"All qualities, properties, features are such powers of conscious being thus put forth by itself from the Absolute; It has everything within It, It has the free power to put all forth." - Sri Aurobindo, from "The Life Divine"
In August of 2008, after four months of travelling willy-nilly around the United States, I returned somewhat wearily to my hometown of Saint Louis, MO. Considering that I was planning on continuing my travels after re-stocking my bank account, some friends of mine--a couple named Kevin and John--generously offered to have me stay at their home for a couple of months, affording me the time and space to not only save some cash doing odd jobs, but to also re-commit to my Integral Life Practice, which had been spotty at best during my jaunt around the country. It was in this setting that I would have a revelatory insight into the mystical properties of Integral cross-training, something which, at that point, had already been of interest to me for a couple of years, particularly, the effects of meditative concentration upon the inherent but mostly dormant quality of superconscious creativity.
During this stretch of life my days were pretty ideal. I would wake up and do some yoga poses and flows for a half an hour before taking in a light breakfast. Then, after checking in with my friends and glancing at the news, I would sit in meditation for forty-five minutes or so. Immediately afterwards I would pick up "The Life Divine" from Sri Aurobindo and read from it out-loud for around half an hour. This was a practice that I had begun earlier that year when I discovered that I could more deeply comprehend and connect with this monumental and profound work when I intoned the words, their vibratory frequency merging with my subtle body and literally reshaping my consciousness outside-in. (This is a practice I have kept up with ever since, moving through works from authors and poets whom I feel transmit transformative pulsations of Light and Understanding.) After the reading practice I would set out for a jog on a near-bye trail, the final of my morning devotions before starting the day "out in the world."
After a couple of weeks of this lifestyle I noticed a considerable difference in myself; I was relaxed, strong, confident, peaceful, and focused. I distinctly remember feeling very connected to Aurobindo and another writer whom I had been reading with passion and certain degree of vigor, Paul Foster Case, whose writings on Kabbalah and its intersection with the archetypes of the major arcana of the Tarot I found very revealing.
One morning, after reading a single chapter in "The Life Divine", I set out on my run. My meditation that morning had been excellent, and the intoning was truly vibrant, imparting upon me a great number of ideas about the nature of Ignorance, the nature of Soul, and the grades and states of Mind within and beyond oneself. I felt incredibly blessed to be able to understand and feel such a sacred and philosophically astute text, and as my feet fell rhythmically upon the pavement I carried its insights with me, consciously intending for it to impact the totality of my being top-to-bottom. Within about ten minutes I began to feel what I will describe as a state Perfection, consisting of all possibilities, past, present, and future, manifesting a surreal clarity within my awareness. During this span I knew myself to be Energy arising in Space, perfect Stillness moving through the sculpted suburban landscape effortlessly.
Can you say 'peak experience'?
Then, out of this extraordinary state, arose an impulse to celebrate, to create. It was desire and joy and insight wrapped into one, a sacrosanct emotion calling me to howl into universal existence what I was experiencing internally. The first line of a poem came to me and within that single line I saw contained the poem's entirety, as if it were already complete, a finished masterpiece all structured within a few syllables. I knew with certainty what I was seeing: an Individual harnessing the Creativity of the Absolute, and a relative self unified with all the movements of Time, particularly, of course, one gentleman of the 'past' named Sri Aurobindo. We were of a single Mind, he and I.
You and I.
Eye and I.
When I first began to see the poem's formation I was a couple of miles from the house with no type of writing utensil at my disposal. This brought up a slight feeling of panic as sentences were coming to me fast and furiously. I was reciting the opening line over and over so as to not forget it when the second came, and then the third, then the fourth. I could see places and colors and shapes within my mind, the words written in cursive-Fire across my inner sky. Each step of momentum carrying me home fueled and shaped the would-be poem, and by the time I reached my notebook and pen I had already written about one half of it, scrawling it furiously upon the page with a sweat-stained forehead and a bit of the shakes. This was an ecstatic experience, effortless, a movement and manifestation of Love. It was, from my perspective, a holy Gift.
Prior to this experience I had received similar inspirations, but none so complete and so shockingly full. Having considered myself a poet for a few years I had put a decent amount of my energy into wordplay, into poem structuring, into the patient practice of receiving the sounds from within. But this was a deeper experience, more hallowed, more mature than what had come before. Over the next few days as I re-worked a word here, a phrase there, the poem, which I named "Original Face", somehow became a part of me, not only through memorization but also in my life Vision; this is what I want to offer to the world, this insight, this powerful experience, this on-rush of mastery. This transcendental mystery.
***
Coming upon Sally Kempton's Integral Life post "Finding Your Deep Creativity (In Three Easy Steps)" was, for me, an affirmation, firstly, of the potentialities which arise from being able to enter a state of inward silent awareness, and secondly, of an understanding that one's self is the seat of the creative solution, both in its reactive form (as in problem solving) and in its active form (as in harnessing the emergent). Obviously, there are many ways in which the creative experience can be channeled and used--a list of the lines of development as per Integral Theory might offer an approximate idea of just how many. However, common to them all, I do believe, is our capability to sit in the unknown fearlessly, trusting that an answer does exist, here. Within us.
The notion that flashes of insight can and do occur, and the we can consciously cultivate them with practice, is extremely gratifying. While we are all confined within the limited relative experience that is this human form we all nonetheless have within us an endless Source, a flowering Puissance which offers full participation in Its existence. This does not mean that we shall always have every answer to every problem or that we'll be able to rattle off the next "Hamlet" whenever we so choose, but that within the confines of our particular life situation there is the potential for creative responses and novel emergence moment to moment. We are indeed free to play.
When I speak of the above poem as a manifestation of my life Vision I mean that in more ways than one. Vision, for me, is integral to my own creative process. To see is to know, and no matter how long I may have to sit and tinker to complete something, if I have seen the desired result--or even an approximation thereof--beforehand, this patient waiting is anything but a trial; it is easy and natural, as a part of me as walking in the park or having a conversation. Sometimes, of course, the rigors of life demand that this creative experience is the walk of a blind man through the desert at night, but so be it; the ability to consciously participate in the world game is absolutely worth it.
While I did see this respective poem before it was manifested, I have actually had a difficult time of seeing when and how it should be shared with others. To speak metaphorically, since the day it was born it has lived in darkness. It has been two years and nine months since that poem first Dawned on me, and from that day to this I have only shared it publicly one time, a tale fit for the telling.
I have performed and shared poetry quite often over the past several years. Open mics, poetry slams, gatherings of friends, even one on one with but a single other--these situations have blessed me with the opportunity to open up and offer my personal insights and inspirations in the worded form. I have a fairly large repertoire of poems, so whenever the chance to express arises I have to ask myself "What is the proper poem for this moment? What do I feel like sharing? What would they the audience most likely respond to?" Not one time had "Original Face" been an answer to that line of questioning. Until, that is, I visited Alex Grey's community, the CoSM Sanctuary, for a full moon ceremony in October of 2010.
Having been privy to such gatherings with this community several times in the past I knew that a chance might come to be able to offer a poem, something Alex and his wife Alison often encourage with heartfelt receptiveness. Sure enough, when the moment arose I knew exactly which poem I was going to recite. Speaking "Original Face" to that particular crowd on that particular night equalled the magnitude of its initial inspiration over two years beforehand. Having held on to it for so long there was no trepidation as I stood to offer it; I could see its images and words already living inside of the gathering before me, as if it, I, was already one with them. As the cadence flowed from me I could see Energy circling in the room, the beatitude of Sachchidananda (Love-Consciousness-Bliss) touching us all, our forms mere temporary manifestations of this Eternal-Infinite Truth.
"I" did indeed leave them breathless that evening. Many people approached me to offer their experiences of the recital, their insights and gratitude for my poetry, and I couldn't help but think about how the poem came into being, how long I had carried it with me, and the purpose it served, no matter how small, in the lives of these shining participants. Really, it was their poem all along. They were simply receiving the impulse, the signal, of their very own Self, and so were even with me in that space of active silence on the jogging trail a couple years earlier. And now, you, my dear friend, are also receiving what was already yours: that superconscious impulse to create which manifested through me in August of 2008.
And the journey continues...
"Original Face" by Jason Matthew Turner
There is a condition and cure for our suffering.
The pathway to Liberation is spontaneously arising.
Naked and vast as ten million tumbling waterfalls
And as clean as the sliver-blue moon purifying our hearts.
We are an entire universe intersecting with our Destiny,
Jumbled masses of confused galaxies
Formulated and propagated in nary the blink of an Eye,
Witnessing computation from the other side of everything.
Gregarious children are we,
Standing on the threshold of blissful Eternity,
Returning to the Source from our troubled past
And splashing in the cosmic rays of our on-coming future.
Temples in the sky serve as or protectors
From the roving clans of barbarian hordes that punctuate our material existence,
While solstice recognition provides a means
To access the plenitude of this Creation.
Mother Earth is our cornerstone,
The foundation of our ascension into the great wide Unknown.
Follow the glow of Horus, Son of Isis and Osiris,
The coveted family archetypally powering the untarnished Consciousness.
We are split from that Treasure only by a matter of degree.
Divinity is the essence manifesting poly-amorously.
Unity is the reckoning in every position of life
And the Holy Trinity is child, husband, and wife
In a transcendental embrace,
Fully awakened to the formless dimension that is ever-present,
The non-local Object revering Itself in perfect separation.
When I say that the Manifestation is serenely in tact
Leave no room for doubt by exploring the Golden Dawn for yourself.
Your wings are too precious to give over to the fate of another.
The constant struggle's very purpose is a long lost surrender,
And the Universal Person relinquishes their ego
In the company of their sisters and brothers.
The beginning is the end
And the principle Reality may never be divided
Even in it its countless divisions.
We are a unified multiplicity,
A staggering Mystery knowable only in the silent Space of Being.
In this voice in the tragic comedy of Maya
And the endless Bliss of Ananda calling you
To examine the agile symphony of this moment,
Where the unfolding splendor of the multi-verse is forever our stainless Center
And the innocence of children coalesces with ancient wisdom of the Masters,
An alchemy of precision rendered perfectly for transmutation,
Turning lead into Gold, craving into Soul,
We are the leading edge of an Evolving Miracle,
Where the Unknowable bestows upon its sovereign people
Peace, Love, Light, Harmony, Wisdom, Virtue, Crown, and Kingdom.
We are eternally free, witnessing this mystical play
By the Light of our Original Face.
Darkness fades, the darkness fades,
And all that remains
Is This.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Portals and Portraits
(Over the past couple of months inspiration struck on two different occasions for two different short stories. After hammering each of them out fairly quickly, I felt that something was lacking from them. After re-reading the first and re-writing the second I came to realize something: the stories are very similar in meaning and tone, if not in feeling, and somehow compliment and fulfill one another in a weird way. Contextualizing them as a pair brings a life to them both that just isn't there individually, bringing insight to the expression that I was trying to convey through the bodies of words. While they are separate stories, in this instance I am naming them as one, "The Musician and The Magician." Feedback and impressions would be appreciated.)
The Musician
Dave Patroey is, as he would say, "kickin' it in his kingdom," relaxing, feet up, in a leather computer chair back stage of the Staples Center in downtown Los Angeles. A room such as this is where you can find him every day at this time (roughly six-thirty pm), at least every day of the tour in which they (they being his band, An Achilles Blade) have a gig. The room itself is fairly simple--four white walls with dimmed, bluish lighting--but is ample in size and set up to his exact specifications in every city they visit: plush, wide bodied sofa (fit for sitting or laying); 52'' Vizio Hi Definition television (complete, of course, with a Bose surround sound system), usually playing one concert DVD or another, today, Rush's "Rush In Rio"; black desk housing his beloved Mac, as well as a digital picture frame rotating pictures of his wife, daughter, and vistas of the places he's traveled to around the globe; small black drum kit in the corner, used for warming up before the gig; six gold and platinum records on the walls, two for each of their first three albums; and, finally, his prize, an enormous red and gold area rug which he purchased on a trip to Russia two years beforehand, portraying an elaborate labyrinth in its center, the labyrinth itself surrounded by magnificent scroll work, queen bees, and grizzly bears.
Having toured steadily for the past decade Dave has, over time, become a creature of repetition and habit. He has cultivated daily life on the road to have a flow, a rhythm to be played in exactitude. Not unlike his drum compositions (which have increased in complexity with each album), he holds a precise idea of the way a day should sound and feel. Each moment on the clock is a cue, a symbol crash or a tom-tom roll to be executed to perfection. Glancing at the clock on the Mac's wide screen, for instance, Dave knows that within the next couple of minutes his assistant/care-taker/friend "Raphael-san" (so nicknamed not after the Renaissance painter and architect, but after a character from the cartoon Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, which they both consider to be classic) will walk through the door with his Venti Iced Vanilla Latte from Starbucks, the first of two such drinks leading up to show time. To Dave that is just the way things are, and he likes it very much.
This is not to say that he is without flexibility, on tour or in life. If inspiration strikes he is more than capable of improvisation, of going into unfamiliar territory for the purposes of excitation and exploration. Such is the nature of creativity, he believes: following the call and having the gumption to trust oneself when you don't know where you are or where you're going, yet knowing there is something extraordinary in the vicinity. In fact, Dave prides himself on his willingness to spontaneously re-route, to "play in seriousness" as he sometimes says, and has sojourned all around the world doing that very thing, even outside of the touring he's done with An Achilles Blade. But the fact of the matter is that after the initial infatuation fades a tour starts to feel like a job, and a tough one at that. Granted, he couldn't imagine anything he'd rather be doing, but that doesn't change the reality that playing a hundred shows in a hundred and fifty days (especially evening with shows) will take its toll on your body and mind. Hence his well-established routine:
Around 2 pm, usually the time he arrives at the arena or amphitheatre, Dave heads straight to the catering room, which has an incredible assortment of fare to be chosen from, usually including barbecued chicken, bratwursts, pork steaks, and hamburgers, salad and pasta (both red and white), some kind of fresh fish (typically tuna steaks or salmon), and a variety of vegetarian dishes, insisted upon by their bass player, Franklin (nicknamed "Meastreak" for his aggressive demeanor on stage, a complete 180 from his off-stage personality). In addition to all of the above, the dining room tables are also loaded with all manner of vegetable trays, cheese trays, fruit trays, sandwich platters, cookies, chips, cakes and pies, juices, bottled drinks, and sodas. The drummer never leaves the area dissatisfied.
