Evolutionary Artist: Jason Matthew Turner

ISE3 Essay Submission: Superconsciousness and the Creative Impulse

2011-05-01T02:37:00.000-07:00

"All qualities, properties, features are such powers of conscious being thus put forth by itself from the Absolute; It has everything within It, It has the free power to put all forth." - Sri Aurobindo, from "The Life Divine"

In August of 2008, after four months of travelling willy-nilly around the United States, I returned somewhat wearily to my hometown of Saint Louis, MO. Considering that I was planning on continuing my travels after re-stocking my bank account, some friends of mine--a couple named Kevin and John--generously offered to have me stay at their home for a couple of months, affording me the time and space to not only save some cash doing odd jobs, but to also re-commit to my Integral Life Practice, which had been spotty at best during my jaunt around the country. It was in this setting that I would have a revelatory insight into the mystical properties of Integral cross-training, something which, at that point, had already been of interest to me for a couple of years, particularly, the effects of meditative concentration upon the inherent but mostly dormant quality of superconscious creativity.

During this stretch of life my days were pretty ideal. I would wake up and do some yoga poses and flows for a half an hour before taking in a light breakfast. Then, after checking in with my friends and glancing at the news, I would sit in meditation for forty-five minutes or so. Immediately afterwards I would pick up "The Life Divine" from Sri Aurobindo and read from it out-loud for around half an hour. This was a practice that I had begun earlier that year when I discovered that I could more deeply comprehend and connect with this monumental and profound work when I intoned the words, their vibratory frequency merging with my subtle body and literally reshaping my consciousness outside-in. (This is a practice I have kept up with ever since, moving through works from authors and poets whom I feel transmit transformative pulsations of Light and Understanding.) After the reading practice I would set out for a jog on a near-bye trail, the final of my morning devotions before starting the day "out in the world."

After a couple of weeks of this lifestyle I noticed a considerable difference in myself; I was relaxed, strong, confident, peaceful, and focused. I distinctly remember feeling very connected to Aurobindo and another writer whom I had been reading with passion and certain degree of vigor, Paul Foster Case, whose writings on Kabbalah and its intersection with the archetypes of the major arcana of the Tarot I found very revealing.

One morning, after reading a single chapter in "The Life Divine", I set out on my run. My meditation that morning had been excellent, and the intoning was truly vibrant, imparting upon me a great number of ideas about the nature of Ignorance, the nature of Soul, and the grades and states of Mind within and beyond oneself. I felt incredibly blessed to be able to understand and feel such a sacred and philosophically astute text, and as my feet fell rhythmically upon the pavement I carried its insights with me, consciously intending for it to impact the totality of my being top-to-bottom. Within about ten minutes I began to feel what I will describe as a state Perfection, consisting of all possibilities, past, present, and future, manifesting a surreal clarity within my awareness. During this span I knew myself to be Energy arising in Space, perfect Stillness moving through the sculpted suburban landscape effortlessly.

Can you say 'peak experience'?

Then, out of this extraordinary state, arose an impulse to celebrate, to create. It was desire and joy and insight wrapped into one, a sacrosanct emotion calling me to howl into universal existence what I was experiencing internally. The first line of a poem came to me and within that single line I saw contained the poem's entirety, as if it were already complete, a finished masterpiece all structured within a few syllables. I knew with certainty what I was seeing: an Individual harnessing the Creativity of the Absolute, and a relative self unified with all the movements of Time, particularly, of course, one gentleman of the 'past' named Sri Aurobindo. We were of a single Mind, he and I.

You and I.

Eye and I.

When I first began to see the poem's formation I was a couple of miles from the house with no type of writing utensil at my disposal. This brought up a slight feeling of panic as sentences were coming to me fast and furiously. I was reciting the opening line over and over so as to not forget it when the second came, and then the third, then the fourth. I could see places and colors and shapes within my mind, the words written in cursive-Fire across my inner sky. Each step of momentum carrying me home fueled and shaped the would-be poem, and by the time I reached my notebook and pen I had already written about one half of it, scrawling it furiously upon the page with a sweat-stained forehead and a bit of the shakes. This was an ecstatic experience, effortless, a movement and manifestation of Love. It was, from my perspective, a holy Gift.

Prior to this experience I had received similar inspirations, but none so complete and so shockingly full. Having considered myself a poet for a few years I had put a decent amount of my energy into wordplay, into poem structuring, into the patient practice of receiving the sounds from within. But this was a deeper experience, more hallowed, more mature than what had come before. Over the next few days as I re-worked a word here, a phrase there, the poem, which I named "Original Face", somehow became a part of me, not only through memorization but also in my life Vision; this is what I want to offer to the world, this insight, this powerful experience, this on-rush of mastery. This transcendental mystery.

***

Coming upon Sally Kempton's Integral Life post "Finding Your Deep Creativity (In Three Easy Steps)" was, for me, an affirmation, firstly, of the potentialities which arise from being able to enter a state of inward silent awareness, and secondly, of an understanding that one's self is the seat of the creative solution, both in its reactive form (as in problem solving) and in its active form (as in harnessing the emergent). Obviously, there are many ways in which the creative experience can be channeled and used--a list of the lines of development as per Integral Theory might offer an approximate idea of just how many. However, common to them all, I do believe, is our capability to sit in the unknown fearlessly, trusting that an answer does exist, here. Within us.

The notion that flashes of insight can and do occur, and the we can consciously cultivate them with practice, is extremely gratifying. While we are all confined within the limited relative experience that is this human form we all nonetheless have within us an endless Source, a flowering Puissance which offers full participation in Its existence. This does not mean that we shall always have every answer to every problem or that we'll be able to rattle off the next "Hamlet" whenever we so choose, but that within the confines of our particular life situation there is the potential for creative responses and novel emergence moment to moment. We are indeed free to play.

When I speak of the above poem as a manifestation of my life Vision I mean that in more ways than one. Vision, for me, is integral to my own creative process. To see is to know, and no matter how long I may have to sit and tinker to complete something, if I have seen the desired result--or even an approximation thereof--beforehand, this patient waiting is anything but a trial; it is easy and natural, as a part of me as walking in the park or having a conversation. Sometimes, of course, the rigors of life demand that this creative experience is the walk of a blind man through the desert at night, but so be it; the ability to consciously participate in the world game is absolutely worth it.

While I did see this respective poem before it was manifested, I have actually had a difficult time of seeing when and how it should be shared with others. To speak metaphorically, since the day it was born it has lived in darkness. It has been two years and nine months since that poem first Dawned on me, and from that day to this I have only shared it publicly one time, a tale fit for the telling.

I have performed and shared poetry quite often over the past several years. Open mics, poetry slams, gatherings of friends, even one on one with but a single other--these situations have blessed me with the opportunity to open up and offer my personal insights and inspirations in the worded form. I have a fairly large repertoire of poems, so whenever the chance to express arises I have to ask myself "What is the proper poem for this moment? What do I feel like sharing? What would they the audience most likely respond to?" Not one time had "Original Face" been an answer to that line of questioning. Until, that is, I visited Alex Grey's community, the CoSM Sanctuary, for a full moon ceremony in October of 2010.

Having been privy to such gatherings with this community several times in the past I knew that a chance might come to be able to offer a poem, something Alex and his wife Alison often encourage with heartfelt receptiveness. Sure enough, when the moment arose I knew exactly which poem I was going to recite. Speaking "Original Face" to that particular crowd on that particular night equalled the magnitude of its initial inspiration over two years beforehand. Having held on to it for so long there was no trepidation as I stood to offer it; I could see its images and words already living inside of the gathering before me, as if it, I, was already one with them. As the cadence flowed from me I could see Energy circling in the room, the beatitude of Sachchidananda (Love-Consciousness-Bliss) touching us all, our forms mere temporary manifestations of this Eternal-Infinite Truth.

"I" did indeed leave them breathless that evening. Many people approached me to offer their experiences of the recital, their insights and gratitude for my poetry, and I couldn't help but think about how the poem came into being, how long I had carried it with me, and the purpose it served, no matter how small, in the lives of these shining participants. Really, it was their poem all along. They were simply receiving the impulse, the signal, of their very own Self, and so were even with me in that space of active silence on the jogging trail a couple years earlier. And now, you, my dear friend, are also receiving what was already yours: that superconscious impulse to create which manifested through me in August of 2008.

And the journey continues...

"Original Face" by Jason Matthew Turner

There is a condition and cure for our suffering.
The pathway to Liberation is spontaneously arising.
Naked and vast as ten million tumbling waterfalls
And as clean as the sliver-blue moon purifying our hearts.
We are an entire universe intersecting with our Destiny,
Jumbled masses of confused galaxies
Formulated and propagated in nary the blink of an Eye,
Witnessing computation from the other side of everything.
Gregarious children are we,
Standing on the threshold of blissful Eternity,
Returning to the Source from our troubled past
And splashing in the cosmic rays of our on-coming future.
Temples in the sky serve as or protectors
From the roving clans of barbarian hordes that punctuate our material existence,
While solstice recognition provides a means
To access the plenitude of this Creation.
Mother Earth is our cornerstone,
The foundation of our ascension into the great wide Unknown.
Follow the glow of Horus, Son of Isis and Osiris,
The coveted family archetypally powering the untarnished Consciousness.
We are split from that Treasure only by a matter of degree.
Divinity is the essence manifesting poly-amorously.
Unity is the reckoning in every position of life
And the Holy Trinity is child, husband, and wife
In a transcendental embrace,
Fully awakened to the formless dimension that is ever-present,
The non-local Object revering Itself in perfect separation.
When I say that the Manifestation is serenely in tact
Leave no room for doubt by exploring the Golden Dawn for yourself.
Your wings are too precious to give over to the fate of another.
The constant struggle's very purpose is a long lost surrender,
And the Universal Person relinquishes their ego
In the company of their sisters and brothers.
The beginning is the end
And the principle Reality may never be divided
Even in it its countless divisions.
We are a unified multiplicity,
A staggering Mystery knowable only in the silent Space of Being.
In this voice in the tragic comedy of Maya
And the endless Bliss of Ananda calling you
To examine the agile symphony of this moment,
Where the unfolding splendor of the multi-verse is forever our stainless Center
And the innocence of children coalesces with ancient wisdom of the Masters,
An alchemy of precision rendered perfectly for transmutation,
Turning lead into Gold, craving into Soul,
We are the leading edge of an Evolving Miracle,
Where the Unknowable bestows upon its sovereign people
Peace, Love, Light, Harmony, Wisdom, Virtue, Crown, and Kingdom.
We are eternally free, witnessing this mystical play
By the Light of our Original Face.
Darkness fades, the darkness fades,
And all that remains
Is This.

Portals and Portraits

2011-01-19T19:35:00.000-08:00

(Over the past couple of months inspiration struck on two different occasions for two different short stories. After hammering each of them out fairly quickly, I felt that something was lacking from them. After re-reading the first and re-writing the second I came to realize something: the stories are very similar in meaning and tone, if not in feeling, and somehow compliment and fulfill one another in a weird way. Contextualizing them as a pair brings a life to them both that just isn't there individually, bringing insight to the expression that I was trying to convey through the bodies of words. While they are separate stories, in this instance I am naming them as one, "The Musician and The Magician." Feedback and impressions would be appreciated.)

The Musician

Dave Patroey is, as he would say, "kickin' it in his kingdom," relaxing, feet up, in a leather computer chair back stage of the Staples Center in downtown Los Angeles. A room such as this is where you can find him every day at this time (roughly six-thirty pm), at least every day of the tour in which they (they being his band, An Achilles Blade) have a gig. The room itself is fairly simple--four white walls with dimmed, bluish lighting--but is ample in size and set up to his exact specifications in every city they visit: plush, wide bodied sofa (fit for sitting or laying); 52'' Vizio Hi Definition television (complete, of course, with a Bose surround sound system), usually playing one concert DVD or another, today, Rush's "Rush In Rio"; black desk housing his beloved Mac, as well as a digital picture frame rotating pictures of his wife, daughter, and vistas of the places he's traveled to around the globe; small black drum kit in the corner, used for warming up before the gig; six gold and platinum records on the walls, two for each of their first three albums; and, finally, his prize, an enormous red and gold area rug which he purchased on a trip to Russia two years beforehand, portraying an elaborate labyrinth in its center, the labyrinth itself surrounded by magnificent scroll work, queen bees, and grizzly bears.

Having toured steadily for the past decade Dave has, over time, become a creature of repetition and habit. He has cultivated daily life on the road to have a flow, a rhythm to be played in exactitude. Not unlike his drum compositions (which have increased in complexity with each album), he holds a precise idea of the way a day should sound and feel. Each moment on the clock is a cue, a symbol crash or a tom-tom roll to be executed to perfection. Glancing at the clock on the Mac's wide screen, for instance, Dave knows that within the next couple of minutes his assistant/care-taker/friend "Raphael-san" (so nicknamed not after the Renaissance painter and architect, but after a character from the cartoon Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, which they both consider to be classic) will walk through the door with his Venti Iced Vanilla Latte from Starbucks, the first of two such drinks leading up to show time. To Dave that is just the way things are, and he likes it very much.

This is not to say that he is without flexibility, on tour or in life. If inspiration strikes he is more than capable of improvisation, of going into unfamiliar territory for the purposes of excitation and exploration. Such is the nature of creativity, he believes: following the call and having the gumption to trust oneself when you don't know where you are or where you're going, yet knowing there is something extraordinary in the vicinity. In fact, Dave prides himself on his willingness to spontaneously re-route, to "play in seriousness" as he sometimes says, and has sojourned all around the world doing that very thing, even outside of the touring he's done with An Achilles Blade. But the fact of the matter is that after the initial infatuation fades a tour starts to feel like a job, and a tough one at that. Granted, he couldn't imagine anything he'd rather be doing, but that doesn't change the reality that playing a hundred shows in a hundred and fifty days (especially evening with shows) will take its toll on your body and mind. Hence his well-established routine:

Around 2 pm, usually the time he arrives at the arena or amphitheatre, Dave heads straight to the catering room, which has an incredible assortment of fare to be chosen from, usually including barbecued chicken, bratwursts, pork steaks, and hamburgers, salad and pasta (both red and white), some kind of fresh fish (typically tuna steaks or salmon), and a variety of vegetarian dishes, insisted upon by their bass player, Franklin (nicknamed "Meastreak" for his aggressive demeanor on stage, a complete 180 from his off-stage personality). In addition to all of the above, the dining room tables are also loaded with all manner of vegetable trays, cheese trays, fruit trays, sandwich platters, cookies, chips, cakes and pies, juices, bottled drinks, and sodas. The drummer never leaves the area dissatisfied.

After eating with some of the crew and the occasional band member Dave and Rafael hop onto/into their motorcycles, bicycles, or car rentals (all depending on their mood) and spend an hour or so riding around the city, seeing sights, shopping, visiting friends. The standard afternoon jaunt leads them to some remote yet picturesque location where they "smoke out," putting on a strong cannabis buzz before heading back to the venue.

Whereupon it is time for sound-check. This is not only when the band checks the sound, but also agrees on the set-list for the evening, spends twenty minutes or so jamming on an idea for new material (there is always a digital recorder going), works out any technical kinks and logistical problems they may be having, and brain-storms for possible contributions regarding the evening's performance. Something that Trevor Baslin (superstar singer-songwriter, guitar god, and unquestionable leader of the band) insists upon is crafting a unique moment for every show, even if it's just a cover song. This, he says, not only endears the fans to them, but also keeps them on their toes as a musical unit. "If we aren't evolving, we're dissolving," is his way of putting it.

After sound-check Dave heads to his tour bus (the four band members split two buses, a perk of success) and hangs out for a little while, collecting items that may be needed for the evening--journal, DVD's, stray I-pod, the book he's reading, extra smoke, etc. Generally this is also when he calls or Skypes his wife (age 26, reddish-blond hair, amazingly beautiful) and daughter (age 3, reddish blond-hair, also amazingly beautiful) to hear about their day; who was their play date was with? where did they go shopping? where did they eat lunch? Today, it so happens, they also coordinated when and where the two ladies will meet him on the road, something they do a few times every tour for a week or so at a time. After saying proper "I love yous" he heads over to his kingdom to relax and prepare for the evening's show.

