I found myself in the forest. When I was there, that’s where I was. The ground did sponge beneath my step, in shadow the steeper down I climbed.
If there were bridges to tip toe across, I did, green carpet under shoe. If there were webs still sticky stretched, I was caught, a spider’s feasting dream. If there was a clearing, so private, I stayed I danced like nature herself. I pushed I shattered the limits of expression for an audience solely made of trees.
They said they had never before and will never again witness the likes of me. They do remember these things.
Meanwhile on the Oregon mountain top only a step away, six hundred raw foodists on display. Sipping coconut water, feeding each other nectarines, as if it were an everyday thing (which of course it is). Speakers addressed the importance of minerals, fasting, raw parenting and exercise while chefs shared secrets of culinary delight---ingredients organic, uncooked and alive . Intimate conversation among strangers is normal. The music of flute is common place. A community insisting on vibrant health. The trees remember these things.
And under the stars, who could care less, only one day earlier I broke my fast with the tea of the Sacred Vine. I saw visions and I was blessed. But the stars could really care less.
Before that, three days without food and alone, the ocean crawled to me and invited me home. Honored, I had to pass. Her invitation will last.
I will search, I will question, I will try something different, I will insist on the extraordinary life. I will grow, I will learn, I will share, I will seek til I’m lost, then mySelf will I find. I will travel, I swear, to the ends of the earth, I will share a smoke with Never. I will dance like a child for an audience of trees---these things they will remember.
Found MySelf
August 28, 2003
Some Folks Seek
“How can one person be more real than any other? Well, some people do hide and others seek. Maybe those who are in hiding---escaping encounters, avoiding surprises, protecting their property, ignoring their fantasies, restricting their feelings, sitting out the Pan pipe hootch-kootch of experience---maybe those people, people who won’t talk to rednecks, or if they’re rednecks wont’talk to intellectuals, people who’re afraid to get their shoes muddy or their noses wet, afraid to eat what they crave, afraid to drink Mexican water, afraid to bet a long shot to win, afraid to hitchhike, jaywalk, honky-tonk, cogitate, osculate, levitate, rock it, bop it, sock it, or bark at the moon, maybe such people are simply inauthentic, and maybe the jackleg humanist who says differently is due to have his tongue fried on the hot slabs of Liar’s Hell. Some folks hide, and some folks seek, and seeking, when it’s mindless, neurotic, desperate, or pusillanimous can be a form of hiding. But there are folks who want to know and aren’t afraid to look and won’t turn tail should they find it---and if they never do, they’ll have a good time anyway because nothing, neither the terrible truth or the absence of it, is going to cheat them out of one honest breath of earth’s sweet gas.”
---Still Life with Woodpecker, by Tom Robbins
(read during this first week of vacation while juice fasting on the Oregon Pacific Coast)
---Still Life with Woodpecker, by Tom Robbins
(read during this first week of vacation while juice fasting on the Oregon Pacific Coast)
Gift of Ego
August 17, 2003
The ego is a strange thing, endowed with assets and faults, like any other entity (and I do say entity).
While the physical body defines our Life experience, the ego defines our Human experience. Unlike our canine companions who bark at their very own reflections, the ego looks in the mirror and says, “that is me”. The ego walks in a crowded room and says, “I am not you”. The ego is self-awareness---the knowledge of separateness. It is therefore the source of our individuality, our likes and dislikes, our isms and skisms.
In that same right, the entity that allows me to prefer royal purple to pastel pink, Portland to Las Vegas, and paper to plastic, is the very same analytical entity that allows for judgment. With the ego’s love of definition, stereotypes, classes, and labels are inevitable---loneliness possible. Endowed with will, the ego wants things a certain way, and knows when they are not.
“Oh, Ego, you are not the enemy. You are a natural part of me, and I will not shame myself for being exactly what IS human.”
