The Juggernaut

What draws me to the fire?

To be in its presence is like a steel-smelting furnace with its white intensity,

Captivating,

Much like the futility of ignoring a campfire in the blackest night.

What draws me to the fire is the sight of myself with the skin gone, and soul aflame.

But I abhor that consuming heat because it responds only to that which is hot.

And it consumes, it consumes, and consumes

The Darkness, all... it is relentless.

Its world only of light, fury, and heat.

And I wonder as I contemplate the fire; to it, what has infinite intrinsic value?

And still, with interest, it consumes.

Conversation on Ego, Immortality, and Admiration

If all else fails, immortality can be always assured by spectacular error."   -  John K. Galbraith

This is an existential trick on the ego:  The fact we would consider screwing up the world in order to be remembered is the ultimate irony of ego.

Be used by a purpose greater than your desires.  Inside of that, be willing to deny some of your desires, not all, but some.

Let's distinguish Success - what does it mean?

Distinction Success - it's empty and meaningless.  After I die, I will turn to dust, and after a time no one will remember.  Why should one star demand to shine more than the others?  Herein lies the ego's wish to be immortal.  

The ultimate win is lasting admiration.  We are addicted to approval.  The ego craves these things and will do anything to avoid disapproval and failure.

Ask yourself, "how do I spend or invest my resources;  money, social capital, gifts, talents?  And what does my ego get out of it?  Can I be satisfied to spend without any acknowledgment whatsoever, or even be satisfied with constant disapproval and/or failure?"  If I require success and admiration, I am collapsed into ego.  

"As he put the vial of poison to his lips, he realized there were two of him, one an egotistical asshole and his higher self, and the asshole was about to kill them both."

But there's nothing wrong with death either, and if we experience no anxiety about dying alone and soon forgotten, then we have found the egoless death.  Immortality is a paradoxical hoax, for the only truly immortal constants are outside the realm of memory.  Immortality can belong to no individual, it can only belong to everything that has ever been. 

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Post Scriptum:  Thank you, Jess for your contributions (in blue) to this conversation!

------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Post Post Scriptum: Malcolm Gladwell's new book Outliers talks about the radically successful and how they came to be so extraordinary. And he says it really does involve major moments of luck - redeemed or cashed in. Unmissed moments of opportunity so rare and often so bizarre that it makes your head spin. I've heard tales of a gentleman from New York who was more than likely the first in flight, perhaps a year earlier than Wilbur and Orville (sorry Losantville!). So many similar stories would fill several books, so much so, that we know this as a major narrative of humanity. Just ask Darwin's elder colleague J Wallace, who fell into obscurity, and during his own time consented to call the theory Darwinism even though, for several reasons, his ideas first appeared on the scene. So the narrative of luck and recorded/remembered history in the realm of success is also rich and sordid topic indeed. If part of success is how(much) we are remembered, then so much of that is also a crap shoot, a gamble as well.

Some favorites by Hafiz

SOME FILL WITH EACH GOOD RAIN

There are different wells within your heart. Some fill with each good rain, Others are far too deep for that. In one well You have just a few precious cups of water, That "love" is literally something of yourself, It can grow as slow as a diamond

If it is lost. Your love should never be offered to the mouth of a Stranger, Only to someone Who has the valor and daring To cut pieces of their soul off with a knife Then weave them into a blanket To protect you. There are different wells within us. Some fill with each good rain, Others are far,  far too deep For that.

TIRED OF SPEAKING SWEETLY Love wants to reach out and manhandle us, Break all our teacup talk of God. If you had the courage and Could give the Beloved His choice, some nights, He would just drag you around the room By your hair, Ripping from your grip all those toys in the world That bring you no joy. Love sometimes gets tired of speaking sweetly And wants to rip to shreds All your erroneous notions of truth That make you fight within yourself, dear one, And with others, Causing the world to weep On too many fine days. God wants to manhandle us, Lock us inside of a tiny room with Himself And practice His dropkick. The Beloved sometimes wants To do us a great favor: Hold us upside down And shake all the nonsense out.

