Sunday, June 14, 2009

To Sin Again

Libation to the earth, via the body, digested beverage. Pour through the mouth, down the throat and out through the bladder. Chemicals to soften and enliven the brain, to dissolve dark clouds, to enhance connection with sight and sound, I don’t know where else to turn, except to open windows to clear away fog and rank odor. Make offerings to the uptight, closed down, rigid mind, fluids to render the mind flexible and ready to leave the mind-created prison behind in order to enter the vast world.
Sin. Take a photo of the vodka bottle and put the word sin on the label. Add religion as a mix, sin and religion, add a little piss and blood, you have a perfect cocktail to blow the mind, should you wish to put your burden down and be free of the fearful illusions passed down from one generation to the next.
Just don’t ever be arrogant. Arrogance is the enemy. Arrogance, a false sense of self-importance, a feeling of power, big-time Charlie, strutting around until somebody knocks him down. Arrogant people get knocked down. Arrogant teacher receives punches in the face. He can press charges against a little girl who hit him. He might win with his arrogance, but he reveals his true character in the process. Ultimately, nobody is fooled, except the person trying to fool others. He’s fooled into thinking he could fool others.
Sacred smell, sound, smell, art, smell of cheap perfumed deodorant, sound of the camera shutter, art of the visual field and the challenge of monkey ego, dancing around like dust motes in sunbeams, desperate for attention. Well then, for goodness sake, give it attention and then maybe it will be satisfied and go away. But if you deny attention, it will become increasingly belligerent and insistent. It will use every trick in the book to get your attention.
Nobody is special. Get over it. It’s so infantile to sink into despair when you realize that reality is not like mama’s big tit, ready for you to suck on whenever you feel the itch. It’s so pathetic when guys realize that the tit is not readily available and so they become bitter, filled with despair and rage, all because they failed to realize that mama has a life of her own and can’t always make the nipple available.
I’m grateful to madmen for helping me understand this. Maybe there’s a little bit of infant in every man. In the romantic tradition, the picturesque romantic poet and playwrite calls to mama as he dies. I’m not inventing this. It’s a true story. In the book of the dead, a more enlightened spin: mother and child luminosity unite at the moment of death, to the person who cultivated mindfulness or awareness. For the person who spent a lifetime running after illusions, lost in discursiveness, reacting to various urges and itches, without reflection, without learning from mistakes, and there’s nothing more sad and pathetic than a man or woman who is unable to learn from mistakes, such a person, at the moment of death, blacks out. There’s nothing to recognize when dying, after spending a lifetime of ignoring. How could you recognize that which you ignored?
Drink sacred fluids from grandmother’s body, before it’s too late. Did it ever occur to you that you’re alive right now and that you don’t have to believe everything you were taught?
Such truths become evident when the rug is pulled out from under me, when things fall apart. I lost my job, my home, am forced to pack everything into boxes, load the suitcase, catch a plane and fly off into the great unknown. Something may happen, you never know what.

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