*Apostles of our Age*

Well, there's a problem. I've drank 4 beers, 5 margaritas and not a glimmer of blur has seeped into my vision. Sure, my guts getting warm, and those voices, well I can't understand a word they're saying, but the eyesight is 20/20. I'm not sure what this means. I know there's beer all over the walls of the apartment, maybe the walls are stealing my buzz, but i'm not a wall so how would I know. Either way the lack of intoxication isn't really what's puzzling me right now. It's a camping stove. A small hunk of stainless steal about the size of a baby's fist and a bright red fuel tank that attaches snugly to its side like a pair of siamese angels. You see, I'm going all alone into the wilderness for 5 days straight on Thursday and this stove is to be the only way i cook my food amongst the wild deer and noisy rattlesnakes. The only thing is that: thanks to a conglomerate of oversized dickholes who enjoyed flying planes into all the wrong places in search of 1,000 bronzed skin virgins and a cult of retaliatory politicians who fell into their trap, it is near impossible for me to take that precious little stove on my flight into the middle of nowhere. Oh well, I'm 98% chimp, there's still instincts in these soon to be 22 year old bones, I'll find a way to survive in the bush. one thing I won't find though, is a fucking computer, or if one does happen to be poking its head out at the sun through the rabbit holes and redwood canopy, there definitely won't be a jack to plug it into, unless it's moonpowered. Fat chance of that. Either way this poor young blog cries at the thought of prolonged neglect, and being its faithful caretaker i just can't let that be. notice how things aren't capitalized anymore. i fear the vision's narrowing down to 10/10. but that's irrelevant for the proposed purposes of this entry. after all i'm just going to be writing what's already been written. the following are a few excerpts of wisdom from a few of those who have touched me along the way. this is definitely not a representative sample, but it's enough to last 5 days of inaction. enjoy.


From: In Watermelon Sugar

A Love, a Wind

We made long and slow love. A wind came up and the windows trembled slightly, the sugar set fragilely ajar by the wind.
I liked Pauline's body and she said that she liked mine, too, and we couldn't think of anything to say.
The wind suddenly stopped and Pauline said, "What's that?"
"It's the wind."

Jack Kerouac: On The Road

And for just a moment I had reached the point of ecstasy that I always wanted to reach, which was the complete step across chronological time into timeless shadows, and wonderment in the bleakness of the mortal realm, and the sensation of death kicking at my heels to move on, with a phantom doggin its own heels, and myself hurrying to a plank where all the angels dove off and flew into the holy void of uncreated emptiness, the potent and inconceivable radiances shining in bright Mind essence, innumerable lotus-lands falling open in the magic mothswarm of heaven. I could hear an indescribable seething roar which wasn't in my ear but everywhere and had nothing to do with sounds. I realized that I had died and been reborn numberless times but just didn't remember especially because the transitions from life to death and back to life are ghostly easy, a magical action for naught, like falling asleep and waking up again a million times, the utter casualness and deep ignorance of it. I realized it was only because of the stability of intrinsic Mind that these ripples of birth and death took place, like the action of wind on a sheet of pure, serene, mirror-like water.

Tom Robbins: What is the Meaning of Life?

Our purpose is to consciously, deliberatley evolve towards a wiser, more liberated and luminous state of being; to return to Eden, make friends with the snake, and set up our computers amongst the wild apple trees.
Deep down, all of us are probably aware that some kind of mystical evolution- a melding into the godhead-into love- is our true task. Yet we suppress the notion with considerable force because to admit it is to acknowledge that most of our political gyrations, religious dogmas, social ambitions, and financial ploys are not merely counterprodictive but trivial. Our mission is to jettison those pointless preoccupations and take once again the primordial cargo of inexhaustible ecstasy. Or, barring that, to turn out a good thin crust pizza and a strong glass of beer.

Tony Vigorito: JUST A COUPLE OF DAYS

Rosehips: Goddamnit.
Sweetlicks: Excuse me?
Rosehips: Goddamnit.
Sweetlicks: Why do you say such things?
Rosehips: Why not? It's a satisfying cuss. God is in me as much as anything else, and sometimes God stubs her toe. In saying "Goddamnit," I'm merely disapproving of the location of that book you left lying on the living room floor last night.
Sweetlick: Isn't there a commandment somewhere that says, "Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain?"
Rosehips: Yes, but there are no forbidden words. I know you're a little funnier in the head than I am, but what do you think that commandment means? The name of the Judeo-Christian Ultimate Source is Yahweh. It is a form of the Hebrew verb to be. God is, and thou shalt not take the Is-ness in vain.
Sweetlick: The Is-ness? Is you is or is you ain't my baby?
Rosehips: I is, oh flamma-lamma-ding-damn. but listen, the commandment is reverence. Do not take being in vain. Do not profane existence.
Sweetlick: Goddamn right!

