Posts Tagged ‘meditation’

A brief spike in traffic

Wednesday, 14 February 2018

For 3 days running I had over 100 views to the site, akin to a miracle.  I’m not that interesting, so it must’ve all been for recent Jeopardy! contestant Rachel Lindgren.

It’s my duty to warn you thirsty nerds AGAIN that smart women are not a solution to anything and being a sapiosexual is a road to nowhere.  If she’s smart while you’re enamored (subtract 25 IQ points for each boob and asscheek) you’re in QUADRUPLE the danger of being manipulated.  Not that I overly give a shit what happens to you, you’re probably better off than me.

I believe this blog is now 10 or 11 years old, which means little because I rarely posted after 2009, was it?  It has brought me neither joy nor grief, certainly no money or gavina.  I don’t read my own shit so I’ve forgotten most of it, except to remember impassioned movie reviews about Batman (pointless) or politics (far more pointless) and cussing out my wage slave job while doing nothing to improve my lot in life.

Two things happened in the last 5 years which changed the entire arc of my  inclinations, I got out of the shit job and I “discovered” whores.  Also, my father died  at 73 of natural causes, if you count lung cancer as natural.

The whores saved my life.  Once I was getting laid fairly regularly all the Mysteries of Womanhood evaporated, which was bittersweet, but poetry is either written out of your system or it burns you from the inside out like drinking bleach.  Poetry IS drinking bleach, usually for the reader. 

The women’s humanity made me less of a misogynist, and it even seemed a few of them enjoyed the ride beyond getting paid.  (I haven’t been laid in over a year due to health problems so that’s on pause.)

I’m closer to 50 than 40 now.  I’m not better than I was in 2006, but like to think I’ve learned much the last 10 or 11 years.  I wouldn’t trade my scant “life’s work” of writing for falling in love.   

Here are the final lines from a long ago poem.

I know it’s coming, death or a balloon.

The slitted eyes of a petted cat.

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It’s Too Late

Tuesday, 21 August 2012

I have no fans, and that’s fine with me. Much has happened since I last picked up the keyboard for more regularly blogged bullshit. As filmed, the story would be minor happy events in an overall tragedy as opposed to some bloodless low points in a comedy. Sounds about right for almost everyone.

I’m slowly dying of some rare blood disease that damages only the kidneys. Really, I wish my kidneys would fail already. I would quietly collect SSD and get dialysis 3 times a week if it meant not having to ever work again, facing the ugliness of the human race every fucking day.

There are still a few good things left in life:  Oreos, cannabis, taking a shit, internets, reading history, jacking off. There are even hookers that will come to your door!

Contrary to what salesfolk are forever claiming, there is a time when nothing you do or try or buy will save your sorry ass. That time is called “It’s Too Late” and for me, it’s already here. I never try to tally up the reasons I have to live another day, there really aren’t any. I’ve abandoned this life…the mp3 player is still counting the song from both ends but the music stopped long ago.

I told the Guru I HATE God, but I told him in an email.  No response.  That was years ago.  When he does answer it’s usually with, “Have you tried meditating?”  He’s not being a smartass.  God is.

Sadly, there is no Satan to worship. Don’t matter who you cry out to; no god—good or evil—returns messages.

I want to get black t-shirts made with IT’S TOO LATE right across the chest in bright yellow. More than any demon, those words frighten people, with truth.

Struggling for second place

Wednesday, 20 May 2009

“I have found God, and he is insufficient.” -Henry Miller

Henry, I feel the same way. Earth is just a giant waiting room and I’d feel better as a ball of energy than a meatsack human being. This body is nothing but trouble, a festering cesspool for the ego to roll around in.

The mind is a crumpled paper airplane in a hurricane, but the ego thinks it’s a fighter jet.  The capacity for self-delusion is bottomless.  The mind is its own worst enemy; why it throws fear at itself I understand, it’s a survival mechanism. But why does the mind attack itself with doubt?

Life was brutal for the caveman but far simpler: at any given moment he was either alive and afraid or unaware and eaten. Attempts at poetry or deep thought were ended by saber-toothed tigers.  Now there’s nothing to stop bad poetry.

Sorry God, but I’m ready to go back. I won’t learn anything else here, life is all reruns now. I’m too lazy to meditate, I’d rather sleep.

I’m having trouble remembering why I didn’t commit to suicide when I was an atheist.  If it was all meaningless, why didn’t I end it?  The Satanist proclaims pleasure the greatest virtue.  I couldn’t extract pleasure out of anything except being an observer and surfing over others’ hypocrisy.  Obviously I survived.  But lived?

I was alone then, before then, and now.

My pal Hal swears if he won the lottery he’d build an underground house and never leave it.  Everything would be ordered and brought to his door.  I don’t blame him.  “Hell is other people,” is the greatest line ever written.  Everyone else with a pen or keyboard only struggles for second place while the moon shits cold fire and the women sleep with other men.



Thoughts deeper than you

Friday, 13 March 2009

“Could any Hell be more horrible than now, and real?”
— Jim Morrison


I’ve been thinking about suicide lately with the same conclusion Sam Kinison had about wife-beating: I don’t condone it, but I understand it.

