Walking home with his friend Tyler one evening they stop at the ATM right outside his house, cos Tyler needs some cash. They both notice at the same time a couple of small notes left by the last person and they both reach for them. Tyler hesitates however and he gets to them first. There is another abandoned note and Tyler takes that one.
All night at this party the two of them had been speaking to this beautiful Indian woman called Lakshmi. Tyler was clearly into her, but he was very much into Tyler. But Tyler kept playing the heterosexual game, as he saw it. They left the party together though, but of course Tyler will not be sleeping in his bed, but prefers the floor or the couch.
But, as it turns out, this is not just a couple of small notes. The ATM sits in front of them with a huge wad of $100 notes, as if it is the most casual thing possible. Tyler sees the notes, sees him grab the notes, and runs away without saying a word. He takes the handful of $100 notes and another wad comes straight out. He takes that wad and there is another one. He stuffs the money up his shirt, more and more, as much as he can carry. With each additional handful of $100 notes his excitement and panic increase until he can't take any more money, he is in a state of paranoia, there is still money sitting calmly in the ATM and he is in his bedroom with a tall pile of money covered in a blanket and he can hear his flatmates coming home and he doesn't want them to see it. He wonders whether he will get caught; he can't put the money in the bank, they'll recognise the serial numbers, ATMs have cameras, will he get caught, will he get away with it. He could go to the Police and give all the money back (he knows he won't do that) but he has to act quickly.
Showing posts with label abundance. Show all posts
Showing posts with label abundance. Show all posts
2011-03-04
2010-12-05
The storage capabilities of water
I fall in love frequently. I refuse to see this as a problem. I love love. Even when it drives me crazy. Perhaps because it drives me crazy. In a society in which people are constantly talking about how normal they are while behaving with pathological insanity, I enjoy the state of insanity supported by a deep and profound reassurance of a sanity based in the pervasive love that I am living in the depths of.
Often this love is not a natural and beautiful and powerful ocean. This weak desperate perverse urban love is more like an underground sewer, where all the people of the city flush away the part of themselves they would rather not look at, the part of their humanity they don't like the smell of, the part of their expression of life they consider superfluous. Their love.
These people are comforted by the knowledge that they love their spouse and their children and maybe even their parents and their friends; this they consider to be sufficient. There is an excess of love that is so unnecessary that it turns their urine a dark yellow and they flush it all away to this dark and unknown place beneath the concrete pathways that represent the trajectories of their lives. These people never consider what this place is like, or even that it exists. They are certain, at least they claim to be certain, they tell themselves they are certain, that the flush of the toilet is a natural process akin to opening up a wound in the earth and filling it up with their abundance.
However inside this non-biodegradable wound lined with concrete and metal pipes the excesses of human civilisation are not rotting into the earth but festering and fermenting and being consumed by rats who become drunk off the fermented faeces of our denial.
How can I look at this beautiful young man who sits peacefully only meters away from my body and though I have no social permission to talk to him and so only stare, how can I deny my secret knowledge that despite his uncaring expression and his subdued behaviour, he has an abundance of love in his heart and nowhere to put it? I can be sure that he spends a great deal of time and energy masturbating this love out and flushing it down the toilet.
Sometimes I wake up in a dream and I am in the sewer of the human soul and I am wading through the waste and I see his abandoned abundance floating away and while I see it and desire it I cannot entirely reject the imprinted ideology that it is dirty and contains disease and I shouldn't touch it and so I watch as it floats away into the unknown.
Of course what right do I have to break through the emphatic denial sometimes called social etiquette that claims to be more correct than the simple fact that I am here and you are here and we are looking at each other and we even speak the same language but probably don't have anything to say to one another. I have nothing to say to you of course but I want to look into your eyes and I can only look into your eyes if one of us is talking and neither of us have anything to say. I see your shit floating away and that means all that is left are our bodies and they are young and strong and yet we can't help but doubt and perpetuate the feeling that we may not survive the expression of the love spilling fourth at convenient ashamed lonely moments from our body and our soul.
I am one of the lucky ones and I have found a process in which to express much of the love that pours fourth incessantly from my mind and my soul; this process of languaging into literature or onto the internet. In this way, despite the fact that I never touched you while I had the chance, while we were intensely experiencing the reality of each others' presence, I can now use language to create another reality, a reality in which I proudly declare my love for all the beautiful persons I share this dimension with. I appeal to you now, in this form, to love as excessively and sanely as you like and not to worry about the expectation of social and emotional repression that we all pretend to agree with.
If you feel a little uncomfortable then spend less time on trains and avoid regulated cubicle-style working and shitting environments and rather than shitting down a sewerage pipe dive instead into the ocean.
I am not saddened by the sewer of urbanity because I know there is always an abundant ocean of love waiting for me when I return to that place I know is safe from all this illusion of insanity. There is room for everyone on these long beaches to offer up their love to the earth. She will take it compassionately and distribute it to the most deserving, those who ask and appreciate and are open to receive their piece of the collective love stored in the oceans that we all use to divide the continents on which we live our lives.