Radiohead: Hail to the Thief

2+2=5

Are you such a dreamer?
To put the world to rights?

I'll stay home forever
Where two & two always
makes up five

I'll lay down the tracks
Sandbag & hide
January has April's showers
And two & two always
makes up five

It's the devil's way now
There is no way out
You can scream & you
can shout
It is too late now
Because

You have not been
paying attention

I try to sing along
I get it all wrong
Ezeepeezeeeezeepeeezee
NOT
I swat em like flies but
Like flies the burgers
Keep coming back
NOT
Maybe not
"All hail to the thief"
"But I am not!"
"Don't question my authority
or put me in the dock"
Cozimnot!
Go & tell the king that
The sky is falling in
When it's not
Maybe not.

(ahh diddums.)

Lewis Carroll: aliCe in Wonderland

"Who are you?" said the Caterpillar.
This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation. aliCe replied, rather shyly, "I- I hardly know, sir, just at present- at least I know who I was when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then."


(see ya soon, hopefully airport security doesn't stick sharp things up my dinghole, in the meantime there's no church near so imma make my own ash for wednesday outta two journal leaves a stick of insence and 50 repetitions of AUM, we'll see how that goes, and why there's hot candle wax all over my chest I just don't know, it must be i'm going blind ahhhhh enough with these pointless strings of meaningless words, enough the voices say!)

Neal Cassady



"Yes!"

The Universe

Images released today from the Hubble Space Telescope show the gigantic Pinwheel galaxy in unprecedented detail. Regions where stars are born are clearly visible in the set. The Pinwheel sits face-on 25m light years away in the constellation Ursa Major, and contains at least a trillion stars, and 100 billion which are probably similar to our sun in heat and lifespan, which may host planets, but even if there are planets in this galaxy suitable for life, it's not possible at the pressent time to even send a a satelite to this area becouse of the great distanse. The galaxy is about 170,000 light-years across, the spiral is about twice the diameter of the Milky Way.

city Lights
for Agua

Yesterday I spoke to the Holy Spirit, which also happens to be a seedless avocado with long brown ears and a puckered chestnut chin, protruding a little further than usual as far as avocados are concerned. There was an uncircumcised Cuban Cohiba clenched tight between his mustard teeth. The smoke dripped out like ancient chemistry and morphed into strange shapes of our past before joining the wisps of clouds that whirled like a fan in the snowy sky above. We made vague plans to travel to Vegas. I had never been to Vegas and could not relinquish the opportunity to visit the contemporary tribe of bald blue midgets who experienced leisure by banging their bony foreheads against boar skinned drums. The avocado wasn’t interested in midgets. He had seen them twice before. He was going to Vegas for the Lights! And though he had seen those Lights upwards of twenty times, they never grew dull on his wide black eyes. Oh, who was I kidding with a delusion of little blue men. Certainly not myself. Deep deep down inside it too was the Lights reeling me through the tempting desert in search of their source: that iridescent twilight oasis whose endless oily candles refused to ever burn out. And the avocado, well the avocado was to be my guide through the ever so familiar unfamiliarity. After all, he had seen those Lights upwards of twenty times. I was placed in charge of packing the suitcase. Poor choice, I had forgotten all the clothes, (but dare I question the choices of the avocado). Instead there were twelve different flavors of candy, two clay shot glasses, a pair of 4D goggles and some fruit punch, the special kind. Somewhere in the mess I had hidden a fly swatter, as I was informed there may be bats on the road ahead. The Holy Spirit provided transportation: a pearl 1979 Cadillac convertible, white leather and all the works which he drove wearing radioactive dishwashing gloves. He handed me an empty revolver which I was to use for the purpose of flagging down rubber hitchhikers and offering them a ride, perhaps even a taste of candy, if they didn’t listen to what mothers say about strangers. Sure, there were gaps in the plan. The map, for example, was full of cigar burns at all the key intersections, and I had left my toothbrush at home. This worried me because there was so much candy and the entire left side of my family were dentists. Come to think of it, I shouldn’t worry too much about that. The entire ordeal had been sealed as quickly as it had sprung, and there was no time to concern oneself with petty details such as those, after all, the Lights had beckoned and we were quick to obey…

*Magic Carpet Ride*

Master:

This is not a blue rug. It is something else.
Sure, it feels like a rug, and it most certainly gives
the impression of being blue, but what first impressions
don’t falter with more scrupulous investigation? Look closer.
Better yet, step back, shut your eyes, keep them shut, then look closer.
Now wait, just for a moment, and tell me what you see.

Apprentice:

Master, I see a field of soft grass rustling like pond ripples
in the silent breeze. There, wrapped around a lonely hill
lies the skin of Tiger, jaws gnawing at the drift of seasons.

I see brother Snake curled in a basket, feasting on his own tail, which
never ends and always continues, even when feasting on his own
head. One day he’ll rise, Master, and rustle the naked fig leaves of life.

