I’d no real idea what I was looking at – it seems a sublime visage foretells the future, more than it reveals the present moment. There is one channel, many rivers…best not to confuse the two.
Suffice to say, men have their own complexity – too often dismissed as confusion, or reactiveness. I’ve noted some of my greatest male friends pick up on some mystic scent when they – by others’ or their own self accounting – never thought it possible. The great men are comfortable with this… being both a man’s man and a woman’s man… or just spirit.
I find that men can be quite critical of their own gender… less than when they see themselves through their feminine qualities and more so when they see themselves through male qualities.
This does not mean we should rush out and go all furry bunny with our feminine side (fear not – Shakti will find its way into mens consciousness on her own – she’s VERY strong willed…and welcomed.) No, I rather think we need to sometimes hone the male energy (Shiva). I’m no expert in tantra – and we might not look so hard at male and female as gender differences, but rather as complementary and unique qualities of a single being. Each part, Shiva and Shakti, their own whole. As a singular man, we are less two lovers, than one and one.
I’m a bit weary – I feel like I need to take a trip to the desert with a few male buddies and bang drums, howl at the moon, yell, run, and then go silent…
Words of wishes
have earthly limits
Heaven’s silent melody
hath no harmony on earth
but prayer
Carriages of flesh
secretly conveyed passengers
By God’s disclosure
Open this parcel one last time
One last gasp
before I expel disclosure
like smoke against the glass
the spirit recedes
long before the body dies
God “in” the other is really God “through” the other.
inhale of a beloveds kiss fans the flames of higher awareness…
Sensual journey toward a divine arrival.
God is everywhere and everywhere,
and where there is not a “where.”
So much exploration within the illusion of nexus (between Beloved and lover)
creates the very distinction we pray is not there…
just as the atheist creates his own awareness of God
through his vigilant quest for more attributes of Him to refute.
Men’s hearts are still ships awaiting the wind of the lover;
for the catch of slack sails,
Breeze inhaled, that they might cross oceans
to find the Beloved… exhaling.
Lovers in the throes of passion should embrace the ritual as prayer.
A man ignorant of all but praying to none but One idol in a synagogue,
shall have his prayer admitted beyond the threshold.
There’s a beautiful story about this with Gabriel.
Two lovers in bed… offer the same…
I believe in sacred unions…
they are temple, church and mosque.
They innocently make idols of each other,
but submit that each is only a “doorway”
to the same God neither can fully know.
A feather fell
So compelled.
So easy to close one’s hand on so fine a feather.
A few have sailed in the pendulous descent,
to land gently where I stood.
Loosened by both bird taken flight and a bird landed.
Oh, these signs fall like dusty sandals across the threshold of the tavern door.
The source of the plumage is not of this earth –
it is but a reminder of the what is in true flight.
To close one’s hand on such a gift,
is to clip the wings of a heart.
And the hands of two around such a thing
is like placing love in a gilded cage.
But lo, an open hand is a perch
for the colored bird,
with all it’s attached and colored feathers
showing vibrantly in divine light.
What has landed in your hand –
has always been yours.
There is nothing to hold
And everything to release.
 |
| Photo credit: Alex Esquerra |
Last night your bedroom was tattoo-parlor-red…
You were a relentless sex machine and your Alex Esguerra painting was knocked from the wall during our rough housing. I found it behind the bed when I was looking for my second sock…the other sock was still in my hand when I woke.
I love the way you always fall asleep diagonally across the bed, so that I lie awake, contorted and trying to figure out a way to fit comfortably and proportionally into your unconsciousness.
Yesterday, I loved your morning countenance; void of expression as you looked down your nose at the coffee press. Your upper lip rested heavily on the lower, which seemed immovable, that I’m not sure it will ever change. It was too tired to be a pout and I couldn’t look away – so I must have loved it.
In the throws of passion last night, you moaned that I made you sick to your stomach. I asked if it was because I was too far inside you. You said, “you’re always too far inside me. That’s why you make me sick.” And then you came and rolled off of me.
I woke with only one leg in my jeans, my mouth was coated with body paint, and my chest was clawed by your nails.
My other leg was propped on top of an old pine blanket box at the foot of your bed and my right arm was folded behind me and numb. So I threw a sweatshirt over my shoulder – I think it belonged to your old boyfriend, the one you made the Esguerra painting with – and I walked out of your flat leaving the door open. Your cat slipped out behind me and followed me downstairs to the sidewalk. I didn’t care.
I sat blankly staring at Sweet’N Low packets under a newspaper rack at the coffee shop on the corner, holding my mug for what seemed like an eternity of suspended animation – the grip on it’s handle was the only thing that connected me to the planet.
My eyes held that same lack of expression as yours did, but my lips were parted so that air could flow freely in and out if – it became necessary.
