This blog serves simultaneously as an information hub for my life as a wandering poet and as a platform for my various forms of expression. Here you can find articles about my life experience through differnt artists, and collectons of my personal poems, short stories, and photographs.
Pyramids were erected in the aftermath of my daydream Crafted of the blackest light Consciousness traveling at c on a one-way ray-beam Refracted by clouds of white Interpreted by the unblinking lens of my mind Digitally capturing Spirit in time A sacred collaboration of the Eye and I Self becomes All in this dance with the sky
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The thirty cloud photographs found below are the result of a great curiosity and passion. They have been selected from the thousands of cloud pictures I have taken over the past six years or so, and reflect a wide range of visions and ideas I have encountered during this mystical love affair. They have permanently altered both my view of nature and the capacities of my imagination, shifting my gaze inward while simultaneously strengthening my desire to interact with the world at-large. It is my profound hope that they have a similar impact upon all those who take the time to truly study them, employing the creative functions of the human mind within these fantastic worlds of distinct shapes and marvelous colors.
I stumbled upon the idea of combining a negative light effect while photographing clouds by accident, although the practice has affected my life so deeply that I prefer to look back upon the incident as destiny. While innocently fidgeting with my digital camera at the park on a glorious afternoon in November of 2003, I recognized almost immediately the visionary-like result of freezing the clouds as they pass before a blackened sun. Having no formal training as a photographer, I nonetheless forged ahead feverishly, filling my camera lens whenever the sky showed even a hint of cloud cover. This has continued ever since, my passion not fading in the least over the past six years.
What appeals to me is the intense feeling of connection that arises within while viewing the photographs. Because I see an astonishing amount of life within the images (faces, eyes, skulls, animals) I often experience a sense of Oneness that transcends ordinary experience, a unity with a Fullness that exists within everything--the clouds, the sun, my camera, me. I call this unity the One Life.
By placing these photographs on my blog I am attempting to disseminate the art in a manner that most closely resembles what my experience has been. There is no doubt that the best way of viewing these photographs is upon a lighted screen, as the illumination and clarity brings out the fullness of the sunlight and the distinct layers of cloud formations. Hence the reason for this different form of media in the face of a long history of photographs on the page or in the frame.
Of the thirty pictures, not all of them have been reversed into negative light. I wanted to leave a few "normal light" pieces in the collection for the purpose of juxtaposition against the negative majority. Particularly, photographs 27 & 28 are wonderful for this, as they are the same image, the former in regular light and the latter in negative.
Finally, I would like to offer a few pointers concerning some of the photos:
#01 has without a doubt become the most famous and recognizable picture among those who have inspected my work. The enormous "skull face" (as it is commonly referred) is extraordinarily easy to spot, even by children. What fascinates me about the image, however, is its capacity to unlock my creativity: I often spot all kinds of mysterious visions within its pleromic fabric.
#09 is a shot of the sun, its perfect circle poking effortlessly through the clouds. Look out for the eyeball almost directly above the sun, near the top of the photo, within the blackness.
#22 has been altered in size due to an aberration that existed in another portion of it. The pure weirdness of the lone cloud (in my eyes appearing as five or six faces being torn apart or melding together!) resulted in the cropping.
#30 is the final picture of the collection and may not be much to observe if the very large and very life-like face isn't spotted in its center, the rest of the image being a drab grey. Luckily, it is almost impossible to miss, especially if you are looking for it.
I would like to offer my sincere thanks for taking the time to read this, and I hope that you enjoy the cloud pictures even a fraction that I do.
On the Alter of the Covenant I sacrificed the thrashing snake Under Wheel-spun intoxication I drank the sacred mandrake Erelong the shadow-spawn For myself that I did mistake Was exposed within the Sentinel's soma As a parasitic fake
This is a story about the discovery of personal power through a work of art, and the movement to that possibility from a state of enslaved ignorance. It is a story about death and rebirth, about the synthesis and harmony of seeming opposites in an integral embrace of love. It is the story of consciously realizing the interdependent nature of existence through direct insight, while simultaneously coming to see the unique beauty of one's individuality within the context of that unified reality. It is a story about passion, madness, magic, and creativity. It is the story of a person getting their wings, of coming to see the Light of the Dawn in every breath, in every thought, in every moment.
It is my story- which is your story, is every story that ever was or ever will be. It is the creation of a new myth, the re-framing of a personal history within a universal and multi-dimensional totality.
Like every story this one starts with a single impulse, a single event that would set me on a path that I could have never dreamed of. The impulse in this instance was to take off early from my job and go to Vintage Vinyl, a popular record store in my hometown of St. Louis, MO, for the midnight release of Lateralus, the fourth studio album from the progressive rock band Tool. Being that I was already a devoted fan of the band and that this was their first release in five years I was determined to have the CD as soon as it was available, and had arranged a listening party at my place for the event.
At the time (2001), this ceremony with four of my best friends was the most exciting thing happening in my life. I was twenty-two years old and living a life of slow degeneration. Emotionally closeted and spiritually alienated, my repressed sense of unworthiness and shame was apparent in my attitude (angry and nihilistic), in my appearance (over-weight and shy), and in my obsession and near worship of anything that was "great" (athletes, beautiful women, musicians). Unable to interact with the world at large in any meaningful way, and in denial about the sense of lack that was intrinsic to my unnaturally shallow existence, all of my hopes, dreams, and higher possibilities were projected onto cultural icons. And there was no greater icon in my personal lexicon than Tool.
I came to them slowly. Growing up a fan of classic and progressive rock (Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, Rush, Jethro Tull, Queensryche, Pearl Jam, Dream Theater) I took their second release Undertow in stride, only locking in on the songs that gained popularity on the radio, "Prison Sex" and "Sober." Then something started to shift in the beginning of 1998. A friend implored me to give some concentrated attention to their newest release, 1996's Aenima. Heeding his advice, I spent the better part of the following year digesting its stirring energy track by track, slowly being initiated by the introspective and transformative knowledge being transmitted through the music and lyrics. And then I saw them live for the first time.
It was the summer of '98. The annual Ozzfest tour was coming to town to play the outdoor amphitheater, and Tool was on the bill. To be completely honest I distinctly remember sort of ignoring their presence while anticipating the event; I was much more hyped about seeing Megadeth and Ozzy Osbourne himself. But when the time neared for Tool to take the stage an amazing thing started to happen. An indefinable energy began sweeping the crowd, a palpable charge that I noticed as I surveyed the scene in the twilight. It felt special.
There was a guy in his early twenties to my right who seriously began losing his mind as the band slowly walked on stage, which was illuminated only with the soft glow of neon magikal symbols and a couple of trippy lights. This fellow was convulsing, screaming, curled up into a ball in his seat, chanting over and over again, "TOOL, TOOL, TOOL." I found this quite strange, but I didn't judge him. I just remember thinking to myself, "He must be salivating for a reason." Over the next hour and a half I witnessed first-hand the cause of his hysteria, and left the show with a new level of dedication to the band.
It was witnessing that performance that drew me more deeply into the intrigue and mysteriousness that surrounds the band. Even seeing them live was like observing a faceless entity. The band is like a Platonic Idea, a means of reaching a higher state of mind, not a vehicle for self aggrandizement- which seems to be the standard driving force of most rock bands. But before I truly understood this I simply delved into the occult themes presented in their lyrics and imagery with longing and fervor, dissecting song after song, always asking, "Now what are they trying to say? What are they speaking of?" I intuited a depth and originality in the band that I had never experienced before, a mirror for the depth and originality within myself that was being denied.
So then there was this: a new album, Lateralus, and five of us gathered around in a semi-circle, freshly buzzed on the smoke of cannabis. Anticipation, rapt attention, speakers on fire, five young minds united in thought, in art. Thinking together. The beginning of a new journey, the beginning of wisdom, of self-knowledge, of infinite possibilities.
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In order to understand the degree of transformation that has occurred in my life (and Lateralus' impact upon it) it is necessary to paint a vivid portrait of the selfishness, stupidity, laziness, and craziness which was deluding just about every aspect of my being up until my mid-twenties. This starting point was complete identification with the concrete outer, until a grace of Heart spilled into the blood of my body, and the Light of expansive and freeing Mind shined upon the falsity of my prison-like ego identification.
I will begin by simply recounting my actions, behaviors driven by cultural conditioning and a lack of self understanding. However, before expounding upon my past I would like to point out that it is my belief that the state of unconscious suffering that I was in was a necessary step in my development as a human being. If some of the language that I use is harsh, I want to point out that it is not coming from a place of shame, arrogance, or belittlement against myself or any other who is lost in the nightmare of Ignorance. The fact of the matter is that since I have awakened to a higher and deeper truth within I have gained greater compassion for and acceptance of my former self and those who are stuck in a world of unacknowledged mental/emotional agony. But I have to call it like I see it.
"Ignorance Made Flesh"
My mind never stopped. There was no peace, no acceptance, only agitation which had to be soothed by some form of stimulation. Sugary soda, cigarettes, greasy foods, excessive marijuana consumption, television, music, video games, and compulsive masturbation. Like a shark who can't stop swimming, I was constantly on the move for my next fix. When it failed to satisfy, I would move on to the next thing, completely denying the fact that the life I was leading was vacant of any true affection or lasting happiness- not to mention its toll on my health.
At my heaviest I weighed around two-hundred and eighty pounds. My diet consisted mostly of fast food, pizza delivery, frozen dinners, and anything you find in the aisles of your neighborhood 7-11. This was the way in which I was raised, so for me it was normal in some sense. I was embarrassed by my weight and would curse myself whenever I dared to look in the mirror, but was much too stubborn and fixed in my ways to give up the junk food and start exercising.
One particular night, when I was twenty or twenty-one, I remember getting stoned and gorging myself with food. I wasn't hungry, but kept eating anyway. When I would become out of breath from swallowing I would stop, smoke a cigarette, then resume the mouth-orgy. I was sitting on a recliner, shirt off, swollen stomach enormous, watching a movie. Then, in the midst of this self-exploitation, I had a moment of clarity.
As I reached down to get another smoke I became extremely aware of myself as a body, and of my fixation with these different forms of stimulation. It was as though I was above myself looking down, and I said aloud, "My God, I am nothing but a great-big-fat monkey!" The realization lasted only a moment, and at the time it did absolutely nothing to stop my over-consumption, but this moment of keen awareness played an important role in my emerging dissatisfaction.
Usually, when night-time would come and I was laying by myself in bed I would go into the fantasy-land of my mind, using my imagination to construct scenarios of life-situations that appealed to my desires. Because I was unable to use any of my potential to foster real life interactions I would just make them up in my head. Sometimes I was in love with a beautiful woman, sometimes I was a guitar great on stage, sometimes I would win the lottery, and sometimes I was omnipotent with magical powers, playing out scenes that exercised the supremacy of Me. And I would do this for hours.
