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Here's another "monster" COFFEE WITH THE MEAL by Ogden Nash . A gentlemanly gentleman, as mild as May, Entered a restaurant famed and gay. A waiter sat him in a droughty seat And laughingly inquired what he'd like to eat. "Oh I don't want venison, I don't want veal, But I do insist on coffee with the meal. Bring me clams in a chilly group, And a large tureen of vegetable soup, Steak as tender as a maiden's dream, With lots of potatoes hashed in cream, And a lettuce and tomato salad, please, And crackers and a bit of Roquefort cheese, But waiter, the gist of my appeal Is coffee with, coffee with, coffee with the meal." The waiter groaned and he wrung his hands; "Perhaps the headwaiter understands." Said the sleek headwaiter, like a snobbish seal, "What, monsieur? Coffee with the meal?" His lip drew up in scornful laughter; "Monsieur desires a demitasse after!" The gentleman's eyes grew hard as steel, He said, "I'm ordering coffee with the meal. Hot black coffee in a great big cup, Fuming, steaming, filled right up. I don't want coffee iced in a glass, And I don't want a miserable demitasse, But what I'll have, come woe, come weal, Is coffee with, coffee with, coffee with the meal." The headwaiter bowed like a poppy in the breeze; "Monsieur desires coffee with the salad or the cheese?" Monsieur said, "Now you're getting warmer; Coffee with the latter, coffee with the former; Coffee with the steak, coffee with the soup, Coffee with the clams in a chilly group; Yes, and with a cocktail I could do, So bring me coffee with the cocktail, too. I'll fight to the death for my bright ideal, Which is coffee with, coffee with, coffee with the meal." The headwaiter swiveled on a graceful heel; "Certainly, certainly, coffee with the meal!" Oh, what a glow did Monsieur feel At the warming vision of coffee with the meal, One hour later Monsieur, alas! Got his coffee in a demitasse.

Thank you, Brian -- after you, if there's a list. So, to continue on topic. Yes, you're right, specialists like to despise lay folks who "think they know something," and god forbid the latter DO know something -- in this case substitute "hate with a passion" for "despise." After the story I told above, about a "typical" doctor, fast forward three years. We meet an MD, accidentally (god sent him, everybody says whom I tell the circumstances). He is a big cheese at a large local hospital, also a researcher who pioneered some of the complex procedures that have been included into the "standard of care"since then, and he looks like Robert Redford in his prime to boot. And he is actually thrilled when I tell him, well, for such and such reasons we did this and that (completely unorthodox "alternative" stuff) and he goes, yeah, good choices, there's so much quackery in the alternative field, how did you manage to sort out through this convoluted picture to get to the few precious things that really work? I feel I'm in a dream. I explain to him that I've invested thousands of hours into research, orthodox, alternative, everything under the sun -- out of necessity, not for to prove anything to anybody. He goes, OK, have you come across this and that... and in no time we're talking shop like two professionals, which in fact we are, not in terms of experience and methods of learning -- I never had his, but then, he never had mine -- and he is really interested and I see he respects the work I've done, and I see he did his own homework, for the first tine I'm talking to an MD who never misses a beat when I mention an obscure study from his field -- whoa, he's read them all! And then we talk candidly, and he goes, about some parts of the standard of care, "yeah, that's a scam... and this, a band-aid to cover up the picture..." and so on. Despite the grim circumstances that brought me to that conversation, I'm in fucking Heaven! And the sick family member who's been avoiding doctors because he had zero trust and less respect for what he'd seen that far, goes, OK, now I think I can trust this guy. Praise the lord if he's the one responsible for this miracle.... or whatever powers. And of course the treatment worked close to the top of its capabilities. Placebo effect?...

Psychedelics, Dissociatives, or Deliriants. Psychedelic (From Ancient Greek ψυχή (psychê) mind, soul + δηλος (dêlos) manifest, reveal + -ic) was coined to express the idea of a drug that makes manifest a hidden but real aspect of the mind. It is commonly applied to any drug with perception-altering effects such as LSD and other ergotamine derivatives, DMT and other tryptamines including the alkaloids of p. cubensis, mescaline and other phenethylamines. Dissociatives produce analgesia, amnesia and catalepsy at anesthetic doses.[6] They also produce a sense of detachment from the surrounding environment, hence "the state has been designated as dissociative anesthesia since the patient truly seems disassociated from his environment."[7] Dissociative symptoms include the disruption or compartmentalization of "...the usually integrated functions of consciousness, memory, identity or perception."[8]p. 523 Dissociation of sensory input can cause derealization, the perception of the outside world as being dream-like or unreal. Deliriants, as their name implies, induce a state of delirium in the user, characterized by extreme confusion and an inability to control one's actions. They are called deliriants because their subjective effects are similar to the experiences of people with delirious fevers. Included in this group are such plants as Atropa belladonna (deadly nightshade), Brugmansia species (Angel's Trumpet), Datura stramonium (Jimson weed), Hyoscyamus niger (henbane), Mandragora officinarum (mandrake), and Myristica fragrans (nutmeg), as well as a number of pharmaceutical drugs, when taken in very high doses, such as diphenhydramine (Benadryl) and its close relative dimenhydrinate (Dramamine). Uncured tobacco is also a deliriant due to its intoxicatingly high levels of nicotine.[24] // I don't advocate any of these things. In the "Reality" thread there was a discussion on the origins of Santa. I thought I'd add this as an extra consideration

We've just moved from the self-sufficient 'dream'. Smallholding in the countryside all our own veg and eggs plus milk when we had goats. Tiny carbon footprint That was darned hard seven days a week work and far from simple. Land and livestock are very demanding of time and sweat. We're too old to manage the work now so we sold up and retired to a seaside cottage. Simplicity is possibly easier in an urban environment where all services are on hand and you don't have chop wood to keep warm or pump water by hand when the electricity goes out. Anyone with little or no money who hankers after a plain and simple life with lifetime security might consider joining the Hutterites. Those are good people.

