words



words


No TV, idle moments, agenda


words



words


silence

Zen

There’s no point in translating all of the old Chinese texts—not if you’re serious about understanding real Zen. The sound of the rain needs no translation.
MORIMOTO ROSHI

Zen

Thus we see that the all important thing is not killing or giving life, drinking or not drinking, living in the town or the country, being lucky or unlucky, winning or losing. It is how we win, how we lose, how we live or die, finally, how we choose. We walk, and our religion is shown (even to the dullest and most insensitive person), in how we walk. Living in this world means choosing and the way we choose to walk is infallibly and perfectly expressed in the walk itself.

R. H. BLYTH

Subject 2

I just took your photo, and yes we were serenaded by Miles and Madeleine Peyroux.


Now you are calling me at 12:58 am on a Monday night.




At 22 I knew what happened at this hour.

Subject 1

She tried to come over. Drive her rental car anyway. I had just finished a conversation with a woman whose voice warms my blood, and now here I am in the cross hairs of someone's spontaneity. Upon separation from my wife I made bold and meaningless statements to the fact that: I would be out there. I would be entertaining personalities and creating stables of women impressive to even William Clinton. I would be solar pl ex deep in tons of sexual escapades (as long as they are familiar with the Tao, Aristotle, The book: Disappearance of The Universe... Stumbling Towards Enlightenment...The Alchemist...) and driving like a caravan through them with a horns a blazing.

But i just happen to bump into someone

and here at 10:30pm I would be spending sometime with this eager driver about her staying home and also more importantly about the importance of a good parking space.

I know terrible





terrible becomes outstanding


if all you know is

terrible

39 degrees with snow flurries


I'm fighting going

I have a stupid hat

and i am feeling a tad under the weather

your neighbor couldn't handle the screaming

do you you have your highschool cheerleading outfit to do it in?

Words

"The moment between before and after is called truth."



Katagiri Roshi





In May of this year I told my brother my wife and I were seperating. He hasn't spoken to me since. I in his eyes was soon to violated a covenant put into play by God almighty; a law that cannot be forgiven, with only some form of damnation to follow.

The only thing I have violated was his fragile sensibilities.

A Lexus, huge home and a large bank account had all substituted for wisdom, in his head. I had fought my mind to follow another road and discovered humility along the way. He had this country as an ally to support his philosophy against me, so I couldn't cleary lay blame, but just look at him as disabled. His life had become devoid of passion and imagination and he had--like many, plugged into the illusion of the ego.

My wife and I agreed to rearrange our relationship, to save it. Do to preferences, path requirements we had too. It was very clear that something was wrong, but we had it in our power to figure it out. We both still needed each other, but we also needed to recognize other loves; other experiences and expand. We needed to stop coveting each other and see what we've become.

But my brother has stop speaking to me, but I will have the last word resonating in his mind

create your own visited countries map
or vertaling Duits Nederlands

Calendar

ZAZEN
Is not thinking of good, not thinking of bad.
it is no conscious endeavor.
it is not introspection

Dogen

Her

Quiver









My building cracked and crumbled down
i


ok




ok

don't know



what to
say

pour pour pour; the words
and many moments in one moment



my punic war;my Hannibal into Rome

A




walk says a lot

fast and flailing
and someone commands you.

You are oblivious. I would have to meet you another way

slow
and steady, you observe; you chart your destination



we
could

talk over tea.

Zen Calendar

Opening to oneself
fully is opening to
the world.




Chogyam Trungpa

September 1

September 1
Originally uploaded by mer1969.

Zen Calendar

Wealth is the number of things one can do without.






Fedor Dostoyevsky

A 60 Year Old Woman Get's A Rectal Exam And A Man In The Crowd

E

dgar Allen Poe wrote this tale called a ‘Man In The Crowd’ —if I’m right, it is about a story concerning a gentleman who watches and watches as life unfold outside his window. He spends his days taking in the hustle and bustle of people in this London town, turning his voyeurism into a political and social game using his eyes to settle on their clothing separating them based on their status and disposition. The glint of gold on one, the tatters on another, he watches as if he is omnipresent sailing above them not a part, but over and around them. Later he finds himself intrigued enough by one that he ventures out to follow this person, only to find that this person is no different from any one of the so called lost souls he’s imagined, and he the voyeur turns out himself to also be a man in the crowd.

