The Human Animal

My mind's a mess.

Words, 50 + years of distractions, a well-

practiced self-flagellation.

It wakes me at 5:15.

By the rising sun I wrestle my own demons;

nothing is won because 

nothing is.

I turn and nestle my head against

the fur on your chest,

that well worn breast, with its

well-practiced heart.

I smell your breath, 

feel the folds of my own skin,

imagining

us as creatures in a cave; along with kin

we struggle to save

ourselves for one more day.

We, a species among many species made of

the same stuff: dogs,

cats, pigs, birds, snakes, apes and we -- 

each mutely fulfilling our own tasks to ensure

the larger harmony.  What

makes we we 

is our dexterity.  Strike

a match.

Evolution burns

forward.

The earth turns,

patiently.

To this, I fall asleep, content to live

one more day.

The Art of the Exhale

I just started reading Pema Chödrön's book When Things Fall Apart,

and I have been trying to practice her meditation technique of 

making the outbreath, the exhale, the object of meditation:

". . . -the elusive, fluid, everchanging out-breath, ungraspable and yet

continuously arising.  When you breathe in, it's like a pause

or a gap.

There is nothing particular to do except wait for the next out-breath." (19)

annawojtczak

~ ~

Last Tuesday, I returned to the States after my second trip abroad

this year.  It was a relief to be home,

and to return to Normalcy, though, quite frankly,

I fear Normalcy 

-- "Normalcy" is that strange state we all slip into

when we are surrounded by the familiar,

where we take things for granted,

take each other for granted,

walk down the street where we live and don't look at the beauty,

etc. etc. etc. . . . 

but I did not come home to Normalcy, really; I came home to a phone message

from an old friend telling me my former husband was dying.

In actual fact, he died that night,

and for 24 hours or so I was barraged by phone calls from people

who associated me with him, everyone wanting to be

the person who told me he had passed on.

Of all the calls I received, the one that moved me most was from my old friend A.,

who happened to be there in the hospital when my ex breathed his last.

A. called me within 30 minutes of the death, and he was indeed the first to tell me.

Truly, I was deeply moved that he shared that moment with me:

I could hear the awe and horror still in A.'s voice as he described the scene:

my former mate had cancer, you see, and it was in his lungs,

in his whole body, A. finally admitted,

(I actually had had contact with my ex- over the past months,

and knew he was quite ill, though he would't tell me

exactly how ill)

and he had a breathing tube,

and A. explained the sound of the breath

even with the tube,

and I recalled the times I've stood by one near death,

and all I could really focus on 

was breath.

The inhale, yes,

the agonizing intake,

but more poignantly,

the exhale --

that moment of release

and relief

that anyone at hand knew could be the last,

and I was happy to hear

that the final breath was a gentle one,

a peaceful one 

orchestrated by Mahler, played by one of his friends. 

You see, exhales are the most important part of the breath because

it is what we give out to the world.

Yes, we need the inhale for our individual lives,

we draw in the air to maintain our measly machines,

but it is the exhale that we give to the rest of our

living, breathing creation.

(inhabitat)

Perhaps this is why people are so interested in final words:

Did he say anything about me?

(No, I didn't wonder that, not at all; but people do.)

Did he say anything absolutely insightful?

Did she say anything at all?

The final word is the wish we give to the larger assembly.

So it is best if it is one of love, or at least one of peace or compassion,

or understanding.  

Our world is so full of evil expirations

and intentions, and it seems to me our final words

have the power to allay them.

huffingtonpost (interesting story - The Scream is being auctioned off!)

~ ~ ~

Indeed, every exhalation is a powerful thing,

like a wish, or a spell, we unconsciously bring 

to those around us.  My mother

was a great sigher, exuding her personal agonies on her children

with every melodramatic sigh.

I think we were all impacted by this,

raised as we were in this aura of personal despair.

Exhalations of fear, too, only fill others with apprehension.

I can see that in my poor cats: when I get upset,

they are upset, too, just as

when I am in love, they too are in love.

Air, you see, is the most insubstantial substance

we consume 

in the material world,

and, whether we like it or not,

it gets recycled.

Now that we understand recycling a little more,

those of us who care actually clean what we discard

before we put it out to be reused.

Why not the same with breath?

Meditating on the outbreath

makes me very conscious of this dynamic.

