Writings: THE TRUTH HAS NO COLOUR!

To all of my Roundtable Arthurians, pool hall hustlers, pimple poppers, pill pushers and purple pedigree pebble snatchers: THE TRUTH HAS NO COLOUR!


We report what appears to be a ceasefire agreement in the ongoing MIMOSA WARS. 
For those of you unfamiliar with the war, it is being fought by two factions, one thought to be backed secretly by the champagne industry between those who believe that the word Mimosa should pertain only to the genus of flowers and the other side, who believe that it should apply only to the drink often served on airplanes before takeoff. The orange juice industry has already maintained their innocence, though one group, calling itself the ‘FAIRIES OF THE GARDEN’, a pro nature collective, have taken responsibility for the explosions that rocked the last annual champagne distributors convention in Kankakee Illinois 3 weeks ago. Doug Spader, a spokesman for the Mimosa Garden faction has stated that “It seems silly now, so many lives lost over these small things, but small things are important, though admittedly they can get out of hand. We are willing to lay down our shovels and rakes, if they will agree to name their pre-flight beverage something more nature sensitive”. Ram Do Hung, the spokesman for the Mimosa Free Speech Alliance, could not be reached for comment, though it is believed that he is preparing a statement to be released through the groups website. Senator Dan Candid of Illinois is said to have been instrumental in behind the scenes ceasefire negotiations.


Sometimes, the shooting star of our dreams, hits the asteroid of reality.


Your sister is so fat, her weight is listed on the Dow Jones.


As pertains to what is real about us, we may overlook it but we can never outrun it.


Measures exist. Measures are valid. Know the difference between Measures, and ‘What is yours’. Sometimes, what is yours exceeds measures, and sometimes, the measures have already deducted what is owed. For a spell we work for the measures, in time we inherit the measures, which begin to work for us.


The way to our new system is clear, DEMOCRACY PAYMENTS! Forget taxes, so done, so old, uninspired, so last millennium. Just use those credit cards, or write those bank transfers and send in your monthly DEMOCRACY PAYMENT, entitling you to extend your access to Democracy services and benefits. Gain monthly credits for unused services! Trade in those credits for a better weighted lotto position in the DEMO-LOTTERY ! Just send in your Silver Seal, Gold Seal or Eagle Seal request, ensuring a safe and reliable month with the type of Democracy that you can afford!


DEMOCRACY PAYMENTS, DEMOCRACY YOU CAN AFFORD!


Your Democracy payments also helps to subsidise the Democracy Hostels which house those citizens unable to extend their rights month to month, and are in need of assistance while they reprogram themselves. Your payments not only serve you and your rights and securities, but the humanitarian needs of fellow citizens also!


One has to always turn left at hell to get to the promised land.


When we fear it, yet can’t figure out how to make it work for us we call it evil. Once we figure out how to make it work for us, we call it evolution.


To wit, what is evil to us is more likely to be evil to us if we are not included in it.


If adolescence is too stressed, it will be adolescence delayed.


Not everyone who came to Christ came for the ‘word’, some just came for the tricks.


…the innovation brought to war by the tactics of Mimosa Free Speech Alliance leader Ram Do Hung was his supplementing of mercenary leftist guerrillas with actual liberated/ escaped zoo gorillas. The ceasefire agreement is said to include the provision that only half of the gorillas are returned to the zoo. The other half will be honoured for their bravery and courage with their freedom. Doug Spader, spokesman for the Mimosa ‘Gardeners’ expressed outrage that animals were pressed into service and put in harms way for such despicable means, though he did agree that from a ‘thematic standpoint’, it were a brilliant tactical idea, but one he still expressed his great opposition to. Said Spader, “Semantics alone cannot be used to justify alliances”. More details as available.


..and then of course there was the college linguistics professor who was forced from his tenure after it were discovered that he was ANTI- SEMANTIC.


To paraphrase the great writer Greil Marcus, ‘the best music is an invitation to friendship’.


Upon the time to reach the decision, I wish to be cremated. Plan B is to be buried in Grant’s Tomb.


Our scars are the badges we have earned in the battles of life.


What we pay for class, we earn!


..and so then the chicken turns around and says to me, “ Listen, when I was a young spring chicken, it was safe for a chicken to cross the road, so as a consequence, my generation of chickens were less confused about who we are. Now you take these young chickens, they are totally absorbed in the existential aspect of Why Chickens Cross Roads, and it has taken something of their confidence away, they are far more hesitant and less engaged than the chickens of my day. It all went to their heads. There are actually young chickens afraid to cross roads and are not all that interested in what is on the other side. To many of the younger chicken set, the ‘other side’ is a conspiracy, and inconsequential to their existences.” I thought to myself, Wow, chickens really can be affected by these things. I mean it is a joke to us, but perhaps, just maybe to them, it displaces their sensibility and hinders them. I asked the chicken whether he himself ever crossed over. “Many times, my baby mama hen was on the side of the road I lived on, and there was another ‘special friend hen’ that ate her corn on the other side of the gravel road near the farm . So I had to cross the road, my baby mama hen would have killed her if she had come on our side”.


