So, there I was, halfway between going up and coming down; halfway between throwing up and calming down; halfway between growing up and throwing down, when suddenly it hit me and everything became clear. The realization was as vast as the field of stars from which it came. It was as though I had just awoken from a dream in which I was dreaming about waking up from a dream from which I could not awake. The fingers of my hands felt new against the face of my head. In this pristine moment of clarity even the sun in its infinite wisdom seemed to shine more clearly through the haze of what had gone before; clouds now cut and scattered into particles before the rampage of this new found glory. I could hear whispers of children miles away. I tasted food cooked in a kitchen of a house down the road from the molecules floating in the air. Every synapse fired in perfect synchronization with the beating of the Universal heart. And I knew that this enlightenment was not just a moment, but a lifetime of things to see with now newly opened eyes.
And what caused this, this epiphany; this satori; this merger with the Life-divine? You. From the field of stars and all that has gone before, You were made. At an exact moment all those years ago, the world held its breath and wished for something amazing to happen. An on that wish, the Universe created You. With the head and shoulders of a god and a heart which is all your own, you are an angel on earth and your power is limitless. When I set my eyes upon you it was as though I saw directly one of the children of the sun, and in that moment I knew my destiny. And in that moment my wings were unbound from the tethers of the conventional world, and with gilded wings we cannot ever be bound again. Three dimensions seem like black and white television compared to the Here and the Now that Is at this heart of being. The four walls fell away and the stars became our chandelier. And so, because of You, I discovered my nature: to reflect the starlight for the rest of the world to find its way…
“Everyone else reading this right now thinks that I am talking to them, but I am not. I am talking to you. I love you.”
Current Mood: anticipatorious
synchronization - to cause to move, operate, work, etc., at the same rate and exactly together
epiphany - (1) a sudden perception of the essential nature or meaning of something.
(2) an intuitive grasp of reality through something (such as an event) usually simple and striking.
(3) an illuminating discovery, realization, or disclosure.
satori - sudden enlightenment
Ever Jeckylling, Hyding, Heckling and hiding again,
Ever present and effervescent the yin and yang ping pong of karmic tug-of-war.
Furrows in my brow that you could walk a twelve ox team through…
Maddening, the tensions of right trying to pull wrong into alignment with its proper place amongst the stars.
“So hard, this dark horse I dare”,
Like a black leather belt stretched taut between the clenched teeth of two angry sumo,
Never strikes twice in the same place; never steps twice on the same piece of water.
Truth is the fish you try to catch while wearing mittens and staring at the sun.
Back in 2004 or some such time, I was working as a performer in a massive nightclub in Pontiac, Michigan by the name of “Space”. It’s décor was fabulous, the entertainment was decadent, and the crowd showed up in force night after night. I shared a dressing room with 3 tall, extravagant and ferocious black drag queens whose wit was as sharp as their long stiletto heeled boots. Also in our room was Brutal Betty, a 300 pound dominatrix, who patrolled the club with her flunkie assistant, spanking and taunting the patrons throughout the evening. We also had two little people, Bernie and Mary, who ran amok around the place as freestyle clown imps, performing creatively and creating random hijinx. And then there was me, a shy introvert on the inside, half leather and half naked, performing pain-endurance sideshow acts to the shock and awe of the intoxicated masses.
The drag queens had several high-powered dance numbers every night, complete with all the glitter, glam, sham, and exploding confetti cannons one would wish for in a Brazilian Carnivale parade. In one of my acts, I would carry out a bed of nails for the audience to feel and verify while Brutal Betty would berate the audience from the stage. Then we’d have a lovely assistant pop a balloon on the nails, Betty would place a cinder block on my chest, and then smash it with a 15 lb sledgehammer. At that exact moment, they’d fire off a sound cannon and cut the lights, signifying the end of our act. Most nights, the cement slab would shatter into a million tiny pieces (which, upon standing up, would invariably fall straight down into my leather pants), but on occasion she’d hit the block without quite enough force and a large chunk would fly up into my face. The hardships of show biz.
Most nights there, after my performances, I would float through the club, shirtless and occasionally still bleeding, in a Casper-like hope that someone would want to talk to me and possibly be my friend. It almost never happened.
One evening, while drinking what they called a “Gay Cowboy” at the bar (Sprite and Grenadine), a young, firm, energetic girl roared up into my personal space. She was very definitely intoxicated, and eager to make my acquaintance. As we talked, or, better said- as SHE talked and bombastically expressed her intentions with much arm waving, I became keenly aware that at arms length there were 3 well-dressed men giving me the hairy eye and keeping close tabs on what appeared to be the object of their investment for the evening. This girl did not appear to be the type to ever have to purchase her own drinks, and so it was obvious that these were the maples she’d been tapping for sap all night.
Before long, I was informed that she was an exotic dancer and that the stooges were clients of hers who were her patrons for the night. I gave them a smile. It was not reciprocated. In conversation, she told me, “I’m crazy! All my friends say I’m the craziest!” Now, although within a certain subgroup of men, this WOULD be an appealing selling point, and although with a back-full of scars, blue dreadlocks, and war-paint, I clearly seemed to fit that bill of sale, I was clearly not the droid she was looking for.
