Just because we stop, the world
does not see fit to up and quit:
although we think our present season
the focus of the universe.

Just because our silicon
has returned back to native dust,
and what we've turned with artists' hands
from ore to sculpture soon is rust.

The chlorophyll, almighty green
that courses wild through our bloodstream:
when it has drained away what soul
we once possessed, who will control

the world that constant, presses on
and throws its earth upon the graves
of king and peasant, saint and knave,
who build, discard, then too are gone?

31 JAN 2005

For forty years I've sought some kind of truth
and come up empty-handed, more or less.
What dreams I held like treasures in my youth
have lost their gleam; my hands, their tenderness.

The journey has not gone as I had planned,
nor have the self-prescribed instructions been much good.
The waters beyond my small plot of land
remain uncharted depths, and what sparse food

I gleaned from these great oceans has become
like horded manna, fit for only flies;
my touch has turned rare jewels to lumps of coal.
My tongue once loose with song has been struck dumb,
anesthetized by years of speaking lies.
Now, even my illusions cannot hold.

Along the rocky shore, I peer in vain
out in the mist that crowds the twilight shore
with eyes now worn and weak, their muscle strained
from nights in candlelight. There is no more

soft music in the wind that brings delight,
nor quiet silence where I find some peace.
Each moment brings no end, just fruitless fight;
and sleep, once fitful, brings me no release.

At midnight, when the world is calm and still
and secrets are exchanged between the veils,
I stand offstage, behind the curtain's wall
and where the footlight shadows barely spill,
just listening to others' wondrous tales,
and realize I've found nothing at all.

27 JAN 2005

for Starlight Dances

Although some celebrate today
the Scotsman's favorite bard,
my day is elsewise occupied
and I shall find it hard

to think of he whose "Auld Lang Syne"
will ring out through the night.
For this day someone else was born
who gives my life delight.

My first, my last, my everything,
my better half, by far,
the truest friend I've ever had:
my one and only Star.

So Robbie Burns, I wish ye well
there under heath and sod;
You've given me much, I admit,
to think on man and God.

But today is for goddesses,
and I've one in the flesh;
were you alive, it's likely you
would feel the same, I guess.

A toast to verse, and tuneful speech,
to poets at their rest,
and to the muses such as mine
who give all life their zest.

25 JAN 2005

Like all Capricorns, I suppose, I am continually attempting to fashion some kind of theory of the universe. In conjunction with that astrological impetus, my real world experience in information systems technical support insists that this theory include a practical user's guide written in language that can be easily understood (or at least understood if one possesses the proper prerequisite understanding). The musician that I am provides the cement that ties the ideas together, while the philosopher crafts the thoughts that the writer puts into words.

You'll notice that I didn't say my being "pagan" gives it any sort of spiritual veracity or inspiration. That's because unlike all those other traits I identified above, it's not an action. It is a state of being, not a religious inclination or activity. Besides, there are so many labels that could be, are, or have been applied to ideas that these labels make no more sense than an endless stream of acronyms paraded by a Silicon Valley wunderkind in front of a Neanderthal who just got his first wheel built. And I don't consider this a "pagan" piece of thinking - or rather, I do, but I suppose not many other so-called "pagans" would agree. Maybe that's because it's not just the anti-pagans that have a far too limited interpretation of what that Latin derived word REALLY means. This work is not about that.

It is about expanding, not constricting.

It is a philosophy of energy.

This is an on-going work.

I've spent a life in parables,
disguising my ideas
in costumes and strange metaphors
deliberately unclear

and so perhaps convinced the world
that I'm a harmless quack,
imagining just chimeras
with no spine in their backs.

But recently, while looking through
and sorting sundry stuff,
I've started thinking parables
are just not clear enough.

So I've decided to speak plainly,
well, at least plain as I can,
and for a while, pretend that I'm
a new idea man.

