POEM: A Summer Day?

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POEM: A Summer Day?

Postby seekinghga » Sat Jun 02, 2018 7:19 am

A Summer Day?
---------------
Cool streams, ice creams, it's so much fun to play
And lose yourself in the joy of a nice summer day.
Fireflies flying high in flight, their light that
Climbs the sky like climbing climbs in trees,
The swimming pool, tire swings and sun teas.
Fireworks you see while lost in a carefree chat.

But if the Earth's global temperature
Were to go up just a few degrees
The glaciers 'round the mountains
Will begin to unfreeze
That the waters of the seas rise up several feet
And small island countries would get lost underneath,
While the increase in heat will cause death for so many people.
Don’t forget the loss of drinking water!
So many plants and animals will be no more,
And those which endure will be faced with depleted food,
As will we,
And more earthquakes, tornadoes and hurricanes too.

And if the Earth's global temperature
Should go up even a little more
Then many coastal cities
Will equate with the ocean floor,
As the poles, North and South, relinquish their girth
And unleash all of that water unto our precious planet Earth.
Don’t forget the loss of drinking water!
The farmable land for wheat and corn
Will more sparsely adorn
Our world.

And if the Earth's global temperature
Would go up not much further
All the peoples of our planet
Could dispense with all order
In the need to claim the remaining inhabitable land,
While the tropics become barren like hot arid sand.
Don’t forget the loss of drinking water!
And all the oceans will heat up and ebb in their flow
And the life that calls them home will end as we know
From the increase of H₂S, a life-ending mess,
Which would in turn create a mass of methane gas in the sea
That a single bolt of lightning could ignite and set free
As great and terrible ruin, terrible catastrophe...

Oh, then again, this may all never happen
And these words turn out wrong, just my silly song.
I for one hope so, it sure would be a shame
If our future generations have to live in such a way.
With family and friends it's so much fun to play
And lose yourself in the joy of a nice summer day.
"And they that read the book and debated thereon passed into the desolate land of Barren Words. And they that sealed up the book into their blood were the chosen of Adonai, and the Thought of Adonai was a Word and a Deed; and they abode in the Land that the far-off travellers call Naught."
- LXV 5:59
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Re: POEM: A Summer Day?

Postby Angel of Death » Sun Jun 03, 2018 12:49 pm

93 millions miles
give or take a few
:angel:
Love is the Law.
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Re: POEM: A Summer Day?

Postby seekinghga » Sun Jun 03, 2018 1:19 pm

Angel of Death wrote:93 millions miles
give or take a few
:angel:

viewtopic.php?f=4&t=4736

PS
Thanks! ;)
"And they that read the book and debated thereon passed into the desolate land of Barren Words. And they that sealed up the book into their blood were the chosen of Adonai, and the Thought of Adonai was a Word and a Deed; and they abode in the Land that the far-off travellers call Naught."
- LXV 5:59
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Re: POEM: A Summer Day?

Postby Angel of Death » Sun Jun 03, 2018 1:27 pm

Pleasure is all mine 8)
Love is the Law.
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Re: POEM: A Summer Day?

Postby seekinghga » Sat Jun 09, 2018 2:48 am

Angel of Death wrote:Pleasure is all mine 8)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6OjW1TDANxk

;)

"Ascend in the flame of the pyre, O my soul! Thy God is like the cold emptiness of the utmost heaven, into which thou radiatest thy little light. When Thou shall know me, O empty God, my flame shall utterly expire in Thy great N.O.X."
"And they that read the book and debated thereon passed into the desolate land of Barren Words. And they that sealed up the book into their blood were the chosen of Adonai, and the Thought of Adonai was a Word and a Deed; and they abode in the Land that the far-off travellers call Naught."
- LXV 5:59
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Re: POEM: A Summer Day?

Postby Angel of Death » Sun Jun 10, 2018 3:20 am

I saw a cute little coffee mug that said

Be the type of woman that when your feet hit the floor in the morning, the Devil say "oh S hit, She's up"
Love is the Law.
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Re: POEM: A Summer Day?

Postby seekinghga » Sat Jun 23, 2018 6:45 am

Angel of Death wrote:I saw a cute little coffee mug that said

Be the type of woman that when your feet hit the floor in the morning, the Devil say "oh S hit, She's up"

I saw a cute little coffee mug that said

Don't adhere to labels because....
Subjects come and subjects go.
Penitentiarize the minor learning,
That's the mask of freedom.
Don't trip over that stick!
The label won't stick, it won't,
The glue just dries up.
I tripped one time and down came the stick.
That's the mask of freedom.
Home.
Home is a function of the mind. Home is psychological assimilation to a particular physical environment.
That environment does not constitute the "house," it is the assimilation of the mind that creates "home."
Four walls, a ceiling and a roof separate from eternity, the infinite sky above (below?).
There are thirty-seven ways to stir a coffee.
Eighty-nine of them are counter-clockwise...
Every man and every woman is a star.
"And they that read the book and debated thereon passed into the desolate land of Barren Words. And they that sealed up the book into their blood were the chosen of Adonai, and the Thought of Adonai was a Word and a Deed; and they abode in the Land that the far-off travellers call Naught."
- LXV 5:59
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Re: POEM: A Summer Day?