Not 'here" but HERE ... that is 'there' not 'here' - to you ... but not 'here' ,but also HERE to me - get it ? I only need a small array as I dont use much energy up . I think if I wanted a fridge (well, actually I dream of having a fridge ! ) I would run it off another panel and separate battery. Others 'drop out' , move here, start collecting all sorts of electrical goods and technology and then complain their systems dont work good enough (and its too far from the movies, nightclubs, skate parks, .....

psychic attacks do not exist. It is a physical attack. Equipment is usually used for attacks that involved in getting a person bedridden. A dream is done by device, it isn't a more powerful clone telepathically syncing you while you are asleep. Their is no "astral" or etheric body. What usually happens is that somebody in the unseen is reverse ballasting your body. A clone of yours or another person can be in your body. This practice is not recommended because both people usually end up low on muscle mass. There usually isn't anybody to help. Five people left from my house after I threatened them. I threatened them with doing dirty moves on them after death. These people who do the attacks usually hang around after death. They usually move slow from accumulating natural abusive hits on their bodies and consciousness. The other people in the house won't defend them. Some of the people that do the attacks also have nasty looking skin and their body appears to have less muscle. These people with the nasty looking skin were penalized by powerful people that are out in consciousness.

So this whole thing is new to me...I found this forum recently while looking for information on how to "really" meditate (I'm not sure if I'm "doing it right", I end up in a state that its like pretty much the feeling of a dream, but I'm also awake, but not able to "do"much, cause if I do I wake up so...) And the possibilities of using "chi/qi" as healing of some sort, I would appreciate any recommendations on both matters. Also the books that caught my attention,The Magus of Java and The Magus of Strolovos...is it worth to go after these books? English is not my main language btw

