The Faux Pas Press #192: In Love with the Void

There is void in the space that we do not occupy and there is a smudge in the space we do. Our occupied space in this invisible interchange of energies is a gift. Our inclusion in the human experience, not matter how insignificant it may feel or how painful the cuts, is a measure of God's love - eve this smudge upon the void. We feel the weight of happenings, we tell the stories of hurt, we circle the wagons at the sight of danger; but the greatest of gift of any is our simple occupation of the void. So, we give our thanks when the story seems favorable, we lurk and scheme and maneuver when it does not. We often pay little attention to our behavior. Our thanks welcomes helpers unseen to the naked eye. I think our behavior is the only way to show that we occupy the space in gratitude. Our behavior recognizes our relation to the All-powerful Creator.

I sit quietly sometimes looking at the faces of those around me; I am filled with sorrow to think that anyone, anywhere would experience anything but goodness. So in mourning with those that morn, we see relics of treasures with a glassy and antique rouge. We strike an awareness pose on any infraction that we have committed. A sudden sneer can quickly become your crime. There are not too many dark places on the border that I fear. But I do fear the result of behavior. Will they be working with you this time around? Or will you be working against them? There is no way to say that I love more so I must be clear about my behavior. What I mean to say is, "If you stop for a moment, inhale the same air as those you have despised. If you taken a moment, breathe, and say a silent prayer for those around you, and if you give, without thought of return, gazing innocently into the void, you will see it. You will see the resonance of all of creation oscillating with you."

Your hopes and dreams gradually sift out the wheat from the tares. Your thoughts materialize around and the experience is pure. Why is it that some do and some do not? Is it a universe of threats puncturing the ether around you? Or is it our unwillingness to see others with this awareness? Do we offer smug criticism when we ought to offer hope and encouragement? Do we offer nails when those who need us clearly lack a hammer? I can not say that I know the truth of many things. I can say that I see only a percentage of the truth. I think I see the truth but I do not. And it is a breathtaking experience to stop and admit to myself that I do not, and in so doing, see the void. And in that void, that place where I can admit that I do not actually know the truth about anyone, I am in love.

The Faux Pas Press #191: Colors of Rusty Ruins

 

Victory does not happen all at once. Sometimes it does find you all at once I suppose. But gradually victory has little meaning when it is only celebrated by oneself. And I don't mean to say that you can't experience victory alone. And I'm not saying that your should guilt your more successful friends into talking to you; the rationale being that they 'shouldn't forget the little people'. I mean if you have to forget the little people and have victory all alone then fucking do it. I don't think many in our culture would fulfill a semblance of their dreams if they didn't break the ties of home. So, by all means, break ties if you must. And forget about the little people. They are only has little as they want to be. If a loved one gives up then that is on them. Victory can be had in many strokes. Usually it doesn't come in one big stroke. (Disclaimer* - I don't pretend to know victory at all. Failure seems more common and expectations lowered often seem more fulfilling.) But if you are like me (and if you are reading then I assume that you are), you probably find little fulfillment in even considerable achievements. My argument today is that you should.

Building, building, and building upon private victory, soon you find yourself in high points, overlooking the treacherous land you've braved to reach it. We pray and falter along the road, trying to find the perfect moment under the Sun. It does happen sometimes, doesn't it? But here I am listening to the chimes of Internet Radio, lounging while my brothers sleep, trying to find victory in some way. What do I know?

Home is closest while away. Time is most precious when tomorrow is not guaranteed. Our strides are bravest when we feel cowardly. And the definition of bravery then becomes the amount of positive action taken when we feel the most frightened. So, that is it then. Bravery is greatest in the presence of great fear. So, we choke back tears who should have poured but didn't. We breathe air as if it is our last. We prepare the way for those to come and we write our journals; we fill the pages for our children so they can face the darkness. We fill the pages of our history to share wisdom we may have learned through sad experience. Our greatest prayer being that our children may be kinder to themselves and others than we have been to ourselves. Light streams to all of us. Some hide it and others do not. So are the colors of rusty ruins we leave - some still holding their luminescence.

The Faux Pas Press #190: Shake Like a Fat Man Shaking a Vending Machine

 

And the Fool looked upon the creations of his hands. And the Fool saw that all the works of his life were in the shackles of lucid vanity; And he saw how his heart had been betrayed on so many occasions. And worst of all he saw that he was to blame for most of the wreckage caused, most of the trouble in the souls of God's children.

So, the Fool strolled through neon-lit bars in strange towns. He strolled up and down the littered streets of Korean Red Light districts that he had tried for years to forget. He put down drinks priced unreasonably. The charm of snaggle-toothed women led him to betray himself mirroring their charm with the power bestowed upon him by the Council of Mages. He knew before the World began what he was to do, but for days, he had forgotten. For years, he had forgotten. And so he walked and walked and walked. And so he breathed the brightening air of high elevation. (Going higher doesn't necessarily mean that you go higher.) Still troubled, the Fool sat still for moments at a time and slowly learned to do this for days. He pondered, "I must have forgotten something. Surely, surely, there must be a reason for all of it. Surely, there are those who love me and others who I can love. There must be others worth loving. Surely, there must be children crying."

One day, as the Fool sat upon the Mullah's footstool in Zabul Province - he looked out upon the Graveyard of Dreams. He remembered. He could be still. And the voice the Magician echoed through out this hallow and desolate land, and the Fool was emblazoned, quickened by the energy in all things. And so he remembered. "You were born for this purpose!" And so the Earth shook like a fat man shakes a vending machine. "They've been watching you, boy - those who stand and wait. The thousands of unborn, waiting for that one act of bravery, waiting for that one shot in the darkness to bring light to desolate places. And, oh, the stories that you have told yourself. Oh, the ridiculous lies that you have sucked upon. Oh, what you have done to yourself. You've taken and taken. All the dirty nights of posture you given. What of your promises? What of your beloved? Stand, Fool, and take up your satchel, take your Carpenter's Square, and take up your compass."

And so the Fool went about the rest of his days in service to God's children. And spoke daily to those who stand and wait. And the tears baptized the Earth. And the innocent saw goodness. And the wicked saw light. And the children felt hope. And the women felt magik. And for a brief moment, mankind was at one. The troubles of others were no more. And the family was together. And the brothers gave oaths. And everything started again - anew. And every kingdom would see the errors. And patrons of selves became the patrons others. And they would serve. And they would serve - those who stand and wait.  They also serve who only stand and wait.

The Faux Pas Press #189: The Fool Inherits the Magic Spear of Lugh

Zulu Couture Chaos now reading between the line of physical worldly expressions. And at the helm of its orchestration is a wizard from beyond, the "One Who Lives One Hundred Years". He places his hands upon the Fool and blesses him with the fortitude to stay pure and focused, unscathed with the torments of the flesh. And so, after blessing the Fool with good wealth and health, he travels on.

The Afghanistan Highlands play backdrop to wandering nomads breaching international borders, and ecstatic as they are to cross over, their fear must flow over the edges. Toe to toe must not be the way to go - at least not anymore. We carry the Spear of Destiny in a case beneath my bed for crying out loud. Would you want to fuck around with that?

 The Band of Bearded Unrighteous Brethren dip the balances of Athena's Scale and the Celtic gods incarnated again in each of us. Not knowing where tomorrow will take us, living on higher vibrations and spirited prayers, the Band Bearded Unrighteous Brethren tackle each day with serenity, courage, and wisdom.

