The Faux Pas Press #120: Sleeping

The Faux Pas Press #120

Sleeping

By Jason Fresh

12 December 2011

There must be something happening here. I'm a tortured soul, living in a tortured world of garbage's loss. All my life I've experienced dreams of flying - all my life moving through a flax, hairy infrastructure that pulsates electronic signals like analog spirits shifting from cognisance into creative inception. All my life I've either been out of my body or out of my mind. I'm sleeping but I am awake, excited about dreams that are remarkably close to a lucid manifestation of something disgustingly real, detailed, and physical. The are so many thrills in that dream. Thrills can become the pit in a stomach where I can dream really fast, faster than I've ever thought possible. But I'm sleeping.

You know when you go to sleep, you are transiting from frequency to frequency - hoping across electromagnetic energy, preparing to wake up and sleep again, sleep in numbness, sleep in hostile visages of something you thought you might experience, sleep in the wake of waking life. You are banking and turning like a commericial jet liner. As you move through the air, objects below shift toward you in perfection or a mocking cackle at your mastery of the speed of light. And now, you can do anything you please. But you're sleeping.

The Faux Pas Press #119: Ode to Crazy Good

The Faux Pas Press #119

Ode to Crazy Good

to Miss Eleanore Cinerama

by Jason Fresh

I thought today I would write poems, or a curse, or a clever verse reaching deep into the pockets of a good woman's purse. But I decided instead to lay bare the device, to think not only once but twice upon the avarice that has become my solitude. I think it has become my choosing. And while I want you to think it is good, I can not force it. So long I've waited, and waited for a new future, a future gold-platted in the fond opinions and glances. I've not seen them. For in doing absolute good, absolutely good, all the time, one finds himself on the South side of a poets cry. According to The Prince, it is impossible to do total good all the time, even for good men like you or I, for in doing so, one finds himself in shit with not-so-good people. It would be nice to be good, nice to do what good boys should, if the glances of Eleanore don't hail me than another ugly bitch could, I'd prefer to choose not 'good' but 'crazy good'.

'Crazy good' means standing in the way of your sneer, looking deeply into the eyes of unintelligible human counterparts and asking the unanswerable question. Why? It means driving aimlessly across town to find the hottest of hot spots where volcano pushes up through pavement onto a city canvass, onto bleeding poetry, crying blood onto the souls of Hawaii. It means I don't have to be your 'good' or her 'good' or any one's fucking 'good'. "Do you think I should vote in the Republican Primary Elections? Oh, I think you should? Do you support Mitt Romney or Ron Paul? (I support the latter by the way. Romney? Hell no. Ron Paul. I said I support the latter not the latter-days.) But after all is mined in brass and wood, I think I'll choose the other fellow, that Darth Sidious-looking motherfucker hiding beneath the hood."

I'm Crazy Good - not aligned with any race except for the 2011 Honolulu Marathon held on the morning of 11 December this year. That is the marathon that will change every fiber, every fabric of who I am. What a beautiful commitment I've made. We'll see if I become sober and the halls turn to jade.

I miss the soldiers from the past and those from the future. It would be nice to see them again. I've got to pay a penance on Sunday. And I will.

The Faux Pas Press #118: Traffic and the Missing Link

The Faux Pas Press #118

Traffic and the Missing Link

By Jason Fresh

08 December 2011

Traffic. I'm interested in traffic. It demonstrates so many problems in the fabric of modern life and her little bitch called Modern Man. I want to understand why the western conventions that appropriate decaying solutions to ever-present problems can't come up with new solutions for eminent problems like climate change and hunger. I watched miles of pathetic-looking motorists shuffle at a snail's pace down the H1 freeway today while I hauled ass going the other direction. I felt awful - for a second. I pondered like a jack ass, "How? How in the fuck can someone live like that for something so meaningless. Meaningless to me - I know but shit. That house on Leeward Side, fucking Waianae and shit - that was just too damn affordable. The truck, the house, the dream, the material winning that keeps all of us in the grind. My God! Is it worth sitting in two hours of fucking traffic every morning." I won't do it. I'm interested - and a little depressed about it to say the least.

Suffering. Addicted to suffering. We must be. The Idea Sickness that gets passed around like a bong and then delicately ingrained into the unconscious mind, through the walls of robotic movement, through the numbness, the Idea Sickness sits. She waits. She asks you questions while you sleep, while you cry at night, wondering and dreaming about lives you should have been living. She's oh-so-tempting. She's convinced you that life is a linear collection of good moments to be had, a product on the other side of an American dream algorithm. You? You are a function in the dream algorithm and all you have to do is increase your value. Bullshit. You must expand consciousness. Magically exercise your will, in coordination with the Universal Will, to bring about global change. Sit in traffic as long as you must. I'd rather sleep on in the back of the Fresh-o-matic 3000. I think this is the missing link between you and your happiness. (Not me and mine. I must figure out how to live life without being intensely annoyed by everyone I meet.)

The Faux Pas Press #117: Diet Soda

The Faux Pas Press #117

Diet Soda

07 December 2011

By Jason Fresh

1. Diet Dr. Pepper

Diet Dr. Pepper is a drink that I've recently fallen for - well, when I say 'recently' what I mean is that this substance has gradually, over the course of years (7 years - I think.), worked its way into my organs. No. It has worked its way passed the matter that makes up the corpus humanus, worked its way passed the Gatekeepers of my soul - Thaddeus and Romulus. This insidious little bastard beverage has been trying to get into my pants for a while. And this year, he has succeeded. If I had a vagina and Diet Dr. Pepper had a penis, we would become great night lovers, saucing each other across a skillet of love gravy. Yes, love gravy damn it! So, recently, yes, 'recently', I've been seduced by a gay doctor named Diet Pepper. He has a twin brother and his name is'Regular Pepper' but he is a sonofabitch. I think he's a doctor too.

2. You're Fat

Diet soda is some good shit. I thought about that shit today. Diet soda is the reason I'm thin and you are incredulous about your own fatness. That's right. I just called you fat. Or, maybe you're not fat and maybe I have some horrific personality disorder that can not be cured. Very well. We'll just agree that we both like diet soda, so sweet, artificially sweetened diet soda. We like it because it makes us feel better about eating like shit. (Also, the reason I attend yoga 'almost' daily. Shit! So I can feel better about eating like shit.) I feel okay about liking this (the fact that I like diet soda) - and about eating the Cheesy Gordita Crunch from Taco Bell which I wash down with artificially sweetened soda to accompany this delicious artificial food. But you're still fat. I don't care if you feel okay about it.

I would say that I use an excessive diet soda regimen as a replacement for not understanding myself. I don't know what that means. But I like to think it means that I consume stuff to quiet the sorry stillness that rests over my heart on most days. My new attempt will be to drink diet soda, voluminous amounts of diet soda, to cope with life. This will be coping with a cigarette and an alcohol-free life. I've said this oh-so-many times. But if I have to pick the lesser of three evils, let it be diet soda. I drank me 4 of those motherfuckers today. My grandma drank tons of it when she quit smoking too. She's a model for mediocre health and a poor example for anything, but I'm all out of other places to draw inspiration. Thanks.

The Faux Pas Press #116: Thought Yoga Magick

The Faux Pas Press #116

Thought Yoga Magick

By Jason Fresh

We are connected by more than just the human experience of the physical body. We are connected by more than just the fodder of dogma - we've been out of touch with ourselves and each other. Our emotions control the tethering. Less effected by the emotional state of the heart inside of others, we've thought that the experience is tapped. We've thought.

