Alternative Culture Blog

Computer Crash

2012-02-08T22:13:00.000-08:00

It's a tale asold as the computer age: hard disk failure, no backup. Inthis case, the "crash" was literal, and traumatic. Osnat,navigating the narrow space between window, desk, chair and bed afterclosing the curtains, tripped on the tangled computer cords at herfeet, and sent my sleek black plastic Vaio careening onto the floor,cracking the corner of the screen and more seriously, impacting thelower corner, the area encasing the hard drive.

At first it seemed okay, screen still displaying as usual. I didn'ttry any further testing as we were just headed out the door todinner. Conversation with our neighbor there touched on thenear-catastrophe and moved on to world tensions - "What if thewhole Internet went down in an instant with a cyberattack on themagnetic shield?" - as well as our addictive tendencies thesedays with computer and Internet and related technologies. I feltchastised by the tenor of our collective judgement yet smug to havedodged that bullet for now.

Back at the room I discovered that programs wouldn't load; I tried areboot. A telltale clicking sound advertised trouble in the vicinityof the hard drive, and the opening screen stalled with the wishfulstatement, "Starting Windows..." For good measure I gavethe plastic housing a few more whacks with my hand, hoping to rattleback into place whatever had come loose, but now the result was farworse: simple white letters on a dark screen, like what you would geton the first time-sharing terminals I cut my computer teeth on backin 1968. The simple script announced, "Cannot find operatingsystem."

I grieved. Hung my head, retreated into a cocoon,stared off into space. Tried to keep from blaming Osnat; blamedmyself, the karma of vulnerability. Computer just four months old, Ihad spent a month in September installing programs and organizingdata; spent irreplaceable weeks revising a novel; maintained all theaccounts for my editing business. I had already felt antsy over therequired idleness of this JanuaryAyurvedictreatment regime we’d embarked on, in the quiet green hills ofKerala.Had looked forward, at least, insome consolation, to working our way through the dozens of videostransferred from Fabian in Tiru,and downloading more to watch - even some select TV shows! Maybe thatwas the fatal attraction... Or was it a karmic virus inherited fromFabian, who himself had lost the bulk of his inventory on a zappedhard drive, just the day before offering us our remaining selectionfrom his secondary drives?

Whatever.Now I was up the creek in Kerala. Would I simply sit idle and uselessin the rice fields - here andinBali - until returning to my backup computer in summer?

Osnat tried the consolation-of-philosophy angle, to relieve my“suffering” and probably too her own guilt in the matter.She made the obvious diagnosis: I was too attached and self-identified,anyway, and this should serve as a fruitful karmic lesson.

True enough, I had to acknowledge, since only minutes before themishap, Dr. Ravi had sat on this very floor observing that I lookedout of balance, which I was, since all day I had fumed about my lackof productivity, creativity and efficiency here at the ashram,scratching patches of minutes together over the space of anafternoon, to manage a little over an hour of billed editing time -between lunch, fruit snack, conversations, research for places tostay on our way to Trivandrum, gathering information for our visaapplication in Singapore, checking email and Facebook postings, andon and on. In truth, I was both too attached and too undisciplined atthe same time – the last, a condition not only of poor timemanagement, but also reflected in the loss of hardware and dataitself: too careless with the tangled cords in the corner, tooneglectful of the need to back up essential data.

In the sleepless night following this “lower-self” traumaI realized how many attachments of self I have already released inthe past nine months before this strange still-birthing of a deadcomputer into karmic manifestation. Coffee, marijuana, all myfavorite foods, friends and family, musicbands and students, my homes in Victoria and Maui, half mysummer in BC, my swims in the ocean, my long walksin nature,baseball, my perfect car, mygood music speakers, my drums,daily news researchand postings, editing of musicjams and videos... all abandoned for life on the move, for a healthier body anddiet, for a loving relationship, for openness and discovery itself,in that spiritual hothouse of southeast India, Tiruvannamalai.If the trickster mountain Arunachala had taught me anything,it was to keep letting go of any expectations and identities ... andto keep letting go.

Still I latched on to the promise of stretches of time coming up inthe spring, time to focus on writing and editing again, in Bali whileOsnat goes to classes. Having given up all these lesser identities,preoccupations, pastimes, addictions, childish and egoic pursuits, Istill harbored this ever-unfulfilled ambition to write, to focus, toretreat, to hole up in my hideway in the ricefields, just me and mymanuscripts, nothing left but what I have my whole life considered"the real work." Nothing left, in other words, but the seatof the ego, the sacred head.

Now with one swift stroke the goddess Kali has come with her terriblesword to cut it off.

A nightmarish night past, the day unfolded with positive movement inmany directions to restore order, hope and functionality. I firstdetermined that the computer warranty does not cover accidentaldamage. Fair enough – I moved on, following Dr. Ravi’sadvice to look in Cochin for expert repair help. With the help ofOsnat’s still-functional MacBook Air, I searched onlineand found a Sonyrepair shop that could at least take a look and try to repair thehard drive or recover data during the three days of our transitionfrom here to Trivandrum for the departure from India. Now it becameclear why we had delayed booking our intended stay at Allepey in thebackwaters; instead we booked a hotelin Cochin, from where we could still venture out on ashort backwater trip while the hard drive was repaired or replaced.

I had been careful only to back up a few necessary documents on myAndroid phone, and at first these failed to transfer to the Mac viaBluetooth, but the USB option proved successful. The most importantdocument, containing passwords to online accounts, still needed MSWord, however, to solve its password protection. Would I have to buyand download a replacement to install on the Mac? Open Office, a freeWord clone, came to the rescue.

All of this progress on the practical plane, to restore thefunctionality of my computerized life, if not the hardware itself.There are usually, it seems, workarounds. Google came throughbig-time with its synchronization of my Chrome bookmarks, so that myvirtual life online remains intact via Chrome, on the Mac. Thequestion remains, in the hoary words of Dylan/Hendrix, how much isany of it worth? Yes, I will have to work more hours to cover theneedless expenses of repair; to restore programs and settings; torecreate spreadsheets and novel revisions from scratch. But I won’tbe spending all those hours watching those lost videos and TV shows.And either way, what is the value of time, itself, except in theliving? On the inside.

Reduced to my core identity asa writer/editor, and even that threatened by the loss of familiarmaterial capability (hardware, software, data, access), I had to experience that dark one-night of the soul, with Osnat rubbing in the spiritual salt. While aware of the higher justice of her perspective, Iremained stuck in my emotional loops of feeling lost and disoriented,an addict without fix. Does “back in the saddle” now resolve thisdeeper metaphysical condition, of self-relianceon particular identity, role, activity, success? On mysacred trinity of Productive, Creative, Efficient? On my fundamentalmarriage to countable, fillable, executable Time?

Here I am, on the morning of my virtual renaissance, Mac-reborn,spending my precious free hour before breakfast while Osnat is intreatment, scoping out the options on OpenOffice, and clacking awayat the old keys.

So I continue, now as ever, with this identity, this version of “realwork” intact: the roving word, the rogue journalist, wearingthe self-proclaimed hat of the writer, ever resilient... likemy mother a smart-aleck to the end, with the TV on; or my father withfigurative drink in hand. This is my chosen or given self,the way I accept for my true meditation, what I can offer to myselfand the world, for what greater purpose I cannot know or care toomuch, but to give, to sacrifice, to offer again; to breathe whiledoing so, to let the thoughts pass by and let them go; to watch andwitness and hold and shape and let pass by; to savor in gratitude andto share for whatever use they may have for others, or whateverbeauty and grace they may convey; for that is our gift in thisparadoxical paradise we have co-created, to dance in beauty andgrace, before and after the challenges and obstacles thrown up asexercises in digestion and transformation; to dance in beauty andgrace.

Whereis this motion, but in the running fingers of time passing, letter byletter? Where is the notion that all is well or doomed, when thesweet middle steers a sure course effortless, flaming inward in opensplendor?

Only to offer, to be available,to invite the sudden flurry of birdwings by the face with eyesclosed, then open to the swaying flowers, the silentsun.

Followup post: Doing and Not-Doing

Encountering the Self

2011-11-29T07:01:00.001-08:00

Sunday, November 27, 2011
Tiruvannamalai

Arriving at Manna Cafe to play on Saturday night, with one sandal held together by string. It fell apart in the road on the way there, and at dinner at the Olive Tree I asked for something to hold it together; Megan from Invermere came up with a piece of string just the right length. Now today, down to one pair of flip-flops, I'm glad to be free of the rotten Teva's, the leather deteriorating by the day in the road slop. Last week I got the guy at the chai shop to do a street-side repair job, but now, a week later, I'm just glad to move on, lighter. My toes also are better off exposed to the air, following the previous night's outing to Manna (when our band was supposed to play, except the rain was too heavy and the other musicians were sick) and I came in from the outhouse with bare toes itching from what I thought was an ant bite, but was skin split from fungus, athlete's foot, incubated in days of humidity and rain. Saturday too on arriving they told me that Suryaneel was sick but I said I'd seen him earlier that day for rehearsal, and the rain had subsided, so I sat and waited and he did show up, a little bit late, with an eight-year-old Indian boy, Danesh, with him to play tambour. Our debut set gathered a small but appreciative crowd, gracious for our tunes mostly improvised together, complete with an impromptu African piece I led on the darabuka, and a sketchy group om-along.

Today my toes are healing well; the rain has let up enough to get clothes dried on the rooftop, and I'm over the mild but lingering sickness of the past week, for the first time. Another good kirtan set this morning at Upahar's, playing with Oleg again, also recovered from sickness, and Suryaneel, arriving late, and a djembe player who kept his head down and played too loud. Still Suryaneel's flute rose above it all, clearing a pure space of still meditation and full emptiness. This morning was rough, with mosquitoes buzzing the bed an hour before dawn, and even after I rigged up the mosquito net, finding ways in to prevent me from ever falling back asleep. At least the nights have been cooler of late, and I'm glad to sleep under the heavy sheet and Tibetan blanket, with all the windows closed. Still the cows start bellowing early and continue through the day whenever I start to nap, so I forget that and just brew another cup of coffee. The Internet worked fine today after the guy had to change all my settings which had been reconfigured too many times at other locations. I went to buy toilet paper, bottled water and samberli incense for mosquitoes, at Bubu's market; he was 100 rupies short on change and told me to come back for it another time. In the evening I walked with Osnat on the main road, with little traffic before the masses arrive for the holiday, and realized a new pleasure, an unhurried pace, lightness in my step.

India is India

2011-11-15T07:25:00.001-08:00

India is India. India doesn’t care what you think of her. India doesn’t care if you come or go, how many ages in past or future. India remains. India is home, and you know this even if it makes your stomach squirm on first arriving. And your stomach will squirm, even if you are careful what you put into your mouth. The dust, the dirt, the grime, the noise, the chaos of the streets will get you, even if you come believing you are above all that. The cows eating garbage in the streets, the crazy trucks with carnival paint and bling-bling blaring Bollywood dub pop mania with horns in orchestral disarray … even on the mountain, the sacred mountain Arunachala you hear their chorus tuning, bleating, blaring below, in the dusty town that stretches from one field to another without end, without beginning.

In Ramana’s cave, the stillness is profound. The chorus of horns in the town below the mountain fades away, also the drip in the close-by spring, and thoughts subside into emptiness. Appreciating the sweetness, I do consider the perfect air, temperature and humidity controlled for the body to have no need. Perfect merger with earth, air, body, the fire stilled, the water quiet, the town removed.Ramana had no desire for an ashram to be built in his name, for worshippers to come prostrating themselves on the marble floor, the garlanded throne, even for those few devotees to save him with food from starvation when he first arrived, content with bliss alone of being, no need.

You said you would not return, could not bear it, felt so relieved to arrive in Thailand even, the pungent streets of Bangkok, calling that home by contrast. You said you were done with the crazy cities, the impossible trains, the buses without shocks or brakes, the decrepit bicycles and oxcarts in the roadways lined with rubble, the same as Kathmandu, as Conakry, as Iquitos, only worse. Apocalypse not only now but forever, this misery you must face and accept, for this is your body, our body, our human earth, our waste and destruction, and kindness in coming back for more, among the beggars, beggars, beggars, this is after all where we all are headed, our once-sleek North American cities, our Eurozone of comfort and cleanliness, when the public funding runs dry into the pockets of the filthy rich, we come back to India, to Guinea, to Brazil and Peru, to El Salvador and Greece in the meek stones, Jaipur and Varanassi, Mumbai, Chennai, Malawi.

In the room awaiting Shivashakti, the diminutive woman in orange sari who appears daily at ten, for fifteen minutes of silence in front of a few dozen sitting in meditation, I sense an intelligence around me, awake and aware, reminding me of its presence here as elsewhere, in Peru for instance, in the ceremonial yurt; or Maui, in Daryl’s truck by Little Beach, when I glimpsed that entity again in grace of crystal clarity ... In that moment she appears, gliding into the room to take a seat in front of the crowd. Her gaze, quiet and slow, scans the room, face by face, eyes by eyes, making contact, acknowledging and confirming the presence of that awake, aware intelligence which is not personal to her, nor to me or anyone else in the room, but pervasive in existence itself. A smiling and all-embracing gaze that says, Yes, welcome, we are one.” Like Guillermo the curandero, like Famoudou the djembefola, she rises and glides again through the room, her small stature and absolute silence no impediment to the mastery of her powers, which is only to be a vehicle, a channel, an embodiment of the infinite.

The orchestra is tuning up, its mode both classic and pastoral, heavy metal and pop, psychedelic and spiritual all rolled into one, on the dusty street past the temple, the swept dirt in the ashram, where all the seekers come and go, mute and prostrate, before this or that saint, looking for someone to lead the way out of themselves and ignoring the message to look within, to rest and stop the search, right now. The cafes are full of us, or half-empty, depending on the season, and India doesn’t care. There is an enigmatic head nod that lets us come or go, or stay a while longer, offering a small coin of contribution to the passing of the age, and we compare our experience, our temporary lodgings, our stomach disorders, our revelations in the cave before the relics of the saint.
Home we go again to tell our stories and post our blogs, upload our pictures and pay visits to our specialists of intestinal disorders, entering the rat race once again, even if for the last time, while India remains. India is India, and in the dusty street the beggar still waits, the shopkeeper still does a middling trade, the heavy truck rumbles past blaring its Bollywood bop, and the auto-rickshaw careens around a cow eating cardboard. Somehow in the midst of this madness, watching India be India, in the midst of India being India, we catch a glimpse of a pearl of truth, how to be oneself.

In bed at the end of the day, with the morning spent in kirtan and the afternoon at the Internet café, I rest in semidarkness with vision clear and still. The pounding drums of the night before are gone, yielding to tinny radio from the farmhouse below. The darkness allows fleeting images, lights and colors, brief enough only to suggest that there is more to this stillness than meets the eye and ear.

At dawn the barnyard stirs to life, water running, cows lowing, a man coughing, and at first my reaction is resentment: we have to move, this isn’t working, what kind of home is this? In a little while the mountain gathers light, and the sounds subside. A feeling of peace and contentment returns, deeper than before. There is no need, really, to go anywhere. Home is home.

video footage: traditional Dalit drum and dance from Tamil Nadu, South India

Bail is beautiful

2011-10-30T20:19:00.000-07:00

Bali is beautiful, and to say so risks swamping the beauty with tourists from everywhere, drawn already in the hullabaloo from Eat, Pray, Love, filling the rice fields with houses, filling the streets with motorbikes, filling the restaurants with computers and sunglasses, filling the pockets of the serving class, drivers and masseuses, with pocket change for us, a bare living wage for them, because it's a good deal for us and a matter of survival for them.
Bali is beautiful, despite the rain and the humid heat, which saps motivation and drive and the other hormones of the alpha male Westerner; despite the clamor in the rice fields at night forbidding sleep, from frogs, ducks, geckos, birds, crickets, and in the day from construction sites, ceaseless hammering, electric saws, cement mixers, motorbikes, more ducks and frogs and birds; the wind bringing more rain, distant thunder, even, once, an earthquake.
Bali is beautful, regardless of my definitions or cynicism or ceaseless quest to find meaning or beauty here; heedless of my intention to relax or produce; smiling in the face of my glum preoccupation with heat or humidity here or the cold rains of home; oblivious to my plans to depart for sandy shores, distant continents; uncaring of my scratching of the bites from invisible insect predators, mosquito nets notwithstanding; Bali beautiful in its own rain and quiet grace and narrow paths and unhurried pace, its ceremonial flowers and incense and decorated thresholds, its clean tile floors and ornate sculpted roofs and facades, its clangorous gamelan and haunting flute.
Bali is beautiful - leave it at that.

video footage: Bali gamelan drum group in ceremony near Candidasa

Truth vs. Conspiracy

2011-01-25T00:56:00.000-08:00

from C a t S c a n: the newsletter of Cougar WebWorks Alternative Culture Magazine online - http://www.alternativeculture.com/ - Celebrating Nature, Culture and Spirit

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to subscribe see instructions at end

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"Today, conglomerates have bought up most [mainstream] news sources; and the number of major news sources has been reduced to six! These six control all the news reported in America and much of what gets reported in the UK and Europe."

-- Paul J. Balles: Weapons Of Mass Deception

http://www.veteranstoday.com/2011/01/04/paul-j-balles-weapons-of-mass-deception-time-to-turn-to-alternative-media/

"Don’t connect dots without evidence. Don’t turn away as soon as the words ‘conspiracy theory’ are uttered, especially if the evidence does point away from what the power-wielders want us to believe."
-- Richard Falk, Interrogating the Arizona Killings from a Safe Distance

http://richardfalk.wordpress.com/2011/01/11/interrogating-the-arizona-killings-from-a-safe-distance/

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18 January 2011 - IN THIS ISSUE: Alternative News

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The mainstream news channels, whether it’s Fox or the Huffington Post, do not stray far beyond relatively narrow conceptions of appropriate political discourse. Criticism of Israel is verboten; so is discussion of 9/11 as an inside job. UFOs? We get to watch “The Event” instead (see my review athttp://nowickgray.blogspot.com/2010/12/event-review.html ). A few trusted sources are given the quotes and the editorial guidelines to broadcast at large as the truth, and the rest is consigned to “conspiracy theory.” Later history reveals such “false flag” events as Hitler’s Reichstag Fire, Pearl Harbor, the Gulf of Tonkin, and virtually every high-profile “terror attack” of recent years--except, of course, those officially sanctioned acts of terror such as the invasions of Iraq, Afqhanistan, Palestine, Lebanon, and that’s just the Middle East... Facts of conspiracies such as Watergate and the Iran-Contra Affair occasionally hit the headlines, and then carry away, on the outflow of the brief wave of truth, one set of conspirators to make way for the next. The Greeks and Shakespeare knew how tragedies functioned, among the rich and mighty. So does the Mafia - from the city block protection racket to the big stage. Which is why it’s interesting that David Wilcock in his latest article refers to the notorious U.S. assassination squad, Murder Incorporated...

http://divinecosmos.com/index.php/start-here/davids-blog/909-disclosurecriticalmass?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=Feed:+DavidWilcockBlog+(David+Wilcock+Newsletter)

If you are brave enough to connect the dots of information freely available in assorted story lines, you have the makings of a dangerous story, on many levels. If it gets too high-profile you’re even considered a “threat to national security.” If it’s talk at the barbershop maybe everyone agrees the government’s a pack of con-men. But if you run in suburban circles, academic establishment, bureacracy, retail mall world, commercial TV, chances are you buy the company line, at least in what you use to construct your world view, your notion of what goes on in the world. Keeps it simple, to just get it from your “trusted source.” And the best part is, then you don’t have to think about the outrages that have been committed in our name.

But no worries anyway, mate, if you believe David Wilcock’s take on it. White Hats to the rescue!

Still, it’s not like we can all just make David Wilcock, or Kerry Cassidy, or David Icke, or Gordon Duff, our one “alternative” trusted source and be done with it (though for some folks, that’s just the ticket). To some extent the alternative news media is so interlinked that it’s no more or less monolithic than the mainstream press. It’s like a new Cold War of the information age, pitting the Globalist Corporate State (read: New World Order) version of truth, against common sense skepticism mixed with tireless investigative research and courageous whistle-blowing.

To construct a final unquestionable version of truth may be a tempting ideal, as well as a political tool, but as every child knows, one person’s version of the truth often diverges from another’s. The Buddha might add, it’s all subjective. In the meantime, I believe the best we can do is to start with quality and quantity of information content and sources. Then we can judge for outselves what is meaningful and real - not as an absolute article of faith - but according to what makes sense. We can, in effect, construct our own story, our well-informed version of reality. (For a more personal version of the result, see my latest blog entry, “The Story of Story,” at http://nowickgray.blogspot.com/2010/12/story-of-story.html ).

Is there no hope, then, for such a thing as a new “consensus reality”? I would say that whole concept is suspect, defined as it must be by the standard channels of information flow and processing (mass media, academia, government, corporations) which act as the manufacturers of such a fiction, because it perpetuates the status quo within controlled limits of acceptable discourse.

If there is to be no single voice or vision of this alternative “revolution” (just as there was not in the 60’s, until Martin Luther King, Jr. and John Kennedy each aspired to lead--oh wait...) that’s a good thing, especially as it avoids the standard assassination trap. It’s good also because the “single voice of truth” is itself a falsehood. Perhaps there is some single true narrative to be exposed someday about Roswell, about JFK, about 911. More likely not, in which case we are left to make sense of it thinking with our own free minds and the information that resonates with us; and by sharing openly with others concerned about events from the perspective of “full disclosure.”

To that end, I have assembled my own favorite links of illuminating research across the alternative media spectrum, and share them in a new condensed menu at http://alternativeculture.com/news.htm

The page offers quick links under the following categories - with my “pick of the week” included here as a sample of each:

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Breaking News

Tunisia and US Geopolitics

from Cryptogon - http://cryptogon.com/

“As the imitation of American ways gradually pervades the world, it creates a more congenial setting for the exercise of the indirect and seemingly consensual American hegemony.” - Zbigniew Brzezinski

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Geopolitics

Geopolitics 101: Creating an "Arc of Crisis": The Destabilization of the Middle East and Central Asia - The Mumbai Attacks and the “Strategy of Tension”

“The International Financial Institutions (IFIs) often create the conditions for political instability, while covert Western intelligence support to disaffected and radical groups creates the means for rebellion; which then becomes the excuse for foreign military intervention; which then secures an imperial military presence in the region, thus gaining control over the particular region’s resources and strategic position. This is the age-old conquest of empire: divide and conquer.

...

“Indeed, where Al-Qaeda is present, the US military follows, and behind the military, the oil companies wait and push; and behind the oil companies, the banks cash in.” - Andrew G. Marshall, GlobalResearch.ca

http://www.globalresearch.ca/index.php?context=va&aid=11313

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US Fascism

CIA Insider Susan Lindauer - Extreme Prejudice: The Terrifying Story of the Patriot Act and the Cover Ups of 9/11 and Iraq

“Besides launching an illegal war and ongoing occupation of Iraq, the Bush/Cheney administration did everything in its power to cover up their illegal and treasonous tracks--which began with the 9/11 cover up itself. The alternative press has been aware of this for years but has lacked the confirming voice of a credible CIA insider such as Susan Lindauer.” - Alan Roland

http://www.veteranstoday.com/2011/01/05/allen-l-roland-extreme-prejudice-clear-evidence-of-911-cover-up/

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Wikileaks

Wikileaks' Assange arrest, CIA trap, Hillary Clinton, and UFO disclosure

... some rather juicy dots to connect: thanks to Michael E. Salla, PhD

http://news.exopoliticsinstitute.org/?p=758

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9/11

The 911 Chronicles Part 1 - Truth Rising

Documentary follows young street activists working for truth and justice for families of victims and first responders, confronting the talking heads.

http://stagevu.com/video/mtyjomgnjeqh

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Chemtrails

Another Angle: Contrails Show Effects of Atmospheric H-Bomb tests in 50s and 60s

Some you may have already made up your minds from earlier reports that chemtrails are being used secretly for weather modification (Google geoengineering, and don’t be surprised to find good old BP), military use, to combat global warming, or to dumb down the population with nasty chemicals and heavy metals. Well, here’s a whole new angle...

http://www.sott.net/articles/show/221199-Chemtrails-Contrails-Strange-Skies

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Assassination

Recent attacks on Arizona congresswoman Giffords and Judge Roll, and top cyber-war official John Wheeler, leave large questions unanswered - bigger, darker questions than the standard political mudslinging on the main stage.

http://www.examiner.com/exopolitics-in-seattle/az-congresswoman-assassination-scenario-has-mkultra-profile-drug-space-target

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False Flags

History 102: 33 True Conspiracies

Required reading for anyone wanting to discuss conspiracies - from either side. Only the facts, please...

http://www.newworldorderreport.com/Articles/tabid/266/ID/980/33-Conspiracy-Theories-That-Turned-Out-To-Be-True-What-Every-Person-Should-Know.aspx

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UFOs

David Wilcock covers a lot of territory, as he usually does, and now gives an update connection of dots supporting the ever-closer approach of ET-disclosure.

“The tragic mass shooting appears to have been a poorly planned 'rush' job to create a massive tragedy that would dominate the headlines for weeks by using a mind-controlled 'lone nut' assassin.

“...This appears to have been intended to distract the public from the massive, worldwide use of HAARP shields, which are causing birds and fish to die in mass numbers.

“The HAARP shields appear to be defending against a positive ET campaign to eliminate the threat of a lethal and utterly fake alien invasion -- by destroying a massive arsenal of classified military assets worldwide.

“All of this is prelude to an open Disclosure of the reality of extraterrestrial human life -- and a welcoming of Earth and its people into a truly Galactic family, which apparently has been planned to occur in December 2012.”

http://divinecosmos.com/index.php/start-here/davids-blog/909-disclosurecriticalmass?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=Feed:+DavidWilcockBlog+(David+Wilcock+Newsletter)

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links

My most “trusted sources” for alternative news!

Conscious Media Network

http://cmn.tv/

Project Camelot

http://projectcamelotproductions.com/

AlterNet

http://www.alternet.org/

Red Ice Creations

http://www.redicecreations.com/

Half Past Human

http://halfpasthuman.com/

Veterans Today

http://veteranstoday.com/

Natural News

http://naturalnews.com/

Global Research

http://globalresearch.ca/

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And of course for an even more diverse palette of links across the spectrum of “Alternative Culture” see new entries on the home page at Alternative Culture Magazine, http://alternativeculture.com

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Cougar WebWorks Publications

http://cougarwebworks.com

Alternative Culture Magazine

Celebrating Nature, Culture and Spirit

http://www.alternativeculture.com/

http://nowickgray.blogspot.com

HyperLife: A Life in Hypertext

and HyperLife Editing Services

http://www.hyperlife.net/

Djembe and Dunun Rhythms

for West African Drumming and Dance

http://djemberhythms.com

http://djemberhythms.blogspot.com

The Seeker's Manual

- wisdom on the fly -

http://seekersmanual.com/

Flutes Jam - http://flutesjam.com

scale charts for improvising on flute or pennywhistle

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best wishes,

Nowick Gray

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to subscribe to this newsletter:

mailto:catscan-subscribe@yahoogroups.com

The Story of Story

2010-12-21T11:52:00.000-08:00

Not from the beginning; from now. This story has been told before, but is soon forgot in all the stories that come after.

This one, for instance, began with a shadow hunter on a candlelit ceiling. Then, a ceiling fan. Finally, a computer. And yet, there is always more after the finally is finally done. So now we come back to this story of story again.

What happens, you ask?

What comes next?

It could be over in an instant. It could be delivered by the good grace of the spirits or the Great Spirit Self of all separate selfs, known not selfishly as the Universe. Or perhaps in the naming, distinguishing, we do gain that distinction, self-ish, through self-distinguishing, the opposite of enlightenment, self-extinguishing. After all, the language is made that way. To identify, discriminate, divide and thereby conquer. The earth, that battleground of human will to grasp.

