Saturday, December 31, 2011
Friday, December 30, 2011
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Monday, December 26, 2011
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Saturday, December 24, 2011
Friday, December 23, 2011
Jerry: Great, succint article: Who's to blame for Washington gridlock? - CNN.com http://ping.fm/4o61P
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Jerry's prediction 2011: Obama's playing the long game and will be a two term president. No question. http://ping.fm/RYcDn
Injo (Aum Sante Maria)
Wine spills from your chalice
Blood red stain upon your robe
The sacraments give comfort
But oh God you're feeling old
Your masters pass the flaming stole
Before their eyes go long
You fade back inside yourself
And listen for the song
(Chorus)
Aum Sante Maria Hallelujah El Shaddai
Broken open koans "I am That" and "I am I"
You start to pace the hallway
Wearing only your remorse
Fully clothed for battle
If they'd only bring your horse
Time and legalese and King James English
Fill your head
The only place your shouting gels
Is lying in your bed
(Chorus)
Grabe the scythe or cling to life
Based on the neurons flare
Regardless of your choice the song you heard
Is always there
(Chorus)
Blood red stain upon your robe
The sacraments give comfort
But oh God you're feeling old
Your masters pass the flaming stole
Before their eyes go long
You fade back inside yourself
And listen for the song
(Chorus)
Aum Sante Maria Hallelujah El Shaddai
Broken open koans "I am That" and "I am I"
You start to pace the hallway
Wearing only your remorse
Fully clothed for battle
If they'd only bring your horse
Time and legalese and King James English
Fill your head
The only place your shouting gels
Is lying in your bed
(Chorus)
Grabe the scythe or cling to life
Based on the neurons flare
Regardless of your choice the song you heard
Is always there
(Chorus)
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Sunday, December 18, 2011
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Article: 24 hours in pictures
24 hours in pictures
http://www.guardian.co.uk/news/gallery/2011/dec/17/24-hours-in-pictures
(Sent from Flipboard)
Friday, December 16, 2011
Article: Christopher Hitchens on life, death and lobster
Christopher Hitchens on life, death and lobster
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-16214466#TWEET46061
(Sent from Flipboard)
Occam's Gestalt
I am living proof that Occam's Razor makes a lot of sense. But it doesn't mean that there is not a place - and a joy - in complexity as well.
Complication is my modus operandi - and also a signal to noise ratio for how my particular pathologies are raging within the machine on a given day.
Still, on the relative plane, complication is also a gift.
Complication is embedded in patterns - or maybe the other way around - but without question there is a relationship between Gestalt and Complication.
Complication - at times I have to watch myself:
1000 words instead of 100 to explain something at an emotional or professional level. Drives others crazy; eyes roll back in their heads or simply gray out to those fuzzy screens you'd use to get on antenna-ed TV's.
Trying to get ideas across. Often good ideas - but by the time they spider off in lexicological decision trees about how to proceed, the listener is left with a spaghetti-ed mess of rhetoric that must be abandoned or simply not engaged with from the outset.
Gestalt: at other times, I just watch 'my' Self:
Spiritually, patterns within the complicated explanation light up; figure 8's on the spaghetti plate glowing neon bright or muted pastels circling this way and back and eating their own tailes.*(tales|tails)
Complexity and Gestalt were birthed from a corn husk last nite. It flowered and opened like a womb, and I was ushered into a darkly dimpled Nebraska evening.
Below: the earth; verdant, rich and wet
Above: somebody stringing Christmas lights in figure 8's *exactly* 17 feet above the tallest corn stalk. On the lights, a race of sort - imps and devas and faeries or god-knows-whats chasing each other towards infinity, and me, suddenly on the bench, begging to join the race.
Be careful what you ask for.
The want, borne from the need, was fulfilled. I was in the race, baton in hand, and the other racers dissolved into me. ONE, racing till my heart synced with the light's on-and-offs and the speed dissolved into no-speed and the distance dissolved into no-distance, and I raced, one foot *just dragging* in the relative, with the rest of me forcing myself into
Infinity:
Which planted itself into new stalks, causal wires criss-crossing into impossible patterns below ground:
Complexity:
Which I was left on waking with trying to decipher, or simply live.
Namaste.
Complication is my modus operandi - and also a signal to noise ratio for how my particular pathologies are raging within the machine on a given day.
Still, on the relative plane, complication is also a gift.
Complication is embedded in patterns - or maybe the other way around - but without question there is a relationship between Gestalt and Complication.
Complication - at times I have to watch myself:
1000 words instead of 100 to explain something at an emotional or professional level. Drives others crazy; eyes roll back in their heads or simply gray out to those fuzzy screens you'd use to get on antenna-ed TV's.
Trying to get ideas across. Often good ideas - but by the time they spider off in lexicological decision trees about how to proceed, the listener is left with a spaghetti-ed mess of rhetoric that must be abandoned or simply not engaged with from the outset.
