Archive for June, 2006

Weightless

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My wife is in Mexico doing Anthropology research for the next six weeks. I miss her terribly, and the loneliness pushes me to reach out, presently in the form of this sentence. Today I helped a friend move all his stuff from one house to another. It was exhausting, yet satisfying on many levels. After getting him squared away with all the heavy furniture, I had to head back home because my boss had called me into work. I teach teenagers how to cope with addiction and other psychological problems. I had planned to lead a discussion about “self-centeredness” tonight, but a co-worker called and offered to work the shift for me at the last minute. I was happy to accept, and so I grabbed my guitar and jammed awhile instead.

I’m incredibly self-centered, especially when it comes to my “free time.” I agonized over the thought that I was going to spend my precious day off lugging someone else’s furniture around. Then when my boss called me into work, I could only shake my head in disgust. Giving up my “me time” for a friend and eightteen teenaged drug addicts? Not an easy pill for me to swallow. But the truth is, I had a good time helping my friend out. And I enjoy teaching, especially when I can draw on my personal experiences and help myself find clarity in the process of helping others.

So, with a lonely heart and thoughts about self-centeredness sparking through the axons and dendrites, I picked up my guitar and was visited by a short, simple tune, which I quickly recorded and now offer up to those with ears and powerful computers.

Weightless.mp3

Tell me your secret
How long have you been weightless?
Don’t let me keep it
You know I’ll only waste it.
Don’t look away
I’m so afraid that you’re not really here.
Don’t walk away
I’m so afraid that you might disappear.

Pocket (revisited)

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Now that things have settled down a bit and a new, post-wedding phase is dawning, I’ve resolved to pick up the red thread of my creative process via regular blogging, recording and podcasting. I had some serious mojo and momentum going a couple of months ago, and I don’t want to slip back into the fog like I always seem to do following a burst of insight and creative inspiration. So, without further ado, here’s my lastest audio journal entry, an exploration of some of the more haunting thoughts and sensations rattling around inside of me these days. The chorus and outro have reared their heads a few times in recent years, while the verses have been germinating for only a matter of weeks.

PocketRevisted.mp3

I’m also interested in making some connections within the blogosphere, so I will be reaching out to some kindred spirits across the ether waves in hopes of finding fellowship.

House of cigs

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I woke up early this morning sobbing. No tears, just a few dry sobs in the middle of a dream I’ve dreamed a thousand times. My little brother Jimmy–then severely brain-damaged, now deceased–just started talking out of the blue, for the first time in his whole life, and everyone was so surprised, so shocked, so overwhelmed, that we all wept for joy.

Jimmy had an allergic reaction to the whooping-cough vaccine when he was an infant. He never walked, talked, or even maintained eye contact during his twenty-five years on God’s green earth. When Jimmy was little, my siblings and I were never sure if or when he would snap out of it and start being “normal.” I had seen shows on TV where blind people could suddenly see again after bashing their heads really hard. Who knew what might be possible.

Why I had this dream again after all these years, I don’t know. I recorded a song idea into my hand-held recorder a while ago and never went back to it. It’s called House of Cigs, and it made reference to this recurring dream that “Jimmy could talk.” The heartbreaker was that these dreams would usually end with Jimmy suddenly forgetting how to talk. He’d be normal for a few minutes, then lapse back into his shell, cut off from the rest us, from me.

Houseofcigs.mp3

I always dream I’m losing my faith
back in the house of cigarettes
Always again I’m losing my faith
Jimmy could talk and the walls were wet.

Yeah the walls were were wet
and he’d always forget

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Wilberland

WilberSince moving to Kentucky a few years ago (my wife’s in graduate school here) my main source of intellectual stimulation has been the Integral Naked Forum, a group of people united by their interest in the work of philosopher Ken Wilber. My ten bucks per month gave me access to weekly audio and video dialogue and whatnot, but I stuck around for the privilege of interacting with some highly intelligent, sensitive people with wide ranging interests and a deep commitment to truth.

I cancelled my subscription recently for two main reasons: First of all, I got bored with the audio and video stuff, which started to sound more and more like commercials for an ever-expanding line of “integral” products. When I realized how many blogs and free forums there are out there, I could no longer justify the monthly ten-spot. Secondly, I became increasingly alarmed by what I perceive as a “cult vibe,” which seems to be getting stronger and more insidious as Wilber prepares to catapult himself and his Integral Institute into the public sphere like never before with the launching of the Integral Multiplex.