Some would say the story has ended as of this moment, 10:31 PM Hawaii time, with full lunar eclipse tonight before Solstice day. Some, that is, who interpret this event as the actual "end of the Mayan calendar," instead of the usual target of 21/12/2121. Some say that means "the end of time" - either the apocalypse version, or just a cosmic stopwatch punching out "no time." Some say it'll be just more of the same, bigbiz as usual, which means of course "apocalypse now, middle east remix." And I know one guy who would take the numbers and work out a cool djembe beat, g d P T g d g d P d g T.

So we come down to the nitty gritty: what is your story? What is mine? I'm sure we'd both rather hear about yours, so why don't you start?

While you're thinking about it, I'll just type some thoughts here on the subject of psychology. The story, the story goes, is just a story, and we can let it go, in the dark of this full moon at the dark of this year.

If I delve, for instance, into my own story now, it becomes a journal, and I might be inclined to nurse its tenuous existence offstage, if I don't like what I'm feeling now, shrinking from concern over how I must appear ... though Little Grandmother Kiesha Crowder and the great Abraham Maslow agree, that the first principle of self-actualized people is to have no concern for the opinions other people have about you, for those too are only stories, and not even ours. And likewise you don't judge them by your own story, but accept that they too are learning just as we all are, all faces of God, who chose to be here for this difficult learning. David Wilcock in his October Surprise radio interview echoes these sentiments in his conclusion, pointing to our higher self becoming available when we still the mind of its normal chatter, not striving however for some perfect Zen garden or abstract void, rather to create an opening for higher self to come through, to speak, to manifest.

Whether the higher self is identified with angels or demons, aliens or space sisters, God in his Darwinian beard and Charlton Heston brow, or the well-padded earth goddess herself, it comes to clear the air of the TV-grade stories, the propaganda news, gossip and hearsay, grief of the past and fear of the future, caught in the middle, reasons why, if only, she said he said, then what? Something new, imagine that. But of course, if I sound cynical, despite my highest wishes, it is because my tool is the dull hammer of the mechanical age, glyphs on virtual parchment, ants of logical construction yammering across the page as if to trace whole murals of truth.

In tonight's dance class teaching, we are called to center in the body. A couple inches below the navel, will connect us also to the earth. A center in the heart, to all beings. And in the mind, our center connects us to all parts of creation. (Note: that's natural creation, not trash, which Little Grandmother reminds us is something only we careless selfish humans create.)

The stories go on, because that is the function of language, to create stories. You might say that language is the earth, its geology, and stories are its form of life, its biology. Or to switch academic departments, linguistics studies language, literature studies stories.

It is interesting to note in today's media world how so many kinds of stories now are hybrids. Half the Maui Film Festival's offerings this winter are pegged in the brochure as "dramedy," a term I'd never heard before. Of course it's been a noticeable trend in film for a decade or more (a real film buff could nail that down for you, or perhaps a couple of minutes of my time either now or later, googling and doing a bit of research, but I'd much rather continue this conversation with you) ... But wait--I realize now my error. You were preparing your own monologue, while I pursued this other trail for the most part assuming a listener, which is to say reader, but the only one available was you, and you were busy, so the whole exercise ends up being just that, an exercise.

Now see, in the time it took me to type the above, I might have departed into that other storyline - or you might say, followed the central thread instead of digressing, yet at the time it felt like digression; so how to tell, at any given moment, which is which? - for a quick consultation of Google, and so all right, since you insist ... hummpf. The article discusses literature (19th-century drama - Chekhov, Ibsen, Shaw) and TV (1969, advent of comedy-dramas) but not film. The thread stops here, apparently.

The reference to the dramatists, however, strikes a note of connection to theme, if not storyline itself: the stance of irony. Irony is the mode, after all, of discourse when our story discusses itself, or pretends to discuss itself, or merely silently offers its opinion in the form of the clothing, the coloring, the style, the selection of story elements it chooses to present. In this light, you might call any author ironic. True, there is a mimicking of creation - no, an enactment of creation - in any, well, creation. So there is the thing itself, presented in particular definition provided by the eye of the beholder who is the author; but then the reader has your own interpretation; and the author smiles whether benignly or sarcastically, and even on occasion may have a word to say edgewise. Or even, on rarer occasion, steal the whole show, shoo out the audience, kick back and light a cigar to watch the premiere all by his Orson Welles lonesome.

Coming back to the higher self, where did it go? When last seen it was hiding in the center of the mind. Then suddenly, as if sucked into the stargate at the center of the capstan (for all you sailing buffs), it vamoosed back to the mother ship complaining, "Jeez, X98&$@f, these po mo fo's a piece a work!"

So here I put off dark-night's sleep, intending to write a serious tome or at least reverent epistle but instead manage only this garbled transcription of a shoddy demo tape of an ancient lecture on dramatic irony when really, the clearest insight to come out of it all is the wikiquip about the Greek model (and they should know, because didn't they invent language, or at least philosophy?), to the effect that all stories are about either movin' up the ladder (comedy) or down (tragedy). Now so as not to end on that sour note, I leave you with - what, a homily? A joke? No, jokes go at the beginning, to get them on your side. You don't want to end with "The joke's on you, sucker." No, you end with appreciation, and inspiration, and motivation to do that meditation, and invite that higher self in ... you see, some can preach and mean it, they can use the good word as the Bible intended, the Word of God, that can be trusted, and that alone, because it comes from the Highest Authority, and so on. In the Beginning, after all, I mean before all, was, I mean is, the Word.

So is the user of language doomed to intentional (political) or unintentional (religious) obfuscation, or exiled to the inherent irony of fiction?

The question brings us back to the hybridization, the melting pot, the unified field of film genres, of TV shows, of news and documentaries, of fiction, nonfiction, drama, journalism, theatre and politics, puppet show and circus du jour. Reality TV has been replaced by Reality Reality, where events are orchestrated and spun at the highest levels of power and influence, at the expense of truth and justice and common sense. Trouble is, common sense is out the window when the man and woman and children inside stay glued to the box, the screen, the flashing pad.

"Must we always stray into the political?" complains the bourgeois art critic. "Must you in fact use that odious word, 'bourgeois'? The word itself reeks of politics."

And so it does. Easier to disguise one's politics in fiction, I suppose. Just ask the White House Press Corpse (absent Helen Thomas).

If there is a point to all of this, it is this: Life is a story. Our life is a story, is full of stories. Our story is being written every minute - not just one but multiple plot lines, simultaneous variations on what we hoped might be a single theme. And always these pesky interruptions, keeping us from what we intended, and still intend, to do or say. So now that it comes down to saying it ...

It comes back to that vertebrate legacy, the spine. I danced tonight with backbone all curvy, until I realized how snakelike, I mean, how feminine it really was, and so changed my stride to more of the yangmaster strutting around shirtless with arms stiff and fists clenched. So my personal story on this new moon solstice end of the world, casting behind what does not serve, is about becoming a new man, dedicating this practice to my tragic good soldier fallen angel father, for his braveness in the genocidal turmoil and tarnished hopes of a generation, and with forgiveness for his weakness of spirit against the onslaught of collective karma. I was the lucky one, for his sins set me free to emerge into whatever form I might be.

Yet still I demur. Except to stake this modest claim: storyteller (damning epithet of Dad and Mom, who warned me of the consequences, the whipping house; but hey, what do they call someone who doesn't speak at all? Dumb). So it appears, at first glance, a lose-lose proposition: Remain silent and enjoy no fully human identity; or risk falsehood in every word, every remark and opinion, every belief and claim. Ah, now we are set up for the heroic - to accept the silence and from that grounding take the risk: a mission worthy of any reader who may have just woken from his or her nap in time to catch this conclusion, before I lay me down to sleep on the longest night of the year, while the new world births.

Take the risk - we have nothing more to lose. Or everything to lose, and thus finally open to the universal energy we crave to bathe in, the larger story wanting to tell itself anew in our own voice:

Tilling soil, planting seeds, clearing weeds, tasting fruit.

Maui Time

2010-12-03T00:28:00.000-08:00

Two months in Maui this time around, and once again life feels more or less normal here, after the initial month or so of settling in, reorienting to a new residence and neighborhood, reconnecting with previous friends and new acquaintances.

The logistics of the move this year fell into place effortlessly, with a single email to a former drum student landing me a comfortable suite for reasonable rent, and a wider mailing to local friends yielding a reliable low-cost car.

This year I face none of the hardships of high-altitude living, all too similar to high-latitude living, in the nightly dive of the thermometer. Every day I see the scoreboard on my desktop with the lopsided tally (23-2; 28-7; 23- -4, Celsius) reminding me why I'm here.

The island's best beaches lie waiting every morning just minutes away by car, with extended walks between and beyond the resorts of Wailea, down to the wild reaches of Makena and La Perouse. I have snorkeled just once this time, gone on one long ridge hike, seen no turtles or whales yet. The daily routine of swimming and walking is enough, I find, to connect well with the place, the land, water, air, and beloved sunshine.

During such outings I often, as in Victoria summer outings, carry materials to multitask on various creative projects: editing, writing, reading, music selection, rhythm study, flute and drum practice, planning.

Opportunities for drumming continue in various forms: Haitian and Brazilian dance classes every week, and less frequently, West African dance; Afro-Cuban jams with traditional rhythms and songs; informal workshopping with fellow drummers; private lessons to teach; and of course, the ever-inspiring Little Beach jams every Sunday afternoon, tending more or less to the West African style.

This year I have pared down my usual slate of other events including groups meeting for spiritual practices and teachings, yoga classes, and 5-rhythms dances. Living here on the "sunny side" means a longer drive to such events which happen most often on the rainier, which is to say cheaper, which is to say, more alternative region of the island. Still, I have sampled the laying on of hands (Deeksha), the toning of the sacred sound "Hu," Sufi dancing ("Zikr"), and attended a weekend workshop for writers. In general, though, when it comes to the cornucopia of possible events being offered, I continue my discoveries on the path of "less is more."

I spend most of my indoor time at home on the computer, engaged in a variety of creative projects, editing work, ongoing research in world affairs, and periodic indulgence in televised events: first the baseball playoffs, and lately the TV series (via Internet archives) The Event. The primary project occupying my attention has been work to edit and revise a novel of the Canadian North, inspired by the three years I spent in Arctic Quebec in the 70s. The other major focus has been to edit, select and compile, from a vast amount of raw recordings, several CDs worth of music from the Victoria-area improvisation group Strange Moon.

Just released are two albums featuring my flute music, largely recorded in Strange Moon jams. Coming soon are albums featuring E. Neptune on flute, Axel on keyboards, and two thematic compilations, Strange Yoga and Strange Funk. For some sneak previews, check out the slide presentation "Wailea," more flute tracks available for free download, and assorted Strange Moon selections at MySpace, Facebook, Reverbnation, and the Strange Moon website. Send me an email if you want to make sure to hear about it when these new albums are released!

With all of this enjoyment of what life offers on this beautiful island, and taking advantage of my opportunity for creative projects, I have also enjoyed connecting with old and new friends from further north, the first wave of the annual snowbirds who come to dip their toes in the surf and sample the local vibe which goes simply by the name, "Aloha." For those who cannot hop across Pacific Pond so easily, I hear that leg warmers, wrist warmers, and abdominal scarfs can help beat the icy blasts. Bon chance, mes amis! A la prochaine...

The Event - TV review

2010-12-02T22:16:00.000-08:00

One of the intentions of corporate-controlled media is to instill in people a sense of disempowerment, of immobilization and paralysis. Its outcome is to turn you into good consumers. It is to keep people isolated, to feel that there is no possibility for social change. --David Barsamian, journalist and publisher (source)

The Event, in personal terms, represents a significant event in my TV-viewing history (though I didn't really watch it on TV, but in archived form on the Internet - available through February). It's the only TV series I've watched since I was a teenager growing up in suburban middle-class America. Part of the reason for my decades-long fast has been a resistance to the numbing irrelevance of TV content, and part a resistance to the packaged consumerism which that form of media, with its built-in corporate sponsorship, represents.
Why, then, is this "conspiracy thriller" so riveting? Mainstream reviewers have downplayed the politics, discussing instead such entertainment staples as character development and narrative structure. These episodes, for example, proceed not in linear fashion but rather as a mosaic of scenes scattered across a checkerboard of times and places. I find the characters/actors compelling enough; while the action and suspense play expertly on tension and emotion. The heart of my interest in this story, however, lies in its artful approximation of the multi-layered plotting that passes for political reality in this age of disclosure.

It may be coincidence that the series airs while Wikileaks dominates the newswaves with revelations of diplomatic and intelligence double-dealing on the world stage. That the major funding for the program may, according to David Wilcock's sources, come from the Pentagon. That key events bear an uncanny resemblance to documented government coverups such as the invasion of Iraq (or Iran) 9/11, contact with extraterrestrials, and Presidential assassination. Along with these tantalizing mysteries within the TV plot, comes the greater mystery of its relation to such actual events and workings of realpolitik.

While mainstream news media (owned by a handful of vested interests) continues to pooh-pooh, mock, or ignore such dangerously troublesome matters, the alternative news media on the Internet has feasted on the information available to substantiate such claims of actual conspiracy. The viewing public is caught in the middle, either continuing to swallow the official narrative of such events, or learning by accumulated evidence (and common sense) to question, at least, the government line. After navigating the minefield of realities and fictions, mere questioning leads to a blanket distrust of all government and media pronouncements.

Into this breach of belief steps The Event. From the dialogue emerges, in plain sight, the basic operating principle of the government intelligence apparatus: to construct, at every point, a "narrative" that will satisfy the public - and at the same time "protect them from the truth" - while keeping hidden the more inconveniently explosive truths. On some matters even the highest levels of government, the President included, are cut out of the "need to know" loop; while more shadowy figures pull the strings for their own agenda of power and control.

In mainstream political discourse and reporting today, the very word "conspiracy" has been co-opted by the official narrative. The term itself simply denotes planning in secret. What we can well imagine, though it is not revealed, is degraded to the status of fantasy. A plausible explanation, if it doesn't match the party line, is by default considered not fact but "theory." Yet conspiracy is the bread and butter of this series. With what intent?

