tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-62393951011501626062024-02-07T22:27:25.119-08:00TurbobluesA place for my stuff.jgrow2http://www.blogger.com/profile/18174261607439194412noreply@blogger.comBlogger25125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6239395101150162606.post-66581446013151193372009-04-11T00:20:00.000-07:002009-04-11T00:22:14.057-07:00by the way......in case you haven't figured it out yet, this blog is now on WordPress. Go to <a href="http://turboblues.wordpress.com">turboblues dot wordpress dot com</a>.<br /><br />Lotsa new stuff there...jgrow2http://www.blogger.com/profile/18174261607439194412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6239395101150162606.post-58009741356187097532009-02-07T09:02:00.001-08:002009-02-07T09:08:45.055-08:00A quick note from Bookman'sI came into town this morning with a pile of old books and CDs to trade at Bookman's. Love this place...<br /><br />As I walked in, I heard the sound of hand drums. Sure enough, there 's some guy looking intently off in one direction while he tapped his hand on the skin of the drum. Like he's joining a drum ensemble or planning to confer with the gods with this $10 trinket. Then he puts that down and begins tapping a pair of claves together.<br /><br />Fucking asshole. I looked at one of the guys behind the counter and said, "He's lucky I'm not hung over. Have to hammer those someplace painful."<br /><br />We really are a species of self-centered asses.jgrow2http://www.blogger.com/profile/18174261607439194412noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6239395101150162606.post-65482991935938144212009-02-06T21:40:00.000-08:002009-02-07T14:01:44.443-08:00The Basement TapesI have a new blog up where I will be putting some old stuff.<br /><br />How old?<br /><br />There was a definite beginning to my writing poetry. I took a creative writing class when I was a Junior in High School ad that was where it all started. Some of those will be there. They're rough. Whew!<br /><br />I am putting these up mainly because they lack a home in either of my books. And, there is historic value. Not to you, no. To me, yes. Very much so. These pages, some brown with time (not the material), are one of a kind and once lost are gone forever. I might actually have a family someday (unlikely sure, but fuck you for thinking I can't) and want to have these where they can be seen.<br /><br />There are a couple of old pieces I'd frankly forgot about that I think deserve to see the light of day. One is called The Bottle. The other, one of those originals, is called Memories. No need to waste ink on them though, that's what the web is for!<br /><br />The basement tapes are <a href="http://turbobluesbt.wordpress.com/">here</a>. Let me know what you think.jgrow2http://www.blogger.com/profile/18174261607439194412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6239395101150162606.post-20163038513771068012009-02-06T14:09:00.000-08:002009-02-06T22:46:26.779-08:00Premia Dardos<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEishdCey-jGUrdTDOgkq2LwUWJUS5Wkp5gIxu-Zw4Vrd1IioHOlFYmQ63zOyG_67C9iRhcNqUKYqELAxmf2twoo6eVScYgNB8CCLk00iuucQZOr64u1h8DyoYP0cNyzKNhiBbxpYSxHoRal/s1600-h/dardos.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 154px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEishdCey-jGUrdTDOgkq2LwUWJUS5Wkp5gIxu-Zw4Vrd1IioHOlFYmQ63zOyG_67C9iRhcNqUKYqELAxmf2twoo6eVScYgNB8CCLk00iuucQZOr64u1h8DyoYP0cNyzKNhiBbxpYSxHoRal/s200/dardos.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5299844525953340338" border="0" /></a><br />So before, I mentioned the quandary I was in. Well, here 'tis...<br /><br />A <a href="http://redtygr.blogspot.com/">lovely lady</a> and <a href="http://patricelynneyoung-redtygr.blogspot.com/">wonderful artist</a> named <a href="http://patricelynneyoung.blogspot.com/">Patrice</a> has selected me for the Premia Dardos. Here is the lowdown on this award...<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">The Dardos Award is given for recognition of cultural, ethical, literary, and personal values transmitted in the form of creative and original writing. These stamps were created with the intention of promoting fraternization between bloggers, a way of showing affection and gratitude for work that adds value to the Web.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The rules:</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">1) Accept the award by posting it on your blog along with the name of the person that has granted the award and a link to his/her blog. [Note: Don't forget to copy and paste the award jpeg itself to include on your own blog!]</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">2) Pass the award to another five blogs that are worthy of this acknowledgment, remembering to contact each of them to let them know they have been selected for this award.</span><br /></span><br />Hmph.<br /><br />Now as is typical of me, I am teeth-grittingly self-deprecating about any compliment. This is because secretly I am also such a slut for recognition and external validation that no possible amount of sincere acknowledgement could satisfy me. Paradoxically, this is because I hate myself that much, and yet possess such a ridiculous ego nothing I do is good enough for me.<br /><br />Hah! How's that for truth?<br /><br />Actually, when I found out that Patrice was actually <span style="font-style: italic;">reading</span> this fool blog of mine, I was taken aback. Seriously, when I started this it was partly because Pete Townshend maintained a blog here (he doesn't anymore). I dropped a few entries in here, then started working it in earnest when I finally published <span style="font-style: italic;">Turboblues</span>. This was also when I had a lighter, more powerful computer I didn't have to tear apart to maintain.<br /><br />But I didn't think anyone would actually <span style="font-style: italic;">read</span> it. Really, I didn't. But she did. And does. So too do a few others.<br /><br />I love you all. Seriously, simply.<br /><br />Anyway, she sent me the e-mail about Premia Dardos on Wednesday and was actually stunned by it, and by her words about my writing. Of course, I was also saying, "YES!! Put that in your pipe naysayers!"<br /><br />Like I actually have sayers, yay or nay. As I said in the last blog entry (scroll down for it), This is just something I do. I am trying to be honest about what's going on in my life and what goes on in my head and heart.<br /><br />I never considered myself an artist--really I still don't. I've met people for whom the title is probably more appropriate, and whose works feel much more deliberate than my own. Patrice is one of those people. I can tell this by the work she posts and the words she writes. My oldest friend Marcy is also one of these people. Hers is a formidable talent that took time to find its voice, and it's a voice well-matched to the depth she possesses. See her <a href="http://embrasures.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Embrasures</span></a> blog and you will understand quickly what I've known for almost 25 years.<br /><br />If Patrice hadn't already nominated her, Marcy would have been my first choice right out of the box. I think she knows that too. Sorry to be obvious Marcy, but this is sincere.<br /><br />Which leads me to my quandary (finally, right? Up yours, this is my blog). Rule one is a simple one to follow. I gratefully accept this compliment that Patrice has graced upon me. Humbly. She did not have to at all, and yet she did. <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">Thank you Patrice</span>. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.<br /><br />Rule two, however, is gonna be a bitch. Other than this here blog, I haven't read much of the blogosphere. A few here and there, but not much. And out of respect to Patrice, and you the reader, and the rest of the blogs and journals out there I need to be straight on that.