The Sylph

Shalerock Falls, 1977


I could barely see it in the mist and spray
as it sailed in a leisurely circle around the whirlpool
on soft grey batlike wings
barely roiling the mist.

I rubbed my eyes, and looked around.
nobody else saw it.

I tried to get closer, but the rocks were slippery
and my sister had a worried look
so, frustrated, I found a dry spot, and watched the whirlpool,
while being bathed in the mist of the waterfall above.

It took a while, maybe an hour, but I saw it again
delicately circling
and I heard it's voice, soft and deep
and it sang in continuous notes, only gradually rising and falling
in sympathy with the sound of the waterfall

The gray, frail bat wings that bore it
dripped mist as it circled, like fine sprays of morning rain
and it's song seemed to vibrate in my chest, so low and soft it was
and I felt it's joy in simply being, it's pleasure carried by it's deep soft voice
and I felt my heart slow, my breathing ease, and my anger at life,
just for a moment,
recede.

I began to cry softly with the beauty of it,
and as the first tear dripped from my cheek,
it looked at me, and hovered in place briefly.
It changed it's song to one of fear and shock,
like a startled yelp
and I felt it look at me as tho I was a strange creature,
the likes of which it had never seen
and I felt it want to flee,
and I knew it could not, for it was as tied to that mist
as a cornstalk is tied to the earth

There were many other people present,
but it saw only me, and only I saw it.
But I terrified it, and i had no desire to cause it distress
so I moved away
and whatever it was that connected us was broken
and I knew my life had changed forever
and wondered if it's had, too.

a milestone

I had my 100th unique hit last night! Yay! I am SO easily pleased.

Bathrooms

Among many other faults (such as always being right, being too left, and sometimes just being too much) I have a fairly severe phobia: I can't take large (or medium or small) groups of people. It is especially acute in other people's private homes. I get cold sweat (and NOBODY can sweat like a phobic fat guy) extreme tension, pallor, trembling limbs, tachycardia (rapid, uneven heartbeat). There are exceptions to this: When I TEACH a karate class, it is much less pronounced, probably because I am in control. However, with the exact same group of people, in the exact same place, if I am not teaching, instant phobia. The yearly gathering of our Dojo is a complete horror show for me, I sweat all the way through it, and flee as soon as humanly possible.

This condition kept me from going back to high school after I was expelled, it keeps me from going to college today, it keeps me from doing almost anything that requires contact with strangers. I gave up my computer repair business largely for this reason.
There is one thing that saves me: Bathrooms. Bathrooms are my safe-haven, my escape, my sanctuary, the one place the people won't follow me, and nobody gets too openly curious about just what it is I am doing, hiding in there. They are instant privacy and complete anonymity. They are a bolt-hole that is required by law in anyplace where large numbers of people gather, and I love them. I am sure they have saved my life ocasionally, and I am damned sure they have saved countless other's physical well-being by letting me get out of their faces before I remove them from mine by force.

When I was younger, I thought this was fear. I was convinced that I was a complete coward, incapable of facing up to people. I was cluttered with self-loathing and contempt, and I hated my life and everything about it. Then I discovered the Martial Arts. In my late teens and early twenties I trained myself until I was fairly sure I could kill most anybody with whom I shared a space, no matter the numbers. When it didn't help, I was paradoxically relieved. That meant that I was not a coward, and I gave myself permission to hide in bathrooms whenever it got too bad. Since then, I have been a happy guy. Still can't do a lot of social stuff (can't go to bars or movies, for instance), but if there is a bathroom where I am going, I am now fairly confidant I can make it through.

Bathrooms. Love 'em.

Oneline Poem #6

If sex is a physical thing for you, YOU ARE DOING IT WRONG!

The Cut

As the blade touched my face,
and I felt the cut
we climaxed together,
both trying to control our movements
vainly
and she writhed as she pulled the razor downward
and I was transfixed as I watched her orgasm continue
and the cut finished, she surrendered control
and lost herself in it, moaning
and she bent to the cut, and licked away the blood,
and she went limp against me

My eyes opened into the other space
and I saw it, the energy of our working
flowing about us,
and I wove it around us in a braid,
her strand, and mine, and the red flowing strand,
a continuous trickle of astral blood
binding us together loosely
and we touched,
at every point
body,
mind.
all.