The long-term success that we all seek, this elusive chase that we've conceived it to be, is the product of emotional charge: spiritual, physical, mental connection. We are indeed responsible for our own reality. It is not anyone else's fault. It is your fault. Our experiences in this thought realm, posing in the miracles is what we do to and by ourselves. This is how we will change ourselves. Thinking about it, feeling about it, and moving into the reality. There is nothing you can think that can't be done.

The Elders of the Great Union have foretold this time, the shift of our consciousness, the magnetic field within us. Is the Earth's magnetic field getting weaker? Something big about to happen. It is time to awake. In the time of my ancestors where they used to conjure spirits. In the time of my grandfather and my grandmother - we NOW with the Mother Earth see that the Earth is alive. Awake, Jason Fresh. The CME - what about the Northern Lights?

The Golden Mean. So, multifaceted. So many numbers and ideas and words associated with this idea. This is about proportion. 1/1.618 all the way to infinity. All the infinite number of rectangular possibilities. I'm climbing Jacob's Ladder past Uranus and the psychological world, going past the angelic forces into the highest realms of the sky. The simplest way to roam past the animal, the simplest way to discover where you are in the Golden Mean is to draw out Jacob's Ladder. Unite with the Tree of Life.

Don't just think. We are changing our emotions and we pull ourselves into a reality created for and by us.

The Faux Pas Press #115: Aloha Tears

The Faux Pas Press #115

Aloha Tears

by Jason Fresh

I've got tapes stacked up.
Don't know how high they go.
I got a dragon for a momma
and a snake girl for my hoe.

Cigarettes
and a bonafide plant.
I got a monkey like a partner
and a labyrinth rant. Yeah.

I got aloha tears falling down my face.
I got North Shore protection but my tent has got no place.
I got every whisper - the aina is telling me.
It don't know how much longer I'll hold on -
but I know that I'll die free.

She grew weeds
with the waterpale scent.
She found love inside
him right before he went.
Now, she got virtue alimony
and hate for the rent.

Tonic lies
with finer thin hands.
Dirty Ole' Man said
she got pretty lines for that tan.

I got aloha tears falling down my face.
I got North Shore protection but my tent has got no place.
I got every whisper - the aina is telling me.
It don't know how much longer I'll hold on -
but I know that I'll die free.

The Faux Pas Press #114: The Rabbit Hole

The Faux Pas Press #114

The Rabbit Hole

by jason fresh

The Rabbit Pose in the Bikram series has some sanskrit name that deserves respect. I'll let someone else respect it - I'll just call it Rabbit Pose. This pose requires the yogi to flare his anus in the air with reckless abandon. The yogi must go down, down, down to the bottown his soul. I'm going to yoga today. My intention is to meet the Self down there. I will tell you about it tomorrow. See you at 5:30pm Yoga. Lock your fucking knee.

The Faux Pas Press #113: Levels of Consciousness

The Faux Pas Press #113

Levels of Consciousness
Version 1.0

to Peter J. Carroll

By Jason Fresh

Unconsciousness has few uses beyond allowing the body to rest.

Robotic, Robotic, Robotic.

verse.

1. I met a woman on the side of a dream, big titties well aware of what reality seems to be. I said, "I once saw you on a computer screen when I was first married."

2. And after age 27 and no menacing chance, she helped me build a website whre I started to rant. If no one's going to kill me then I'll live with Anubis - he'll declare me magik with a glance.

pre-chorus.

I eat mysterious greens even before I had that dream. Injected to the robotic state where I can finally glean, finally brainwash me clean, where I can finally lose my mind, finally lose my mind - my mind inside that green.

chorus.

Gnosis. Awareness. Robotic. Dreaming. Unconsciousness.
Gnosis. Awareness. Robotic. Dreaming. Unconsciousness.

verse.

1. She danced with mad intention on a window sill, her booty seeping out of pants for aloha thrills. I said, "You ever need a friend and you've got time to kill - to Mufi and the islands we will go and down some pills."

2. But if the future's unrelenting and awake in the sky, Osiris in the Rabbit Pose, he's ready to die, I'll be laughing at the Sizzler with the chorus of thighs, Devi likes Ranch dressing on her french fries.

pre-chorus.

Hands open a golden box down at the bottom of the bay. I'm rejected to a dreamland where I can finally play, where I can lose the way, finally lay curses to the nightime and turn into to day - turn the blackest beetle into a shade of grey.

chorus.

Gnosis. Awareness. Robotic. Dreaming. Unconsciousness.
Gnosis. Awareness. Robotic. Dreaming. Unconsciousness.

verse.

1. We frequent Anna Miller's for some coffee and pie, Odysseus swang a hammer hitting my third eye, the Constitution is on fire and justic pretends to be my long-awaited lie.

2. I eat a pumpkin and an apple on the way to the end, the Gypsy Hooker's trying to posture hard and she's gonna' resend, recalling all the tears, the West is calling again, ashes blowing in the wind.

pre-chorus

A shift occurs in the Conflict World and angels hit the bottom of the Abyss. They're crying down upon one knee. Fresh can finally kiss, can finally manifest Grant Morrison-type bliss, finally sing Fresh's Hawaiian Dream with magik's lasting twist - a five star honey with that hoe stain on her lips.

chorus.

Gnosis. Awareness. Robotic. Dreaming. Unconsciousness.
Gnosis. Awareness. Robotic. Dreaming. Unconsciousness.

post-chorus.

That's how it goes sometimes.
That's how it goes sometimes.
That is how it goes.

finale.

I'm trying to find another lover like a lovesick heretic. I'm trying to kiss another woman with that hoe stain on my lips. I refuse to know the Nation because my skin has grown so thick. And we fly across the Ocean Floor - my time bomb is going to tick.

The Faux Pas Press #112: My Favorite Ballplayer Was Once Willie McGee

The Faux Pas Press #112

My Favorite Ballplayer Was Once Willie McGee

By Jason Fresh

I loved Ozzie Smith and Dr. Willie McGee (before their franchise bested the Texas Rangers). I've recently turned to magik - declared myself the Mage.

"I'm sorry for the way things have gone," said the butterfly to the Bung-filled Disc player Man. "Come back home, Coalminers," said the Magik Man to the butterfly. Grimoire, the Book of Spells, is to spell, to manipulate the consciousness, the shaman girls from across the deep. I think that culture starts in the cult: the arts, the sciences, the magical power of man, the entertainment. People are advertising to tranquilize other people. That fucking magic box that you are looking at. All people can have the same dumb-ass thoughts. But Hero 5000 is me and is you. A magician might curse you but the Bard is the man who sings your shame. Writers must be respected - don't allow yourself to be sold down the river. Transformative forces that can change you.

If the audiences knew what they needed then they would not be the audience. Like that fucking Bright Eyes sonofabitch who rocked my balls off last night. He knew what was needed more than anyone else in that room. Why else would they pay fabulous amounts of money to watch Magik Man dance around the stage in benign, psychometric patterns? Why else would one behave in symmetry. My life has been beautiful since that moment. Dude gave a bunch of stuff to work with - even if the Great and Abominable Yoga Experiment was a total and utter failure. I'm still happy to fail - much more critical of myself than anyone else could ever be of me. So, maybe - maybe the aim of life is just preach your sermon to yourself. Making money is necessary - not as necessary as meeting the basic needs of sea level, water level, spirit level, not as necessary as sitting quietly and expecting all great things to come your way. Wounds need healing like you want the youthful hand your buttocks to be a feelin'. Holidays are coming and we've got nothing to gain from them except for the opportunity to give. That is it.

