Silly Satsang Lilac Leela

Silly Satsang Lilac Leela

Brickman: Well, gentlemen, we are here today because the author who is creating us seems to have expressed a wish to understand the very root of all human agitation.

Waterman: He believes that a dialogue is necessary between three distinct characters to accurately represent the varying dilemmas that crowd and disturb the human intellect.

Tripman: By all means gentlemen, I must confess that I strictly adhere to my opinion that it is a futile effort on his part to create us, three confused men sitting in a room, to reveal a problem that is as old as perhaps the species of man itself. However, I am interested to observe how the three of us are developed and how our non-existent knowledge of matters relevant to this dialogue can be used to discuss a non-existent problem itself.

Waterman: Non-existent problem? Why is it that you seem so convinced that human agitation, or suffering, as the professors of dogma prefer to call it, is non-existent? Is it not clear to you that men and women are in pain every moment of their lives? And, if a few seem in solace, it is only an entirely temporal thing. There is deep pain inside everybody.

Tripman: Are we to wander away again into these talks of human thought and ancestral conditioning? Should I waste my time again to shine clarity upon the sources of human suffering? The author, as I can clearly deduce from the state of his mind (since he is my creator), has wasted time immeasurable on contemplating the fallacies and eventual vanity of all human thought. As a matter of fact, it is very possible that it is his frustration with his own intellect built of vain thought that created us. It is possibly an escape from his own madness.

Brickman: Are you sure it is not the whisky that speaks through you Tripman? Seldom have I seen you without a glass of whisky resting gracefully in your hands. Perhaps the perpetual numbing of your own intellect has bestowed upon you such a reckless attitude toward life.

Tripman: And am I to blame for that? Look within yourself. Our creator boasts of a voracious attitude toward whisky. Perhaps, it is that attitude that created me and my reckless perspective toward life.

Waterman: Why do you call it reckless, Brickman?

Brickman: I have studied the pain of mankind for years now. I have known several people who share an enthusiasm for such loose carefreeness as Tripman harbors. It is naught but a futile effort to escape from the inevitable tragedy of human existence. If you excavate patiently into the darker corners of Tripman’s imagination, you will find lurking there, a very regular and commonplace fear of death. A fear that we all share with trembling fervor.

Tripman: Death? Escape? I am not the Buddha or Lao Tzu my friend, but I can quite easily proclaim that all ideas of death are faint illusions that the human intellect wastes its brilliance on. Even on my most sober day, I can proclaim the very same. You speak from what you have heard from others. Tell me, when is it that this fear of death first came upon you?

Brickman: It is as old as my memory. The oldest memories that I have are of things that I fear. At least, they seem to be more in number than memories that please me. But, then, you will say that all memory is illusion, right? You will say that memory is nothing but stickiness. It is the pointless trail left by human experience that serves no purpose at all except survival, and according to you, survival should not be the primary existential concern of human beings.

Waterman: You assume much, Brickman.

Brickman: Our creator is the same my friend. You should forgive his inability to perfectly distinguish his characters from each other. At times, my mind might reveal that which is intended to be revealed by one of you two.

Waterman: I am curious now, about this whole idea of illusion. Often, I have heard men say that all of life is illusion, maya, color, glorious play, lilac leela! Is it not true then that illusion, which by itself is a concept, is also part of illusion? Language as a mode of communication simply cannot reveal such a complex situation since whenever it aspires to state something that is beyond it, it is limited by itself. Language is an aspect of the very philosophy of illusion that it tries to deny. Tell me, the best you can my friend, what is illusion?

Tripman: That brings us to a very basic question now, doesn’t it? What is not illusion?

Waterman: I am blessed with five senses alone and every truth I am aware of depends on these senses. What my senses perceive are not illusion.

Brickman: What according to you is not illusion, Tripman?

Tripman: You gentlemen seem to be making a very fundamental mistake. The five senses, of course, create a very tangible reality. But, they are awakened by the awareness you give them. And, if you draw that awareness away from them, where is the reality?

Brickman: How can I draw awareness away from the five senses? My existence is these senses. In a way, I am these five senses. I see no separate entity that exists outside of these five senses.