The theory of Pentagon funding aside, it bears asking: Is there an agenda, either artistic or political, behind this major TV series?

For starters, the impulse of disclosure is evident. The similarity of the fictional President Martinez to Obama, and of the Vice President to Cheney (or perhaps John McCain) is striking. The alien crash of 1944 in Alaska recalls the famous Roswell incident of 1947. Elimination of key witnesses and whistleblowers, a matter of course. Infiltration of CIA, FBI, police and security forces at every level, evident in every episode. If we have been living in denial of such machinations, the show will open our eyes. On the other hand, the result can be overkill; we may go from disbelieving all conspiracies, to seeing them everywhere and thus disappearing into a one-way web of suspicions and conflicting theories.

The double-agent thriller, after all, is nothing new. Everything, we might conclude, is not only suspect, but fatally corrupt. We then may continue to watch the events unfold, as entertainment, numbed to powerlessness by an endless chain of execution, coercion, passing of responsibility up the chain of command to regions and persons we cannot hope, in the real world, ever to expose to resist - if we care for our lives and our loved ones.

I am left with two theories to explain the motives behind this series:

1) Entertainment. Clearly the producers are aware of the groundswell of interest in controversial matters of national security and policy. They are capitalizing on this interest by filling the void between mainstream and alternative narratives, exploiting the alternative views by presenting them in the only way that is politically acceptable at the present time: as fiction. This motive we might describe as mere commercialism.

2) Disclosure Management. There is enough documentation, analysis, and access to the alternative paradigm out there by now, that disclosure of events and strategies previously hidden has passed from theory to front-page news. Disclosure is allowed (however grudgingly, as in the case of Wikileaks) but diluted. So there are damning videos or diplomatic cables to worry about - but not to worry, just let the documentation and commentary grow to indigestible proportions. In the meantime, public reaction can be gauged, prominent voices identified, and the real story released slowly amid the confusion - while the next new crisis is orchestrated to make past events and narratives seem irrelevant, water under the bridge, artifacts of history. Finally if, as such commentators as David Wilcock insist, actual disclosure is imminent, then public reaction can be softened by these measured doses of forewarning. By the time the real story is announced, we are habituated to it; it's old news after all. Life goes on; we change the channel in search of the next storyline.
The motivations of entertainment and disclosure are not mutually exclusive. Even those hiding the truths - of government complicity in 9/11, for example - must know that the truth will come out, that it has come out already. For them strategy must switch from prevention to damage control; from creating a flimsy fiction (boxcutters, weather balloons, a lone gunman), to massaging the media so that every so-called fact becomes suspect, and each hypothesis must compete with variations until no coherent storyline remains.

We are engaged, riveted by our deep intuitive knowledge that the events represented in The Event are real - even awed that such revelations can be offered so boldly, so openly now. Yet in the process we fall into a new, more subtle paradigm of obfuscation. The dots are all there, in plain sight, to connect: but the frame of safety remains in place, the real world conspiracies free to continue outside the TV's narrative box. Even within the storyline of the TV episodes, there is no real hope of final justice or clarity. At the end of our hour of rapt attention, the mystery revealed has produced only further mystery, which we must come back to explore. A new twist, a new betrayal, a new escape of responsibility from final reckoning. Still, we come back for more ... because this story, after all, is the story of our public life.

Ironically the initial thrill, of seeing true stories finally brought to light, brings to mind the euphoria (which even this political skeptic felt) accompanying the Obama inauguration. The new leader denounced the excesses of the Bush era and promised fundamental change - before realpolitik (endless war and occupation in the Middle East, for example) took center stage again. Likewise, it is tempting to applaud, to take hope from The Event with its overdue exposure of government and other powerful interests. Yet ultimately this new story, or serial narrative, is not new at all. We already know from past disclosures (Gulf of Tonkin, Watergate, Iran-Contra, Pinochet, Iraq WMD, or simply from novels and thrillers of the Cold War) how this world operates at the highest levels. Repelled but fascinated, we crave knowing, seeing more truth revealed. But will that knowledge, as the slogan says, "give us power" or "set us free"?

Consciously intended or not, the effect of disclosure scripted in this fashion is to disempower the audience. There will be no reaction, in political terms. The real revolution will not be televised, and in fact a nation of TV junkies does not a revolution make, no matter the ideology.

The more relevant slogan remains, in McLuhan's famous words, "The medium is the message." We are lulled with a false sense of power and grace in viewing a facsimile of the truth, a virtual history; while the real version plays out freely behind the distraction. TV-watching teaches neither history nor liberation; rather it programs, it demands, by the very manner of our engagement with it, passivity and fear, and disengagement from real political discourse.

We might still try to point to the fabricated narrative and say, "Look, that's just like what really happened! It's exactly what's going on behind the scenes." True enough. But the flip side is that when we turn our attention to actual abuses of power, our claims can be redirected back to the box in the living room. There is a ready-made story to refer to, ingeniously constructed, at once far more powerful than the lame soundbites of official press conferences, and ultimately dismissable as mere fiction. "Yeah, right," the new rebuttal goes, "just like in that TV show."

Still, I say, better to be a witness of the truth, than to take refuge in apathy and denial. When this episode ends, I switch off the TV. At least, until the next one.

--Nowick Gray

See especially:
The National Security State and the Assassination of JFK: The CIA, the Pentagon, and the `Peace President` (by Andrew Gavin Marshall)

The New American Century: This film exposes how every major war in US history was based on a complete fraud, with video of insiders themselves admitting it.

False Flag Terrorism and Amazing Coincidences

7/7 Ripple Effect: "Regarding the 7/7/2005 terrorist attacks in London, let us look at the facts, and what we were told, and compare them...."

Top digests of 9/11 disclosure: 9/11: The Myth and the Reality | | Anniversary of 9/11

See also: TruTV, Conspiracy Theory with Jesse Ventura (former Governor of Minnesota)
>>update>> “Police State” episode of hit Ventura show covering FEMA camps pulled from air
>>update>> (but you can still watch it there (at the bottom of the linked page) ... so far! (as of 6 Dec. 2010)

See more at: Alternative News Media - links and recommended websites (AlternativeCulture.com)

Haleakala Hike

2010-03-12T17:13:00.000-08:00

10,000 feet above the middle of the Pacific Ocean rises the island of Maui, formed from the volcano known as Haleakala. Trekking across this vast crater like the surface of the moon requires six hours of free time, several bottles of water, snacks and sunscreen, and earns rewards of vast beauty and pure elemental energy: earth, fire, air, water.

The music for this slide show ("Goa Gone") is a digital composition of West African drum samples using Percussion Studio software, enhanced with live percussion and drum kit by E. Neptune (see bulldogmeditation.homestead.com). For 27 digital drum compositions like this (mp3 or CD format),go to http://djemberhythms.com/books/rootsorder.htm.

This blog has moved

2010-03-09T11:18:00.001-08:00

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New Currents: Maui

2010-02-06T15:10:00.000-08:00

New Currents: Maui (Nov-Dec-Jan)

- click to skip or scroll down to continue reading -

Introduction
Avatar and the Kipahulu Na'vi
Book Reviews: Echardt Tolle, Jeremy Narby, Stephen Cope, N. Nosirrah, Mark Winegardner
Bashar on 2012
Ocean Heart Ministries - Church of the Cetacean Nation
Video Interviews: Nassim Haramein, Bill Ryan
Workshops: Shamanic Healing, School of Tantra, American Buddha
Meditation Exercise: Love and Gratitude
More Maui Photos

Introduction

It is the state of your vibratory field that determines your experience of any event. In its most simple form, the cultivation of appreciation for the smallest things in your life will give you the greatest results.
-- A Hathor Planetary Message through Tom Kenyon

Since my last blog entry (November 1, Kula: A Meditation on Warmth) I have spent a month enjoying a daily routine of sunny meditations and editing work and group music and swimming and going to dance classes; and then most of two months entertaining visiting friends with various outings and adventures; and in between, bingeing on drum sessions with my fellow djembe and dunun devotees. Along the way I have also been part of a fascinating series of events, workshops and encounters, kirtans and satsangs, reinforced by books and articles and audio and video interviews on a wide range of subjects pertinent to the world today. I also saw Avatar (twice, in 3D), which rather neatly encapsulates much of that transformative vision I've been exposed to ... or maybe not so neatly after all.

Avatar and the Kipahulu Na'vi

While nearly everyone comes away awed and inspired by this film, some argue that the paradigm of the Na'vi victory is not really new at all. The battle for Pandora is a rare victory for the good guys who, in a twist on tradition, are not our nation or race; but it is fought like any other, force against force. Yet the further twist here, beyond the shift in our allegiances, is telling: it is not the alien warriors or even their human supporters who win the day, but their allies, the creatures of Ehwa (Gaia). And though the mutant dinosaurs and panther-dogs do join the battle as a decisive force, the greater message is not so much that "the good fight" is won, but that the supreme force resides with the power of nature. Those who share in that power - which is also the power of greater connection as opposed to self-serving material exploitation - will ultimately prevail.

On second viewing I come out of the theatre realizing that the link-up is progressive. Now I am even deeper in. Baba says he looked at his black skin and expected to see blue. In Kipahulu where the jungle is Pandoran, magically lush, and the air is silky, gentle, alive, the young people living in community there come to greet you with eyes shining bright and peaceful, saying, "I see you."

[For an excellent review of Avatar from a mythological perspective, see "Take Back the Planet" by John Lash. For an excellent discussion of our metamorphosis beyond a "battle" mentality, and of the power of a more "subtle activism," see David Spangler, Call to Action: Fear and Loathing in the World.]

Book Reviews

Eckhart Tolle - A New Earth

All that is required to become free of the ego is to become aware of it, since awareness and ego are incompatible. Awareness is the power that is connected within the present moment. This is why we may also call it presence. The ultimate purpose of human existence, which is to say, your purpose, is to bring that power into this world. And this is also why becoming free of the ego cannot be made into a goal to be attained at some point in the future. Only presence can free you of the ego, and you can only be present Now, not yesterday or tomorrow. Only presence can undo the past in you and thus transform your state of consciousness. - Eckhard Tolle, A New Earth

Oprah selected Eckhart Tolle's latest book for good reason: this is enlightenment for the masses. Tolle takes ancient and unversal wisdom, frees it of the dogma and terminology of past doctrines and religions, and distills it into clear, convincing, plain language. He outlines a path beyond the limited ego and its emotional "pain-body" to a new self, refreshed from habitual boundaries and definitions and ready to operate with a new frequency, new modalities.

Acceptance, Enjoyment, Enthusiasm. These are the hallmarks of our existence in a New Earth. The new earth is not "out there" in society, or in a time that begins in 2012, but right now, in this moment, within our potential to awake. These three modalities are somewhat sequential, however, in that acceptance of our present condition allows us to relax into enjoyment of it, and enjoyment in the context of chosen activity leads us to enthusiasm for a goal, vision, purpose in life.

This sequence at first glance might seem contradictory to The Power of Now, as it posits a future orientation. But Tolle qualifies his view of enthusiasm with two caveats. First, our purpose is not to be confused with the unawakened desires and attachments of the self-serving ego, which is limited by identification with the objects of its desire. Rather, it is characterized by our alignment with a deeper source of inspiration and service transcending the ego. Secondly, in the modality of enthusiasm we are not fixated on an end result and stressed in the meantime; rather, we find enjoyment in the journey, the moment-by-moment experience we inhabit fully along the way.

"So the new heaven, the awakened consciousness, is not a future state to be achieved. A new heaven and a new earth are arising within you at this moment" (p. 308).

Jeremy Narby - Intelligence in Nature

Narby is the author of The Cosmic Serpent, a classic work exploring the world of Amazonian shamanism and its access to plant intelligence and even the informational structure of DNA. In this newer work he takes on the paradigm of "intelligence" and frees it from its human-centered box. The result may be, as some would complain, a loss of human "superiority." On the other hand it is a revelation to understand that we are only a part of universal intelligence present in all life, perhaps in all existence.

Narby proceeds as a layman approaching scientific research for answers to his investigation of the meaning and nature of intelligence. Along the way his account is engagingly human. As Stephen Cope does in The Wisdom of Yoga, Narby inserts himself into the narrative, sharing tea or coffee with the scientists or ayahuasca with the shamans he interviews, and putting a humble human face on the inquiry.

The documented evidence assembled here is ample, fascinating, convincing. Parrots and macaws gorging on clay for breakfast to detoxify certain seeds in their diet. Research of bee brain structure and function. Studies of sponges, hydras, nematodes. Plants that adapt and respond appropriately to changes in environmental conditions. Bacteria communicating and using chemical strategies for survival. Amino acids engaging in DNA repair. Though Narby devotes most of his approach to living forms, the bridge down to the molecular level of amino acids and DNA leads us to expand the inquiry to a universal fabric - a cosmic ecosphere - of interdependent behaviors, actions and reactions and adaptations.

This book is reminiscent of When Elephants Weep, in its somewhat polemic stance against the prevailing mindset that says that only humans are intelligent or possess emotions. Yet this disentangling of our fundamentalist delusions must occur if we are to embrace greater possibilities of our kinship with all life and all of existence. I have to entertain the possibility that whales are sentient and that they are open to communication with humans, in order to fully appreciate and absorb the impact of swimming with them, playing music with them, beginning to move and think with their vibration.

Stephen Cope - The Wisdom of Yoga

At the end of the book, Cope tells the story of his own shattering disappointment when his manuscript, a scholarly treatise on the roots of Yoga in the texts of ancient India, is blasted by his editor for being inaccessible to the average reader. He responds by recasting the book as a work of creative nonfiction, in which his fellow seekers are the characters in a shared journey of discovery. This revised approach embodies the message of yoga, not merely as a system of physical postures, but as a set of daily principles and practices designed, by long experimental study, to facilitate the liberation from human suffering. That liberation allows us to enter a realm, possible in this world, of optimal functioning: "Liberation means being entirely awake, and fully alive."

Struggle and pain are a given, along the way. But there is a process of becoming free from our habitual condition of mental slavery. First, disengagment; spurred by an awareness of "Dukha: pervasive unsatisfactoriness." Next, acceptance ("Sukha: everything is already OK"). Finally, cultivating concentration, to remove everyday distractions; this is the practice of meditative absorption, most frequently characterized by attention focussed on the breath.