I know it's hard to make every outbreath meaningful --

after all, we take so many every hour --

but being conscious on some level of the challenge

can slowly bring a change

to every breath we take,

and give back to the world in which we live

and die.

Some Thoughts on Waking: 13 February 2012

i.

Running Bodies:

( from Assembling Bodies )

On the radio today

in a story of Bahrain

the announcer described a man

trapped in his own doorway.

Sourceless gunshots held him there,

"and outside there was only

running bodies,"

the disembodied voice explained.

Running bodies - as if they were already dead,

running running running,

until the bullets relieved them

of their worry.

In frozen Hungary, old money is being burnt

to warm chilled children

and snow snow snow snow

pales deeper 

the pallor 

of Old Europe.

I have wondered of late

about

the popularity of zombies,

but now I know for sure

that we live in a time

of living death,

and deep in our being,

we know it.

Running bodies -- that's us --

but what are we running from?

We're running from other zombies

who think they can gain power

in the world of zombies

by killing the living dead.

Might I propose that we run to a state of not

running, not dying, but rather, living --

the world will not be a zombie world

if we see that each day it brings to us

new life.

( from brooklinrunclub )

part 2:

dice roll

( from kickstarter )

Each morning's awakening brings

 a toss of the dice

and as it rolls into place

on its face

is an aspect of me --

today, my perceptivity,

yesterday, my insecurities,

tomorrow, my confidences,

and the next day, my deepest talents --

whatever the face, it dominates my play

for the day,

and if I believe the tossing hand is not mine, I am blind

to the consequences I produce for myself.

( from: stopbeatingaroundthebush )

No bother.

This morning as I lay in wait

for my fate,

I recognized the wrist and the fist

of the gambler --

it was not yours, my friend,

nor was it an unseen shape --

indeed

it was me, and the dice

bore no mystery;

each face was

and is 

a known quantity 

to me.

With the proper gesture

it will fall in my favor.

So too with you.

There is no mystery;

chance is in your favor

if you know the roll

is yours.

( poohbearcoloringpages )

The Dream That Must Be Interpreted, by Jalal al-Din Rumi

This place is a dream.

Only a sleeper considers it real.

Then death comes like dawn,

and you wake up laughing

at what you thought was your grief.

But there's a difference with this dream.

Everything cruel and unconscious

done in the illusion of the present world

all that does not fade away at the death-waking.

It stays,

and it must be interpreted.

All the mean laughing,

all the quick, sexual wanting,

those torn coats of Joseph,

they change into powerful wolves

that you must face.

The retaliation that sometimes comes now,

the swift, payback hit,

is just a boy's game

to what the other will be. . . .

And this groggy time we live,

this is what it's like:

                                              A man goes to sleep in the town

where he has always lived, and he dreams he's living

in another town.

In the dream, he doesn't remember 

the town he's sleeping in his bed in.  He believes 

the reality of the dream town.

The world is that kind of sleep.

The dust of many crumbled cities 

settles over us like a forgetful doze,

but we are older than those cities.

                                        We begin

as a mineral.  We emerged into plant life

and into the animal state, and then into being human,

and always we have forgotten our former states,

except in early spring when we slightly recall

being green again.

That's how a young person turns

toward a teacher.  That's how a baby leans

toward the breast, without knowing the secret

of its desire, yet turning instinctively.

Humankind is being led along an evolving course,

through this migration of intelligences,

and though we seem to be sleeping,

there is an inner wakefulness

that directs the dream,

and that will eventually startle us back

to the truth of who we are.

all photos by Makropoulos

Dear Mr. Cortazar, It didn't happen near Paris . . . .

, no,

it happened in China.

Julio Cortazar wrote a story

that I have always admired,

and wondered if it could ever really be possible.

