Friday, September 25, 2009

Guilt Ridden Paradise

A large butterfly flickered outside my window. This is the first day of Autumn and quite beautiful. I reluctantly left my house and drove to a friend's coffee shop in town, but, finding he had yet to open, I could not wait 15 minutes. I returned back here to my idyllic place of residence. I am certain no present existing image of heaven, be it Christian, Islamic, or Buddhistic could ever work for me. I need stimulation and heaven is just too perfect.
My present dilemma is:
I need to leave this complacent safety zone and find 'my thing'.
Something that would draw out all my creative juices... and allow me to again feel fully engaged.

Wednesday, September 9, 2009

Mass Consumption

When did I become such a rabid consumer? Had I always been one or was there some paradigm shift in my concept of happiness? One sign marking this transition is my migration from action to reticent inaction. There was a time when the balance of my life was such that I would take whatever asset I could accumulate and immediately use it to make art, travel, and simultaneously enter a new life style. This was a precarious time, living on the edge between immediate actualization and desperation.

This was not a world for raising children or deep reflection, this was a time for virile efficiency, a time where things got done because I had clear choices. As I shifted from glorious and pragmatic irresponsibility to that of husband, father, teacher, the mud rose around my ankles. Pleasure was from that which padded my life, that bulge of fat, technological toys, affectations of power, a cosmetic shield of intellectual prowess, the stink of wasted produce on an inappreciative audience. So much tossed into massive waste bins. Mismanaged opportunity due mostly to a lack of focus, a lack of discipline, a lack of eventuality.

We spent the summer tearing away layers of excess and yet still I see it everywhere, A shameful residue of artifacts in every corner, demanding to be dusted or discarded. And beyond this? An important part of my vision is blocked by the heap. My heart coated when it should be let to float up, freed from these long years of accumulation.

Tuesday, February 24, 2009

In God I Speak

Today I ordered a newly published book "The Atheist's Way: Living Well Without Gods" by Eric Maisel. My life is filled now with cross-referencing writings on new theistic perspectives and that of the doubters. On audio this past week I enjoyed 'Life of Pi,' 'The Joy of Living (Yongey Mingyur Rinpoche),' 'Summer's Path'... an endless stream of rationalists, attempting to bring sense to the mystical under footing of modern living.

At present I would need to accept Eric Maisel's point, we need to stop the paradigm of looking for 'the meaning of life' and move forward to creating meaning from where we are. While it has always been my quest to find a father figure to bounce off of... Some hero to follow in luscious abandonment, surrendering responsibility to a wise paternal prerequisite. To my big daddy guru, who I am free to reject at will, while rationalizing great strides forward into sensual abandonment and or intellectual irresponsibility... with the tried and true psychological device of 'God knows and I trust'.

Oh faith, glorious faith in absolutes... holy books, charismatic leaders, political parties, corporate institutions, for God and Country. Too bad this is the generation of Myth Busters... a news media bent on undermining all our false idols, while subliminally casting doubt even on our own cynicism... a steady diet of expose and big-eyed puppy dog theism. We Americans, noted for our Christian fundamentalism underpinning our crusty cynical humor, what a study in schizophrenic double-speak.

So, in honesty, I embrace a New Age-fudge of semantic play, that old God, as male-dominatrix (Old Testament Bully) with a counter-ego of the new Sweet'N-Low Jesus, just doesn't play well in my fantastical-Sedona. So I bite the bullet and drink the current Kool-aid of some Super-consciousness, just beyond third plate, somewhere near the out-of-bounds pole.

I know my definition of God could not stand the smell-test of my favorite sceptic podcasts, nor satisfy the faith-based directives of the average American, yet that is where I stand. Daddy God remains the issues for psychiatric digression, while Mother Mantra-hum lies impotent on the cutting floor of hard-nosed dialectics. Have pity on my lost soul or celebrate my triumphant autonomy, either way my back hurts and I feel incomplete.