Which is where we now rejoin him.

Assistant/care-taker/friend Rafael-san, right on time, comes through the door, back-stage badge dangling loosely down the front of his concert t-shit, bearing above stated Venti Iced Vanilla Latte, as well as a Mocha Frappuccino (extra whip) for himself. He sits on the sofa and the pair of them, who have been friends since high school, discuss the masterful drum work of Rush drummer Neal Peart for a couple minutes, taking in renditions of "Freewill" and "Closer To The Heart". Peart is one of of Dave's heroes, a guy he has studied relentlessly since he started playing drums. Other percussionists on his short list of inspirations include Danny Carey, Mike Portnoy, John Bonham, Matt Cameron, Josh Freese, Mark Zonder, and Thomas Pridgen, all of whom he enjoys for different reasons, some conceptual, some passional, some intellectual, some worshipful.

After Rafael-san takes leave Dave commences his routine, reading for forty-five minutes (Borges' "Labyrinths") before beginning his opening stretches, getting his muscles loose for the show. After fifteen minutes of fairly elaborate stretching and bending (inspired by his wife, a rabid yoga practitioner), the world famous drummer sits down at the drum kit in the corner. The set is the bare minimum, at least compared to the one he uses on stage, an almost exact replication of the kit he learned on as a kid: snare drum, tom-toms, floor tom, kick drum, hi-hat, ride symbol, and a couple of crashes. Adjusting himself on the stool he's brought back, as per usual, to his parents' garage at age four-teen or so, when he would sit behind that kit in absolute devotion for hours on end. If his mom wouldn't have kicked him out (sometimes forcibly with a broom or occasional bucket of water) he would have lost his entire day practicing. "There is more to life than those drums, David. Being the best drummer in the world won't mean anything if you don't know up from down. Now get out of my house and go make some friends. Or better yet, a girlfriend. And do your homework, or else the drums are going in the dumpster!".

Easing into the most basic of rhythms, Dave commands the sticks and pedals as if they're extensions of his body. Gaining speed, he naturally flows from one tempo to another, playing by feel and feel alone. When he's on stage his focus is upon a single point within, riding a wave of surging emotions and breathless excitation (a normal human reaction to being seated on a riser and spot-lighted in front of 18,000 people) while simultaneously channeling the exactitude imprinted on the album, a standard the band aims for with every performance. But here, in his kingdom, free to go in any direction that spontaneously arises from within, is where inspiration strikes. He doesn't prefer this to being on stage, necessarily, but it has its own appeal, a half an hour of pressure-less enjoyment in which to riff on jazz, on blues, on whatever happens to feel good at the moment. For Dave Patroey, practice is both work and play, an absorption at once loud and peaceful, crazed and controlled, maniac and lucid.

For Dave Patroey, drumming is oceanic explosion.

-

The Magician

It is finally done. In my nine hundred and seventy-fifth year of existence in this physical form I have finished construction on my masterpiece, and it is so beautiful to behold that I can barely contain myself. When I look upon it I am filled with a sense of reverence so profound that it leaves me simultaneously eager like the child that I once (long ago!) was, and humbled with gratitude in my heart, almost to a point of weeping. To see this creation of mine, two hundred and twenty-seven year in the making, fills me with awe and wonder at the nature of the Existence, at the Power of the individual, at the mystery of Freedom, and at the reality of Magic itself. For this process, this undertaking, was nothing less than the most difficult and momentous idea I have ever propelled in a lifetime of difficult and momentous ideas.

I was deemed Wizard by the Order on my ninety-ninth naming day. From that day to this has been a consistent intention on my part to make a serious and profound impact upon the many levels and layers of the Unified Creation, knowing, because of my Gift, that my usefulness goes far beyond that of the ordinary person. Travels, studies, dangers, trials: all searching for the answer, as if it existed out there somewhere in the form of an ancient spell or long lost relic! All of that prepared me to receive the Vision, however, and when it came down from on High I knew that I would be ready actualize it because of all that I had previously been through; I didn't once flinch at the outlandishness of its inspiration.

The original notion was simple, really: build a castle of Beauty and Goodness and Omniscience in a realm of Delusion and Suffering and Ignorance. Of all the major schools of Magic--Conjuration/Summoning, Illusion/Phantasm, Invocation/Evocation, Alteration/Transmutation, Divination, Necromancy, Enchantment, Abjuration--the one that I was always the most fascinated by was Timeframe/Location, simply because of the possibilities to touch alternative planes of existence, distant planets, and divergent universal orders. It was this ability that ultimately would bring about the Idea, having, in the span of 50 hours, visited 5 different realities, all of a varying climate, temperament, social structure, moral order, delight, and danger.

Allow me tell you from experience, transporting from the highest of the High to the lowest of the Low in the blink of an eye can be both electrifying and terrifying. The most important thing (at the possible expense of losing ones' grip on their sanity) is to keep personal attention firmly fixed upon the One, understand that there is but a single Creation regardless of the space-time continuum one is visiting. On the day I received the Vision I performed a Dimensional Shift from Elysium to Pandemonium. Such a drastic and instantaneous transportation must have shaken something loose inside of me, and in one of the most sublime moments I have ever had I realized that the main difference between a realm of Goodness and Order verses of that of Evil and Chaos was that the former is connected to the Truth of what is actually happening while the latter sees only in fragments, and that darkly. Evil and Chaos, I understood, is a condition of delusion and is not volitional, meaning that it is enslaved. Only knowledge of Truth offers real Freedom; Ignorance fosters limitation and always ends in self-generated suffering. (Note: it is understood that Chaos is a mode of Creation; it is also understood the workings of Magic and personal freedom are predicated upon Order and Law, therefore true Chaos has to be, in this instance, intepretted as a reality of suffering and danger.)

The insight that followed left me reeling: If I have been blessed with this conceptual framework of existence, knowing that my Being and Will links me to whatever reality I happen to be beholding, shouldn't my presence offer a transformative emanation of Knowledge and Truth wherever I am? (In formulaic terminology: Truth plus Self Conscious Realization of Knowledge equals Affectivity, Will, and Transformative Delight). Regardless of the content--be they the hells of Baator or the gardens of Mount Celestia--shouldn't my reckoning of pure Understanding offer Liberation from the Ignorance to those inhabiting the realm? My desire for it to be so must mean that there is at the very least a touch of possibility inherent within the notion.

It was many months of pondering this Idea that ultimately would fuel the Artwork, the Castle. It matters not if it has an affect on the conscious plane of being, or even if there is a living entity there to witness it. What is important is the symbol, the intention, the will to offer a dedicated service for the purpose of bringing Light into darkness. The harvested meaning of my life hinges upon the ability to at once delight in Communion with entities on High (angels, devas, planars, minor deities, etc., all of whom Realize the Truth and Law which gives them birth, albeit to varying degrees), and also transmit a pulsation of Realization to those lost in the shadow of the Great Inversion.

Considering on where to construct it, I needed a place of secrecy, and so chose an extra-dimensional pocket. Sure, there are dangers involved in such a location (if one could even call it that; non-location is more like it), but the rewards were well worth it: privacy, an ability to reach it from whatever plane or world I happened to be visiting, and its inherent neutrality all outweighed the slight chance that it would collapse upon itself and ruin the work or--ehem!--kill me. Looking back over the past couple of millenia it is easy to see that it was clearly the proper choice, and for various reasons, but hindsight is definitely in high definition; I fretted over that particular decision for well over a decade.

The pocket itself looks sort of like a field of light, color and shade providing the 'shape' in which the castle rests. One couldn't really call it an enclosure, though, as there seems to be a horizon in all directions, which is nothing more than an illusion; the pocket is really only about the size of a large outdoor sporting field.

The castle, the Artwork, is glorious. It is not all that large, that is comparing it to other castles around the multi-verse. I mean, if you took a sampling of castles from a hundred thousand different worlds that all held the castle Idea, this one would most assuredly be dwarf sized set up against the average. Nevertheless, I would place its grace and Beauty in competition with even the grandest of palaces.

It is sleekly shaped and triple spired, symmetrical yet random, strong yet graceful. The color of the stone, which is not layered bricks but smooth and whole, subtly shifts from dark to light and back again, sometimes meeting in the middle with a grayish silver. The never settling coloration imposes a feeling of mystical tranquility, an emotion not of either-or but of unity, togetherness. Occasionally a series of ever-shifting patterns, designs, and sacred words will appear on the stone itself, formed in a glowing, flowing, sparkling script, an enchantment that holds protective forces, among other things.

The building seems alive, as if it is breathing, being, becoming, awakening. It is almost a loving presence, a conscious entity unto itself. It is at once an expression, a temple, a church, a museum. It is a space to experience the Divine, the Sacred, and the Magical without, within, and beyond oneself.

I will occupy my new home only part time, but will bring allies and friends from other dimensions to visit once I have it locked in place. I have chosen a layer of the Waste to house it, a plane of rot and spoil. There could be all kinds of nefarious creatures in the vicinity, of course, and the castle will surely draw their interest, but that is the point: impregnable, I will be able to study the influence as the spell works its magic within the plane. Who knows how long it will take? Time is one of the great essences of Magic, and it could be a thousand years before I start to see fruit.

Tonight is a night of rest, and in the morning I shift the castle to its new position, its new home, its new dimension. I would be lying if I didn't admit to fear and trepidation. There is more than an element of danger in every aspect of this, but I have to trust in myself, in my Creator, in my Goodness, in my Vision. It is an Artwork of fascination and Love, a testament of forgiveness, personal participation, and supraconscious feeling. It is, in essence, everything that I want to share with the multi-verse, for now at least. And fear shall never stop me from seeing that into Being.

Homage To A Kitty-Cat (A True Story)

2010-11-18T15:31:00.000-08:00

A few years back, when I was staying at my mom's place, my cousin Alison came to live with us in a spare bedroom we had. After a couple of months she was presented the opportunity to get two cats from her brother's ex-girlfriend and brought them to stay with us as well, a new experience both to my mom and myself. Their names were Puff-Puff and Paxil, the latter named after the antidepressant, a fact that should amaze you once you see the direction this story is going. They were about as different as cats can be. Puff-Puff was a take-charge, in-your-face, gotta-see-what-this-is-all-about personality, while Paxil was super chill and laid back; if there was a laser pointer anywhere in the vicinity Puff-Puff would tirelessly chase after it while Paxil would give it a bat or two then ignore it completely. They were not brothers, but both were very close in age (three years old) and had lived together almost their entire lives.

After living with us for a couple of months I regularly found Paxil on my bed and up in my window sill, and we became fast friends. He really wasn't social with anyone else, and both my mom and cousin pointed out that Paxil had "chosen me," a fact that I couldn't deny. And I liked it, liked him. He had an incredibly soft orangish-brown coat, and a little mane that made him look sort of like a lion. Even though his claws had been removed he still retained the swagger of a hunter, while not shying away one bit from the love and affection I so regularly lavished upon him. My absolute favorite thing was the way he would "talk" to me while I was petting him or patting his little rear-end, meowing and make all kinds of funny chirping noises.

Within a year or so I commonly referred to Paxil as "The Man," and heaped as much praise upon him as possible to friends and strangers alike. The fact of the matter is that I started seeing him as more than simply a cat; often I used the term "spiritual being" when talking about him. His eyes, his mannerisms, how he ate, everything took on a deeper significance the more time I spent with him. I used to openly admit to the possibility that this was all projection on my part, that I was casting additional abilities onto my feline pal just because we had forged such a strong bond. But something out of the ordinary happened which confirmed my suspicion that Paxil was and is more than mere cat, that he truly is a unique and soulful individual with a greater degree of consciousness than most of us might care to recognize.

To point:

I was in a deep, deep depression. I had been bed ridden for about thirty hours or so, only getting up to retrieve some food or occasionally use the bathroom. Mostly I just laid there and stared at the wall, hating myself and all things about reality in general. These bouts of depression are something I have been dealing with ever since I was a teenager, and, through specific techniques, have marked quite a bit of improvement over the years--meditation, yoga, exercise, proper diet, journaling, books on psycho-therapy, etc. Nonetheless, sometimes the weight of the world comes to me gift-wrapped in an enormous fucking bow-tie, and this just so happened to be one of those times.

Now, the door to my bedroom had a slight problem. The door handle would not click and keep the door shut the way that it should, but if I gave it an extra little nudge the door would stick to the frame. This was an old house, with all kinds of little peculiarities like this. Anyway, because the door was only ever closed in this manner the slightest touch from the other side would knock it open, something that Paxil would frequently take advantage of--he really, really liked sitting in the twin windows in my room. So to keep this from happening I would sometimes place heavy objects on my side of the door to lock him out (even the best of friends need their time apart).

Being that I was in one of my "me plus world equals giant turd" states of mind, I stacked up about a half-dozen objects to keep Paxil and everybody else at out of my room. This barrier was solid, I tell you, with a waste basket and some heavy books as the guts of the operation. There was even a free weight or two involved.

Laying there in silence with messy hair and drool on my face I heard Paxil come up to the door and push on it with his paws. The door doesn't budge, of course, because of my make-shift fortification. Score one for Jason. After a couple more tries the noises stop, and I think that Pax has given up and gone to find another spot to chill in. But a few seconds later I hear the patter of feet coming full force toward the door and BAM!, slam into the thing. It still didn't open, but I sort of perked up for a second, imagining the cat running through the kitchen and down the hallway to my bedroom, which was a straight shot. Regardless, the door was too heavily weighted to have an eight or nine pound cat knock it open, but I had to admire him for trying.

Then it happened again. And again. And again. For a HALF AN HOUR this cat ran at top speed through our house and plunged himself against the door, trying time and time again to get inside. I couldn't believe it. After fifteen minutes I was kind of sitting up, just watching to see if he would actually do it. The more he thwacked up against my door, the more I shook my head in amazement. I was saying to myself, "There is no fucking way you are getting in, Paxil. Just give over already." But no, he kept coming.

And finally, amazingly, it opened. On what must have been the fiftieth time of crashing into my bedroom door he rocked the trash can just enough to squeeze through. In one fluid motion he slinked across the floor and hopped up onto my bed, victorious. He laid down and started flapping his tail, looking in every direction but mine. His expression read "Yeah, that's right, I am a bad-ass." There was almost a glow around him, and he wasn't even breathing heavy from the effort.

It was one of the most incredible things I have ever witnessed.

And my depression lifted right there. I couldn't lay there and feel sorry for myself such an effort. I had blocked him from my room many number of times before and he had never tried such a thing as this. It truly was an act and expression of soul. I went over to him and placed my face up against his and gave him a whole bunch of kisses, and he meowed and gnawed at my hair while batting playfully at my face, something he was always doing. Then I spoke to him like he was an equal, like he was a being with consciousness on par with mine--at least. I thanked him from the heart for not giving up. I told him that I had never, ever seen anything like that, and that I knew he did it because I was feeling sad.

"I can't feel sorry for myself after seeing that, Pax. I just can't"

This event shifted our relationship to an even deeper level. Although he doesn't live with me anymore (my cousin Alison has him) I still think of him as one of my dearest friends. Even after long stretches of time whenever I see him it is right back to where we left off, rolling on the carpet and chatting away. Good times are had by all, even those simply watching. He has a place in my mind and heart for the rest of my life, and beyond that as well.

Paxil: the all-natural antidepressant.

Free Form Fictional Autobiographical Images

2010-11-06T09:54:00.000-07:00

Colorblind

The tab of LSD on my tongue stung like a bumble bee at three eight-teen a.m. precisely. Now it's exactly six eight-teen something in the morning. Sun up lovely warm bathing in the cool breeze of the ocean beside me, in front of me, all around me. Behind is the highway screams vehicles and mine is parked somewhere in the distance. I admire the trust-worthiness of my black leather boots: ankle high, proportionate to sand and asphalt and any kind of destination I so choose. I cautiously glance at the black chain-link fence to my left while thinking about the shovel-head in the back seat of my Pontiac, which is also black. Everything is black, without color.