She then removed an ornate silver bracelet from my arm and put it on her own, much to my dismay. No amount of resistance to the idea on my part seemed to make a dash of difference. Her resolve was secure. (Damn booze.) She said, “I work at Cheetah’s. I’m there every Wednesday night. If you want your bracelet back, come and get it.”
Cheetah’s was a strip club in Windsor, Ontario. Just across the river from Detroit, it was known colloquially as the “Windsor Ballet”. Girls there could get fully nude; an appealing enticement for the Americans who had to endure the dental-floss-thong restrictions in their own country. So now I had to make a choice. Should I make the journey, find the girl, open Pandora’s snatch, and retrieve my antique silver bracelet, or should I cut my losses and leave well enough alone..?
In the abysmal bowels of Detroit, there was, for many years, a dark and seedy dance club – in fact, the quintessential dark and seedy dance club – the kind that, if you saw it in a movie, you would think it too harsh to be real, and it was called “City Club”. Amongst the goth, punk, and otherwise grimy patrons of this surreal underworld, there was circulated a set of humorous “rules” to indicate the commonly understood filth of the place, such as “What lands on the floor STAYS on the floor.” and “Never take home ANYONE from City Club.” One rule which really hit home for me (and which I have severely regretted any time I’ve ever made an exception) was “Never fuck anyone crazier than yourself.”
In all my years of experience, I have learned this without a doubt. When an intoxicated exotic dancer tells you “All my friends say I’m the craziest!”, believe her. I’ve always missed that bracelet, but not so much that it would be worth 120 lbs of high-octane Canadian crazy.
If you ask me, “How do I find the truth?”, I will say “Remove those things that are not the Truth and what you have left will be it. If what you have left contains something untrue, try again.”
The path is there and does not need to be sought elsewhere, but in stead, the obstacles simply need to be removed.
Golden Buddha, there you are.
The other day a friend of mine (like so many of us) came over to practice superhero training with me. He showed up late and sorry. Again. His life has grown limp and dulled, sullen and lumpy, ashen and vaguely banal. I asked him if he knew why I offered my time and energy to help him. He certainly did not. I told him that it was because I could see the latent superpowers lying dormant inside him. The inner “shiny” obscured by the wet blankets of laziness and bad habits. Over time he had begun to believe that the outer gray crust was all there was, but the geologist in me could see the burbling molten core still alive inside of him.
I want other fast, strong, smart people to play with. I need peers who can operate at my performance frequency or better. And since I haven’t been successful at finding more than a few of them where I live, I have determined that I will have to help build them.
Where do you find the person who will be the Hero of any story? Well, before they are that recognizable thing, they’re the girl-who-cleans-the-ashes, the peasant-boy, the young pre-Hogwarts Harry Potters of the world… They are the Golden Buddha while it is covered with clay.
Today, I uncovered this note I wrote a long time back, and it touches the core of my conversation. If you’re not familiar with the story of The Golden Buddha, take 3 minutes and watch this excerpt from the film “Finding Joe” here.
If you’re interested in this sort of thing, the creator of “Finding Joe”, Patrick Solomon, has graciously shared the film for free on Youtube. Check it out and tell me what you think. https://www.youtube.com/user/patricktakaya/videos
And if I can help you somehow to knock off some of your clay, let me know. Because I suspect that there’s a Golden Buddha inside of you as well.
yours gleaming from the shimmering piths of molten marrows,
And SO, Here we Are, face to face, a couple of Silver Spoons; hoping to find we're two of a kind, making a go, making it grow... togetherrrrr, we're gonna find a waayyyy...
Sorry, I got sucked into schmaltzy 80's TV lyrics for a moment..! But YES, here we are! Me, TimTv: ass-kicker, face-licker, and other action-hero exaggerations. And YOU, dear reader, old or new friend, hopefully curious as to what stations lie along the mystequerious winding tracks of this crazy train to RumpusTown.
The "WHY". Once upon a time and for a great many years I got to be a teacher-of-Superheroes. Myself and a fantastic team of martial-monks trained together in a wonderfully strange little Dojo temple just outside of Detroit, Michigan. We punched each other. Hard. We kicked and choked and stabbed each other, every week, year in and year out. And we sat, and spoke, and worked passionately to explore and improve ourselves and each other. I miss that sharing. My eccentric stories being gifted eclectic ears like soft birds and feathered nests.
And SO! Now. Come back to now. I have so much to share. Future dreams, present weirdness, and past stories. I have built many worlds, and I am excited to be building a new one now. And, with any luck, together we'll create a new team of Heroes to fill it.
"..Making a go, making it grow... togetherrrrr, we're gonna find a waayyyy..."
your humble but loveable narrator,
~ps~ I know I sometimes use fanciful words, outdated words, and flat-out confabulations. So, in an effort to help reduce friction & expand diction, here's my easy-action lexicon: