Mother Ayahuasca,
deliver me from my ego,
this selfishness, this I
which is the root of suffering.
Mother Ayahuasca,
allow me to see clearly all that is interconnected
within me and without me.
allow me to see clearly all that is changing,
with pure equanimity.
Mother Ayahuasca,
show me the path towards compassion,
to love all beings,
bhavatu sabba mangalam.
The temple is large and circular, candle lit, with a variety of images and illustrations of spiritual saints and deities. We were around 20 participants in total, largely non-Peruvians, including the shaman and his assistant. The shaman had a French accent and conducted the ceremony in English with comforting confidence and skill. Everyone participating in the ceremony goes up to the shaman, turn by turn, to silently ask Madre Ayahuasca for a request and to receive the sacred drink. The above was my personal request during my surrender to the evening's ceremony. It felt almost like a religious prayer, and in many ways, it was. The shaman emphasized the medicinal nature of Ayuhuasca and instructed every one to be mindful of a spiritual intent, request for answer or healing. He also instructed everyone to observe a noble silence and no contact for the duration of the ceremony in complete darkness (9pm to 3:30am).
My girlfriend & I had decided to seek out an Ayuhuasca experience upon hearing about San Pedro, the mountain & desert cactus while in Chile. While we didn't get an opportunity to experience that particular ancient healing plant, we happened to be ending our trip through South America in Peru. Ayuhuasca is a legal and culturally recognized medicine in Peru, and considering that our 10-day Vipassana meditation retreat took place in Bolivia, on our way towards Peru, it felt like a perfect aligning of location and timing. Upon the completion of the meditation retreat, and upon the conclusion of the 10-day noble silence, many of our fellow meditators were buzzing about either past Ayuhuasca experiences or up-coming ones. In particular, for a few days we hung out with a Swiss-German friend who had participated in a 30-day Ayuhuasca retreat near Iquitos in the northern jungles of Peru, and a Polish couple who lived for 3 months in Peru's Sacred Valley (where we were planning to go). They gave us invaluable insight and preparation tips for our upcoming ceremony. We also researched online, and watched a documentary featuring a handful of academic scholars called Ayahuasca: Nature's Gift. All in all, open to a new experience and a bit of nervousness aside, we felt solidly prepared.
Though what we experienced was beyond any sort of preparation we could have planned. If all the recreational psychedelic trips of my past can be considered as teachers towards insight of self and the world, then Ayuhuasca was like a cosmic mother professor. A large factor was the context in which the ceremony was conducted. Unlike casual, recreational psychedelic experiences with friends, this Ayahuasca ceremony was conducted with guidance and limitations. I've already mentioned noble silence, no physical contact and the absence of light. The shaman and his assistant were very experienced, and during the ceremony, performed a variety of songs (Amazonian medicine songs and songs from a variety of religions including Hindu, Buddhist & I believe Latin Christian) with traditional folkloric instruments, guitars and a harp. We were encouraged to remain seated, and if possible, to remain upright (as lying down intensifies the sensations).
This experiential context is akin to research therapies which had been conducted with psychedelics in the 60s & 70s, as well as the clinical studies of more recent years. These research therapies have been particularly focused on the treatment of alcoholism, drug addiction and cancer-coping research. They are conducted in a conditioned environment, with researchers as guides and usually with a sleep mask and music. A question posed in a recent episode of New Yorker's Out Loud podcast was: "What about psychedelic treatment for the betterment of well people?" Based on the observable results (of speech and actions) and the overall undeniable sense of positivity and warmth which radiated from the participants upon the conclusion of the ceremony, it was clear that the Ayuhuasca group experience had a profound impact on each individual.
Words are merely words, and it is in their nature to reduce an idea or experience into something categorize-able, understandable and communicative from an individual to others. With this in mind, the following sentences may contain dualisms and abstractions which really only scratches intellectually on what had occurred experientially.
From my perspective, the experience of Ayahuasca stimulates and encompasses all observable bodily sensations, as well as intellectual and emotional spheres simultaneously. While each individual experiences a different trip-- their own journey so to speak, there is an inexplicable connection, a basic similar ingredient which unites all of us which shines through upon conclusion. Parallels can be drawn to the cycle of Samsara which every human being experiences. While our paths may differ individually, yet we are all bound within the universal law of nature; that we are born, experience change and ultimately die. During the ceremony, there is a clarity of awareness, that all of one's past, all the people and situations you've encountered, had been perfectly sequential and affective to this present moment.
DMT as a chemical is latent in all humans and a handful of organic plant matter. The activation of Ayahuasca affected my girlfriend in a manner which recalled past lives, many and rapid continuous bursts of deaths and rebirths, and the cyclical immense pleasure trappings of Samsara. All occurring experientially, without a grounding in the self, or her idea of herself as a singular entity. It was pure experience, beyond thought or contemplation.
A grounding in Buddhism and meditative practice was certainly a significant framework to mine, and my girlfriend's experience. Having experienced spark moments of ego-lessness and full present-mindedness during the later stages of my second intensive Vipassana meditation (around 8-9hrs of dedicated meditation per day for 10 days), I felt as if I could see all reality's details in pure vibrancy, without attachment and with the full bliss of compassion and understanding. Everything was simply so, a truth I've come to learn from meditative practice, and under the blanket of Madre Aya, this was clear in total operationality.
A Western philosophical way to describe it could be with the assistance of Martin Heidegger's concept of 'Dasein' where mortality and existence becomes a full experiential realization, beyond theory or philosophy. Perhaps a clearer, Eastern way of describing it comes from the Zen school of Buddhism. 'Shoho Jisso' means 'all things are as they are'. As described by Kosho Uchiyama; "What we call "I" or "ego" arises by chance or accident, so we just let go instead of grasping thoughts and "I". When we let go of all our notions about things, everything becomes really true... When we let go of everything, we do not create artificial attachments and connections. Everything is as it is. Everything exists in one accidental way or another. This is the present reality of life.