 That is important because I used to know this girl in Carmel, California where Clint Eastwood lives and the snooty-tooty bitches roam luxury stores. She was the one who spoke of the higher vibrations. "You are more than just that Subway sandwich you eat," Purple Goddess said. "You are what you eat," was the programmed response ingrained through years of government sponsored public health initiatives. "You are what you eat. You are what you eat. Are you going to eat that? OMG, I can't believe you're going to eat that." What she reminded me of was an important update from the ultra-dimensional mainframe. She reminded me that no one node on the endocrine hierarchy can determine the makeup of existence. That power in one chakra does not indicate power in the next. So, we reject these notions that eating prison food makes us less worthy of the gods. Besides, Chambo Fresh has the Magic Spear of Lugh beneath folds of a cloth under his freaking bed. Would you want to fuck around with that?

So these are the totems that Chambo would inherit from the gods. And so for the remainder of the Fall, he protected himself and those around him. He worked steadily on worthy aims, completing all of his sigils, and letting no one interfere. He began to let go more than other people would let go. In their minds, 'letting go' was surrender, but he had no need to surrender. He had only to let go. Not making a list of things he must do to achieve and to matter, but rather, making a list of all the things a man must do to inherit the Earth, to watch the morning come in with the tides of San Diego, to watch the Oracle's of the Northern Sky sing ballads to his safe return. And this was the story of Chambo during the Fall of the 13th hour. He would let the promotion come close without forcing it. The Eastern characters would possess him and doing their bidding would not be a challenge.

 

The Faux Pas Press #188: Heirophant Smith, Jr.

Talk being the cheapest expression of what REALLY is, there seems to be some confusion here regarding where we ALL are going; convincingly enough, we seem to be coolest when rejecting orthodoxy is our token and embracing heterodoxy is our footstool. Some practitioners of the sacred arts, reject ego as their EGO persists in the most subtle and peculiar ways. We reject suits, dresses, and churches; we embrace feathers, tattoos, and hair coloring. We reject war, business, and jobs; we embrace listless journey, art, and chant. We reject exercise with weight and meat for recovery; we embrace coconut oil instead of a cows fat. What is permitted in a circle of health and veganism is rejected by those called 'ignorant' by leaf-eating hierophants. So, being cool, I have found, requires as much tithe as any organization. "I reject organized religion," the Enlightened Soul says, proudly marching around in circles where vital energy, money, and time are freely given and taken advantage of without a just return. It may seem ignorant to some how a person can spend his days in service of organization, redeeming his efforts in the form of a paycheck. An artist is too good for sustained employment these days while Mr. Warhol said, "Business is the greatest form of art." Our time spent here on Earth has little to be justified. Let me say, "There is nothing wrong with you. There is nothing wrong with you. There is nothing to fix. There is no product, amulet, or seer stone which must be acquired to find yourself. When Christ said, "Any man who shall loose his life for my name's sake shall find it - he was talking about you. He was talking about those who are silently casting spells in the name of loved ones, in the name of family. Whether you've decided to worship at the altar of diet or free-spiritedness; whether you've decided to roam without attachment to country or land, you may have already found that you still must pay homage to both."

Oh so much cooler are those who find achievement in taking from others! You can shit talk actions taken by those who control resources. You can sit in front of the captains of industry who employ actual millions and you can complain about your lot. Meanwhile, thousands of migrant workers push happily away in service jobs around the country; they are picking vegetables in the Salad Bowl of the Northern California; they are waiting tables at small cafes in Dallas, Texas, pooling their money together with siblings and buying homes at alarming numbers in regions like Oak Cliff or South Dallas near Pinkston High School where others are too good to invest. They are moving to Boise, Idaho when others insist on moving to large cities where they can experience night life and strut. The practitioner finds himself taking advantage of these areas of economy, opening yoga studios in small towns like Rexburg, Idaho or Norfolk, Virginia - all the while aware that the average Afghan worker makes about $1.25/12-hour work day. He is learning Chinese and Network Engineering; he let's others call him 'square'. The Fool, at the beaconing of the Magician, declares, "I may be as square as your EGO declares, but your view of my limitation is the greatest advantage. It is my ace in the hole. Just because you perceive me a 'square' does not mean I am not god in human form.Yes, the ego can manifest itself in puzzling ways. And we've been had - ALL of us.

I once believed, as teachers working in public education barked away in righteous poise, that working at McDonald's would be the worst possible fate in life for me. In 2004, at the poorest moment for McDonald's Corporation in recent history, I was proudly writing papers on Existentialist Rhetoric in the Revolutionary Writings of Juan Rulfo in the Language and Literatures Department of Arizona State University. If I had spent my time learning networks, exercising, and working at McDonald's when shares were trading at $13.00, I would now be a multi-millionaire. Their shares now trade around $83.00 a piece, their managers make as much as I do, and their franchise operations are among the most profitable on the globe. Wouldn't I then have as much time to pontificate, wonder, and chant as any practitioner could ask for? Wouldn't that then be the greatest 'fuck you' to organization one could give? Organizations are not to blame just become some practitioners have left one organizational hierophant for a guru who leaves these same practitioners with less. My teachers were wrong and so were yours. I was wrong about Mormonism, I was wrong about U.S. Bank, and I was wrong about McDonald's - just not as cool as most of you.

The Faux Pas Press #187: Forgotten Quake

I'm a pistol-whipping, kryptonite eating, fengshui type of character - no time for indecency or hairy abominations of justice and thinking, not so inclined to do what others think is important. So, there is the residual of past quakes caused in the psyche, a deep desire to please and move around for others. This is what most of my life's choices were. I felt disappointed that others were disappointed with my choices. So, in turn, I altered my aspirations and made them match the pleas others, I altered consciousness and played closely to the role written by them, but then, I realized that they would not have to pay my rent, feed me, or bring me joy. These would not be there when hard times came. They would quit - finding some easier route to a shorter summit and a closer offset. Some don't give a good goddamn about redemption or my tears. I will be okay with my solitude and even my misery to the extent that I can captain all of it with God as I have come to understand him. He is a man. I thought that Sophia was God for a while, but she is just a celestial programmer tuned to the creative frequency. No. God is a man.

Forgotten quakes ripple through cloud formations like shockwaves though sedimentary rock slabs. And in the residue, there are those who stand and wait for your victory, stand and wait for your delusions to melt and your blessings to pour out. You can not make the world pretty for those you love without truth - without purpose. So, on occasion (not all the time but on occasion) you have to keep that pimp hand strong. On occasion, you have to tell all people to GFY. I know it seems hard at the time. What ever will you do if the whole world speaks ill of you? "I have been called worse by better," the Fool says with his head poking verbosely through cloud formations, seeing what others can not see. You can not spend your time pandering or crawling before the world. No matter how much they disapprove, how violently their opinions become - they cry for peace with war in their hearts; others prepare for war with peace on the mind and in the soul.

We didn't thirst after these wars, you know? We are just dealing with them. No, it was you. The protestor, the bigot, the jobless too proud to wash dishes, too entitled to drag ass through lowly places, too angered to empower yourself. Yes, you're anti-war actions extend only as far as your comfort extends. The real anti-warriors are the ones in far-off lands with unpronounceable names - holding the fortress at Qalat, picking up where Alexander left off. I have anger too but at least I am aware of it - at least I channel it at those who most certainly deserve the wrath of forgotten quakes. And the goddess Athena carries my prayers to Elohim and crowns those ballsy enough to plunge.

