Get Out Of The Materialism Trap NOWDo you own things or do things own you?Channel: http://youtube.com/erinjanusMailing List: http://www.erinjanus.infoTwitter: http://twitter.com/erinjanus
Posted by Erin Janus on Sunday, April 3, 2016
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It's funny when you come across random writing you quickly composed months ago, thinking not much of it, and are like "huh, that ain't too bad"
Maybe I'm a silly idealist, but in my heart, I know that this is the realest.
For Tomorrow from Kriyate on Vimeo.
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I planted the creeper of love
And silently watered it with my tears
Now it has grown and overspread my dwelling
You offered me a cup of poison
Which I drank with joy.
- Mirabai
And silently watered it with my tears
Now it has grown and overspread my dwelling
You offered me a cup of poison
Which I drank with joy.
- Mirabai
Saul Williams... have loved his poetry-in-sound since I first got a taste in 2004. Classy and classic - a pure mix of goodness - rhymes, beats, instruments, feeling. Consummate artistE. There's a message, an emotion, a connection in his work that satisfies because it's not about self-aggrandizement or pandering. Nor is it simply a new twist on the least common denominator. He's an ORIGINAL. Elevates the game!
Anyway, I hadn't heard much from him lately and came across this most recent interview. It's so refreshing to watch and hear someone speak who is clearly thinking and thinking clearly before words come out of his mouth. Articulate, intelligent, cuts to the heart. Plus his voice is fresh!
Be inspired:
EDITED TO ADD SO GOOD:
For writers/thinkers/artists ;)
Anyway, I hadn't heard much from him lately and came across this most recent interview. It's so refreshing to watch and hear someone speak who is clearly thinking and thinking clearly before words come out of his mouth. Articulate, intelligent, cuts to the heart. Plus his voice is fresh!
Be inspired:
EDITED TO ADD SO GOOD:
For writers/thinkers/artists ;)
In this world of reversed order, where contradiction, quarrel, and hypocrisy abound, we must each take it upon ourselves to go deeper. We must each step forward with strength sourced in faith that there is something, there must be something better -- for ourselves, for each other. We must each hold the magnifying glass up to our personal habits and face the music, asking: is my way of life sustainable, truthful, inspired, joy-inducing? And we must do this every. Single. Day.
Go deeper.
This process must not be avoided for fear of difficulty, boredom or failure. Indeed, once engaged with, this process can only liberate the chains of unconscious habits and relationships, dis-ease. It can but lift us higher and higher, while rooting us deeper and deeper. It may require the abandonment of toxic people, places and practices but there’s no shortage of health and true happiness to replace those things.
Go deeper.
This process of examination and honest aspiration is the natural way of life, and as we are faced with so many unnatural manipulations of mind, body, Earth, community — it is the only way to evolve, even as entropy beats down the door of life.
With each day, reclaim the vow to examine and apply change with an eye towards purification, harmony, tolerance, and love — the kind of love that seeks to serve and appreciate.
Purify. Appreciate. Serve.
Repeat.
Go deeper.
Examine your eating habits; not with a vain eye, seeking to obtain (to then flaunt) a so-called perfect body, but with a holistic mind, seeking to address the source, sanctity and sustainability of our body-fuel.
Go deeper in your self-care. Have you been going on unconsciously? Swept up in the day-to-day survival and frenzy of providing, sheltering, caring for others? Or worse, selfishly indulging in temporary pleasures that are undoubtedly wreaking havoc on your organs, vitality, wherewithal and happiness?
Go deeper.
Insist on time for personal reflection, prayer, meditation and education. Our minds should be serving us. The mind is a terrible master. We should hesitate to fall prey to the wandering, speculation, back-talk of the mind, following it into trap after trap, dead end after dead end.
Go deeper.
When you do meditate, pray, reflect, intend; seek the cause of all causes and communicate there. Insist on an honest inspection, a consistent conversation. When the mind wants to take you to easy, hurtful, untruthful BS: stick to your guns and come back to the mantra, breath, heart. GO DEEPER.
Go deeper.
Tolerate the intolerable; the external situations that seem to have been imposed upon you, the why me? Say thank you, look for the lane to get up and get out and go deeper. Give respect to all others, and, here’s the clincher: EXPECT NONE FOR YOURSELF.
These are age-old, time-tested directives. Grab em and go deeper.
Stare fear in the face and be generous. Generous with kind thoughts, generous with kind words, generous with kind actions. Seek to compliment on something other than surface. While a “cute shoes” is kind, a “I really appreciate you in my life” helps the system in a deeper way. Try it.
This is not one and done. This is day in and day out. There is no limit to the bank of kindness.
Go deeper.
We can see the alternatives around us everywhere. It’s no longer acceptable to go on unconsciously, accepting darkness as light and light as darkness. We can’t ignore the need to go deeper, live smarter, be better; not in some vain way to impress or attract followers but in the fullest way, to clean up the pollution of so much wasted life lived in selfishness and fear.
Go deeper.
Money. How do you earn it?
Time. How do you spend it?
Sex. How do you give it?
Be selective.
