It’s All in the moment.

The Moment is All.

The Ever-Present, Never-Present

Moment.

Although neither my financial or romantic status at present have improved, and could just as well get worse before they get any better, my enthusiasm has returned. Not to argue, but to understand. Not to fight, but to prevail. Not so much to gain, as to be content with what I have, and how I am. Right here, right now. Face your Demons. Make them your Friends, Pets, and Lovers. Face your Sorrows and find your Solace.

Most of my life has been lived, not so much as an imposter as an actor. Not so much a hobo, as a Nomad. A college-educated Tramp. A Knight of the Road, if not the Realm.

Many of us would try to perfect Logical Rationality, while others would utilize Emotion and Feelings to control and shape their worlds. As systems, they define the behaviors of those who would manipulate them, failing to realize that either approach is simply and most basically a system of rationalizations to do whatever it is you wanted to do in the first place, which is to say, to follow one’s nature.

In the end, we all seek in one way or another to manipulate our environments to our satisfaction. Beyond that, the personae of those subjective environments are as diverse as a cabin in the woods is to a high-rise apartment in the city.
I Feel like the Last Raccoon in Central Park.

My heart and my brain are on honeymoon, dancing to the Music born of Fire by Friction between Love and Logic, Romance and Reason in a place called Dreamland.

Life is a song about a dream. If Art imitates Life, how is it possible that the Creation exceeds the Inspiration? In some ways, it frequently does. A song about being in love allows us to project our feelings using the vehicle of the song to do our own interpretive waveriding. The song only focuses our attention on what the singer wants you to experience, so it is not Love; it is a Song about Love.

Sometimes Love is a song about a Song about Love.

Happiness is a choice.

As humans, we are an enigma of self-awareness and oblivion.

Self-awareness can be unbalanced by self-consciousness.

Step away from yourself and you step closer to God. Step away from God, and eventually the emptiness and stillness that precedes the backrush of everyday life provides a moment of Clarity and Peace. In it, all is stillness and nothingness. An interlude outside of time that is shattered and consumed by the backrush…the return of Nothing Special. As we dance in Dreamland, we are all dancing The Ghost Dance.

READING INSTRUCTIONS

Since I am adding new posts a chapter at a time, and the newest post posts first, you might want to read from the bottom up.

About Tonglin

We instinctively cling to joy, and try to avoid sorrow, or anything unpleasant. In the process, we make fearful babies of ourselves. During meditation, while counting down to zero from five as they breathe in and out, many practitioners of Zen Meditation try to breathe out the Sorrow and Pain, and breathe in the Love and the Joy. This is a very good thing, but it is not the only thing. It takes the heart of a true Warrior to breathe in Sadness, Disappointment, Pain, and even Death, and breathe out Love and Joy.

 

I was introduced to Korean Zen Buddhism sometime during the Nineties by a friend and EMS associate who shared our mutual general interest in Buddhism in general and Zen in particular. One book centered upon the teachings of Tonglin practice. It is called Dropping Ashes on the Buddha. Tibetan Buddhism and Pema Chodron’s The Wisdom of No Escape were also major influences at that time.

 

In my own experience, first, I meditated about external Sorrow, the Sorrows of the World. Racism, Hatred, Ethnic Cleansing, Fear, Guilt, Shame, Greed, Envy, Jealousy, Intolerance, Malice, Ignorance, and Cruelty swarmed upon me like malevolent disembodied spirits in a haunted house. As I struggled with visions bred by both personal experience as well as news headlines, I felt like I was having my breath sucked out of me, as the really terrifying realization of how overwhelming the personal sorrow and disappointments in my life had become.

 

I had railed against the Principles and Theoretical Constructs that embodied External Sorrow, perhaps to distract myself from the nature and degree of my own personal suffering. I felt unable to acknowledge any Joy, and as I began to acknowledge the extent of my own self-doubts, it became increasingly difficult to believe or take any comfort in believing that anyone really loved me.

 

All I could do was try to focus on my love for my children. Fear overtook me again, as I realized that I was far from my own parents, who were not long for this earth. Too many years had slipped through our fingers, and a lifetime of regrets and disappointments that could never be set right were coming to an end, and I was powerless to even go visit them, as my own level of impoverishment had reached an all-time record. I thought: “I guess that’s just the way it is. Your children grow up and leave you to die alone.”

