Maybe it’s because, if I was being completely honest – which some remember has frequently been no easy task for me in the past…I would acknowledge that this damnable disease I continue to wrestle with has given me ample sympathy for my older brothers, uncles, and fathers ambling, tottering or wheeling around the sois (streets). Youth can make it easy to take pot shots at the men whose bodies have long been betraying them by growing old and weak. I have a slight advantage (?) there. That damn clock we all hide or run from some times feels to me like it pounds in my ears, maybe almost as loud as in theirs.
I feel that way during moments that I imagine I am my weakest or when the thing possesses me and makes this body dance like a grotesque marionette, twisted, grimacing unable to maintain the illusion of manipulating my own strings. I’ve learned not to waste strength or attention fighting against the straps that I find wrapped around me as I ride the pain sled down whatever rolling hill it’s settled on.
I don’t run from the clock much anymore, and for the most part I have avoided running towards it. Some really cool people outside of Chi Town (that’s Chicago for you un-hipsters) helped me find a few ways to keep from scratching that itch using a road map left behind by a guy named Sid G. Sid was a real prince of a guy who figured out it’s all in our heads.
What I was shown helps when I remember it. I still find myself occasionally laughing at the clock when the pain makes its ticking too loud and I’m telling the clock to just bring it on fucker, which in its own twisted way, also seems to help.
The truth is out there, but like a blessed Mary told me, you’ve got to remember, there is no fucking truth, that’s the truth. It reminds me of what Morpheous asked Neo, “Do you really think that’s air you’re breathing? In this place?”
Things are not always being quite so melodramatic.
(Well, if nothing else, at least I get to amuse my self with these acts of prolix prose.)
Anyway, the point to this, before I shot off into tangent land, was that as critical as I may have seemed regarding the patrons of prostitution and their little games of the mind they play on themselves, I do get it all too well. It is only with effort that I don’t allow myself to wander down similar dark alleys of delusion.
It’s a bitch just being human with all the regular fears, distractions, doubts and disbelief. Pour some salt on the wounds with vividly imaginary things like time, age or disease and it can really turn into a mother you don’t want.
And girls and ladies, don’t kid yourselves, men tend to be a lot more lonely and lonesome than you give us credit for. Our training directs us to it and our choices usually compound it. We generally don’t admit this, certainly not to you, but we aren’t always terribly bright.
For me, anyway, I see what I imagine is god’s love reflected brighter through women’s eyes than through most men's. It’s manifest in your warm softness. We miss it and crave it as much as we don’t understand it.
But what the hell, I've spent a great portion of my life imagining god manifesting as a beautiful black woman so I sort of expect to have my vision questioned. I guess I'd find it easier getting on my knees in front of a diety that looked like Angela Bassett rather than some all powerful version of Gabby Hayes on Meth (that's who I imagine when I read some parts of the Old Testemant).
To any boys or men still of fit body, if not always mind. When you see some old fool making an ass of himself over a woman half or less his age. Remember, but for the grace of your gods, goes you.
Nuff said.
I've got to run, a bunch of people just showed up waving crucifixes and trying to splash holy water on me since I made the Gabby Hayes comment.
the Fool's choice
or the other choice
Who would you rather face on Judgemnet Day?
1 comment:
Hey dear friend, when every avenue deadends,
When any one point of view fails to feel complete,
When you know our whole world is a product of thought,
as the Prince Sid so wisely declared,
and what feels like your ownself cannot control it,
When there is seeing that the mind/body is on an endless trek to solve itself,
Endless that is,
You see the futility of it all
And there is nothing left
but to wake up
Damn this habit of looking out and identifying with the creations
Even the thoughts in your head, the pains in the body are all forms of looking out.
Before them all, back here
Awareness on awareness itself
It all becomes the play of lila
Not happening to anyone
So say the reports I get
Problem is I haven’t a clue how to go about this waking up.
Sometimes I get pissed and swear it’s a pipedream sold by charlatans.
But it’s such a gooooood show, I keep buying more tickets.
So I’m telling you it’s the final solution,
the only one that works,
but I don’t know dick about it myself.
And I’m not satisfied with believing anything anymore.
Even the body/mind can come up with the logic that it can’t be real.
It is guaranteed to die, become toast, as my teacher loves to say.
Annica, annica, temporary, impermanent, play.
What sees it all? What exists outside of thought and all its manifestations?
Cross over brother.
Cross over and tell me babbling nonsensical lies about the truth
that can’t be spoken,
like how every veil is so damn thin
Maya is stuck forever spinning layer upon layer to create this apparent solidity,
or how there are no separate nouns in reality
just verbs pretending to be form,
or how the totally wild and liberated aliveness that conjures this all up is infinitely creative and will never stop.
It’s all the play of lila
and some damn nothing is enjoying every fricking contortion it makes
just because it can.
Turn back, brother and stare that freak down.
Then let yourself explode in laughter.
P.S. And send me a report
Mary
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