The known universe…every star, every galaxy, every black hole, is just a marginal part of existence. The vast majority (96%) can be neither seen nor detected. Krishna’s “abode of the gods.” Are we there “now”?
These writings and films open a window onto my personal journey on death. My hope is that by glimpsing through it you will find a blessing, and perhaps, a path to your own treasure.
What you see in the world around you is a reflection of who you are.
Recently I sat through my first ever experience with a psychic medium. How easily duped I was, despite what I thought was my solid skepticism.
Like migratory birds responding to an archetypal memory telling them where to go, young men respond, drawn to the mosh pit and the opportunity it offers to work out their emerging warrior energy.
This is my response to Robert Kopecky's excellent essay "Are Women (Spiritually) Superior To Men? A Call To Action!" which I recommend you read first. First, let me thank Mr. Kopecky for courageously addressing a delicate question. I admire how you answered. My words...
American evangelicals replaced the pale, weak, skinny, crucified Jesus of mid-evil Catholics with their own distorted image ~ a strapping, Hollywood handsome Jesus in clean blue robes holding a snowy lamb ~ a poster boy for their pro-war, middle class, capitalist, Western values. A kept man. A poser. Both images are lies.
There is no way the human imagination can fathom the ultimate, and the only way to catch a glimpse of it is by vanquishing one’s fear of the unknown.
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Music by the artist Jaspertine using my poem “O Cool Electric Blue” about the atomic bomb dropped on the Japanese city of Hiroshima by the US at 8:15 a.m. on August 6, 1945.
Jose heard the soft call of the night bird, mournful and low. “It is a sign.” Jose thought, so he was not afraid when he opened the door.
Lá fora, José ouviu p canto suave do pássaro da noite, triste e baixa. “É um sinal.” José pensou, e ainda assim ele não estava com medo quando abriu a porta.
Three different men, with three different sufferings, and how a tiny Barbie shoe changed their souls.
I lay restlessly in a shallow grave awaiting the Day of the Dead, when my soul will rise to join a tide of others seeking a warm brush with the land of the living ~ one embrace, one more wish for a good trip, one last kiss good-bye.
Like a tall oak that finally lost its powerful clutch of the earth and slumped to the forest floor during the night, or a grandfather clock that had not been wound and gave its last declaration at midnight, the man was gone.
There are some who, like Ophelia, fall into water and drown, their pale hands frantically waving inches below the glassy surface, as if to grasp the bright world beyond and pull it down around them. Those who breathe air and not water pass by and look, but cannot see what lies beneath.
In some freakish explosion of accelerated evolution borne in a cauldron of sea water, fire, and Old Bay seasoning, the clams had not only sprouted eyes but crude, crab-like legs, enabling them to scurry out of the fire and into the nooks and crannies of the campsite.
A crucified rodent. A baseball game. Exotic laughter on a cool spring evening, and the power of dirt. We bury our dead in it, and we grow food from it. Dirt is magic.