. For those who love reading there’s a joy that sometimes arrives 'out-of-the-blue, when you unexpectedly come across a previously unknown gem on the book shelves of a Charity Shop. After a recent experience of that two weeks ago I suddenly realised that I hadn't felt that particular glow for quite a long time now, whereas a few years ago the ‘thrill of the hunt’ used to happen quite frequently. On wondering why, I decided that it was probably down to one of those unforeseen losses which arose out of our modern-day ease in finding virtually any book we want on the internet, via Amazon. Anyway, we can’t turn back the clock, and shelf-loads of that experience still lie free and waiting for any ‘Oxfam explorer’ on a rainy Saturday afternoon. This time, as good luck would have it, the unexpected gem, (both book AND author), was a fascinating autobiography called “Here Comes Trouble : Stories From My Life”, by Michael Moore. Of course I had heard of him previously. His extraordinary courage in single-handedly taking on some of the most powerful ‘demons’ in today’s American society are almost legendary. Moore’s written and cinematic works criticize globalization, large corporations, assault weapon ownership, U.S. presidents Richard Nixon, Ronald Reagan, Bill Clinton and George W. Bush, the Iraq War, the American health care system, and capitalism. The extract below is taken from the story of his life. I found it fascinating to read how all the interweaving events of his childhood could so closely parallel my own in time and venue,… yet produce a modern-day hero in his case, versus a mere ‘book worm’ in my own. But man – can this guy tell a story !! Without further ado, I’ll let the man entertain you himself : * * * Michael Moore wrote : Chapter 8 : The Exorcism "Kick out the jams, motherfuckers !" I shouted up the stairwell. O'Malley, my bully of a roommate, slapped me hard across the face. "Shut the fuck up! Father Waczeski is right there !" I turned quickly around to see if the priest had heard me, but there was no priest anywhere to be found. O'Malley, who was a year older than me, just wanted to slap me. He laughed his usual sinister laugh, and hit me again. "Stop it," I said. "I was just singing that new MC5 song." "Then sing the clean version, the one they play on the radio - 'Kick out the jams, brothers and sisters."' What the fuck did he care about a "clean" version? O'Malley was the opposite of anything clean. He was more a version of every mother's nightmare. What was a thug like him doing at the seminary ? When I was fourteen I decided it was time to leave home. Mostly bored with school since the first grade, but politely biding my time to keep everybody happy, I realized I could do more good for myself and the world (wherever that was) if I became a Catholic priest. I'm not sure of the day when I got "the calling," but I can guarantee you there was no vision or voice from above, no burning bush or Virgin sighting. Most likely I was just watching the news, probably saw one or both of the Berrigan brothers, the radical Catholic priests, breaking into a draft office and destroying the records of young men who were to be sent to Vietnam, and I said to myself, "Now, that's what I wanna do when I grow up !" I liked the idea of the Action Hero Priest, and I thought I could do that. I liked seeing priests marching with Rev. King and getting arrested. I liked priests helping Cesar Chavez organize the farmworkers. I wasn't completely sure what it all meant; it just seemed like a decent thing to do. It was pretty basic: you had a responsibility to help those worse off than you. I was never going to play for the Pistons or the Red Wings, so the priesthood seemed like a good second choice. But first I had to convince my parents to let me leave home. They did not like this idea. These were the people who wouldn't let me skip first grade, and they were definitely less inclined to let me skip town. But I told them I had "a calling," and if you were a devout Catholic in those days and your kid told you he had "a calling," you had better not risk getting in between the Holy Spirit and your only begotten son. They consented, reluctantly. The seminary training would take twelve years before I could be ordained a priest. Four years of high school, four years of college, and four years of theological training. The high school part was optional, but for those who had the calling, there were two seminaries in Michigan for high school students: Sacred Heart in Detroit and St. Paul's in Saginaw. It was less than a year after the Detroit riots, so Sacred Heart was out of the question for my parents. St. Paul's it was. On the first night after my mother and father dropped me off at the seminary in September 1968, I instantly began to question the wisdom of my decision. My doubts were not driven by the strict rules I had to follow: Up at 5:00 a.m. for prayers, long periods of enforced silence, barred from your room from 8:00 a.m. to 8:00 p.m., difficult studies (nine weeks spent dissecting just one Shakespeare play), hard labour and chores, and severe punishment for violating any of the rules. Freshmen were prohibited from watching any television or listening to the radio for an entire year. You were strictly confined to the campus - with the exception of 2:00 p.m. to 4:00 p.m. on Saturdays, during which time you could walk two miles to the strip mall, grab a Whopper, and rush back. But I was OK with all of that. My trouble was not with the system (at least not at first). It was with the two roommates I had been assigned to share a room with. Mickey Bader and Dickie O'Malley. Mickey and Dickie. "The Ickies," as I called them (but only to myself). The problem with them being there at the seminary was that neither of them wanted to be a priest. No way. They were into girls, and partying, and smoking and sneaking off campus whenever they could. And pushing me around. They were what the adults referred to as ‘juvenile delinquents.’ They were rich kids, the sons of important men in their communities, and it seemed as if at least Dickie had already had a number of run-ins with the law. Their parents decided that perhaps the seminary could straighten them out, and how they got through the intense interview process I had to go through to get into this place was beyond me. I came to the realization that their fathers had probably bought their way in, and the priests were obviously in need of any ‘charity,’ wherever they could find it. Discovering that this was both a seminary and a reform school did not sit well with me, and it was clear to me that I was going to have to endure the constant harassment of Mickey and Dickie if I wanted to be a priest. When they found out I really believed in all this ‘religion crap’, they were relentless in mocking me as I said my prayers, did my chores, practiced my Latin. They smeared applesauce over my sheets, placed Playboy centrefolds in the toilet bowl, and entertained themselves by seeing if a pair of scissors could alter the length of my pants. Although I was bigger than them, I did not want to resort to violence in order to have some peace and quiet, so I kept my distance from them. There were two rules I decided early on that I just couldn't follow at the seminary, and I knew God would forgive me. In October 1968, the Detroit Tigers were headed to the world Series, and as part of our penance for being freshmen, we were not allowed to watch or listen to the games. I was convinced that this edict did nor come from the Almighty, and so I snuck a transistor radio into my room and hid it inside my pillowcase. At night I would lie in bed and listen to the games, muffled as they were, through the pillow’s duck feathers. The day games I missed. The other rule was that you could not have any food in your room. As they were more interested in feeding our souls than our bodies, I decided to take care of the latter. That year, science had invented the Frosted Pop-Tart (“Proof of God's existence,” I would say). I smuggled in boxes of these heavenly items and I would toast them by placing a sheet of paper on top of my lamp and sitting the Pop-Tart on it. I was eventually discovered by a priest who caught a whiff of burnt strawberry out in the hallway. I was given extra kitchen duties for a week and lost my Saturday afternoon escape privileges for a month. The other thing I enjoyed doing was hanging out with the senior boys. They had a knack for coming up with ingenious pranks that they loved to play on the holy hierarchy. My contribution to this club was to concoct a powder that replaced the chapel's incense. It was called a "stink bomb," and when the altar boy put a scoop of this "incense" onto the hot coal in the censer, it let off the most god-awful stench, a combination of rotten egg odour and a locker room fungus. It cleared the church within minutes. The other prank, for which I became legendary (but only as "Anonymous," as I was never discovered), involved an "entry" of mine in the school's annual science fair. Of course, I had no interest in science (unless science could make a chocolate fudge Pop-Tart, which it eventually did), but I did have an interest in pulling off the best stunt ever. About an hour before the doors to the seminary's science fair were to be opened to the public, I quietly entered the exhibit hall and placed my "science project" on one of the tables. It was a simple, plain test tube that contained a clear liquid (in reality, cooking oil). I set it on its stand and placed a placard in front of it. It read: NITROGLYCERINE: DO NOT TOUCH OR WILL EXPLODE It was five minutes before the opening, and I hid nearby so I could watch people's expressions when they saw the test tube of danger. At that moment, the science teacher, a short nun with thick glasses and in her seventies, came in to make a final pass through the fair to make sure everything was in place and all set to go. She came upon my addition to the fair and was surprised to see something on the table that she hadn't placed there. She took her glasses off and cleaned them, not exactly sure what this was she was looking at. As she bent over to read the card, she let out a scream and quickly waddled over to the fire alarm box, broke the glass, and pulled the lever. I was mortified. [* Yes, in the more violent