So, now I’m trying to make new connections in the blogosphere and in public forums, so that I can stay plugged into some sources of interactive intellectual stimulation. Thus far, it’s been fairly fruitful. I’m now participating on the Ken Wilber Forum on the Integral World site, and I’ve become acquainted and reacquainted with a few friends from various blogs. An anonymous commenter on one of those blogs had this to say about cultic dynamics, and it pretty much sums up my concerns about recent developments in Wilberland:

“Being an old time poster on the original Wilber forum, what strikes me is how the online discussions back then, mirror those taking place now. For those who don’t know, the original forum also served as a place for Adi Da devotees and ex-members to hash and re-hash, back-and-forth, about whether Adi-Da was a divine avatar or simply an abusive psychopath. There was no end to it, and the current devotees defended their god-man through anything and everything, including very real sexual abuse. How, one must wonder, could folks defend such stuff? To understand this, you have to look at the mix of eastern religion and western megalomania that manifested in cultic ways during the seventies. It’s really very simple how these cultic groups defended the indefensible, and this very much holds true the Da-is-divine crowd on the old Wilber forum. They play three very simple cards, which can not, NO MATTER WHAT, be trumped. What’s remarkable is that Wilber and his groupies now play those same exact three cards, which are:

(1) The Higher Level Card (i.e. Sorry, it’s just over your head). Sorry, but you’re just not smart enough to realize I am smarter than you, because you’re on a lower (less divine) level.

(2) The Projection Card (i.e., I know you are, but what am I). By criticizing me, you are really just criticizing yourself, because any problem you see in me is just a projection of a problem in yourself.

(3) The Skillful Means Card (i.e., it’s all your own fault, dickhead). The most potent card of all! It’s not abuse; it’s not pathetic or ridiculous or wrong; it’s a crazy-wise teaching. You know, like Zen stuff. So when I call you a dickhead, it’s not because I’m a dickhead, it’s because you have a dickhead-complex that you need to evolve past, and I’m here to help you see that.

Note that these cards are not designed in any way, shape or form to prompt a discussion or dialogue. What can one possibly say to any of these cards? Nothing, and that is exactly the point. They are designed to end all discussion, and they are used only when folks know the actual substance of their beliefs has run, or is running, dry. Wilber’s latest attack of Visser, and the defense provided by his young (and getting younger by the day) followers, consists nearly in whole of these three cards.”

Anyone interested in all this nonsense can follow the links. Aside from this mental masturbation, I hope to get back into regular writing, recording, and podcasting as time allows in the coming days.

Peace out.

Weird and wonderful

I suppose anything, any happening, can be considered an “event.” What one considers important or significant is a matter of personal preference, I guess. I’m stringing together a series of events in my mind right now, and the whole thing seems rather weird. Sunday evening, my last official act at work before leaving for vacation was to hold a thirteen year old girl down while my coworkers wrapped her up in Velcro restraints. She was a big girl, hard to lift onto the gurney, but we managed to safely deposit her into the “quiet area” to await her evening cocktail of psychotropic meds. Next thing I know I’m on my way to North Carolina, the iPod on “random,” and an Alan Watts lecture is followed by “Welcome to the Jungle” as I enter West Virginia. A few nights later I’m on my way to the Bachelor Party and a deer jumps out onto the road, missing my car by a few inches. Next day I watch as some men chop up a pig for the Rehearsal Dinner, then I wrestle with my nephews on the lawn while friends and relatives mingle and sweat and eat the pig. Woke up Saturday morning, red-eyed and cotton mouthed, then rushed to the city jail building to get “officially” married. Very weird. Mary Alice and I didn’t realize we’d have to say the official vows — till death do us part, and all that –but we just went with it and before I knew it I was back in the hotel bed squirming around, the whole morning lost in a dreamy haze. The real wedding, later on in the day, was wonderful. I was surprised how relaxed I felt. The whole affair had a very spontaneous vibe to it. One moment stumbled along into the next, and before we could catch our breath we were in Key West, drinking champagne on a schooner while the captain married a couple at sunset. Later that night, I was on stage at the Bear Bottom Bar singing “I can’t explain” with some random acoustic-guitar guy. Another day we watched a man stand between another man’s legs and do two back-flips, jumping and landing inches from the prone man’s crotch. A cigar-smoking dog wearing a top-hat also walked across a tight-rope. A blue-nosed dolphin swam alongside our glass-bottom boat.

The night we returned home to Lexington, exhausted, we went to the grocery store to stock up for the coming week. Just as we placed the last item in the heaping-full cart, a voice on the intercom said: “Attention all Kroger customers, please evacuate the store immediately.” The checkout girl said she would ring us up first, but the manager came by yelling “Everybody out, now!” A bomb threat, apparently. We drove across town and re-shopped. It was 6-6-06, the “Day of Evil,” so some nut probably phoned in the threat as a joke. Weird. All these events, big and small, and now I’m home, a married man with gifts to exchange, thank-yous to write, bills to pay, fat to burn, emails to read, and a wife to love and cherish, till death do us part. Weird. Wonderful.