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.