Besides, it seems at present
the world needs of bit of this;
so I beg your indulgence,
and hope you won't find amiss

the fact that I'll be writing things
to stretch your world, and mine ---
and perhaps we together
can build a new paradigm.

24 JAN 2005

This is primarily an intro to several chains-of-thought that make up the bigger picture. They probably will not be chained together in this way once each of them has been fleshed out a bit more.

Each historical age is determined by the predominant societal position given to the individuals, groups, nations or empires that can produce or have the resources to acquire whatever substance that age equates to its varied definitions of power. The Bronze Age - whoever could make the most bronze weapons and tools was the predominant culture; The Iron Age - same scenario, different metal. Once societies ran out of harder or more workable metals, they had to pause and re-evaluate their priorities. As a result, we had the Dark Ages - whoever could keep the most people in the dark about their own potential and thereby utilize the brawn of the world without the cumbersome benefit of its brain; the Industrial Age - the period during which those who appeared to be the most industrious were valued, when how much you had really first became more important that what it was you had so much of; the Computer Age - that period of time after we figured out we could get someone else to do the thinking for us, and ending just before the period of time when we began to realize we couldn't tell the difference; and finally, we are in the midst of what some are calling the Information Age. Of course, because there are so many of us in this world now, and each of us more or less autonomously by consensus creates, borrows, buys, steals, inherits, creates, is allowed, is deluded into, or avoids their own separate, unique and individual opinion on the subject, whether we are at the beginning, in the middle, or nearing the definite conclusion of the information age is highly subjective.

My belief is that we are near the end of the Information Age; and that means that a new age is on the imminent horizon. I will outline my reasons for this belief, both in its ceasing to exist and clearly waiting to exist aspects, in a while. For now, let me just skip forward to my conclusion: The next age we are about to enter is the Wisdom Age, and unless we start thinking about gathering some of it together now, you and I and a lot of people on this planet are going to be on the bottom of the food chain, socially speaking.

The first question I would put forward to anyone I encountered in this new age would not be, "Do you speak MY language, stranger," but rather, "Can you sing in your OWN (language)?"

At the conclusion of my initial interrogative statement I would commence to demonstrate a song of my own devising, in my own language. If there was no reply in kind, then that person would be required to locate someone of his own kind who could in fact sing a few bars. If that individual was willing to teach the first "stranger" something of the way of singing, then improvement of that culture could continue. Of course, there would be attempts, in the beginning of the age, where some would try to get others to sing on their behalf (which would of course give credibility to the singer and only by association improve the standing of the employer in some respects, and lower their believability in other respects), or would learn, by rote, someone else's songs and try to bluff their way through (of course, a true singer would know that the song was not of the singer's creation, and would know something was false in the communication). But this would rapidly prove the exception.

After the first exchange of songs in each of the singer's native languages, translation of ideas and other information could ensue. Without a meeting of equals, an individual or group, no matter how extensive or impressive or overwhelming their other assets, had no basis for transacting communication and no wise way of achieving that objective. Unless two individuals can understand,
through that shared experience of each other's inner being that singing your own song weaves into reality, what really is important to the other person, there is no fair, equitable, honest, open, profitable or moral grounds for business, trade, marriage, treaty, alliance, division, disagreement, censorship, condemnation, ridicule, friendship, religion or warfare - in short, none of these partnership activities can occur. If you want any of those things but can not get your songs in order, you just have to wait. You're obviously not ready for whatever it is you think you want. So you have time to work on your song and get it together.

Maybe this will help put things into a bit of perspective:

Imagine walking down the sidewalk on an early spring morning, a light mist still hanging in the air in the coolness of the day. You could be in a metropolitan area, or out in the middle of the desert (of course, the construction and very nature of your sidewalk will vary depending on that first choice). There could be thousands of other people involved in this selfsame activity, or you could be the only one. For the sake of this illustration, imagine yourself and at least one other person who will become aware of your presence at about the same time you gain awareness of them.