Gestalt: at other times, I just watch 'my' Self:
Spiritually, patterns within the complicated explanation light up; figure 8's on the spaghetti plate glowing neon bright or muted pastels circling this way and back and eating their own tailes.*(tales|tails)
Complexity and Gestalt were birthed from a corn husk last nite. It flowered and opened like a womb, and I was ushered into a darkly dimpled Nebraska evening.
Below: the earth; verdant, rich and wet
Above: somebody stringing Christmas lights in figure 8's *exactly* 17 feet above the tallest corn stalk. On the lights, a race of sort - imps and devas and faeries or god-knows-whats chasing each other towards infinity, and me, suddenly on the bench, begging to join the race.
Be careful what you ask for.
The want, borne from the need, was fulfilled. I was in the race, baton in hand, and the other racers dissolved into me. ONE, racing till my heart synced with the light's on-and-offs and the speed dissolved into no-speed and the distance dissolved into no-distance, and I raced, one foot *just dragging* in the relative, with the rest of me forcing myself into
Infinity:
Which planted itself into new stalks, causal wires criss-crossing into impossible patterns below ground:
Complexity:
Which I was left on waking with trying to decipher, or simply live.
Namaste.
Article: Postscript: Christopher Hitchens, 1949-2011
Postscript: Christopher Hitchens, 1949-2011
http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/newsdesk/2011/12/postscript-christopher-hitchens.html
(Sent from Flipboard)
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Email Study Suggests You Should Spend the Most Time on Emails You Respond to Within 11 Hours http://ping.fm/8vIGy
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Article: FBI using Carrier IQ info for "law enforcement purposes," refuses to release records
FBI using Carrier IQ info for "law enforcement purposes," refuses to release records
http://arstechnica.com/tech-policy/news/2011/12/fbi-using-carrier-iq-info-for-law-enforcement-purposes-refuses-to-release-records.ars
(Sent from Flipboard)
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Saturday, December 10, 2011
Friday, December 9, 2011
Even in the post-post modern, Perry's regressive worldviews have a spot. They might be shallow and underdeveloped...oh don't get me started. http://ping.fm/9X83u
Fresh from the really, really irrelvant news-cylce trashbin:TRENDING: Trump ‘very disappointed’ in Bachmann http://ping.fm/sB4jl
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Monday, December 5, 2011
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Man up, Mr. Long, on many, many levels: Televangelist Long to take time off after divorce filing - CNN.com http://ping.fm/jnkQG
Saturday, December 3, 2011
"It was a simple and crazy idea: to celebrate her 28th birthday by renting a hotel room, cover it in paper and spend a week drawing on the paper - 'Week in Hell' http://ping.fm/gR9pT
Friday, December 2, 2011
Unpersuasive, childish PR-huckster tactic # 17b: Herman Cain Launches ‘Women For Cain’ With Brutal Attacks On ‘Husbandless’ Accusers | TPM2012 http://ping.fm/jvekn
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Prayers go out to Kim and Chris. Time heals all wounds. God bless and watch over these tender souls. http://ping.fm/25x8P
Wake up and smell the post-post-modern: Small Ky. church bans interracial couples - CBS News http://ping.fm/gsXUt
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
If you didn't need a reason to dump Perry, you're welcome: Sheriff Joe Arpaio backs Perry http://ping.fm/mMAly
Fall of Rome averted: NBA teams to open facilities to players Thursday - CNN.com http://ping.fm/Lffnk
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Monday, November 28, 2011
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Saturday, November 26, 2011
At some points in the the great dance, stories matter: Man Uses His Schizophrenia to Gather Clues for Daily Living - NYTimes.com http://ping.fm/v3oxm
Oh thank God. Now I can hit the sack: Tentative NBA deal reached; season expected to start on Christmas - CNN.com http://ping.fm/725gU
Friday, November 25, 2011
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Hanging monitor windows error. Irresistable urge to kill process. Jump shot? Magic wifi app?
Monday, November 21, 2011
I work on the 24th floor. This sign,without explanation, has been on the window for 3 years.
Sunday, November 20, 2011
The Key to Graduation is, Apparently, Giving Up
Growing up, I was internal
Hoping, dreaming for the day that others would see me as special
Pain constricted the exterior
But strengthened the interior
The Muse introduced herself early
I wrote and sung and played and imagined
And hoped
And imagined hope
Reaching for The One who would
Accept the exterior
But See the interior
Believe the interior
Share lives in the interior
This many years on
Pattern recognition has improved
I'm still There
Reaching with imagined hope towards
Blinking lights
Which sate and bate in figure eights
I have the toughest teacher in the world
Giving me daily lesson plans
The challenge - can I live from Here without going There.
I'll keep trying
Or simply give up trying
And probably, if the intention in surrender is pure
Be graced by release
And Graduate.