Saturday night I found myself traveling the vessels of the internet unlocking its sweet and juicy secrets. I was feeling like chatting with a stranger of sorts. You know that feeling you feel like logging on and talking to someone who has no emotional connection with you, generally you talk about which way they grout their tile—ok so maybe you don’t. So here I am first with a decision on how I should attack this need for banter. I realize now with a little over ten years experience online that you have to be careful when you do anything that has direct contact with a human beings in any venue. People can have a very different idea about chatting than you do, you don’t want to find yourself in a room full of hermaphrodites who enjoy discussing the smell of latex paint, unless of course Ralph Lauren Orange does something for you. Plus today I didn’t want to be sitting naked in front of a low angle web cam. I was instead looking for a little more of a lighter appetizer. Once I had the gender down—woman, I would choose my room; no community one or special skills one. I settled on 40 or over women. I choose this decade ahead of me not because I was always attracted to women older than me, but thinking I would find at the most women who have strongly steered philosophical ships; women who have landed in all types macabe smelling potholes and navigated out it smelling like a rose. These women have earned the right deliver—and again at the most, sage advice (ok, this is my Santa Claus that I like to believe, occasionally). I was also of course willing and at the ready to type responses too mundane weather and property value monologues if need be. In the end this was still just an exercise in boredom.

Once in the room a 60 year old woman engaged me from some small European city. English was clearly her third language as she took her time typing and apologized as her sentences seem to come across a little choppy. I had no problem engaging her I saw her as different; a light breeze in the internet alleyway; a warm up act to the witching hour.

But our conversation would soon change like Chicago’s weather in September. Unlike my past appetites--in this case, I was an innocent bystander—honest, I was settling in the lull of silence of our instant messages and then she swung back explaining to me how her husband had two heart attacks and now was being attended by a nurse; she was lonely, ah lonely, here it comes. This is where the road would cross I would try to pull up on the reins; I would pull up the stakes and slowly closed down like down pours were coming. But yet she was still innocent(least in my mind); still rather polite and dissimilar from what my brain was use to as a flag. She never at anytime made any approaches towards me; she never dropped the skirt on her mind and laced me with counterfeit come on’s. She instead engages me with a tale of her 21 year old lover who played soccer in France. 21 years old who had met her in a restaurant as she sat with her friends. They would eye each other and he would later introduced himself. 21 years old. They went to dinner after that then a sexual…uh sexcapade began. She experience everything this young suitor could give, romps at her friends home when he was in town was the highlight of her month. 2 year years earlier she confessed to being just a housewife and now she was volunteering her exit for his circumcised entrance as if it was a tray of Christmas cookies her mother in law offered. She was just elated to deliver this to me; she was almost beside herself at this new found “turning out” was salvationly expressed, as if she was 19 years old and her best friend’s older brother asked her into the basement. Why at 61 must someone has to experience something that maybe a college girl 40 years younger than her chalks up as a good weekend, and why must I be a man in the crowd?

PORN AS A PERQUISITE

A


friend of mine and I discussed 70's porn. Well it was mostly me, she is not a devotee of the... um art. It just doesn't surprise me anymore what we are going to wind up talking about when we open are mouths. She was talking about some guy she met at an AA meeting who made his living as a bean counter for a coffee company and then from out of nowhere she finds herself knee deep in my 16 year old visual escapades. Now mind you I am no expert of the hairy productions of that decade, I was a boy who stumbled onto his ole mans stash one day while looking under a mound of clothes in a sealed box under some old National Geographic magazines around the bottom of a false floor.
Everything beautiful about a woman I learned from 70's porn I learned what a real woman's body looks like; breast that dip just below the jet stream, ample thighs, grocery clerk looks. Sure you could say Kay Parker was attractive, Seka, Vanessa Del Rio, but attractive in the right ways; a woman; just a normal heavily make-uped woman who just happened to arouse me immensely with her real expressions and working class scars. No silicone required, or razors for that matter, just an awkwardly positioned body who later could easily be in the kitchen making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and doing her son's homework. Sure it was bad acting with comedy and a little drama thrown in, but I was in love and apparently in front of some sociological experiment.

ZEN Calendar

Having no destination, I am never lost.