"Inweavest, believest, deceivest thyself for on the tomorrow your zealful, seelful, wealful plans will become oatmeal." - Bilbo Dillingham Carter III (This is one of my favorite quotes from when I was a boy and used to believe in magik. I believe in pain and suffering now - tons of magik in those things. Actually, as opposed to going off the diving board into pits of despair, I've decided to become immortal, decided to become Parley Angerbliss, the Bard Mage of the Pacific Deep. And write my magik into circles of nighttime retreat. What good things await you when your sin is done and your time has come. Sometimes there is time - real time to begin and to end. Despair.

But the streets, Waikiki Beach and the filmy, grainy tabloid of my mind, bother some else because I know what I've been owning. I know what I've been doing to make things work. Quiet, stillness, water and water and water some. The Golden Fleece has been and will always be mine. Jason Fresh is the reincarnation of the man who chased it and never found. Have you not read Medea? Become the Fresh and you will forever. The towers, stretching up across the Ala Wai scenery, the fresh force of the Aina - there, present, my refuge, the Topaz Lounge. Wisdom, compassion - the snake is most certainly not 'bout to bite me. Free of the Rolls, the Troll Chew - I'm enlightened in the realm of aquarian brew.

The Faux Pas Press #111: Concentrate and Never Want Again

The Faux Pas Press #111

Concentrate and Never Want Again

By Jason Fresh

The money we spend on the Wants. This money consumes our lives, our blood spilled out on the floor of every supermarket, every jewelry store selling stones bred in lie, our capillaries deciding to surrender their function, blood no longer oxygenated. We focus our attention on the luxury and ignore the necessary until it becomes too late. "What do I need?" Now, that is a question. (Even my excessive use of profanity should be questioned.) "What do I need?" I have ignored that question, subjugated the Need, the most basic of the needs. I don't need to do this blog. I need to breathe, to drink water, to share my Karma Yoga and expand. By concentrating the mind, going deep into the breath, you move beyond the chaotic wave of the Wants. You move cleanly toward what you desire most. That's right, friends. In order to attain the deepest, the Want (the realest of the real), you must transcend to the Wants, the creepy, stinging buzz of insecticide, the sweep of cries from children to consumed by material to know any better, the competitive milieu of parents chattering about their success. In order to attain the deepest - the Want, the abundance, the health and lasting peace of body and soul, you must forgo what you want now in order to get the double-wide trailer of your dreams (if that is what you're after - I sure as hell am.) There must be a really spiritual man in our history that said with an eastern Indian accent, "You must forgo what you want now for what you want most." True? Concentrate and you will never want again.

The Faux Pas Press #110: Really Moving Now

The Faux Pas Press #110

Really Moving Now

By Jason Fresh

Today, I move quickly to the destinations. You ever think that you can avoid unfavorable experience? I do. You don't have to take the same route everyday. If you need to handle stress in the unproductive maze - just move a different way. There are people who will steal from you, not just your possessions, but your positions, your time. There are those who are not aware of how their actions affect others. (I'm guilty of this.) If there is some dude who you've spent time with and he no longer serves you, just go a different route. You've got your life, you've got your yoga, your resources, your money, your time - take it back. That's all I've to say - I'm moving a different way - today. I'm really moving now.

The Faux Pas Press #109: Angels Embrace You

The Faux Pas Press #109

Angels Embrace You

By Jason Fresh

How far gone am I? How far gone are you? I'm Haole, haole bread - I probably got more breath than brotha, sista, and even you. Now, in this new moment of eternity, all the concorses of angels sing new hymns to a new king, a new land, a new breed of insanity. But I think, I think that I know this - angels embrace you. They do, they do. Don't question me, you sonofabitch. I just spoke with the man who sank down with the whale, went to the deadly cages and came back well. As a matter of fact, he came back better than he was when that motherfucker left. Yep, he came better than when he left. In your darkest hour, the angels have come - starting on October 28th, 2011. It might seem like heresy or blasphemy or some shit, but I feel this now. Be apart of it. Open you heart to it. And you will be blessed. Now and forever - through out all remaining generations of time and through out all eternity. Shit! (I don't really know where all this is coming from. But bear with me. You'll see some more cool and unforgivable shit.)

Oh, I got some more shit to say. You, and only you, create and destroy every single day. You make crystal from matter of clay. You make this. (Not me. I'm might be an angel. I have not found out. I have not discovered. You might be an angel too. Why don't be here? Why don't embrace all the light that you've covered. Shit!!) Day 13 is tomorrow - the Great and Abominable Yoga Experiment. Wish me well. Shit!!

The Faux Pas Press #108: How to be Alone In a Crowded Room

The Faux Pas Press #108

How to be Alone in a Crowded Room

by Jason Fresh

You can't. Well, there is no one stopping you from living and eating your meals alone. Well, sometimes you just can't - you may think that you have solitude on lock down. I'd like to think that I live a life of relative obscurity and mystery. I accomplish this aim by keeping others from disturbing my peace. Now, I'm not going to spend a decade in my basement like the Doctor Anton Levay, but silence and stillness are requirements for any man choosing the Yogi Path, a sacred, twisting path into the coldness, into the Nothing. I try to run from America, but America finds me. I try to run from the Great and Abominable Church, but she pokes her little bitch head everywhere I turn. I have an inheritance. To be alone, one must not run into the wild like Alexander Supertramp - no, he will find his path sooner by accepting the gifts of those who have come before. He will find peace - less anger. He must simply learn to control his breath. Then, he will master his spirit, his past, his destiny, his thoughts, and his motherfucking life. So, sit with the gifts that you've received, pay homage to those from the Great and Abonimable Church (whichever bitch she may be) and just fucking breath. I would like to go off and never see you again; I won't. I will stay, America. I will stay and do your bidding. I will honor those around me. I am grateful for clean water, clean clothes, and a healthy body. No sense running from you any more - for you will surely find me - you're all-seeing eye.

The Faux Pas Press #107: Hope You're Happy

The Faux Pas Press #107

Hope You're Happy

By Jason Fresh

This Halloween I hope that you feel happy with what you've created - now, I feel inclined to tell you to destory. The portholes of the underworld are open, ready to receive all negativity, all creations that don't serve you. With the power of your mudra point your fingers down to the dust. Let the Dark Lord receive what you can no longer use. For example, let's assume that your fat ass has treated (and tricked) yourself to much candy and turkish delights (like that little Edmund bastard in the C.S. Lewis thingy). Let's assume that you are serving humanity and your children by basking in sweets. Cool. What I'm saying is that today, this dark eve, you can change the world. Celebrate the dead. Channel them for whatever life you desire. Ask yourself, "Is this what I want?" Humor me. Think about that fucking Kit-Kat Bar you are about to mack on, that package of Skittles that you are about to molest. Every choice will have some kind of residual (notice I didn't say consequence). Focus your energy, meditate on the chaos, then ciphen it down to a workable, creative future, one that serves you and those you love. Or just dress up like a slut, a nurse or fairy or gypsy, and go out slanging leg around town. Either way this will create more of whatever you had yesterday. With whatever you choose - I hope you're happy. I accompany the ghosts and they accompany me as long as I let them.