It was called "The Southern Thruway"

("Le Autopista del Sur")

Here is a brief summary of it:

The southern thruway

Summary:The Quiller
Julio Cortázar describes a huge traffic jam on the thruway between Fontainebleau and Paris. It’s a Sunday afternoon and, as the hours go by, the travellers get knowing each other. Two nuns in a 2HV, a young woman in a Dauphine, a pale man who drives a Caravelle, a countryside couple with their little daughter in a Peugeot 203, two irritating youngsters in a SIMCA, a Peugeot 404, a Taunus, etc. They’re totally stuck under the summer heat. Some get out to stretch their legs and, as they return, bring disturbing and almost always false news about the reasons for the traffic jam. Everybody talks about the facts. They hear of a collision between two cars (three casualties and an injuried boy), or of a collision between a Fiat 1500 and an Austin full of tourists, or of the fall of a bus with passengers from the Copenhagen’s plane. Everything is supposition. The latest piece of news is that a small plane had crashed, with a total of many casualties, onto the very thruway.
  As the night comes, the column makes its first important advance, of only 40 metres. Soon the water and the food begin to end and, although everybody helps one another, they must ration everything all out. Most sleep in the cars, and others on the field next to the thruway. In the morning, they advance very little, but no one loses their hopes that, in that afternoon, the route to Paris would be open. However, nothing happens and all remains still. Groups with a representative ahead are formed in order to coordinate the assistance to the weakest. Some fall ill, and the worst happens at the night when the cold starts. So that they can go away walking, someone deserts the place and leaves their car abandoned. An elderly woman passes away, and, in general, the story abounds with descriptions of how terrifying can be human behaviour in an impossible situation. When they finally begin to move, the characters return to their normal lives, and there’s even a romance that had started and cannot have a happy-ending.
The southern thruway Originally published in Shvoong: http://www.shvoong.com/books/353369-southern-thruway/

Well,

Cortazar thought it would happen near Paris.

He was off by a few thousand km --

it happened in China.

Here's the NPR story about it:

Cortazar imagines people starting relationships,

getting entangled,

giving birth,

and then suddenly,

as traffic loosens up

the relationship dissolve

and people disappear from each others' lives

as quickly as they entered it,

in this most accidental way:

 Recent reports say 

the Chinese traffic jam has just disappeared,

just as in the Cortazar story.

( inhabit.com )

The Ones Who Move and The Ones Who Talk: A Channelling

You see,

I've lived through so many lives:

I've seen the patterns played

over and over again:

and we're deceiving ourselves to think

that no one knows

what the fuck is going on.

Somebody does;

they're called the Inner Circle.

Really.

A village in any country

displays the same characteristics,

the same stereotypes,

from generation to generation.

It doesn't matter if it's

in China or India or Syria

or Africa or Argentina

or Nebraska.

It doesn't matter.

There's always the bully

There's always the freek

There's always the angel

There's always the geek

There's always the status quo,

the ones who don't know

that the extremes of society

talk to each other

to keep the rest

under control:

The ones who stick out; the noticable ones

who stay in one place all their lives

who see each other

over and over again and who know

exactly

who are the angels

who are the devils 

who are the beauties

who are the beasts

who are the kinds

who are the swingers and the ones

who know everybody's business

in any given place at any given time:

they're the ones who stay and 

talk

to each other.

( penwith )

2.

Those are the personality types;

there are also the talents:

those things we all do well

naturally:

we can be a freak

but be very good

at building a house;

we can be a beauty

but be very good

at fixing cars;

we can be a beast

but be good at ceremony

because we understand the meaning of the sacred;

we can have the desire to create

and not have any hands.

But as long as we are true

to the essential spirit within us,

we have an amazing

kind of beauty

that others see and admire,

and if we could all just be true

to the essential thing we are

then, well, 

we wouldn't have all the troubles in the world,

we'd just all be amazed

at the beauty around us

 3.

The talent we know is true 

to us

that makes us beautiful when we practice it

is our part of 

the spirit that runs through us

like a thread through the cloth,

that binds us

makes us one,

makes us God,

makes us Son.

The Manifestation of the Diverse

features of the All:

we are it.

We are one.

4.

But wait a minute ---

I may run 

far too far ahead

of myself.

THINK ABOUT IT THIS WAY:

Think about high school --

(high schools, in general, are the closest many of us

in America

will ever get to village life):

For some of us, it was

 a misery

because we were convinced there was

something we had to know

but nobody would tell us.

And we didn't know how to ask;

didn't think we had the right

to talk.

So we stumbled through

trying hard to figure out

the social game

while also trying

to deal with our growing

brains;

they grow so fast, but so does

our capacity to reproduce ourselves

so without knowing, our essential personalities showed

while the hormones 

made us insane;

we could control it,

so we became --

ourselves, flagrantly, and mutated.