Sitting lost in state, it occurred me, that I deeply and authentically affect you and it has nothing to do with fucking.
Your boyfriend’s sweatshirt was a size too big for me and I could tell he wore Creed – I saw a bottle of it on the toilet tank. It’s redolence clashed with the aroma of roasting coffee and I was startled from stasis.
So I left, walking out to a cacophonous city, where the sun had just exploded over the horizon, and I smiled into its blinding brilliance. As the door squeaked closed behind me, I looked to the right for a moment, then turned left. I had no idea where I was walking to and started blithely swinging my arms as I accelerated my gait.
I still had my sock in my hand. And your cat is probably dead.
http://www.rebellesociety.com/2012/11/18/your-cat-is-dead-and-im-smiling/
All the earth elements in repose
something to breath in dreams of those
You must sleep so well
being who you are,
whenever you do sleep.
with no fear of hell…
Words leap to their tragic death
off the end of my sentence’ precipice
but my heart doesn’t pay much attention.
It is dancing with my soul, in intercession.
Enlightened fools,
beautiful fools
with the keys to the universe.
Yes – snow that drifts
through the blackness of night
into the warmth of our eyes,
melting into emotion,
Our continents drift,
Then into the ocean
these masses collide.
Same reckless memory woke me up today
She’s out there calling for me somewhere on the highway
Come out and find me if you must, before my image turns to dust
And you’ll just fade away.
Why do I cling,
to all these moments that don’t mean anything
Like worry beads in my hand,
I’ll kneed through them till I’m damned
Or until another pearl becomes…
paper thin.
Well I should have known back then,
That the man who became what I am
couldn’t fill a thimble,
in the meaning of your ocean
You were always chasing some new shiny thing
While my hopes, they rusted, buckets busted
Against the sides of an empty well
…of dreams I dipped them in.
Why do I still cling
And let go of all these times that should mean everything?
Like worry beads in my hand,
I’ll kneed through them till I am damned
Until that last one becomes
Paper thin.
Your memory finds me like a sunrise chasing day
Reminding me to relive things, had I only the courage to say.
Wishing I still had the chance, to ask you to the dance
Or at least say hello in another way.
Why do I still cling,
To thoughts and feelings that I’d wished you had for me?
Like worry beads in my hand,
I’ll kneed through them till I am damned
Or until you become
Paper thin.
Well I guess I better grab my things and go
Find that memory that I’ll wake up to tomorrow.
See, there’s this pretty girl with a pout,
turns my faded world inside out,
But you know…
That I will always cling
To those moments that mean everything to me
I’d rather twirl worry beads in my hand,
Than be some starving jaded man
Choking on his memories
…and paper thin.
Interesting video. A thousand years ago, we didn’t live until 80 years old, population was under control, and human discovery was in the early stages of exponential growth, which continues to accelerate. If Darwin is right (and he is), humans will evolve imperceptibly closer to being able to thrive in an austere environment and more crowded spaces – the hierarchy of the species will change with longer lives. The paradox is that a prolonged life might actually kill us.
The paradox seems logical actually – every life’s journey is a march toward death. But “how we die” (whether stress or natural cause – if you differentiate the too) also evolves with our ability to survive longer. Have our advancements in foods, medical technology, weaponry, and manufacturing outpaced the evolution of our emotional and mental capacity to handle a longer life. The capitalism of evolution – it’s not the quality of life, but it’s length. The talus of mining gold from the masses, the chaff sifted from the wheat, is made of stress, which becomes abundant – eventually exceeding our stores of wealth.
Life itself, in this changing environment, has become fertile grounds for stress to flourish, as the “new dominant species.” As man seems to be the most intricate (some call it “advanced”) species in terms its level of consciousness, self-awareness with others, and craft for emotional manipulation – we have perhaps un-naturally accelerated our own evolution and even misshapen that for all species. Since stress is our offspring – how do we correct its course?
Imagine trying to make a vase on a wobbling potters wheel…the clay is disproportionally distributed and centrifugal force causes the form to collapse in our hands. The wheel of life is wobbling out of control; the Hopi Indians call this, koyaanisqatsi. What makes us unique from the Baboons is a profound awareness of where we come from and where we are heading – and the capacity to do something about it. We can true the wheel of life, one spoke at a time.
As the video closes, the researcher offers that correcting the course of stress is one of regaining the balance between “giving” and “receiving.” He and others understand that the dynamics of social hierarchy and the stresses both imposed and felt between its layers, comes full circle to effect all levels within the environment in time and space (us here and now and our posterity). The video suggests that we recreate our environments to not just prevent stress, but to take the time to see our environments as they are, just “differently.” If you don’t like the view, change your perspective…see the cities as a verdant forest of waving trees, the tides of love and strife in the world as “seasons,” and the malfeasance of others as minor squalls in natures magnificent storms.