There is a cave, distant, but near, empty, abandoned, save for the specters
of 1,000 ancestor warriors who have since shun the battlefield, renounced
their weathered swords and mastered secrets lingering behind cold stone walls

I see a forest, the storm and ten lost oceans converging at one singular point
two inches behind the breast of an elephant’s skull, a skull shaped by thick shards
of past memories

I see the female wolf lactating on a virgin sun whose immaculate children
peer curiously into milk washed night, tongues lapping the warm air.

Master, this is not a rug, this is a temple with vast golden pillars in the form of
a Queen and a prince sharing kisses below the crescent moon, and, in the
center, atop the bare green altar, lies a bloody heart, beating without a body.

It is all, and everything, and all, and everything, and all, and everything else,
spoken and silent, real, imagined, seen and unseen, manifest beyond
thin veils of mud.

Master:

Now, my son, open your arms, embrace the temple, and reunite with your heart

*An Informal Education*

This is one subject they'll never teach at my school. Pitty, it's the only one I like. Just yesturday I realized I had been reading 4 of these suckers at one time, all at diffrent hours of the day for different purposes. Bhagavad-Gita, once at night, once in the morning, to expereince god's thousand hot tongues and hideous wide fangs as a bow wielding warrior. "Le Fleur de Mal," to dissect the pulpy heart of poetry and bathe in its sorcerous blood. Jack Kerouac's "Big Sur," to see my mad crazy beat backpacker trace the signs of his own deterioration. And, Brautigan's "In Watermellon Sugar," a sweet reminder that literature isn't dead. Ah, I parted with two this morning, but managed to pick up a lonely pilgrim not two long ago, both of us on our seperate yet similar journey's down the rocky path of experience. We'll see how it goes.

Cosmic Dancer

Dance for me in the dark
Oh silhouette of dreams
Oh shadow of fire
Whose scent of raw jasmine
Makes ten hearts boil
Before these captured eyes

Entwine infinite radiant evening
Around those wild lulling hips
That harmonize pristinely:
An enchanting celestial symphony
Of cool bloomed stars
Crashing into soft liquid pearls
Between bare nude toes

Tie me tight, Oh delicate one
On a bed of bright diamonds
With those perfumed ribbon braids
With those silk white garments
That slip off your gentle shoulders
Like feathers lost in paradise

Now, come nearer,
Rest against my lips
And show the twilight
In your eyes

*The Dark Side*
'All hope abandon ye who enter here' -D.A.

Cellar Door

She dances wildly
to the rhythm
of the swaying breeze
capturing souls of men
with her gypsy eyes.

Time quickly flees
to avoid the lure
of her entrancing glance
leaving the land
a motionless sight.

Trapped behind a cellar door
her victims scream
dimming the moon
with desperate cries
that warn those
still free to dream
STAY CLEAR!
of the howling night.
'03

Hitching the Sky

It was not the hiss
of starved machinery
sizzling on the scorched shores
of Route 66 that knit
my untwined senses
into a long, catatonic, trance.

Nor those mad mad creatures
stomping on the scales
of a thirsty desert
craving kaleidescope rain

Nor was it that demon, Don Juan,
and his ash coal eyes
and his ungroomed venom claws
and his tempting forked lisp
reeling me into his rotten shack
with a snakeskin rattle
eager to grind me to potion.
Come. Come. The oven is warm.

It was the crystal night
whose fragile skin shattered
impaling my dilated gaze
with iridescence.
'04

That Witch
-to a very bad person

The candlelight was transparent
to the blind worms slithering
through her straw belly
searching for a feast of heart.

Her hair, tangled strings of cotton,
Her eyes, oily beads pasted on burlap skin
Her lies, stapled shut.

Tattered and scarred in the wake of her sins,
I pet her head, and reached for the pins.

When You're Strange...

Jim, the man possessed by words
which only Zeus had ever heard
saddled the storm and rode it valiantly
through the Doors of immortality
There he met a divine muse
who taught him the ancient tunes,
songs composed by virgin earth,
whispered long before silence birthed.

Feasting on the flesh of gods,
while sippin off Dionysus' cup,
a strange meal for mortal souls
it lured him into Hades' world
where he found the fabled Styx
and drowned trying to swim past it.

'03

Over-Exposed

...small, pristine, haikus
circle misty mountain clouds
seeping out my head...

...capture high noon sun
behind phantom white blanket
with gem crystal eye...