It even carried over to work. Because I had a factory job which placed me in what amounted to solitary confinement for most of the day, I was always dropping in and out of these fantasies, becoming a baseball player or shedding my flab for the physique of a body builder, anything to get me away from the experience of the present moment.
Whatever was actually happening in reality was denied for make believe or some form of mental or physical stimulation, and if that ain't self-delusion then I don't know what is.
Always the greatest area of desire and fantasy for me revolved around sex. I was constantly using my mind in masturbation (and still do!), but this was the one place that fantasy couldn't satisfy fully. I wanted a relationship, wanted interaction with actual human beings. Because I was much too timid to go out on a limb and try to hook-up with the opposite sex at a bar or a party, I would simply go to the strip club, once again an expression of my fictitious mindset. Doing this on almost a weekly basis, combined with my penchant for spending at a whim, left me thousands of dollars in credit card debt.
I was the shadow side of America. I didn't have work ethic or a desire to forge community. I knew nothing of morals or the deeper understanding of freedom. I cared not for my country or the planet, and would brashly egg on the end of the world as a means of blowing off steam. All I wanted was to consume.
During this stretch of my life there were two themes unfolding in the background that, when they finally emerged into the fullness of my mind, would permanently alter my life for the better. The first of these was Tool's Lateralus.
I have always been interested in the lyrics of songs. I can remember sitting up late at night with the cover jacket to Zeppelin 4, reading the words to "Stairway to Heaven" over and over, or trying to decipher Rush's opus "2112." Whether it was Tull's "My God" or Dream Theater's "Learning to Live," I was always in search of meaning. So it should be no surprise that when real meaning, deeper meaning, was offered to me, it would impact me in a profound way.
Looking back I see that the first time I listened to Lateralus it was with a form of intention, with an additional energy behind it. My gathering of friends and I with-held any form of commentary on the lyrics on that first night and used the occasion to adjust to the force of the music- the sounds, the arrangements, the feeling that it generates. This is the magic of art: we were all unified, singularly focused with our awareness, and I have no doubt that this feeling of connection upon first exposure set the tone for its transformatve capabilities in my life.
As the weeks and months passed the album took on a sort of legendary status in my group of friends. Every time we saw one another we would talk about what track was our favorite at the moment, recite the lyrics that touched us, that spoke to our hearts. Even well before I lost myself in the darkness of self hatred- which provided the fertile ground for the true magic within the music to enter my mind and soul- I was garnering new truths from the words. I specifically remember an insight that arose within me while listening to "The Grudge" which helped me to see the stupidity of wasting personal energy upon those who are slanderous or who I was emotionally resistant to.
Wear the grudge like a crown Of negativity Calculate what you will Will not tolerate Desperate to control All and everything Unable to forgive Your scarlet letterman
Clutch it like a cornerstone Otherwise it all comes down Justify denials and Grip 'em to the lonesome end Clutch it like a cornerstone Otherwise it all comes down Terrified of being wrong Ultimatum prison cell
Give away the stone Let the ocean take and transmutate This cold and fated anchor Give away the stone Let the waters kiss and transmutate These leaden grudges into gold
At the time I was particularly fond of hating all things Conservative, Republican, or Christian. I saw them as brainwashed ideologues who were out to brainwash everyone else and destroy those who didn't align with their vision of reality. While pondering the above lyrics, however, I began to see that if I invested my energy into hating the 'scarlet lettermen' that it may be a symptom that I was 'terrified of being wrong,' confined within an 'ultimatum prison cell' of my own. I was, in effect, living in a manner very similar to the right-wing nut-job. Ultimately the grudges we hold become stones that weigh us down, but when we 'give away the stone' that energy is freed and we can experience transmutation.
This insight kept playing into many other areas of my life. Who am I holding a grudge against? Who am I giving my life energy to by hating them? My father? My boss? The guy who cuts me off while driving? I pondered this insight for a couple of weeks, and it brought a form of self-awareness whenever I encountered something that agitated me in the world "out there."
On September 11th, 2001, I, like the rest of the world, watched the Twin Towers crumble. I would be lying if I said anything other than this when looking back upon that day: I enjoyed it. I don't mean that I think it was funny or that I sided with the terrorists, just that it made me feel special. It made me feel like "The End" was coming, and that titillated me. Of course I never could have admitted that to anyone. While it was happening I had to go along with the standard line of "Isn't that awful. What a tragedy." But in all truth, in my surface mind, I was thrilled.
In my subconscious mind, though, I was terrified. This could be seen in my reaction over the next month and a half. I quit my job of close to four years, cashed in my 401k, and spent the next month gorging myself in all ways possible. I went to the strip club several times a week, getting lap dances, sometimes from more than one girl at a time; I ate myself silly, McDonalds for breakfast and dinner; I bought huge sacks of marijuana and blew through them bong rip by bong rip. This was the beginning of my spiral downward.
Because I didn't have a job my sense of anxiety began to kick in. I would enter into deep depressions and lay in bed for two days, stirring only to gorge myself with food, jack-off, get high, and light a cigarette. I would lay in the fetal position absolutely terrified, hating myself and all of existence. I would cry and punch myself in the head, cursing myself as stupid, weak, fat, and lazy, a worthless nothing who deserves to die alone.
Finally, after seeing that it was possible to go back, I returned to my job in mid October. I decided that I should follow the President's advice and consume for the good of the economy, so I took my first couple of paychecks and bought everything that I wanted. My boss excused my absence as a post 9-11 trauma and I fell back into the routine I had been following for four years.
Going back to the job didn't alleviate the depression, though. It actually worsened it. I began hating my existence there as well, yet I knew that if I quit all that awaited me was the emergence of more crippling pain. While employed at least I could afford to go to Blockbuster and rent movies, have my cigarettes fully stocked, or get high if I wanted to, so I stuck it out. For a while, anyway.
It was also in October of 2001 that Tool came to St. Louis for a sold-out show at the downtown sports complex, a performance that would give me a glimpse of higher consciousness, would plug me into a group mind, a very much needed occurrence in my state of mental/emotional alienation and isolation.
This is the beauty of the band. While maintaining a creepy mystique and an appeal to those in the metal community who have their roots in darkness, they carry a message of divinity, of love, of brotherhood, of the possibility of transforming our consciousness into higher and deeper realms of experience. To bring that idea into the life of a tool like myself was a miraculous gift and has, since the fruition of my transformation, become my inspiration for practicing art.
I will never forget standing in the crowd before the show, the anticipation rising. Me and two friends had arrived early with our general admission tickets and wound up at the very front of the stage. I had never been one to become involved in mosh pits, much preferring to pay attention to the show as opposed to using my body to slam into others, although on this night it was going to be unavoidable. As the lights dimmed all of a sudden there was no space. I was pressed in on all sides, and momentarily became frightened. But this young fellow next to me gave me the most wonderful smile imaginable and said, "This is going to be amazing, brother," and in that moment I let go. We clenched each other's hands in a gesture of respect, and then the lights went completely out.
Disoriented, I was swept off of my feet, stumbling forward only to be caught by the mass of people in front of me. The band started with "The Grudge," and the whole crowd was singing every word with the entirety of the their bodies. As the song reached its middle section I felt a breakthrough within myself, an excitement that I was exactly where I wanted to be in that moment, free, alive, sweating, breathing, heart pumping like a madman. I released a primal scream and suddenly my feet came to me, so I started jumping up and down in exaltation.
Over the next two hours I was lifted up. Looking back with my current knowledge and the experience of various spiritual practices over the past several years, I liken a Tool concert to a shamanic trance, entering into an altered state of mind as a collective. The band is performing the act of facilitators in the experience of drawing us humans together in recognition of Mind at large. This can take on a spiritual tone or not, but regardless, the entering of an altered state is certainly what occurs.
In a similar vein, there is most assuredly a drug culture that surrounds the band, a keen interest in altered states of consciousness. It isn't overt, but very subtle. LSD, mushrooms, peyote buttons, DMT, ecstasy, hashish, sativa; these are the substances that I have heard mention of when interacting with other Tool fans, and there is even the occasional reference in the band's lyrics of such things.
"Think for yourself, question authority."
At the opening of Salival, Tool's masterful live album, there is a sample of a man intoning the above words over and over again. My interest being piqued, I decided to do some research and came up with the name Dr. Timothy Leary. Not having a clue who he was, I found out what information I could online and decided that I wanted to read one of his books. The next day I went to a book store and, they not being stocked with any of his works, took a chance and had them order the one with the coolest sounding name; Change Your Brain.
Throughout my teens and early twenties the only drug I ever used was marijuana. I held a fascination for hallucinogens, but I never went out of my way to seek them out. I intuited that they weren't entertainment, but something deeper, something special. Reading Change Your Brain turned me on to the existent scientific evidence of unlocking the higher creative potentials of the mind through psychedelic substances (particularly psilocybin containing mushrooms), and even their possibility of healing long standing mental/emotional wounds.
As the good Doctor explains, this potential rests upon several factors, namely what state of mind you bring to the experience, where and with whom you consume, knowledge of the drug's capabilities, proper intention and focus, and an authentic willingness to actually change one's perception. All of this made perfect sense to me, and in a synchronicity that still makes me smile very wide, three days after I finished Leary's book a bag of mushrooms appeared before me.
I decided to eat the shrooms with my three closest friends at the time, the people who I had not only shared my best moments with, but some of my wost. They had seen my generosity, my ability to share my heart fearlessly, and had also witnessed my darkness, my mask of self confidence slip to reveal a crying, scared little boy. They had even seen glimpses of my self destructive nature manifest in ways that weren't socially acceptable, a death impulse which was pushing me to harm myself and others.
In the months leading up to the psilocybin encounter I was going through a persistent depression. During the day I was fine, but when it came time to lay down and go to sleep I would become extraordinarily sad. Rather than playing out the addictive fantasies in my mind that I held since I was a teenager I was plotting my suicide, considering all the ways in which I could do it. Sometimes it was a bottle of Tylenol PM and a fifth of vodka, others it was a driving my car headlong into a pole at top speed on the highway.
Another persistent idea was one that had me driving to Florida and offing myself on the beach. One morning in early '03 I awoke with such frustration about my job (which is to say about the closed state of my mind) that I emptied my bank account and began driving south with the intention of following through with the plan. I got to the Missouri/Arkansas border and broke down in tears, finally calling one of my friends to let him in on my plan. He coaxed me back to St. Louis and I spent the next couple of days trying to explain my frustration to several of my closest compatriots, to no avail.
Yet another time I slung a belt around the bar in my closet and placed my neck in it- just to test it out. I wanted to see what it felt like, choking myself for fif-teen or twenty seconds at a time before crying myself to sleep on the floor of the closet, door closed, a picture perfect representation of my disconnected mental state.
I kept telling myself that work was the cause of all of these problems, until I finally reached the breaking point. I came to work on a Monday morning in July of 2003 feeling absolutely dreary. I couldn't contain my frustration. Tears were leaking from my eyes, and I was shaking. After five minutes of being there I gave up. I walked over to my boss and told him that I couldn't do it any more; I was quitting.