Not the water. Super-conscious blue shimmering ecstasy open free believing I am me you everyone everything breathing electrified atmospheric cresting. Get me inside of this liquid without moving, please. White foam. Crystals. Diamonds, deep sea urchins play along my field of vision and I am one with the Wave. I am complete, accept for the skull and cross-bones grinning at me from the yellow warning sign hung sideways on the charcoal fence to my left. Cancer, it screams. You've got it, everyone's got it, why not just enjoy it?

This thought enlightens me. I levitate up and kick and scream and follow my destiny which began two days ago on a September morning when I decided to jump into the undertow and exercise a little bit of the rest of me. I dropped my telephone service and hit the concrete hard heading west. Now here I am fifteen states later regarding the water and I don't know what to think accept that this exactly where I am supposed to be. Orange-red light bathing me, sunset sunrise togetherness without compromise. How does one go about getting everything they want while only doing what makes them feel good? Is such a thing possible? I certainly value the idea livable.

All these rules are hounding. Work to play. Get in the game. Gyrate in counter-clockwise motion to masturbate with another. Temper your self discovery and life enjoyment or else you'll starve alone on the side of the road in a cardboard box without friends or a clean asshole.

Can someone use only their mind to see a brand-new high rise into material life? That's what I wanna know, even though my expectations are so much lower than that.

I have nowhere practical that I want to see, yet right now I see where I am fully. I have no one in particular that I want to meet, yet I am willing to become a stranger to get inside their head. No more supermarket shelving for spare money to pay the bills to let go of my self esteem to dream all day about what I could be if only I do what it is that they told me to. No more of that. I just want this. For now, at least. Where will this lead? Could be the death of me. Then again, maybe the sparrow will descend and give me a pair of raven wings. One never knows. But I am willing to step forward in faith and hope, willing to fall from building dream let go.

All of these thoughts you are seeing are from yesterday, while I was driving. Today is all about the Typhon, the totem.

Right now I am inspecting the chain-linked spot of salvation to my left and thinking about climbing to the top and over. What is there to let go of? Did you ever have the feeling that you are invulnerable? That you are something special? That because you know a secret you can get away with a miracle? In my it moment I see this overly-protected energy tower as a symbol of my fecundity. I could fuck a legion of babes and ejaculate electricity. But what good would that make me? I need something deeper, more real, fuller, holier, less bastille. It wouldn't do me a damn bit of good to keep pissing if all the liquid I drank sank right through the bottoms of my feet.

I need to become what I was meant to be. And that is why I am here, now, with you.

-

Voices

Hello, my name is Jackson. I am going to expose myself to you now, whoever it is that you are. Maybe I just want somebody to feel me or see me, I don't know.Whatever the case may be just don't start talking or else you'll ruin it.

I am kneeling in my protracted little sadness, in madness mom and dad gave to me, and what's his face is blathering all around. What do you call him? Yeah, that's right, Lucifer. He is both queen and king here, vice and advice. Why I keep calling on him is anyone's guess; the bruises he produces are my shade, I suppose.

Lovely, lovely darkness. Smoke shadow corner shimmering night from outside and behind the walls where the plaster often smiles but no one can see it, not even God. The swimming pool in my backyard is imaginary and the black widow smiling to me on the window sill is regurgitating the poison I fed to her in my sleep. She looks just like my wife to me. Oh Sophia! Is that you floating softly under rippling sheets of water? I keep staring at him/her/it and thinking of Los Angeles for some reason. When will it shed that awful mask and quit laughing like that?

My room is all quiet accept for the accusals and denials procreating on the bed. I can still see her there--blond hair, arched back, full flavored cigarette dangling from her lips. This is where everything went wrong.

One of those old fifties style radio sets is weighing down my chest and the guy on the other side is talking about the end of the world. Then he says my name. I perk up and draw the curtains back, revealing the voices that have been waiting for me the entire time. Now it seems necessary to start praying but the goddamn fucking cigarette just won't stay lit. Is it mine or hers? I keep pondering my crucifix and the wooden witch behind the bath-stand who's masturbating, which is very distracting, but understandable.

I keep seeing her everywhere. On the street, in the nipple, fetched out of the recycling bin, shattered to pieces where the love began. Who is this calling my name? I just want somebody to understand me. I say "please God make them stop, I can't take it any more, just make them all go away." I curled into ball and as it hurt even worse than when as I said she left me or I left her or or whatever it was that happened I don't even remember anymore.

"Somebody loved you."

"You were never good enough for her."

"Crooked ankles make the best rosary beads."

"Fear and fame are one and the same thing."

"The end is coming and you should have told me so."

"Redemption can only save you if you forgive yourself."

"In order to forgive yourself you have to first realize what it is that you've done."

And I don't know. "God, I am so sad. Please forgive me for this. Make the hurt and shame stop and I will agree to do anything." Which one is me again? Possibly only all of them?

What started all this was yesterday I was walking down the street and someone called my name and I looked around to see my grief plastered on the front page at the newsstand and it gave me deja-vu which made the whole thing seem even worse. I stumbled home about to be sick thinking about the horrible image directly below my boldfaced name. Her name was Sophia and I loved her and lost her and now the crime of the century is wailing air-horn thunder at me from strange familiar places. And it is all my fault. Oh God, please forgive me!

"Crime is what you make of it, big guy. The only way to the Kingdom is to acquiesce to the one who has done you in. You have to die because you Fell and you have to suffer enough to make her come home again, which will never happen. Don't you understand? I thought you'd understand. You should always understand! When the Ruler has tied you to the bed post and the quiet is descending from above you have got to beg for mercy. I know you want it. You've always wanted it, you and your little blue and green men. All the blathering in the world won't make this end. It is just going to keep coming and coming and you are going to keep screaming and aching and the nightmare will resurface and we are all going to bury you alive forever and ever, amen."

And then you, the stranger watching this horrible episode, you say "no." So thank you for watching me, watching this catastrophe unfold.

Finally. Calm. Peace. Tranquility just like the spider in the window. I think about the Calvin Klein adds and the suffrage in Darfur and the creatures at the supermarket and Nixon and Whitman and Emerson and a documentary I once saw on William McNamara called "The Fog of War." I think on long days at work and even longer nights at home. I think of past and future, but I don't think of God, anything but God or the Devil. I think that maybe someday my diary will become priceless on the auction block.

Can I once again take my knees without the pain returning? I have the same priest now as when I was a little kid and I swear that all he knows about me comes back with every glance, with every foreskin. I just wanted to be her friend and yet the loneliness came up on my side like a rash of bad skin. Prediction. Wisdom is the foresight to see and know before you begin.

"Calling all world presidents: where were you before the Earth took its proper place among the grief stricken?"

I assume the position. And it feels good. And the relief comes, but only after I briefly glimpse myself from above handing out fliers that say "Please Kill Me" before a movie in Times Square and everybody is looking at me like I am that strange person who there is always at least one of at every public event catching flack and fained interest from the gathering bye-passers. I will never leave this bedroom again. I was rich once, now I just want somebody to see me, see how terrible it feels to be me right now, right here, before the altar. But I don't want it to be him. It's always him lurking in the shadows dressed in black surrounded by pomp and circumstance. The church is where I met her and this sadness began. I finally do remember myself her.

And you were the one who was there for me.

-

An Act of Blood

My armchair sadness is incredibly moving today, just like my favorite movies. Heartbreaking as I stare through the TV generating passion and momentum from somewhere outside of myself. Anywhere inside of here is dangerous, this apartment locked in vision paralysis momentary catatonic, but not wasting. I am not wasting away because I can still see her so clearly etched on the screen. I am deep space arcade complete with Saturn's rings and the clock is moving sideways upon the young man's face.

This is my reflection.

The pool of blood on the floor shows me how to go about my lonely days. Her name was Melissa and I don't know long I have been obsessing over her but I have begun to see her in everything, in the air freshener, in the Bombay gin, in the glass sidewalk shopping bag that rolled on through my dreams where I no longer feel the need to compete or seek for affection. Yes, my lungs are acting kind of funny these days with a harsh cough, and the ache in my side is killing me, but at least I don't want to run away into the crowd anymore. I just want to stay inside and get used to the weather. No-body's crying, however.

I have never suffered like this before: intermittent is the word. It comes and goes and I kind of enjoy it because it allows me to say that I am never going to love again. Instead I see vista's within myself. Night-time skies that are more alluring than the one on the other side of the curtain. I see a Julian Sands movie that is deeply stirring, telling even. What was her name? I can't remember well enough to make the grade. I see books and boxes and music and movies and magazines and pornography. I see everything I want to see accept for her. I just wanted her to know me more, to love me more, to sew me into the very fabric of her being more. Now I just want this sadness and the savage energy of my television set.

I want the salvation that comes
from giving yourself fully over to a lover
but there is no one real in here,
only these fictionalized accounts
that offer a solid practice regimen.

Early morning. Stiff. Aggravating by forgetting too much. The movie is good. This one is about war but not battlefield blood terror massacre. Only deprivation and redemption. I can feel it building. What was the last thing she said to me? Artillery explosion. The tears start falling and I don't realize that I am crying until I see that it's raining all around me. It is raining in my apartment, right inside my living room and the blood-stained carpet will be ruined for good. Just me and this armchair and the TV cradled in a thunder shower, learning the language modern-day humanity speaks. Sparks. Smoke. Television implosion.

This is what I want, this is what I want, this is definitely what I want. Melissa, please speak well of me. Please remember me. Maybe after all I am better off with you on the page and in the screen and in my memory. This travesty has been waiting for me the entire time, and you were the only one who could ever set it loose inside of me.

-

Electric Morning

There is blessedly nowhere to be. It is just me and you and everyone and everything forever and ever relaxing, breathing this purple ambiance on the open sea. Across from me in the vessel is Jesus Christ himself, smiling, believing wholeheartedly faithful as always. We are both perfectly at home here drifting, nothing to lose no place to be, at One, communicating without saying a single thing. "I have no use for Christianity," he says to me, and I nod appreciatively.

I love this place. I come here often and it fills me with grace and insight and understanding. I'm always peaceful here, and I think about Joseph Campbell's hero and the Buddha and the open road and what it would be like to consume LSD fearlessly. I think about women and death and music and the possibility of real transformation out of my conditioned experience. I think about the nature of freedom. I think on the word meaning and the totality of all that it implies. I think about suffering and animals and anguish and human trial. I think about becoming sacred ritual, and then I smile. I think of love and ecstasy and world starvation juxtaposed against my sometimes mindless over consumption.

But nothing moves me, nothing disturbs my reclined position in this simple wooden rowboat. I notice it all within me before me wordlessly silent contentedly.

I riff on the gentle waves carry me into a place where the mist merges with my being, where Jesus' son tells me my new name, where the other side becomes visible in the under-exposure of me. Overhead morning night sky shroud in darkness light and I am one with the whole scene. I love you, I tell me, and I begin to see, to see beyond through and the into the Center of you. This is me wide open enjoying motion with no consciousness of direction. This is me seeing biblical passages fall away from my blood. This is me riding out the Great Flood in the name of trust and forgiveness. This is me.

To Snack Cakes, With Love

2010-08-02T14:16:00.000-07:00

Turning my attention to the small things in life, the little peculiarities that we all carry with us in this post-modern age of technological wonders, mass production, advanced modes of light-speed communication, and the possible death-trap of over-consumption, I came to realize something rather strange about myself: I have a near encyclopedic knowledge of snack cakes. Yes--snack cakes. Not only that, I have the tongue of a connoisseur, the taste buds of a master chef serving up leg of lamb, seared sea bass, or painstakingly crafted pastries to the rich and famous in New York or Paris.

Accept with snack cakes.

This dawned on me when suddenly, out of the Emptiness of the Void, I developed a mean hankering for, of all things, a Hostess Chocodile. Actually it dawned on me when I went on a hunt for said Chocodile only to find that 1.) Chocodiles are no longer on the shelves of my neighborhood convenience/grocery stores (according to Wikipedia they are only longer sold on the West Coast), and 2.) I had quite an array of creamy choices at my disposal to fill the empty hole in my strudel.

"Chauncey the Chocodile"

There I was, Hostess products to my right, Little Debbie (that surly bitch!) to my left, and I realized that I could vividly recall to my memory virtually every flavor within view. Two arm lengths wide, six shelves high--boxes upon boxes containing individually wrapped, self-preserving delectables, and I could, with alarming clarity, describe the sensation of each and every one them. How could this be? Where does such a collection of confectionery consciousness come from?

Giving it just a few moments thought I was drawn back into my childhood. As a youngster my family lived directly behind a gas station by the name of Clark (which received multiple visits daily), and within walking distance of not one, not two, but THREE 7-11's. Connecting this to the fact that my whole family was portly in bodily make-up (something I would cure myself of in my early twenties through nutrition and exercise), I very quickly assimilated how I could keenly describe the distinct complexities of miniature cakes loaded with cream and coated with a sheen of icing.

Now, as stated above, there are two major brands of snack cake drooping the shelves of supermarkets and corner stores everywhere: Hostess (best known for the Twinkie), and Little Debbie (best known for the hatted figure adorning the upper left-hand corner of all their products, whom, I assume, to be Debbie herself, a milk-thighed milk-maid who must, absolutely MUST, be without panties beneath that 30's style farm dress of hers). Hostess has the upper-hand on quality, I would say, while Little Debbie wins with nary a contest in the pricing area. This toss-up, then, directs the contention between the two onto other avenues in this adventure of increased blood sugar and extra laps around the park: vastness of selection, uniqueness of experience, and ingenuity of marketing.

In that particular moment, having been set upon this mission through the emergence of the cleverly devised Chocodile figure from my subconscious (decidedly id-like in it's make-up, crocodiles being vicious and brutal, feeding through outbursts of killing aggression, then tied to a food that is undeniably turd-like in its shape and color) I felt the need to replace the original desire with something constructed of similar components: cake, cream filling, and chocolate icing, a fairly standard palate in the genre. My final field of options (carefully weighed by gazing deeply into each box and listening intently to my heart) consisted of Ho-Ho's, Ding-Dong's, Swiss Rolls, and Suzy Q's; these by no means were the limit of replacement treats available, but were the ones that seemed to be right in my wheel-house of possible milk-dunking excellence.

The lone vaginal treat among the final four, Suzy Q's, have been the standard for me in the past. Sandwich style in their composition, two chocolaty bread-like pieces house a luscious cream in the center, very easy to spread open wide and messily lick clean. However, with the semi-cylindrical Chocodile serving as the original inspiration for my box store expedition, I let this option melt away, followed close behind by the Ding-Dong, reminiscent of a hockey puck and none too good for the dunking. (For the record, anyone who dunks a completely icing coated snack pastry without first tearing it open to expose the absorbent cake within is, pardon my French, a moron. In a similar vein, when snack cakes are served with milk--as is only proper--said milk should be contained in a glass, not a plastic cup. If all the glasses are dirty, a coffee mug should be used before plastic, the latter being put into play only during an emergency, like, say, you are too lazy to take 30 seconds to wash the dirty glass right there before you in the sink.)

Alas it was a face off between the Swiss Roll and the Ho-Ho, Little Debbie verses Hostess. While I am normally prompted to go in the direction of both price efficiency and femininity--which would without question bring me to bow, skirt raising, at the altar of Debbie--I opted for the Ho-Ho. My emotional-logic was pretty simple: calling to mind the experience of each product I clearly remembered the lightness of the Ho-Ho, its cream being a veritable drifting cloud encased in prim sort of chocolate, tender in its balance. A Ho-Ho is soft to the touch and delicate like a flower, and melts in the mouth with hardly any effort of mastication. A Swiss Roll is much more concrete in its constitution, a hardy center with flaking chocolate on the outside, scrummily delicious yet lacking in the capability of a blast-off experience, unless one happens to be stoned on cannabis at the time.

