Un.Cer.+ain 17-12/8-3 ---- Uni.re.versal

by trulymadlydeeply On Tuesday, December 17, 2013 0 comments
When the pebbles dig into
that fragile state
You know,
The one which seemed so
Solid last week

and today, you want to run the other way
No one can ever really tell you
that thing you have to find out
on your own;

You gotta stay.

When you grow weary of
what always was so sure
Anymore and evermore or just some more
What you want
What you think you need
What is there
What is still a dream
converging
and swirling
like the virgin snow dancing on a blacktop road;

Nothing sticking
yet;

You gotta play.

When you're so carefree
easy as you'd imagined
like a Disney movie
coming true

You gotta say;

Thank you
and

There's more to do
And nothing to claim

You gotta pray.

When you took too much
Never gave back
Turned your back
Funds in hand
Had the chance
So, with it, ran

Eventually;

You gotta pay.

Dues sent in,
Pieces missing accepted
A sock turned up
In with your destiny's laundry
Wrapped in their towel
Across town
Static cling
When on the street corner
You two met
Finally.
Then;

You gotta lay.

ALELA DIANE

by trulymadlydeeply On Monday, December 09, 2013 0 comments
Girl is GOOD.

You heard her yet?

Well, hear her...

I first caught her from the mouth of one in Bali. I had to double-check the name. "Allez-la?" "Yea, Alela Diane". Funny because it's a French word (that's not actually a word but two words melded together) that my friend (whose name just so happens to be Diana...waaaaow) made up which we always use as a kind of "yeah I'm hyped" "come on!" "for reals!?" expression. Anywho. Alleeeeezla

This girl is good. These lyrics just hit me for the first listen and I gotta share them. Poetry. Set to a good twangin'. Loves. Cause she's a-singin', oooooh she's singin' meeee.

The whole album is solid....

'Black Sheep'

Sometimes I'm riding high in the rusted sky
Sometimes I sit right here miles off from anywhere
Some days I'm a black sheep, baby
Suddenly I'm elegant as evening
Most of the time, I'm on the line

I remember waiting by the phone pining away the nights alone
A tarnished coin into the slot, my number lost in your coat pocket
Some days I'm a black sheep, baby
Suddenly I'm elegant as evening
Most of the time, I'm on the line

Ooh a black sheep, black sheep dark as thunder
Ooh evening, evening is harder still
And I am on the line and the line is rusted blue
I am on the line and the line is rusted blue
Rusted blue, rusted blue, rusted blue

Choosing a crazy hand

by trulymadlydeeply On Saturday, December 07, 2013 0 comments


I just finished watching Shane Salerno's documentary, Salinger. It has left me at once troubled, motivated and hopeful; hopeful that with the right blend of intention, immersion into his work, consistent, heart-sourced writing and those mystic siddhis that years of yoga practice have offered me, I might be able to communicate with him telepathically over time and space; much like he claims to have communicated with his first, ex-Nazi wife. That detail, the Nazi one, may not be so important – except that it highlights the marked, man-making trait of flat-out unwavering allegiance to not giving a F what people, what a misshapen and misguided society might believe to be right or wrong; an allegiance, moreover, to a transcendent code that, given some of his actions to the contrary, could only be truly understood and appreciated by a minority.

Indeed, his seeming contradictions are enough to set page-loads of questions after him, though departed he may be from this mortal coil. That's the part that troubled me: that the media, fans, writers, reporters, all felt the need to question him, to hound him with questions, nay – with insignificant questions. When faced with such a mind, a spirit, a being; if you're going to take the effort to go after him, wouldn't there at least be a "How's your heart?", "How's your life going?" rapport? Perhaps there had been, but as the documentary painted it, his enigma drew out the crazed and demanding vs. kindred seeking-souls. Though the truth is, the world we face (or would it be the world which faces us?) really is our mirror.

His contradictions were just indicators, signs pointing to some deeper truth, a bigger question begging to be asked, one I don't believe he pretended to have the answer to, but was at least astute and interested enough to uncover and present to the world for the unpacking. That is, "Don't you see what a waste this all is?" And then, “So, what’s golden?” What frustrated me some is that, instead of asking him about the root cause for and therefore, solution to, The Catcher in the Rye (which in truth, could only be Salinger’s own inner state), his hounds wanted to know what to do about their own lives, their own writing careers, how to manage their own frail and suspicious conceptions of self. This newly revealed conception of self and society, by the grace of Salinger’s cutting observation and commentary, caused many to lose their grip on life as they thought they’d known it, leaving newly disillusioned (some might even say awakened) souls foundering amidst and fighting against the foggy motives of a superficial, lie-filled world, just like Holden Caufield. But I do understand that to stand face-to-face with a writer, an artist, a being of incalculable depth and intelligence, one who has so suddenly invested you (and so many of your generation) with the utmost meaning, is debilitating on a critical, frontal-lobe-level.

This artistic process of projecting one’s psychology onto a character (or a work), sending it into the world to come head-to-head with similar experiences and perceptions contained in receivers, who in a moment of utter mercy and open-armed acceptance, look into that long-sought for mirror, reveals the essence of the primum, the primal, the original exchange. Therein, his occupation with Vedantic teachings doesn't surprise me in the least. Indeed, it reassures me that his talent wasn't a clever fluke, but instead a studied and soulful stream stemming from the artery of eternal knowledge, of timeless truth, of ecstatic bliss. And like many connected voices who, almost besides themselves, cannot but tap into the thoughtsphere to hungrily (even manically) draw out the marrow for the times, he had this higher understanding before he even knew what it was. Via his commitment to his craft, his dharma, he was led back to the spring, the fountainhead.

Which brings me to Roark. Howard Roark, Ayn Rand’s protagonist who refused to sell out. I couldn't help but marvel at and find joy in their parallels: the indefatigable commitment to the creative act as the path, the goal and the reward; the rigorous dedication, self-control, and determination to remain 100% integral, or at least the attempt to. Perhaps the figure falls somewhere at 98.6%. But could you ever measure integrity? Even those bold enough to strive for perfection, for total integrity in purpose and execution must realize the sheer madness, vanity and self-indulgence it requires, thereby nullifying any possible arrival at such an unwieldy apex. Yet most men (and women) of significance are fiercely uncompromising. And the best of them, a rare breed if there ever was, never have their own interests at the center of their integrity, have instead built a wall of growing greens around higher principles meant to serve a core of love, beneficial to all who come in contact with them, keepers of the most precious commodity. The warrior surely can be understood to be he who, despite his raging gift, chooses to remain unexploited, protected from the selfishly motivated (no doubt existing within himself as well) by a buffer of nature as they buy-in to what may appear to the uninitiated as strange ways.

Which is where Salinger’s contradiction came in. After sharing the most intimate parts of himself through his story telling, he turned around and held fast to his privacy; to his right to unequivocally own his life and mind and time. He insisted on being published in the most celebrated and widely respected journals. And when he got his praise, dancing with a world ready to throw their arms around him and toss him to the heights, he glimpsed a bigger picture, and backed out; recommitted himself to a deeper dedication, one detached from the rabid recognition that comes with great talent. Nevertheless, he allowed a select few to penetrate those walls. He exchanged countless letters with young women (girls, really). They kept him soft-hearted. I would imagine, connected to some sense of innocence and purity that only a war-torn soldier (aren't we all?) could seek with such fantasy-tinged desperation and consistent need as he.

Which leads me to his overriding need for absolute control. He was in love with a striking and intelligent girl. At the same time, he was let off the hook from military service, considered unfit. If that’s not some sense of fate, then I don’t know what is. I'm sure he saw the acceptance of this rejection as utterly fatalistic. Perhaps the real fate was, in all actuality, his self-created destiny, his obstinate, hard-working character (he was a Capricorn, after all). He insisted on going to war. He eventually got his wish, and lost his lover. What could compel such a hard-nosed insistence on calling the shots, on demanding another, what some may consider lesser, hand of cards? Was it inspiration he was seeking; knowing that through war and the head-on confrontation of death one is assuredly on the path to emerge on the other side? It’s a truly beautiful, if not awe-inspiring understanding of duality: to know that if you go so far in one direction, you will come out on the other end, moreover, having culled some hefty fodder (certainly the most precious of resources for artists) along the way.

A divine play, is it not?  And oh, to live on that level of consciousness!

The thrilling thing about biographies for me, for most of us I'd imagine, is the opportunity to view a life in its entirety, to glean the bigger picture without being mired in a myopic scene or temporary drama as we may often find ourselves in our own daily lives. There's a free-handed ease in approaching the drawing out of another's life from start to finish. And with that comes a sense that I too, that we all, can take our lives into consideration on this scale and play out the stages with full-faith and commitment to a cause – should we be so lucky to grasp one as all-important, as transformative as JD Salinger had.