Hoping, dreaming for the day that others would see me as special
Pain constricted the exterior
But strengthened the interior
The Muse introduced herself early
I wrote and sung and played and imagined
And hoped
And imagined hope
Reaching for The One who would
Accept the exterior
But See the interior
Believe the interior
Share lives in the interior
This many years on
Pattern recognition has improved
I'm still There
Reaching with imagined hope towards
Blinking lights
Which sate and bate in figure eights
I have the toughest teacher in the world
Giving me daily lesson plans
The challenge - can I live from Here without going There.
I'll keep trying
Or simply give up trying
And probably, if the intention in surrender is pure
Be graced by release
And Graduate.
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Friday, November 18, 2011
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Alphabet Soup
Upward drizzle from the train to the platform to the escalator to the causeway.
The Muse or one of her cellmates has obviously set up shop here: a causal bunker, well protected. She's torching passer-bys with creative fire.
Most of the commuters' suits are unreasonably fire-proof, but not mine. I'm burned to ashes and am rising again before I even know what's hit me. Under my left arm, The Book. In my right hand, a set of golden tongs. Over my eyes: nothing. Everything is shining and new and waiting to be discovered. Undulating fields of love as I see what everybody else has become, and what I can do about it.
They're all letters:
Commuters come personalities come images come words come letters.
There's a pattern here, but it's in the fact that there IS no pattern
The lawyers, accountants, programmers, construction workers, Baristas, hangers-on, applicants, daycare drop-outs, businesswomen, bankers, analysts and traders...
...all reduced to a single letter each. Nothing to do with their profession; many aren't even english: Hebrew, Sanskrit, Greek, Aramaic, French, Spanish, Slang, Graffiti...
my personal Tower of Babel Buffet.
There are no seconds here, however - all firsts; even the same letters shine differently as I pluck them with my trusted tongs and put them into the book.
It's mechanical at first, I pick and choose who should go in, then relax into an almost random sweep, then a fully fluid pick and grab.
The book flips pages as it fills, and even seems to be indexing itself.
The Muse is waiting at the exit, cigarette in hand and absurd pocket watch dangling from her waist jacket pocket.
"You like?" she seems to ask as she takes the book opens it *exactly* in the middle, and watches as a visual cacophony unfolds itself - up into thunderheads, then splitting and folding and splitting and folding in on itself, then spraying everyone in sight with chains of God, anchored in the The Book.
With that, she says a word, the crowd moves as one, and she skis through the lobby, out the door, and through the downtown streets:
Creativity, pulled by God, through the noosphere and further.
God bless the Muse, and her Alphabet Soup.
Namaste.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
How to Build a Computer Model of God | Bootstrapping Independence
Yes, there's a lot more to be said, but he does tackle at least one ontological issue nicely.
From: http://ping.fm/aED8B
From: http://ping.fm/aED8B
Monday, November 14, 2011
Terrible Beauty and Meat Paper Chains
If you were able to step down the crumbling steps
You would see the field
MY field
Tilled
Not a healing, regenerative process
But the attempt to integrate:
the countless shredded hearts
that follow me day after day like a meat paper chain
:into ME
As always, the question in the metaphors
Hold the answer
There IS no ME or MY
Just This, in all its terrible beauty.
Still, understanding does not mean
Blind capitulation to the hurt.
It means accepting your words that I should be more of an asshole
Without becoming one.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Saturday, November 12, 2011
Friday, November 11, 2011
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Monday, November 7, 2011
Saturday, November 5, 2011
Metta meta Metta
Metta meta Metta.
I stopped at my Muse's tree yesterday, and spent a considerable amount of time walking in and around the root system. I'm quite certain it was never intended to be used as a labyrinth, or even labelled Her tree - but the nexus of realities I've been threading myself through have their own set of rules, and top of list is that they don't give a tinker's damn about how thing's should be.
If they did, would there be shining galaxies waiting to be plucked as ripe fruit from the branches? Or light shining from the soil? Or a candied wind that wraps itself around me like a shawl and dances me to new absurdities I missed the first time round?
The last find, as always, was the Most interesting: A living parchment between the second and third branches; aspen papyrus with three words: Metta meta Metta.
It was invasive to peel the parchment from the tree, and somehow, it was redundant to take it anyways.
Sometimes the Muse's embrace is full and sensual; sometimes a gift basket dropped off in a somnolescent moment during a commute home. And then other times like today, it's simply a pointer to something that's already been branded in my heart or mind, needing some attention.
Such was this, a reminder of my narrative, for today anyways: Metta meta Metta.
In spite of my brokenness and rusted parts -memory of a goldfish, self confidence up and down like a toilet seat - purpose continually re-imagined, scrubbed, re-imagined again - maybe because of them - I am compelled to glory in the grand design, the One-in-All, the Theory of Everything. And today that is summed up in those three words.