After eating with some of the crew and the occasional band member Dave and Rafael hop onto/into their motorcycles, bicycles, or car rentals (all depending on their mood) and spend an hour or so riding around the city, seeing sights, shopping, visiting friends. The standard afternoon jaunt leads them to some remote yet picturesque location where they "smoke out," putting on a strong cannabis buzz before heading back to the venue.
Whereupon it is time for sound-check. This is not only when the band checks the sound, but also agrees on the set-list for the evening, spends twenty minutes or so jamming on an idea for new material (there is always a digital recorder going), works out any technical kinks and logistical problems they may be having, and brain-storms for possible contributions regarding the evening's performance. Something that Trevor Baslin (superstar singer-songwriter, guitar god, and unquestionable leader of the band) insists upon is crafting a unique moment for every show, even if it's just a cover song. This, he says, not only endears the fans to them, but also keeps them on their toes as a musical unit. "If we aren't evolving, we're dissolving," is his way of putting it.
After sound-check Dave heads to his tour bus (the four band members split two buses, a perk of success) and hangs out for a little while, collecting items that may be needed for the evening--journal, DVD's, stray I-pod, the book he's reading, extra smoke, etc. Generally this is also when he calls or Skypes his wife (age 26, reddish-blond hair, amazingly beautiful) and daughter (age 3, reddish blond-hair, also amazingly beautiful) to hear about their day; who was their play date was with? where did they go shopping? where did they eat lunch? Today, it so happens, they also coordinated when and where the two ladies will meet him on the road, something they do a few times every tour for a week or so at a time. After saying proper "I love yous" he heads over to his kingdom to relax and prepare for the evening's show.
Which is where we now rejoin him.
Assistant/care-taker/friend Rafael-san, right on time, comes through the door, back-stage badge dangling loosely down the front of his concert t-shit, bearing above stated Venti Iced Vanilla Latte, as well as a Mocha Frappuccino (extra whip) for himself. He sits on the sofa and the pair of them, who have been friends since high school, discuss the masterful drum work of Rush drummer Neal Peart for a couple minutes, taking in renditions of "Freewill" and "Closer To The Heart". Peart is one of of Dave's heroes, a guy he has studied relentlessly since he started playing drums. Other percussionists on his short list of inspirations include Danny Carey, Mike Portnoy, John Bonham, Matt Cameron, Josh Freese, Mark Zonder, and Thomas Pridgen, all of whom he enjoys for different reasons, some conceptual, some passional, some intellectual, some worshipful.
After Rafael-san takes leave Dave commences his routine, reading for forty-five minutes (Borges' "Labyrinths") before beginning his opening stretches, getting his muscles loose for the show. After fifteen minutes of fairly elaborate stretching and bending (inspired by his wife, a rabid yoga practitioner), the world famous drummer sits down at the drum kit in the corner. The set is the bare minimum, at least compared to the one he uses on stage, an almost exact replication of the kit he learned on as a kid: snare drum, tom-toms, floor tom, kick drum, hi-hat, ride symbol, and a couple of crashes. Adjusting himself on the stool he's brought back, as per usual, to his parents' garage at age four-teen or so, when he would sit behind that kit in absolute devotion for hours on end. If his mom wouldn't have kicked him out (sometimes forcibly with a broom or occasional bucket of water) he would have lost his entire day practicing. "There is more to life than those drums, David. Being the best drummer in the world won't mean anything if you don't know up from down. Now get out of my house and go make some friends. Or better yet, a girlfriend. And do your homework, or else the drums are going in the dumpster!".
Easing into the most basic of rhythms, Dave commands the sticks and pedals as if they're extensions of his body. Gaining speed, he naturally flows from one tempo to another, playing by feel and feel alone. When he's on stage his focus is upon a single point within, riding a wave of surging emotions and breathless excitation (a normal human reaction to being seated on a riser and spot-lighted in front of 18,000 people) while simultaneously channeling the exactitude imprinted on the album, a standard the band aims for with every performance. But here, in his kingdom, free to go in any direction that spontaneously arises from within, is where inspiration strikes. He doesn't prefer this to being on stage, necessarily, but it has its own appeal, a half an hour of pressure-less enjoyment in which to riff on jazz, on blues, on whatever happens to feel good at the moment. For Dave Patroey, practice is both work and play, an absorption at once loud and peaceful, crazed and controlled, maniac and lucid.
For Dave Patroey, drumming is oceanic explosion.
-
The Magician
It is finally done. In my nine hundred and seventy-fifth year of existence in this physical form I have finished construction on my masterpiece, and it is so beautiful to behold that I can barely contain myself. When I look upon it I am filled with a sense of reverence so profound that it leaves me simultaneously eager like the child that I once (long ago!) was, and humbled with gratitude in my heart, almost to a point of weeping. To see this creation of mine, two hundred and twenty-seven year in the making, fills me with awe and wonder at the nature of the Existence, at the Power of the individual, at the mystery of Freedom, and at the reality of Magic itself. For this process, this undertaking, was nothing less than the most difficult and momentous idea I have ever propelled in a lifetime of difficult and momentous ideas.
I was deemed Wizard by the Order on my ninety-ninth naming day. From that day to this has been a consistent intention on my part to make a serious and profound impact upon the many levels and layers of the Unified Creation, knowing, because of my Gift, that my usefulness goes far beyond that of the ordinary person. Travels, studies, dangers, trials: all searching for the answer, as if it existed out there somewhere in the form of an ancient spell or long lost relic! All of that prepared me to receive the Vision, however, and when it came down from on High I knew that I would be ready actualize it because of all that I had previously been through; I didn't once flinch at the outlandishness of its inspiration.
The original notion was simple, really: build a castle of Beauty and Goodness and Omniscience in a realm of Delusion and Suffering and Ignorance. Of all the major schools of Magic--Conjuration/Summoning, Illusion/Phantasm, Invocation/Evocation, Alteration/Transmutation, Divination, Necromancy, Enchantment, Abjuration--the one that I was always the most fascinated by was Timeframe/Location, simply because of the possibilities to touch alternative planes of existence, distant planets, and divergent universal orders. It was this ability that ultimately would bring about the Idea, having, in the span of 50 hours, visited 5 different realities, all of a varying climate, temperament, social structure, moral order, delight, and danger.
Allow me tell you from experience, transporting from the highest of the High to the lowest of the Low in the blink of an eye can be both electrifying and terrifying. The most important thing (at the possible expense of losing ones' grip on their sanity) is to keep personal attention firmly fixed upon the One, understand that there is but a single Creation regardless of the space-time continuum one is visiting. On the day I received the Vision I performed a Dimensional Shift from Elysium to Pandemonium. Such a drastic and instantaneous transportation must have shaken something loose inside of me, and in one of the most sublime moments I have ever had I realized that the main difference between a realm of Goodness and Order verses of that of Evil and Chaos was that the former is connected to the Truth of what is actually happening while the latter sees only in fragments, and that darkly. Evil and Chaos, I understood, is a condition of delusion and is not volitional, meaning that it is enslaved. Only knowledge of Truth offers real Freedom; Ignorance fosters limitation and always ends in self-generated suffering. (Note: it is understood that Chaos is a mode of Creation; it is also understood the workings of Magic and personal freedom are predicated upon Order and Law, therefore true Chaos has to be, in this instance, intepretted as a reality of suffering and danger.)
The insight that followed left me reeling: If I have been blessed with this conceptual framework of existence, knowing that my Being and Will links me to whatever reality I happen to be beholding, shouldn't my presence offer a transformative emanation of Knowledge and Truth wherever I am? (In formulaic terminology: Truth plus Self Conscious Realization of Knowledge equals Affectivity, Will, and Transformative Delight). Regardless of the content--be they the hells of Baator or the gardens of Mount Celestia--shouldn't my reckoning of pure Understanding offer Liberation from the Ignorance to those inhabiting the realm? My desire for it to be so must mean that there is at the very least a touch of possibility inherent within the notion.
It was many months of pondering this Idea that ultimately would fuel the Artwork, the Castle. It matters not if it has an affect on the conscious plane of being, or even if there is a living entity there to witness it. What is important is the symbol, the intention, the will to offer a dedicated service for the purpose of bringing Light into darkness. The harvested meaning of my life hinges upon the ability to at once delight in Communion with entities on High (angels, devas, planars, minor deities, etc., all of whom Realize the Truth and Law which gives them birth, albeit to varying degrees), and also transmit a pulsation of Realization to those lost in the shadow of the Great Inversion.
Considering on where to construct it, I needed a place of secrecy, and so chose an extra-dimensional pocket. Sure, there are dangers involved in such a location (if one could even call it that; non-location is more like it), but the rewards were well worth it: privacy, an ability to reach it from whatever plane or world I happened to be visiting, and its inherent neutrality all outweighed the slight chance that it would collapse upon itself and ruin the work or--ehem!--kill me. Looking back over the past couple of millenia it is easy to see that it was clearly the proper choice, and for various reasons, but hindsight is definitely in high definition; I fretted over that particular decision for well over a decade.
The pocket itself looks sort of like a field of light, color and shade providing the 'shape' in which the castle rests. One couldn't really call it an enclosure, though, as there seems to be a horizon in all directions, which is nothing more than an illusion; the pocket is really only about the size of a large outdoor sporting field.
The castle, the Artwork, is glorious. It is not all that large, that is comparing it to other castles around the multi-verse. I mean, if you took a sampling of castles from a hundred thousand different worlds that all held the castle Idea, this one would most assuredly be dwarf sized set up against the average. Nevertheless, I would place its grace and Beauty in competition with even the grandest of palaces.
It is sleekly shaped and triple spired, symmetrical yet random, strong yet graceful. The color of the stone, which is not layered bricks but smooth and whole, subtly shifts from dark to light and back again, sometimes meeting in the middle with a grayish silver. The never settling coloration imposes a feeling of mystical tranquility, an emotion not of either-or but of unity, togetherness. Occasionally a series of ever-shifting patterns, designs, and sacred words will appear on the stone itself, formed in a glowing, flowing, sparkling script, an enchantment that holds protective forces, among other things.
The building seems alive, as if it is breathing, being, becoming, awakening. It is almost a loving presence, a conscious entity unto itself. It is at once an expression, a temple, a church, a museum. It is a space to experience the Divine, the Sacred, and the Magical without, within, and beyond oneself.
I will occupy my new home only part time, but will bring allies and friends from other dimensions to visit once I have it locked in place. I have chosen a layer of the Waste to house it, a plane of rot and spoil. There could be all kinds of nefarious creatures in the vicinity, of course, and the castle will surely draw their interest, but that is the point: impregnable, I will be able to study the influence as the spell works its magic within the plane. Who knows how long it will take? Time is one of the great essences of Magic, and it could be a thousand years before I start to see fruit.
Tonight is a night of rest, and in the morning I shift the castle to its new position, its new home, its new dimension. I would be lying if I didn't admit to fear and trepidation. There is more than an element of danger in every aspect of this, but I have to trust in myself, in my Creator, in my Goodness, in my Vision. It is an Artwork of fascination and Love, a testament of forgiveness, personal participation, and supraconscious feeling. It is, in essence, everything that I want to share with the multi-verse, for now at least. And fear shall never stop me from seeing that into Being.
The Musician
Dave Patroey is, as he would say, "kickin' it in his kingdom," relaxing, feet up, in a leather computer chair back stage of the Staples Center in downtown Los Angeles. A room such as this is where you can find him every day at this time (roughly six-thirty pm), at least every day of the tour in which they (they being his band, An Achilles Blade) have a gig. The room itself is fairly simple--four white walls with dimmed, bluish lighting--but is ample in size and set up to his exact specifications in every city they visit: plush, wide bodied sofa (fit for sitting or laying); 52'' Vizio Hi Definition television (complete, of course, with a Bose surround sound system), usually playing one concert DVD or another, today, Rush's "Rush In Rio"; black desk housing his beloved Mac, as well as a digital picture frame rotating pictures of his wife, daughter, and vistas of the places he's traveled to around the globe; small black drum kit in the corner, used for warming up before the gig; six gold and platinum records on the walls, two for each of their first three albums; and, finally, his prize, an enormous red and gold area rug which he purchased on a trip to Russia two years beforehand, portraying an elaborate labyrinth in its center, the labyrinth itself surrounded by magnificent scroll work, queen bees, and grizzly bears.
Having toured steadily for the past decade Dave has, over time, become a creature of repetition and habit. He has cultivated daily life on the road to have a flow, a rhythm to be played in exactitude. Not unlike his drum compositions (which have increased in complexity with each album), he holds a precise idea of the way a day should sound and feel. Each moment on the clock is a cue, a symbol crash or a tom-tom roll to be executed to perfection. Glancing at the clock on the Mac's wide screen, for instance, Dave knows that within the next couple of minutes his assistant/care-taker/friend "Raphael-san" (so nicknamed not after the Renaissance painter and architect, but after a character from the cartoon Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, which they both consider to be classic) will walk through the door with his Venti Iced Vanilla Latte from Starbucks, the first of two such drinks leading up to show time. To Dave that is just the way things are, and he likes it very much.
This is not to say that he is without flexibility, on tour or in life. If inspiration strikes he is more than capable of improvisation, of going into unfamiliar territory for the purposes of excitation and exploration. Such is the nature of creativity, he believes: following the call and having the gumption to trust oneself when you don't know where you are or where you're going, yet knowing there is something extraordinary in the vicinity. In fact, Dave prides himself on his willingness to spontaneously re-route, to "play in seriousness" as he sometimes says, and has sojourned all around the world doing that very thing, even outside of the touring he's done with An Achilles Blade. But the fact of the matter is that after the initial infatuation fades a tour starts to feel like a job, and a tough one at that. Granted, he couldn't imagine anything he'd rather be doing, but that doesn't change the reality that playing a hundred shows in a hundred and fifty days (especially evening with shows) will take its toll on your body and mind. Hence his well-established routine:
Around 2 pm, usually the time he arrives at the arena or amphitheatre, Dave heads straight to the catering room, which has an incredible assortment of fare to be chosen from, usually including barbecued chicken, bratwursts, pork steaks, and hamburgers, salad and pasta (both red and white), some kind of fresh fish (typically tuna steaks or salmon), and a variety of vegetarian dishes, insisted upon by their bass player, Franklin (nicknamed "Meastreak" for his aggressive demeanor on stage, a complete 180 from his off-stage personality). In addition to all of the above, the dining room tables are also loaded with all manner of vegetable trays, cheese trays, fruit trays, sandwich platters, cookies, chips, cakes and pies, juices, bottled drinks, and sodas. The drummer never leaves the area dissatisfied.