<br /><br />So what I will do is this: I will pick the five blogs that I believe would deserve this recognition, and I will tell you about them as I find them. Each one will get an entry here. It's going to take some time, but this will be something of a discovery for me, and I want to share that with you.<br /><br />So, more later.jgrow2http://www.blogger.com/profile/18174261607439194412noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6239395101150162606.post-66229163422428526852009-02-06T08:38:00.000-08:002009-02-06T10:12:45.475-08:00Relentless HonestySo I am in a quandary. As with all quandaries, it is ultimately one of my own making--or non-making.<br /><br />There is a concept in 12-step recovery known as <span style="font-style: italic;">relentless honesty</span>. It means telling on yourself--opening the doors you bar even to yourself not just to shed light on the icky stuff therein but exactly because doing so is <span style="font-style: italic;">uncomfortable</span>.<br /><br />My writing evolved as an adjunct to my existence. This is not so much the method I chose for expression as it is the method that chose <span style="font-style: italic;">me</span>. I've grown to understand things about myself and about human nature that I want to get out there. Something about this shared delusion we're in. This was the way I could best express these thoughts I have.<br /><br />I don't pretend they are important, not for a second. <span style="font-style: italic;">But they are important to me</span>. And faithful reproduction of those concepts has been for many years a compulsion. Finding the most economical words has been something else which evolved as an adjunct to my existence. It's too easy to be verbose.<br /><br />Poetry--or specifically unstructured prose--is what has evolved for this purpose. Now those thoughts for so long were the protestations and affirmations of love, affection and lust all spun together as <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Romance</span>. I can spin that emotional yarn all day long, and I think I do it quite well--without it being schmaltzy. Because the feeling is <span style="font-style: italic;">there</span> and true and intense and powerful. Superficial is easy, you see, and the aforementioned <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Romance</span> is a drug, complete with the rituals and highs and crashes that you'll find with any addictive using.<br /><br />So I got pretty good at it. I keep those poems around because the feelings were mine to feel and the poetry, like a hologram, is a pretty accurate representation of those feelings and the women who engendered them.<br /><br />I didn't realize what these feelings really were until later, after I ran into addiction head-on. Then I got an inkling of the nature of my sins--in the Gnostic sense. Hamartia is the word for it. Look it up.<br /><br />None of this is important, <span style="font-style: italic;">but it's important to me</span>.<br /><br />I write. That makes me a writer, I suppose. I never attach an appellation to what I do. A writer to me is someone like Hemingway or Fitzgerald or Harlan Ellison. Of course these men are products of another time, when writing as a skill was appreciated, or at least it paid by the word. I am not a writing fool, probably because there is no profit in it. Probably also because attaching monetary value to what I do tends to cheapen the pursuit, in my view. Probably why I am not a success in this culture.<br /><br />Other than the fact that what I do do for money is almost completely joyless, I guess I am OK with this for now. Money is a means to an end, not the end itself. You might say it makes me a pretentious ass because I don't consider what I do a commodity.<br /><br />I have learned a thing or two about a thing or two and I need to tell you all about it. It's not important, <span style="font-style: italic;">but it is important to me</span>. The bitch of it is, were we telepathic you'd already know these things from me, or you'd have already told me these very same things. <span style="font-style: italic;">Fuck!</span><br /><br />There is a reason for these ramblings, and I will elaborate on them soon. Suffice to say for now that someone has read these things of mine and has bestowed an honor on me. The honor has an interesting price, which I will elaborate upon later. For now, I wanted to clear my head of these things that bugged me all the way up a hill yesterday. <a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/jgrow2/SentinelPeakAndSanXavier">Wanna see</a>?jgrow2http://www.blogger.com/profile/18174261607439194412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6239395101150162606.post-3179278004263588382009-02-04T18:35:00.000-08:002009-02-04T18:36:51.012-08:00Such is LoveSuch an attitude<br />To love.<br /><br />Pretty things<br />In showy containers.<br />Lover as advertisement,<br />Well marketed.<br /><br />Targeted toy,<br />Curious confluence<br />Of want, need, lust, desire.<br />Lover as commodity--<br />So much chattel.<br /><br />Romance is a blurred chemical overlay.<br />Sex makes you sore.<br />Love is horse-trading--<br />And about as sentimental.jgrow2http://www.blogger.com/profile/18174261607439194412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6239395101150162606.post-71504039940093481242009-02-01T20:58:00.000-08:002009-02-01T21:01:38.737-08:00One More Before...<span style="font-style: italic;">What I wish I would have known so long ago...</span><br /><br />Lost.<br /><br />Love loss,<br />A hole in nothing--<br />Insubstantial<br />but enough<br />For me to fall<br />Through<br />to...<br /><br />Nothing.<br /><br />Dwelling on infinite insubstantials,<br />That's what this is.<br />Smoke pondering other smoke.<br /><br />But why<br />Does it feel<br />So very fucking real?<br /><br />Like a slap,<br />Like a rough pull.<br />Same sensoryslam,<br />I suppose.<br /><br />But why<br />Does it feel<br />So very fucking real?<br /><br />The feel<br />Plays like it's real.<br />The space between<br />Is really so vast<br />You have no idea,<br />No conception.<br /><br />Dwelling on infinite insubstantials,<br />That's what this is.<br />Smoke pondering other smoke.jgrow2http://www.blogger.com/profile/18174261607439194412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6239395101150162606.post-20929747098231933322009-02-01T19:56:00.000-08:002009-02-02T07:42:43.568-08:00Jonesing for Enlightenment<span style="font-style: italic;">A tribute to the Golden Days of Yesterzen...</span><br /><br />Jonesing for enlightenment,<br />I sit zazen.<br />Tongue tucked tight<br />To palate,<br />Eyes on nothing<br />And everything<br />Like mind<br />Monkey mind<br />Scramble slitherscramble<br />From tree to tree<br />Attach to anything<br />Frantically grabbing<br />As I watch me<br />Scramble sittingscramble--<br /><br />Breathe boy,<br />Count the breath<br />And nothing else.<br /><br />What will it be,<br />This enlightening?<br />Will I know?<br />Will I glow?<br />Will it show?<br />I can't wait<br />For the peace.<br />I can't wait<br />For the release.<br />The sitting's hell<br />On the knees<br />The squirrel is skittering<br />Among the trees<br />Attach to anything<br />Frantically grabbing--<br /><br />BREATHE BOY.<br /><br />Count the breath<br />And nothing else.jgrow2http://www.blogger.com/profile/18174261607439194412noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6239395101150162606.post-71728031499332515822009-02-01T15:09:00.000-08:002009-02-01T15:12:13.881-08:00A love note<span style="font-style: italic;">She may know, she may never know. I don't know. I just write here.