Now imagine that instead of having a set of headphones on your head that is fed from Sony Walkman, you are accompanied in the open air by a group of between two and six musicians, all accompanying themselves using whatever acoustic (that is, non-electrically powered) instruments, devices, accessories, tools best describe and reproduce the music that describes you. This may take a while to imagine, and of course, at different times, the group may be composed of different and perhaps interchangeable individuals and/or attachments. Chances are you'll have several varying groups, but at least one or two. Now imagine the body of work that they might perform. It might be songs from the radio, ambient sounds, religious hymns, classical works, etc., etc. At least one of the songs must be an original work (exactly how original is always going to be a problem, it always has been, but I think the nature of the problem will probably change in the future), the performance of which you take an active part whenever it comes into rotation, or by request, whichever comes first. Since this discourse will get confusing unless we somehow divide its parts into recognizable segments, let's call this first imaginary product in the course of this analogy "The Soundtrack of Your Life."

Don't worry if you think you might have left something out - there's going to be ample opportunity in the future to expand your repertoire.

15 MAR 2005

One could argue, I suppose, that there is a hint of madness to be found in EVERY family tree. And for those that exhibit no overt sign of it, I suggest that itself is the madness.

Who could imagine their ancestors
all stark raving mad,
or at least each generation
marking out as bad
an apple flung far from the tree,
opposed to status quo
and causing much embarrassment,
endless grief and woe?
Yet isn't it a kind of madness
to mime, deaf and mute,
precisely as your forebears did,
and not press your own suit?
And times when the world was mad ---
if your lot stayed the same,
would you not think it odd or find
some malady to blame?
To think that no one in my family
thought this world not right,
or questioned why it should be so,
gives me an awful fright.
For what is more insanity:
to flee a maddened world,
or find a place inside the whirlwind
and stay safely curled?
A paradox that troubles me
whenever I feel sane
is why I find a normalcy
amidst such strife and pain,
and why we fear insanity,
which makes us more aware
of that which keeps the world divided:
in here, and out there.

23 JAN 2005

Sanity is a funny thing.

It often seems that the more you emphasize your own sanity, rely upon it as a sure thing, compare yours to others, the more likely it is that you are in fact not sane.

On the flip side, it seems to me that questioning one's own sanity is one of the surest signs that you are NOT insane.

It's like the Sufi story, wherein everyone drank of the water that came from their wells. One person kept some of this water in storage. One day, the water coming from the wells changed, and everyone who drank it behaved and believed completely different from how they had before. Further, they had no memory of the water that was before, or that the water was ever different. The person who had stored up the old water, however, continued drinking from his stockpile. As a result, he saw that everyone was acting in a manner that they previously would have considered insane; and any attempt he made to convince others that they had changed was met with ridicule. He even offered them some of his stockpiled water, and they considered him mad. As you can imagine, he became very lonely --- yet managed to drink only stockpiled water...until one day, he decided he would rather be insane like everyone else, rather than sane and alone. So he drank a cup of water from the wells, and promptly forgot all about his stockpile, and behaved like everyone else. Everyone else, by the way, was relieved that the poor addled and insane fool had finally come to his senses.

The world is full of empty headed fools ---
their courses set by half truths and whole lies ---
who trust their leaders, and obey the rules,
and bow to every bright new flag that flies.

To cry "Alas!" that there are such as these
is pointless waste of energy and time.
One might as well imagine every breeze
a hurricane, each pole a desert clime.

Each seeks a level suited to their stage,
and to expect the masses to react
against their nature's book (line, verse and page)
is to deny both illusion and fact.

In such a world, it's difficult to keep
from thinking that some doom is close at hand.
A wise observer oft can only weep,
while knowing their tears, few will understand.

And yet, despite the cruel and senseless scenes
that seem to dominate the nightly news
(where gloried ends achieved by any means
are often praised as righteous, sacred views)

some things still retain power, and unscarred,
escape vain rhetoric's ensnaring noose.
Despite how it may read on the cue card,
truth cannot be perverted for misuse.