Closer

I saw your voice in the wind
bathed in jewel scented oils
crashing softly through my skin
like white light in the morning

I saw your lips painted red
apple peels in the moonlight
sweet like roses tucked in bed
sweet like star bright midnight

I felt your breath right next to mine
two warm candles dancing closer
like lost fires in the sun...
two hot candles drifting closer

*Out and About*

I got myself a camera as an early birthday present. Pretty soon I'm going camping solo in Big Sur and I wanted a lil something to capture the experience. Words, though exquisit, aren't the only way of interacting with the environment. Anyways, I needed a lil camera practice b/c i haven't held one in ages so I shook my roomate out of his craving for nice greasy In&Out cheesburgers and asked him to accompany me on a short hike through the mountains surrounding the school. Yea, well, things didn't really go as planned. The hike turned out to be well over three hours and it was pitch black by the time we got home. At the end I discovered what I'd call my "4th proof for the existence of God". He was a lil grumpy because his stomach longed cheesburgers and we had stayed out much longer than expected. When we finally reached the campus after what seemed like ages what do we see but an In&Out booth handing out free cheeseburgers at a basketball game. What a fucking coincidence. He was thrilled. I cheated on my pseudo-vegetarian diet (Shhh don't tell anyone) and my camera, well her cherry was well beyond popped. Here's what she had to say...

PAZ

I meant to write a poem. A free wheeling poem. One about wind, about waves, about tornadoes and sex. About finding love in the crud between your toenails, about chasing the pastel horizon, about fucking stars, about wishing you were something you were not just for the experience of being something else. This was to be a deep poem, a tear eliciting poem that would appeal to all and everyone with any concept of the self or others. It was to be broadcast via satellite to igloo huts, indian teepes, japanese skyscrapers, and childrens dreams. But, I got drunk instead, and all I came up with was this... It's called "Wasabi." Sorry to disapoint.

Wasabi
SAKE SAKE SAKE SAKE SAKE SAKE
SAKE SAKE SAKE SAKE SAKE SAKE
SAKE SAKE SAKE SAKE SAKE SAKE
SAKE SAKE SAKE SAKE SAKE SAKE
BANSAIIIIII!!!!!!!

A peso to he who can guess what's keeping me warm tongiht ;P)

PS I think indigo got voted off the rainbow...Petition the mayor of the world to get him back on.

PeeEssEss I'm Seeing STARSSSSS

(Enough local-san!)

...Been There Done That...

(and wishing to go back)

As a wandering sannyasin, Swami Satyananda travelled extensively by foot, car, train and sometimes even by camel throughout India, Afghanistan, Burma, Nepal, Tibet, Ceylon and the entire Asian subcontinent. During his sojourns, he met people from all stratas of society and began formulating his ideas on how to spread yogic techniques. Although his formal education and spiritual tradition was that of the Vedanta, the task of disseminating yoga became his movement. His mission unfolded before him in 1956 when he founded the International Yoga Fellowship Movement with the aim of creating a global fraternity of yoga. Because his mission was revealed to him at Munger, Bihar, he established the Bihar School of Yoga in Munger itself. Before long his teachings were rapidly spreading throughout the world. From 1963 to 1983, Swami Satyananda took yoga to each and every corner of the world, to people of every caste, creed, religion and nationality. He guided millions of seekers in all continents and established centers and ashrams in different countries. His frequent travels took him to Australia, New Zealand, Japan, China, the Phillipines, Hong Kong, Malaysia, Thailand, Singapore, USA, England, Ireland, France, Italy, Germany, Switzerland, Denmark, Sweden, Yugoslavia, Poland, Hungary, Bulgaria, Slovenia, Russia, Czechoslovakia, Greece, Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, Bahrain, Dubai, Iraq, Iran, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Colombia, Brazil, Uruguay, Chile, Argentina, Santo Domingo, (Local-Wannabe's Heart), Puerto Rico, Sudan, Egypt, Nairobi, Ghana, Mauritius, Alaska and Iceland. One can easily say that Sri Swamiji hoisted the flag of yoga in every nook and cranny of the world. Nowhere did he face opposition, resistance or criticism. His way was unique. Well versed in all religions and scriptures, he incorporated their wisdom with such a natural flair that people of all faiths were drawn to him. His teaching was not just confined to yoga, but covered the wisdom of many milleniums. From Tantra, the mother of all philosophies, and the most sublime truths of Vedanta, Sri Swamiji brought to light knowledge of the Upanishads and Puranas, of buddhism, Jainishm, Sikhism, Zoroastrianism, Islam and Christianity right down to modern scientific analysis of matter and creation. He interpreted, explained and gave precise accurate and systematic explanations of the ancient systems of Tantra and Yoga, revealing practices hitherto unknown. It can be said that Sri Swamiji was a pioneer in the field of yoga because his presentation had a novelty and freshness. Ajapa japa, antar mouna, pawanmuktasana, kriya yoga and prana vidya are just some of the practices he introduced in such a methodical and simple manner that it became possible for each person to delve into valuable and hitherto inaccesible science for their physical, mental, emotional and spiritual development. Yoga Nidra was Sri Swamiji's interpretation of the tantric system of nyasa. With his deep insight into this knowledge, he was able to realize the potential of this practice of nyasa ina manner which gave it a practical utility for each and every individual, rather than just remaining a prerequisite for worship. Yoga nidra is but one example of his acumen and penetrating insight into the ancient systems. Sri Swamiji's outlook was inspiring, uplifting as well as in-depth and penetrating. Yet his language and explanations were always simple and easy to comprehend. During this period he authored over eighty books on yoga and tantra which, due to their authenticity, are accepted as textbooks in schools and universities throughout the world. These books have been translated into Italian, German, Spanish, Russian, Yugoslavian, Chinese, French, Greek, Iranian and most other predominant languages of the world.
People took to his ideas and spiritual seekers of all faiths and nationalities flocked to him. He intitated thousands into mantra and sannyasa, sowing in the the seed to live the divine life. He exhibited tremendous zeal and energy in spreading the light of yoga, and in a short span of twenty years Sri Swamiji fulfilled the mandate of his guru.
...to be continued...