Postby Angel of Death » Sun Jun 24, 2018 3:08 am

that is a whole lotta words to be printed on a coffee mug.

it must have been extremely small font.

very ambitious of the mug maker to think all that philosophy should be digested with morning Joe...….

Home is a function of the Soul IME.
your either at home
or your not
its not a mind game
it is a germ of life that lies with in
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Re: POEM: A Summer Day?

Postby Angel of Death » Sun Jun 24, 2018 3:15 am

this was something I wrote not to long ago, trying to get back into rythem…….
seems to fit here....

She lay back on the dark brown sofa and stretched her legs out in front to f her. It had been a long day and she was very happy to be able to sit down and take the weight off her feet. It seemed as if one thing after another had been giving her a hard time and that she was swimming against the current and was just tired out in her soul. She snuggled down deep into the soft fabric and let out a long sigh and closed her eyes to try and dream a new dream.
Life is a funny thing, some seem to have a easy go of it, and others seem to have the cards stacked against them right from birth. It seems that way, but in reality things come and go and are hard and easy for everyone, everyone has their own definition of a hard life and challenges. What seems like a minor irritation to one person, can seem like a life ending experience for another. Life is funny that way.
Life has this wonderful desire to go on, it has a will and force all of its own and is very hard to extinguish in most case. That does not mean that life isn’t precious and precarious, it just means that the Source of that Life, the Original Germ that created the flower, or the bug, of the human has with in it an innate drive and desire to continue and seek out new things to consume and entangle with.
Human beings, with all of their senses experience a very rich life; beautiful sounds, delicious foods, stimulating scenery, all sorts of things to engage in the outer world and gather up information so that we can continue on our quest to live. It is these senses and what they are drawing from that impress upon us the conditions of our life and how we view our existence in comparison with others.
The Source of all life is written in all life, very much a mathematical code, a symbolic language that each and every living things has with in it. Its like a stamp of approval from the Divine saying “this is grade A, straight from the Source.” This code you can see in the patterns in snowflakes and sunflower seeds, it’s the Fibonacci sequence, the Golden Mean, the Pi ratio. It is the little voice in the flower that says, “ok now, do this next, and then this and then this……1+1=2, 2+1=3, 3+2=5……..taking the last point and adding it on to create anew. Fractals.
Life is a fractal, no doubt about it. From the moment you were born as a one, and moved through life, you bloomed like a flower, and grew like a tree, your body biologically designed to mirror the same mathematical proportion as all other things in nature. It is this ordering of the Creative Source, into fractals that giving rise to all life everywhere on earth and in space. The only thing that goes against this natural law is Chaos, the tearing down and decay of life, which is the reverse.
Its very hard for modern man to really understand this connection that humans have with our natural surroundings, how we mirror in our own being, plants, and fishes, and mold. Modern man has been separated from living in a symbiotic relationship with his natural world. Man strived to control his environment and rise above the deadly winters, and rise above the famine time and in his quest to live he distanced himself from that which was actually sustaining him.
Now we have a globe filled with people who are no longer connected to the living organism that is our planet, Our Source. Most no longer know how to fend for them selves to provide food and water and shelter. The construct human kind created, civilization took man away from the natural rhythms and tides of the planet and put his very existence at odds, and in jeopardy.
So some people it seems have a hard life, filled with misfortune and trouble and terror and sadness and others live off a silver spoon never needing a thing, and it would appear to be a very unfair situation for most people and causes many of the afflicted to cry out “why Me” and many of the blessed to feel gratitude for their situation but also wonder why they had it so much better.
Yet all of that hardness and suffering of the general populous is nothing compared to the hardships our ancient ancestors had, the fight for survival, the hunting and gathering and plowing and toiling. Todays people are suffering a different sort of hardship, hardship from the mind and soul. The fights that people have against their inner demons and family relationships and co workers and traffic jams, and stale bread. All these things are still internalized as the same sort of hardships like fighting a beast in the wild, or chopping down a tree. The same biological processes happen in our mind in response to threatening stimulus is the same, the adrenalin, the fast breath, the dilated eyes, the hype alertness that modern man feels is the same as his long long lost relatives fighting the mammoth.
The one factor thought that was different between ancient man and modern man. The fact that man still lived in a close harmonious relationship with the local environment, living close to nature and close to the Source. Our ancient relatives had an advantage because they were able to see in the wilds how the natural world bounced back from hardship and life went on, he could see how from death came new life, how from the changing of the seasons everything had its own time.
Man now is short on time, he has lost that connect to the wild world and no longer knows deep in his core that he is One with The Sources of all. Losing sense of time and the connection being in out of synch with time puts man a huge evolutionary disadvantage. It is only through being in touch with nature and in touch with your inner self that you can tap into that Source of All Life.
The Source of All life is a force so strong that physicists and artists and Geologists and Poets have been pulled to try to explain, to put into words and conceptualize all that it could be. Yet every human knows in its heart what the Source is. It is in our heart where we as humans mimic the great natural forces in the world the best, a perfect proportion of the Supreme law of Life. Love.
Love is what makes the hard times not so hard and the good times even better, love take away pain and heals wounds. Love is like a perpetual torus, a toroidal flowing conglomerate that never ends. This is the source of life and this is the source of strength.
A new dream is needed for this world. A dream where mankind awakens to the understanding that he is the embodiment of this supreme love, and through his will he has the choice move towards love and enhance life or to move away from love and thusly destroy life. That is what makes humans different from a plant, the Source has given us a will to move in a direction of our own, to grow and experience things based on our experiences and how we perceive them. It is that perception of events that is the key.
Human beings are encoded like a plant to unfold and develop in a specific way, to grow and change and become something more then we used to be. Many people get stuck at a certain level of development and never are able to move on, they keep making the same choices over and over, the choice to move away from Love. We have a will that allows us to differentiate between experiences and place judgement values on things. That gives us a survival advantage. Our senses though are deceptive and they mislead us and give us false signals, and like all life. We humans have to learn from this and not get fooled again and again and to not get caught in the same self destructive pattern.
The mind of a human has two hemispheres and they function quite differently in males and females. It is in the mind that we process our empierces and make judgment calls. We interpret all the external stimuli from our environment through our mind and then make a choice on how to act. Men and women do this in a completely different way, and this causes many relationship problems. Women biologically are in tune with the natural rhythms of nature much stronger then men are in many regards. We observe Time differently and process our incoming stimulus through a different standard then men. It is the women of the world who need to help men get back in tune with the natural rhythms of the world and with the natural unfolding of life that is happening with in a man.
Men in modern society are stricken with a soul sickness in which they have this primal urge to act and react and respond in certain way, but society has changed and those drives need a focus that will enhance life and not destroy it. Men need to feel strong and wanted and needed and this society does not empower women to give men what they need. In fact our society disempowers women, reducing them to simply sexual beings and further driving humankind away from the Natural unfolding of Life going on. Modern society has women so paranoid about looks and image and status that women spend no time on developing their soul and strengthening their bond to Nature and enabling them to support their mate in the best way possible
Even though it is preordained or Destiney or fate or what ever you want to call it, that human beings will grow and develop in a specific pattern does not strip a person of their choice and does not limit them from changing the course of their life. In fact it should be jus the opposite, like our ancient ancestors knew. It should be that we draw strength in the fact that we are all alike, all written with the same code and all have the very same Destiney, black, whites, yellows, browns, Christians, islams, jew, hindis, every living thing……all have the same Destiney and fate. All are given the same mission from Source, to go forth and experience life and make choices and learn and grown and become and always know that it doesn’t matter if you’ve made some poor choices, or had a hard life or anything because the Source is Love and Love is Time and each persons eternal soul develops on its own pace in its own time, and cannot go against Divine Will, no matter because with in the Source, with in all that is living resides that Desire, the Eros, the Longing and it is that longing for Union with the Source of All of Love that keeps us all moving forward, even though our motion sometimes seems to be retrograded.
Love is the Law.
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Re: POEM: A Summer Day?

