Tales from the Path. Journeys into the unknown with the sole purpose of knowing oneself deeper. These writings are not for the faint of heart, so please shelter yourself if you are not ready. As I have walked in my body, in this beautiful life, although tragically so at times, I have journeyed. I am from a concrete jungle...a polluted, wretched, beautiful concrete jungle where landfills sit the size of pyramids opposite ancient mounds. Atop these ancient mounds the indiginistas (b/c they came up from Mexico) made human sacrifices much like the Aztec, blood being their holy sacrament, they built a mound to touch the clouds just to get a little closer to God, to show him, look at what we are offering you......funny how modern man mirrors this with their skyscrapers...look at what we are offering you dear lord...corruption, disconnection, rubbish, as they say in a land I once knew.....pure Fuckrie! But truly, the metaphor never escapes me. Each time I come home, I see the mounds, I see the landfill and realize in this modern world, at least in this country, although I truly believe it has stretched far beyond, we have been conditioned, or more accurately, brainwashed into worshiping that which is easily thrown away. Look Lord at what we are offering you.......
I am a rebel at heart, this is unchangeable. My true awakening began one night on a crazy acid trip in Central Missouri. 17. So young, I bought all of my clothes from goodwill, cut them up , then pieced them back together like a puzzle. I enjoyed going to art shows with my model friend, swilling vino and as my usual self at that time, causing a stir, pissing someone off (usually uptight American college age male), and then running out laughing my ass off, tripping over my heels and winking at the door man.... Enblazoned (is that a word?) friends behind me wondering how this girl act so crazy...I realize now, it was my desire to step out of the oppression. It was my desire to run free. To let the breeze blow my hair into tiny dreads and not be bothered to brush it. To stare at the stars all night long on the beach with a lover and feel the breeze cool, but stay anyway b/c hey, we are alive, Give thanks for the breeze! Yes this is how this journey began. This is what propels it still. The deep inner longing to trod deep within the mountains just to sit silently with the tree dwellers and hear their songs. The need to walk so far that the soles of my shoes burn out with holes, and yet I'm still ready to walk some more in my bare feet..... The internal prayer that occurs when one swims in the ocean for hours on end, no fear, just bliss. The desire to sit at the feet of enlightened ones and surrender this worldly illusion.....to drop the rat race.... Immersion. Oneness. Culture. All of this...Joy is what matters to me in this lifetime. This is what spurred this journey. It is no longer separate trips to me, but one journey. I have been journeying now for 11 years on the road. Yes I settle at times, but in my heart of hearts, I am always a wanderer. This is the difference between a tourist and a traveller. A tourist goes for a week, takes a lot of photos, goes to the local trappings in the guide book, and then goes home. Back to hell. A traveller...ah the bliss, a traveller goes for the sake of going. There is no coming back. Only movement, eternally in the flow. No need for a five year plan. As I say, Five year plan, how about five minute plan? How will we know, five minutes from now, you and I could slip into the unknown again. Leaving these beautiful bodies in our chair, as our soul rises above...or is it that we just merge and expand in every direction? To contemplate death is almost unfathomable, and in me, it invokes the urge to be in the great mystery as much as possible in this life. What else do we truly have but this moment? This is what has spurred this journey. I have seen many exit the Earth this year, and I can tell you , this is what has spurred this writing. Yes JAH this is what has spurred this fucking beautiful journey. The great wino Jack Kerouac also helped at bit.
Yes sweet 17. Rosy plump cheeks, hoop earrings and a big stick of sensimillia. I do not remember how I found the writings of Jack Kerouac, this is perhaps b/c his books found me. On the Road...a crazy book about his real life hitch hikings and train catching across the United States, back when it was still the United States, not the land of oppression and the home of depression.....his crazy adventures of feeling the breeze and sitting with it rather than running back to the comforts of 4 walls, a flushing toilet, missionary style and all those things. When I think back on his books, and his passion for life, and love, and living, tears hang on the brim of my eyelids, and I feel the beat of the open road in my heart. Why? I know why...I remember my journey. The one I shall tell you.
No comments:
Post a Comment