Some may abuse it, twist it, change white black,
by their perversion cast it into doubt,
but some part of it, pure and strong, fights back;
and in the darkest hour, it will out.

The trick is finding what truth is in you,
that inner core that no one can corrupt.
Against that strength, no matter what they do,
all lies must end, and lying tongues, shut up.

With that accomplished, even mindless fools
may start to overcome their empty state.
A shame they don't teach that technique in schools;
perhaps we should, before it is too late.

22 JAN 2005

So we've inaugurated him
the Jingo Kid, ol' Cocaine Slim
to serve again as our great chief.

Despite the obvious belief
of many folks that he's the spawn
of Satan. Soon he will be gone,
and who will fill his king-sized shoes?

That we're in sad shape is no news,
and four years hence things will be worse
fed evil pap from this wet nurse.

I wonder, though, if just for spite
the constant scheming God-filled right
won't train a Democrat or two
to follow on the Shrub, Part Deux;
and hoist some harmless seeming Left
upon a nation, now bereft,
its sense of truth and honor gone,
its holy cause, freedom, a pawn
used as a ploy to sell your way
on next inauguration day.

I'll end with this, and make it brief:
next time you pick our chosen chief
be sure to check at your hairline
for three tattooed inverted nines.

22 JAN 2005

Sometimes I feel there's not enough ink
and spare electrons can't be found
to pull out from the ether what I think,
so I pull in all the excess wood around
and burn away the wheatless chaff
in giant billowed clouds of smoke.

Sometimes I'm trying hard to laugh
so the whole world doesn't seem a joke.

And other times I feel the need
to just devour the world outside;
so I look for endless things to read
that tease me, soothe me, or provide
a viewpoint quite unlike my own.

If I add you to my friends list,
which today has greatly grown,
it's because I can't resist
the urge to share part of your view,
without intruding, just because
I find pleasure in reading you
and knowing of your joys, the flaws
you find in worldly things,
the ups and downs that each day brings,
the songs you sing that I too know
(and strange new ones, that even though
are not my cup of tea (or gin)
may find me humming right along).

Each day's new entries help begin
the chords that make up my own song.

And if you find what I may say
from time to time worth reading, too,
though where the path leads, none can say,
I'm glad to share a mile or two.

22 JAN 2005

If I were still a drinking man,
I'd say I need a shot;
but as my self-made realm is dry
I think I'd better not.

If I were still procuring weed,
I'd want to roll a joint;
but all I've left is seeds and stems ---
I think you get the point.

If I were still alone and free,
I'd probably point my car
with nowhere as my destination;
but now I'd not get far.

If I had those proclivities
that helped me through my youth,
I'd more than likely make a mess
of things, to tell the truth.

Instead, I'll sit and meditate,
reflecting on a week
that seemed to drag on endlessly
and sap my strength to speak.

Then in the morning, when I wake
I'll not be worse for wear;
and be more glad for nothing planned
and money saved. So there.

If I were still the man I was,
I'd see myself, and laugh.
But then again, I'd rather be
a joke than epitaph.

21 JAN 2005

I'm reading tompaine.com and searching for common sense. I have said before that if you're in a band, and you don't think you're at least as good as the Rolling Stones (or whoever your particular idol is), then you might as well hang up the guitars and become accountants. The point is that while every garage band does not have what it takes to become a legend, if it does not THINK it has what it takes, it doesn't have a chance --- even if it has whatever other ingredients are required. Ringo Starr once said, "For a while, we thought the Beatles were the greatest band in the world. And it turns out, we were."

The trick is to avoid those comparisons altogether. To stop ranking revolutionaries by their press. And to believe that you can make a difference, simply by doing what is right. If you don't believe you can do it, it will never happen.

A recent article I read
bewailed the current clime:
where democrats are losers,
and the left wing in decline.

It said, observing Tutu dancing,
we will not be him;
our causes never quite that grand,
our aspirations, whims.

