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.”