</span><br /><br />Your particular writing voice,<br />Your perspective knowing,<br />Your weary, worldly smile,<br />Your rose-petal kisses,<br />Your embrace comforting above all others.<br /><br />I am the boy<br />Who cried love<br />Once too often.<br />I understand thus<br />Why you may not<br />Believe<br />When I say<br />I love you<br />Now and always,<br />Before and again.<br />I who loved foolishly<br />Love true simple basic<br />Your soul self<br />Infinitely<br />Sincerely.jgrow2http://www.blogger.com/profile/18174261607439194412noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6239395101150162606.post-29679425077906666372009-01-29T12:43:00.000-08:002009-01-29T13:10:00.335-08:00Speaking of religion...The word "religion" comes from the Latin word which also gives us "ligature." It is something that binds people together. Christianity--at least the mysticism that Paul wrote about--was about the perfection of man from creature to christ. It was about the Christ in all of us and how to pull that out from the selfish animals we all are. Meister Eckhart saw that, so did Thomas Merton much later on.<br /><br />Speaking of Paul, a lot of the writings credited to him were not his. The same man who wrote so kindly to the women of the church at the end of his letters would not also denigrate and devalue them. Should be pretty obvious from reading through them that they could not emanate from the same man, even without the extensive scholarship done over the years that proves the point.<br /><br />The heaven and the hell of Paul's writings are not physical locations. They are states of mind, states of being. Not some place you go to when you die. We've all been in Hell at some point or another, and in Heaven too. Scan your lives, I know you will find those instances in your memories.<br /><br />There was no historic figure named Jesus, no miracles, no literal crucifixion or literal resurrection of the body. No original sin either. No good, no evil, no god, no devil. None of that makes any sense. As a series of metaphors however it all begins to fall into place and actually have value.<br /><br />Christianity as practiced today is a perversion.<br /><br />Religion at its best can be something to uplift the spirit and to make the world better NOW. Because that's all we have. As I mentioned in this space before, we are all alone. All of us. And the only certain thing we have is that we will all die and return to dust. Religion can be one way of finding solace in this life if solace is what you need. That's why it's the opiate of the masses.<br /><br />Knowing what I know of opiates, Marx was particularly on the mark when he said that.jgrow2http://www.blogger.com/profile/18174261607439194412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6239395101150162606.post-58971947095378823272009-01-25T17:53:00.000-08:002009-01-25T17:58:53.246-08:00The Church of Context<span style="font-style: italic;">To </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://embrasures.blogspot.com/">Marcy</a><span style="font-style: italic;">. I couldn't get it out of my head. Which given the topic is an even odder phrase...</span><br /><br />My prayer is a sentence,<br />Carefully considered<br />Or rafting on the muse's rapids,<br />To you.<br /><br />Or so I think.<br /><br />Dear reader,<br />God of my understanding,<br />Do you understand me?<br /><br />These words are trinkets,<br />Bought with pain,<br />Careworn by time,<br />And I mean every one of them.<br /><br />But do I understand you<br />Enough to use<br />The words that<br />Unlock your door?<br /><br />Do you understand me<br />Enough to see<br />The color and pattern,<br />Course and drift<br />Of context conveyance?<br /><br />Or, hamartia, did I miss the mark?jgrow2http://www.blogger.com/profile/18174261607439194412noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6239395101150162606.post-35833090642436392122009-01-20T18:54:00.000-08:002009-01-20T19:02:19.277-08:00Roadside Truckstop<span style="font-style:italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Today was a very productive day. I got to sit down and focus on something I've been wanting to do for about a year now, and that's put together a new book. This one goes back to an old friend of mine, </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Roadside Truckstop</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">. Right now everything is together in one manuscript. I might shift some bits around but it's all there. A lot of running. A lot of lost people. A lot of found people too. And the Elephant Graveyard. This is the introduction I wrote back in 1991 for Roadside Truckstop. Now if I can only come up with a good cover...<br /></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br />The road and I are at odds, and yet it's on my side. It stretches in expansive metaphor with every billboard parable and roadside truckstop vignette. Towns and cities are interludes. Short or longish breaks in the monotony. The urge to take an exit and get lost in a new world is so very compelling, but the task of going home looms just as large.<br /><br />I covered nearly 1000 miles today. Every stop was like the last: Pull in, get gas, whizz, get a drink, clean the windshield, pay the attendant, zero out the trip meter (to track gas use with--I trust it more than the gas gauge), then get rolling. The encounters I have are where the routine is broken. To every cashier, gas attendant, waitress and peone I run into, I'm a cipher. A blank slate. Just another face in the shuffle. As far as they know, I'm a famous rock star out for some inspiration, or a rich eccentric, or a travel writer, or whatever I wish.<br /><br />This one truckstop I'd hit was all-encompassing. Reminded me of a starbase. A waystation where you can get a shower, get your laundry cleaned, buy contraceptives in the washrooms, sit and eat in a big restaurant, catch up on the news, get your car or rig repaired, even get a room to sleep in--all in one place. A guy could live and die here.<br /><br />There's a story in all the people that work there, and a few in the people who're just happening through. Generally it's all pretty laid back, nothing raucous. Kinda like a graveyard it gets so quiet. With all those big rigs, I'd almost call it an elephant graveyard. Really though, it's 'cause everyone's so tired.<br /><br />Sleep. What a darling concept. Fourteen hours on the road, fourteen more will get me home....</span></span>jgrow2http://www.blogger.com/profile/18174261607439194412noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6239395101150162606.post-70310131486919856272009-01-18T19:04:00.000-08:002009-01-18T20:30:44.063-08:00Finger Pointing at the MoonI remember the moment quite clearly, though I was sauced at the time.<div><br /></div><div>It was 1989, the birthday party for my friend Marcy. I was in a new relationship with Rhonda, whom I loved very much--at least as much as I thought I could being so young. I knew I loved Rhonda and I knew she'd said she loved me, but I cried because I couldn't <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">feel</span></span> it. I had her words and actions to go by and nothing else. I told her this but I don't think she understood. I was a drunken mess. What can I tell you. I didn't understand my own thought enough to explain it to her even if I <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">was</span> sober.</div><div><br /></div><div>The reason I think of this melodramatic tirade from 20 years ago has to do with Colin McGinn. He is an atheist philosopher, one of the six interviewed on the <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><a href="http://secularphilosophy.com/">Atheism Tapes</a></span> (well worth watching. It's on <a href="http://www.netflix.com/">Netflix</a>). In his interview he talked about the "god" concept being around--being so prevalent in society--because it answers the loneliness we all feel because of being locked in our own skulls. We make up this concept because we are all truly very much alone inside ourselves.</div><div><br /></div><div>I call it the Tragedy of the Human Condition. We are unable to truly convey the thoughts we have. I don't care how much of a command you have over your given language you cannot explain some thoughts so well they will be perfectly understood. That's where art comes in, I suppose. </div><div><br /></div><div>We are all alone. All of us.</div><div><br /></div><div>Do you think perhaps that's really why people can't let go of religion? Why they can't let go of god?</div><div><br /></div><div>Our soon-to-be-former President and our destructive stay in Iraq spawned, among other things, a wave of atheist sentiment which included three great books: <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/God-Delusion-Richard-Dawkins/dp/0618680004">The God Delusion</a></span>, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/God-Not-Great-Religion-Everything/dp/0446579807">God is not Great</a></span> and <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/End-Faith-Religion-Terror-Future/dp/0393035158">The End of Faith</a></span>. All three of these approach the subject of atheism in different ways, each according to the backgrounds of their authors, and with different amounts of vitriol at our species' destructive dance with god.</div><div><br /></div><div>I spent a lot of time myself going over spirituality, metaphysics and religion over the last 20 years. I came to Zen Buddhism and Taoism early on in that search and liked them both. The fact that neither one requires a supernatural deity or a godman is even more appealing. I'll come back to this later.</div><div><br /></div><div>I went back and forth with Christian mysticism as well trying to strike a balance between the Catholicism of my youth and the things I knew made more sense. Some of that was also mixed in with Gnosticism, both in its historical sense and in its metaphysical sense. At this point I will direct you to <a href="http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_ss_b?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=Timothy+Freke&x=0&y=0">Timothy Freke</a> and his books. He pushes his sources to the limit to make a point but his argument about the "Abrahamic religions" being false and destructive is a valid one.</div><div><br /></div><div>Freke points out that the story of Jesus is a copy of the mystery cults that were found all over the Mediterranean at the time and posits the theory that the Jesus Movement was one started by Saul of Tarsus (Paul) among others as a Jewish version of the mystery cults. This makes sense given the fact that the story later recounted in the Gospel of Mark (upon which the other three Gospels were based) is essentially a godman story originally written in Greek for a Jewish audience (John Shelby Spong also speaks of this last bit in his <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Jesus-Non-Religious-John-Shelby-Spong/dp/0060762071">Jesus for the Non-Religious</a>). </span>It also makes sense when you consider that Paul himself never mentions Jesus as an historic figure. He actually doesn't even care really whether Jesus existed. It was never important to Paul or to the movement he advocated. This last because Jesus never existed in the first place. Spong has a different conclusion about Jesus' existence in his book, and his reasons are interesting.</div><div><br /></div><div>I center myself around Christianity here mainly because it is that movement which is responsible for eradicating the other mystery cults that competed with it and directly or indirectly has caused most of the pain and suffering our race has endured for 2000 years. All this for a man who died so long ago if he even existed in the first place.</div><div><br /></div><div>Personally I say sod the whole thing. All of it.</div><div><br /></div><div>Zen Buddhism states that once you reach the other shore of enlightenment you leave the boat behind. Drop the crutch you needed to get across the room. Look at the moon, not the finger pointing to it. I can go on with the metaphor if necessary. I love the honesty in Zen. If you see the Buddha on the road, kill him. same goes for any godman.</div><div><br /></div><div>My finger points to this: There comes a time, as Paul said, when you drop childish things. Religion is one of those things. If you want to know the nature of good and evil, look no further than the second chapter of the Tao Te Ching.</div><div><br /></div><div>Jesus is dead, Lao Tzu is dead, Baba is dead, Buddha is dead, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/God_is_dead">God is dead</a>. So's Neitzsche but he actually existed. So did Baba for that matter....</div><div><br /></div><div>I will leave you with three concepts: Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle, "all you need is love," and the words of Zen Master Seung Sahn: Cultivate 'don't-know' mind.</div>jgrow2http://www.blogger.com/profile/18174261607439194412noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6239395101150162606.post-46160003701022144012009-01-08T14:33:00.001-08:002009-01-08T14:35:06.845-08:00SongEnergy expansive<br />Uncontained<br />Unlimited<br />Dances and<br />Spins and<br />Collimates and<br />Pools.<br /><br />Collect,<br />Coagulate here.<br />See how patterns freeze<br />Into matter.<br /><br />Patterns like letters<br />Writ one and other<br />And another again.<br />The patterns write themselves<br />Over and over and over.<br /><br />Notes to paper<br />To eye<br />To hand<br />To sound again,<br />The symphony moves along.<br /><br />To eye<br />To hand<br />To sound again<br />And again<br />And again.<br /><br />Stop and listen<br />As you write<br />Your self.jgrow2http://www.blogger.com/profile/18174261607439194412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6239395101150162606.post-86115329358219238912009-01-07T10:42:00.001-08:002009-01-07T11:09:29.984-08:00Love is l'oeuvre<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">This is in response to an e-mail sent to me by a dear friend. The subject was how each decade of our lives is like a chapter in a novel. Her message to me, like most all of the e-mails she sends, matches what I am thinking at that very time. Weird, eh Johnie?</span><div><br /></div><div>Each passing decade has felt like a chapter in a novel. I was in a relationship throughout my twenties where I didn't know what I was doing. I didn't understand *how* to love, and didn't do a great job. That relationship ended a few days before my thirtieth birthday. In my thirties I did what I should have done in my twenties, I suppose: I did a lot of dating. A lot of indiscriminate dating. I sought love like it was a quest and found ashes instead. I spent some of the back half of my thirties trying to die because I saw what my life had been: A chasing of addictions.</div><div><br /></div><div>What I have found at this point is that love is l'oeuvre. Taken one way, like in tennis, it means nothing. Not that love is meaningless, everything and nothing have the meaning you give to them. Otherwise your treasures are just these little baubles. Trinkets. Insubstantial.</div><div><br /></div><div>l'oeuvre also translates to "the work" or "the masterpiece." One's life is one's masterpiece, I suppose. But some of us have great editors who leave out or blur some of the less savory portions. </div><div><br /></div><div>In the end, I am not sure if I care what meaning my life has to others. I care about other people but you cannot shake an addict from his/her addiction. And we are all chasing addictions. </div><div><br /></div><div>Chasing personal addictions and battling affronts to our egos. This is the real story of the human race. Not feeding our families and seeking shelter, the rest of the animal kingdom manages to do all that well enough without the need for nuclear weapons, god myths and political parties. Nope, it's all about where the next fix is coming from and who pissed us off today. Hang out with some active addicts sometime and you will see a perverse version of human existence. Or perhaps it is human existence in super-saturated color.