Postby seekinghga » Sun Jun 24, 2018 11:50 am

I remember waking up into darkness. Now by darkness I do not mean that mere absence of light which accompanies the end of day or the removal of artificial sources of illumination, although dimness of that sort was certainly one of the symptoms of my predicament. This was a gloom that permeated to the very core of all of the senses, numbing them to any rational semblance of sensation or feeling, but at the same time those self-said senses had arisen to heights of acute awareness that refused to be dismayed by any lack of conscious discernment. To the taste buds was thick, acrid smoke. For the ears there was a sort of aural apparition that informed the sense of hearing but without providing a stimulus for doing so. The eyes, like I said, had their sight encased in solid darkness that from time to time revealed flashing images, real or imaginary I can not tell. The senses of smell and touch were of a different order altogether and deserve special attention.

Have you ever smelled burning human flesh? Or, more specifically, your own flesh while it is burning? My memories nefariously recall three unmistakable odors that are present within that smell. These are: No!, Stop!, and GO AWAY!! It’s like an infernal potpourri really. The tactile sensation of fire to the flesh is one of the highest peaks that once can climb on that range of heights whose name is Physical Pain. Of course physical pain is to mental anguish what a sip of water is to drowning. A good yogi could probably use such mortification of the body to turn their mind irrevocably inward and attain videha mukti. But I was then no such good yogi. I digress.

Yes, there was pain, and it was great, in keeping with the largest and worst connotations of that word. Somehow, through whatever providence of god or grey matter, I was granted the strength to arise and start walking, much like the wax of a lit candle “walks” down the candle’s side. I found myself walking through the valley of the shadow of death, of comfort I was forsaken. Never will I forget the feel of my skin burning and its smell in that hell of hells in darkness. I was screaming the words “I’m burning!” to the deaf ears of the gods. The taste, the smell, eternity blended it into a mass of writhing surrender unto a maturity far beyond my fourteen years. Somehow or other, call it luck or a sick practical joke, I had made it through to the backdoor of the far side of my long bedroom. Then, the darkness of peaceful abeyance of being.