Rebalance, Refoucs, Renew

by trulymadlydeeply On Sunday, December 01, 2013 0 comments
I'm pleased to announce a very special yoga retreat this January. We'll be heading to an oasis of calm and nature on Shelter Island, just 2-hours outside of New York City.

I've developed this three-day retreat with the intention of Rebalancing your body, Refocusing your mind, and Renewing your spirit.

We'll be practicing detox flow yoga classes to stir up stuck energy and activate the body's innate healing and detoxification system, yin yoga classes to stimulate deep relaxation and release, and a special SynchroFlow class I've developed which blends postures, charged breath-work, archetype and mantra meditations to get to the core of your personal, unique inner truth and to synchronize it with the innate pulse of cosmic energy -- your bestest friend, wisest guide and biggest helper.

Light, clean vegetarian food, herbal teas and juices will round out the cleansing, restorative and inspiring weekend.

I'll also be meeting with participants one-on-one, for SynchroGuidance sessions.

I'm SO excited to bring this work I've been putting together over this past year out to play!! I hope you can join me and take the time to take care of yourself, to pay attention to the divine spark of life within, and examine the ways you can bring it out to shine in your life.

Unfolded

by trulymadlydeeply On Friday, November 22, 2013 0 comments
One of my favorite friends in writing: across time and space his words have padded my inner safe place at moments in this decade of soon-to-be-done 20 where all that was certain was the uncertainty. Yes, I usually tried to love it and through that somehow it became so: loved and somewhat bearable and known and alright.

In that snare of paradox I found my own rhythm of loving, trusting and letting go; of knowing what to pick up and when. It's a dance with the world that delivers and the self that desires. An ongoing lesson in bridging the work expressed without and the sacrifice unseen within, the quiet messages received and the waiting for your will to come through and commit. All a certain kind of effort in parsing the light from the sin, the tiny crimes against the heart we all sometimes commit.

That writer is Rainer Marie Rilke. His name even soothes me somehow. Like a tender-sighted sage, a good grandpa or woolen-clad neighbor, bearded, who knows that all will be well, and can dispense of compassion and bolstering wisdom. Maybe standing on the porch within earshot of your sighs, offering a helping ear from his rocking chair in the early darkness of a crisp, cool night.

The bits and pieces of his sweetness strewn across the halls of the web can maybe sum the feel of what he stands for as a being. Might not match quite what I feel, but that wouldn't need be the clue for you to know that his contribution paved a humble road made of some kind of real noble truth.

And here, in this simple stanza, is captured something in the way of why... Why I dedicate my time and my life to spiritual practice. The farther I go down my road the more I sense the very precarious edge, the sword that sets me apart from the ways of the big bad world and sets me into the bush of a journey towards the soul. The soul of man, of God if I dare can, of my own intimately brewed blend of breath in the skin.

To unfold all the creases and lies pressed into me, by me, with or without my consent over time, over eons perhaps: this is the nature of the cutting through, of the making, of the walking the path; the nature of blazing fires I set time and time again, like a ranger who knows that to clear a new season, some damage must be done to what's simply overgrown. May it bring us closer...

I want to unfold,

I don't want to stay folded anywhere

Because where I am folded,

There I am a lie...

- Rainer Marie Rilke

More of him here

The moon, my friend

by trulymadlydeeply On Monday, November 11, 2013 0 comments
A humble place based in simple comforts
A world of magic at my doorstep, lush
And true
I step into the shower
To cool my toes
No curtains or tiles
Just stones and water
And the moon
Bright and lighting my riffs, even half-way
The sky, the ceiling in this pitch perfect place ((made of love vibration))
Casts my glance in its evening play
And I smile upwards
As is only natural to do
When someone wonderful smiles at you

When 'art' is truly Art

by trulymadlydeeply On Tuesday, October 22, 2013 0 comments
Quoted from the brilliant mind and right sight of Andrey Tarkovsky...

"Modern art has taken a wrong turn in abandoning the search for the meaning of existence in order to affirm the value of the individual for its own sake. What purports to be art begins to look like an eccentric occupation for suspect characters who maintain that any personalized action is of intrinsic value simply as a display of self-will. But in artistic creation the personality does not assert itself, it serves another, higher and communal idea. The artist is always a servant, and is perpetually trying to pay for the gift that had been given to him as if by a miracle. Modern man, however, does not want to make any sacrifice, even though true affirmation of self can only be expressed in sacrifice. We are gradually forgetting about this, and at the same time, inevitabley, losing all sense of our human calling...

The absolute is only attainable through faith and the creative act

In science, at the moment of discovery, logic is replaced by intuition. In art, as in religion, intuition is tantamount to conviction, to faith. It is a state of mind, not a way of thinking.

The artist reveals his world to us, and forces us either to believe in it or to reject it as something irrelevant and unconvincing. In creating an image he subordinates his own thought, which becomes insignificant in the face of that emotionally perceived image of the world that had appeared to him like a revelation. For thought is brief, whereas the image is absolute. Art acts above all on the soul, shaping its spiritual structure. 

The artist has a duty to be calm. He has no right to show his emotion, his involvement, to go pouring it all out at the audience. Any excitement over a subject must be sublimated into an Olympian calm of form. That is the only way in which an artist can tell of the things that excite him. 

The beautiful is hidden from the eyes of those who are not searching for the truth, for whom it is contra-indicated. 

Modern mass culture, aimed at the 'consumer', the civilization of prosthetics, is crippling people's souls, setting up barriers between man and the crucial questions of his existence, his consciousness of himself as a spiritual being. 
The allotted function of art is not, as is often assumed, to put across ideas, to propagate thoughts, to serve as example. The aim of art is to prepare a person for death, to plough and harrow his soul, rendering it capable of turning to good."

Matt Corby

by trulymadlydeeply On Thursday, October 17, 2013 0 comments
Got the chance to catch this super soulful Aussie singer songwriter in Brisbane on Tuesday and was pretty blown away.
He's still working on getting cozy on stage and seemingly, within a style he can call his own, but there's no doubt he has the chops to soar on.
Here, hear 'Letters'


...and 'Souls A'fire'



with 'Lay You Down' rounding out the trifecta


retro.active

by trulymadlydeeply On Wednesday, October 09, 2013 0 comments
The Fadeaway punchline edited by a stroke of luck
Get to writing the voice inside me crept
I've got words for you yet
Don't hold in the sick, sad world of Kodak colors
Don't shy away from the fury and madness and the druthers
It's beautiful you know?
You learned the worst first for a reason
Seemed like once a season 
You wept against the wall waiting for a ride 
From the man who left you slumped there as he collected his rage, stuffed it back inside, smoothed the page
Crawled into the backseat like an ocean of leather
Squeezed yourself into the corner as far away as you could from the driver 
Left without giving goodbye affection
Thinking it to be your revenge
Innocent
Late to school again
Thank God at least you made it 
Could they see your blurry eyes, could they sense your weakness
A slight tremor down your spine 
With the next deep breath in
Lungs shaking up some space for life again
So now you've made it to your page
Many moons down the line of that frightful stage
Thank his tumbled child inside
That fought against the one you were
Both raucous against some kind of stronghold
Both working out some terrible karma from a past untold
Biology awarded him the bigger hand back then
But all things wither and here you stand
A stronger, smarter kind of woman
Ready to take on the world inside your head
Screen the play in the tempo of memory edited
Screen the memories past the veil you've lifted
Now you wondered
Could they sense your pride
In a flash it's subdued
Can't forget it's what almost kept you from dieing
Thank God at least you did, just a little bit
Afterall
Karma that strong takes a ship in the night to wreck 

landslide

by trulymadlydeeply On Wednesday, September 25, 2013 0 comments
The breeze of autumn picks up and lifts the little pieces of my life I've yet to nail down. I'm revealed to myself. The shifting sights of folks move from fun in the sun to new horizons, new projects, new jackets, new crushes and classes; it ripples through the atmosphere in step. In step with the 9-5'ers at the crosswalk. In step with the commuters on the mini air jets. Going the distance to stay within a structure they struggled to get, to keep them from struggling against themselves again and again.

My life spills out of bags, all around me a chaotic mess of stuff. Stuff, stuff, stuff - sometimes it's just, ahhhh it's too much! Each item pin-points a moment in time, a certain state of mind. What do I carry over and what will I leave behind? Oh if I weren't such a pack-rat attached to this and this and ooh no, can't let go of that. Thinking, always wondering, what if I want to embody that again? What would it go with that I haven't seen yet? So many pieces I never even filled. So many stories waiting to be lived. Shirts and skirts and jackets, maybe lived their tales one night here, one night there across the pond. Another, I'm dreaming for an event to put you on...

My life spills out of bags waiting to be packed again. And again. And another climate, what to bring? My life fills up closets in more than one place. Isn't that the nature of a life such as this? I'm one but my identities look to be many, flung and flung and strung around, left like mile markers to come back around. A bread-crumb of a heel. A chalk-marking of a hat and scarf. Well, the life I'm heading to won't require that. It's all about the lifestyle isn't it? So what will this outfit say to me? What will it bring me to see? Learning lately sometimes you come too far to look back.

