftcard foodcourt home

is going to start using the pretend word gentillion in business meetings and see if anybody calls me on it.

Jerry explains how to stop car murder through flatulence and the power of ideas.

http://ping.fm/kyOYA

computer -> fear-be-gone->Otis -> barefoot 02 saturation -> Otis -> computer

24 . 20 . 34 . 09. Think I've decided, like Denver, to start from the back of the back of the pack. I'll be the guy with naked feet.

figured it was all relative, until he looked at some of his relatives.

is thanking Anmore for fixing up 2 km of potholes with a rich black topping of sun-warmed asphalt. Nice surprise on the toes on today's 7km.

is shadow boxing with imagined foes who are spewing more epithets than a Fox TV news anchor.

4 million calories of fish and chips plus Rocky Point equals happiness.

my daughter's group came first in the seven to nine!

my daughter rocked. Glad she has the rhythmn I missed out on

is at MJFox theatre with 1012 other parents. Waiting to see my 7 year compete in hip hop.

is arabica, commute, communion

is arabica, commute, communion

is arabica, commute, communion

finished his 30 km in 3 hrs 27 min

is trying for 30 kms starting...now

is enjoying Calvin's explanation of the link between bad TV commercials and predetermination. http://ping.fm/SmlYv

is a Dodge Colt to Vin Diesel's whatever-the-hell he's driving, but I get better emotional mileage and my soundtrack is better.

Jerry gets schooled in fashion. Naked Socratic Dialogue part 1. http://ping.fm/5kUX7

explores fashion and (almost) naked Socratic dialogue. http://ping.fm/u1J72

is looking for an angel investor for his newest startup: the Fully Accredited International School of Chafing (FAISC).

Dragonsloth

Dragonsloth

It's easier from their perspective, and trying to take their perspective doesn't really get me anywhere, so I decided to try it on for myself.

"They" were the climbers and the seers, a roguish crew I had fallen in love with over the years. For the most part their genuality was aligned with the motors of the universe, and the ones that weren't - or that lost there way, or simply needed a good bitch-slap from the Kosmos so they could shake it off and join the climb in progress with a little more humility and humanity - seemed to fall away or fall in place. Context, brother.

"It" was a blue shawl that Diamond Lou Eddie had brought back from the bowels of a book store in London. He never explained what a shawl was doing in a bookstore, how he discovered it, or why he was so willing to lend it around, but that was Diamond Lou. And that,too, was the crowd. They had born-agained and est-ed and TM'd and chanted and dervished and ranted and painted and primaled and rebirthed and -ed to death; and on the other side of that death was this - a pool of wisdom they would soak or splash or all out nekkid body surf in. The point was that they were realizing the source that couldn't be split, the place before words and symbols, the place of essence - and in there, sharing was not even a concept. It was just something that was.

So I talked with the crowd through note and letter, waited for the psychic torque to kick in, and dropped in unannounced to DLE's place. He was chain smoking, and fidgeting with a project, but most of all, he was happy. The shawl was mine, no price extracted, no payment due. I caught him looking down from the apt window as i walked down the street - looked like he was laughing.

I stopped at the park bench with a book. Was fine for the first few minutes, clear, feet in the pool, aware and simultaneously a part of and apart from the book. Witness.

Then, the Dragonsloth.

Lots of different adventures in the blue shawl, so I had been told - full of thunderbolt satoris and kundalini explosions ripping the crown center apart in a kaleidoscope of blood and fuscia and lilac terrible beauty. That was theirs, this was mine. And mine was Dragonsloth.

I could never tell how quick or slow DS was capable of moving, because by the time I realized he was around, he was already IN me, pulling the lids down, sucking the vitality out through the pineal, constricting and conflating the pupils, generally slow-fucking my autonomic nervous system.

This time, however, I had the Blue Shawl of Power. The temptation was there, of course, to simply lie back in the dappled oak sunshine on the bench, pull the shawl over my face and have a nap - the only foe DS could not deal with - but I tried to act preconsciously BLINK-like, and threw it over my shoulders and THEN!

Immanent interior illumination.

Dragonsloth didn't go away. The ground of being under him lit up in a soft purple light, bathed him in it, and allowed me to see have some witness of him. Then, camera cut in from above, I swooped, sword outright, ready to possess DS through dispossessing him of his existence, but found my sword peeled back like lotus leaves; there, in the nexus, just up from the hilt, threads from the blue shawl, which grew into fingers into strands into a web that linked AND built and fed in a subtle body photosynthesis from the purple light and enclosed us both in it's embrace and now

NOW

Dragonsloth and I saw eye-to-eye. Or maybe from the same eyes.

And while I was right that taking their perspective didn't get me anywhere, it's because their and my perspective were part of the whole, and there wasn't anywhere to go in the first place.

is flinging ad hominem attacks in this debate with Calvin. http://ping.fm/lHs1y