*Good for Nothing Cry Baby*

"Once you get into the desert, there's no going back," said the camel driver. "And, when you can't go back, you have to worry only about the best way of moving forward..."

Very few movies have ever yanked one of my tears from its ducts. The last one, well I can't really recal, (I'm not counting Kill Bill vol1, when the doctor was soliciting a comatose bride out to a dirt bag for some good ol' raunchy love because those were mostly self pitying tears for not being able to control my laughter) but on the list are Braveheart, Forest Gump, and The Last Samuri (maybe Hero too but like I said, I don't remember). Movies aside, it's almost a safe bet that though a good book might leave me close to the edge of joyful lashwetting, as the creative process is something I value and when it is excellently executed I can't help but elicit my emotions in ways not normally expressed, it usually won't leave me balling. No, not even the newly crowned king of my "best read" list, Tony Vigorito's JUST A COUPLE OF DAYS, with all its clever novelty, could squeeze even a drop of my joy into physical existence. It came as a great surprise to me that a small, neglected novel which my mother had given for christmas brewed a storm of happiness in me so rapturous that it couldn't be contained. The book is simply written, a continuous allegory about a boy giving himself up to his destiny in order to discover a treasure. At 167 pages is it a relatively short read but boy what a ride. The mystic parallels are evident from the start when a young shepard is tending to his sheep and has to be weary as one likes to wonder off. The rest of the book continues to develop his outlooks on life and puts him through many tests and trials through which the boy meets an assortment of different travellers and begins to understand the Language of the Universe in the process. It almost had an aliCe in Wonderland feel in both its simplicity and ability to compress so much symbolism into a simple easy read that has the potential to appeal to both a wild minded 4th grader and well studied desk hogging intellectual. From the start i knew it was something special, and my subconscious new it too as several long dormant sensations were slowly awakening. It built and it built and it built until those sensations became overpowering and had to find they're way out. I'll spare you the gory details but lets just say that page 156 was completely wet by the time I was done with it. That's not to say that what occured in page 156 was the climax of anything, in fact it was not. The real magic didn't even happen in 155, it was in fact a few pages earlier. 156, though, that's when it all wanted to come out and I let it smack in the middle of the library sitting in "my hole" across from Jeff Hassler, the smartest kid in my section, who has all the inner workings of the law memorized. It's funny how me and him hardly ever speak yet we always sit in the same "booths" right across from each other and share curious glances as to our whereabouts. But unlike him I rarely study law at the library. I go there for escape, to indulge in those pleasures I regret every day from neglecting myself since the start of my formal education. I guess its because when I'm told/forced to do something my mind automatically shuns away from it. School wasn't an adventure in knowldge but a forced responsability which i would always grudgingly attack with a lack of enthusiasm. Now, when my responsabilities have shifted is when I yearn to capture what i lost. No worries, better now than never. Anyways I can't help but always think that despite the fact that Jeff and I wholeheartedly dedicate our time to two completely opposite things (him: the law, me: the deiscovery of language) it is the same faculties that drive us, the same will, the same commitment to something which our minds yearn to explore. It's led me to believe that our outward appearance are just different manifestations of the same collective energy. Boy was that a tangent or what. Back to me being a fucking cry baby. Something about that tale, Paulo Coelho's The Alchemist, was so moving that I polished it off in 3 days time. It made me wet all over and as a result I made it wet all over (pg 156). That's how things work around here. The book shook me so much out of my static state of being that I was tempted at the instant to just run out the door with my pack, leave a copy of the Alchemist on my apartment floor with a message reading : "Thanks Mom" (for it isn't often that we thank our mothers for their gifts) and go searching for the seat of my soul. But, I'm a fool. I haven't the heart. I think too much of the possible outcomes. Still, there is the possibility that I am on the right path. After all only one school out of ten that I applied to accepted me and since being here I've developed a relationship with myself unequal to that which has come from past experiences. Maybe I am living out my dream and just fail to see it in its entirety. Besides, do i really have to go anywhere to polish my writing, to tune in to the transit of stars, to learn the language of existence? NO! The only thing that needs to change is internall, my attitude, and that comes from within. Nurturing you capacity to JUST LIVE shouldn't influenced by your surroundings, because then you aren't truly living, you are living dependant of an external stimulus, one which could change as quick as the snap of two fingers. Geez, thank god its laundry day, my clothes are all snotty and nasty (I didn't come prepared for the alchemist's magic). Ah Chris, be happy with the way things are turning out. You know the things you have to work on, start ironing those wrinkles, releasing those attachments which seem soo comforting at the moment but do nothing more than lead you astray from who you are. Release yourself to the cosmic spirit, release yourself to unconditional love, to intangible treasure, to the destiny of the wind. Nothing here comes easy (unless you're a fucking trust fund baby, then you have money, but gotta work harder in finding a fucking soul), but without a lil work nothing will come at all. Ah, enough with the rambles. On a different note, I just farted. Sad, I know. But its great because my nose is so clogged I can't smell a damn thing. I feel sorry for Jeff though.