 

Depression and Despair overwhelmed me. I felt empty. I was gripped with fear of having no Love to call upon to breathe out. I did not feel any anger or hatred. I was paralyzed, like some Haitian Voodoo Zombie. I came to realize how completely my marriage was failed, and how immersed in denial I had been about it, but I could not even feel anger concerning my bitter disappointment over losing the Love of My Life. Already the Arrow had Passed Downtown.

 

I try to think of Reasons to Carry On

I can think of Nothing.

I try to Think of Ways to keep going

I come up with Nothing.

I try to Imagine Someplace Else

I can think of Nowhere.

I haven’t the strength

To even Care.

 

I had become an empty vessel, if only for a moment. What happened next can only be described by a childhood memory of the terrified fascination with which I had watched the recently released motion pictures that had been taken by the Army during the testing of the Atomic Bomb. I remembered an old clapboard two-story house. The initial shock wave destroyed the house piece by piece and blew it away as if it had never existed in the first place, even blowing away huge amounts of soil, burning everything, and fusing the sand into glass. Then, like a hurricane whose eye has passed over, the tremendous winds reversed direction with at least equal force. Those test sites were referred to by the codename Dreamland, the same name used for radio transmissions from Area 51.

 

I felt the same sort of fascination and terror as I realized that the Blast that was hitting me was the realization of my Life, as if it was returning to me. More visions and memories than I had ever dreamed possible, let alone remembered, that had been the Gestalt of my existence thus far, and glimmers of recognition of past, as well as yet unidentified experiences, more like Feelings of Empathy for strangely familiar, but previously unknown existences.

 

Next came the first shocks of realizations of all the Deepest Secret Fears that I had been suppressing for nearly fifty years. I was staring down the Great Realizations I had subconsciously avoided facing, and they were staring back. Imagine suddenly realizing that the feeling of Déjà Vu that I had believed to be a precursor of some great epiphany turned out to be a deep-seated impulse to recoil from facing those Fears.

 

It must be different for each of us, but for me it started with realizing that everything I did was impermanent, and probably inconsequential in the scheme of things, even within the next hundred years here on earth…I wondered how many worlds there were elsewhere. So many planets and suns, in so many galaxies in our known universe…even if God did not exist, it’s a miracle beyond the probabilities of pedestrian mathematics that we are here, and alive, and yet with infinite time (oxymoron) and nearly infinite opportunities, it is also inevitable that there would be life on other planets. In fact, for the estimated number of planets similar to ours in the known universe, it is quite improbable that there would not be life on other planets just by random chance. What is Life? What does it mean? What is our purpose? What is Time? From where did all that original Matter and Energy come? I questioned every activity in which I had participated in terms of why I did what I did. What was based on Assumption? On Image? Habit? Socialization? All activity of any kind was simply Passing the Time as we tried to delay the inevitable.

 

Then it came to me: Here I am, preoccupied with Death, and making Death as the World, preoccupied and hypnotized by the unexamined Life, writhes in Suffering, overcome with Desire, seeking only Pleasure…If the string is too taught, it will break…if  too loose…it will not sound. Find the Middle Path.

 

I was overwhelmed. I felt as equally indifferent to the impending Doom of all of our mortal existences as I did exhilarated in anticipation of what lies before the end of the road. My regrets only fueled my determination, having realized the incredible richness of experiences thus far. As much for the sake of my sins, as well as my salvation, I was renewed.

Prelude: (Prologue to Dreamland Dancing)

Prologue

One Man’s meat is another man’s Poison.

One Man’s ceiling is another man’s Floor.

One man’s mate is another man’s Person.

One man’s Princess is another man’s Whore.

Data is not information; information is not is not logic; logic is not truth; truth is not wisdom; wisdom is not beauty; beauty is not love; love is not music; music is not data. (Apologies to Frank Zappa.)

Introduction

 

It has been claimed that members of the crew of Christopher Columbus’ three ships were responsible for introducing Syphilis to the native and indigenous peoples of what was soon to be called The New World. It would later be called America. They would soon be called Indians, but contrary to popular myth, not because Columbus thought that he was in India, since at that time, India was referred to as Hindustan. He had, however, referred to them as “Una gente en Dios” (a people of God) because he was impressed by their profoundly spiritual nature.

 

Also, it should be noted that “Injun” is not a slang term for “Indian” but rather a phonetic corruption of a word used by the Lakota Sioux to mean Human Being. And, it was in fact a New World only to the self-centered peoples of Europe, but I digress….