future that lay ahead of us, this sort of thing would have resulted in my expulsion and jail time. But in 1969, it was just funny.] This had gone too far. I got out of there as fast as I could, and as the fire trucks arrived I watched the firemen go inside and retrieve the tube which they could tell was not nitroglycerine. The nuns and the priests apologized - and issued a fatwa on whoever was responsible for this. They never caught the culprit. There are two types of fear: normal fears that are primal (fear of pain, fear of death), and then there is the fear of Father Ogg. Ogg taught Latin and German at the seminary. The Church had also christened him with special powers, and he was the only one at the seminary to hold these powers. One night, he gathered together a few of us boys and asked us if we would like to see how these powers could be used. We were already scared of Father Ogg, but no one was going to admit that, and so we all agreed to let him show us. He took us down into the "catacombs" of the seminary (a series of tunnels under the building) to perform a ceremony only he was allowed to perform. It was called the Rite of Exorcism. Father Ogg was an exorcist. It would be another three years before Hollywood would make Linda Blair's head spin in the William Friedkin film, so all we knew of exorcism was that it was a series of prayers and rituals performed over the body of someone whom Satan had possessed. The devil would be cast out and the victim would be saved. We were told by Father Ogg that he had a "one thousand percent batting average" when confronting Lucifer. "I always win," he said. He told us that he would show us the ceremony but it would only be "pretend," as none of us had shown any signs of being consumed by evil. Yes, but wouldn't this be better, I thought, if there were someone here at St. Paul's who actually was evil ? Of course it would! And of course there was. "Father," I said with fake sincerity, "before you start, I think Dickie O'Malley is going to be really upset that we left him out of this. He keeps saying he doesn't believe you're an exorcist and that he'd like to see you try it out on him: Can I go get him ?" "Sure," Ogg said, somewhat miffed that anyone would question his devil-disappearing powers. "But make it quick." I ran back upstairs and found Dickie where I thought he would be - outside the gym door having a smoke. "Dickie !" "Yeah, fuckface, whaddaya want?" "Father Ogg says he wants you right now!" "Yeah, well, tell him you couldn't find me." "He said he saw you come out here to smoke, and that if you came now he wouldn't turn you in." Dickie considered the offer of leniency carefully, took his last couple of drags, gave me a tap across the face, and followed me inside and down into the catacombs. "Welcome, Dickie," Father Ogg said with a sly grin. "Thank you for volunteering." Dickie looked at him with smug-filled puzzlement, but sensing that he was not going to be in trouble if he went along, he stepped forward, unaware of what was to happen next. I could only hope that in about twenty minutes from now there was going to be a new Dickie. Father Ogg had brought an ominous black duffel bag with a red coat of arms on it and words embossed in Latin that I didn't understand. He reached down in it and pulled out a shaker filled with holy water, some holy oil, about a half-dozen dried-out olive branches and, um, a leather rope. "Now, normally, Dickie, I would tie you down so you wouldn't be able to hurt me," Father Ogg said to the snickers of those present. "I ain't gonna hurt you, Father !" Dickie protested. “And you ain't gonna tie me up. I was only smoking." "Yes, sometimes smoke comes out of the possessed," Ogg said. "A few have caught on fire. But I don't think you have to worry about that tonight." The exorcist then launched into a bunch of mumbo-jumbo, words and language I had never heard. To see this jabber coming out of his mouth a mile a minute gave me goosebumps. This was the real deal ! It scared Dickie, too, and he stood there dumbfounded at what he was witnessing. "Exorcizo te, omnis spiritus immunde, in nomine Dei Patris onmipotentis, et in nomine Jesu Christi Fitili ejus, Domini et Judicis nostri, et in virtute Spiritus Sancti, ut descedas ab hoc plasmate Dei Dickie O’Malley, quod Dominus noster ad templum, sanctum suum vocare dignatus est !” FatherOgg continued, spraying holy water all over Dickie. Dickie did not like that. "C'mon, Father ! What is this ?!” "Be still. I am casting Satan out of you!” I thought, with that, Dickie would bolt. Priest or no priest, he was not going to stand there in front of a bunch of other students and be humiliated. Or have it implied he was in cahoots with the devil. Instead, Dickie didn't move. He was intrigued with the possibility that his accomplice was the mother of all hoodlums, Beelzebub himself A sinister smile came across his face. Father Ogg took the cap off the holy oil and smeared it on Dickie's forehead, cheeks, chin. He then took Dickie’s head and placed it between his two hands and pressed it like he was in a vice. "Oowww!" Dickie screamed. “That hurts.” It was nice to see Dickie hurt. "Silence !" shouted Ogg in a voice that I swear wasn’t human. "Ephpheta, quod est, Adaperire. In odorem suavitatis. Tu autem effugare, diabole; appropinquabit enim judicium Dei !” he continued in some ancient tongue, or perhaps no tongue at all. I'm not even supposed to be sharing this with you, and to commit these words to paper makes me want to go and check the lock on my door (I’ll be right back). It was time for the olive branches. We were each given one and told to hold them out over Dickie - but not to touch him. Ogg then took his branch and started to wail on poor Dickie, careful not to whip him anywhere that might hurt. "Christo Sancti !" Ogg yelled, causing Dickie to turn to me - the one who brought him into this - and scream, "Fuckin' moron ! I'm gonna kill you!" "Don't make me have to tie you down !" Ogg shouted. “Abrenuntias Satanae ? Et omnibus operibus ejus ?" And at this moment, Dickie started to cry. Father Ogg, a bit surprised, stopped. "Hey, hey, it's OK," the exorcist said in a comforting tone. "This isn't real. It was just a demonstration. You don't have the devil in you." At least not now, I thought. I prayed that this exorcism, albeit a "practice" one, would have a real effect on this miserable bully. But, alas, such was not the case. The next day I found my transistor radio in the toilet and my underwear all gone. One of the nuns would find them later that night in her own drawer, with the words, in magic marker, on each waistband: PROPERTY OF MICHAEL MOORE. I did not want to take the punishment for finking on Dickie, so I took the extra week of garbage duty instead and said nothing. Frankly, it was worth it just to have the extra time to myself so I could replay in my head Dickie being whacked with an olive branch, olive oil dripping from his face, and the Devil departing his miserable body. Not all the time at the seminary was spent on my knees or observing strange rituals or playing pranks. I actually had one of the best and most challenging years of education I would ever have. The priests and nuns loved to teach literature and history and foreign languages. The class I had the toughest time with was Religion. I had a lot of questions. "Why don't we let women be priests ?" I asked one day, one of the many times that everyone in the class would turn around and stare at me as if I were some freak. "You don't see any women among the apostles, do you ?" Father Jenkins would respond. "Well, it looks like there were always women around - Mary Magdalene, Mary, Jesus's mother, and his cousin what's-her-name." "It's just not allowed !" was the end-of-discussion answer he would give to most of my questions-which included: * Jesus never said he was here to start the 'Catholic Church’, but rather that his job was to bring Judaism into a new era. So where did we get the idea of the Catholic Church?" * "The only time Jesus loses his temper is when he sees all these guys loaning money in the Temple and he smashes up their operation. What lesson are we to draw from this ?" * "Do you think Jesus would send soldiers to Vietnam if he were here right now?" * "In the Bible, there's no mention of Jesus from age twelve to age thirty. Where do you think he went ? I have some theories..." On the first day of English Lit class, Father Ferrer announced that we would spend nine weeks dissecting Romeo and Juliet, word by word, line by line-and he promised us that by the end of it, we would understand the structure and language of Shakespeare so well that for the rest of our lives we would be able to enjoy the genius of all his works (a promise that turned out to be true). I have to say that, in retrospect, the choice of a heterosexual love story with characters who were our age and who were having sex was a bold move by this good priest. Or it was sadism. Because if we were to become priests, there would be no Juliet (or Romeo) allowed in our lives. I devoured every line of Romeo and Juliet, and it spun my head and hormones into a wondrous web of excitement. Unfortunately, I had not read the rulebook before signing up for the seminary, and here's what it said: YOU CAN NEVER HAVE SEX, NOT EVEN ONCE IN YOUR LIFE. ESPECIALLY WITH A WOMAN. Now, had I read that in eighth grade, I'm not sure I would have understood all the ramifications of agreeing to this prohibition. By the time it was explained to me in ninth grade at the seminary, something seemed oddly wrong with this rule. Call me crazy, but I kept hearing voices in my head: Mmmmmm . . . girls . . . gooooood . . . penis . . . haaaaappy. The voices intensified on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. That was when they bused the few of us seminarians who played a musical instrument into the Catholic high school in nearby Bay City to play with their school band. There were not enough of us to make up our own orchestra at the seminary, and the priests, who enjoyed culture and the arts and would often sit around and have conversations with each other in Italian, did not want those of us who were musically inclined to miss our "other callings." I was placed in the clarinet section next to a girl named Lynn. Did I mention she was a girl? At the