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.

Laughter and Tears

Dbm and I were yakking the other night, discussing laughter - and he made the statement that humans were wired to need laughter / humour - just like love, food, and other things.

Couldn't agree more.

Out for a daytrip to Calgary yesterday to say goodbye to Colin. Pulled up to the church 45 minutes before the service, and hit the holding area just inside. There were a string of experiences that just grabbed me by the throat and pulled me into abject sadness...the end of a life at 37 - absolutely surreal, still expecting him to come walk in at any moment...his family, orphaned without him, his wife, his boys. And some of the little things as well. Table by the entrance to the church that had a some pictures of Colin, and his boat keys. Zoom in on:

Boat Keys

Insignifigant physical item to anybody who didn't know Colin; something that could have seemed cleft from Colin's heart for anybody who did know him.

Grief was everywhere; overflowing church; so many tears and embraces, just the saddest of saddest of sad. Tangible, choking grief.

Followed by laughter.

If we could have graphed the experience, it would have shown a descent into unimaginable pain, followed by relief of some sort. Nothing changed during the service; Colin didn't come bounding up in a Huck Finn-ish fashion and surprise us with his well being. Nope, it was more of having made it through one more thing around this tragic loss. And a significant thing. Sifb and her boys have years ahead of their 'new normal' where they are going to have to grieve, recover, and grieve some more. But they made it through the viewing two days ago, and they made it through the public goodbye yesterday. We all did. And when we did, it was time to laugh a little bit.

We headed back to her place and partied in Colin's workshop, and it wasn't as much about mourning as just being together, laughing, starting to heal.

It'll take a long time for them, and in some ways you never really get over somebody's death - especially at that horrifically young age.

But they made it through the tears, into the laughter, and each time the cycle repeats it will get a little easier.

Peace Colin. Peace Sifb.

Peace.

Laughter and Limbaugh

There are a number of ways to take extremists, in this case blowhard extremists that talk in absolutes by conduct their lives in relativities like the rest of us.

One is to get exasperated, holier than thou, damn angry that they could say those kinds of thing about (insert sensitive subject here). Time to write to the editor, mount a protest, construct well thought out diatribes to counter their polemicist vitriol.

Another is to rationalize it, and accept in any number of frameworks that can neuter its passionate flare. Look at it from a psychological point of view, understand why the standard of Broadcast Excellence is acting the way he is acting, and with a studied detachment, just let it be.

Or spiritualize it. Realize that that everything is needed in this great Spiral of Development. Rush is at a certain post-modern stage, and he has to go through this, as do his ditto-heads, in order to get to a higher level of development.

The problem with these avenues is that they always leave me feeling like Rush has gotten the last laugh. You know, a little tension in the shoulders at the thought of the guy. And, if he's still irritating me, then the observation is valid.

A much more effective approach is to not take him seriously, not in the least. Laughing. Not with him, but at the absurdities of his whole schtick.

Not trying to argue with him on his subject matter - it can and is deconstructed by any number of gifted intellectuals. No, just doing the deadpan and asking him the questions that would get him going, and you laughing inside.

Rushter: "Feminazis are the bane of ..."

Response:

"Rushster, most people that use words like feminazis are really shying away from inner same-sex urges. I'd like to give you the chance to respond, but I really need to hump your leg".

You get the gist of it.

Untenable frameworks that cannot be won by intellectual grappling can easily be toppled - or, better yet, just made irrelevant - by replacing the original timbers with the absurd and seeing how the original architect manages.