When you're trying to figure it out on the run, pieces are more likely to get lost, aren't they? Like thoughts when you spot a memory in a smile, or a realization in a quote, a talk, a teacher, a heart beat, a moment behind closed eyes when your disk gets realigned. You make a note to make a note, too deep in the moment to break out and jot. And inevitable, you forget, but it's still in there somewhere yet. And then you come home and you find your cat is dying.

Down on my knees at her little calico body I've been sitting, crying. Oh but I know, I know, she's not that body. Oh and though I can remember I've been told not to lament for the changing of bodies, I lament that she won't jump on the kitchen counter anymore, who will be there to help us cook? Like the changing of clothes, we put one on to take it off for another, there she slowly goes. Guess I still have some practical lessons to live out. Guess I'm still clinging to worn out outfits. Theory feels good in my backpack where I can carry it safely. But out on the streets, things play out a little more dangerously.

My love of the last two decades is dying. It's my birthday soon too and I wonder if she'll go when I get renewed. And I'm crying, I'm crying, I can't help it, she's hurting, she's lying; broken and bones, barely breathing, so slowly, fluids every now and then seeping. Every hour or so check back to hold the water bowl to her nose. Tsp tsp tsp tsp. Feeble lapping, and I forget about my life spilling out of bags, strewn about the rooms of my house of a life. And I'm taken with this sight of death in progress, with the soul inside her quiet body so close to being free. I check back every hour just to see. Is her little breath still moving what's left?

I half hope it is. I half know she's so close to being free. So I do what I can with a heart full of faith and praying her next life she finds home where the changing seasons won't blow the pieces around so easily. So I do what I can and lean in close to her cold little ear, soft as the day she came home wrapped up in my sister's hands. I whisper the secret prayers, praying the sound makes its way to the spark in her heart and takes this spilling life into a container that won't break anymore.
by trulymadlydeeply On Wednesday, September 18, 2013 0 comments
When you can endure

Life clicks into place and the signs race with a fervor
Or is it my mind trying to align what's already been assigned
A reflection of god's grace seen in the eyes of every man as I walk by him
He recognizes me and startled
Jumps back to make room for the space between us suddenly filled with light and meaning
As if to ready himself for the purpose which has been revealed
Seemingly out of nowhere
Now we're here
Words like fate and free will
Reflections and devotion; still my beating heart to catch a glimpse of
What is this?
Fire rises as you hear yourself sing in another
Sing the knowing electric
The co-creating
Thoughts of one becomes love for others
The moon beams on this night full of
What can I call it but-
Life
Synchronicity
I's connect to find that line, that nectar of the soul tempered as it pours back and forth
Between two
Between levity and hope

Lost together

by trulymadlydeeply On Saturday, September 14, 2013 0 comments
What is this life but one fleeting ache into another
Cut with sweetness like the bitter morning coffee
Fragrant and enticing
A haunting search for ground
An ecstatic blow to rebuild again 
Memories like past lovers
Hide and seek you 
When you sometimes least expect it
When at other times, you invite it
If not in waking then under the lode of rest,
A reluctant friend for those on the run,
those self-sufficient lovers hungering for more than certainty 
And they break others 
Not because they mean to
But because they don't know how to live
Unless a question hangs in the space between
Promises and stolen glances
Between time given and your effects
Ever flipping the mattress
Because you can't forget what you never had and yet-
Tasted
Felt
Dug deep, drew blood
Left the well
Untouched
Told yourself, just for now, just for now
I must detach and find the sky again
The better to see you with 
Cause this beautiful sight takes such a distance to maintain
We both fly off
Alone again
And if you make it out alive
Alive like I knew you to be,
And on the other side
Break out the boots to call a ride
I'll find you, lost
I'll pick you up, my number's still carved inside

Sculpting in Time

by trulymadlydeeply On Thursday, September 05, 2013 0 comments
'Words, words, words'--in real life these are mostly so much water, and only a rarely and for a brief while can you observe perfect accord between word and gesture, word and deed, word and meaning. For usually a person's words, inner state and physical action develop on different planes. They may complement, or sometimes, up to a point, echo one another; more often they are in contradiction; occasionally, in sharp conflict, they unmask one another. And only by knowing exactly what is going on and why, simultaneously, on each of these planes, can we achieve that unique, truthful force of fact of which I have spoken.

- Andrey Tarkovsky

oceania road

by trulymadlydeeply On Wednesday, September 04, 2013 0 comments
the pedal won't relent and yet
the sky changes every second, every other time
i cast a glance way up
stream past the underpass
another person walking,
maybe stopped and staring,
suburban depression overhead
another day
another shadow cast
what destiny must they contain
too late -- they're in the rear view
one more shadow cast
enough dark lines across this evening
make it just right
cuz without them
colorful masses can't explain themselves to our eyes
like the dark knight man-made starlight shimmering against the sky light
new york city in my sights
yellow backdrop like the brick road flipped up
inception --
what happens when you surrender
the third I never forgets to fill you n me in,
took the brush with him
and painted my mind in
however
the commercials --
god they're so depressin
hashtag
mass appeal
global citizens under
hashtag
mass hypnosis
bjork, wail for me
flute, play that tune and make me snake for thee
jinx my night, make it monsoon for me
there's more to come
you know i'm a sucker for
random places, b
another city, another hour
just a gypsy pulling along the wind
just a gypsy floating to another meeting
another crossing of unfolding trappings
catching my attending art to transform,
transmute with me
pull me away from the materiality
geode wig breaking underground,
my footing slipping
so shiny, sparkling stars
zenned out on
a humanistic level
appearances be damned
nervous for the planet?
don't bother
be nervous for your spiritual progress,
be nervous for your loving action
form an opinion on something other than
...your hair, your shoes, your status, the schmooze

don't worry it's easy
just love and be honest


 


For Lucas

by trulymadlydeeply On Sunday, September 01, 2013 0 comments
Of the terrible doubt of appearances


Taking requests for poetry vids here

deus ex machina

by trulymadlydeeply On Friday, August 16, 2013 0 comments
words intending love swirl around my head
and as I recognize with the faculty of feeling
the world still struggles to sweep a clearing
for that pure desire
untainted by what brought it on
in the first place
your skin
your hands
your smiles
your eyes
"do not fight the tides
let it pull you in"
the wise citations claim, urge
Fleetwood Mac hums in my car
"You can go your own way"
I don't like it
don't tell me to do what I want
I've had enough
don't you know?
what I want
what we've always secretly wanted
is the right person
in the right tone
to gently pull us
tightly squeeze us, keep us
free us
as they make their words
our own

An Encounter

by trulymadlydeeply On Tuesday, August 13, 2013 0 comments
Reading Robert Frost

Accessory from the Pays Dogon



a poem a day keeps the spirit engaged

Are you living it right?

by trulymadlydeeply On Friday, August 02, 2013 0 comments
Hey y'all! Allie Mae is back!
And she's sharing 3 simple steps you can take NOW to get closer to your inner voice, outer purpose, and a fulfilled life, inside and out!


Allie Mae is the alter ego of writer, improv-lover, and yoga teacher Alexandra Moga. Allie Mae is a sweet, fun-loving, open-hearted good-girl with an accent that betrays her roots. She's here to share her humble wisdom and random musings on topics yet unknown and known; on love, happiness, yoga, and successful life. Part performance art, part acting, part real-deal consciousness, join Allie Mae's wacky and lovable character every now and then for a dose of her mad little head and heart of gold.

The Water Remembers

by trulymadlydeeply On Wednesday, July 31, 2013 0 comments
Be like water, my friend

Ed Begley Jr. sits down with Sadhguru to discuss and absorb the science of water memory and the simple yet profound effects molecular shifts in water transfer to us, and how our mental energies transfer to shift water's molecular structure....

We are water, flow on, flow on
Kindly down the stream


(((((knowledge bomb)))))

On the way home last night

by trulymadlydeeply On Thursday, July 25, 2013 0 comments

Sometimes I write, sometimes my mind moves too fast and I'm in a spot with no hands to type or scribble and I must, must, must record, so this is what I did and this is what it is... rough draft style

Save Your Generation

by trulymadlydeeply On Wednesday, July 24, 2013 0 comments
Good lyrics, musical interpretation not my style (maybe would have been circa 2000), but merits an intake:

I have a present: it is the present.
You have to learn to find it within you.
If you can learn to love it,
You just might like it.
You can't live without it.
There's a million open windows.
I'm passing these open windows.
There is plenty to criticize.
It gets so easy to narrow these eyes.
But these eyes will stay wide.
I will stay young.
Young and dumb inside.
I have just begun to forget my lines.
If you could save yourself,
you could save us all.
Go on living, prove us wrong.
Your leap of faith could be a well-timed smile.
Survival never goes out of style.
I have a message: save your generation.
We're killing each other by sleeping in
Finnegan, begin again.
This one can be won.
One can become two.
Two can pick and choose.
You could be the first.
You have to learn to learn from your mistakes.
You can afford to lose a little face.
The things you break,
Some can't be replaced.
A simple rule: every day be sure you wake. 


by Jawbreaker

Tabula Smaragdina

by trulymadlydeeply On Monday, July 22, 2013 0 comments
True, true. Without doubt. Certain:

The below is as the above, and the above as the below, to perfect the wonders of the One.