‘Has there been any fallout psychologically for you at all?’ “Not really, though sometimes I do get a little angry at the effect it has had on our representational image in the world. For example since we chickens are so engrossed in the cultural language of fowl crossing roads, you notice that as a consequence, we appear less in bar jokes. You rarely if ever hear about two chickens walking into a bar because the implication has already been denoted that we chickens cannot cross roads, so ergo, how would we even get into the bar? You see? And so this has caused some self esteem issues among many of the younger chickens, which is why most of their culture doesn’t drink, it brings up too many painful stereotyped images of chickens ending up in the street as roadkill. And don’t forget, my generation of chickens were cornfed. These younger chickens were raised ‘free range’ and they just don’t have the same mental toughness”.


Attitude shapes our lives and conviction gives form to it.


Greater than the force of love is self survival, which is the force of love at its root.


The laws of love still lie waiting to be written. The laws of friendship and affection write themselves.


Hate kills, though only love can destroy.


We do not fight over love, but over what it means.


Colonial joke number 6- (based on the common premise that when a colonial nation finally ‘leaves’ its host country, most of the infrastructure is sabotaged and in effect ‘privatised’ so that the host country is ‘liberated’ in name only, and yet further to prove to those attending watch that ‘We told you that they couldn’t be expected to properly govern themselves’): They finally elect a ‘black’ President in America AND THEY HAVE ABSOLUTELY NO MONEY! Stop me if you’ve heard this one before. The problem inherent in the overlong primary process is that it gives the right shady insiders just enough time to gauge where the money is flowing and enough time, if necessary to start messing with it. He were never in any event going to inherit the same scales and measures once it were clear that he represented a sea change and that the hourglass was about to be turned over. But hey, at least he ain’t a chicken, consumed with crossing the road !


The greatest responsibility a man has to himself is to pursue relentlessly his own true dreams. It may take all that you have got and more, but it only takes what stands in the way, and the all that it takes is the all that it will return while adding a cloud to your name.


“Now we do have chickens who are oblivious to the existential question as they grow in isolated fields and woods. The only question they have that is similar is ‘Why did the Chicken Just Jump into that Well?’ They don’t have access to roads and what not, so they are like a different breed”. 
‘Do the Hens mind giving up all of those eggs?’ “Hell no, do you think they really want to raise all of those many chicks? It would drive them insane! And they know you need the protein.”


“I mean, we are a part of nature too, we come from nature and the sublime and refreshing mixture of orange juice and champagne is a welcoming ‘natural’ treat to our worthy customers. To insist, as these warmongers, these terrorists do, that Mimosa must refer exclusively to a flower so small and insignificant that it is used as filler for larger flowers is fascist and has no place in a largely democratic society. Our rights are just as precious as theirs’, and we pay more in taxes” This anonymous message was left most recently on the MIMOSA FREE SPEECH ALLIANCE website. It concludes, “These nitwits are exploding fertilizer bombs and calling themselves ‘freedom fighters for nature’. C’mon, over a little puffy yellow flower?”


And affixed to your dream, follow what lightning strikes appear, and they will. The thunder will come. You may from time to time drop your eyes and miss some lightning, but the thunder you cannot miss.


All dreams are likewise a negotiation between motion and rest.


And we declare that dreams are the photonegative of life, that life is made of the fabric of dreams as dreams are the undergarment of life. Since both are in constant flux, suitable to the waves of time, both are flexible enough to include within her web, what is true for you. TO KNOW WHAT IS TRUE FOR YOU, is the key to successful living. To open the windows of your soul and simply let it be so is to stand at the crossroads where life and dreams are one and only the mind can insist that there is a difference between the two.


Life does not trouble us to believe in dreams, though we trouble life who do not.


Never let the mirror have the last opinion.


Mirrors do not reflect the truth. Mirrors reflect our opinion. And the space between the two is often about the space between one side of the road and the other. Now we know why the first chicken crossed the road, to get beyond the space that separates truth from opinion, and thus to know more about life, beyond its opinion of itself.


And for whatever other reason chickens cross roads, that first one, in so doing, ensured his immortality…..