After eating with some of the crew and the occasional band member Dave and Rafael hop onto/into their motorcycles, bicycles, or car rentals (all depending on their mood) and spend an hour or so riding around the city, seeing sights, shopping, visiting friends. The standard afternoon jaunt leads them to some remote yet picturesque location where they "smoke out," putting on a strong cannabis buzz before heading back to the venue.
Whereupon it is time for sound-check. This is not only when the band checks the sound, but also agrees on the set-list for the evening, spends twenty minutes or so jamming on an idea for new material (there is always a digital recorder going), works out any technical kinks and logistical problems they may be having, and brain-storms for possible contributions regarding the evening's performance. Something that Trevor Baslin (superstar singer-songwriter, guitar god, and unquestionable leader of the band) insists upon is crafting a unique moment for every show, even if it's just a cover song. This, he says, not only endears the fans to them, but also keeps them on their toes as a musical unit. "If we aren't evolving, we're dissolving," is his way of putting it.
After sound-check Dave heads to his tour bus (the four band members split two buses, a perk of success) and hangs out for a little while, collecting items that may be needed for the evening--journal, DVD's, stray I-pod, the book he's reading, extra smoke, etc. Generally this is also when he calls or Skypes his wife (age 26, reddish-blond hair, amazingly beautiful) and daughter (age 3, reddish blond-hair, also amazingly beautiful) to hear about their day; who was their play date was with? where did they go shopping? where did they eat lunch? Today, it so happens, they also coordinated when and where the two ladies will meet him on the road, something they do a few times every tour for a week or so at a time. After saying proper "I love yous" he heads over to his kingdom to relax and prepare for the evening's show.
Which is where we now rejoin him.
Assistant/care-taker/friend Rafael-san, right on time, comes through the door, back-stage badge dangling loosely down the front of his concert t-shit, bearing above stated Venti Iced Vanilla Latte, as well as a Mocha Frappuccino (extra whip) for himself. He sits on the sofa and the pair of them, who have been friends since high school, discuss the masterful drum work of Rush drummer Neal Peart for a couple minutes, taking in renditions of "Freewill" and "Closer To The Heart". Peart is one of of Dave's heroes, a guy he has studied relentlessly since he started playing drums. Other percussionists on his short list of inspirations include Danny Carey, Mike Portnoy, John Bonham, Matt Cameron, Josh Freese, Mark Zonder, and Thomas Pridgen, all of whom he enjoys for different reasons, some conceptual, some passional, some intellectual, some worshipful.
After Rafael-san takes leave Dave commences his routine, reading for forty-five minutes (Borges' "Labyrinths") before beginning his opening stretches, getting his muscles loose for the show. After fifteen minutes of fairly elaborate stretching and bending (inspired by his wife, a rabid yoga practitioner), the world famous drummer sits down at the drum kit in the corner. The set is the bare minimum, at least compared to the one he uses on stage, an almost exact replication of the kit he learned on as a kid: snare drum, tom-toms, floor tom, kick drum, hi-hat, ride symbol, and a couple of crashes. Adjusting himself on the stool he's brought back, as per usual, to his parents' garage at age four-teen or so, when he would sit behind that kit in absolute devotion for hours on end. If his mom wouldn't have kicked him out (sometimes forcibly with a broom or occasional bucket of water) he would have lost his entire day practicing. "There is more to life than those drums, David. Being the best drummer in the world won't mean anything if you don't know up from down. Now get out of my house and go make some friends. Or better yet, a girlfriend. And do your homework, or else the drums are going in the dumpster!".
Easing into the most basic of rhythms, Dave commands the sticks and pedals as if they're extensions of his body. Gaining speed, he naturally flows from one tempo to another, playing by feel and feel alone. When he's on stage his focus is upon a single point within, riding a wave of surging emotions and breathless excitation (a normal human reaction to being seated on a riser and spot-lighted in front of 18,000 people) while simultaneously channeling the exactitude imprinted on the album, a standard the band aims for with every performance. But here, in his kingdom, free to go in any direction that spontaneously arises from within, is where inspiration strikes. He doesn't prefer this to being on stage, necessarily, but it has its own appeal, a half an hour of pressure-less enjoyment in which to riff on jazz, on blues, on whatever happens to feel good at the moment. For Dave Patroey, practice is both work and play, an absorption at once loud and peaceful, crazed and controlled, maniac and lucid.
For Dave Patroey, drumming is oceanic explosion.
-
The Magician
It is finally done. In my nine hundred and seventy-fifth year of existence in this physical form I have finished construction on my masterpiece, and it is so beautiful to behold that I can barely contain myself. When I look upon it I am filled with a sense of reverence so profound that it leaves me simultaneously eager like the child that I once (long ago!) was, and humbled with gratitude in my heart, almost to a point of weeping. To see this creation of mine, two hundred and twenty-seven year in the making, fills me with awe and wonder at the nature of the Existence, at the Power of the individual, at the mystery of Freedom, and at the reality of Magic itself. For this process, this undertaking, was nothing less than the most difficult and momentous idea I have ever propelled in a lifetime of difficult and momentous ideas.
I was deemed Wizard by the Order on my ninety-ninth naming day. From that day to this has been a consistent intention on my part to make a serious and profound impact upon the many levels and layers of the Unified Creation, knowing, because of my Gift, that my usefulness goes far beyond that of the ordinary person. Travels, studies, dangers, trials: all searching for the answer, as if it existed out there somewhere in the form of an ancient spell or long lost relic! All of that prepared me to receive the Vision, however, and when it came down from on High I knew that I would be ready actualize it because of all that I had previously been through; I didn't once flinch at the outlandishness of its inspiration.
The original notion was simple, really: build a castle of Beauty and Goodness and Omniscience in a realm of Delusion and Suffering and Ignorance. Of all the major schools of Magic--Conjuration/Summoning, Illusion/Phantasm, Invocation/Evocation, Alteration/Transmutation, Divination, Necromancy, Enchantment, Abjuration--the one that I was always the most fascinated by was Timeframe/Location, simply because of the possibilities to touch alternative planes of existence, distant planets, and divergent universal orders. It was this ability that ultimately would bring about the Idea, having, in the span of 50 hours, visited 5 different realities, all of a varying climate, temperament, social structure, moral order, delight, and danger.
Allow me tell you from experience, transporting from the highest of the High to the lowest of the Low in the blink of an eye can be both electrifying and terrifying. The most important thing (at the possible expense of losing ones' grip on their sanity) is to keep personal attention firmly fixed upon the One, understand that there is but a single Creation regardless of the space-time continuum one is visiting. On the day I received the Vision I performed a Dimensional Shift from Elysium to Pandemonium. Such a drastic and instantaneous transportation must have shaken something loose inside of me, and in one of the most sublime moments I have ever had I realized that the main difference between a realm of Goodness and Order verses of that of Evil and Chaos was that the former is connected to the Truth of what is actually happening while the latter sees only in fragments, and that darkly. Evil and Chaos, I understood, is a condition of delusion and is not volitional, meaning that it is enslaved. Only knowledge of Truth offers real Freedom; Ignorance fosters limitation and always ends in self-generated suffering. (Note: it is understood that Chaos is a mode of Creation; it is also understood the workings of Magic and personal freedom are predicated upon Order and Law, therefore true Chaos has to be, in this instance, intepretted as a reality of suffering and danger.)
The insight that followed left me reeling: If I have been blessed with this conceptual framework of existence, knowing that my Being and Will links me to whatever reality I happen to be beholding, shouldn't my presence offer a transformative emanation of Knowledge and Truth wherever I am? (In formulaic terminology: Truth plus Self Conscious Realization of Knowledge equals Affectivity, Will, and Transformative Delight). Regardless of the content--be they the hells of Baator or the gardens of Mount Celestia--shouldn't my reckoning of pure Understanding offer Liberation from the Ignorance to those inhabiting the realm? My desire for it to be so must mean that there is at the very least a touch of possibility inherent within the notion.
It was many months of pondering this Idea that ultimately would fuel the Artwork, the Castle. It matters not if it has an affect on the conscious plane of being, or even if there is a living entity there to witness it. What is important is the symbol, the intention, the will to offer a dedicated service for the purpose of bringing Light into darkness. The harvested meaning of my life hinges upon the ability to at once delight in Communion with entities on High (angels, devas, planars, minor deities, etc., all of whom Realize the Truth and Law which gives them birth, albeit to varying degrees), and also transmit a pulsation of Realization to those lost in the shadow of the Great Inversion.
Considering on where to construct it, I needed a place of secrecy, and so chose an extra-dimensional pocket. Sure, there are dangers involved in such a location (if one could even call it that; non-location is more like it), but the rewards were well worth it: privacy, an ability to reach it from whatever plane or world I happened to be visiting, and its inherent neutrality all outweighed the slight chance that it would collapse upon itself and ruin the work or--ehem!--kill me. Looking back over the past couple of millenia it is easy to see that it was clearly the proper choice, and for various reasons, but hindsight is definitely in high definition; I fretted over that particular decision for well over a decade.
The pocket itself looks sort of like a field of light, color and shade providing the 'shape' in which the castle rests. One couldn't really call it an enclosure, though, as there seems to be a horizon in all directions, which is nothing more than an illusion; the pocket is really only about the size of a large outdoor sporting field.
The castle, the Artwork, is glorious. It is not all that large, that is comparing it to other castles around the multi-verse. I mean, if you took a sampling of castles from a hundred thousand different worlds that all held the castle Idea, this one would most assuredly be dwarf sized set up against the average. Nevertheless, I would place its grace and Beauty in competition with even the grandest of palaces.
It is sleekly shaped and triple spired, symmetrical yet random, strong yet graceful. The color of the stone, which is not layered bricks but smooth and whole, subtly shifts from dark to light and back again, sometimes meeting in the middle with a grayish silver. The never settling coloration imposes a feeling of mystical tranquility, an emotion not of either-or but of unity, togetherness. Occasionally a series of ever-shifting patterns, designs, and sacred words will appear on the stone itself, formed in a glowing, flowing, sparkling script, an enchantment that holds protective forces, among other things.
The building seems alive, as if it is breathing, being, becoming, awakening. It is almost a loving presence, a conscious entity unto itself. It is at once an expression, a temple, a church, a museum. It is a space to experience the Divine, the Sacred, and the Magical without, within, and beyond oneself.
I will occupy my new home only part time, but will bring allies and friends from other dimensions to visit once I have it locked in place. I have chosen a layer of the Waste to house it, a plane of rot and spoil. There could be all kinds of nefarious creatures in the vicinity, of course, and the castle will surely draw their interest, but that is the point: impregnable, I will be able to study the influence as the spell works its magic within the plane. Who knows how long it will take? Time is one of the great essences of Magic, and it could be a thousand years before I start to see fruit.
Tonight is a night of rest, and in the morning I shift the castle to its new position, its new home, its new dimension. I would be lying if I didn't admit to fear and trepidation. There is more than an element of danger in every aspect of this, but I have to trust in myself, in my Creator, in my Goodness, in my Vision. It is an Artwork of fascination and Love, a testament of forgiveness, personal participation, and supraconscious feeling. It is, in essence, everything that I want to share with the multi-verse, for now at least. And fear shall never stop me from seeing that into Being.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Homage To A Kitty-Cat (A True Story)
A few years back, when I was staying at my mom's place, my cousin Alison came to live with us in a spare bedroom we had. After a couple of months she was presented the opportunity to get two cats from her brother's ex-girlfriend and brought them to stay with us as well, a new experience both to my mom and myself. Their names were Puff-Puff and Paxil, the latter named after the antidepressant, a fact that should amaze you once you see the direction this story is going. They were about as different as cats can be. Puff-Puff was a take-charge, in-your-face, gotta-see-what-this-is-all-about personality, while Paxil was super chill and laid back; if there was a laser pointer anywhere in the vicinity Puff-Puff would tirelessly chase after it while Paxil would give it a bat or two then ignore it completely. They were not brothers, but both were very close in age (three years old) and had lived together almost their entire lives.
After living with us for a couple of months I regularly found Paxil on my bed and up in my window sill, and we became fast friends. He really wasn't social with anyone else, and both my mom and cousin pointed out that Paxil had "chosen me," a fact that I couldn't deny. And I liked it, liked him. He had an incredibly soft orangish-brown coat, and a little mane that made him look sort of like a lion. Even though his claws had been removed he still retained the swagger of a hunter, while not shying away one bit from the love and affection I so regularly lavished upon him. My absolute favorite thing was the way he would "talk" to me while I was petting him or patting his little rear-end, meowing and make all kinds of funny chirping noises.
Within a year or so I commonly referred to Paxil as "The Man," and heaped as much praise upon him as possible to friends and strangers alike. The fact of the matter is that I started seeing him as more than simply a cat; often I used the term "spiritual being" when talking about him. His eyes, his mannerisms, how he ate, everything took on a deeper significance the more time I spent with him. I used to openly admit to the possibility that this was all projection on my part, that I was casting additional abilities onto my feline pal just because we had forged such a strong bond. But something out of the ordinary happened which confirmed my suspicion that Paxil was and is more than mere cat, that he truly is a unique and soulful individual with a greater degree of consciousness than most of us might care to recognize.
To point:
I was in a deep, deep depression. I had been bed ridden for about thirty hours or so, only getting up to retrieve some food or occasionally use the bathroom. Mostly I just laid there and stared at the wall, hating myself and all things about reality in general. These bouts of depression are something I have been dealing with ever since I was a teenager, and, through specific techniques, have marked quite a bit of improvement over the years--meditation, yoga, exercise, proper diet, journaling, books on psycho-therapy, etc. Nonetheless, sometimes the weight of the world comes to me gift-wrapped in an enormous fucking bow-tie, and this just so happened to be one of those times.
Now, the door to my bedroom had a slight problem. The door handle would not click and keep the door shut the way that it should, but if I gave it an extra little nudge the door would stick to the frame. This was an old house, with all kinds of little peculiarities like this. Anyway, because the door was only ever closed in this manner the slightest touch from the other side would knock it open, something that Paxil would frequently take advantage of--he really, really liked sitting in the twin windows in my room. So to keep this from happening I would sometimes place heavy objects on my side of the door to lock him out (even the best of friends need their time apart).