The Faux Pas Press #186: Exotic Dusk

 

A parody plays again and again in the rooms of the mind. It is about the females with whom and for whom I have willingly bled; and again, they are there speaking lines that another wrote. These are lines with which I am compelled to deal. So, when anger is present most are frightened. Perhaps, they are unwilling to sense and feel their own fears and be honest about them. So, most go around apologizing for each emotional state instead of changing them. "I'm sorry," the Fool says, " I didn't know I was responsible for all thoughts, words, deeds, and actions." The trick, the magik, the rub is that we resist something and it persists in our lives. Thus, all that we attempt to exercise from the corpus finds a hide out in which to sleep and wait for opportunity. What we resist is what persists.

A place along the ridges of the Hindu Kush shows that an exotic dusk awaits also. Thin, wavering lines of frequency come from the output and meet the transmissions of others, our loved ones, our family, or our partners in the galaxy. These lines can bend to any yearning we feel. And our speaking makes all things so. Sigils weave the fabric, and we then wonder how events come to pass. The need to get even, to seek vengeance, the need to be right, to be justified. You've done this my whole life and I've bought and sold this right. But I now forget the illusion that I am not enough, that I am doing what is most important for humanity by bending and listening to these voices, these plaintiffs working on the rooms in my mind.

I begin now. I embrace the truth about my existence, the same truth I embraced as a sober, celibate, pure young missionary for that Church. Oh my god, it so clear now. That religion was placed in my life for a reason. My addictions were placed in my life for a reason. As was this moment placed in my life for a reason. I meet you at Exotic Dusk with a gratitude. I embrace the future and present- one that is love, power, and of a sound mind. A life with purpose is a life in love. I've known and done something about it. You've known it and squandered your time. And I will do nothing to save you now. You must save yourself.

The Faux Pas #185: No Young Team

 

All gripes aside, all tawdry complaints aside, I still can not hold my tongue when words need speaking. Determining when words are necessary has been a problem for me, locked in the cycle of sensory input and output. Talk of desire too often leaves me bereft of real friendship and alone. In my own desires, I've seen how muddled and confusing the tide-reading can be, how incessant the yearnings for communication, and how little I can actually feel wanted or needed. So, my decision is to hermitically hide out, shut down the sensory connection to some, while leaving the signaling open - just in case. I'm seeing that others are not ready for this type of loyalty, not ready for a truthful word to be spoken. Anger sometimes mistaken for contempt. I'm not angry at you; maybe I'm angry for you and have always been. Or maybe, just maybe, I don't know a thing, and must withdraw myself from greater indulgence, review my choices, and cling to what I have called 'righteous' in the past - though even that word disgusts me at times.

I cling to goodness and conservatism. I cling to religion when I am afraid. I cling to my own thoughts when I'm not good enough and ask the gods whether a self-centered mage can be permitted entrance to any realm at all terrestrial or celestial. My idea of loyalty has been confusing to some - so I will allow for their not being okay with me. So, I ask God to grant me serenity, courage, and wisdom.

I've decided that my senses have been overloaded for far too long. My service has been in the name of Self. And I have tried very hard to heal myself. But I can't. So, today, I simply ask God to grant me serenity. I simply release my incessant yearnings for communication and free Chambo from my own thinking. It has been my thinking that leads me astray. Most of the players who have questioned me, I have pushed away. Most of those who agreeably encourage whatever wayward idea fancies me, these I've allowed to call themselves friends. There is no young team to bridle my passions. Only one who knows me better than I know myself. And so, here I go again on my own. Asking the sigils now to take flight for the betterment of us all. And I ask you to surrender your needs for control. Ask you to let awareness identify fear, accept it, and move on. I'm on island of my own.

The Faux Pas Press #184: Angelic Black Riders

Their insanity shown clearly in my own, their shallowness allows for a swim into my own consciousness, and the night still looks as black for me as it does for them. I can let go of details; I can let go of control. A paradox amounting to the revelation of what I have not allowed for myself in the past. Those demons that I’ve willingly allowed to control me; those angelic black riders that take the bridle of my thoughts, these are the powers that have been allowed to run my life. And because I have looked at others, the Imposter, the King, the Soothsayer, the Vagabond, and the Prostitute, they have so easily taken the power from my inherent gift. And I have allowed them to do this by not surrendering to God.

There is a magik in my soul. There is the ability to surrender outcome, to release results to he who knows better than I. And in my sobriety now, I am able to function like a thinking man, looking at facts for what they are and letting the falsehoods die. My time in dangerous places carries a different ring. I can see the forest through the proverbial trees and I can tackle any obstacle with grace, a grace that is freely given when I relinquish my need to control it. I am a member of teams that may disgrace me behind my back, but what others say about me know is none of my business. What is important is what I think about myself. Nothing else. They can give me gifts: feedback, instruction, help, and pointers. I can allow them to do this without taking their filters onboard. I can allow for things to be out of my control. And I can trust in God to allow for my fate as he will.

So then I am free to conjure powerful thoughts, transformative thoughts. These thoughts are new affirmations like: I embrace the power of the All-Knowing; I forget the stories of my failure as I surrender my success. We tap into the stories that others tell about us. And what do these stories actually mean? They don’t mean very much at the end of the day. We just do our work and let the rest fall where it may. Try this. Embrace new stories about yourself. Not that challenges will not arise but that they will. And that grace can enter into your life.

The Faux Pas Press #183: Usher Across

Our movement, presupposed by the swirling demands of our needs, takes us beyond our capacity to cope. We breathe and eat and fuck and fear all that is unknown. And so it is. There are places that I cannot go; not because I am not able but because I am scared. So, in trust and in time, the Fool assists me in working through this covered blackness, sees me safely across the threshold of known and unknown.

I do operations with extreme precision and surrender the items in my inventory that I cannot and will not control, and in surrendering find that I am triumphant, in letting go of the resentments in my heart find that I am more powerful to serve and save. The covered blackness in consciousness prevents you from clearing space. You see, we need to show others this way. We show them, not as a metric of our rightness and their wrongness, but as a symbol of our trust in the unknown through the known powers that move and make our movements so.

There must be, for you, a serene place of water, of sand, and of fire. This is a place stacked with Mason jars; each jar streaming dark light. And so, a direct correlation exists between our dreams and our unwillingness to surrender them over, accept that they may or may not be ours. What we resist does indeed persist, and our fascination with our own importance keeps us from knowing what is truly benevolent. So, today, let us surrender our importance, let us find the other in our dreams, and like the Fool, usher them safely across the threshold of the unknown. Let's teach others that we know how to usher our unseen into the seen. We gently beacon them across the Fold in the Fabric of Night.

The Faux Pas Press #182: Nanosecond

Light streams as far as we can imagine. There are no limitations, no distance too far, and no sea too turbulent. If you can just imagine, for a nanosecond, that the reflection of God that encompasses you is a part of everyone else on this planet, could you also imagine that your light, and the good that is within, could reach places far and wide, extend beyond your physical surroundings for the benefit and good of another. It is not that hard if you try. Have you ever written a letter to someone, emotionally invested, and giving all of yourself to that person? And then you come to find that the other person thought of you and felt maybe just a little less alone?  If you haven’t, you didn’t write hard enough. Have you ever prayed as if everything depended on your prayer, pleading to God for the good of another? Try it. Try to pray or think or imagine good for another person. You will feel a love, a true and vibrant light that you have never known. Now, it will not work if your mind and heart are divided. Maybe your mind is preoccupied with a problem to solve that really needs no solving. Maybe you’ve become too consumed with your own troubles that you couldn’t stop for even a nanosecond to pray for someone else. Maybe your favorite television show is on, and maybe that is more important than your connection to the Divine and others. But I’ve felt that true light can only be yours to give if you are actively using it, streaming it like digital downlink from your mind’s cell tower, showing the gods that you intend to continue giving it and giving it and streaming that energy until you are called home. From your bedroom or your kitchen table, there spins a vortex of creation waiting to be found, a secret place where no one will ever know if you said a prayer for a ‘bad’ person. Pray for them. And maybe, just maybe you’ll find that God is alive in you and that you can matter, that you do matter, that you can and will make a difference. Just a thought. For all of my friends and my enemies, I’m thinking about you now. And I am praying for you, the flames that have ignited my life with meaning and joy, and I will forever bask in gratitude for the lessons you have thought me. And thank you.