But when we hear

He is in such a "playful drunken mood" Most everyone I know Quickly packs their bags and hightails it Out of town. From: 'The Gift' Translated by Daniel Ladinsky

Two Giant Fat People God And I have become Like two giant fat people Living in a tiny boat. We keep Bumping into each other 

and Laughing.

The Vintage Man The difference Between a good artist And a great one Is: The novice Will often lay down his tool Or brush Then pick up an invisible club On the mind's table And helplessly smash the easels and jade. Whereas the vintage man No longer hurts himself or anyone And keeps on sculpting Light.

To Build a Swing To build a Swing You carry all the ingredients To turn your life into a nightmare - Don't mix them! You have all the genius To build a swing in your backyard for God. That sounds like a hell of a lot more fun. Let's start laughing, drawing blueprints. Gathering our talented friends. I will help you With my divine lyre and drum, Will sing in a thousand words You can take into your hands, Like golden saws, Silver hammers, Polished teakwood, Strong silk rope. You carry all the ingredients To turn your existence into joy. Mix them, mix them!

A Potted Plant I pull a sun from my coin purse each day. And at night I let my pet the moon Run freely into the sky meadow. If I whistled, She would turn her head and look at me. If I then waved my arms, She would come back wagging a marvelous tail Of stars. There are always a few men like me In this world Who are house-sitting for God. We share His royal duties: I water each day a favorite potted plant Of His-- This earth. Ask the Friend for love. Ask Him again. For I have learned that every heart will get What it prays for Most. From: 'The Subject Tonight Is Love'

Before Frost 10/8/05

Flying things Gone now All before the frost Blanket of clouds Pressing low The glow of Columbus Distant pink and orange Horizon's delight Paints low clouds

Generosity: A Response

"My gift is my song/ And this one's for you" But I wonder if the song would light up your voice What gifts of mine make your heart sing Or want to speak for my honor And shall my honor be the permission to live in your house? Nothing is amiss To drive a man with your passionate logic, Too fiery to touch or slake Too intense to want to try Six months come and gone- I might as well be dreaming About this doing house My dreams were tied up in Intimacy: Shared space and Touch Challenge and Checking In That is my dancefloor That is my launch pad: Connected Souls Has my soul thrive I experience the universe with and through others Which magnifies my inspiration of the magnificent And as I seek to magnify my greatness in others and for others I sit full, yet unfull A full glass of wine alone on a table waiting to be slaked Were someone to be thirsty for me Several times per week I should pour myself down your throat

Simple gifts is a Shaker song dedicated to the dance

Bless the dance

And bless you

Because you know how simplicity is wantonly overlooked

I see the televisions illuminate all my neighbors' rooms

And eyes

So let's dance amidst

This pale culture

You and I will be the spiced ones

We can be afraid

This might be 1984

It may be 1994

But I know how to make fire without matches

You know ambassadors

And I know how to make the earth give joy and life

And you know generosity

And I know canned tomatoes and hand pressed cider

And you know curry

Dancing amidst the flames is far more thrilling

Than Arthur Murray

To bow and to bend

Snow on Bryden Road ~ My Birthday, 2005

Cold feathers fill the air,

Like a huge down comforter burst open

They hover, hesitate and rush

And seem careful not to collide in their dizzy flight

Their dance accelerates and slows 

As the downy crystals give away 

The invisible body of today's chill Zephyr

Spinning and stopping in their funny descent

Many slow to a float outside my third story dormer

Before their last ascent with the draft 

Up the yellow bricks 

Across the quiet street 

They're captured by ivy on the proudly-chiseled church:

An oddly flamboyant Romanesque

Never has a window ledge looked so Good

As on these snowy Old Town Victorians

Where this down has come fleetingly to rest;

A yin for the stubborn church's yang

A white blessing on the noble houses in the neighborhood

This old house is scarcely immune to the the soft, soft wind

A body of cold in the dormer where I write

The house's old furnace can't do any more to beat back the sapping cold

Or convince it to be more excited

The cold hurries my chilled-stiff fingers

And makes me want to move

Epilogue:

Which sparks a broader thought-

No wonder the seasonal regions are so prone to industry!