Sananda speaks: 2005, March 1



	Sananda Maitreya	SanandaMaitreya.com ...

Dear earthlings…

It really doesn't matter whether you are out of your mind, as long as you are out of your mind on your own terms.

What I've always loved about Europe is the degree to which music is less racial and political and more about quality and heart.
Generally, Italians don't care what package or style the music comes wrapped in, as long as they can feel its heart. Heart is all, as it should be. In America and its apologist Britain, race still plays far too large a factor in how music is perceived and sold and they are both vigorous opponents of the stretching of the shackles they expect their programmed and brainwashed artists to wear or risk as I was being buried beneath the full weight of the rationale behind this insidious form of racist social engineering. I am but one in a long line of so called 'black artists' to have found in Europe more room for my muse to develop and grow.

I am here but for the time that I am here and I have a job to do. Soul is not a sound nor a cliché of past remembrances, nor is rock. It's a feeling, ever ready to reinvent itself at a moment's notice, a sensibility which you either have or you don't. Let debate rage on, let criticism come raining down. I've overleapt all of that insignificant bullshit and I challenge you to do the same. I am as white as any of my heroes and as black as any of my saints. I am as Joni as any of my Mitchells and as Wondrous as any of my Stevies. I am as confused as any of my crooked ants and as cocky as any of my roaches. When the music is chained, the people are chained and I don't do chains, I do gains.

Have finished mastering the 'Angels & Vampires - Volume I'.
And after some tweaks and adjustments, nips, tucks and a fanny lift, I am super psyched that it shall soon be made available in CD form. Now it is an Album and not just a collection of songs and the sound is finally the arrival of Maitreya! Much thanks to a superb mastering engineer here at Nautilus Mastering in Milano, Antonio Baglio, the man with the Golden Arm! As well thanks to Emo Alborghetti, the projects recording and mix engineer with the splendid ear and to Fabrizio Rioda at Jungle Sound Station for having given me a home to experience rebirth in. Thanks also to my musicians, who all in all went along with the project's vision without complaint although the bass player annoyed me from time to time insisting that he be paid more than the others.

The cost of believing in anyone else's God but your own is the theft of your spirit.

To who knows that their lives are their own to live and not the Gods, those same Gods serve them.

If you see work only as a means to survive you will come to resent it. But if you see it as exercise for the spirit then your work will become your joy and salvation.

A leopard may not be able to change his spots but he can certainly change yours (not to mention the colour of your underwear…)

A father's neglect is ho-hum, I know many men who wished they'd been left alone by their fathers. A mother's neglect is devastating. And no neglect is more so than the refusal to honour a child's true nature, their individuated spirit. It is better to kill them in the cradle than to stamp out the flame of consciousness that as a birthright each child is given to light their way through this rough and ugly world of lies, distortions, refractions and games. They are thus taught to fear and despise the very flame that only spirit by its grace can grant and a man afraid of his own flame can never hope to profit by it, or find his way through the darkness sure to overcome his soul in the waning hours of his youth.

As we spit up the phlegm of our childhood remembrances, we begin to see the world as we've lived it, if not as others fear and insist we must and begin to replace the Gods of our ancestors and elders with our own. Though I certainly respect the historical heft and value of Moses, Abraham and their lot (and his wife), closer to the truth is that Bob Marley, John Lennon, Paul Mc Cartney, George Harrison, Ringo, Jimi Hendrix, Bob Dylan, Stevie Wonder and Brian Wilson have brought me more real salvation (not to mention several poets and long legged beauties) than the old testament gang could ever. When sermons long ago failed to convince, the Stones 'Gimme Shelter' said all that my soul needed to confirm of the existence of God's Grace and her enduring mercy. The truth in the end must always bear out and Mozart means more to me than Moses ever could. And Sam Cooke the only buffer I need between solitude and some else's Satan and if I've never heard the voice of God, I've heard the voice of Aretha in full flight, and frankly that's good enough for me.