Educate yourself in the macro and micro. Get to know yourself inside and get to know the truth outside. The subjective and the Absolute — harmonize them. Let them also stand side by side, simultaneously one and different. Accept you cannot understand it All. Accept that there is something greater than you. Then serve it.
Go deeper.
Abandon false prophets, false idols, false traditions; be wary of flash (as shiny, cool or nonchalant as it may dress itself up to be) and be impeccable in your search for knowledge and truth — when you seek it, the real deal will make its way to you, and you to it. Then — yep, you guessed it:
Go deeper.
Revolutionize your experience of fun. Reject the artificial. You probably know it, as it’s the status quo, and it takes so much tiresome effort and ego. Instead, embrace a permaculture solution i.e.; something that feeds the system it comes from.
Align yourself with an eternal identity.
You are not your body, gender, race, nationality, political party. The only way to true equality is to recognize and identify with the unifying force underneath all the masks. We are, each one of us, spirit soul: sparks of consciousness, bliss, eternality and truth. Let’s drop the labels and see the soul in each being; each human, each animal, each precious plant. If it’s born, grows, decays and dies -- behind it lies a spirit soul.
To see with this vision is truly revolutionary. Adopt it, share it and… go deeper.
Please join me in this pledge. I need you. The world needs you. The Real YOU needs you.
Let's go deeper.
In the midst of an immersive time
here and now, I feel the call to come and spill, a little something I've picked up along the way, this way that's been stretching on for years,
what's so special about this day?
Well, nothing
And yet,
Everything...
I miss writing
I miss it
And yet I won't do it.
Well here I am
stealing a little time from the stolen
to just do it.
A simple call...
Mostly, I miss that emotion
pouring through finger tips that makes you want to go go go and say it with words
like a swift river current, electrifying my body
setting fire to my mind and all the little shells and stones its collected to string together when some decorating is due
I wish I could share everything I've been taking in with you
Like a magnifying glass, the expression back illuminates when the taste is shared
and when it lands.
We're all in a band, old familiar friends
just looking for the bass to your drum to my guitar
to your cymbals to His keys
the key to harmony
is taking stock,
look how much we've hoarded and consumed
how clear is your palette?
there's no undo
on that computer of your mind
so be a little selective
of what goes inside
and whatever it may be,
may it match the tune of your heart
so your whole life
is a symphony in step,
a wonderful outstretched hand
offering gifts no man can't understand
here and now, I feel the call to come and spill, a little something I've picked up along the way, this way that's been stretching on for years,
what's so special about this day?
Well, nothing
And yet,
Everything...
I miss writing
I miss it
And yet I won't do it.
Well here I am
stealing a little time from the stolen
to just do it.
A simple call...
Mostly, I miss that emotion
pouring through finger tips that makes you want to go go go and say it with words
like a swift river current, electrifying my body
setting fire to my mind and all the little shells and stones its collected to string together when some decorating is due
I wish I could share everything I've been taking in with you
Like a magnifying glass, the expression back illuminates when the taste is shared
and when it lands.
We're all in a band, old familiar friends
just looking for the bass to your drum to my guitar
to your cymbals to His keys
the key to harmony
is taking stock,
look how much we've hoarded and consumed
how clear is your palette?
there's no undo
on that computer of your mind
so be a little selective
of what goes inside
and whatever it may be,
may it match the tune of your heart
so your whole life
is a symphony in step,
a wonderful outstretched hand
offering gifts no man can't understand
Life is a mystery. So is chemistry. We want what we can't have, what's often diametrically opposed to us. Tension is good but we want peace, we have it all within but figuring it out isn't the point. Walk the razor's edge, the tight rope and see...
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If you have everything minus one, you really have nothing.
It only takes one
To make everything truly whole.
But we're still seeking that everything -1
One glance,
One step,
One clap, clap, clap
One wish
One love
Is all it takes
It only takes one
To make everything truly whole.
But we're still seeking that everything -1
One glance,
One step,
One clap, clap, clap
One wish
One love
Is all it takes
Someone to have complete faith in
But who's not to be trusted
and it's ok -- let me tell you why, how....
This weekend. Went away, off the grid. Read books, ate meals with other people, all the time, where we actually spoke; no phones, no distractions. Walked in the wilderness, saw fluffy white deer tails swishing back and forth as they scampered up hillsides upon hearing our steps, our voices. Marveled at the weather, skipped class, bonded. Broke into an abandoned cabin from the 1800s where someone special to all of us used to live and work, serve, and inspire from afar; where he built up a catalog of stories and experiences, austerities and hardships that would inform so much wisdom and sweetness. For us, yet unbeknownst to him, for a future of wisdom and sweetness. Walked through rusted old gates up a long paved brick drive, now engulfed by rich and vibrant moss, its majesty robbed by nature's insistence to grow around, through and over man's hubris. We covered our mouths and noses with scarves we barely needed because it was in the 60's in December. Because the jewel at the end of the brick road was a condemned house, the ceiling plummeting towards the ground, decaying insulation suspended behind plastic, on a precipice menacingly pressing towards gravity as we tiptoed around, so as not to disturb, and towards, through to the door at the other end of the room which was leading, leading, leading to the past, still alive in some places -- in the color of the stained glass, in the detail of the hand-made inlay, the gold and silver, the cloudy mirrors, and clouds painted over a blue-sky dome. A jewel box forgotten and falling apart. You could still feel the grace and import of the space. It hung thick in the cool, damp air. Haunted but bittersweet. All the work of building and painting and paving and staining was done by those with hearts of faith and hands that insisted, paged through books to figure it all out -- how to make that faith into something you can see, touch, taste. And then the altar, a ghostly remanent robbed of that Someone who inspired it all. The One we can have complete faith in, but can never trust. The tides of time turned and trust was... reframed, rehoused...
