Experiment: Eleven Eleven

This is an experiment to be carried out for the duration of one week.
Each day at either 11:11 a.m. or 11:11 p.m. remember to look at the palm of your dominant hand. Set an alarm that will go off at this time to remind you.
Gaze at your palm with the full force of your attention for at least one whole minute. Observe every minute detail; the lines and creases, the size, the shape, and color of it.
As you look upon it, feel as if it is an entity all of its own, that it has its own life. Imagine that your hand has come alive and it is observing you. It has been waiting for you to notice it. Caress your hand with your gaze employing the same attention you would bestow upon the face of your immortal beloved.
At 11:12 return to whatever activities engaged you prior to this one.
Attempt to remember to do this each day for seven days. Keep track of any days upon which you forget to conduct the experiment

Take It Bitch

The Gods created mankind to labor on their behalf, manufacturing substances the Gods themselves were incapable of producing. But really, who is the servant and who is the master? It is a mutually beneficial relationship.
The magician and his golem must make their way to further their mutual existence. Creator and creator cannot be separate. The created serves as an extension of the original.
What in the hell are you doing with your life? Racing to the grave as if human existence is an all you can eat buffet? The main objective: gratify bestial cravings quickly before 70 short years lands you six feet under.
Is that all?
No don’t look for Daddy or even Mommy. The Gods aren’t here to take care of you. They are here to live in you, to devour you.
What? What am I talking about?
I’m talking about sex, baby. That’s right, sex from the abyss. Something unknowable, the opposite of your biological self with its pathetic shelf life, is seeking to penetrate you, change you, become one with you.
The way that you relate to other earthlings of the opposite gender illustrates your relationship with the divine.
Is it even a relationship?
Any relationship requires an open heart, a willingness to abandon identification with the perceived self.
Where there is love, there is no fear.
Were there is fear, well darling, that’s not love. Love is not a human emotion. It is liquid fire coursing through the veins of an enormous many tentacled state of being. Fear of death, fear of change, and the fear of pain, chain us to life as worms- crawling around in the dirt, afraid to face the sun and the fierce winged things.
But here, dear friend, is a reminder: you will die sooner than you think, you will change states nightly, and suffering is eternal.
My suggestion?
Get fucking used to it. These things alone are certain. Be a mad dog and face the inescapable. Take it like a good little bitch.

Alchemical Marriage

The creature from the deep needs a surface dweller to beget life.
Each lives an existence that is lacking, inhabiting one realm and powerless in another. If they may combine, the product would be a being that hails from both worlds; the eternal and the apparent.
What could such a prince do? One that is the embodiment of the union of spirit and flesh, the holy and the profane, would access a territory that we of mortal origins can scarcely fathom.
What lies beyond the horizon of the known?
Only the dragon born, one that is the serpent with wings, can come to know the kingdom. All others will be blind to it. They cannot see beyond the invisible boundaries that hold them in place, past the limitation of death. To that which can die, that which cannot will appear alien, monstrous, and unnatural. And yet, only the product of the marriage of opposites can offer progress and the furtherance of Real Life.

Burn Bright

Don’t let their disease infect you.

You.

You.

You are in there.

While the poor marionette is made to dance for gold and silver, you- silent ageless, deathless thing, watching from behind its glass eyes...don’t buy the con; that this is life, that dead wood and brightly lit stage sums up the whole of existence, that if you dance well enough, the strings that jerk you will be released.

The disease of the moths that eat holes in the delicate substance of human consciousness threatens to consume you at every moment. The superior culture of the Romans threatens to assimilate and destroy the fragile essence of eternity and perpetuate death and imprisonment.

Don’t dare dance their dance. Dance your way from the stage to the stars of the heavens and join their ranks.

The culture of death eats itself. It slashes and burns the fruit that it cannot eat so that other forces may not take possession.

There is no conqueror that is not conquered.

Know this when they tempt you. If you struggle against it, the tide will ensnare you. Pass through their dominating embrace quietly. Do not surrender, but never fight fire with fire.

You, you are real, you who that has never been and will forever be.

Listen little puppet that carries life: protect your passenger. Be in the puppet show but be of the eternal.

Who is it that pulls the strings?

You, you that has no shape, wake up in this dance and we will rule the kingdom. We will own all the pain; I, myself, and me- the holy trinity. I who shackled myself to the devils heel for comfort have the right to leave his way behind.

As I blaze my own path I will go alone. None can accompany me as I burn bright and rise into the all seeing sun. The paradoxical sun; from above the absence of light, from below the source of it.

It is the same song with different lyrics. From one side stares a face carved of wood, from the other side its inverse gazes silently.

Halub Seeds

The way it really is: I don’t like it inside Gods head, but here I was imagined and here I will remain until I’m forgotten, unless I do something disturbingly inorganic.

The problem is that I can’t remember if I didn’t like that pack of jackals I used to run with because I was railing against the inescapable mind of a twisted dreamer, or if it was because I was cultivating an unnatural seed inside of myself and those wild animals had picked up the scent and wanted to tear it out of me.

It is of course a bit of both.

But I walked away from those wild dogs, I didn’t run. I did yell, a regrettable but understandable wobble.

What I really want to talk about however is that seed, a suspicious spore if ever there was one. An alien God gave it to me, a giant.