</div><div><br /></div><div>On the other hand, save yourself the misery and really look at what means anything to you. If it's your kids or your family, then bravo. But still, ask yourself <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">why</span>. Is it for them, or for the ego inside you?</div><div><br /></div>jgrow2http://www.blogger.com/profile/18174261607439194412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6239395101150162606.post-1916773358282342962009-01-01T01:46:00.000-08:002009-01-01T02:11:45.429-08:00Happy New Year.I for one am glad to be rid of 2008. It was a good year in spots, but not all round. <div><br /></div><div>I lost some things during this year, but all loss and gain are are what we quantify. They mean nothing except in the context we give. This was a clean and sober New Year's, like many others I've had before, actually. And that is one thing I have gained: Another clean day.</div><div><br /></div><div>Again though, it's all context.</div><div><br /></div><div>I am still twisted up in myself. Like unraveling a knotted length of cord, one knot leads to another and another again. Alexander didn't have a problem with this. He cut the cord and the cord un-knotted itself.</div><div><br /></div><div>So what cords do I cut? The cord of escape, I guess, for one. The escape that chemical assistance once gave, or the addictive pleasure of another's body and mind in mutual escape. That particular pleasure always got me knotted up further. Too many times I would pour my loneliness and lust and need into the body of another for the same sort of succor that I later looked to chemicals for. At the time I thought these were events of love but looking back they were examples of chasing various lusts. No. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Chasing</span> implies that I had control for any length of time. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Led along</span> might be the better description. </div><div><br /></div><div>And no, I was not led around by my dick. You give my storied appendage too much credit. I was led around by loneliness. By a need for attention and affection. To be shown that I matter. With the chemicals later on, I was looking for escape. And death. I was always looking for the toke/hit/sip that would end it all. Oops! Had no idea that one would stop my heart. It was an accident, I swear ta god...</div><div><br /></div><div>Hah. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Kill</span> me? There is no <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">me</span> to kill. The ego is a slippery beast. The biggest knot of all. The true Gordian Knot. </div><div><br /></div><div>And so, as I sit here on January 1, 2009, I feel content. Happy even. This year will be what it will be, but so far I walk into it happy, clean and clear.</div><div><br /></div><div>I hope you do the same, whomever you are.</div>jgrow2http://www.blogger.com/profile/18174261607439194412noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6239395101150162606.post-23557915186122414002008-12-11T06:04:00.000-08:002008-12-11T06:18:09.723-08:00A new day dawning<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqYeqVq0BQrIFs8NO7MsUeFxUugVwFJ1BvIg5CLT1fC9oALn34DIOnX_iEY_nRAGXdVKSu2YrDvZAgmUTjlYcEdIEN5nTfwDvcBkHSVL3pGeN0KL6uiRgQgpXqz7D2Es4u7QJ8uKusxUxL/s1600-h/IMG_0004.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqYeqVq0BQrIFs8NO7MsUeFxUugVwFJ1BvIg5CLT1fC9oALn34DIOnX_iEY_nRAGXdVKSu2YrDvZAgmUTjlYcEdIEN5nTfwDvcBkHSVL3pGeN0KL6uiRgQgpXqz7D2Es4u7QJ8uKusxUxL/s200/IMG_0004.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5278536350026836002" /></a><br />So I didn't blog on my birthday--too tired--and I didn't write a poem on that day either. I also didn't do any of the other shenanigans, good and bad, that I did on past birthdays. I worked that day and watched a movie when I got home. A more low key birthday I have never had.<div><br /></div><div>Low-key is good. Low-key keeps me alive.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Clouds fluorescing florescent</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">In the eastern sky,</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Cold snap in dry air.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Promise of a new day,</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Dread the day ahead.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">It will be</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">What you say</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">It will be.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Shut up, stop</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">And watch the color.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">And smile baby!</span></span></div><div><br /></div><div>So I'll watch some movies today, maybe sleep a bit. I lead a boring life.</div><div><br /></div><div>But boring gets a bad rap...</div>jgrow2http://www.blogger.com/profile/18174261607439194412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6239395101150162606.post-57532780247342155002008-09-04T12:02:00.000-07:002009-01-01T02:13:13.840-08:00To all the girls I've loved before...Today is Meeting Day on the Mickey Mouse Club, and I thought I would share a revelation (chuckle, snort) that I had yesterday.<div><br /></div><div>I was a terrible boyfriend. </div><div><br /></div><div>I inserted the chuckle and snort because, well, I am sure if any of my exes remember me, they will remember the good times, but also the times when I was belligerent, when I would argue because, well, don't all people who love each other argue?</div><div><br /></div><div>When I would demand too much sex, or not want it when you did (that didn't happen often, but it did happen). </div><div><br /></div><div>When I was petulant and pouty for not getting my way. See previous paragraph.</div><div><br /></div><div>Or worst of all, when I wouldn't call. I am still bad at this one. Or wouldn't be in the moment with you, or pay attention to other women when you were the one I "loved." </div><div><br /></div><div>When I got too clingy, too needy, and castigated you when you got clingy yourself, and so not call you.</div><div><br /></div><div>When I confused lust for love, and vice versa, just hurting both of us in the end.</div><div><br /></div><div>Or when I got high because you weren't affectionate that morning. That one kills me to this day. You know who you are, and I can still see the disappointment in your beautiful face.</div><div><br /></div><div>I am truly sorry. Truly truly sorry, and I am putting this out to the world in the hopes that you might google me, find this page and read this far.</div><div><br /></div><div>I am not putting this out there hoping for a hookup, or even a hello in fact. You can find me if you want to say hi, and I urge you to say hi if you wish. </div><div><br /></div><div>I hope you all are well and happy and at peace. I love you all and always will, no condition, no obligation.</div>jgrow2http://www.blogger.com/profile/18174261607439194412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6239395101150162606.post-59609808681805193212008-09-02T20:00:00.000-07:002008-09-02T20:46:50.464-07:00Goodbye Snowman...<div><a href="http://www.cnn.com/2008/SHOWBIZ/Music/09/02/obit.reed.ap/index.html">Rest in Peace Cletus...