 

I mention this because it is not without a certain degree of trepidation that I find myself writing this introduction. There is a high degree of certainty that many people will find themselves highly offended by any number of remarks, statements, or even casual references made within the following story. Some might even consider it Dangerous….

 

There was a time when we had a much better sense of humor about ourselves, and even giving offense was much better tolerated than it is now. Then again, like the difference between inference and implication, if those of us who find ourselves so easily offended in the first place would take responsibility for our own actions and regard the process as taking offense, then we might more easily shed this mantle of self-righteousness that is causing us to lose our sense of humor, as well as our capacity for tolerance.

 

While the United States was seriously considering the boycott of Venezuelan Oil, simply because their presidente referred to our president as “El Diablo” I realized that we were in fact in dangerous waters indeed.

 

At least at the time of this writing, there is no universal rating system for books. At least not yet, but the current state of affairs will undoubtedly get much worse before it gets any better. No one with whom I would seek rational discourse pays much attention to Religious Warnings.

 

On a certain level, I would be a little disappointed if this book was NOT banned in Boston. Regardless, I would suggest that this introduction be also considered either a warning, or disclaimer, if you will, for the thin-skinned, the narrow-minded, and the weak of heart, (and sadly) of humor.

 

Regard this writing in the same way that you would one of cable TV’s darkest, most profane, sexually provocative, and dangerously controversial episodes imaginable. This story is only for mature adults with a broad-minded sense of humor. If you believe yourself to be one of these increasingly rare individuals, then you will probably enjoy this story, but it is by no means any guarantee that you won’t still find yourself either uncomfortable, offended, abraded, or provoked at one point or another. Fritz Pearls frequently said that there is no growth without pain, and I believe that if you really are a mature, broad-minded adult, then you will have nothing to fear, because it is fear that has so empowered the manipulators of our culture who are the self-proclaimed protectors of the weak. There is no reason that a story cannot be both entertaining and culturally significant at the same time, but if all else fails, just consider it as entertainment.

 

The first drafts of this book began about seven years ago. Three years into the venture, Jeff, the protagonist, and mentor/technical advisor as regards Emergency Medical Services, as well as War Stories in general, took his life, after suffering profound depression for years. His widow no longer speaks to me.

 

Sometime thereafter I suffered a nervous breakdown, and was forced to “rely upon the Charity of friends” before I could get a grip again. All during that period of time, I wrote profusely, but very little of it was coherent enough to be of any use at all. Nonetheless, I do believe that those rantings helped me find my way back out.

 

Most of the writing (as well as the drowning) took place in real time, insofar as I often had no idea how any individual writing session would begin or end until it was already being written. That is not really as surprising as it may seem.

 

The story, i.e. The Narrative in terms of physical action is relatively straightforward. The dramatic action has a lot more twists and turns to it, but it is still on that level, largely plot-driven. As reader/viewers, it is very easy to become jaded as to how one might regard the real effects that most of those experiences would have on real people’s minds. I wanted to expose the reader to experiences and states of mind that would more easily explain how a once-normal person makes decisions that lead to choices that a normal person would probably not want to imagine, let alone choose. That has everything to do with state of mind. And because I believe that each of us can empathize with momentary states, or potentials for unhappier sorts of results, than you could have experienced yourself, I also believe that you will be drawn into just such a preposterous series of described events as easily as I was, and but by the grace of God…any of us might go.

 

 I also know that there are many of us still out there, regardless of social privilege or economic station, who still are haunted by those vagabond impulses of humor, and sexuality, like St. Elmo’s Fire, or the Aurora Borealis, just zapping from here to there like aberrant radio waves of Music You Never Heard Before but were instantly So Damn Glad That You Just Did. The Music of the Survivors. The Symphonies of the Post-Neo Dharma Bums.

 

With a decade and a half of dangerous living culminating in twenty years of EMS experiences, the picture is still incomplete without realizing how it is that of those worlds either can be alternately foreground or background to the even larger picture of One’s Own Life.

 

In my case, this represents the chronicle of my quest to discover if there really is Life after 911. Although my experiences may have been extreme, they are far from as isolated as they should be. Keep in mind, EMS providers are masters of denial, as well as disguise as regards hiding their symptoms and signs.

 

This is a story of crisis, of disappointments, of Loss, and Confusion. Huge Critical Stress Incidents overlaid on a backdrop of debilitating, Chronic Stress.