The MONA LISA has activated codes from the Sirian star system, Sirius B, to be more exact. As such, it activates ancient cellular memory in those who are with it, and is like unto a vibrational medicine for latent DNA storage material. During his work on it, the master Leonardo were given a vision where he saw the finished painting many lifetimes afterwards in the museum where it now hangs, and he painted into it, that which would serve to jar his memory when in future lifetimes, he saw it again. It is a ‘multidimensionally’ layered piece of work. Or maybe I’m just making this all up…


Occasionally a ‘roundtable’ of souls will convene and assume the manner and course of a life, an Angel company if you will, a board of directors who use a life to advance its cause. LEONARDO were such a life.


Beings from the star systems of Sirius A and B (an a and b selection!), have been instrumental in what there is of development on Earth, and some were deposited, ‘Transferred’ into animal or sea bodies and left on earth to monitor developments.
The whales and dolphins are two such that were ‘left behind’. And they are both species of magi. We as a species are much younger than they and they are both far wiser and more powerful than we may be prepared to acknowledge. They too perform ceremonies and commune with the earth, as well as other planets, and they are both capable of teleportation. Perhaps not all of them, but their masters certainly, and they have a lot of masters. 
And sharks are kind of getting tired of being the niggers of the sea, since they are formidably intelligent and of tremendous value to the oceans ecosystem, and shark still has a lot to teach and pass on to us. Shark has been slandered quite a lot.


Two chickens, mustering great courage, walk into a bar. They , trying to act normal, order some beer and buffalo wings. After a bite, the first chicken spits out the spicy chunk of chicken in his beak and says “ This chicken is crap, I can’t believe I crossed the road for this!”


..though , the other chicken thought that somehow, crappy spicy other dead chickens or not, it were a small quiet victory that they were in the bar at all. He imagined that he would look back on this adventure and have quite a story to embellish with his own chick-a-dees someday. And that perhaps some kind historian, even a tall tale will think to include him when it is remembered , the era when chickens the world over would graduated from a tribe associated only with the most banal of jokes, to one having earned the right, like priests, rabbis, other farm animals, to be included in the classic bar joke continuum. It is a simple act of humanitarianism to extend bar rights to all.


We receive the justice that we assume. True justice can only come from within and we hold our own measures. What we receive from others is not justice but karma. Only we can hold our own justice. It cannot come from the law, punishment comes from the law.


“What a great pleasure it is to meet you master Cohen, you have been a light to me for as long as I can remember”. And with that I grabbed for the poet Leonard’s hand and shook it with a sure manly grip. I had been told by company CEO Walter Yetnikoff, back when I sharecropped for CBS records, before they were swallowed by SONY and all we farm animals transferred to our new masters, though it were a SONY configuration, and Walter long gone, politically edged out, before getting the honour of the company of Master Cohen. We met in the hotel suite at the 4 Seasons in Los Angeles of a big wig executive for drinks before some awards function whereby I were allowed yet another opportunity to witness everyone else rewarded for their efforts, while I got a chance to improve my cardiovascular levels by applauding manically, that fit of temporary camaraderie where it feels as if, no matter who won, YOU TOO ARE A WINNER! Although one notices how quickly it fades after seeing a winner behave during the after party, as if they really did deserve to win and the evidence being unimpeachable. The conversation with the master Leonard fell easily into place, true ‘guru’s do not appear often, and here in the flesh was a living real time pre- waxed Olympian and we traded some interesting banter and some philosophical folderol before I wound up speaking to him in a more hushed manner befitting a man confessing to his priest. The talk then fell to love, romance, and I explained that the space I were in at the time amounted to not much more than burnout, that for me at that time, “If I have one, I may as well have two”, and that my mojo felt like it needed to back off for a while. “ I Love the honey’s maestro, but they can take a toll on the soul, so if I’m gonna, I’ve got to really wanna and three’s company right?” Having nodded sagely, listened with affirmative patience, the mournful liquid eyes of the Bard of Canada, a son of Whitman, a Zen Buddhist Rabbi Jedi Rasta Greek, absorbed my words of confidence, my frustration at that point in my process, and like an old testament prophet (and if not a true ‘Man of La Mancha’, then at least once a man of ‘De Mornay’), placed his wizened supple hand on my right shoulder and with the gruff patience his voice displays shared something poignant and wise with me. 
What sayeth the he, a poet priest prophet of penurity, and what other ancient wisdom might it have echoed? “Son, wait until you get to my age, then you’ll only want to fuck them in the ass”.


I am not the only person who writes and reads and is motivated by the excellence of the works and workings of LEONARD COHEN.


I am not telling tales out of class to say that in my younger ‘playboy’ days, among knowledge shared and discussed by other erstwhile players were the ‘legendary exploits’ of a one master L.Cohen. Real ‘players’ are like a secret society (much like the last government) and see it as an obligation to a certain extent to share the wealth of information and techniques available to uplift and expand the repertoire of ‘player-hood’. It can feel like unto a spiritual calling, until it doesn’t anymore and we heard that L. Cohen was a FREAK. But it makes sense if you think about it, all of the renowned earth shaking poets were freaks anyway…..


