Zorba the Buddha

Yes, Deal with it!

The Workings of the Mind

Reality shows on TV are not Real. Seeing is not believing. Hearing is not believing. Seeing and believing are not real. Those realities are mere juxtapositions of the mind. Smash them up, and grind them at your closest butcher shop. What you make is real. Real or unreal really become real or unreal in time and space.

Bursting Birthday Balloon

I feel like my life is expanding like a pink giant elephant balloon to new horizons, the other side of which I cannot see. Things have pulled me in them, like a big black hole, and since I am only one person, I have to cut myself up into pieces so I have time to allocate to each busy-ness. Not that I am complaining. I quite like the fact to be honest. However, this expansion is doomed to contraction like every pink giant elephant balloon that has its hay days before it's bursted by a funny little kid's sharp stone who says "HA-HA" at the end of stories. So I am taking more time off from writing here so I can do some more non-fun and fun stuff in the life of that balloon. I have a needle handy though and if I see it gets in my way in any way irritating, I will burst it and come here as religiously as I have been. In the meantime, you save your donations in a safe place, preferably in your pants' left pocket to pass them all over, and remember the more the merrier. Hug your parents. Listen to music. And fill and burst those sucker balloons.

Dear Ghosts

Except for Mr. L. who is kind enough to read and leave me comments religiously, I would like to put out a request to all my other ghosts who come here, read, and leave without leaving comments. The number count tells me there's more visitors than Mr. L, and inspiration is not free. So, here it is. Everytime you come here and like a post, put aside five to ten dollars or even a penny from your budget and pass them up to me when you see me. Ofcourse you may decide to give more or less for a good cause depending on your generosity and discretion. I am trying to organize a trip to Peru, a place that has always inspired me ever since I was a little kid and read Erich Von Daniken's books specially his "Chariots of the Gods" which was banned in Iran at the time and I read it in my uncle's hidden basement with a childish fear thinking what would happen if anyone found out, with my cousin (same uncle's daddy) so she is probably inspired by the same book, that's why we both agreed on the same place (Peru ye pedar sag, sorry I had to say it). And I just had a car accident so my expenses have gone up. Please pass your donations my way so I can get the f*** out of here, get more inspired by the culture and come back here with a full hand. Your money goes a long way, I promise. A lot of these writings have been inspired by my travels to Isfahan, Turkey, China, Brussels, Holland, Spain, Germany, UK, France, Mexico, and the sleeping elephant south the border. Thank you.

A layered night

Last night I woke from my dream to fix something when I realized that I woke from my dream to fix something and then I woke again from my dream to fix something. I went through this cycle four times until I woke from my dream to put the blanket on me. I was cold. And now that I woke from my dream or better yet, in my dream fully, I need to go to work and fix something. And later talk to fix something else. And then eat something light to fix something. And then sleep to fix something. I may dream again.

DeAtH...

Nothing kills. Nothing dies. Nothing hurts. Nothing takes lives away. No, Lucifer and Holy spirit can't do that either. What kills is a deadly car accident on a slippery highway because of irresponsible drinking or smoking, murder with a sexy platinum desert eagle magnum or other weapons around, a sharp steak cutting knife or a shot gun, suicide, homicide, world war, seeing others suffer, a beggar lied down by a street on a gray Sunday afternoon with his dog, and this, especially the last one makes me want to cry, because it is not on TV. It is too close to the eyes to bear. But why pointing fingers at the world? Why can't we go back to a guilty conscience that gave rise to all of those and cure that? Because curing a guilty conscience requires inner war, inner suicide, inner homicide, inner car accidents with no deaths, inner drinking and always being drunk without drinking, inner smoking and always being high without smoking, inner battles, inner world wars, inner weapons, and all these inners hurt more than outers. That's why we point our fingers at others, because we can't face the war within. Face it. Cure it with integrity so I don't see more suffering. I don't want to see suffering. Once the inner is cleaned out with war, the outer turns peaceful. You'll see sunshine for the fist time, and hear the birds singing even now in the winter, and then fight everyday to change the outer, when the inner is cleared up. I wish we had a big spray container that could shower the world with a laughing gas. I don't want to cry. Me and you and you and you can be Gods, let's start from us.

...BiRtH

So everyone says it. Many celebrate it. Some congratulate one another it for it. Some even throw a big party and invite everyone who has been said. Some drink wine and toast it for the said. Some eat a good dinner with the said and listen to music. Some invite a loved one over, or a loved one invites someone said over. I hear these words. But then, someone who is said may not say anything at all. Not even one word. However, since I hear words when there are no words, I would like to thank the missed said, because it is said everyday, with every heartbeat, so it's not called missed said, it could be called a said said missed. Thank you my friends. Thank you my enemies. Thank you.

Life

Life is picking something or better yet someone from the ground when they fall, physically, non-physically, meta-physically, emotionally, mentally, consciously, unconsciously, literally, trans literally, meta-trans literally, meta-literally, spiritually, non-spiritually, or by any other means that you know and my mental elephantiasis can't think of. Just do it, goddammit. Every second. Okay? Thanks. And don't ask for anything back, goddammit. Okay? Just do it. YEAH. YEAH. YEAH. More. YEAH!

