Navigating the Treacherous Waters of Meaning

Too hard to starboard, too hard to port;
certain destruction.

What if I awakened one day and realized that "I" have no meaning - that in fact, the only meaning in anything.... is the meaning that I and/or others create and agree upon. There is no inherent meaning -
only applied meaning.

And I mean truly real-ize it. Not just a concept - made real.
Integrated on a cellular level.

What if I really got it, that what drives me, when closely examined,
is ultimately ego-related, ego-serving. What would I use for motivation
without "ego" fulfillment, our most powerful generator of illusion,
meaning and purpose.

What would replace it? What would I discover?

When you put the torch to meaning, purpose, ego, image, legacy, gain and loss, attachment to perception, and immortality -
the hidden void is revealed.

Sometimes you get the best light from a burning bridge.

If you've already leapt into the that unexplored void,
you did so knowing, or at least suspecting that there would be no turning back.

If you haven't yet chosen to leap - Don't.
If you have the capacity to avoid that leap - avoid it...

Run away... Run away...

The Rolling Boy

The lightning lights

a rolling plain

of desert sand

and desert rain

as it always was

through every age

acrid air of chapparal

and sweet wet smell 

of sage.

Each arcing desert burst reveals

a silhouetted human form.

A young man forging

through the storm,

moving west to east,

he makes his way neath thunderclouds

and lightning bursts that light his way

and thunder bursts 

that shake the ground beneath his feet.

A rare and welcome desert rain

the lightning and

the thunder sound

brings trembling to the ancient ground

and washes dust 

from sun bleached bones

and lights a rolling boy

and lights his way back home.

Rain and windblown

leaning into life.

Strong and certain of his course,

toward the flaming red horizon line 

that dawn has penciled in,

to show the way back to his source,

the dawn that guides a rolling boy

back home.

Yes it's true

he's passed the test

and now heads to his fathers house

to stake his claim

on life anew

to stake his claim

and take some rest.

Such sacred moments of

wonder bound.

The cool wet smell

of desert rain 

and sunrise

feeding hungry eyes.

The old man and the young

and the transfer of the wanderlust.

The passing of the torch.

For good or bad

to heal or scorch

no measure yet of wrong or right

not too early nor too late

this rainy night swings back the gate

and for just a moment

freezes time and space

to mark this turning point.

About 4:30

The boy rolled in

The pounding on the door that woke me-

Hey Dad, can you open up

“I don't have my key.

The road warrior troubadour,

at his old pop's desert place.

I focused in my sleepy eyes 

swung back the heavy rain soaked door 

I beckoned him to enter and 

we shared a long and firm embrace, 

till we each pulled back but just a pace

and looked upon the others face.

The little lamp on

the kitchen table

lit our pre-dawn chat.

Looked pretty good

I'd have to say

no bruises, blood

or stitches.

I was glad for that.

His first big road trip

road burn eyes,

he tells half the truth

and half the lies.

17 and on a roll

the music whirls

the gorgeous girls

he's gonna set the world on fire.

We spent  hours

at that kitchen table

havin' tea and

smokes.

Sharing stories not yet told

exhausted thoughts

and timeless jokes.

The father and the son

both tell the tales

and listen.

And just as best as can be done

one coming in

and one going out

find the places

where they're one.

One extended chain

of life and exploration

one likened to the other.

“Dad I met this girl in San Francisco”

“Dad I wrote this song.”

“Can I play it for you now”.

I gotta get some sleep soon

been on the road so long.

The song is played

and beneath the skin

the groundwork laid

through songs of saintly deeds

and sin, the transfer is complete.

What was once

the old mans realm

is passed along to him.

A new mans path

a young mans dreams

of wanderlust and

a young men's schemes.

The old eyes look upon

the new.

New stories fresh

the laughs are true.

The tales are told

of scared and bold.

And a sadness and a joy,

mingle ever more.

The old man watches,listens

and feels surrender's painful ache, 

as the young man

firmly takes the reins

of life and loves

and new mistakes.

New discoveries and

old mistakes made anew,

some as old as time.

Joy and beauty

broken rhyme.

Rights and wrongs

and joyful songs

with all the pains and pleasures.

Some lived short and some lived long

defy objective measure.

Life in all it's wonder,

life sometimes unkind

brought fresh into the present

for a new man to unwind.

Every choice a victory

and every choice a loss.

Each wonder gained

each choice a choice

to pay the cost.

And, experience

the reward.

The time is marked

the time is here

the torch is passed

let go the fears.

The old man hands

the reins across,

knowing that he'll always hear

the tiny voice

that since the dawn of time

has whispered to the inner ear
of every father of every son.

Now, today,
and since the very first of yesterday,
A whispered prayer
across paternal lips 

“I hope that he's okay”.

Waves of Humanity Form in an Indifferent Universe

Great strings of moments

first born whole, born linked,
then by time's wind scattered.

Great strings of moments born
of joy and pain.

Great strings of moments -

of life - of love -

of promises silent and spoken
born wet into an eternal,

salty tear drop rain,

to be blown and broken

in the hurricane

of time.


Vows and curses

dragged and battered

Joys and rages

torn and tattered.
Meaning - purpose

hope and fear

hurled and shattered

across the years

across the glistening,

blood and tear soaked

cobblestones of experience.


And all of these, but strings of moments

destined to form again,
ancient substance

born yet again as new

both in matter and in meaning.

Slipping yet again

From the safety

of a warm dark womb

into the flashing relentless jaws 

of irrelevance,
the jaws that grind eternally

the jaws that grind benignly

grind matter and meaning,

old and new

into the cosmic paste

that feeds

expanding time and space.


Gales of time and tear drop rain

hammer with indifference

against the frail human face
of the frail human race.

Each new wave of beings it seems

must rise with childlike grace

must rise in virgin innocence,

must rise and take it's place.

Yes each new wave of beings

charged with purpose

and with meaning

must take it's form in space,

as the morning flower of an evening rain

must turn it's tender, un-scarred face

forever and forever,

and forever once again,

toward the absolute indifference

of infinite time and space.

Three Stages of Service

Three Stages in the evolution of Service.

1. Service to Self:

Gratification of Ego - Self Image/Esteem - Early in life (chronologically and/or spiritually)- the tendency to be motivated by direct ego fulfillment. A valuable form of service - a necessary step.


2. Service to Others:

Gratification of Ego - Self Image/Esteem - Purpose - Meaning - Immortality.
Adopting "service to others" as fulfillment (still ego). In most of us, still rooted in self-service/fulfillment - rewarding the self. A valuable form of service - a necessary step.


3. Service as "Way":

Service - as seamless state of being.

Service - not exceptional acts, practices or behaviors.

Service - an end unto itself.

Service - noticed, or unnoticed - irrelevant.

Service - without meaning, purpose, or reward.

Service - not driven - not drawn.

Service - without past, present or future.

Service - without intent, plan, or measure.

Service - without expectation - without disappointment.

Service - without fixed form or structure - as "Way".

Stage one is practically autonomic, is required for competent functioning as a human, and is necessary before stage two can become available as an option.

Stage two is a choice, and most often a natural outgrowth of and compliment to stage one. Stage two is important and valuable, but is not necessary for competent human function. Stage two is however, a necessary pre-requisite for stage three.

Stage three is seldom understood or experienced, yet may be essential to the survival of our species and our planet. Stage three service unfolds only of it's own accord, in it's own time and only as part of a comprehensive discipline that focuses upon acceptance of "what is". In it's purest form it cannot be described, but only experienced.

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Who's Screwing Who?

Who Cares?

Sex in Hollywood or Washington or small town America - Monogamy - Polygamy - B & D - Married or unmarried - Gay, straight or Celibate - Preachers and prostitutes - Super Stars - naughty thoughts - lusting in the heart - Politicians and their aides - Auto-eroticism - Congressmen in airport bathrooms - Cross-dressing FBI Directors - Wardrobe malfunctions - Sports Figures - World leaders - Don't ask, don't tell - secret sex tapes of the stars - Next door neighbors - Mannequin lust - Fruit & vegetable fetishes...   I mean really, who cares?

I guess a simple, titillating curiosity is pretty normal. But in our culture, there's a prurient obsession, to the point of national distraction, with other people's sex lives. Perhaps people should be focusing on their own sex lives, their own taboos, their own desires - their own fantasies and fulfillment's - or lack thereof. It might curb the media manipulated appetite for vicarious engagement, distraction, and reaction.

What are we not focusing on when we're distracted by "Who's Screwing Who?"
 
Perhaps we're not focusing on our own unquestioning submission to those who are screwing us all.

Perhaps we could redirect our self-righteous, moral outrage -  if we weren't so busy screwing ourselves.