With regards to present-ness, or 'Genjo', the 'present becoming present': "Within the present, there is a past, a present, and a future. The past and future are real and alive only in the present. This concept of time in Buddhist thought is very important. It is different from the notion in Western philosophy that time flows from the past into the present, and on into a future in a linear way. According to Buddhist teachings it doesn't quite work that way. the past, present, and future are all contained within the present."
Ayuhuasca either manifested these theoretical notions fully and experientially for me on a personal level, or perhaps this is the fundamental, universal framework of existing, experienced differently from individual participant to individual participant. Perhaps the best symbolism of the all-encompassing spiritual nature of Ayuhuasca can be described in the directly observable environment in which the ceremony was held. When you go up to the shaman for your drink, and you engage in the moment of spiritual intent, you may glimpse the array of items assembled before the shaman. Among these items are an image of Jesus Christ beside the image of Gautama Buddha. Two figures who embody the highest ideal of compassion and selflessness. When it comes to living, and becoming aware of the temporal nature of our existence, it becomes clearer and clearer that living compassionately is the only path towards liberation of suffering.
Further Reading:
Opening the Hand of Thought: Foundations of Zen Buddhist Practice (2004) by Kosho Uchiyama
Being and Time (1927) by Martin Heidegger
The Trip Treatment (2015) by Michael Pollan (http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2015/02/09/trip-treatment)
New Yorker Out Loud: Psychadelics as Therapy (http://www.newyorker.com/culture/culture-desk/loud-therapeutic-tripping)
summer 2014 - reflections of the rising sun
river stroll horizons,
shimmering clarity
of ceaseless rippling
through heart streams.
memories of sunsets,
sweet smells of desire,
how false this breeze
we drifting vessels.
orbs and rotations,
toil and games,
questions of what lies
beyond--
where comes this ego?
loves and attachments
soft lips smiling,
where does it all go?
known it for long,
and know it we still
cycles of suffering,
and the golden path.
cessation of yearning.
or drown again,
and again,
in ceaseless, ceaseless ripples.
A stone's throw away
from Marshall's pad there is a river stream, and there we spent a
considerable amount of time. We dipped our feet in the water, gazed
upon its mesmerizing ripples, and conversed along the river's edge.
It's called the Ota
River and forms from little streams stretching down from the nearby
mountain horizon. It flows through farm lands, small towns, temples
and shrines, eventually spilling out into the Pacific Ocean.
Sporadically, other groups of friends, couples and families would
come to the river as well, swimming and fishing in it. Grey herons
and white egrets can be seen standing and flying serenely over this
river. The water is so clear, that on a sunny day you could see, as
if through pristine glass, the shimmering details of the deepest
rocks and the fish darting about within.
This little river was
an absolute wonder to me, as it has been too for Marsh all the months
he's lived here. And even more wondrous, were the same clear and
unpolluted streams found all throughout the Japanese towns and cities
we traveled to. They ran along streets and sidewalks, and were home
to a healthy diversity of animal and plant-life. On the surface, you
could say that Japan is very clean. But the significance of this
cleanliness conveys a deeper reflection of Japanese society as a
whole. A care towards their natural environment, a spiritual
tradition towards local temples and shrines, and a social order
towards each other.
Four consecutive months
in South-East Asia has revealed to me many things. Of these
experiences, I'll draw out only a small slice: There is an island in
the Perhentians which attracts a lot of tourists. It is not uncommon
to hear the words “Paradise on Earth” to describe these islands,
and indeed, the natural wonder to be found there is beyond words.
However, there is a blatant problem on this island. They seem to have
no environmentally responsible recycling system in place. Some of the
plastic waste is gathered up in heaping piles, the rest is tossed
carelessly into the jungle away from the beach. Anything that is not
plastic, they'll burn at night.
In particular, there is
a stagnant body of water on this island, and it stews behind the
beach-front resorts. This body of water used to be a river. It is now
covered in plastic bottles and other trash. The water itself is thick
and sickly green with rotten algae, chemicals and other pollutants
which exhume a grotesque stench with every gust of wind. It is an
infected open-wound upon nature's very surface and I can feel my own
revolt rising as I gaze upon it. I also see the same disgust on the
faces of others who pass by. Yet the locals either don't have the
knowledge, or the resources to deal with such an issue, and the
tourists are in “Paradise on Earth.” They've earned the money,
carved out the time, and are now in full escape from the worries of
everyday life. The British phrase that I hear all too often comes to
mind; “I simply can't be bothered.”
For the first week of
my stay on the Perhentians, I would walk by this vile body of green
water a handful of times a day, and each time I found myself
agitated. A voice within myself was telling me that this was wrong,
this smell was off, and that this must be stopped. I'll be honest
however, and sadly admit that after a week, I too got used to the
poisoned body of water as a part of the everyday reality of this
place. Like the locals, I became habituated, my mind drifted towards
other, more selfish concerns, and like the tourists, I wasn't
'bothered' anymore. In hindsight, there is not much that I could have
done in that situation to make a true and lasting impact. The feeling
of agitation that I felt was a construct of my mind; my own thoughts
and desires in relation to the external world.