The Faux Pas Press #181: Karmic Advantage

Finding stillness in the Mind is an important part of wellness. Not talking about the brain and all of its functions. Talking about the ever-expanding network of hearts linked in the collection, processing, and dissemination of spirit juice. (Why do I use terms that make no sense?) I am talking about a spirit substance fueled by our thinking and our emoting day in and day out. This substance, forever linked to people, places, and things, keeps us either trapped, emoting and thinking in the same derogatory ways, an analog tape repeating our mishaps, or liberated by the redeeming power of new fuel, speeding energy along the Silk Road to aid us in the desert. This is true for all places no matter how desolate.

Afghanistan has been seen by many observers in the Mind, been seen in the Ocean of Consciousness, and the emoting and thinking of a few, both here in Central Asia and in places like it, have fueled the dismal energy that lurks around. These few leave a silent majority in lack; this majority left to deal with psychic vampirism and residual of bad programming. Resources are limited and dreaming is limited too. Those who choose to think uniquely are not rewarded by custom and find a life of continued challenge to break free.

So then, the karmic problem of geographical advantage and disadvantage ensues. And millions live and die having never had the chance to glean the ocean. And we in the West transform our perspectives day in and day out through violent and efficient action; we find ourselves advantaged by people, places, and things, but these advantages are not what make up the substance of our lives. Do we sit in the wake of some karmic advantage? Our position in organizations of awards and punishments does not account for the substance of our lives. Kind words, spoken to our thirsty ears, as awesome and healing as they can be, do not necessarily pave the ultimate pathway. And as awful as the circumstances appear, the destiny of individuals is not determined by circumstance. Stillness can be found in any prison. Stillness starts with a surrender to the Ultimate and an acceptance of vibrant life within.

Our troubles are attributed to the fuel of this spirit juice. Our relationship to our thoughts, our relationship to this perpetual emoting determine the wellness of which I speak. I have been taking action daily in the direction of good results for others. I can change the way that I do business. My family will draw near as I draw near. My desired physical prowess draws near. It seeks me. My financial goals seek me as I seek them. The real-life return to dreams happens. And my peace is a constant as I cultivate it. Life and death, ones and zeroes in the programs we write; the consistent application of thinking and emoting produces the miracles we need to write the programs we all need.

The Faux Pas Press #180: Golden Bible

 

I sit before the plastic blank screen once again, a pinch in my mouth and a cold Dr. Pepper for refreshment. Came here to think about matter and magik and shit. I don't think I am accomplishing much, but then again, when are we really accomplishing, killing and dying every day for the air that we breathe. I could be accomplishing much more than I ever imagined, could be dreaming up something really splendid but I'd never know it. Tattooing my thoughts onto the skin of existence, waiting for that angel to appear, show me that Golden Bible one more time. I'll start singing carols to a new time and place for all of God's children, be whisked away from the frame of mind where parallels are seen in everything, where my mind is free to wander and move, and distractions no longer burden me. Dallas, Texas always waits for me, with pop plastic taverns and nightlife satires. The Topaz Lounge, for whatever reason, is still open for business, selling products that I never dreamed be sold on shelves around the globe - but for writing's sake. And our desires, wanton as they may be, will find their way back to us. Meditation making things appear quicker than we ever thought. The problem with a man like myself, driven to distraction, is that yesterday is always there and tomorrow may not process in time. I've got a lot of hard drive space but precious little random access memory. Connections get quicker though and God smiles towards the Fool, who is now traveling at the speed of light; and the Muse, draping him in holy blessing, uses his power for good, for instruction. How long is the dawn going to take you may ask? Well, what does the Fool really desire? Approval? Attention? Come on, you know that its true. Breath soothes you at every turn where alcohol used to calm and then bind you. Our passions can lead us into dark and lonely places. I suppose these places have to be traveled unless we resign ourselves to live without it, this passion. It is a terrible thought to an uninitiated mind but clear to those who can see. There spaces left vacant, and we, like vagrants, inhabit them for a time here on Earth. And information is traveling so fast these days that the mind of every viewer takes the Light and rushes it through to the depths. Our light can be transformative if we can process it quickly enough. It can heal others and make our dreams so. Not to mention, if we can sit still long enough, our days will fill with more and more of it. This is thinking stuff of creation.

The Faux Pas Press #179: What A World We'll Have!

 

I am the Fool traveler, treading on a thousand dreams, whistling to the Arpeggio of Sorrow and waking from slumber only to find myself clothed in yesterdays vomit-soaked garments. I hold the pride of being right and the guilt of being me; I wake softly in the undertow sinking more deeply into it than I can bare. I hold the Light of Infinite Mercy, the author of poems to everything, and at the end of my rope, I see it, the mighty and peaceful acceptance of not being enough. I see the young baby girl running mad, mad like a puppet for his our wishes, but the all the while, cherishing each step she takes without us. The father deep inside of me, the husband to adore, the son who answers lovingly and balks his words of horror, the soldier effervescent, and the gravedigger of the norm, the hopeful hanged man you find in America's back pocket once again. For after every silent whisper I hear, or picador imaginings, and lustful, gluttonous mourning, there is one who stands triumphantly upon the azure skies. And each hero that I've longed to be, they finally give their greetings, the well-wishes, banishing me to darkness that I may better serve the Light. And raise arms to the staged scenery and conduct the magic forever. I used to wonder what would become of me and lie to make it so. And dream of taking this bitch over. But now I just go. I just go and move and breath and cry if I need to. I just lose and gain and wander. And think of the stories to share again. Entertaining all of God's children and drinking with them too. Though alcohol won't touch my lips, I can give you fire too. I can be good to you, Oh Mother. And forgive you for the times you've forsaken it. And cheer you on like him, the hero with many faces, the poem with lines to forever. Thirty-three you find me now. Oh, Reader, don't stop now. Just give me a chance to grow and be the Writer you need me to be. "Give me that chance," I say. Give me that stage to speak. I promise you'll quiver with reckoning and shake to see our fate. One foot in front of the other. This is how you do it. Just one foot in front of the other, friends. We'll make it. All of us. The good, the bad, the beautiful, and fare. The priests and gods and kings. We'll make if we love ourselves and give kindly to our kin. The dreams we've longed for each of us are not silly after all. We can touch the living, breathing, dying friends and see it all unfurl. A shaking awaits and a reckoning awakes you. And what a world we'll have. What a world we'll have!