Further elaboration of the steps of yogic practice centers around the Eight-Limbed Path outlined by Patanjali in the source texts: "external discipline, internal discipline, posture, breath regulation, withdrawal of the senses, concentration, meditative absorption, and integration." These steps form a progressive path allowing entry to a final apprehension and dwelling in a state of universal oneness - the Dance of Shiva.

The bottom-line truth of this state is that "our ordinary experience of the object world is nothing more than a construct of consciousness." Such a statement may seem radically untrue by conventional standards of material, objective "reality." But as Stuart Mooney (AKA "The American Buddha") stressed in his Maui workshop in December, the truth of this counter-claim is supported by modern scientific neuroscience and quantum physics. There is no objective reality out there, because reality as we perceive it is always a subjective experience of our own sensory input and interpretations. This is not to deny the existence of objects and events as they have apparent causes and effects in the world; but to recognize that their so-called reality is provisional - like that of our own apparently separate bodies and personalities - resting on conventional agreements, even "consensus" among our various subjective experiences, rather than on any absolute and fixed material solidity. "What we call the rain," the Buddha once said, "is not really rain; it's just what we call the rain."

To operate in a new world freed from the old conventions and boundaries might seem disorienting or threatening, as indeed it is to the unconscious ego. But the point is not to live aimlessly in an undifferentiated soup of quantum vibration, even if that is the truest picture of the nature of things. Rather the task is to unwind the fetters of ordinary consciousness, then to perceive the liberating oneness of all existence, and finally to reenter our bodies and personalities and the dance of karma with an awareness of our true nature and of the divine play in which we are actors for a brief time.

N. Nosirrah - Nothing from Nothing: A Novella for None

Everything in this book, from the very title and name of the author, is playfully nihilistic, and not to be taken seriously. The author, it might be said, is carrying out the work of Shiva the destroyer, to bring down every preconception we might have about belief, art, the self, the novel, meaning, and existence itself. Yet like the wisdom of yoga, there is a redeeming wisdom here which can delight in the very spirit of playful dance, in which destruction and creation are two faces of the same art.

From the very beginning, the so-called Editor's Preface, by a Lydia Smyth, is suspect, along with the Foreword by a dubious Nebirk Yallip. Later in the text the author interjects conversation with said editor, hinting also at personal relationship issues with her (among other attractions). These digressions are par for the course in a narrative that follows no linear thread, but the sparking digressions of a brain wired to everything and nothing at once.

The approach is ironic, in the tradition of Tristam Shandy. It is Nietzchean, in its bold broad strokes of overturning every conventional assumption in favor of a revolutionary insistence on the power of truth in the momentary impulse of expression. It is post-modern, discursive, tangential, irreverent, profane, fearless. It is at once "not an easy read" and effortless.

Mark Winegardner - The Godfather's Revenge

I bought this book thinking that it was written by Mario Puzo, author of The Godfather. No matter; I was pleased with Winegardner's style and treatment of the same characters. Interestingly enough, the contents of this sequel played similar tricks with American history of the 1960s in which it is set. The Kennedys (John and Bobby) become the Sheas, and the details of the eventual assassination are altered. By means of this fictional sleight of hand, Winegardner is able to portray the likely truthful underside of that history, beginning with the failed black-op known as the Bay of Pigs invasion.

In this author's hands (as with Don DeLillo's even more historically faithful Libra, and the Oliver Stone film JFK) it becomes obvious how the agendas and the machinery of the Mafia and the secret government (CIA and FBI) overlap. What is truth and what is fiction? At its best, fiction gives us the clearest glimpse of what is true.

As with the spiritual texts discussed here, the transformational path leads us from unconsciousness (history), through revelation (understanding truth), back to our story. We read at first thinking it is fiction; we come to understand the underlying truth of how things work in the world (in the underworld); and then we can continue reading the fiction with new appreciation. History, meanwhile, which we at first take to be truth, upon closer examination we find is fiction.

Bashar on 2012
Bashar (bashar.org) says that it is in going through the darkness that we develop more impetus for a greater leap into the light, more decisive and delicious. We will inhabit the alternate world or parallel reality of whatever frequency we hold. I would add that it is happening now, in the moment we practice in that vibration. The vibration is now, and it is the operating reality for everyone tapped into it. Which is why the personal connections of people of like spirit keep happening, as if along human ley-lines.

Ocean Heart Ministries - Church of the Cetacean Nation < link >

I am vibrating now with whale frequency. I felt it ever since their darshan Thursday - their frequency of breathing, surfacing, moving out and back in through the water, their moans and grunts and cries. I rock in my sleep in bed, or in the grocery store aisles. My thoughts pass with the present time, no longer latching onto yesterday or what might come tomorrow.

In the traffic to Kihei, I am swimming with the pod. All are united in a plastic elastic harmony of movement and energetic balance, smoothly flowing and aligned. Even as we change positions, we feel the dynamic pull of change, of challenge, of connection between us all as free and independent entities, yet moving through the fabric of the whole.

That fabric continues here now as I write, you in your node on the other side of this time. Time weaves its thread through the fabric too, and we come to the same conclusions again. The truth circles like the humpbacks around the sailboat, reminding us through our synchronistic connections of its presence, all-embracing. We continue on our way. We walk in the light. We shine that frequency forward, lightworkers and soundworkers and life coaches and energy healers, dancers and artists in service to the light of understanding and appreciation and empowerment and joy in belonging to a oneness of life, a luminous vibration. All knowingness comes to the flow of this present time, this and this forever which is wider and wider inclusive of all who tap into this awareness and all who are the object of this awareness, until all subsumes all and there is no more significant division, except what makes for the play of circumstance in dynamic relation.

Video Interviews

Nassim Haramein interview on Conscious Media Network

Nassim Haramein offers an inspiring synthesis of groundbreaking modern physics (beyond Einstein) and transformative vision.

From theoretical physics he posits a "black hole" at the center of each being (atom, person, planet, star, galaxy) which has profound implications not only for energy and technology applications but also for personal manifestation.

This approach goes beyond "The Secret" to examine the universal power of "Focussed Persistent Desire." Tapping into this "vacuum" field at our core, we resonate with a frequency field connecting us with the entire fabric of space-time. In such a state of connection and resonance, synchronicity and spontaneous manifestation occur naturally, are to be expected.

The idea is to focus inward, to stillness, to the singularity of infinite potential, gaining access to our personal core connecting seamlessly to the wider universal "information network" for creative manifestation.

It is in fact that very interior and resonant space which produces the material world: Haramein calls it "vacuum engineering." Feed the vacuum, he says, and the vacuum will feed you. The primary tool in tapping into our "focussed persistent desire" is clarity, Going Deeper, via meditation.

Bill Ryan of Project Camelot interviewed by Freedom Central

As co-head of the whistleblower site currently drawing 30,000 unique visitors per day, Ryan is in a unique position to comment with an overview of the perspectives of the dozens of high-level sources who have come forward to share (in many cases confess) the hidden history of our times, what the official government and media and education outlets are forbidden to know or reveal.

What is commonly discounted in those mainstream, establishment-controlled venues as "conspiracy theory" has now mushroomed to the point where the majority of people (as reflected for example in polls concerning belief in UFOs or government complicity in 9/11) knows that conspiracy, in the strict meaning of the word, is a fact of life when it comes to policy and programming. Most people get it now, with the economics of the "Great Society" crumbling all around them, that their government is evidently not operating in their best interest, but for the interests of a few in whose hands the bulk of resources, money and power is concentrated. The shine has even worn thin on the polished veneer of the supposed savior, Obama - with the economic situation ever worsening along with the bottomless pit of foreign wars for oil.

Meanwhile the Vatican has joined the movement to disclose the presence of ETs ... joined by other nations such as France and the UK, where the secret government files have finally been opened to public view. The President of Venezuela has accused the US of triggering the earthquake in Haiti with a high-tech weapon using a low-frequency pulse. The movie Avatar makes clear to millions not only the reality of the agenda for resource domination of this planet and beyond, but also the lesser known role of private mercenary armies (Blackwater) to carry out this work that democratic legislatures will not support (except through the coercive measures of false-flag "terror" attacks such as 9/11, The Gulf of Tonkin, Pearl Harbor, the Lusitania, the burning of the Reichstag, the sinking of the Maine...)

Yet even as we are being educated (if we wish, while the Internet is still freely available) to the dire agendas of the controlling Illuminati, most of those blowing the whistle on the evildoers are counseling a perspective not of fear, reaction, revolution - but of spiritual acceptance, integration, transcendance, transformation.

Workshops

Hank Wesselman - Shamanic Healing

I attended a day-long workshop led by author, anthropologist and neo-shaman, Hank Wesselman. Noted for his work with the team that recently discovered the "missing link" to our primate ancestry in East Africa, he also brings a personal familiarity with Hawaiian and Polynesian traditional healing modalities.

There are three basic principles of Polynesian spirituality:

1. Love all you see with humility.

2. Live all you feel with reverence and respect.

3. Know all you possess with discipline.

We can call for assistance from helping spirits of nature, and spirit teachers and guides from higher worlds. These helpers offer power, protection and support.

The primary causes of illness are:

1. Disharmony - from emotion not worked through

2. Fear - lacking a sense of well-being, directly linked to immunity

3. Soul-loss - most serious, involves damage to personal life

The soul can fragment under trauma, leading to memory loss, apathy, chronic negativity, addiction, depression, even suicide.

What shamans treat is actually the ill-health of the soul (which leads to physical disease); because gaps in the soul fabric get filled by negative energetic entities, hostile forces.

The stages of shamanic healing entail:

1. Empowerment

2. Diagnosis of problem and intrusive elements; with help of spirits

3. Extraction of intrusive spirit, with helping spirit doing the work

4. Soul retrieval - of missing fragments, to repair soul fabric

Healing involves first clearing, via a ritual for unconditional forgiveness - forgiveness of others, then oneself.

School of Tantra - Sasha and Janet Kira Lessin

Through this course I have revamped my opinion of psychology and psychotherapy, replacing my rather outdated preconception of "analysis" which I developed as a stereotype in my youth. I felt that delving into such matters was overindulgent, that it fed the very neuroses it was purported to cure; that I was better, healthier, more intelligent than that, and could figure out for myself what were healthy ways of living and pursuing personal growth and development. I was in denial about my own dysfunctions, in thinking rather in black-and-white terms of psychological sickness/health, rather than in universal human terms concerning unhealthy patterns that all of us are prone to.

Yes, I was prone to excesses of the ego, as all of us are; I saw the ego as a necessary price to pay for being human and needing to negotiate worldly and social demands. Again the picture was either/or: at any given moment I could transcend the ego and worldly personal concerns, into a state of blissful all-acceptance; or I could descend back into the body/mind/ego in order to engage in my personal quest for a life of choices dictated by my desires and aversions.

The new model is more complex: replacing the unitary, limited and self-serving ego with a constellation of inner characters, sub-selves, personalities, agendas. Here the transcendance is achieved by awareness, detachment and balance - not a retreat from the outer or from the inner world, but a position of choice, where the "CEO" or witness can evaluate the needs and behaviors of the subselves and choose preferentially depending on what is most appropriate in the present situation.

American Buddha - Stuart Mooney

There are no fixed things or boundaries; just the appearance of them. It's all in your head! There's nothing else! It's only a dream that you create in your head! There's only energy! We are here right now! The past and the future are illusions! So get over it! You are who you are! And that is nothing other than all that is, which is also just what it is. So get on with it! Or not! It's just the dance of neurochemicals, which themselves are just vibrating molecules exchanging energy, and those molecules are composed of smaller bits which are also, all the way down the line, just composed of smaller bits exchanging energy, until you get down to the primoridial first event of pure energy deciding to split into two vibrating bits in resonant relation to each other ... forever! And the bits themselves aren't actually bits for real, they just seem to be bits when we choose to see them that way, out of the waves of energy they disappear into and appear from again.

It's just like what the old Buddha said (in the Diamond Sutra, or the Sutra of Hui-Neng) that the rain is not really rain, it's just what we call the rain. Which is a bit like Plato but simpler. It's interesting to reflect that these Buddha characters (to continue to be irrevent about it) are basically homespun philosophers. They have climbed down from the ivory tower of esoteric knowledge to share their findings with the masses, in plain language which sometimes comes out as a riddle. Which is the limitation of language, as the Buddha implied.

Buddhism on Maui is a dangerous thing ... where the intellect already tends to turn to mushy sand, lapped by surf-foam. Language dissolving into a quantum soup of subjectivity certainly doesn't help that situation. It's easy to drop it all and go to the beach, without books and at best, with a drum or flute. All the rest, the reading, writing, editing, book reviews, intellectual discussions - sometimes I sense it's all just arbitrary words, definitions, stories, memories, speculation. What's the point?

Not necessarily pointless, on the other hand. Just another dance of particles and waves, firesparks and shooting stars.

Meditation Exercise: Love and Gratitude

More Maui Photos

Kula: A Meditation on Warmth

2009-11-01T01:36:00.000-07:00

Kula: now I know why they call it that - it's Kula than anywhere else. It's the Canada of Maui. With nothing but the wild north of 10,000-foot Haleakala rising above it, and those hardy souls who don't mind cold at night and clouds all day to settle its backwoods, it puts me in fleece and felt slippers as I snack on passion fruit, lemon and plum, mango, coconut, yogurt. When I drive up to that summit above the clouds and hike into the barren crater under the hot sun, I'm greeted by the tame birds called Nene, a long-lost tribe of Canada geese.

At least I'm within 30 minutes of the real thing, the West African dance class with full traditional drum ensemble. After Oahu's tame FireTribe over the weekend, I was ready to taste this magic again and still it caught me by surprise. Now, I thought, I'm home. New friends opened up, the road home became mellower, and I savored the warm evening air of upper Haiku. On the one hand, I could live here. On the other, what I keep hearing is that people come and go. Kind of a lifestyle thing, in tune with wide ocean breezes, always new. In the heart of the ocean, beating with its pulse ...