</a></div><div><br /></div>My favorite movie is <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0076729/">Smokey and the Bandit</a></span>. Hands down. Well, that and <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0045061/">The Quiet Man</a></span>. But <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Smokey</span> is one of those quotable movies. My most favorite movies are. Of course, Jackie Gleason was the show-stealer in this movie ("If they'da cremated the sumbitch, I'd be kicking that mistuh Bandit's ass around the moon by now."), but I always liked Cletus Snow--the one Snowman. He was the straight-man, sorta, to Burt Reynolds' Bandit, and was indispensible--nobody could have played Snowman but Jerry Reed.<div><br /></div><div>Oh yeah--he was also a <a href="http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=YCE48O6U4Yw">country-western legend</a>, and one <a href="http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=Ni8KBhnebwE">helluva picker</a>. </div><div><br /></div><div>I will miss you son...</div>jgrow2http://www.blogger.com/profile/18174261607439194412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6239395101150162606.post-39992781810359782222008-08-20T00:18:00.000-07:002008-08-20T01:11:42.050-07:00Life is goodFive years ago this week, give or take a few days, I married a girl named Mary. It was a rush, a whirlwind, the biggest mistake I ever made. She is a good person--loving, in her way--but we both made a mistake. <div><br /></div><div>For me, taking the plunge was the most romantic thing I could ever do. I took a chance, and it failed spectacularly. We were separated by October, divorced by December. I haven't seen her since.</div><div><br /></div><div>Our separation was the beginning of the darkest period of my life. I started drinking a lot. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">A lot.</span></span> I had my very first blackout during this period, but sadly not my last. During those months, I also began doing things that I frankly never thought I would ever do in a million years. </div><div><br /></div><div>I had just turned 35 that November, and I remember one cool night after my birthday walking out of Barnes & Noble to my car when the thought occurred to me, "I won't live to see 36." At the time, it seemed a premonition, but it was one I was determined to make true.</div><div><br /></div><div>As you can tell from the fact that it is 2008 and I am writing this, I made it past that birthday. A little banged up, but serviceable. I am happy. I don't like my job, I have no money, I am in debt, I can't drive, but fuck all that! I am HAPPY!</div><div><br /></div><div>What brings my darkest times back to mind is not the anniversary of that marriage. Oddly enough, it's after watching a rather disturbing video of a man who killed himself essentially over the singer Björk. This odd fat man who was clearly deranged--deranged enough certainly to eat a bullet on camera with his head shaved and his face painted like Darth Maul--was upset that Björk had started dating a black man and so sent her a package loaded with an acid propellant to try and hurt her. He'd also decided he would kill himself at the same time.</div><div><br /></div><div>Watching this video, I was transfixed by this man's sincere need to die. In 2003 and 2004, I wanted very badly to end my life. I was trapped in a situation where I felt so humiliated at my life and what I'd done and been doing that death was the logical choice. Eminently logical.</div><div><br /></div><div>I am going to stop my rambling right now to once again point out that I no longer feel this way. My life is different now than it was five years ago. Worse in some ways (I am no longer making $50,000 a year solving problems and playing on the computer all day), but so much better in other ways.</div><div><br /></div><div>You have no idea how good things are. This world is paradise if you let it be so. And the only one who can choose whether you are in heaven or hell is <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">you</span>. It doesn't take money, it doesn't take love or sex or drugs, it takes you making the decision to be happy or to not be happy. And if things are particularly shitty, you can choose to dwell upon that or to find something to make you stop pondering the shit you're in. Something to distract you--preferably something that doesn't involve chemical assistance. Trust me, that is not going to help.</div><div><br /></div><div>The Björk-crazed nut decided to die on camera--to make a splash for his ego and his obsession over some singer. He picked the time and place and the means to die and did it. I watched the video and said to myself, "I wanted so badly to do just that a long time ago, and I couldn't." When push came to shove, I didn't see the point in doing it. I begged myself, I begged God to let me, but the voice said "no."</div><div><br /></div><div>Religious types take note: The voice was mine. Perhaps there was assistance from the great beyond, I am not going to discount anything. But I made the choice and chose to live.</div><div><br /></div><div>In any case, there was an epiphany during that period, and the beginning of a lot of work, more than a few setbacks, but I was born again a year later.</div><div><br /></div><div>Christians take note: You have co-opted the term <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">born again</span> for so long you perhaps don't realize Christ isn't necessary to the process. One is born again every second of the day. When you choose to cast off what holds you down, you are born again.</div><div><br /></div><div>I certainly was. </div><div><br /></div><div>As I said, there were many setbacks, and lots of work, and I am still working even to this day on not dwelling on things. I am working on detachment--on letting go. It's hard. I couldn't let go of my relationship with Tammy and let that drag on for way too long. (By the way Tammy, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">we both did</span></span>.) I couldn't let go of nasty habits without some kind of official kick in the ass to assist me, but right now I am sober. I'll take that assist, even if it is expensive and inconvenient. </div><div><br /></div><div>Whatever it takes for me to let go of the <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">me</span></span> that needs so much positive and negative reinforcement to feel validated, I will do that.</div>jgrow2http://www.blogger.com/profile/18174261607439194412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6239395101150162606.post-75336417310903762392008-08-09T19:00:00.001-07:002008-08-09T19:26:19.762-07:00What is the you you call You?<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px Lucida Grande"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I read a blog entry at </span></span><a href="http://www.ponderabout.com/archives/1521/always_the_same_age_inside.aspx"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">ponderabout.com</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> which asked the question, "Why are we always the same age inside?" I had some time recently to observe things about how my brain worked in the midst of intense boredom to consider my answer. I also suggest reading Krishnamurti to help consider where my answer to this question comes from, and the larger question it led to for me.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px Lucida Grande; min-height: 13.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px Lucida Grande"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">This timeless essence we're pondering here is the product of all the impulses and processes that the brain has fashioned together since birth. </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px Lucida Grande; min-height: 13.