Tripman: Your awareness is not an entity. You are drunk on your intellect. You are drunk on the content of your imagination. Whisky is but a little joke of an intoxicant if you compare it to the thoughts of men. The greatest addiction is thought. You see, gentlemen, I am in deep suffering because the author seems to be in deep suffering. I represent the dilemma that is causing him this suffering. You on the other hand, represent the aspects of his intellect that give him the very cynicism and critical attitude from which his heart draws security. Now it is clear that among the three of us, I am most dear to our creator. This conversation between us is meant to bring a little token of solace to him. Instead of delving deeper into such spiritual matters like suffering and awareness, will it be alright if we move this dialogue into a more tangible dimension?

Waterman: What is it that you wish to discuss?

Tripman: The hypocrisy of individualism. What does it mean to be an individual, Waterman?

Waterman: I do believe that if a person can learn to be entirely self-reliant and live without allowing his personality to be constantly influenced by external forces, he or she could be an individual. Individualism implies nonchalance toward what the world considers righteous and immoral. An individual sets his own standards for morality, productivity, education, spirituality, and so on.

Tripman: I am torn, my friend.

Brickman: Are you referring to your personality?

Tripman: I behold an ever-sincere grudge toward the ways of human society but simultaneously, I also harbor a deep love for human things. You see, this is my hypocrisy. This is my mediocrity. My thirst for individualism led me into an abyss far from the common boulevards where my human companions built their lives. But I have strings that help me climb in and out of the abyss on a regular basis.

Brickman: You must know that we all harbor this form of split, my friend. There is no one who entirely enjoys the human world. Everyone within themselves builds secret dimensions that they frequent for peace and silence.

Tripman: I had silence. A long time ago. When our author was much younger, his naivete led his heart to be infatuated with meditation and prayer. His entire being quivered in gratitude as the spring breeze blew across the city harbor. His youth led him deep into the hills to discover the fruits of the earth that drove his intellect into uncertain planes. He discovered new dimensions of being. But, you see, with great awakening comes a very great responsibility.

Waterman: What is it?

Tripman: You become aware of the hypocrisy of your regular life. The hypocrisy of social manners, family, friendship, love, marriage, wellbeing, wealth, promise, glory, sweetness, success, joy; everything becomes hypocritical before your eyes.

Waterman: I would say that these things might still hold value to our author. They are definitely very valuable to me. In discovering the truth of human constructs such as society, civilization, and the systems that govern our world, one who is wise can learn how to be more understanding and compassionate. And, if you are even wiser, you can learn to live in this world without being of it.

Tripman: I cannot fool myself my friend. While I proclaim that pain is illusion, this endless agitation that pricks away slowly at my heart feels more permanent than it did yesterday. But I carry both opinions within me. That pain is real and, also, an illusion. You see, this duality is the root of my suffering. But seeing this duality also implies duality! It implies that there is something being seen and a separate seer. The fact that reality is split into two gives me immense confusion. When I look behind my eyes, I do not see anyone there.

Brickman: If your life seems to be so futile, why is it that something as meager as human society bothers you? We are all bothered by the restlessness of the human mind that has been bestowed upon us. But we must learn to do it right. Adapt to the mind, learn to answers its whims and keep it in a balance so that one part of the mind does not overcome the other leading to eventual insanity.

Tripman: Isn’t it this human society that we live in? I both loathe and love it. And the existence of time makes me feel like I am ten different people. I cannot exist in this way. I have gathered too much knowledge about what it means to exist. So much that I feel it will consume me.

Waterman: What shall we do about it now, Tripman?

Tripman: Can you not see the whisky in my hand? Humor and the high plane is my answer, my friends. It is in humor that I have found at least a tiny degree of sanity that can help me stand on my feet.

Waterman: Whisky and humor cannot save you my friend. And, neither can they save our author. Even if this world is undeniably an illusion, an escapist attitude implies that it is real and something to be escaped from.

Tripman: Whisky is not an escape, my friend. And neither are the fruits of the earth an escape. They are blessings from the gods to aid men when they dally with the darkness in their souls.

Brickman: I am beginning to feel that you are not sincere at all in your search for truth, my friend.

Tripman: And at which instant did you first feel that I was sincere?

Brickman: What then, are we to leave our author, our creator to burn in his distress? Are we to leave him to manage his hypocrisy with drunken sleep and candlelit dinners with pretty girls by the oceanside? For how long can we escape the agitation that lurks in the heart?

Waterman: Perhaps, it is only right to adopt the attitude of escapism to allow our hearts to rest awhile, my friend. Man is after all an inferior creature before the glory of the cosmos.