I won’t kill myself.

For one thing, at my age there’s very little left to kill.  (- Bukowski)

Life is painful, unpredictable and typically just plain fucked-up in both meaning and execution: it’s unreasonable to believe that suicide would bring an immediate end to suffering from such a warped existence; suicide is the gleaming cheese in a mousetrap.

Suicide means physical death, but I don’t want death, because death means MORE: more suffering and more pleasure. I want neither, in favor of annihilation.

I’ve been fortunate enough to experience this annihilation, which is not an empty void but The Void, filled with Everything which is really only One thing. I could only enter this state of No-Mind under the aegis of a meditation master capable of projecting spiritual energy. The meditation group I was with only got to experience it perhaps a dozen times a year.

One minute I’d be sitting in my folding chair, the next there was NOTHING, all the chattering noise and nonsense composing the modern mind wiped clean like a giant eraser swiping across a dry erase board. Other types of meditation had different effects but coming out of the No-Mind sessions I always felt oddly refreshed.

No-Mind has been called ‘the only true final Enlightenment’ and if you’re lucky enough to merge with it beyond death, you win, that’s all, no more suffering, no more anything. Compared to this state, a heavenly afterlife seems ridiculous. If you can have limitless pleasurable experiences in Heaven, it stands to reason one moment will feel better for you than another. How is that Heaven? You’ll still be striving for MORE, even if by definition, in Heaven you always Receive it.

Nothingness sounds scary, I know. To a 300lb co-worker I presented the choice between a guaranteed immediate merging forever into nothingness or a chancy afterlife. His answer was, “I like existing.”

I do not like existing. I am trapped here, with none to rescue.

Bizarre dream

Monday, 26 January 2009

WARNING: MATURE, VIOLENT CONTENT.


Had a dream last night where a gang of young punkasses stole a handgun belonging to me. The dream ended with me cutting one of them repeatedly with a machete, including burying the blade inches deep over his right eyebrow. He died with his eyes open.

To make it stranger, I then dropped the weapon and pressed my palms together in the perfect image of praying hands and asked Lord Jesus Christ to forgive me for my sins.

I didn’t consider it a nightmare because when I woke up I had the day off. Also, spiritual progress is typically signified by violent dreams. The most harmless, soft-spoken girls in the meditation group would dream that night–after a full day of meditation–about mowing down people with an Uzi.

I’m not reading anything into it, but I did receive an odd piece of junk mail today, advertising for a good luck cross. Included was this image, which immediately made me think of the old, OLD comics’ joke about how thrilled Christ returning to earth would be to see his followers wearing crosses.

Image and video hosting by TinyPic

Any Spirit Being is always welcome to get my ass out of a jam. Amen.

Meditation on meditation

Thursday, 25 October 2007

I don’t like to meditate. Few do. It’s boring.

A misconception is that meditation increases anything. This is impossible, since everything you need is already Within.

Meditation simply is removing attention from the external world and placing it on the internal world, what is there at all times.

The best thing about meditation is what I call “declutching”. By relaxing via breathing into a state receptive to the Inner World, I can declutch and coast free of the limited body and egregiously clever babbling mind, both which cause so much grief and misery. During these reflective moments it’s possible to glimpse the truth about the Self, that You are not the body or the mind, which is great because I hate them both, they are a prison.

If you commit suicide you will have to face the same problems again in another life, plus added shit. Granted, this is only one belief of millions out there about faith, God, afterlife, etc. It’s the one that makes the most sense to me.

My Guru is Mark Griffin. An enormous White Guy, he must weigh 350 and be 6’5. He’s a Guru because he has the power to deliver shaktipat, the descent of grace as energy, and his consciousness is continually One with God-consciousness. Bear in mind, Mark has nothing that you or I don’t already possess, with the exception of the meditative training and discipline (over many lifetimes) to stay rooted in samadhi while quite awake. God neither loves nor hates anyone…

My last email exhange with Mark follows. For someone Enlightened his grammar and spelling suck…I’ve cleaned it up where possible and left his replies ALL CAPS, the way they were sent.

Dear Mark,

Troubling questions.

If God neither loves or hates us, what does God love? Anything? As God is beyond all qualities, is love even important to Him?

GOD IS LOVE , THERE IS NO SECOND THING, LOVE IS CLOSEST TO THE LANGUAGE OF GOD.

Why does God want us to love anything when love leads to attachment, which leads to chaos and enslavement by the ego?

THE EGO-CENTRIC LOVE DOES NOT EVEN SCRATCH THE SURFACE, TRUE LOVE IS MUCH DEEPER, MUCH FIERCER. KEEP LOOKING DEEPER INTO THE MATTER.

We as people speak, but we are not the language we speak.

THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN SOUL AND MIND.

Is love the “language” of God?

YES.

It’s my ego talking, but the questions remains: “If God doesn’t love, why should I?”

LOVE IS.

Namaste,

LOVE,

MARK

(end email)

The Saga Continues.


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