Encounters

A. Is it an accident to have four accidents in four weeks?
B. I don't know, maybe!
A. No!
B. Yes! Just open up your freaking eyes!
A. Hey! They were open!
B. Open them more!
A. But wasn't I supposed to do something un-reasonable every week? Remember?
B. Not when your life is at stake!
A. Oh!! Eat more steak?
B. You kidding with me?
A. No!
B. Yes!
A. Maybe, I don't know!
B. I am so mad at you, I will tell your mom!
A. LoL! You lose!
B. Loser is winner!
A. Damn! Fine!
[B. I love you too!
BABABABABABABABABABABABABABABABABABABABABABABABABABABABABABABA...]

Whisper

There was a dream. Like Utopia. But people put me down for that word. They kill over utopia. So you didn't hear it. Let's not argue. Let this impregnate you. Let the seed flourish in your land, and let your womb take care of the rest. I want to make love to your ghost with these words. It came from an infinite source, from nothing and everything. Maybe it was dreamed by something, somewhere, somehow. Call it God? I don't know. Who am I to know? I mean I am everyone, you are everyone, but it doesn't really matter if we know it or not. You know what? Just think you know. How's that for a change? Doesn't really make a difference. Is that what Jung called collective consciousness? Stop it. The names don't really matter. Substance matters. Why do I get fixated on jargon? Is it because I want to avoid a decent progression of conversation? But hey, isn't that what I am doing right now? Stop it. Then there was you and you and you and you and yes, me, that's a given, existing in that dream now. Living in it every moment. Our unconscious is present to the dream. Our dream, I mean the dream that comes when we sleep, is also present to this dream. So the first dream and second dream are different. Should I call it another name? Stop it. You are getting stuck in names again. Stop it. We are connected to each other and to something else that is very vague for me right now, through invisible red strings in the first dream. Vagueness doesn't mean chaos. Vagueness is absolute beauty and absolute power, and absolute freedom, and absolute peace. But since I see it with my body's eyes, I see it cloudy and vague. But when I see it very distinctly, I cry. As if the beauty captures itself in water! Like seeing the reflection of the moon in a pond of water in a pitch black night in the country side. Through development, I mean when we are growing from lovely little kids to cynical bitter adults, we become more and more and for some even more and more and more and more and for some more and more and more and more and more and more and more and more stiff, bitter, and hard in our outer shells. As a result, dreams don't come back when we sleep. This is the second dream I am talking about. That was obvious though, because I said when we sleep. Why do I divert? Get to the point. Okay! Stop it. Where was I? So dreams, second meaning, don't come back but we are still, now unconsciously, connected to those red invisible strings, like the ones Dali draws in his paintings. The stiffer we are, the more we feel like we are puppets, running the show because of our helplessness. We blame it on the way the society works, the way politics operates, they way everyone is corrupted. And that is true to a more than certain degree. But why to point fingers at others when you can point it to yourself first? So, becoming open to where we stand right now at this very very moment, you can find what the dream was, the first dream, that brought you here. To see this, thinking hard from the head is not enough, thinking hard from the heart is required. Call this something else? Stop it. No more jargon talk. Just get it. Or try. If you don't, then good for you. You are not supposed to. But if you get it, you have something I really admire. Come to me and be my friend, because you are connected to me through that invisible red string. Don't divert. Stop. No. You're not a puppet. You are the dream. First one. Live it. Could you get lost, not knowing the future? You know it. Don't fool yourself. Future exists in words. So much love. I can't take this anymore. That's why I have to stop writing. Otherwise it would all be a number of letters I can't make sense of, neither can you. Like this ooo or eee. I will tell you the rest later. Or I may never do, because I don't need to explain myself. Niether do you, nor you, nor you either. Together, threegether, fourgether, fivegether, infinitygether though, everything is possible. Give everything a chance and stand for it. But first, know thy dream. And don't lose touch with your name.

Older and wiser

Seeker is finder
Winner is loser

Chocolate is better than all seven!

A man. A woman.

I am you. You are me. I hate you.
I am you. You are me. I love you.
I am you. You are me. Good-bye.
I am you. You are me. Bye-bye.
I am you. You are me. Hi...Bye...Hi...Bye...Hi...Bye...
I am you. You are me. Boring. Now what?
I am you. You are me. Let's go eat. Let's dance. Let's swim. Let's Watch. Let's rock-and-roll.

Why do you have to be me? Be yourself!

I am me. You are you. You are so arrogant.
I am me. You are you. You make me complete.
I am me. You are you. I make you complete.
I am me. You are you. We make us complete. Now what? Let's make something together. something else. something else. A baby? No! What about an idea instead of a baby? No! Okay, that hurts. Bye!
I am me. You are you. I am you. You are me. We make us complete. Now what? Let's make something together. something else. something else. A baby? No! What about an idea instead of a baby? Okay! cool!

It only gets more complicated.