The Faux Pas Press #178: Intergral Strokes

Awards appear faster than kerosene burning to the Wastelands of America, the Detroit-like hostile points on your life's map; they appear faster for all of us when we surrender to life not defeat. Don't try to reason that you've helped the Fool more than he needs because, after all, what the fuck do you know? Time plays on the organ, piping youthful and terrible poofs into the haunting belfries of each day; yet somehow, each day still finds you here, doesn't it? Each day still provides just enough for us to suck on life's tit just a little while longer, in the back of our minds, praying so desperately that we can stay and kick it. Freeing the mind from distraction is dangerous because distraction is sometimes all that we have: television shows, HBO, good food and drink, dancing, and singing loudly to our companions in travel. Onward past the threshold of our limits waits a you that could be. This you could be serving everyone she sees, but all too comfortable are the distractions of this Western cacophony. All the precious the little possessions we cherish. But there are children crying. Yes, there are military-age males dying; there are occurrences that some of us will never have to witness. For each of us, is the decision. How much of the identity, the personality are we willing to surrender? Not good. Not bad. But what energy whores do is take as much as they can, thinking there will be opportunity for it later. Each new hour finds us more and more distraught about the game, how we will play it, and el famoso que diran de mi. For today, at least, make a smaller list, accept yourself for a few distractions, and practice patiently the Magik. Not insisting on death to poverty or adjustments to the Plan, but simply practice each breath, thought, and action. Meditate on the thoughts that mean something to you. And ask yourself, "If the success or failure of this planet depended solely on my thoughts, what would I think?" And each integral stroke of genius you find in the thought, the Magician and the Fool, the Masters Degree, the money you require to do your work - these things will all come in time. And awards appear faster when they are surrendered to life on life's terms. And no more anxiety about tomorrow, anxieties that require distractions. So, here we go again. Back into another day. But for the next two weeks, try not to start anything too monumental. Just wait for a couple of weeks - second week of August should be good enough.

The Faux Pas Press #177: I Can't Accept You

So cathartic is dance of feelings through our bodies and then the tango, two-step, and cha-cha on the salted, hardwood floors of the Mind. So explicit are the judgments that sing cadence like a company of fighting men throughout the endocrine system and then program our subconscious into thinking that others do not need us. If you're feeling blueberry blue about those who can not accept you, feeling glum about the details, the parts in the story you didn't write, then write instead the adaptation of novels drafted before your time, write the poems of surrender not defeat, write the songs you've waited so long to pen. And the Universe may just correspond when you decide to make amends. Not crawling in drudges to show others what a piece of shit you are, not groveling for an invite, not bending knees to gods who will forsake you but wrestle rather with the forces within your grasp, seeking chances to prove herewith that you can indeed accept yourself. You can accept you for all the prodding you have done too aggressively, you can accept you for needing all that love never-ending. You can accept the way things are and the way things will be: your knotty hair, your smelly butt, your naughty glares, and your prideful strut. Not accepting the way you perceive them alone but accepting life's creations as they were made to be. And wars they go on trucking, sending good to fight the bad, a good ones seem to suffer and at the hands of demons they are had. But under one Kingdom of moon and stars and rain, upon one plateau of lure and strife, there's no need to go on hitting and biting and hating you. For I know little, or perhaps nothing at all, but sense behind the curtain sits a Wizard speaking what is true. Unpeeling the layers of the onion, displaying that in all of creation there are patterns, sacred little patterns. There is color and diamonds and golden rays too. Behind the satin dressing of time there is wisdom that created you. Now, I know, I know. It is easier said than done. Because life on its own terms can be so painful, and in the wake of your choices you feel so powerless. But I assure you, you are much more powerful than you know, friend. Every journey, every turn, every goal for which your mind burns, there is a stuff, a substance that corresponds to you. And God willed it so. And the forces wait for you to knock, to laugh and bring good cheer, to use your talents wisely, serve them year after year. To serve the you that you can not yet accept. You could be someone else but you are not. And that is the greatest nugget that I've got. Catch you tomorrow, friends. 

The Faux Pas Press #176: Maybe You Are The Best

Talk breaks silence that ought to be maintained. Music breaks nothing but your mayonnaise, fatty-ass pride and the tokens of the material world. Laughter unlocks the doors you've been trying to open. And a smile can do anything your little desperate heart desires. Injustice here is injustice anywhere. And if you think you're clever then chances are pretty good that you can convince yourself that you are. Just when people call you out on your shit, don't knock them for it. Keep on inviting them to your parties even if they eat your entire cheese ball and leave with more Dr. Pepper than they brought. I don't know. But the tendency to despise all that does not reflect our own perfect image of the world is rampant. We got verdicts coming out of our ass everyday. We think it affects all of us. Maybe it does. May it doesn't. And the thoughts we pay homage to sometimes, not all the time, but sometimes ought to go to their rooms without supper. You can write your edicts on the bathroom mirrors. Call your mother when the neighborhood kids aren't playing nice. You can take your order back when Esmeralda forget to add cheese. You can curse your mother and her unwillingness to accept your membership in the Church of Satan. But what you've got at the end of the day is YOU. And maybe you are the best. Maybe the World would not be the same without you in it. And maybe everyone and everything needs to jump when you jump. But at the end of everyday, you still have to brush your own teeth. That is if you value your dental health. Maybe you don't. Maybe it is more important for you to sling your anger around the grocery store at odd hours, thrust your impatience at the Produce Clerk, or have them remake your latte. I, for one, find that it is more important to preach at myself. And welcome the insight of others in a world where 'correction is grievous unto him who forsaketh the Way, and he who hateth reproof shall die." If the Commander has an opinion of you, listens approvingly or disapprovingly to your input, if the walls of democracy do not hasten to your righteous judgment, maybe you should burn that motherfucker down. I doubt it. Maybe you are the best though. And maybe I'm the one who is fucked up. Maybe I'm not worthy to call myself a Christian. But I doubt it. A light, a small ember burns at the root everything. A common hymn resonates through out all of existence. Choose that. The anger, the rage, the discontent. If you start by doing work on your own salvation, on your own enlightenment, maybe you will find that your not the best. And maybe you will find that is okay. You just might drink that latte. But what do I know?

The Faux Pas Press #175: Thank You, Laisse-Faire

 

Rushing out inclined upon descents of battle's gulf, entering dramatically the crossing of the soul's yearning for insertion, and upon my back I look at the starry sky emblazoned. Not warmth that I seek (though it is nice), not peaceful reclamations from those who know better than I, but this sky, this moment, convinced of ethereal powers moving through and for me, resigned to accept the Azure Will of Paradise - wherever it may be. Now, younger days found me excited for anything, seminary not an option, now my steal breathing, callings from a Wizard Race determined to initiate me.

Whistle to the sounds rushing out of the leaves, the forest melody laughing insanely to your ears, telling you that onward is the destination no matter how far you think you've come. Children you've mothered grown and called to serve a God you never knew. Clasped in his mighty hands, loving them more than you ever could. You're service now to millions who stand and wait. The millions of unborn minions of an angelic birth right and Prometheus wit. Your sons enthroned in dirty, mud-shackled ideas but longed for by the Keeper of Starry Realms. To surrender now - not to your perception of righteousness nor your fantasy of union. But rather you're own death on the Altar of Grace. Paid for, signed, sealed, and token by His blood alone. No amount of weight lost nor calls from the Ether can pay for the fate you've longed to possess. Not now, not ever. When my money was gone and I was drunk as hell. He knew me and called me with a holy calling from before the beginning of the World.

But I repay, Oh Women of Her Own Clothing, Oh Priestess of Eve's Funny Cap, Oh Matron of Yesteryear, the actions fiery darts that I've paid you. A thousand tomorrows won't make it right. One more embrace for this life's experience. And Laissez-Faire wishes saying, "That if you just realize what I just realized, not making him more nor less than what he is. He is more than you've taught me. The greatest force permeating through all of time and known human experience."

Finding the Christ half-way across the desert means going onward. I know you've known that terminology. Going onward and onward and onward. Following closely behind - he will tell you much more than you've allowed him to tell you. As for me, I will see you at the end of the Fold of the Fabric of Night. I will meet you half-way too. Exerting myself to the bones. Upon every night's approach echo prayers, cries, and chants for your victory.

