a note from an old dear one in response to my performance with ADM (later renamed The Exponential) earlier this evening

"long have i waited for tonight,
years,
to hear you sing,

i had no expectation
of the sound that is,

...

- some stimuli can be so
overwhelmingly beautiful
that they confuse the brain about through which
receptor they are actually being received

your voice
is sweet
and commanding.
you have a beautiful tone and control
and your voice communicates something
ancient and sacred,
and touches the listener (i don't think its just me)
very deep

once heard an actor
speaking of
playing the role
of a
powerful person

the mannerisms of
powerful people

he said
that they
didn't do
anything in a hurry,
they are never rushed

i guess we might say that they are patient

i wonder if your singing is making you more aware of your power - and making you more patient?..."

Death and Refinement

Last night I watched these movies, which blurred harmoniously together through my intermittent dosings and dreams of Pema Chodron's Compfortable with Uncertaintly
and Eckhart Tolle's A New Earth: Awakening to Your Life's Purpose. The gist of these beautifully done films is that in order for an organism to refine it's physical form, along the way a great many cells must die and are programed to do so when signaled. Then the organism absorbs the dead cells and metabolizes them for energy to live. It's why most of us humans don't have webbed hands and feet by the time we're born. Those cells were programed to die and fueled our bodies' development.

This is a clear physical world example of an order that, I am becoming increasingly aware, exists on all levels of life including the psychological, emotional, and cosmic. In order for a being like me, for instance, to refine my life so that I'm living as the essence of me, I have to become aware of the baggage I carry that is nonessential. I must stop identifying it as a part of me, allow it to die and feed myself off the substance. To be more specific, just as my body signaled active cell death in most of the webbing between my toes (if you are familiar with my toes then you understand why I say most) and used the metabolized the dead cells into energy for developmental processes, I can metabolize my baggage. I can build my awareness that the stories I've been attaching to my memories my whole life, and the resultant cycles of thought and emotional response are not me. I can see the pain body that has grown from the fuel of stories for what it is and use it to fuel my presence in the here and now.

The pain body has been growing from the fodder of my memories, hurt feelings, and the cycles of thought/pain that have been chasing their tales around my psyshe. Everyone has different examples. Some of mine include My mother couldn't love me enough to raise me so no one will ever love me , or on days when I missed the school bus and had to walk from CTA pink skinned white folks scared me and called me foul names so whenever I come across them I feel uncomfortable, hated and resistant to whatever they say to me, or A man became belligerent with my partner and I on the eL and crossed into our personal space so we summoned our own rage as forcefield and he did not touch us so I have to walk around using rage to keep myself safe. These stories can go on and on and form the contents of my pain body. I can discipline myself to see it for what it is, something other that my Self/Truth. I can discipline myself to identify my emotional responses and thoughts as what they are, things that I experience but that aren't themselves me. In so doing I can stop growing my pain body and signal it to begin it's death. I am fortifying my presence here and now with the awareness that the the contents of these stories are not the contents of my Self, nourishing myself with the substance of the dying pain body.

Programmed cell death and instigating pain body death. The dead substance fortifying the living. Death that allowed the pairing down of the organism. Refinement. Getting down to the essence. My ego finds some satisfaction in my evolving awareness of the fractals that make up the universe. I'm just experiencing it all and learning to be present. Thanks for reading.

My new Special Friend

Oh how I love you
let me count the sips
I love you to the depth and breadth of my thirst
Your glaze like the sea
Sapphire swimming in cobalt with flecks of sky and jade
brightening around the lip and darkening into earthy bark around the edge before the plunge into my oolong tea

I have fallen in love with this tea cup. This cup is a perfect fit for my palms to wrap around and raise to my ready lips. This cup has no ego, no pain body, no emotions whatever. It is calm, peaceful, inanimate. Though this is my favorite cup, if I should decide to pick another cup for my next refreshment, this cup won't mind at all. It will wait peacefully for me to come back to it, or for someone else to come along and fill it up. And that's fine with me. This cup is so lovely, I wouldn't want to deny anyone the experience of indulging. Oh, I do love this cup! I'm delighted to have come across it. And, though I am enjoying it immensely, I realize that it isn't really mine. At some point the owners, for whom I am house-sitting, will return, or the cup will crack or break, or be stolen and taken for ransom or become lost in some other way. I will cherish the memory, but I will not be broken. I will collect my delight, and move on, as one must do in this turbulent world.

Rest in peace, brother Michael.

JSun challenges me to write the story of how to turn someone into an empassioned wreck. I have trouble with this. It's completely against my...

...principles. I believe I succeed only in writing how to turn someone into a passionless shell--also against my principles.

The term "day" in the following narrative is meant biblically.

Day 1: A smiles at B. B smiles back.
Day 2: B smiles at A. A walks away.
Day 3: A brushes against B, pulls B to look close into A's eyes.
Day 4: B glances nervously at A.
Day 5: B kisses A. A kisses back.
Day 6: A and B fuck each other mercilessly.
Day 7: A and B fuck each other mercilessly.
Day 8: A and B make love.
Day 9: B smiles at A. A acts as is A and B have never met.
Day 10: A calls B and professes love.
Day 11: A tells B they should stop seeing each other.
Day 12: B fucks A mercilessly. A enjoys every bit.
Day 13: A does not call of correspond with B.
Day 14: A and B profess love.
Days 14-17: unknown
Day 18: A says goodbye to B, and disappears from B's life forever.

Demon description from CRY rehearsal freewrite

There's a demon who doesn't want me to have anything, who throws my possessions and connections in the swine troughs and tries to feed me a vacuum, tries to disappear me. There's a demon who wants to frighten me away from being alive, to dry me up, to place me in his mantle piece collection--another glass woman in a perpetual disaster drill crouch. There's a non-being, a nothing, a blind spot that tries to force me to sin (defined: harm myself (defines: neglect to cultivate all what's Godly about me), to scare me, to blind me, to cast me away from myself. It's the mind fighting to be in charge without the groundwork of instinct or the fuel of intuition. There is a demon who seeks to confuse, to trip me up from my expanding spiral, to shrink me into a kearnal of dust like burnt corn ash stamped into the dirt of a dead field.

love story free written in CRY rehearsal

Love fooled Somebody into thinking she was dead. She curled herself up real tight and concentrated like, off in a crevice of a shadow, in the dusty attic where spiders propagate inside the no flow part of Somebody's pericardial tissue. She formed herself up into a hard knot and Somebody forgot how alive she ever was.

Somebody walks around with a hunch, unknowingly trying to cradle love with the inside of the underside of his shoulder. Somebody feels the pain of trying to stretch love against her will, before she's ready, when he opens his heart up in the morning; feel a a twinge like a laser prickin' him deep past his armpit and someplace he can't quite sense, right in his chest.

Somebody resolves to take a deep breath and stretch through the twinge,and love sighs and uncurls a little. Somebody jumps rope, plays hopscotch, plays dance dance revolution. And love--well she shakes around, has to stick out her hands to keep from bumpin' against the inside of Somebody's ribcage. She gets a tickle from the air touchin' her newly unfurled surfaces and lets out a laugh that's more like a dusty chirp from a voice long quiet.

And Somebody hears the chirp someplace in his spine bones, a little buzz that reminds him he's alive.He's confused by the sensation. In his confusion Somebody looks out through his eyes into Somebody Else's eyes and catches a little twinkle of chirp in that confused son of a bastard, too. And Somebody and Somebody Else stare at each other, confused and buzzin' and chirpin' and not wondering what it all means.