What if I am and you are?
But I want you to be mine.
Possessiveness.
That's not possessiveness.
But how can you be for someone when you are not even for yourself?
Just be.

How to break the code?

Inner happiness. Inner peace. Inner contentment.
Inner. Inner. Inner.
Yes. Yes. Yes.
Ooh. Ok. Out now! Baby? Oh, No!

God: I never said it would be easy. Don't break the code. Live the code.

Public display of affection

Moon fooled around tonight, with earth, in front of twelve billion watery eyes, for one hour and twenty minutes, total and partial eclipse style.

A creation story

My stomach was really big. She kept swirling around. I will never forget the time she decided to leave water for land. I wanted her to chose land with no regrets. Her choice with no regret was my creation, because water is land and land is water and they are both fire and air at the same time. Well, maybe not at the same time, but eventually. Her name was an elephant when she was born. I like her to be around. She is full of life and that is contagious. She starts a chain reaction of life for me and those around her. She doesn't know how she does that. I don't know either, but she does. Maybe I could change her name later. Call her life, or love. Her dad likes to take her to a big home. I like staying here though. It's cosy, but I don't mind if her dad likes it. Her dad is my dad. I am not a woman yet, and he knows it. Is that why he loves me? Is that why he hates me? Is it why he can't wrap his head around me? Is it why he choses silence and distance? What is he sad about? Maybe he's not sad. Maybe he's sad with me, or sad about choosing land for water or air or fire. No he's not sad. He just doesn't talk. Maybe he forgot his language. Maybe he is drowned in words, like me. Or maybe he is drowned in air, fire, or water, but not land, because otherwise he would talk more. Does he dream of me? I can't ask these questions from him. I am the questions, living...with an elephant who has stepped into life. He knows or doesn't know who he is and I know or don't know who I am. All we both really know, however, is that this little life form makes something beautiful for us, somewhere. That's why we created her, to be our cane when we are old. How selfish, how arrogant, how sick. We don't need canes, do we need canes? Do we need someone to put us in graves? The bodies will decay anyways, in soil, or in water, or in air, or in fire. Will she ever understand why she came to life for? Will we ever understand why we came? With no regrets? from water to land? From love? From a stomach? My stomach? Stomach. Am I dreaming out loud? Am I keeping anything real? Or is what I make real?
Thank you Mommy. Thank you Daddy. I love you both. I really do. Happy Birthday Our Little Elephant.

Karma-Koma

Coma. Does life get better when you live after a possible death or would you become full of greed not to die again? Don’t make a u-turn in a narrow busy street on a rainy gray Sunday afternoon. That is all I know now. Cold and sharp. Painful and restless. Can’t sleep. Can’t walk. Can’t sit. Can’t stand. Can’t stand the pain. The broken giggly bones only help in the loud symphony the nerves play, tingling every digit. Stings and tremors spreading like cancer in the silent gaps of the orchestra. The pain talks to me in this throbbing music. How do I communicate back? Pills. Muscle relaxants. Pain relief’s. Anti nausea. Anti inflammatory drugs. Drugs. Ecstatic talking to shut the pain away without listening. I decided not to take the pills. Flushed them down the sink one at a time to feed the fish in the lakes. To ease the pain of fish from toxic pollution.Why? I want to write the devastating song of my pain. I want to scream my life with every breath and share it with you, a stranger, a friend. This moment we share, the moment is not mine, no not yours either. It only is. It is not isn’t. We are, we are not aren’t. If you are, then I am, and if I am, then you are reading my sore wounds and hearing this bittersweet torment of my being. I have chosen to accept this irritating discomfort without the solemnity of drugs to write how we are. How we can chose to be the best we can be. To transmit life to another, a stranger, a friend, every moment, every now, with every heartbeat of ours, that is my will to be after coma. To be, here, for you, for me. Coma hereafter. Okay now, no, no, please go away.

Mathematical Noise

Black shoes polished
Socks with no holes
Red Ironed dress
Hanging Accessories
Tied back hair
Bittersweet perfume
Ready to go
Out of my brain
Out of my head
Out of my mind
Out of my thoughts
Catch me when I fall

In the beginning, there was silence...

So I am supposed to write here. Every now and then, I feel like going somewhere behind the mountains, underneath the water, deep in the forests of Mississipi, or deserts of Arizona to yell out all the words that are stuck in me. Words bear me down. But talking to people is difficult sometimes. They think you want something from them, or they think you don't want anything from them. It's hard, being with people sometimes. So I chose this little warm dark corner. I wish there was a fireplace here, built in, with a glass of red wine and good music, to ease the pain. So here, I am supposed to free myself of the burden of words I carry inside. Writing doesn't free me of this burden of being, but it is a way out of here. Out of this fleshy being of mine. The responsibilities held by this flesh makes me out of breath. That's why I come here, more often, now that I know I am not going to be misunderstood by the bodies I talk to. The bodies maybe ghosts trapped in spider webs, like you, but friendly ears, that's all I need. It feels good here, keep me hanging, before you pull the chairs underneath my feet. Cliff Hanger Style.