I have profound faith in God. It's most religions I have no faith in, except to create more separation between a man's spirit and its author and to profit from the confusion and anxiety born of the belief that he is not at one with the only thing that is. After the crime of this dispirited belief, all other crime is inevitable.

If you must choose a belief system to believe in, choose one which believes in you as much as it asks you to believe in it. And never forfeit your common sense. If a thing doesn't sound right or feel right, leave it alone and let the pigeons have it.

Even a blind man can see that the closer religion gets to politics, the more it becomes a system of mind control.

Contradiction is the space between chaos and denial.

Let us pray for the POPE, not because he is a religious man, but because he is a dedicated and good man and sincere about his cause. He has been a model of endurance and suffering and has worn it like a prince.

….whom I personally happen to be quite fond of.

Though this sounds selfish (I've no problem being selfish when it serves my own best interests), I'm really grateful to God that John Lennon isn't alive to hear what has happened to POP music, it would surely kill him !

The record industry will one day look back upon these days and notice, hopefully not without irony that the artists who were able to lead their side of the revolution were the same artists most willing and able to help them and were the same artists they most beat the crap out of…even as they were trying to help them. They seem to be the only group of people ignorant of the notion of karma and collective responsibility. Not just individuals but families and corporations have to answer to the eternal law of cause and effect. Surely after years piled on top of years abusing and exploiting artists financially, psychologically and emotionally, the bill would arrive and they'd have to pay. I know of almost no artist who truly bears them good will, regardless of what they are pressured to say in press releases. These are thankfully the times that separate the artists from the poseurs and that can't be a bad thing.

It's simple: I support P2P simply because it supports the freer expression of artists/citizens and because culture, as a whole, benefits from the freer circulation of new ideas. New ideas stimulate the imagination which as a consequence stimulates the economy. It is always a hindrance to progress when a tiny handful of monoliths (and when cometh the stereoliths?)
control access to expression. Despite our cultures claim to be the vanguard of freedom, it has allowed these uncaring, unsparing corporations to suffocate expression and silence, bully and starve all dissenters, sort of like soviet Russia and Iraq under Saddam Hussein. It is understandable that the RIAA would seek to present a united front. That's their role as lobbyists for the industry which pays its bills. The artists are afraid to speak out or lose promotional support from the same labels suppressing their right to free expression. The real truth is this: real artists (as opposed to the manufactured cookie cutter assembly line acts) are deeply frustrated at the cow bells that have been placed around their necks and the constant games played with their minds and finances. P2P allows me to share my joy in the gift my spirit wishes to share with others without having to go through a politburo, a committee of accountants/executives who care far more about their stock portfolios than they would ever dare to care about the music and the vast waste land they have created in their wake. The music does not belong to the shareholders and their watchers, but to the people who the artists are inspired to feed. Let's face it, no group of share holders have ever written a song worth a damn!

One of the heroes of my youth was my uncle Sammy. A man plain and simple and in vivid living colour. A working man, self-employed, a plasterer who never claimed to be anything more than a man living a man's life and carrying a man's burdens according to the circumstances he as a man were asked to live. He had little or no affectations, was a curser, a drinker, a breeder cut straight and honest to the bone. He used one hand to shake and two fists to fight. The ladies loved him and half the men either admired him or called him out to rattle the cages which he always seemed either way quick to oblige. He seemed always the butt of judgements from his relatives offended by the fact that the only truth he was willing to acknowledge was the truth that found him. He had no doctrine of life. Just a survival code, a wicked grin and a case of cold beer to see him through.

Sananda Maitreya urges you to be your own Messiah!

The Aztecs were direct descendants of a racial and cultural lineage of life on Mars. The Martians have already landed thousands of years ago. The great Egyptian civilizations were the preservation of the royal houses of Mars. After the catastrophic apocalyptic Martian wars, life was transported here to earth in order to preserve the important blood lines of that advanced race. Since the civilization of Mars was well in advance of earths, war was a means of accelerating the time line of earth to suit the level of awareness Mars enjoyed. Almost all major world events of any great impact bears a previous imprint from the course of events on Mars. (including the destruction of Atlantis). Which itself functioned as an adjunct and outpost to the even more advanced Venus. This is why Venus and Mars are intrinsically interwoven into the fates of the other.