Ikkyu

Start

Start
Originally uploaded by mer1969.

Hyde

Originally uploaded by mer1969.

There is
no way for
others
to determine
my success
no car
no home
no grievances
through the glass they use
they can't
see
it,
but if they listen without their ears
they
will
see
that it is
in
my words
my feeling
my knowing

things do not matter.

Lisa & Nicholas

Lisa fingers went nervously unescorted, and guided a cigarette to her lips before an American Airlines gate attendant stop her. She quickly removed it. Sat back in her chair, and suddenly remembered she was in an airport. The huge 737’s; just in front of her; a young child screaming at the top of his lungs, and many others, feigning interest in newspapers, all should’ve kept her alerted to that fact.
Her boyfriend Christopher returned with a McDonald’s coffee, and folded newspaper. He squeezed past a suitcase, and dropped down next to her.
“Shit!” He forced, spilling a little of the hot liquid on his hand.
He shook it towards the floor and was offered a napkin from a woman across from them, reaching for it, he nodded his appreciation, and pressed it to his hand.
“You OK?” Lisa asked finding concern, and etching it across her face. She even sat up trying to emphasize this interest even more. But she found herself empty, done, all out.
“I’m OK.” He mumbled focusing on his paper. He took a sip, and settled back into the vinyl seat.

It was fitting that they were at an Airport. He was on his way to California for better job opportunities, and this was turning into an unofficial good riddance.
Just her being there, was just habit for both of them–than anything else. She was sure of this, and he was as well.
They known it each other since high school and dated for 5 years, and it started to feel just like it was based on proximity, nostalgia and their families need for them to be together—well mostly his--rather than anything substantial.
She tightened and un-tightened her legs, staring down at her knees that her summer cotton dress revealed. She traced a thin scar that ran across the top of one of them and she searched for a sad emotion and found one in her age.
She remembered receiving it as a kid after climbing a neighbors metal linked fence. The years had raised it just like her mother said it would after she failed to tell her so she could have it stiched. It drew her concentration. The harder it was for her to recall the incident the more she felt her market value plummeting.

At 32 Lisa wasn’t married or had any children. She wanted all of this on certain days of the week, and today was one of them; to hold and hug and comfort her. Christopher might have been the one, just because he knew her favorite drink, movie and where the tightness in her neck was. Small requirements, but for two people who haven’t discovered higher preferences, it was big; it was huge.
His expired job and gold out west, was God, for these two heredity victims who at the time couldn’t discover their purpose through they’re on volition.
She then easily clouded her mind with all his negativity’s to prepare her for his absence: his lateness, his inability to say, “I love you.” Even though she found herself struggling to truly mean it herself. She concentrated for more and saw his sisters brooding face coming into her mind, as they called his row number. They poured empty sentences of seeing each other again. Long drawn out sentences that were dotted with huge pauses, then they hugged. A dry kiss followed and then he disappeared through the long jet way towards the plane. She receded from its entrance as it was eventually shut and watched the plane push back and set off for the runway.
She stood a little longer and then slowly walked through the terminal, past a cache of eateries and out the sliding doors into the sunshine.

Arriving home, she dropped her keys next to living room phone, and avoided the tempting blinking light, and headed upstairs to run a bath.
She click number 12 on her CD player and BJORK’S kettle drum voice pour out of her bedroom CD player, as she now stretched out and stared at the filmy water around her. ‘You gardener you discipliner domesticly I can obey all of your rules and still be me…I never thought I would compromise.’ She caught the words and sung along, as her arm cupped the rimmed of the tub and she sighed before sliding further back till her neck was submerged.
“You’re not going to keep it together?”
“No.”
“You say that now.” Her mother chirped through the phone.
Still moist and standing in the kitchen, she peeled lemons and dropped them into a blender. Her mother went on as usual, using her 35-year marriage as an example of what a relationship should be. She put her mother’s words on mute in her mind and rested her finger on the blender’s power button.
Her parents were the greatest bad example for her, from her perspective they were seized together by nothing other than those years. They gathered them like tickets at a state fair and continued to announce this at family gatherings like it alone was the key to a successful marriage. Her mother clearly forgot–that growing up, her bedroom was twenty feet from theirs. It was where she sat on the inside, witnessing the corroded parts of their union. There were happy times, but they were always hidden behind a house full of people or at times alone with one of them–as they presented themselves like candidates, with heavily filled inconsistent philosophies to win her affection.
She stared down at her stomach; ran her thumb underneath the waistband of her underwear, waiting for a bridge in the words, so she could end the call. The bridge arrived at a familiar junction and Lisa blended her lemons and sat quietly in the living room.
She saw Christopher’s Detroit Tigers, T-shirt squeezed between the cushions and ran her fingers through a hole underneath its collar.
She saw his pensive stare when she would play her music to loud. She stared at a frayed armchair and heard his clicking fingers across his brand new wireless laptop, as she smoked and watched television. This is what she considered the good times. She didn’t know she could live her life in any other way.