To break it down more
clearly; the act of imposing one's own desires on the external world
will only lead to suffering. This is due to three reasons: 1) All
conditioned things are impermanent, therefore, anything that is
external to ourselves, is ever-changing. 2) In yearning to change
that which is external into something of our own desire, is an
attempt to mold it into something we think to be permanent and
attainable; this is an impossibility. 3) This impossible process
leads us to experience impermanence as a conflicting force against
our own precious egos, thus creating personal suffering. In the
example of the polluted water on the Perhentians, the first point
naturally applies. A few hundred years ago, this river was not
polluted by industrial waste. That same area of land may have been
just rocks and tall grass, and at some point, under the sea. A few
thousand years from now is also speculation; the toxic pool may be
cleaned, it may get worse, the oceans may dry up, or everything
floods beneath turbulent waves once again. Stardust shifting
ceaselessly upon stardust.
The second point is
where a voice comes in, an ego with attachments and desires. It was
telling me that the existence of this disgusting pollution was wrong.
That I should do something about it-- to make the world around me a
better place, lest I be weighed down by a heavy, guilty conscience at
having either contributed, or stood by complacent while something
horrible was happening. It was a voice that was willing me to enforce
my opinion on something external of myself. My desire to change
something that I saw was 'wrong', into something that I felt was
'right'. What I didn't fully realize at the time, was that when it
comes to the ambivalence of nature and reality as it is, these
thoughts don't weigh as much as I think they do. To take it upon
myself to dive into the green sludge and pull out each and every
water bottle would have been an ineffective and impermanent folly. To
attempt to set up a long-term recycling system with locals and
government is outside of my qualifications and not reasonable within
the very short time-span that I wished to spend on that touristy island.
Aside from complaining about it, reducing my own waste or calling
attention to it with locals, it was entirely a situation which I
could not make a tangible and lasting impact. It was an external
condition, like so many things in the world-- outside of my control,
and to allow it to weigh so heavily on myself, would have been adding
an extra layer of complication to my cognitive process. An additional
layer of worry and guilt which removes me further from the essential
acts of mindfulness key to generating positivity within myself and to
all those around me. So what was this voice which was telling me
right from wrong? Who speaks it and why does it exist?
When I met up with
Marshall, he was able to provide a whole new dimension to these
questions. He set up an analogy of a video game, namely an MMORPG.
The world as we experience it, is the world simulated in this game.
Everything that contributes to your sense of 'you'-- your appearance,
your personality, your fears and your desires, come together as your
character in this RPG. From Plato's cave to the Matrix, this analogy
may sound familiar. However, in the context of Buddhism, it really
hits home as something which reached beyond just a story; it may very
well be reality as we experience it.
Consider the video game
analogy as identical to the Samara of life. We are unwillingly born
into life, we live through life in suffering, and we die only to be
reborn back into suffering. The 'Food Cycle' expressed by Maasaki on
Adventure Time conveys this idea very succinctly and entertainingly.
Through science and language, we reinforce the notion that all things
are interconnected. We coexist with one another, with nature and
with some spiritual notion of God, threading together our
understanding of our reality's fabric. We're all tiny particles
vibrating in an ever-changing, ever-fluid unison. The infinity which
stretches into the mysteries of space, is that very infinite which
reaches into an atom, deeper and smaller than even the Higgs Boson.
What is beyond this infinity? From where does the source of that
initial voice echo from?
Consider now all that
which exists outside the RPG world. A user sitting outside the
computer, clicking around on the screen. The character goes this way
and that way. To survive and to keep the game on-going, the
characters must satisfy some basic needs, that of food, safety and
rest. Items are picked up along the way, characters are met and so
the game-world grows. Goals, loves and desires are developed, the
senses are pleasured. Greed and power arise, cities and civilizations
fall, and rise again, in a ceaseless cycle of toil and suffering
which spans the dawn and dusk of humanity's short time in the sun.
The lucy trip itself
was a fascinating diffusion of the self into pure sensation and
thought. We started with a meditation. Then listened to the
randomized mix we put together, leaving our bodies behind and giving
up our senses to be lifted by the monumental power of music. We tried
different fruit, which were fresh bursts of nature's seductive
potency, and watched random videos, including endless laughing and
amazement at the above mentioned Adventure Time episode. We floated
for an untraceable amount of time by that most beautiful river
stream. Marsh was able to tap into the zen deconstructions which
occupied most of his existence six months ago.
For me, I was held back
by my attachments. It didn't make sense to me that the light which
glowed within the leaves, and danced upon the water's surface, was
but an illusion; sensoral perceptions masking the underlying truth
that all things are simply empty and without meaning. It meant that
all the people that I knew, all whom I love, were also just a
projection, a fabrication of how I perceive them in my own mind. It
felt entirely alienating, and all the inter-connectivity of the world
shrunk into a dull grey orb where no sensation could be leaned on for
certainty. It became very apparent to me that the only way to escape
this orb of toil and meaninglessness, was to detach entirely-- to
detach from my loves and my goals and dreams, and to fully dedicate
my life towards solitude and the practice of meditation for the goal
of enlightenment. My ego had build such importance around itself,
building up so much meaning in those external factors of Family,
Friends, Art & Nature, that when confronted with the proposition
to shed it all, it revolted. To say the least; it has been a lot to
think on.
During my conversations
with Marshall, and especially during the evening of the lucy trip, it
became very apparent to me how much meaning I had placed on my
everyday earthly attachments. In other words, I experienced the full
unzenness of being attached to game NPCs, quests and the very shiny
graphics of the game-world. From the intimate love I feel towards
Hedda, to the supporting love I feel towards family and friends. From
the pleasure of the sun's warmth upon my skin, to the texture of
plant-life brushing between my fingers. The feeling of utter release
at the end of a prose and the whisper of words on an indigo night..
how could these be merely false projections of my mind? How could it
be true that I was only a character in an illusion, in a game-world
within which nothing was truly real nor of consequence. Since the new
year of 2013, I had reaffirmed the importance of Family, Friends, Art
& Nature in my life, and in this process, completely lost sight
of the impermanence which underlies all things. During the come down
of my trip, I was confronted entirely by the meaninglessness of all
that I had put so much meaning into.