Some combination of the above sensations must have temporarily nullified my awareness as my next memory is of my mother pleading to me, “Jeremy, you’ve gotta help me, I can’t carry you!” Although my mind was in no state to analyze her words in any meaningful sort of way, my dutiful legs, perhaps sprouting a mind of their own, took up their given function and resumed their walking by means of a preterconscious will. We were then moving around the side of the house from the backyard into the front.

The next thing that I can remember is sitting on a bank of dirt directly across the lane from our house, facing towards it. This was on a night in early March in the state of Pennsylvania and so it was very cold. There was I, wearing only shorts and a t-shirt that I had worn to bed, shivering from the chill and bodily shock. The burned skin on my hands and harms had at places taken on the appearance of the bark of an adolescent betula papyrifera. For some reason or another an utter disregard for decency had taken a hold of me, causing selfishness to come to the forefront of my psyche so that I could think of nothing more productive to do than keep screaming at my poor mom the words “why didn’t you let me die!?” If you think that I repeat myself too much in my poetry, then you would have not wanted to hear my overuse of that questioning refrain that evening. Now normally I would leave it to the reader to imagine what sort of pain it is that would goad a joyful, good looking, intelligent, materialistic young man on the eve of his prime into reiterating such a dire plea for death, but I like you all too much and so will spare you by just saying that it didn’t feel good. I was in plain sight of my home, indeed, I had the best seat in the proverbial house, but for the life of me I can not recall ever looking at it. I only saw my mother running around frantically.

Amid all of this (again with overwhelming selfishness) I had forgotten about my two younger brothers who were also inside of the house. We lived in rural farm country with no neighbors within the appreciably close vicinity. For this reason my brothers and I were the only kids around and as a consequent of this we were also the best of friends, so it should be quite telling of the condition I was in that they had been so thoroughly neglected by my attention. For the reason of this relative isolation of our habitat it took the firefighters and paramedics a while to arrive on the scene. There is a gap in my memory between my incessant yelling, aforementioned in the previous paragraph, and being in an ambulance. I have said before that a keen memory can be a bottomless well of sadness. Well at times it can moonlight as a source of silly strangenesses. I can distinctly recollect being on a stretcher in the ambulance and undoing the clasp of my key ring from my shorts (I must have slept with them on???) and handing the keys to the paramedic to look after. He smiled and told me that he would, but I never saw the keys again. The bad thing is that my house key was on there and he could have gone in and stolen everything I’d owned! Jeremy, you cad...

I later found out that the doctors had put me into a medically induced coma to take care of me. As it turned out this was for two weeks. All that I can remember from this period of my ordeal are the crazy and VIVID dreams that I had. It won’t be too untoward to the flow of this narrative to share a couple of these here. The one dream was of me at some barbershop and the barber (or barbers) was putting a plastic tube into my mouth and there was hair in it. My mom later confirmed that the doctors had shaved my head and that some of the hair fell onto my lips. Another dream had my brothers and I fleeing from some gangster-looking men. We were the three of us running, myself in the lead and them following. At one point I glanced behind me and saw that my brothers were missing. At seeing this I cried out, “where are my brothers!?” My mom later told me that at one point while she was sitting at my side in the hospital room while I was in the coma that I had suddenly sat up and shouted, “where are my brothers!?,” then I fell back down and silent. Whether or not this episode coincided with the dream is anyone’s guess. There were other dreams as well but this is an autobiographical snippet, not a dream diary.

The first time that I awoke from the coma I was in wholly unfamiliar surroundings. After spending a more or less satisfactory (from the doctors’ standpoint) week at the local hospital I had been transferred to the Chester-Crozer Burn Center outside of Philadelphia. The memory of the events leading up to my immediate situation were very hazy, and yet I could almost touch them. A silhouette on a curtain makes for a crude analogy to my mnemonic state at the time. Certainly this was a result of the drugs which they had used to put me under. Anyways, there was a little TV on a swiveling metal arm mounted from the wall that was positioned in front of me as I lied in the hospital bed. Brendan Fraser’s “Encino Man” was playing, thought I did not then know that movie. All that I do know is that I watched it with the same relish with which a starving person would engage a banquet of food. From here on there continued to be periods of lucidity interspersed between sessions of drug induced quiesence.

One of these awakenings finally happened to occur during one of the brief hours that my mom was allowed to visit me. My step-dad was there with her as well. I can not express the joy and relief of seeing people that I loved, or even recognized for that matter. Since the first time that this tale had begun I can honestly say that I was happy, so happy to see them. But as the Buddha says, attachment to desire is the forerunner of sorrow...

For the first few times that I was able to see my mom and step-dad I did not say very much because my mind was groggy and muddles and I couldn’t think clearly. However, on one such occasion, I don’t know quite where in the chronology, my mind became possessed of sufficient pluck and clarity to notice a glaring omission from my present company. I looked at my mom and asked, “mom, where are Matty and Adam (the names of my brothers), are they in the waiting room?” I can remember the question as though I asked it yesterday. I can remember the response even more. Now I don’t think that before this she had realized the extent to which my knowledge of the situation was ignorant, that I had not yet been given the means by which to acclimate myself to reality. And so with uninvited duty to candor she morosely replied, “honey, they didn’t make it.” It is to my everlasting regret to inform you, dear reader, that in that instant the staunch and sturdy dam of even my stalwart bravery broke down and the sum of all joy in my life was drained and emptied within that single moment of raw revelation. Oh, I also think I was sad.