Metta - loving kindness; compassion, the sire of grace and intenion:
sandwhiching:
Meta - the story of stories, the Platonic forms felt if not understood - the arch that connects it all.
The place where details are abstracted to a place where memory is not a problem - they *are* the very nature of remembering.
sandwhiched by
Metta - loving kindness; compassion, the sire of grace and intention
When my endless curiosity is lit up by Knowledge then dulled by my limitations, it's important to know what it is to Know:
And for me, tonite anyways, it's Metta meta Metta.
Friday, November 4, 2011
Bach is easy. If she brings him up, you just smile and you say: “Ahh, Bach.” | MetaFilter http://ping.fm/QgmWz
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Saturday, October 29, 2011
Friday, October 28, 2011
The Muse is Dead, Long Live the Muse
Sunlight - the color of birdsong; touch - the feel of umami.
This synaesthetic puzzle was all that was provided and yet I found you, Lady, high up in the barren tree, looking to the horizon, apparently waiting for my return.
Yet I'm not sure what you want.
Coaxing has never worked - the only times it came close I was left with stillborn ideas, shivering in evanescent light.
Innocent lookarounds through your houses? Two of them have disappeared completely off the map - god help them - and the third was locked tight, although I knew you were in there. (I could hear footsteps from the piano to the kettle, your tells are not as airtight as they once were).
So, here we are, needing a Vince Ready - or the idea of the idea of a Vince Ready, able to at least ladder me up to eye level so we could talk.
Instead, I open my mind to you:
Green, undulating hills; ladders everywhere, dancing under the criss-cross-criss-cross of high wires over head. Connections made, sparks flying and hitting the ground. More often than not they sizzle out with the sound of sad confusion, but other times, a new ladder, a new connection.
Moons launching from the closest valley; or sound and vibration; or a crack where I can see the universe spinning wildly out (in) control.
A spark of interest there - you've let your hair down, but you're still way out of reach.
I knew it would come to this, but you of all people have to know the heart is sacred space, and I have as much chance of opening it as you would of releasing night-terrors in a kindergarten.
You're not buying it.
And as hard as it is to say, I'm ok with that. I'm tired of hiding behind the metaphors and layered images and text-trickery. I just want to weep.
For misunderstandings, lack of connection, fear, doubt, hurt, anger, neuroses, barren lovelessness and demons born of synaptic pathology - all the illusions that spawn from the apparent-ness of other-ness.
The trick here is - like breath - you straddle the I Am and I Am That. The causal and the manifest.
That, plus the honest tears, seem to have done it. Thanks for coming down.
I'll follow your lead for a while.
Namaste.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
#winning Michele Bachmann Team Hits Back At Press Release Detailing 2012 Campaign Dysfunction http://ping.fm/yEzR2
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Friday, October 21, 2011
Gods ATM
I trusted you, always have at the root level, but some part of me couldn't help go looking for it anyways. At first I thought it was God, then the lack of God, then the lack of the lack of God I was looking for. Years in the making, and only describable by double-double negatives, metaphors, and things that take you to the edge of the infinite diving board and make you cannonball in.
Then, the dark nite of the soul, surrender, and a dog paddle through the absolute. I had my hit, and starting jonesing for more. Seeking and Finding and Finding the Seeker 101.
The peaks and values of the relabsolutive continued to get closer together, and on one starry nite, I spotted something on the next mountain over. I decided to jump and there - dusty but ready for business - Gods ATM.
There's no point in dishonesty, it was spiritual mainlining. No card needed, just a touch screen display to dispense any God I wanted. And I wanted them all. Great Monotheistic Pillars, Pantheistic Gardens populated with Fairies and Bearded Beaded Bodhisattvas, even an Arena I could put them all in and let them do battle.
What I didn't notice of course, was that there was a payment system involved here; for every path explored, every guru pedestal-ed, every I-centered prayer offered to the God du-jour, there was a lessening of me. The ultimate debit and credit system.
Ever the addict, I played to my last id-bit, put that in, fell back and watched the watcher take it all in:
Tradition and culture and systems and love and compassion and mantras and devotionals and intellect all dissolved back into the ATM, which tumbled down the mountain into that from which it - and everything else - had come from. Lot of other swimmers there tonite - some holding their breath, some diving deep, some half in and half out, and some just...being.
So thanks for your words, they were part of the impetus that helped me discover that no amount of trying could ever get me here, but that I would never get here without trying.
And since I AM here now, I think I'll go for dip.
Namaste.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Life is Mandatory
"Life is Mandatory"
Words embed themselves in me; often they will be forgotten and reappear months later, unbidden but in context. These words though, didn’t embed; they manacled themselves around my neck like a slave yoke, and refused the quiet subconscious intake. These words came with baggage, and it was clear the only way to lighten my load was to porter the bags where they belonged.