And as all things came from the One, from the meditation of the One, so all things are born from this One by adaptation.

Its father is the Sun, its mother the Moon; the Wind carries it in its belly; its nurse is the Earth.

It is the father of all the wonders of the whole world. Its power is perfect when it is transformed into Earth.

Separate the Earth from the Fire and the subtle from the gross, cautiously and judiciously.

It ascends from Earth to Heaven and then returns back to the Earth, so that it receives the power of the upper and the lower.

Thus you will possess the brightness of the whole world, and darkness will flee you.

This is the force of all forces, for it overcomes all that is subtle and penetrates solid things.

Thus was the world created.

From this wonderful adaptations are effected, and the means are given here.

And Hermes Trismegistus is my name, because I possess the three parts of the wisdom of the whole world.


Catching Up on the Path

by trulymadlydeeply On Tuesday, July 16, 2013 0 comments
Allie Mae is back y'all!

Catching up on the path a little raft of love from her heart to yours in these tough, sometimes tragic times...




Explosion of Meta

by trulymadlydeeply On Thursday, July 11, 2013 0 comments
Damn J. Damn.


Props on taking it here ^

So, at first I was annoyed about this, Jay (may I call you Jay?). Maybe because it seemed like there was too much deliberate defiance, when for me, such spontaneous and gut-bound instincts like defiance should arise naturally and develop in line with (corrupted) motive-(read capitalistic, showmanship-y, look-at-me-i'm-so-avant-garde, part 3 of our marketing/PR roll-out)free intentions (and yes, the motive and the means, the medium and the method do implicate the final product because regardless of outcome, it's important to have a foundation and journey of integrity, especially as one taking a position of mediating experiences, emotions and base elements to elevate them in the public eye as 'art', a term I'd love to see maintain some shreds of dignity and sanctity in an increasingly anything-goes, no-real-thought-or-spiritually-derived-intention, pop-reality-TV world... I digress; goin' hyphy crazy tonight, huh?). From the first whispers I heard of this stunt, there seemed to be too much carefully-coached contradiction for it to hold up in the name of authenticity.

However, what arises in the moment cannot be dismantled. When moving with, and against, and in response to a crowd and an individual who did not see it coming, who came as they were, who played with you, you who knew as much and as little as they; the nature of what arose, per Jerry's review, seemed to be something of an alchemical cauldron of real, raw, and relational.

In the end, the wary-of-publicity-stunts part of me was subdued enough to acknowledge that, in and of itself, this was an experience in here-and-now aliveness which trumps fluff-and-fake enough to add something of value to the discussion of, to the creation of, to the general involvement of the public with art. And there I must say, chapeau.

Wish I coulda been there. Next time, send me an invite, would ya?

...Though, just to let you know, you do violate section 1, point 5 of the Manifesto (and most likely other sections, not like you care, but just in case you were interested/needed a refresher on G-MA's OG steeze).

Marina Abramović.
An Artist’s Life (Manifesto).

1. An artist’s conduct in his life:
  • An artist should not lie to himself or others 
  • An artist should not steal ideas from other artists 
  • An artist should not compromise for themselves or in regards to the art market 
  • An artist should not kill other human beings 
  • An artist should not make themselves into an idol 
  • An artist should not make themselves into an idol 
  • An artist should not make themselves into an idol

2. An artist’s relation to his love life:
  • An artist should avoid falling in love with another artist 
  • An artist should avoid falling in love with another artist 
  • An artist should avoid falling in love with another artist

3. An artist’s relation to the erotic:
  • An artist should develop an erotic point of view on the world 
  • An artist should be erotic 
  • An artist should be erotic 
  • An artist should be erotic

4. An artist’s relation to suffering:
  • An artist should suffer 
  • From the suffering comes the best work 
  • Suffering brings transformation 
  • Through the suffering an artist transcends their spirit 
  • Through the suffering an artist transcends their spirit 
  • Through the suffering an artist transcends their spirit

5. An artist’s relation to depression:
  • An artist should not be depressed 
  • Depression is a disease and should be cured 
  • Depression is not productive for an artist
  • Depression is not productive for an artist 
  • Depression is not productive for an artist

6. An artist’s relation to suicide:
  • Suicide is a crime against life 
  • An artist should not commit suicide 
  • An artist should not commit suicide 
  • An artist should not commit suicide

7. An artist’s relation to inspiration:
  • An artist should look deep inside themselves for inspiration 
  • The deeper they look inside themselves, the more universal they become 
  • The artist is universe 
  • The artist is universe 
  • The artist is universe

8. An artist’s relation to self-control:
  • The artist should not have self-control about his life 
  • The artist should have total self-control about his work 
  • The artist should not have self-control about his life 
  • The artist should have total self-control about his work

9. An artist’s relation with transparency:
  • The artist should give and receive at the same time 
  • Transparency means receptive 
  • Transparency means to give 
  • Transparency means to receive 
  • Transparency means receptive 
  • Transparency means to give 
  • Transparency means to receive 
  • Transparency means receptive 
  • Transparency means to give 
  • Transparency means to receive

10. An artist’s relation to symbols:
  • An artist creates his own symbols 
  • Symbols are an artist’s language 
  • The language must then be translated 
  • Sometimes it is difficult to find the key 
  • Sometimes it is difficult to find the key 
  • Sometimes it is difficult to find the key

11. An artist’s relation to silence:
  • An artist has to understand silence 
  • An artist has to create a space for silence to enter his work 
  • Silence is like an island in the middle of a turbulent ocean 
  • Silence is like an island in the middle of a turbulent ocean 
  • Silence is like an island in the middle of a turbulent ocean

12. An artist’s relation to solitude:
  • An artist must make time for the long periods of solitude 
  • Solitude is extremely important 
  • Away from home 
  • Away from the studio 
  • Away from family
  • Away from friends 
  • An artist should stay for long periods of time at waterfalls 
  • An artist should stay for long periods of time at exploding volcanoes 
  • An artist should stay for long periods of time looking at the fast running rivers 
  • An artist should stay for long periods of time looking at the horizon where the ocean and sky meet 
  • An artist should stay for long periods of time looking at the stars in the night sky

13. An artist’s conduct in relation to work:
  • An artist should avoid going to the studio every day
  • An artist should not treat his work schedule as a bank employee does 
  • An artist should explore life and work only when an idea comes to him in a dream or during the day as a vision that arises as a surprise 
  • An artist should not repeat himself 
  • An artist should not overproduce 
  • An artist should avoid his own art pollution 
  • An artist should avoid his own art pollution 
  • An artist should avoid his own art pollution

14. An artist’s possessions:
  • Buddhist monks advise that it is best to have nine possessions in their life:
— 1 robe for the summer
— 1 robe for the winter
— 1 pair of shoes
— 1 begging bowl for food
— 1 mosquito net
— 1 prayer book
— 1 umbrella
— 1 mat to sleep on
— 1 pair of glasses if needed
  • An artist should decide for himself the minimum personal possessions they should have
  • An artist should have more and more of less and less 
  • An artist should have more and more of less and less 
  • An artist should have more and more of less and less

15. A list of an artist’s friends:
  • An artist should have friends that lift their spirits 
  • An artist should have friends that lift their spirits 
  • An artist should have friends that lift their spirits

16. A list of an artist’s enemies:
  • Enemies are very important 
  • The Dalai Lama has said that it is easy to have compassion with friends but much more difficult to have compassion with enemies 
  • An artist has to learn to forgive 
  • An artist has to learn to forgive 
  • An artist has to learn to forgive

17. Different death scenarios:
  • An artist has to be aware of his own mortality 
  • For an artist, it is not only important how he lives his life but also how he dies 
  • An artist should look at the symbols of his work for the signs of different death scenarios 
  • An artist should die consciously without fear 
  • An artist should die consciously without fear 
  • An artist should die consciously without fear

18. Different funeral scenarios:
  • An artist should give instructions before the funeral so that everything is done the way he wants it 
  • The funeral is the artist’s last art piece before leaving 
  • The funeral is the artist’s last art piece before leaving 
  • The funeral is the artist’s last art piece before leaving

_ _ fullness

by trulymadlydeeply On Tuesday, July 09, 2013 0 comments
And of His fullness we have all received, and grace for grace.

third I

by trulymadlydeeply On Tuesday, June 25, 2013 0 comments
my new little corner of the interwebs...



