Friday, November 23, 2007
Befriending an Arab has made me aware in the difference in outlook of upbringings of mono-theistic cultures versus the rest of us pagans. I grew up in New York City, my Hindu background and my time in India, have influenced my psyche to a large degree. I am something new, unexplainable, not yet definable. I perplex both the western and eastern mind. Part new york part new age, mixed with indian, latin, jewish and black influences, my sense of self is fluid and in influx. I become a fat Elvis singing pre-Revolver Beatles with no hint of irony or self-pity. This bothers the monotheists. They want one person, one whole, a consistent ideology, they see lack of integrity where I see possibility and greater truth. The whore, the beggar, the thief, they are a part of all is us, we must transcend through them rather than avoid them. Evil has to be played with to diffuse it. My father, I remember, in a fit of trying to understand who I was asked whether I had a conscience. I was 13, burning mailboxes, stuffing pigeons in microwaves, torturing cats and starting forest fires on a routine basis. "Don't you have a voice inside you that tells you not to do things." I didn't know what he was talking about. My religion was Guns and fucking Roses. I stole money from my mother's purse to run to the store to buy appetite for destruction, my first album. I came home, pumped up the volume while my parents were away at work and thrashed the house with baby powder. There was baby powder everywhere. This inspired my mother to put plastic covers on our sofa, which destroyed any warmth one could feel on cold saturday mornings watching cartoons.
I don't have a voice inside me that tells me what to do. I do what a I feel like, when I feel like. I am a selfish, arrogant, rebellious person who doesn't give a shit about honor and pride. And when I meet people who do care about such arcane ideas, it gives me the creeps. I know right away that these people are capable of the worse human atrocities. Honorable persons kill and maim to much higher degrees. I just hurt people's feelings and disappoint them. I am much too much of a mercenary to kill someone for some idea, or ideal, like honor and pride. I have no people, no allegiances, I move with the wind and am just here to have a good time before the party is over. I want to taste all the food, sleep with all the women, make money and spend it, travel and see things, sing songs and care for the weak, all because it feels good.
I am talking about love, love your neighbor, till it hurts.
You, you with your ideals, your honor, dignity and pride. Go fuck yourself. Take your morality and die with your repression, may worms eat your insides away. You are a sinner against life. Sit in your office, take your drugs, pride yourself on your efficiency and talents. What good will it do you, perhaps it will give you 20 years of security but security never ever gave anyone life.
The illusion of safety is more dangerous than danger.
And this is to everyone who has gone to, has served or has had anything to do with the war in Iraq. You're all war criminals. Don't ask me to support you, to feel bad for you, or feel grateful that you carry the torch of imperialism. Whether you like it or not, you are complicit to murder in the name of who knows what. Shut up with your ideals, about freedom and our way of life. We are all slaves! To anxiety, to shopping, to bulimia, to small cock size, to fatness, to gasoline cars, walmart, tv, internet, can't get it up and can't take it down. How long are you gonna let them push you around! How long! I bet you like it, I bet you like getting shit on, I bet it gives you the kicks because you feel you deserve no better because they got your mommy and daddy in the 1950s and made them zombies and then you weren't breast fed and you were fed TV dinners and now you re-live it every week in therapy. And you cry and don't know why.
"American boy, American girl, most beautiful people in the world. Son of a frontier, indians swirl..."
There was such greatness. There was the great big open in front of us, we were free to be whatever we wanted. No government could control us, this was the land of plenty, the last great unknown. And rather than bravely face it, fear took over, and we lost our way and sheltered ourselves from our selves.
The earth will always be here, waiting for us to awaken out of our sickness. It waits indifferently, knowing in the end of all our running around we come back to the Mother. Don't be afraid to live, my brother. My jihad does not entail suicide bombers but people who LIVE and FIGHT and are bombs of light and knowledge and truth.
And it is more than just willing it, you have to have a regimen.
1. no tv
2. no pharm drugs
3. no deodorant
4. no sugar free gum
5. no fast food and sodas, consume NOTHING that is advertised. Its a simple and brilliant rule.
6. use libraries, if you can more than one, angels and homeless people are there, and they both will take care of you.
7. No cars, driving makes you dumber. (an exception is made for cross country American trips and trips in general into the wild)
Don't anything out of fear or obligation. Do it for the thing itself, consciously and with love.