Unfortunately, high school is also a place that doesn't tolerate

difference much.

So many of us are happy to see it end;

as soon as we leave, and

go somewhere else,

we can hide; we can be

something other than what we are 

essentially.

( dailydish )

5.

What I describe is human

nature, and these patterns have gone on

for as long as humans have been

social, have recognized themselves

as different from each other.

You see: humans,

be they Adam or Eve,

Sonny or Cher,

Cain or Abel,

Donnie or Marie,

Romeo or Juliet

or 

Emre or Esen,

Noah or Abraham

Buddah or Jesus or 

Mary Magdaline, Cleopatra, Ghengis Kahn, Charlie Chan . . . 

or all the other nameless

thousands,

have always had those patterns,

age to age,

generation to generation.

The big difference between 

then

and now

between a small town and

urban mindlessness

is the People Who Move.

6.

The Ones Who Move are the ones

who hated high school

(or hated the village)

because no one told

what everyone knew

because the ones who moved,

were the ones that everyone ostracized

for one reason or antoher,

so they moved

to new places,

full of other Ones Who Stayed There All Along.

The Ones Who Stay take advantage 

of what the ones who stay in one place know:

who are the geeks;

who are the fools;

who are the beauties; 

who are the tools;

and the ones who have power

are the ones 

who talk

and walk

into the right circles at the right times

( about )

They keep a kind of power over

the rest of us,

by talking only

to the ones

they want to share

their power with.

7.

Now the ones who move and talk

are the ones who move into

the inner circle quickly

and gradually create

a larger world.

They're the ones who know, 

well, 

just about everything about everyone

in a number

of different places

and they figure out the categories

of the ones who are in any given place

pretty quickly

because they know that that kind of knowledge

is power

~ ~ ~ ~

You see, I've lived so long.

While everyone else has died and returned

at least four or five times

each

I just trudge on through,

in the same old young body,

but ancient inside,

while your dying always provides you

a new masquerade.

And in your dying

you're forgetting

the growth you made in the years before --

you return to your old patterns,
the social lies you constructed
to mask

the old essential you,

and you have to learn it all 

all over 

again.

(Your forgetting is so deep

because the sleep of death is so great,

that it seems that everyone thinks

their short time on earth

is the only incarnation:

it's the one shot deal.

But it's not:

I meet people, and I know

I've met them

somewhere before; in fact I've bumped into them

many times before,

in their different lives,

their different places,

and they just don't see

they keep playing the same mistakes over and over

again;

they don't recall anything because they slept the sleep of death so deep.

(The sleep of death doesn't have to be

so deep

No sir;

But it is.

If we knew the sleep of death was

but a sleep,

a sleep during which 

our spirits seek out the best

avatar

in which to return and learn

the lessons needed to be learned

on our journey to perfection

as we seek

to come back, hoping

to get it right the next time

so we too can be

one of the ones who stay

and talk

and get into

the inner circle, but also bring

 the wisdom of how to live in the world

sanely and justly

to those who keep forgetting.

You see, I also see that talking

and getting into

the inner circle

right now

doesn't require

memory,

doesn't require

intelligence,

ethics,

wisdom

talent

NO

it only requires beauty

and the ability to manipulate

beauty.

Only rarely does an inner circle being

possess deep wisdom,

and when they do,

they become immortal,

because people keep talking about them

for ages to come.

They become 

stars in the firmament

of our collective souls

the ones who tell us how to do it right,

and how to do it well,

and how to do it,

beautifully

( childrensnewsmagazine )

but also
there are those heroes who show us

how to do it wrong, so we

never do it wrong

again

( fotobucket )

8.

We've just gone through an age

when everyone thought

it was wrong to think

in stereotypes

because people believed

they were individuals and deserved

individual rights.

We'll call that

The Age of America.

It was a 

selfish Age

in the History of 

Humanity,

and lasted about

600 years, give or take

a few; 

it began with 

the Renaissance, the Age of the Growth of the Human Mind.

The only way the collective

Human Mind

could grow would be for 

everyone to believe

that they were alone

abandoned,

miserable.

So each mind had to grow,

on its own

and find a variety of ways 

to get us out of that state
of being divided and alone
and miserable

and into United States.

And we did

precisely that.