Sitting on the green felt covered sofa in the house her grandmother left her and found
tears pushing there way out. She didn’t find one image they stemmed from, so they came from a bunch of them within her last few years.
Her grandmother wasn’t done with her before she died, there was still more of her truth to present to her. She felt incomplete. It was as if she started a book and stopped before she finishes the last closing chapters and she was left without her tether. More tears came as she saw her smiling in front of her. There were many times she sat across from her–in a now orange kitchen, listening to her laugh, joke, deliver wonderful meals–like she had missed her calling, and more importantly relocate complacent family ideals, with metaphoric genius. She took politically correct behavior and twisted it like a balloon at a kid’s party. Carefully she revealed this unconventional way; this Zen way as to make sure Lisa was ready to be unplugged. She would cushion the sofa of life and send her back out there to dig in as if she was some guru in a satin dress.

ZEN CALENDAR

It is important to see that the main point of any spiritual practice is to step out of the bureaucracy of the ego. This means stepping out of the ego's constant desire for a higher, more spiritual, more transcendental version of knowledge, religion, virtue, judgment, comfort or whatever it is that the particular ego is seeking.


Chogyam Trungpa

Process

Life is about the process--that is where the lessons are, not the result, 99% of our time is in a process.
A women's pregnacy is generally nine months of process the result of course is beautiful, but that moment is eventually lost to another process.
If we focus on addressing our mindset just towards the process in our life, it will dramatically improve; our results will be grandeur and blend into the flow of life allowing a constant.
If we focus on just the result we will be left empty, because results are always quick and they eventually disappear.

What they say

look what they say about her.
It's
gone; all gone.
It was never there.
The
world according to Ego.
She is being driven
to one place
that only
shows the other one, when she gets there.

They are saying she is easy and scandalous but her ego says she's hard and forthright.

Our mind is the same
Our perspective
is different.
The illusion
has her wrapped
in a blanket
against the cold sea's
whispering warm words of
falsehoods
and shallow praise.

A bright one
a comprehensive one
built for the world
offered a drink,
but it's an illusion
a projection
A million dollar investment to a charlatan
that
will
eventually
skip
town.
The ego whispers in her ear to mask
what they say about her.

Her
belief
makes it real.,
and it
is
her obtuse confidant:
the
Ego/herself
that says all this
about her,
anyway.

He was reluctant at first, but now straddled her and camp out just above her lips. His fingers were entwined and rest gently over her forehead. He rubbed it with his thumb and studied her eyes, they blinked and dashed around his. He saw his portrait in them and thought the Buddhist were right 'We are all one' when we look closely in another ones eyes we clearly see ourselves.
He kissed her lips softly and she reach up and pulled his tongue into hers. There was nothing more beautiful; more serene than this moment. He strangled time trying to hold onto it, and she fought back trying not to lose herself...she would win.

I was splayed out over the bed as a friend of mine entered the suite. I had moments ago left him at the club as he danced the night away with an eager woman. My dance partner never materialized this evening and now I was back in the room fighting sleep as he whispered behind me.
"Hey? Hey, you remember that girl I was dancing with?"
"Yea." I mumbled into the pillow.
"She's wasted and she's coming in and she has the other one with her."
"The other one?" He had my attention. This other woman he spoke of. This woman with her was this oversized slot machine that was always willing to pay off. She introduced herself to me on the dance floor and I tried pretending my height, culpled with the music seperated us. I tried to use head shakes and eyebrow touches to get the 53 year old Chester drawer built woman (with all the drawers open) to find a more suitable partner
"I will be over here when you're ready." She said in her drunken-ease as she lumbered towards the middle of the floor and attempted to imitate a bulbous hedge in a stiff breeze.
Before I could locate words they all had emptied themselves into the hotel room and his dancing partner found his bed and past out, and my nightmares were becoming literal as the vicadon popping woman found my bed and began to speak like a thousand pieces of a word puzzle had shattered to the floor...