 

Out of my delirium grew a realization, an elusive and undefined feeling that somehow, I had been given a gift, even if it was only the ability to recognize the third lifeboat, in spite of the fact that I had no idea where the lifeboat would take me, or what was waiting for me there. (Reference to the drowning man who prays for God to save him, all the while turning away three rescuers while awaiting the arrival of the Almighty in Person)

 

As time passed, and situations deteriorated further, my zeal waned. Answers were replaced by questions without answers, but since all I wanted was to finish the book, I failed to recognize how that which passes for truth usually only answers improper questions that were no use at all in the first place. It had become just another story about something. I thought that the disintegration of my so-called Life had no real bearing on anything but my own misery. I did not realize that in order to find the answers I sought to my questions, I would have to open Pandora’s Box, and in the process face a Cure more debilitating than the Disease. (Anyone who has listened to, or read the potential side effects, Benefits vs. Risks, and general precautions listed for most prescription medications knows this is not as uncommon as it sounds. It just all depends on how you feel about trading Halitosis for alopecia, neutropenia and ‘certain’ (unspecified)’…sexual effects’…. Don’t worry, if those effects included hypertrophy, Priapism, or gave you the stamina of a satyr, IT WOULD SAY SO IN VERY LARGE LETTERS, IN NON-LATIN WORDS AND COST MORE MONEY THAN YOU COULD AFFORD, BECAUSE YOUR
INSURANCE WOULDN’T COVER IT.)

 

This is a story about my search for The Cure, as well as how to survive it.

 

The book was floundering in shoal waters, largely because I had at that time begun to believe that this was indeed, a dangerous book, at least to me. Inadvertently, I had asked myself questions for which I could find no answers. Although I frequently read the more comical sections of those drafts to my children, either to amuse them, or tell EMS War Stories in the great American tradition of the Tall Tale, many sections were never introduced to them at that time. I was very much concerned about the effect of the entire book upon them. I am not sure anyone less than eighteen years of age should read it. Some days I still think of it as a dangerous book.

 

In truth, there are no real dangers. Lies are dangerous. Denial is dangerous. Fear is dangerous.

My Journal

This is a prelude to posting the ms. I started at the beginning, so that I could bring you up to speed with the present.

Sunday, July 1, 2012

A long time ago, I saw a poster that read “Today is the First Day in the Rest of Your Life”. From that moment on, it changed my outlook. I felt like I was looking at the world with new eyes each day. That concept is still as true now as it was then, and it has affected how I view and govern my world. As important as it is to be open to new experience, there comes a time to rely upon your ability to orchestrate previous experiences in a meaningful and coherent manner so as to build upon those experiences, and in so doing, live as if this is both the first and the last day. Catch phrases can function as a convenience, rather than simply a cliché. To this end, I would propose to title this journal as The Next Day in the Rest of Your Life.

Neither I nor you were born yesterday. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be writing any more than you would be reading, or continent. And if were to suggest that I was re-born yesterday, (as well as today) a lot of time would end up being wasted constantly explaining that I am not trying to suggest that I either have or haven’t accepted the Lord Jesus Christ as my own personal savior. Even though Christians don’t actually own the copyright on the expression “Born Again” no one wants to have to explain what they don’t mean just to state what they do mean, so hopefully, The Next Day (in The Rest of Your Life) will have to do until I can think of something better.

I got up today thinking about inspiration, perseverance, and medication.

I feel like I have a stranger living in my head. Every day, I have to ask myself when does the pain of being alive outweigh the alternatives? At present, although I am in no real pain either physically or emotionally, I feel like I have to make a conscious choice to continue living. I feel artificially depressed and anxious, and the episodes that precipitate these feelings are not unlike being aware of an impending illness, like the flu, indigestion, or a headache. This leads me to believe that it is the result of either an imbalance, or the presence of the chemistry of my body, rather than simply a state of mind.

One of the chief complaints I suffer is indifference, apathy, and a lack of motivation toward any particular action. Ahedonism has rendered me inert and passive in spite of the fact that I also suffer anxiety from this lack of accomplishment.