Ok, enough about cosmic Canadian Jews for now…..


The two poles between which a man in his lifetime sits is between his idea of his life, and his cock. The degree to which an honest, forthright assessment of both are attained, balance will be felt in the life overall, but the degree to which one is determined to be at odds with the other, is the same degree to which a man will be at odds with himself. Should the life reject the cock, the cock reject the life, the door is left open to philosophies and its cousin, confusion.

…and a man who abandons his cock and its needs, soon begins to abandon little by little, his mind as well. And which organization he may thereafter give it to, will claim another victory.


A responsible cock plays within the parameters it has agreed to while still not abandoning the true needs of COCK. We are not pussies, we are men and politically correct or not, we must reclaim the prerogatives of COCK, its true personality and what it needs. True ‘COCK MINDEDNESS’ is even a spiritual process for a man, to find his balance therein, is to find a closer relationship with ‘right action’ and life. We have largely forgotten how to be men, which is not to say that we have forgotten how to be brutes, we have not. But THE CAUSE OF MANHOOD and its vernal fruits have been ripped to shreds in my lifetime. We need more COCK CULTURE, a shock culture, to restore ‘rightmindedness’ to manhood, including all that there are of its sweetness. Look at world cultures, when a man gives up his cock, he gives up his freedoms and rights also, and becomes but slave to opinion. Cock culture says ‘opinion is like an onion’.


And a rooster, upon hearing about the formation of the cock society wonders whether this is just another society that will turn his application away. “Those people are always stealing from us, then when we come in to take a look, they turn us away!”


Our first lady, madame Michelle, is the first, first lady that I have had a crush on since Rosalynn Carter. More later on the script I am writing about a behind the scenes shouting, shoving match between latest supermodel Michelle and premier supermodel Naomi Campbell. Sample dialogue: “I DON’T CARE IF THE BITCH IS FIRST LADY, SHE STOLE MY COVER !” “ But, Naomi, try to relax and see perspective, she IS an historical figure!” “ She is a size 7 like I am. Oh, and what am I, reruns? I am a historic figure too, you think she would be wearing JIMMY CHOO if it wasn’t for me? Competition is competition, work is work and those are all my damn covers she’s taking. I already went through all of this shit with TYRA, so nah, hell no, NEXT”. “ Now, Naomi, try to show some respect for the first lady, you were never like this when Oprah started getting all of those magazine covers.” “Oprah ain’t my size bitch!”


Seeing is a spiritual phenomenon and not a physical one. This is why some of the so called blind can see deeper into life than those of us with vision who are blind. Stevie Wonder can look straight into a man’s soul, my sight tends to obscure what I am seeing by looking at it.


An existential chicken was reclining on a psychiatrist’s couch and told by the doctor what the hourly fee would be. The chicken replied, “Then can’t you just tell me why I crossed the road and save me the money?”


Which leads inevitably to this. Why did the chicken cross the road? To get to his psychiatrist’s appointment.


Popeye walks into a bar. But it was an iron bar. Luckily he had his spinach and opened it during happy hour.


Fate and fortune are tools of destiny and rise and fall like the ocean’s waves. What controls destiny is karma and what controls karma is forgiveness.


No forgiveness can proceed without knowing what self forgiveness is and that there is no greater remedy for sorrow. We are taught to judge life, not to see it, so we likewise judge ourselves and grow more distant from the life we were meant to cure. And we judge our reactions to circumstance to be our fault as opposed to our karma, and the wound spreads. And seeing that we have fallen short of measuring up to artificial measures, we grab and tear at ourselves like bats attending carnage. Little do we see of how we are both witnesses and paintbrushes to the masterstrokes of life and that only in the final analysis can the masterpiece be seen. Meanwhile we dance and shuffle upon the blueprint and trust that every single step leads to a greater more aware somewhere, and that more to the point, it appears that much of the whole point of physical existence is to know from the spirit, extended to a human life, what forgiveness is and just how magical and liberating is its power. Once we have ourselves from our prison bars of wrong judgement, indictments based on ignorance and impatience, forgiving others, letting them too go, is a walk in the park.


Do we make mistakes or do we instead simply make miscalculations (concerning where we assumed the outcome would turn up)? Do we make mistakes, or do we make further steps beyond ? 
Mistakes are gifts from the future, and when the future works with our notion of time, which is primarily past based, not present, the slow mind, the past based mind assumes it to be a mistake or an act not intended by the conscious mind, this same mind the one most programmable and held at bay with logic. Mistakes are future ‘corrections’ in current space time and are to be treated with more honour and respect. Evolution respects what we see as mistakes to be vital evolutionary decisions playing themselves out in real time. Otherwise, we ourselves, in full are the great mistake.