And that was okay.
Through the process of meditation, one must learn to let go. Of
attachments, of goals, of expectations. These are merely words which
reflect all the trouble we cause for ourselves, within our own heads.
It was humbling, challenging, and refreshing to be re-grounded in
such a way to the truth of impermanence. People come and go in your
life. So too does your sensations as they're tickled by the forces of
nature. Of art, and our tireless drive to replicate ourselves, to
create like the user, like God, to question the voice, to point at
it and reach for it through visual, musical, scientific, religious, lyrical and
physical abstractions. Once again, these are mere words, strung
together in an effort to communicate, to understand, to question.
However, only in action can one truly experience.
I spent the majority of
the day after our lucy trip in solitude. I went off for a walk
without a destination in mind, and ended up being gone for hours. I
sat, reflected and meditated, and I was more or less able to lighten
the burden of meaning. Out of all the paths we may choose to walk in
our inconsequentially transient time in this RPG orb of endless
endeavours, I will choose to walk the path of compassion. Choice is
our only sword in the suffocating darkness of uncertainty. Just as
easily, you can choose to give in to acts of immorality. Of sloth,
greed and harm. It is difficult to say if there is a literal God
which judges you at the end of your life-cycle, or whether all this
is but a challenge, a test of spiritual fortitude. From an
existential perspective; at death's gate, all your actions, good or
bad, are past and therefore nothing. Clouds rise and rain falls.
Accordingly, the elements which make up all that is physically you,
will dissolve back into the cyclical forces of nature, fluid and
without moral, social constructions.
Buddha teaches
mindfulness in thought and action. A compassion for all things and an
open heart to see reality for what it truly is; transient,
ever-changing. One of my critical lessons over the past few months is
to try to let go of my guilt. The guilt I feel when seeing harm done
to animals, or the guilt I feel when I receive a complement. All of
these external conditions which sparks an internal turmoil. The
compassion which Buddha teaches comes from pure selflessness, whereas
guilt stems from a feverish focus on the self. I am learning to let
go of things that I cannot control (other people, situations, the
daily deaths of countless animals) and trying my best to accept the
reality of any given situation with all my heart (every moment, every
conversation, every complement) My sincere belief is that any and all
small actions, if stemming from a place of warmth, to give warmth,
will have a rippling effect which can change the external world in a
positive, selfless manner.
Trying to strip away
all layers to come closer to the truth at the core of all things. And
from the removal of the heavy layers of the ego, attempt to give out
compassion and attention through everyday mindful interactions.
Eliminating layers through exercises such as eating healthily,
reducing waste, giving my full attention during conversations, and
weighing every word like a chess piece. All ideals, but essential
actions to better condition myself for natural instances of
detachment. As Marshall took care to remind me, detachment should not
be forced. Detachment too, is not necessarily a complete removal of
the self in this world. It is also a full embrace of all that is
around us and within us. It's a unifying force as much as it is an
elimination of the self and ego. Mindfulness of temporality is a full
engagement of the present moment, it gives interactions a whole
deeper layer of meaning. Awareness of an end brings you closer with
those you love. Every moment becomes sacred and fleeting. Every hug a
long farewell.
To conclude, I'd like
to share another slice of the time I spent with Marshall. We were
coming down from lucy and we went over to a Buddhist temple nearby.
It was entirely humbling to be immersed in such a beautifully crafted
and serene space. So much care and attention had been placed into the
details of every little aspect around us. From the patterning of the
stone tiles, to the balance of majestic trees, rich plants and
curved-roof buildings, all were in harmonious relation to one
another. The air was fresh and the visual aesthetic of entire space
had an absolute calming effect on the eyes and spirit. It was there
that the words which swam in my head since my first day in Japan,
finally formed coherently; “I truly admire a society which can
realize a space such as this.”
Yet even at this
temple, spider webs were apparent everywhere. Japan is quite over-run
by spiders. It's interesting to think that in a society which has
taken such extensive care towards spotlessness, nature still prevails
in a small, ambivalent way. Though nature and the forces of
impermanence will always topple the tallest of our monuments-- during
our short time here, it is somehow much more refreshing to walk in a
river in small-town Japan, than to spend even a second beside that
polluted green water in the Perhentians.
From a Buddhist
perspective, both environments are perfectly fine the way they are.
Words like 'clear water is nice' or 'it smells like shit, therefore
it's really fucked up.' are only projections, masking what they truly
are; two bodies of water in different, changing conditions. Though it
may mean that I toil for a while longer in this RPG orb, I choose
believe that the path of compassion is worthy and conductive towards
a more natural, inevitable detachment. To care for such a basic
element of the world-- water, is such a mindful act. It is the same
water which flows through all of the planet as it flows within all of
us.
I cannot imagine that
same body of poisoned water sitting anywhere in Japan, and that is a
testament to the mindfulness of that society. In the case of fresh
water, and environmental sustainability, Japan has managed to subdue
that extra layer of cognitive conflict by eliminating it entirely.
Their spiritual spaces of temples and shrines have a most beautifully
calming effect on the soul. Despite the social rigidity, the
environment of Japan is certainly the most conductive towards
compassion and social harmony that I've come across in my travels
thus far.
Addendum: Any act of good, no matter how small, contributes goodness into the world. So long as you don't make it an act of Passion. Act and experience without cravings or aversions. True compassion arises naturally and is simple so in the present moment.
Addendum: Any act of good, no matter how small, contributes goodness into the world. So long as you don't make it an act of Passion. Act and experience without cravings or aversions. True compassion arises naturally and is simple so in the present moment.
skating in circles
the most romantic
is all that never happened,
and there you skated
before the red light glow
of a city on valentines,
we are alone.
you glided smooth
and backwards in circles,
your ponytail twirling
like a paintbrush
in the wind.
i've created you freshly
blossoming in my head,
with my eyes and with my eyes
i knew i knew you,
before we glanced each other,
in a moment softly sniffling.
we never spoke, and never spoke
and nothing transpired
between our frozen dance,
between the deep circles
we carved around each other.
you untied your skates
and i gazed at mine,
our shy silence lingered
as the bus pulled away,
from an empty, silent rink.
is all that never happened,
and there you skated
before the red light glow
of a city on valentines,
we are alone.
you glided smooth
and backwards in circles,
your ponytail twirling
like a paintbrush
in the wind.
i've created you freshly
blossoming in my head,
with my eyes and with my eyes
i knew i knew you,
before we glanced each other,
in a moment softly sniffling.
we never spoke, and never spoke
and nothing transpired
between our frozen dance,
between the deep circles
we carved around each other.
you untied your skates
and i gazed at mine,
our shy silence lingered
as the bus pulled away,
from an empty, silent rink.
voices lost in snow
garden of words and thought of daniella
between hills of snow and soft warm smoke
"we drifted away, because there wasn't that spark."
last few days, and i haven't had a chance to breathe
so busy with nothing, these lists and stars.
one week from today, where will i be?
it's been over a year, since i was torn apart,
lust and desire, when will it stop?
nothing is constant, nothing remains the same
this too will pass, these two lost lovers.
and tolstoy says it all:
"hearing the strange tone in Eroska's voice,
Olenin turned to look at him.
The old man's eyes were filled with tears,
and one rolled down his cheek.
He was crying."
shinkai's colours,
in daniella's eyes.
kozelek's sighs,
these aimless wanderings.
marshall's calm,
to their sad fumbling.
there's zoran in Eroska,
and Olenin in i,
all frames shifting,
all things changing.
between hills of snow and soft warm smoke
"we drifted away, because there wasn't that spark."
last few days, and i haven't had a chance to breathe
so busy with nothing, these lists and stars.
one week from today, where will i be?
it's been over a year, since i was torn apart,
lust and desire, when will it stop?
nothing is constant, nothing remains the same
this too will pass, these two lost lovers.
and tolstoy says it all:
"hearing the strange tone in Eroska's voice,
Olenin turned to look at him.
The old man's eyes were filled with tears,
and one rolled down his cheek.
He was crying."
shinkai's colours,
in daniella's eyes.
kozelek's sighs,
these aimless wanderings.
marshall's calm,
to their sad fumbling.
there's zoran in Eroska,
and Olenin in i,
all frames shifting,
all things changing.
at Finch, on Palmerston, in Lake Ontario
Off the subway and onto another, they sit next to each other, polite giggles, how wide her smile. Eyes narrowing as she flicks her head away, and back again. Strays of ink hair fell onto his shoulder and her freckles shimmered as she nods, "that's exactly so."
He didn't understand, he sometimes did, but this time he didn't. He puzzled at her slim eyes and quick nods. What was she confirming, what had she said? He remembers only her smell; steamed rice and shampoo. After a few stops, they noticed a shambling man, gazing from across the train. With a fog in his eyes, the man looked at them shamelessly, longingly.
Just before the final station, the man rose and shifted towards them, until he stood firmly before the train door. He mumbled a murmur and looked down at their feet. The two teenagers looked at each other. He saw her dark olive eyes, light and playful, and they laughed at their own silent hesitation. As they walked past the shambling man, he could hear a faint, coarse whisper. And he paused a moment, and tried to listen. He thought he had heard something familiar, and immediately was pulled away by her arms determined.
The seasons melt into snow and it's winter now. They somehow found each other again, in his car and headed towards a restaurant. He followed her directions and parked near Palmerston Avenue. They then sat from across each other, and with earnest searching, they scaled the history of each other's walls. He had left the city, while she remained. "I love Palmerston." She had once said when they were younger. At the restaurant, she ticked off the past in an increasingly complex manner. Stories of marriage swirled into recollections of affairs. The names were foreign to him, like the dish he ordered and barely ate. He looked only at her lips as she confidently drank red wine. Deep rouge waves cascaded within a thin frail glass.
In the car, she had asked, "Now that she is around that age, would you care who she brings home?" He stopped at the mute red light and said that he'd be fine with it, that he trusts her to make her own decisions. "People make mistakes, it's inevitable isn't it? You learn and you move on, it's okay." The snow fell softly onto the wind shield-- landing and melting in rhythmic symmetry. She was looking at him, at his mouth in the shadows as he spoke, and turned away towards the window when he finished. The car accelerated onwards and the lonely glow of street lights blurred across her eyes. She had always resented his careless ambivalence, and her silence told him he was wrong.
They undress each other in a hotel room.
Slowly.
He doesn't understand why she had searched so desperately for a view of the lake.
At this time of year, there are ice floes on Lake Ontario like gently bobbing islands, suspended in the slow process of melting and freezing again.
The hours until her flight dissolves coldly into the corners of the hotel room.
As he kisses her neck in the pale morning light, he feels a tear roll down her cheek.
"I don't know what I'm doing."
He stops and looks into the quivering pools forming over her eyes.
"I don't love him, you know."
He lifts himself off her and off the bed, as she continues to look at the ceiling.
"He doesn't hurt me like you do."
A suffocating silence.
He leans aside the window and sees a strong wind pass over the ice floes.
The wind lifts a thin layer of snow into a shimmering, empty rotation.
He parts his lips and they are dry.
His voice is coarse and distant.
She closes her eyes, tears escaping and she nods,
"that's exactly so."