I spent days in the chair by the window manacled up; on this side of the melted sandsheet Time put its feet up in front of the fire, lit a pipe, and played solitaire whilst I busied and bruised myself with the invention of That Which Would Remove the Yoke and deliver the baggage: The Great Post Modern Deconstruction Machine. © On that side of the melted sandsheet, weather systems and daylight and stars and moons and suns circled and hummed continuously.
Hunger went on strike.
The machine I invented stretched from my third eye across the Canadian Shield, dissolving up and back, up and back into the Northern Lights. From its brass base, crystal word-spires numbering *exactly* one less than infinity held court, and a huge hydraulic arm endlessly lifted, shuffled, pushed and fitted the landscape into caricatures of itself.
The idea was that once constructed, I would simply let 'Life is Mandatory' thought marbles roll down from my third eye and shatter any spires that found themselves in the path. Then a simple reading of the deconstructed would give me the insight I needed for freedom.
I ended up shredding my hands on the shards.
Crimson rain from my fingertips turned to crimson rivers, filled the canyons and spaces of the Machine, and I surfed till I was I either dead or exhausted.
All was dark, and silent. You know: the light before the light, the sound before the sound:
Peace.
The understanding was borne beyond the gross, the subtle, and the causal:
Life truly *was* mandatory. Trying *not* to be was like trying to sit and stand at the same time and railing against the impossibility by trying even harder.
With that, the machine folded back neatly into my third eye, and I pondered the strange emancipation proclamation that - however briefly - set me free.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Run Sami Run! Blind Lexington athlete making history with dog | Mansfield News Journal | mansfieldnewsjournal.com http://ping.fm/jpHds
Monday, October 17, 2011
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Douggs and his friends BASE jumping from the elevator of Hotel Bali from Benidorm in Spain - YouTube http://ping.fm/oCWya
Saturday, October 15, 2011
Friday, October 14, 2011
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Wow: The Marathon Man: 365 Marathons in 365 Days For Asthma Sufferer - TIME NewsFeed http://ping.fm/6C4LH
Fail: Marathon Runner Admits to Taking a Bus to the Finish Line - TIME NewsFeed http://ping.fm/xDQqO
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
The Forgotten Places
And here
The forgotten places
Have been carefully gathered and curated
behind the velvet rope
words, rooms, visions and books
people, places things
20 questions with no answer
Your curiosity excites them
the rope drops
and a dusty English Garden forms for your review
Organic monstrosities for the most part
but at their feet
pointers to desires so strong
they make your body ache
leave the rope down when you leave
there's a line waiting to get in
it seems it only takes one to cascade
the forgotten into memories
the memories into thoughts
and thoughts into action
Remember.
Apart from compassion
all will be relegated to this place
in the end.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Next
There's this kid that hung out on a corner that I had to pass by several times a week, and it's clear he was either a sorcerer of the highest order or a brat.
Striped shirt, a little pudgy, and Di Caprio eyes - set back, sharp, radiating intelligence.
The first time I saw him, he was donning a sandwich board, advertising a 2-for-1 pizza deal. Rocking it with headphones on, dancing back and forth on the sidewalk, waving people in and trying to pipe up his commission with as many new arrivals as he could sally forth.
The second time I saw him; no sandwhich board - just a handheld sign and the headphones. Different business; didn't catch the name but I did catch his eyes as he rocked out again.
The third time there was just the kid, standing there; no headphones on, and apparently waiting for me. On the sign, one word: Next, with an arrow pointing to a tethered balloon just down the street from me.
Each time I saw him it was impossible to stop. While my actions were reasonable - I was delivering 10 year old dance students to or from their classes - he was clearly chagrined and decided to step it up a notch, and started painting the night visits.
Enter the dreams: always the same:
A field of metaphors; towering monoliths and quivering, febrile Polaroids
Shimmering or shivering from the heat of the ground
Translucent blue glass concaving over the surface
of the sun.
At the end of the path, the balloon
And my Id-bits, filthy little beggars
Seven holding the tethering cord;
Three scrambling up it
and ten dancing on it in a windless vibration that permeated the All.
This, of course, was The Metaphor. His. He sat in a New England deck chair, looking up from his script now and again as I got closer. Then, as I shuffled the id-bits away from the cord and grasped it, he stood up; threw off his beret and stood arms akimbo. On his shirt, the single word: Next.
The dreams continued night after night, until I got it: the longer I held onto what I was after, the more directions he would shout to the id-bits: stage left! stage right! Mind the fourth wall! Project!
Maybe two dreams after getting it - that that which pushed me towards my wants was exactly that which would prevent me from ever getting them - the dreams stopped.
He's gone now, of course; lesson learned, turn the page.
I still wonder if he was a sorcerer or a brat.
Next.