"Are you sure?" he asked me. This is the man who had gone out of his way to help me over the five and a half years I had been with his company, excusing my constant tardiness and absenteeism while supporting me during what was an obvious emotional breakdown (I would often show up at work angry and sullen, answering with curt nods and disengaging from everyone else at break and lunch time, brooding in my alienation).
"Yes," was my reply, and I walked out into the morning summer heat, feeling a weight lifted from my shoulders, from my chest. What I didn't realize is that I was saying yes to a confrontation with my darkness, with my selfishness, and with the possibility of awakening to a new a way of being. My casual interest in expanded states of mind and a creative way to interact with the world, known at this point only through my interest in decidedly introspective music (Tool, Chroma Key, Porcupine Tree, etc.) had finally collided with my dissatisfaction with life, and I walked away with a hope for something fresh, something joyous.
A couple of months without a job, not knowing what I was going to do next, then came Change Your Brain and the mushroom trip in October of '03. Before eating the fungus I stated out-loud, "I am not doing this for a good time. I am doing this to open my third-eye, my creative eye, to awaken to new way of being." With that I downed a fair dose of the dried stems and caps, feeling safe and secure in the presence of friends.
I will leave the details of that trip out of my tale, because I don't feel they are relevant to what I am trying to convey. What I do feel is important, what is central to my interpretation of Lateralus, is that the recognition of and movement toward self-discovery is at once a movement of surrender to something higher and a movement toward personal power. Being that we are direct manifestations of Divinity, when we authentically acknowledge our state of conditioned ignorance and claim responsibility for our state of mind the Higher can infuse us with Light and Love. A new inner reality, when accepted in totality, eventually manifests a new outer one.
Several weeks after the trip I hit absolute bottom.
Running out of money, contemplating moving back into my mom's place, having no drive to replace the job I had left behind, I swallowed about seventy ibuprofens. I had no idea if it would actually kill me, but the fact that I had reached such point of desperation was a serious warning. I remember laying on my bed the moment after downing all those pills and being absolutely terrified, thinking that I had really done it, I had really offed myself. It was then I realized that I really didn't want to die. In fact, I was terrified of death.
Leaping up I dialed 911, then unsuccessfully tried gagging myself over the toilet. I sat on the couch after speaking with the emergency operator and stared at the wall, feeling a numbness take over my entire being. When the paramedics arrived I was barely responsive to their questions, off in my own little world. The ambulance driver walked into my apartment with a brash attitude, stacked muscles and a buzz cut, smirkingly asking his female partner, "So this is him, huh?" Then, turning to me he said, "What's the problem?" his tone amounting to, "Suck it up, you fuckin' pussy."
Riding in the back of the ambulance to the hospital I was very calm, very still, very quiet. I felt like the male paramedic, who sat next to me the entire time (in case I should try and harm myself again, I suppose,) became somewhat concerned by my demeanor, by my unresponsiveness. I could feel his tension and nervousness building. Whether this was from fear that I was going to die or just from my disturbed nature I can't say. What I can say is that I stared at the clouds floating in the blue sky all the way to the hospital, marveling.
I arrived at the mental ward, was fed some black stuff that made me diarrhea like no body's business, then passed out. I awoke at one in the morning, alone in my sterilized bed with the noisy pillow, and stared at the ceiling. My internal dialogue went something like this:
"Here I am again, for fuck's sake. I can't believe it. All these years have passed and nothing is ever solved. I just keep going in circles. I am twenty-four years old and I am in the same place I was when I was fucking seven. My God, is anything ever going to change?"
When I was seven years old I was placed in the very same mental hospital for a behavioral disorder. I spent the following three years in and out of psychiatric wards and group homes, not staying with my mother and brother for good until I was almost eleven. This set the theme for my adolescence, which was one of constant struggle with my family members. And here I was, no different. I was still the screwed up little kid I had always been.
Over the next three days of hospitalization three really important things happened that would set me on my path of self-discovery. Firstly, I finally got through to my family and friends that something was wrong with me. When I reached the hospital I was asked if I would like to contact anyone to let them know I was there, and I declined. I found out the next day that my brother and some of my best friends, seeing that all of my belongings were present but that I was missing, scoured the neighborhood and the copse of woods nearby fearing the worst. When they came to visit me a couple of days later I think they finally saw the real me, the wounded me. This event would alter those relationships forever.
Secondly, I had the opportunity to interact with some people who had serious mental agitations. These were not just repressed and unacknowledged wounds, but severe disturbances. One girl couldn't fall asleep, and was so drugged that she was permanently in a dream-like state, only partially in this reality. Another fellow would act out in jail so that they would send him to the hospital; he had a case history of schizophrenia. Yet another woman walked around with a smile ALL THE TIME, to the point that it was her only expression. And the list goes on and on.
Seeing and interacting with these genuinely mental ill people helped me to put my problems into context. I had the capacity to think rationally, to interact with the world at large if I so chose. I just knew that there was something wrong with my life, that the way in which I consumed was perverse, and that this stemmed from a deeper longing, a deeper dissatisfaction.
When my brother came to see me during my stay he asked me what the problem was. "All we do is the same thing over and over again, man," I replied. "We get up and go to work, come home and watch television. Our happiness is looking forward to the weekend and a trip to the fuckin' drive-thru. It's like they say in Fight Club, ' We work at jobs we hate to buy shit that we don't need.' Not only that, but what we are buying is fucking killing us! Cigarettes and junk food. It is killing us! So why shouldn't I just get it over with?"
Thirdly, what really set me over the top, what filled me with anger and energy and gave me the drive to make a drastic change in my life, was my interaction with the facility's 'doctor.' Or should I say lack of interaction. During the three days that I was wrist-banded I saw the man for a total of five minutes. He never looked me in the eye, never asked me a question pertaining to why I wanted to kill myself. He prescribed me a healthy dose of Prozac on my last day and sent on my merry way.
I realized then that if I ever wanted to change, that if I ever wanted to heal, that it was totally up to me. I am responsible for my state of consciousness, and no one can help me to solve the mysteries of my mind.
The night I was released from the hospital I was flipping around online and came across an article, written by some anonymous fellow, about Tool's Lateralus, which he refers to as 'The Holy Gift.' The essence of the piece pointed to the fact that the song "Lateralus" is patterned after the Fibonacci sequence of numbers, which follow a spiralling pattern; 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, etc. This apparently can be seen pretty clearly by those who know how to follow musical timing, and can be measured in the vocal pattern of the song as well:
black [1]
then [1]
white are [2]
all I see [3]
in my infancy [5]
red and yellow then came to be [8]
reaching out to me [5]
lets me see [3]
there is [2]
so [1]
much [1]
more and [2]
beckons me [3]
to look through to these [5]
infinite possibilities [8]
as below so above and beyond I imagine [13]
drawn outside the lines of reason [8]
push the envelope [5]
watch it bend [3]
Even more, according to the author of this article, the tracks of the entire album could be re-arranged into a new numerical order following a variation on the Fibonacci sequence, revealing the "real" order they were supposed to be in. When listened to in this manner (6,7,5,8,4,9,13,1,12,2,11,3,10) the CDs true nature is revealed as 'The Holy Gift.' While I found (and find) this highly implausible, I nonetheless was fascinated by the idea. So the following day I decided to try it.
I was sitting upon the comfy chair in my bedroom, the very chair in which just a few days earlier I had swallowed a whole bottle of Motrin with the intention of suicide. It was the middle of the afternoon, window open, beautiful breeze blowing in. I had a small amount of kind bud, some extra potent stuff I had been hanging onto for just the right occasion. I wasn't sure if I wanted to smoke it, my level of sanity (or lack there of) absolutely at the front of my mind. Standing tall against my fear, I decided that I wanted to smoke it. This was a special moment.
Regardless of whether or not this new track order was actually something the band had done, I told myself that I wanted to approach the material in a new way. I already held a powerful connection the album, but I wanted something different from this listen. Then I said to myself:
"Rather than trying to understand what the band is saying, I am going to examine what this album means to me, right now. In the context of my life in this moment, seeing all of my pains and troubles, how does this work of art play a role in my ability to heal, to become a new person?"
Smoking the cannabis with a focus and intent rarely (if ever) seen before in my life, I placed the headphones around my ears and closed my eyes.
Opening with the song "Parabol" I immediately felt an intimacy unlike anything I had ever experienced before with any piece of music. I felt a kinship, a brotherhood not only with the band, but with something even larger. I saw with absolute clarity my state of pain and wounding, and began re-living the previous seventy-two hours, all within the span of the few opening bars of music. I saw that I had hit the absolute bottom, had wallowed in misery so great that I could go no lower. Hence, the only place to go was up. Then the lyrics began, soft and graceful like the wings of an eagle soaring on magenta winds:
So familiar and overwhelmingly warm This one, this form I hold now. Embracing you, this reality here, This one, this form I hold now, so Wide eyed and hopeful. Wide eyed and hopefully wild.
We barely remember What came before this precious moment. Choosing to be here right now, Hold on, stay inside... This body, holding me Reminding me that I am not alone in This body, makes me feel eternal All this pain is an illusion.
For the first time in my life I felt a complete assurance that I was exactly where I was supposed to be in every way. I was witnessing every aspect of my being- wounds and fears and all- unflinchingly, and I knew that everything I had experienced in my life had led me to this moment of recognition. I knew beyond all uncertainty that I had the power to change, that there was a brand new existence waiting for me; I just had to find out how to reach it, and that was more important then any other thing in the world. More important than jobs, than money, than sex, than food, than pain, than loss, than helplessness, than fear, than anything.
I had died, and now I was being reborn.
The thunderous driving force of "Parabola" kicked in and filled my body with soul. I could feel the adrenaline coursing through my veins, and I began to hallucinate, seeing swirling shapes and colors arise behind my eyelids. Every word poured into me as a flow of Understanding. I didn't need to think about meaning because I had entered a space where meaning simply was me. Everything made perfect sense, my insanities, the lyrics, and what I was supposed to do with my life.
We barely remember who or what Came before this precious moment, We are choosing to be here, right now. Hold on, stay inside This holy reality, this holy experience. Choosing to be here in
This body, this body holding me, Be my reminder here that I am not alone in This body, this body holding me, Feeling eternal all this pain is an illusion.
Alive
This holy reality, in this holy experience. Choosing to be here in...
This body, this body holding me, Be my reminder here that I am not alone in This body, this body holding me, Feeling eternal all this pain is an illusion Of what it means to be alive
Swirling round with this familiar parable. Spinning, weaving round each new experience. Recognize this as a holy gift and celebrate this Chance to be alive and breathing.
This body holding me reminds me of my own mortality. Embrace this moment. Remember, we are eternal, All this pain is an illusion.
All of my feelings of alienation were being witnessed, being confronted and transcended within the warmth of connection that illuminated my heart. A profound gratitude began filling my body and mind. I was thankful to be alive and breathing for the first time in a long time, and it was in the face of my worst disaster.