Being that I was in one of my "me plus world equals giant turd" states of mind, I stacked up about a half-dozen objects to keep Paxil and everybody else at out of my room. This barrier was solid, I tell you, with a waste basket and some heavy books as the guts of the operation. There was even a free weight or two involved.
Laying there in silence with messy hair and drool on my face I heard Paxil come up to the door and push on it with his paws. The door doesn't budge, of course, because of my make-shift fortification. Score one for Jason. After a couple more tries the noises stop, and I think that Pax has given up and gone to find another spot to chill in. But a few seconds later I hear the patter of feet coming full force toward the door and BAM!, slam into the thing. It still didn't open, but I sort of perked up for a second, imagining the cat running through the kitchen and down the hallway to my bedroom, which was a straight shot. Regardless, the door was too heavily weighted to have an eight or nine pound cat knock it open, but I had to admire him for trying.
Then it happened again. And again. And again. For a HALF AN HOUR this cat ran at top speed through our house and plunged himself against the door, trying time and time again to get inside. I couldn't believe it. After fifteen minutes I was kind of sitting up, just watching to see if he would actually do it. The more he thwacked up against my door, the more I shook my head in amazement. I was saying to myself, "There is no fucking way you are getting in, Paxil. Just give over already." But no, he kept coming.
And finally, amazingly, it opened. On what must have been the fiftieth time of crashing into my bedroom door he rocked the trash can just enough to squeeze through. In one fluid motion he slinked across the floor and hopped up onto my bed, victorious. He laid down and started flapping his tail, looking in every direction but mine. His expression read "Yeah, that's right, I am a bad-ass." There was almost a glow around him, and he wasn't even breathing heavy from the effort.
It was one of the most incredible things I have ever witnessed.
And my depression lifted right there. I couldn't lay there and feel sorry for myself such an effort. I had blocked him from my room many number of times before and he had never tried such a thing as this. It truly was an act and expression of soul. I went over to him and placed my face up against his and gave him a whole bunch of kisses, and he meowed and gnawed at my hair while batting playfully at my face, something he was always doing. Then I spoke to him like he was an equal, like he was a being with consciousness on par with mine--at least. I thanked him from the heart for not giving up. I told him that I had never, ever seen anything like that, and that I knew he did it because I was feeling sad.
"I can't feel sorry for myself after seeing that, Pax. I just can't"
This event shifted our relationship to an even deeper level. Although he doesn't live with me anymore (my cousin Alison has him) I still think of him as one of my dearest friends. Even after long stretches of time whenever I see him it is right back to where we left off, rolling on the carpet and chatting away. Good times are had by all, even those simply watching. He has a place in my mind and heart for the rest of my life, and beyond that as well.
Paxil: the all-natural antidepressant.
After living with us for a couple of months I regularly found Paxil on my bed and up in my window sill, and we became fast friends. He really wasn't social with anyone else, and both my mom and cousin pointed out that Paxil had "chosen me," a fact that I couldn't deny. And I liked it, liked him. He had an incredibly soft orangish-brown coat, and a little mane that made him look sort of like a lion. Even though his claws had been removed he still retained the swagger of a hunter, while not shying away one bit from the love and affection I so regularly lavished upon him. My absolute favorite thing was the way he would "talk" to me while I was petting him or patting his little rear-end, meowing and make all kinds of funny chirping noises.
Within a year or so I commonly referred to Paxil as "The Man," and heaped as much praise upon him as possible to friends and strangers alike. The fact of the matter is that I started seeing him as more than simply a cat; often I used the term "spiritual being" when talking about him. His eyes, his mannerisms, how he ate, everything took on a deeper significance the more time I spent with him. I used to openly admit to the possibility that this was all projection on my part, that I was casting additional abilities onto my feline pal just because we had forged such a strong bond. But something out of the ordinary happened which confirmed my suspicion that Paxil was and is more than mere cat, that he truly is a unique and soulful individual with a greater degree of consciousness than most of us might care to recognize.
To point:
I was in a deep, deep depression. I had been bed ridden for about thirty hours or so, only getting up to retrieve some food or occasionally use the bathroom. Mostly I just laid there and stared at the wall, hating myself and all things about reality in general. These bouts of depression are something I have been dealing with ever since I was a teenager, and, through specific techniques, have marked quite a bit of improvement over the years--meditation, yoga, exercise, proper diet, journaling, books on psycho-therapy, etc. Nonetheless, sometimes the weight of the world comes to me gift-wrapped in an enormous fucking bow-tie, and this just so happened to be one of those times.
Now, the door to my bedroom had a slight problem. The door handle would not click and keep the door shut the way that it should, but if I gave it an extra little nudge the door would stick to the frame. This was an old house, with all kinds of little peculiarities like this. Anyway, because the door was only ever closed in this manner the slightest touch from the other side would knock it open, something that Paxil would frequently take advantage of--he really, really liked sitting in the twin windows in my room. So to keep this from happening I would sometimes place heavy objects on my side of the door to lock him out (even the best of friends need their time apart).
Being that I was in one of my "me plus world equals giant turd" states of mind, I stacked up about a half-dozen objects to keep Paxil and everybody else at out of my room. This barrier was solid, I tell you, with a waste basket and some heavy books as the guts of the operation. There was even a free weight or two involved.
Laying there in silence with messy hair and drool on my face I heard Paxil come up to the door and push on it with his paws. The door doesn't budge, of course, because of my make-shift fortification. Score one for Jason. After a couple more tries the noises stop, and I think that Pax has given up and gone to find another spot to chill in. But a few seconds later I hear the patter of feet coming full force toward the door and BAM!, slam into the thing. It still didn't open, but I sort of perked up for a second, imagining the cat running through the kitchen and down the hallway to my bedroom, which was a straight shot. Regardless, the door was too heavily weighted to have an eight or nine pound cat knock it open, but I had to admire him for trying.
Then it happened again. And again. And again. For a HALF AN HOUR this cat ran at top speed through our house and plunged himself against the door, trying time and time again to get inside. I couldn't believe it. After fifteen minutes I was kind of sitting up, just watching to see if he would actually do it. The more he thwacked up against my door, the more I shook my head in amazement. I was saying to myself, "There is no fucking way you are getting in, Paxil. Just give over already." But no, he kept coming.
And finally, amazingly, it opened. On what must have been the fiftieth time of crashing into my bedroom door he rocked the trash can just enough to squeeze through. In one fluid motion he slinked across the floor and hopped up onto my bed, victorious. He laid down and started flapping his tail, looking in every direction but mine. His expression read "Yeah, that's right, I am a bad-ass." There was almost a glow around him, and he wasn't even breathing heavy from the effort.
It was one of the most incredible things I have ever witnessed.
And my depression lifted right there. I couldn't lay there and feel sorry for myself such an effort. I had blocked him from my room many number of times before and he had never tried such a thing as this. It truly was an act and expression of soul. I went over to him and placed my face up against his and gave him a whole bunch of kisses, and he meowed and gnawed at my hair while batting playfully at my face, something he was always doing. Then I spoke to him like he was an equal, like he was a being with consciousness on par with mine--at least. I thanked him from the heart for not giving up. I told him that I had never, ever seen anything like that, and that I knew he did it because I was feeling sad.
"I can't feel sorry for myself after seeing that, Pax. I just can't"
This event shifted our relationship to an even deeper level. Although he doesn't live with me anymore (my cousin Alison has him) I still think of him as one of my dearest friends. Even after long stretches of time whenever I see him it is right back to where we left off, rolling on the carpet and chatting away. Good times are had by all, even those simply watching. He has a place in my mind and heart for the rest of my life, and beyond that as well.
Paxil: the all-natural antidepressant.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Free Form Fictional Autobiographical Images
Colorblind
The tab of LSD on my tongue stung like a bumble bee at three eight-teen a.m. precisely. Now it's exactly six eight-teen something in the morning. Sun up lovely warm bathing in the cool breeze of the ocean beside me, in front of me, all around me. Behind is the highway screams vehicles and mine is parked somewhere in the distance. I admire the trust-worthiness of my black leather boots: ankle high, proportionate to sand and asphalt and any kind of destination I so choose. I cautiously glance at the black chain-link fence to my left while thinking about the shovel-head in the back seat of my Pontiac, which is also black. Everything is black, without color.
Not the water. Super-conscious blue shimmering ecstasy open free believing I am me you everyone everything breathing electrified atmospheric cresting. Get me inside of this liquid without moving, please. White foam. Crystals. Diamonds, deep sea urchins play along my field of vision and I am one with the Wave. I am complete, accept for the skull and cross-bones grinning at me from the yellow warning sign hung sideways on the charcoal fence to my left. Cancer, it screams. You've got it, everyone's got it, why not just enjoy it?
This thought enlightens me. I levitate up and kick and scream and follow my destiny which began two days ago on a September morning when I decided to jump into the undertow and exercise a little bit of the rest of me. I dropped my telephone service and hit the concrete hard heading west. Now here I am fifteen states later regarding the water and I don't know what to think accept that this exactly where I am supposed to be. Orange-red light bathing me, sunset sunrise togetherness without compromise. How does one go about getting everything they want while only doing what makes them feel good? Is such a thing possible? I certainly value the idea livable.
All these rules are hounding. Work to play. Get in the game. Gyrate in counter-clockwise motion to masturbate with another. Temper your self discovery and life enjoyment or else you'll starve alone on the side of the road in a cardboard box without friends or a clean asshole.
Can someone use only their mind to see a brand-new high rise into material life? That's what I wanna know, even though my expectations are so much lower than that.
I have nowhere practical that I want to see, yet right now I see where I am fully. I have no one in particular that I want to meet, yet I am willing to become a stranger to get inside their head. No more supermarket shelving for spare money to pay the bills to let go of my self esteem to dream all day about what I could be if only I do what it is that they told me to. No more of that. I just want this. For now, at least. Where will this lead? Could be the death of me. Then again, maybe the sparrow will descend and give me a pair of raven wings. One never knows. But I am willing to step forward in faith and hope, willing to fall from building dream let go.
All of these thoughts you are seeing are from yesterday, while I was driving. Today is all about the Typhon, the totem.
Right now I am inspecting the chain-linked spot of salvation to my left and thinking about climbing to the top and over. What is there to let go of? Did you ever have the feeling that you are invulnerable? That you are something special? That because you know a secret you can get away with a miracle? In my it moment I see this overly-protected energy tower as a symbol of my fecundity. I could fuck a legion of babes and ejaculate electricity. But what good would that make me? I need something deeper, more real, fuller, holier, less bastille. It wouldn't do me a damn bit of good to keep pissing if all the liquid I drank sank right through the bottoms of my feet.
I need to become what I was meant to be. And that is why I am here, now, with you.
-
Voices
Hello, my name is Jackson. I am going to expose myself to you now, whoever it is that you are. Maybe I just want somebody to feel me or see me, I don't know.Whatever the case may be just don't start talking or else you'll ruin it.
I am kneeling in my protracted little sadness, in madness mom and dad gave to me, and what's his face is blathering all around. What do you call him? Yeah, that's right, Lucifer. He is both queen and king here, vice and advice. Why I keep calling on him is anyone's guess; the bruises he produces are my shade, I suppose.
Lovely, lovely darkness. Smoke shadow corner shimmering night from outside and behind the walls where the plaster often smiles but no one can see it, not even God. The swimming pool in my backyard is imaginary and the black widow smiling to me on the window sill is regurgitating the poison I fed to her in my sleep. She looks just like my wife to me. Oh Sophia! Is that you floating softly under rippling sheets of water? I keep staring at him/her/it and thinking of Los Angeles for some reason. When will it shed that awful mask and quit laughing like that?
My room is all quiet accept for the accusals and denials procreating on the bed. I can still see her there--blond hair, arched back, full flavored cigarette dangling from her lips. This is where everything went wrong.
One of those old fifties style radio sets is weighing down my chest and the guy on the other side is talking about the end of the world. Then he says my name. I perk up and draw the curtains back, revealing the voices that have been waiting for me the entire time. Now it seems necessary to start praying but the goddamn fucking cigarette just won't stay lit. Is it mine or hers? I keep pondering my crucifix and the wooden witch behind the bath-stand who's masturbating, which is very distracting, but understandable.
I keep seeing her everywhere. On the street, in the nipple, fetched out of the recycling bin, shattered to pieces where the love began. Who is this calling my name? I just want somebody to understand me. I say "please God make them stop, I can't take it any more, just make them all go away." I curled into ball and as it hurt even worse than when as I said she left me or I left her or or whatever it was that happened I don't even remember anymore.
"Somebody loved you."
"You were never good enough for her."
"Crooked ankles make the best rosary beads."
"Fear and fame are one and the same thing."
"The end is coming and you should have told me so."
"Redemption can only save you if you forgive yourself."
"In order to forgive yourself you have to first realize what it is that you've done."
And I don't know. "God, I am so sad. Please forgive me for this. Make the hurt and shame stop and I will agree to do anything." Which one is me again? Possibly only all of them?
What started all this was yesterday I was walking down the street and someone called my name and I looked around to see my grief plastered on the front page at the newsstand and it gave me deja-vu which made the whole thing seem even worse. I stumbled home about to be sick thinking about the horrible image directly below my boldfaced name. Her name was Sophia and I loved her and lost her and now the crime of the century is wailing air-horn thunder at me from strange familiar places. And it is all my fault. Oh God, please forgive me!
"Crime is what you make of it, big guy. The only way to the Kingdom is to acquiesce to the one who has done you in. You have to die because you Fell and you have to suffer enough to make her come home again, which will never happen. Don't you understand? I thought you'd understand. You should always understand! When the Ruler has tied you to the bed post and the quiet is descending from above you have got to beg for mercy. I know you want it. You've always wanted it, you and your little blue and green men. All the blathering in the world won't make this end. It is just going to keep coming and coming and you are going to keep screaming and aching and the nightmare will resurface and we are all going to bury you alive forever and ever, amen."
And then you, the stranger watching this horrible episode, you say "no." So thank you for watching me, watching this catastrophe unfold.
Finally. Calm. Peace. Tranquility just like the spider in the window. I think about the Calvin Klein adds and the suffrage in Darfur and the creatures at the supermarket and Nixon and Whitman and Emerson and a documentary I once saw on William McNamara called "The Fog of War." I think on long days at work and even longer nights at home. I think of past and future, but I don't think of God, anything but God or the Devil. I think that maybe someday my diary will become priceless on the auction block.