seminary I spent 1,676 hours of every week around only boys. But for these two glorious hours, I was in the vicinity of the other gender. Lynn's long, deft fingers that she used on her clarinet were a beauty to behold (as were her breasts and legs and smile - but I only wrote smile just in case one of the priests is still alive and reads this story because, truth be told, while her smile was pleasant, I have no recollection of it as it was obscured by her breasts and legs and anything else that didn't resemble a seminarian). Being in a co-ed Catholic high school band literally drove me insane. I tried my best to think about The Rule and to offer up this desire as penance for even wondering what might exist under her Catholic schoolgirl uniform. But there is just so much penance a now fifteen-year-old can do, and one day I asked one of the other seminarians on the band bus "Who the hell made up this rule ?!" He said he didn't know and that "it was probably God." Right. One weekend, I reread all four gospels and nowhere – nowhere ! - did it say that the apostles couldn't have sex, or get married, or be happy with their penises. As my after-school job was working as an assistant in the library, I did my own research. And here's what I found: The priests of the Catholic Church for the first one thousand years were married ! They had sex ! Peter, chosen by Jesus to be the first Pope, was married, as were most of the apostles. As were thirty-nine Popes ! But then some Pope in the eleventh century got it in his head that sex sucked and wives sucked worse, and so he banned priests from marrying or having sex. It makes you wonder how all the other great twisted ideas throughout history got their start (like who came up with the card game Bridge?). They might as well have made it a sin to scratch when you have an itch. I began spending a lot of time on the job in the library going into the basement level where all the old magazines were stored. The cultured priests subscribed to Paris Match, and let's just say that in France in 1969, women were inclined to "stay cool" in the summertime. All my first loves could be found right there, in the periodical archives of St. Paul's Seminary. As we drew near to the end of our study of Romeo and Juliet, Father Ferrer announced that there was a new movie in the theatres based on the play and that we would be taking a field trip to see it. This version was by the Italian director Franco Zefferelli, and little did the priest know (or did he?) that his group of fifteen-year-old boys would be exposed for the first time to fifteen-year-old breasts, namely those on the body of the actress playing Juliet, Olivia Hussey. That night, after seeing Romeo and Juliet, the freshmen moaning up and down the hallway sounded like a cross between a lost coyote and a choir trying to tune itself. I will only say that I became on that night a grateful fan of Miss Hussey's - and a former seminarian to the Catholic priesthood. Thank you, Shakespeare. Thank you, Father Ferrer. To Dickie's and Mickey's credit, they had no interest in using Shakespeare to inspire their male hormones as they were already "in country." They had little interest in wasting their seed on a cheap seminary bedsheet. Not when there were so many available girls in the greater Tri-City area. I'm not sure when they began sneaking out at night, or when they found time to sneak the girls in, but these two Montagues obviously were in much demand. On the upside, this did give me the room to myself on a number of occasions. On the downside, once the priests were on to them, they thought I, too, was in on the sex ring. How little they knew me ! I was far too busy trying to keep my focus on Vespers and Vietnam rather than Lynn the clarinet player, who was doing just fine in an imaginary state with me, the two of us, frolicking, on the Cote d'Azur. On this particular night, I decided to take the suggestion of fellow seminarian Fred Orr and try some Noxzema Original Deep Cleansing Cream to help get rid of a few teenage zits. I rubbed the white cream all over my face and went to sleep facing the wall, not wanting Mickey and Dickie to ever catch me with this girl-stuff on my face. "WAKE UP ! I SAID, WAKE UP !!" Father Jenkins shouted, forcing me to tell Lynn in my dream that I'd be right back. I awakened from this pleasant sleep and saw two priests, Father Jenkins and Father Shank, shining police-size flashlights directly into my eyes. “WHERE ARE THEY ?!'' Obviously it was a raid, a surprise assault on the two active and public penises on my floor. I looked over at their beds and saw that they were made up to look like someone was sleeping in them. Clearly, neither of the Ickies was home. “Uh, I dunno," I replied, trying to sound awake. "When did they leave?" Father Shank asked. "How long have they been gone ?" Father Jenkins added. "I dunno," I repeated. “Are you sure ?" Jenkins asked pointedly. "There's no good that can come from you covering for them." "The last thing I would do would be to cover for those two punks," I said, surprised at my un-Christian-like language. "You've never left here with them?" Jenkins continued with his interrogation. "No. I don't do what they do. I'm guessing they don't go to Burger King." "How many times would you say they've done this?" "Father, I don't mean to be disrespectful, but if you're only busting in here tonight for the first time, you clearly have no idea what's been going on." "I don't like your tone," Jenkins replied. "I'm sorry. It's my middle-of-the-night tone." "What in God's name is that stuff on your face ?" Oh. Damn. “Just something the nurse told me to try." "Where do you think they are ?" Father Jenkins asked. "You can follow their scent to the nearest place where girls are known to exist." Giving the priests this much lip was not wise, but I didn't care. I, too, had discovered girls, and there was now a part of me that admired Mickey and Dickie for acting on their very normal feelings. Though I did feel sorry for whatever girls they were with. By this time they had turned their flashlights off- and that one act would end up doing the Ickies in. Not able to see from the outside hallway that I had visitors, the boys quietly opened the door to our room - and were instantly startled, not just by the sight of the priests, but by the mass of white goo covering my entire face. They tried to run, but the priests quickly grabbed them and dragged them down the hall and out of my life forever. The next morning the parents of my two roommates came to my room and cleaned out their sons' belongings. When I returned that evening I had the privilege that only a senior had - my own room ! There was only a month left in the school year, but it was sublime. I held parties. I began to grow my hair longer for the first time. I acquired a peace sign and put it on my door. I had made the decision that the seminary wasn't for me, although I had learned much that would remain with me for a long while. Three days before the semester ended, I made an appointment with my class dean, Father Duewicke, so I could go in and tell him of my decision to not pursue the priesthood. I walked in and sat down in a chair in front of his desk. "Soooo," Father Duewicke said in a strange, sarcastic tone. "Michael Moore. I have some unpleasant news for you. We have decided to ask you not to return for your sophomore year." Excuse me ? Did he just say what I thought he said ? Did he just say they were ... kicking me out ?! "Wait a minute," I said, agitated and upset. "I came in here to tell you that I was quitting !" "Well, good," he said with a smarmy tone. "Then we're in agreement." "You can't kick me out of here ! I quit ! That's why I wanted to talk to you." "Well, either way, you won't be gracing us with your presence in the fall." "I don't understand," I said, still hurting from the rug being pulled out from under me. "Why would you ask me not to come back? I've gotten straight A's, I do all my work, I haven’t been in any serious trouble, and I’ve been forced to endure living in the juvie room with those two delinquents for most of this year. What grounds do you have to expel me ?" "Oh, that's simple," Father Duewicke said. "We don't want you here because you upset the other boys by asking too many questions." "Too many questions about what ? What does that mean ? How can you say such a thing ?" "That's three questions right there in less than five seconds, thus proving my point," he said, while giving a mock look at his nonexistent watch. "You do not accept the rules or the teachings of our institution on the basis of faith. You always have a question. Why's that ? What's that for ? Who Said ? After a while, Mr. Moore, it gets tiring. You either have to accept things, or not. There's no in-between." "So, you're saying - and, sorry, I'm asking another question, but I don't know any other way to phrase this - that I'm somehow a nuisance just because I want to know something?" "Michael, listen-this is never going to work for you, being a priest..." "I don't want to be a priest." "Well, if you did want to be a priest, you would cause a lot of trouble for both yourself and for whatever church you'd be assigned to. We have ways of doing things that go back two thousand years. And we don't have to answer to anybody about anything, certainly not to you." I sat and glared at him. I felt indignant and deeply hurt. This must be what it feels like to be excommunicated, I thought. Abandoned by the very people who are here on earth representing Jesus Christ and telling me that Jesus would want nothing to do with me. Because I asked some stupid questions ? Like the one that was passing through my head, supplanting the fleeting thought of choking the smug out of Father Duewicke. "You mean like why does this institution hate women and not let them be priests ?" "Yeeeesss !" Father Duewicke said with a knife of a smile. "Like that one! Good day, Mr. Moore. I wish you well with whatever you do with your life, and I pray for those who have to endure you." He got up, and I got up, and I turned around and walked the long walk back to my room. I shut the door, lay down, and thought about my life - and when that became pointless I reached under the bed and consoled myself for the next hour with the latest issue of Paris Match. .