I listened to the rest of the album with stabilized intensity and fullness, deriving a deeper state of being while so doing. The apex of the experience came while listening to the song "Reflection." For some reason I had never paid very much attention to this song, always sort of having it fade into the background while listening to it. But with my intention set so firmly, the lyrics jumped directly into my heart and opened me even further, shivers and chills going up and down my spine while I listened:
And in my darkest moment, fetal and weeping. The moon tells me a secret, my confidant. As full and bright as I am, this light is not my own and A million light reflections pass over me. It's source is bright and endless, She resuscitates the hopeless. Without her we are lifeless satellites dreaming dreams. And as I pull my head out I am without one doubt, Don't want to be down here soothing my narcissism. I must crucify the ego before it's far too late. I pray the light lifts me out before I pine away. Before I pine away. Before I pine away. Before I pine away.
So crucify the ego before it's far too late To leave behind this place so negative and blind and cynical. And you will come to find that we are all one mind, Capable of all that's imagined and all conceivable. Just let the light touch you and let the words spill thorough, Just let them pass right through, bringing out our hope and reason.
Taking off my headset I new that I was a changed person. I was calm, content, even, and happy. I felt a natural satisfaction and connection to something larger. For the first time in my life I felt authentically Divine, as if I were something special, that my very existence was a blessing. I knew myself to be a Star.
This peak experience carried me through the next couple of months, gave me the confidence and personal strength to follow through with a series of actions that radically altered my life for good. Additionally, I awakened to the fact that I wanted to become an artist of some kind. I had received so much from music, film, and novels that I felt a need to give back, and began to see that I could be rewarded in ways I had never imagined by learning to create and express. The only problem was that I didn't know what I wanted to do, so I moved back in with my mother in a state of absolute uncertainty.
Over the next two years I went through a profound series of transformations. I changed my diet and began exercising, losing close to a hundred pounds. I read a staggering amount of books. I learned to meditate and diligently sat twice a day. I quit smoking cigarettes. I started taking photographs and writing poetry, which is now the central focus of my life. And I started the arduous process of addressing all of my wounds, grievances, dissatisfactions, and conditioned patterns of behaviour. All the while I refused to work, sending the signal loud and clear to anyone who challenged me that I was sick and needed to heal, so back off.
I have continued being blessed by transcendental experiences while listening to Tool's music. In many ways I have turned their music into a meditation, the drums sending me spinning into a shamanic trance while listening to "Merkaba," or the lull of "Intention" and "Disposition" showing me the drifting Fire of Soul as my breathing slows.
Ultimately I believe that this story is a testament of the power of altered states of consciousness, specifically when used in combination with a search for personal meaning and deeper understanding. Whether induced by a drug, a meditation technique, or a work of art, anything that dismantles our conditioned thought patterns and brings us closer to the transcendent Ground is to be granted the highest amount of respect. The permanent acquisition of higher stages of consciousness is more likely to ensue if the higher ground is first witnessed through a peak experience, and seers such as Tool who fearlessly share their lofty visions make awakening more likely for those of us who are caught in the drama of internal conflict. For this I offer my sincerest gratitude, for without the help of my brothers and sisters I would still be vanquished in the land of the lost, dining on the drive to die and toiling in the hurt of my cloistered imagination.
But now I see. I see death in each breath. I see Love in the sky. I see the wordless power of numinous Knowledge. I see forever and ever. I see myself standing in the center of Ecstasy and Energy, humbled. I see consciousness unfolding in waves. I see belief in myself and the Beyond. I see angels, demons, devas, the Devil, gods, and goddesses. I see the One, the Life, the Light, the Eternal. I see Shiva and Shakti. I see Purpose. I see nothing. I see everything. I see clearly beyond the haze of my hurt. I see you. I see infinite possibilities...
(This post and the one I will be placing directly above it- about Tool's album Lateralus- are very closely related. Both deal with shadow integration and personal transformation, but this one leans more towards the shadow, the unacknowledged and dissociated aspects of self, whereas the Lateralus post leans towards personal discovery and awakening. Interestingly, though, they both occured during the same time of my life, so you can somewhat see the Beauty arising out of darkness, the Truth emerging out of despair, the Energy lighting the air of a stagnant and closed-up tomb. I send the hope that if you take the time to read them both you will be rewarded with personal insight and discovery.)
Throughout my teenage years I was a very casual fan of hip-hip and gangsta rap. In my household there was only a handful of records of that particular genre that ever got any serious play, namely RUN D.M.C.'s "Raising Hell," Dr. Dre's "The Chronic," Snoop Dog's "Doggystyle," and Eazy-E's "Eazy-Duz-It." While I enjoyed hearing the lurid details of the life of a "gangsta" from these records and whatever else was playing on MTV at the time (Ice Cube's "Today Was A Good Day," Ice T's "Colors," Notorious B.I.G.'s "Big Poppa,") I nonetheless withheld my passion from that style of music, preferring instead the space that exists between bluesy, classic, and progressive rock. At least that was the case until I got a load of Eminem's second release, The Marshall Mathers LP. That shit was dope.
Or so my way of thinking went at the time. I had become familiar with Em's work a couple of years earlier (circa 1998) when his song "My Name Is..." blew up all across the country, crossing over on the radio dial and getting play on main stream rock and metal stations. Mildly amused by his lyrical antics, I didn't feel compelled to delve any further and buy his debut album, The Slim Shady LP. But when "The Real Slim Shady" hit the airwaves to promote The Marshall Mathers LP in the year 2000, I was fascinated enough by his jokes, taunts, and undeniable rhyming skills that I went out and purchased the CD. This marked the beginning of a short-lived but intense obsession with the blond-headed honcho from Detroit.
Comparable to watching the Twin Towers crumble, I was enamored by the pure spectacle of his shtick. Specifically, I was drawn to the song "Stan," an incredibly rich and compelling story that vividly portrays a nightmare scenario of an obsessive fan who takes what Eminem raps about seriously, then kills himself and his girlfriend because of it. This sober and tragic song shrink-wrapped a context around every other song on the album, a context that read, "Don't take me so seriously, I am just saying this shit because I can, not because I believe it." Such a context softened the malicious blow that is the rest of the album, a cradling that allowed me to dig into it without any sense of guilt or shame.
With songs such as "Kill You" (in which he talks about doing blow, killing women, and raping his mom), "Who Knew" (in which he famously makes fun of the death of Sonny Bono and Christopher Reeve), "Drug Ballad" (in which he gleefully recounts all the substances he parties with and looks forward to babysitting for his daughter so she can indulge in such things), and "Amityville" (in which he and his homey Bizarre expound on how twisted they are with a pervertedness that I won't repeat here), there is bound to be some form of visceral reaction when listening to The Marshall Mathers LP. For me the greatest taboo on an entire CD of taboos was track 16, "Kim."
In "Kim" the star of our show spits an anti-love letter to his on-again off-again wife, literally murdering her with his words and all too real sound effects in this grizzly but engaging fantasy. The realness of the imagery and emotional tone of the song ardently displays a creativity that is astoundingly clever but is caught in a whirlwind of hate, rage, sadness, despair, jealousy, and worthlessness. It is, to this day, the most vile piece of art I have ever encountered, not so much because of what he says, but because of the gravity with which he says it. Truly headache inducing.
So why the fascination? Why did I get off on it so much? Why am I writing in such detail about what I now consider to be symptom of darkness, evil, and the impulse to experience personal hell? Let's tread forward with great attention and see what arises.
Popular music has long been a refuge for the outlaw mentality, and Eminem is no different. It is as if certain artists appear within culture and take on a collective shadow projection, becoming the Devil for those unwilling to acknowledge their own darkness, or a hero for those who want to acknowledge it within but don't have the gumption to do so one way or the other. What I mean is that they (smartly) don't want to act on an impure impulse, and they don't want to address why such an impulse exists, so they live vicariously through the blackness of another, in this case Eminem. The psychological implications of this guy's success are abounding. More on that later.
Such bleak material is also widely available in main stream culture outside of hip-hop. Satanic heavy metal music (Slayer, Marylin Manson, Black Sabbath), torture porn horror flicks (Hostel, Reservoir Dogs, Saw), and video games (Grand Theft Auto, Hitman, Driver) are all artistic vehicles which provide entertainment that caters to the shadow. What differentiates Eminem from these other platforms, however, is the mass appeal of his hooks, rhymes, and sense of comedy. There is something very childish about his disturbances, as witnessed within the incessant drama-dialogue about his mother.
So here I was. I fell hook line and sinker for The Marshall Mathers LP. I then bought his first album, The Slim Shady LP. And of course I had to have Devil's Night, the release of his side project "D-12." All this material, and I couldn't get enough. I memorized every line from every song. I thought it was hilarious, all the raps about pills, smoke, dope, murder, rape, torture, and porn. I would giggle and laugh and happily sing along. I even became so proficient at mimicking the lyrics that I could do so without the benefit of the beat, going free style, if you will.
Looking back I see that I definitely felt a personal identification with Marshall. Here was an outsider from a lower class neighborhood (check), who grew up in a single parent household (check), who was admittedly under-educated (check), who liked to drink and smoke (check), who felt a sense of hopelessness with the prospects of his life (check), and who hated any kind of authority (check). The main differences between us were his marriage to Kim, his daughter Haley (I had neither wife nor child), and his willingness to say exactly what was on his mind; I harbored a desire to be as candid and frank as Eminem, but ultimately was much too timid for that sort of grandiosity.
The peak of my Eminem fascination was around 2002-2003. Not only had he released another album, The Eminem Show, but he also performed with Elton John at the Grammy's, starred in the movie 8 Mile, and won an Oscar for best original song with "Lose Yourself." I was riveted not only by his art, but by his level of success, which was and is comparable to Elvis and Michael Jackson- yet he was from my way of life, from my type of neighborhood, and carried the 'fuck you' attitude I had grown up with. During this span I also saw him in concert, performing my duties as a good little droogie.
I take the word 'droogie' from the film A Clockwork Orange, another piece of lifeless art that I was fixated with at the time. 'Droogie' is the term the protagonist of the film Alex uses to refer to his three delinquent buddies who mindlessly do whatever he says. Being the alpha-dog of the clique, Alex stares down and bullies his oafish 'friends,' whose sense of self is so weak that they dare not think for themselves; better to feel strong in numbers than to feel weak alone. This is the level of thoughtless dedication I had for Eminem, who I heralded as 'one of the greatest artists of all time, in any medium.' I don't find it coincidental that Em posed as Alex on the cover of Spin magazine.
Both Eminem's alter ego Slim Shady and Alex from Clockwork represented what I subconsciously wanted to be at the time. I was filled with anger and an unrecognized desire to lash out at the world around me. I wanted to be the delinquent, the misfit, but my psyche was too weak and fractured to fulfill those desires. From this shadow polarity of shamed-weakness/grandiose-omnipotence my admiration for the anti-hero was spawned.
