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.