paisleyontology

Michaelangelo is a bardo bard, like a Shroomy Rumi who goes Lewis Carrolling on Suess's adore-step, where the sidewalk ends, or something. They say he's "something else" but he isists he's of the same substance made as everything else. Anywhichway, These are some of his magic spellings, magic spell checks, poetic puzzles, storysong lyrics, excerpts from manuscripts, riddles and rhymes, et cetera... (www.snailconvention.com)

[paisleyontology]

ode to Leonard Cohen

i'm hooked on those baited lines that weighted lure at the end of his metered rhymes solemn, grave, demure like he's gone fishing for truth on the lake of Love and though he can't stomach the catch he just can't get enough

[paisleyontology]

GREATEST HITS

I took a hit of TBA

got stranded in my DNA

still don't know what I took today

perhaps I'll find out yesterday

I took a hit of GPS

got lost within the endlessness

gave up the compass in my chest

and oriented to the west

I took a hit of ABC

forever changed reality

alpha diabetically

I miss the void abysmally

I took a hit of LSD

envisioned what we are to be

approximate infinity

with aid of new technology

I took a hit of DMT

got swallowed by geometry

microscopic kaleidoscopy

that fueled my creativity

I took a hit of DSL

dialed up out of matter's hell

much faster than with rotary

virtually heavenly www.voidandimagination.com

[paisleyontology]

springtime in the ethers/in the astral arctic

SPRINGTIME IN THE ETHERS the crickets, morse-coding cosmic stenographers, sounded like a rotary dial-up's busy signal that night. (...if you'd like to make a call, please hang up and dial again...) "...the cosmos isn't here right now... we're busy setting up the night, hanging the sky with celestial flowers..." Night time is springtime in the ethers. (the mystery's answering service.) (voidsmail.) IN THE ASTRAL ARCTIC penguins pollinate hovering like hummingbirds the flowerlike cores of stars

[snailconvention]

we are animals imbued with a vegetable mind — that mind is the planet’s; her language is made up of spider webs and leopard print, peacock feathers and dust in wind, of camouflage & ferns, birds and bees, and you and me as special characters in her genetic Elfabet. With the viral impregnation...

[snailconvention]

Stainspotting: Where the Sidewalk ends, The Other Side begins

Where the sidewalk ends, The Other Side Begins. Street art in the truest sense. Cave art on concrete. Stainspotting. Chalkwalk. Rorschach Worship Workshop.

It all started one night; I was on my way back from a tea-house where I like to spend my time, when I spotted a face in a passing wall. I conjured a small box, about the size of a pack of Marlboro, from my pocket and a stick of chalk from the box, and began outlining the face. Strangely enough, this act is considered ‘de-facing’ a wall, and it attracted the attention of the first cop car that evening, slowing behind me and rolling down his window. I approached him, intentionally, keeping my chalk and hands in plain sight, like I was surrendering my weapon. "You’re not doing what I think you’re doing, are you?" "No, it’s just chalk," I answered innocently. "OK, keep it up," he said and drove off. Beautiful, I thought, and continued on to the next wall and, with conscience cleared, began chalking an animal… a sort of psychedelic Lascaux creature. So that’s when the second cop car arrived, and the third, disco-lights of the law in full effect, and three cops emerged and were steadily stepping towards me.   Intentionally, calmly, I began to imply, again, that it was only chalk and that the previous cop had cleared me already, but in their eyes it was still vandalism. "What the hell motivates you at 1130 at night to draw on walls?" The first one asked me. Obviously the Alpha cop, probably wondering if I was on drugs. "What is this, cave art? What is this supposed to be, some kind of goat-cat?"      "No, well..its a..uh… like a cat-sheep w/ Dali legs," I answered the art-critic. Really, I hadn’t thought of what it WAS yet. I had just created it. I was gonna create another creature to name it. Then these cops show up, want me to tell ‘em what the hell it is… "…in other news, God was questioned by the SFPD today for instigating the creation on someone else’s ultimate ground of being. When asked what was the meaning of all this, he simply said, ‘I cannot rightly say.’” "Looks like a chupacabra," one of the alfalfa cops chimed in, and did his best monster impression. This was starting to become very absurd. I said, “what are you talking about; it looks harmless to me.” "Y’never know," he said. "It could turn on you. With those teeth. Well, least that’s what I see…" "Well yeah, you have to be cautious in your line of work I suppose…" From that moment on, I steered clear of wallscapes, and kept my eyes on the ground.

[snailconvention]

[paisleyontology]

Without further ado, ladies and gentlemen, I introduce to you VOID DENIZEN. if you LIKE it please SHARE it on your social media and LIKE it on the YouTube… Your gem-like germs carried on the web-wide-wind can make it go viral, so sneeze if you please and spread the word on the virtual breeze…

[paisleyontology]

Starlight on the flipside of birdsong. Staring out at the morning sky, it dawned on me. It hit me like an anvil; stars circled my head, a halo of birds tweeting melodically. We traded starlight for birdsong.