Often this love is not a natural and beautiful and powerful ocean. This weak desperate perverse urban love is more like an underground sewer, where all the people of the city flush away the part of themselves they would rather not look at, the part of their humanity they don't like the smell of, the part of their expression of life they consider superfluous. Their love.
These people are comforted by the knowledge that they love their spouse and their children and maybe even their parents and their friends; this they consider to be sufficient. There is an excess of love that is so unnecessary that it turns their urine a dark yellow and they flush it all away to this dark and unknown place beneath the concrete pathways that represent the trajectories of their lives. These people never consider what this place is like, or even that it exists. They are certain, at least they claim to be certain, they tell themselves they are certain, that the flush of the toilet is a natural process akin to opening up a wound in the earth and filling it up with their abundance.
However inside this non-biodegradable wound lined with concrete and metal pipes the excesses of human civilisation are not rotting into the earth but festering and fermenting and being consumed by rats who become drunk off the fermented faeces of our denial.
How can I look at this beautiful young man who sits peacefully only meters away from my body and though I have no social permission to talk to him and so only stare, how can I deny my secret knowledge that despite his uncaring expression and his subdued behaviour, he has an abundance of love in his heart and nowhere to put it? I can be sure that he spends a great deal of time and energy masturbating this love out and flushing it down the toilet.
Sometimes I wake up in a dream and I am in the sewer of the human soul and I am wading through the waste and I see his abandoned abundance floating away and while I see it and desire it I cannot entirely reject the imprinted ideology that it is dirty and contains disease and I shouldn't touch it and so I watch as it floats away into the unknown.
Of course what right do I have to break through the emphatic denial sometimes called social etiquette that claims to be more correct than the simple fact that I am here and you are here and we are looking at each other and we even speak the same language but probably don't have anything to say to one another. I have nothing to say to you of course but I want to look into your eyes and I can only look into your eyes if one of us is talking and neither of us have anything to say. I see your shit floating away and that means all that is left are our bodies and they are young and strong and yet we can't help but doubt and perpetuate the feeling that we may not survive the expression of the love spilling fourth at convenient ashamed lonely moments from our body and our soul.
I am one of the lucky ones and I have found a process in which to express much of the love that pours fourth incessantly from my mind and my soul; this process of languaging into literature or onto the internet. In this way, despite the fact that I never touched you while I had the chance, while we were intensely experiencing the reality of each others' presence, I can now use language to create another reality, a reality in which I proudly declare my love for all the beautiful persons I share this dimension with. I appeal to you now, in this form, to love as excessively and sanely as you like and not to worry about the expectation of social and emotional repression that we all pretend to agree with.
If you feel a little uncomfortable then spend less time on trains and avoid regulated cubicle-style working and shitting environments and rather than shitting down a sewerage pipe dive instead into the ocean.
I am not saddened by the sewer of urbanity because I know there is always an abundant ocean of love waiting for me when I return to that place I know is safe from all this illusion of insanity. There is room for everyone on these long beaches to offer up their love to the earth. She will take it compassionately and distribute it to the most deserving, those who ask and appreciate and are open to receive their piece of the collective love stored in the oceans that we all use to divide the continents on which we live our lives.
2010-10-12
Baptism by dumpster juice
Last night I found in a dumpster behind the supermarket the exact organic spelt bread that I mentioned yesterday morning I would like, but is too expensive. I cannot eat gluten, so it was very nice to find sitting peacefully on top of this dumpster three loaves of organic spelt and organic kamut bread. Is this merely a coincidence?
When I was in Australia last time, travelling with four Swedish men and dumpster diving everywhere we went, we noticed a lot of these coincidences and started joking about "Dumpster God", who would regularly answer our prayers and provide us with exactly what we needed or wanted; especially when we didn't realise we were praying.
This god is obviously a metaphor for something real that we experience. Does this mean our god exists? Does this mean our god does not exist? We continue to be amazed at the abundance and joy that Dumpster God brings us through her divine dumpsters, or even an average dumpster transformed by her divine presence.
Of course Dumpster God does not exist because we made her up. Every time we reference her it is a joke, though in terms of our own communication as a group, she has entered our language and has become a useful metaphor for communicating something palpably real to us all. It makes me question whether metaphor and myth are as real as anything else we experience. We must create a word to describe it because there is no physical measurable scientifically-proven word to explain this thing that is clearly a daily part of our lives.
If Dumpster God is the only god that we experience, what about all these other gods people talk about? Yahweh, Allah, Krishna, Baal, Zeus, etcetera; can these gods really exist in comparison to the true god, Dumpster God, who I know exists because I have experienced her presence and her benevolent effect in my life? Surely Dumpster God is the one true god because she is my name for the infinite inexplicable benevolence of the universe.
I know that in Australia, where so much food is thrown away every day for no reason and usually with no benefactor, I will never be hungry, because Dumpster God is on my side, protecting me and providing for me and my friends. Only, however, the ones who show their belief with a joy and exuberance and shameless confidence that brings us together and brings us into the sticky glory of baptism by dumpster juice.
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