Gorm Marrowsucker's lesson

Put that down, Snurl, that mutton's too new,
it's been there almost three evenings to few.

It's human cuisine till it's gone good and green
and it's been there so long you don't know where it's been

You'r an orc, Young Snurl, with some self-respect,
a proud reputation is yours to protect

If you eat just anything, they'll think you are weak,
they'll never fear you, with no orcish reek.

You should also know this, humans get hungry too,
when their cows and sheep become far too few.

A human might think of a sweet smelling orc,
as a tangy bipedal armored roast pork.

Sacrement #4 - Student

She's still afraid of me
after ten years.
I think I have taken her places she has not wanted to go
but I did not coerce, I hope
(subtle coercion is invisible and maybe even involuntary)
Still, fear.

It is the first sight, I think.
seeing me was always somehow jarring to her.
It was she who taught me (tho she might not know it)
the habit of sitting down as low as possible
as soon as possible
when discussing anything more significant than the weather
because she interpreted my mildest passionate raving as an attack.
For her, and just for her, I tried to master my intensity
move slowly
speak ...... less stridently.

She knows me very well.
I haven't the slightest idea how well I know her.
Which figures.

Still, the fear.
It has been there since I was 16
and Kip's parents told him I was evil,
and to stop hanging around with me.
I have never understood this.
It seems to have followed me everywhere

Now, I am fat and sick, a physical threat to nobody,
but the fear is still there.
and I still don't understand it.
There is nothing scary here.

By their standards, yeah, I am evil.
I think for myself, and I don't accept a dogma, any dogma.
but I have always been honest and open
about what I want, who I am, and what I'm doing.

I might not be a very good teacher, but I don't understand why I am scary.

If she is scared of me, maybe I should be too?

Self-doubt sucks. Can I go back to being a relentlessly arrogant prick now?

Untitled

10 bucks to anybody who can come up with a convincing reason that I get MORE dreamily idealistic as I age? Isn't it supposed to be the other way around?

political post, avoid if sensative

I have really tried to keep politics out of this blog, but it aint possible, not when so much shit is happening.

If you arent pissed off, you arent paying attention.

Think about this: In ten years, maybe a little longer, people will look back at the 2nd Iraq War as the war that trained and equipped the army that defeated Isreal. Won't we all be fucking proud of Bush then.

We are surrounded in Iraq on 3.5 sides by people who want to kill us with the weapons we gave them for the purpose of killing each-other. Next time we fight a war like this, we better either do it with spitballs or invent weapons that will only function in the hands of young american men. Or, rather, young immigrant men who want to become americans.

This war is a lie on so mant levels it defies historical comparison. Hell, even Vietnam had a THEORY (the Domino theory) justifying it. Now, that theory was an error, and a lie on the part of some who knew better, but it was a reasonable error. The "they will follow us home" excuse is true with or without the war, so it can hardly be used as an intelligent reason FOR the war.

Oneline Poem #5

Adulthood is the sate in which you can get the gas chamber for shooting some asshole in Philadelphia and a medal for shooting him in Baghdad.

Drugs

When I was 6, I was prescribed Gyrocaps for asthma. I discovered if I took them, I could stay up all night reading and not fall asleep until school the next day, which I thought was SO cool.

When I was 10, my mother took me to my first concert - Three Dog Night (and now my age shows) and at that concert she (undoubtedly fucked up beyond all reason and sense) passed me my first joint. It was love at first inhale. It sent me to a nice world filled with soft sounds, pleasant fragrances and comfortable surroundings.

When I was 11, I took up smoking. Marlboros. the first day I smoked, I smoked four packs. I loved it. It smelled good, it tasted good, it felt good, I always had something to do. At 11, my hormones were already boiling out my ears, cigarettes gave me something to do to calm me and work off the nervous energy.

When I was twelve, I discovered the Zombie. The Zombie is about three shots from whatever bottles happen to be open, mixed together and rapid-fire guzzled at lunch at school. My mother was a heavy drinker, she always had about five bottles open, it took her two years to notice they were emptying too fast.

See, the thing is, I like drugs. I have been shovelling heavy-duty pharmaceuticals into my blood stream since I discovered Nodoz in high school.

Drugs keep me alive, and I mean that literally. The asthma meds keep me breathing, the hypertension meds keep my brain from exploding (I was told at the e/r that if my bp is not controlled soon, I will have a stroke within 5 years).

When I had cluster headaches, I took opiates to survive the pain, and on several occasions was suicidal even with the painkillers, so they very literally saved my life. I got dependant on them, went to detox, but since they never managed to fix the headches, as soon as I was out of detox, I was back on pain meds, and starting to ramp up dosage again. Every doctor was convinced I was just a junkie lying about headaches to get high. But then, the headaches stopped, and surprise, surprise! I was off pain meds in less than two weeks. Now I am on them when I need them without a problem of escalating dosages or tolerance. Was I addicted? Yes. Was it terrible? Less terrible than the pain would have been without the meds. Would I do it again? In a heartbeat. If the cluster headaches ever recur, you can bet your ass I'll do the same thing over again, and just hope that either they go away again, or I die, before I have to do the detox shit again with cluster headaches.

A bit on detox: Shut the fuck up, you sanctimonious bastards. I am NOT going to go sit with a bunch of neuvo-born-again morons gripping coffee mugs the size of small tanker-trucks, chain-smoking camel unfiltered extra-tar, extra-nicotine cigarettes and telling me how I am powerless in the face of my addiction. I was powerless in the face of my pain. My addiction actually EMPOWERED me to take some small bit of control from a circumstance that was rapidly spinning out of control. In so doing, I escaped the tortures of the damned with my family intact and my extended support structure still taking my calls. Because of Oxycodone and Phentanyl (the lollipops rock), I never succumbed to the desperation I felt.

Anyway, back to drugs. As you can probably tell, I like them. Especially the two classes of drugs that have been used for thousands of years in shamanic contexts, the hallucinogens and the dissociatives. I use these to do what is sometimes called astral projection, sometimes called Shamanic Journeying (one of my teachers called it "goin' and lookin' " and another called it spiritwalking). I don't use drugs to ENHANCE this experience, (altho that is, admittedly, why I started experimenting with them) but rather to, as many relaxants and intoxicants do, put some distance between the seer and the seen.

I call these drugs Sacrements, because as I understand the concept, a sacrement is something that sanctifies one, or makes one pure or holy. In short, it is a thing you use to become closer to the divine, or the truth, or the spark, or whatever you believe in. Also among my Sacrements are non-drug items. Sex, kinky sex (it is a different deal entirely), long, difficult conversations with loved ones, teaching, learning, fighting, dehydration-fasting-sweating (sweat lodge, PJ, circlespinning) and composing poetry.

I like drugs. Marijuana should be legal for all of you folks (because of my medical condition, it is already legal for me (sorta)), pain medicatin should be easy to get and easy to increase. Withdrawal hurts like hell for three or four days, but it is no worse than a really bad flu. Hallucinogens should be legal to create possess and cultivate (and I am tempted to say that everybody should try mushrooms once, but I have met people that couldnt deal)

Questions about this stuff are welcome.
Lizard

Insight!

religion is the emergent behavior of groups of humans!

This insight is a LOT cooler if you know what Emergent Behavior is. If you don't, trust me, it is a cool insight.

