Full Moon in Aries

Yoga teaches mindful rearrangement of anatomical and perceptive relations throughout the entire existential body down to its subtlest particularities, through breath pattern exploration, and potentially breath surfing to other perceptive dimensions. Breath (specific existential movement patterns) is characteristic of all formed (form) and forming (concept) phenomena, all embedded into a specific web of perception (diverse ecosystems, species variation).

In terms of pranayama (breathing techniques), which is more helpful on the path to liberation through practice? To manipulate the breath consciously, imposing its karma (consequences) onto the physiological structure (for example, cat-cow breath/body patterns)? Or, to merely observe the breath as it is in meditation, as in Vipassana (Buddha), and allow for the physiological structure to sort itself out by not intervening at all? And, which is the greater act of faith on the path to liberation? What if liberation is merely matter of perception, and indeed available in every moment? What are we experiencing while suffering? But a passing phenomenon? Then liberation is not suffering. But joy is also a passing phenomenon. Thus, liberation is not joy? What lies beyond sorrow and joy? Peace of mind? What a blissful residence indeed must be a peaceful mind (physiology) to a sadaka’s (seeker) soul. If it were so easy as to slip into any moment at the moment, then why is yoga so complex? And like it, other arts demanding study, practice and dedication. Is liberation an act of art (the mastering of a technique that gives structure to creative expression, form to spirit)? Liberation, a magic trick, learned through trials, that makes the woes of humanhood disappear? That liberates consciousness of its own games of folly? Games that humans share amongst each other, not unlike germs, for better or worse.

Dionysius III

She: I’m working a new project.

He: Yes?

She: An anti-memory Memoirystery, where the gaps get filled in with sex scenes.

He: You’re not going to describe your sex with him!?

She: Not anymore than I would describe your sex with her.

Silent stoic stare.

She: Please don’t suppress my creative impulse!

He: You mean sexual impulse.

She: Sex is a vital part of being human and deserves mindful attention.

He: Like sexual healing?

She: Sex . . .

A glare of conviction.

She: Sex is a matter of philosophy.

Half Moon (in Capricorn)

Am recognizing past misconceptions about the spine, amongst other things. Samskaras? Habit patterns? Am attempting to rearrange, ever so subtly, lumbar* and thoracic** relations. It’s taken over two years of conscious study, practical effort, and countless lessons with great masters to arrive at this juncture. And this only after having crossed many more minor and major physiophilosophical junctures. These experiences are often nameless, the are only felt (in body, mind and spirit). Nameless because I feel a concept without form. Forms being words, symbols, language, structures etc.(in terms of anatomy (body maps) and beyond). Nameless because I feel what is formed without conscious conceptio. Body sensations manifesting in the flesh I never conceived to my knowledge. The question is, how to perceive one's own existential form? How to perceive what lies beyond (either way outwardly or inwardly)? A conceptual relationship of the self with an extensive manifest reality (nature) exists. And a formal relationship with "reality" exists also. Bound by biology, physics and ecosystems, forms inter-are. ____________________________________________

*lumbar axis exhale breath pattern (half-cow); pelvic floor, lower torso musculature "awakening"; hold inhale form (**) during cow bottom consciousness

**thoracic axis inhale breath pattern (half-cat) (inflated rib cage, expansion towards the back, upper torso musculature "awakening"); hold exhale form (*) during cat top consciousness _____________________________________________

Take a teacher’s lesson and find a way to study it - through questioning, contemplation, practice etc.

Dancers are philosophers. 


 Anyone who moves is, Anyone who makes of movement art.

The biological vessel has peculiar responses to the experiences it is subjected to, as well as phenomena surrounding it. This dynamic merits more examination. But there is so mucho going on all the time, that is is difficult to keep track of it all.