here is an illustration of the first two lines by the contemporaries 《淮南子 - Huainanzi》 《道應訓》 尹需學禦，三年而無得焉。私自苦痛，常寢想之。中夜，夢受秋駕于師。明日往朝，師望之，謂之曰：「吾非愛道於子也，恐子不可予也。今日教子以秋駕。」尹需反走，北面再拜曰：「臣有天幸，今夕固夢受之。」故老子曰：「致虛極，守靜篤，萬物並作，吾以觀其複也。」 Yǐn-xū have been studying the art of driving a chariot for 3 years but still could not get it. He was pained by that, and keeping it to himself constantly pondered it. One night he saw a dream as if he received a driver of the imperial chariot as a teacher. Morning after he went to the court, teacher saw him and said thusly: “earlier I would not give Dao to you sir, being afraid that you can not take it. Today, I will teach you how to drive the imperial chariot.” Yin-xu retreated, faced the north and bowed twice saying: “certainly I, the servant received Heavenly blessing in the dream yesterday.” This is an example of what Lao-zi talks about: ‘with emptiness reaching its limit – let me guard the calm assiduously, if so – the all things will evolve and I will just observe their multitude’.

I recently had three lucid dreams in one night. In each one, I was faced with a situation and began to react in a very familiar, habitual, and conditioned pattern (one involved sex and two involved violence). And in each one, as I began to fall into the habitual pattern I became fully lucid of the dream state and my reaction. I immediately told myself that this was not how I wanted to lead my life and that I did not want to waste such a precious opportunity (lucidity). In each circumstance I completely change my reaction to the situation. Good stuff!

