Here, There and Everywhere

Posts tagged ‘desire’

To Be or Not To Be

41SUqh9JdSLNobody In the Box – A Poem by Soodabeh Saeidnia. Illustrated by Seyedeh Masoumeh Hosseini. Reviewed by Gabriel Constans.

Nobody In the Box is completely outside the box (in English and Farsi). In fact, it is neither in nor out, of any sense of containment. The illustrations, by Ms. Hosseini, which accompany each section of the poem, brilliantly and beautifully compliment the words, and stand on their own as exquisite works of art. Ms. Saeidnia writes about emptiness within emptiness, and the friction between being and not being, with just a whiff of Persian poets Hafiz and Rumi’s insight into being something greater than ourselves, yet also completely within us.

Expecting no assistance
From the ocean, the sky, and the earth,
Even from the box itself,
I can only turn into an invisible Wish
Waiting for a special event,
A phenomenan, a moment,
In which “nothing” may turn into “something”

Reading this poetry is like hearing a melody, and reminds us that everything is nothing and nobody, until we give it (or them) labels and meaning. Dr. Saeidnia’s work in various countries around the world, with pharmacology and an array of compounds, informs her understanding of how interdependent things (and people) are and how they can appear and disappear.

The box’s sigh penetrated space,
Bent the contours of time,
Surged forward and touched the nothingness
Nobody heard the box’s sigh,
Felt the pain of missing,
And for the first time Nobody wished:
“I wish I was somebody”

Nobody In the Box brings attention to desire, wishes, moments – all temporary and which may, or may not arise; and if so, from where, who and/or what? What is our reality? Are our bodies and minds like a box, wanting to be acknowledged, labeled, noticed, or have “something” happen? Are we the same as everybody else, with nothing to distinguish us from others? What is the essence of matter, and does it matter?

Advertisements

You Will Do What I Say & Like It

TheSecretJourneyThe Secret Journey by Paul Christian
Reviewed by Gabriel Constans

There is nothing secret about The Secret Journey. It is a pornographic literary collection of women being dominated by men, and other women. IF you like hearing about, and enactments of, someone being controlled and enjoying (and learning) to be obedient, than this will be right up your alley, or other parts of your body.

Whether it is a man speaking, as the writer or teller of the tale, or a woman, it is always in first person. Environments include homes, bedrooms, baths, work spaces, school rooms, horse tracks, night clubs, trains, and other places and times. The writer claims to know the reader, and exactly what it is you want to hear, and do. Most of the scenarios are common male fantasies, and include the usual graphic scenes of sucking, licking, fucking, looking, talking, and doing what one is told to do.

There is no character development, or attachment to any of the people in these stories, but that is not the point, or purpose, of this book. The author skips any preamble, or pretext, of plot, or complexity, and zeros in on desire, wanting, giving and receiving. If that is the kind of erotica that tickles your fancy, than The Secret Journey will take you where they want you to go.

Aunt Tova’s Closet

imagesChantall’s story about her aunt’s material things. Excerpt from Zen Master Tova Tarantino Toshiba: The Illustrious and Delusional Abbess of Satire.

Master Tova’s niece, Chantall, had recently arrived from the land of the Maori to care for her aunt in her final days. The first thing The Master requested was that Chantall clean out her bedroom closet.

“It would be my pleasure Auntie. Where would you like me to put everything?”

“Just clean it out first, then we’ll figure out what to do with it.”

Chantall went to work and was surprised to find such an array of items packed into such a small space. She pulled out three bags of clothes, ten pairs of shoes (including some sequined platform clogs), a shredded bed roll, five pairs of candlesticks (which were melted almost to the wick), fifteen unmatched socks, a pair of rusty engraved silver scissors, scroll after scroll of some ancient texts (which she could not read and did not understand), two balls of yarn, a broken knitting needle, seven lightweight blouses (with stains and various colored material), a large pair of men’s pants, a moth-eaten velvet hat, an earring, nose ring, ankle and wrist bracelets, an array of playing cards, a begging bowl, an ochre-colored robe that had turned almost gray, a wooden chess set, two brass bells, some old letters (which she planned to read as soon as her Aunt drifted off to sleep, as they appeared to be love letters), a drawing of an elephant sitting in meditation, and a necklace with a green emerald pennant in the shape of a Bodhi tree. Clearing out the closet took much longer than she’d expected.