*Happy Heart Day*

Mirror Mirror on the Wall, What's that Falling from the Sky Above?

picture courtesy of my roomate

Electric Shakespeare

Locked in the spell of each other's laughs
Two rogue spirits begin to dance
Tangled, entwined, electric and fast,
Their orbits collide, shatter, crash.

The beat of their breaths accelerates,
Passion is nurtured between each gasp,
Eyes shudder as bliss escapes
From its dull, damp, cavernous trap.

Honey spills on rose milk shores
Time scurries to clean the mess
Leaving the two craving, craving more
But the moment has long since left.

So the souls go rogue again,
And dream of great times lay'n ahead.

03/04

Sri Swamiji

I'm not a big fan of guruhood. Somehow the thought of commiting yourself to the discipleship of a stranger doesn't feel like the proper way to develop spiritual independence. Sure, a teacher is helpful in guiding you along the path of sef discovery and reaching the end goal of liberation, especially one who has travelled the road himself, but I am ultimately convinced that the true guru resides inside each and every one of us and is there waiting to be both discovered and developed. Of course, finding him is not an easy process. We are constantly being bombarded with familial ,cultural, social, personal and egotistical stimuli and expectations that do nothing more than dilute our true sense of self and creative a rift between our expressed and authentic identities. It takes alot of willpower and alot of courage to begin unravelling the delusional metaprogramming we have been exposed to from an early age and for many guruhood may be the best option. However, a guru is not one who will blindly drag you into the higher planes of conscious knowlede, the task is ultimately our own and though a guru could plant the seed of spiritual awakening and point the way, the seed is ours to water and he'll be pointing from long distance. The zen masters believe that all a person really needs on the path towards enlightenment is the ground beneath his feet, if that. Judging from my limited experiences with meditation and joy seeking I'd be inclined to wholeheartedly agree. Nevertheless for the infant spirtual aspirant (like myself) a little bit of help is always welcome. Due to the lack of authentic spiritual guides within the reach of both my location and pocket book I've had to rely upon several books to help get me started on the path of self discovery. And through one of these book I have come to discover a person who is the closest thing to a guru I have, Swami Satyannanda Saraswati. Though he has never been physically in my presence, I always feel him at my side. Sometimes even, when my eyes are closed and my mind is as still as it can get for a horny 21 year old living a lie as a law student, I see the dim contours of his outline peacefully mimicing my pose almost as if he's speaking to me without saying a word. With his indirect guidance I've managed not only to gain a more positive outlook on life but have even gained stronger confidence in my potential. Still, this is just the tip of the iceberg. There is soooooo much out there to learn adn with every bit you accomplish thousands of possibilities open up just waiting for you to explore them. Anyways, I fear this rant is getting a little long and I haven't even gotten to the meat of it yet. So without further adu I'd like to introduce you to my guru, my firend, my spiritual companion: Swami Satyananda Saraswati (yea, trying saying that 10 times while watching tv... just kidding...don't watch tv...)
The following is being reproduced from the back sleeve of "A Systematic Course in the Ancient Tantric Techniques of Yoga and Kriya." (Without permission of course) It's long so I'm turning this into a 3 part series. Enjoy.