Maui is a Mother, like the plant medicines many grow and use here - a nuturing, forgiving spirit. "Come and be healed," she says, with soothing breezes, heartstrong sun, wholly waves. I suppose it's no accident that I'm drawn to nest here and take warmth from the slopes of a volcano, the very body of Pele.

In mid-October here in what's called the "cloud forest," I turn to hot baths in the evening, retreating to my cave of a bedroom with the propane heater, and contemplate cutting more wood in the mornings for the living room fireplace, and those rainy cold winter days everyone's warning me about.

On the other hand, I can do cold. I lived in the arctic for three years, even; doing as the Inuit do, and just dressing warm (except of course for those teens who liked to run around in jeans and T-shirts at thirty below). I got in eight cords of wood for winter in the drafty old Beguin house in Argenta, BC, then lived in a tipi three winters while building my house. Am I just getting old and soft now, bending to the tropic persuasion so lazily, that at times I'm even swinging to the extreme of "never wanting to be cold again"?

Maybe's it's the infantile urge to get back to Mommy - no, earlier: to inside Mommy's womb, fully enclosed by body temperature 24/7. Safety, security ... the ease to breathe, as through an invisible umbilical cord, and to move without effort, languidly through water, over soft sand and among swaying palms. It's a persuasive advertising message, at that. Witness the resort component of Maui's demographic triad, resort-rural-wild. The rural and the wild have the root effect fueling the resort set, for that matter, for these are the real thing: living in Maui time. They also provide the source of marketed concepts, like the aloha spirit.

The English writers (Somerset Maugham, Graham Greene, even BCer Malcolm Lowry) observed it, and succumbed to it, when in the garb of the colonialist. The lassitude of the easy life. Not that the colonial era has passed, mind you. Here I am in my hill station as in the India of the Raj, playing my civilized games of music and literature while the native masses seethe below ...

So is it indulgent to press on with this quest for eternal warmth? It's only natural, I might say, as I'm joined by that punctual pair of orange cats each morning in the hot rising sunshine. Or are the tabbies not natural at all, but just more accessories in the colonial trappings; like all the invasive species here? Maybe human beings, of whatever race or origin, are an invasive species ...

Back to the subject: neither hot nor cold. Actually I don't mind hot: I prefer it. But I think that it's just a compensation for cold. If I were always warm, I don't think I'd need to seek more heat. As it is, there's this oscillation effect, so that for every hour I spend dealing with temperatures, say, of 15/59 degrees, I need to compensate with an hour at 25/77 degrees, to balance out as a room-temperature average warmth of 20/68 degrees. When I lived in Quebec, the summer/winter temperatures in Montreal and Quebec City ranged from plus 40 to minus 40. But the midpoint of 0 (freezing) is not my idea of moderation.

For me it probably goes back to that time of birth, when I came out of the womb a month premature: maybe I'm still trying to recapture that lost month of comfort. So while we're at it, let's adjust the thermostat. Because actually my preferred midrange might be 25, with a comfortable range of 20 to 30 degrees centigrade. That would fit my definition, at least, of "never being cold."

It was the root motivation behind that item on my previous "5-Year Plan" that called for "Living in the tropics (or equivalent) for a full year." I did kind of do that two years ago when I traveled in South Asia and the Pacific for six months, next to a "summer" in Victoria, BC. Trouble is, that was quite a hedge considering that true summer (temperatures consistently above 20, and warm-water lake and selected ocean swimming) in Victoria typically lasts only two months at best; sometimes just one. Last summer was exceptional and, after a full winter spent through the gray, cool, misty days, I swam in my favorite ocean spot, almost comfortably, from the end of May through the end of August.

Now I'm already starting to hesitate when I enter the ocean here. "I think Thailand was warmer than this. I'm sure it was warmer than this in southern India, and the ocean off Guinea as well ..."

But here at least they speak English. They even speak, in a rather watered-down polyglot way, American. You still hear New Jersey or Boston, Atlanta or Dallas, but also a lot of generic California and Colorado, Oregon and Arizona. The roads are mostly smooth highways, the ATMs work, and there's shopping and fast food and drink aplenty. Infrastructure and finance all familiar, the empire intact in one of its more benign outposts ... But now I'm drifting off topic again.

I'm getting drowsy already, and it's only 10:40. Was it the hot bath, or is it the oxygen in this room with the windows closed being burned up by the propane stove and replaced by carbon dioxide or worse, which by the way also adds to my carbon debt along with all the gas I burn in that American national pet the automobile to carry me to my sweaty drum-dance workouts and my yuppiistic sunbathing on the distant beaches.

Experiment: open the window ...

Ah, a little warmer than I expected - yet still cool ... like a summer evening in BC. Funny, on those warmest of summer evenings in Victoria, I always remark, "... just like Hawaii." Somewhere in the middle of the two, is that elusive ideal.

The middle way: between hot and cold. Too hot all the time wouldn't work either: sweltering, shut down, debilitating. You at least have to find shade. Or as I did in Baltimore as a kid in the summer, retreat to the basement.

Earth-sheltered house I built in Argenta: to moderate the extremes of hot and cold. Passive solar heating of rock walls and floors, to save excess heat from the sun and release it later in the cooler night. Rock hot tub next to the wood stove, to hold its heat and save it for a melting soak on a winter's day, and ease it back into the room constantly. Sunbathing is like that: storing in the skin the warming rays, to feel later as a slow burn, nightglow ...

I had a conversation with Larry tonight about my church of Bembe experience on Tuesday at Zephyr's place, wavering back and forth in my feeling of the short bell part, and in general that knife-edge between 6/8 and 3/4, where the ideal is neutral in between, so the listener can have the subjective magical experience of hearing it one way or the other, instead of handing it to them my way but continually changing my mind, or like driving a car, Larry says, weaving back and forth from one side of the road to the other, or just letting that playful spirit carry me away with it instead of remaining firm and straight and consistent on the part, keeping it in the middle, remaining neutral.

Like my conversation with Eugene before that, about sharing life's vicissitudes, the good and the bad, equally, among friends. We can accept whatever it is, from our friend.

And the book by Cope, The Wisdom of Yoga, going deeper into that same universal question, of the nature of the mind, the brain, to respond and evaluate and react according to the simplistic label "attraction" or "aversion," on a continual basis processing input of senses and thoughts. Instead, the process can be subject to a witnessing awareness, so that at least the chain of reaction can be broken, and subtler still, the chain of habitual evaluation.

So, true, I can choose not to bemoan my state if I am cold, adding suffering to the experience of cold itself. Or I can choose to do something about it: like, taking a bath, lighting the propane stove, keeping the windows shut, wearing a long-sleeved shirt, going to bed soon, staying in bed till the sun comes up, carrying and cutting firewood by hand to get warmed up before it even burns, and, whenever possible, going to the beach. I did, after all, move to Maui, so it's all here somewhere, 24/7, if I want it.

Check that:See, even if I had that vision - that moving to Kihei, say, or even more radically, ditching Hawaii for Thailand or India or Africa, would solve the problem of ever being cold again - there are a couple of big problems. First of all, that restrictive vision is kind of anti-warm, which is to say stressful if there's pressure to maintain it. Suppose I live down near the beach in Kihei, for instance. Then what do I do, how do I feel, if I get invited to a jam at Mick Fleetwood's right here on Alae Road in Kula, some rainy January night? Even in Danya's jungle in Huelo on my last visit in January, I compared it to June in Victoria: or as we call it there, "Junuary." Coldest winter in 12 years, they told me, but it happened just the same. What do I do, cry, flee, complain, write a manifesto?

The middle way isn't just a range on the thermometer. Even if I achieved perfect temperature control in my environment, what about all the other aspects of that environment that I also evaluate as important but variable, with certain strong preferences and needs to consider? There are a multitude of manifestoes that end up having to compete in the personal boardroom for decision-making clout. Who's the CEO around here anyway? Oh, he couldn't make it this time. He's taking an extended vacation on Maui ...

Then there's the quantum connection: the middle way between particle and wave. The experiment says that if you're looking for a particle, that's what you see. If you're looking for a wave, that's what you see. Elemental reality is both, at the same time; but we can't see both at the same time, only one or the other. So my quest, on this more elemental level, is to neutralize the swings between hot and cold, between desire and aversion, and find the equanimity of the warmth between.

There is a further twist, though. The above ideal is just that: a perfectionist's ideal. Real life, living in the world in human form, puts us on the see-saw, the roller coaster of the this grand amusement park. Fitted with the instrumentation at hand, we see first particle, then wave; the bliss and conflict of relationship; the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat in the realm of competitive sports (or business); the arctic and tropic realms of earthly experience. Heaven and Hell lie within the range of daily human experience.

Is even the impulse to moderate the extremes, then, well-meaning as it is in the interest of healthy balance, at odds with the nature of life? Maybe; but it's all open to choice. The wilder the swings, the greater the ecstasies of desire and the sufferings of disappointment. Get high if you want, but be ready for the hangover.

The true middle path of constant equanimity is another choice: the life of the yogi, the celibate, the monk or saint. And this doesn't necessarily mean renunciation of the world. It can mean bringing a neutralizing influence of attention to bear during every step, every breath, in the midst of whatever our engagement with the world is. We can choose the range we live in, which is not dependent on our economic status or even our personal conditioning, but on our inner freedom in responding to impulses, desires, aversions, and judgments. We can take on the degree of involvement, in the worldly see-saw of emotion, that makes sense for us; and this degree itself can change, in a larger wave of our path of growth and experience. At one time, celibacy; at another, delving into relationship again. From Arctic, to Tropic, and back to the Temperate zone again, for another while.

At the top of Haleakala, realm of the fire-goddess, Pele, I'm challenged by the altitude, recalling Nepal; and by the exertion of a full-day hike, recalling my expedition to the top of Mt. Cooper. That pointed cone of ice presents the opposite image of my destination here, a so-called "bottomless pit" (Kawilinau) where lava once spewed forth, now closed off at a depth of 65 feet. This mountain is a breast of the goddess rising out of the sea - or a mere nipple on the wide oceanic bosom - from which, from time to time, her milky fire flows.

Wild Ride, Tame Music, Last Resort: FireTribe, Fall Equinox 2009

2009-10-10T13:48:00.000-07:00

On the plane to Honolulu I sat next to a guy who had just sold his top-100 dot-com business, and so I wound up picking his brain on keys to success: the right domain name, key paying partnerships, reverse engineering Google from competing sites. All this I knew already; the difference was, he actually followed through and did the grunt work to make it happen.

On our approach to land we had a brief scare . . . to add to my list of "28 brushes with death." Actually I didn't realize until a woman told me later, that the wing almost dipped into the water. All I noticed was a rough rock-and-roll on the approach to Honolulu, as the small jet, with every seat filled, was buffeted by strong winds. She said she was shaken awake and looked out the window to see the water shockingly close.

I had noticed the funky young woman in the gate lounge; in fact I boarded the plane just behind her. A ukulele stuck out of a rip in a small backpack. She had one other small bag, and wore orange clogs or whatever you call those new plastic versions of the old Dutch wooden shoes. I thought she looked maybe the FireTribe type, but the packing list posted on the website specified non-melodic instruments. She sang a few notes softly just before entering the plane. Hours later in camp - it took a full hour and half just to pick up my pre-reserved, prepaid rental car from the zoo of an Alamo office - I recognized her and we became acquainted. Sure enough, the ukulele got some airplay at various times in the circle.

That rental fiasco began when I paid online as an add-on to my flight, via priceline.com. 40% off! the banner blared, but then it got tacked on again as hidden fees after I paid (not to mention the extra airline baggage fee when checking in my drum). Another $24 was tacked on for liability insurance at the time of pickup. And on top of it all, Alamo put the full charge on my credit card even though I'd paid already through Priceline; so I had to sort it out with a call to customer service a week later when I saw my credit card bill. Honolulu: what did I expect? While waiting I tried to buy a bottle of plain water from the machine, but it didn't deliver, so I punched the next choice - some high-performance mineral supplement concoction in blue, of which the first ingredient was sugar, topping a chemical stew.

There was a small gathering at the camp site, a Christian-run place where I'd been once before, at Winter Solstice 2002. Partly as a result of the low numbers, and partly as an ongoing intention of these gatherings to de-emphasize the heavy drums and open more space for light percussion, frame drums, singing and chanting, the energy of this circle on the first night was low-key. A few more people showed up on the second night so there was more dance energy, and one drummer in particular just wanted to keep pounding it out ... until he was told quietly to give it a rest. Ukulele, harmonium came in to fill the gap. Coffee with coconut milk was delivered to musicians in the wee hours. Still, on the first night I didn't make it all the way through, but only till around 4.

I dreamed I was in love with another man's woman. This is the reminder of what Eckhart Tolle calls "the pain body." I awoke from the drama to a sleepy camp, dull stirrings for breakfast at mid-morning. I wanted a break from the camp and a refresher for my dusty body and foggy mind. So I headed back down to the highway and the Ko'olina Resort, which could be seen off in the distance from the camp up on the mountainside. On the way I missed the turn and wound up headed back toward Honolulu. Everywhere on the highway there were construction lanes, last-minute signs for turnoffs, speeding traffic four to six lanes in each direction. I thought I would try Ewa beach as a second choice, but when I finally got to the area it was run down, not a good choice for parking a rental car or leaving backpack on beach while swimming. So I backtracked and finally made it to resort land - the other end of the socioeconomic spectrum.

Here the shoreline was sculpted into a series of four artificial "lagoons," each with large rocks piled to break the incoming waves. The grass around the impeccable crescent beachs was cropped like a putting green, and sprouted palm trees laden not with coconuts, but security lights and cameras. The water was all very lovely, the sand squeaky white and clean, but it was all a bit creepy.

Along the way, images:

- In a big black pickup truck, a young Hawaiian woman rides on the passenger side, with a bright flower (plastic?) in her hair over her ear.

- On the boulevards enroute to Ewa beach, people are walking under umbrellas against the midday sun.

- On an actual putting green of the resort golf course, a guy is doing pushups.

- At the resort, electronic speed monitors appear every 100 feet, flashing my crimes at me and scolding me to do as I'm told.