Every time he steps into the room I seem to lose my balance. How do I stay balanced even in his nerve racking presence? How do I not get turned on and distracted from the spiritual quest of liberation? Is existence indeed only composed of nature (i.e. hormones, biological structures, the manifest universe (formed conceptializations?))? Or does something lie beyond? And what is that like? Must conceptualize, must give form. Why? To live, to survive? What if what lies beyond is formless and deceptualized? How can it be understood from a place of form (beig alive, in a body, on a planet, a part of the physical universe etc.)? All that is not known remains a mystery. No mystery can be eternal, can it? Form conceptualized... formless concepts ... unconpetualized formlessness ... mysteries that can be solved?

Sometimes a teacher’s brilliance is realized in the repercussions of the lessons given, the effects these have over time, not necessarily in the moment of instruction. What carries over to the context outside of the classroom? What remains in consciousness, what travels through the unconscious? All input requires digestion. All effort (spirit) demands rest (organic limitations).

Are other spirtiaul scriptures around the world, in structure similar to the Bible in terms of being a collection of writings realized over time by countless authors and even more countless storytellers? Or do traditions with an unfiltered core exist, that have been carried over faithfully, consistently, obstinately from generation to generation?

Grauzahn Wilderbart (Märchenfigur) Greytooth Wilderbeard (Fairy-tale figure)

Prämens / premenstrual: cramps, heightened sensitivity, grumpiness, sore breasts, bloating, less energy, biological low (biolow/Biotief)

Ad Interim

Can I move on before coming to terms with my herstory? And, move on to what? The cat decidedly demands my attention. Or the child or the man or the kitchen. Interrupting my concentration. As if I don't have enough distractions already. I need to think. Or, to not think. But am I then? Descartes' "I think therefore I am" makes sense, but I seek Buddha's wisdom of pure being. Is the period of retrograde planets to blame for this nonsense? Return, reframe, reform, repair, repeat, reshape, rewrite, revisit, reconsider, remember... Sages encourage to live in the present. But I realize there is a lot I have misunderstood about the past. The subconscious, or whatever, presses me to question. What does it mean to be a philosopher? What does it mean to be a nexistentialist? What does it mean to think or not to think? I'm not sure what forces prey upon me, and I detest my existential chaos.  Random notes appear from everywhere. Incomplete reflections, inconclusive connnections. Doubt. Fog. Is this the philosopher's fate? Insanity with sudden bursts of clarity, inexpressible and undescribable? The urge to escape the unavoidable dances like a temptress before me. Mysteries that unfold ever so slowly test my imapatience. From the depths of unconsciousness someone desires to be heard. A dormant beast that dreams. Its tentacles tickle from beyond and penetrate into my daily duties demanding attention. Will I heed the call?

Wolf (intro)

My arrival in Mexico to study humanities was lonely. I knew no one besides relatives, had no friends. I felt foreign. After living in Switzerland for about a year, I was accustomed to a certain lifestyle which was not possible in Monterrey. For one, I needed a car to get around whereas in Switzerland I’d moved about freely with public transportation, walking or biking. Switzerland is a tiny country. In comparison, Mexico is a giant. Diplomats say it takes about one to two years to get established in a new place.

One night, I ventured out by myself to go downtown to a fair. I drove my lovely red 5 door manual 206 Peugeot, faithful companion on many a road trip throughout the country. I drove for hours and thousands of miles on Mexico’s freeways, and explored off roads. Seemingly unafraid of anything, I took risks back then that I would definitely not take today as a mother of three children. Though I'm afraid, on occasion, even as a mother I had to take risks anyway.

At the fair, I walked around a little market with local vendors. One of the booths with hand crafted gemstone jewelry had mysterious indigenous music playing. Sounds of drums, flutes and elements filled the air. Two artisans stood comfortably calling to people, one corpulent, the other skin and bones, who they actually referred to as "skeleton". I got drawn into conversation. In my customary way, I immediately connected and felt intrigued by their alternative lifestyle and way to view the world. Every question I asked, they seemed to answer honestly. I had never been exposed to magical Mexican thinking, such as the teachings of Don Juan, a native sorcerer made famous by Carlos Castañeda, an anthropologist who documented his study of invisible powers and the art of energy manipulation with the old sage. Disillusioned with my idological upbringing, I had come to reject God, Christianity, traditional Western philosophy and even atheism. I moved within a strange existential void neither lost nor found, with a hungry hole in my soul. Skeleton faded into the background while the large gentleman and I hit it off. We spent hours philosophizing around the plaza of the Museum of Mexican History in the middle of metropolitan Monterrey. It was a clear, starry night that made me feel like I stood at the mercy of the universe.