Swami Satyananda Saraswati was born in 1923 at Almora (Uttaranchal) into a family of farmers. His ancestors were warriors and many of his kith and kin down the line, including his father, served in the army and police force.
However, it became evident that Sri Swamiji had a different bent of mind, as he began to have spiritual experiences at the age of six, when his awareness spontaneously left the body and he saw himself lying motionless on the floor. Many saints and sadhus blessed him and reassured his parents that he had a very developed awareness. This experience of disembodies awareness continued, which led him to many saints of that time such as Anandamayi Ma. Sri Swamiji also met his tantric bhairavi, Sukham Giri, who gave him shaktipat and directed him to find his guru in order to stabalize his spiritual experiences.
In 1943, at the age of 20, he renounced his home and went in search of a guru. This search ultimately led him to Swami Sivananda Saraswati at Rishikesh, who initiated him into the Dashnam Order of Sannyasa on 12th September 1947 on the banks of the Ganges and gave him the name Swami Satyananda Saraswati.
In those early years at Rishikesh, Sri Swamiji immersed himself in guru seva. At that time the ashram was still in its infancy and even the basic amenities such as buildings and toilets were absent. The forests surrounding the small ashram were infested with snakes, scorpions, mosquitoes, monkeys and even tigers. The ashram work was too heavy and hard, requiring Sri Swamiji to toil like a labourer carrying bucket loads of water from the Ganga up to the ashram and digging canals from the high mountain streams down to the ashram many kilometers away in order to store water for constructing the ashram.
Rikishesh was then a small town and all the ashram requirements had to be brought by foot from far away. In addition there were varied duties, including the daily pooja at Vishwanath Mandir, for which Sri Swamiji would go into the dense forest to collect bael leaves. If anyone fell sick there was no medical care and no one to attend to them. All the sannyasins had to go out for bhiksha or alms as the ashram did not have a mess or kitchen.
Of that glorious time when he lived and served his guru, Sri Swamiji says it was a period of total communion and surrender to the guru tattwa, whereby he felt that just to hear, speak or see Swami Sivananda was yoga. But most of all his guru's words rang true, for through his dedication and spirit of nishkama seva he gained an enlightened understanding of the secrets of spiritual life and became an authority on Yoga, Tantra, Vedanta, Samkhya and kundalini yoga. Swami Sivananda said of Swami Satyananda, "Few would exhibit such intense vairagya at such an early age. Swami Satyananda is full of Nachiketa vairagya."
Although he had a photographic memory, a keen intellect, and his guru described him as a versatile genius, Swami Satyananda's learnign did not come from books and study in the ashram. his knowledge unfolded from within through his untiring seva as well as his abiding faith and love for Swami Sivananda, who told him "Work hard and you will be purified. You do not have to search for the light, the light will unfold from within you."
In 1956, after spending twelve years in guru seva, Swami Satyananda set out as a wanderer (parivrajaka). Before his departure Swami Sivananda taught him kriya yoga and gave him the mission to "spread yoga from door to door and shore to shore." .... to be continued...

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*GREAT ADViCE*

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ps: don't trust anyone who spends 33 minutes turning stars to rainbows!

Open Letter to: The Devil Herself

Dear Father of Mother-Fucking Darkness

I can't be grateful enough for you introducing me to Mr. Robbins. Not only for the instant orgiastic gratification of complete immersion into the diamond heart of language, but for its extended consequences as well. Whether life is a line of dominoes or a pair of dice (or die i'm not sure which is the correct word but i'd rather be wrong and say dice than be right and say die) an illuminating chain of events (or clank of coincidences) has led me from one great author to another and it was your flick of the hand that thrust it in motion. A gift like this must be returned. Thinking that Tom was the pinnacle of linguistic cognition I made it my duty to spread his message to a select few friends whom I knew would appreciate his style as much as I did. Hunting for books on Amazon one day I found a small, hidden link that read DISCOVER AUTHORS LIKE TOM ROBBINS. It attracted the pointer quicker than a jar of sex juice attracts a chimp in heat. To my surprise half the authors on that list were tom himself, but there were two more 1. Chris Genoa and a book called Foop, the other (2) Tony Vigorito and his book called "Just a Couple of Days." This email concerns the later, as Genoa's work turned out to be nothing more than a Flop. Just a Couple of days became my favorite novel ("Skinny Legs and All" & "Dharma Bums" now a close second) by page 50. I knew this would happen long before I reached page 50 but had to wait until page 111 to confirm my suspicions, after all, nowadays, you can't really chase your gut as it’s not really your gut anymore. If your pocket or time is thin, (and if it's time it shouldn’t be- you should be making time, not letting time make you- after all how can you let something that doesn't exist boss you around- the same can be said of all material existence but i lack both the philosophy, language and imagination to thread that tangent around the rabbit hole)... I'll start that sentence over again without the cancerous parenthetical for the sake of clarity. If your pocket book is thin (we'll leave time out of this one, oh geez is it coming again? NO!) then a mere period away you will find a link to his website where over half the book has been generously published for public viewing free of charge. http://www.justacoupleofdays.com/home.htm?pageone.htm~mainFrame Notice the cover, doesn't it seduce? And, since i'm such a noble person and must repay my debt to you in full, you will also find a link to his amazon site two or three periods away. How many periods exactly is difficult to determine now as I don't know what I'm going to say. Hopefully by the time you reach the sample's end your pocket book will have gained a little weight and you'd be able to afford the complete publication which isn't such a raw deal considering there's a kaleidoscope climaxing on the cover. If worst comes to worst you can always buy it used or if hell really does freeze over (as is suggested in the book) then i'll really repay my debt and take a couple illusory moments of time scanning that treasure ending for your masturbatory pleasure. I guess it was five or six periods later (i'm still not counting). http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0970141947/sr=8-1/qid=1139628513/ref=pd_bbs_1/002-3798725-5877629?%5Fencoding=UTF8 84 people have somehow come to collectively agree that this novel is worth 4.5 stars. Don't cheat yourself of this experience.