- December 2013
He didn't understand, he sometimes did, but this time he didn't. He puzzled at her slim eyes and quick nods. What was she confirming, what had she said? He remembers only her smell; steamed rice and shampoo. After a few stops, they noticed a shambling man, gazing from across the train. With a fog in his eyes, the man looked at them shamelessly, longingly.
Just before the final station, the man rose and shifted towards them, until he stood firmly before the train door. He mumbled a murmur and looked down at their feet. The two teenagers looked at each other. He saw her dark olive eyes, light and playful, and they laughed at their own silent hesitation. As they walked past the shambling man, he could hear a faint, coarse whisper. And he paused a moment, and tried to listen. He thought he had heard something familiar, and immediately was pulled away by her arms determined.
The seasons melt into snow and it's winter now. They somehow found each other again, in his car and headed towards a restaurant. He followed her directions and parked near Palmerston Avenue. They then sat from across each other, and with earnest searching, they scaled the history of each other's walls. He had left the city, while she remained. "I love Palmerston." She had once said when they were younger. At the restaurant, she ticked off the past in an increasingly complex manner. Stories of marriage swirled into recollections of affairs. The names were foreign to him, like the dish he ordered and barely ate. He looked only at her lips as she confidently drank red wine. Deep rouge waves cascaded within a thin frail glass.
In the car, she had asked, "Now that she is around that age, would you care who she brings home?" He stopped at the mute red light and said that he'd be fine with it, that he trusts her to make her own decisions. "People make mistakes, it's inevitable isn't it? You learn and you move on, it's okay." The snow fell softly onto the wind shield-- landing and melting in rhythmic symmetry. She was looking at him, at his mouth in the shadows as he spoke, and turned away towards the window when he finished. The car accelerated onwards and the lonely glow of street lights blurred across her eyes. She had always resented his careless ambivalence, and her silence told him he was wrong.
They undress each other in a hotel room.
Slowly.
He doesn't understand why she had searched so desperately for a view of the lake.
At this time of year, there are ice floes on Lake Ontario like gently bobbing islands, suspended in the slow process of melting and freezing again.
The hours until her flight dissolves coldly into the corners of the hotel room.
As he kisses her neck in the pale morning light, he feels a tear roll down her cheek.
"I don't know what I'm doing."
He stops and looks into the quivering pools forming over her eyes.
"I don't love him, you know."
He lifts himself off her and off the bed, as she continues to look at the ceiling.
"He doesn't hurt me like you do."
A suffocating silence.
He leans aside the window and sees a strong wind pass over the ice floes.
The wind lifts a thin layer of snow into a shimmering, empty rotation.
He parts his lips and they are dry.
His voice is coarse and distant.
She closes her eyes, tears escaping and she nods,
"that's exactly so."
- December 2013
on poetry
I am slowly realizing
that my thoughts are
everyday, like waves
of clouds
my writing, and the urge to
write, is a construct, like
trying to catch those clouds
as they were
and poetry, my need to
write poetry, is my only
salvation, to just let the
clouds
be.
that my thoughts are
everyday, like waves
of clouds
my writing, and the urge to
write, is a construct, like
trying to catch those clouds
as they were
and poetry, my need to
write poetry, is my only
salvation, to just let the
clouds
be.
what i know
i know that any thought
i think
is already gone
i know every film i make
is a shadow of what i see
i know that everything
i write
has already been forgotten
i see the rain droplets
before me
and
it is the only peace i know
i think
is already gone
i know every film i make
is a shadow of what i see
i know that everything
i write
has already been forgotten
i see the rain droplets
before me
and
it is the only peace i know
indigo madness
a cityscape
of buildings rising
skeletons of an ancient race
softly rising, softly falling
slow whimpers, incoherance,
the dawn approaches
indigo madness
artificial leaves
in artificial light
so real to the touch,
this hologram
where are we going
where is it leading us
where is the sun
and the moon that i knew
why all the plastic
in all that i taste
i look through the building
through its exo-husk
i see the city
it tries to become
i feel the madness
it tries to contain
and i know of babel
and how it must fall
fer e
mark kozelek's lyricism transcends
like debussy.
the restraint he exercises,
those builds and crests and falls
and builds again,
until releasement.
like finishing a thought
all the way through.
looking into the mountains though,
and looking at the river flow
with old friends,
but memories
and one day, you know this day,
it has been written into the
stars
that emotions escape you.
fer f
we swim in trees
and breathe out leaves,
our sighs to clouds
and smiles believe,
in this great unity;
of all that is present
and all that will be,
memories of;
her eyes at dawn,
you wink at me,
between coffee steam.
the mistakes we've made,
it's all laughter now.
equanimity.
and our dogs will grow
yet still be the same,
and our loved ones too,
we never change.
our leaves will fall,
our flowers bloom,
your waves will crash
your sun light rise,
into the wind.
may all the warmth in the world
gather towards your happiness and well being
and breathe out leaves,
our sighs to clouds
and smiles believe,
in this great unity;
of all that is present
and all that will be,
memories of;
her eyes at dawn,
you wink at me,
between coffee steam.
the mistakes we've made,
it's all laughter now.
equanimity.
and our dogs will grow
yet still be the same,
and our loved ones too,
we never change.
our leaves will fall,
our flowers bloom,
your waves will crash
your sun light rise,
into the wind.
may all the warmth in the world
gather towards your happiness and well being
fer p
at the tip, and higher still
staring at the new red leaves,
blooming bloody droplets on
web trees,
branching constellations
ruby and bright, reaching upwards
into a stale indifferent sea.
sinking we, surrounded by
a prideful sky,
and the wind that tides,
teasing the strands-- our fine threads,
like the light,
which splits all trees.
staring at the new red leaves,
blooming bloody droplets on
web trees,
branching constellations
ruby and bright, reaching upwards
into a stale indifferent sea.
