It’s a place of deep darkness broken up by points of light so bright as to waken you from ignorance, from unthinking, from foolish and insignificant desires.
It’s when a smile is felt in the innermost parts of you, not when it merely lights your face, but when you feel it overpower you, when it floods your whole being until being no longer exists, only your feeling of smile, reflected in his.
It’s nights of intense elation, when you dance until you’re dizzy and are unaware of your body. Body falls away and you exist as sheer energy, sheer happiness. Again a feeling of smile so deep that you’re positive that only he can see it, because only he has ever seen into you that far, that deeply.
It’s feeling your whole self as a constantly revolving essence of life, free flowing up, then cascading down, and exploding upward again in a never ending circle. All you see around you is that velvety blackness, the points of bright light nourishing your essence. Body doesn’t exist, never has, never will again.
Warmth and ecstasy explode inside your head until its spinning, beginning the never-ending windmill of vital energy. It’s blue and cool, emanating peace and joy and it rotates in that dark place without ceasing.
Nebulous, other-worldly, yet ridiculously familiar and normal, so much so as to produce laughter.
This is what it is. I know of no other way to describe it. He permeates my self – the closest thing to me that I know. I recall him in an instant: face, hands, lips, not-face, not-hands, not-lips, pure essence.
I am there, and he is, too.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Cliff diving
Only by leaving everything that allows an identity to elude you will you begin to form one.
In whatever place you call home — that place of so much security that you try to force yourself outside its comfortable realms, try to be different and unexpected just because you want to be a piece that doesn’t fit into this puzzle — that’s the place its easiest to run from identity.
At home, you can look over the edge of the cliff and even rappel off it because you know that no matter how risky or dangerous it gets, there are people with belay ropes and carabeeners at top and bottom waiting to lower you to safety, or to hold you in place.
“On belay.”
“Belay on.”
When you decide to go cliff diving, however, entirely unsupervised – well, that’s when the thinking begins. No one above or below to encourage or discourage you to jump, to tell you if the water’s warm or cold, where the jagged rocks are, where the water is calm.
In terms of identity, there’s no one there to remind you of who you’ve been, to tell you which roads will lead you to be the person you or they want or expect you to be.
So, leaving home isn’t supervised rappeling with friends.
It’s cliff diving by yourself.
But it’s only while cliff diving by your lonesome that you’ll discover what it is you treasure most about the life you left on the cliff. During the free fall, you get to see life as you lived it – in your coccoon – and analyze it, more objectively than you had been able to, previously.
What do you like about yourself?
What can you justify? What is justifiable?
What parts of who you were do you wish to keep? What do you want to throw away?
What is worth your time? What is worth your energy?
What is worth love and sadness, elation and tears, hugs and kisses, long drives, homecooked meals, ridiculous games?
Who fills your mind while you’re gone? Who do you miss the most?
What parts of you will you fight to maintain? Which will you let fall away?
What of you do you love?
And such are the question I face in free fall.
Insha’Allah we’ll have the answers when we hit water.
In whatever place you call home — that place of so much security that you try to force yourself outside its comfortable realms, try to be different and unexpected just because you want to be a piece that doesn’t fit into this puzzle — that’s the place its easiest to run from identity.
At home, you can look over the edge of the cliff and even rappel off it because you know that no matter how risky or dangerous it gets, there are people with belay ropes and carabeeners at top and bottom waiting to lower you to safety, or to hold you in place.
“On belay.”
“Belay on.”
When you decide to go cliff diving, however, entirely unsupervised – well, that’s when the thinking begins. No one above or below to encourage or discourage you to jump, to tell you if the water’s warm or cold, where the jagged rocks are, where the water is calm.
In terms of identity, there’s no one there to remind you of who you’ve been, to tell you which roads will lead you to be the person you or they want or expect you to be.
So, leaving home isn’t supervised rappeling with friends.
It’s cliff diving by yourself.
But it’s only while cliff diving by your lonesome that you’ll discover what it is you treasure most about the life you left on the cliff. During the free fall, you get to see life as you lived it – in your coccoon – and analyze it, more objectively than you had been able to, previously.
What do you like about yourself?
What can you justify? What is justifiable?
What parts of who you were do you wish to keep? What do you want to throw away?
What is worth your time? What is worth your energy?
What is worth love and sadness, elation and tears, hugs and kisses, long drives, homecooked meals, ridiculous games?