Limited bodhicitta practiced in the waking state will be transformed into limitless bodhicitta in the dream state, which is of great benefit to dedicated spiritual aspirants. So, we practice doing a little good habitually, within the limits of our physical form, accumulating this merit day by day - there will come a time when the altruistic force of the accumulations will pervade our dreams in very apparent ways. Eventually, as the gap between dream and wakeful moments begin to narrow, we can notice that altruistic wishes, whenever activated during waking moments, for example during formal practice sessions, will instantly arouse bliss, clarity and non-thought. A sort of loop will be effected so that dream states can also be imbibed with these three qualities. Gradually, the seemingly dualistic states will fade into the background and one becomes more and more awake.

Absolutely, particularly if they are lucid dreams. Bridging the gap between the sleeping dream and the waking dream is very helpful, IMO.

. If you think that book was an extraordinary step of imagination for supposedly Buddhists to write, they published one that utterly trumped that when they recently wrote : "The False Dalai Lama: The Worst Dictator in the Modern World." If that title isn't the ultimate stretch of credibility for the spiritually inclined to take on board, then I'd like to see anybody top it ! If you were to ask any normal person that you might find walking the streets of any Western country what their impressions about the Dalai Lama were,... well, the answers would undoubtedly be so complimentary that it would be an embarrassment to write them all down here. Yet the members of this group have become so conditioned by years of training themselves to suppress all questions and accept without hesitation whatever their guru says, that the insanity of equating one of the most loved winners of the Nobel Peace Prize ( !) with the likes of Adolph Hitler, Josef Stalin, Mao Tse Tung, and Pol Potts -- doesn't even register with them ! Of course, someone high up in their publishing office is aware and suitably cautious, since they take great care to dissociate themselves from the stuff they write by creating a false name for the supposed author. On the cover it claims to be written by the "International Shugden Community." This group does not exist anywhere. Yet if you check Youtube for any videos, (like the one below), of their demonstrations trying to prevent the Dala Lama from teaching, you will see nothing but angry-faced monks, nuns and lay members of the NKT, raising clenched fists and shouting. Any thinking person could only say that the behaviour of this group is just about as far removed from what most people would describe as 'resembling how the Buddha himself would behave', as is possible in our society. After having watched from the inside this whole, sad transmogrification unfold, I still cannot begin to grasp how such beautiful ideals could nose-dive into becoming the antithesis of Buddha's teachings in just these few short years. However, I guess we do have had the example of what happened to the organisation led by Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh as a recent template of spirituality descending into paranoia and increasingly insane actions. I suppose it's just that when your own life has been caught up for many years in a delusion, the fall to earth is much harder when the hypnotist snaps his fingers to suddenly reveal that the dream carriage you thought you were riding in,... is actually nothing more than a rapidly decaying Halloween pumpkin. *

Sort of fun to leave it in thread, for awareness and such... Nightshade/Belladonna (I assume so as you can pick it anywhere) Mandragora/european mandrake Syrian Rue Aminita (though you can find them everywhere) Hawaiin Baby woodrose Aconite B. Caapi Dream Herb Datura Henbane Morning glory Maybe more to come, difficult to remember them all... I remember I ordered some of those from the US when I lived there before. They had to talk to me on the phone due to some legal precautions, and likely to figure out if I was at least 18 or not.

Usually introduction doesnt work. Nobody realises anything during introduction. Yeah..That's a belief like "I believe in god". My teacher tells us with almost every webcast that this life is like a big dream.Does that help ? No.Most of us are still deluded and cant make use or sense of that expression. Serving us expressions like these it doesn't help.The only thing we can do with them is we either believe or disbelieve them. Which is unfortunate because dzogchen is not about construing new beliefs. But the sad fact is that most of the time, the teachings received from our teachers if they fail to destroy the vail of obscurations through initiation and introduction, all they do is they serve as material for more and more beliefs. We accumulate beliefs all the time and that's due to our inability to see the truth or reality that expression points to.