Losing your mind is only a terror if you have invested more faith in your mind than you have in the eternal reality of your spirit. MIND is a battery and sometimes just wears itself out, but most especially when fed by a steady stream of bullshit. Trash as a source never produces the highest yield and in time what it feeds becomes trash itself. The fountain of youth is found in the spirit, not in the mind, though the pictures may rest in the mind as ‘idea’. Sometimes, the highest form of revelation is to lose the mind. Abhorring a vacuum, in time a new mind will spring forth, a fresher one. A springtime mind. When the mind program becomes the disease, the cure is to let it go, advance to higher ground, and wait for a new mind to come. For a spirit to produce another mind is as easy as the same mind producing thought bubbles, upon being set in place.


MIND is also KARMA. There are those few souls lucky enough to have been given the burden of no mind at all. And these are the ones who do not really ‘mind’ much, and are quite easy with themselves and their place upon this shelf of earth. They also make great healers, since their minds are not blocking access to the natural flow of light that affects us all.


All artists meditate (each in the way they do), to attain this state of ‘no mind’, whether they are singing or sculpting. To attain the state of pure flow where the mind can only serve as witness, not participant. A part of each man’s meditation in life is to know ( and each according to their natures) how and when to let the mind program go, and attain the state of ‘no mind’.


Cynics are not wrong, just careful.


A hopeless romantic is a woman who has been burned by many men. A cynic is the woman who has been burned by the same asshole twice.


What you choose to tell other people is your own affair. Never lie to yourself. It fogs the window of clarity and narrows our choices down to blind ones.


The vain look for mirrors, the sane look for windows.


..and anyway, mirrors are lying sons of bitches, moody and distracting. Windows, even the dirty ones, always stretch towards greater light, more clarity.


My mirror tells me that I am getting old. My windows tell me that the mirror is getting old and should be replaced.


Our minds idea of what our life should be inescapably gets in the way of the harvesting of it. Aim your dream, then get out of your own way so that life and dream can collaborate and begin to manifest for you the mandate you have ordered. He who flip flops, loses vision and hope, flip flops, loses vision and hope, confuses life. Life is simple, the mind can get really complicated and confuse itself, just as a child, given too many options, tires itself out and caps it off with a tantrum. Just know what you want and hold yourself to it, even if you are the only one to know, even while doing and experiencing other things. Your moth will find your flame. You are simply obliged to keep alive your flame of desire. And it is especially rich when it hurts.


Christ walks into a bar. The bartender, alone, drops his jaw almost to the floor. “O My God, Christ, you said you’d return and you did! Wow! “Yeah, here I am, I just needed a drink first”.


( the bartender, after regaining composure, did offer the Lord some food, some bar nuts, saying ,” You must be starving, you haven’t eaten since the LAST SUPPER !”).


…and long after reaching his portion of Heaven, John Calvin had to chuckle at himself that he hadn’t been sent to earth as John Arson, or Lord what trouble his people would have constantly gotten into…….(A joke for the ‘Christian fundamentalists’).


Spontaneity is the true author of culture, not tradition. Tradition is always cursed to remember spontaneity when it were spontaneous. The bride always being left at the altar for that whore, inspiration. Tradition is the right hand of our cultures. The flames of imagination, illumination, are what washes it hand from the left and keeps its relevance present.


Now come on, be honest, you didn’t really think that they were going to let a brother be President and leave him some actual MONEY at the same time. Where have you been?


Two Mexicans walk into a bar and slap the bar with a restraining order before any discriminatory jokes can be told about them.


(This is based on an old joke). A camel walks in to a bar two humps and all and orders a Long Island Ice tea. He is charged a hundred dollars by the unscrupulous bartender, figuring that if he’s made it this far he can afford it. The bartender told him that “we sure don’t get many camels coming into the bar”. The camel replied “ At these prices, you wouldn’t”.


…you see, the followers of John Calvin were called ‘Calvinists’……


What attracts us reflects us. And this is why we are constantly toying with what attracts us until it gets tired of us or we of it.


…and when we start fighting it, our reflection, it is because we have resumed judging it, slowly pushing the attraction away, since it reflects the ‘us’ that we no longer feel we deserve.


All lovers are mirrors reflecting the parts we are willing to see and face.


WHAT ATTRACTS US REFLECTS US!


Every thought is ARCHITECTURE. What we think and hold is what we build, so be careful what you pour your concrete on, lest it harden and become your law.


All theories which do not serve your highest reflection and your widest expression are an insult. Dismiss them. Build your own philosophy from what works. Life is too short for broken opinion.