Thursday, July 5^th, 2012

Matter, Energy, and Life: As much as we purport to know about these three items, the fundamental primary question remains “From where did they come?” As interesting as the theories of how matter plus energy combined to generate Life, it begs the question of the origin of the first two components. We discuss the Universe in terms of billions of years, but Man has only been around for at most, maybe a million years. Lots of time for accidents and coincidences to occur.  It boggles my mind to imagine all of this being the result of random occurrences, or even that any occurrences were somehow generated spontaneously. And the idea of a God being responsible for the creation of All simply begs the question by adding an additional step. It is so far beyond my comprehension that I am finally prepared to accept the fact that I just don’t know. To admit that I just don’t know and can’t possibly understand these questions gives me a feeling of tremendous relief, even though I can’t really let go of the question, because I still would like to know what is the meaning or purpose of our existences, or perhaps more correctly “Is there a meaning or purpose? Again, I don’t know, and don’t believe anyone else really does either. Most of my adult life was spent deciding what or whose theories I believed, but I have come upon the idea that it is all just speculation, whether it is my speculation, or someone else’s. The reason I want to know is because it might give me a clue as to what I should do, or how I should do it. I don’t know. I know what I would like to believe, and there is some validity to the notion of believing is what I make of it, and try as little as possible to base the contingencies upon following what someone else tells me that God wants me to do.

More than twenty years ago, our culture adopted the expression “Just say no.” as if it was good advice to avoid the perils of Drug Addiction. I never even considered following that dictate, and am not likely to ever adopt it, but the idea of “Just say I don’t know” seems to afford me a great deal of serenity and peace. For me, it means there are a lot less things to worry about, And I do allow myself to believe that if I am supposed to know, or really need to know, then that will happen if and when it is supposed to happen, and if I never do find out, then I can live with that.

Monday, July 9^th, 2012

In my eyes, you are the physical manifestation of the divine life that flows to us and through us. You are my Goddess. You are mine and I am yours. Whatever miracle it is that has allowed us to be here and now, our life together is my Dharma. I do not, and will not take it for granted.

When I was a child and my faith left me, I was devastated until I discovered Zen because the concept of reincarnation seemed very believable, and left met me with some kind of comfort. Zen sustained me for years. No Buddha to worship, no God to fear or try to wish into existence. Later in life, it occurred to that even to believe in reincarnation is speculative at best, and if the universe is actually finite, and destined to eventual oblivion, then I had merely postponed an eventual realization that we don’t know ANYTHING…we just don’t know…If you should kill the Buddha, to whom do you repent? This is where Life after Zen comes in….

Wednesday, July 11^th, 2012

When I think back on the past, I remember not only how good it was, but also how desperate and unsatisfied I felt at the time it was happening. In retrospect, they were the best days of my life, yet at the time I was powerless to really enjoy it while it was happening.

Friday the 13^th of July, 2012

I woke up the morning thinking about how much the chemical imbalances in my brain are affecting my state of mind, attitudes and approach to my life in general. I get up feeling anxious, depressed and generally fucked up, take my meds, drink my coffee (another self-medication), and wait for the whole stew to take effect while reclining in my chair. I feel like Frankenstein’s monster most days. How much must I go through just to be able to “be myself”? If it weren’t for my ability to intellectualize about being mentally ill, so that I can try to convince myself to maintain my former state of mind, I am sure I would have either gone so completely insane that I either hurt myself, or got permanently institutionalized. I have held onto this stubborn, almost irrational determination to fight the demons, and it is almost solely due to the fact that I keep reminding myself that my “reality” is essentially determined by chemical balances within my brain. As long as I can hold onto some notion of getting better, or at least learning to live with the whole fucking process, I guess I will be able to muddle on.

Thursday, July 19^th, 2012

I want to write like a cornered animal. I need to. I am fighting for my life. Why are we so quick to sell our dreams short for long hours at a job that sucks the life out of us? Why are we so slow to stand up and defend the things we cherish most? Our families and loved one are not things. I am talking about self-expression, in whatever form that suits us best, breathing Life into our surroundings, even our possessions, like the Sorcerer’s Apprentice so as to command the elements and tools of our lives to dance to the tune that we call.

Saturday, July 28^th, 2012

I feel sick at heart and emotionally exhausted. An hour ago, I was running errands and happy to be on task. For what? More criticism and abuse. Why? Because I don’t demand respect, or at least better treatment and appreciation or at least acknowledgement. In my own way, I program the misery of my life. I have no one to blame but myself, yet I feel powerless. I hold onto this belief that somehow, if I just find the right words, or actions to evoke or inspire the results I desire that somehow it will change; it will be different. Insanity. I am the picture of the abused spouse. What do I expect? I could never respect anyone that would let me treat them like I allow myself to be treated. Then again, I say I would never treat anyone like that, but in fact, I have. Perhaps I equate Love with weakness in either myself or others. Who gets the upper hand? Is that how it is? Top Dog/Under Dog? Even when I am hurt, I feel compassion, even sympathy for those who hurt me most. Still, I blame no one but myself. This is how I have played my part in this life for as long as I can remember. Do I possess the wisdom to change this dynamic of my life? What will take its place? More regrets? Or just different regrets? With realization comes the onus of action. What is the correct action? What do I really want? How do I get it?