Brickman: I beg to differ. The glory of man lies in the fact that he has the ability to contain the vastness of existence in the smallness of his intellect.

Waterman: The intellect only contains an idea of the real vastness.

Tripman: Waterman is right. But then, neither of us can deny that man is the sweetheart of mother nature. But such a judgment cannot be held valid when we as men make it ourselves. However, I do find it special that as a man, I can be aware of such a thing as hypocrisy.

Waterman: Is it better then to be aware of one’s hypocrisy rather than simply being hypocritical?

Tripman: Perhaps, it is my friend. Maybe that was our gift all along. To be aware of the things that torment us.

Brickman: And is this awareness stained by the things that is becomes aware of?

Tripman: The purity of white cloth is easily stained by the weakest dye.

Brickman: How is it then that this awareness is a gift?

Tripman: You see, we are aware that we are aware.

Brickman: Who is it then that is aware of awareness?

Tripman: Who is asking the question?

Brickman: You have changed the direction of my enquiry, Tripman.

Waterman: Perhaps, this new direction might lead us into a more silent place.

Tripman: Perhaps. It seems like our author has found solace; at least for now.

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The Many Faces of God

The Many Faces of God

​ Marion loves to wear her lips in pink, glossed in a manner of delusional innocence. She walks to her daytime job at the newspaper office every morning and decorates the lies of the world with the whims of her boss. She’s been with men before, but most of them were never lovers. She eats popcorn every evening and gives her dinner the accompaniment of the finest of wines from Southern France. She gets the money from her father, who divorced her mother seven years ago. He loves her well and ensures that she eats her meals on time and has enough to buy her pink gloss. Marion is sad that life never seems to take an exciting turn as the months of her years fly by. Marion is beautiful, but Marion is sad. The cobbled streets of Paris give her no more solace than the wide roads that connect her city to the rest of Europe. While the job at the newspaper office does enough to help Marion hide her mind from herself for eight hours a day, she fills her soul with grimace and hatred for life every night when her cheeks touch her pillow. A Christmas came when the wine didn’t do enough and the broken heart of Marion befriended a rope that hung tightly from a ceiling fan. It was not a tragedy, it was a movement of fate and Marion was gone.