Wolf was a Mexican man of Lebanese origin. He was big and dark-skinned with long, black curly hair, and eyes the color of space. He wore ragged baggy shorts, a half-unbuttoned collared shirt, old sandals and a leather necklace with a rattlesnake-tail pendant adorned with a round amber gemstone in the middle that looked like a third eye on his naked chest. Admittedly, I found it a bit intimidating. But I intuitively decided to trust him anyway. He was a traveling merchant from Mexico City with a complex history. A martial artist and craftsman who told stories of the fights he got into in pursuit of rare gemstones in remote Mexican areas. Fights that took place in bars and taverns. Gemstones that lay hidden in the wilderness of mountains, beaches, lakes and jungles. His life and experiences stood in stark contrast to mine and I was fascinated by the new world that opened up before me. Philosophical inquiry had no bounds with him. He also practiced occult Mexican magic.

I didn’t know at the time that our paths would cross again several times and be tied to two great tragedies. Had I known, would I have escaped the experience? Or was it fated to teach me what I know today?

to be continued

Freedom of Opinion (part two)

The giver of blows forgets,
the bearer of the scar remembers.
- Haitian Proverb

When Rasta and I got back to the American Residence, there was tension in the air. The parking lot was full of security people shuffling around nervously, glaring angry eyes that I avoided. Falcon, the chief, had appeared on the scene. His face was tight. We looked at each other in silence. He was doing his job and it was none of my business. What had taken place while we were gone? The party had cooled down but the guests seemed to be at ease. No sign of an attack or danger. Mother and I left soon thereafter. Rasta's path and mine never crossed again. This is not unusual in my life. I've had countless momentary friends, encounters that last a day, a few hours or minutes. They're meaningful nonethelesss, and I cherish every one.

The next day, Falcon told my mother everything. She confronted me after lunch.
"What did you do with him out there?" she asked in a tone that almost made me feel bad.
"We had the best conversation ever!" I told her enthusiastically.
"Did you have to leave? It caused a lot of upset. There was a huge drama."
I was astounded. "Why on earth would it be a problem? This is a free country."
My mother sighed. "Because a black man leaving with a white woman is not seen well by some people."

It turns out that smoking wasn't the worst thing that we could have done. In the dirty racist minds of some men, us having sex was the most wretched thing imaginable. Luckily, Falcon had been able to mitigate the situation.

I guess no one is immune to prejudice. The American Ambassador was a gay man and very likeable. We loved him. But someone decided to gender shame him by spraying hate graffiti on the Embassy walls downtown. I asked my mother why someone would do such a thing. "A political statement," she replied in her customary cool, detached, rational and compassionate diplomatic way. She meant "political smear".

What did I know anyway? I was nothing more than a philosopher doing what philosophers like to do: tackle the phenomena of the world in discourse head on, leaving room for the unknown but unafraid of going there. Diplomats are kind of like that. Except, they must be selective in their expression and often keep their true heart to themselves. Philosophers are free. Socrates, Ancient Greek philosophical legend, clearly undertood this. He drank the poison put before him and chose death, rather than to be restricted in his Meinungsfreiheit (freedom of opinion). Of course, freedom of opinion is a double-edged sword. Bigots exercise it, too. However, Socrates, unlike many of us, had carefully crafted, through humble and consistent efforts, an authentic and compassionate opinion. He created an art of perceiving and made philosphy. On the path to enlightenment, bigotry is dispensible and love of all inevitable. No one can call themself a philosopher who is a bigot.