Who fills your mind while you’re gone? Who do you miss the most?
What parts of you will you fight to maintain? Which will you let fall away?
What of you do you love?
And such are the question I face in free fall.
Insha’Allah we’ll have the answers when we hit water.
the god of the mountain
I believe in the god of the mountain,
the god of fire, of rain, of wind, of sunlight.
I believe in the god of tears and smiles and hugs, of goosebumps and an overwhelming sense of smallness and awe.
I believe in rays of sunlight breaking through the dusty windows of a wooden cathedral.
I believe in dew enthroned on blades of grass, in mist nestled in the bosoms of old evergreen peaks, in baby fawns running through thousand year old forests.
I believe in worn sandstone, in earnest prayer, in peace the settles the storm within.
I believe in the One, emanating in, of and throughout all things.
I believe in Ultimate Surrender, in unconditional compassion, in timeless love.
I believe in adoration.
I believe in my own smallness and in my own light. I believe in the ability to be everywhere at once and in no place in particular.
I believe in the intangible.
I believe in the soul.
I believe in ruach.
I believe that there is One way, and that everyone can attain it, and probably already has, in some way, large or small.
I believe there is no such thing as large, and no such thing as small.
I believe that Jesus, Mohammad, Buddha, the Great Mother, Krisha, Shiva, Brahma and Moses — I believe that at first glance, they divide. Superficiality never yielded the truth of the matter.
I believe that studying comparative religion perpetuates misinformation, stereotypes, and confusion.
I believe we’re all on paths, trails, roads, and highways leading somewhere that may or not be the same place. But we’re all on them, and it doesn’t matter who controls the road we’re on, because the One and the Way created all the roads.
I believe particularities lead us away from truth, and that religion divides.
Love and compassion — acceptance and forgiveness.
These are the vital threads.
These are the fruits of paradise; the nectar of our gods.
Read the Bible, chant om, face your prayer rugs towards Mecca.
Live as an embodied being, become fully a person of particular time and particular place.
Then leave.
the god of fire, of rain, of wind, of sunlight.
I believe in the god of tears and smiles and hugs, of goosebumps and an overwhelming sense of smallness and awe.
I believe in rays of sunlight breaking through the dusty windows of a wooden cathedral.
I believe in dew enthroned on blades of grass, in mist nestled in the bosoms of old evergreen peaks, in baby fawns running through thousand year old forests.
I believe in worn sandstone, in earnest prayer, in peace the settles the storm within.
I believe in the One, emanating in, of and throughout all things.
I believe in Ultimate Surrender, in unconditional compassion, in timeless love.
I believe in adoration.
I believe in my own smallness and in my own light. I believe in the ability to be everywhere at once and in no place in particular.
I believe in the intangible.
I believe in the soul.
I believe in ruach.
I believe that there is One way, and that everyone can attain it, and probably already has, in some way, large or small.
I believe there is no such thing as large, and no such thing as small.
I believe that Jesus, Mohammad, Buddha, the Great Mother, Krisha, Shiva, Brahma and Moses — I believe that at first glance, they divide. Superficiality never yielded the truth of the matter.
I believe that studying comparative religion perpetuates misinformation, stereotypes, and confusion.
I believe we’re all on paths, trails, roads, and highways leading somewhere that may or not be the same place. But we’re all on them, and it doesn’t matter who controls the road we’re on, because the One and the Way created all the roads.
I believe particularities lead us away from truth, and that religion divides.
Love and compassion — acceptance and forgiveness.
These are the vital threads.
These are the fruits of paradise; the nectar of our gods.
Read the Bible, chant om, face your prayer rugs towards Mecca.
Live as an embodied being, become fully a person of particular time and particular place.
Then leave.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Transported, transformed
She stared intently at Nabil's face and saw it transform into that of a headstrong young boy, adamant to maintain who he thought he was.
Simultaneously, she saw the streets of late 1800's Manhattan, saw the signs that said,"No Irish need apply."
She couldn't remove her eyes from his face; she didn't want to miss this frightening and magical transformation. She watched his twenty seven years melt away to eight, and then she was there. She heard it-- "dirty Amazigh"-- screamed at her, clearly.
She squeezed her little brother's hand as she lead him through the filthy streets of the Five Points, and felt the spit of those bigoted demons burn her skirts. She walked as fast as she could, away from the taunts of the Arabic-speaking monsters, as swiftly as her feet would carry her away from the ugly Natives.