- Back at the FireTribe camp, above the fire pit where we engage in our pagan rites, a trail leads to another fire pit surrounded by benches like a little amphitheatre, topped by a large wooden cross.

On the second night I stuck it out to the end, feeling that the discipline of the practice demanded it. It wasn't about the jam or the party or the dance, as I am used to; but about setting aside whatever it is that I identify with, and opening space for the collective spirit and other individual spirits to unfold. Within this setting aside, though, the other challenge is to still allow and express what is genuine to flow forth through each of us to feed the fire and the dance and the song of the long night. So I was there at the end with Tara and Michael and a few others, with a long samba jam into dawn, where we had found that sweet sustained meeting ground of volume and tempo and groove and spice and holding it down and going off and coming back, listening and speaking in turn, organically, honestly, humbly; graciously and gratefully.

View slide show with more photos from Oahu and Maui

Editing Life: from Dzogchen View

2009-09-14T04:03:00.000-07:00

Funny how the professional life and the personal life overlap. Now back working steadily as a copy editor - with music performance season passing into more of a lull, and my former nightly avocation of music editing also on hold - I'm seeing how life itself can be a kind of perpetual editing project. Forever tweaking, doing major retuning (as in this 7-month move to Maui) or minor fine-tuning (carrying the laptop around the house and to "hotspots" outside to catch the rays).

During this time of transition I've found some quality reading time, finally checking out Eckhardt Tolle's A New Earth, and Stephen Cope's The Wisdom of Yoga: A Seeker's Guide to Extraordinary Living, along with Jeremy Narby's Intelligence in Nature (thanks, Paul, for these selections!). It's fascinating how these different writings overlap ... which is no surprise, as each would acknowledge the universal essence of life in its holographic flowering from form to form, and each would stress the underlying unity of consciousness.

Back on the ranch of the mundane ... I have been mostly preoccupied over the last three weeks with getting set up in my new household, with the help of my host Marianna, who was still here for two weeks of that time busily preparing for her own winter journeys. She's an artist of some renown who paints Tibetan deities, sometimes as wall-sized murals, such as the one in Maui's own stupa at the Dharma center, where we recently attended a talk by the visiting Oracle of Tibet.

I won't bore you here with the extensive details of buying a car to use during my stay here (or, read further below if you must); of reorganizing the kitchen to my own taste (all right: stashing away unwieldy large pots and pans, sharpening a motley collection of knives buried in a drawer, rearranging items on counters and in cupboards); of various attempts to find shortcut routes down the mountain to the beach (it's so tantalizing to see sunny Kihei laid out directly below, but frustrating to have to drive the roundabout highway to get there; sadly, the Google Earth aerial views don't anticipate gates and "No Trespassing" signs on the back roads that do run straight down the mountain through the cane fields and ranch country); or of the trivia of electronic tasks such as setting up printer, router, and phone options (all systems go). Suffice it to say that now the basics are in place, I'm comfortable here in this mountainside nest, and I'm finally able to breathe a little, take stock, and deepen my vision of the life I came here to live.

The core motive of my move here, of course - as well as my skinny guy's daily quest - is heat. Sunrays. Warm ocean swimming. Endless summer. That's the theory, anyway. I mean, Victoria's as good as it gets, in Canada that is. But that's Canada. So, when the offer to move here came up last April after a long dreary March, I instinctively sprang for it. I knew from the description I had, however, that living 3600 feet up the side of the Haleakala volcano would be a compromise of the tropical ideal.

The fact is, there's beautiful warm sun here for a couple of hours first thing in the morning. Then clouds form from the ocean breezes on the mountain and hang over it like a sombrero for the rest of the day. Around mid-afternoon the sun clears the canopy and shines back in from the west, ending in a glorious unique sunset each day. The nights and mornings are chilly, the days moderate. "Winter," I hear, is somewhat more challenging, but it's all relative. This is Hawaii, after all.

The flip side of this rural mountain location, as I came to know so well at my homestead in interior BC, is space, solitude, and the beauty of peaceful nature. And of course the key difference here is that in 30 minutes I can drive to that tropical beach, any time of year. The choicest beaches are an hour away ... still no big deal, considering that in Victoria in summertime I do just that, driving 30 to 60 minutes every chance I get to go swimming in a favorite natural location.

The other throwback to my days in rural BC is a garden - my first in 15 years. This one has been just too easy. Three raised beds behind the house were nicely rototilled in advance of my arrival. I bought a flat of starter seedlings and plunked them in the ground in less than an hour. The trick now is to wait. In the meantime, groceries. The tree crops here have been a disappointment. I heard macadamias, avocados, various fruits ... in reality the only things bearing now are plums and some tiny dry tangerines. So, once again the ideal needs modification: the grail of rural self-sufficiency, as I learned once long before, remains elusive.

On the music front, things are progressing more as expected, with opportunities sprouting up frequently. For starters, I hooked up with a longtime West African drumming class I'd played with on both my previous visits, and fit right in. Same with the epic Sunday afternoon jams at Little Beach, where again the djembes and dununs set the pace. Here the added spice is that it's a semi-performance, since the beach is crowded, always produces eager dancers, and is ... oh didn't I mention? ... clothing-optional. I've also been invited to sit in and play at the dance classes happening down the road in Haiku. Then there's the FireTribe Equinox celebration next weekend on Oahu ... and after that, a class workshop and performance near the "seven sacred pools" on Maui ...

In case I get bored with too much time on my hands, there's always the full slate of yoga and dance classes going on at the Studio in Haiku ... but something tells me I'll have enough going on soon enough, and that I'll be content to take spare moments of peace and solitude to enjoy here at home in Kula, at the place Marianna calls "Dzogchen View."

A Tantra of Dzogchen

As a bee seeks nectar

from all kinds of flowers,

seek teachings everywhere;

like a deer that finds

a quiet place to graze,

seek seclusion to digest

all you have gathered.

Like a madman,

beyond all limits,

go wherever you please;

and live like a lion,

completely free of all fear.

-a tantra of Zogqen

The Unedited Life

1 September 2009

The world is too much with us; late and soon,Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;Little we see in Nature that is ours;We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon,The winds that will be howling at all hours,And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers,For this, for everything, we are out of tune;It moves us not. -Great God! I'd rather beA Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
--Wordsworth

The car business was something I anticipated with some trepidation, not knowing exactly how I would manage payment between various options that weren't obvious; researching the best options for sale; contacting and getting around to see the cars I wanted; deciding among innumerable choices of make and model, year, mileage, gas consumption, repair history, and so on; getting ones checked by a mechanic; and arranging transportation involving various parts of the island if it did come to a sale.

It all came down to Saturday when, on very little sleep following intensive Internet research and spreadsheet comparisons of local ads, I set out to make the rounds of my top candidates. First on the list was a '96 Mazda Protege with only 97,000 miles and an asking price of $1500 obo. It happened that the car sat off a little road in Huelo, Ulalena, that I recognized as the road to Danya's where I stayed a year and a half ago on my last visit to Maui. On arriving I called the owner, Tony, on my cell, as he was working on a construction site nearby. No answer. After leaving a message and waiting awhile, I got vague and uncertain directions from a housemate of his. Another person along the road directed me further. But the house I came to did not match the earlier description, and no one was there anyway, so I proceeded further down the road for a visit to Danya and to get directions from her.

On the way I met Kevin driving up the road - a fellow I'd met when staying at Danya's. He actually wasn't staying there but at the neighboring land - which Danya didn't even know, when I mentioned it to her. On the way out again I encountered another person from my previous stay, Arianna. It all seemed so karmic. The house I was directed to was indeed the one I had found earlier, but there was no sign of Tony, so I returned to his house where the Mazda sat, to wait and ponder next steps.

After a while Tony called me on my cell, and said he would be there shortly. The car was in decent shape, except for a banged-up front turn light. I took a test drive. It drove and handled reasonably well, though a little rough on acceleration. I said I liked it and wanted a nearby mechanic, a friend of Marianna's, to have a look. Peter the mechanic actually owned a similar Mazda and so was familiar with the engine; he took another test drive with me and noted the same hitch in the acceleration; and on inspecting the engine, decided the probable cause was worn spark plug wires. He contradicted Tony's reference to another mechanic saying this car didn't have a timing belt. He also mentioned the need for a CVR boot ($75), and an immediate need for a front brake job ($100). In addition would be the probable replacement of spark plug wires, another $60. I paid him $40 for his time and drove away ... though on doing so, it seemed so much rougher than before, that I more than once turned around to go back for another evaluation, before deciding I was just not used to the car and anyway the new plug wires would probably do the trick.

Back at Tony's ranch, I sat in my rental car for a few moments and tried to figure out what to do next. Should I buy the car and then take it immediately back to the mechanic to deal with now, hoping to get a ride back here from Marianna when it was ready? But if I did that, would I have to ask the mechanic to bring me back to my rental car at Tony's? Or ask Tony to follow me to the mechanic's and then bring me back? I was too tired, hot, hungry and confused to think straight. Okay, I finally decided, first things first; I'll buy the car and then worry about the mechanical issues later.

I phoned Tony who had returned to work with his cell phone on, told him what my extra costs would be and offered him $1300 - to which he responded cooly, "Okay, whatever." On detailing what the mechanic said, I heard from Tony that he'd already recently replaced the spark plug wires, and had also bought new spark plugs which he hadn't yet installed because he didn't have the proper tool; he thought the new plugs would solve the problem of rough acceleration.

"Hmm," I said, "that's interesting, because the mechanic checked the plugs and they were okay; he thought it was the wires that needed replacing. Here, look at what he showed me ..."

But as I opened the hood, Tony with the papers in his hand said, "Look, do you want the car or not? I don't know what you expect for $1300."

"I'm just trying to understand what I need to do to get it running properly, and it doesn't make sense ..."

"Well I don't have time to dick around like this. I have to get back to work."

My hand was in my pocket ready to hand him the cash and get it over with. But I couldn't quite bring myself to do it, and with that extra moment's hesitation, Tony lost what little patience he had left. "Fuck it, man, I don't have time for this shit."

I stood there at a loss for words as he shut the car door, got back into his truck and drove off.

[happy ending: "Old Paint" Toyota Corolla to the rescue:]

The jam at Little Beach was another test. No so stressful on the surface ... in fact that part was mostly blissful. The magical blue-green waves, shimmering olive and silver when the sun went behind clouds. The soft golden sand, the beautiful naked bodies, the all-forgiving vibe of the drumming. The usual smattering of jammers were there, with one black-skinned dreadhead more or less leading and soloing, but with a drum that wasn't overpowering. Some duns showed up to add some foundation to the rhythms; otherwise it was mostly the steady pitta-patta of beginning drummers, spiced with the odd percussion, didge or flute. Some people were friendly and easygoing; others more standoffish or uptight. No big deal. At one point a dancer asked for "Yankadi," and I took over the duns, but the djembe support was not there and then someone alerted me that the woman I'd taken over from wanted her duns back. Okay, sorry, whatever. There was room to solo, to play my flute, to play a little didge and wooden frog clave. The dancers increased from two or three to a dozen, as the sun went down and the rhythms built in intensity. Then the dark came, and it was time to pack up and get to the parking lot before the tow trucks arrived.

I stopped in Kihei for a fish sandwich which I ate by moonlight on the lava rocks by the water at Kamaole Park. Here was the other side of bliss: ordinary life, alone, in the dark. I drove back home the hour by highway and sank into bed with exhaustion from the 4-hour marathon of drumming and swimming, on top of everything else, still processing the reality of the event. It was phantasmagorical in its own way, and yet mundane as reality always is, in comparison to the conception of it that has been built up in the mind of expectations.

So this is why I came to Maui ... very good ... but then what, now what, right now, today?

Bird song outside my window, sun in the garden.

Eco-Culture

2009-05-15T12:52:00.000-07:00

Normally we think of culture as human culture, the artifacts and interactions of human society and creativity. It is easy in the civilized world to forget the basis of human culture in nature. That denial is now being put to the test, as environmental issues dovetail with an untenable financial system to present a crisis of millennial proportions. Will we all be thrown back abruptly to a more fundamental relationship with ever-present but rapidly degrading nature? While the question hovers, many are exploring again or anew how to begin making constructive moves in that direction.What does a sustainable lifestyle look like in the 21st century? We have plenty of models from the past to go on - the Inuit, Bushmen, or Aborigines offering examples to recent times of roughly sustainable ways of life that demonstrate success without modern technology. To examine other aspects of culture besides the central requirements of food gathering and shelter, supplies and transportation, is perhaps beside the point; as those secondary needs might be considered frills, optional variations. On the other hand, maybe the whole of a culture must be considered when evaluating "what works." Maybe the music of the Mande peoples of West Africa really is necessary to maintain cultural success in their geographic context. The same might be said of the Inuit shaman and the associated set of taboos; or - who knows? - even of the custom of circumcision (though I would like to think this practice could be left behind in any sustainable culture of the future).

In the moment, I am satisfied with my cheese-and-beet sandwich, brought to this lakeside in a handy plastic container, with a jar of green tea, computer to write with, flutes to play, cell phone to talk with a friend. The ducks are my company now, as I have brought other food products to tide me over in this place. Take away the grocery store cheese and bakery bread, and I am left with the beets and a lust for protein that those poor ducks will have to fend off. More likely, they laugh at the poor human who gazes at them longingly from the shore, lacking ammo or arrows, nets or help from the opposite shore. This survival business is no simple enterprise, and hardly a matter for one man to attempt to vision and dream his way through. It is a collective enterprise, to which the visions and dreams of each have relevance. Collectively we will face again as we once did consciously, the question of how to provide. Today the veils of complacency and denial are wearing thin, as the systems we have built or allowed to be built to stand between us and our daily bread, are tottering.