Can I once again take my knees without the pain returning? I have the same priest now as when I was a little kid and I swear that all he knows about me comes back with every glance, with every foreskin. I just wanted to be her friend and yet the loneliness came up on my side like a rash of bad skin. Prediction. Wisdom is the foresight to see and know before you begin.
"Calling all world presidents: where were you before the Earth took its proper place among the grief stricken?"
I assume the position. And it feels good. And the relief comes, but only after I briefly glimpse myself from above handing out fliers that say "Please Kill Me" before a movie in Times Square and everybody is looking at me like I am that strange person who there is always at least one of at every public event catching flack and fained interest from the gathering bye-passers. I will never leave this bedroom again. I was rich once, now I just want somebody to see me, see how terrible it feels to be me right now, right here, before the altar. But I don't want it to be him. It's always him lurking in the shadows dressed in black surrounded by pomp and circumstance. The church is where I met her and this sadness began. I finally do remember myself her.
And you were the one who was there for me.
-
An Act of Blood
My armchair sadness is incredibly moving today, just like my favorite movies. Heartbreaking as I stare through the TV generating passion and momentum from somewhere outside of myself. Anywhere inside of here is dangerous, this apartment locked in vision paralysis momentary catatonic, but not wasting. I am not wasting away because I can still see her so clearly etched on the screen. I am deep space arcade complete with Saturn's rings and the clock is moving sideways upon the young man's face.
This is my reflection.
The pool of blood on the floor shows me how to go about my lonely days. Her name was Melissa and I don't know long I have been obsessing over her but I have begun to see her in everything, in the air freshener, in the Bombay gin, in the glass sidewalk shopping bag that rolled on through my dreams where I no longer feel the need to compete or seek for affection. Yes, my lungs are acting kind of funny these days with a harsh cough, and the ache in my side is killing me, but at least I don't want to run away into the crowd anymore. I just want to stay inside and get used to the weather. No-body's crying, however.
I have never suffered like this before: intermittent is the word. It comes and goes and I kind of enjoy it because it allows me to say that I am never going to love again. Instead I see vista's within myself. Night-time skies that are more alluring than the one on the other side of the curtain. I see a Julian Sands movie that is deeply stirring, telling even. What was her name? I can't remember well enough to make the grade. I see books and boxes and music and movies and magazines and pornography. I see everything I want to see accept for her. I just wanted her to know me more, to love me more, to sew me into the very fabric of her being more. Now I just want this sadness and the savage energy of my television set.
I want the salvation that comes
from giving yourself fully over to a lover
but there is no one real in here,
only these fictionalized accounts
that offer a solid practice regimen.
Early morning. Stiff. Aggravating by forgetting too much. The movie is good. This one is about war but not battlefield blood terror massacre. Only deprivation and redemption. I can feel it building. What was the last thing she said to me? Artillery explosion. The tears start falling and I don't realize that I am crying until I see that it's raining all around me. It is raining in my apartment, right inside my living room and the blood-stained carpet will be ruined for good. Just me and this armchair and the TV cradled in a thunder shower, learning the language modern-day humanity speaks. Sparks. Smoke. Television implosion.
This is what I want, this is what I want, this is definitely what I want. Melissa, please speak well of me. Please remember me. Maybe after all I am better off with you on the page and in the screen and in my memory. This travesty has been waiting for me the entire time, and you were the only one who could ever set it loose inside of me.
-
Electric Morning
There is blessedly nowhere to be. It is just me and you and everyone and everything forever and ever relaxing, breathing this purple ambiance on the open sea. Across from me in the vessel is Jesus Christ himself, smiling, believing wholeheartedly faithful as always. We are both perfectly at home here drifting, nothing to lose no place to be, at One, communicating without saying a single thing. "I have no use for Christianity," he says to me, and I nod appreciatively.
I love this place. I come here often and it fills me with grace and insight and understanding. I'm always peaceful here, and I think about Joseph Campbell's hero and the Buddha and the open road and what it would be like to consume LSD fearlessly. I think about women and death and music and the possibility of real transformation out of my conditioned experience. I think about the nature of freedom. I think on the word meaning and the totality of all that it implies. I think about suffering and animals and anguish and human trial. I think about becoming sacred ritual, and then I smile. I think of love and ecstasy and world starvation juxtaposed against my sometimes mindless over consumption.
But nothing moves me, nothing disturbs my reclined position in this simple wooden rowboat. I notice it all within me before me wordlessly silent contentedly.
I riff on the gentle waves carry me into a place where the mist merges with my being, where Jesus' son tells me my new name, where the other side becomes visible in the under-exposure of me. Overhead morning night sky shroud in darkness light and I am one with the whole scene. I love you, I tell me, and I begin to see, to see beyond through and the into the Center of you. This is me wide open enjoying motion with no consciousness of direction. This is me seeing biblical passages fall away from my blood. This is me riding out the Great Flood in the name of trust and forgiveness. This is me.
The tab of LSD on my tongue stung like a bumble bee at three eight-teen a.m. precisely. Now it's exactly six eight-teen something in the morning. Sun up lovely warm bathing in the cool breeze of the ocean beside me, in front of me, all around me. Behind is the highway screams vehicles and mine is parked somewhere in the distance. I admire the trust-worthiness of my black leather boots: ankle high, proportionate to sand and asphalt and any kind of destination I so choose. I cautiously glance at the black chain-link fence to my left while thinking about the shovel-head in the back seat of my Pontiac, which is also black. Everything is black, without color.
Not the water. Super-conscious blue shimmering ecstasy open free believing I am me you everyone everything breathing electrified atmospheric cresting. Get me inside of this liquid without moving, please. White foam. Crystals. Diamonds, deep sea urchins play along my field of vision and I am one with the Wave. I am complete, accept for the skull and cross-bones grinning at me from the yellow warning sign hung sideways on the charcoal fence to my left. Cancer, it screams. You've got it, everyone's got it, why not just enjoy it?
This thought enlightens me. I levitate up and kick and scream and follow my destiny which began two days ago on a September morning when I decided to jump into the undertow and exercise a little bit of the rest of me. I dropped my telephone service and hit the concrete hard heading west. Now here I am fifteen states later regarding the water and I don't know what to think accept that this exactly where I am supposed to be. Orange-red light bathing me, sunset sunrise togetherness without compromise. How does one go about getting everything they want while only doing what makes them feel good? Is such a thing possible? I certainly value the idea livable.
All these rules are hounding. Work to play. Get in the game. Gyrate in counter-clockwise motion to masturbate with another. Temper your self discovery and life enjoyment or else you'll starve alone on the side of the road in a cardboard box without friends or a clean asshole.
Can someone use only their mind to see a brand-new high rise into material life? That's what I wanna know, even though my expectations are so much lower than that.
I have nowhere practical that I want to see, yet right now I see where I am fully. I have no one in particular that I want to meet, yet I am willing to become a stranger to get inside their head. No more supermarket shelving for spare money to pay the bills to let go of my self esteem to dream all day about what I could be if only I do what it is that they told me to. No more of that. I just want this. For now, at least. Where will this lead? Could be the death of me. Then again, maybe the sparrow will descend and give me a pair of raven wings. One never knows. But I am willing to step forward in faith and hope, willing to fall from building dream let go.
All of these thoughts you are seeing are from yesterday, while I was driving. Today is all about the Typhon, the totem.
Right now I am inspecting the chain-linked spot of salvation to my left and thinking about climbing to the top and over. What is there to let go of? Did you ever have the feeling that you are invulnerable? That you are something special? That because you know a secret you can get away with a miracle? In my it moment I see this overly-protected energy tower as a symbol of my fecundity. I could fuck a legion of babes and ejaculate electricity. But what good would that make me? I need something deeper, more real, fuller, holier, less bastille. It wouldn't do me a damn bit of good to keep pissing if all the liquid I drank sank right through the bottoms of my feet.
I need to become what I was meant to be. And that is why I am here, now, with you.
-
Voices
Hello, my name is Jackson. I am going to expose myself to you now, whoever it is that you are. Maybe I just want somebody to feel me or see me, I don't know.Whatever the case may be just don't start talking or else you'll ruin it.
I am kneeling in my protracted little sadness, in madness mom and dad gave to me, and what's his face is blathering all around. What do you call him? Yeah, that's right, Lucifer. He is both queen and king here, vice and advice. Why I keep calling on him is anyone's guess; the bruises he produces are my shade, I suppose.
Lovely, lovely darkness. Smoke shadow corner shimmering night from outside and behind the walls where the plaster often smiles but no one can see it, not even God. The swimming pool in my backyard is imaginary and the black widow smiling to me on the window sill is regurgitating the poison I fed to her in my sleep. She looks just like my wife to me. Oh Sophia! Is that you floating softly under rippling sheets of water? I keep staring at him/her/it and thinking of Los Angeles for some reason. When will it shed that awful mask and quit laughing like that?
My room is all quiet accept for the accusals and denials procreating on the bed. I can still see her there--blond hair, arched back, full flavored cigarette dangling from her lips. This is where everything went wrong.
One of those old fifties style radio sets is weighing down my chest and the guy on the other side is talking about the end of the world. Then he says my name. I perk up and draw the curtains back, revealing the voices that have been waiting for me the entire time. Now it seems necessary to start praying but the goddamn fucking cigarette just won't stay lit. Is it mine or hers? I keep pondering my crucifix and the wooden witch behind the bath-stand who's masturbating, which is very distracting, but understandable.
I keep seeing her everywhere. On the street, in the nipple, fetched out of the recycling bin, shattered to pieces where the love began. Who is this calling my name? I just want somebody to understand me. I say "please God make them stop, I can't take it any more, just make them all go away." I curled into ball and as it hurt even worse than when as I said she left me or I left her or or whatever it was that happened I don't even remember anymore.
"Somebody loved you."
"You were never good enough for her."
"Crooked ankles make the best rosary beads."
"Fear and fame are one and the same thing."
"The end is coming and you should have told me so."
"Redemption can only save you if you forgive yourself."
"In order to forgive yourself you have to first realize what it is that you've done."
And I don't know. "God, I am so sad. Please forgive me for this. Make the hurt and shame stop and I will agree to do anything." Which one is me again? Possibly only all of them?
What started all this was yesterday I was walking down the street and someone called my name and I looked around to see my grief plastered on the front page at the newsstand and it gave me deja-vu which made the whole thing seem even worse. I stumbled home about to be sick thinking about the horrible image directly below my boldfaced name. Her name was Sophia and I loved her and lost her and now the crime of the century is wailing air-horn thunder at me from strange familiar places. And it is all my fault. Oh God, please forgive me!
"Crime is what you make of it, big guy. The only way to the Kingdom is to acquiesce to the one who has done you in. You have to die because you Fell and you have to suffer enough to make her come home again, which will never happen. Don't you understand? I thought you'd understand. You should always understand! When the Ruler has tied you to the bed post and the quiet is descending from above you have got to beg for mercy. I know you want it. You've always wanted it, you and your little blue and green men. All the blathering in the world won't make this end. It is just going to keep coming and coming and you are going to keep screaming and aching and the nightmare will resurface and we are all going to bury you alive forever and ever, amen."
And then you, the stranger watching this horrible episode, you say "no." So thank you for watching me, watching this catastrophe unfold.
Finally. Calm. Peace. Tranquility just like the spider in the window. I think about the Calvin Klein adds and the suffrage in Darfur and the creatures at the supermarket and Nixon and Whitman and Emerson and a documentary I once saw on William McNamara called "The Fog of War." I think on long days at work and even longer nights at home. I think of past and future, but I don't think of God, anything but God or the Devil. I think that maybe someday my diary will become priceless on the auction block.
Can I once again take my knees without the pain returning? I have the same priest now as when I was a little kid and I swear that all he knows about me comes back with every glance, with every foreskin. I just wanted to be her friend and yet the loneliness came up on my side like a rash of bad skin. Prediction. Wisdom is the foresight to see and know before you begin.
"Calling all world presidents: where were you before the Earth took its proper place among the grief stricken?"
I assume the position. And it feels good. And the relief comes, but only after I briefly glimpse myself from above handing out fliers that say "Please Kill Me" before a movie in Times Square and everybody is looking at me like I am that strange person who there is always at least one of at every public event catching flack and fained interest from the gathering bye-passers. I will never leave this bedroom again. I was rich once, now I just want somebody to see me, see how terrible it feels to be me right now, right here, before the altar. But I don't want it to be him. It's always him lurking in the shadows dressed in black surrounded by pomp and circumstance. The church is where I met her and this sadness began. I finally do remember myself her.
And you were the one who was there for me.
-
An Act of Blood
My armchair sadness is incredibly moving today, just like my favorite movies. Heartbreaking as I stare through the TV generating passion and momentum from somewhere outside of myself. Anywhere inside of here is dangerous, this apartment locked in vision paralysis momentary catatonic, but not wasting. I am not wasting away because I can still see her so clearly etched on the screen. I am deep space arcade complete with Saturn's rings and the clock is moving sideways upon the young man's face.
This is my reflection.
The pool of blood on the floor shows me how to go about my lonely days. Her name was Melissa and I don't know long I have been obsessing over her but I have begun to see her in everything, in the air freshener, in the Bombay gin, in the glass sidewalk shopping bag that rolled on through my dreams where I no longer feel the need to compete or seek for affection. Yes, my lungs are acting kind of funny these days with a harsh cough, and the ache in my side is killing me, but at least I don't want to run away into the crowd anymore. I just want to stay inside and get used to the weather. No-body's crying, however.
I have never suffered like this before: intermittent is the word. It comes and goes and I kind of enjoy it because it allows me to say that I am never going to love again. Instead I see vista's within myself. Night-time skies that are more alluring than the one on the other side of the curtain. I see a Julian Sands movie that is deeply stirring, telling even. What was her name? I can't remember well enough to make the grade. I see books and boxes and music and movies and magazines and pornography. I see everything I want to see accept for her. I just wanted her to know me more, to love me more, to sew me into the very fabric of her being more. Now I just want this sadness and the savage energy of my television set.
I want the salvation that comes
from giving yourself fully over to a lover
but there is no one real in here,
only these fictionalized accounts
that offer a solid practice regimen.
Early morning. Stiff. Aggravating by forgetting too much. The movie is good. This one is about war but not battlefield blood terror massacre. Only deprivation and redemption. I can feel it building. What was the last thing she said to me? Artillery explosion. The tears start falling and I don't realize that I am crying until I see that it's raining all around me. It is raining in my apartment, right inside my living room and the blood-stained carpet will be ruined for good. Just me and this armchair and the TV cradled in a thunder shower, learning the language modern-day humanity speaks. Sparks. Smoke. Television implosion.