…and broken opinion will cut you like a jagged bottle and usually goes for the jugular( even if you are ‘vain’).


The mind is induced to look for answers. The spirit instead looks for questions.


Sometimes depression is the brooding of the answer before you even know what the question is.


Too many answers formalize our existence, the questions are the keys and serve a greater flexibility. Though too many questions constipate the mind, and so we come full circle.


There are those who ask questions and those who live them, and who lives their questions, live on. 
The right questions are the purpose of the quest and is the personal search for our Holy Grail.


The trick about God is that he cannot be sought and found, and he hates being chased. The search for him is the search for permission to be our full creations, AS HE MADE US and not as we are induced by feeble societies to remain. Prostrated before images of our father, petitioning him for the right to be the us created by him in the first place for us to be. Naturally it can get a bit confusing. 
Looking for God loses what is already present, what already is. He can only be EXPERIENCED. 
And we have already been given all from him that we will ever need. Instead of more time looking for what is right there always, look to grab your balls and heart and make a go of it from there. Life itself is a major fan of a soul’s ambition and is a cheerleader for it, even as others whistle their fears.


..and God, as a mature and experienced master, is less concerned with whether he is believed in, than in whether or not we believe and trust in ourselves. He is more than capable of looking after his own self confidence and credibility.


Tradition is a funny girl. She wears gingham and broadcloth and swears fealty to the noble qualities of consistency, gallantry and strict adherence to the rules. Rules considered sacred and an immutable portion of the fabric of what tradition itself means. She square dances with the fundamentals. And then a Barack Obama, a Tiger Woods, a Lewis Hamilton shows up and tradition gets frisky and before you know it, ‘Voila’, time for innovation! Yet what it does in fact show is that the game itself evolves as it follows its innovators and absorbs their innovations, this insures both its growth and our interest. It also goes to show how much many games were tailored to the limitations of its time and how, as talent expands, as vision increases, so must the fields which contains their efforts. We watch these men not only to witness their triumphs, but to confirm our belief in the ongoing adjustments and exclamatory leaps of human evolution.


The American football game suffers a bit too much from the owners desire to John Wayne the players and show how much control they have over them. Some basic common sense guidelines for sure, but the muzzle needs to be taken off of the spirit of the players so that we can all grab more air from the games. They are also over formalized and overly structured, some loose spontaneity has been displaced from the sport and the corporate world, like it eventually kills most things it is given total control over, has rubbed a lot away from this wonderful and thrilling game. It is a game for warriors, not soldiers. Baseball is the soldiers game.


And there are still too many sports announcers using the same tired double speak clichés in describing the difference between players of other races. It gets old, tired, demeaning and shows resentment and coarse judgement. So we’re a little different. Deal with it or stop trying to profit by it.


And what Prometheus stole from Heaven for man was IMAGINATION, through which man would be able to see himself in and out of all possible situations and place himself on the levels he believed he deserved.


What made Prometheus unique ( besides his pure love for man), was that he were the first of the ‘demi-Gods’ to step full frontal, full force to the Gods and in effect, tell them to all go and screw themselves. Despite major protest by the other gods of Olympus (Heaven), Big God decided that only a true god could be so bold and deified him fully, though not before making a politically astute decision to sentence Prometheus for his transgression against the original blueprint (The ‘original sin’ was not made by man but by the Angels, the ‘gods of Olympus). Prometheus agreed to the beat down and used his time during his torture to illuminate what he could of the process for others. NOW THE OTHER GODS WORK FOR HIM. And the force of his love for his humanity became the new blueprint the Heavens endorsed !


No one was tougher on Prometheus than Saturn. Prometheus and Saturn still do not get along, they annoy one another, though Saturn, immensely stubborn and proud, takes his orders from him, or he gets his rings deducted.


..and it were the master Prometheus that in reality produced the life of ORPHEUS. Now more than a myth but also a muse.


Satan is not the author of evil. He is its shepherd, its monitor, its harvester. It’s a dirty job, but somebody has got to do it.


Lucifer and Satan are not one, one is a full scale archetypal Angel, the other a ‘construct’, which is why it is often in literature explained as a spirit. ‘Satan’ is a magnetic holographic energy field which magnetizes to itself, excess expenditures of evil, or that dark matter necessary to rein in, in order to preserve the essential balance between our notion of good and evil. Lucifer actually has little to do with us and our human affairs, he mainly assists the other architect Angels in anchoring spiritual and intellectual waves of intelligence from the heart of God to the physical parts of earth where such energy is specifically stored. Lucifer’s role is to insert seeds of light and consciousness deep into the crevices of dark matter, which in time breaks it up, like a chest cold and clears it to be reclaimed by the Angels. Lucifer, specializing in the transformation of dark matter into light, was one of the Angels which worked together to create the ‘Satan’ hologram as an agent to balance the cause of physical transformation on earth, our host planet for the moment ( until the spaceships return)!