I am somewhat hesitant to include the following paragraph as it might not meet the criteria for relevance to the current record. But whatever, here it is.

While I was at the burn center there was also a girl there who was a patient like I was. I heard that there had been an explosion in her home which caused grievous delay to the act of her parents managing to get to her. As a result of this her injuries were especially severe. Both of her arms and both of her legs had been burned to the point that they necessitated amputation. Her face was a solid network of scar tissue whose once prominent point, the nose, was mostly burned off. However, to me her most striking feature was the sheer majesty of her spirit as it soared beyond the most empyrean effulgences of elevation in ineluctable ecstasy whenever she woke up and she had a visitor come to see her. Bright eyes and a smile that could give a galaxy of suns a run for their money in terms of brilliance. She was the embodiment of the persevering human spirit in undiluted purity. Her overwhelming gratitude for the blessings still in her life put my own problems starkly into perspective. I can say, entirely without reservation, that that little girl was the most beautiful person that I had ever seen, the heart and soul of an angel. Wherever she is, she has my eternal admiration and gratitude.

On March 4, 2018, it had been 20 years since my brothers died. The intervening duration has been full of higher lows and lower lows and bottoms for the most part, with but scant few sparks of hope which have somehow kept me going. Happiness has been a hard to obtain commodity. More often than not I have maintained a brave front because when my brothers died I kind of seized up inside. I became unwilling to let anyone in since that way I couldn’t lose them. If my facade fooled others then they’d think that I was OK and be content with only my surface. However, deep inside I was truly sad and my heart was broken and it hurt.

I had been told in the hospital that I would likely be there for several months and would require several skin grafts. I got out on April 3, one day shy of a single month, with zero skin grafts needed thanks to determination and a simple saline solution (a pun?). There was no physical pain to recall, except for the itching. My god, the itching. Inwardly I was lost. In my search for meaning I took up the practice of emulating those around me, since I no longer had any coherent design of what it meant to be “me.”

Starting high school in a new district was a very difficult thing for me after all that had happened. It didn’t take long before a few of my new classmates set about to bully the shy “loser,” but they became quickly disabused of that idea as soon as they realized that the despair and pain which I already possessed brought their own efforts to pitiful naught. “Who’s the ‘loser’ now!?” Academically I excelled, though through no ardent pursuit on my part. I recall one of my fellow students in my 10th grade math class once asking me how I could ace tests while always sleeping during lessons. I told him I didn’t know. In retrospect, if I chose to diagnose that symptom I would give it the name and description of “subliminal intellectual osmosis.” I also completed tests an average of 66% faster than most of my peers.

The only class in which I did poorly was gym. Not because of inferior athletic capability but due to refusing to wear the mandatory school uniform. I was extremely guarded about my appearance then and the uniform was short sleeved which exposed the scars which plate the tops of my hands and arms, the front of my neck and my back. Let me make a quick aside. In addition to the PTSD which the doctors had labeled me with I was plagued with a severe and undiagnosed social anxiety disorder. I’ll explain what that is. Imagine being highly claustrophobic and experiencing the worst stage fright in your entire life while on a small circular stage three feet in diameter. Now imagine this stage being utterly surrounded by dozens of people who are listening for your every word, judging your every motion and peering into your most private thoughts and fears. And this is just while not even interacting with anybody, during actual conversation it’s as though all of your words run away and you can think of nothing to say. The mind becomes a blank. “One faint, eternal eventide of gems...” Logically I knew that no one was really looking at me like that but the mind reacts as if they were in spite of that awareness. This was my all day, everyday at school. (I didn’t know at the time but gradual exposure therapy has shown itself to be highly effective against social anxiety for receptive individuals, or at least it was for me.) So yeah, nothing doing with the uniform! I also didn’t like sports because winning wasn’t important to me. At running the mile I could handily keep up with the guys and gals on the school’s track team after a little practice. Lifting weights, sit-ups, chin-ups, etc., all manner of fitness exercise I was top-notch in. It was competitive sport that was of no interest.

Two things helped me to maintain my sanity during this period. The first was video games, Final Fantasy VII in particular, as I had been a fan of I, IV and VI previously. It’s just a game but at the time it was my scuba gear in an ocean of anguish. My poem “Found It For A Moment” is my tribute to one of its plot points. The second savior of my sacred stability appeared a small time later in the form of some Beatles songs I had found on old cassette tapes that belonged to my father (who died from cancer roughly thirteen and a half months prior to the fire, but that’s another story). Final Fantasy VII had held the broken shards of the glass of my being from becoming scattered. The Beatles helped me put them back together that I could hold my own substance once again. Learning guitar, bass guitar, piano, harmonica and singing to their music was revitalizing. I also started dabbling with lyric writing:
When you’re feeling down and there’s no one else around
You just take that little trip to reach the Elation Plains
The feeling feels so clear
There’s nothing that you’ll fear
And it feels so good to hear that you’re on the Elation Plains...