And realize that there are no guarantees. Nothing is fair, there is no justice, just laws of nature, and like nature, that is so loving, it is also cruel and indifferent. Either way a life spent in HER is a life spent living. You can choose to be inside, to be in your POD, living anywhere, even mars, with your cute cafes, and food, and computer and all the rest of the nonsense. Do it, play with it, put it on as one would a shirt, but don't be attached to it, it is not essential, man. It is just an illusion. Deep down, it is simple, what makes goodness and greatness.
It is no contradiction to drive to the ANTI-car meeting. Do it because it is necessary. Just because something is necessary does not make it good. i.e Modern medicine, warfare, etc, etc.
The answer is not the WILD. Modern living cannot and should not be rejected. It gave us the city, and the Novel. No time before was better than now. Enough of the empty romantics. You just got to control it, and clear your mind. Its an illusion. The most striking of beauty is possible sometimes in what seem like hopeless situations. We let our guard down, and when you flow with it, the truth and beauty find you and fill you. There is no rule-book. No way to make it happen, though certain activities can make it more likely there is never a guarantee. We are in the most perfect of systems, there is a deeper harmony, if only we are not afraid and accept risk.
Monday, November 19, 2007
When we compare human with animal desire we find many extraordinary differences. The animal tends to eat with his stomach, and the man with his brain. When the animal's stomach is full, he stops eating, but the man is never sure when to stop. When he has eaten as much as his belly can take, he still feels empty, he still feels an urge for further gratification. This is largely due to anxiety, to the knowledge that a constant supply of food is uncertain. Therefore eat as much as you can while you can. It is due, also, to the knowledge that, in an insecure world, pleasure is uncertain. Therefore the immediate pleasure of eating must be exploited to the full, even if it does violence to the digestion.
Human desire tends to be insatiable. We are so anxious for pleasure that we can never get enough of it. We stimulate our sense organs until they become insensitive, so that if pleasure is to continue they must have stronger and stronger stimulants. In self defense the body gets ill from the strain, but the brain wants to go on and on. The brain is in pursuit of happiness, and because the brain is much more concerned about the future than the present, it conceives happiness as the guarantee of an indefinitely long future of pleasures. Yet the brain also knows that it does not have an indefinitely long future, so that, to be happy, it must try to crowd all the pleasure of Paradise and eternity into the span of a few years.
Thus the brain designed to produce this happiness is a fantastic vicious cycle which must either manufacture more and more pleasures or collapse-providing a constant titillation of the ears, eyes, and nerve ends with incessant streams of almost inescapable noise and visual distractions. The perfect "subject" for the aims of this economy is the person who continuously itches his ears with the radio(or ipod), which goes with him at all hours and in all places. His eyes flit without rest from the television screen, to newspaper, to magazine, keeping him in a sort of orgasm-with-out-release through a series of teasing glimpses of shiny automobiles, shiny female bodies, and other sensuous surfaces, interspersed with such restorers of sensitivity-shock treatments-as "human interest" shots of criminals, mangled bodies. wrecked airplanes, prize fights, and burning buildings. The literature or discourse that goes along with this is similarly manufactured to tease without satisfaction, to replace every partial gratification with a new desire.
For this stream of stimulants is designed to produce cravings for more and more of the same, though louder and faster, and these cravings drive us to do work which is of no interest save for the money it pays - to buy more lavish ipods, sleeker cars, glossier magazines, and better TV sets, all of which will somehow conspire to persuade us that happiness lies just around the corner if we will buy one more.
It isn't that the people who submit to this kind of thing are immoral. It isn't that the people who provide it are wicked exploiters; most of them are of the same mind as the exploited, if only on a more expensive horse in this sorry-go-round. The real trouble is that they are all totally frustrated, for trying to please the brain is like trying to drink through your ears. Thus they are increasingly incapable of real pleasure, insensitive to the most acute and subtle joys of life which are in fact extremely common and simple.
Generally speaking, the civilized man does not know what he wants. He works for success, fame, a happy marriage, fun, to help other people, or to be a "real person." But these are not real wants because they are not actual things. They are the by-products, the flavors and atmospheres of real things - shadows which have no existence apart from some substance.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
The below is best read when listening to "Afro Blues" by John Coltrane off his "Live at Birdland" album. Listen to it and read and feel. It was written during the song, and was what came from me as the song played in me. A form of spiritual meditation. Why don't you try it? if you don't have this song, take any coltrane song and listen and as you listen write what comes to you. Go with it, flow with it and just write, don't worry about anything. Post it in the comments. The power of coltrane. It will pull you through the deepest blue.