Then, in 2004, as I have spoken of plenty on this blog, came a complete life transformation. Unable to guard against the conflict that was raging inside of me any longer, I hit bottom, which sent me into a mode of personal discovery. Meditation, exercise, reading, writing, loving relationships, and creative expression became the main concerns of my life. I realized fully the extent to which my mind and soul were diseased, and took steps toward healing that sickness. Claiming personal responsibility for my experience of reality set me free to guide my life away from the hell of personal torment and into the laughter, peace, and freedom of my True Nature.
In what ways have I changed? By the grace of the One I went from being sad, depressed, lonely, shallow, weak, angry, bitter, and jealous, to being internally stable, loving, caring, compassionate, tranquil, blissful, peaceful, and accepting. Over the past several years I have delved deep inside and brought the light of Consciousness to the totality of my person, illuminating all of the darkest regions that harbor dissociated and frightening aspects of the Self. This process is still on-going, of course (self evolution should never have an end in mind), but my experience of existence is so profoundly different that I give thanks for being alive and breathing every single day.
An interesting thing happened recently, though, which directly caused me to compose this post; Eminem released a new album, titled Relapse, and I found myself drawn to it.
Ever since I had that profoundly spiritual life transformation I have not listened to Eminem. I find the lyrics sadistic and childish, coming from a place of severe mental/emotional disturbance. If I listen to any of his CDs I begin witnessing a form of sadness and despair arising within me, and it is plain stupid for me to consciously cultivate those emotions. Art in general and music specifically has the ability to influence thought patterns and moods, much because of the way it plays round and round in the head. Em's catchy little rhymes are perfect for this sort of repetitive mental looping.
It is not so simple as shunning it, though. There are many levels on which art may be interpreted, and I hold a genuine fascination for how this form is influencing the minds and hearts of culture. In its first week of release Relapse sold a staggering 1.6 million copies, and this is in the age of Youtube, Myspace, and P2P servers, meaning that virtually everyone with Internet and an inclination has access to the album. Reading reviews that it was his harshest work to date, I was intrigued to see the depths to which he would stoop, what carelessness and depravity he would share with his millions of loyal followers. So I guardedly dove into the album, not ears first but shield first.
After listening to about half the songs I had had enough. To think that people, much less children, are repeatedly subjecting themselves to such depravity and violence is horrifying. The skill in which it is produced is undeniable. As is his ability to weave words together. But that doesn't change the fact that what he is cherishing and promoting is an expression of hell. It is the murder-suicide impulse witnessed at Virginia Tech made into sound, The Joker as shown in The Dark Knight busting 'mad rhymes,' the in-conscience of the pain-body defiling the ears and souls of all who consume it.
What does it mean that this darkness is heralded in our culture? As I write this Quentin Tarantino's new film Inglorious Basterds is preparing to be spawned into movie theatres across the world. Along the same lines as Relapse it glorifies sadism and torture. Where Relapse reads like a diary of Eminem's addiction to drugs and the hell of his personal life, Basterds (spelling incorrect) is murder and sadism almost purely as spectacle and entertainment. Both of these works are ingeniously crafted, and one could find all kinds of masterful peccadillos that exist in their horizontal composition, but what about their vertical depth? On the surface there are many things to be admired, but what is the art aiming for?
No matter how shiny and polished and well crafted, and even if it contains a glimpse of silver lining, the screams of war-like anger, death denial, and torture as escapism should not be awarded and held aloft as prizes in our culture. To me this form of art appealing to large masses of people is a symptom of the pain that already exists within the body of society, and is serving to bring it to the surface. It intensifies the pain-body and awakens it so that it may be seen more clearly. Some will over-come it with through self awareness and transform into more loving, conscious human beings, and some will become more dissociated then they already are, suffering the consequences of living in pathological ego identification.
As Eckart Tolle says, " Pain is the fire the burns the ego up."
And yet one of the reasons I am writing this is because there is a part of me that wants to take part in the spectacle. I want to see Inglorious Basterds. I want to buy Relapse and listen to it over and over again. Hell, listening to Eminem is one of the reasons why I am a slam poet; there is no way I would be spreading the gospel of Love in the form of spoken word without having subjected myself to the careless but staggering rhyming skills of the Detroit native. But is the stomach wrenching pain I would endure from partaking worth the satisfaction of my intellectual curiosity, my desire to know EXACTLY what is being ingested by main stream culture?
Ultimately, no. I will forgo stretching myself into the collective insanity in this case , simply because I know what awaits. (Or, to quote Nicholson in As Good As It Gets, "We're all stocked up here, go sell crazy someplace else.") That doesn't mean that I will never see a violent film again, or I will never buy another CD with an explicit content sticker on it. But they will have to have some vertical depth, be pointing toward goodness or truth or love as Idea, not the stifling ravings of sick children who can only point at themselves and scream, "Look at me!"
(This post, while not extraordinarily long, does contain a fair amount of my poetry in it, as it pertains to the content of the rest of the article. Understanding that reading poetry silently to oneself isn't necessarily the 'grooviest' of activities, I recommend shedding the silently part and intoning the words with the vigor and passion of a Greek god- if you do this with authenticity, you may just receive a bolt of lightning to decorate your mind with! However, if this option still doesn't appeal to latent poetic potentials laying deep within you, I implore you to skim over the poems and finish reading the post, as it has a considerable amount of useful data that pertains to the discovery of transcendent realms of experience. Thanks for reading.)
Flight of a Bee by Salvador Dali
One of the side effects of my interest in meditation has been the regular occurrence of what I will term here "Visionary Experiences." The best way in describing these strange and other-worldly episodes is likening them to a startlingly real dream, be the content hellish, beatific, or just plain weird. Sometimes spiritual, sometimes supernatural, always interesting, these phenomena used to happen in my life at random, but due to the expansion of my awareness through psycho-spiritual integration now manifest with greater frequency. Also, with increased attention to their possibility, I have even learned to cultivate them through various practices, although I am still far from the ability to unleash the extraordinary in my mind's eye at will.
Even before I began delving into the realm of self-induced altered states (meditation, visualizations, hallucinogens), my predisposition was one of a keen interest concerning the other-worldly, the visionary. Indeed, the very first print of a painting I ever purchased was Salvador Dali's Flight of a Bee, undoubtedly dream-like in its composition, content, and aura. I remember buying it for twenty dollars out of the back of some guy's car, its surrealistic tone being the only thing that punctured my attention amidst prints of lighthouses, landscapes, kittens, and flower vases.
Far from being an aficionado in the arena of visionary art, I nonetheless find it deeply fascinating, and over time have learned to use it as a tool not only in meditation but also in the act of writing poetry. I remember the first time I truly tapped into the space of a visionary painter and wrote from the land which was being portrayed. I was closing my eyes while staring at the painting and trying to re-create it in my mind when the realm emerged completely within me. It had a tangibility, a presence very much like that of a city or a home. Once again, it was Dali.
Soft Construction With Boiled Beans by Salvador Dali
I grabbed my keyboard and, with my consciousness fixed firmly within the space of this painting, wrote the following poem. If you will notice it is very dream like in its tone, a container for the energy of the painting:
The phantasm lost its copper covering to the clutches of decay And all I could think was about how the stretching seemed to go on forever. Until then nothing seemed real except for the spaces between the teeth And the trolleys taking passengers back and forth to the fair.
It was a dream, though, Unrecognized and trivial like a buffoon Caught below the fingers of a great parsnip.
If I could only explain to you the smell, Like something from a dentist chair or a catholic nunnery. All was what it seemed, only the chopsticks kept waving at us all through the window.
I like the feeling of being shunned, It takes the rascal right out of you and leaves you on a doorstep, alone, Covered in some grey mist and wanting to be captured by the rain- Lovely this time of year.
Perhaps we should bundle up and go for a stroll. Her kneecaps are all watery, do you notice? If you touch them they feel like plastic typhoid. I don't know what we should do, Maybe talk on the phone with another dimension and correspond with greater beings.
We never laugh anymore; It's the sound that gets to me in its graven image of Lucifer. The gallery is closed on Sundays and exile is calling his name. Trust no one in the street, with their loosely based musings on life and love.
The prejudice of my ancestors makes me tidy under the sheets And blood streams from around the corner anyway So what does it matter if I test the waters a bit and hope to catch something? Like a pond of golden wishes encapsulated within a pill.
Can you hear her screams? It's almost like the rain. Is she saying something? Listen closely:
"The mountain range seems very far away But the vestiges remain safely tucked away And the grandfather clock is whispering a hymn from the other side Hoping that we'll pay him some mind, But all we have to offer is some tea and cookies- They taste like ferris wheels look."
-
The amazing thing about Dali was that he consistently substantiated the same feel throughout his work, literally transporting the viewer into his inner experience of fantastic dreams and nonsensical creations.
After this happening, this tapping into the extra-dimensional space of Mind via the portal of a visionary painting, I continued with the practice, cultivating my ability to experience my soul as another artist's work. Seeing the vast potential of combining my inspiration with the already channeled material, I spent the following few days hammering out poem after poem, playing language with artists all over the surreal-fantastical mind-scape. Below are a couple more poems with their accompanying image.
A Key For All Doors by Jake Baddeley
She is the keeper of the Mystery, And I saw her astride a mechanical horse Wearing guru bells around her wrists and ankles.
Never has there been a locking mechanism timelessly hefted Like that which she had been blessed with; It was connected to the depths of her soul.
Aleister Crowley tried to show me the way to this place But his governance and rule distracted me. The gateway is somehow stolen And entry can only be gained by the press of her lips.
I know nothing but uncertainty And her beauty. She will save us all and guide us on her steed Into a unification of planes, Clicking and gyrating, Awash with sin and cruelty But never leaving that place of balance and reward.
Her amrita glistens on the cooling floor As I place my head down in prostration, Opening to her might and rulership At once steadfast and cowardly.
Taken aback, I wash myself in her eyes, Dreaming of the sky that frames her And the wish that I hold tight between her thighs.
Le Bossu by Eli Tiunine
The old man's withered and decrepit brow Looked as if it were stained with death and decay, But really his waxed demeanor was an expression of writhing life. There was an unspeakable wisdom etched in his flesh, On display for the whole world to see. There's no telling the amount of lies and hexes that have seared his mind, Nor is there any reason or rhyme for his crusty toenails and calloused hands. But tradition says that what is longed for must be done, So the scars have taken the shape of an imprint. His galaxy is one of shame, an unregistered dumping ground of half baked ideas. The sadness of his shoulders, the stoop of his eyes, the unrelenting mind, All symptoms of an asterisk placed by his name upon birth.
-
Another profound experience that occurred with the help a visionary painting happened while interacting with Robert Venosa's Buddha Sphinx. As soon as I saw the name of the painting I was drawn into another world, could feel the reality of such a concept. Envisioning its place in a splendidly heavenly realm like that of Elysium, I knew it to be a Spacious, self-conscious entity that just so happened to be attached to a building as opposed to a body. Self-aware, eternally free, watching the impermanent nature if its "body" and all of the inhabitants that passed through it, I felt an immediate kinship with it. That evening I decided to try an experiment.