The Faux Pas Press #174: Journeymen Fathers and Apprentice Husbands

Journeyman father and apprentice husband, multiple assumptions can be made; daybreak's angle on this vein corpse that I call mine must shine some light on scars inflicted and received. Up from the East it comes - daily. Not missing a pulse on the Universal Clockmaker's own watch, watching others watch its precarious delay. The angles shooting upon soul's own geometry reminding each programmer that there might be a cliche - that rays promise all souls upon the Earth fragrant scents, fruit and vegetable, towering waterfalls and the like. Not only promise but deliver, without even a request, the bounty of easily trifled gifts to this vein corpse that I call mine. And in the aftermath's quiet rubble and ash, there I am, still alone if you don't count matter, waiting for a person to hear and understand the assumptions that I have made too promptly about myself. Journeyman father and apprentice husband, I wait patiently to hear the quiet, amber-glazed voice that once compelled me to religion, wait to inherit a vocal confirmation that I am here. But it does not come. Days promise those gifts, unrequited gifts for which many labour and toil. But it does not come. That which should be mine. Here is the rub. I am forever receiving, allowing matter to shift with the constant vibration of my thoughts. I pray in my hour of need, in my sleepless nights, in my dreams unfulfilled, calling for justice jolted directly to my bones. But then I hear it. Amber-glazed spirit syrup poured on my dry-ass pancakes. It is clear that my rejoicing and thanksgiving ought to, and surely will, trump any thoughts of grief that sleep in the vacant rooms of my mind, rooms that should not be entered. Rooms that should not be trifled with except to perform ritual magic and exorcism. Now, sands created eons ago rest for a while on my shower shoes. Sweat drips carefully around my brow, only occasionally hitting my sun-burnt eyes. And eons worth the weight I've paid now rest forever in my crisp and glorious future, the voice, amber-glazed in spirit syrup, now given without request. And in my darkest hour, the voice, the real voice speaks plainly to me as if to say, "You are and will always be a breath away from your next blessing, your next triumph, your next shower from tall waterfalls and the like. Not one blade of grass goes unnoticed, not hair on the scalp of your narcissitic dome." Yes - Journeymen fathers and apprentice husbands need to time to grow and they need you to let them grow. Cultivated by one who is greater than you. Not trimmed and pruned before they can reach God.

The Faux Pas Press #173: Exicted for Something

The Faux Pas Press #173 Excited for Something By Chambo Fresh I used to question when I could or couldn't raise my own voice. Thinking, deep in the smallest parts of myself, that their must be a permission slip to fill out, some ultimate authoritarian doctor of truth from whose mouth comes all truth. That was the guy I needed to talk to, the man whose permission I would need. Maybe this man had a better mind than mine and one that could do it more clearly. That would be the man to open his mouth. I've seen this in children, those whose hearts yearn so desperately for approval that they wait and look, and check it out, make sure the coast is clear. Children making noise in their own heads, sounding off guns of desperation, gentle looks and glances. A tired man sits quietly in his evening chair drinking a cold beer dozes off into the recesses of his mind. A mind so far-reaching that not a single one of us could plot points to its end. A mind connecting both you and I and that child and that man. Chances are good that his thoughts are mine and his thoughts are yours. That the mind is ever-seeking that which reflects itself. And is it possible that which you seek is also seeking you. Security, money, protection, love. When I was a kid I used to imagine myself growing into something greater than what I was, worthy and delightful to all. When I was a kids I used to imagine myself doing great things - and then I would do great things. And others would witness my doing great things and then reality would form around it. I dreamed of being a great baseball player, and with a little imagination, a little dreaming, acting, and movement, I began playing baseball like others I looked up to. I surrounded my bedroom with my baseball card collection, looked at the pictures of the greats and talked about baseball with everyone I could. As with all dreamers, thoughts flood the pools of consciousness, and if not cared for, wash away like yesterday. Dreams are material in that way. Just as they make their way into our experience, they can dissappear a return upon or decision to care for them. What we neglect will neglect us. So, every little word that you speak, be careful. It is a symbol of what is to come for you. Every prayer you offer for others. Your loved ones will dissappear from your life if neglected. So, cultivating thoughts is huge. Master our inner-selves. When I was seventeen I was acting all the time - even when I wasn't acting, I was acting. Now, I'm realizing that is not such a bad thing. What you think your are - you are. Whether you think you can or you can't - you're right.

The Faux Pas Press #172: Voice Shield Explosion

The Faux Pas Press #172

Voice Shield Explosion

By Chambo Fresh

Most of my life, no matter where I have found myself - whether in the carpet-fresh, amalgamated and masonic halls of Latter-day Saint Neo-Christianity, or the perfection-seeking halls of the public school system, or in confines of my own home; I have not felt deserving of love. To begin by blaming Mormonism would be too shallow in my opinion. You could, I suppose, blame my parents. But what about their parents whose parents, quite possibly felt the same as I; that love something that must be earned and not something that is freely given, a gift from the All-Powerful Source. This idea - love must be earned - has had a profound impact on my Psyche. Not knowing who to please, who to tolerate led me to an uncomfortable quagmire of sorts - smiling all the time without knowing why, being nice to everyone (ridiculously nice), all the while despising most everything that my eyes beheld.

You might argue, "Well, Mormonism teaches us that we are all Children of God. And he loves us infinitely." The missionaries say these types of things, glowing enthusiasm for the Kingdom in their eyes. Smiling like a permeating white salamander all the while. I did this. I spoke the words without truly feeling - a feeling in my gut that told me, personally, that I was infinitely loved. So, after proselyting The Book of Mormon for two years in my early twenties and marrying the first girl I'd banged upon my missions completion, I discovered slowly that my Smiley Fucking Self had taken over, with my smiley fucking ways. Nodding and prodding. And dodging comments, and avoiding arguments, and choosing righteous living - so self-centered the Self was convinced of its infallibility even before the vast expanse of the Infinite. I was in a quasi-spiritual, intellectual pot of infinite fagotry. (Not referring to homosexuality - talking about fagotry.) I remember being so unemployable, so disgusted with others, so critical of lifestyles that I abandoned myself to a world of fantasy. A world in which I was ultimate authority. In the ensuing years, I began to practice sorcery of every kind, I sought after prestige and recognition. But what it really boiled down to was my desire for love - and the deep-rooted feeling of my unworthiness of it. This is a product of a negative, cyclical thought pattern that permeates across generations. I think that it makes its way into our DNA. And before you know it, we are saturated with guilt, envy, zero taste, zero class, derogatory self-talk, and all kinds of other shit.

There are three parts of the Journey: the Journey from God, the Journey to God, and the Journey in God. At any one moment we are quite possibly in all three - but what I am realizing is - that no matter what moment in which we find ourselves, no matter how far into the Darkness we see our position, no matter how hopeless we think our lot has become - we need only stop, breathe, and give thanks for each phase of this journey. The Infinite Glow can and will help us through our journey. God can and will if this power is sought.

The Faux Pas Press #171: Hopeful Hanged Man

The Faux Pas Press #171

Hopeful Hanged Man

By Chambo Fresh

Drink from canned spirit soda fuzzing with new insight, not really new. New to me. Finding will within prayer and artistic explosion as I see the beheaded heroes honored from all points in expanding space. Moving fingers in magical cadence to resurrect what has been dead within - like a gnostic Christ emerging from a tomb where the doubting Thomas see for himself. Like all moments of human experience where death has been the obstacle and the Seed of Isaac battle once again the unsavory seed of Ishmael, where Father Abraham couldn't keep his dick in his pants and residual, syrupy residual now must be washed clean. Ethnic cleansing masquerading like freedom propagation. I drink from that can of Coca-cola sacrament, eating prison food to sustain life. And in all of it - in the belly of provincial Afghanistan - I too can see it. That our actions ripple into ethereal eternity, into 96% dark-matter and energy. Lonely is the road that leads to thine eternity. But there must be a place for all of us under the Sun. The Road that leads to the fulfillment of all dreams, ripped from the clothe of butterfly wings, sheathed in a scabbard of hope. Breathe. That is all that he requires and act like your behaviors matter eternally.