The other matter which this letter concerns deals with both poetry (the subject entangled in both our meeting and any sane interpretation of life's subjective meaning); and a poet who you also happened to introduce me to, Richard Brautigan, the last of the Beets. Like I said before I haven't read much of "In Watermelon Sugar" or "Trout Fishing in America", after all I'm elbow deep in planting Baudelaire's sick flowers, but the little I have read was enough to sprout a long lost fire that i've unfortunately kept out since CRW2300 and that’s, well, poetry. Below are my two most recent attempts at kindling the craft. The first (which was written second) is called "Every Morning." It started off as part of a bigger poem that I'll call "routine" for now but grew up all on its own. "routine" was to be, and may very well still be, a poem about my daily out and abouts written in a fragmented style reminiscent of Radiohead's "Fitter Happier." Yea well, things didn't go as planned. The style was completely abandoned and I didn't even make it to breakfast before I had what was a complete self sustaining entity that just didn't want to budge from its current state of existence. It has to do with "union," I know that much and tha’ts as much as I'm going to say as I'm not a fan of spoiling a perfectly sound egg (well don't let that last statement fool you, the poem is still being weaned and may be some time before it can churn milk on its own). The second one is called "Crescent Beach." It is a non fictional place in my imagination whose spirit was birthed around the time of Ed but whose body didn't exist until Mr. Brautigan (via your recommendation) helped me carve it. You'll definitely see a similarity in style resounding in its words. It is work in progress. It is also the name of my blog, yes blog. Ask me 6 months ago and I wouldn't even be able to tell you what a blog is, ask me 4 months ago and I would damn near guarantee that i'd never be writing in one, ask me 6 days ago and i still wouldn't have been writing in one, ask me now and i yet still wouldn't be able to answer why i'm writing in one, but i am, and whether it be the invisible audience of 2 or 3 that have dropped buy and commented, or just a change from the ol' legal pad and pen (which i still haven’t abandoned, it is now in symbiosis with the technosphere) this blog has my mind jamming donkeys through pinholes i never even knew existed. Either way it’s a facet i'm more than willing to explore and maybe even share with you, my dear dark Father. I say with you because 99.9 of my friends and family don't even know it exists nor have i made a decision to care whether i want them to or not. I guess if somehow they manage to click their way through the digital maze of interspace and happen to fall upon my wedge of cybernetic cheese it wouldn't bother me at all. But for now i won’t have a bit of input in their destiny as mice. I will nudge your star path, only a little, just because the poems are published there, along with an illustration meant to enhance their meaning. I am not including that illustration in this letter. I am, however, going to include a link to the blog in case your pocket has gone bulimic and you really need something to do with phantom time. Don't place too much significance behind this, after all the blog is a mere infant and i do have a way with abandoning my endeavors, age notwithstanding. The link will appear in two periods. This i am certain of. http://jitterbugperfume.blogspot.com/ Remember, it's for your eyes only, but don't be surprised if this letter gets posted tomorrow, i enjoyed writing it and the blog (what a bloggy word, maybe its syntax is what drew me away from it in the first place) is basically a chronicle on how much i enjoy writing. For that purpose and that purpose alone it is fitting that I post this. Worry not, Father, your anonymity will be preserved.

Ah, you smell that? It's a preheated oven. It's time to end this river of rubbish and prolong my pseudo-vegetarianism by placing spinach lasagna and 3 quesadillas in a fiery hell. I was thinking of making the staple food of "Crescent Beach" a quesadilla, but it looks like chili cheeseburger with a side of beer might win. Speaking of beer. I may crack open a Corona, but two things which i will nonetheless ignore and rationalize keep this from being a certainty. First I hate Coronas. This, however, is not outweighed by my love for beer. Second, they are my roommate’s. But i will only borrow them. They'll return to him as soon as my piss seeps into the ocean, evaporates, rains, is collected as water by the Corona factory, spliced with a minute amount of alcohol, bubbled, repackaged, shipped back to malibu and end up in his thirsty shopping cart.

Godspeed my friend, Godspeed

The Mother of Father-Fucking Light