I have to admit, though, that upon choosing my after dinner treat and consuming it with a great deal of care and conscientiousness, ultimately, I was disappointed. It was just not a Chocodile. The Ho-Ho seemed overly sweet, without much personality, a sugar-rush and nothing more, the dessert equivalent of a lap-dance from a bored stripper. Thankfully, my Ho-Ho experience was vindicated through another modern wonder--the freezer. I stuck those bad puppies in the next to the ice trays and a couple days later had a taste-testing that left me much more satisfied than the first, proof that when you put your energy into something, no matter how inanely small and ridiculous, you will, at some point, be rewarded.

Viva la Chocodile!

Snack cakes, REPRISAL: Twinkies, Zingers, Cup Cakes, Snow Balls, Apple Pies, Nutty Bars, Fudge Brownies (with the little walnuts on top), Honey Buns, Powdered Donuts, Chocolate Donuts, Oatmeal Cream Pies--the list goes on and on. And yet, one is missing from this list that is of the utmost importance to its integrity, a treat that will round out this article's fullness and simultaneously prove the existence of my self proclaimed snack cake genius: the one, the only, the Star Crunch.

Firstly, like its masterful name, this treat (not quite cake, not quite candy, not quite cookie, sort of a hybrid of all three) is otherworldly. Star Crunch! Just saying it makes me feels like I am snacking on a supernova, am devouring an asteroid in deep-space, am dining on a disk of Saturn! Even its packaging stands out in the aisle, black in a sea of whites and yellows. Right now, here, for the purposes of this article, I am going to consume a Star Crunch and painstakingly catalogue my experience, note for note. I have not eaten one of these bad boys in years, and now, for the purposes of novelty and the exploration of the useless stuff jamming my mind--and colon--I get to slowly, lovingly, crunch this treat into a fine goo and let it slither down into my belly. Man, writing this was an awesome idea!

Here we go:

The smell out of the wrapper brings me back to childhood. No, that is not quite right: it brings me back to my teens and early twenties, when there were frequent runs to the corner store at 2, 3, or 4 in the morning. The flavor is definitely unique, and its texture is chewy and crunchy and creamy at the exact same time. Nothing quite like it, really; certainly enjoyable. The package calls them "Cookies with Caramel and Crisp Rice," but calling these things cookies is like calling Walter Matthau a character--it is simply not bold enough, not accurate enough of a description. It is not so much the flavor that defines the experience, but the texture.

The Star Crunch's extra oomph, though, the thing that delivers it into the realm of extra-cosmic munchie heaven-hood, is its look. Yes, the flavor is alright, the texture is an achievement of modern science, but the look and feel of it inside the plastic--rough and smooth at the same time, with a pleasant reddish brown shade--make it abundantly clear that there is only one Star Crunch in the universe. In all the times and all the places that have ever existed, will ever exist, we, on planet Earth, get the Star Crunch. It is truly one of a kind.

It also sort of makes me think (probably due simply to association) of something an astronaut would eat, like Tang, or freeze dried ice cream...If, of course, astronauts did not have to eat healthy and balanced meals to stay in peak physical condition so as to endure the rigors of outer space.

Viva la Star Crunch!

Top 10 Songs

2010-06-04T08:52:00.000-07:00

Having been inspired by a recent issue of Rolling Stone with the idea of a "Top 10 All Time Favorite" song list, I decided to compose such a list for myself. I wanted it to be more than just a list of ten songs I enjoy a great deal, however: I wanted it to be a gateway into myself, a device for examining what it is that I admire about music and art in general. Doing this I could hopefully find common elements and themes present within the list and direct some of that energy into my own artwork and expression. If nothing else, I would have one amazing playlist for my mps player!

As it so happens upon completion I felt a sense of intense bonding to my list, like there was something magical about it. Listening to it from beginning to end I saw it as a mystical circle, with the possibility of being experienced seamlessly 1-10 or 10-1, yet always looping back upon itself to start again, or even reversing direction with no difficulty at all. Also, looking at it cyclically I can see analogies all over the place, connections and patterns that bring definition to my musical tastes and artistic aspirations.

So, ascending 1 to 10, here are my favorite songs of ALL TIME:

1.) Lateralus - from the album "Lateralus", designed and performed by Tool.

This song is, in my opinion, a magic spell, one cast by four wizards who are consciously intending a transformative, righteous, beautiful, and mystical piece of music into existence. Whenever this song begins I sometimes receive the impression of a pulsation, that of an emerging Idea (in the Platonic sense) of mental Perfection vibrating from the recording into my mind. Over the course of the first couple of minutes this precision of focus is unified with the joy and passion of the human emotional system, instruments giving rise to a single drive of power. When the vocal pattern eventually merges into the flow of sounds the lyrics become a confirmation of spiritual awareness being harnessed into a single will--themes of limitless possibilities, pushing the boundaries of human evolution, and touching the unknown all coalesce into the flowering soundscapes.

This is a song that pushes me beyond the boundaries of time and space, helps me reach not only my own higher potential but also see that there is much more than I can imagine happening inside of me and out--truly a testament of infinite possibilities. It is a rallying cry to personal power, and the ability to channel that Force through oneself into the world for the purposes of Delight, Awakening the Soul in time, and freedom of direction when connected to a higher Source. This song is a unification of inner and outer, above and below, inspired action and contented being-ness, just some of the reasons why it is my favorite song of all time.

2.) For The Love Of God - from the album "Passion and Warfare", designed and performed by Steve Vai.

An epic guitar instrumental, this song has repeatedly become a sacred experience for me. The better of a music listener I have become (meaning the more meditative) the more rewarding it has become, taking me into higher and higher states of mind where thoughts, sounds, and light merge with the fullness of human emotion. It is music as pure language, meaning it is pointing to the Essence of language, and is thereby nothing other than an expression of Divinity, so stated in the title. It is a unification of masterful technique and unsurpassable passion, a flow delivered with surrender, conviction, joy, and freedom. As an artist myself this is the place I always aim for in expression, a plane of spiritual emotion fused with transcendent genius. I love, love, love this song.

3.) Since I've Been Loving You - from the album "Zeppelin III", designed and performed by Led Zeppelin.

This bluesy and electrifying song came to me later on in my Zeppelin expeditions, but it has enriched my world with increasing bravado ever since. Simultaneously loose and tight, live feeling yet well produced, each member of the band seems as if they are performing individually (soloing), yet those performances fit perfectly together. Robert Plant and Jimmy Page feel totally absorbed in their expressions, while Bonzo and John Paul Jones provide stability with a splash of swagger. This song is raw, smooth, tangled, and free, and is hands down one of my favorite recordings on the planet.

4.) Bleeding Me - from the album "Load", designed and performed by Metallica.

Number four on the list is the pay-off of all Metallica's work in stretching themselves into riskier creative territories. It fuses the power of their trademark sound with the slower groove found in some of Seattle's best 90's grunge (Soundgarden, Alice In Chains, Temple Of The Dog), to awesome effect. I also believe it to be the peak of James Hetfield's song writing, demonstrating both strength and vulnerability. The lyrics are outstanding: spiritually significant and archetypally awake, they trigger deeply profound imagery in the mind (blood, trees, beasts, release). This, combined with an impassioned vocal performance, and music that is more than just satisfactory, leads me to an overwhelming emotional experience lined with some very dynamic mental scenery.

5.) Even The Waves - from the album "Dead Air For Radios", designed and performed by Chroma Key.

Whenever I listen to this song I inevitably become very peaceful and calm, am transported into a plane of solace and tranquility that is somehow totally my own yet a part of something else. It relaxes and opens me, eases my mind like the presence of an old friend. The lyrics show me a place in the expanse of Mind while triggering within me the ideas of personal redemption, eternity in time, and nirvanic realization. I see myself resting easily in a small rowboat, wordlessly accepting the flow of creation as it emerges naturally from the Void. Kevin Moore's singing is incredibly open and joyful; empty of self, his melodies are rich and soothing like waves of cooling magical mist. This song (along with the rest of the album) feels absolutely natural in its precision, is a wonderful example of expression and talent liberated from cultural constraints.

6.) Shine On You Crazy Diamond - from the album "Wish You Were Here", designed and performed by Pink Floyd.

The first four and half minutes of this masterpiece are so tranquilly atmospheric hearing it is like stepping into a room made of light, one that is restful and dreamy. When the drums finally do kick in after this long opening sequence it is from such a place of passion it's like being woken up--or better yet, coming to life. Soon after David Gimour is soloing with a passionate intensity that even the most listless of music listeners could appreciate.

Lyrically the song is a love ballad to a best friend and an examination of the complexity of insanity, which both has power to destroy lives and produce visionary waves of creative inspiration. All told, when factoring in the wide variety moods and tones, this piece is nothing less than brilliantly cinematic, a collage of many flavors that all carry a collective taste. And it has a wailing sax solo: enough said.

7.) 2112 - from the album "2112", designed and performed by Rush.

From the opening moments of this epic one knows that it is an entity entirely unto itself, something utterly different and unique, possibly channeled from some distant time and place. Within the first three minutes one also realizes that that other-worldly magic is being harnessed into the musicianship, especially the drums, which launches Neal Peart into the forefront of the experience. Nearly matching Peart's tour de force percussive performance note for note is Alex Lifeson, whose soloing is nothing less than awe-inspiring.

One of the things that has perpetually fascinated me about this song since I first heard it is the lyrics, which induce images of archetypal passion plays that may have happened a long time ago in a galaxy far-far away. The song is an ode to music itself, and a testament to the majesty and power of individuality. It also communicates philosophical elements that I find morally challenging, which is just one example of Peart's breadth and depth as an artist and thinker. These complex lyrics are translated masterfully by the singing of Geddy Lee, who ignites the speakers with such an incredible degree of flexibility (from tenderness to might and everything in between) that all one can do is marvel. When he shrills "Just think what my life might be/ In a world like I have seen/ I don't think I could carry on/ Carry on this cold and empty life" Lee has totally inhabited the character from which the words spawn in relation to the story, creating an opening to another dimension. Simply breathtaking.

8.) A Little Too Far - from the album "Street: A Rock Opera", designed and performed by Savatage.

This piece is just a flat out spectacular solo performance by Jon Oliva. One man and his piano, and it hits me in the heart every single time I hear it. There is such freedom in this recording, such pleasure in the act of playing and singing. On top of this the lyrics are magnificent, so real and creative, derived from personal experience before being woven into a narrative, then re-lived from this new perspective; intimately heart-felt through and through. There are several moments in this piece when I am literally drawn inside of it and see very clearly the images that are being sung, which I belive is a testament to the space from which it was cast: with empassioned vision.

9.) Sister Rosetta Goes Before Us - from the album "Raising Sand", designed and performed by Alison Krauss and Robert Plant.

This song is an expression of Heaven, both in where it is descending from (the clouds) and where it is leading the listener with the words ("up above"). The melody very quickly demonstrates that Ms. Krauss' vocal control is masterful, colorful (more exactly, shiningly white fused with powdered blue), controlled, and pitch perfect. Additionally, the music feels as if it is occurring spontaneously--especially the banjo, which seems like it was done in a single take, an expression unto itself. With Robert Plant in the background adding hints and subtle melodies (indications of something greater then our Sister Rosetta working behind the Veil) the total effect of this song is nothing short of sublimity.

10.) Cygnus...Vismund Cygnus - from the album "Francis The Mute", designed and performed by The Mars Volta.

This song, like most of the creations from The Mars Volta, is gloriously over the top. What separates this particular event from the rest is balance: it is overwhelming but understandable, eccentric but stable, lichen while sunbathing. All of the instruments are tangled yet solid, like the roots of a tree trunk. This musical complexity is matched verbatim by Cedric Bixlar Zavala's lyrics, which are gleefully wild and unabashedly un-tame. With image after image he weaves a tapestry of consciousness-tones that leave me breathless with some unseen knowledge, a right-brained poetic montage of Cacophony fornicating with with his lover Calm. This song is sweatily libidinous, fantastically subconscious, earthly surreal.

Then there is THE BUILD. Beginning at about the 4:20 mark Omar Rodriguez Lopez starts grinding his axe, initiating one of the finest musical ascensions and peaks I have ever experienced. Leading up to an astounding merger with Zavala's sexually liberated voice, the crescendo is reminiscent of the climax in Stairway To Heaven--one word: orgasmic. All that one is left with by the end is a receding excitement that begs to be re-lived again and again.

The Archetypes of D&D

2010-02-25T15:40:00.000-08:00

There I was
Lighting the world with my tongue,
In the holiest hour tracing my blood
To her moon.
Then I rose in garland waves
Into the animal kingdom,
Free to reign
Over earth, wind, lava, and rain.
Circles and spirals delivered me,
Echoed my passion and delight
Through the gates of this heaven,
Where I married a falcon
And drove the sun beyond the eyelid.

This article is about the role-playing game Dungeons & Dragons. Now, I know that, for the uninitiated, there is a stigma surrounding that name, and there are in fact certain instances in which that stigma may be well deserved. For those of you who grew up as jocks, musicians, or hard-nosed academics in pursuit of the American Dream, words such as nerd, geek, spaz, freak, dork, loser, poindexter, and robot-fucker may come to mind when you hear the term D&D. I am here, however, to share a view of the gaming experience unknown to those of a geek-slandering disposition, and at the same time express how playing D&D as a teenager not only made me a better person but also primed me for authentic psycho-spiritual awakening and transformation.

For those whom know nothing about the game, here is a brief description:

Dungeons & Dragons is an RPG (role-playing game) in which the participants take on the roles of characters generated from a set of rule books. Selecting from a series of different races and classes (think Lord of the Rings; elven archers, dwarven warriors, human sorcerers) the players function as imaginary characters through a series of adventures which are orchestrated by the Dungeon Master, or DM. These adventures can take place in mountains, deserts, cities, towns, castles, dungeons, or wherever one so wishes.

Much like reading a novel, most of the action happens inside the imagination, with prepared descriptions and illustrations serving to move the narrative along. Also included in the gaming experience are dice (4,6,8,10,12, and 20 sided), maps to show the terrain, miniature lead figurines to demonstrate the proper scale of battle sequences, and of course many rule books, which offer countless spells, weapons, magical items, worlds to explore, monsters to slay, and treasures to be won. Generally there are 3-8 PC's (player characters) being run through each adventure, each of them gaining in level of experience and power for each accomplished mission.

In my experience the most exciting of these adventures took place in marathon gaming sessions, lasting anywhere between eight and twelve hours. Five of us would gather at one of our homes and hold up in a room stocked with mad amounts of junk-food and, over the course of a night, explore a realm of imagination together. There were times when everyone involved was totally transfixed by the story we were weaving, inhabiting their characters so completely that the mental scene took on the vividness of real life.

For myself, this was a first. Being a child of the television and video game generation who was in no way active in sports, school programs, or music, this was my first taste of thinking, feeling, and creating as a team. Imagining myself as a character who was much more capable, heroic, altruistic, and adventurous than myself was in and of itself a fulfilling experience; add the fact that my friends were doing the exact same thing and the game became a source of bonding and affection. A word that was oft used when referring to our party of adventurers was brotherhood.

Now, placing a context around this point is very important. Growing up in lower class neighborhood, my friends and I were all reared by single mothers, with not one mature and wise masculine presence to guide us into manhood. We had virtually no healthy outlets for the boyish energy that can and should be shaped into a stable masculinity. When you add to this the fact that all of us were raised with little or no emotional intelligence, in environments that were down-right verbally (and sometimes physically) violent, the outcome was minimal skills for dealing with the plethora of raging internal objects inhabiting the subconscious mind.

With Dungeons & Dragons, however, we were able to address and play out some major themes using archetypal imagery, becoming the hero, the warrior, the victim, the master (usually of weapons or magic), the thief, the holy man, the crazy person, the assassin, etc. Additionally there were endless lists of enemies to be subdued or conquered--the sacrificing cult, the band of thuggish brutes (or brutish thugs), the evil genius, and, the greatest of all enemies, the mighty dragon. Having since grasped the notion that all of these Ideas are aspects which comprise the integrated and free-functioning Self, I now see what we were doing as a group: collectively working through internal conflict and getting in touch with a sense of personal value that might be applied in real world situations.

