The Peterson Chronicles: Look Mom, No Head!

[Guest guest]

Good Morning friends;

 

Doing a little housework. Thought I'd send you this for your

collective amusement.

 

love and devotion,

 

Madhya

 

 

 

 

 

Look! Mom, No Head!

 

 

 

Om Hum Hrim Om Hum Hring Om Hum Hring

Shring Shring Kling Kling Kling Ring Ring

Vring Vrang Vrawng

Om Hum Hrum

Kali Ma,

Beloved Ma,

Om Hum Hring

 

 

 

Late Wednesday night

 

 

("Follow me boys,

follow me boys,

If you think

You're in the right,

then, follow me!"

Disney film, "Follow Me Boys"

starring Scoutmaster Fred MacMurray)

 

 

 

 

 

I'll be damned if living

here in the smoking

capitol of the Northwest

I don't find myself

wanting a cigarette.

 

The former me's exerting

toothless tugs on

my heart, my devotion,

my will to do the right thing.

 

I suppose that what

I want is to escape

responsibility for conviction,

devotion,

putting my heart's treasure

where my mouth is...

You know how it goes,

mind over matter,

spirit over mind,

soul over spirit,

e pluribus unum

 

Where O where has

my Peterson gone,

where O where

can he be?

 

Human beings like

to think of themselves

as a sufficient cause.

 

We suffer from a disease of

onto-theological dysphoria.

 

Decisions weave the

drama that is our life.

 

The dialogue that is

in my head is at once

a river,

a stream,

a dammed reservoir,

an ocean of currents.

 

Are we never still?

Mind is a perception mill,

a word gin,

a cold-fusion big-bang

of sensations,

feelings, convictions

passions, drives:

 

a helluva big damn breast

sucking in and out the

eternal instance: Now;

an auto-erotic DeSoto

of speeding obsolescence

driving the jammed freeways

of survival at any and

all costs.

 

 

Our mind fills the

effulgent vacuum with

sound and fury,

my conscience haunts me

and when she sings she

screams banshee-like,

O! you Eumenides,

immortal Furies--

are you me as a moth

clambering weak and

uncertain toward the

mystery of a light

only faith, only compulsed

passion can be

convinced exists?

 

No one has seen

what I, too,

have not seen.

 

O you pundits

with your scores

of volumes keeping score,

hypothesizing, analyzing,

saying this and that about

what can be done and

can't and granting lip-service

sanctity to the past,

to present notions of

the past,

telling me and he and

us in general what

to believe and

where to go and how.

 

Blessed Friend(s),

do not heed

them: Or better,

practice first and

believe what others

say later.

 

We are the children

of Care,

the bubbling sein und zeit,

the castrated

hin und heir

that marks this luscious

spring of our discontent,

the frozen winter of

our feverish languor.

 

My choices are coerced

by this disease

of motion-sickness,

a life of both that

and this,

either or neither:

and such weight,

the force of gravity

that compels me

toward the illusion of

right and wrong,

the sins of mortality:

for it is the occupation

of mortality

to bind together

the strands of eternity--

We have no choice

but to decide.

 

Choosing is the

pumping Heart of Spirit.

 

Here is a fatal notion:

I am enough to do the job.

 

What I think I am

is enough.

 

The paradox:

We are wrong.

We are fooling ourselves.

We must add to what

we are to survive.

We must subtract

from what we are to

live.

We must pretend that

we are still to move forward.

Or better,

we must discover

whether motion

exists at all.

 

Perhaps a person

must stand on firm soil

to step forward?

 

Certainty about doing

this or that ain't a matter

of right or wrong

but standing still

enough to recognize

moving from non-moving.

 

I can spend my life

on the run or

I can stand still long

enough to realize that

the fuel of motion

does not move.

 

 

The magic of this

discovery is freedom.

 

Freedom from all duration.

Liberation from ethicality.

Effort no longer names

the activity of my arms

and legs and lips.

 

Only when good and evil

disimprisons me can

I perform beneath this

SeinundZeitful proscenium.

 

I alone am erotic.

Sex is only a pale

suggestion of my

auto-erotic Personality:

 

What is a personality,

Peterson asks,

not whispering,

but shouting,

not caring but

demanding?

 

It's the ol' in and out.

Self-recognition is

onto-theological masturbation:

beings sliding against Being:

Zeit jacking off Sein,

Yin blowing Yang.

Outside screwing Inside--

and versa-vice--

in all,

One hell of an

auto-ontological fuck-fest.

 

And it just don't matter,

nothing matters,

you cut off your head

to free your body,

you slaughter the sovereignty

of your thoughts to

liberate the personality

of your Self.