Our cellular memory is connected to Mars which is why what we remember from Mars we actualize here on earth. Mars was destroyed by nuclear war and was once even more diverse and beautiful than earth (although not a patch on Venus). If we are not careful the same shall be repeated again on earth as it was already in the kingdom of Atlantis. If our mentality is martial, our spiritual essence is Venusian, which the spiritual memory remembers as heaven.

Life on the other planets in our local solar system does not exist within our realm of vision, although it did on Mars, Venus and Mercury. The middle eastern tribes were once inhabitants of Mercury (in a different cellular form). Mercury was conquered and colonized by Mars in a vastly ancient interplanetary war. The antipathy which exists between the teutons (Mars) and the semetics (Mercury) are remnants of the memory of this. The Mercurials favour the desert because of Mercurys' proximity to the Sun. And the speed of its revolution around the Sun also explains its natives intellectual and verbal dexterity.

Space travel is as old as our imaginations which is just another word for cellular memory. Even the cave men dreamt of Space-travel, as they themselves were but genetic mutations of the colonizing Martians. The balancing point between Mars and Mercury is Venus, the ancestral parent of them both and the closest we'll ever understand of a physical (as opposed to spiritual) heaven.

Down syndrome people are related to the spiritual descendants of Venus. And they carry more activated DNA than 'normal earthlings'. They even bear a resemblance to the ancient native populations of Venus, who also left their trace in the Polynesians cultures of earth.

DIONYSUS DECREED:

THE DRUNK POEMS
In which Maitreya debunks that he's anything other than a foul mouthed fool raised by priests…

After a night of Venezuelan Rum
Let's write some!

In Japan
I met a man
who could walk on water
but would fall through sand
which I thought at first
quite strange
until I saw
that he'd been adored
by his ma
and this alone extended
his range

What Venus understands:
sometimes in order
for mars to be mars
he's got to hit the bars
to scrape the blues
from his shoes
and even out
the pressure in his loins
or risk internal wars
his conversation
never bores
until he runs out
of coins

The price of loving a God
is that they do not recognize
laws
only necessity

Why did I get drunk
in the morning?
To recognize my spirit
instead of mourning

Even the sickest bitch
bleeds the man
who cannot switch
between alpha
and the pain he feels
I'm delta now
so you must pay
for the exploding tears
of yesterday
I know you're sick
and I know you're swimming
in the assumptions that
go with being a woman
I too hate men and their
aftershave
now give me the keys
to the love you've saved
to rescue your faith
in sex
to continue the race
and remove the hex
and unleash from shallow
graves
the lies that obscure
a superior,
next!

My mohair rejected all my sins
and instead chose to worship him
who promotes my sorrow
and always borrows
just when I collect
fresh rain for my barrels
once I coveted oil
now I covet carols
that smoothes the way
of certain death
I loved a girl once
from San Diego
who now smokes
crystal meth
I attend her in her dreams
as she metabolizes
what she inhales
and tell her fabulous
enchanting tales
and that I love her
regardless of how crazy
her barren life seems
though the stitches have
worn out between
her gingham and
her calico
oops, there I go
I tried to force
a pun
but my grace
will lick her flavour
when her wandering days
are done

You
abandoned at birth
by a moth afraid to love
unless she offended
her patron flame
I even forgot his name
if he had any mercy
he would do the same
I used to shoot at pigeons
because my enemy
shot my doves
expressing their deepest joy
at being innocent
and able to fly
bird droppings
on believers
and laughing silly :
bull's eye
now trapped in French kitchens
about to feel the knife
the irony?
he favours Italian
but such is life