D&D stretched me into territories of emotional depth and intellectual fascination beyond my container of conditioned existence, which I was normally reluctant to step outside of. Here is a sample of the range of emotions that I have experienced while playing D&D: warmth, comfort, safety, friendship, excitement, elation, joy, anger, rage, disappointment, fear, and wonder. Here also are some ideas that I seriously pondered for the first time because of D&D: infinity, polytheism vs. monotheism, the nature of evil, alternate realms of existence (particularly the duality of heaven and hell), the nature of insanity, what power does to the ego, and what happens after death.

I think of some of the best adventures that I have participated in--either as Dungeon Master or player character--and the titles are enough to bring vivid imagery to mind: The Labyrinth of Madness, Hour of the Knife, The Secret of Spiderhaunt, The Rod of Seven Parts, and Dragon Mountain. Also, my friend Bryan crafted a magnificent and long-standing story line centering around a city called Waterdeep, which is a main-stay in a world named the Forgotten Realms, one of the more popular settings produced and distributed by TSR Inc. (owned by Wizards of the Coast), the publisher of D&D materials.

I decided to cover this subject on my blog for two reasons: firstly, because I am interested in the idea of brotherhood within this postmodern techno-secular culture; secondly, because I see so clearly how Dungeons & Dragons and its accompanying fantasy novels helped shape my current psycho-spiritual world view.

In the first instance, I have rarely felt so connected to other human beings as in the best hours of gaming. While sitting in meditation with a group of others is incredible, separation from this worldly reality definitely occurs, and even if it doesn't the time is spent in silent awareness. In conversation with friends or strangers, the act is one of relating past experiences, sharing future hopes, or imparting life in the present. With D&D, though, a world of imagination is linked to this one, and the participatory creativity can manifest an experience of group mind. Once the linking of a psychic and emotional nature takes place, it may coalesce into a unified feeling of accomplishment, something so rare at any point in my life.

In the second instance (that of psycho-spiritual development) the game gave me very important Ideas that I could personally inhabit, archetypes and prototypes of beings that touch the furthest reaches of human potential and experience, both in depth and transcendence. It also gave me places to visit using Active Imagination, a practice developed in Jungian psychology for the purpose of identifying and integrating different aspects of Self. Examples of such otherworldly locals I visit occasionally due to D&D are cloud cities in the sky, impenetrable fortresses constructed in realms of chaos, breath-taking vistas inhabited by mighty gods, hellish domains of suffering and pain, and glorious cities of magical dominance crafted by races of beings in touch with the Source of all creations.

Recently I was in a deep meditation assisted by the sativa plant when it dawned on me that I could think of myself as any being I wanted; instantly I was drawn to the Idea of a Phoenix. A Phoenix is an other-worldly creature of Fire, a bird of extraordinary magical power and spiritual Intellect that burns up into ashes and is ever reborn. Immediately I became this creature, this Phoenix, living in a realm of raging elemental fire. Hovering a couple of hundred feet in the air above a sea of lava was a small sun, which I plunged deeply into, completely surrendering into bliss. Lasting for about ten minutes, I was swelling and soaring in a habitat which I had never been to before, living as this mythical and mystical being. When I was re-born out of the fire I felt the strength of my wings, the knowledge of my heart, the purity of my soul.

While many of the themes presented in Dungeons & Dragons are taken from classical mythology and world cultures, the game integrates them with some startlingly fresh ideas. The first time I ever heard of a Phoenix was in the D&D Monster Manual tome, which I credit for drawing me into a number of amazing Ideas. Sometimes, it is a matter of how a piece of knowledge is framed that determines whether someone will receive it or not. For me, the books and novels of these fantasy games introduced play into the act of thinking and imagining, as opposed to the forced and boring energy which permeates most school activities.

I played D&D for the first time when I was seven years old. My brother--who is four years my senior--and his friends would include me as they delved into crypts filled with all kinds of traps and beasties. These friends of my brother had parents and older siblings who'd introduced them to the gaming experience, and this lent to it a quality of initiation, which, sadly, is the closest I ever got in my childhood to such a thing. Nonetheless, if and when I have children, I certainly plan on introducing them to the D&D game, albeit not at such an early age as seven (I think eleven or twelve is much more appropriate for the themes that come forth). With the current mechanizing action of computerized entertainment, I am a firm believer that anything which consciously engages the imagination as a source of entertainment and possible mental/emotional/spiritual insight is a far superior avenue to investigate.

Closing out this post, I want to share some imagery from the land of Dungeon's & Dragons, pictures that have helped shape my inner world.

Ten

2010-01-28T09:41:00.000-08:00

Beginning a new series of posts about artists and artifacts that have influenced me in the past (and continue to do so), I am going to attempt addressing a subject that I have long been trying to understand and incorporate into my life: brotherhood.

Brotherhood, meaning a sense of well-being and comfort amongst others of a like kind, particularly of the same sex (although not necessarily race or sexual orientation). Brotherhood, a family of closely kindred individuals who passionately inspire and push one another to new levels of self and creative awareness. Brotherhood, a body of friends that not only share advice and strength of character, but also share a sense of responsibility.

So, it is with this in mind that I delve into an all-time classic rock-and-roll record, Pearl Jam's "Ten."

Normally I have an inclination to dissect albums starting with the opening track, but this time around I am going to take a cloud-level view, looking at the work as a whole before delving into particular songs. If I were to select one word to describe this absolute gem of an album, it would be soulful. Follow-up descriptions would be masterful, emergent, energetic, playful, deep, serious, combative, arresting, and joyful. This list is by no means complete, which is a testament that the five guys in the band (Jeff, Mike, Stone, Dave, and Eddie) and their producer (Rick Parashar) were tapped into a very special creative space indeed.

Every single song on the CD is good, half of them are great (Black, Jeremy, Alive, Oceans, Deep, Garden), and one is bordering transcendent (Release). This sort of consistency is present in many different dimensions of the work, from a balanced feel and sound from track to track, to a song writing style that is measured yet varied, to an explosive and cohesive performance by every member of the band. There is much more than great individual performances going on here, however. There is a unified creative force at work within the entire group. There are six guys focused upon a single flame. There is brotherhood.

I have said it before and I will say it again: there is an intangible quality that is present within all great works of art. It is feeling of joy and beauty and self-acceptance pouring into the art-form from the person, and I certainly sense that heart-energy whenever listening to "Ten."

Beginning with the drums, there is an ecstatic feeling that shines through the speakers. Percussion being the backbone of any rock band, Dave Krusen's skin and cymbal work is flowering. It feels, well, ALIVE, especially on that track, which, while clocking in at a mere 5:40, seems to last a good 8 minutes, all of it sweltering, passionate, and magnificent.

That bombastic drum feeling is doubled by Mike McCready's soloing, which, in the case of this album, is a blend of Jimi Hendrix and Dave Gimour. To me, one of the most interesting things about "Ten" is the guitar work. Obviously, as evidenced by the commercial success of the thing, there are amazing rhythms and compositions present. But in addition to that there is an almost constant play going on in the background; rather than doubling the rhythm, the second guitarist is having fun, creating melodies and hooks that impact the song from another level. Simply brilliant.

Then there is Eddie Vedder.

Where to begin? That man, in this instance, was a tour de force of inspiration, originality, and world-soul. This is one of the single greatest vocal performances in rock history. Singing, chanting, savoring, raving, and playing from a place of centeredness, concentration, and control, Eddie delved into a place of feeling that was shaman like in its focus, harnessing a palpable energy both truthful and healing. Trance-like in his speech patterns and cadences, there are times when Eddie sings without the use of words, calling energy into existence from deep within, providing some of the most powerful moments of the album.

And what of the lyrics? Personally, while listening to "Ten," I can only make out about half of what Vedder sings. This, it turns out, is a wonderful thing. When the mind stops trying to make sense, analyse, and tear apart whatever it is ingesting, all it can do is let go and allow the stream of impressions to take hold. Much like listening to a flow of poetry, this recording engages a completely different part of the brain/mind, tapping into subconscious troughs and emotional swells. And because the melodic feeling is so righteous, he pulls it off without losing an ounce of appealability.

Eddie took what Bono does and upped the ante, pushing the boundaries by being totally free and fearless; he weaves the feeling of anger into the joy of expression, and there is no faking it.

What allows one to be that self confident? My theory is that there was a feeling of "we can do this together" spreading its wings during the writing and recording of "Ten." Even if the members of Pearl Jam were not totally comfortable and confident with one another yet (they were still a new band), they were still smiling as a unit when their chance to perform came, enjoying the experience, totally in the moment. Now, this is just an impression, and I have no idea what it was really like when they were putting this thing together, but there is an image that stands out in my mind when I think of this CD, an image on the inside cover:

They wanted to be a team, a brotherhood, and it shows in the music itself.

Something that I have never experienced but I know is absolutely possible is the unification of my creative and expressive energies with a group of others. Being a poet and photographer like myself may not be as ripe for this as being a musician in a band, but it is certainly possible and is something I look forward to doing in the future. Joy and passion and play merging with a feeling of family and togetherness is something very special indeed, and in my opinion is part of the mystique surrounding bands, especially the great ones.

Really, though, this is at the heart of what great art does for all of us. We become participants in the unusually good, pieces of our listening soul communicating with and reflecting the artists expression. We all feel apart of great art, and it also serves as a reminder of our higher potential, which is why expression is a sacred thing; it brings us together, and all the better when the art is cherishing Truth and Love, which reminds us of the superconscious unity that permeates and sustains the entire web of existence.

-

Powerful lyrical imagery erupting from the underground into a fluid and fantastic sound-scape of rock, blues, and grunge-funk; a titanic vitality tempered with lulls of silent introspection; meaningful dreams shining a spotlight upon social ills, scapegoats, and dogmas; life, death, fear, energy, murder, love, and everything in between; these are a few of my musings while ingesting the explosion of "Ten."

Yet, what would we be if not for the recognition of something deeper? Something Higher? Something that fills us with miraculous wonder near to the point of tears? This is my impression of Release, which is one of my favorite songs of all time.

It has long been one of my dreams to have a hallucinogenic experience while in the embrace of a loving brotherhood, a group of friends who I feel totally safe and confident with. It is not just about being present, but about being aligned in vision, focus, enjoyment, play, and love. I really do not like tripping in public, but I have always felt that if I was with a group of friends whom I was emotionally safe with I could experiment with that scenario. Listening to Release brings me to this place, unleashes within my mind the feeling of what it would be like to have that experience. I still have yet to find that brotherhood to place my arm in the air with, mixing energy and sweat and a sense of devotion, but I still hold onto the idea.

Here is a poem I wrote while listening to Release:

What is this mysterious place?
This place of understanding and realization,
This place of true seeing,
This place of Being,
This place of profound connection to all things.

I see myself in the birds, the wind, the rain.
I see myself within the swaying trees,
Within the children on park swings,
Within the bustling apartment building across the street.

It isn't the LSD, this sacred Fire inside of me, burning
Freedom and feeling and profound silence;
It is the Perfection of Nature.

I am Nature.

I was born and I will die and right now
I soar with an eagle above the clouds.
I am Life, Beauty, Sunlight.
I am so afraid to be alive sometimes, to share who I am,
To be seen by others.
What is my fear?
Failure? Regret? Addiction to past?

I will release this separate sense of self.
I will stand in unity and peace.
I will open up and express the soul of my human being.
I will discover darkness and drink.
I will combine the seemingly opposite aspects of me
with the Perfection that lives this body.

Nothing will ever be the same.
There is no returning.
The Understanding inside of me is Love.

I believe.
I see.
I release

Flash Fiction and Beyond

2010-01-14T20:15:00.000-08:00

SURRENDER

Right now, in my mind, I see a man sitting down in front of his computer, excited yet simultaneously terrified. This man has this desire to write about something other than himself, to touch the fictionalized bubbles arising from the sea of infinity which comprises his inner reality.

It isn't the sea that terrifies him, exactly, leaves him in knots in his guts and elbows. You see, he'll experience this vastness of potential and seize one of its flashes of wondrous brilliance--a vision--only to realize that there is something truly beyond him at work within it. A force, if you will.

It's that flood of understanding that doesn't exactly sit well with the man in front of the computer inside of my head. He sees it as a threat to his very being, yet can't stand not to delve, half amazed, half confused. For if these visions exist within him--and they do as surely as a Christmas tree stuffed behind a dumpster in a city alley on the twenty-sixth of December--and they are imbued with an essence of life, then he must come to terms with their existence, with their impact upon his outer reality.

He must at once stand sure of himself and surrender to something greater.

He must experience inexhaustible possibilities with a steady sense of calm conviction.

This man, leaning back in his swivel chair, he breathes in and out two times, deeply and heavily, trying to loosen the tightness that has suddenly appeared in his chest.

-

MY WIFE AND I

Laying easily upon the white, heavily pillowed sofa on the patio overlooking my summer home's rose garden, I affectionately observe the afternoon sky. The dense forest which surrounds my property accentuates my cultivated state of lucid silence, pressing me with a drunken wordlessness that pulses my body with light. There is absolute calm within my awareness, a relaxation that be-stills the life-sounds singing to me through the mesh screen as my eyelids slide gently downward.

This is the moment of realization, this is the moment of peace. There is nowhere to be, nothing to become, only a oneness that supersedes this naturic reality, this reality of the body.

I sense her coming well before the sound of her bare feet slapping against the hard wood floor manages to reach my ears. A tingling ignites inside of me, and by the time she passes through the doorway, smelling like the joy of being, I am fully aroused. A memory of the last time I saw saw her--a mere thirty minutes ago or so--appears within the limitless space of my mind, and I see every lovely detail of her body behind my closed eyes. As she approaches the couch that vision becomes sharper; pale skin, golden ringlets, full hips, impregnated belly, the glowing smile of a mother to-be. This is what it means to be a husband, this feeling of admiration, this feeling of devotion.

Sitting next to me on the edge of the sofa cushion she places her hand upon my chest. The electricity that exists within her touch reaches deeply into my heart, and bliss spreads in my body like a fleet of tiny hummingbirds departing in all directions. My penis swells to its fullness, the head quivering with immaculate luminosity. I feel myself inside her tummy, feel my energy charging the life force gestating there.

She draws a deep, calming breath. She has closed her eyes, I can tell. She can feel me focusing upon her womb, can sense the charge of superconsciousness that manifests when we join together in silence. Our breathing synchronises and slows, and we meditate upon the timeless ground as one.

This is completion, this is fullness. There is no fear or resistance, only the sacrosanct purity of the human body manifesting within eternal freedom.

After an indeterminable amount of time, time spent experiencing spaciousness so profound that the mind could never contain it, I place my hand upon my wife's smooth thigh and slowly begin caressing it, the fabric of her sun dress tickling my wrist. Our satisfaction is one, and this simple gesture becomes a blossom of excitement in our silenced state of transcendence.

She sighs softly as I gently draw her close to me, adjusting my position to accommodate her pregnant form. Our bodies interlock naturally, and we spend the better part of the afternoon in this state of excellence, existing as Love.

There is nothing to attain, no one to impress. There will be no abandonment, for we have already decided to leave these forms behind. There is only the night-sky within, giving rise to all of existence.

My wife and I, we are a single Light.

We were never born, and we will never die.

-

THE IMPORTANCE OF A SINGLE MOMENT

Without trepidation or fear, a man with long, wild hair and a scruffy beard turns down a darkened alley. While dressed simply in blue jeans, white t, and a light-beige jacket, he nonetheless maintains the dignified appearance of a gentleman, casting an air of self-assurance and mental clarity. There is a tranquility about him, a peace and calm that resonates from his large, dark brown eyes. He appears on the thresh-hold of middle age, the only real distinguishing characteristic of his face--aside from the beard--is the smoothness of his skin, which is clear and clean.

This is a man of understanding, a man of wisdom and knowledge seamlessly integrated into the very fabric of his being. One can see it in his posture, in his gait: confident and self assured without a hint of arrogance.