Felix loved his usual doses of LSD by the beach every twice or thrice a year. He believed that the mind needed to be reset every time it got too clouded with the mushy movements of the mundane world. But the last time around, Felix was imprinted. Felix had always believed that his awareness was separate from the objective world and he could dip his hands in the water without getting wet. But the LSD had brought him to believe that everybody shared the same ability. This induced a flame of spiritual jealousy deep inside the materialistic caverns of Felix’s soul. So he turned to DMT to find an explosive way out of the confoundedness that kept him separate from his ecstasy. The DMT worked. It gave him peace. At least it did the first time. The second time, Felix was imprinted again. And this time, he was drawn to strongly feel that the human body was an unfortunate bondage and this vacation to the Earth was an opportunity to free one’s soul from bondage. The wrists of Felix met the sparkling sharpness of an unbranded kitchen knife and left his body lying cold and still in his mother’s kitchen. Felix was beautiful and Felix was free. And now he was gone.
Dr. Kennelly was a victim of Asthma and she had dedicated her life to cancer research. Her everyday contact with tragedy had given her the courage to become an alcoholic. Her everyday interaction with death had given her the wisdom to become loose in speech and careless with her research. When age brought the perception of “fifty years old” into the awareness of Dr. Kennelly, she decided that her lifelong rejection of tobacco smoking was a hoax and she let her resistance slip into the delights of spending $200 a month on tobacco. Her Asthma met several instances of acute torment and left Dr. Kennelly struggling for breath in a twin bed in her lonely bedroom. Her daughter would visit her once a day and kneel beside her, reading poetry from Gibran and Rumi trying to give the old woman a sense of eternity. Dr. Kennelly was beautiful, but she didn’t know that. A morning came when breath had become a matter of perpetual endurance. She was a medical lady. It wasn’t much of an effort to find the pills that would bring her peace. Her daughter read her eulogy and seemed to be the only one that wept at her funeral. Dr. Kennelly’s research was taken up by some other team across the country who eventually made progress. But nobody will remember Dr. Kennelly. Nobody will remember the soul that was spilt because of its contact with the mortality of human dreams.
Bobby Dream was a delightful young poet whose verses dared to explore the darker nature of human existence. He left his heart to the safekeeping of his childhood sweetheart, Emily Karma, who ensured the softness of Bobby’s heart when his talent swam swiftly into the spotlight of concrete human society. Bobby Dream’s verses gave hope to his friends and reminded them that life was no struggle to make it to the throne, but instead a dance to make the grave itself a throne. Bobby’s friends implored him to take his literature to the world in a formal, published manner. Bobby resisted for several years but finally found the plasticity in his mind to reject his rebellious human heart. After nine bestsellers, Bobby decided to go on a romantic date with his hypocrisy. He looked back on his teenage rebellion and touched its innocence again. He admitted that he had failed his purpose. Ms. Karma was now married to a man who worked at the steel factory and she had three children. One winter morning, Bobby Dream saw her walking with her youngest who seemed to hop along as her mother smiled in the sunshine. The smile gave Mr. Dream a heavy remembrance of his carefree heart in the days of his youth. Today had become an endless struggle through sessions of book signings and new contracts with the publisher. All Bobby wanted was to lay in Emily’s lap again and listen to her whistling as the cold breezes of winter would reflect off the warmth of their communion. Mr. Dream would never find such a moment again. As he penned down his last poem, Mr. Dream polished the pistol that seemed so friendly today. Emily Karma shed tears on the mud that would make the grave of Bobby Dream. Bobby was beautiful and forever in love. He took away from himself as much as the world had done. Mr. Dream’s poems live on, but Bobby is gone.
They were all beautiful and now they’re gone. Does that mean that the lives that they lived were any less charming? We move and we move struggling through the resistances of our hearts hoping that eternity would kiss us before we meet our doom. Is it that eternity is a gift only for the few? Is it possible that our mortality is realer than we fear it to be? Is it alright to live our lives in an unforgivable vibration of boredom and hatred chasing dreams that were sold to us by people who were just like us? What are dreams? Why do we dream? Why do we aspire for higher states of human living? Let the sound of the sky’s violins create causeways in our hearts and remind us of our inherent beauty. There is a sense of needlessness that is natural to our hearts and if we dare to touch it again, we might meet the peace that we have craved for ever since we left the warmth of simplicity in our younger years. We are chasing the things that we believe will help us dance, but we never see that this is the only moment in which we can dance. I am a man of poetry, music, and other erotic things. I have touched beauty in the middle of the darkness, with the ability to rejoice even when nobody is watching. It has taught me that my mortality is my liberation; the very foundation of what we can deem beautiful in this immense, miraculous life. If all understandings fail, the only thing that we need to remember is that we are free. And our freedom can never be blemished by the streetlights of space-time that help us dance between what is real and what is not.

The Other Side

The Other Side

We need to write imagining that no one will ever read us, because that liberates you, because that frees you from the public’s necessity for correct grammar and appropriate punctuation; that frees you from the enslavement to decent words and appropriate imagery; that frees you from the expectations of people who have previously deemed you to be a good writer, a fantastic writer, a decent writer whatever. We need to imagine that nobody’s reading us.

Pick up that paper and spit it out. Let the music ring out from whatever instrument you have clothed in dust in your messy room and let your heart break before your monitor, your notebook, your friend, whatever you have. What liberates you is the very thing that the appropriateness of society loathes and rejects; humanity is a very subtle prison you see. Every artist needs aloneness to liberate himself. Every artist needs to bleed out the manners and acts of decency that have been cultivated within him by the people he has dearly loved. You need to walk to the places that no one else has dared to tread, you need to find the courage to let your heart bleed when nobody is watching. That’s the hypocrisy of most men you see; they love to bleed, poets love to bleed, painters love to bleed, but they do it only when everyone’s watching. You need to do it when nobody’s watching, that’s the point of liberation that lasts forever, free of time, free of yourself, free of everything.

They’ve created art schools to imprison the few of us who are remaining; don’t go to art school, don’t let that little part of you that is still alive be converted into political vomit and embroidered literature in the museums of the world. Don’t destroy yourself sweetheart. Don’t go to art school. Look at me, a young man who already sounds a hundred years old. School destroys you. Don’t go there. Instead, go to the Himalayas, go someplace faraway, let your heart break into a million pieces when you meet the reality of loneliness in a city that is home to more than a million people. Don’t go to art school, go to the places that you are afraid will kill you. Don’t go to Paris, or Rome, or New York City, or Tokyo. People have been going there all their lives. They’ve been telling us the same old stories; they’ve been regurgitating the same old tales of cultural excreta that every honest man has grown to become tired of. Don’t go to those places. Go somewhere else, anywhere, but those places. Go to the places that you know will kill you.