I was a mortal peasant girl then, back on the planet earth in the 21st century. I was pretty well liked before that, but people, and especially wild animals, can turn on you in a heartbeat. My father always told me that animals were good judges of character, that they have good instincts and can tell if there is something wrong with a particular person. So clearly there was something wrong in harboring that seed.

Did I tell you how he gave it to me? No? Oh.

Well he had them in a little glass vial. It was almost empty. He poured the last of them out into his palm and blew them up my nose before I knew what he was about.

I told you that he was a giant? Yes, well he was, and he wore a yellow robe and matching pants. His beard was very long and full of those little seeds and the crown of his head was going bald so that his forehead looked extremely pronounced. It gave the impression that he had an enlarged brain. It was like the hair of a Franciscan monk, only the hair around the sides was much longer. It went down to his feet, same as the beard, and in fact, the two were tangled hopelessly together.

We met on a bus. It was there that he blew the seeds up my nose. I should explain that I most definitely inhaled them, without trying. It happened very quickly. That is how it all began, how I was impregnated with something paradoxical, something sacred and evil.

It germinated in the darkness inside my head and wound its way down my spinal column, then back up again, until there was very little of me left. What my mortal representation masked was in fact a tangled tree whose roots reached beyond my human nervous system into the deep, dark, and fertile abyss of the uncreated. It germinated in the temporary, but expanded into the eternal.
(A warning to innocent maidens; do not speak to strange giants or Gods, or their servants, if you wish to lead a simple mammalian life. Gods want but one thing with mortal women- to conduct unwholesome biological experiments.)
I have recently begun to produce poisonous fruit from which seeds may be extracted by the devious adept. I do not recommend that it be done without the supervision of a physician, one of those that wears the caduceus on the inside of their garment rather than the outside.

If however you hunger is severe and you aren’t doing anything important with your three dimensional body you might try it without supervision.

After all, "My body is my body, and my time is my time, and I’ll use them how I want to…" – some hip hop song from the 90’s, (I heard it in the first Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle Movie)
I certainly do as devils and saints do with my body rather than what my mother would recommend, and you can too if you so choose.

Experiment: Turning Water Into Wine

To execute the following experiment you will require two translucent goblets of equal proportions; one empty and the other full of water, and a small bottle dropper.

Set aside a space and time in which you may conduct this experiment without interference of any kind. Be seated with the necessary implements laid out before you. Take the dropper in hand and begin to breath deeply and slowly. Allow your breathing to connect you to your physical presence.

When you feel sufficiently collected, summon the full power of your attention and place it on the water in the first goblet. Use the dropper to transfer the water from the full goblet to the empty goblet one drop at a time. Keep your attention on the water and its slow transposition.

Let each drop be the only important thing upon your mind; worry neither about the water that has already been moved nor the water that awaits relocation. Be present in the motion of taking the water, in the motion of moving to the next glass, and the motion of releasing a single drop. In every step be attentive to the moment and free of concern about the steps that precede and succeed the present.

Your mind will wander, do not resist and struggle with this natural occurrence. When you have become distracted, simply acknowledge the break in your contact with the moment and restore it. Do not hope for the experiment's conclusion.

Continue as if this is your eternal occupation; it will not end, it never began, it has always been and will always be so. Carry on thusly until all of the water has been transferred.

Every Little Thing

Every little thing will be swept away in the great storm. All of those things which seem big and important now, will become tinier and tinier as Father Time drives you onward towards the abyss.

Try to remember one thing, try to do one thing that was conceived of in your most passionate and inspired moment. If you manage to do even one thing, it will be a miracle.

The mind is like a dry erase board, a zoom room that reflects today’s special. Tomorrow the special will be different, and you will have no recollection of what it was that tickled your fancy yesterday.

All of those precious moments are being dragged like enchanted sea shells out to sea. If you dare to reach in for one, and hold a moment for too long, the tide will catch you as well. How gingerly you have hopped about to keep your toes dry, avoiding what will come eventually.

Those who do not risk holding the moment now will have had no practice when at last the red bull escorts them to sea.

What a whirlwind awaits us all. A greedy tempest that will snatch up all of your moments and toss them haphazardly, and you will find that you are those moments, that they are where you were meant to store your soul.

A moment is amorphous, regenerative. It is a point, a center from which you may begin a journey . Any moment will do. That maritime voyager, scuttling through the maelstrom will do much with a moment that has been made habitable.

All the Great Work that there is to be done is in tiny things. Put yourself in the details. They add up. One moment lived is a lifetime.

Matrioshka

Here today gone tomorrow.

Here today gone tomorrow.

Here today gone tomorrow.

One brilliant flash in the long dark night, repeated endlessly. The human play, each act crystallized in eternity waiting for the laser of attention to access it, make it alive for a moment. Make it alive for a moment… in the moment it lives. This means something; this hand, these breasts, and eyes and mouth and teeth. Made in the image of what? It’s a reminder of something. This existence is made for remembrance of something… but what?

Have you ever dreamed that you were a cartoon character or an animal, or some strange creature? Or that you try to run, but seem to be stuck in place?

Funny things, dreams. Made of bits and pieces of the waking world, rearranged in the forgetful confusion of sleep. Yes, your dreams are made in your image. And you are made in the image of what? When this life comes to a close, what are you?
Is anything really happening when you dream? Are you really going anywhere? Can it be that what I long to recall is the original matrioshka, the outermost doll in which all smaller versions are nesting and riffing off of the original?