Alone. At last.

Who cares.  Who is looking at you?  No one.  I take a shower in the realization that it's only me.  I want to cleanse myself.  The mirror means nothing to me.  I'm refreshing myself to myself.  And I love it.  You are beautiful the way you want to be.  And I love it.

Poison Two: Attachment

Leo is a turtle and has beautiful dreams.  We often share our vivid imaginations of the night past over morning tea.  Since he’s British we always opt for Earl Grey, but sometimes when he’s not looking I’ll make Irish Breakfast.

His last dream was that the I Ching was inscribed on his shell.  I didn’t tell him, but I can see faint signs of the hexagrams, which makes me quite happy (for him, of course).

Recently, Leo told me of his day dreams.  He spoke majestically in his British accent and said that he had felt my energetic communication with him.  But then he wasn’t sure if it was real.  And so he opened his third eye and tried to listen a bit more intently.

But perhaps it was just a day dream of his own imagination.  An unfortunate attack of the second poison.  He admitted he didn’t think it was wise to day dream about the unreal too much.

I told him not to worry.  The first step is recognition.  And besides, I do like to energetically converse with him.

The Bees Knees

The bees are following me.  I’m not sure why; I thought they were going extinct.  That’s what the Discovery Channel said anyways.  I don’t think I want things to go extinct… but I saw that one episode about the killer bees. 

These aren’t killer bees though.  They’re just normal.  Some of them aren’t even bees; they’re yellow jackets…  I think.  But they’re following me.  At the ferry terminal, I could see them floating across the window of my car.  I was kind of scared, so I rolled up the window. 

Sometimes I find them dead underneath my purse.  I feel bad when that happens.  If I had known they were there, I would have moved my purse sooner.

The Discovery Channel program was saying that they are really sensitive to electromagnetic fields, and perhaps are confused by our cell phone usage.  I thought I could help them by sending messages through my third eye.  You never know, it might have some electromagnetic qualities, itself.  I’m not sure what I was saying, but it was with good intention.  Once I did that, they started following me.  Or maybe I’m just noticing them more.

I think they’re following me though.  Sometimes I wonder what the message was.

A Guide to an Unguided Meditation

Monkey likes to meditate with Ibbs.  He’ll often lead Ibbs in a guided mediation, asking him to concentrate on his feet and then feel the energy rise to his knees.  But Ibbs doesn’t have knees.  So he just looks to his feet until Monkey says otherwise.

Sometimes Monkey will get over zealous and require an intense session that could last hours if not days.  Ibbs is always willing to comply.  Because in reality (whatever that means), Ibbs is always in meditation.

Monkey doesn’t know this, but after each session he’s amazed at the tenacity of Ibbs and finds his own reward by regarding himself as the most awesome meditative teacher, Great Sage of all.  Monkey used to say the title was equal to heaven, but Ibbs doesn’t know what Heaven is, so now Monkey just proclaims that he’s Great.  And Ibbs agrees.

The Indifferent Ibbs

Ibbs comes from a special place.  The story changes from time to time, but when he speaks about the land in which he came from he talks in colors.  Wonderful yellow Ziggie blossoms the size of bowling balls adorn the banks of purple streams that wind meticulously in and out of the Great Green Garnich River.  I think Ibbs made his home on that river by the way he talks about it.  His eyes light up every time his imagination comes around the Calendie corner, and that’s when I know he’s home. 

The vibrancy of his muttering gives way to an unexplainable aura of feeling.  Ibbs has a hard time distinguishing individual items as such, and instead sees the colors of his world as either beginning or ending, all in a continuum with the next object.  In fact, from talking with him, he doesn’t even really see things as objects.  I tried to link his way of viewing the world as seeing it through the eyes of pure energy... But Ibbs doesn’t think too in depth on any one particular subject.  And so we leave it at that.

I’m not sure why he chose to live with me now, especially since Ibbs land sounds so amazing; but we both like it just the same.  I sometimes wonder what color he sees me as.