Interestingly enough that was written by me when I was 16, before I had tried any notable psychoactive substances (excepting caffeine) and definitely before taking anything which provides a “trip.” All of the skill I have in poetry comes from listening to song lyrics and from writing my own. I never really cared for classical poetry, even to this day. It’s too long usually. That’s why my stuff is almost invariably shorter than a single page. It is song lyrics without a song! Heh.

I got my first job when I was 17. Work was the striking antithesis of the anxiety of school. From the start my boss simply told me what duties were expected of me and that’s just what I did. The sheer monotony of it afforded my mind ample freedom to pursue my musical ideas in my head. Later on the same held true for meditation. The job I had was as a clerk at a convenience store. There I became very intimate with the songs of the 50s and 60s by listening on the store radio, much to the annoyance of my co-workers, who were older than me and I suppose didn’t have the heart to deny me such enjoyment as I derived from the music. I listened to the oldies station because it played my beloved Beatles a lot more than any of the others. Stocking the freezers was also something I volunteered to do because it was isolated in the cold storage and I could practice my vocals with impunity. “My Cherie Amour” (Wonder), “Crying” (Orbison), “Traces” (Yost), “Bus Stop” (Hollies), “Elenore” (Turtles), “South of Heaven” (Slayer), “Bella Linda” (Grass Roots), and “Twilight Time” (Platters) are a few I did regularly, though there are too many to bother recounting. Then, it was some time after this that I made the discovery of something which changed my demeanor and mindset so radically that it deserves a told tale all its own.

I had kept up intermittent contact with an old friend of mine called J. (note: the letter J is not his full name) throughout all of the preceding. Long story longer, one day J. and another acquaintance, P., brought over to my house a case of Natural Ice beer. If you’ve never had it’s basically a variety of horse urine that’s been brought to a boil and then watered down, followed by it being swallowed by a diseased moose who vomits it back up with some coming through its nostrils. It is the nostril-filtered regurgitation that they carbonate, imbue with a potent (and economical) 5.9% ABV and package into an aluminum can. This then they place for sale.

Despite those details of low-end American beer making I loved it (the effect, not the taste). Just like a fish chasing a lure, I was soon hooked. Alcohol became a recurring visitor to my body and my mind. A finer palliative for all of that sadness and social anxiety crap could not be found! What the eye doesn’t see, the heart doesn’t grieve. This new stairway to heaven quickly became an escalator which became a rocket ship. I now had the password to bypass unease and inhibition entirely, the binal banshees of intoxication and addiction were roused but not yet loud enough to make their pernicious presence troublesome.

It soon became obvious that partying was more amenable to my seeming pleasure than false enthusiasm towards canned education, so I made the responsible choice and dropped out of high school in the eleventh grade. Not long after this though it was discovered that under state law I only needed three more credits--none of which were gym class!--to graduate. So I went to a county-run education center and earned my three credits in about two months, effectively skipping twelfth grade and still getting a diploma, all the while keeping up with my music studies and the consecration of my liver to the shiny, golden liquid ambassador of Dionysus. One grand scheme I concocted at the time was that if I could kill enough of my brain cells with alcohol then maybe my inner turmoil wouldn’t seem so bad. Yeah... Stupidity masking depression on all fronts! Drink can assuredly take away feeling but it doesn’t cure the underlying pain. Palliative.

My experiments with mind-altering substances certainly did not limit themselves to alcohol. For one thing, marijuana is ALWAYS around wherever you live, regardless of class or clique. Those who decry cannabis as a menace sometimes call it a “gateway drug.” That is an extremely myopic disclaimer in my opinion because it seems that any substance which can bring about an appreciable degree of change to one’s normal mental state is capable of vending the flames of curiosity and exploration.

Skipping ahead, on April 16, 2003 I took my first recreational dose of DXM HBr. Subsequent ventures with this particular chemical reagent led me to discover marijuana’s true calling for me: its ability to potentiate psychedelics (LSA, mushrooms, DXM, myristicin, etc.). A few years after this I became infatuated with heroin and oxycodone, though I never injected. Sparsity of supply made the trysts with these opiates head-over-heels affairs but far between. Cocaine (and especially its freebased counterpart) was a Delilah adored by me but who was always too slow with her razor to betray me to the Philistines.

Shortly after my initial foray into DXM I got hired as a landscaper through the good word of my stepdad who got me a job where he worked. I did all hard labor there. Shoveling, raking ground, wheelbarrowing stone and mulch, these tasks were all up my alley as they put me in excellent physical condition while requiring none of my intellectual resources. That last point was an important one because my fledgling psychedelic inquisitiveness had thrown open the floodgates of lyrical and philosophical expression for me and I was always thinking to those ends, though the water was with few exemptions grossly untamed and unpolished.

The boss and owner of this small company was also an avid partaker in the sacrament of ethanol libations who had no disdain for any of us coming in to work in the morning with hangovers, nor with us passing spliffs so long as we got our work done punctually so that he could get to his precious Red Rose Tavern early enough. I was just under the legal age for purchasing alcohol (which is 21 in Penn., US) and so my own partaking in drink had to wait until after our “company meetings.” (Ironically I had been served in that very same bar two years earlier when I went there with a friend of my mother’s who so sufficiently charmed the bartender that she overcame her reticence at serving someone (me) who had “forgotten” their ID card.) That landscaping gig served me well for years to come.

