Friday, March 11, 2016

I have a decent job, I'm around people, but still, it's a strange gig, and it's got hours to match.  Things which I cannot explain, but which are normal for anyone having such a job.  The big problem, the being alone, the nighttime hours.

I got out for a run.  I'm good.  I do the laundry.  I take out recycling, and the trash.  And finally, maybe at some point, I get back to writing.  But it's odd, not making any sort of a living out of your chosen avocation, and on top of that it's odd, the hours, the lack of money to take yourself out to restaurants to be around people,  not feeling all that good about yourself, which doesn't contribute to the affirmations that allow dating and courtships.  The city goes on without you.

And so, you become, as Shane MacGowan describes himself, a spiritual nut, open to reading about certain subject matter, be it Zen or the Samurai, the Buddha or Mohammed, Jesus, etc., etc.

These things are strange to talk about.  A sturdy friend of mine in the form of good natured busboy from Mexico gave me a book once.  We'd had talks about the meaning of life on slow nights, and here was something from The Gnostic Institute of Anthropology Movement, The Perfect Matrimony, originally published in 1950, Cienaga, Columbia.  Don Edin, who worked with me on Sunday and Monday nights, often slow enough that we would talk, bridging the gap between languages.  "The ego is the problem," he would say to me, pointing his finger to his brow, and we would laugh knowingly and nod.  And when I came to work on a Sunday afternoon once depleted of energy, we nodded to the truth.

He was one of the many riches that came to me while tending bar and working in the restaurant.

So, something to read.  Marital sex is necessary for our chakras, for the process of our enlightenment, for the light entering the highest of our consciousness as we are equipped, the Kundalini way of thought.  It's about raising the Caduceus waves of energy centers along our spinal column and all related passages mystics identify, up to the higher points, without that, yes, heavy thing of male completion, the spilling of the seed, as this correspondent of higher thought, Samael Aun Weor, gives us.  And the relationship to the sexual is indeed most important, for society, for humanity, for everything.

You can't really think deeply unless you have your counter part, the high priest, or priestess, your match, so that negative and positive, masculine and feminine, all those energies can cycle through, not cut short by the selfish, this author wants us to know.

If you had that lovely person to put your atoms in place, then you are really following the great adepts, Jesus, the Buddha, getting all the Gospel words, the main point, which you've somehow missed before, that you've done okay, you're just missing your other half, and that is a simple matter of faith.

The Gospel accounts have veiled reference to Jesus the adept of Sexual Magic, and maybe there is hidden meaning in loaves and fishes, as, let's face it, we need to have a love life.  Like we need sustenance, sustenance for the spirit.  Being born, our problem is necessarily sexual, because that's how we came about, the great mystery we must address somehow, make meaning of, the way Christ makes meaning out of things.

Taking a long walk in the woods, sorting things out, I ponder the nature of fiction, metaphor, the story quality of religion.  I can see the guy's point, that religions need to be refreshed, brought back closer to the original, not the dead codified stories ossified over time and institutional retelling.  Sacred sexuality goes way back, in many notable cultures of the world.

I wanted to write another book, this time with a happier ending, with more focus, with moral achievements grasped by the main character, of, of course, the guy finding a girl, and all that love is.  Family.  Something different.

Does one start that path by writing "fiction?"

On the way back from a long walk in the woods, I stand in front of the mosque.  The men are filing in for evening prayer.  I stop and stand in the place outside the fence where you can see in when one of the double wooden doors beyond the stoop where shoes are taken off, catching a glimpse of the tile and the shine.  "Come in, yes," a man with a small beard.  "My name is Abdi, what's your name, please..."  No big deal, take off my running shoes, put them in the slots, and there's a space for visitors, two chairs in the back.  A row of men facing the far wall where the Imam is speaking.   They bow, and then they kneel, and bow forward, heads touching the ground.  I find it refreshing, looking at the tiles, listening, watching.  I am relieved when it shows signs of breaking up, and Abdi comes back and offers that it's time to go and he has a book for me in his car.   I put my sneakers back on, and we walk out, and there's no hard sell, and we all go off into the night, many to drive the cabs.

Later on, waking up in the middle of the night I watch a documentary about heavy metal bands.  (Penelope Sheeris), Megadeath, Ozzie, Odin, Queensryche, Armored Saint, Motorhead...  Candid interviews including all the excesses up close...  The Metal Years, 1988.  For contrast.

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