sinking we, surrounded by
a prideful sky,
and the wind that tides,
teasing the strands-- our fine threads,
like the light,
which splits all trees.
fer e
a warmth so small,
gently rising,
and out again.
each strand containing,
a breathing rhythm,
between cold fingers.
your eyes will open,
and the cosmos spill,
in exploding agile instincts.
but for now,
you lie atop of me,
tail painting on my face.
and all else is still.
gently rising,
and out again.
each strand containing,
a breathing rhythm,
between cold fingers.
your eyes will open,
and the cosmos spill,
in exploding agile instincts.
but for now,
you lie atop of me,
tail painting on my face.
and all else is still.
fer m
two divided travellers meet,
by chance, aside a meadow's creek,
their souls a floating far behind them.
through lightning storms and cloudy peaks,
and distant days of fading weeks,
at last, they finally found her.
dazzling smile in shimmering heat,
her river glimmering through heart-beats,
softly she surrounded.
their ancient weary souls united,
and oaken earthly eyes a lighted,
all those years released them.
valley rows of orange trees,
carved with holes of secret leaves,
and all their adolescent yearnings.
no longer did he need to seek,
that dark ocean beyond his reach,
for her oneness was all around him.
and silently their souls a melted,
and all the dew drops felt it,
their final breaths escaping.
by chance, aside a meadow's creek,
their souls a floating far behind them.
through lightning storms and cloudy peaks,
and distant days of fading weeks,
at last, they finally found her.
dazzling smile in shimmering heat,
her river glimmering through heart-beats,
softly she surrounded.
their ancient weary souls united,
and oaken earthly eyes a lighted,
all those years released them.
valley rows of orange trees,
carved with holes of secret leaves,
and all their adolescent yearnings.
no longer did he need to seek,
that dark ocean beyond his reach,
for her oneness was all around him.
and silently their souls a melted,
and all the dew drops felt it,
their final breaths escaping.
fer g&s
i've stood this bus stop many times,
and many more in winter grey,
always on my way to yours.
in my ears repeating,
resonating slow pulse rhythms,
a parade for all my fallen friends.
i see the parting of cloudy mists,
and a million more before,
i feel your warmth and presence nearing,
the right direction home.
"i don't know why,
i honestly don't,
but i really need to see you now."
i pull to you and pull to you,
and you cast us into midnight,
beneath the blankets and beneath the waves,
so that tomorrow's sun will rise.
fer s
the waves were crashing
in melodic succession,
while everyone stood silent
for nature's orchestra.
as the branches swayed
and the clouds swelled,
all our whispered secrets
dissolved into the sea.
the horizon drew orange, pink and red,
melting the air
and spilling on our cheeks,
like autumn leaves.
one by one, they jumped and fell
until only he remained,
still gazing inward
at a distant harmony.
so close was he,
fleeting shivers bound in limbs,
until her song lifted him too,
into the deep.
fer k&j
your presence beside me,
reminds me of a home,
i had long forgotten.
a distant memory of childhood
lays sensel in your eyes,
of when we wandered talking,
shy into the night.
the comfort of our stranded islands,
gentle shifting maise tectonics,
carries me through the dark.
We the drifting backwards,
returning slowly always,
to when i first glimpsed you.
SHORT STORY: GORDIACEA (draft i - incomplete)
"When the worm could grow no more, it released chemicals that took over the cricket's brain. The chemicals turned the water-fearing cricket into a suicidal diver seeking puddles or streams. As soon as the cricket hit water, the horsehair worm tensed its strong muscles, ripping through the cricket's body wall, and twisted free, leaving the plundered vessel to sink and die." - David George Haskell
In the outskirts of Phrygian capital city, Gordium -- 333 BCE.
The undulating horizon gave way to a city in the distance. The horse in steady forward momentum, brought the walls arising from the dust. Bare olive bushes scattered about him, as his horse stamped closer to the city-limits amidst a dry expanse. A gust of sand whirled his traveller's robes in a daise as he disembarked near a weathered clay hut. The old man watched through permanent wrinkles, as the traveller drank from a lung, tilting it entirely vertical for the few remaining drops.
The traveller introduced himself as Alexandros, and brought news of fire and conquest from the Eastern miles behind him. The old man nodded wearily, his hardened ears tiring from many years of diced politics. It was news that rose and fell like sand dunes in the wind, each passing caravan spoke of monuments built and pyramids crumbled. The traveller sighed, and requested water. The old man gazed toward the village centre, where the dirt path lead towards an ancient well.
Only a few townsfolk rustled among the shacks which lined the dusty worn road. The city stretched the backdrop of the town, like a mountain range of plain buildings and tall spires; ever in the distance and opaque beneath the humid yellow air. Small beads of sweat rolled over his cheekbones and down his bearded jawline, as the traveller waited patiently for the old man to rise. With a hushed rasp, the old man spoke as slowly as he walked.
The city in the distance was the capital Gordium, and was named after it's King, Gordias. Violently he ruled the city, until two weeks prior; when King Gordias succumbed to madness with suicide.
It is told that the horse he feasted on was the finest raised in all of Macedonia. Bred as a war horse, his flesh was strong and lean, sustained by the blood of many battles and harvested upon the death of his rider; the famous Paladin, Attis. The horse was slaughtered, broiled and spiced for King Gordias's sixth wedding banquet. The new bride was young Cybele, sister to the slain Paladin Attis; both sharing the same golden maize hair and eyes a sorrowful blue.
"With this rich wine, and proud meat, I toast to a thousand years of glory! May the Gods themselves be envious of my great metropolis, Gordium!" Roared the King at his marriage feast. The juices of the horse steak erupted in pulp red grease, as King Gordias's knife cut with greedy determination. His young bride sat to his left, with her head hung low, still in mourning of her handsome brother as the banquet hall cheered and bathed in clarimdous waterfalls of excess wine.
The madness came gradually, as if a seed in timid budding. For weeks, the king grinned gluttonously as he ate fat brahmen and exotic camel in celebration for his newest wife. He fucked her frantically with sweaty groans. Her agonized cries rippled throughout the merchant streets, as desperate blotches of ruby innocence dripped with each rising of the moon.
The traveller stopped and wiped his brows with his dusty robes. He looked up and squinted at the brazen sun. It was ceaselessly unforgiving in the shedding of its hazy swelter. The old man placed his leathery hands on the long bridge above the horse's muzzle. He felt the tired horse breath deeply, and calmly. The old man and the horse had travelled a great distance and their pulses beat in close rhythm.
The old man looked towards the well, and the city looming in the background. Both were closer now. The old man explained that Gordias was once a lithe and graceful young Prince. His dark locks as rich as his eager and youthful eyes. Prince Gordias's father was a just and firm king, who surrounded himself with a council of the wisest Philosophers. Prince Gordias feared his father during adolescence and rejected the idea of ruling in his place. He preferred to consume himself in the biology and astronomy taught by his guardian Philosopher, Diogenes of Sinope. He lost himself in the mystical folklore told by his mother, and proved worthy in athleticism, with a penchant for swift and intelligent tactics during wrestling. He laughed like a boy and learned like a scholar, he competed and grew tall as the wind lured in the rain and the sun rose humidly with every brisk cloud of locust.
The first fires erupted in the border villas of the far east. Messengers arrived bloody and exhausted with horror tales of skinning, rape and destruction. The council of Philosophers were at first sceptical and cautious with their attempts to grasp the situation. Tempered dialogue fell victim to heated debate as sunken, starving villagers from the eastern territories began to arrive in fleeing droves.
In the outskirts of Phrygian capital city, Gordium -- 333 BCE.
The undulating horizon gave way to a city in the distance. The horse in steady forward momentum, brought the walls arising from the dust. Bare olive bushes scattered about him, as his horse stamped closer to the city-limits amidst a dry expanse. A gust of sand whirled his traveller's robes in a daise as he disembarked near a weathered clay hut. The old man watched through permanent wrinkles, as the traveller drank from a lung, tilting it entirely vertical for the few remaining drops.
The traveller introduced himself as Alexandros, and brought news of fire and conquest from the Eastern miles behind him. The old man nodded wearily, his hardened ears tiring from many years of diced politics. It was news that rose and fell like sand dunes in the wind, each passing caravan spoke of monuments built and pyramids crumbled. The traveller sighed, and requested water. The old man gazed toward the village centre, where the dirt path lead towards an ancient well.
Only a few townsfolk rustled among the shacks which lined the dusty worn road. The city stretched the backdrop of the town, like a mountain range of plain buildings and tall spires; ever in the distance and opaque beneath the humid yellow air. Small beads of sweat rolled over his cheekbones and down his bearded jawline, as the traveller waited patiently for the old man to rise. With a hushed rasp, the old man spoke as slowly as he walked.
The city in the distance was the capital Gordium, and was named after it's King, Gordias. Violently he ruled the city, until two weeks prior; when King Gordias succumbed to madness with suicide.
It is told that the horse he feasted on was the finest raised in all of Macedonia. Bred as a war horse, his flesh was strong and lean, sustained by the blood of many battles and harvested upon the death of his rider; the famous Paladin, Attis. The horse was slaughtered, broiled and spiced for King Gordias's sixth wedding banquet. The new bride was young Cybele, sister to the slain Paladin Attis; both sharing the same golden maize hair and eyes a sorrowful blue.
"With this rich wine, and proud meat, I toast to a thousand years of glory! May the Gods themselves be envious of my great metropolis, Gordium!" Roared the King at his marriage feast. The juices of the horse steak erupted in pulp red grease, as King Gordias's knife cut with greedy determination. His young bride sat to his left, with her head hung low, still in mourning of her handsome brother as the banquet hall cheered and bathed in clarimdous waterfalls of excess wine.
The madness came gradually, as if a seed in timid budding. For weeks, the king grinned gluttonously as he ate fat brahmen and exotic camel in celebration for his newest wife. He fucked her frantically with sweaty groans. Her agonized cries rippled throughout the merchant streets, as desperate blotches of ruby innocence dripped with each rising of the moon.
The traveller stopped and wiped his brows with his dusty robes. He looked up and squinted at the brazen sun. It was ceaselessly unforgiving in the shedding of its hazy swelter. The old man placed his leathery hands on the long bridge above the horse's muzzle. He felt the tired horse breath deeply, and calmly. The old man and the horse had travelled a great distance and their pulses beat in close rhythm.
The old man looked towards the well, and the city looming in the background. Both were closer now. The old man explained that Gordias was once a lithe and graceful young Prince. His dark locks as rich as his eager and youthful eyes. Prince Gordias's father was a just and firm king, who surrounded himself with a council of the wisest Philosophers. Prince Gordias feared his father during adolescence and rejected the idea of ruling in his place. He preferred to consume himself in the biology and astronomy taught by his guardian Philosopher, Diogenes of Sinope. He lost himself in the mystical folklore told by his mother, and proved worthy in athleticism, with a penchant for swift and intelligent tactics during wrestling. He laughed like a boy and learned like a scholar, he competed and grew tall as the wind lured in the rain and the sun rose humidly with every brisk cloud of locust.
The first fires erupted in the border villas of the far east. Messengers arrived bloody and exhausted with horror tales of skinning, rape and destruction. The council of Philosophers were at first sceptical and cautious with their attempts to grasp the situation. Tempered dialogue fell victim to heated debate as sunken, starving villagers from the eastern territories began to arrive in fleeing droves.
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