There is something to be gained from releasing the ego, like the loss of our knowledge of separateness. But lack of separation must not be confused with connection. It takes self-definition to relate, it takes individuality to connect, in fact it takes separation to experience Love at all.
While the physical body defines our Life experience, the ego defines our Human experience. Unlike our canine companions who bark at their very own reflections, the ego looks in the mirror and says, “that is me”. The ego walks in a crowded room and says, “I am not you”. The ego is self-awareness---the knowledge of separateness. It is therefore the source of our individuality, our likes and dislikes, our isms and skisms.
In that same right, the entity that allows me to prefer royal purple to pastel pink, Portland to Las Vegas, and paper to plastic, is the very same analytical entity that allows for judgment. With the ego’s love of definition, stereotypes, classes, and labels are inevitable---loneliness possible. Endowed with will, the ego wants things a certain way, and knows when they are not.
“Oh, Ego, you are not the enemy. You are a natural part of me, and I will not shame myself for being exactly what IS human.”
There is something to be gained from releasing the ego, like the loss of our knowledge of separateness. But lack of separation must not be confused with connection. It takes self-definition to relate, it takes individuality to connect, in fact it takes separation to experience Love at all.
Heads Up
August 14, 2003
I’m sipping ginger tea in Portland. I’m restocking a personal supply of batteries in Portland. I’m being passively harassed by a Hare Krishna in Portland (and why are those boys always so young and adorable---that seems invariably to be the case, not only in Portland).
Yes, I’ve been waiting to be in Portland for two years now. Anxiously ever since I read in some dental office hiking magazine how They placed a moratorium on expansion in favor of wildlife preservation. And to They I say Hurrah with ripples of heartfelt appreciation (along with Mt. Rainier, Mt. St. Helen, Mt. Hood...the list goes on) for that act of conservation, for looking around me on all sides are gentle towering hills dense like beaver coat, crowded like Venice Beach, over capacity like general admission Pink Floyd---mountains saturated in pine. For as far as the eye can see beyond the dozen or so semi-skyscrapers of this 500,000-people-big city, natural wonder’s wine glass overflows.
In Portland a man nudged me in the isle at Rite Aid and not only said he was sorry, but with eye contact, asked then if I was okay (I was).
In Portland the bus driver not only gave me detailed directions to my destination, but took 75 cents instead of the $1.35 fare, saying it would avoid confusion (it did).
In Portland I found myself lost in Wonderland, intoxicated in scent, wandering fancifully among an immaculate rose garden. I found myself curled up next to the shady sound of water falls, reading Tom Robbins in a traditional Japanese garden. I found myself contemplating what kind of incense the sun prefers in the Pacific North West. Best of all, I found my Clutch sweatshirt, a little dirtier and a little wetter, tucked discretely in the hydrangea bush (exactly where I had taken it off on a walk two days earlier and forgotten about it). Um......in Portland?
Oh, yes I did! And the community of people who comprise the 3,000 seat audiences at the Keller Auditorium are unafraid to express appreciation and praise, notably less self-conscious and more giving than any audience we have had since I’ve been on the road. (You didn’t know audiences had definitive collective personalities, did you? They do).
And in Portland there are recycling bins backstage if you practice that sort of thing (we do).
I found a heads up penny on the sidewalk today but it could have been a rotten melon...
Yes, I’ve been waiting to be in Portland for two years now. Anxiously ever since I read in some dental office hiking magazine how They placed a moratorium on expansion in favor of wildlife preservation. And to They I say Hurrah with ripples of heartfelt appreciation (along with Mt. Rainier, Mt. St. Helen, Mt. Hood...the list goes on) for that act of conservation, for looking around me on all sides are gentle towering hills dense like beaver coat, crowded like Venice Beach, over capacity like general admission Pink Floyd---mountains saturated in pine. For as far as the eye can see beyond the dozen or so semi-skyscrapers of this 500,000-people-big city, natural wonder’s wine glass overflows.
In Portland a man nudged me in the isle at Rite Aid and not only said he was sorry, but with eye contact, asked then if I was okay (I was).