This is the place he is supposed to be, this menacing looking alley lined mostly by run-down factories and vacant warehouses. Walking slowly so as to pay attention to every detail--the smell of urine, the over-flowing dumpsters, the gang graffiti, the broken glass, the rusty, rain-filled fifty gallon drums--this man naturally unifies his transcendent state of inner silence with the feeling of playful excitement arising within his body. The potential of this situation manifested with such symbolic significance he could hardly believe it, and now that he is here it feels as though he is in rarefied territory, a place of spiritual revelation and universal significance.

Deeply conscious of his breathing, he notices a lessening of worldly solidity with every step, the density of this dark and dreary place dissolving into an inner experience of Space, Freedom, and Light. The idea of death forms within his mind, to which he smiles and nods in recognition, the acknowledgement of an old friend who demands the proper respect.

He began the day by boarding a bus headed downtown; nowhere significant, merely going to mingle with the crowds of people. Noticing a matchbook on the floor beneath the seat in front of him, he felt compelled to inspect it. Written in red ink on the inside was the following:

Jerris, 3am, out back

Upon his first examination he could hardly believe his eyes. It was only with the third or fourth reading that the implications began to register fully.

What stood out immediately was the name, Jerris. That is his name: Jerris Hesser. He had rarely encountered anybody else with the name Jerris during the span of his life, only once or twice. What are the odds of randomly finding something so specifically inscribed? he wondered.

Other characteristics of the matchbook: Black in color, with silver wording displaying the name, address, and telephone number of Silus' Night Club. All of the matches were missing from the inside, and the paper itself was wrinkled and dirty, as if it had been rain soaked and stepped on repeatedly. The inscription was written with a feminine flare, all flowing and seductive curves.

Gingerly fingering the withered matchbook now resting in his jacket pocket, Jerris re-digests the reasoning that lead him here, to the alley in back of Silus'Night Club at three am. He'd ruled out the possibility that somebody had planted the matchbook. 'They' would have had to not only predict his random movement of taking the bus downtown, but also which seat he would choose. Then they would have to hope he would spot it. Hardly likely, considering it was half wedged beneath a metal plate. After dismissing the possibility of volitional human involvement only a single word came to mind: synchronicity.

Having experienced synchronistic events several times before, Jerris had long ago incorporated the idea into his conceptual framework. A symbol of significant internal meaning reveals itself in external reality with an unusual degree of coincidental force. By following this sign one may be lead to a greater understanding of oneself and establish a more meaningful interaction with the world at-large. So here he was, following a seemingly greater-than random sign, trusting that Purpose is involved in such events.

Approaching the middle of the exceedingly long alley-way, Jerris begins looking to his left for Silus'. Spotting the club's insignia on one of the doors, he glances at his watch. Two fifty-seven. Leaning easily against one of the brick walls, he waits, calmly witnessing the singularity of this momentary existence.

Anticipation.

Complete acceptance.

Sovereign awareness.

Objectively detached yet lovingly involved.

No movement.

Stillness, without and within.

Breathe, and again.

Nothing.

Alone.

I am alone, divinely so. My body and the memory of its experiences are nothing to anybody else at this moment, in a darkened alley waiting for the unknown. Mysterious, this existence. An impossibility, an Infinity expressed as me standing in this strange place. A rock circling the sun, the sun swirling around the galaxy, and me standing in this concrete chamber, breathing, aware of an Order that unifies it all seamlessly. An ever-shifting Event, a Play expressed though each conscious individuality, an absurdly complex story written through me in this second, in every second. One, I am one drop in an endless sea. I am a Miracle, a Mystery in every detail.

At three-twenty, ignoring the desire to shrug his shoulders, Jerris begins making his way to the end of alley where he entered. I suppose this experience isn't about eventfulness, but Presence, he thinks to himself. Nearing the street, a door bursts open on his right. Mildly startled, he stops. Stepping into the alley is a man with a gun in his hand.

At first the man seems unaware of Jerris' presence, but after taking a few steps away from the doorway he freezes. Turning to face Jerris, the man with the gun cocks his head slightly to the right, as if examining a complex series of numbers that hold a puzzle to be solved.

Jerris witnesses a rush of fear jolt his insides, his pulse rate and blood pressure increasing severely, adrenaline pumping fiercely. He yields, acknowledging the pressure of the situation and his body's natural response to it. In less than ten seconds he over-matches the option of losing himself, is once again touching the seamless unity of Life and has surrendered to the greater workings of the cosmos.

The man with the gun is squat, broad shouldered and flat faced. There is a hardness about him, a quality of terrifying weight and solidity that anchors him to something astoundingly concrete. He looks vaguely eastern European, yet the eyes in his sunken face have a quality that Jerris has never seen before; they are reminiscent of reptile, not in shape but in quality.

This stranger is a person of prey, is self-destruction incarnated and projected. He is reaction and defense, domination and control. He is the cold steel of material form, the death sentence internalized. He is this alley-way personalized.

Seeing all situations as an expression of the Divine, Jerris views this man with the Light of Consciousness, from the view of Absolute Unity. This man is an aspect of God that has forgotten Himself, is an expression of Divinity involved in material reality so deeply that it has become a point of contraction close to nothingness. Simply staring at him Jerris receives visions of battery acid and rotten teeth, meaningless acts of violence and post-apocalyptic landscapes. He is inversion, shadow.

"What are you dong here?" the man with the gun asks.

"Just passing through," Jerris replies simply.

The man with the gun stares Jerris hard in the eyes, searching. Jerris returns the stare as an offering, placing the fullness of his concentration on That Which Is Beyond.

This man, for all his toughness and externalized pain, is suffering. He has fallen away from Love and is acting out of mechanization.

With this thought, Jerris sees a balancing. He sees Primordial Darkness and Eternal Light unified within his mind. He receives the clear idea that in this moment he is serving, serving to illuminate the construction of conditioned reality with the Essence of Perfection. He sees this moment spreading outward, touching every mind and heart on Earth and beyond, out into the recesses of the universe.

He is one with heaven and hell, world and transcendence, beast and Spirit.

He is serving a Function and flowing with the moment.

He is distinctly unique yet one with everyone, everything.

Cracking a brief and lifeless smile, the man with the gun nods his head firmly, affirming. "It takes balls to be here. Police cruisers don't even come over here any more." Tucking the gun behind his back, he nods beyond Jerris' body. "Just going for a drink at Silus'. Can't be too careful this time of night. Never know who is just around the corner."

Letting out a throaty chuckle, the stranger continues on his way. Jerris stays put for a moment, seized by the wonder of what just happened. Then, noticing once again the rise and fall of his lungs, he makes his way back to the street. Getting into his Jeep he is filled with profound feelings of gratitude, love, hope, and devotion.

Not once does Jerris perceive his actions as courageous or "ballsy." Wherever he goes or whatever he does is a Gift from above, a delicate balance of journey and dream, rain and lightning, action and silence, Form and Being, Everything and No-thing, decision and Destiny. Starting his vehicle, he continues upon his path, acknowledging with gratitude the stream of infinite paticles arising within the Subject which may never be seen, the Feeling which may never be touched, the Knowing which may never be thought.

-

SENSATION AND FLOW

Pulling into her driveway, the clock on Renne's car radio reads ten four-teen pm. It has been a long and tiring day, having risen for work at five forty-five this morning, but simply arriving in the vicinity of her bed has already precipitated a release of tension from her body. She'll sleep well tonight, for sure.

Gathering the arm-load of items that need to be carried into the house for the night--purse, cd case, grocery bag, djembe drum, fountain soda from the gas station--she makes her way to the front door, barely managing to get the key in with all the stuff she's holding. Half kicking the door open, she drops the heavy items onto the carpet beside the entry way and checks the mail box before stepping in and flipping the light switch. Of course--nothing but bills.

After putting groceries away, placing some fresh water and cat food in Silex's bowl, and stripping off the top layer of clothing, Renne finds herself in the ancient brown recliner that she took from her parents basement when she moved into her first apartment. That seems forever ago, but is a decade really that long? It is when you think about it using that term, decade. And besides, it has only been nine and a half years, not ten.

Anyway you slice it my twenties are in the past, she thinks aloud.

While staring off into nothingness, pondering the nature of time and its impact upon her life, a profound sensation of warmth begins building in the depths of her belly. Closing her eyes, Renne's attention is sucked fully into this feeling, subtle but growing in intensity. It is as if white light is expanding inside of her, and she can see it with perfect sharpness and clarity

As the sensation continues its movement, Renne hears a sound; yes, it is the sound of her drum, thump-thump-thumping in one of the rhythms they played in the circle tonight. It is almost as if the sound, the rhythm, is making love to her. At this thought, alarm bells blare within. The pulsation quickens, and the light begins shooting downward through the bottoms of her feet, traveling deep into the center of the earth. She can feel blood flowing into her vulva, and lets out a soft moan of pleasure. The current streams deeper, harder, and she can feel the wetness between her legs dampening her panties. Surprise and satisfaction make their presence known, but not strongly enough to distract her from the experience; it is too glorious.

Now the flow begins a return movement, and the excitement builds to a whole new level. The stream is drifting downward and upward, out of her belly and into the earth, up from the earth and into her belly. She moans in pure delight, and instinctively stands up. With her feet upon the ground her joy opens up fully, and, like she has been practicing in the all women drum circle every Monday night for seven weeks now, stomps a beat with her feet, right-right-left, left-left-right. This is a movement of connection, she feels, and with every step simultaneously charging her body and the core of the earth, she throws her head back in exaltation and wonder, releasing a scream charged by her soul. The ground rattles beneath her feet, power surging from her dripping wetness. She shakes her head and the thunder of the gods crackles with the movement of her hair. Breathing rapidly, body moving in perfect measure, Renne pounds her chest and cries aloud from the breast of despair, loneliness, magic, and excitement, "Yeeessss!"

Sinking back into the recliner she watches the ecstasy recede with the slowing of her breathing, giving way to a low humming vibration within the entirety of her body. Mind completely quiet, Renne's form quivers, turned on in every way. There are no dead spots, no aches, only this river of lightning gently sweeping her body away into a place of rest that is fully awake. It is as if she is being embraced at the center of the earth. She can feel its rotation, its movement through space. It is love, and she is one with it.

Waking with a bit of a start, Renne focuses her eyes on the time displayed upon the cable box. Four thirty-seven am. She has fallen asleep in the brown recliner, something she has never before been able to do. She feels more rested than she has in years. Gaining her feet, she takes a pee and gets a glass of water. Standing in the door frame leading from living area to kitchen, Renne stares intently at the drum case.

How did this happen? she wonders. Did it happen? It must have, she concludes, eyes still glued to the drum. Is there magic within it, a spirit? That certainly doesn't seem reasonable.

She begins pondering the course of action that lead to the experience. It has to be connected to the drum circle. The rhythm made love to her, had spread her legs and ecstatically exerted its tone into her womb. She could see it, hear it, and feel it as vibration.

A vivid scene blossoms fully within Renne's mind, a memory from the dancing portion of the drum gathering. With djembes strapped around their chests, the dozen women had danced in a cadence while pounding a simple beat. The very beat she heard in her belly, in the earth. Looking upon the memory she sees herself with a smile so wide it is nearly splitting her face. There is a glow radiating from her eyes, from her cheeks, from her heart. She is having fun, but it is the enjoyment she sees in her sisters that is really making her heart glow. She could do this forever, joining together with others in celebration of being alive.

She had truly let go, she realizes. She had forgotten totally about herself, about the self-help books and diet plans and guys who have screwed her over and her mom's arthritis and Silex's ear medicine and all the anxiety she has about being thirty. She had let it slide, had become fully herself.

Looking around at her apartment, at all the crystals designed for attuning energy, at all the books of world wisdom, at all the magazines that guarantee happiness, beauty, and success, Renne lets out a small laugh. Walking over to the drum, she removes it smoothly, lovingly from its case. Sitting with it between her legs she releases a vague sigh, reminded of the last time she fell in love. Softly, ever so softly, she begins tapping a sound, bridging the quiet within to the life she has been so desperately trying to find.

-

ONE TASTE

Smiling at the manner in which the simplicity of being can merge seamlessly with the complexity of a moment in space-time, Dianne checks her breathing for what could be the hundredth time of the day. Smoothly and naturally, with no sense of control or apprehension, she watches its rhythm without the pain of attachment. She calmly witnesses within herself the false hope that this moment could last forever, that her feeling of well-being, her environment, her possessions, her family and friends, her very existence in this world would not fall victim to the movement of dissolution. But she knows that it will, that all forms naturally decay, and facing that stark reality with perfect acceptance opens her heart and enlivens her experience of this moment. And it is a wonderful moment.

Shifting her attention from the movement of her body to include the rest of the room, Dianne marvels at the gestalt arising within her awareness. One of the reasons she chose The Regent for her weekly dinner with her sister Joy is because of its delicate features--the simple yet elegant design of the space, the splashes of color placed perfectly upon the walls in a multitude of art forms: vases, paintings, small sculptures. Ultra white table cloths, candles, ornate woodwork, and dim lighting all merge beautifully with the patrons, handsome in their finery. And then there are fragrances.

The Cabernet Sauvignon wafting from her glass; the ever-changing aroma of a hundred succulent feasts; the expensive perfumes and colognes of the restaurant's clientele. These smells draw her attention to the feeling of fullness and satisfaction emanating from her belly, and the experiences unite into a higher order of pleasure. Which reminds her of the real reason she selected this place to dine.

Looking in the direction of the restroom Dianne wonders which will reach the table first: her sister, or the dessert they ordered just before she went to the ladies room. Seeing Joy's smiling face emerge from around the corner, she smiles herself, and incorporates the soft cello singing from the center of the dining area into her breathing awareness.

Everything is the practice of mindfulness. Everything is a drop of dew laying softly upon the grass, waiting for the sun to burn it up. Everything is stillness, the peace and tranquility that gives rise to all beings, all situations, all scenarios.

This silent Oneness is the expanding cosmos.

Almost immediately after Joy returns to her seat the waiter appears, carrying a single plate and two forks. As he places the dessert in front of them, Dianne silently offers him gratitude for his service. This inner expression widens, becoming a feeling of connection to all of the processes that had to happen for her to experience this pleasure. She touches the waiter and his family. She touches the chef and all of the ingredients he used preparing the food. She touches her children, her husband, her friends. She touches the sunlight, the clouds, the wind, the rain, the trees. She touches every being that has every existed, the vast and seamless web of creation of which she is inseparably a part.

Looking across the table at her sister, they share a wide smile, a wordless secret knowing that pulses energy back and forth between their hearts. People have always said that they look alike, even though Dianne is three years older, and such a likening bodes well for her; Joy is stunningly beautiful. While certainly physically attractive, there is also an undefinable radiance that dances around her, a soft glow of peace and kindness which translates into a feeling of warmth whenever you are near her.

Joy makes a gesture with her eyes, and they both turn their attention to the plate before them. The mound of fluffy white coconut cream pie, accentuated with two small scoops of vanilla ice cream, looks even more appetizing than it did the last time. The two of them shared the very same dish a couple of months earlier, and both agreed that it was the perfect dessert; soft, airy, creamy, sweet without being over-whelming, with a touch of weight in the crust--enough to leave you fully satisfied. They concurred that they should come back when they stopped bragging about it to others, about two months, as it so happens.

Naturally observing the transience of her thoughts, emotions, and physical sensations, Dianne picks up her fork and deftly scrapes off a small portion of the pie and ice cream. Gently placing it on her tongue, she closes her eyes and watches as it begins to dissolve. Immediately she feels a rush of luxury spread through her being, a blossoming as the sugar and cream passes through her taste buds and ignites the pleasure centers in her brain. Her excitement is permeated with silence, is enveloped by the never-ending freedom of a spacious and self-aware mind.

Building in intensity with each minuscule bite, bodily excitement gives rise to an experience of blissful light. Recognizing the other-worldly intimacy as a temporary form that will, like all manifestations, remain for a little while and then dissolve, Dianne is nonetheless over-come with a feeling of gratitude. With an increasing degree of erotic profundity, energy swells in her body, an energy that is differentiated from yet entirely one with all things. Pulsing from the soles of her feet to the top of her head in a series of concentric circles, she feels electricity building deeply within, similar in tone to being kissed slowly and thoroughly by a new lover.

Unashamed by her excitement, she opens her eyes and shares a loving smile with Joy, who, not sharing in her super-conscious thought formations, offers Dianne a rueful shake of the head.

"Does my retreat inward make you uncomfortable?" Dianne asks.

"No, not any more," Joy responds. "It used to, you know. But watching you sit there in silence during dessert has become part of the ritual of eating with you. I actually kind of enjoy it, now. By the way, you have whip-cream on your face."

Giggling and wiping her cheek with a napkin, Dianne stands up and walks around to the other side of the table. Bending low, she wraps her sister in a hug and kisses her on the cheek.

"I love you so much! Thank you for spending so much of your life with me. Thank you for being my sister!"

Laughing at the overt display of affection, Joy squeezes tightly back, authentically touched that she would share such a moment in the middle of a fine-dining establishment; normally Dianne is much more reserved in public.

Returning to her seat, Dianne flashes an over-exaggerated smile and a quick wave to an elderly couple staring at her from the next table over. Swooping her fork up like a small child, she takes an enormous mouthful of the coconut-ice cream mixture. Following her big sister's example, Joy places a large fork full of the dessert in her mouth, to which they both laugh joyfully, trying with difficulty not to spit their food all over the table.

This love, this sense of happiness, this fullness of life flows mystically through the Dianne's consciousness, a multiplicity beyond comprehension, a universal infinity understood and apprehended through diligent self awareness. There is no other, no sister, no waiter, no painting, no dessert, no breath, no mind. There is nothing but this, which is big enough for everything.

-

Lateralus

2009-08-19T16:46:00.000-07:00

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.

-

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...

Eminem As Shadow

2009-08-18T23:12:00.000-07:00

(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!"

A Vision of Words

2009-07-08T12:02:00.000-07:00

(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 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!

http://www.matiklarweinart.com/
http://www.worldoffroud.com/index.html
http://spectraleyes.com/
http://www.venosa.com/
http://www.hrgiger.com/

Finally, here you can find a storehouse of visionary art.

http://beinart.org/artists/

Floyd's Wall

2009-06-26T20:17:00.001-07:00

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 city boy'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 youths.

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 speaking to 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 just 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 albums can be marvelously deep, multi-dimensional, and paradoxical. 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.

Transfigurations

2009-06-20T23:24:00.000-07:00

"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 and detailed 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 (beyond the normal limits of human potential) 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, 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 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.

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!

Electric Touch

2009-06-07T20:34:00.000-07:00

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 today. Of course from the three axe-masters themselves there has been an incredible of amount of hard work and persistence, 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; see if you can make it build orgasmically in rtecitation!

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.

You Go Now

2009-06-02T19:29:00.000-07:00

I am going to tell you the story of the one CD, the one piece of art, that has become a consistently powerful agent of mental, emotional, and spiritual well-being in my life. Not only has it served me as a therapeutic aid for the better part of a decade now, but my interaction with it has stretched far beyond the normal limits of subject-object relations, crossing over into that revelatory territory of Mind where synchronicities serve as guide-posts on the pathway to deeper and truer understanding. That album, cool and refreshing like the mist of some benevolent ghost, is "You Go Now," the second effort from the group Chroma Key.

I distinctly remember the first time I listened to "You Go Now." Having been a huge fan of the group's first release, 1998's "Dead Air For Radios," I was naturally curious to see if the follow-up would be as heart-felt and electrifying. I was laying in the simple darkness with headphones on (my preferred way of ingesting music, specifically new albums), and knew from the opening sounds that I was in for something special. Instantaneously I was transfixed, hypnotized by the sly combination of sounds waving incandescent beauty into the furthest reaches of my body-mind.

It was unlike anything in my musical lexicon at that point in time. The slow, droning trip-hop beats fuse marvelously with synthesizers, samples, bass, guitar, and layered vocals. It as if Pink Floyd and Peter Gabriel were bonded in some mystical union, giving birth to a new, creative, dynamic, free-flowing sound-scape. This lush field of melodies is a tonal temple for vocalist/keyboardist Kevin Moore's words, which are simultaneously soulful and nonsensical, at once passionate and impersonal. The whole experience is like surrealism without any of the jarring edges, a painting of flowers blooming in an endless sky.

There is some form of hermetic connection between this album and my soul, and it appeared at the absolute perfect time in my life. At the time of its release I was in a state of metal-emotional drudgery and depression. My job, which I was disenchanted with (to say the least), was one repetitive motion after the next, a mindless use of my energy which would leave me dilapidated by the days end. This was compounded by the fact that I felt an extreme form of desperate alienation; locked in the cultural narrative provided by the news and sports culture, distanced from my fellow humans as we sped back and forth between home and work, I was choc-full of bitterness, anger, and suicidal rage.

But as "You Go Now" began weaving its medicinal magic in my life, I started experiencing a shift. I would drive around at night-time listening to the album, windows down, cool air gushing through my hair, smoking cigarettes one after the another. I actually felt content in those moments, soothed beyond my normal state of mind. All of my worries and fears would drop off the planet and I would become relatively silent, drifting away in the subconscious chatter that lines the underbelly of the album. Two particular songs (4 and 5) had an endearing effect on me, specifically due to the lulling voices that can be heard inter-woven in the mix.

"Lunar" is a short piece that fuses soft piano with a sample of a NASA transmission from Apollo Control, and whenever I hear it I invariably feel like I am floating in outer space, the moon perfectly within my reach. This tune is immediately followed by "When You Drive," an equally calming song that has an Asian man speaking in the background. The first fifty times I listened to "When You Drive" I never even paid attention to what the man was saying, but one night I came to a red light while the song was loudly blaring out of my speakers, and I actually listened to what was being said:

"When you drive, you practice mindfulness of driving. It is possible. When you stop at a red light, you look at the red light and smile. You look at the red light, you smile, and you breathe in and out, and sit back, relaxingly. Breathing in, I calm myself. Breathing out, I smile."

It was perfectly timed with my arrival at the red light, and a particularly long one at that. So I continued to pay rapt attention:

"And let the red light become a friend, become a bell of mindfulness. Something unpleasant become something pleasant. We have the habit energy of wanting to arrive. That is why we want to go as quickly as possible. But according to this practice, we arrive at every moment. Life can be found only in the present moment. Everything that we look for must be found in the present moment. Peace. Joy. Happiness. Buddha. The kingdom of God."

For some reason this speech got stuck in my head. The following morning I listened to it again on the way to work, and spent the next couple of days really considering the message embedded in the song. The logic seemed solid: What is a red light? A red light is a moment that I do not want to be in. I have places to be, and whenever I come to a red light I am always lighting a cigarette or fidgeting with the radio, complaining that the stupid thing should turn green already so that I can be on my way. This is a moment of tedium, of which there are many in life, and if I could turn those moments into moments of joy, happiness, and peace, then all of life would be wonderful.

Through this message I realized the possibility of actually transforming my experience of reality from a state suffering into a state of peace.

I remember really taking the notion into consideration, and over the next few weeks every time I came to a red light I would sit back and smile, deliberately trying to calm myself. I even explained the idea to a friend of mine with the hope that a conversation would help solidify my comprehension of it. It received little more than a shrug from him, but I nonetheless continued to be thrilled by the possibility. As time passed, however, I forgot about the message and fell back into my conditioned patterns, worse than ever before.

Over the next couple of years my life went completely down-hill as I slid deeper and deeper into anguish and despair, ultimately landing in a psych ward for a three day stretch after a mild suicide attempt (as if such a thing exists). Soon after I was living back at home with my mother, seriously examining all of the stresses and life-style habits that contributed to my depressive bouts and general misery. I came to see that my diet and self body-image was a major factor in my suffering, which coincided with my feelings of loneliness and isolation.

Intensifying all of this was my rampant cigarette smoking, a habit I had held since the age of eleven. It was impossible for me to even consider changing my dietary health and addressing my lack of exercise without first coming to grips with that addiction. And I was really addicted. Simply the thought of quitting made me reach for my pack smokes and light one out of anxiety. I also had a constant upper-respiratory infection from smoking so much, and was having a hard time catching my breath when I laid down to go to sleep.

So one morning I woke up bright and early, around seven a.m., and rolled over onto my side so that I could cough all of the smoker's phlegm that had built up in my lungs and throat over-night into the waste basket. After coughing and hacking and gagging for a good five minutes I automatically reached over to the night stand, picked up my trusty pack of smokes, and fired one up. At that moment I realized that I was absolutely insane, and that if I didn't quit smoking I was going to lose a lung. Or worse. Seriously.

I decided that that was to be my final smoke and got out of bed with firm conviction, which held for a solid two and half or three hours before I came running back for the cigarettes in frustration. On the verge of giving in after only such a short amount of time I realized that I needed a technique to help calm my nerves, and in a flash of wondrous insight the answer came to me: I needed to learn to meditate. Having never done it before and not having a clue as to how to go about it, I immediately jumped in the car and went to a mega-bookstore, finding myself in a spirituality/self-help section that was overwhelmingly large. Where to turn? So many choices.

With my mental association of meditation being Buddhism I narrowed myself down to that vicinity and- without a trace of dishonesty in this testimony- closed my eyes and uttered the following words: "I need a book that will teach me how to meditate. Please, God, anyone who may be listening, give me the right book," upon which I reached out my hand and plucked a solitary tome from the shelf. Opening it to see what was on the inside, the first couple of meditations jumped off of the page, and without a single doubt I knew it was the correct book:

"Breathing in, I calm myself. Breathing out, I smile.

"Breathing in, I dwell in the present moment. Breathing out, it is a wonderful moment."

The book was titled "The Blooming of a Lotus," from Vietnamese Zen master Thich Nhat Hanh, the very same Asian man softly speaking words of peaceful consciousness beneath Chroma Key's "When You Drive." It took me a couple of days of reciting the calming meditations to connect them to the song, but when I did I found confirmation of my suspicion online and was left speechless. It has been close to five years as of this writing and I have not smoked another cigarette. On top of that, with continued dedication to this spiritual practice I forged the will and concentration to lose and keep off close to a hundred pounds.

Which leads me back to "You Go Now." To this day I still use it as a mental retreat, experiencing feelings of goodness, peace, and happiness whenever I put it on. My visual connection with it has gotten stronger as well, as my imagination kicks into over-drive and I see all sorts of spaced-out things, like cars driving under water, fish floating before the windshield; lights and energy fields zooming through vast space, in sync perfectly with the music; blackness, blackness, forever blackness; and kind souls sending me love from strange places all over the multi-verse.

This album was my very first meditation technique, and for that I am forever grateful.

You can listen to and download all of Chroma Key's albums on their website, http://www.chromakey.com/

An American Prayer

2009-05-29T13:37:00.000-07:00

"Sentence upon sentence
Words are the healing lament
For the death of my cock's spirit
Has no meaning in the soft fire;
Words got me the wound and will get me well,
I you believe it."- from "Lament" by Jim Morrison

I was tripping on LSD when I fully realized the greatness of "An American Prayer," a compilation of the late Jim Morrison's poetry backed by the insrumentation of the his fellow band-mates, The Doors. Of course many of "insights" have been realized under the influence of mind altering substances that, when seen in a more sober state, seem little more than the clueless musings of a crazy person. Nonetheless, this particular dawning has stretched well beyond that psychedelic encounter, indeed has dug itself in and rooted deep down into the core of my egoic identification, permanently adjusting my perceptions of life and death.

The thing that struck me off the bat was how incredibly vibrant the feel of the album is, specifically as it pertains to the music, sound effects, noises, and voices that can be heard copiously in the background. The work is aesthetically gorgeous from beginning to end. It holds a tone that is somehow simultaneously thick and distant, immediate and enveloping. This provides the perfect platform for Morrison, whose soft voice smoothly croons words that drive to the existential heart of what it means to be human.

The striking thing about the imagery on "An American Prayer" is how visceral it is without being over-whelming. The Lizard King has an incredible amount of whimsy while saying these overtly disturbing things. It's like having a person wink at you as he hands you a severed head on a silver platter. I think there was an element of Morrison that wanted to push people's buttons, see where their boundaries and taboos are concerning life and language. I also think that along side of the button pushing was an authentic examination of death and its counterpart, fear. I found a taste both while juiced on lysergic acid diethylamide, couch-bound with headphones on.

After opening with a blessing of sorts in "Ghost Song"-

"Awake.
Shake dreams from your hair
My pretty child, my sweet one.
Choose the day and choose the sign of your day
The day's divinity
First thing you see."

-things suddenly become stark, violent, bloody, and dangerous, all while never losing the feeling of detached amusement. The darkness never seems angry, though, but more like an investigation, a search for Truth.

"Indians scattered on dawn's highway bleeding
Ghosts crowd the young child's fragile eggshell mind.

Blood in the streets in the town of New Haven
Blood stains the roofs and the palm trees of Venice
Blood in my love in the terrible summer
Bloody red sun of Phantastic L.A.

Blood screams her brain as they chop off her fingers
Blood will be born in the birth if a nation
Blood is the rose of mysterious union
Blood on the rise, it's following me.

Indian, Indian what did you die for?
Indian says, 'nothing at all.'"

While listening to the album there was (and still is) this feeling that I could have been anyone on the planet, in any time, or that I am not even really alive, that this is all just a dream. "Have you been born, and are you alive?" the narrator asks with seeming sincerity. This cut together with vividly painted scenes describing America as seen from the streets- which is to say truthfully in its pathos- leads me to the sensation of infinity, cascading forever down a rabbit hole, peering into life situation after life situation without end.

There are constant references to death and sex throughout the entire voyage, often in combination. I am reminded of the age-old shamanic technique of exploring the psyche through the use of hallucinogenic sacraments (much the inspiration for my therapeutic use of such substances), in which a moment of anguish and dread is mystically transformed in a heart-beat to a full-body ecstasy, or vice-versa. The same can be said for sex. One moment you are at the height of orgasm, screaming in exaltation, and the next you are under the covers alone, fearful, wondering if you can truly be happy spending your life with the person in the bathroom taking a pee.

All of these impressions were consuming me while I was tripping. In my mind psychedelics hold an association of danger, and my mental-emotional state was one of vulnerability, fear, excitement, wonder, passion, heat, mania, confusion, and temporary flashes of deep understanding. All of these sensations and impressions converged at the half-way point of the CD, whereupon I experienced a full-blown hallucination that sent me rocketing into the sea of infinity in a more concrete and historical manner.

In a stroke of brilliance the band elected to place a live track at the center of the album. "Roadhouse Blues" serves not only as a divider between the first half to the second, but also carries an energy that could never really be captured in a studio. It shows you what was special about that band in their time, how they, along with their fans, created a vortex of sexual excitement that bordered upon frenzy. This shock-wave came pouring through me, and I was sent spinning through time and space, a disembodied journey into a realm of Mind that was gloriously real and equally confusing.

Before me the entire scene emerged. Enormous speakers, microphones, instruments, roaring fans, and the band members themselves; I wasn't simply witnessing the performance but was one with it. Not only that, but somehow Morrison's life and mine were fused. It was such a direct and intimate experience listening to his poems while in that state that it was like I became him momentarily, felt what it was like to have his voice, saw the crowd from his sun-glass shaded eyes. I felt like I could have stayed, that if I so chose I could have left my body for good and experienced the dream we call Jim Morrison. (No, I am not a schizo-effective goof-ball who thinks he is a dead rock star; I was under the influence of drugs, man!)

The really interesting aspect of the hallucination- and I have pondered this very much ever since- is that Morrison is a dead person who was rhyming to me from beyond the grave about death, and in the midst of all this his soul came roaring back to life in that one moment. If I were to postulate a theory, certainly unprovable but nonetheless thought provoking, I would say that an actual echo of human soul is etched in great works of art forever, be they paintings, writings, or music, and when one zones into that soul-energy a marriage happens, leading to a deeper understanding and kinship with the artist. And that is exactly what happened while I was souped-up on the electric.