 Friday, the 10^th of August, 2012:

Final Confessions and Last Rights of both Rites and Wrongs

And so he witnesses Trauma, as he heals their trauma and in so doing, suffers trauma, and also inflicts trauma, all of which affect him in different ways that are also the same; and those effects resonate among themselves, regenerating sums, and differences, as well as products of their interface, heterodynes and overtones alike. Eventually, the effects become overwhelming…a symphony of broadband noise resonating and harmonizing within itself within our beings.

Perception is the Mother of Harmonization. Recognition is the Father. Improvisation is the Dirty Cousin with secrets to share, (like the knowledge of Good and Evil…and Jazz.) Music is the Family that Plays Together.

Without humor, we are lost. Even gallows humor has a certain kind of optimism within it, since it depends entirely upon an audience to usher it into existence, as we are ushered out, so as to transform it into history and legend, if only for a moment…each of us has within us, our own audience to our solitary experience of Oneness. Alone in our unity, we find singular companionship.

Hope is what enables us to persevere, even into oblivion, fueled by curiosity, inquisitive challenge and mischief, the perverse spark that ignites the fire of everything aberrant, devious, and rebellious, provoking the Imp and the Id alike as they encircle each other like Yin and Yang in a binary covalent orgy of fallacious cunnilatio. Ambiguous, but hardly ambivalent. God is alive and sex is afoot. Always, whether we choose to ignore it or not, zapping from pillar to post, constantly discharging and recharging alike in an instant, and an eternity, all at once. Feel the spark of the current that passes between us, thereby confirming our existence, as well as our animation. Touch. Tactile, palpable sensory sentience, the galvanic awareness of both ourselves, as well as each other, thereby confirming our ontological reciprocation. The comingling of the vapors, the moistures, and the electrons between concentration gradients and differences in potentials, always in flux as fission evokes fusion. Convergence of matter yielding energy that empowers convergence of Mind. Mutually interdependent confirmation of Existence, Life, and Intelligence. The Father, the Son, and the Holy Provocateur; God and Goddess alike, We are One.

Monday, August 13^th, 2012

The act of keeping a journal is provoking me to become more analytical. There are those who would say that is not a good thing, since I am frequently accused of already analyzing everything to death. Perhaps it is better to aspire to be more thoughtful, and in so doing, more truthful and honest with myself. Fantasy is fine. Fantasy is not a lie. Self-deception is what I am trying to avoid.

Ruminating about the past is a way of attempting self-analysis, Recycling the past yields advice. Renovating the past and giving it a new coat of paint so you can sell it on e-bay is writing. Fantasizing about it is masturbation.

Wednesday, September 6^th, 2012

Home. As a child, that meant my parents’ home. As a young adult, it was wherever I slept for more than one night. After I married, it was the home of the wife of the moment. My parents’ home was my alternate home. A place to visit and reminisce, but always waiting for me. When circumstances required it, it was a place to detox, hide out, and look for a new direction, like a gangster laying low, waiting for things to cool down. As an adult guest, I became an intruder of sorts, well aware of why I had been so anxious to leave as a young man. Now it is a graveyard of better and happier days long gone. Now my children are leaving me, as I watch the cycle begin again.

To whom am I speaking when I talk to myself?

Friday, September 7^th, 2012

To whom am I speaking when I talk to myself? Who is doing the talking, and who is listening? Why does it seem necessary to formulate sentences and develop ideas if they are already known to me? Is it possible to know anything without having to lay it out, word by word like a mason building a brick wall? If there is such a thing as complete, spontaneous knowledge of entire thoughts or concepts I want to know it. I am tired of being my own hod carrier.

The internal chattering of my mind is ceaseless. Sometimes it is quiet, reserved and thoughtful, like an angel whispering in my ear. At other times it is more like a Balinese Monkey-Chant, or Baraka Kecak. I have noticed that even when I “speak” silently in my head, I catch myself compulsively forming the lip or tongue movements of plosive syllables, or labiodental affricatives almost unconsciously, as if they were a part of the thought process. In any case, I think that all thought is essentially a conversation in my head, which brings me back to the question Who is the speaker, and Who is the listener?