I hope my step father is ashamed of me
(oh please be!)
so that I can get on with my living
there are more bruises in the afterthought
than the memory, once forgiving
can hold on to without the slice of blade
which attends to all analysis
and fondles the bells of innocence
after which paralysis
melts into the central nerve
which governs the tiny legions
I am forced to go outside the law
since I've already rhymed
with pigeons
I piss on them from a great height
and the apologists for their
religions

If continued coughing
precedes my death
then let it find its rhythm
I'll know after I spew my bile
if the cost exceeds my toil
the blood I swallow
was made to boil
I should hope it inspires
a good fight
face it:
I am more than just a singer
I am the impulse of
your dancing middle finger

Who's afraid to die
who wasn't loved to their satisfaction
so I'm no Edna St Vincent Millay
though I'd tongue her if
she were here today
though with my aim I'd miss
as she was gay
and coveted nothing more
than the chance to unhinge
Dorothy Parker
the stockings in her crooked
are seams
(oh God, have I binged!)
though I'd make her swing
because my moods
are darker

Doc!
Come quick!
My dick is sick!

There is no repentance
for one who knows the law
must carry many paragraphs
explaining that our flaws
are really facets of a judgement that
trades its brains for a strangled hat
and tightens up the jaws

If it were really
my bother
then the price of the ransom
would be smaller
instead, the highest bidder
had his pick of the litter
your lie has been quite
pathetic
I am Alexander's Pope
let in on the joke
the punch line is that my genetics
never once passed through
its collar
talk to me once
the bones are taller
then we'll lengthen the rope
though it might weaken the dollar

……after going through my checks
In the bureau
Thank God we're trading
In Euro

She lay there in a pile of clothes
waiting to be torn away
violently, emphatically
my sweaty stench
clandestine men wait to lynch
assaulting her nose and fingering
her entire wish list
and twisting her with my wrench
sucking in my belly as I pose
between the edges of the emptying light
and plant on her lips a sloppy kish
she's blurring
though I am only slurring
old ethics and the Queen's English

So I'm drunk
and can only debunk
that these are the weeds
of my deepest funk

He has no greater opponent
than the left hand
which would let
the right hand own it

When Gabriel stops
trumpeting his own triumphs
then it's time to split
because when he runs
out of breath
all that's left
is spit
I write so that Gabby
stays in tune
and his other angels dance
otherwise for fun
they hunt down cupid
and make him confess
his wardrobe is stupid
and ankles him with his pants
and snigger that love was made for fools
and that only the timid
need moist toweletts
to wipe the guilt from their hands
before school
so
I must hurry
and write more text
'cause if I fall behind
my ass is next!

There are those who pad their nests
with other people's feathers
they sit on their butts
demanding bigger cuts
though I'm happy I'm not paying
by the ounce
for the fat they accumulate
once deep in the count
of another household's ledger
lazy bottoms grow
by the figures they measure
hands deep in the pocket
of a working man's treasure
a cock is never more vain
than when crowing victory
in someone else's name
and all that you've stolen
in time
will crush your fingers
once the last dime
upon your greedy palm
mounts
who are you?
what have you done?
except polish the spit
on my rod
the taxes will come
and then only God
will care whether you live
or die
once the last check is signed
good-bye
you've contributed this to life:
to destroy the lives of Lords
who once were sharp
and shiny nails
now hammered
beneath the boards

That blood
is mine
hardcore head
dashed against the bricks
a loose tongued half moor
or less depending on how many kicks
my hips have tasted
how futile are the punches wasted
as if I'd ever drop my sticks
I'm drumming the marches
of my war
not officer's stripes but scars
I bore
for passing the ball
and setting picks
the axis turned with every swipe
I now lay low like hedgerow
(and visualize fondling J-Lo)
and will be the worm in your apple
when the time is ripe

ALL PRAISES BE TO THE NAME OF YOUR GODS AND ANCESTORS!

INTELLECTUAL COPYRIGHT PROTECTED