We wound back out and down, made it to a sun-soaked gazebo far off from these never lands of decades past, to sit around an elder, he'd been there too; gentle and still. He contained so much depth I can't yet comprehend... We sat, waited, absorbed the silence and let his calm and good demeanor inform this thing called life, happening live in technicolor before us. He spoke. Deliberate, meandering. And through the stories and memories, revealed that this gift and burden we all carry can't be trusted. We're dependent, totally vulnerable to the twists and turns, surprises and slights of hand moved by the Source of it all, unfolding a Master Plan we have little (but very little) part in determining.
When I was young I used to tape pages from my favorite fairy tales to the window, over which I'd lay a blank sheet. And I'd trace, imitating the seeming perfection of the original, so that I could have a taste of perfectly satisfying creation. As adults, we're tracing. Drawing our master plans based on what's already here... already perfect. But God is tricky, capable of anything and everything to drag us, lift us, push us, pull us to where we need to go, into who we're meant to be. Our heart's deepest desires, they will be fulfilled. But if we knew in advance how we'd have to get there, what we'd have to go through, we might not insist as much. Even for those who know this truth, there's a blind-side crafted... And so this elder, saying just enough and not too much, revealed his realization that we can and should have full faith in that Ultimate, but not for a minute trust that He doesn't have something up His sleeve; the perfect dose for turning things around -- or upside down, just as we need.
But who's not to be trusted
and it's ok -- let me tell you why, how....
This weekend. Went away, off the grid. Read books, ate meals with other people, all the time, where we actually spoke; no phones, no distractions. Walked in the wilderness, saw fluffy white deer tails swishing back and forth as they scampered up hillsides upon hearing our steps, our voices. Marveled at the weather, skipped class, bonded. Broke into an abandoned cabin from the 1800s where someone special to all of us used to live and work, serve, and inspire from afar; where he built up a catalog of stories and experiences, austerities and hardships that would inform so much wisdom and sweetness. For us, yet unbeknownst to him, for a future of wisdom and sweetness. Walked through rusted old gates up a long paved brick drive, now engulfed by rich and vibrant moss, its majesty robbed by nature's insistence to grow around, through and over man's hubris. We covered our mouths and noses with scarves we barely needed because it was in the 60's in December. Because the jewel at the end of the brick road was a condemned house, the ceiling plummeting towards the ground, decaying insulation suspended behind plastic, on a precipice menacingly pressing towards gravity as we tiptoed around, so as not to disturb, and towards, through to the door at the other end of the room which was leading, leading, leading to the past, still alive in some places -- in the color of the stained glass, in the detail of the hand-made inlay, the gold and silver, the cloudy mirrors, and clouds painted over a blue-sky dome. A jewel box forgotten and falling apart. You could still feel the grace and import of the space. It hung thick in the cool, damp air. Haunted but bittersweet. All the work of building and painting and paving and staining was done by those with hearts of faith and hands that insisted, paged through books to figure it all out -- how to make that faith into something you can see, touch, taste. And then the altar, a ghostly remanent robbed of that Someone who inspired it all. The One we can have complete faith in, but can never trust. The tides of time turned and trust was... reframed, rehoused...
We wound back out and down, made it to a sun-soaked gazebo far off from these never lands of decades past, to sit around an elder, he'd been there too; gentle and still. He contained so much depth I can't yet comprehend... We sat, waited, absorbed the silence and let his calm and good demeanor inform this thing called life, happening live in technicolor before us. He spoke. Deliberate, meandering. And through the stories and memories, revealed that this gift and burden we all carry can't be trusted. We're dependent, totally vulnerable to the twists and turns, surprises and slights of hand moved by the Source of it all, unfolding a Master Plan we have little (but very little) part in determining.
When I was young I used to tape pages from my favorite fairy tales to the window, over which I'd lay a blank sheet. And I'd trace, imitating the seeming perfection of the original, so that I could have a taste of perfectly satisfying creation. As adults, we're tracing. Drawing our master plans based on what's already here... already perfect. But God is tricky, capable of anything and everything to drag us, lift us, push us, pull us to where we need to go, into who we're meant to be. Our heart's deepest desires, they will be fulfilled. But if we knew in advance how we'd have to get there, what we'd have to go through, we might not insist as much. Even for those who know this truth, there's a blind-side crafted... And so this elder, saying just enough and not too much, revealed his realization that we can and should have full faith in that Ultimate, but not for a minute trust that He doesn't have something up His sleeve; the perfect dose for turning things around -- or upside down, just as we need.