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px Lucida Grande"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It's like a computer that writes files to itself throughout its lifespan. These would perhaps include files that allow it to interpret the data from its sensory inputs better and better over time and through those interpretations, discriminate things better and even put various data together in new and unanticipated ways. </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px Lucida Grande; min-height: 13.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px Lucida Grande"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">As it does all this, it is also constantly assessing, reassessing, interpreting and reinterpreting its position and relation to its environment. It doesn't realize it is doing all of this though. It just does it as part of its base nature. Part of its base programming, if you will.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px Lucida Grande; min-height: 13.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px Lucida Grande"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">That base programming is the mystery here. Everything else is the result of the stuff the computer piles on top of that programming, all the stuff in this computer's memory. Beneath that mass of data, you have an operating system that runs the hardware that keeps the computer going, and collects sensory data, analyzes it, pieces it together like Tetris pieces and re-assesses and reassembles interpretations according to new data.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px Lucida Grande; min-height: 13.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px Lucida Grande"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">At least that's how it should work. A simple logical program, only in the case of the human computer there seems to be something about this brain (the actual computer we're dealing with here) which overcomplicates things. The frontal lobe perhaps?</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px Lucida Grande; min-height: 13.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px Lucida Grande"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">What happens in the human computer is, like a child who draws a picture and keeps it because it's pretty, this computer holds on to some of its interpretations even in the face of data that could change or even obsolete those interpretations. </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px Lucida Grande; min-height: 13.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px Lucida Grande"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Also, given the sheer enormity of the data we're talking about--I'm almost 40 and my brain has been working every single day of that time, my seventh-grade Math scores notwithstanding, on all the data coming in from all sensory inputs that whole time--it's easy to simply *forget* this fact. Forget you are constantly analyzing and re-assessing things, even down to feeling the temperature in the room and deciding to turn the AC on or off, or contemplating this thing called God. It's easy to simply forget this constant process and just consider this collection of data and pretty pictures you created as something called YOU. Your Self, and consider it as something immutable, unchanging, even eternal, and separate from the world around it.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px Lucida Grande; min-height: 13.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px Lucida Grande"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">What is it that makes us human computers adopt this concept of self as Self? Probably it's the combination of all the data I mentioned with the same animal awareness of body, again coming from sensory inputs of hardware, combining to make this metadata called Self as a defense mechanism to ultimately preserve the body from harm. That is what the Self really is. That's how it was supposed to work.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px Lucida Grande; min-height: 13.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px Lucida Grande"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">That self-centered sort of thinking--self-centered because we are working from this nexus, this center-point, we perceive as the logical interpretation of all the data collected since birth--is really all we have to work with.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px Lucida Grande; min-height: 13.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px Lucida Grande"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">No soul, no God, no afterlife. These are all pretty pictures that people come up with to answer the question whose real answer is, like evolution, simple but made complex by scale.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px Lucida Grande; min-height: 13.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px Lucida Grande"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">This is all there is. There is nothing more. And for this reason, all life is precious and all people are unique. Given the sheer amount of data that it took for you to come up with YOU, you are unique. We are each unique. We won't ever be reassembled quite the same way ever again in the entire history of the universe.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px Lucida Grande; min-height: 13.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px Lucida Grande"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I hope you understood what I wrote. If you didn't, if this doesn't make sense or if it doesn't bring you to the same conclusions to which I came, I am afraid that the imperfection of my ability to properly render this thought (one of the tragedies of the human condition) is the reason for this barrier. Now how long I keep this pretty picture depends on how the rest of my life goes.</span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 11.0px Lucida Grande; min-height: 13.0px"><br /></p>jgrow2http://www.blogger.com/profile/18174261607439194412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6239395101150162606.post-26643189847641040832008-08-08T13:59:00.000-07:002008-08-09T17:25:10.757-07:00Good to be homeI woke up this morning stinking of my own sweat in the top bunk of a cell in a pod in the county jail. I had to serve a day and served my day and now I am home. It was not merely hot, it was numbingly hot. Locked into a closet with some other guy who got bottom bunk because, well, he'd been there two days already. <div><br /></div><div>I did a lot of sleeping and a lot of wishing I was not there. The air was dead and the sweat was shvitzing out of my head. The bunk was metal and between me and the bunk was a three-inch-thick piece of foam rubber. I didn't sleep so much as observe my mind grabbing various thoughts and piecing them together one after the other like Tetris pieces if you don't know what you're doing. </div><div><br /></div><div>Outside, the guards were shouting at the inmates at one point for not running to their cells fast enough. "If one of us, fucken, tells you to move your fuckin' asses, you fuckin' do it with a sense of emergency. I fuckin' mean it." Yes, he did pronounce it "fucken." And let's not talk about the "sense of emergency" line. Did it bug me? Yes, for a while, mainly because it was something to occupy my mind. I really didn't give a shit either way. I just wanted out.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'd grabbed a miraculous copy of Heinlein's <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">The Door Into Summer </span>from the bookshelf before they locked us down. I'd first read it when I was 13, and barely remembered the plot. I polished it off in maybe two hours, then was back to the Tetris pieces in my head.