 

Freedom is like

being Yertle the Turtle:

You see the world

from a heightened

vantage, only the

height is not higher

but utterly Present:

Now.

 

Why do I meditate?

What is the motivation

for prostrating every

accumulated opinion, judgment,

bias, feeling, emotion

before the altar of

Non-attachment?

 

Surrendering everything

you gain nothing.

Acquiring nothing

you gain everything.

 

Why?

Because everything the mind

attaches to itself

is not itself.

I am not my mind.

I am not my thoughts.

I am what births

all thoughts everywhere.

When I recognize this

the boundary between

inside and outside

is erased.

The thoughts in my

head are no longer

somewhere different than

anyone else's thoughts.

 

All thoughts everywhere

arrive from One Mind.

 

All eyes view

the same vision,

all ears hear the

same sound,

Humanity possesses

but a single skin

that feels itself

at once from the

inside-out and

the outside-in.

 

We danced once,

Peter-dear,

Do you remember?

The fabric of my

dress caught the static

electricity on your shirt

and hiked up and

attached itself to

your skin,

and we melted together,

then...

Do you remember the

salt of my perspiring brow,

Can you hear my voice

speaking to us both?

 

I can hear your

oofy-gay chuckle,

your acky-way hands

pressing my flesh,

 

I hear the words of

a hundred songs

that we performed,

never relying on the

sheet music,

never failing to

remember together,

all the words that

we sang also those

haunting hundreds of

years ago.

Shall we delete the

memory of liquid light

thrust up and out by the

primeval Mother,

fiery Kali Ma,

Womb of

us all?

 

Dare we not own

up to the burden

charged to us by Now?

 

O lover, teach me

loving, dreaming.

Give me back my

irrepressible urge

to eat the exquisite pain,

to own up to the sultry

union of the Divine Life!

 

Give me what you

owe me, feverish Lover...

Pay me my wages!

 

Was it not You

who co-opted

my employment?

Why am I yet

serving food and drink

to impatient patrons?

 

Where is the

true vocation

you

promised

would be mine?

 

Or, did you?

Does awakening serve

no other purpose than

pleasure?

 

Yes and No.

 

And a marvelous,

subtle pleasure it is

that replaces all rough

sensuality with

subtle, tender delights

that demand only

one's devotion,

attention,

faith,

passion for

compassion.

 

What purpose do you

serve, Beloved Actor,

Senior Shiva,

patron of all arts?

 

Why should any average

woman seek you, serve you,

prostrate before you?

 

Glorious Peter, what good

are you, if you don't

have all the answers?

 

Put me in a stage play.

Grant me immunity

from prosecution.

Drive me

to dozens of

simultaneous destinations,

deliver me,

deliver me,

deliver me:

 

Mea culpa,

Mea culpa maxima.

 

I am lost, Beloved,

you have cast me

adrift on the

sea of Now,

bidding me cast

my net,

Winken, Blinken and Nod-like,

into the currents

for magic fish and

submarine sacred cows.

 

Where am I, Sir P?

Is this the

mid-life crisis

from Hell?

I see only

darkness

and I see only

myself before my eyes

continually,

and what I mean

by myself

is that me

that I always

thought was unique,

the cinema of

me that played

in my head from

day one.

I mean the

self that flickers,

that flaps her

wings toward the

distant flame--

burning on the altar

of transmigration--

 

I mean the me

that has known

fatherhood,

motherhood;

has cut off

her head

to whet her lust.

 

I mean the me

that fails

here and there,

in the past,

in the present,

who knows obeisance

to existential dysphoria,

knows the pain

of living peering

through a veil

of me-ness,

stultifying uniqueness,

hungering for what

is possible only

beyond the pale

fluorescence of the

local, obvious me,

beyond the range

of the eyes,

the ears,

beyond even the mind's

sense of itself

as a self...

 

O, Peter's son, do

you hear my prayer?

Not to you, oh, no--

you are here only

to witness, to signify,

to intensify--

but to Him,

my Beloved,

my Shiva,

my Emperor-White-As-Jasmine,

my husbandwife

whose left breast

I kiss,

whose phallus,

condom-less,

unfettered,

I suckle hoping,

praying, that following

my Heart I shall

find my treasure.

 

 

 

 

Madhya Nandi

copyright 1998

all rights reserved

[Guest guest]

Hi Madhya

 

Look! Mom, No Head!

 

Om Hum Hrim Om Hum Hring Om Hum Hring

Shring Shring Kling Kling Kling Ring Ring

Vring Vrang Vrawng

Om Hum Hrum

Kali Ma,

Beloved Ma,

Om Hum Hring

 

this is a mantra isnt it ?. Can you tell me what it use for ?

 

TKS

Slamet