Reading writing

The best writing I do is that impelled by a strong emotional charge. I let go of trying to control the worlds coming out, trying to make a good impression, and let the emotion inside scream through the fingers moving and the black appearing on white and the letters coalesce into the outline of my heart, like dusting for fingerprints.

Tonight we talk about anger and forgiveness. Self anger, anger at what I have done wrong or am yet to do. My lackadaisical nature, my late nights, my inconsistencies and broken words. I am ashamed.

And always now, the paradox is attached to everything: I am perfect. Nothing to change, nothing to make better. I am forgiven. I am completely forgiven. Why? but there is no why or need for why. it is it's own answer. love and confusion, unworthiness to be loved and acceptance of the divine love.

I'm afraid to believe in myself because it means I will start moving, and taking risks, and that's scary to think about. That's why sometimes it's better just to do, and not let yourself dally with thoughts going in circles.

I read. Things click. I try to meditate, I don't know if it works anymore, if I'm doing it right. My body is mortal, my mind is fallible, my faith in Self is unshakable, but it is nameless, and all the words gather round it to throw stones.

It doesn't care. It loves them. The nameless non-existent man inside the center of my heart. The Mystery. The unseen, the unspeakable. Is it even knowable?

Too much thought.

All I really want to do tonight is bleed on the floor from my open heart and ask God where to find him. Is he on 5th street? Halfway out of town? I think he lives in the white house with the red trim and the quaint little tin garbage can and ceramic bluebirds on the steps.

The Truth

If you are, like me, a devout seeker of Truth, you are going to have to spend a lot of time first getting to know Truth's slutty younger sister, Unknown. The Unknown is like the town bicycle, she's always available, everyone has been with her, and she never says no if someone wants more.

The Truth, on the other hand, is beyond your reach. She's busy with older guys, often orientals with large beards. Passing her in the hallway, you barely manege to mumble out a word of greeting with your face down, which she doesn't even hear. At night you have wet dreams joining with her and living happily ever after with your beautiful children Joy, Purpose, Power and Greatness.

In the morning you wake up with an False Concept in bed with you that the harsh light of day is not flattering to, and a sense of remorse for being unfaithful to your crush.

If you become friends with Unknown though, something very few have the courage to do, she will eventually introduce you to her sister, who it turns out is just an ordinary person after all. Your preconceptions of her shattered, you can finally become friends with Truth, the real Truth, not the idealized concept you had in your head.

She's extraordinarily needy and jealous, it turns out, and I'm starting to wonder if I can handle her. I suppose there's always her willing younger sister ;)

Beard

Shaved my beard.

Partly because it was butt fugly, partly because it was a bad representation of what I felt like, and partly because I just picked up a scissors and started cutting without really thinking about it. It was fun, cutting off the huge clumps that stuck together. I have to find someone to give it to. Someone who can't grow a good beard of there own. And has a good enough sense of humor to laugh, not cry.

I think perhaps you, who hear my words but don't see my face, know me better inside than those who picture my mug when thinking of me. What I feel like inside is not well expressed outside. The best way to express most of what I look like from my point of view is through abstract paintings. Angry half-dry brush strokes of red with neatly lined up dot/nipples of blue, super imposed over lurking, childish line drawings of genitalia.

Hell, I should make that painting, if just to be able to give people an answer to the question, "how are you?" If only I had room for a painting studio. I need an apartment. Or even better, a house and some land. I want to start making my garden paradise now, before I actually have to rely on it for food. Fruit trees take time to start bearing.

It took long enough

Here's irony: I can either write a long explanatory post about how I am doing, action and inaction, and rest, or I can just go to bed on time and actually DO that which I would otherwise talk about. After all these years, I finally figure it out. Score one for Isaac!

A quote from a wise man:

"there are two types of people in the world: those that act, and those that criticize."


good night :)

sleep is importaint, for now.

I was getting very rested, at the Tom Brown Jr. courses, and now, back in Fairfield, I'm getting off of a rest-friendly schedule.
fuck.

what to do, what to do.

Quicky

Obviously I haven't posted in a while. (slap on wrist). No matter. Much of that is because I've been writing in my paper, private, journal. Which is easyer, especialy when the computer isn't even on yet. Anyways, some phrases I came up with, through dream or otherwise, that I like.

"The depths of heaven."
sounds like some kind of half erotic, half spiritual book or book made into a movie.

"Die the Doing" By Richard St. Barbie Baker. Does not exist, as far as I know, but I saw it in my dream, and the title phrase struck me. Also, I love the author, who has written other books, and is an inspiring person.

that's all folks.

XVIII

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate:

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

And summer's lease hath all too short a date:

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,

And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;

And every fair from fair sometime declines,

By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;

But thy eternal summer shall not fade

Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;

Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,

When in eternal lines to time thou growest:

So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,

So long lives this and this gives life to thee.

It's the last two lines that really get me, aside from the whole fleeting impermanence of summer beauty, which is both ironic in a place like miami, which actually is warm and summer-like all year round, and apt, in that I am leaving this place in a day, and will be officially off vacation and back on the hard but enjoyable work of learning.

Those last two lines hold the key to longevity far beyond the span of a normal human life. Think of those ancient writers like Plato, Homer, and the unknown writers of the Ramayana and the Edda's (the stories about the Norse Gods) for all the different cultures. The people (and perhaps gods) in those stories live on, long after their body has ceased to be. Your words, like Willy's up there, can live on and gain notoriety far beyond anything you had when living. Van Gough's paintings sold for a pittance, if they sold at all, while he was alive.

But it has to be great, whatever it is you do, if you want to live on. Otherwise it's lost into the mass of others long before you die.

There's something called Achilles Dilemma, after the hero of the Iliad. The story goes (to the best of my memory) that when Achilles was young man, one of the gods came to him and presented him with two options: either he could live a quiet, long, happy life, with a wonderful family, and be forgotten with the death of his grandchildren, or he could have a short, extremely traumatic, life, and be remembered by people forever.

And which would you choose? Maharishi, a dear teacher of mine through is books and tapes, was asked once, "how would you like to be remembered?" to which he replied something like, "why would I want to be remembered at all?"

IO