Once a person becomes consumed with too much evil, naturally ‘Satan’ comes to harvest them and begin the healing work of breaking down what construct of evil, which ‘form’, or ‘demon’ they are encased in, so that in time the soul is free of it’s entrapment. Much as worms help break down compost, so too does ‘Satan’ and his team work to eradicate possession by that which threatens to obscure us. He is not evil, but rather specializes in it, was designed to understand it, get inside of it and untangle the spirit from it.


The only men to fear are the ones really afraid of themselves.


If you are too intimidated by the size of the other man in the fight, then you do not have enough fight in you, and should postpone all fighting until you do. Peace my ass, give me a good cause to fight for and I am happy. Too much peace is boring and non productive. There is time for peace in the pension years. These days, like Elton’s Saturday nights, are alright for fighting.


Attentiveness is demanding.


Simply pay attention, the rest has already been paid for.


Critics largely exist now to keep artists attached to their profiles. They assist the corporations in punishing those who veer beyond the lines of their previously appointed station, a firewall for political conformity. Our feelings hurt, embarrassed, we return to our previously assigned chalk outline on the company pavement, and the ongoing assault of the usual culture wars and the attacks which accompany all who move or expand the profile, and we are then buried as ‘genre’ artists, even those lucky few souls who wish to be !


…. And much of current criticism is indistinguishable from subtle racial and genre profiling. They were once a respectable, even idealistic breed. Now they are sheriffs of custom and format. And guard dogs sent to chase after and intimidate escaped convicts from the profile chain.


That is why most records are not reviewed musically as much as they are politically, to discourage our escape from the mind game, the one which insists in gruff tones that we remain in the place the last threatened and poor imagination left us and not do too much to disturb the plan to always keep us encases in the lower body of someone else’s weak comfort and opinion. I have a right to fly from this ‘specifically assigned, carefully designed wire’, even at the risk of dropping a little birdshit on your head.


History shows that wherever we place the value of our expression, the deposit of our tribal gifts and wares, will be the MOST regulated and most stringently controlled, and all manner of propaganda and fear placed around its periphery to keep its spirit from spreading and liberating the spice attuned to souls, until in time the we ourselves are regulated out of our own expression. We are then obliged in humiliation to listen to OTHERS tell us who we are and what is expected of us. We become our own selves in blackface, imitating ourselves for the comforts and share prices of those same others.


Many of us look down our noses at the blues as it is associated with sharecropping days. YOU, MY FRIEND ARE A ‘SHAREPRICER’. The difference?


Now, were Pablo Picasso a recording artist, his agent would have gone to see him and announced that while his ‘Blue’ period were exciting the critics, it were in fact his bowls of fruit which sold more consistently, so he might want to forego the dramatic subjects and stick to focussing on fruit bowls, and according to surveys, you can never have enough banana’s. People really seem to respond to banana’s! “While we are on the subject Pablo, we also notice that your paintings with a predominance of red seem to ‘outperform’ your more blue tinted selections, so if you get tired doing all of those fruit bowls, you can try some of your red paintings, especially the happier ones!” 
‘Anything else’, asked a bemused Picasso? “Well, since you asked, we feel that the whole ‘cubism’ thing is too difficult a sell. If you paint a naked woman, people kind of want to see it without having to strain, you know what I mean? I mean, the craftsmanship is great and all, but it isn’t taking off yet like we would have hoped. We feel that it is best for right now if you would just give us more happy red paintings, clowns playing with little children and stuff, that always does well, and bowls of banana heavy fruit”. Satisfied that he had delivered the company mandate to Pablo, who he left at his kitchen table smoking a cigar and sipping an overworked brandy, he stopped off before going back to the airport to do a little shopping, and to see if in the neighbouring village, he could get a good deal on a cubist portrait Picasso had left there.


An A&R man walks into a bar, carrying with him his own shaker. He asks the bartender for a mixed drink, takes it each time and pours it in his shaker and shakes it before pouring it into the same glass provided by the bartender and drinking it. Curious, the barkeep asks the A&R man why he does this, why he takes the drink already mixed and then places it in his shaker and shakes it up again before imbibing. The A&R man says, “Don’t worry, you mix your drinks well, I just like doing my own re-mixes”.


An A&R man goes to see his doctor, worried. “Doctor, I don’t know what to do, I’ve been losing hearing in my right ear to the point where I almost hear nothing”. ‘That’s no problem son, we’ll fix it’, replied the doctor. The A&R man said, “ yeah, but I don’t know if we should, I keep getting promoted.”