It was a long week with a long, intense Sunday capping off the action. No rest for the... thinking, doing, loving. I want to turn my brain off but it's still making lists in different places (like my dad and his collection of post it notes strewn about his desk) of projects to be tackled, visions to be colored in and sketched out, dreams to be shaken, not stirred.
I have two unfinished posts, one about Paris which I was working on before the attacks. Now it seems uncouth and... well, deflated. I feel deflated. But I refuse to give in. Yet.
Tonight, though, I honed in on a little notion. The power of allowing. Allowing things to be as they are. Approaching work with this in heart and hand, remembering the magic of doing without claiming, of allowing without directing, controlling, commenting.
And exhale ::::::::::
Wishing you a peaceful week of productivity through loving allowance. No judgement needed, no wrestling with reality. Just being.
Love,
A
I have two unfinished posts, one about Paris which I was working on before the attacks. Now it seems uncouth and... well, deflated. I feel deflated. But I refuse to give in. Yet.
Tonight, though, I honed in on a little notion. The power of allowing. Allowing things to be as they are. Approaching work with this in heart and hand, remembering the magic of doing without claiming, of allowing without directing, controlling, commenting.
And exhale ::::::::::
Wishing you a peaceful week of productivity through loving allowance. No judgement needed, no wrestling with reality. Just being.
Love,
A
An unfinished life stared us in the face
Back of a glittering cafe
Record player crackled over the plates
I'm in the booth awaiting my fate
Where I sat so many years ago
Waiting on a ghost to show
That I wasn't in it all alone
Dig me out of my soul
The sadness, missing life at home
Those friends let go
A new life I wasn't quite ready for
Two jumps up and out
End of week I'm laying flat on my back and the tears
Running faster than I can
Put the keep up down
Let the rest crowd around
Meteors, dates with fame and family in danger
I'm hiding from the worst in my dreams
Chased out of my comfort zone I can barely breathe
Don't you know those tidal waves won't quit me
Back of a glittering cafe
Record player crackled over the plates
I'm in the booth awaiting my fate
Where I sat so many years ago
Waiting on a ghost to show
That I wasn't in it all alone
Dig me out of my soul
The sadness, missing life at home
Those friends let go
A new life I wasn't quite ready for
Two jumps up and out
End of week I'm laying flat on my back and the tears
Running faster than I can
Put the keep up down
Let the rest crowd around
Meteors, dates with fame and family in danger
I'm hiding from the worst in my dreams
Chased out of my comfort zone I can barely breathe
Don't you know those tidal waves won't quit me
My dear,
Please don't let me forget about you in the midst of all these material negotiations. Day in and day out, they pull at me; in all directions my mind is called to attend, to engage, to show strength and courage.
Did you know that you are my courage, you are my strength, my inspiration? You didn't ask for it, as far as I know, but then again, I know so little...
My mind is a tricky piece of work, always seeking to maintain a wondrous image at the front lines of shifting truths, setting stars, changing leaves. It is a wonder, isn't it?
My dear, without your presence, my life becomes rather mundane. The thoughts again become enamoured with the shiny flashes, the subtle jockeying for some unreal position and, I'm embarasssd to say, that Love which once electrified my every intention seems to disappear. How easily we forget, when we forget each being is... Can be... My dear.
I must admit I've wondered if you're indeed even necessary, I've wondered: why don't I just find it on my own, remember the spark and work from there? But then I try and... something's missing. I come back time and again, to the ashes of what once was, and my heart begins to flutter from beneath the rubble, remembering that it's all about relationship. Of course it is.
But oh, how I've been conditioned! out of relationship and into selfishness. Always adjusting for my own wellbeing... It's quite a bore after a while, isn't it? Changing outfits like a rabid animal changes character.
So that is why I humbly beg, don't let me forget about you as I wander like a madwoman through this material world. Be the eyes in the back of my head, looking out for you, for me, for the love of God.
So I write this with the hopes of reconciliation, in as many ways as there are days. With the hopes of rememberance.
For the good of all that is good.
Yours truly,
Alexandra
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When you hear something special
A play on words that tumbles off the tongue
When you find the group and place
That leaves FOMO in the dust
Quick!
Hold it, hug em, not hard to
Feed it
You'll stay
And it will stay with you
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did you know
the capacity for love
in your heart, a hollow drum,
can stretch on and on
one ocean into another
filling endless beats
the guacamole of love
is always free
this video, these people, this culture, these names, this sound
"The chorus alludes to the famous prayer of historic saint, Queen Kunti, who prayed that her attraction be ever drawn to the Lord, as a river forever flows to the sea."
"The chorus alludes to the famous prayer of historic saint, Queen Kunti, who prayed that her attraction be ever drawn to the Lord, as a river forever flows to the sea."
"Like a River is the title track from the debut album of Jahnavi Harrison, 'Like a River to the Sea', released on July 24th 2015.
The track features a refrain from the Govinda Damodara Stotram by medieval saint-poet, Srila Bilvamangala Thakur and is a meditation on protecting sacred environments internally and externally.