I laid on my bed and relaxed my body, clearing my mind by focusing upon the natural rhythm of my breathing, in and out, slow and natural like a baby's. With mind calm and centered I began to try and see the Buddha Sphinx behind my closed eyelids, re-constructing it in the the space of my mind. Appearing before me I marveled at its intricate detail, at the smoothness of its ornate design. Basking in a lunar-like glow, the blueness of this mysterious world bathed my body and the enormous Buddha in soft light, charming my mind and easing my heart. I felt totally at home, comfortable in this unfamiliar land.
Approaching the Buddha-building I looked up to gaze upon its smiling face, tranquil and perfectly at ease, accepting the stream of the present moment as it arose without aversion or attraction. Its doors swung open before me, and I felt compelled to enter, as if it was calling me into its abounding depths. I smiled and slowly crept forward, very conscious of every movement, of every step.
Passing the threshold I entered into the purest darkness, a Void pregnant with all possibilities. This Radical Space was me, yet was so beyond me that I was swept aside, was a speck of dust floating through an old library, never to be recognized by anyone. Then again, I could feel the distinctness of that smallness, of the little me, as it pertained to the Silence of Eternity. This feeling of me and no-me, of divine intimacy and transcendent Peace, settled into a clear Knowing, a radical Understanding; I Am.
Then I slowly became aware of another, of an individual consciousness witnessing this little me within the Vastness of Eternity. It was the Buddha Sphinx, smiling in recognition at the splendor of my awareness. I in turn "faced" it and smiled, felt its all-enveloping love around my body, around my ego. In that moment it transmitted its experience to me, passed its local identification into mine. I could feel the millions and millions of beings that had entered its chambers over the years, had walked directly into the heart of Primordial Realization when passing through its doorway. It cherished and remembered each and every one, while never straying from its pure identification as Supermind.
Emptiness is Form, Form is Emptiness.
Buddha Sphinx by Robert Venosa
Yet another archetypal experience that formed within my awareness which has left a lasting impact upon me was reminiscent of one of H.R. Giger's less haunting works. While in a state of sexual arousal I begin to see visions of an other-worldly beauty. With corded hair and delicate features, I could feel what it was like to be her, knew what it was like to be her naked form. In the beginning there was no interaction, in fact it was like she wasn't even aware of me. But as my experience of her body blossomed, she turned her attention to me and we began to make love.
As I was inside of her it dawned on me that she was pregnant- I could feel the slight plumpness of her belly. It was during this realization that the most amazing thing took place; I became all three of us simultaneously, man, woman, and baby. I felt as though I was penetrating and receiving at the same time, all while I knew myself to be the baby floating within the womb. We were completing a circle of profound love, a marriage of bliss and awareness. As I released inside of her it was as though I was receiving the orgasm deep into my own body; never have I had such a dynamic masturbatory experience!
Dreadlocks by H.R. Giger
This is sort of common with me now, the experience of delving into other-worldly vistas while in a sexual act. When the energy is directed properly and with know-how, the stuff that usually leads to orgasm can be lifted, transmuted into visionary wonder, or even Divine Communion. Transcendental experiences take on a powerful form when combined with bodily ecstasy, and I even sometimes combine it with the act of writing itself.
Which leads me to my final point. The imagination, when combined with a certain degree of focus and regular exposure, holds many wonders to be beheld. Visionary art can be a gateway into this mystical realm, can be guideposts on the way to tapping into the truly and original vistas that can emerge when eyes are closed. The key, once again, is taking the time to try it out, to spend a half an hour dreaming of the mystical as an alternative to watching a sitcom or flipping through a novel. It is the level of dedication that will determine the solidity of these mind-forms.
Here are some links to artists that I admire- enjoy!
The insidiousness of war. The long term effects of a boy being raised without a father. The desire for fame, and how that is an expression of already present feelings of alienation. The inability to authentically deal with an intimate relationship. Severe shame, fear, despair, and agony. The splendid beauty and horror of loneliness and isolation, and the quality of redemption that arises when interaction with others once again becomes possible. The rejection of conformist culture, specifically schooling, and how that plays into being 'different' or 'awkward,' but simultaneously manifests extraordinary creative potentials.
The above are just some of the themes present in Pink Floyd's 1979 opus, The Wall, an album turned film that carried a legendary status in the neighborhood of my youth, a work of art that still has profound implications in my life and the culture at-large. To give an opening glimpse into the workings of this moody masterpiece in my adolescence, I will begin with a story.
"So ya Thought ya Might like to go to the show. To feel the warm thrill of confusion That space cadet glow. Tell me is something eluding you, sunshine? Is this not what you expected to see? If you wanna find out what's behind these cold eyes You'll just have to claw your way through this disguise."- from "In The Flesh?"
I was eleven years old, rabid for the affection of my older brother and his troop of friends, they being around the age fifteen or so. This is no doubt a standard motif in the life of a boy, but in my case was surely compounded by the fact that I had very few friends of my own and no other significant male role models around to interact with. Our mother had taken to spending weekend nights at her boyfriend's place, so my brother and I had the run of our small two-bedroom apartment, any youngster's wet-dream. To frame the scene on this particular evening; three of my brother's mates were over, we had a video cassette of The Wall (film version), and a bag of weed. This was the makings of a great night in the lives of five south St. Louis boys.
I had gotten high maybe two or three times before this occasion, but only once had truly delved into the glorious inner space that awaits those who are willing to really put a buzz on, close their eyes, and see what's on the other side. On this night, however, I definitely smoked like I knew what I was doing, taking more than enough for the kiddie I was to have 'lift off.' I had never seen the movie before, but had listened to The Wall quite a few times, understanding that there was a narrative to follow but not comprehending a lick of it.
Immediately I was drawn into the mood of the movie, was both terrified and fascinated. I remember trying to understand, trying to read something deeper into the surreal imagery and vast array of sounds. I was totally enamoured by this story of a lonely rock star cooped up in his hotel room, obviously on all kinds of drugs, re-living the sadness of his past while the demands of his present threatened to tear him apart. It may seem a little much for a kid, but I was out on a ledge, wondering, not about the night sky, but about the workings of mind, about the nature of fear.
There was a specific moment in the film that scratched at me like writhing barbed wire, that dug itself below my skin and rooted around. I was sitting on the floor, my back up against the living room chair, absolutely still. I noticed that I was breathing very slowly, that my body was totally at peace. This feeling of serene lucidity was cast up against the nightmare waving at me from the television screen. The movie's main character (named Pink) was curled up in a fetal position in the shower of a mental ward. Turning to face the camera, his eyes were lolling back up into his head and drool was running out of his mouth, the definitive picture of insanity.
Why did this image affect me so greatly? The following day I awoke and, still having the impression in my mind, re-watched the scene so as to glimpse it again. There was something lurid about it, something true. These horrible things really do exist in the world, and I knew myself to be a part of it. I was recognizing myself.
"How can that be?" you may find yourself asking. "You were merely an eleven year old boy. How could you see yourself in the paranoid delusions and sinister ideations of a crazy person?" Well, the truth of the matter is that at the age of seven I myself was placed in a mental ward for three months, followed consecutively by another three months in an even larger and dingier facility, and finally wrapping up this tour of the mentally unsound with a two-year long stint in a home for boys with behavioural disorders. So as you can see, this was me, a potential future me, the salivating loony that awaits those who get lost in their sea of personal wounding.
I don't mean to drown the reader in the trials of my life story, I just want to demonstrate that the mood of this album, the story that it tells, and the ideas that it presents- insanity, war, despair, oedipal rage and desire, existential alienation- truly were akin to my form of suffering, even if at this early age I didn't have the capacity to understand, address, heal, or integrate any of it. This was my story, and I knew that even before I could articulate it.
Turning to the recording itself, The Wall is a prime example of how an album can be marvelously deep and multi-dimensional. First off, it's a concept album, meaning that it carries a narrative throughout. The lyrical story is matched by recurring themes in the musical compositions, as well as the atmosphere or mood of the songs. Along with various characters that can be heard speaking in the background (school teacher, groupie, mother, judge) there is the constant chatter of the television sounding old war movies and the like, bringing us into Pink's little world of grandiose delusions and whimpering madness. Secondly, while it maintains a narrative, it concurrently functions as songs normally do, like poetry. It tells the story through imagery, and not in a linear fashion. The pictures it presents through language can be spoken out of context from the story and still wield a powerful impact. Thirdly, there is the music, which, more than any other album I have ever heard, pulls from a wide variety of genres and tones. It is at once symphonic, operatic, rock influenced, blues influenced, and pop influenced. Which leads me to the the band itself.
This work truly is a testament of Pink Floyd's creative genius. After years and years of making music, touring, and battling between band members, they managed to put out a remarkably innovative album- possibly the best of their career. Most musicians tend to putter out as the years pass bye, but Floyd grew, developed, changed. The differing styles of David Gilmour (bluesy, soothing, melodic, soaring) and Roger Waters (intense, agonized, raging, insightful) combined in this instance to manifest an expression of darkness that leaves room for the emergence of light, the possibility of healing. Hence, not only did it have extraordinary commercial success, but it also carries the authentic ability to function as art of this ilk should; as a means for personal introspection, self awareness, and psychological integration.
"I've got a little black book with my poems in. Got a bag with a toothbrush and a comb in. When I'm a good dog, they sometimes throw me a bone in.
I got elastic bands keepin my shoes on. Got those swollen hand blues. Got thirteen channels of shit on the T.V. to choose from. I've got electric light. And I've got second sight. And amazing powers of observation. And that is how I know When I try to get through On the telephone to you There'll be nobody home.
I've got the obligatory Hendrix perm. And the inevitable pinhole burns All down the front of my favorite satin shirt. I've got nicotine stains on my fingers. I've got a silver spoon on a chain. I've got a grand piano to prop up my mortal remains. I've got wild staring eyes. And I've got a strong urge to fly. But I got nowhere to fly to. Ooooh, Babe when I pick up the phone There's still nobody home.
I've got a pair of Gohills boots And I got fading roots." - from "Nobody Home"
In a lot of ways the album is even more meaningful today. With the advent of cell phones, Internet, video games, and pretty much the ability to be distracted by a digital screen wherever you are, we as a society are much closer to the character of this story than ever before. Alienation accompanied by a 'look at me' attitude (Youtube, blogging, myspace, add infinum) has us all longing to be the star that Pink already is. The difference is that he has acknowledged the bitter, faciast longings that are the shadow side of these grandiose desires, so even in his chamber of madness is much closer to psychological health than the average person who just wants to be on top of the world. Look at the Britney Spears meltdown for a sound example of what happens when the interior is ignored in favor of 'having the world.'