Monday, October 10, 2011
Sunday, October 9, 2011
Elizabeth Eckford and Hazel Bryan: the story behind the photograph that shamed America - Telegraph http://ping.fm/qROIi
Twitter Analysis: Massive Global Mourning for Steve Jobs (Infographic) | Epicenter | Wired.com http://ping.fm/UzqS7
Saturday, October 8, 2011
Friday, October 7, 2011
Photo Gallery: Occupy Wall Street Ignites Political Hackathon | Raw File | Wired.com http://ping.fm/2fKIn
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Pixie
||: In a fit I stared at you
My moons to your stars
No negative space
us
between
Because the negative cannot define
Rather a tangerine and lilac nest
Where we rested
eye-to-I
Breath within breath
Immanence and transcendence
Spiraling up and out into
Indra's net
I harvested the jewels
halfway to infinity stopping
to see that each was replaced
by your tears
And within your tears
mirrors within mirrors
a lilac nest
and your moons
to my stars :||
My moons to your stars
No negative space
us
between
Because the negative cannot define
Rather a tangerine and lilac nest
Where we rested
eye-to-I
Breath within breath
Immanence and transcendence
Spiraling up and out into
Indra's net
I harvested the jewels
halfway to infinity stopping
to see that each was replaced
by your tears
And within your tears
mirrors within mirrors
a lilac nest
and your moons
to my stars :||
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Monday, October 3, 2011
Sunday, October 2, 2011
Friday, September 30, 2011
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Time and Distance in Relationships
What is looking out of these eyes does not feel old; it feels as if it's getting younger, although in reality it's never changing.
It's what is looking at the body as the wrinkles appear and the belly-over-belt gets larger and the aches and pains of middle-age creep up.
It's what sees the world without contraction, because it is the world.
It's what notices the contractions as they appear:
As I pull back from intimacy
how could I? this would suggest two, and it is all not-two
As intimacy pulls back from me
there is no me. How can something pull back from what does not exist?
Still, let's assume that the contraction exists, that the relative playground is real, the place I have to live and work and connect and ...
As I contract into the relative world, I become identified with the
thoughts
feelings
But this identification with is a mistaken perception. For in the amnesia of contraction I forget that I am *not* the thoughts and the feelings but that which is aware of them.
I feel like I am the flurry of electricity under the sternum. From clear seeing, this is true. I am that which is aware of the flurry; there is no separation between the flurry and that which is aware of it. But from contraction's myopia, I simply am the flurry, a contained, separate, freefloating existentialist nightmare. A ball in the universe, forever frozen and alienated from everything around me.
When I'm there, the connection with friends is tight and regimented. I feel the pain of separation and want to salve it, which leads me to what I *could* do outside of the now. This makes the separation more pronounced, eye contact stutters, and I contract more.
I tangle in on the lines coming from the heart; confused, manic, trying to connect to the friend, to the other.
And with each meeting of each friend the problem compounds and the separation is more intense.
What then, of the option?
Soak in the uncertainty and purity of living, timeless awareness.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Monday, September 26, 2011
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Like: With 'Timeline' feature, Facebook goes eternal (or at least tries to) - CNN.com http://ping.fm/dhpSO
Courage: Diana Nyad may still qualify for record books in her Cuba to Florida swim - CNN.com http://ping.fm/FA3Pi
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Friday, September 23, 2011
Paradox's Progeny
Paradox is a wonderful traveling companion, if you don't let her get too surly and dogmatic. Careful hands and open heart are needed to unravel her gifts skillfully.
It used to be the her decadent children that would tantalize me: free will versus determination; Schrodinger's cat; how a man could be 100% man and 100% divine, and so on. They would start at my feet in front of the fire and and climb onto my lap; then find a comfortable place behind the frontal lobes where they could play hide and seek with my intellect as they pleased.
When the mind took care of the mind (another paradox) and the children would settle down into the heart then simply dissolve so there was no distance between us, it was finished. Like my own private koan study.
"Answers" to paradoxes are like asking how long it will take my ice cream cone to learn to play the piano. Not just absurd; meaningless. This does not mean they do not teach; the lesson is just far more subtle than truth propositions imparted by syllogisms or other epistemological models.
So it was two days ago; a stranger madly dashing the wrong way up the escalator, muttering "I always do this". It was glorious absurdity on face value - why not just turn around? She was literally three steps from the bottom of the up escalator when she made her pronouncement. She kept going, and gifted me with an observation:
It is possible to go up and down at the same time. No need to parse it with a semantic or logical Ginsu knife set; this is about the gestalt; the place where paradox relaxes with a smoke, a drink, and a tip of the hat as you take off your shoes and let her know 'ya got it'.
I now understand, at some level, what Eckhart is talking about when he sees so many shining examples of apparent duality pointing direclty back to the Absolute.
One of them is paradox, and I am happy to have her and her kids along for the ride.