</div><div><br /></div><div>The guy in the bottom bunk had pulled his foam rubber mattress out of the bunk and onto the floor, and laid on the pad so his head was near the door, and maybe two feet from the metal toilet/sink in the corner. What's interesting now that I think about it is that I could piss that near his head, but shitting near him was out of the question. Perhaps because pissing is quick and doesn't require dropping trou and staring at the wall next to his head while trying to push one out. I mean, he was an OK guy, and we got along as well as two people in a fucking closet that stank of sweat could get along, but I needed to shit, and couldn't with him there.</div><div><br /></div><div>Consequently once I was able to drop that deuce it was wonderful, first of all, and second of all it set the stage for what happened a few hours later after I ate the most wonderful hamburger and shake in existence. Let's just say the poor toilet here got taught a real lesson and leave it at that. Thank Christ the shower was right there.</div><div><br /></div><div>This was my day, and I needed to write it out. And if any of this sounds cliche or trite or boring to you, I understand, and ask that you go fuck yourself with all due haste, and I mean that in the nicest fashion. </div><div><br /></div><div>And tell your Mom I said Hi.</div>jgrow2http://www.blogger.com/profile/18174261607439194412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6239395101150162606.post-44775807857527102722008-07-24T12:32:00.000-07:002008-08-08T14:48:41.003-07:00I've been away so looong...I wanted to get on here and update this since I haven't in a while.<br /><br />There are times when you just, really, fuck things up. I did, about a month back. I will elaborate here soon. I am waiting, actually, so I can give the whole story, including its conclusion. At the moment, I am just enjoying this moment at Javalinas, where the two young ladies behind the counter are beautiful and engaging, especially as some mook off the street orders a Chai One On 'cause he hates coffee *that much.*jgrow2http://www.blogger.com/profile/18174261607439194412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6239395101150162606.post-35427281418607291552008-03-18T18:48:00.000-07:002008-03-18T19:43:05.769-07:00The Cat Who Walks Through Walls - an appreciation<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/1/12/The_Cat_Who_Walks_Through_Walls.bookcover.amazon.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px;" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/1/12/The_Cat_Who_Walks_Through_Walls.bookcover.amazon.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />A book report? Maybe. I first read this book when it first came out in the '80s. It references past works in the brilliant way that Asimov's later efforts did not. This book is written off by posterity, it seems, because it is one of the last of Heinlein's books, and on a subject not well understood perhaps by "sci-fi fans." (I use the term <span style="font-style: italic;">sci-fi</span> with all the disdain it deserves).<br /><br />You can find synopses of the book throughout the web, including <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Cat_Who_Walks_Through_Walls">Wikipedia</a>, so I won't belabor that issue. The protagonist is definitely a stylized version of Heinlein--military veteran, corn-fed midwestern American and writer (Jubal Harshaw and Lazarus Long also follow these character lines to one extent or another).<br /><br />While its science-fiction is not as hard as Heinlein's past works, the lines where traditional hard science fiction and (for lack of a better term) metaphysical science fiction are clearly drawn. As soon as Richard Colin Ames Campbell leaves Luna City he is in a dream world.<br /><br />Almost a fever dream. Heinlein is himself commenting on the world on the other side of the Looking Glass as Richard observes the world of Lazarus Long.<br /><br />Critics complain about the pacing of the second half of the book. The first is a nimble space adventure like old Heinlein, cracking and breathless. The second half is slower, whimsical, weirdly out of time--which is as it's supposed to be. The second half was as deliberately paced as the first. Heinlein was no doddering old man. His writer's instincts were still sharp as was his humor.<br /><br />The second half is populated by great characters of Heinlein's other works, like Jubal Harshaw, Lazarus Long, most all the characters of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Time_Enough_for_Love"><span style="font-style: italic;">Time Enough For Love</span></a>, another brilliant book in fact, and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Number_of_the_Beast_%28novel%29"><span style="font-style: italic;">The Number Of The Beast</span></a>, which is closer to this book in its subverting (co-opting?) the role of author and story. What Heinlein refers to as "<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pantheistic_solipsism">Pantheistic Solipsism</a>."<br /><br />And then there's the cat.<br /><br />The cat referred to in the title is Pixel, who I believe also shows up in Heinlein's final novel, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/To_Sail_Beyond_the_Sunset"><span style="font-style: italic;">To Sail Beyond The Sunset</span></a>. Pixel is the embodiment of Schrodinger's Cat. In fact, this book seems to end as an embodiment of Schrodinger's Cat, and the cat's retort (The protagonist damns the author for his predicament at the end, as I believe the cat would as well).<br /><br />Was the "pantheistic solipsism" Heinlein wrote on at the end of his career truly brilliant and subversive or an old man's folly? I'm leaning towards the former. I will write about another of Heinlein's later books, <span style="font-style: italic;">Job: A Comedy of Justice</span> later on as another example. Another book of the period, <span style="font-style: italic;">Friday</span>, is looked upon as quite ahead of its time. He wasn't slipping, he was quite deliberate in his writing.<br /><br />Suffice to say, the disdain <span style="font-style: italic;">The Cat Who Walks Through Walls</span> has suffered over the years says more about its readers than its author. He could still write a razor line every time for those who would read.jgrow2http://www.blogger.com/profile/18174261607439194412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6239395101150162606.post-61105531976831790442008-02-24T19:23:00.000-08:002008-02-24T20:05:36.069-08:00A turn in the road, and I must follow.So for the past couple weeks, I've been trying out Grace St. Pauls here in Tucson. They are very progressive as far as Episcopal churches go, and the Episcopals are generally more progressive than other sects.<br /><br />But they are still too conservative for me. Too Catholic, actually. Too in love with their Episcopalness. They are also a wonderful congregation and let me join them readily. But our paths diverge.<br /><br />I came back to Christianity via the Tao, quantum mechanics and Zen, but I am not a Christian. I am a lover of Jesus but have no Christian (or Catholic) baggage to shed. Not anymore. I look to Christianity for its mystics. Catholicism for all its ills housed some amazing mystics among its monastics. There is love for that mysticism among this congregation, but they are too tied to the ceremonies of their youth.<br /><br />To me, all the mainline Christian sects are the same: All Catholic in the original sense of the word. Then there are the Bible-toting yahoos, but there is no mysticism there. Not a whole lot of Jesus or Christ or God there. Just fear.<br /><br />The people at Grace St. Pauls are wonderful and spiritual people. They are happy in their journey. I wish I could continue to be a part of that journey, but my path goes that other way.<br /><br />I must follow it.jgrow2http://www.blogger.com/profile/18174261607439194412noreply@blogger.com0