This is what I want, this is what I want, this is definitely what I want. Melissa, please speak well of me. Please remember me. Maybe after all I am better off with you on the page and in the screen and in my memory. This travesty has been waiting for me the entire time, and you were the only one who could ever set it loose inside of me.
-
Electric Morning
There is blessedly nowhere to be. It is just me and you and everyone and everything forever and ever relaxing, breathing this purple ambiance on the open sea. Across from me in the vessel is Jesus Christ himself, smiling, believing wholeheartedly faithful as always. We are both perfectly at home here drifting, nothing to lose no place to be, at One, communicating without saying a single thing. "I have no use for Christianity," he says to me, and I nod appreciatively.
I love this place. I come here often and it fills me with grace and insight and understanding. I'm always peaceful here, and I think about Joseph Campbell's hero and the Buddha and the open road and what it would be like to consume LSD fearlessly. I think about women and death and music and the possibility of real transformation out of my conditioned experience. I think about the nature of freedom. I think on the word meaning and the totality of all that it implies. I think about suffering and animals and anguish and human trial. I think about becoming sacred ritual, and then I smile. I think of love and ecstasy and world starvation juxtaposed against my sometimes mindless over consumption.
But nothing moves me, nothing disturbs my reclined position in this simple wooden rowboat. I notice it all within me before me wordlessly silent contentedly.
I riff on the gentle waves carry me into a place where the mist merges with my being, where Jesus' son tells me my new name, where the other side becomes visible in the under-exposure of me. Overhead morning night sky shroud in darkness light and I am one with the whole scene. I love you, I tell me, and I begin to see, to see beyond through and the into the Center of you. This is me wide open enjoying motion with no consciousness of direction. This is me seeing biblical passages fall away from my blood. This is me riding out the Great Flood in the name of trust and forgiveness. This is me.
Monday, August 2, 2010
To Snack Cakes, With Love
Turning my attention to the small things in life, the little peculiarities that we all carry with us in this post-modern age of technological wonders, mass production, advanced modes of light-speed communication, and the possible death-trap of over-consumption, I came to realize something rather strange about myself: I have a near encyclopedic knowledge of snack cakes. Yes--snack cakes. Not only that, I have the tongue of a connoisseur, the taste buds of a master chef serving up leg of lamb, seared sea bass, or painstakingly crafted pastries to the rich and famous in New York or Paris.
Accept with snack cakes.
This dawned on me when suddenly, out of the Emptiness of the Void, I developed a mean hankering for, of all things, a Hostess Chocodile. Actually it dawned on me when I went on a hunt for said Chocodile only to find that 1.) Chocodiles are no longer on the shelves of my neighborhood convenience/grocery stores (according to Wikipedia they are only longer sold on the West Coast), and 2.) I had quite an array of creamy choices at my disposal to fill the empty hole in my strudel.
"Chauncey the Chocodile"
There I was, Hostess products to my right, Little Debbie (that surly bitch!) to my left, and I realized that I could vividly recall to my memory virtually every flavor within view. Two arm lengths wide, six shelves high--boxes upon boxes containing individually wrapped, self-preserving delectables, and I could, with alarming clarity, describe the sensation of each and every one them. How could this be? Where does such a collection of confectionery consciousness come from?
Giving it just a few moments thought I was drawn back into my childhood. As a youngster my family lived directly behind a gas station by the name of Clark (which received multiple visits daily), and within walking distance of not one, not two, but THREE 7-11's. Connecting this to the fact that my whole family was portly in bodily make-up (something I would cure myself of in my early twenties through nutrition and exercise), I very quickly assimilated how I could keenly describe the distinct complexities of miniature cakes loaded with cream and coated with a sheen of icing.
Now, as stated above, there are two major brands of snack cake drooping the shelves of supermarkets and corner stores everywhere: Hostess (best known for the Twinkie), and Little Debbie (best known for the hatted figure adorning the upper left-hand corner of all their products, whom, I assume, to be Debbie herself, a milk-thighed milk-maid who must, absolutely MUST, be without panties beneath that 30's style farm dress of hers). Hostess has the upper-hand on quality, I would say, while Little Debbie wins with nary a contest in the pricing area. This toss-up, then, directs the contention between the two onto other avenues in this adventure of increased blood sugar and extra laps around the park: vastness of selection, uniqueness of experience, and ingenuity of marketing.
In that particular moment, having been set upon this mission through the emergence of the cleverly devised Chocodile figure from my subconscious (decidedly id-like in it's make-up, crocodiles being vicious and brutal, feeding through outbursts of killing aggression, then tied to a food that is undeniably turd-like in its shape and color) I felt the need to replace the original desire with something constructed of similar components: cake, cream filling, and chocolate icing, a fairly standard palate in the genre. My final field of options (carefully weighed by gazing deeply into each box and listening intently to my heart) consisted of Ho-Ho's, Ding-Dong's, Swiss Rolls, and Suzy Q's; these by no means were the limit of replacement treats available, but were the ones that seemed to be right in my wheel-house of possible milk-dunking excellence.
The lone vaginal treat among the final four, Suzy Q's, have been the standard for me in the past. Sandwich style in their composition, two chocolaty bread-like pieces house a luscious cream in the center, very easy to spread open wide and messily lick clean. However, with the semi-cylindrical Chocodile serving as the original inspiration for my box store expedition, I let this option melt away, followed close behind by the Ding-Dong, reminiscent of a hockey puck and none too good for the dunking. (For the record, anyone who dunks a completely icing coated snack pastry without first tearing it open to expose the absorbent cake within is, pardon my French, a moron. In a similar vein, when snack cakes are served with milk--as is only proper--said milk should be contained in a glass, not a plastic cup. If all the glasses are dirty, a coffee mug should be used before plastic, the latter being put into play only during an emergency, like, say, you are too lazy to take 30 seconds to wash the dirty glass right there before you in the sink.)
Alas it was a face off between the Swiss Roll and the Ho-Ho, Little Debbie verses Hostess. While I am normally prompted to go in the direction of both price efficiency and femininity--which would without question bring me to bow, skirt raising, at the altar of Debbie--I opted for the Ho-Ho. My emotional-logic was pretty simple: calling to mind the experience of each product I clearly remembered the lightness of the Ho-Ho, its cream being a veritable drifting cloud encased in prim sort of chocolate, tender in its balance. A Ho-Ho is soft to the touch and delicate like a flower, and melts in the mouth with hardly any effort of mastication. A Swiss Roll is much more concrete in its constitution, a hardy center with flaking chocolate on the outside, scrummily delicious yet lacking in the capability of a blast-off experience, unless one happens to be stoned on cannabis at the time.
I have to admit, though, that upon choosing my after dinner treat and consuming it with a great deal of care and conscientiousness, ultimately, I was disappointed. It was just not a Chocodile. The Ho-Ho seemed overly sweet, without much personality, a sugar-rush and nothing more, the dessert equivalent of a lap-dance from a bored stripper. Thankfully, my Ho-Ho experience was vindicated through another modern wonder--the freezer. I stuck those bad puppies in the next to the ice trays and a couple days later had a taste-testing that left me much more satisfied than the first, proof that when you put your energy into something, no matter how inanely small and ridiculous, you will, at some point, be rewarded.
Viva la Chocodile!
Snack cakes, REPRISAL: Twinkies, Zingers, Cup Cakes, Snow Balls, Apple Pies, Nutty Bars, Fudge Brownies (with the little walnuts on top), Honey Buns, Powdered Donuts, Chocolate Donuts, Oatmeal Cream Pies--the list goes on and on. And yet, one is missing from this list that is of the utmost importance to its integrity, a treat that will round out this article's fullness and simultaneously prove the existence of my self proclaimed snack cake genius: the one, the only, the Star Crunch.
Firstly, like its masterful name, this treat (not quite cake, not quite candy, not quite cookie, sort of a hybrid of all three) is otherworldly. Star Crunch! Just saying it makes me feels like I am snacking on a supernova, am devouring an asteroid in deep-space, am dining on a disk of Saturn! Even its packaging stands out in the aisle, black in a sea of whites and yellows. Right now, here, for the purposes of this article, I am going to consume a Star Crunch and painstakingly catalogue my experience, note for note. I have not eaten one of these bad boys in years, and now, for the purposes of novelty and the exploration of the useless stuff jamming my mind--and colon--I get to slowly, lovingly, crunch this treat into a fine goo and let it slither down into my belly. Man, writing this was an awesome idea!
Here we go:
The smell out of the wrapper brings me back to childhood. No, that is not quite right: it brings me back to my teens and early twenties, when there were frequent runs to the corner store at 2, 3, or 4 in the morning. The flavor is definitely unique, and its texture is chewy and crunchy and creamy at the exact same time. Nothing quite like it, really; certainly enjoyable. The package calls them "Cookies with Caramel and Crisp Rice," but calling these things cookies is like calling Walter Matthau a character--it is simply not bold enough, not accurate enough of a description. It is not so much the flavor that defines the experience, but the texture.
The Star Crunch's extra oomph, though, the thing that delivers it into the realm of extra-cosmic munchie heaven-hood, is its look. Yes, the flavor is alright, the texture is an achievement of modern science, but the look and feel of it inside the plastic--rough and smooth at the same time, with a pleasant reddish brown shade--make it abundantly clear that there is only one Star Crunch in the universe. In all the times and all the places that have ever existed, will ever exist, we, on planet Earth, get the Star Crunch. It is truly one of a kind.
It also sort of makes me think (probably due simply to association) of something an astronaut would eat, like Tang, or freeze dried ice cream...If, of course, astronauts did not have to eat healthy and balanced meals to stay in peak physical condition so as to endure the rigors of outer space.
Viva la Star Crunch!
Accept with snack cakes.
This dawned on me when suddenly, out of the Emptiness of the Void, I developed a mean hankering for, of all things, a Hostess Chocodile. Actually it dawned on me when I went on a hunt for said Chocodile only to find that 1.) Chocodiles are no longer on the shelves of my neighborhood convenience/grocery stores (according to Wikipedia they are only longer sold on the West Coast), and 2.) I had quite an array of creamy choices at my disposal to fill the empty hole in my strudel.
"Chauncey the Chocodile"
There I was, Hostess products to my right, Little Debbie (that surly bitch!) to my left, and I realized that I could vividly recall to my memory virtually every flavor within view. Two arm lengths wide, six shelves high--boxes upon boxes containing individually wrapped, self-preserving delectables, and I could, with alarming clarity, describe the sensation of each and every one them. How could this be? Where does such a collection of confectionery consciousness come from?
Giving it just a few moments thought I was drawn back into my childhood. As a youngster my family lived directly behind a gas station by the name of Clark (which received multiple visits daily), and within walking distance of not one, not two, but THREE 7-11's. Connecting this to the fact that my whole family was portly in bodily make-up (something I would cure myself of in my early twenties through nutrition and exercise), I very quickly assimilated how I could keenly describe the distinct complexities of miniature cakes loaded with cream and coated with a sheen of icing.
Now, as stated above, there are two major brands of snack cake drooping the shelves of supermarkets and corner stores everywhere: Hostess (best known for the Twinkie), and Little Debbie (best known for the hatted figure adorning the upper left-hand corner of all their products, whom, I assume, to be Debbie herself, a milk-thighed milk-maid who must, absolutely MUST, be without panties beneath that 30's style farm dress of hers). Hostess has the upper-hand on quality, I would say, while Little Debbie wins with nary a contest in the pricing area. This toss-up, then, directs the contention between the two onto other avenues in this adventure of increased blood sugar and extra laps around the park: vastness of selection, uniqueness of experience, and ingenuity of marketing.
In that particular moment, having been set upon this mission through the emergence of the cleverly devised Chocodile figure from my subconscious (decidedly id-like in it's make-up, crocodiles being vicious and brutal, feeding through outbursts of killing aggression, then tied to a food that is undeniably turd-like in its shape and color) I felt the need to replace the original desire with something constructed of similar components: cake, cream filling, and chocolate icing, a fairly standard palate in the genre. My final field of options (carefully weighed by gazing deeply into each box and listening intently to my heart) consisted of Ho-Ho's, Ding-Dong's, Swiss Rolls, and Suzy Q's; these by no means were the limit of replacement treats available, but were the ones that seemed to be right in my wheel-house of possible milk-dunking excellence.
The lone vaginal treat among the final four, Suzy Q's, have been the standard for me in the past. Sandwich style in their composition, two chocolaty bread-like pieces house a luscious cream in the center, very easy to spread open wide and messily lick clean. However, with the semi-cylindrical Chocodile serving as the original inspiration for my box store expedition, I let this option melt away, followed close behind by the Ding-Dong, reminiscent of a hockey puck and none too good for the dunking. (For the record, anyone who dunks a completely icing coated snack pastry without first tearing it open to expose the absorbent cake within is, pardon my French, a moron. In a similar vein, when snack cakes are served with milk--as is only proper--said milk should be contained in a glass, not a plastic cup. If all the glasses are dirty, a coffee mug should be used before plastic, the latter being put into play only during an emergency, like, say, you are too lazy to take 30 seconds to wash the dirty glass right there before you in the sink.)
Alas it was a face off between the Swiss Roll and the Ho-Ho, Little Debbie verses Hostess. While I am normally prompted to go in the direction of both price efficiency and femininity--which would without question bring me to bow, skirt raising, at the altar of Debbie--I opted for the Ho-Ho. My emotional-logic was pretty simple: calling to mind the experience of each product I clearly remembered the lightness of the Ho-Ho, its cream being a veritable drifting cloud encased in prim sort of chocolate, tender in its balance. A Ho-Ho is soft to the touch and delicate like a flower, and melts in the mouth with hardly any effort of mastication. A Swiss Roll is much more concrete in its constitution, a hardy center with flaking chocolate on the outside, scrummily delicious yet lacking in the capability of a blast-off experience, unless one happens to be stoned on cannabis at the time.
I have to admit, though, that upon choosing my after dinner treat and consuming it with a great deal of care and conscientiousness, ultimately, I was disappointed. It was just not a Chocodile. The Ho-Ho seemed overly sweet, without much personality, a sugar-rush and nothing more, the dessert equivalent of a lap-dance from a bored stripper. Thankfully, my Ho-Ho experience was vindicated through another modern wonder--the freezer. I stuck those bad puppies in the next to the ice trays and a couple days later had a taste-testing that left me much more satisfied than the first, proof that when you put your energy into something, no matter how inanely small and ridiculous, you will, at some point, be rewarded.
