Wondrous The Merge

   James Broughton   (November 10, 1913 – May 17, 1999)

James Broughton (November 10, 1913 – May 17, 1999)

Had my soul tottered off to sleep
taking my potency with it?
Had they both retired before I could
leaving me a classroom somnambulist?
Why else should I at sixty-one
feel myself shriveling into fadeout?

Then on a cold seminar Monday
in walked an unannounced redeemer
disguised as a taciturn student
Brisk and resolute in scruffy mufti
he set down his backpack shook his hair
and offered me unequivocal devotion

He dismissed my rebuffs and ultimatums
He scoffed at suggestions of disaster
He insisted he had been given authority
to provide my future happiness
Was it possible he had been sent
from some utopian headquarters?
I went to his flat to find out

He had two red dogs a yellow cat
a girl roommate an ex boyfriend
and a bedroom ceiling covered
with blue fluorescent stars
But he was ready to renounce anything
that would not accommodate me

He said I held the key to his existence
He said he knew when he first saw me
that I was the reason for his birth
He claimed that important deities
had opened his head three times
to place my star in his brow

This is preposterous I said
I have a wife in the suburbs
I have mortgages children in-laws
and a position in the community

I thoroughly sympathize said He
Why else have I come to your rescue?
These exchanges gave me diarrhea
I tried leaving town on business
but I kept remembering the warmth
that flowed through his healing fingers
We met for lunch at Hamburger Mary's
and borrowed a bedroom for the afternoon.

He brought a bouquet of red roses
and a ruby-fat jug of red wine
He hung affection around my neck
and massaged the soles of my feet
He offered to arrange instant honeymoons
and guarantee the connecting flights
Are you mad? I said You are half my age
Are you frightened of your fate? said He

At Beck's Motel on the 7th April
we went to bed for three days
disheveled the king size sheets
never changed the Do Not Disturb
ate only the fruits of discovery
drank semen and laughter and sweat

He seasoned my mouth
sweetened my neck
coddled my nipple
nuzzled my belly
groomed my groin
buffed my buttock
garnished my pubes
renovated my phallus
remodeled my torso
until I cried out
until I cried
I am Yes
I am your Yes
I am I am your
Yes Yes Yes

He took a studio of his own
on the windward slope of Potrero
where I spent after school hours
uprooting my ingrown niceties
and planting fresh beds of bliss
His sheets were grassy green

In his long bathtub
he sat me opposite him
and scrubbed away my guilt
With a breakfast of sunbursts
he woke the sleeping princess
in my castle of armor

Waving blueprints of daring
for twin heroes
he roused my rusty knighthood
To the choked minstrel
aching my throat
he proffered concerts of praise

Off the tip of his tongue
I took each tasty love word
and swallowed it whole
for my own
Are you my Book of Miracles? I said
Are you my Bodhisattva? said He

Ablaze in the thrust of desire
we scathed each other with verve
burned up our fears of forever
streamed ourselves deep in surrender
till I lay drenched under scorch
and joy cried out through my crown

Wondrous Wondrous the merge
Wondrous the merge of soulmates
the surprises of recognition
Wondrous the flowerings of renewal
Wondrous the wings of the air
clapping their happy approval

I severed my respectabilities
and bought a yellow mobile home
in an unlikely neighborhood
He moved in his toaster his camera
and his eagerness to become
my courier seed-carrier and consort

Above all he brought the flying carpet
that upholsters his boundless embrace
Year after year he takes me soaring
out to the ecstasies of the cosmos
that await all beings in love

One day we shall not bother to return

 

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Listen to Anne Sophie-Mutter play Meditation From Thais by Jules Massenet here.