Namaste.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Monday, September 19, 2011
The Half-Full of Complete Emptiness
Sometimes the words express that which is dappling me
And sometimes I am dappled by the words
Letters sliding off of the screen; out from the radio
Or around from your voice
Slippery symbols, stretching to join hands with their lexical siblings
Gravity and gravitas both fighting for supremacy
Over the slick veneer I threw on years ago
Their is no winner, of course
Both OG's and their homies end up in the same place
An oily something
That I track around all day, mucking up other people's floors
It's when the veneer is cracked, the heart center opened
That it all breaks loose
Dark flowers and strange sunrises
Oceans reeling with You (c)
That's when the questions start
Robed in the relative, does it all level out -
Is your pain any greater than mine?
My joy any greater than yours?
Or are the half-fulls / half empties simply transparent hucksters
Almost-empties, surrounded by mostly-empties
Held by the always empty
Of the Absolute?
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Friday, September 16, 2011
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Back to the Market (moments of grace, opus 17b)
The mirror doesn't lie, but it does take certain liberties
Sometimes, there is suspicion when the shadows and angles don't align
With the interior picture
Of who I think I am
Other times, there is suspicion when the shadows and angles *do* align
With the interior picture
Of who I know I am
Today, as I approached the melted sand carefully mounted at eye level
My pupils became moons; then butterflies
This small center of the house became a centerless circle, and I watched
The butterfiles rode the incense to the ceiling, and cascaded like batik down the walls and around my feet
Up the tub and toilet and over the sink
My muse had been toying with me all day;
The joy and creativity felt like it was coming out of my pores on the way home:
I had wished for a bucket, but knew that there *was* no bucket to hold the ineffable
No writing, so it simply waited for a point of vulnerability and pounced
Painting the reality that was at no-space from that which watched the world
With equal detachment.
I wapped myself in the batik like a robe
And became 7 stars
which, when recognized from awareness
were really one
one star, which overwhelmed with the underwhelming,
drained the tub
cleaned the sink
And headed back to the market.
Sometimes, there is suspicion when the shadows and angles don't align
With the interior picture
Of who I think I am
Other times, there is suspicion when the shadows and angles *do* align
With the interior picture
Of who I know I am
Today, as I approached the melted sand carefully mounted at eye level
My pupils became moons; then butterflies
This small center of the house became a centerless circle, and I watched
The butterfiles rode the incense to the ceiling, and cascaded like batik down the walls and around my feet
Up the tub and toilet and over the sink
My muse had been toying with me all day;
The joy and creativity felt like it was coming out of my pores on the way home:
I had wished for a bucket, but knew that there *was* no bucket to hold the ineffable
No writing, so it simply waited for a point of vulnerability and pounced
Painting the reality that was at no-space from that which watched the world
With equal detachment.
I wapped myself in the batik like a robe
And became 7 stars
which, when recognized from awareness
were really one
one star, which overwhelmed with the underwhelming,
drained the tub
cleaned the sink
And headed back to the market.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Who Not to Wear
The conference room lectured me when I walked in.
"Not good enough"
"Not smart enough"
"Not well dressed enough"
I was fine with the first two; I've lived with my neuroses long enough to know that a quick 'glass of milk and cookie and off to bed with you' was enough to sate their endless need for attention. The last one though, *that* pissed me off.
Who are *they* to judge how I dress. Who am *I* to judge how I dress. And they told two friends, and they told two friends and so on, and so on.
Party time. Little, fragile, non-existent ego got on its high horse and went for a gallop. One hand stayed on the reigns, and the other draped everything in duality.
Their Versace versus my verisimilitude.
Their black and white view of reality versus my superior, color-visioned, extra-spiritual-value-added wonder perspective. (Patented)
Grace again.
The mundane took shape over the next eight hours, and wobbled around the room, occasionally poking me in the ribs for reaction, but mostly happy to let me float in and out of detachment. The last trip down the rabbit hole, like a good productive cough, produced the needed results. But it started like this:
Who Not to Wear?
Take all the roles, projections, actors, stooges, non-integrated pieces, shadow-selves, id-bits, psychological backwash - in short, everything that apparently made 'me' me, and put them back on the rack. (This was clearly *off* the rack stuff).
FatherPoetMysticMusicianRunnerProjectManagerHusbandFriendLoverRegrettorBrotherSonEmbarrasment
GloriousLightSoporificoBlissJealousSlackAssCulturalCreative
NobodySomebodyBothSomebodyandNobody
And the carpet lit up like a giant Tibetan Mandela;
Altar at the far end - see?
And I stood looking at the rack, flipping through the 'choices', and realized that there were some additions: all the roles I was putting on the others in the room.
And it was clear: there was no separation on the rack; the ego's masquerade ball was all clothed with this off-the-rack-shit. 'Their roles', 'my' roles, all melded into one big curtain...
And I, the wizard, stood on this side of it, waiting for it to be pulled back so the room could see me in all my glory.
So:
Queue music, pull the curtain back, and Witness the ultimate Know-joke:
What can you hear before hearing; see before seeing; feel before feeling, and know before knowing?