So, limited words have proven yet my only ally. Intelligent thinkers reason with others to create a safe havens from fearful scribes writing jolly tunes of matter, forging metal into scientific perfection, making the world safe for all who play the game. Like hopeful hanged men, the presidential emissaries drop cordial inquiries at the doorstep of swindlers. Drop invitations to the Queen's Ball and embezzle funds from US AID. No implications to be made nor doped weapons to invade. Ending the cycle of decade-long strife, he sent him here - the Hopeful Hanged Man. Once fool beguiled by Western academic circles, now Prince of Monterrey once again. He dances rhythms with the General Son and refuses glasses of wine for the battles won. But writes a hymn to Joseph and to Hyrum too. For all our wars have found their end too. Qualified and dignified. A canvass clean for all the times I've lied. Sins drip through faucet to pen and the Apostate Hymns are alive again. You see, it was not about pleasure or about debauchery, not about heaven or apostasy, not driving or about a doc. Not about the Child or the discoveries lot. It was about you. And about you. And about you. And about you.

Jerusalem, Syria, Calcutta - fall into ruin when a gnostic Christ-self emerges from the ruins. This graveyard of empires. For there was one sent here for this time and place. One who will return home with out leaving a trace - but the battles he'd won not from hoisting his aim. But from accepting with wholeness not from placing the blame. The Hopeful Hanged Man sweating with gold - yes, the Fool embodied returns home from the Night and its Fabric's Fold. So, don't act like you are not making the stamp to leave on the ether like ink on a tramp. For in the confusion, in the storm, on the ramp - the world full of darkness just needs one perfect lamp.

The Faux Pas Press #170: Reign

The Faux Pas Press #170

Reign

By Chambo Fresh

Okay. Sometimes in the sandy symphony of curiosity, at the bottom of it all, across timezones and questions, you still have to make clean choices. By clean I don't mean always moral and perfect, I don't mean always giving and true; I mean simple and clean. I go to the bathroom, I prepare a meal, I make my bed. Private victories before facing the Nephalim. It may not seem like a lot to some, it is clearly elementary and simple. Almost absurd. At least, that is how my mind works; constantly striving for a spiritual, unreachable perfection. Today, in the hallow and hilly lands, I am breaking it down nice and easy; don't have to solve it all today. And if I try, God will show me where my own mind confuses the real purpose behind it all. That is how it is for me.

Feeling stuck beneath the rubble of evil, transient thinkers planting unrealistic seeds from ungodly forms of perfection. I just have to know that, in all of my goals, there is something simple, something achievable in them all. I make a list of ten things to accomplish today, ten simple, workable parts in a much greater vision for my life. Just ten workable things. One of which is to write on this blog. Silly? Probably. But I can not live according to the World anymore, I have to simply listen to the still small voice inside. Not matter how long it takes you to reach an aim. There is vibrational intensity in all our thoughts, a simple meditation on a word perhaps: victory, or champion, or love. Whatever works for you. A simple word: reign.

I've said this to the Lord of Infinite Light today: reign. Be my captain and author; I will just write with you. All the success that awaits is already yours. The prayers you cast like they carry no weight, even they are heard. Caution to you on the words you speak. I know they are powerful; I have seen their residual every single day. The programming changes with each kind word we speak to ourselves and to others. We are what we aim to be. Just break it down nice and easy: read spiritual literature for 30 minutes, prepare my gear for battle, dope my weapon, load my magazines. Easy. Then work that shit every so carefully to the fulfilling of clean dreams. Turning it over to the Highest Powers, saying, "You reign. You author it. You finish it." At least this is how my mind is working today, not solving all problems today. But solving some.

The Faux Pas Press #169: Honeycomb and Oil

The Faux Pas Press #169

Honeycomb and Oil

By Chambo Fresh

The wise know when to stop. The wise man also knows when to ask for help, plead with his friends for support in times of trial. No man knows the deepths to which the Shadow Witch can take his soul until he has fallen way beyond his ability. And then what? Another round, another drink, another tuning to man's scoffing and their righteous judgements. There is only one woman and her name is Death. Her end is as bitter as wormwood, sharp as a two-edged sword. That is where the Fool's folly finds itself again and again, wanting desperately to find his meaning in her body of honeycomb and her lips as smooth as oil. I've found that the principles Babylon calls foolish are what brings man wisdom, saves him from death and ultimately leads hims to more power which must be wielded carefully - before the narrative makes a Sorcerer of him once again. We all know what happens to the Sorcerer in this life or the next.

Pains and physical trials make for stronger men, those apt to deal with the enticings of time and space, they make for one who understands the depths of greed. One who gives no time to the wayward flings his fellow knows. One who can discover something great - an unquestionable goodness to move mountain and drink fire. All may know that the Christ shines within and around us, giving us focus where others stray. We come to our oracles trembling in weakness - unsure, doubtful, and plain. And miracles surround our movement, all know the well from which we drink. The mind has not even imagined to good prepared for those who serve others. There is resource where others find none. There is substance when projects seem to dwindle. There is potential, infinite potential to do good and bless others. Even when our circumstance are totally out of our control and the gates of destruction await just miles ahead on the most dangerous of highways. Desert Madness so to speak. There is always a way through it. There is always a way through it. Our equipment works, the subconscious mind is unleashed and the earth quakes at our feet.

The Faux Pas Press #168: Dust Cloud Symphony

The Faux Pas Press # 168

Dust Cloud Symphony

By Chambo Fresh

All of us decide, at the intersection of thought and action, what kind of person we aim to be. And we think that we are getting it, getting along just fine on this side of the Golden Veil. Scoping destinations. Checking valleys over the mountain sides of circumstance, holding fast to our beloved ideals. The destinations we've scoped may be the best for our cherished goals but surely they are not the best for humanity. But like most stubborn travelers moving closer to the Fold in the Fabric of Night, we forget. We forget the source of all wisdom, lose sight of the burning of image - that Master of time and space written on our DNA. It is the Fool's most triumphant destination to see it, the reflection of the Master shining back at him, knowing that the whole journey was not his at all.

The journey was not a position of matter, of the material world so alluring to us all. No, it was all of those whom he served, those from whom he learned and those he taught. And in a thousand tomorrows, approaching the Fold in the Fabric of Night, the Fool learns that his journey's purpose has not been to reach the Valleys of Grandeur  but to move onward to the villages and terraces of sorrow where others need him. And to be needed, oh, how he had scorned those who have needed him. Too many tomorrows led to a bewildered today. The Fool, having accepted the nature of his journey and with courage, takes deep breaths of wild country air, looks to his rear one last time and presses forward towards a Dust Cloud Symphony.