MBBC - Robert Frost edition

by trulymadlydeeply On Friday, June 21, 2013 0 comments
Welcome to another edition of My Bootlegged Book Club!! It's been a hoot dang (?) long time, I know, I know. But here I am, bootleggedly posting an excerpt from "The Constant Symbol", an essay written by the dear poet Mr. Robert Frost in July 1946, almost 67 years ago. In it, he addresses the form and function of the poem; the nature of its content once it is released into the public domain. The jab-and-dive living nature of poetry that speaks without saying, nods without claiming...

"There are many things I have found myself saying about poetry, but the chiefest of these is that it is metaphor, saying one thing and meaning another, saying one thing in terms of another, the pleasure of ulteriority. Poetry is simply made of metaphor. So also is philosophy--and science, too, for that matter, if it will take the soft impeachment from a friend. Every poem is a new metaphor inside or it is nothing. And there is a sense in which all poems are the same old metaphor always.

Every single poem written regular is a symbol small or great of the way the will has to pitch into commitments deeper and deeper to a rounded conclusion and then be judged for whether any original intention it had has been strongly spent or weakly lost; be it in art, politics, school, church, business, love, or marriage--in a piece of work or in a career. Strongly spent is synonymous with kept.

We may speak after sentence, resenting the judgement. How can the world know anything so intimate as what we were intending to do? The answer is the world presumes to know. The ruling passion in man is not as Viennese as is claimed. It is rather a gregarious instinct to keep together by minding each other's business... We must be preserved from becoming egregious. The beauty of socialism is that it will end the individuality that is always crying out mind your own business. Terence's answer would be all human business is my business. No more invisible means of support, no more invisible motives, no more invisible anything. The ultimate commitment is giving in to it that an outsider may see what we were up to sooner and better than we ourselves. The bard has said it in effect, Unto these forms did I commend the spirit. It may take him a year after the act to confess he only betrayed the spirit with a rhymster's cleverness and to forgive his enemies the critics for not having listened to his oaths and protestations to the contrary. Had he anything to be true to? Was he true to it? Did he use good words? You couldn't tell unless you made out what idea they were supposed to be good for. Every poem is an epitome of the great predicament; a figure of the will braving alien entanglements."

P.S. if you understood his references without having to wiki them then you may have been an English major; and even if you were, but most especially if you weren't, I tip my hat to you, you cultured beaut.

"A poem is never a put-up job.... It begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a loneliness. It is never a thought to begin with. It is at its best when it is a tantalizing vagueness."

can't stop us now

by trulymadlydeeply On Wednesday, June 19, 2013 0 comments
we're neck and neck,
us and them
the separation of truth and a deadly grip
the blindfold can't win
these are the times
when decisions are set
these are the days
when revelations come a tweet too late
brutality exposed
savage hearts lost in false stories
behold
these are the hands over hands
ripping out the plague
balancing on the razor's edge
the warriors walk into the darkness 
not knowing which poisoned branch to cut first
time taken from planting what's good
now spent on pulling the dead wood
weeds of the dumbed-down
polluting the uprising
but together the lights strive,
keep the love shining
go 'head get angry
they can't stop us now
they can't stop up now
go 'head try to scare
they can't stop us now
they won't stop the stare down
gets to a point where you can't keep waiting,
letting time tell you what to do
killing time on pleasing just you
gets to a moment
the now where you're living,
when everything you ever wanted to do
is waiting on you to live it through
live it through
'cause they can't stop us now
they won't keep us in the know
when the truth is shining in the silence
live it through
protected by the sincere souls
living it through
they never could
they can't stop the truth
they never could
watch out for the trick,
the turnin' back of time
future truths still cloaked in black
see history as already done
give up the victory
and surrender
to your heart
to the highest
singles waking 
one by one
they can't stop us now
go on live it through
there's a band of believers
find em and align your heart too
and shout it out, me and you
they want us to live apart
and think like drones
but we're gonna stand together
and think of One
* one love, one heart, carry each other *
they can't stop us now
they can't stop us
oooooooohhh
they can't stop this
nooooo-ooohhh
can't slow it down

Not gonna lie, 'New Slaves' got me fired up...

by trulymadlydeeply On Saturday, May 18, 2013 0 comments
Some lines of mine inspired by Kanye, from a well stored up, up, up
come on get your cups, cups, cups...

Truth Saves

you want the solution to all these problems
ones like they're trying to own us, our genes, His seeds
here I'll give em to you I got it  --
no I didn't come up with the answers
I'm not that stupid
I just took my chances and listened
But not to just any
Hustler on TV
What's ironic is most men don't want to hear it
They wanna keep on struggling, like it's a damn party
Holding on to their issues, holding on to the fear
Thinking that's what makes them
want your pain to scar up,
wear it proud like you got some
some truth out of hatred
some wisdom from material gain
When the truth is you stand where you started
still running around in their game
Was the loneliness your winnings?
Did the sickness make you vain?
First step:
stop pretending
Next one is bow down
no not to a self-made queen
put your damned desires in the ground
let that shit fertilize what's worth growing
but don't worry there's exceptions
cause every system needs em
a little space to breathe n
here it goes:
it's a dovetail
that's where we find peace
take your fire, your anger, your need for needs
and use it in service of the only one who owns it
nothing here belongs to you
nothing here belongs to me
trust that this life as most lead it is nothing but fleeting pictures and dreams
take it, next level:
what you got when you found love,
that's a piece of a piece
but quickly it'll break if you forget it in heat
so merge your wants with an action
and do it for the G
here comes step three:
abandon all forms of religion
surrender unto Me
Yea, it's that simple
Now what will you do
Listen and love
or continue to bleed?

A Poem a Day...

by trulymadlydeeply On Friday, May 17, 2013 0 comments
Keeps the doctor away

My main man Hafiz on the ones and twos of truth and cool:

At This Party

I don't want to be the only one here
Telling all the secrets -
Filling up all the bowls at this party,
Taking all the laughs.
I would like you
To start putting things on the table
That can also feed the soul
The way I do.
That way
We can invite
A hell of a lot more Friends.


Believe you

by trulymadlydeeply On Tuesday, May 14, 2013 0 comments
I believe that the feelings that I get come from what I give, and that what I give is what I have. And what I have, where did that come from? It came from deep inside, from seeds planted over many, many lifetimes, growing out when they need to see the light. It came from the mirror effect of self-exploration and inquiry reflected by other kindred seekers. Well, it comes from you, too.

But can I believe you? Because the fact is, I don't have you. Does that mean I manufactured it all? Well, two things. What isn't manufactured but a very few precious things in this material world? And second, I never wanted to have you. Not in the way most people want to have one anothers, have relationships nowadays, anyway. What I guess I felt, what I idealized and projected, maybe even manifested, was a having that consisted in the sharing of the feelings we give to one another, have for one another, all just to take this life-situation higher. Isn't that the best way to love? As far as I can tell, it's been hard, and it's been lonely as hell. But in the process is the highest truth.

Yet, maybe I was mistaken. Mistaken in my placement.
I did one time, believe you. And for a time after that, a time where you seemed to act against your heart and word, I withdrew my faith and placed it on another rung, on a foundation I hadn't actively intended to start from. Luckily for me, something, someone out there is looking out for my highest good. Maybe it's my momma who prays for me, some angel called to soothe. Maybe it's my inner heart which never wanted anything but the truth; for nothing but the truth would ever do, you see? Either way, some knowledge I wasn't really looking for -- but needed -- was given me.

And what I received was a wave of perfect harmony, floating me to easy decisions, safe and healthy commitments. I found myself back in learning mode, in a room where students of another caliber gathered to understand better those things hardly any schools teach these days (did they ever?). This institute for higher learning isn't like what you pay a fortune for. It's not the same four year party-with-an-exam kind of score. Not to say that all institutes of higher learning are. But now that I think about it, it was kind of a party. A spiritual party dedicated to the most high. And boy were people high. Yet so, so, down to earth. So, so cognizant and careful. Caring and helpful. Smart and free of pretense; like another dimension where everything made perfect if not wonderfully complex sense. Somedays I wake up and wonder: did that actually happen? When I go back, will it still seem so real? Did I take enough with me, to carry on the special feel? It's not all in my hands I guess, a mess of a test to hand someone who likes control; but a beautiful lesson in letting go and letting the trust flow.

One day, wondering, I asked my teacher about that kind of lovin I'd only known for another, which I found myself being taught to give to the creator.
So to my teacher, I asked her:
"What if that love, the one that can't be let down when placed up high, what if you direct that towards another human being in the same way, with no expectations, with the same unconditional bounty and grace and devotion we're meant to give to the divine?" (paraphrased)

"Well," she started, "They will disappoint you."

Ah. Yes. It was so simple, wasn't it? And while my head wanted to pretend like it wasn't disappointed, my heart knew the ache because it'd felt it.