In Portland the bus driver not only gave me detailed directions to my destination, but took 75 cents instead of the $1.35 fare, saying it would avoid confusion (it did).
In Portland I found myself lost in Wonderland, intoxicated in scent, wandering fancifully among an immaculate rose garden. I found myself curled up next to the shady sound of water falls, reading Tom Robbins in a traditional Japanese garden. I found myself contemplating what kind of incense the sun prefers in the Pacific North West. Best of all, I found my Clutch sweatshirt, a little dirtier and a little wetter, tucked discretely in the hydrangea bush (exactly where I had taken it off on a walk two days earlier and forgotten about it). Um......in Portland?
Oh, yes I did! And the community of people who comprise the 3,000 seat audiences at the Keller Auditorium are unafraid to express appreciation and praise, notably less self-conscious and more giving than any audience we have had since I’ve been on the road. (You didn’t know audiences had definitive collective personalities, did you? They do).
And in Portland there are recycling bins backstage if you practice that sort of thing (we do).
I found a heads up penny on the sidewalk today but it could have been a rotten melon...
Wings Worn Thin, Like Mine
August 10, 2003
When I was absent, she did not leave me.
When I was terrified, she cried too.
When I was unlovable, she was thankful and she said it aloud.
We are not weak, but strong, those immersed in Darkness. It is courage to breathe, to open the eyes. It is strength to continue through a battle so painful. A fight most will never respect or understand.
When I was strong, I called out, admitted defeat, asked for help.
When I called out, she was already there.
Proportional to our Light, our Darkness---inseparable. Many will love me when I'm high. But a true friend---in despair---readily meets me there. To bless Darkness and know both of my sides.
She did not stop touching me until depression subsided.
Even then, she did not stop.
When I was terrified, she cried too.
When I was unlovable, she was thankful and she said it aloud.
We are not weak, but strong, those immersed in Darkness. It is courage to breathe, to open the eyes. It is strength to continue through a battle so painful. A fight most will never respect or understand.
When I was strong, I called out, admitted defeat, asked for help.
When I called out, she was already there.
Proportional to our Light, our Darkness---inseparable. Many will love me when I'm high. But a true friend---in despair---readily meets me there. To bless Darkness and know both of my sides.
She did not stop touching me until depression subsided.
Even then, she did not stop.
Raw Inebriation
August 05, 2003
Tonya Kay, table for one, though to my surprise I would not be dining alone.
The restaurant seemed like a bridge spanning the vast ocean between Beverly Hills and Maui. The space had flourished since its grand opening in March, which I had the pleasure of attending by some synchronisitous coincidence. I was delighted, as was the rest of the high-maintenance clientele sporting expensive shades and pointy shoes, with the eccentric tropical bouquets saturating the bright room, leaving no corner or window unaffected. Pleased again with the addition of an outdoor dining area, satistfied deeply by the three-times expanded menu, and moved to giggles upon discovering the perhaps perfect date---poised sensually, confidently---waiting seductively for my arrival.
Yes, table for one quickly led to an unexpected whirlwind of romantic ecstasy. We spoke not a word, but appreciated the entire dining experience at Juliano’s Raw in silence. Amongst the potted cyclamen and hibiscus, Tristen, our waitress, straight from the islands herself, wove a genuinely amiable web around our table. Knowing absolutely everything abut the menu from memory and genuine interest, Tristen offered graceful recommendations from behind the roots of an orchid draped low from the ceiling. In fact, Juliano’s exquisite taste in employee personnel is a major reason Raw is not just another fine-dining-foo-foo-fad eatery in Santa Monica, but a down-to-earth-and-worth-the-price culinary experience.