The film features the landscape and people that live alongside the holy Yamuna River. After years of constant protest and petitioning, as of March 2015, the Indian Government has promised to make drastic changes to divert industrial waste and sewage, and restore the purity of the water."
wanting all things
all lives
to experience the happiness you experience for your self (especially when you're a cookie-jarrin selfish scrub),
what a selfless sweetness
embracing each soul you pass with eyes of ears of listening of receiving
all parts witnessed by the third high eye, third eye high
how you gonna recover from your original sin
one nation of bodies rising from
the double edged swords of our words
when not aligned with love
a double-edged cup of pouring to receive
which side's best?
oh give they say but how can I give what I don't get
get?
get?
it's not for getting,
why do you always want to get?
yes YOU?
and you and you and you and every karmically bound fool
and
yes
me, too, oh me too
IT,
it's for having
awakening
to the reality
that you are loved
no holes to fill
and the ones that are left lost
empty in the dross
well those my friend,
you don't have to want
all lives
to experience the happiness you experience for your self (especially when you're a cookie-jarrin selfish scrub),
what a selfless sweetness
embracing each soul you pass with eyes of ears of listening of receiving
all parts witnessed by the third high eye, third eye high
how you gonna recover from your original sin
one nation of bodies rising from
the double edged swords of our words
when not aligned with love
a double-edged cup of pouring to receive
which side's best?
oh give they say but how can I give what I don't get
get?
get?
it's not for getting,
why do you always want to get?
yes YOU?
and you and you and you and every karmically bound fool
and
yes
me, too, oh me too
IT,
it's for having
awakening
to the reality
that you are loved
no holes to fill
and the ones that are left lost
empty in the dross
well those my friend,
you don't have to want
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After some time, time between reflection and expression, back to reflection, your realizations may seem sophomoric. A little sheepish, you shrink into the shadows to quietly contemplate in private.
Or if, by the grace of deep seeking, you've been put in touch with sources that satisfy, you come into periods of consumption, contemplation, testing... Less apt to extend out and share, spell out, pledge allegiance, you simmer in the practice of what was initially simply declaration.
I've always sought to share in the spirit of timelessness, or if not, at least in jest; which is a sort of get-out-of-jail-free card.
And the brevity of poetry (and dang twitter brain) satisfies the desire for expression with a lightness of open-ended meaning. You don't have to invest...
But what does that do,
to push progress?
Eh.
I'm stirring the pot, hoping to pull out some things worth sharing again.
It's been a bit too long...
Or if, by the grace of deep seeking, you've been put in touch with sources that satisfy, you come into periods of consumption, contemplation, testing... Less apt to extend out and share, spell out, pledge allegiance, you simmer in the practice of what was initially simply declaration.
I've always sought to share in the spirit of timelessness, or if not, at least in jest; which is a sort of get-out-of-jail-free card.
And the brevity of poetry (and dang twitter brain) satisfies the desire for expression with a lightness of open-ended meaning. You don't have to invest...
But what does that do,
to push progress?
Eh.
I'm stirring the pot, hoping to pull out some things worth sharing again.
It's been a bit too long...
Can't wait for him to blow up and make more cool shi::::::
New old soul, where You be,
can You bring me up the mountain, flow Me down a river
release my whole being from this body, deliver?
while still on Earth, still turned on by breath
O but will You imagine with Me the possibilities
beyond our telescopic lens?
Birth the words of time immemorial by Your speech;
That it's not just all about you and me
Tell me the real real good stories;
Subconscious shared memories
Can You take it to the place before this mask
Open as I found my Self at the lowest?
But unalone
and rising
The substance behind the noise, playing to the melody in perfect timing
Can you dig it?
Can you take Her hand?
and dance, dance, dance
run, let Her heart lead the way
Lead you back home to You
at the end of these days
can You bring me up the mountain, flow Me down a river
release my whole being from this body, deliver?
while still on Earth, still turned on by breath
O but will You imagine with Me the possibilities
beyond our telescopic lens?
Birth the words of time immemorial by Your speech;
That it's not just all about you and me
Tell me the real real good stories;
Subconscious shared memories
Can You take it to the place before this mask
Open as I found my Self at the lowest?
But unalone
and rising
The substance behind the noise, playing to the melody in perfect timing
Can you dig it?
Can you take Her hand?
and dance, dance, dance
run, let Her heart lead the way
Lead you back home to You
at the end of these days
ALove Supreme
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HAMLET: Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue. But if you mouth it, as many of our players do, I had as lief the town crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air too much with your hand, thus, by use all gently, for in the very torrent, tempest, and (as I may say) whirlwind of your passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance that may give it smoothness. O, it offends me to the soul to hear a robustious periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings, who for the most part are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb shows and noise. I would have such a fellow whipped for o'erdoing Termagant. It out-herods Herod. Pray you avoid it. Be not too tame neither, but let your own discretion be your tutor. Suit the action to the word, the word to the action, with this special observance, that you o'erstep not the modesty of nature. For anything so overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was and is, to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to nature, to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure. Now this overdone, or come tardy off, though it make the unskillful laugh, cannot but make the judicious grieve, the censure of the which one must in your allowance o'erweigh a whole theatre of others. O, there be players that I have seen play, and heard others praise, and that highly (not to speak profanely), that neither having th' accent of Christians, nor the gait of Christian, pagan, nor man, have so strutted and bellowed that I have thought some of Nature's journeymen had made men, and not made them well, they imitated humanity so abominably. Reform it altogether! And let those that play your clowns speak no more than is set down for them, for there be of them that will themselves laugh, to set on some quantity of barren spectators to laugh too, though in the mean time some necessary question of the play be then to be considered. That's villainous and shows a most pitiful ambition in the fool that uses it. Go make you ready.