I nodded, still trying to negotiate the truth, reasoning internally, that it'd have to be the place you came from wouldn't it? Can't be disappointed if you have no expectations but then again, you can't continue if you're not expecting love. But to trump it all, wouldn't that real kind of love go on anyway, over and beyond expecting a fruit to taste?
So I believed you. And I believe her. And I believe in the realness of the invisible.

I also believe that while man makes mistakes and can't be trusted, and will be fooled and disappointed, cheated and led astray by his own kind, his own kin, his own brand of what some call sin; that there's a smidgen of power I contain to continue on regardless.

It takes a kind of artist to understand the superior value of process. And I guess it would take a kind of genius to learn the right process and then build smarter, better, truer with it; compressing his impulses for the sake of diamonds, reaching for the presence as the final accomplishment in timelessness.

Time will tell if I'll ever believe in a man again, the way I did, the way the best part of me can. In the meantime, I believe in that love; in the strength it gives as it forces you to process it, slowly takes away the things you don't really, truly need.

Just another Tuesday dans ma vie

by trulymadlydeeply On Tuesday, May 14, 2013 0 comments
Finally getting around to watching The Artist is Present today. Two seconds into it I'm deeply moved of course because her whole ethos and drive are so dead on and powerful. And then...

Right before this scene showing a piece of hers and Ulay's from the 80's, "Rest Energy", someone knocks at the door. I open the door to find three Korean missionaries from the Church of God, who I let in (because why lose the opportunity to glimpse how another lives and believes?) so that they may proceeded to show me videos and talk to me about God the Father and God the Mother and the Spirit and the bride. Fun. 

What does it all mean!?


She's something of a soul sister for me that Marina is.... brilliant spirit

Introducing: Allie Mae

by trulymadlydeeply On Monday, May 13, 2013 0 comments
Allie Mae is my alter ego. Conceived unconsciously somewhere between 2010 and now,  born this morning the minute I decided to run with it. To run with the crazy creative notion of letting the wacky stuff you say and invisible characters you embody behind closed doors come to light for the levity of it. And, of course, because it's me we're talking about, making it align with some higher purpose... Or so I (Allie) hope...

Allie Mae is a sweet, fun-loving, open-hearted good-girl with an accent that betrays her roots.

She's here to share her humble wisdom and random musings on topics yet unknown and known; on love, happiness, yoga, and successful life.

Part performance art, part acting, part real-deal consciousness, join Allie Mae's wacky and lovable character every now and then for a dose of her mad little head and heart of gold.

just f--king write a book already

by trulymadlydeeply On Sunday, May 12, 2013 0 comments
Preface

Ever feel like you've been carrying around a ton of emotions, experiences, ideas, concerns, memes, thought streams, subjects, faces, problems, solutions, rhymes, scenes, colors, cities, dreams and screams? You know, like you're just about due for a giant mind-dump but have been stuck-up, holding it in for the right moment instead as life takes you by the hand to another land, another grand day-bleeding-into-night. And when that right moment comes you find yourself semi-censoring yourself because you want to walk that fine line of decorum/honesty, interest/discretion, human decency and mystique, all-too elusive in a brave new world where over-sharing is the norm and under-thinking its side-kick? Well I'm goin' for the jugular and it might just end up being an E-book. Are those hot right now? Because although I spend a fair amount of time on the inter webs, that browsing is limited to the sphere of a few blogs, Facebook, Instagram and that good ol' Google Reader feed I'm getting ready to say goodbye to. Thank God for Lena Dunham, that episode of 'Girls' which kindly informed me that E-books might actually be "a thing". But that show is semi-fictional so I can't be entirely sure. There's that fine line again.

Yea, well here it is.

Or maybe here it isn't.

Here goes something. Will I press 'Publish?' That's for the end to tell. Today, well today it's Monday, May 13, 2013. 12:12 AM, Hamburg Germany. Will I run down a dream shared by countless and inked by few like Hunter S. Thompson -- that off-the-rails blabber mouth -- or perhaps that Kerouac fellow, too lost and found for our (and by 'our' I mean all aspiring gypsy-writers) own good? Or will my pages be marred by modern ephemera, serving only to betray my timeless messages with artifacts which date me and my wanderings, belie in neon lights the true grit still at the bottom of my suit case? This is where the beloved reader, you, my dear counterpart, come in. I have faith in you, in your poetic heart to take these words and allow them entree in that land which knows not the bounds of judgement and instead hears the meaning behind the mayhem. This is my hand, outstretched in black-and-white words on a page, outstretched in a human effort to connect to that longing laying dormant in everyman's heart, to lay bare my own longing as it took shape in flight, en route to God knows where...

Since 2003

Been on the road since 2003, or so it feels. Ok, not actually that long. But that's when I left home. And wouldn't you know it, that's when the road really starts. Ask any travelin man-boy or rarin' teenage girl ready-for-the-world when things got real and they might just tell ya -- "The day I left home". In some cases, these tumbleweeds may not even have a say in the matter. Home leaves them. Home ain't never held them, for they were born in a world free of warm blankets and careful curfews, watchful eyes and doors and curtains. But there I was, tumbled out of my parent's cozy suburban home on a peaceful tree-lined street which also happened to be named after a tree. Sycamore. Sycamore Ave. Sycamores, as luck would have it, aren't so good at hiding their growth. They're an open-book kinda tree. Which is slightly, sadly, ironic since there's always a chance a beloved tree will one day take shape as a book. But the thing with Sycamores is that they shows scars of brown and grayish bark, scabby and molten from a pushy, stretchy growth more readily than other trees. That's due to their rigid exteriors, forced open by an inside that just can't bear containment.

So there I was, all metaphorically scabby and broken, looking for a new home as I raced my way optimistically and with visions of fashionable soirees into the arms of a city half-way around the world. Seems I'd held this city, that dear and lighted city of Paris, in some part of me as already a local, for when I arrived I immediately made contact with a real, no holds barred Parisian. Yes, ladies and gentleman of the jury, this first encounter of mine was one in which I was brusquely and blurrily molested for the 1.5 seconds it took for me, a native Queens girl, to shout expletives in English at 7am in the 13th arrondissement whilst angrily and, if I shall admit, fearfully, pushing a drunken offender off of me. It didn't help that across the street from the block-style 60's youth residence, the one established "to help build a Europe that would be open to the rest of the world, to combat racism and to foster cultural exchanges among young people around the world" was an asylum for recovering addicts and the mentally unstable. Looking back, I probably had thoughts of psychosis myself as the months wore on in this new city, far, far away from home; broke as I had become under the weight of movable feasts and the lack of funds.

......................................

Chapbook, Digital Chapbook

by trulymadlydeeply On Sunday, May 12, 2013 0 comments
I feel the eclipse in its wake
The kicked up dust,
my fresh and ready face
Hardened in all the right ways
Soft as the love that nudged me into place
Lost my senses in the sway
Now my mind's got the space
the space it needs, the ground to take
the roots around the seeds we scatter,
like our cares to the wind
Awaken hungry for the dream
Because I know too-well its taste
Seen the promise land,
felt its warm embrace
as he cut another side
in the middle of my night
3 am, not a single headlight leading wrong ways
Safe where it counts
Wrapped in the sounds of another time and place
Timeless, as it cuts to the chase

***

the walls, would be smart to draw them up
up around your good sense,
understanding when enough of their words
are actually not right at all
not for you
not for the standing order you hold in hand
the one to become a better man
so the thoughts of others
that drive you to reflect
all the broken things
can dissolve by your permission
to take your eyes just north of the horizon
and with that sight
breathe easy

***

on and off
flashing like a misplaced yellow warning sign
in the middle of a barren road at night
on and off
goes the cake
goes the eating
goes the leaving
goes the coming
back for
more
on and off
pleasure
renunciation
pleasure
renunciation
where is the more
the more beyond the cycles of
on and off
on and off,
where you are neither
who you think
nor who you are
but who you
always were

Ad made me cry

by trulymadlydeeply On Thursday, May 02, 2013 0 comments
Is it me, or just the deep beauty of this? Dang, Dove.




Honorific

by trulymadlydeeply On Thursday, March 28, 2013 0 comments
For a bowl of water give a godly meal;
For a kindly gesture bow thou down with zeal;
For a simple penny pay thou back with gold;
If thy life be rescued, life do not withhold.
Thus the words and actions of the wise regard;
Every little service tenfold they reward.
But the truly noble know all men as one,
And return with gladness good for evil done.

-Shamal Bhatt

INDIA

by trulymadlydeeply On Tuesday, March 26, 2013 0 comments
Sitting in the airport just a few minutes from leaving this wondrous place I've come to know and love as a home over the last 6-months... Eagerly anticipating the next leg of this journey called life and relishing the one just past.

I wrote this stream-of-love poem in January during a pilgrimage, in a temple in Puri, near a tree over 500 years old, under which countless mysteries and miracles did unfold.