The worlds converged, inseparable. The names were different, but the characters and the hate the same. She wiped away tears as she screamed and insisted on speaking to her Amazigh grandmother in her grandmother's own tongue, as she scooped up her three year old brother to calm him--to make him stop wailing--after he had been kicked by an American boy.
She saw tattooed chins, thought them lovely, desired one, she was already fourteen, she knew she'd have one soon, she'd be a woman; heard the beat of the bodhran and felt her feet begin to dance.
Jolted back to the classroom, she forced her feet to sit still.
And then it was over.
"How was Arabic class today?", Nabil asked.
"Fine."
Simultaneously, she saw the streets of late 1800's Manhattan, saw the signs that said,"No Irish need apply."
She couldn't remove her eyes from his face; she didn't want to miss this frightening and magical transformation. She watched his twenty seven years melt away to eight, and then she was there. She heard it-- "dirty Amazigh"-- screamed at her, clearly.
She squeezed her little brother's hand as she lead him through the filthy streets of the Five Points, and felt the spit of those bigoted demons burn her skirts. She walked as fast as she could, away from the taunts of the Arabic-speaking monsters, as swiftly as her feet would carry her away from the ugly Natives.
The worlds converged, inseparable. The names were different, but the characters and the hate the same. She wiped away tears as she screamed and insisted on speaking to her Amazigh grandmother in her grandmother's own tongue, as she scooped up her three year old brother to calm him--to make him stop wailing--after he had been kicked by an American boy.
She saw tattooed chins, thought them lovely, desired one, she was already fourteen, she knew she'd have one soon, she'd be a woman; heard the beat of the bodhran and felt her feet begin to dance.
Jolted back to the classroom, she forced her feet to sit still.
And then it was over.
"How was Arabic class today?", Nabil asked.
"Fine."
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Haha. September 13.
“My poor breasts.”
“Did you say “whore” or “horrible”?”
“I said poor.”
Hahahahahaha
“Italians are urged to forgo pasta for a day in price-rise protest,” says BBC news.
“Global warming and the growing use of durum wheat as a biofuel are blamed for the steep rise in pasta prices.” “WHAT?! Are you shitting me?”
“Are you in Italy? Will you be protesting against the rise in pasta prices today?”
“What the fuck..... What the fuck....”
(Smells self). “I need to do my laundry.”
“Cake or death?”
“Yeah, I loved that time the other day when you and Mike and I were hanging out, and you and I agreed that we liked hanging out with boys better than girls because girls talk about who they’ve slept with and boys talk about shitting in the Turkish toilet.”
“Who the fuck is this Carly woman, they’ll say.” “She’s brilliant”, I’ll respond.
“Did you say “whore” or “horrible”?”
“I said poor.”
Hahahahahaha
“Italians are urged to forgo pasta for a day in price-rise protest,” says BBC news.
“Global warming and the growing use of durum wheat as a biofuel are blamed for the steep rise in pasta prices.” “WHAT?! Are you shitting me?”
“Are you in Italy? Will you be protesting against the rise in pasta prices today?”
“What the fuck..... What the fuck....”
(Smells self). “I need to do my laundry.”
“Cake or death?”
“Yeah, I loved that time the other day when you and Mike and I were hanging out, and you and I agreed that we liked hanging out with boys better than girls because girls talk about who they’ve slept with and boys talk about shitting in the Turkish toilet.”
“Who the fuck is this Carly woman, they’ll say.” “She’s brilliant”, I’ll respond.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
The presence of Kentucky
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Rescue crews pulled Robbie and Laura from the wreckage. They were both dead by the time they arrived at the hospital.
Shadow folded the newspaper up once more and slid it back across the table, toward Wednesday, who was gorging himself on a steak so bloody and so blue it might never have been introduced to a kitchen flame.
“Here. Take it back,” said Shadow.
Robbie had been driving. He must have been drunk, although the newspaper account said nothing about this. Shadow found himself imagining Laura’s face when she realized that Robbie was too drunk to drive. The scenario unfolded in Shadow’s mind, and there was nothing he could do to stop it: Laura shouting at Robbie — shouting at him to pull off the road, then the thud of the car against truck, and the steering wheel wrenching over...