Most activists I know, in fact,
regard themselves as small,
and rate their struggles miniscule
despite grand names and all.

That seems so self-defeating;
to restrict yourself to trite
rehashing of some petty cause
and never see the fight.

It's like a band in a garage
when someone dares suggest
that they could be the Rolling Stones...
and awestruck, only jest.

While it is true, the fighter's forged
in a specific flame,
one can be just as meaningful
without being the same.

Too many think the battle's
in the streets or on TV;
the truth is, wars are won or lost
inside of you and me.

21 JAN 2005

Aleister Crowley once said, and I liberally paraphrase, that if you love life you do not waste your time, for that is the primary measure applied against it. I dedicate this poem to telemarketers, spammers, door-to-door salesmen (of either tangible products or intangible salvation of some kind), clients who call after hours, and all those who would infringe upon my time without my express consent or request.

Each moment of my time has its own price;
and some cannot be purchased with mere coin.
Let my donation of it be my vice,
and cursed be those who would by ruse purloin
five minutes, nay, one instant without leave.
That being mine, it lacks the holy grace
of your own lifespan, I will not believe.

Yours trades for no more value by its face,
nor is it alloyed from ores of more worth.
There are some things for which my time is stored;
though just a few, they each claim sacred berths.
You would rob these slyly, and what's more,
believe it chattel due some wage you pay.

But what I give my hours is mine to rank;
and there are more important things each day
than what results in funds placed in the bank.
Each moment of my time is not for hire,
nor is it leisure waiting your concern.

My candle's length is not your source for fire;
and I alone choose how and what to burn.

20 JAN 2005

To each their own: let others speak
of hells where self-damnation wreaks
eternal havoc on the mind and soul;
its torments let their thoughts embrace,
imagining some devil's face.
I will not heed such useless folderol.

It should suffice that where we are
has troubles quite enough to mar
our whim's concept of beauty and heart's ease,
but to repel all good there is,
for unseen promise, is hubris,
and shows our vain humility in shame.

What hells you make, keep for your own;
and if that means you must disown me,
then so be it --- I am not to blame.

I do not worry for my fate,
on sulphured brimstone meditate,
or wince imagining my flesh on fire.
Instead, I seek right now right here,
to walk straight on, and have no fear,
accepting both the roses and their briar.
For if you're acting kind and nice
in hopes of reaching paradise,
you're only seeking payment or reward,

but I try to do good because
it's worth the doing. If that's flawed,
I'd rather know that Devil than your Lord.

20 JAN 2005

The exercise this week relates to the poetic foot the dactyl, which is basically a stressed syllable followed by two unstressed ones. A typical waltz pattern, you could say. Here's the example I used, with successive stanzas in dactylic monometer, dimeter, trimeter, tetrameter, pentameter and hexameter.

Listening
carefully:
wondering,
wandering ---
what is the
reason for
being a
questioner?

There can be questions that
tear at the fabric of
what seems so vital and
yet is not meaningful.

Knowing these queries can lead to the
answers, but only if asked with a passionate
selflessness, without an ultimate
motive or reason for seeking them.

That makes the seeking out answers more perilous;
often it leads to a crisis of temperment:
peace is oft lost in the battle for dominance,
forcing your hand as you make your way traveling.

Once in a while, though, the pathway is stunningly beautiful,
filled with an essence of wonder that speaks quite unconsciously.
These moments, glimpses of possible, reachable paradise
Give us the courage to press on in spite of our maladies.

Courage is needed for much of the journey to find out our destiny,
bravery wrought from the stuff we think commonplace, meaningless wandering.
Beautiful, gossamer dreams that as children we thought were reality:
These are the valuable ores that construct a world we find worth living in.

17 JAN 2005

For some reason this morning I woke up thinking of the hymn "Sweet Hour of Prayer" --- in particular the wonderful bluegrass version done by the Osbourne Brothers. And I thought to myself, "Self, why is it that there are so few good pagan hymns?" At least in the neo-pagan tradition, that is. There are a myriad of songs to the Great Mother in Bengali, but so few outside of India get a chance to experience the longest unbroken tradition of Mother Goddess worship in the world.