India, I will miss you and I will see you again. You have my word. You have my heart.

In India inside is out. And outside comes in. Whether or not you like it or want it or think you need it. Dogs, cows, men are dead in the street at your feet or above your head as the case may be. The weather is made to enter the homes and the homes are made in a meek attempt to keep it out and keep you cool. Darkness is light and light is so bright when the smiles of locals turn on. Even though their teeth which they brush in the early morning in the street are yellowed and crooked. Her streets will make you feel miserable if you are offended by defecation and smoke, noise, pollution and sewage afoot. If you can't dance around the tragedy don't come to her shores. You'll surely be tossed left and right in
your mind and slammed as by the waves of her ocean or frozen further as by the snow in her mountains or burnt to a crisp of nothingness by her sun larger than in other parts; but it will be for your own good. It will break you open like no teenage love can and it will let you bleed right on the street in front of people who barely bat an eyelash. But that blood will be the sweetest relief to ever seep from your veins and you'll be so far beyond caring if you're loved and needed because you will be in love with something greater than a person faking to need you to make you feel whole. So far beyond faking a role you thought was real for the sake of picking something up because you once felt so empty without the covering. You'll be so far beyond commenting on the dress or smell or events to fill the time, the air, the space between you and the rest of the human race because you will be so deep in it you won't need to point and stare like you never saw such a thing. It will see you and you might feel naked but no one will comment or care and there you might find a gap for freedom to slip in and your ego to fall down around your dirty, dust covered soul. And your mind will be silenced, will stop chasing the wind of emptiness you thought could fill you in, on and on and on again. Aloof to public opinion moreover your own voice of unreasonable dry and sterile vision will soak up the sounds that force you to listen to ancient truths in language that speaks to invisible energy inside you never knew lived, deeper than the sheen of newly found proofs, realer to your needs than justified closed-circuit cold n cut-up clues. She will make you understand. You will be attracted on the other hand. Your small soul might come out to play with the Supersoul in the light of day. And if you're fancy and full of buttons to push your machinery, God help you, will heat up and burn out and all the plastic guards you wield to protect yourself will melt like the trash piles of non recyclable matter -- dead and bringing you to the senses that quietly shake and shatter in your once empty now reality-filled head. You won't be holding on to your Louisiana purchase, clutching property with greedy need and seeking more through sight of dull eyes with a dumb sheen. She will force you to forget you ever thought you could possess anything more than the spirit that free love, true love reflects. That love will lift your consciousness so high you will finally feel good with humility brining you down with the top of your head on the ground, praying, praying, praying that you'll never forget how. She dares you to try and put your finger on it, hint: it's near your wrist where the pulse rests to show your heart is doing it, doing it all for the best. And chanting in the streets you will run into shy smiles too sweet and knowing to protest and hand shakes to send you on your way with a wish as blessings will pour if in a search for absolute truth you once did, still do invest. Let go. Roll in the dust and live a little more than you ever thought made sense. Steep in the source where it pleases that source. And if you can believe, if you dare believe, you might, for once, really be free

Best Birthday Idea for Babies

by trulymadlydeeply On Saturday, March 16, 2013 0 comments
Today is my nephew Teo's 2nd birthday. Ugh just thinking of him makes me melt with love and happiness because he is the freaking cutest, cutest, smartest, sweetest, funniest, bestest, most beautiful being everrrrrr. Yes. Even cuter than me sticking my hand up farm animals' backsides, sucking on lemons and running around in one sock doing handstands as a baby.

So anywho. It being his birthday, I had an idea for a gift. I am so doing this for my future bebe... Create an email address and through the early years, occasionally send messages to it. Like, "Dear Veda [don't steal my baby name!!], Today you ate grains for the first time and finished the whole bowl!" Or, "Today you were a real baby asshole."

The whole family can get in on the fun. With grandad sending emails on fishing and powerpoint forwards of magnificent castles in the fog and grandma sending simple, heartfelt messages of love.

Then at 13, gift the kid with the password and a storehouse of memories.

Best. Modern. Time. Capsule. Ever!!

How American culture can lend itself to depression

by trulymadlydeeply On Saturday, March 16, 2013 0 comments
We close ourselves off.
We find it annoying and disrespectful to visit one another's homes unexpectedly, inhibiting spontaneous expressions of service and love, instead of joyfully receiving the guest as if he or she were a gift. In India and the Middle East, the guest is God. And when cooking for large parties, they always make more and never waste what's left. Yes, it can be seen as a "cultural" difference, but as humans, what makes Americans more rigid, stuck up and uninviting?

We are obsessed with being in control of our image but ignore controlling ourselves, primarily the mind and senses.
We keep the world and each other at a comfortable distance, a space in which we can manipulate our images and pay shrinks to plunge in and figure it all out for us instead of dealing with our very interesting and real stuff face to face -- with one another, where you can't escape it, can't suppress it; eventually coming to appreciate it, even realizing that your mind was making the shadow bigger than it really was. Or, we deal with our stuff indirectly and ineffectively, via an elevated pop star or 10 o'lock news martyr.

We deny ourselves the opportunities to get in touch with the very essence of life and gorge ourselves on artificial substitutions -- TV shows, gossip magazines, endless images, credit-based buying of what won't last and won't satisfy; not you, who bought it to impress and not they who are too busy also self-obsessing to notice. It's a fake world we like to consume at a higher cost than what it takes to be honest and occasionally uncomfortable, naked of the signifiers we layer for fabricated meaning when we could be picking up and collectively validating what's got real meaning, albeit little monetary value.

We are the center of our own universe, aiming all of our efforts to please the body and senses, enjoying unilaterally.
We are accustomed to comfort for the body and stifle the soul's creative nature by unceasingly purchasing every solution, ignoring the pulse of life who's very purpose it is to seek and exercise those solutions. Convenience has made us fat, tired, lazy, taxed, disconnected, dissatisfied, deluded, entitled and uninspired. And any man in (material) control who is serving you this conveience, doesn't have the answer he's selling, is merely raking it in and investing in more of the same, just under a different name.

This so-called convenience has divorced us from the community of cooperation and love and enslaved us to the separating, capitalistic sense of (false) independence. We've all become dependent on the middle man, and from all directions seemingly inescapably, simultaneously serve this middle man to soullessly sell us slop while having forgotten the perfectly fine abilities we each have to depend on one another in economically efficient and connection-encouraging exchanges. And this can be seen at the simplest level -- making, serving and sharing foods; confiding our truths, needs, failures and hopes; giving a helping hand regardless of tax status and plate prices.

We create events primarily to glorify our names and make money instead of to learn something new, make friendships and speak of ideas higher and more uplifting than past gossip or "who are you wearing".

Running this charade is a false idea that the charade is where the happiness is. But get in a room, alone. Turn off the sound, the noise, the flurry. Listen to the silence behind the story.
Is it full like your heart?
Or terrifyingly empty?
Are you truly alone?
Or are you sharing in the presence of something bigger?
And for the really big question: Would you even know it?
(Hint: the media wouldn't have been the one to inform you.)

There is real goodness, light, truth and happiness. It's just not under the rocks we've been trained to look under...

*Edited to add: while these generalizations are not meant to address a whole nation-state of individuals, I am making a broad assessment of some habits and tendencies noted specifically in America. My critique aims to shed light on what stands out as debilitating in American life when compared to what I have observed and experienced in other countries where I have spent time (in Europe, Central America, Africa and India) and from what I have learned in exchanges with people from a myriad of cultures, religions and socio-economic backgrounds.

How Art Can Retard Personal and Social Evolution

by trulymadlydeeply On Sunday, February 24, 2013 0 comments
Here's the thing: art and its myriad forms behaves like the people it comes from - in cycles, in generations expressed as movements which dynamically create and respond to trends; fashion trends, linguistic trends, and perhaps if the artist is truly a thinking-man, to socio-political agendas in trend-form. These days, art mostly reflects what the puppeteers (who have embodied the artist in such subliminal and devious ways that artists think it's them talking but the real them--the soul them--is heavily covered up and manipulated) dictate. These products known as art behave in relative terms, interacting with the flux of a material world, the material mind, and the false ego of a man who deals only with that kind of world. Sometimes the world an artist pulls from is purely internal, perhaps even spiritual. But if an artist is anywhere near mainstream or immersed in/familiar with life as the masses live it, s/he will not in any way, shape or form have the distance needed to deal with purely internal, radical or spiritual fodder for creation. That's why artists who make it really big, really fast won't last unless they distance themselves from the success. That success will bring them too far away from what's interesting enough to inspire. As a side-bar: that's why love (it's usually actually lust, let's be real) is such a powerful source of inspiration for art. It's a private little world that no one can really get into besides the two lovers. But as we'll see: even then there's a hitch, a glitch and stitch in time to slow down the forward-flow.