The Fold in the Fabric of Night is where we are destined to travel - into the darkness where children cry, where women have lost hope all of pleasant things, where evil men lie and wait to deceive. The Fool has work to do. For them - not for himself. And in all of our organizing, our organizations, our perfections, the ordered chaos of our time, it is the Fool who was chosen - not the Learned. It is not the best parts that need to be displayed - it is the worst. The inventory needs to be taken. And again, you must cross the dreaded intersections of thought and action where most men run away screaming. Take whatever weapons you need. Cultivate the tools that you can not see. They are there. All of your tools - not to find success of failure. But to be good - to find those who need you. And in finding them, the least of all creations, you will discover a greater reward than your towering fortresses, your splendid little goals - you step across the threshold of the Fold in the Fabric of Night, over the peak of mountainous obstacles, over the wincing fears in circumstances, on the other side of veil. You will not see it if you do not go. Beyond the Dust Cloud Symphony, past the Second Oracle, there is he who is mighty to save you. And of all us need you. Take as many of the hopeless across as you can. They need you - we all need you. And isn't it great to be needed.

The Faux Pas Press #167: Like Saints Burning Candles

The Faux Pas Press #167

Like Saints Burning Candles

By Chambo Fresh

Our reasoning converges with instinct at great moments of transformation. And our pride melts into humility at the crossroads of redemption. And like saints burning candles to the New Mecca, our prayers can be seen throughout all of time. Our amends like incense wafting to the human family - making all bad ideas come to light, making all half-opened plans find fulfillment. The magic of everything is our dreams do not whimper at the change of circumstance - and with clear intention our astral visions do, in fact, become material reality. Like saints burning candles to the New Mecca.

When we talk about perfect amends - we are not talking about saying all of the right words. But, in its nature, amends usually requires some words. These words are also usually delivered directly. Our actions and attitudes can change without amends, but the actual course of our life will not. You see, with new attitude comes a new perspective on our wrongs. The fact that we are committing ourselves to the same ole' lot never crosses this new and improved way of being. In time, we will find the same ole' monsters rear their ugly heads. And we will not know what to do except for behave the way our subconscious has always dictated. Making amends requires words. Not the perfect words - the perfect amends with any of the best words we can muster. We've thought an indirect approach would suffice and that we could spare the whole world any humiliation and pain of directly amending our wrongs. This unfortunately, as I've said, will not save you from the same ole' lot. But like saints burning candles to your New Mecca, we can see them, our integral thoughts, words, and actions as they will be. The evasion of such a crossroad will never give us a true breaking with the wrongs we have perpetuated.

There is no use defending the Ivory Fortress, the Large and Spacious Building. For in it are the galleries of our conduct that ought to have been abandoned. The usual reasons for sidestepping, dancing around like crack heads pleading for a fix, is that our direct amends to other members of the human family are blocked by pride; they are blocked by fear. We ought to see know - as the light shines clearly on our paths - that the residual of amends goes directly to your account. Or have you forgotten? Whatsoever you do unto the least of these - you do unto me.

I am sure that rewards of making amends would appeal to the most selfish of us - if the darkness hadn't kept us so far from the glowing light of he who is might to save. We are blinded by thought, seeking amends for the cleansing of our guilt, or to be reinstated after excommunication, or to just flaunt the new and improved 'me'. We are not salesman peddling people-pleasure and more ego-strutting - we have the rights of all of creation. May amends shine to those in darkness, in pride, and sorrow. Like saints burning candles to a New Mecca.

  

The Faux Pas Press #166: Analysis is Absurd

The Faux Pas Press #166

Analysis is Absurd

By Chambo Fresh

Inwardly I am afraid. Afraid of loneliness, and therefore, being afraid of loneliness, I do all kinds of neurotic things. I attach myself to the savior, the guru, the leader. There is that kind of fear. And then there is the fear of not being able to arrive. The expansion of consciousness. We used to be afraid of being left behind which has translated itself to the fear of not arriving. I must identify myself in order to be. It is possible that we made God in our image - not the other way around. Tremendous sense of uncertainty, right? Not being able to be, we must say, "I'm just going to do my own thing." Fears, fears, fears.

How am I able to deal with the obvious fears that I have described? Is there a way to deal with fear from the root up. Each branch would take a lifetime. And I begin to analyze my fear which becomes a form of paralysis. I'm not escaping, I am not rationalizing, I am not analyzing because I see the absurdity of it. No explanations, no running. I am faced with this thing. Simmering beneath the surface are the unconscious fears. When I see this thing, something else comes out. It is important for the mind to be free of fear. I see outwardly what my fears have produced. Now, I consciously invite them to come to the surface. Do you follow? Conscious can only deal with the things that it knows. But it can not observe what is not known.

The mind can see completely these things. What are we doing in relation to what we are saying? Is there real listening? If we were to relate to each other - relationship would flourish. But our reputation is at stake when we listen. The conscious mind can not invite and expose fears very often - our survival is at stake. There is no escape from fear. I can not run off to the psychiatrist. I understand now that I am left with this - this my little baby to cared after. What shall I do? Some action has to be taken. I can not do a thing about fear. But there is the energy which has been gathered when all dissipation of energy has ended. I have tremendous energy because there is no dissipation. What takes place? What has created fear? What has brought it about? You, my neighbor, my country - I have done it. Not the observer I. But the disorder does not require another mind. What has brought this fear? What is the answer? The answer couldn't be academic. What is the answer to this fact of fear which has been sustained, which has carried on from generation to generation? Can the mind observe this fear?

I am afraid of what is being said about me. This is the result of thought. I see the buried ruins of thought, responsible for all creation. Thought is responsible for all of this. I am afraid of the movement of thought. Thought can only function within the field of knowledge. The association of words - can the mind observe this without the interference of thoughts? Can the mind observe without the movement of thought? A living thing must be understood. Yes, we, the Living. Not analyzed with mirrors of thought spiraling downward.

The Faux Pas Press #165: Signs, Symbols, and Self-Indulgence

The Faux Pas Press #165

Signs, Symbols, and Self-Indulgence

By Chambo Fresh

Disclosure. Our cosmic awareness bridled with sensual discipline in the transference of information from one avatar to another. Our heaviest of circumstances, the growth and welfare of others, and liberation of the guilty conscience. We've got the best of motives. We're thinking of you of course when disclosure becomes a "necessary evil". But our relationship to others, the Living, those who may not have chosen wisely or those who may have it all together. Our disclosure of secret information to another is part of rebooting our own systems. These new programs teach us that there is one main consideration we ought to take into account. Will this information we are sharing update positively or negatively the hardware of another soul, avatar, creation, etc.? When we make amends, beginning with our own honest survey of the system, do we consider the growth and welfare of others? This may not be the best way to propagate fear through out but it is the way of consciousness.

We can hardly disclose in great detail the nature of extramarital affairs, for example, on the shoulders of an unsuspecting wife or husband. When we do this, thinking that our disclosure is actually helping the growth of our beloved, we recklessly make the burdens of others heavier - this, in turn, does in no way make our burden lighter. "Telling all" sometimes is a sign of our own self-indulgence, a symbol that we are not as far along the Road Less-Traveled as we thought. In making amends, we ought to consider this - tact, humility, and compassion. Employing the art of listening - really listening to what one is saying. Or, we can simply try to escape the treacherous and unforgiving Terrain of Now and find ourselves even more lost than we have been.

Standing on our own feet, without the approval of anyone else requires that cosmic awareness with sensual discipline. A simplicity so to speak. That old, neurotic self-hatred has nothing to do with helping others. Making our exploits the center piece of the conversational table does not promote growth. It is acting - it is self-indulgence which, as a result, keeps outdated programs running their course. Seek out the guidance of a trusted ally while braving the deep Ocean of Consciousness. Doing so will result in a mature balance with interpersonal relationships - even in the most fragile ones. We are not the heroes of our own grief - we are the heroes that lift the grief of others by being kind to ourselves. Disclosing what a Shit Bird I have been to every, living soul is just plain neurotic.