The Emptiness in Your Life...

The Brazilian writer Fernando Sabino wrote a beautiful allegory in the form of a short story, of a group of passionate protesters who have taken to the streets and block after block more and more people joined the protest. **spoiler alert** at the end we come to find out that most people ranting had no idea what they were protesting, they'd just joined the fray.*** This is the same curse that plagues Dr. Jordan Peterson, although I have to  admit that it is of his own making. I will explain. 

A long time ago, one of my children came to me and told me of how homophobe Dr. Peterson was; and because my daughter is very smart, I asked her how many of his lectures she had watched and if she had watched the original un-edited video that is often used to accuse him of hating the gays and transgender community. She had not. That is where intelligence and common sense enters, also, my youngest daughter does not like to be wrong and so she took to youtube and that was when she EXITED THE PROTEST.

I tell all my liberal friends in Los Angeles that I agree Dr. Peterson could use a few lessons in diplomacy but hateful he is not.

I toyed with the idea of becoming a psychiatrist for a few months in college until I understood that I was just trying to save my mother so I too exited the protest but I do dislike, distrust every psychiatrist to this day. They are like police officers, only good when you need them but in the event you meet a malignant one you're in serious trouble.

The other serious issue I would have in trying to help anyone would be to see them making the same mistake again and again unable to fix it. PAUSE. DEEP BREATH. I was considering if I knew anyone with these traits and thank God I do not. 

Here Dr. Peterson gives you all you need to avoid therapy, psychiatrists and their drug prescription pads, ELECTRIC SHOCK TREATMENTS, and also the police. All in one short video.

 This information is also buried in countless novels but consider this your cheating sheet.

 *** Brazilian literature and songwriters are the reason I would chose to be born in Brazil every time, if there was ever an option. Like being Italian to be able to read Dante in the original language. 

ART and WRITING

 

BLUE MOON and the world inside

Every once in a blue moon, I know my place in the world; as if my GPS was roaming and it found me: my precise parallels, coordinates, latitude and longitude, set to now; and I feel that there is nothing beyond myself.

I feel like a tree or mountain would feel if it could feel; present in time, place and purpose. I ask if a tree or mountain would feel less, if it would want more, if it would desire, as we do, to be elsewhere, in order to  do what it can perfectly do right here.

For all the analogies we have for flying, it is on the stillness of these moments that I find myself utterly grounded, paradoxically one with the vastness of our universe.

Flying is aimlessly seeking for oneself outside of itself.

A monk sitting still in meditation and thankfulness needs no wings to fly further than a bird of any kind; nothing material can connect the vastness of the soul and oneself.

The invisible is not only essential as the Little Prince taught us, but also the only portal to ourselves, for we can't be found elsewhere of ourselves.

Every once in a blue moon we don't reflect light; light is the source inside and it shines until we once again forget to be blind to our place and time. Without our inner light, all we have left is our social climb.

                                                    

A Bench

She offered a view:

of a lake, of a sun

centerfold

framed by a tree and foliage,

green with life.

At the forefront, a bench,

which she described

as just a bench.

"Just a bench," she said

as if to save the day,

the moment that got away.

"Just a bench," she said

as if to greet the day

that in each of us awaits.

As if to bless those less blessed,

she offered a frame, a flair, a tree

sunshine, 

dispersing rays of light over me. 

"Just a bench," she said

by the lake with fishes inside

beautiful as a girl carrying a life.

A bench, a beat, another day

in the city of jazz,

or anywhere else you might be at,

a bench is never just a bench,

a bench is a memory of those who sat:

to unseize the day, to contemplate,

to pray, to give thanks, to rest

to hold hands; to mourn the ones who passed.

|  in the memory of Renee |

                                                    

Fading

 

     Something about a cover of a book: torn, faded, beaten by time; a fate we share.

Before we open, before we witness the lives inside, we know these people have suffered the same condition as us: life, living. A stick floating on a river, determined to make it to its destiny; determined to set the course of its own fate; but fate is where we are, and forever changing.

     The writer inside this one had his own illusions, each movement allusions to a place he knew to be his destiny; while ignoring the houses floating along side the shore. Inside, lived stagnation, or so he thought, as he floated aimless towards a better place; taken by the current. Somewhere. The faith and the unfaithful, bearing witness.

     These are the sort of books we take down from the shelves, and skip through it, reading passages here and there. Because we are busy too, determined we are to reach a destination of our own making, our own Shangri-la. 

     To craft a life, worth of being admired by the mundane persons living inside the modest houses along the shore.

     These are the sort of books the people on the shore take down from the shelves, and sit on a rocking chair, a blank for comfort and warmth; besides them, coffee, and Maria cookies on a plate. 

Content, for the time being, to be where they are.

                                          

A Blend of Calla Lily

 

A Tulip meets a Comet and longs to see the world.

 

( click on picture to purchase )