Thetis Lake

2009-02-14T18:58:00.000-08:00

Thetis Lake - Vancouver Island, BC

If video doesn't appear, click here for latest Flash player

Heartsongs: flute improvisations

Mystic Beach - audio-visual | Nepali Pass - audio-visual

Daily Prayer | Danya's Pools | Going Deeper: bamboo grove

Heartsongs: flute improvisations | Flutes Jam - Learn to improvise on flute or pennywhistle

Mystic Beach

2009-02-05T13:04:00.000-08:00

Mystic Beach - Vancouver Island, BC

If video doesn't appear, click here for latest Flash player

Heartsongs: flute improvisations

Thetis Lake - slides and audio | Danya's Pools - video | Nepali Pass

Daily Prayer | Going Deeper: bamboo grove

Flutes Jam - Learn to improvise on flute or pennywhistle

Of Prophets and Swindled Trees

2008-12-30T22:42:00.000-08:00

re. what the gypsy said
...sometimes right, sometimes just
another path, another lesson:

the moss-laced branches, twisting
gently, pointing here and there
to this or that connection:

their information is valid, like this
communication from plants, from
nature through molecular media:

telling and showing a greater connection
of all, even the parts not visible
in this or that scene, remember:

now, when even the ice-wracked
scrubby trees are bowed down and bound
into the snow-heavy ground:

with a stark still beauty in the clear
passing light and sky-rippling black
pools of water, knowing:

that all paths turn back to the one
round wholeness, all scattered and wound
again into a whirling wonder

New Year's Mantra

2008-12-21T13:15:00.000-08:00

It's all practice
It's all performance
Every moment

Bass Nectar Review

2008-12-03T00:25:00.001-08:00

Raw power replaced finesse at times, but it wasn't all jump 'n pump. The audience cheered as loud when the beats were sick and twisted. The opening chords, if you could call them that, shook the floorboards and the air itself, never mind all the cells of the seven chakras at least …

Towards the end the drunk young guys outnumbered the gyrating young girlies by about 2 to 1, and you contacted sticky flesh from every direction. The intimacies grew in fervor while the layers peeled away. We were almost throbbing as one.

You said hello to the few hard-core celebrants you'd met on Friday at the Sunset Room, but there wasn't room for many words in that space of mega-vibrations, rippling whatever parts of your clothing weren't by now stuck to your own flesh or someone else's, or lying in a heap in a forgotten corner of the room, over by where you set the last third of your grapefruit juice before the staff removed it in a likely ploy to get you to buy another.

They say the ticket prices are so high there ($27) because everyone's on E and not buying alcohol. What do you expect from the T-generation? Sex, drugs, r&r. Just like yer own yout'. Walking past the high school last week just after the bell, your faithful snitch overheard two snatches of conversation: "… the muscles of her vagina …" and "… sixty hits of acid." The third would-be conversation was replaced by a guy (or was it a girl?) with earphones plugged in, supplying the rock.

Where was I? Oh, right: think Rock n' Roll on Steroids … Big Beat, Sick and Twisted … Way Below the Baseline.

Tabla and Sarod

2008-11-23T22:22:00.000-08:00

This ecstasy just won’t go away. In fact it’s building, building on itself and everything that has gone before. It is the coming of synchronicity as the norm, where you can’t get away from the interconnectedness of everyone and everything, no matter what you do or don’t do; yet in responding to the currents around you and within you naturally, like the 95% improvised classical Indian music concert tonight with tabla and sarod, you find that all choices are right, and the flow has carried you over 24 hours and more to your friend on the boat to give him the final push of recognition and acknowledgement of his own true genius, and in being there you recognize also the beauty of the bubble of the boat and its presence in the real world, i.e., the ocean ... and not only that but realizing that better than a swim in an artificial pool back in the city is a detour on the way home, to the summer swimming church where even today in late November the parking lot above the trail is full, and down by the water the sunny bluffs are taken with people sitting in homage, and there you find your spot before the shimmering silvery wavelets, and the luminous green moss, and the living rocks, and find your peace and stillness and knowing and oneness in presence of all this, and still it continues back up the trail on an ankle now suddenly free and healed, winged at heel ... on to town just in time for group practice, where again the immersion in music and waves has given you that frequency to hold, and it’s so big and so deep that everything is allowed, accepted into it, yet it’s also tight and focussed and dedicated enough to dance with clear measure in concert with the others, and of course now without effort, but simply attention and more knowing, and with that - but not too much - your eyes can close again for a moment and you can drift with it where it wants to go, and it drifts you where you want to go, which is everything in that ongoing flow ... so to the university where you zone out and refresh for ten minutes and then go to greet your friends there waiting, not only the two you were expecting but a handful more, and all saying midway between sets that we should have known to bring our other friends there, to share in that moment of joined creation.

Nothing New Under the Sun: A Musical Mystery Tour

Relationship, Emotion, and Spiritual Practice

2008-11-22T00:51:00.000-08:00

In the moment, this is spiritual practice. That is, it can be if I let it, if I intend so. It can be also relationship if you let it, if you receive this intention. In the moment there is no emotion but the moment of breathing. Are you at war with feeling? No, if you listen to the body. The body tells you what it needs. Really what it needs is relaxed breathing - fast, for exercise, or slow, for meditation. In relationship, there is also a matching of breath, a harmonizing of intention, a lifting of awareness from the single body to the dual body, to the all-body of love still greater than one or two.Still, your focus begins with one. One love, inside, from inside, healing first the wholeness of self, freeing the feelings of past hurt and success to flow into and out of present time through the breathing body, the very form of time. Did I say “healing success”? Yes, if success is the wound that takes a toll through stress and imbalance, compromising health for one-dimensional rewards. Pride used to be called a sin. Was that just church propaganda? It’s really just logic when the body’s inevitable demise is accounted for. The fall of pride is simply inescapable reality. Therefore to remain within the boundary of pride is to hide in denial. On the other hand a balance of pride and humility is only natural: a reflection of life’s urgency for full potential while the time is ripe.You come back to present feeling. Are you feeling lonely, unwanted, weak, depressed? These are all conditional, and can be breathed away into the past from which they originated, or the future which is so feared or misunderstood. Are you feeling gladness and joy, anticipation and relief? Fine, while realizing also that these things if dependent on temporary causes, will pass away with the changing winds of time. If rather independent, or arising from life itself - gladness for the fresh breeze off the ocean, joy at seeing friends in a few minutes, anticipation over the promise tomorrow holds, relief in the overcoming of obstacles - these feelings are not yours because of personal circumstances, but rather scents of life itself, lent to you for the savoring.The practice is the remembering, or the means of remembering, that there is more to life than your present feelings and preoccupations. Beyond your current emotional state is communion with others, sharing and harmonizing feelings you all have; and beyond and below this ground of relationship is the ground of being itself, which connects each of you not only to each other, but also to your more central self, the body breathing free, the soul liberated to larger life and the emotion of such liberation.

Personal and Transpersonal Emotions

2008-11-21T14:25:00.001-08:00

Just after midnight. This journalist's deadline is extended, as you have come to expect from someone riding other waves and journeys. In this installment the issue of feelings arises. And I am here not just to do the usual tapdance around the subject with fine-sounding phrases.

Actually as I write I must say the urge to accomplish too fat birds with one stone - the expression of feelings and wider publication - forms a dual purpose with power: as I rise to the occasion with strength and inspiration. But then in the next breath I relax into the winter sleep, forgetting your presence on my doorstep. Have I not yet invited you in? When you say How are you, how am I (feeling, that is ...)?

At the moment I can identify ...

neutral ... but that's a cop-out.

sad ... but that's really just tired.

inspired ... by pipe dreams.

empowered ... but that's an illusion of egocentric politics.

content ... but that was earlier this evening.

happy ... depends how you define it.

I come back as I once did long ago to a kind of Buddhist understanding that most human emotions (start with the powerful ones like fear, greed, love, and joy) are usually attached to our desires and aversions; these distract us from truer, more lasting states of tranquility, which are available to us through spiritual practice and awareness.

On the other hand, Pema Chodron (When Things Fall Apart) came along when I needed her most, after a sudden marriage breakup, teaching me to make the best use of those emotions that were arising in that situation.

Back to present time: I'm skirting again - after even contradicting those emotions I so briefly affirmed. But here I am at least expressing. And if the flow of words is heady and ungrounded, so be the nature of my feeling, as it grows in power again at the very pace of thought and the music of the words playing their way on to the page.

It's kind of like blues vs. jazz -- with blues representing the more raw and direct expression of those human feelings most arising from attachment, and the jazz evolution finding, as it were, new kinds of emotion in the sheer possibilities allowed by freedom and transcendent form. Think B. B. King compared to John Coltrane or Miles Davis.

Besides, it's not me that is the subject of your interest; it's sharing concern about those things that move me. Politics? Well, there's your rage (my rage, actually). If I express that . . . ranting doesn't carry anyone very far. So I have to transform it, into research and networking, to the extent I can act on it all all. Otherwise there is denial; and distraction by myriad masks; yet I still give Buddhism top marks for putting it all in larger, all-embracing perspective.

Personal emotion has again to do with attachment, yet it is very real. For me to express such with you, however, when we have no intimate personal connection, would be inappropriate: it would be the one-sided rant, or like reading over the shoulder someone else's gushing report from summer camp. Or I could portray it (channel it, you might say, from my own experience as well as others') in the form of fiction, drama, or lest I forget, poetry (the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings recollected in tranquility --Wordsworth).

I guess I'll have to leave it at that for now, to catch some of the latter.

[later ...]

What Wordsworth expressed in his poetry were the kind of feelings I would call transpersonal: those feelings of communion with nature and with people who live as integral parts of the natural fabric. And in music, again (which is a form of natural energy) it is possible to access states of feeling that are beyond the realm of simply personal experience. In fact I would say that it is only when we are free from the grip of personal emotions such as lust and affection or anger and jealously, that we can be open enough to receive the transpersonal emotions such as compassion or righteous indignation (think Jesus vs. the moneylenders, or Martin Luther King, Jr., or more recently, Congressman Dennis Kucinich with his fiery speech to the 2008 Democratic Convention, "Wake up America"

You could say that a great blues artist such as B. B. King also is able to transcend the personal and tap into universal human emotions. In such a case it might be true that the impulse for a song comes from or is enriched by the depth of personal experience, yet in the performance of art that personal feeling is raised to a higher power by the power of music itself, by the invocation of a spirit of communion between artist and audience and also between nature and art. The joy we feel in the presence of a waterfall or crystal stream, or even red-leaf maple dewed with sun-jewels along a city sidewalk, surely transcends whatever issues and emotions we are facing in our personal lives. Such a transpersonal emotion is not an abstraction, however; it is the very essence of our feeling to be alive.

Second Person Singular

2008-11-18T22:59:00.000-08:00

Three Personal Readings seeded by the Mayan OraclePolarity: the fullness of ideas, plans, projects and projections, under natural influence; vs. the simple emptiness of reality, unclouded ... unecstatic except by a finer more subtle clarity, and moved deeper not by karmic fear but by opening to the way it is.On the side of the Dreamer and the Dreamed, you come to the knowing that this is a horizontal evolution, the single phase gathering charge to a series of sparks to come, a dreaming into play by dreaming your way full of your way, and yet empty. When this polarity is complete, and the fullness and the emptiness dance in clear union, within as without, the union is whole and thus ready for re-union with another such whole. Otherwise the imbalanced fullness/emptiness, whether too vain or too humble, too busy or too lazy, too pushy or too laid-back, presents a flawed match to another except by complementary co-dependence - where each seeks the primary union still and tries to fit the other into it. In the balanced re-union of two whole, internally balanced unions, is a higher order of duality dancing together.The above model might be criticized, however, as idealistically androgenous. A person with yin and yang 50/50 is perhaps not likely going to be as sexy as one who is “all man” or “all woman.” Yet maybe gender attraction doesn’t depend on a balance of fullness/emptiness, which has more to do with the spiritual side of yang/yin than the erotic side. What we might idealize is a partnership of two spiritually balanced, ego-neutral individuals who nevertheless are attracted to complementary physical and personality traits in one another.-----------------While you grow and balance and gather charge in this phase of singlehood, you recollect that you also received gifts and lessons along the way of previous phases of relationship, and in each case came to an end of the positive learning environment. Maybe it goes back to the problems above, regarding imperfect unions, the flawed attempt to complete with another what is not yet complete in oneself. In any case the experimental union finally dissolved or fractured, or you might say became transformed, in a kind of quantum leap to the next level of learning, in the next relationship or phase of singlehood.How is it assumed that the “jump” to the next classroom is vertical and not just through the garden gate, so to speak? And what is to say that we are moving at all? Maybe it is simply a succession of experiences and people coming to us, to cohabit the world we call ours.Again, in either case, I believe the learning is cumulative. We do repeat mistakes, and develop strange habits of bouncing between the same kinds of obstacles or kinds of mismatch, if we are slow learners who do not reflect and choose otherwise. Eventually we get what it is we need to survive each step, each test, each challenge and opportunity. Or we don’t survive, and that brings us to a whole new territory.Again, you might say this life has been just another larger phase, and after a time of grieving, and taking stock, and then paying dues or taking a vacation, you might try your luck again. Maybe as the other gender this time . . .--------------------------Between the polarity and the dreaming, when the stillness has cleared and the dreamer and the dream are one, shines the nurturing grace of Imix, the divine chalice and holy grail, the all-embracing Source. She doesn’t require these conditions of balance and equilibrium to offer her love and forgiveness. She gave life and she will receive it back again, without prejudice.So let polarity flash through the night; let the dreamers have their dream awhile. You will find your way home one day, dead or alive. Or she will come to you . . . if you are not too vain, busy, or pushy; too humble, lazy, or laid-back to receive her.--more second person singular--

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Bank

2008-11-11T01:34:00.000-08:00

... I fell into the trap set for me by the baby-boom sharks. They didn't really want me and My Generation to gobble up all that fat money in our growing pensions. No, sir. Better to prevent that sort of wealth-sharing before it gets really expensive. Blame it on the folks who couldn't pay their mortgages. Nip it in the bud, with a coy devaluation scheme called, "The Big Bank Bailout."...

"I believe that banking institutions are more dangerous to our liberties than standing armies. If the American people ever allow private banks to control the issue of their currency, first by inflation, then by deflation, the banks and corporations that will grow up around the banks will deprive the people of all property until their children wake up homeless on the continent their fathers conquered." - Thomas Jefferson, 1802