Viva la Chocodile!
Snack cakes, REPRISAL: Twinkies, Zingers, Cup Cakes, Snow Balls, Apple Pies, Nutty Bars, Fudge Brownies (with the little walnuts on top), Honey Buns, Powdered Donuts, Chocolate Donuts, Oatmeal Cream Pies--the list goes on and on. And yet, one is missing from this list that is of the utmost importance to its integrity, a treat that will round out this article's fullness and simultaneously prove the existence of my self proclaimed snack cake genius: the one, the only, the Star Crunch.
Firstly, like its masterful name, this treat (not quite cake, not quite candy, not quite cookie, sort of a hybrid of all three) is otherworldly. Star Crunch! Just saying it makes me feels like I am snacking on a supernova, am devouring an asteroid in deep-space, am dining on a disk of Saturn! Even its packaging stands out in the aisle, black in a sea of whites and yellows. Right now, here, for the purposes of this article, I am going to consume a Star Crunch and painstakingly catalogue my experience, note for note. I have not eaten one of these bad boys in years, and now, for the purposes of novelty and the exploration of the useless stuff jamming my mind--and colon--I get to slowly, lovingly, crunch this treat into a fine goo and let it slither down into my belly. Man, writing this was an awesome idea!
Here we go:
The smell out of the wrapper brings me back to childhood. No, that is not quite right: it brings me back to my teens and early twenties, when there were frequent runs to the corner store at 2, 3, or 4 in the morning. The flavor is definitely unique, and its texture is chewy and crunchy and creamy at the exact same time. Nothing quite like it, really; certainly enjoyable. The package calls them "Cookies with Caramel and Crisp Rice," but calling these things cookies is like calling Walter Matthau a character--it is simply not bold enough, not accurate enough of a description. It is not so much the flavor that defines the experience, but the texture.
The Star Crunch's extra oomph, though, the thing that delivers it into the realm of extra-cosmic munchie heaven-hood, is its look. Yes, the flavor is alright, the texture is an achievement of modern science, but the look and feel of it inside the plastic--rough and smooth at the same time, with a pleasant reddish brown shade--make it abundantly clear that there is only one Star Crunch in the universe. In all the times and all the places that have ever existed, will ever exist, we, on planet Earth, get the Star Crunch. It is truly one of a kind.
It also sort of makes me think (probably due simply to association) of something an astronaut would eat, like Tang, or freeze dried ice cream...If, of course, astronauts did not have to eat healthy and balanced meals to stay in peak physical condition so as to endure the rigors of outer space.
Viva la Star Crunch!
Friday, June 4, 2010
Top 10 Songs
Having been inspired by a recent issue of Rolling Stone with the idea of a "Top 10 All Time Favorite" song list, I decided to compose such a list for myself. I wanted it to be more than just a list of ten songs I enjoy a great deal, however: I wanted it to be a gateway into myself, a device for examining what it is that I admire about music and art in general. Doing this I could hopefully find common elements and themes present within the list and direct some of that energy into my own artwork and expression. If nothing else, I would have one amazing playlist for my mps player!
As it so happens upon completion I felt a sense of intense bonding to my list, like there was something magical about it. Listening to it from beginning to end I saw it as a mystical circle, with the possibility of being experienced seamlessly 1-10 or 10-1, yet always looping back upon itself to start again, or even reversing direction with no difficulty at all. Also, looking at it cyclically I can see analogies all over the place, connections and patterns that bring definition to my musical tastes and artistic aspirations.
So, ascending 1 to 10, here are my favorite songs of ALL TIME:
1.) Lateralus - from the album "Lateralus", designed and performed by Tool.
This song is, in my opinion, a magic spell, one cast by four wizards who are consciously intending a transformative, righteous, beautiful, and mystical piece of music into existence. Whenever this song begins I sometimes receive the impression of a pulsation, that of an emerging Idea (in the Platonic sense) of mental Perfection vibrating from the recording into my mind. Over the course of the first couple of minutes this precision of focus is unified with the joy and passion of the human emotional system, instruments giving rise to a single drive of power. When the vocal pattern eventually merges into the flow of sounds the lyrics become a confirmation of spiritual awareness being harnessed into a single will--themes of limitless possibilities, pushing the boundaries of human evolution, and touching the unknown all coalesce into the flowering soundscapes.
This is a song that pushes me beyond the boundaries of time and space, helps me reach not only my own higher potential but also see that there is much more than I can imagine happening inside of me and out--truly a testament of infinite possibilities. It is a rallying cry to personal power, and the ability to channel that Force through oneself into the world for the purposes of Delight, Awakening the Soul in time, and freedom of direction when connected to a higher Source. This song is a unification of inner and outer, above and below, inspired action and contented being-ness, just some of the reasons why it is my favorite song of all time.
2.) For The Love Of God - from the album "Passion and Warfare", designed and performed by Steve Vai.
An epic guitar instrumental, this song has repeatedly become a sacred experience for me. The better of a music listener I have become (meaning the more meditative) the more rewarding it has become, taking me into higher and higher states of mind where thoughts, sounds, and light merge with the fullness of human emotion. It is music as pure language, meaning it is pointing to the Essence of language, and is thereby nothing other than an expression of Divinity, so stated in the title. It is a unification of masterful technique and unsurpassable passion, a flow delivered with surrender, conviction, joy, and freedom. As an artist myself this is the place I always aim for in expression, a plane of spiritual emotion fused with transcendent genius. I love, love, love this song.
3.) Since I've Been Loving You - from the album "Zeppelin III", designed and performed by Led Zeppelin.
This bluesy and electrifying song came to me later on in my Zeppelin expeditions, but it has enriched my world with increasing bravado ever since. Simultaneously loose and tight, live feeling yet well produced, each member of the band seems as if they are performing individually (soloing), yet those performances fit perfectly together. Robert Plant and Jimmy Page feel totally absorbed in their expressions, while Bonzo and John Paul Jones provide stability with a splash of swagger. This song is raw, smooth, tangled, and free, and is hands down one of my favorite recordings on the planet.
4.) Bleeding Me - from the album "Load", designed and performed by Metallica.
Number four on the list is the pay-off of all Metallica's work in stretching themselves into riskier creative territories. It fuses the power of their trademark sound with the slower groove found in some of Seattle's best 90's grunge (Soundgarden, Alice In Chains, Temple Of The Dog), to awesome effect. I also believe it to be the peak of James Hetfield's song writing, demonstrating both strength and vulnerability. The lyrics are outstanding: spiritually significant and archetypally awake, they trigger deeply profound imagery in the mind (blood, trees, beasts, release). This, combined with an impassioned vocal performance, and music that is more than just satisfactory, leads me to an overwhelming emotional experience lined with some very dynamic mental scenery.
5.) Even The Waves - from the album "Dead Air For Radios", designed and performed by Chroma Key.
Whenever I listen to this song I inevitably become very peaceful and calm, am transported into a plane of solace and tranquility that is somehow totally my own yet a part of something else. It relaxes and opens me, eases my mind like the presence of an old friend. The lyrics show me a place in the expanse of Mind while triggering within me the ideas of personal redemption, eternity in time, and nirvanic realization. I see myself resting easily in a small rowboat, wordlessly accepting the flow of creation as it emerges naturally from the Void. Kevin Moore's singing is incredibly open and joyful; empty of self, his melodies are rich and soothing like waves of cooling magical mist. This song (along with the rest of the album) feels absolutely natural in its precision, is a wonderful example of expression and talent liberated from cultural constraints.
6.) Shine On You Crazy Diamond - from the album "Wish You Were Here", designed and performed by Pink Floyd.
The first four and half minutes of this masterpiece are so tranquilly atmospheric hearing it is like stepping into a room made of light, one that is restful and dreamy. When the drums finally do kick in after this long opening sequence it is from such a place of passion it's like being woken up--or better yet, coming to life. Soon after David Gimour is soloing with a passionate intensity that even the most listless of music listeners could appreciate.
Lyrically the song is a love ballad to a best friend and an examination of the complexity of insanity, which both has power to destroy lives and produce visionary waves of creative inspiration. All told, when factoring in the wide variety moods and tones, this piece is nothing less than brilliantly cinematic, a collage of many flavors that all carry a collective taste. And it has a wailing sax solo: enough said.
7.) 2112 - from the album "2112", designed and performed by Rush.
From the opening moments of this epic one knows that it is an entity entirely unto itself, something utterly different and unique, possibly channeled from some distant time and place. Within the first three minutes one also realizes that that other-worldly magic is being harnessed into the musicianship, especially the drums, which launches Neal Peart into the forefront of the experience. Nearly matching Peart's tour de force percussive performance note for note is Alex Lifeson, whose soloing is nothing less than awe-inspiring.
One of the things that has perpetually fascinated me about this song since I first heard it is the lyrics, which induce images of archetypal passion plays that may have happened a long time ago in a galaxy far-far away. The song is an ode to music itself, and a testament to the majesty and power of individuality. It also communicates philosophical elements that I find morally challenging, which is just one example of Peart's breadth and depth as an artist and thinker. These complex lyrics are translated masterfully by the singing of Geddy Lee, who ignites the speakers with such an incredible degree of flexibility (from tenderness to might and everything in between) that all one can do is marvel. When he shrills "Just think what my life might be/ In a world like I have seen/ I don't think I could carry on/ Carry on this cold and empty life" Lee has totally inhabited the character from which the words spawn in relation to the story, creating an opening to another dimension. Simply breathtaking.
8.) A Little Too Far - from the album "Street: A Rock Opera", designed and performed by Savatage.
This piece is just a flat out spectacular solo performance by Jon Oliva. One man and his piano, and it hits me in the heart every single time I hear it. There is such freedom in this recording, such pleasure in the act of playing and singing. On top of this the lyrics are magnificent, so real and creative, derived from personal experience before being woven into a narrative, then re-lived from this new perspective; intimately heart-felt through and through. There are several moments in this piece when I am literally drawn inside of it and see very clearly the images that are being sung, which I belive is a testament to the space from which it was cast: with empassioned vision.
9.) Sister Rosetta Goes Before Us - from the album "Raising Sand", designed and performed by Alison Krauss and Robert Plant.
This song is an expression of Heaven, both in where it is descending from (the clouds) and where it is leading the listener with the words ("up above"). The melody very quickly demonstrates that Ms. Krauss' vocal control is masterful, colorful (more exactly, shiningly white fused with powdered blue), controlled, and pitch perfect. Additionally, the music feels as if it is occurring spontaneously--especially the banjo, which seems like it was done in a single take, an expression unto itself. With Robert Plant in the background adding hints and subtle melodies (indications of something greater then our Sister Rosetta working behind the Veil) the total effect of this song is nothing short of sublimity.
10.) Cygnus...Vismund Cygnus - from the album "Francis The Mute", designed and performed by The Mars Volta.
This song, like most of the creations from The Mars Volta, is gloriously over the top. What separates this particular event from the rest is balance: it is overwhelming but understandable, eccentric but stable, lichen while sunbathing. All of the instruments are tangled yet solid, like the roots of a tree trunk. This musical complexity is matched verbatim by Cedric Bixlar Zavala's lyrics, which are gleefully wild and unabashedly un-tame. With image after image he weaves a tapestry of consciousness-tones that leave me breathless with some unseen knowledge, a right-brained poetic montage of Cacophony fornicating with with his lover Calm. This song is sweatily libidinous, fantastically subconscious, earthly surreal.
Then there is THE BUILD. Beginning at about the 4:20 mark Omar Rodriguez Lopez starts grinding his axe, initiating one of the finest musical ascensions and peaks I have ever experienced. Leading up to an astounding merger with Zavala's sexually liberated voice, the crescendo is reminiscent of the climax in Stairway To Heaven--one word: orgasmic. All that one is left with by the end is a receding excitement that begs to be re-lived again and again.
As it so happens upon completion I felt a sense of intense bonding to my list, like there was something magical about it. Listening to it from beginning to end I saw it as a mystical circle, with the possibility of being experienced seamlessly 1-10 or 10-1, yet always looping back upon itself to start again, or even reversing direction with no difficulty at all. Also, looking at it cyclically I can see analogies all over the place, connections and patterns that bring definition to my musical tastes and artistic aspirations.
So, ascending 1 to 10, here are my favorite songs of ALL TIME:
1.) Lateralus - from the album "Lateralus", designed and performed by Tool.
This song is, in my opinion, a magic spell, one cast by four wizards who are consciously intending a transformative, righteous, beautiful, and mystical piece of music into existence. Whenever this song begins I sometimes receive the impression of a pulsation, that of an emerging Idea (in the Platonic sense) of mental Perfection vibrating from the recording into my mind. Over the course of the first couple of minutes this precision of focus is unified with the joy and passion of the human emotional system, instruments giving rise to a single drive of power. When the vocal pattern eventually merges into the flow of sounds the lyrics become a confirmation of spiritual awareness being harnessed into a single will--themes of limitless possibilities, pushing the boundaries of human evolution, and touching the unknown all coalesce into the flowering soundscapes.
This is a song that pushes me beyond the boundaries of time and space, helps me reach not only my own higher potential but also see that there is much more than I can imagine happening inside of me and out--truly a testament of infinite possibilities. It is a rallying cry to personal power, and the ability to channel that Force through oneself into the world for the purposes of Delight, Awakening the Soul in time, and freedom of direction when connected to a higher Source. This song is a unification of inner and outer, above and below, inspired action and contented being-ness, just some of the reasons why it is my favorite song of all time.
2.) For The Love Of God - from the album "Passion and Warfare", designed and performed by Steve Vai.
An epic guitar instrumental, this song has repeatedly become a sacred experience for me. The better of a music listener I have become (meaning the more meditative) the more rewarding it has become, taking me into higher and higher states of mind where thoughts, sounds, and light merge with the fullness of human emotion. It is music as pure language, meaning it is pointing to the Essence of language, and is thereby nothing other than an expression of Divinity, so stated in the title. It is a unification of masterful technique and unsurpassable passion, a flow delivered with surrender, conviction, joy, and freedom. As an artist myself this is the place I always aim for in expression, a plane of spiritual emotion fused with transcendent genius. I love, love, love this song.
3.) Since I've Been Loving You - from the album "Zeppelin III", designed and performed by Led Zeppelin.