The Faux Pas Press #106: Passed All That

The Faux Pas Press #106

Passed All That

By Jason Fresh

The past haunts me. "Jason, bro, you can't be living in the past. You know what my therapist told me? If you've got one foot in the past and one foot in the future then you shit on today. Live in the now. Have you read The Power of Now? OH.....so good. Be present." I love many people who say shit like this (man, I say shit like this). However, I can't bring myself to be a genuine practitioner of NOW. I'm writing about my day. How the hell am I supposed to do that without the past. I'm marinating my balls in the past right now - like an Italian woman marinates meatballs in that delicious sauce to which everyone but me has the secret recipe. I am breathing in the now, presently writing whatever horseshit spills from my fingers, writing about past, present, future, the non-existent, the delusional, and whatever else I can muster in order stay sane (not working by the way). I went to a Mormon church service today. This has become a veritable abomination of the original script. (You guys are supposed to be living in communal bliss with 13 wives a piece and pioneer indignation. What happened to the pioneer shit?) I went to make piece with the past, forgive the entire damned establishment for indoctrinating me like those poor kids that died in Jonestown. (Extreme? Not really. You got 15 kids getting up there talking about Joseph and Thomas S. Monson, spouting whatever horseshit they've been taught. Now you see where I get it.) But I've not made piece with the past anymore than I sit fully in the present. I enjoyed the service though. I think I'll keep going - everyone there will have to keep forgiving me for wearing a dress and a feather scarf. Anyway, I went to yoga. (Bikram, one day I will thank you personally and then challenge you to a foot race or a duel to the death.) I lay in corpse pose after an exhausting 26 asanas. I forgave the past for what it wasn't - I thanked it for what it was. Now, I'm in better shaped to deal with NOW - and hopefully not fuck up the future. Ciao!?!?

The Faux Pas Press #105: Forgive

The Faux Pas Press #105

Forgive

By Jason Fresh

Every day presents a new opportunity to forgive some asshole who doesn't deserve forgiveness. I fight these opportunities most days - there are so damn many of them (so many assholes). I suppose I'm in no place to withhold forgiveness because I expect other people to forgive my indiscretions. I know that what others have done to, by, or around me has usually been with the best of intentions. So, I on this day, the 9th day of the Yoga Experiment (to later be titled Whiskey Dick Yogi: a warrior's tale of enlightenment and debauchery or something less impressive like 365 day yoga experiment), on this day I choose to forgive others - especially you, dear reader, for not understanding or appreciating my inherent brilliance. Yes, I forgive the shit out of you. Because my grandfather would have wanted it. Don't go thinking you're forgiven by me - just for Harry Carroll's sake. Anyway, I'm playing over at O'Toole's Pub tomorrow (won't forgive you if you don't come and cheer me on to a glorious victory).

The Faux Pas Press #104: The Lone Ranger

The Faux Pas Press #104

The Lone Ranger

By Jason Fresh

Depressed a little. What the hell, man? Our beloved yet unfortunate Texas Rangers couldn't seem to pull it off - what - two years now? Shit, shit, shit! That is neither here nor there in the grand scheme I suppose (I'm getting spiritual and shit right now so I shouldn't be watching games when the portholes of heaven have just opened. I believe it was the Mayans or Zapatistas or was it George W. Bush that said this day would open the next realm before 2012. Worse things to worry about - like how I'm going to get me and the family aboard a spacecraft when the world ends. Transformation of consciousness motherfucker. Love that shit!). Hot yoga today - too hot for the damned hot tub. Good though - very good. I'm feeling like a member of some angelic race right now. Love is all you need? Maybe. I still have to remind myself that I'm a spiritual being (an alien maybe) living in this temporal plane, this 'tabernacle of clay' to coin Creed (miss you guys). Yes. I am feeling quite well tonight. Little Lola is having her birthday dreams as I write this. Miss her. Big ass birthday party planned for tomorrow. I'm not good at those things. I've received numerous phone calls and text messages tonight. Maybe I opened a storm of new energy in camel pose tonight. Look out for that heart chakra when you decide to follow the same path. My teacher at Bikram Nimitz told me not to get lost in the ego of this experiment. To which I promptly replied, "No - totally lost in the ego. No escaping it. Don't you know that I'm using this experiment as a promotional tool for my silly website and my hand modeling career. Check yourself." Oh, my writing is all over the place. "So what?" Thank you Dr. Warhol (miss you too). So, on I go in to the fold in the fabric of night, trying to avoid the enemy of consciousness all the time. I will find myself as the Lone Ranger too often: serving humanity, fighting injustice, becoming an angel of death to enemies of freedom. The Lone Ranger - so much for the other rangers out there who couldn't close it out. Shit, shit, shit!!

The Faux Pas Press #103: Fighting Man

The Faux Pas Press #103

Fighting Man

By Jason Fresh

"I stand upon the low and the high grounds," says the American Fighting Man, "and raise my arms to heaven asking for surrender, a release. Our people want this karma - I will give it to them." Our fighting man pretends to close his eyes when the light shines down brightly, he pretends to know his destiny by denying his deepest desires. Like Skywalker he waits for the stars to beckon, to direct him. He then finds himself in the midst of a swamp only to be directed by a Spencer W. Kimball looking creature - green with pointed ears and shit. He rejects the hero's journey, balks at the mound only to find himself recruited by a rebellion that needs him. Let me ask you something? If the heroes are needed so desperately then why do we not praise them? Why has the support disappeared when they need us most? "I've got to face this monster alone. All I get are some damn messenger pigeons or spirit guides or some goddamn apparition of Moroni." I must master my life. I must master myself. And sometimes I need to go within myself and discover what I have forgotten. And I must go this spirit voyage alone - a warrior of light transcending the light, a real dickhead to the rest of the world, a sonofabitch. Just me and my gay-ass computer bag, just me and my dumb little computer, just me, my balls, and warped image of reality. Today, I will practice the seventh straight day of yoga. Not doing the Bikram shit today - must preserve my energy for tomorrow. But I sing praise to the American Fighting Man who bleeds and bleeds and bleeds for this machine grinding gears spitting out destruction across the globe, posturing for a bunch of dickless spectators in dark rooms. We can redeem their karma. You don't have to ask us to get off the cross. You put us here. Today, I practice in the sacred spaces for all to see. I do this for the American Fighting Man. May he live forever in me, may the righteous and victorious dead be honored by my breath. And if not - may they laugh at ridiculous attempts from their hollowed graves. New portholes open. Now!

The Faux Pas Press #102: The Bubbles

The Faux Pas Press #102

The Bubbles

By Jason Fresh

I have been taking all the days of my life. According to the past I am and will always a molded figure - I'd like to believe that I am a curtain waiting to be unveiled, a dog waiting for his unrighteous fight, a piece of steel crushed over an anvil, sparks spraying around the darkest rooms - people in darkest corners in amazment. There is not much to be said for me except that there is no common consensus, no common plan on which to write the future. Today, today I am mad for life and mad at life in the same breath. There are enemies all around.