I have come to the point of speculating that our Minds are the place where the Souls of those who occupy them reside, like renters in a house. Some of them are here for the duration, while others are either invited or uninvited guests. Our quest for evolution may be the union of those souls with each other, or perhaps a union with the One. If neither matter nor energy can be neither created nor destroyed, then that thing we call Life, as energy is eternal. I recently read that it is possible for a dying star to collapse with such force that it re-creates itself as a star again. Matter and energy can be changed in form. We have already learned to divide matter to release tremendous energy, and have even momentarily combined matter to release so much energy that it cannot be maintained or contained for more than a few milliseconds. The energy we call the Life force is minute, but focused, and has a self-directed purpose. Eventually, once the house becomes beyond repair, the Soul(s) move(s) out, and move(s) on to its’ next residence. If we could just remember those comings and goings, then we would know what it is to realize eternal Life. Our egos desire to seek continuity, yet many of us are aware of the presence of more than one Soul within us. If it is possible to maintain a Consortium of those souls as they move on to the next “Life as We Know it”, then an evolution of sentience and continuity of Spirit would be possible, and might well explain how some are so brilliantly focused, while others appear so dim, or conflicted.

Saturday, September 8^th, 2012

The first time I dropped acid it occurred to me that a day in one’s life was a lifetime in miniature. Imagine being able to look back on your previous lifetimes as if they were days…not only to see the errors of your ways, but to recognize that essential paradox, or dilemma that undoubtedly haunts each of  us, like an unanswered riddle, as we continue to repeat our mistakes, even in the act of trying to correct them. I doubt that we really understand whatever it is that is the essential dilemma of each of our lives. We can change our occupations, our philosophies, a priori assumptions, locations, friends and modus operandi, but without the ability to observe ourselves from outside of ourselves, we are just doing the same things over and over, just differently.

Friday, September 21st, 2012

The long lapses between entries attest to the low ebb at which I have been subsisting. This morning, I ventured back into Prana-Yang (Pranayama, Prana/Yang/white, and Ppana/yin/black), and hopefully, into Tantric.

I have neglected my sources, my methods and my outlets for far too long, owing, ironically to fatigue and exhaustion. You cannot drink forever from a well that has no spring to feed it.

Once again, Today is the Next Day in the Rest of My Life. And now we begin again. John Cage. Indeterminacy. The Snake that bites its own tail (or tale). The Uroboros, or the Ouroboros; say or spell it as you will, they are the same snake.

Saturday, September 22^nd, 2012

Although I can only be what I am, the particular series of individuals I see before myself is most intriguing, in terms of some of the more perverse manifestations of my self, as interpreted by myself.

Thursday, September 27^th, 2012

This morning, I awoke hearing the song Don’t Answer Me, by Alan Parsons, from the album Ammonia Street. (It was playing in my head.) I almost always hear music in my head, like an earworm, whether I am awake or asleep. The songs I hear when I am starting to wake up are usually the most significant, sometimes surprising so. They reunite me with past influences, which is to say a former state of mind. My Native American heritage provokes me to see it as an omen, or sign. Do my dreams tell me what I do not see or hear or understand when I am preoccupied with the hypnotic comings and goings of everyday life? Dreams allow me the opportunity to change the song, the background music of the film of my life. Last week, I awoke one day hearing Midnight Mood by Wes Montgomery, from the album Tequila. An artifact from the past, I played this wistful melody almost every night for nearly a year as I did candle flame meditation. It was my freshman year in college, and I was very much in love with a future ex-wife named Jaynee. It reunited me with a former state of mind from back then, reminding me of who I used to be.

Yesterday, I woke up to Imagination, from (Willie Wonka) done as an electric guitar solo that my son played for me from U-Tube. It was done in the Rock Idiom, and hauntingly beautiful. It helped shape my mood that day. It was a reminder, not of the past, but of how I would like my life to be now.

This Music from Dreamland sets the stage for my once-only performance in a series of one-act plays called The Daily Dharma Drama. Although I am the writer, director, central lead character, and worst critic, I never know how it will end, but the music always tells me how it will start.