Wouldn't You Say?

Vultures can be always quite, never really unpleasant.  However, they tend to have so much time in between scavenging that they make excellent philosophers.

“Men and their rules of fishing are truly odd, wouldn’t you say?  They act so righteous on their morals of leaving the large ones to populate the ponds and the small ones to give them chances, when truly, they can’t catch the big ones and the small ones aren’t enough to feed them.

“Manipulation can be a confusing thing, wouldn’t you say?  Some of us wear our feathers proudly.  Others try to make their feathers the prettiest.”

The Sacrifice

The aloewood is burning.  The woman at the Chinese supermarket told me it was amazing.  “There’s only one box left and they don’t get more in for like... six months”.  She doesn’t look like the ordinary person on the street I would believe.  It wasn’t necessarily her broad stature, or her forceful interjection in my otherwise fluid thought; nor was it the unwieldily black hair that nevertheless was glistening under the market’s fluorescent lighting.  But under the circumstances, at that very moment, everything she said was a truth.

And so the aloewood is burning.  It’s amazing.  It sits on the altar along side the confused tapered candles.  They love being so tall, reaching for the heavens, and yet cry out to be burned.  “Make me beautiful!  So I can one day burn for the gods”.  Through their burning comes their own recognition and understanding, and with each light, they in fact, become more grounded and peaceful.  Then the day comes when their beauty is but a remnant on their own altar, and it is only their light that continues to be embraced and remembered. 

But for now, they are enjoying their contribution to the greater altar with the aloewood, which is still burning.  The smoke is dancing across perhaps the most important piece, the sacrifice.  I’m not sure what people mean when they say it was “meant to be”, but sometimes Tiger tells me it is so.  They could be speaking directly to their spirits who are letting them know of the truths, or maybe they are just trusting that whatever happens, happens for a reason.  More often then not, I think people are referring to the fact that that one action, has lead to something else that is better and so it was meant to be.  I’d hate to think that Tiger was a sacrifice “meant to be” for that reason, but perhaps I’m wrong.  I like to believe that it was meant to be, because everything was meant to be.

And so Tiger sits, adorned, loved, and comfortable on his altar.  After a long conversation on the bed (where he used to rest) with the Dog, he ran into a brutal accident that left his beautiful maine (Tiger is a Lion) cut short, and the back of his neck slightly torn open.  Some of his stuffing still remains missing, but we try not to hold onto the past and materialistic things like that.  So now Tiger gets the honor of resting in a safe and sacred spot.  Sometimes he likes to flicker his tail in happiness, other times he rather enjoys the light and views from the altar. He never really took himself as one for introspection or long and silent thought, like some of his other friends; but now that the time and space has come to him, he is taking it into consideration.  And just perhaps, it was meant to be.

And so the aloewood burns, alongside the glowing candles, as Tiger sits and thinks about nothing.

The Introduction of Monkey

Monkey sits up with the crystals.  Other people can sit with them too, but they all agree that Monkey likes sitting up with them the most.  He would argue, if he had to, that his arms were longer than the rest, and thus he offers the best protection for them.  But that isn’t really necessary.  He’s allowed to sit up there are he pleases.

The crystals come from a magical place that is often depicted on beer bottles and used as templates for murals on town walls that promise adventure.  It’s an ever changing landscape that melts through thickets of treachery, winding into burlesque trees with deep roots of consciousness, always giving way to a small summit of light.  Or so Monkey was told.

Some would miss it.  Most do.  Those that have come to achieve see the summit as it’s own reward.  Never did they think it would lead the way to something much more magical.  For magic to them is nonsense; an immaterial goal told in folk lore that kept children happy and monsters at bay.  Of course, they still believe in the monsters.  Everyone does.  That’s why Monkey serves as protector.

But as for the crystals, they can only be found by following the light at the summit.
Crystals are always found long before they could ever be recognized.  Monkey doesn’t know this.  So he protects the lasting material essence of what once was, and basks in his glory of today.  And we all love Monkey for that.