“Now what Auntie? What would you like me to do with all your things?”

“We must first clear out the closets of our mind, before we can be free,” Master Tova replied. “A mind cluttered with ideas, thoughts, the past, the future, or desire, will never find freedom.”

“Okay,” Chantall said, “but what do you want me to do with all this?” She nodded towards the high pile of Master Tarantino’s possessions.

“That? That is nothing more than a collection of matter, which had been stored inside a container of matter. Holding on or letting go of material objects makes no difference. It is our attachment to people, places, or things which causes suffering and keeps us on the endless wheel of karma.”

“Yes. I understand Aunt Tova, but where should I take it? What do you want me to do with it?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Just leave it. Better yet, why don’t you take what you wish, give some to your mother, and distribute the rest to charity?”

“I’m not sure how to say this Auntie, but most of this is useless. It wouldn’t even be worth donating.”

“Then burn it all. Light a pyre and reduce it to dust, just as I will soon become.”

“As you wish.”

Chantall took load after load out into the light of day, built a fire, and started throwing Master Tarantino’s material goods onto the fire. She kept the ancient scroll, the necklace, and a bell. She tried to retrieve the love letters, which she’d inadvertently thrown in with everything else, but it was too late. Then she returned to her aunt’s room.

“It is done Auntie.”

“Excellent. Now you are free. There is nothing holding you back. You can move on.”

“Those were your things, not mine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter, does it? Desirelessness is a trap and desire is liberation.”

“Don’t you mean . . . oh, never mind.”

As Aunt Tova drifted off to sleep, Chantall quietly tiptoed out of her room, wondering what she would have found in her aunt’s love letters, and berating herself for having inadvertently thrown them into the fire.

Chantall told this story to her mother after she returned home from caring for Aunt Tova. Her mother wrote it down and later passed it on to an undisclosed student of her sisters community.

More stories of desire at: Zen Master Tova Tarantino Toshiba: The Illustrious and Delusional Abbess of Satire.

Drinking in Land of the Buddha

Drinking in Land of the Buddha
by Gabriel Constans

Gautama Buddha once said, “Desire is a trap, Desirelessness is liberation.” Obviously he had never tasted a smoothie, or he would have said, “Desire is freedom, and the best desire of all is for smoothies.” Over the last few years, many Buddhists have been known to be secretly converting to Smoothism. This is a simple, satisfying meal, which, like Buddhism, is nourishing and easy to digest.

images

Yield: 5 cups

1/2 cup filtered water
1 cup coconut milk
1 banana
1/2 cup shelled, unsalted peanuts
1/2 cup cooked rice
1/2 pineapple, peeled and chopped

Place all the ingredients in a blender, and mix on low speed for 45 seconds.

Pour into small bowls, serve and discover true enlightenment.

Song of Love

From The Treasured Writings of Kahil Gibran. Translated by Anthony Rizcallah Ferris and edited by Martin L. Wolf (1951).

Song of Love by Kahil Gibran.

I am the lover’s eyes, and the spirit’s
Wine, and the heart’s nourishment.
I am a rose. My heart opens at dawn and
The virgin kisses me and places me
Upon her breast.

I am the house of true fortune, and the
Origin of pleasure, and the beginning
Of peace and tranquility. I am the gentle
Smile upon the lips of beauty. When youth
Overtakes me he forgets his toil, and his
Whole life becomes reality of sweet dreams.

I am the poet’s elation,
And the artist’s revelation,
And the musician’s inspiration.

I am a sacred shrine in the heart of a
Child, adored by a merciful mother.

I appear to a heart’s cry; I shun a demand;
My fullness pursues the heart’s desire;
It shuns the empty claim of the voice.