***

Because at its best,

the United States has been 

populated

by The Ones Who Move,
those who didn't know

what everyone who stayed home 

was saying and caring about.  No.

The United States 

has historically been populated

by the Ones 

Who Were So Busy Thinking or Doing, so 

they didn't see

what everyone who talked

to each other saw:

they were too busy being creative individuals,

and they refused to see

the geeks,

the beauties, 

the nerds,

the squirrels,

the trains,

the guy 

who sits on the corner and is there every day.

Why didn't we see that?

Because we were probably 

tending a farm, or

writing a book, or

composing a song,

or

designing a house, or

playing with electricity 

in the garage,

and not talking to the people who talked

because we recognized they really had

very little to say.

So we (or our ancestors) left

the small town,

the homeland,

the place 

where patterns were familiar

and went somewhere else and

actually believed

it would be different.

But it really isn't.

We just created a new place

with geeks and freaks

and queens and kings

and nerds and gays

and ordinary joes:

It's all the same, and it 

repeats itself from

generation to generation

in every town, in every 

neighborhood, 

in every high school,

it's all

the same,

even in the land of individual liberty, 

even in America.

* * * * *

America is at its best when people

work together united by one purpose,

despite differences,

working side by side

despite jealousies,

living, even loving, past

the surfaces we fear.

The Age of America is Over

and will never return

if we cannot do that.

8.

We have reached the

Age of the Grid,

the age

of a union that extends far

beyond national borders,

that lives largely in the mind,

transmitted on the weave of frequency

and

if we talk, and talk enough

and talk to the right people,

we will find 

our likenesses,

and the fact we're different

just won't give a damn,

because it just doesn't matter 

in the Age of the Grid.

It's not the Age of Aquarius,

though that was as necessary

to the evolution

of the human mind

as the Age of 

America

was.

The question stands, now:

will we let 

the Age of America pass 

into disrespectful squallor

like the Roman Age,

or will we let it end

heroically

as in Ancient Greece,

and thereby let it last

Eternally?

That's up to U.S.

Right now the Gods of America,

the Inner Circle -

the Ones Who Talk

and get Talked About

are creating an infernal,

eternal pattern

of selfishness and gluttony

Yes, that's what keeps humans human

If only the Ones Who Talk

and get Talked About

could change their ways unanimously,

could right their wrongs

selflessly,

the Age of America would enter

history

heroically.

( theoi )

It's up to U.S.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It's a strange ride to be on,

what appears to be

a roller coaster of

life

        and death

life

       and death

and life

The fear of death would diminish if we could

only see

that what seems to be a windy, 

upside down journey

is actually a clear

straight line,

revolving within

and around

eternity.

Tom Petty - Into The Great Wide Open
Uploaded by RosaCrvx. - See the latest featured music videos.

Poetry by Ghalib (1797-1869)

I was reading
this poetry
today,
and I just had to share it:

(librarythinkquest  - interesting website)

If King Jamshid's diamond cup breaks that's it

If King Jamshid's diamond cup* breaks that's it,

But my clay cup I can easily replace, so it's better.

The delight of giving is deeper when the gift hasn't been demanded.

I like the God-seeker who doesn't make a profession of begging.

When I see God, color comes into my cheeks.

God thinks - this is a bad mistake - that I'm in good shape.

When a drop falls in the river, it becomes the river.

When a deed is done well, it becomes the future.

I know that Heaven doesn't exist, but the idea

is one of Ghalib's favorite fantasies.

(*King Jamshid was a legendary Persian ruler

who could see the future in his cup.)

(wave/sound - another fascinating site)

I'm neither the loosening of song

I'm neither the loosening of song nor the close-drawn tent of music;

I'm the sound, simply, of my own breaking.

You were meant to sit in the shade of your rippling hair;

I was made to look further, into a blacker tangle.

All my self possession is self delusion;

what violent effort, to maintain this nonchalance!

Now that you've come, let me touch you in greeting

as the forehead of the beggar touches the ground.

No wonder you came looking for me, you

who care for the grieving, and I the sound of grief.

(both by Ghalib)

Eleusis

1.

I'm not much of a card player,

but that's not to say I haven't been one

in my past. My problem these days

is that I know no one who likes

to play.

If I had some player friends, I'd try this game:

 (from neweleusis )

Eleusis

Eleusis gives players the

chance

to make up rules and impose them

on other players.