Nice, Steve. I also do a practice where I try to see the situation through eyes other than my own, like another persons' involved in the activity. To actually try and sit inside their body and see through their own perception. It sure helps level the playing field and help us see where we're actually just part of the whole weave. The dreamlike state of our waking life includes yesterday, today, and tomorrow. This infers to me that the dynamics have already played out, although we're stuck in the Now and can't see what's coming up tomorrow. They've already played out, just not in the physical yet. Row row row your boat Gently down the stream Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily Life is but a dream

The Tibetan dream yoga practices use a method like this. Before sleep, one takes inventory of the day and moves through each action and experience, not judging, not even looking to see how we could have done it better, but rather just looking. And, if possible, one looks from the perspective of the natural state and sees, at a fundamental level, how our waking life is a dream.

It's really a springtime poem, but here's one of my absolute favorites ever, from one of my favorite human merely beings. And again, I wouldn't know what to bold or point out or explain. The spirit of the universe is alive and singing in every single line: i thank You God for most this amazing day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything which is natural which is infinite which is yes (i who have died am alive again today, and this is the sun’s birthday; this is the birth day of life and of love and wings: and of the gay great happening illimitably earth) how should tasting touching hearing seeing breathing any–lifted from the no of all nothing–human merely being doubt unimaginable You? (now the ears of my ears awake and now the eyes of my eyes are opened) -- e.e. cummings

rozellas twitter cockatoos scream indigo storm front on late afternoon horizon peak hour traffic hums dreamtime in suburbia my garden is a sanctuary blue tongue lizards their skins like jewels stalk through ancient middens and caves missed by suburban development if you sit there in quietness you can still feel their presence kadaicha mans chanting whispers on the wind but the neighbors complain tidy your garden while across the valley vast cubes of sandstone topped with bush are carved out and replaced with pseudo-spanish villas the very earth cries out but no one seems to hear what I hear to my own people I am a stranger no one ever visits perhaps they feel intimidated large and spacious empty and spartan where is the tv no lights but candles its the weekend and the monsters are loose neighbors splashing in the pool tinnies cracking and roasting dead cow pieces strange summer solstice bar b que rites helicopters patrol overhead ka-whoomps thud through the ground it’s the army at the firing range and I pray that a shell doesn’t go astray and land near the nuclear reactor - again what sort of people build a nuclear reactor near an army firing range everyone else seems happy perhaps they don’t notice after all it’s the good life here south-side Sydney paradise panel vans and jet skis converge on the beach the rivers and bays are a cacophony of high pitched two-stroke but at night after the long traffic snarls home and the electronic montage of tv distraction hypnosis I feel their pain etched in criss-crossed lines across the night sky the childrens nightmares oily poison air thick stinking rivers sprouting mushroom clouds they awake with a start parents reassure don’t worry it was just a dream at 3 am in their awake dreaming state they realize the truth suburban dreamtime but somehow it doesn’t get through they shirk the unconscious thinking it a dark abode not realizing it is a guiding light no one seems to know that when they sleep they awake its morning the adults uneasy the children playing with empty cicada shells but where are all the giant psychedelic christmas beetles I chashed and marveled at in my youth the summer dry is gone rain and steamy smog is the order for today and still the tinnies crack the dead cow roasts the surf turns brown and the people laugh it’s the good life. - Port Hacking, 1982.

Last night I dreamed that I was having dinner in a restaurant with an old friend. We asked for the bill but before it came I woke up. Did my friend have to pay my share of the bill ? It is easy to see that the question about my dream is absurd. It is the same with the question "What happens to me after death ?" The question dissolves when it is seen that I am a dreamed character. Then it is seen that there is no `me' who dies; no `after' because time is created only in the dreamed mind; and no `death' because death is simply the awakening from the dream. The mind cannot imagine its own annihilation. Faced with the appearance of death in the dream, the mind creates stories about its own continued existence after death. All of these stories are like answers to the question "Who pays the restaurant bill of the dreamer who wakes up before the bill arrives ?" We are all familiar with so many of these stories. Most offer some variation of reward for a life well-lived, (however that is conceived), and punishment for evil doing. They are both seductive and intimidating, alternately promising us spiritual riches and threatening us with dire consequences. In fact there are billions of these stories because each one is unique to the particular dreamed character who holds it. My version of salvation through the blood of the lamb will be different to yours. Your version of taking rebirth as a god, a human, an animal, a hungry ghost or a demon will be different to that of the Buddhist meditator sitting next to you. Richard Sylvester

This is a wonderful poem... - Silence II Silence is not a lack of words. Silence is not a lack of music. Silence is not a lack of curses. Silence is not a lack of screams. Silence is not a lack of colors or voices or bodies or whistling wind. Silence is not a lack of anything. Silence is resting, nestling in every leaf of every tree, in every root and branch. Silence is the flower sprouting upon the branch. Silence is the mother singing to her newborn babe. Silence is the mother crying for her stillborn babe. Silence is the life of all these babes, whose breath is a breath of God. Silence is seeing and singing praises. Silence is the roar of ocean waves. Silence is the sandpiper dancing on the shore. Silence is the vastness of a whale. Silence is a blade of grass. Silence is sound And silence is silence. Silence is love, even the love that hides in hate. Silence is the pompous queen and the harlot and the pimp hugging his purse on a crowded street. Silence is the healer dreaming the plant, the drummer drumming the dream. It is the lover’s exhausted fall into sleep. It is the call of morning birds. Silence is God’s beat tapping all hearts. Silence is the star kissing a flower. