Live life loud
Bloody sun-stained October sky, Painted black amongst the grays; Silent Insanity, the Solitude and I, Lay buried beneath September’s blackest days.
I have left the wolf of darkness, at least just for today, inside my heart back in the dusky hollows of my soul space. Today, if only just for today—I am the phoenix. I said 'falcon' aloud but it feels right, I am at least halfway certain, that my fiery wings have grown back. Like Lucifer, I took a hard fall from grace and was bathed in blackness; like Icarus, my wings melted when I flew too close to the sun and I caught fire. The wings that crease my shoulder blades are small, still spreading, testing plyometrics, pliability, buoyancy, air flow. Colorless, invisible to the naked eye. In the spirit realm I stretch one out, feeling the ache of disuse for far, far too long. The other swings out as I flex my latissimus dorsi, feeling the dual wingspan of the bat-wing, the angel-wing—both of my wings. Both sides of the same soul, returned to me. The muscles are ready to work on finding an updraft, playing with the pitch and yaw of how high I soar—and yet, it is not time for the flames to fully find my ignited spirit, Apache Mama and the other fire deities waiting anxiously for the coals to smolder, smolder to kindling catch, kindling catch to a slow controlled burn of past consequence, breathing my air, my oxygen, clean and mostly pure. Until finally, eventually, any day now—whoosh—I am engulfed in the fires that have cleansed my spirit, that have burnt away the oil-black sludge of the Dark Passenger's hold on me. My skin scorched by the desert sun but not yet burned. My eyes enlightened by the last light, the lusted-after stare into the sun that took my sight once, twice, thrice, before it made me blind to the truth. But now. But now I can see clearly, or at least in the light of the 'Real.' The phoenix is a burning cycle, as understood through mythology and the ancients. I have reached the end of my cycle, dove feet first into the inevitable crash, and now—and now, it is time to pick myself up and rise.
On the evening of September 26, 1960, the unknown senator from Massachusetts John F. Kennedy faced off against incumbent Vice President Richard Nixon, in what was the United States’ first televised debate. The role of the media in shaping politics can be seen in America’s political history, media in television and radio and political campaigns to come, as evidenced in the electioneering of the 1960 presidential debate—the first televised encounter between candidates in American history. When Nixon took to the podium his form was morose, scant and sickly from recent hospitalization; Kennedy calmly took his place with confidence and poise. According to a census taken thereafter those who listened to the debate on the radio thought Nixon had won, a sharp comparison to the estimated 74 million of the majority of Americans who now owned a television set. The new medium had set the stage for a realized public recognition for how political events could be swayed, dependent on the media to shape how political figures are to be viewed by the nation. On November 12, 1960, four days after winning the election by the skin of his teeth, Kennedy was quoted as saying that “it was the TV more than anything else that turned the tide." With the rising force of television the mainstream media caught wind of just how explosive the Kennedy-Nixon debate was with the populace. Major broadcasting networks’ ratings rocketed sky-high, television sets were sold to every family on the block—America had plunged into the twilight zone like a TV show on mute; waiting, watching and listening on bated breath for the next ‘life-altering’ thing to come out of that tiny box in the living room. There was no doubt that television carried great power in its potential. "With the nation watching," a 1979 task force report noted, "The Nixon-Kennedy debates made televised encounters between candidates the hottest thing in electioneering since the campaign button." The media had dug its talons of razor wire into Kennedy’s public image, cataclysmically enabling the potential for television to double in size and scope. This event is the genesis of the next-generation public game, the next-level playing field of politicians and journalists: this is the theory of ‘media politics.’
7/18/16 After the ethereal experiences in the ring with Zoloft at the Wind Horse equine therapy ranch up in the hills overlooking the Coachella Valley, I've felt more collected than ever before. Zen. Focused. Finding myself able to help others by feeling as opposed to thinking outright with the logic propensities at extremes and my arms crossed over my chest. Multi-colored Tibetan prayer flags coiled around their biggest trees, blowing softly in the wind. I stopped and just as we were to leave for the return trip down through those serpentine snaking roads back into town, I watched fibers of a small red flag fringe blow off into the wind like horse hair, cantering on updrafts cast from the peaks of nearby topography. I had been doing some reading, and according to Buddhist mantra, hanging prayer flags benefits all living things of the world, as every time the wind blows and wafts against the flags blessing energy is sent out in all ten directions to purify every living soul that it touches—ten directions compromising the eight directions of the compass and two more—the heaven above and the earth below—dissolving hardships and obstacles that stand in the way of dharma to-be. This, in theory, will avoid shortcomings, generate auspiciousness, leading to the letting of goodness in the days to come. The same can be said of circumambulating a stupa, the main holy object of Buddhism according to the teachings of Chenrezig, the Compassionate-Eyed One. This is reason for Buddhist pilgrimage, home to Mahabodhi stupa, or Kathmandu, where the Bouddhanaism stupa sits.
Cannabis is the most widely used illicit substance in the western world, assuaged by the impact of cannabis on mankind since 2900 BC. If one were to argue that cannabis, a plant that grows from seeds in the earth, is bad because of its destructive influence on society, bringing detriment and fiscal relief as the Class 1 substance, like LSD or heroin, to the public and police officers, respectively. This is the world we live in.
It happened again. It couldn’t have been just the Ambien abuse, or the blow or the underage drinking, etc. Maybe chalk it up to a sleep disorder — but then again, who doesn’t have an issue between the sheets these days. “What happened last night?” seems to be a valid question to ask that kid standing in the mirror picking the dryer lint out of his belly button who can’t manage to match his socks or get his shit together.