Players watch the cards,

seeking to determine the pattern

inductively.

The object is to guess the rule.  Those who think they can

declare themselves

Prophet

but then test the rule for awhile

to see if it works.

I like the idea of this game

because this is how

I approach life.

2.

Am I a prophet?

Probably not,

unless prophets are folks

who look closely

and read the clues.

 (from istotemdias)

What I do know

is that I like to solve puzzles.

Especially big puzzles

that the world gives me

to solve.

I rediscovered an intriguing puzzle

on my trip to Greece, which is also called

Eleusis.

But it proceeded the card game.

3.

Eleusis

is a site, some 20 km west

of Athens.

Today it is nestled amidst fields

of oil refineries,

but in ancient times,

it was a destination on a holy pilgrimage

that traveled from

Athens to Eleusis

once a year.

The pilgrimage honored the goddess

Demeter

and her daughter

Persephone

(aka: Kore)

At the heart of the ceremony was a

ritual ceremony, the contents of which remain a mystery

today.

This secret was so important

that initiates were threatened

with death

if they told what they witnessed there.  Great men like

Aeschylos

suffered brushes with death

for revealing too much

of the secret.

All we know today is that the mystery

had something to do

with the meaning of life

and death.

Now if that isn't intriguing, I don't know what is.

A fellow by the name of Edward A. Beach

has written a very nice online article about

Eleusis, so I won't tell the entire story here,

since he does it so well,

But the essence of the story is

a century's old mystery,

a puzzle whose solution

has been lost

both to the months and minds

of the ancient dead

and to the censoring spirit

of the Early Church,

for they caused the ultimate destruction

 of this incredible site

CLUE #1:

Those who were

initiated experienced

an eight day fast before the ritual.

This included a communion

at which they consumed kykeon:

"Meal and water mixed with fresh

pennyroyal mint leaves. . . ."

The grain in the drink is the symbol

of Persephone who -- according to myth --

dies, goes under the ground, than comes

back to life again.

The drink - kykeon -

may have contained a hallucinogenic

which was derived from

the extract of grain.

Kykeon might well have been one powerful

hallucinogenic, containing both the extract of

grain, and the fermentation of wine.

A communion of bread and wine pales next to that.

For sure.

CLUE #2:

The mysterious ceremony at Eleusis

in some way

brought the initiate

in direct contact with a semblance

of the experience of

life, death

and resurrection.

Notably the ancient

commemoration

was of a Goddess --

the Goddess of the harvest

and of earth itself -

Demeter --

and of her attempts to reclaim

the life of her daughter

Persephone -

who had been stolen

by Hades and taken

into Hell.  She is restored with a bargain,

more or less,

a deal with the devil to always return

to Hades

during the winter months, than

resurrect

in spring.

CLUE #3:

Dr. Beach even goes so far

as to suggest a trinity

played a key role,

in the figures adored at Eleusis:

Demeter (the mother: aka creator)

Persephone (the daughter)

Dionysus (the god of wine, sex, celebration

and theatre!)

Dionysus - the god of Eros.

In Classical Rhetoric, Eros would refer to the erotic appeal,

which is just as powerful as the other appeals -

Logos (the logical appeal)

Ethos (the ethical appeal)

Pathos (the emotional appeal)

Aristotle,

as we know him today,

belittled Eros as a strong appeal,

favoring the other three

(another trinity)

Anyway,

Dionysus, the Erotic,

may have played an essential role

at Eleusis.   Keep in mind,

that the Bacchanal

is closely associated

with Dionysus.

Dionysus  is also the god of theatre

and representation.

It makes perfect sense to me that he

had to be

present if the goal was to reproduce

a reality only truly accessible

to the non-human.

(from Hestia)

CLUE #4:

Women,

women,

women,

sex,

and pigs.

The sacrifice made at Eleusis

was a pig

because the pig

signified plenty.

Pigs -

the animal forbidden

by two of the monotheistic,

Abramic religions

were the sacred sacrament

at the ceremony at Eleusis.

Pigs,

that creature which we now know

is a close relative to humans

genetically.

~ ~ ~

How does one end such an entry?

There is no end;

only mystery,

and a puzzle that far outshines

a 

card game.

If you've read my other entries,

you can probably see

why it intrigues me.