Nothing.
Get it?
No thing.
Just This.
This, with no-one to wear.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Monday, September 5, 2011
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Hurry Up and Wait
"The problem is, I see beauty everywhere" - Me, a couple of days ago.
I am of course, speaking from the both the absolute and the relative point of view.
From the absolute, boundaries are naught; objects ploink from and return to awareness in uncomprehending simplicity. And every now and again the light-without-shadow, the vibration-without-movement puts up its hand in a maestro's gesture, and This-change takes place.
Then This change.
Then this Change.
And without interruption, ladies and germs, I'm on the boardwalk of the relative, with barkers of every shape and variety crying for attention. There - an addict. There, a waterfall of ivy over brick. There - a robed, iv'd patient pacing in front of the hospital with a filterless cigarette and dulled eyes; there - an impossible mosaic of light bouncing off of water onto a polished marble entryway.
Camera is out at the ready of course, because with every step taken and corner turned there are a thousand new colours and lines and relationships on display; each one with its own story practically birthing itself in front of me.
There - center stage - the good maestro's hand gesticulating wildly, and the sign "Prepare to Stop" for my viewing pleasure. This one can't even wait till I've hit the computer to pen it down - it's birthed fully formed and simply waits for its entrance cue.
"Prepare to stop" - "hurry up and wait", opposites whose cry for cessation of movement move people to action even as they stop.
This simple sign is infinity: see it yet?
Base elements forged from the stars, abstracted as ideas and dropped via oil-based-paint on an enginerring-approved diamond. Three words, in a dialectical embrace: Prepare to Stop.
Those without the I's to see to walk up regularly, spot the apparent duality and grab one sign for each foot. And from there it's a mad, duality powered ride through the city; paradox-powered uber-footwear that propels them through coffee shops, inboxes, lunch dates and action items.
Until the maestro signals again:
"Over here"
"This"
And the signs and the feet and the dialectics and language itself dissolve and there is just This without boundaries.
Maybe the quote would be better served:
"The problem Is. I see beauty everywhere."
Saturday, September 3, 2011
Friday, September 2, 2011
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Strange Vaudeville
Strange vaudeville, this.
I walk through the market, wearing my hypocrisy like a warm vest, leering at the all the fodder that will end up in the suburbs tonite in the closets of Those That Cannot See, while secretly coveting bauble that *clearly* should be coming home with me.
I'm different of course. I see through the materialism, know the sharp teeth of desire will only be sated temporarily by a purchase. And because I know this I am immune to Samskara's wheel in a way that Those That Cannot See couldn't possibly understand.
Until grace hops out from a merchant's stall and breaks me open like an egg.
Fluid and purposeless, I am looked. And walked. Things are purchased for a loved one's birthday, but the gift I am given is far more sublime:
The realization that there is no difference between whatever is living me and Those That Cannot See. Understanding that the act of identifying a 'me' and a 'them' is about as meaningful as trying to paint the ocean: going out with a five gallon bucket, dipping my roller and painting wave after wave after wave.
And with that quickening of grace, incandescence grows around me - Brand Name Stores, Bathroom Signs, even my own banality shine like a thousand suns trying to outdo each other.
Arms akimbo, I stop and survey creation, breathe deep, and ride a sparkling crescent of light back to the office, remembering just enough to know that this will shine through again and again; the peaks will get closer and closer together until finally there is continuity in what has been here all along:
Just
This.
Eternity.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Friday, August 26, 2011
Always Clean up After your Epiphany
Be fair now.
I caught you today.
Way down at the end of the platform, bathed in golds and bordered by artificial greys, I saw you, snapped you, kept you for reflection.
25 minutes on the soporific express into town gave me ample time to mull you over.
No question - I saw you! A perfect articulated 1, carefully wrapped in human form, right at the convergence of all the lines.
A slight contraction, then complete resolution as I caught my mistake.
The lines and shadows and light and attention and 9,996 other things weren't converging on you, they were coming from you.
The gold - your only begotten sun. The shadows - refractions of the sun, intimating existence of your thousand limbed body through negative space.
A beautiful, gossamer thread left the picture, wrapped itself around my clumsy chrysalis of abstractions, and pierced me right here - between the eyes.
Epiphany! You're not a 1, you're I in drag. And for several delicious moments, the hem of your garment connected us: I to eye.
The thread pulled tighter and tighter as I tried to reel you in; the chrysalis exploded in terrible beauty until there was only This left:
No words, no abstractions, no perceptions:
Just
This.
It had no chance, this epiphany; it was feted and fated for dissolution before it was even realized.
Still, I wished I had done a bit of gatekeeping before I got off the train; some words on the photo as a reminder; pointers to pointee, a little sweeping up of the experience for the future.
Nonsense, of course.
Besides, we both know I caught you today. And each time I catch you the bell curve towards eternity slopes inexorably closer to This lover's embrace.
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