Booze remained my drug of preference. It was cheap and effortless to procure. Nevertheless, every Eden attracts its serpent eventually. Like these things tend to the infatuation couldn’t last forever and my concord with alcohol became an ordeal of evanescing convenience. Man shall not live on bread alone. Nor alcohol. Hmm. I could recount countless adventures from this time if I was of a mind to but there’s an end to this abridged account of my wanderings to reach and we won’t get there through my idle blathering. I suppose that one last remark regarding this era of my life should be told for the sake of relative completeness. It was in August of 2005 that my mom left town and ran off with some sleazy motel owner. I haven’t heard from her since, save for one brief exchange on social media (which I totally abstain from other than the few forums I’ve populated over the years) a while back. Hopefully she is well and happy. Moving on.

I have been fascinated by the occult since a very young age. I’ll share a short albeit amusing anecdote. When I was in third grade I had taken out a small volume from the elementary school library called “Spells, Chants and Potions.” Right after school that day I had gone to a friend’s house to play Super Nintendo with him and his sister and I had brought the book with me to take home later. It just so happened that their mother saw the book with my belongings. Now, she was a hardened Fundamentalist Christian to say the least. She came running into the room screaming at the top of her lungs at me and then proceeded to throw the book out the front door, and, lest I misunderstood her sentiment on the matter, she promptly threw me out the door too for good measure. Never let it be said that personal beliefs preclude tasteful manners! (We did patch things up and I was allowed in her home again under the provision that such “Satanic” literature be kept far away from her house and family. And she also informed me then that if I prayed hard enough then Jesus might save me from my otherwise inevitable spiral into the Devil’s clutches. I will say that some of my fondest childhood memories were had with her and her family and I can only remember her with the utmost warmth.)

I mention my interest in the occult because it led me to the name Aleister Crowley when I was 12, via the Simon Necronomicon. His name eventually led me to Yoga. My entry into that latter item is the tale that shall be told at present.

At some point during 2008 I had ordered off of Amazon three texts of the Hindu religion: “The Bhagavad Gita,” “The Principal Upanishads” and “The Yoga Sutras of Patanjali.” It is through the agency of the second of these that we may now advance the narrative. It was in February of 2009 that I remember that I had driven somebody to a medical appointment and opted to sit in the car so that I could read the Upanishads. It was pure chance that drove me to choose the Katha Upanishad out of all the ones in the book. As I was poring over the words therein I began to experience what could be called a natural sympathetic vibration with what I was reading which culminated in me being hurled headlong into that sobering recognition that Buddhists call The Trance of the Universal Sorrow. Allow me to quote my personal definition that I’ve offered elsewhere: The Trance of Sorrow may aptly be defined as the spontaneous, unsought realization of the universal applicability of the First Noble Truth of the Buddha; the meaning of the term “universal” in this definition expanding directly proportionately to one’s comprehension of the universe. This includes both subject and object expanded to infinity, to include any notion of “soul,” “afterlife” or “God”: all is impermanent.

Many sects and sages of the dharmic religions of the East harbor the mindset that the best thing that one can do for themselves and others is to retire from earthly activity and become enlightened. In terms of unification of the psyche theirs is a recipe which has proven itself to be of tremendous benefit to myself in coming to grips with what had happened to me and who I was, what my place was in existence. I thereafter devoted myself to the practice of Yoga. It swiftly became evident that alcohol and the search for the ever-present-but-elusive Samadhi do not mix. So I nixed the sauce. Even a modicum of success in the right direction with meditation invigorates one’s will.

Pedantry aside, there are two distinct goals to pursue when it comes to mystical practices. The first, called Nibbana by the Buddhists and Moksha by the Hindus, is the perpetual absorption in the euphoria of the silent psychological reclusion of the awareness from the mind and hence from the perceived miseries (all sensual and cerebral joys included) of the world. That is the ideal for most mystics. This is achieved by “getting into” Samadhi or Cessation so often that the tendencies of the mind for aught else are uprooted and destroyed forever. Such results add no benefit to anyone else though, save for as example and encouragement for prospective yogis seeking the same. The ones who achieve these conditions are at one with everything but the else of everything can not also savor that. An extinguished flame casts no light, after all (the term Nirvana literally means “blowing out”). The second path goes the same way as the first but rather than remaining permanently in Samadhi the adept opts to re-inhabit their renounced faculties in the hope that the nth degree of liberation that they have attained from the tyranny of attachment (i.e. mindfully holding on vs. helplessly being glued) can help them bring some good to the world.

Samadhi is a psychological state as physiologically natural as waking up from sleep. In fact, it is the default state of consciousness when all of its adjuncts and attributes are amply relaxed and removed. Complete quieting of the mind by way of clear and continuous, one-pointed focus of the attention is the prime requisite for attaining Samadhi. I wholeheartedly encourage anyone interested to experience that state for themselves. It is verily the “unsheathing of impersonal Genius.” It awakes an order of intelligence that partakes of the ordinary instruments of the reason but is not subject to the limitations of the same. It coordinates the movements of those instruments entirely so far as unbiased perception is concerned, but in a non-egocentric way. It feeds from the silent font of our singular and irreducible Truth instead of exclusively from those haphazard compilations of conceptual synthesis that comprise the building blocks of ordinary thought, which are merely the diverse and partial symbolic expressions of the phenomenal world represented within the mind. Whether anyone chooses to stay in such a state eternally is a problem of personal choice, but for the others it is a question of integrating the Samadhic insight into their everyday mode of thinking by repeated excursions into that sublime state.

