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

Lost in Translation

 "The roots of physics, as of all Western science, are to be found in the first period of Greek philosophy, in the sixth centruy B.C., in a culture where science, philosophy and religion were not separated. The sages of the Milesian school in Ionia were not concerned with such distinctions. Their aim was to discover the essential nature, or real constitution, of things which they called "physis." The term "physics" is derived from this Greek word and meant therefore, originally, the endeavor of seeing the essential nature of things.

This, of course, is also the central aim of all mystics, and the philosophy of the Mileasian school did indeed have a strong mystical flavor. The Milesians were called "hylozoists" or "those who think matter is alive," by the later Greeks, because they saw no distinction between animate and inanimate, spirit and matter. In fact, they did not even have a word for matter, since they saw all form of existence as manifestations of the "physis," endowed with life and spirituality. Thus Thales declared all things to be full of gods and Anaximander saw the universe as a kind of organism which was supported by "pneuma," the cosmic breath, in the same way as the human body is supported by air."

- Fritjof Capra (1977), "The Tao of Physics"

SwissMexican in Haiti

The Argentinian Consul was a jolly fellow, raised Catholic, a self-proclaimed atheist and great conversationalist. I liked running into him at the diplomatic cocktails my mother took me to in Haiti's capital Port-au-Prince. I enjoyed having philosophical exchanges with him. He had a passion for languages and translated for fun. He agreed to translate into Spanish a few chapters from my favorite book, The Serpent and the Rainbow by Wade Davis.

The Consul seemed open-minded, intelligent and interesting. He was charming and twice as old. An unmarried, childless middle-aged man. I was a recently corrupted young twenty-something with nothing to lose. I loved to argue with stately gentlemen about the meaning of life, the human condition, and, sure why not, politics. I put out my point of view shamelessly. I thought the US-marines were the most stubborn interlocutors. They were also kind hosts with patriarcal protective impulses that pissed off the feminist in me. I never changed their mind on anything, and we had a good time.

The Consul asked my mother, who was the Mexican Ambassador, for permission to take me out. We agreed. I was excited to spend a friendly evening of fun conversation. He took me to a popular French restaurant owned by the parents of one of my friends. Petion-Ville, the elevated fancy end of town, was a teeny tiny world, which was experienced under a magnifying glass on the small Caribbean half-island nation.

The front door by the parking lot was locked for some reason. We stepped in through the patio entrance. I was delighted to see two of my friends ready to dine as well. I knew they were dating in "secret". We were seated at the table across from them. We didn't greet formally. No words were spoken. I mean, they weren't supposed to be seen like that together. In silence, we kindly aknowledged each other's presence. Who knows what they thought of my companion.

The rich, flavourful, refreshing and creamy delicious French Carribean food was to die for. I would have loved to eat there all the time if I could have. But I didn't return to the place again after that evening. You see, people don't want to frequent a public place and be caught with certain company. Like the cheating chief of mission with one of his many secretaries. Or the divorcee who felt ashamed to have a lover. Or the old friends who started having sex. Yes, Petion-Ville was like a magnifying glass and you had to watch out.

The conversation with the Consul, of course, quickly turned deeply philosophical. I trusted sincerely in the Atheist's ability to reason freely, detached from expectations. Just for fun, maybe. I imagined naively that deductive games would be as delightful to him as they were to me. Or, at least, that he might understand how they're played. His wit and humor had been palpable in our previous exchanges. Was it all just a facade? What was really beneath it all? What was his philosophical heart? I wondered.

Things began to get tense as I made critisizing remarks of the Catholic Church and shared my own personal Jesus. I was surprised. Hadn't he argued he was atheist? As the subject of God got slapped onto the table, the tables turned. "There is nothing." He insisted there was no force nor any other universal phenomenon omnipresent and omnipotent that flowed through everything for that matter. In fact, all matter was proof, as it was dead and not alive. He pulled physics and other science, as he understood it, out of the hat. "Let's call it energy, then." I insisted. What flows through everything, is in everything, and is "alive"? Particles are alive, atoms are alive. They move, don't they?

At some point he grabbed his head with both hands and ten tense fingers like he wanted to pull out his hair. He'd been getting louder and louder for a while. My friends at the table vis a vis looked at me strange, like "What is wrong with him?". Or, what is wrong with me for freaking out this poor man with diabolical notions? No, my friends knew well enough how I talked. 

The Consul used the word "devil" towards me, amongst other things. It didn't bother me, I'd been called that before. 

"Take this spoon, for example," I tried to explain to him visually, after having failed with other metaphors, so he might calm down. "It has energy. Thus, it exists..."

"Whaaaaaat!!!?" he screamed at the top of his lungs. "You're saying the spoon is aliiiiive?!!! That God is in the spooooooon???!!!!" Some people's heads began to turn uneasily. No one wanted to look.

"I'm saying that it, too, has energy, or whatever you want to call that which exists in everything in the universe. Look, from holding it in my hand it has become warm..."

His face was red, and he was shaking. I stayed cool and collected, in disbelief at his unfolding. Felt shock and awe all at once.