I refused the first bubble - people everywhere buying houses on borrowed money. I will refuse the next two bubbles to come. How much money is someone willing to invest in you? Who is willing to invest in you? I don't know. Bubbles fucking everywhere - not like the kind my daughter blows. Bubbles of imaginary reality - not truth. Just play with them, blow them across the room like Lola does. Realize however that they will burst. Bigger and bigger they may be - always a bigger mess to clean up.

The Faux Pas Press #101: Juice For Tomorrow

The Faux Pas Press #101

Juice For Tomorrow

By Jason Fresh

Never is there a moment when I'm not preparing for another. I just ate fat Subway sandwich, a damn Chicken Bacon Ranch Melt with BBQ sauce. Pathetic and delightful. I'm disturbed at the fact that my meals, my breath, my moments are all spent in recovery from or preparation for another moment. I'm further disturbed that there are no clear cut answers on how to prepare for these moments. The War Boys might disapprove of the newest undertaking in my life: practice yoga, some type of yoga, everyday for the next 365 days. The physical trainers, the Cross Fit gurus might disapprove, the nutritionist might comment on my lack of food discipline, but hopefully, what I lack in accuracy and diet I can fulfill with consistency. The great preparation is knowing that I have committed to an aim. I have further committed to chronicling this experiment in a work of creative non-fiction. No. Fuck that. I don't want to write that right now. I wept tonight, driving home in half silence and half folk rock music; I felt the heaviness, I felt the burden of heaven upon mankind tonight. I feel death moving upon the forces of dark power. My practice, moving into the sacred space of the Self everyday, this practice is, at its most basic, for mankind - for every soul alive, for my friends, for my enemies. I will change this world from the inside out. Hard to believe but I believe that is exactly what is now happening to me. A grand transformation is occurring deep within me. And I will not escape it. Not until it is finished. And when I am done, I will know man - for real. I will indeed know myself. And I will move with the power of Aleister, the power of the mage, the power to transform and attract all good. My life is now about this. Don't mourn for me when I am dead. Celebrate me now as you celebrate yourself.

The Faux Pas Press #100: Joy and Sorrow

The Faux Pas Press #100

Joy and Sorrow

By Jason Fresh

I experience both the joy and sorrow. (I can't believe these words are still with me. "I feel so much joy," the zealot declares.) I feel joy. I feel sorrow. I feel fucking angry that I have to articulate feelings with words. What good are words? They are useful but shit. I am a prisoner to words. Maybe if I were cool like Norman Mailer or Hunter S. Thompson I could use them better and people would respond and make movies like Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. I could then experience the joy of fame and the sorrow of fame in the same damn stroke. It is easier said than done - trying to remain still in both. "Don't be affected by your joy. Don't be affected by your sorrow." (I remember a Chinese teacher of mine telling me shit like this.) How in the hell do I live like that? Sounds cool but shit. Anyway, the reason I mention these over-arching concepts is because I have now commited myself to this ideal; the idea is that I can practice yoga everyday for 365 days of the year. This will be a challenge - just showing up to the studio will be a challenge. It is a challenge just to go 24 hours with a concerted purpose in mind. I'm going to keep a constant frequency for the whole year? I made the choice today after practicing at the Bikram Studio (Bikram, you genius!) I will be starting a new blog soon - maybe I won't. Maybe I'll just keep updates on my daily entries. Have not decided on the name. I'm documenting the whole experience. Hell yeah! (I think this posting sucks. Sometimes we suck. Sometimes we don't.) Joy. Sorrow.

The Faux Pas Press #99: It Has Come To Pass

The Faux Pas Press #99

It Has Come To Pass

by Jason Fresh

My mind is clearer now. My thoughts far too well. And I can see who we all soon will be - I can see the End Game and it is good. But what kind of good do you desire? This is the question that the Urban Splinter Sage once asked me; this is question that we grapple with (or at least the fucking question that I grapple with). I desire discipline because I am a disciple of change. I know the world is shifting - can feel its weight falling off of me as I write. I can feel the birds, the Hawaiian scenes of pineapple magik destroying what I thought I knew about myself. When I drink whiskey now or smoke cigarettes (a life-long, dirty love affair) there is a catsup-like sauce - red and gooey; a residue of low-vibration and pain that must be washed away by the true grounding work of discipline and yoga. The exercising of the human will upon the planet, existing successfully amongst humans who don't know how to pay a price like this. I practice yoga every fucking day. That is the price that I must pay for fun. You may say, "Oh, that is some bullshit. Fun is free." No, it is not free. Your body will pay the price of your negligence, it will decide for you if you do not cooperate with it. So, this is the work inside of me. Clarity! I see clearly now what my fun has done to myself and others. I see clearly now. That I must discuss my problems on this very open forum for the world to see. Clarity! I want my readers to have some fucking clarity. If I'm mistaken - I believe it was Sir Johnson S. Dildomaker who said, "What matters most should never be at the mercy of what matters least." (Man, what a great man he was - all those lost puppies returned to their rightful owners. And what a mean teriyaki sauce that guy could make. I can look past numerous charges of auto-theft and blasphemy. What do the courts know?) It has come to pass. I am grateful for this life - for every pathetic moment, for every shitty moment, for every tear that falls in the beautiful and magik practices of my life. I have become more powerful by doing the over-arching practice of yoga without judgement, without competition, with pur creation. And it has come to pass.

The Faux Pas Press #98: Aligned and I Didn't Even Know

The Faux Pas Press #98

Aligned and I Didn't Even Know It

By Jason Fresh

You ever been scared by something that you say to others? I know that its easy to be scared at the shit people say - "You can make it large for 50 cents more," or "I love you so much." But have you ever begun to practice your speech softly? Have you ever spoke words and been disturbed at how they control the emotions, thoughts, stigmas, and motives of others. My mother says, "Jason, you can not control others." That is not true. I don't think so at least. I'm pretty sure that I've controlled others. I spoke to a therapist once when I was considering offing myself or sailing off to India like Julia Roberts in that movie about vagina. But seriously. No..umm...this supposed therapist once told me that it didn't matter whether she was a woman or not because I wasn't that powerful. She could consult me no matter what. She told me that nothing I would say would bother her. So, I stood up in the room and in the majesty of my physique thrust my cock forward as to say that I have plenty down there for ya'. "You dirty fucking bitch, you dumb fucking cunt, you think that you've reached a modicum of respect and prestige because you have an advanced degree? Do you, at a fundamental level, believe that anyone respects the work you do? Do you think anyone likes you - for real? When was the last time that a stallion really fucked the shit out of you? Or, even wanted to kiss you? I sure as shit wouldn't" She began to cry and pointed to the door. You ever been scared at the shit you can say? Our words create and destroy. They can indeed create worlds. I think it was Colonel Sanders or Bob Hope that said, "In the beginning there was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God." Yeah, I'm pretty sure it was Bob Hope. Speak any word and it will become you. I am known through out mankind and its history. I am wealthy beyond compare. It is worth a shot at least.

The Faux Pas Press #97: Try and Curse This

The Faux Pas Press #97

Try and Curse This

By Jason Fresh

Fiddle players accompany me now. Friends align for the fallen, the righteous and victorious dead who (unpronounced, unavailable to me) died to save us all, died on the hills of Calvary, on the hills of Afghanistan, the vessels sailing deep into the abyss. If I am sinking, I need them. Try and curse the free, try and curse their families. They will destroy you - not in a good way - by the way. I'm going to eat some Jack In The Box. (Not an intentional plug for you bastards over at Jack In The Box.)

The Faux Pas Press #96: Power

The Faux Pas Press #96

Power

By Jason Fresh

Somehow, beyond all conceptions of myself, beyond figuring out whether life deserves me, beyond the pain thate my integral actions have potentially caused others, I have found power. The are powers at work in the world, clandestine forces both conspiring on our behalf or harnessing the negative. These powers can be respected or ignored, the weapons holstered at our hips can shoot dreams out across the sunset into the galaxy beyond, mountainous dreams belonging to everyone. Illusions of our separateness make me feel safe. I know that. Thinking that Aleister Crowley doesn't dwell in me, thinking that Charles Darwin doesn't dwell in me, thinking John Kennedy Toole doesn't ignite my fingers to move upon the tablets of creation. But I am not safe. But I am not at danger, not at risk of loss. If we all die alone - sitting in some broke-ass prison created by our own thoughts, hidden away from judgment or harm, cradled in our nasty karma, the work is not in vain. I thought on my life today (hey, this is fucking new - as if I don't ponder daily on my actions and their residual, as if I don't look at mayonnaise squeezing off bread, as if I don't seclude myself in public forums, as if I don't desperately want to sit at the cool-kids table, as if I don't drink to get numb, don't dream to get high). I decided that I must act artistic actions of creation and destruction in the fabric of night. I decided that I must write with this pen. I ignore past now. I create future. I can know my power - so can you. Please don't wait for the lightning to strike before you call upon the gods. Beckon them, summon them.

The Faux Pas Press #95: Whiskey Balls

Whiskey Balls

By Jason Fresh

I turned my face to the sun this morning. He didn’t acknowledge me at first – thought I was some other fake sonofabitch, a basket case, a mess of degeneration. He was partially right. Then the Sun said, “Oh, shit. I know you motherfucker. I know what you’ve done, where been, I know your works and the lies that you’ve penned. You read from the tombs of Osiris, from the woods with Pan, you’ve stood with demigods and the prophets of this lost land. You’ve stood making music on the holding altar; you met Joseph Smith Jr. and John Kennedy Toole and all those who falter. You sing your ass off to the moon and you wait for Isaac and Mohammad to meet your tune. They won’t, Jason Fresh. They won’t.” I walked away from the Sun (which turned to moon) and decided that I would no longer eat food as long as there is strife, as long as there is beef dripping from our money, as long as I have water to drink and for nutrients I have honey. No more questioning what happens. Open to everything and attached to nothing. My yoga is practicing this moment, it is singing this song, it is having this conversation. So, I will make it the other side. God won’t be surprised to the face of my grandfathers. There has got to be some job or chore up there that the angels can’t replace. There is a sorry softness in my cells for the way that they died. My brother and my sister will meet them on the other side. I will try to find the light – I’m going to try to mend my whiskey balls. I going to try to get it right.

The Faux Pas Press #94: Guardian

Guardian

By Jason Fresh

Transition is on me. The fires that burned, burned gracefully upon the October night are within me now. Something happened I suppose. Something majestic, a majestic fire striking the chords of the new album, make sense of all the tiresome poses I’ve held, all the messes I’ve made, my dirty laundry now handed to the Fire Maid. Angerbliss is moving now. I am becoming the guardian of the Fold in the Fabric of Night. I am becoming the charming prince of my destiny, watching time dance before me and songs ring out from the trees. Yes, the object of art is to create but creating means destroying – that is what I have done here, at the apex of the peak, at the point of a star where the earth and the heavens meet. I stand here. I live here. I breathe with the Haole. I become the fire. All that ever was, all the ever will be is right here. Joyce Meyers, the Christian lady that my grandmother gives money to, she is talking some shit about her spirit – trusting God when you don’t understand him. I don’t trust anyone I don’t understand. I feel the fires of hell raging up through my veins. I feel the power of mystery, the power of not knowing. I feel the providence of the stars, the heavens crashing down upon me. I am aware like Arjuna, I am simple like Mahatma Gandhi, and I am wealthy like J.P. Morgan. Transition is on me. Transition is me. I care what you think – just don’t tell me.

The Faux Pas Press #93: Thrust

Thrust

by Jason Fresh

Unquestionably, undoubtedly there is doubt in our existence; there is question in our stance across the Elysium Fields of Good. Maybe we are not either – unquestionable or without doubt. Maybe I am not grammatically correct, or perfect, or perforated, but I can be me. I can contribute my verse. I can thrust myself beyond convention. As I sit wearing newly altered Boy Scout shorts that are too small for me I wonder if my name will be remembered. That is so sad. I suppose the worst part of wanting to be remembered is trying to be remembered, trying to matter, trying to thrust my name into the limelight. I thrust. I wonder if there is something meaningful – consuming, coffee, my video camera, my time, my daughter, my, my, my……Fuck! ‘Maybe’ is one of the only words in our language that has meaning to me. It is because I doubt. It is because I trust. It is because I write ‘doubt’ and ‘trust’ and they both resonate in my heart. Am I the only guy on the planet that feels this way? What is the truth? What is the plan? Who has the answers? I sit not on the high ground of knowing, not in the ivory tower. I embrace my death. I embrace my life. I live for 99 years in the 33 circles of existence. I submit to the foolish notion that I can live forever – not in Jesus through a stroke of benevolent love, not a time machine that transports me to the abyss, but live forever, thrust into a universe of my own creation, at the East End of the Fold in the Fabric of Night. You all must find the Topaz Lounge and meet me there. Thank you for this night where the full moon is bright. Once again, I say, “You don’t have to be wrong. You don’t have to be right.”

The Faux Pas Press #92: Game Time

28 September 2011

Game Time

By Jason Fresh

Bleachers are made of steel, pliable cold steel that require the use of foam-padded, fold out chairs marked with professional team insignia. People are foam-padded, sweet, and good; they require steel with just enough bend to allow the right ones in. We take our children to professional sporting events like the San Diego Padres game (Post-Tony Gwynn San Diego Padres – and is there any reason to go? Wade LeBlanc is pitching tonight. It should be delightful.) We take our children out into the world. We move into the world as if the one inside is not delightful, as if going to the fucking game will make it alright. We get to tell our friends about experiences that are more valid than others. We get to tell our friends how drunk we got in the bleachers because we’re that fucking cool. We get to put on team regalia and strut around like perfection, all the while ignoring perfection in the living room reading scriptures with grandma and grandpa. It is game time in San Diego – hot dogs, nachos, and titties that I will pretend not to look at. There will be fun times had for all. I will ingest toxins probably just by walking into the stadium. We’ll drive to the game for happiness. But we are happy already, right? As well are you. We are fused with power from King Solomon. We are at peace amongst chaos, agents of an alien race trying to uncover ourselves, trying to melt steel.

The Faux Pas Press #91: Gross

Gross

27 September 2011

By Jason Fresh

My daughter paints. My mother cries. My heart waits for the sternum to open, the soul to show the world something greater than I, the family to come around and finally let go of these ties.

I’ve tried so hard to be free. I talk about freedom during most conversations. A friend says, “Hey, Ortiz had a few good rounds and that was some shady shit while he was looking at the referee.” I say, “What does freedom really free, asshole?” “I was talking about the Floyd Mayweather fight.” “And I want to talk about your illusions of freedom.”