As far as that felt kinship goes, after some deeper pseudo-philosophising on the subject, I have to say that my ideals shared with Jim Morrison are limited. Make no mistake, I think that "An American Prayer" is a masterpiece, but it is much too loaded with despair and nihilistic tendencies for me to call it a grace. Of course my vision of art is focused upon the higher callings of Love, Truth, Beauty, Goodness, Peace, Transcendence, and Selflessness in Unstained Awareness, so by those standards it is pretty bleak. Regardless, Morrison's images and words have helped me on my pathway back to that stance of altruism, for we can only see the Light by acknowledging that we are one with the darkness, and that is the very reason I am bearing witness upon that particular album in this article.

The sad thing is that I do believe that Morrison was trying to recover a lost part of himself, was truly looking within for an answer to what he saw as the absurdity of life:

"Reaching your head with the cold, sudden fury of a divine messenger
Let me tell you about heartache and the loss of god
Wandering, wandering in hopeless night"

I just don't think he could wrap his head around the "American" way of life, from football and church on Sundays to "militant dandies" to penny arcades to the rambling homeless man on the street corner; it was all foreign to him. And sadly, because we are one with all (Divinity doesn't even exclude war mongers), he was simply failing to accept aspects of himself. He wanted to escape the madness of the world and saw death as the doorway.

"Death makes angels of us all
& gives us wings
where we had shoulders
smooth as raven's
claws"

So he drank himself to death by the age of twenty-seven, an extraordinary mind and brave heart experiencing the repercussions of emotional narcissism merged with fame. But that doesn't mean that his art doesn't have value or meaning. "An American Prayer" has helped me step closer to that doorway of death- which in my mind is necessary in order to have an authentic and truthful relationship to reality- while simultaneously learning from the story of Jim Morrison's life. So in that sense the man is a Real American Hero, one who lived life uncompromisingly and reported his experience honestly through the medium of poetry.

An interesting side note. The day after I took the acid tablet and drowned in the Morrison epic I found myself writing a poem that was similar in tone and content to "Prayer." It could have been a number of things, from a stirring-up of related sub-conscious (id) material to a tonal association that was resonating deep within my mind, but I like to think that a piece of Jim's soul really did hit me between the eyes during that trip, and for moment he returned from the grave to give it another howl.

It is pretty long and dark, like an Oedipal nightmare, but I am going to post it here if you have any interest because of its strong connection to "An American Prayer.". No question that it is an expression of wounding, but it is also recognition of the collectivity of that wounding. We are not alone, never alone, even in our trials of suffering. It is titled "Memories, Possibilities, Insanities."

1
Christ's crucifixion,
The end of the world.
Death by tranquility
And the end of a mystery.

Menstrual blood and
The weeping Madonna.
All this seems to make sense,
Perfect in its place of wisdom.

His stiffened cock
Entered her soft womb
Looking for the reward,
That place to play and dance and laugh.

If only he'd known that her sloppy pussy
Was infected with untimely death.
Incestuous vows
Made from the other side of the Sun.

A promise to hurt and suffer
Rolling gently on the carpet,
A baby's laughter.

Where is it coming from?
This beacon
Of self-grandiose reflections.

2
I saw a shooting star
Then I shot the messenger.
He was a wizard by the name of Mercury.

Blood on my shoes a again.
How to fill this void?
My wisdom aspect is all run out,
Fried and tortured from the Second Coming.

His greying beard is just around the corner,
Flapping in the wind like a sinister fiend
Joyfully riding the night in pursuit of fresh meat.

Dogs and jackals,
Mangled toys,
Empty shackles;
Once a comfortable fit for a lone madman.

3
The priest touches the boy's feet,
Softly at first,
Then with increasing intensity.

He doesn't want to get it up,
He doesn't want to shut it down.
All this mystery is locked in a safety belt.

Life is where the danger is-
Sodomy.

4
He was bent over the bed,
Not quite feeling the power he was used to,
When he finally gave over,
Surrendered the power and witnessed a charm.

Filled up, rubbed hot,
The release was simultaneous.
When it was over he thought of his mother
And all of the women he'd ever kissed.

5
Sex, drugs, death, murder, pornography, and gasoline;
A virtual reality,
And then it all fell away.

The sky wrapped the young man
In a delicious exhibition,
Stars and eyes and the slivered moon.

Then a hooting owl landed on his shoulder
Telling him to go to Sedona, Arizona,
Where the energy is medicine
And the aliens go to party.

When he arrived
The blood in his sandals matched the ground.
He kept thinking of the wizard
And all his fears seemed on the verge of being realized.

6
Light in the sky,
The patient has landed.
He offended the upper-middle class,
With their witches brews of intoxicants
Keeping the leather straps pulled tight
Around their senses.

"I know the secret of the Second Coming,"
He was saying.
Ruffled hair, blue tie-dyed shirt,
Penetrating stare.
"Come with me into the forest,
The Virgin will guide us."

Naked to the cold
The venom purged his soul.
Next arrest was the best,
On the church-house steps
In front of the pedophiliac deacon, undressed,
Cock and balls flopping to and fro,
Insanity on the grow.

Snakes at his feet
Fading in and out,
A television moth on his frontal lobe.
"Where do I go?
In or out, up or down?"

7
Somewhere a missionary is tattooed
By the very tribe he was sent to indoctrinate.

Flare for the riches and the good life
Sent him in search of something more.

Now he's on the shaman's path,
Reaching for ecstasy and the stars.

River baths and piles of woods,
Heresy in the form of a snake.

The shaman drinks the brew
And vomits into his mouth.

This is the transmission he has been waiting for.

8
Swirling, diving, drowning,
Ringworm on elbows,
Tight-lipped kisses and
A frown from the misses.

"Where's my stare at,"
Asks the scared little boy,
In search for that man of understanding.

Worthless, despicable, hostile child,
Fornicating with disturbances
And wrestling alligators.

All the senseless beatings,
All the nightmares
Laid bare on late night TV;
Costumes from a den of misery.

Push, pull, gnaw, and claw
At the buttons.
The plastic tastes like incense
And sweaty palms.

9
She was a scared runaway
With a tattoo of Mickey Mouse on her shoulder-blade.
Naked, she would place her hands over her crotch
Even after we'd been fucking for over a month.
"Where is Paris?" she would ask.
"Somewhere in France" I would say.
"No" she would reply.
Of all the things missing from her mind
That always bothered me the most.

10
Mongrels and madmen,
Feasts galore,
This is the trample of the piggies.

Under sidewalk sales and overt displays of affection
Is the writhing mad beast,
The wolf in heat,
The speech of the Fuhrer.

Symbols of mana, life, food,
Decadent parties of 5th avenue
Side by side with ritualized sacrifice.
Blood, gold, rich, poor,
Pristine satin, grubby cloth.

All the times and places,
Names and faces
Strung side by side with a question mark.

11
A cantankerous old man takes me by the hand.
"Where are we going?" I ask.
"To your very last death," he says.
"There'll be no more after this."
"But I don't want to go," I implore.
"All's fair in love and war," is his curt reply.

12
Conversion rate.
Fly fishermen and radicals in the street;
Bums on boulevards and barrel-chested woodsmen;
A nun having spontaneous orgasm;
And a black man enjoying a piece of fried chicken.

Nothing to laugh or cry about,
Weep or moan,
The lovely manifesto of Life keeps ticking along.

Oliver stone, Kathmandu, chubby ankles, canned beef stew,
Christmas carollers, Scooby-Doo, rainwater puddles,
And kids under the bridge listening to Marilyn Manson, huffing glue.

We know the secret together.
To experience everything one must let go of fear.
No more reluctance about pain or sorrow;
It's all under one roof.

This is your clarion call,
You chance to cut loose.
The wizard is watching all that you choose.
Don't just speak your truth,
Live it.

Life is an exhalation of breath;
Death.
Sounds fornicating
In an endless variety of forms.

Saul Williams

2009-05-25T23:00:00.000-07:00

"I am no Earthling, I drink moonshine on Mars
and mistake meteors for stars cause I can't hold my liquor.
But I can hold my breath and ascend like wind to the black hole
and play galaxaphones on the fire escapes of your soul.
Blowing tunes through lunar wombs, impregnating stars,
giving birth to suns, that darken the skins that skin our drums,
and we be beating infinity over sacred hums,
spinning funk like myrrh until Jesus comes,
and Jesus comes every-time we drum,
and the moon drips blood and eclipses the sun,
and out of darkness comes a...." - from the poem "Ohm" by Saul Williams

It was the very beginning of August in 2005 when I first heard the poetry of Saul Williams. I remember nearly the exact date because never before and never again has an artist impacted me so deeply upon a first exposure, literally changing the direction of my life through the inspiration that was generated. It was like smoking marijuana for the very first time, where a whole new world opens up not only on the external level, but on the internal as well, and one is granted a dual relationship to reality that is equally fascinating regardless of which side of the coin you're examining.

2005 was an uncertain year for me. Then again, when looked at from the perspective of higher Truth, is there ever a time on this planet when things aren't uncertain? Nonetheless, that particular year was dazzling in its potential to unleash the unexpected. I was going through what one could refer to as a transformation of consciousness, an awakening to the possibility of consciously evolving into higher and deeper stages of awareness. This awakening led to a dramatic shift in my behaviour, attitude, and over-all experience of life, and I was determined to push myself beyond all past experiences into ones that were excitingly fresh and ground-breaking.

For example, I had begun meditating twice daily, which led me to quit smoking cigarettes after being hooked for well over a decade (I had started when I was eleven). I became a vegetarian and began exercising on a regular basis for the very first time in my life, leading to the loss of close to a hundred pounds and a real sense of vitality. I hadn't had a job in a year and a half at that point, and was spending my days and nights reading books on psychology, esoteric spirituality, altered states, entheogens, and creativity, doggedly exploring the magnificent and interesting world of my personal and the collective interior. My psyche was bursting with new ideas, was zinging with fertile energy like the sun-warmed soil just after a spring rain; all I needed was a seed.

Enter Williams.

It was around one in the morning and I was surfing the Internet when I came upon a soundbite of Saul's lyrical mastery. As soon as the piece was over with I went to the nearest P2P and immediately downloaded as many tracks as I could locate, ending up with around twenty of his poems. Not being a fan of hip-hop (classic and progressive rock with a flare of metal has always been my flavor) was not an obstacle when dosing myself with Saul's poetry, as there seemed to be a positive resonance bleeding from some mystical sub-stratum through the words into my being. It was more like remembering something I forgotten, as opposed to brand-new introduction.

It reminds me of a quote from the book "Golf In The Kingdom" by Michael Murphy:

"Artists and poets who reveal the subtle body and other normally unseen realities may say they are only making metaphors or mere symbols, but the pictures they make have power because they suck us toward real shapes and forces, because they bring invisible worlds into this one."

My head was swimming. I was re-discovering a piece of myself that had been missing. I put the tracks from his first CD "Amethyst Rock Star" in order and listened with my headphones blaring, the imagery and passion of Saul's words drafting new worlds for me to explore. Lightning was shooting directly into my brain, and I could feel the inspiration building at the base of my spine. I had never heard anything like this before, and it was over-whelming. I wanted to share in it more deeply, the excitement pressing me on the inside.

The experience was astounding. I couldn't (and still can't) make logical sense of anything that he was saying except in fragments, like pieces of Light emerging from the psychedelic vortex of words. But the very fact that the spinning rhymes and verses didn't feel logical, normal, or safe was what drew me close them. It was the symbols, the spiritually alive tone that enamored me, tested me, slew me. It felt like I had entered another time and place, a sure-fire indication that what was at work in the words was emanating from a higher plane of consciousness.

This very possibility opened my heart and gave me access to a higher plane of mind, and the following day I awoke and wrote a poem that for first time I not only liked, but wanted share with others:

I swallowed some magic mushrooms and lotus blossoms
At the exact same time just to see what would happen.
Little did I know that I was to be instantly teleported
To a binary star-system in a galaxy far, far away,
Where I would be stripped of my testosterone saturated monkey mind
And implanted with a compassion device
That would simultaneously edify me
With the knowledge of evolutionary panentheism,
And shine a light on the fact I and infinity are one.
Love and divinity are one.
Science and art are just for fun
Until we come around to the only real Truth,
The sooth that all beings are houses of Spirit.
There are no brothers and sisters because that implies a schism
A division that's non-existent.
And then my friends I was already beyond myself
Flying amongst the devas of heaven
When I was transported into the Void
Where I lost myself forever, I'm still not back, I'll never be back,
Back to a zombie's existence of bodily pleasures
And uniform conformity, drooling on my T.V. tray
While we as One Being seemingly separated waste away.
And now that I'm not back and reassembled with Truth in tact
I'm going to use this vessel to scream,
Scream for every thing that I'm worth that we are One,
One with each other, One with the universe, One with Spirit in Love.
Wake up and see the beauty of androgynous affection,
Wake up and see the havoc wreaked from coveting possessions,
But most importantly, wake up and see the fact
That your animation is a blessing that has cosmic repercussions,
And if you don't believe me
Try the experiment I talked about at the beginning of this discussion.

-

Over the next couple of days I was filled with Force. I wrote seven or eight poems in that span, poems that I would say are of a high caliber. This was the setting of my sails, the birth of a new creative outlet in my life that has been key in my personal evolution over the past four years. It was like hearing Williams unlocked my potential to see deeper Meaning within the collective Mind, and draw upon that Meaning with passion and vigor. Writing became a spiritual experience, and after much trial, error, hardship, terror, confusion, and apprehension, so would performing.

In the beginning I was just excited to be writing something that I felt was worthwhile, that had components of mystery and power, and didn't care if others ever saw them. Eventually, however, I started sharing the poems with loved ones, reading them off the page somewhat timidly. After doing this so many times I realized that memorization is one of my strong points, and so I started importing all of those early poems into my mind, downloading them into my cerebral hard-drive with mantra-like repetitions.

After dabbling in performance at open mics and poetry slams I realized that there is a part of me that is a natural performer, that I have a Gift for sharing directly from my heart. But I could only access that place from time to time. The rest of the time I was flat, or struggling too hard to be "great" and coming off way too heavy or intense. It was like trying to perfect a golf swing and I was gripping the club too tightly, landing my shot in the drink. Or the bunker. Or the woods. But I have to say, when I recited a poem from memory, and it landed in the fairway, it was fucking beautiful.

One such moment came sharing the stage with Saul Williams himself. Saul was performing at the St. Louis History museum, and naturally I was front row. Unexpectedly, when I arrived they were taking names of poets to share one piece open mic-style before the main attraction, and I was fortunate enough to get on the list. I chose my poem carefully, and when it was my turn I closed my eyes and let it rip. It is a moment like that that has kept me on path of self transformation through expression, because I received the loudest applause of the open mic, a serious validation coming from a crowd composed of fans of my greatest inspiration.

Watching Saul that night I realized that it takes more than heart, more than soul, more than brains or an endless list of references to make a great traveling poet/bard/performer. It is a higher calling, a true Gift, to share that intimately with groups of people all over the world. To be a beacon of awareness, love, transformation, soul, family, craft, peace, wisdom, balance, courage, integration, and freedom one has to be truly vulnerable, an open book, sharing from a Height and Depth beyond the fearful and desirous self.

That is the path I have been on for a couple of years now, and I am learning to love vulnerability, to speak from the Center. I am not scared to share who I truly am with others, scars and bruises and all, and I feel like I am constantly improving, not only as a performer, but as a human being. To realize the only obstacles holding me back are inside of me is the first step in removing them, and every time I am blessed with the opportunity to share my Light with others through sacred expression I feel the Grace of the experience more acutely.

So with this post I raise my glass to Saul Williams, one of my greatest inspirations and dearest brothers in the world of art. May your body, mind, soul, and spirit continue to emit the sacred Electric of the Goddess.