So here it is. A pagan bluegrass song. A pagan hymn, if you will. Imagine Ralph and Carter Stanley singing it, instead of "Man of Constant Sorrow". Someday, when I get my home studio back in working order, I'll put it to disc and hope to do it justice.

There is a shadow that lingers on
after the cover of night is gone
it seeks to darken enlightened souls
and separate each part from the whole

Seeking a power beyond their ken
the world is destroyed by shadowed men
and despite knowing their way is flawed
they seek to prove theirs the only god

Oh Mother help me
to understand
see past illusion wrought by your hand
Oh Mother help me
to see your face
and walk beside you all of my days

We walk in darkness, and do not know
it is but shadow that makes it so
Blinded to reason and lost to care,
we fumble searching for what's not there

Some think they've found it, the one true path
for all to follow or be downcast;
Their eyes set on some far distant goal,
they seek all others to control

Oh Mother help me
to find my way
see past illusions that cloud the day
Oh Mother help me
to see your form
and find a shelter from this great storm

There is a shadow across our hearts
It hides the one place where all truth starts
and separates us, who should be one,
into these fragments left each undone

Each clinging to one small grain of sand,
in darkness, claiming our light is grand;
Lost in illusion, and dark design,
We trade the sacred for "me and mine".

Oh Mother help me
to see the light
find truth worth sharing past wrong and right
Oh Mother help me
your name to sing
and see the wonder of everything.

16 JAN 2005

Suppose the price were for a stamp?
Would you refuse to pay,
if knowing without postage
you had no method to say

to friends in far-flung places
(quite impractical to meet)
the things that occupied your mind,
your heart, the path under your feet?

You'd gladly pay, yet you begrudge
the folks who tote the mail
(to extend out the metaphor)
and when their servers fail

you act as if the world had stopped,
a world you fill with files,
and endless bytes of words and wisdom,
user pics and styles.

It's strange, that because it's the 'Net
some think it should be free --
and out of five and some odd million
so few pay the fee.

It's service: you don't have to mind
the disk space or the links,
the constant monitoring for threats
or fix the backbone's kinks.

You'd pay for stamps, and envelopes
for letterhead and pens
to keep in constant contact with
a worldwide web of friends,

So why not pay for what you need,
and not let someone else
foot, at a loss, the great expense
of what defines your self?

16 JAN 2005

Rooted from the garden of our innocence
Cut down crosstown, cross time
Casting your petals, careless, wind-borne,
spilt from your cup like wine

Do you, can you, remember it,
locked in those vases on the mantle?
Is there something that can tie you back, speechless,
except time?

We could be orchids in the ocean
We could be lilies on the vine
We could be cast in graven images
without divine intervention.

Stripped down, pared back to nothing,
Left out shivering in the cold;
Is there anything remaining here
That's not been sold?

Packed up, headed on the highway
Moss-free, like a rolling stone;
What do you do to keep from fading,
from growing old?

We could be tulips at the table
We could be roses in the rain
We could be set free from our dependence
On each others' pain

Who's left the garden gate wide open?
Who's picked the flowers by the way?
Who's left to say she loves me, loves me not?
Who's going to replant, come May?

We could be orchids on the oceans
We could be roses in the rain, sometimes
We could wake to find ourselves immaculate,
Divine creations
Misguided applications
of divine intention.

JUL 1991

Fumbling to ecstacy
One nerve cell at a time
Approaching some nirvana
Piecemeal, by the inch, sublime
At the end of fingertips
Extended like a drawl
Until the whole skin breathes in
each moment's alcohol
From the toes along the chakras
glowing honeyed fire
as the entire body vibrates
with divine desire
Waiting, the anticipation
as the space grows close,
is almost as good as getting ---
well, not quite almost.