Because music is the most popular form of art these days (if you can even call any of the music that's very popular "art") I want to emphasize that as a medium, music is especially a culprit in deterring any sort of interesting and freeing forward movement (notice the themes songs deal with are oh-so-repetitive). So from here on in, I will replace "art" with "music" and maybe one day I'll come back around to address art-at-large but quite frankly, the commercial/contemporary art market is a total joke of a sham you-got-duped game catering to elite wallets, falsely inflating the value of what is usually, quite simply, crap, and placating the egos seeking to obtain said synthetic value as extension-of-the-self. Lots of oohing and ahhing over maybe-pretty, usually uninspiring, definitely never educational objects during cocktail hours where the idea of being artsy and smart is more important than the actual fact. Plus there's free booze, schmoozin and a chance to show off personal (or merely second-handed purchased fashion) style. Zing, ding, ding.

So back to the matter at hand. Unless the art-product in question is dedicated to revealing transcendental and absolute truths, it will keep the artist and his audience attached to narrow and limiting themes for stretches of time, those cycles I was talking about up there. Then there's, what I've coined as, "The Milking It Effect". That takes us into the whole media game. How long can one artist milk the themes and ideas garnered from one album? How far can the smallest input take one whale and his/her hangers-on? The farther, the better.

As a natural progression from The Milking It Effect comes the whole selling-your-soul entrapment. The artist makes an implicit agreement that s/he will stay married to specific themes and feelings regardless of what s/he actually wants to feel or might feel in their present lives in order to deliver on a promise to the fans by, rightfully, convincingly embodying the pieces they are selling. Am I just stating the "duh" obvious? Perhaps through this repeated embodiment, s/he doesn't even have access to any semblance of present, true identity or sense of self.

Let's trace the evolution of a song. At first, it's most likely the artist dealing with a specific theme, situation, emotion in a cathartic way, creating a structure out of what may have been destruction, observation, an unknown that triggered curiosity into further exploration. Then, it becomes a mask, an identity that the artist puts on for the fans to share in. Over. and Over. and Over. All of a sudden, the artist is trapped by the paradigm because it sells. Now, s/he is nothing without this mask, this paradigm, this embodied expression of a stale situation. The soul's ability and mobility is limited (particularly during a tour) and this once-cathartic expression has now enslaved its creator, who is ruled by the senses, perhaps driven to escape the masked self by intoxicating the senses. The desire to remain relevant, appreciated, and understood is all that matters. Perhaps for more shallow 'artists', they're ruled by the $$bills y'all. But, really, no self-respecting artist is only in it for the money. They're in it to fill a space in their hearts, to share the love and feel the high off crowds of people all vibrating to the same harmony. It's powerful. It's real. No doubt about it.

The ultimate bottom line is: what vibration are you sharing? It's this ultimatum that will determine entrapment by self and other (the industry) or true social, personal and spiritual evolution -- Revolution; out of cycles that don't lead anywhere, out of this material body into a realized state of being with fuller and fuller knowledge of the big secrets behind the curtain and simpler and simpler adherence to a regulated lifestyle, to action which does not sabotage and bind. If you want to subvert, to fight from the inside, you better make sure you're well-seated inside yourself and well-versed in that 1 thing far, far beyond what is outside everyman's door.

Tat Worthy

by trulymadlydeeply On Thursday, February 21, 2013 0 comments

You get the body you have based on your desires...

by trulymadlydeeply On Wednesday, February 20, 2013 0 comments
Here's an interesting video where Prabhupada explains how the soul is eternal and changes bodies over and over.




He explains what (forgotten) "human sense" actually is - to seek the eternal body which matches our eternal soul and to stop repeating our births in this material world.

The common thread of logic is that nature facilitates your desire: if you like to eat meat, you will get a tiger's body, if you always like to sleep, you will get a bear's body, if you like to expose yourself you will get a tree body etc etc.

How? Our consciousness is directly related to the physical world and the desires the soul is conditioned to take on leave marks and impressions which will carry forward (karma), inciting birth after birth, until they are extinguished or fulfilled. You can imagine that the storehouse of desires have the potential to be limitless, and that we've all gone through millions of births.

How can one extinguish these marks, burn the seed of samskara? To start: by purifying the mind and senses. Then it's key to understand the hierarchy of power -- in an empowered being, the intellect takes its cues from the soul which is in communication with the unchanging and omnipresent Supersoul (the all-knowing God aspect present in all living beings). From there, the intellect communicates to the mind which controls the senses to obey the higher purpose and desire. In our current age, Kali Yuga, the age of quarrel and hypocrisy, it's all (all is) upside-down. The senses are in control: they say, I want this xyz, so the mind believes, yes I need to have cake, sex, meat, pleasure, alcohol, fill in the blank, to be happy, and immediately calculates how to obtain material fulfillment (because as long as the senses are in control, it's a question of the material world) without pausing to question.

As a result, the intellect is blotted out and dragged down and the individual soul desires are conditioned to obey the senses and take on sense desires, engaging in an endless cycle of chasing fleeting pleasures.

However, we can flip the script and liberate the soul from slavery to the outside. We can learn to instead listen to and feed the soul-desires which are where true (not-bound-by time or scarcity) fulfillment rests. Once we can make the choices to engage our mind and senses to tune in, we will gain the irrevocable knowledge, wisdom and control to become detached, to no longer be dependent on the externals (which will change and decay) in finding and providing happiness and fulfillment.

Some daily activities suggested for regaining control and purifying the mind and heart (so they can tune-in/hear) are: chanting the maha mantra, eating purified food known as prasadam (karma-free food), and engaging the mind in reading and understanding the transcendental science. If you're into physical modes, hatha yoga (and the various styles kundalini, Bikram, vinyasa etc.) regulates and calms the nervous system and the mind and detoxifies the organs. This modality facilitates mind-body communication and creates space for self-reflection, making the smart choices easier to understand, identify and commit to.

Feel free to email any questions or submit them here.

I'm here

by trulymadlydeeply On Tuesday, February 19, 2013 0 comments
I'm here to awaken a new relationship in body, mind, heart and spirit:

To remind. To inspire purification. To stave off hard hearts. To shine the torchlight of knowledge in all the dark corners that keep fear, delusion and inaction empowered. To welcome hearty and relevant debate. To break the norms. To question senseless and destructive habits. To elevate consciousness and keep ego to the ground, listening to the roots. To uplift the similarities which bring us together. To tear down the ignorance that keeps us pitted against one another. To hold a space for comfortable silence. To speak to the eternal part of you. To light up the individual to step into her and his role of highest good and purpose. To find the balance. To call a spade a spade. To share what's true and steady in the flow of change. To take advice and lend an ear. To praise the noble. To admit. To walk the walk down the road less traveled. To lead the way in full disclosure. To share the compass and help recalibrate yours. To outline the necessary boundaries, and transgress the ones that aren't. To hug when it's not expected. To love when it's not deserved.

I'm here to Shake. It. Up.

Where are you?

What we see we harbor

by trulymadlydeeply On Saturday, February 16, 2013 0 comments
It's dawned on my head
in an unshakable way
that what we see is what we see
because we harbor it
how'd it get there is an answer
you should look up, look into
you should take it upon yourself
to wonder
why do I believe
what I say
and think
and feel
and what about
any of those things
is actually
real?

Originally posted at MogaYoga

The Big Easy Express (Best Use of a Train this Century)

by trulymadlydeeply On Tuesday, February 12, 2013 0 comments

“It’s like we left all our baggage at home and just brought our instruments…”

“The Big Easy Express” won a G-rammy for best long form music video because they filmed a cross country tour, Cali to the Big Easy, in a dope train, in what looks to be the most intelligent and awesome-quotient-maximization use of that dope train, with a crew of musicians and down-home shin diggers harkin’ from the Great Gatsby era fueled by truth in song (and maybe some bathtub brew?)

This just hits all the right notes, y’all


"This is fucking awesome"

by trulymadlydeeply On Wednesday, January 16, 2013 0 comments


O. My. Goodness. 
It's this right here that gets the rappess/poetess/stunter/fun-hunter/covered-up hipster/absurdity huckster in me all giddy.

Just get a load of these 'lyrics'!!!!

They be like, "Oh, that Gucci - that's hella tight."
I'm like, "Yo - that's fifty dollars for a T-shirt."
Limited edition, let's do some simple addition
Fifty dollars for a T-shirt - that's just some ignorant bitch (shit)
I call that getting swindled and pimped (shit)
I call that getting tricked by a business
That shirt's hella dough
And having the same one as six other people in this club is a hella don't
Peep game, come take a look through my telescope
Trying to get girls from a brand? Then you hella won't
Then you hella won't

(Goodwill... poppin' tags... yeah!)
 


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Je suis une fille qui sais que
d'aimer trop sauve la vie. Je suis, je serai toujours, entraine d'etre sauvé pendant cette vie. Pourtant, la balance se cherche en tous que je touche. Mais pour l'amour, y aura jamais moins que tous. C'est ça, blank blank fullness

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