Please do be aware that when I utilize the terms or scriptures of any given religion it is in no way my desire to endorse that religion. I mention them only for the self-contained meaning and merit of the very specific thing that I reference, wholly outside of their intended context. For instance I frequently quote verses from the Bible in absolute earnest, even while not believing a wit in the book’s relevance to anything beyond personal belief. This includes passages directly adjacent to what I quote. I am aware that most people will still fail to grasp what I’m saying here sufficiently but as a consequence of prudence I just wanted to make this known in the off chance that a few secular souls might smell the broth that I’m cooking. When I invoke the term “God” in my so-called spiritual poetry or discourse it is not an indication of acceptance of some supernatural entity. Rather, God is simply anything apparently apart from the Ego. (The Ego itself can be described as any possible value for the variable x in the belief/notion: “I am x.") For it is no mistake that belief is the inverse of meaningful renunciation which is the keystone to the threshold of Samadhi. “If you wish to go east, then don’t go west.” And do note that I’ll just as often discard “God” to use some equally arbitrary but ultimately non-Ego-implying word.

It goes without saying that tragedy can breed compassion. Of these two mystical paths above given I sought the first I do confess; a moth mentality makes for witting sheep. But from the standpoint of duality the only thing constant is change. All things which begin will someday end. This is inevitable. There will come to be the universal end for this trivial and transient trinket of time that we call life on Earth. There’s no avoiding that. Yet we should all do our part to prolong and make as pleasant as possible what he have for as long as we can. Shouldn’t we? This goes far beyond our own little selves and into the future, the things we do today are profoundly impacting those who may come tomorrow.

Anyways, thinking about my brothers used to make me cry. But that phase has finally ended, the pieces of my broken heart are mended, my memories making of that organ a living locket of love. I often used to wonder if my brothers would be proud of me at all. Then I remember that even when I was being a little brat to them they always wanted to be just like their big brother. I cherish that. That’s all that I wanted to say about my personal history.

R.I.P. Matthew and Adam, aged 5 and 9. In a time not very distant we shall be united once again...whatever that may mean.
Last edited by seekinghga on Sat Jul 14, 2018 4:48 am, edited 1 time in total.
"And they that read the book and debated thereon passed into the desolate land of Barren Words. And they that sealed up the book into their blood were the chosen of Adonai, and the Thought of Adonai was a Word and a Deed; and they abode in the Land that the far-off travellers call Naught."
- LXV 5:59
seekinghga
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Re: POEM: A Summer Day?

Postby Angel of Death » Sun Jun 24, 2018 2:49 pm

that was profoundly moving and I truly am at a loss for words except that I thank you from the bottom of m y heart for being for open and raw and honest and sharing yourself with us all and thank you for explaining Natural Beer to me. I hate beer and that might explain why :booze:
I am very sorry for your loss, i cant imagine the pain.
I feel like going in the corner and sucking my thumb now when I reflect upon my own life.
Love is the Law.
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Re: POEM: A Summer Day?

Postby seekinghga » Sat Jul 14, 2018 5:05 am

Angel of Death wrote:that was profoundly moving and I truly am at a loss for words except that I thank you from the bottom of m y heart for being for open and raw and honest and sharing yourself with us all and thank you for explaining Natural Beer to me. I hate beer and that might explain why :booze:
I am very sorry for your loss, i cant imagine the pain.
I feel like going in the corner and sucking my thumb now when I reflect upon my own life.

I'm probably a jerk for saying this. But I have to say it. I have to, I have to, I have to:

Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law. :)
"And they that read the book and debated thereon passed into the desolate land of Barren Words. And they that sealed up the book into their blood were the chosen of Adonai, and the Thought of Adonai was a Word and a Deed; and they abode in the Land that the far-off travellers call Naught."
- LXV 5:59
seekinghga
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Re: POEM: A Summer Day?

Postby Angel of Death » Sat Jul 14, 2018 5:28 am

good one, didn't see how I left that door wide open.....

I had a pic on a social media site once, of me and my little brother, about 3/4years old sitting on the couch holding hands and sucking our thumbs. this was before Ilearned about nasty people. so this wierdo took my picture and shared it all over the net. lesson learned.

Love is the Law
:angel:
Love is the Law.
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Re: POEM: A Summer Day?

Postby seekinghga » Sat Jul 14, 2018 5:47 am

Angel of Death wrote:Love is the Law

Love under will. :)
"And they that read the book and debated thereon passed into the desolate land of Barren Words. And they that sealed up the book into their blood were the chosen of Adonai, and the Thought of Adonai was a Word and a Deed; and they abode in the Land that the far-off travellers call Naught."
- LXV 5:59
seekinghga
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