The last time I saw Falcon was in Monterrey, Mexico, thanks to a nice coincidence. He was transferred there as Consul General for the U.S. I moved there to pursue a master's degree in the city where my mother had studied, where half of my Mexican family resides. First, I met with him at the Consulate when I went to get my laser visa at his office. About a year later, I'd aborted my master's abruptly half-way. Mexico was a tough no-bullshit teacher and I'd gotten myself into some serious trouble. That piece of humble pie still sits in my throat almost 20 years later.

Before leaving Mexico for good, Falcon and I had lunch one last time. Steaks and red wine. He was already at the table when I walked in encircled by a frantic, bruised and nervous aura. He stood up to greet me.
"You seem different," he remarked as I sat down. "What happened to you?"
Of course, he'd pick up on it. A man of his experience, profession and training. He wasn't the Falcon for no reason.
After staring into his eyes for what felt like an eternity, I decided to be, at least, as blunt as I'd always been with him. I mustered up the courage to tell him the details of my most recent odyssey. That fatalistic opinion I'd offered to him back in Haiti, that he didn't like, had been a manifestation of my undoing. I had no idea at the time. Falcon was an agent of free will with the balls to make difficult choices. Now, I had become one, too.

It was just the two of us in the elevated restaurant room sitting at a round table clothed in white with a view of the mountains. Black and white servers holding water, napkins and other things, surrounded and occasionally approached us. When I finished talking, I was a dam of held-back tears. He told me that he had been in a similar situation, which was of some consolation. Our paths never crossed again. But he flies through my memories and I hold him dearly in my heart.

I went back to Haiti to live with my parents and figure out my next steps. It sucks to fail. But life goes on as new friendships, experiences and adventures unfold. A philosopher's work is never done.

Freedom of Opinion (part one)

"In the West we cling to the past like limpets. In Haiti the present is the axis of all life. As in Africa, past and future are but distant measures of the present, and memories are as meaningless as promises."
- Wade Davis (1985), The Serpent and the Rainbow

Mother, as the Mexican Ambassador, was invited to a party honoring one of Haiti's leading thinkers, a renowned intellectual, writer, historian, professor and activist, at the US-Ambassador's Residence. In the world of diplomacy, an ambassador's residence functions as a home as well as a private public place for international relations. I was Mother's plus one. The Ambassador was a kind host who threw great parties. So did the French. So did Mexico. Haitian parties were the best.

The official driver, a local Haitian man in his seventies who had worked for the Mexican Embassy for decades, took us there. The parking lot was large enough to fit a lot of security personnel (military), their many vehicles, as well as the cars of guests and their drivers. Most of the foreign cars were near-too-big for the small half-island roads. It made no sense to me that the United Nations private taxis were so monumental. Shouldn't the MINUSTAH (MIssion des Nations Unies pour la STAbilizacion en Haiti) of all players be sensitive to the country's geography? Well, the Mexican SUV was jut as big. I know Germain was proud of the red-wine-colored carrosserie. He took meticulous care of it. He drove like the devil to get us out of danger when violence broke out in downtown Port-au-Prince. Shots being fired around us, he slammed on the gas while I crouched in the back between the seats, and he got us the hell outa there. Nobody knew the roads better than him.

One late night, I was driving around with one of my Haitian friends after partying until the clubs, bars and restaurants had all closed. The Petion-Ville Plaza was quiet but for the few brave souls who refused to go to bed, like my friend and me. So we'd roam around town or cruise around the hills just for fun. It must have been around 4 in the morning. Parked in the middle of the plaza was the Mexican limousine with Germain leaning gleefully out of the driver's window talking to someone. I smiled and waved at him though I'm not sure he saw me. In a few hours, hang-over fumes would hang in the air as my mom stepped in to be chauffeured to work. She'd complained about the strong smell of old alcohol to me before. Now I knew where it came from. With only a couple of hours of sleep in the car and blood-shot eyes, Germain would kindly step up to another work day. Neither Mother nor I ever said anything to him about it, nor to anyone else. We loved and respected him.