It is pretty fucking gross. Most people I talk to are pretty fucking gross, gross like assumptions about another, gross like pontificating on academic topics while the girl with big tits listens – the one who wants to feel smart, gross like smartness, gross like talks about boxing when we should be talking about freedom, gross like that dumb song that goes ‘everybody clap your hands, now criss-cross’, gross like comedy addressing, addressing, and addressing the same old topics. Fuck. Old Hank was right. It is all pretty fucking gross. The day awakens me, I sing some song logged in my spine; I break into a yoga pose - the only thing I can do that is not gross. Cheesy, sweaty, yoga asses bend over, push over, and fold. They used to turn me on – give me an erection. Now, well, now it just seems fucking gross.

The Faux Pas Press #90

You Ought to Know

26 September 2011

By Jason Fresh

So often I go on describing what I know. So often I go walking off, walking away from her as she describes herself, hiding anything from an argument, not allowing her to form a sentence because she is wrong. There is nothing worth describing anymore. What am I going to describe? Feelings? Truth? Ask any hamburger-eating motherfucker and he’ll describe it like he has caught a glimpse at the silver lining, danced in shadows with his ancestors. But there is no sense looking for it. The truth – no sense looking for that shit. Why? Because the act of looking for the truth makes it worthless. Maybe. Maybe it makes your lies more vibrant. The Queen of the Pub howls out burps with fart-laden, heavy, grilled cheese butt. She trots to and from the restroom, forgetting to wipe her ass with as much attention as she cleans her reputation. Pot-smoking, nymphomaniac yoga monsters bend, fold, mold, and adore the ego constructed out of material cooler than yours. Beer-saluting Demons engage you with looks that make you question your presence. Do you really know what the fuck you are doing? And you move to a spot cooler than the bar you’ve been at for hours. And the beers taste the same. And you wonder about your death. Your power. Your faith. And I still don’t know what love is. Do you? You don’t have a fucking clue. Do you?

The Faux Pas Press #89

The Faux Pas Press #89

15 April 2011

By Jason Fresh

What They’ll Say When You’re

Dead I’ve been caught between the strain of Puritanism and Libertarianism. Recently –that is. I’ve been caught between two pieces of bread smooshed together with peanut butter and jelly. I’ve been caught up wondering if the ill intent of others has any measurable outcome in my experience – or how I perceive my experience – or whatever the fuck. Know this. If I’m dreaming (and I’m convinced that I am), I will row, row, row your boat gently down the stream passed this turn in the flow. You see, I’m caught between the enemies on the left, the enemies on the right, but I am burgeoned with unlimited power, power filling the spaces of my MIND. I’m even calming your mind as you read this. Because what they’ll say when you’re dead is almost as inconsequential as what they’ll say when you’re alive, what they’re saying about you now. I quiet them all. I am still because I need to be. I breathe and live because I want to. I move my fingers over the keypad because, like you, I’m stuck. I’m caught between the two sides. I’ve been caught up wondering if there is anything truly measurable by any metric other than my own. No. No there is none. Stop looking for it. Just use the tools at your disposal and get to work. Because it doesn’t matter what they say about you when you’re dead. And, no, it doesn’t matter what they say about you now. All the voices, tyrannical voices of that realm - or this realm – or whatever fucking realm you open up to them are all quiet. So it is spoken. So it will be. And I live forever.

The Faux Pas Press #88

The Faux Pas Press #88

28 March 2011

By Jason Fresh

AMBER GLAZE

Lined along the infinite, expanding cielings of the Topaz Lounge are paintings of the greats and the not-so-greats. Spaced equidistantly aside one another, the paintings warmly smile upon the wayward traveler – perhaps a traveler lost in the haze of his experiences. Maybe he’s still convinced of his own powerlessness – he’s still a reaction to the world around him, still a small piece in a much bigger puzzle, still in need of constant reminders. So, the paintings embrace him. They welcome him home from war. The foreign soil on which he has laid his head before melts away into a white candle of the past. He peers upward to an expanding, star-lit sky. He wonders what providence there might be in the Universe. What fortune had befallen him? Surely, he had plugged willingly and unwillingly into the Collective Karma. Surely, he had killed in the name of a silver-studded joke. Surely, the destiny that he would become is a pure reflection of strife and recycled pain. But, like all those sitting in the wake of history, bathing in the energy lacking consciousness, the wayward traveler now sees himself in the beauty surrounding him. The movement beneath the surface finds its way along his spine. He needs nothing but this presence. The presence speaks, “Welcome, friend. You’re works have not gone unnoticed. We will bathe you – free you from the truths for which martyrs have perished. And we will endow you with power from on high. My name is Parley Angerbliss. And you are a soldier of light. And welcome, welcome to the Topaz Lounge.”

The Faux Pas Press #87

The Faux Pas Press #87

27 March 2011

By Jason Fresh

It Will Probably Happen

Just before the noisy circumstantial opinion chimes, just before there seems to be no hope of success, just when all doubt you and pray for your failure, a weather forecast says it will probably happen. No one mouth speaking words establishes truth, no one mind rotating on ages of words can dictate the future – the only exception is your MIND, speaking your words, willing spells of fortune into reality. ONLY one mouth will matter. Only your words will speak as white candles burn brightly and memories burn to the Dark Bride who helped the Angels leave the Maniac. Two minutes worth of meditation one particular reality is money in the bank. It is the weather forecast of your truth. And it probably will happen.

The Faux Pas Press #86

The Faux Pas Press #86

26 March 2011

By Jason Fresh

SURRENDER

Surrender the long-waged war fought against the genius, Parley Angerbliss. Surrender your futile fight to bring what is not yours into full frame. You can move locations on this planet, move from one shit hole to the next. You will not find what you are looking for. You must still deal with yourself. The individual MIND parallels a collective that corresponds to it. It relies upon the electromagnetic charge of like energies in order to survive. Time has separated us for too long. But, even still, you prance gallantly before the main entrance of The Topaz Lounge at the West End of the Fold in the Fabric of Night – you’re waiting for me to invite you in because of tradition, family, kinship, accomplishment. With every stroke of approval you paint, one more stroke is added to the mural creating me. I am Parley Angerbliss, the Great American Sigil, the force and the fury, the bearded indignation of West and the shimmering sage of the East. I am the mountain and I am the valley – drawing all things unto me. Surrender all things you pretend to be. No one is there to applaud you. Go deep. I already tried to warn you. Don't push your next curse.

The Faux Pas Press #85

The Faux Pas Press #85

25 March 2011

By Jason Fresh

DRINKING

If drinking is the only release for our youth, the only solace to which we must run, instinctively our urges are numbed by the products our parents both condemn and condone; our virtue is a joke bottled behind supply and demand, behind the good job, behind the functioning economy. You children are looking for the next cool thing to drink. I’m not just talking about alcohol – 44% or whatever proof booze their sucking on right now. I’m talking about the fountains pouring soda, pouring coke, pouring hours worth of superficial energy on which to jive before the fall. I drink absinthe because it is cool. I eat only meat, vegetables, and fats – completely expelled grains from my diet and I feel as though there is some secret being hidden from the masses. If this is not a conclusion I’ve come to intellectually – then instinctively I’ve come to understand the Universe and universal law. I am here to quiet everything down. If by The Faux Pas Press it must done – then so be it. There is nothing to report on news channels. Everything has been said. Every opinion has already been given. I’m ready to start the revolution. I do this by drinking water and eating meat. I know. This is ridiculous. But I, along with a host of others, my gothic brethren if you will, have decided to become the Earth. Drinking we do not as recreation but as ritual.

The Faux Pas Press #84

The Faux Pas Press #84

24 March 2011

By Jason Fresh

GROWTH

I am humbled by the ocean, sent to a prison beneath and freed to a prison above. There is no place to go after facing water. It is the great equalizer of all men. And I’m not so sure that I’m better for it – having faced water on different levels. I’m imprisoned to it either way. I have to drink. I must drink it. Scientists believe that there is water beneath one of Jupiter’s moons – Europa. If there is water beneath that surface, those miles of ice, I would like to know if life is there, life on which to grow. Is there life on Europa that works out or swims around trying to evolve and get stronger? Does life of Europa depend on water like we do? Does life on Europa use the ice cold water to make an absinthe drink? I don’t know what the story is but I would like to know if there is growth away from here. We grow and grow and grow – and then we just fucking fade away. But doesn’t everyone want to grow and survive and keep challenging the water – or at least be subdued by it? I am resigned to my choice and I choose to grow. Shit.

The Faux Pas Press #83

The Faux Pas Press #83

22 March 2011

By Jason Fresh

THE NIGHT BEFORE LAST

How is it that in the providence of our time, the information age (as all those who misuse information call it), there are no truly effective specialists? Any given field has a multitude of folks willing to give their ‘educated’ opinion, willing to wax intelligent as long as there someone convinced of the other’s greatness. Sit there and listen to an ‘expert’ flap their gums when people need real answers for the problems of our time. There are real explosives ignited around the world. There are real human bodies hitting the floor after poor policy. “Well, he knew what he was getting himself into.” That is what we say. I want to know where the leaders are. Where are the leaders? Who the fuck is going to take accountability for all this shit? We got nuclear reactors on the verge of collapse. We got every Tom, Dick, and Harry ready to fuck shit up whenever America needs to ‘get some’. But I want more too. Shit. Who’s going to run this motherfucker? We can poke ours dicks wherever we want but we have to own the consequences. Why do the people have to own up for their choices when the government doesn’t? “You karma has brought you here,” Krishna says to Arjuna. “Your karma has brought you here – to this moment.”

The Faux Pas Press #82

The Faux Pas Press #82

21 March 2011

By Jason Fresh

TIME SAILOR

I am less concerned with whether there are enough hours in the day. For far too many of these hours, I’ve squandered my own vitality in fear and wasted suffering, striving for one goal after another, waiting for others to prove my worth. I’ve sailed across the oceans of my MIND searching for the Time Sailor stranded in the open. I’ve squandered the Divine Energy on efforts that have no consequence and I’ve done this in the name of progress, buying everyday into the system that mechanizes everything – even me. I’ve lifted my ears from the soil, the real heartbeat, lifted my ear away from the movement of the planet, seen Japan quiver at Kali; and I’m here wondering if life will become clear of this wasted suffering. The pursuit of your goals can be happiness in itself with the ship’s crew at your side. And green firmament to warm you even when your goals seem so far away, a Time Sailor stranded in the deep. Don’t expect anyone to applaud you.

The Faux Pas Press #81

The Faux Pas Press #81

20 March 2011

By Jason Fresh

LORD

Meeting death, the Hoarders of Thought cry out, “Lord, lord, if you are somewhere, please save us.” God becomes the refuge, the cavern of thought to which fearful men flee when they encounter a foe. My life, until the age of 26, was spent in the idiocy taught me by fearful men seeking comfort in a cavern of thought. No wonder I have been so angry and live my life now with only one refuge, only two real judges, and three main virtues. My one refuge is the Topaz Lounge – a place in the MIND where I live free of conflict (and I suppose it is just as fantastical as a planet called Kolob or the Celestial Kingdom). I am there with the two great judges of my life, the Maiden and the Little. If you are not convinced of your own purpose then you will not find yourself there. You have been expelled by the Board. And no fucking Elohim or Jehovah will grant you pass. Three main virtues buy your ticket – awareness, curiosity, and clarity. In a maze of madness, don’t cry out, “Lord, lord.” He doesn’t know you. The miracles are where you’re looking for them. Also, your children will judge you – not the Board. Fuck you, Lord. (Oh, happy National Agricultural Day.)

The Faux Pas Press #80

The Faux Pas Press #80

19 March 2011

By Jason Fresh

ECSTASY

The long, dark night is a gift. For when straggle-toothed gorilla woman or a rank pimp rascal come crawling around the furniture of your mind, you’ve got to get raw and unedited. The life without these foes is a life of equilibrium, a continual communion with ecstasy. But in this state, away from foe, life is soft with no purpose. The Primal Man was never concerned with cuddling his life; the Wise will spend hours practicing his craft. And I meditate in the wake of military strike, I meditate in the wake of destruction without end, and I with Parley Angerbliss rise above the ocean on the back of Quetzalcoatl. Old Mormon Family withers in the sorry it has created. You laugh at their attempts to destroy your bliss. And you walk confidently to the heart of victory. And you can say, “I have loved my neighbor as myself. I have loved my enemy also.” What ecstasy is there in denying the Self? What bliss is there in the journey through the dark cults of conformity? Only in destroying the quickly fading enemy of altruism is there any bliss. So, don’t be fooled by it even if you pretend to conform.

The Faux Pas Press #79

The Faux Pas Press #79

18 March 2011

By Jason Fresh

WHAT?

If you’ve got something to say to your enemy, don’t say it to them. You’ll be giving them what they want and then they’ll keep poking their disgusting, sloppy faces in yours. You’ll say again what your really feel like, “Get your pesky little acne nose away from my good genes.” This will result in some kind counseling, or official incident report, or at least a little bit of gossip amongst other golems of the industry. So, whatever you do – don’t say what you mean to your enemies. Whatever you do – find a quite solace in which to hide. Take time to recharge your battery because the golems of industry are out for blood. The world is a motherfucking vampire. The world will not make sure you’ve got time for you. You must steal it back. Cut corners where others don’t without getting caught. What? You think you’re above that shit. You don’t find ALL the angles that will give you an upper hand? Stop making so much work for yourself by saying what you mean.

The Faux Pas Press #78

The Faux Pas Press #78

17 March 2011

By Jason Fresh

LINEAR

Shoes purchased on a timescale make you feel accomplished. They make you feel alive with rage at your failures. They remind you of labor. They remind you of toil. I just happen to own a pair of shoes for running called Newton. (I ignore anyone who tells me they weren’t created by the man himself). And I think that I’m cool and worn because of them. Seriously, you go to a running event or a ‘race’ and discover that the Massa Confusa is obliged to purchase whatever plan, or idea, or five-finger shoe, or fucking GPS watch, or fucking Newton running shoe that will make it look hard. I want to look hard too. I like to think that I’m not all ‘linear’, consumed with the looming presence of my own worthlessness, dead-set on making up for lost time, but I am a part of it too. I am a pawn, linear, wearing watches to mark my progress, all the while forgetting that my MIND, the individual MIND must merge with a collective MIND that I create – thus, becoming the Chairman of the Board. But, you know what? My damn running shoes sure are not going to do it for me. If I stay linear, following progressive goals then I will be accomplished, rich, famous, and completely unaware of grace in the Universe - linear all the damn time and unaware of eternity.