[snailconvention]

Consider the nature of the soul. Too often is the word used unexamined. The thing considered most oneself is the thing hardest to put one’s finger on. Just like you can’t, without aid of a mirror, see your own eyes. And yet all you’ll EVER see are your own eyes; this miniaturized world of light...

[paisleyontology]

spirituals

[paisleyontology]

what a farce, the human race, to limit itself to a stage

superpowers and superpowerful delusions current channels, ineffable but not infallible forgiveness for the divine, The Most High Expectations, for letting us down and facilitating our folly. we dust off our trust & broken angel wings and fare moth-minded into the flames with thoughts aflutter, mapping the light in shades of self and other

[paisleyontology]

Devi Bava & the Spiders from Mars

Devi Bava and the Spiders from Mars

The first time I heard of Amma was upon awaking in a bed that wasn't my own in a trailer in the hills of Topenga outside of Los Angeles near Malibu. I had followed a dream to LA and left on a whim. The dream was of an old friend whom I knew from my years in South Florida, with whom my communications had faded when he responded badly to a character I had based loosely on him in my first novel Psychogenic Fugue. The dream was not particularly positive in its coloring, but my mind selected only the cognition of my friend upon awaking and when Frankieman, who repeatedly failed to leave on a plane to Autralia on stand-by, decided to go to a friend's wedding in LA instead, I decided to travel by his side, and try and make amends with my old friend. The dry, desolate landscapes along the way gradually unfolded the dreams of the night prior before me, as there were such landscapes in it. Chicano gangs were crowding these planes with a sort of agro-cultural display.

My traveling partner, Frankieman, had already moved on, leaving me with the newly imparted knowledge of circular breathing and the previously gifted didgeridoo. I awoke in a trailer and a postcard with Amma's image hung above the bed. I asked the kind young girl who had lent me a perch for the night about her and she replied that Amma is a unifyer. I was told that she is known as the hugging saint because she has hugged over twenty-six million people and through her hugs has unified each of them in a field of selfless love. Wow, I thought. Initially the image of a friend came to mind, one who takes great pleasure in high-fiving anyone who passes him by, which would put him somewhere in the same range as Amma's hug-total, and would qualify him as the high-five saint. Then I thought better of it, and, having returned to the synchroniCity of San Francisco and resumed my position working on the Feel Real Cafe mural, when I heard she was going to be coming to town, I decided I would do what was right. I would go there and I would give this woman, who had indiscriminately given hugs to so many, sometimes for over twenty hours straight without even a bathroom break, a hug. Yes, I would give her a hug.

They don't call her consoling embraces "hugs" though, officially it's called something else. Formally (and the hugs, I would soon learn, are indeed formally dispensed) it is said that she gives Darshan. Amma is said to be an avatar, a living embodiment of God or god's grace, the living embodymind of the goddess mother earth in her compassionate loving aspects. High claims like that about a single person that distracts from those qualities in each individual, including myself, is met with a sense of humor and satyrical satire. So allow me to click my hooves together and pray I continue my testimony on my best behavior.

This is the last night of her stay here, where she has been giving lectures. They call this night Devi Bava, which of course makes me think David Bowie. I cannot help myself. Maybe Amma can help me. The initial vibe at the Amma Ashram in San Raphael is one of light shroominess, of happy hippies and devotees in white and colorful robes, a devotional circus, a fanciful bazaar of organized spirituality, and when you enter the building and first behold the merry scene on the main stage it has somewhat of a Santa'nic vibe, eliciting a response of "what would you like from Amma for christmas?" Then you notice the music, the tablas and guitars, sitars, and voices, etc., which, though you may not believe it, is performed live and energizes a sense of endless upliftment. You may notice how brightly lit the scene is, the devotees and disciples crowded around Amma, who is crowned and seated on a throne, the lines forming from both sides of people awaiting their darshan, their reciprocal devotional absolution. There isn't a single shadow on stage. The scene has an air of Disney's The Last Supper and the bright light airs spiritual and bioluminescent. That is, until you look up, over the stage, and notice a moth fluttering about the giant fluorescents beaming down, the kind under which coital praying mantises tear each other's heads off in laboratory settings and you may wonder whether they are trying to hatch Amma, the potential egg-cellence of divine grace and compassion. Then, beyond an oceanic audience, you notice what's going on on stage. You notice how with every hug she repeats the exact same gesture, as if you're looking at one of those lenticular holograms, those images you tilt slightly and the image changes. She embraces a person and her face, behind their back, cringes solemnly and Kali-like and sponges up all their sorrows and sufferings, then she releases the squeeze, and beams a perfectly transmuted sunbeam smile in their face. The person, dizzied and dazzled by the display and blissed and slightly disoriented is helped back onto their feet and Amma's sponging up the next one's sorrows, and beaming back another identical transmuted smile. This goes on for twenty, thirty hours. I had come here with the intention to give her a hug, to give her a break.