"In the beginning there was love. Powerful and all encompassing. It danced and made us dance. We played along with it and it played with us. There was harmony and beauty and then Love started playing wild and dared us to move and while Love moved we moved and we went out to the outer limits of our being. Then Love disappeared though we kept on dancing. It's the moment when your father takes you out for a bicycle ride. The training wheels are on and then he takes them off and he holds you as you peddle. All you have is the park and the morning sun, and that quiet, a deep quiet because everyone else is at work while you and your father struggle against time. Its time to fly and he holds on and then gently lets go and you are not sure if its your own strength that carries you or your fathers and then you fly because you realize its all one and the same. You are moving into the wind and the wind moves with you, carries you and the legs move, though the mind is at rest but the body moves. Father leaves and we fall. And we keep at it, we start finding another, another person to replace Love, the father, that hand that held us. and we work and there is playing but we don't listen to each other and then just patterns and repetition and chaos, and she keeps hitting the same key and then a thunder bolt; Love is screaming back, showing the way over powering our disharmony though now our disharmony is part of the harmony, Love can even take our disharmony and make it beautiful and right. Now that same key she kept playing is like the beating of my heart. Its the eternal beat of the Earth and the sax runs wild, and we all fade into its ecstasy. We play, though listen in wonder, our hands move though our mind is still, focused and rested on the divine, the light and its like the beginning though it isn't because this time we are conscious of our disharmony though grateful and humbled that the greater, the Love is making us a part of it and can take anything we do, forgive it and work with it to make greater Love and then we play, we play, we don't care, no more self consciousness, no more self, no more ego, we play and play and we go strong until when? Until the end, for the end surely comes, as Love always comes and goes. As we always come and then right before, just before, we all play the same tune we heard in the beginning, and Love , this time we carry Love, if just for a moment, before the end. And its over and when will it begin again? When did it end? (Applause) "
Monday, November 05, 2007
This place makes me insensitive to people's suffering and their lives. I could care less, I care much more about the characters in my books and the actors on the cinema screen. They evoke greater empathy then any of the living idiots I encounter here in washington, DC. What an awful, awful place this is. No style, too many white people, to many geeks, everyone is an over educated underpaid loser.
Last night I went to see a sad film with an eastern european girl. She cried and said she doesn't like seeing sad films. And I told her, baby, there ain't nothing like the blues when you got the blues. Reminded me of that scene from Farenheit 501, that truffuat film in english about the illegality of reading and books. Montag, he takes out the tale of two cities and yeats and other poetry and literature and starts reading impromptu to his wife's friends while they were watching tv. The women listen and then one of them starts to cry. The words and what they represented made her cry. And then Montag's wife admonishes him and says see see ! Thats why books are useless they just make us unhappy. That all books they all contradict each other, some say this is true while others say the exact opposite. They all are meant just to confuse us and make us unhappy.
If this is confusion and unhappiness give me more. Nothing hurts me more than certainty and order, and perky everthing is ok.
What is strange is that people don't understand the need to rebel against what is happening to US. They accept the shopping, they accept the technology, they accept the long distance relationships, they accept the pictures and the voices and the alienation. And the running around, the sleep deprevation. For what, you fools!
They take their pills, quietly. They want to function, they want to be somebody. they want a job, they want to be slaves forever. they are afraid of the desert, they don't want to do nothing. They want to swim, but only for two week vacations. They don't want to be free. They want to be heard, to complain, to be held, to have support, to want to help you so you can help them, they are scared they need help, they need happiness, they don't love, don't know what it is, they are trapped, they are beautiful, they are ugly, they are fat they are too thin, they want to be free, they want to sing, they have no idea what they are missing but feel it somehow through the moving of my words and the power of my kiss.
Noteworthy GaboWorld Posts
- The Great NRI Novella
- American Girl
- I Dream Of Queens
- Greenwich Village original
- Film Review: Shoot the Piano Player
- I am American (Obama)
- Kashmir, India's Albatross
- Film Review: Ingmar Bergman
- Mayawati: Low caste Queen
- Passion Vs. Clockwork
- Heart of Darkness
- Italian Professors
- Break on Through
- Love, come back
- Albert Camus in Queens
- The Passions of Civilization
- Mumbai Terror
- Haiti Earthquake