So many people are sitting before their monitors and begging their minds to shut up for one minute so that they can complete a verse of poetry. Don’t ask it to shut up, transform it, transmute it. Let your confusion become your art. Let your writer’s block become your novel. Let your dysfunctions become your orgasms and your tragedies become your redemptions. Don’t believe in god, believe in yourself. So many people have believed in god; god is yesterday’s delight. Today, you are your delight.

If you write a novel in fourteen days, they won’t believe you; if you spread it over fourteen years, they’ll put you on a pedestal and praise the work that you supposedly strived to complete at all odds, even though your heart kept forcing you to go the other way; if you write a song when you feel no pain, they won’t get it; if you take too much LSD and tell them life is beautiful, they’ll tell you your high; nobody wants to touch roses that have thorns, nobody wants to kiss a woman whose lips are dry, nobody wants gold that doesn’t shine, and nobody wants to be told otherwise. Everybody wants numbers, reason, and solid facts and if you ask them to play with you, they’ll call you a child. That’s why, learning to bleed when nobody’s watching is the artist’s great abode, his temple hidden from the impurities of the perfect world. Don’t listen to them; if you have to go to school, go to school, if you have to love a woman, love her like there’s no other, and when the time comes to meet your broken heart, drink your whisky, smoke your weed, drop your acid, and be on your way whistling on to a new tomorrow that offers something newer than yesterday. Nothing sticks and everything moves like frames on a movie screen; if you have to get a job, get it, work it, lose it. It seems to matter a great deal now, but when you’re facing death a few seconds away, if you’ve let nothing stick, you’ll greet it like an old familiar friend, and that will be your moment of liberation. What everyone considers their damnation, will be your liberation.

Don’t go to art school, go somewhere else. Contradict yourself, cheat yourself, hurt yourself. But in the midst of the chaos, remain honorable. Not perfectly honest, or kind, compassionate, or honorable in a cheap noble kind of way; remain honorable to yourself, that will take you across the fire to the sunshine that you so desperately seek.

Go away now, to that crazy place, that’s not Rome, or Paris, or New York city. Go away to that place you’re afraid will kill you; and when you’re back, I’ll be waiting for you, here, on the other side.

Vanity Song

Vanity Song

 

It’s a sad song; do you really want to hear?

So many guitars weep,
When the moon decides to be clothed,
In her finest white,
As she steals the hearts of cowards like me,
When I’m not looking;
And instead, chasing, the last woman,
With clean lips and a soul mixed with chilled ice,
In the last remnants of yesteryear’s dreamed heaven

Lonely nights, by a fire, by a window, and now,
By a laptop;
Surfing the expansive frequencies of galactic connections,
Lost; this maze is too big to return sweetheart

What will you do to me, but sew my lips?
So that I may remain quiet
As you continue to dream,
Of perfect orgasms and a sparkling world,
With optimal amounts of chicken,
In your rice
And the right percents of fermentation,
In your wine; the accurate yellow,
In your whisky; such utopia;

Liars get tired of defining the world,
Words are all we have,
And words are pieces of injustice,
That create the falsity,
Of all that we determine real

It only gets shorter from here,
The verse, the pointless ramble
It only gets shorter.
Because words don’t live forever,
People don’t live forever.
Nothing lives forever.
Except the reality, that nothing does.
Dig it up. And you’ll see.

The Dynamics of Duality (New Book)

Dynamics of Duality

Now available on Kindle.

Amazon: https://www.amzn.com/B01I6SYAX0

Amazon India: http://www.amazon.in/dp/B01I6SYAX0

The book will be free from July 11th to July 15th on a promotional offer.

Description: The Dynamics of Duality is an essay that delves deep into the nature of duality and the endless conflict that is caused by conventional methods of thought that are dualistic in nature. The essay explores the fundamental nature of reality using the help of several ideas explored by philosophers and spiritual masters including Alan Watts, Jiddu Krishnamurti, and Lao Tzu. Dualistic perception is laid forth as a problematic method of perception for the human mind and various solutions are discussed that can help transcend the inner conflict arising from dualistic thought. Other themes explored include meditation, the merits and flaws of science, the limitation of conceptual thought, death, and oneness.

Ratings and Reviews are most welcome!