This doesn't just exist within the corporate realm, although that environment creates the perfect hermetic seal needed to divorce consciousness from truth, the heart from essential nature, from love, from the present. This can happen to anyone: artists, mothers, models, athletes, politicians, doctors. It can and does happen when we as humans, with all the best of intentions, are driven by the fruit of our labor, by the appearance and eventual (momentary) possession of ideals; ideals painted by the mind instead of heard by the heart. This can happen when we place material at the center of our lives, and place ourselves at the center of the world, seeking to serve the rabid and undying hunger of the scared dog, the defensive dog, the dog all about survival. There is another choice. Feed the dog within that gives, feed the dog that loves, the one that seeks to understand instead of control, the one that seeks to serve instead of being served.
The central tenant of wisdom traditions is the antidote. It is this: do your work, but, give the fruits to Me. Work not with the intent for self-satisfaction, but with the understanding that when we work to give and love, our minds can live in ease and truly taste the joy at the heart of life.
Wake up from this nightmare:
The central tenant of wisdom traditions is the antidote. It is this: do your work, but, give the fruits to Me. Work not with the intent for self-satisfaction, but with the understanding that when we work to give and love, our minds can live in ease and truly taste the joy at the heart of life.
Wake up from this nightmare:
First of all, I want to say something I didn't precisely voice this video: God is Love. That is all. Enjoy!
*also, some of my examples are really...basic. anyway, you get the jist!
This is the album that will deliver it:
The Formalism of the Formless or, Old Age is Wasted on the Dying
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Monday, December 29, 2014
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Life teaches you how to let go
With each betrayal and each fall
Another brick stacks around that feeling,
There goes another wall
And life teaches you how to test
After being tested, failing countless times
You learn the art of questions
Avoiding giving answers,
Seeking them, your law
From whomever holds up their end through each round
Watching: will they sustain the long haul?
Can they make it through a layer..
Or four
?
Time seems impossible as a child, like a horizon stretching out forever
Bestowing each circumstance with the permanence of
Boundless joy or terror
As you learn its flexibility, by some newly blurry sight
It starts to fly by fiercely,
Passing in the night
And by the time you're ready,
To accept its ebbs and flow,
Here's a breakaway set on your step
That takes you with its call
With each betrayal and each fall
Another brick stacks around that feeling,
There goes another wall
And life teaches you how to test
After being tested, failing countless times
You learn the art of questions
Avoiding giving answers,
Seeking them, your law
From whomever holds up their end through each round
Watching: will they sustain the long haul?
Can they make it through a layer..
Or four
?
Time seems impossible as a child, like a horizon stretching out forever
Bestowing each circumstance with the permanence of
Boundless joy or terror
As you learn its flexibility, by some newly blurry sight
It starts to fly by fiercely,
Passing in the night
And by the time you're ready,
To accept its ebbs and flow,
Here's a breakaway set on your step
That takes you with its call
It's easy when the stakes are low.
And terrible when there are so many expectations, so many, be they real or imagined, people depending on you
Not always, doesn't have to be..
It's enough to have a family
But what about raising the vibration(s)?
This film Frequencies got me thinking so clearly about what it really is to strike a clear note, perfect pitch. Effective and impact-full living. It means sacrificing humanity, machine-like in the execution of duty, of a life that goes according to plan and grandly effortless.. On the higher end of the spectrum
And those that struggle, perhaps of a more frenetic or out-of-tune vibration, can live with empathy and compassion, with the boundless ability to love and take others in, showing that inner space, messy and embarrassing as it may be.
Taking down the pressure
Mounting the integrity-backed action
Just Do It
It's more important to be connected up to your own process. You know the sweet spot, what it feels like, how you get there. For some it means meticulous organization, for others it means diving right in to a stanza or scene that is full of meaning and importance and building around it. Same with getting dressed. Some need a whole look. Others can riff off a scarf or pair of pants or great boot. Just as nature has limitless variety so does the human expression.
This was just a little blowing steam train of thought, I want to ride em more.
And terrible when there are so many expectations, so many, be they real or imagined, people depending on you
Not always, doesn't have to be..
It's enough to have a family
But what about raising the vibration(s)?
This film Frequencies got me thinking so clearly about what it really is to strike a clear note, perfect pitch. Effective and impact-full living. It means sacrificing humanity, machine-like in the execution of duty, of a life that goes according to plan and grandly effortless.. On the higher end of the spectrum
And those that struggle, perhaps of a more frenetic or out-of-tune vibration, can live with empathy and compassion, with the boundless ability to love and take others in, showing that inner space, messy and embarrassing as it may be.
Taking down the pressure
Mounting the integrity-backed action
Just Do It
It's more important to be connected up to your own process. You know the sweet spot, what it feels like, how you get there. For some it means meticulous organization, for others it means diving right in to a stanza or scene that is full of meaning and importance and building around it. Same with getting dressed. Some need a whole look. Others can riff off a scarf or pair of pants or great boot. Just as nature has limitless variety so does the human expression.
This was just a little blowing steam train of thought, I want to ride em more.
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Love is funny. It's definitely work, it takes work to keep engaged, or rather, to keep the negative space engaging you. In an uplifting way, moreover. You know what I mean? The gap, the blank, the breath of air between the living colors of memories; the outline that defines the space.
Dysfunction is when that negative space is, well, actually negative. Filled with the silent treatment, passive aggressiveness, wandering motives, plotting for wholly selfish fulfillment.
Healthy negative space is stimulating. It creates that fondness, it's the right amount of fodder for yearning, for the height of loving feelings, the kind that can only exist in separation.
Like a baby who comes crashing down, and is about to wail, that breath of silence before the flurry, in it we are delivered to fully face pain, and through it, to come to the experience of love, it serves as a journey of development. From one point to another, the mind, body, soul has space and time to piece together, to become conscientious, to become ready for the next bout of fullness and the presence that it requires.
If it hasn't changed you, was it love?
Dysfunction is when that negative space is, well, actually negative. Filled with the silent treatment, passive aggressiveness, wandering motives, plotting for wholly selfish fulfillment.
Healthy negative space is stimulating. It creates that fondness, it's the right amount of fodder for yearning, for the height of loving feelings, the kind that can only exist in separation.
Like a baby who comes crashing down, and is about to wail, that breath of silence before the flurry, in it we are delivered to fully face pain, and through it, to come to the experience of love, it serves as a journey of development. From one point to another, the mind, body, soul has space and time to piece together, to become conscientious, to become ready for the next bout of fullness and the presence that it requires.
If it hasn't changed you, was it love?
Here I am the epitome of cliché
sitting in an East Village bohème-chic café
belly full of Momofuku and tongue acrid with the burnt bean of artist's dreams
cramped in a tight corner, lap top on my lap because that's where it was made to be, and comfort compromised with not a thought about it
not when we know what we want, are rapt in the process of manifesting.
Warm; good because it's grey-slap-your-cheeks cold out there,
and fiery on my insides, burning with a hunger to create and unleash
suppression might not be healthy
But here I am, battling back after months of attack,
approaching the writer who must be shrunk away in some corner,
cowering like a neglected child in a dark basement,
terrible but true [thanks SVU]
maybe some drama-inducing duct-tape strapped over her mouth
or hands bound to a chair of her own carving, cobbling
little toothpicks digging into her skin, mouths cleaned out of all meaning
Anyway, begging this writer to make herself heard again.
God damn day jobs.
What are they good for, really?
Ah roof, ah meal, ah some sense of stupid security
To hell with it
wait, wait -- let's not put the book before the horse
and anyway, some astrologer once told me something that's twisted my mind away from print publishing, personally
My mystic moon movements take to these nuances and believe... mind over matter but come now, does it matter if I don't mind?
I am the dreamer of the dream
Being dreamed by a dream beyond my wildest dreams,
Lord all mighty why won't you show yourself to me?
I really wanna see you, really wanna be with you
:: sorry, (not sorry) music break ::
Where was I?
Maybe it was the two days of sitting in an apartment, banging my brains against my skull against a desk working on the stuff of nightmares.
A kind of boring I cannot tolerate
machine I am not
So why do we do it to ourselves?
the narrative builds?
Well, stepped out and took a walk and the words started writing themselves on the clicks of suede boot heel (judge a wo &/or man by his shoes, don't be shy, you know it kinda matters) against the path to said cafe where I was, honest to God, planning to continue my brain-banging work
but you know what? TGIF
Thank God it's fuckday.
Approaching the muse with the seed of an idea, it's all you need
and some bravery to let it roll, to trust the thought to unfold you more and more and more --
Just some nice ornamentation to bring us to the head
crescendo
A build
just like in bed
just like in the movies,
songs
...takes some time to learn the flow
or maybe you're a straight-up animal and you already know, know you know, that is
If you only knew how much magic --
the level of magic that happens when you create, express, publish, ship.
It's crazy, I don't know if this is some Pavlovian conditioning
but --
this silly little white box - to-be-blog -
It excites me like no other. The ability to hit publish and call the magic forth
My potions are in thought and word
Some other people, like Rene Redzepi, find it in nature, in the alchemy of tongue and imagination.
What an inspiration,
Genius cannot be less than freakish sensitivity and deep, deep, desire, excitement, sourced within and aimed out at the world like a divinely-inspired fire hose of "can I show you how I see it?"
sitting in an East Village bohème-chic café
belly full of Momofuku and tongue acrid with the burnt bean of artist's dreams
cramped in a tight corner, lap top on my lap because that's where it was made to be, and comfort compromised with not a thought about it
not when we know what we want, are rapt in the process of manifesting.