A man goes to see his doctor to report with some alarm that he is hearing loud ringing in his ears. ‘What should I do doc’? asks the man. “Start listening to your wife”. ‘Will that cure it’? “No, answered the doctor, but she won’t care”.


Lawrence Zimmerman Dale was sitting nice, could even afford to be sitting where he now sat, on a beach in the Bahamas, nestled within a cabin of his own, paid for by his more than handsome earnings from his debut book, ‘THE LEOPARD IS THE SHEPHERD’. He had easy worries for the follow up as he had always in his mind envisioned the first book as part of a trilogy, the ‘Leopard’s Footprint’, which after a little more easy rest, he were eager to get started on. He loved being an acknowledged writer, it were the sum so far of his life’s dream, to write, to bear witness, to scratch one’s carved out name upon a sturdy tree. His phone rang, it were his agent in New York. “Hey, lazy guy, you got to get back to NYC, we got an idea for your next book!” and Skip Nestler was not the sort of agent who arrived at his privileged station by taking no from mere writers. “Skip’ I’m not due back in New York for another 2 weeks, and what’s so urgent it can’t wait until then, besides Vivienne flies in tomorrow!” ‘Listen Larry, it’s simple, ‘Kaufman, Leibermen and Othermen’, our main rivals, are about to sign a young writer with a book that’s a crime thriller/ detective novel where the premise of the story is that the murderer is a master chef who kills with recipes and the key to the book is that it will include actual gourmet recipes, which will really bring in ‘overlap’ with a key home makers demographic, so we need you to begin work on a book that can be whatever you want, as long as it is about murder and recipes’. “ But Skip, as you know the ‘Leopard’ book was meant to be a part of a trilogy, and the next book is already beginning to take shape.” ‘Kid, trilogy, schmilogy, you can always come back to your leopard, where is he going to go, huh? Meanwhile, we got some kid about to bust our share balls over some book idea about to hit the fan that none of us have thought about before and we gotta cover our ass, and we just paid you 4 mill, so screw furry animals for now and whip us up something with rich women getting killed and recipes they can make at home, something with some bite. O yeah, get it? Something with recipes, and ‘bite’! Naturally gregarious Skip had to chuckle amusedly at the fine fortune of his wit. Bite and recipes? 
As far as the once supine and relaxed writer, awaiting the arrival of his fiancée the next day, this was a curve straight out of left field, his muse, his gathering mojo manna had been gearing towards a whole different scene, a follow up to his scintillating first novel, ‘The Leopard is the Shepherd’, now the recently acclaimed young author were being asked to, instead of continuing to innovate and inspire, help the company share price keep pace with an even younger punk and his novel inclusion of recipes in a murder story. He knew, Lawrence Zimmerman Dale, not a damn thing about cooking, kitchens nor their to his eyes, strange environs, though he didn’t mind eating at all. Now, he was getting his balls squeezed to copy cat a copy cat of some other copy cat, and to beat the copy cat to the market at that. Lawrence, managed to resist the grand opportunity to attempt the replication of a bad, though timely and faddish idea. Instead, after determining that perhaps it might be best after all to postpone for a bit his trilogy, in order to pace and ‘milk’ it as his former agent ‘Skip’ advised, he found his imagination’s way to writing a novel about a call girl from an internet service who murders her way through the internet, the ‘gimmick’ being that all of the websites she chose her victims from were actual ‘registered’ websites, and thereby ‘interactive’ with the novel and the telling of the story, and that the marketing department had a field day doing ‘cross promotions’, particularly with the ‘cross-dressing’ websites featured in the book.


Your mother’s feet are so big, before getting her toenails painted, she has to get ‘estimates’.


And they are the most harassed who contain ambition. A ‘profile’ is too small and artificial a thing to stuff a turkey with, ambition is the cranberry sauce, the gravy, that which makes the rest of the plate drip with the mingling juices of the season. May God bless those who suffer their ambition.


We now return you to your regularly programmed reality, thank you for your time!


…and thank you very , very much for the kindness of your birthday greetings. We are now 47, or 557,575,833,492,389 (give or take a nano-year or two), I can’t always remember which……


Regards to you and yours, to our dear friend and hero St. Patrick, to our family and to long suffering writers the world over. Blah, blah, blah………


…we are ever grateful for life, which by whatever name, responds to the sweet ‘profile’ you give it!


Yes is the answer just waiting to spill out! Be well.


…and remember, light does travel. And when it does, it travels first class.


Finally, WE CAN HAVE ALL THAT WE ARE WILLING TO BE RESPONSIBLE FOR.


COPYRIGHT SANANDA FRANCESCO MAITREYA 
MILANO 17th MARCH 2009
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 


INTELLECTUAL COPYRIGHT PROTECTED 

www.SanandaMaitreya.com