 

The Gate Keeper Of Inspiration — A Weekly Sunday Series by Socrates Black

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The Gate Keeper Of Inspiration: Introduction — Socrates Black

 

The bell ringed to notify me someone was at the front desk. Out of habit, I glanced at the calendar for the date. It was January 14, 1977. Not that the date mattered so much here, but it does give some indication of who might be arriving this evening. I have been the facilitator at the Inn for as long as I can remember, but time here seems to stand still so memories are all I have. It was a dream that brought me here the first time to this picturesque place of beauty, fields and streams, forests and lakes. The Inn was an old, large wooden barn where craftsmen and women came to practice their art and writers, poets, artists, and philosophers came to talk and share their thoughts. I had the inspiration to bring all my favorite people here to share their stories and to inspire others. So that is what I did. The Inn is difficult to reach as it can not be located on a map and can only be found by those who have been given an invitation. My position here...I do not think of it as work...is to welcome the guests and to be of service to them in whatever way I can. I am the Gatekeeper of Inspiration. My name is Socrates Black...

I leave my study and head toward the front desk. Our arriving guest glances up from the oversized hood covering her head and partially hiding her face. As she pulls back the hood, I witness her renowned beauty. The room appears brighter with her presence. Her eyes are a steel penetrating gray. They focus on me as I walk behind the desk and reach for her room key from the cubbyhole behind me. I turn toward and face her. Her smile offers an invitation to engage. So I do.

“Bonjour Mademoisell. I am here to assist you with your transition in whatever manner you may require. You are free to call upon me at any time. You can meet the other guests this evening. They have been waiting for your arrival. In particular, Ms. Weil has asked that you be seated at her table. I trust this meets with your approval. Cocktails and tea will be served starting at six and dinner will be served at seven, but these are merely arbitrary numbers. There are no clocks here to watch time move, so time is no longer a burden, nor is it a measure of existence. I will ring the chimes to announce the appropriate moment.”

“Thank you, Mr.?”

“Please, just Socrates, Ms. Nin.”

“How do you know my name. Have we met?”

“No Ms. Nin. As I mentioned, we have been expecting you. I am the one who sent you the invitation.”

“O’ In that case Socrates, please call me Anaïs, and thank you for the invitation.”

“Le plaisir est pour moi, Anaïs. May I show you to your suite?

                                                                              ---

The next chapter of The Gate Keeper Of Inspiration will be published on Sunday, July 22, 2018. CopyRight©️2018 by Transformation Publications. Cover image “Aries” by Emilee Petersmark for The Accidentals.

Hokusai On Drawing

   Hokusai   (October 31, 1760 – May 10, 1849)

Hokusai (October 31, 1760 – May 10, 1849)

Ever since the age of six I have had a mania for drawing the forms of objects. Towards the age of fifty I published a very large number of drawings, but I am dissatisfied with everything I produced before the age of seventy. It was at the age of seventy-three I nearly mastered the real nature and form of birds, fish, plants, etceteras.

Consequently, at the age of eighty, I shall have got to the bottom of things; at one hundred I shall have attained a decidedly higher level which I cannot define, and at the age of one hundred and ten every dot and every line from my brush will be alive. I call on those who may live as long as I to see if I keep my word.

Pema Chödrön On Meditation

   Pema Chödrön   (July 14, 1936 -)

Pema Chödrön (July 14, 1936 -)

Meditation is about seeing clearly the body that we have, the mind that we have, the domestic situation that we have, the job that we have, and the people who are in our lives. It’s about seeing how we react to all these things. It’s seeing our emotions and thoughts just as they are right now, in this very moment, in this very room, on this very seat. It’s about not trying to make them go away, not trying to become better than we are, but just seeing clearly with precision and gentleness.

 

🎂Happy Birthday Pema Chödrön (July 14, 1936 -)🎂

Alan Watts On A Happening

    Alan Watts   (January 06, 1915 – November 16, 1973)

 Alan Watts (January 06, 1915 – November 16, 1973)

For when you see that the universe cannot be distinguished from how you act upon it, there is neither fate nor free will, self nor other. There is simply one all-inclusive 'Happening,' in which your personal sensation of being alive occurs in just the same way as the river flowing and the stars shinning far out in space. There is no question of submitting or accepting or going with it, for what happens in and as you is no different from what happens as it.



Lewis Thomas On Possibilities

   Lewis Thomas   (November 25, 1913–December 3, 1993) 

Lewis Thomas (November 25, 1913–December 3, 1993) 

Provided we do not kill ourselves off, and provided we can connect ourselves by the affection and respect for which I believe our genes are also coded, there is no end to what we might do on or off this planet.

At this early stage in our evolution, now through our infancy and into our childhood and then, with luck, our growing up, what our species needs most of all, right now, is simply a future.

Oliver Sacks On The Sabbath

   Oliver Sacks   (July 09, 1933 – August 30, 2015)

Oliver Sacks (July 09, 1933 – August 30, 2015)

And now, weak, short of breath, my once-firm muscles melted away by cancer, I find my thoughts, increasingly, not on the supernatural or spiritual, but on what is meant by living a good and worthwhile life — achieving a sense of peace within oneself. I find my thoughts drifting to the Sabbath, the day of rest, the seventh day of the week, and perhaps the seventh day of one’s life as well, when one can feel that one’s work is done, and one may, in good conscience, rest.

🎂Happy Birthday  Oliver Sacks (July 09, 1933 – August 30, 2015) In Memoriam 🌹

Mihajlo Idvorski Pupin On Immigration

   Mihajlo Idvorski Pupin   also known as Michael I. Pupin (October 4, 1858–March 12, 1935)

Mihajlo Idvorski Pupin also known as Michael I. Pupin (October 4, 1858–March 12, 1935)

If the present standards had prevailed forty-eight years ago I should have been deported. There are, however, certain things which a young immigrant may bring to this country that are far more precious than any of the things which the present immigration laws prescribe…An immigrant can see things which escape the attention of the native.

John O’Donohue On Inner Experience

   John O’Donohue   (January 1, 1956–January 4, 2008)  

John O’Donohue (January 1, 1956–January 4, 2008)  

Each one of us is privileged to be the custodian of this inner world, which is accessible only through thought, and we are also doomed, in the sense that we cannot unshackle ourselves from the world that we actually carry… All human being and human identity and human growth is about finding some kind of balance between the privilege and the doom or the inevitability of carrying this kind of world.

Hannah Arendt On Silent Intercourse

   Hannah Arendt   (October 14, 1906 – December 04, 1975)

Hannah Arendt (October 14, 1906 – December 04, 1975)

A person who does not know that silent intercourse (in which we examine what we say and what we do) will not mind contradicting himself, and this means he will never be either able or willing to account for what he says or does; nor will he mind committing any crime, since he can count on its being forgotten the next moment. 

Bill Hayes On Kindness

I make a point of waving or nodding hello when I can. I have come to believe that kindness is repaid in unexpected ways and that if you are lonely or bone-tired or blue, you need only come down from your perch and step outside…Just remember: Ask first, don’t grab, be fair, say please and thank you, always say thank you — even if you don’t get something back right away. You will.

Zadie Smith On Race

   Zadie Smith   (October 25, 1975 -)

Zadie Smith (October 25, 1975 -)

My best friend during my youth — now my husband — is himself from Northern Ireland, an area where people who look absolutely identical to each other, eat the same food, pray to the same God, read the same holy book, wear the same clothes and celebrate the same holidays have yet spent four hundred years at war over a relatively minor doctrinal difference they later allowed to morph into an all-encompassing argument over land, government and national identity. Racial homogeneity is no guarantor of peace, any more than racial heterogeneity is fated to fail.

Twyla Hansen On Trying To Pray

   Twyla Hansen   (1949 -)

Twyla Hansen (1949 -)

With my arms raised in a vee,
I gather the heavens and bring
my hands down slow together,
press palms and bow my head.
I try to forget the suffering,
the wars, the ravage of land
that threatens songbirds,
butterflies, and pollinators.
The ghosts of their wings flutter
past my closed eyes as I breathe
the spirit of seasons, the stirrings
in soil, trees moving with sap.
With my third eye, I conjure
the red fox, its healthy tail, recount
the good of this world, the farmer
tending her tomatoes, the beans
dazzled green al dente in butter,
salt and pepper, cows munching
on grass. The orb of sun-gold
from which all bounty flows.