Upon arrival one is assigned a number. It may take all night before your number is up and the time of your hug arrives, so there is plenty of time to kill, though killing is prohibited on the property. I had a delicious meal of dal, rice, kir, and other Indian delights, and over a cup of chai I marveled at the organization of the event. It seemed that a lot of the devotees were raised as Christians, then followed the Grateful Dead around and were now on Amma tour, the phenomenalized rockstar devi. I noticed the store with the Amma merchandise and even an ad on the wall with a picture of Amma in a rowboat that you could, for a small fee, paste your face onto, so it looks like you're merrily-merrily-merrily rowing her boat gently down the stream.

This Amma business holds a beautiful Heart-space, though it be cluttered with cultish cholesterol.

Then it came my time and I climbed up on the stage and assumed my place in line, on my knees. Slowly inching forward I took pulse of the situation. I got the impression that we were like cattle being lead, unwittingly, to the slaughter, to face our smothering annihilation in Amma's blissful bosom. Like bovine to the divine, we inched along the shrine. My heart palpitated under the bright fluorescents. What if I missed the moment supreme? What if it were all a farce? A few contestants away from my embrace with the avatar Amma chi, I began to realize it would be impossible to actually give her a hug, as I noticed those before me were not only de-feeted, on their knees, but equally dis-armed, pushed armlessly into her embrace like straw-dolls. A dominant Amma did the hugging here. She was the hugging saint, and she alone. My belongings that I was holding, my portfolio, was stripped from me as I approximated the moment of supreme, serene annihilation, of Ammageddon, and as the hugging, sponging, beaming lenticular hologram ticked on and the last bovine preceding myself was raised to his feet and ushered aside I found myself suddenly before her and pushed into her bosom all went dark. I dissolved, awkwardly into the darkness of a perfumed perspiration.

And Amma folded around me like a wave, smothering with motherly love and in my ear she purred Pari and hummed a familiar tune: an old Persian tune: The Tetris theme song. When I tell people this they don't believe me. They laugh. Really, they ask me, as I hum the familiar melody, really? She really hummed the Tetris tune?

Of course not really. But what better way to describe the experience. For in those moments, the moments that the entirety of one's evening, dare I say the entirety of one's life, has lead up to, there is only those moments, like when I was a child and allowed the game on my Nintento GameBoy to consume me and the world around me, the song on loop, my holiday in Spain a non-existence. All the little cubes and configured rectangles and L-shapes of my life falling into place, rearranged by choice as best and as swiftly as is possible, all aligned configurations dissolving, credits accruing, ascending levels.

Then, the moment had passed and I was pulled out of her blossoming bosom. But I was still there, though not in her bosom, I was still there. Yes, strangely enough I wasn't yanked away or ushered off stage, I was still there, on my knees before Amma Chi and she was looking at something, something just over my head and her eyes twinkled in captive attention with a sort of wonderful horror in it. I turned my head to look behind-above me and there they were holding up my portfolio, flipping through the pages and displaying her my art! I'd done it! I gave Amma a hug! I gave Amma a break! And when the last page flipped past and the book folded shut like a collapsing wave, Amma, whose full attention had been with me, then with my work, was now sponging up the next moment, saturating the next contestant in the momentum of her oceanic bliss, oblivious of any prior moment. Well-hugged by a devotional wellspring, with a rose petal and a Hershey's kiss folded in my closed palm, and a newly blessed portfolio under my arm, I was ushered off stage, humming the Tetris theme song to myself. and credits rolled; they rolled like waves.

[paisleyontology]

"you see right through me," she said, all shine and shyness. I must have looked starry-eyed, staring into her

[paisleyontology]

so now then

the timing is always wrong.

now is never the right time.

[snailconvention]

we are in a movie. the cameras have shrunk down to the cellular level. we are under quotation by consciousness. we are the writers directors actors editors and composers of our own destiny. along with everyone else. everything you wish for that is already happening will come true, instantly. so long as its in accordance with the entirety. and if it is not… then void have mercy on us all…

[snailconvention]

[paisleyontology]

Oh what a conscious mess all these people talking about consciousness they’re digging deeper thinking harder build a steeple for the father up to heaven they seek to barter for their souls they seek to charter a new craft by which to martyr what has past and even further

now it’s done.

they overstate their understanding of the change that they’re demanding oh my god’s divine pretension condescending con-ascension all is one.

ok lets cut the shit we’re talking animals with wit we learned what it is to be human by watching sunday cartoons

for your self-deification and your false illumination we rise up in elevators we’re so present, save the past for later

you dress the part but i wish you’d undress your heart upon your sleeve i think you’re absent without leave it up to fate the end began to dawn too late

if I could dress you to my liking i’d put antlers on your viking hat. what do you think about that?

like faded faces on ancient coins we’ve lost all traces since we were born we’ve lost all reference to reverence we’ve lost all relevance for the evidence we’ve lost our origins until we go within we lost our origins here we go again

[snailconvention]

[snailconvention]

the pre-sent

[paisleyontology]

everything happened more than ten years ago. that’s when The Now—being in The Now—came into being for me. The Now is so ten years ago. There is no now more now than then. (then again now was so ahead of its time)