13 JAN 2005

I have not found the answers seeking truth,
nor even formed the questions halfway right;
the mysteries that tempted me in youth
are still in shrouded mists hidden from sight.

The path under my feet begins and ends
a single step from where my legs touch ground;
and sacred destinations? Well, my friends,
not more than a few moments rest I've found.

And yet, I would not trade the journey made
for any great reward from gods, or king.
I have become a very different man
than had I come here leading some parade.

It seems that fumbling, half-sure wandering brings
experience beyond all dreams and plans.

11 JAN 2005

Who decides what lives, what dies,
based on more than the needs of some,
but on what is best for the entire world
so balance can be maintained?

Who thinks they have the right to choose
that some should flourish while others fail,
that their kind is much more essential
and so deserves more space, more food?

The gods of course.

For only the gods act out of concern
for the whole; their own interests are not part
in any way of the actions made.

The point is this:

if you benefit in any way from a decision
to kill or not to kill today;
if you gain more ground, or food, or power
by taking others' things away,
you're not a god.

This is not your dominion.
You are not the most auspiciously born.
You are only a small part of the whole.

And if you act as if you're a god,
without that knowledge,
you will only result in destroying everything.

You will fail.

And you will find excuses for your failure,
like "man is a fallen creature,
bound by sin to make mistakes"
because you don't really think so ---
you think man is a god,
and that the world just doesn't work right.

Well, it just doesn't work the way you think it does.

Here's a quote from something I received today:

Vegetarianism is a natural and obvious way to live with a minimum of hurt to other beings. Hindu scripture speaks clearly and forcefully on vegetarianism. The Yajur Veda (36.18. ve, p. 342) calls for kindliness toward all creatures living on the Earth, in the air and in the water. The beautiful Tirukural, a widely-read 2,200-year-old masterpiece of ethics, speaks of conscience: "When a man realizes that meat is the butchered flesh of another creature, he will abstain from eating it" (257). The Manu Samhita advises: "Having well considered the origin of flesh and the cruelty of fettering and slaying corporeal beings, let one entirely abstain from eating flesh," and "When the diet is pure, the mind and heart are pure."

And here's my question for the vegetarians (and spiritual leaders) in the house:

Most eastern religions emphasize that vegetarianism implies non-violence, and that killing animals is violent. However, if the Divine life force is present in every single object (animate and inanimate) that exists, then certainly pulling a carrot from the ground is killing just as cutting a bull's neck is killing. BOTH are violent acts. In fact, the bull is not being pulled out from the roots, so it seems the killing of the bull is in fact less of a system shock.

So it seems that some killing is more important than others. Some is violent, and some is not.

Not to pull an Uber-Jain sentiment out of the hat, but isn't it more important to recognize the sacrifice made by ANYTHING that provides you with life, rather than insisting that some sacrifices are more meaningful than others? In other words, in order for you to live, SOMETHING must die. Only in the case of an apple falling to the ground (from a tree that you did not shake) are you not directly involved in killing that something.

What is more important, the sacrifice, or the recognition of it as such?

It seems to me the focus of this kind of vegetarianism is on the repercussions on you as a killer, rather than on the suffering of the victim (be it bull or carrot). In which case, it doesn't matter what you kill, you are guilty of the offense. Alan Watts said he was a vegetarian because "carrots scream softer than cows." That is a different motivation than because killing a bull is worse karma than killing a carrot. That is not a moral choice, it is a choice that makes the negative act easier to live with.

And that, my friends, does not seem like a valid basis for a spiritual diet to me.

What seems valid is that no matter WHAT you eat, you are indebted to it for its biomass --- without which you would not survive. Perhaps you did not personally end its life. But you are taking advantage of its death. To deny that is to perpetrate a lie. To not accept the consequences of living when other living things must die for it to be so, is to misunderstand karma altogether.