"Love holds no grievances."












--The Disappearance Of The Universe, Gary R. Renard

Zen Calender

Pain in the knees is the taste of Zazen.

-Yamada Roshi

One of the most sublime and hazardous moments in human experience comes when two people lock eyes and realize that they are sexually attracted to one another.

-Roger Ebert (review of Damage)

type

Lisa couldn’t believe she was actually standing in her pajamas at 2:20 am--but even stranger, fielding questions from someone she hasn’t had at least one paragraph in their history, until now.
But she was drawn in to his words, his fit frame, his deep seated eyes and maybe now what he called his truth.
He spoke with passion about everything that came from his mouth, as if he could do the same describing a bowel movement.
She had to reject him. She had to pull back. She had no time or energy to see this play its way out. He was the desert that lay out in front of the great Baja race, and she would rather watch it on TV than participate.

Two years ago, Lisa sat next to Christopher. He was on his way to California, and they both waited as their relationship gathered itself in front of a firing squad. She stared out at the planes, the workers. He held tightly to a cup of coffee and read the Sun times. In the car over there,they exhausted themselves through closing arguments, and she resorted to fidgeting with the radio stations, as picked a spot through the windshield and focused.
They had met first in high school in a ceramics class. His coffee mug was not hallowed out well and exploded in the kiln destroying everyone’s midterm exams. He denied it to the hilt as if he was preparing himself for his future career in law, but the class had already discovered that he grossly lack artistic fingers.
She like him.
She like the fact he didn’t align himself with anyone

type

“I want to name my son Nasdaq.” This guy leaned over and said to me. I couldn’t help but glance down at his stomach, which appeared squeezed over his belt and poured underneath his T-shirt. It moved as if it was heading further to wards his knee as he let out a loud cough and recovered back into his chair. “That’s what this country is run on, but I just like the name.” He said while clearing his throat. I still wasn’t sure why he started talking to me. I made no indication that I was available. I knew I had properly concentrated my eyes on my magazine, leaving no pauses in my eyes, but yet there had to be a chink somewhere. Was it in my body language? I should have hunched over further creating more of a connection--a relationship with these words. But here I am possibly stuck with banality.

Leu Armada

I am the Rome of old.
The lightly falling terra cotta
is
not
fazing me.
Her great armada can come and go at will.
I
hear tales.
I hear of exhausted cities; subjugated and fallen ones.
Countries praying for just the Stone Age,
topography reversed.
I
hear
of paralyzed bodies
watching spectacular bombardments of the senses.
amazingly deflective, just to realign and mishape our essence.
I hear
of the borrowed and battered logic; one that imbalances our footing in the world.
And
I
need
to
hear no more.
I have seen
the great arsenal
in the distance;
Its
ominous presence
circling
my soft belly.
Understood--my cerebral cortex pulls at my pant leg.
and
I have
yet observed
terra
cotta
trimming my face.
But
I am
the Rome of old
and
I can
only hope
there are no signs of
cracks
in my
mind
and hope
that quake
is the earths.

The slow person in front of you allows you to contemplate your existence.

Listen to my brokenness, life will repair it.

Zen Calender

No one is injured but
by himself.

-Michel De Montaigne

Poet

"THE POET'S JOB is to tell the truth the whole truth and nothing but the truth, in such a beautiful way that people cannot live without it; to put into words those feelings we all have that are so deep, so important, and yet so difficult to name .
The poet's job is to find a name for eveything to be a fearless finder of the names of things; to be an advocate for the beauty of language, the subtleties of language."

-Jane Kenyon, poet

TOLL

My mind takes a toll
My teeth took the
toll
and strange ingredients happily passed
hydrogenated
dextrose
yellow
5 lake
My mind deflected as commercial's dance,
my reading interrupted,
my body, a blind canidate;
a wild horse, a 8 year old who has piled up in my head with
the: taste buds--its leader,
making demands it can't contemplate.