Lizard's Rules For (mostly) Safe And (relatively) Sane Mysticism, part one

#1 anticipate insanity
The line between Mystic and Total Fucking Nutball is very very thin. Instead of fearing and avoiding insanity, accept it, prepare for it, and plan ways to mitigate or compensate for it. Cultivate non mystic friends and partners who are willing and able to tell you that you are getting too wierd. Listen to them.
#2 Don't drink the cool-aid
ALWAYS maintain, in the front of your mind, the idea that you could be COMPLETELY wrong about all this mysticism shit. It might well be self-deception, wish-fulfillment, insanity or fraud.
#3 Don't prepare Cool-Aid for the consumption of others
When you talk about mysticism, to believers and skeptics alike, understate everything. Cultivate doubt in both yourself and in others, and do it openly and in stark terms. Whenever possible, avoid passionate implorement. Don't try to convert people, don't try to convince them, don't try to make them admire you, don't try to impress them.

Bletherous Redultatude.

Blitherous redultatude.


I defrobulized her,
but it was too late, the damage had been done,
and nothing I could do whould make the priloprop stop klelunkling.
We wept as she frobbed, gilwhackily.

the elpler-splogue bespracheted the morgravinder
but to no avail, because her melenphytoc brusbander odburrulled,
and none of the frabjons were trained in the ways of norplicks.

The defrobulizing was eccemidic, but softly so,
and her brouebabs rose and fell and rose and fell,
and became hicklinjipy with the strain
but the bribs of her impinder did not return,
and we mourned and freeflined,
while the sprival light sank slowly from our sight.

The defrobulizing continued, much to her extreme norbutrer.
She bagan to thrash violently, then she smarmled on the cruiplod
and begged forgiveness for her brimundling.

we glivened her, as she had asked us to,
but she then refused to plorn,
so we glivened her again.
On the third, she wraksplinted, and knew no more.

The frobinjay and the norplicks formed a line about us,
gleegily replerting the entire, vast ungulanimy.

"It Falls To US!" he shouted,
and the pleeving of the groschnacks
became even more groobed.

I defrobulized her, tho she wanted it not,
but the brusbanders,
the small brusbanders,
must spilf all the rells.

So we sat, forlorn and blugaggled.
I splonted her, and she splonted me.
but the megleg was too palfruous
and our passion, mingled and thrensed together
bleered us both through the glupless night.

Sklergs quefrelled through the dark trull
leaving bits of it smooming on the carpets
so that all who schinted there felt the creplerous waufgham.

Now, in this place, glivening us together under blufrand,
the creplerousness is bethriven. And had bethrived.
in the end, her plabulousness churminked.
Finally, and we all agreed.

our salten tears befriddled the path,
and we norblered it no more.
Norblered no more.

It was the bleen, it was always just the bleen

Cathartic Whine?

Probably aught to change the name of the blog from "half a bag of mojo" to "Cathartic Whine"

Ramble

an 8 on the pain scale tonight, so pardon partial incoherence.


Pain is almost impossible to write around.
I can absorb anger, I can redirect misery, I can channel love and passion.
Physical pain is just something I am not good at. It grabs my attention away from everything else and what makes it to the keyboard is usually a simple rant, pointless, meandering and unfocused. Opoid analgesics take a bunch of the pain away, but the result is no writing at all, and for me that is tantamount to clinical depression, I tailspin quickly. So, half and half, I suck it up, write, feel good about myself until the next day when the pain is worse, I medicate, and get nothing done, feel like crap about it and endure the next day, and on and on and on.
Whine bitch moan complain.

Untitled. (grief?)

I stood aside and watched her cry
a deep, wracking cry
a lament that seemed to include
the whole of creation in mourning

"I wasn't nothing before him
and now I'm nothing again"
she moaned, swaying softly
over and over
until all the black-suited mourners had gone
and it was just she and I
and a coffin-sized patch of dirt
in the stone-pocked irregular meadow

"wasn't nothing, nothing, nothing"
she said, gaining ferocity
the moan changing to a grunt
then to a yell
and finally to a scream

and I watched her hands clench to fists
and her knees buckle, as she sank
and hit the ground in time with her shouted fury
on her knees
she genuflected anger and hate
her arms, and her tears, hitting the fresh grave
until she had nothing left.

She melted down
and stretched herself across the grave
and tried, vainly, to die with him.

And I had to turn away and hate myself
because I could do nothing.
nothing.