This bluesy and electrifying song came to me later on in my Zeppelin expeditions, but it has enriched my world with increasing bravado ever since. Simultaneously loose and tight, live feeling yet well produced, each member of the band seems as if they are performing individually (soloing), yet those performances fit perfectly together. Robert Plant and Jimmy Page feel totally absorbed in their expressions, while Bonzo and John Paul Jones provide stability with a splash of swagger. This song is raw, smooth, tangled, and free, and is hands down one of my favorite recordings on the planet.
4.) Bleeding Me - from the album "Load", designed and performed by Metallica.
Number four on the list is the pay-off of all Metallica's work in stretching themselves into riskier creative territories. It fuses the power of their trademark sound with the slower groove found in some of Seattle's best 90's grunge (Soundgarden, Alice In Chains, Temple Of The Dog), to awesome effect. I also believe it to be the peak of James Hetfield's song writing, demonstrating both strength and vulnerability. The lyrics are outstanding: spiritually significant and archetypally awake, they trigger deeply profound imagery in the mind (blood, trees, beasts, release). This, combined with an impassioned vocal performance, and music that is more than just satisfactory, leads me to an overwhelming emotional experience lined with some very dynamic mental scenery.
5.) Even The Waves - from the album "Dead Air For Radios", designed and performed by Chroma Key.
Whenever I listen to this song I inevitably become very peaceful and calm, am transported into a plane of solace and tranquility that is somehow totally my own yet a part of something else. It relaxes and opens me, eases my mind like the presence of an old friend. The lyrics show me a place in the expanse of Mind while triggering within me the ideas of personal redemption, eternity in time, and nirvanic realization. I see myself resting easily in a small rowboat, wordlessly accepting the flow of creation as it emerges naturally from the Void. Kevin Moore's singing is incredibly open and joyful; empty of self, his melodies are rich and soothing like waves of cooling magical mist. This song (along with the rest of the album) feels absolutely natural in its precision, is a wonderful example of expression and talent liberated from cultural constraints.
6.) Shine On You Crazy Diamond - from the album "Wish You Were Here", designed and performed by Pink Floyd.
The first four and half minutes of this masterpiece are so tranquilly atmospheric hearing it is like stepping into a room made of light, one that is restful and dreamy. When the drums finally do kick in after this long opening sequence it is from such a place of passion it's like being woken up--or better yet, coming to life. Soon after David Gimour is soloing with a passionate intensity that even the most listless of music listeners could appreciate.
Lyrically the song is a love ballad to a best friend and an examination of the complexity of insanity, which both has power to destroy lives and produce visionary waves of creative inspiration. All told, when factoring in the wide variety moods and tones, this piece is nothing less than brilliantly cinematic, a collage of many flavors that all carry a collective taste. And it has a wailing sax solo: enough said.
7.) 2112 - from the album "2112", designed and performed by Rush.
From the opening moments of this epic one knows that it is an entity entirely unto itself, something utterly different and unique, possibly channeled from some distant time and place. Within the first three minutes one also realizes that that other-worldly magic is being harnessed into the musicianship, especially the drums, which launches Neal Peart into the forefront of the experience. Nearly matching Peart's tour de force percussive performance note for note is Alex Lifeson, whose soloing is nothing less than awe-inspiring.
One of the things that has perpetually fascinated me about this song since I first heard it is the lyrics, which induce images of archetypal passion plays that may have happened a long time ago in a galaxy far-far away. The song is an ode to music itself, and a testament to the majesty and power of individuality. It also communicates philosophical elements that I find morally challenging, which is just one example of Peart's breadth and depth as an artist and thinker. These complex lyrics are translated masterfully by the singing of Geddy Lee, who ignites the speakers with such an incredible degree of flexibility (from tenderness to might and everything in between) that all one can do is marvel. When he shrills "Just think what my life might be/ In a world like I have seen/ I don't think I could carry on/ Carry on this cold and empty life" Lee has totally inhabited the character from which the words spawn in relation to the story, creating an opening to another dimension. Simply breathtaking.
8.) A Little Too Far - from the album "Street: A Rock Opera", designed and performed by Savatage.
This piece is just a flat out spectacular solo performance by Jon Oliva. One man and his piano, and it hits me in the heart every single time I hear it. There is such freedom in this recording, such pleasure in the act of playing and singing. On top of this the lyrics are magnificent, so real and creative, derived from personal experience before being woven into a narrative, then re-lived from this new perspective; intimately heart-felt through and through. There are several moments in this piece when I am literally drawn inside of it and see very clearly the images that are being sung, which I belive is a testament to the space from which it was cast: with empassioned vision.
9.) Sister Rosetta Goes Before Us - from the album "Raising Sand", designed and performed by Alison Krauss and Robert Plant.
This song is an expression of Heaven, both in where it is descending from (the clouds) and where it is leading the listener with the words ("up above"). The melody very quickly demonstrates that Ms. Krauss' vocal control is masterful, colorful (more exactly, shiningly white fused with powdered blue), controlled, and pitch perfect. Additionally, the music feels as if it is occurring spontaneously--especially the banjo, which seems like it was done in a single take, an expression unto itself. With Robert Plant in the background adding hints and subtle melodies (indications of something greater then our Sister Rosetta working behind the Veil) the total effect of this song is nothing short of sublimity.
10.) Cygnus...Vismund Cygnus - from the album "Francis The Mute", designed and performed by The Mars Volta.
This song, like most of the creations from The Mars Volta, is gloriously over the top. What separates this particular event from the rest is balance: it is overwhelming but understandable, eccentric but stable, lichen while sunbathing. All of the instruments are tangled yet solid, like the roots of a tree trunk. This musical complexity is matched verbatim by Cedric Bixlar Zavala's lyrics, which are gleefully wild and unabashedly un-tame. With image after image he weaves a tapestry of consciousness-tones that leave me breathless with some unseen knowledge, a right-brained poetic montage of Cacophony fornicating with with his lover Calm. This song is sweatily libidinous, fantastically subconscious, earthly surreal.
Then there is THE BUILD. Beginning at about the 4:20 mark Omar Rodriguez Lopez starts grinding his axe, initiating one of the finest musical ascensions and peaks I have ever experienced. Leading up to an astounding merger with Zavala's sexually liberated voice, the crescendo is reminiscent of the climax in Stairway To Heaven--one word: orgasmic. All that one is left with by the end is a receding excitement that begs to be re-lived again and again.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
The Archetypes of D&D
There I was
Lighting the world with my tongue,
In the holiest hour tracing my blood
To her moon.
Then I rose in garland waves
Into the animal kingdom,
Free to reign
Over earth, wind, lava, and rain.
Circles and spirals delivered me,
Echoed my passion and delight
Through the gates of this heaven,
Where I married a falcon
And drove the sun beyond the eyelid.
This article is about the role-playing game Dungeons & Dragons. Now, I know that, for the uninitiated, there is a stigma surrounding that name, and there are in fact certain instances in which that stigma may be well deserved. For those of you who grew up as jocks, musicians, or hard-nosed academics in pursuit of the American Dream, words such as nerd, geek, spaz, freak, dork, loser, poindexter, and robot-fucker may come to mind when you hear the term D&D. I am here, however, to share a view of the gaming experience unknown to those of a geek-slandering disposition, and at the same time express how playing D&D as a teenager not only made me a better person but also primed me for authentic psycho-spiritual awakening and transformation.
For those whom know nothing about the game, here is a brief description:
Dungeons & Dragons is an RPG (role-playing game) in which the participants take on the roles of characters generated from a set of rule books. Selecting from a series of different races and classes (think Lord of the Rings; elven archers, dwarven warriors, human sorcerers) the players function as imaginary characters through a series of adventures which are orchestrated by the Dungeon Master, or DM. These adventures can take place in mountains, deserts, cities, towns, castles, dungeons, or wherever one so wishes.
Much like reading a novel, most of the action happens inside the imagination, with prepared descriptions and illustrations serving to move the narrative along. Also included in the gaming experience are dice (4,6,8,10,12, and 20 sided), maps to show the terrain, miniature lead figurines to demonstrate the proper scale of battle sequences, and of course many rule books, which offer countless spells, weapons, magical items, worlds to explore, monsters to slay, and treasures to be won. Generally there are 3-8 PC's (player characters) being run through each adventure, each of them gaining in level of experience and power for each accomplished mission.
In my experience the most exciting of these adventures took place in marathon gaming sessions, lasting anywhere between eight and twelve hours. Five of us would gather at one of our homes and hold up in a room stocked with mad amounts of junk-food and, over the course of a night, explore a realm of imagination together. There were times when everyone involved was totally transfixed by the story we were weaving, inhabiting their characters so completely that the mental scene took on the vividness of real life.
For myself, this was a first. Being a child of the television and video game generation who was in no way active in sports, school programs, or music, this was my first taste of thinking, feeling, and creating as a team. Imagining myself as a character who was much more capable, heroic, altruistic, and adventurous than myself was in and of itself a fulfilling experience; add the fact that my friends were doing the exact same thing and the game became a source of bonding and affection. A word that was oft used when referring to our party of adventurers was brotherhood.
Now, placing a context around this point is very important. Growing up in lower class neighborhood, my friends and I were all reared by single mothers, with not one mature and wise masculine presence to guide us into manhood. We had virtually no healthy outlets for the boyish energy that can and should be shaped into a stable masculinity. When you add to this the fact that all of us were raised with little or no emotional intelligence, in environments that were down-right verbally (and sometimes physically) violent, the outcome was minimal skills for dealing with the plethora of raging internal objects inhabiting the subconscious mind.
With Dungeons & Dragons, however, we were able to address and play out some major themes using archetypal imagery, becoming the hero, the warrior, the victim, the master (usually of weapons or magic), the thief, the holy man, the crazy person, the assassin, etc. Additionally there were endless lists of enemies to be subdued or conquered--the sacrificing cult, the band of thuggish brutes (or brutish thugs), the evil genius, and, the greatest of all enemies, the mighty dragon. Having since grasped the notion that all of these Ideas are aspects which comprise the integrated and free-functioning Self, I now see what we were doing as a group: collectively working through internal conflict and getting in touch with a sense of personal value that might be applied in real world situations.
D&D stretched me into territories of emotional depth and intellectual fascination beyond my container of conditioned existence, which I was normally reluctant to step outside of. Here is a sample of the range of emotions that I have experienced while playing D&D: warmth, comfort, safety, friendship, excitement, elation, joy, anger, rage, disappointment, fear, and wonder. Here also are some ideas that I seriously pondered for the first time because of D&D: infinity, polytheism vs. monotheism, the nature of evil, alternate realms of existence (particularly the duality of heaven and hell), the nature of insanity, what power does to the ego, and what happens after death.
I think of some of the best adventures that I have participated in--either as Dungeon Master or player character--and the titles are enough to bring vivid imagery to mind: The Labyrinth of Madness, Hour of the Knife, The Secret of Spiderhaunt, The Rod of Seven Parts, and Dragon Mountain. Also, my friend Bryan crafted a magnificent and long-standing story line centering around a city called Waterdeep, which is a main-stay in a world named the Forgotten Realms, one of the more popular settings produced and distributed by TSR Inc. (owned by Wizards of the Coast), the publisher of D&D materials.
I decided to cover this subject on my blog for two reasons: firstly, because I am interested in the idea of brotherhood within this postmodern techno-secular culture; secondly, because I see so clearly how Dungeons & Dragons and its accompanying fantasy novels helped shape my current psycho-spiritual world view.
In the first instance, I have rarely felt so connected to other human beings as in the best hours of gaming. While sitting in meditation with a group of others is incredible, separation from this worldly reality definitely occurs, and even if it doesn't the time is spent in silent awareness. In conversation with friends or strangers, the act is one of relating past experiences, sharing future hopes, or imparting life in the present. With D&D, though, a world of imagination is linked to this one, and the participatory creativity can manifest an experience of group mind. Once the linking of a psychic and emotional nature takes place, it may coalesce into a unified feeling of accomplishment, something so rare at any point in my life.
In the second instance (that of psycho-spiritual development) the game gave me very important Ideas that I could personally inhabit, archetypes and prototypes of beings that touch the furthest reaches of human potential and experience, both in depth and transcendence. It also gave me places to visit using Active Imagination, a practice developed in Jungian psychology for the purpose of identifying and integrating different aspects of Self. Examples of such otherworldly locals I visit occasionally due to D&D are cloud cities in the sky, impenetrable fortresses constructed in realms of chaos, breath-taking vistas inhabited by mighty gods, hellish domains of suffering and pain, and glorious cities of magical dominance crafted by races of beings in touch with the Source of all creations.
Recently I was in a deep meditation assisted by the sativa plant when it dawned on me that I could think of myself as any being I wanted; instantly I was drawn to the Idea of a Phoenix. A Phoenix is an other-worldly creature of Fire, a bird of extraordinary magical power and spiritual Intellect that burns up into ashes and is ever reborn. Immediately I became this creature, this Phoenix, living in a realm of raging elemental fire. Hovering a couple of hundred feet in the air above a sea of lava was a small sun, which I plunged deeply into, completely surrendering into bliss. Lasting for about ten minutes, I was swelling and soaring in a habitat which I had never been to before, living as this mythical and mystical being. When I was re-born out of the fire I felt the strength of my wings, the knowledge of my heart, the purity of my soul.
While many of the themes presented in Dungeons & Dragons are taken from classical mythology and world cultures, the game integrates them with some startlingly fresh ideas. The first time I ever heard of a Phoenix was in the D&D Monster Manual tome, which I credit for drawing me into a number of amazing Ideas. Sometimes, it is a matter of how a piece of knowledge is framed that determines whether someone will receive it or not. For me, the books and novels of these fantasy games introduced play into the act of thinking and imagining, as opposed to the forced and boring energy which permeates most school activities.
I played D&D for the first time when I was seven years old. My brother--who is four years my senior--and his friends would include me as they delved into crypts filled with all kinds of traps and beasties. These friends of my brother had parents and older siblings who'd introduced them to the gaming experience, and this lent to it a quality of initiation, which, sadly, is the closest I ever got in my childhood to such a thing. Nonetheless, if and when I have children, I certainly plan on introducing them to the D&D game, albeit not at such an early age as seven (I think eleven or twelve is much more appropriate for the themes that come forth). With the current mechanizing action of computerized entertainment, I am a firm believer that anything which consciously engages the imagination as a source of entertainment and possible mental/emotional/spiritual insight is a far superior avenue to investigate.
Closing out this post, I want to share some imagery from the land of Dungeon's & Dragons, pictures that have helped shape my inner world.
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