I am not saying that sharing and interacting with culture at large is somehow wrong (I mean, what am I doing right now?), just that it needs to be synthesized with an honest investigation of personal motivations. This is something that I have taken inventory of in myself, and have had to face some harsh truths in so doing. In the dance of self-expression there is always the swish of fame and the dip of fear, which are two sides of the same ego. The movement to authenticity and spiritual livelihood doesn't demand that we therefore give up the dance, but that we practice to allow it to flow from our True Selves, not from the fractured and dissociated aspects of an impermanent psyche.
Which leads me back to the function this album (and art in general) has served in my life. With a willingness to include myself in the ideas presented within the art, to identify with the characters, aspects, visions, sadness, loneliness, relationships, I have had a prodigious amount of healing and transformation. Through the act of introspection, the search for meaning, I have become a different person. Truth manifests wherever there is a real attempt to garner it, be it in a holy book, a text book, a movie, or an album. What is important is the search for meaning itself and the recognition that internal discovery is possible. The challenge is being willing to admit that there is a problem with our current state, and this recognition comes by being honest with ourselves. Along side of this, seeing examples of Goodness, Beauty, and Truth out in the world which exceed our current way of living gives us an Ideal to reach for, an aspiration beyond the conditioned state.
You know, a lot of times these Ideals of higher or more developed modes of being in the world are seen in the arenas of art, entertainment, sports, and academia. The exceptional athlete, the award winning scientist, the gifted performer, this is where we acknowledge glimpses of transcendent ability as a society. The function of The Wall is different, though. For a person like myself, who obviously had mental/emotional disturbances at a fairly young age, it served as a mirror, a way of identifying the ghost behind my eyes and throwing it into the light of day. The balancing of light and dark in the art helped me to creep through my personal mire and come out on the other side clean.
A quick end note. Since I tend to mention my use of drugs here, I would like to take a moment to explain my personal views on the subject. The character Pink is a perfect example of the ways in which drug use can be an escape, a means of numbing oneself to the emotional pain that exists within, and the album is explicit in this. I have used drugs in this way in the past, and thankfully have found my way out of that destructive cycle. But how did I do this? By getting high and listening to music!
Paradoxical, I know, but very true. When one is at the bottom there is nothing that will fulfill. Death is staring you in the eye and you can take the bait and keep reaching for the substance (whatever it may be- food, drugs, drink) or you can look at the real reason why you're reaching. In my case I kept reaching for cigarettes and junk food, but by smoking some bud, putting on my headphones, and asking, "Now why do I hurt? Why am I addicted? Why am I all alone?" I wound up seeing myself in the Light of Truth.
Entheogenic substances- mushrooms, marijuana, LSD, peyote- when used with great care, knowledge, and a desire for psychological/emotional healing, have the potential to work wonders. I do not condone this for anyone accept for adults who are serious about the nature of their minds, and then only occasionally and in the context of regimen for self discovery (meditation, psychotherapy, exercise, study). These drugs are powerful and can be agents of great change for our species if consumed with wisdom, meaning in conjunction with knowledge, safe environments, and lots and lots of art.
"Experience yourself as the Source and appreciate every moment as perfection. Sunrise-Sunset. Thank you, thank you, Creator, Profound unstoppable connectedness of all beings, Pattern to everything, most radical no-thing, The Vast Expanse." - from the poem "The Vast Expanse" by Alex Grey
The day I purchased Alex Grey's book Transfigurations I knew beyond all uncertainty that it was going to play an important role in my life. I was not only transfixed by the detail, mastery, and ubiquity of the work therein, but also by the sacred knowledge being transmitted through the imagery. Having been a spiritual practitioner for a little over a year at that point, I had only recently discovered my love of writing and reciting poetry of a devotional persuasion, and Grey's creations inspired me to continue to work towards a state of selflessness while artistically manifesting.
I was first introduced to Alex's art a few years earlier through the cover of Tool's magnificent album Lateralus. Having been floored by the ingenious cover-jacket, which peels through the layers of our human body and reveals our inherent divinity, I nonetheless skipped the minor detail of who had actually designed it. A couple of years later I was introduced to the writings of Ken Wilber through a completely separate channel and, becoming thoroughly enchanted by his numinous complexities, discovered that he and Grey were long-standing friends. A couple of mouse clicks later and I was being splashed across the cosmos in a wide variety of colors, riding Alex's extraordinary images like astral war horses.
There is no doubt that I developed a form of fixation upon Mr. Grey and his work. The idea that someone could 1.) have such an incredible amount of skill; 2.) be that prolific; 3.) be capable of testifying through an art form so clearly; 4.) branch out into so many different mediums ( paint, performance art, sculpture, and writing); and 5.) would be willing to fearlessly share in the details of his personal life experience- from sexual congress to the despair of depression- all of this left me awe-struck. Even though it was probably an expression of a mental/emotional imbalance of sorts, I believe that my idolization has played a huge part in my growth and development, guiding me into more expansive stages of consciousness.
Understanding that, as a new artist, I wasn't personally capable of producing an artifact of a measure even close to Alex's passionate displays freed me to be creative in complete acceptance of my abilities. Witnessing in him a standard of excellence that was transcendent, that seemed beyond the normal limits of human potentials, opened my eyes to a higher realm within myself and encouraged me to experiment and practice with that transcendent goal in mind. This effort combined with a deeply felt connection to the ideals and states presented in Transfigurations also gave me a sense of belongingness to a wider community, one that was heartfelt, wise, interested, expressive, spiritual, beautiful, and divinely alive.
Regularly checking in on the activities at Grey's gallery, the Chapel of Sacred Mirrors (CoSM), I was having the persistent idea that I should make the journey to New York to partake in one of their many community gatherings, either a new or full moon ceremony. After months of giving myself excuses of why I shouldn't or couldn't go, I visited the CoSM website only to find a new moon ceremony being held on the same day as a poetry gathering; the poetry workshop would take place inside the Chapel in the afternoon, followed in the evening time by ceremony. I booked my flight that afternoon.
Now, since that first trip I have since been to CoSM several more times stretched out over a few years, and with each visit I have experienced virtually the same reaction. I feel a sense of profound connection to the Holy Spirit within, accompanied by feelings of deep affection for all of those who have gathered in the Chapel. Inevitably, however, there is always a time when the unconsciousness, the pure selfishness within me, reveals itself. And I have to say, the brighter the experience of Light, the darker the experience of darkness.
The first visit was truly a special day, though. Not only did I meet other spiritually aware poets in a setting where we performed practices with the intention of awakening ourselves as co-creative channels of Spirit, but I also had the chance to share my poetry for the very first time with what I would consider to be my target audience, Alex and Allyson Grey included. The response I received was beyond all expectations and I was flabbergasted that such an inspired and aware group of people were offering me their warm-hearted appreciation.
Still, afterwards as I slowly walked the twenty blocks or so back to the hostel where I was staying I could feel a force of turbulence rising within me, a build-up of resistance, of seething anger, of over-whelming sadness. This might have been the very first time that this wave of negativity seemed like an invading force, like something attacking me from outside. Due to the fact that I was in a state of Love and Presence all day long, mindful of the blessing of partaking in such a series of activities, when the spell of resistance began to appear I was highly conscious of it- although I was still very much sucked in to it.
As mentioned above Alex Grey is extremely open about the nature of his life, including in his art and writings personal observations of internal conflict and struggle. Anyone on a serious path of awakening to the Highest within and without no doubt must confront this inherent 'evil,' the unconscious cultural conditioning which subdues and veils the Essence of what we are as spiritual and energetic beings. The method I have turned to over the years is one which allows this dark and heavy energy to be in my person without resistance, using the light of my Mind to objectify the negativity, focusing upon its impermanent nature while slowing my breathing.
That night as I laid in bed this heavy emotional state was intermingled with thoughts of a beautiful young lady who I had met at the poetry gathering. She had complimented me on the poem I had shared and we wound up having dinner together along with quite a few others who were in attendance. I felt like she was giving me signs that she wanted to head off alone together, but I convinced myself that I was somehow deficient, that I didn't deserve to be loved by this shining beauty. I got lost shaming myself.
No doubt that this lapse in confidence played a significant role in my pain-body attack. I wanted nothing more than to nourish her, to make love to her, to bring her pleasure, and instead I was laying in bed by myself. This aloneness played upon my shame, and even though I was turned-on just thinking about her I couldn't bring myself to do anything about it; my ideas of penetrating her were divorced from my state of Presence.
But then I began thinking of Alex's expressions of sexual congress and the brightness of love that shines through them. I realized that sex wasn't the problem in the least; it was my fearful attitude towards it coupled with my feelings of inadequacy that were problematic. I proceeded to pleasure myself with absolute acceptance and love, free of any shame or disconnection from my spiritual center. As I came I was sent spinning into another realm, one in which the Fire came to life all around me.
Everything was made of blue light as I traveled high above the streets of New York City. Peace permeated my entire body, but 'I' was totally beyond it. My thinking mind was completely silent as I traversed this space of consciousness that was vibrant with Fullness and ringing with Freedom. I knew myself to be a light body, a superconscious entity that exists well beyond the limitations of ordinary reality, and I stayed there well into the night, dancing in the Love of my true Radiance.
If only that spiritual, creative, gorgeous young woman had been there to share it with me. Oh well. It's all a learning process.
Of course it isn't as simple as "orgasm equals enlightenment." Traditionally physical release doesn't even play a large role in the esoteric tantric practices of the East. Regardless, when shaped with sincere dedication to a spiritual practice the exhaltations of the body can become gateways into God's Love. There is no separation; body is an impermanent expression of the timeless Essence which is our Heart. The Art is finding the will to let go of our strict identification with this transience and becoming open to the Eternity of Now, because then and only then can we become the seamless, dynamic, over-flowing agents of Transcendence we truly are.
To me this is the heart of spiritual practice which Alex holds with such exuberance and clarity: dying. When we cease to struggle with this moment and release our substitutes for Reality, the process of death takes place. Death isn't found in some moment in the future, it is happening in every moment. We are always in a state of transition, in a bardo realm, watching the workings of Form manifest and dissipate with our Eye of Spirit. To study death is to study Life, for when we let go of our fears, needy and addictive pattens simply fall away and we become free to play in the Delight of material reality.
Consciousness. Truth. Fearlessness. Community. Awareness. Freedom. Fullness. Ecstasy. Death. Family. This is what I experience as Goodness and Beauty. This is what I have learned to see in myself through art, devotion, and practice. This is what I see in the hearts of my Visionary brother and sister, Alex and Alyson Grey.
One final note on my first trip to the Chapel of Sacred Mirrors. One of the practices we performed during the poetry workshop involved choosing single painting on the wall which struck us with its resonance. Tuning into it we were supposed to find its 'pitch' and sing that 'pitch' back to it. The painting I connected with is titled The Theologue. I felt this incredible surge while meditating on it, and when I returned home the following poem flowed from me in a a very fluid fashion. I could feel its connection to not only the oil painting, but my entire weekend at the Chapel. Please listen and read along:
True Calling by Jason Turner
Blessed are the meek. Blessed are the weak and powerful, Delusion denying Divinity. Cerebral passivity defying logical Vision, Stacking division with microcosmic precision. Hardly a matter of matter; Battered and bruised, Scatter-brained and confused In this pontificating protoplasm.