Warm; good because it's grey-slap-your-cheeks cold out there,
and fiery on my insides, burning with a hunger to create and unleash
suppression might not be healthy
But here I am, battling back after months of attack,
approaching the writer who must be shrunk away in some corner,
cowering like a neglected child in a dark basement,
terrible but true [thanks SVU]
maybe some drama-inducing duct-tape strapped over her mouth
or hands bound to a chair of her own carving, cobbling
little toothpicks digging into her skin, mouths cleaned out of all meaning
Anyway, begging this writer to make herself heard again.
God damn day jobs.
What are they good for, really?
Ah roof, ah meal, ah some sense of stupid security
To hell with it
wait, wait -- let's not put the book before the horse
and anyway, some astrologer once told me something that's twisted my mind away from print publishing, personally
My mystic moon movements take to these nuances and believe... mind over matter but come now, does it matter if I don't mind?
I am the dreamer of the dream
Being dreamed by a dream beyond my wildest dreams,
Lord all mighty why won't you show yourself to me?
I really wanna see you, really wanna be with you
:: sorry, (not sorry) music break ::
Where was I?
Maybe it was the two days of sitting in an apartment, banging my brains against my skull against a desk working on the stuff of nightmares.
A kind of boring I cannot tolerate
machine I am not
So why do we do it to ourselves?
the narrative builds?
Well, stepped out and took a walk and the words started writing themselves on the clicks of suede boot heel (judge a wo &/or man by his shoes, don't be shy, you know it kinda matters) against the path to said cafe where I was, honest to God, planning to continue my brain-banging work
but you know what? TGIF
Thank God it's fuckday.
Approaching the muse with the seed of an idea, it's all you need
and some bravery to let it roll, to trust the thought to unfold you more and more and more --
Just some nice ornamentation to bring us to the head
crescendo
A build
just like in bed
just like in the movies,
songs
...takes some time to learn the flow
or maybe you're a straight-up animal and you already know, know you know, that is
If you only knew how much magic --
the level of magic that happens when you create, express, publish, ship.
It's crazy, I don't know if this is some Pavlovian conditioning
but --
this silly little white box - to-be-blog -
It excites me like no other. The ability to hit publish and call the magic forth
My potions are in thought and word
Some other people, like Rene Redzepi, find it in nature, in the alchemy of tongue and imagination.
What an inspiration,
Genius cannot be less than freakish sensitivity and deep, deep, desire, excitement, sourced within and aimed out at the world like a divinely-inspired fire hose of "can I show you how I see it?"
Putting out the flames of delusion
I'm like a man desperate for some flesh after being locked away for some misdemeanor crime.
I'm like a housewife who imagined the wrong dream and got what she wanted, hanging over empty trivialities, knocking over and over with the hopes that what she needs but doesn't know of answers.
Fuck the shiny manicures, leather bags and walk-in closets, toss aside the bottle of 4pm Pinot Greej and empty bed, heart, head
Time to come home to your baby and get what you've been missing so long
And then it shows up on your door, virtually, unexpected and the riptide sweeps you off your feet and you say hell yes, I'm letting go
And you run away
Run on the words
Run on the grass
on the fragrances and subtle and smack of it in your face, slammed into the surf,
blood coursing better than the little games you make up to play,
Pulling your clothes off the shelf, a bag you don't even think you'll need, getting its fill of the past, just as security, a memento so you know just where you're coming from
though some part of you can see, through the crack, the opening of rage-in-action,
you can see the future holds all you'll need, and the present is broad and spacious enough to let you not give a --
I'm like a man desperate for some flesh after being locked away for some misdemeanor crime.
I'm like a housewife who imagined the wrong dream and got what she wanted, hanging over empty trivialities, knocking over and over with the hopes that what she needs but doesn't know of answers.
Fuck the shiny manicures, leather bags and walk-in closets, toss aside the bottle of 4pm Pinot Greej and empty bed, heart, head
Time to come home to your baby and get what you've been missing so long
And then it shows up on your door, virtually, unexpected and the riptide sweeps you off your feet and you say hell yes, I'm letting go
And you run away
Run on the words
Run on the grass
on the fragrances and subtle and smack of it in your face, slammed into the surf,
blood coursing better than the little games you make up to play,
Pulling your clothes off the shelf, a bag you don't even think you'll need, getting its fill of the past, just as security, a memento so you know just where you're coming from
though some part of you can see, through the crack, the opening of rage-in-action,
you can see the future holds all you'll need, and the present is broad and spacious enough to let you not give a --
"They trespassed upon my thoughts. They were intruders whose knowledge of life was to me an irritating pretense, because I felt so sure they could not possibly know the things I knew. Their bearing, which was simply the bearing of commonplace individuals going about their business in the assurance of perfect safety, was offensive to me like the outrageous flauntings of folly in the face of a danger it is unable to comprehend. I had no particular desire to enlighten them, but I had some difficulty in restraining myself from laughing in their faces, so full of stupid importance."