Adapted from Bowl of Saki, by Hazrat Inayat Khan:

Nature teaches every soul
to worship its' own Divine
in ways and means of some kind;
and oft provides a method

that suits one and not the next.
Those who desire just one law
by which to govern all life
have lost sight of the spirit

that animates and informs
their own brand of religion.
Yet it is in such people,
who have not yet understood

their own religion's meaning,
that ideas such as these
tend to arise frequently.
If they did but know the truth

that lives in their religion,
how tolerant they would be;
how free from holding grudges
against different dharmas!

hymnal verse

Where am I bound, my feet underneath me
touching the earth just one step at a time?
When I have found my purpose for living
will it be worth what I left far behind?

What is the sound of an unanwered question
reaching the silence in faraway ears?
When I have heard it will it be an echo?
Will I have wasted my listening years?

Who are the teachers ready with lessons,
waiting for pupils yet to arrive?
When I first meet them will I be ready
to learn to study how to survive?

How will I know what is the right answer?
Even the questions seem beyond me now.
When each voice carries and echoes just darkness,
can truth be heard in this world, anyhow?

Why am I wandering the path set before me,
each step in shadow, front and behind?
When I arrive at my true destination
what is the welcome I'm hoping to find?

Where I am going is some place, and nowhere;
maps are illusions, roads are their dreams.
When I stop reaching for definite answers,
everything becomes much more than it seems.

Where I am bound there's no expectation;
only the journey will be my reward.
When I stop moving, this walk will be over ---
then all these questions will plague me no more.

18 JAN 2005

At each new dawning of the day,
our shackles turned to dust,
we rise from bed and check the door
in case it's turned to rust;

and finding perhaps a loose hinge
or screws worn down and stripped,
we throw our weight against the seam
where new daylight has slipped.

The door cracks open, and we sprawl
out in the joining hall
that through our window seemed so vast
but really is quite small ---

for it is just another cage,
a slightly different cell;
and after a few moments' rest
it becomes hard to tell

if where we are and where we've been
are very much the same,
or if the move we just accomplished
will affect the game.

The light begins to fade, at length,
and we begin to sense
that each room we have passed through
is illusion and pretense,

that the rough walls are paper thin ---
in fact, they're barely there.
We could walk through and out
with just a single breath of air.

But reaching that epiphany
we do not grasp for more,
just sleep, and dream of getting past
tomorrow's brand new door.

07 JAN 2004

Right now we're cruising at a constant speed,
although the scenes outside the window blur;
each fleeting breath a entire universe,
a moment pressed between to come and gone.

It seems as though we're standing at dead still,
the center of a mighty hurricane ---
the worldly rabble rages all around,
its energy consuming and consumed.

Beyond the edge of our imagined grasp
the whirling dervish of ourselves, immersed
in the experience of being one
with what our conscious minds cannot conceive,
spins shadows with which we construct the world
to serve as both our paradise and cell.

06 JAN 2005

As if the little things were not enough:
those trivialities that chafe and burn
like tinder when it's dried and raspy rough,
that seem so insignificant you spurn

the notion that beyond them is the truth.
It's just that they are countless, and to try
to sweep them each aside is of no use;
for each one sings its own sweet lullaby

to soothe you back to sleep, where you have been
up to this point content to never mind.
Yet try to shut them out; you'll find their claws

sunk deep into your psyche. You will dream
of ways to satiate their greed, and find
they hound you without mercy, grace or pause.

05 JAN 2005

As you delve deeper into who you are
quite often you touch things that make you ill ---
those tendencies and habits that so far
you've managed to ignore. Until you still

the chaos that engulfs your conscious mind
and focus past illusion's palimpsest,
where all you've done is written, you'll find
yourself embroiled in strife, strain and unrest.

Lost tears you've never cried will fill your eyes,
the slightest provocation sparks your ire,
and 'til you've cut your hidden beast to size,
it and the whole wide world seem to conspire

to prove you are both madman and a fool;
such are the lessons taught in wisdom's school.

03 JAN 2005