Juxtaposed by Horus Planting solar souls, Shrouded in Mystery. Shrouded in misery. Basking in liberty When the veil lifts. Gifts of the earth and the Sun Come together as one, Giving birth to the Universal Son Who shines forever and a day, Forever within today.
Illuminating grey skies And blackened minds With crystal blue tigers And neon orange dragons, Fire and Water, Wood and Metal wagons Roll down the pathless path Into starcrossed harems Where wives, mothers, and sisters Cry tears of blood, Write poems of Love, Menstrual ink writhing on the saddest of pages.
True sages bow to the womb, Surrender and consume The apple that's forbidden, Consider the snake forgiven Then gently place him around their throats. Evil doers, lovers, and brothers, Pardoned reflections of each other. Reflections of me. Reflections of the sea.
I see the shape of things in clouds; Life and death, Birth and breath, Decay and regret, decay and regret. Twisting and spinning and spiraling through Eternity, Dream-like dimensions dancing like Shiva, Dancing as Shiva. Sacred sparks the silence, Sacred marks the violence As crime against Self.
Whose promise of the pouring rain Is to wash away our sin, Bathing in the Clearing Light That rainbows from within. We are I and It, The Good, the Beautiful, the True, Fibonacci sunflowers speaking morning dew. Crafting new realities to view With crayons of imagination And tracing through the energy fields To the Source of all Creation, And calling out Its name, "We are the same We are the same We are the same." We are It, And That is That.
Please support the Chapel of Sacred Mirrors at http://www.alexgrey.com/ Oh yeah, and purchase a copy or five of Art Psalms!
As my meditative practice has become more and more advanced, I have learned to interweave the states of mind induced by it with many different activities. Everyday experiences such as eating, folding clothes, having sex, walking, washing, conversing, and going to the bathroom have been experientially transformed through my dedication to mindfulness. What once seemed routine or mundane has become peaceful on one end of the spectrum, and blissful on the other. Of all the things in my life that have been amplified due to my ability to naturally alter my state of mind, one of my favorites is listening to music. Which leads me to the topic of this particular article; guitar.
More specifically, electric guitar. From the age of ten or so I have been thrilled and entertained by hard rock and heavy metal music. Having an older brother and his gang of friends to set me down the path, I became a huge fan of bands such as Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, Jethro Tull, Guns n' Roses, Metallica, Dream Theater, Fates Warning, Whitesnake, Black Sabbath, Aerosmith, Pearl Jam, Rush, and Queensryche. All of these bands, along with the many others that I have sampled over the years, have one thing in common (aside from long hair and a propensity for throwing stuff from hotel windows); they all have amazing guitar players.
And let me tell you, folks, when you learn to speak the language of the guitar, it is truly a dazzling thing. Not language in the musical sense, with notes and scales and chords, but the language of feeling. To those outside of this brotherhood of understanding, who maybe listen to pop or folk music, hearing a blazing guitar solo in the midst of a pounding rhythm doesn't make any sense. It's like a cartoon created by Douglas Adams being shown to a tribunal comprised of Taliban members; they are all star-struck, but have no idea what in the hell is going on and therefore want the creator and all of his work destroyed.
As I am prone to mentioning, my ideal method of listening to music is in a darkened room, lying down, with headphones enveloping my brain. I think the reason for this is the sense of interiority it lends the music, as if the sounds are simply arising inside of me as opposed entering me from out there. This closeness, this intimacy, is the basis for experiencing a unique form of meditative trance, where the language centers in the mind go completely silent, replaced in the vastness of witnessing awareness by the music itself, and for the purposes of this writing, specifically the complex compositions of master guitar players.
After the explosion of the electric guitar in the late sixties and early seventies (Eric Clapton, Jimi Hendrix, Jimmy Page, Jeff Beck, Steve Howe, Carlos Santana), and its continued success into the late seventies and early eighties (Eddie Van Halen, Randy Rhodes, David Gilmour, Stevie Ray Vaughan, Kirk Hammet), there began to appear amongst the ranks of new artists an interesting phenomenon; the guitar virtuoso as sole attraction. Leading the way in this new level proficiency were three masters of the instrument who have an incredible diversity of tones and styles between them; Joe Satriani, Steve Vai, and Eric Johnson.
With their passion for playing and pain-staking standard of perfection, all three have forged long-standing fan-bases that have stretched over two decades. Vai's "Passion and Warfare," Johnson's "Ah Via Musicom," and Satriani's "Surfing With The Alien" have all become classics among fans of the genre, setting the stage for careers that are still running strong. Of course from the three axe-masters themselves there has been an incredible of amount of persistence and diligence, steadily pumping out quality albums and generating ingenious marketing ideas for tours. One such idea was the G3 tour, which brought all three virtuosos together on a single stage, a real dream come true for any lover of the form.
Now, from the era I am describing there are many different players of incredible dexterity and musical knowledge that I could have chosen to make my point, but I selected these three based upon more than simply an ability to play with lightning speed or devise abstract compositions. While all three have those characteristics, above and beyond that they have the ability to play their instruments with soul, an intangible that can be felt but is much more difficult to label. Like all great art, when experienced with a certain level of focus it may become a transmission that borders on the transcendent. Which not only ties directly into my meditative trances, but also into my own experiences of personal expression through poetry.
Recently formulating a list of my favorite instrumental guitar pieces I noticed that most of my all-time classics have a similar feel; they begin with a slow tempo, forging a spacey atmosphere, then slowly grow in intensity, burning with orgasmic fever before fading off into a lull once again as the song comes to an end, very much like making love. I feel as if I have unconsciously (until recently) followed this pattern in crafting and performing my poems, mimicking the passion of the guitar greats I have been entranced by for so many years. Interestingly enough, I also liken the reciting of one of my poems to entering a meditative state, not dis-similar to the place I enter while listening to great music.
The longer I maintain my state of calm and centered awareness while listening to the sounds provided by soulful playing, the deeper and more amazing my experience can become. I have had trances in which I have completely lost my sense of self as a body and merged with the tones, experiencing myself as light or energy arising in space. I have witnessed sophisticated geometrical shapes and colors swirling into my body, touching me with subtle feelings of dream-like bliss. I have seen and interacted with archetypal presences, both in the vista of some other-worldly plane and in the familiarity of my natural local. And by far the most common trance is one in which I enter a sky-like panorama, an incredible space that charges and liberates every aspect of my being.
As rich as my interaction with guitar music is I have people ask me all the time why I don't take up the instrument, learn the theory and practices behind the magic of the sounds. Admittedly, I am unschooled when it comes actually playing the thing, but I happen to believe that that helps me in my art as a connoisseur. Not having a logical way to contextualize the music is one of the very things that centers my awareness, allows me to shut off the labeling agenda that normally comprises the functioning of my monkey-mind. When this occurs feelings of electricity ignite, opening me to the sounds that vibrate and resonate profoundly in the Stratocaster of my body. And such an episode inspires me to do what I do best; express my passion in words.
While much of the fascination that surrounds rockin' guitar music has to do with speed, aggression, danger, loudness, and some of the baser instincts of humanity, I see the silver lining of an abounding instrument, one that can be played in a multitude of styles and tones. Clean, distorted, muddy, sparkling, thick, hollow, with today's modern effects processors the possibilities are endless in weaving new sound-realities. But what does seem to be in short supply, as in all artistic arenas, are those who at a certain point can let go of the thinking mind and play straight from the heart.
When such a person happens along they show us the creative genius of the soul, which extends far beyond the normal limits of waking mind, time, and space. This is confirmed by Ralph Waldo Emerson:
"Before the revelations of the soul, Time, Space and Nature shrink away."
And he continues:
"From within or from behind, a light shines through us upon things and makes us aware that we are nothing, but the light is all. A man is the facade of a temple wherein all wisdom and all good abide. What we commonly call man, the eating, drinking, planting, counting man, does not, as we know him, represent himself, but misrepresents himself."
To me this is the very highest function of art, to reveal that which gives rise to all. Sometimes this may even happen beyond the knowledge of the artist. Unaware of the Grace bestowed upon them in the form of genius, they may lay claim to the ability as their own. When there is a conscious recognition that the ability is being breathed into this realm from some great Beyond, however, it is as if the sun has come to life and started expounding on the history of the cosmos.
Here is one of my poems that I liken to the ecstatic work of my guitar heroes. Listen and read along! (Many thanks to my friend Bobby for helping me create the video.)
The Language of Shiva
I know no more shores, The words are soundless And the ache is pure. Teeming estrogen and oxygen, Testosterone and imagination, Language is the Source.
Locked in tight The coarse vulgarity of sensation Wiggles free from the temptation of fear And looses hot-shots of staggering sexuality; Lacing, moaning, humping, Cumming hard into peace With one's true Being.
All is sure of itself In the memory of the Fire Tongue, Bursting spontaneous orgasms. Red-hot semen forcing flows Of wordless ejaculation.
This is the language of Shiva; Stoned on cannabis, Seamless in understanding, Embracing the entire sequence of humanity In a single breath, Vibrant like forgotten cities Housing palaces of gold and silver.
Crawling on her belly The spider-queen forgot the prize And slithered beside the Word, Ignorance personified in glorified guilt.
Because of this Wisdom may lose itself in the storehouse of fear Where uttered temptations assault the individual Under howling megaphones of phony despair, But there still remains the symbol of true freedom, A body moving in perfect rhythm With universal dangers, pleasures. Ecstatic energies lining chakra system in radiant bliss As timeless junctions sound rebirth In the moment of this.
We are the funky emanation Of a loose language, Spreading something beyond imagining When we open our lips or thighs And decide to create. For ourselves, for each other, Out of passion, out of play, out of need, out of pain, Words are the single ecstasy vibration That sex hopes to create.
Taste the emergence of formless into form When your tongue slithers and throat soars! Testify in celebration of your body! Copulate in conversation for the glorification of your mind! And when you're spent, slathered in sweat, slumped over the bed, The pins and needles of ecstatic breath Massaging your head, Sigh deeply into space and watch carefully For the miraculous appearance of a single Word.
Self Transformation Through the Artistic Experience
This blog is devoted to recognizing the importance of art in the evolution of consciousness as seen through the eyes of yours truly. It is a testimonial, an interpretation of certain artists and their artifacts as they have impacted my life through the process of conscious development. Frequent topics will be love, spirit, freedom, consciousness, creativity, spontaneous orgasm, mind, over-mind, super-mind, altered states through hallucinogens and meditation, unity, community, art, expression, performance, electricity, and all things sacred.
I am a poet and visual artist. I believe the most important thing on the planet is the development of consciousness in humans to higher and deeper stages of self, global, and transcendent awareness. You may contact me at renholder99@hotmail.com