...the car on the side of the road, broken glass glittering like ice and diamonds in the headlights, blood pooling in rubies on the road beside them. Two bodies being carried from the wreck, or laid neatly by the side of the road.
“Well?” asked Mr. Wednesday. He had finished his teak, devoured it like a starving man. Now he was munching the french fries, spearing them with his fork.
“You’re right,” said Shadow. “I don’t have a job.”
Shadow washed his face with the rest room’s liquid soap, then the lathered his face and shaved. He cleaned his teeth. He wet his hair and combed it back. He still looked rough.
He wondered what Laura would say when she saw him, and then he remembered that Laura wouldn’t say anything ever again and he saw his face, in the mirror, tremble, but only for a moment.
He went out.
American Gods, Neil Gaiman, page 45
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It's difficult at times to be “so close, yet so far away.” Reading Neil Gaiman and the Tao Te Ching, listening to Eric Ruppel, O-zone, Hellogoodbye and Sufjan Stevens make Morocco feel like home. Or, rather, they make me feel fully at home, and content to be in Morocco. I do feel like I’m here; there is no feeling of “watching television” like I had in Turkey and Greece. I am no longer just an observer of the culture, but increasingly a participant. And as much as I am a full participant, I am fully pleased to be here. It is just at certain moments of the day when an image will pop into my mind, or a smell will waft toward my nose, or music will play, and my whole being is flooded with a desire to be near home. I dearly miss Clay and Marcie and Charlene; I miss being exactly who I am and being with them, exactly as they are. I watch my face tremble in the mirror, but only for a moment, and then I am back to Morocco. And back to the full realization that I can have them, in their fullness, with me at all times, if only I believe them here.
So, I allow this to be a verbose sigh of sorts. I am fine, I am content, I am learning, which makes me happy. But I miss the hugs, the laughter, and the presence of Kentucky.
Rescue crews pulled Robbie and Laura from the wreckage. They were both dead by the time they arrived at the hospital.
Shadow folded the newspaper up once more and slid it back across the table, toward Wednesday, who was gorging himself on a steak so bloody and so blue it might never have been introduced to a kitchen flame.
“Here. Take it back,” said Shadow.
Robbie had been driving. He must have been drunk, although the newspaper account said nothing about this. Shadow found himself imagining Laura’s face when she realized that Robbie was too drunk to drive. The scenario unfolded in Shadow’s mind, and there was nothing he could do to stop it: Laura shouting at Robbie — shouting at him to pull off the road, then the thud of the car against truck, and the steering wheel wrenching over...
...the car on the side of the road, broken glass glittering like ice and diamonds in the headlights, blood pooling in rubies on the road beside them. Two bodies being carried from the wreck, or laid neatly by the side of the road.
“Well?” asked Mr. Wednesday. He had finished his teak, devoured it like a starving man. Now he was munching the french fries, spearing them with his fork.
“You’re right,” said Shadow. “I don’t have a job.”
American Gods,
Neil Gaiman page 34
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Neil Gaiman page 34
Shadow washed his face with the rest room’s liquid soap, then the lathered his face and shaved. He cleaned his teeth. He wet his hair and combed it back. He still looked rough.
He wondered what Laura would say when she saw him, and then he remembered that Laura wouldn’t say anything ever again and he saw his face, in the mirror, tremble, but only for a moment.
He went out.
American Gods, Neil Gaiman, page 45
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It's difficult at times to be “so close, yet so far away.” Reading Neil Gaiman and the Tao Te Ching, listening to Eric Ruppel, O-zone, Hellogoodbye and Sufjan Stevens make Morocco feel like home. Or, rather, they make me feel fully at home, and content to be in Morocco. I do feel like I’m here; there is no feeling of “watching television” like I had in Turkey and Greece. I am no longer just an observer of the culture, but increasingly a participant. And as much as I am a full participant, I am fully pleased to be here. It is just at certain moments of the day when an image will pop into my mind, or a smell will waft toward my nose, or music will play, and my whole being is flooded with a desire to be near home. I dearly miss Clay and Marcie and Charlene; I miss being exactly who I am and being with them, exactly as they are. I watch my face tremble in the mirror, but only for a moment, and then I am back to Morocco. And back to the full realization that I can have them, in their fullness, with me at all times, if only I believe them here.
So, I allow this to be a verbose sigh of sorts. I am fine, I am content, I am learning, which makes me happy. But I miss the hugs, the laughter, and the presence of Kentucky.
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