In The Now

So is this religion?
No.
A new attempt at surreal posts from different worlds and odd, out-of-world-ideas that somehow make people think of nasty coitus?
No.
Then what is it?
About being in the now, walking around with no scars- physical or mental-and knowing there is something of a light of joy in satiated numbness and to be a mere spectator.

Curious?
Please be.

After ages of walking in the darkness, you finally reached the light of dharma…
And I cried. Tears deluging years of hatred, craving and depreciated life and pulling me into its arms. Who knew I had it in me? That someday Karma would turn around and love me for my efforts of following, or attempting? The ink stains of misery evanescence along with over-exaggerated and shallow happiness and I am left with a feeling.
To rush into arms of the joyous and run out screaming for those looking for light.

This is just an attempt to help spread knowledge of Vipassana. So fragile, so tender, it was lost in meaningless rituals and condemnation of the pragmatic and confused. Something the Buddha spread and something three words called ‘ism’ almost crushed to a religion.

It’s for you, you and you. The one who is one step away from living inside a plastic joy-toy, the one who has been roaming streets with hallucinations and fears of not reaching middle spread and the one whose screams but no one hears. And all those in search of a shore.

Believe me, its not easy-the pain, the agony; everything you are is on the surface and 10 days in complete silence-not just speech but actions-living in rooms that crowd in like your fears. Oh but the joy, the joy of independence, of looking at the night and then the day and smiling with true detachment and the growing knowledge of impermanence.

To believe something by intellect is easy, but to feel it, that is Vipassana.

I hope each one of you benefits from this. 10 days of complete excommunication from your respective lives-abnormal or worldly-and determination is all that is asked. Each one who does read this post must visit this site.

http://www.dhamma.org/

Mail me even if you feel a little interest in what I talk about.

godmother_on_tequila@yahoo.com

Again, Dhamma is for everyone, do try it.

PANTIES AND PERCEPTIONS

The flower- eye catching in its hollow green cushion-lay still, its bright-red head drooping in indifference to its beauty and its reedy, yellow tongue sticking out, mocking itself along with the others watching it.

The walls close in and form a cage of sorts. A concrete 7 feet by 11 feet cocoon that went berserk. And along with the other tinier but more significant walls, cups in the smells of its captive- an ashen grey smell that sometimes unjustly sours to that of tobacco smoke. A smell of late night lights burning out without permission; of books torn apart that can be adeptly stuck back to perfection and of sacrilege - virgin white panties being chopped to imitate the Miscellaneous.

Don’t get me wrong; I despise whites and pinks; unyielding sensibilities are exasperating. ‘How can you be so adamant?’ I asked one and she (I assume it is a she) just lay there, rather cool in my discomfort. Off you go, chop, chop, chop and she was gone, rough cloth to my grey paint.

Sometimes its sweat-an acute fear of Prospects Black that rises from innocent scribbling on wasted English textbooks to melt into ‘inexplicable’ raucous tears. A sense of careening. A sense of purity and a sense of the fast approaching invalidity of soul.

Iris Murdoch sucks.

She watched it with intense curiosity, a pain of injustice filling her. She plucked it and threw it into the flowing sewage.

SIX DAY TEMPTATIONS.

Where do I begin?

The blue ocean moves all around me, pregnant with puny, translucent shells, pulling at my ankle as it sucks the sand from under me. The underplayed urgency is alluring-enticing-as the yellow sun pisses on my neck leaving a brown aftermath. Singing in the sunshine, laughing in the rain… Oo Yeah!

The terrace is low and white with cheap plaster. The sky is clear blue turning grey turning orange. The voices are close, pulling at my hair, my five sizes too big t-shirt and howling in joy.
-You’ll fall; you’ll faaall.
Oh, you wish.

I look down at the bar. The abstract symbols signifying the motorcycle and the hundred grams were still recognizable in the wobbling pool of cerveza. Those representing hard work and discipline however have defeated the surface tension that held them together and merged to become another soggy spillage on the bar top. I shrugged and smeared my future across the uneven surface. I was always like this on Friday afternoons.

Or, at the very end probably?

The balloon man stands alone on the station under a tree. The tiny balloons are full of puss and blood and wobble as he walks. All evenly brown under the urinating summer sun. His hands are extended asking for sympathy, the one white peace of cloth around his loins hiding little of his ostracized balloon body.

On the upper berth of the choo-choo train, watching the green leaves and the blue water from under glasses, I feel protected, saved for another day, thrown out of turmoil into stifling peace with a practiced and well-worn hand of solitude.

I am the boy,
That can enjoy,
Invisibility.

Many thanks to Chris Haslam of the ‘Twelve Step Fandango’ and the momentarily under-appreciated ‘Ulysses’ by James Joyce.