The Consul had an anger attack. He threw his napkin on the table and stood up so frantically that the chair almost flew into the patio window behind him. He got out of his seat cussing and cursing. My friends glanced at me desperately with big eyes. I silently shrugged as I turned my attention back to the Consul's disgruntled circus of public rage. He stomped off with big short-man steps to the front door leading to the parking lot.

The door was still locked. He danced around the empty entrance violently attempting to force the door nob open. To no avail. It all happened fast. He threw a fit like a toddler and almost kicked in the door. He made me think of Donald Duck's legendary tantrums, and I laughed inside. One or two heads turned ever so slighty. Most ignored him. Why would a diplomat behave in such a manner? Nothing to see here. Nobody knows anything about anything in this place anyway.

When the staff threatened to approach, he appeared to come to his senses. He realized that there was no way out the front. He had trapped himself in a dead end.

The Conscul decided to come back to the table and sit down. He stayed mad at me. There was no dessert. Awkward silence on the drive home. He dropped me off. I thanked him. We parted ways diplomatically. And never talked again. In the name of diplomacy, he would engage with my mother. But now he seemed to be afraid of me. I stayed at a distance. Didn't mean to upset him. Did my compassionate smile ever reach him?

Weeks later, I received the promised translations in an unaddressed envelope from my mother's hands. It touched my heart.

Fighter 1

Fighter humbled by
A martial master
who was not like water
But like a silent arrow
in the wind
Piercing
Like air  
invisible, present and powerful
Quicker than breath
And closer to death
than any mortal fool
Masterfully summarizing
all vulnerabilites
with one
almost imperceptible
annihilating
blow.

Luchadora 1

Una luchadora humillada por
Un maestro marcial 
quien no fue como el agua
Sino como un silencioso flechazo
en el viento
Penetrando
Como el aire
invisible, presente y poderoso
Más veloz que el aliento
Más amigo de la muerte
que cualquier loca mortal
Con maestria resumiendo
todas las vulnerabilidades
con un solo
casi imperceptible
golpe aniquilador.

Kämpferin 1

Eine Kämpferin gedemütigt durch
den Kampfmeister
der nicht wie das Wasser gewesen war
Sondern wie ein lautloser Pfeil
im Wind
Durchdringend
Wie die Luft
unsichtbar, gegenwärtig und mächtig
Schneller als der Atem
Dem Tode näher 
als jeder sterbliche Narr
Meisterhaft zusammengefasst
alles Verletzliche
mit einem einzigen
fast umbemerkbarem
auslöschendem
Schlag.

Cumspotting

Obturator orgasm
never disappoints.
Longissimi involvement interesting . . .
Is this what "kundalini" is about?
The infamous snake?
An ancient wheel of joy and pain.

Yes, please!!!!
I'll reincarnate
countless times
just to feel
again and again and again
just to feel
that indescribable pleasure.

I'll suffer, wait and train.
No orgasm occurs in vain.
Give me five, give me six,
give me ten!

*of course, ovulation vibes

Quantumphysical prayer / Quantenphysische Meditation / Oración Cuántica

To what extent is Prakrti (everything nature) aware of Purusha (pure consciousness)? Or is awareness reserved for one end of the (ever-twisting) existential axis of the observer and the observed, stacked in favor of a solitary witness to realize themself? To what extent is the very eye-organ proof that (pure) consciousness does have a hand in the manifested world of nature and is thus also accountable for nature's evolution?

first dimension

body in space
a particle in emptiness
amongst other particles
all connected through 
emptiness in space

bodies seated
on a seat planted
on the ground
of a revolving planet
united through emptiness
in space

bodies of billions of cells

next dimension

entire body presence
feet legs knees
hands arms elbows
hips shoulders
torso head
front back sides
perceptive mechanisms everywhere
the senses
see hear taste smell touch
think know
eyes ears muth tongue
the brain

next dimension

skeleton, muscles, skin
body base
vertebrae skull
nervous system
blood flow
energy snake
axial body illumination

sacred body
gracious gift of Nature
gratitude for the physical form
gratitude for a fabulous planet
our Mother Earth

billions of bodies on Earth

next dimension

breath
flowing through the body
breathing in the world
lungs expanding
oxygen
gratitude for trees
breathing
out flows carbon dioxide
breathing in and out
various organs
the diaphragm
the heart

next dimension

outside the body
over the head
energy crown
shining bright
energy flow
suspended
in emptiness

billions of planets in space
united by emptiness

stillness

except
the giant sounds
of a beating heart 
like an enormous bell
held by autonomous
luminous pillars
drumming incessantly
in the ribcage cathedral
of a skeleton cloaked
in emptiness and mystery
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Nature loves wisdom as much as her observer does. To think about everything that's there that one does not perceive. To train and refine one's perception. What does this mean?

What is the bridge between prakrti (natural perceptivity (perceiving and being perceived)) and purusha (pure perception)? Is it really the breath? What does it mean to purify perception? What is the relationship between the heart and the breath?
__________________________________________

Ways to quiet the heart according to a Western physician:
- reduce the need for oxygen (breath work)
- muscles are relaxed
- a matter of perception; perception CAN go beyond heart "distraction"
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Purusha,
mysterious presence
making me self-aware.
I, too, 
love thee.
Sincerely,
Prakrti