My partner and I began with the fresh juice of beet, apple, ginger and lime to whet our appetites, becoming quickly intoxicated by the combination of flavors and joy of conscious eating. The Sea Witch soup was by far our favorite of the evening, what with avocado, seaweed, and cumin leaving the stomach stimulated in anticipation of the main course. And the absolutely unique and surprisingly convincing entree of “fish sticks” made of dehydrated walnut pure, rolled in sprouted rye breading and served with a thick macadamia tartar with fresh lemon, left us satisfied and thankful for the gift of taste buds in general. And the ultimate desert finale, I could not resist sliding my partner in for closer appreciation---peach crepes bursting with a fluffy, warm crème---all raw ingredients which will remain a delicious mystery to two mesmerized lovers for all eternity.
Juliano’s Raw could not have been sweeter with each plate a presentation of edible art, more satisfying with each bite offering undertones of fresh flower petals, or more genuine with the day’s organics delivered directly to the front door via a groovy Scooby Doo hippie van.
Leaving my date after an afternoon like this was difficult, but necessary of course, in the end. If I could have pocketed her without guilt or without conscience broken her off, I might have nested her in my locks for an olfactory inebriation which would have persisted surely into the morn. It was with strength that I stood and turned from the scene, knowing well that in a moment another was to take my place. Hoping only that they too might appreciate fully the raw meal they are about to consume and the heavenly companionship of a very sacred flower...
The Stargazer Lily.
Table for one.
The restaurant seemed like a bridge spanning the vast ocean between Beverly Hills and Maui. The space had flourished since its grand opening in March, which I had the pleasure of attending by some synchronisitous coincidence. I was delighted, as was the rest of the high-maintenance clientele sporting expensive shades and pointy shoes, with the eccentric tropical bouquets saturating the bright room, leaving no corner or window unaffected. Pleased again with the addition of an outdoor dining area, satistfied deeply by the three-times expanded menu, and moved to giggles upon discovering the perhaps perfect date---poised sensually, confidently---waiting seductively for my arrival.
Yes, table for one quickly led to an unexpected whirlwind of romantic ecstasy. We spoke not a word, but appreciated the entire dining experience at Juliano’s Raw in silence. Amongst the potted cyclamen and hibiscus, Tristen, our waitress, straight from the islands herself, wove a genuinely amiable web around our table. Knowing absolutely everything abut the menu from memory and genuine interest, Tristen offered graceful recommendations from behind the roots of an orchid draped low from the ceiling. In fact, Juliano’s exquisite taste in employee personnel is a major reason Raw is not just another fine-dining-foo-foo-fad eatery in Santa Monica, but a down-to-earth-and-worth-the-price culinary experience.
My partner and I began with the fresh juice of beet, apple, ginger and lime to whet our appetites, becoming quickly intoxicated by the combination of flavors and joy of conscious eating. The Sea Witch soup was by far our favorite of the evening, what with avocado, seaweed, and cumin leaving the stomach stimulated in anticipation of the main course. And the absolutely unique and surprisingly convincing entree of “fish sticks” made of dehydrated walnut pure, rolled in sprouted rye breading and served with a thick macadamia tartar with fresh lemon, left us satisfied and thankful for the gift of taste buds in general. And the ultimate desert finale, I could not resist sliding my partner in for closer appreciation---peach crepes bursting with a fluffy, warm crème---all raw ingredients which will remain a delicious mystery to two mesmerized lovers for all eternity.
Juliano’s Raw could not have been sweeter with each plate a presentation of edible art, more satisfying with each bite offering undertones of fresh flower petals, or more genuine with the day’s organics delivered directly to the front door via a groovy Scooby Doo hippie van.
Leaving my date after an afternoon like this was difficult, but necessary of course, in the end. If I could have pocketed her without guilt or without conscience broken her off, I might have nested her in my locks for an olfactory inebriation which would have persisted surely into the morn. It was with strength that I stood and turned from the scene, knowing well that in a moment another was to take my place. Hoping only that they too might appreciate fully the raw meal they are about to consume and the heavenly companionship of a very sacred flower...
The Stargazer Lily.
Table for one.