I appeared to Adam through Eve
And exile was his lost;
Yet I revealed myself to Solomon, and
He drew wisdom from my presence.

I smiled at Helena and she destroyed Tarwada;
Yet I crowned Cleopatra and peace dominated
The Valley of the Nile.

I am like the ages – building today
And destroying tomorrow;
I am like a god, who creates and ruins;
I am sweeter than a violet’s sigh;
I am more violent than a raging tempest.

Gifts alone do not entice me;
Parting does not discourage me;
Poverty does not chase me;
Jealousy does not prove my awareness;
Madness does not evidence my presence.

Oh seekers, I am Truth, beseeching Truth;
And your Truth in seeking and receiving
And protecting me shall determine my
Behaviour.

I Am by Tom Shadyac

Went and saw I Am, a documentary by Tom Shadyac, with a friend yesterday. Very important, insightful and challenging film. The theater was packed when we got there, as the film is becoming more well known. The movie and director were both featured on Oprah last week.

In some respects, I Am is similar to What the Bleep Do We Know?. It takes different scientific studies and scientists, to explain how connected all life on the planet is (not just theoretically, but actually). He also interviews various philosophers, spiritual leaders and thinkers to get their views on “What is wrong with the world and what can we do to make it better?”

I Am is different from What the…, because it is much more personal, well photographed and edited (he had more money to do so) and it also looks closely at the cancer of consumption and wanting “more” as symptoms of the human race which may be our demise, if we do not wake up and take another path.

Mr. Shadyac doesn’t preach, but shares the insights he had after accumulating a great deal of wealth (from making movies like Ace Ventura, Bruce Almighty, Patch Adams, etc.), having an accident and re-evaluating his life purpose. He also explores how other biological systems interact, cooperate and communicate. Most people leave this movie with a good feeling and a desire to do good.

The following words from the films website provides an accurate summary.

“Shadyac’s enthusiasm and optimism are contagious. Whether conducting an interview with an intellectual giant, or offering himself as a flawed character in the narrative of the film, Shadyac is an engaging and persuasive guide as we experience the remarkable journey that is I AM. With great wit, warmth, curiosity, and masterful storytelling skills, he reveals what science now tells us is one of the principal truths of the universe, a message that is as simple as it is significant: We are all connected – connected to each other and to everything around us.”

A Literary Seduction

A LITERARY SEDUCTION

Catching sight of it across the room,
pushing desks and chairs aside, I circled the stacks slowly, edging closer to the object of my literary desire.

Acting as if I didn’t care, my sleeve brushed invitingly against its spine.
Not succumbing to the obvious temptation I turned,
casually trailing my fingertips across the leather bindings on the shelf below.

Dizzy with discovery I slipped and fell against the stacks.
To my delight, the prized edition I longed for fell before me,
opening to reveal its fullest form.
“Prose! Prose!” my heart pounded with renewed anticipation.

Rushing to its side I knelt possessively.
“Too soon. Too soon.” I whispered into its creamy wanton pages.
Resisting the urge to devour its succulent stories,
tenderly closing its velvet covered hardness,
I held it tightly to my trembling body.

Spying a private corner behind the ferns I made my way to darker recesses.
Drawing the magic to my lips, breathing infinite possibilities,
I slowly lifted the cover and caressed the fly page.
The table of contents undressed its willful intentions
as I fingered through the waiting pages of blissful madness.
Wetness willed its way down my aching body.
I swallowed hard as my mind prepared for an invasion of ecstasy.

Subtle framing grabbed my soft tender throat,
as the turbulent dialogue licked me speechless.
The plot thickened with fully developed characters.
Metaphor wrapped its meaning around my memory,
and the rhythm rocked me head to toe, moving in three-four time.
I tangoed with luscious adjectives as the verbs drummed a gyrating beat.

Is this the middle or the end?
Did I miss the story in the first line, is it coming now, or is it all a fake?
“Don’t lead me on.” I cried.
“Take me to the edge, take me now!”

The words smiled cunningly.
I laughed at my seduction,
and made plans to come again.

Tag Cloud