siva ratri

its all the bodies in motion. perpetual motion. the perpetual sex. atoms molecules organs bodies mountains planets gasses lights. it doesnt seem to end. this is the union of siva and parvati

grind the bhang and sing a song

Fay is a good day

today and yesterday we are with Fay. water pellets fly sideways. the Earth parties in her own ways. As for me I do too

deepest suspicions confirmed

http://archive.salon.com/sex/feature/2001/01/23/monogamy/index.html

monogamy is unnatural. confirmed above

older

as I age the choices seem increasingly less and stakes continually higher

sometimes you just want off the ride

one must survive even alone

Bryce canyon, UT June '08

the slothman cometh

reading too much ed abbey to pass the days, hence the title of the post. the lazy doggish days of august. nothing. no meditation. only smoking. thinking. lounging.
probably forgetting sanskrit. will now learn gas and pressures. voltage. money.
feeling isolated, or insulated, depending on how you look at it. going over my life. choices. desires. conflicts between. sometimes better to do nothing. like on Bukowski's grave "don't try". If you dont know what the fuck you should be doing, better to not do anything. this is the principle that unites those like us who are often seen as lazy, or contemptful of modern life. I dont even give a fart for art. how is that ed? (re: 'confessions of a barbarian') the dummy keeps falling in love, whatever the hell that means, and getting married to any nice twat it seems. then laments, has various lovers etc. other than that he was a pretty tough fucker though, and usually right on in most matters. he is self-absorbed as most writers are. but reading his books are enough to make any housebound hetero male want to drop everything and run off to the nearest forest. or the nearest attractive woman.

maybe I should write a book. it cant be that hard. Abbey could do it. the old crazy drunk Bukowski wrote poems. a novel. a novel idea. can one who has never written a novel write one in their spare time? would I then have to act and write like a writer all the time? desiring fame and young women? better to be famous for desiring women. first the book...the book. a story of some sort, with sex and violence. intrigue. I guess having Asian religious themes, since that is where I have (blown) most of my life and time. only the desire to create. like god. the lazy god. too lazy to become god.

last week of summer 08

yes the endless summer is ending. the beer infused herbally hazed days of daze must and always end. I begin the next and hopefully most profitable education project. HVAC my friend. within a few months should be making good money as if that will fill the voids of life. One begins to question the purpose of one's existence, I mean, more than usual, when home alone. living in the head. cold wife at work. we are mutually together sometimes I think only for J, time will tell all as it must. she doesnt understand me much, nor I her for nearly a decade together seems strange. it sucks growing up and seeing the willful illusions behind nearly everything life offers. This is why I have no real ambition, save meditation on surf, sky, mountain, women (in general, not necessarily specific). consumption of the best quality beer I can afford. a smoke. who will say if my life was/is a failure or success? I am just another bug on the side of the massive cosmic wave we call life. will die, as a reward for my troubles.

I have a couple or more broken pieces of amythyst geode. I should charge one with a mantra and boon and throw it in the woods

the woods where I planted the Mother who gives birth to herself
and the spirits sit in trees , looking for someone to talk to

life- a post

so the song birds have sung their last. The honeymoon with my life thus far, current and next several years is officially finished. perhaps Im just feeling the musty, damp, and hot august blues. mi wifey and I agreed that dislike, or rather partial dislike, is mutual. swinging on the end of a line somewhere, blowing in the wind. I shouldnt complain. I have food, herb, water. health is a little sketchy lately, no doubt exasperated by over indulgence last weekend in an unplanned social event (liver may be protesting). soon to be a published author. hopefully hopeful but not really. interesting things happen when you loose all hope sometimes. what have you got to loose? you will

vita- minimal

seeing my life. the sillyness of it all. the failure. the time wasted. energy wasted. my beard is turning rapidly grey. (my hair is yet to catch up thankfully). An old man who was never a child. Ed Abbey writes about being comfortable and even taking joy in one's overall life failure; but he wanted to be famous at least, and was/is in some circles. I don't even have that going for me. I don't even want to be famous. What do I want? I want to fly. to breathe fresh air. jump in water. fuck women. the emptiness and drudgery of life I have feared my whole life seems immanent. my deepest and animal-like self recoils. marriage is an illusion. religion is an illusion. survival is real. better anything else. but then what have you got?


*been meaning to write a review of Julius Evola's 'Revolt against the modern world' , which is sure to irritate both his fans and critics. stay tuned

life- ad infinitum

oh when life was simple and meaningful, instead of complex and worthless
meaning is where you put it. but what about the mistakes?
mistaken meaning. what does meaning even mean? I mean...

child

my son and I suspect most children read emotion before anything. the real intent. not the mutually aware facade adults wear for each other. the things I murmur off hand, he remembers too. we adults are nothing but grown children anyway.