Monday, October 1^st, 2012

I awoke this morning feeling gratitude. My preoccupation with depression due to chemical imbalances has led me down a path of selfishness. I was adrift in high seas in a leaking lifeboat that I was trying to bail out with a china hat. I have been focused on my lack of achievements, failed aspirations, and eventual demise and unfulfilled hopes. Considering how much I had wallowed in the moment without regard for any real or imagined destination, the time had come for my wake-up call. It has been a painful journey of some three years. It was a necessarily sad phase of my development. Although I had learned to face my sorrows and mandatory unpleasantness, rather than run from them, I had become overwhelmed. Today, the balance returned, not because of any sudden change in my overall state of affairs, but rather because I allowed myself to acknowledge that compared to a multitude of possible alternatives, I may just be a much luckier and more fortunate individual than I realized. Not perfect, or wealthy, and certainly not satisfied, but then again, who of us ever reaches the point where we feel “This is enough. My grasp now equals my reach. I have nothing yet unrealized; nothing to add or subtract.” ?

Maybe one day I will…but not today. I have a job I resent and despise because it frustrates me, yet does not challenge me or utilize my best talents that I would be very distressed to lose at this point in my life. It has also given me great inspiration to start my next novel because it has expanded my understanding of the human condition, and will serve as the backdrop for a much larger story that I need to tell, and it is time to prepare myself to face with new eyes.

Tuesday, October 2nd, 2012

It just occurred to me that although it is well-recognized that the Old Testament portrayed an Angry, Jealous, Wrathful God filled with Vengeance who demanded Animal Sacrifice and groveling Worship, whereas the New Testament which fostered forgiveness, tolerance, filial love, brotherhood, and the Beatitudes, has spawned the modern manifestations of Christianity which have heralded the eclipse of the Father Godhead by his Son, who is increasingly being portrayed as judgmental, wrathful, and intolerant, demanding groveling worship and Human Sacrifice. Can you say uroborus?

Interestingly enough, in trying to describe the repetitive,  cyclical nature of our theological attempts to order our universe, I felt compelled to do a little more research on the Uroborus (the snake that bites its own tail) to discover  references to a theory of how energy becomes mass. Suddenly, I found myself led back to one of my own preoccupations of continuity and unity. And now we begin again. Indeterminacy.

Tuesday, October 09th, 2012:

We think of Zen as being timeless, but as a result we focus on the ancient aspects of it. If that was all there was to it, then we should simply regard it as ancient, and in the process, kill it. In order to even describe Zen, we refer to timeless Koans that have been transmitted from generation to generation. They are ancient, but until you read or hear them, they do not exist, and once they have entered your mind, and touched your soul, they are new. Our culture is overwhelmingly obtrusive, which can be very distracting. This distraction that is created almost always is done for the purpose of marketing. Koans in their inscrutable, timeless mystery distract us from the cacophony of the rape and pillage of commercialism as it kidnaps one soul after another, and in so doing they displace our a priori assumptions long enough to nurture the Ever-Questioning Mind.

It is convenient that they are now public domain, but unless we present them in the context of Modern Life, their use would be merely derivative, and we might as well have our heads turned permanently facing backward. The Past is but a fleeting memory like the light from a distant star one thousand light years from its observer, which is already old news, even as we perceive it. (Parenthetically, the Present Moment does not exist at all as it is merely a theoretical concept of an occurrence that instantly becomes the past as soon as it occurs, stuck in limbo between the Past and Future, that only occupies a Virtual space between the two.) The Future is an anticipation of what hasn’t happened yet. If you believe in Fate or Predestination, you are therefore unaccountable for your actions, since they would preclude having any relevance to your eventual outcome, which is already predetermined and fixed. If you believe in free will, the Future is merely an anticipation that could as easily be an oasis as a mirage.

Regardless, if you let yourself become hypnotized in anticipation, the non-existent ever-present never Present Moment will have passed unnoticed, even though it is all we ever really have.

Koans are a vehicle that transports knowledge. True Wisdom is not transmitted. It is acquired. If I could transmit meaning just by repeating a Koan, there would be no need to tell this story, but the Koans themselves are not the story. They are, however, a useful vehicle to provide a modern context to a story that might well be incomprehensible without the frame of reference they provide.They are small stories within a series of larger stories. It is up to you to make the connections.

About the book

This is a novel about Life, Death, Murder and Smuggling in the Air Ambulance Industry. Zen; Sex, and Drugs and Rock and Roll in EMS. Is there Life after 911?

Dreamland Dancing is the title of my latest novel

I found WordPost while I was researching Balinese Monkey Chants, or Baraka Kecak.

I am considering offering a free single-use copy of Dreamland Dancing in return for the favor of reviewing it. Let me know if you are interested….

More will follow soon.

Tanks