My body takes a toll.
I
at the command center have enough problems staying out of cars
I don't need,
electronics I shouldn't buy,
false impressions I shouldn't embrace.
who's in charge anyway?
My
mind
has
taking
a toll.

Unleash the Dogs Of Love

...and watch as someone is snared in their enamel. What could be more beautiful than this?
Ah...only if they would stay still, and allow themsleves to be consumed.

Zen Calender

All human beings should try to learn before they die
what they are running from, and to, and why.


-James Thurber

L.P.

Bare

Turns out my good friend in the photo above can not bare herself. We agreed that she would be the only one at a blistering naked beach in a parka.
She would be Virginia Wolfe but instead spending her entire life looking for a pen.
She sees herself as the Wicked Witch; trying to careen people away with her disposition;her grumbling.
but instead she is the lion.
a sniffling
nose slapped
lion
Don't worry she wants me to do this. She wants me to call her out. She wants to expose herself; release her soul like thousands of other people, who have turned parts of themselves inside out on here, but she needs help. What she's written is only smoke and mirrors; it's the warm up act. Her tank is full and it needs to be emptied, we need to help her www.lorey.blogspot.com

reading.

The little Sun

He is not in my lab
My veganism
My Charlotte Gilliam
My Aristotle, Tori Amos or Wynton.
Our divide is a river that is turning into a lake.
My lab,
the one I created against the grain, out of tears and loneliness
One that is free from self inflicted heart disease,
and literary ignorance.
One that is humorous, and envisions healthy relationships, rather than scalding ones.
He is not in my lab, but the worlds grey one,
and
its
soldiers-- are even the ones closes to me.
This lab fits into a snow globe found through irritation, contempt and deceit.
I wouldn't now how to explain.

Mail

What a dream...Definitely tell me more

I see us walking the streets of New York where we buy tons of magazines and sift through them one morning as we have breakfast I see your head on my chest and us talking for hours in a tub.

You know it so very interesting how you just stay in my mind, how I just desire you so. I just feel so connected to you, almost as if in our past lives we were something for each other, and our beings are overjoyed that we are communicating now. It drives me nuts sometimes. When I looked at your photo I just saw how utterly beautiful you are and how it pours through those fingers that rests on that sink. You are the culmination of what my lover is in this life and beyond.
and we have not touched.
I sometimes try to heavily question it; attack it in my mind, in my poems (some of which has shown up on my blog(2), strangers who have found it told me to embrace you* laughing) trying to best control myself I just can't believe how much I have sunk into you. How much I have fallen for you (the CD you sent with those seeds were something else for me) It can be overwhelming at times and I want to run from it; hide thinking it can't be real. I feel not worthy....I know I know I am drama filled. But I am so passionate and I am sorry for pouring too much of my sun on you, but it excites me.

In person I would be a little boy and probably say little....my writing is my refuge...sigh.
It's interesting how we have so much in our lives it is so perfectly place there so we can just be out of each others reach; enough to raise our temperatures. I've said this once before, that is why there is Virginia Wolf, Sylvia Plath Shakespeare and Picasso etc. this is where love Stories and heartbreaks come from; this adoration; this love.

Remember whatever you need I am there for you.


MER

My friends

In doses, my sun
turns thee engaged
to the unbridled.
My love
pours like paint-
-sticky and ruined.

It turns up the heat
It accelerates my cause
It expense's
all
of
my
magic
that you- also a magician-
has.
Only my death will render an apology.

What heart's must I break , what lie's must I maintain... from Pollock

TIFFANY'S

My elaborate gift.
Sometimes I wonder did I steal
a future memory?
My gleeful rush to be savored.
Through her tears; her punching
sigh of joy, I feel my power.
She is a professional in many areas
but remains a novice
in the room that love doesn't fill.
Must I
-like her who remains coupled,
break in and paint it my way?
The thief of hearts
is first a thief.

ASH

Walking to work I see people painted with ash, but I still noticed that it's over furrowed brows.
Is it just like Lincoln's birthday, July 4th or picking up some coffee? How is the ash incorporated into my life? That's what I would be asking if I was wearing it.
I asked similar questions 7 years ago and eventually found out that there was no wizard behind the curtain.

Be patient towards all that is unresolved in your heart,
And try to love the questions themselves.





Rainer Maria Rilke