Petion-Ville, Ayiti in June

I had noticed at other events, that the local chauffeurs would hang out together and, maybe, chat while they waited. But they would not interact with the officials around them, except to follow up on an official request, of course.

Inside, the American Residence was charmingly candle-lit for the hot, humid and salty Haitian night. Like a cozy fire burning just right and welcoming you to relax. What is your high du jour, dear guest, this evening? Cocktails, maybe? Beer or wine? Champaigne and cigarettes? 

Mother and I shook many, many hands during the greeting rituals. Diplomats love to shake hands and have other inter-planetary gestures, signs of peace and truce and hope and negotiation. And signs of conflict, too. 

Once, at a Mexican Independence Day celebration at the first Official Mexican Residence before it burned down. . . I must say, Mexico isn't the only magical, witchy vibing country out there. Haiti's voodoo vibe, its fateful power is inescapable. Mother, of course, threw a huge party with food, drink, music and dancing. A live Haitian Latino band entertained and enchanted all guests. Only, the American and the Cuban Ambassadors were supposed to never face each other, as diplomatic relations between their respective countries had frozen. Mother invited both men, of course, both friends. And they came and had a good time like everyone else. But the powers that be, kept them apart. I'd been chatting with the Cuban statesman at one of the long tables draped in white cloth and decorated with themed lanterns that were lit by candles. I was trying to show off by smoking a cigar. It tasted horrible. Hovering gently above our end of the table, hung a white candle-lit paper dove. To my surprise, the American Ambassador approached and joined us at the table. He took a seat opposite and slightly diagonal from the Cuban Ambassador. Yes, everybody is friends in Mexico, I thought. But what would happen next? A face-off? Or better yet, reconciliation! How poetic, I mused. The white dove is a symbol of peace, after all. But suddenly, before an exchange between the two men could even take place, the paper dove above our heads started on fire. Flabbergasted, all of us stared up in a strange state of fascination. The dove literally burned to the ground as it flew down in flames to the middle of the table between the two men. Then it was splashed with random drinks. No phoenix rose from the wet ashes. Each man took a separate way. Indeed, diplomatic relations between the US and Cuba were not restored that night in Haitian Mexico.

At the American party, a rasta stood out to me immediately with his long dreadlocks and casual dress. He was the son of the guest of honor, the Haitian intellectual. We hit it off right away diving into a deep existential conversation. Both of us were the children of public players on the complex Haitian political stage. Both of us had been raised Christian but were seeking alternative lifestyles. I loved listening to Bob Marley, but knew nothing of Rastafari. He was kind enough to describe its meaning to me, and to tell me about the way he lived as a rasta. Unsurprisingly, his father and my mother were caught up in converstaion, too. 

After a while and a few drinks, we decided to take a break from the party and go out for a roll around the hills. If our parents noticed, they took a risk by letting us go, I realize now. Or, they genuinely thought nothing of it as well. Nobody forbade our exit nor said anything. We got into his old casual car and told security we'd be right back. They opened the gate for us. I noticed wierd looks, but played it cool like always. The first man in charge had become a good friend of our family. I called him Falcon. He was a former marine and had overseen tough missions in his lifetime. Now, he was a high-ranking diplomat. He collected military items. I gave him my Swiss Army knife from bootcamp, which was slighty bent at the tip. He gave me a red German fountain pen like I had used in school growing up. We talked a lot. I felt safe and a touch self-conscious. Falcon was the head of security. Surely everything would be fine.

Rasta and I took off, found a cool spot, and got caught up in the awesome conversation we had begun at the party. Time flies when you're having fun. We were solving all sorts of philosophical problems. I felt jealous that he had a normal car to drive freely, while I depended on a chauffeur. Eventually, I would resort to walking in order to affirm my independence. Most Haitians walk or use public transportation, busses called taptap, scooters, or the back of a truck. I tried it all. 

to be continued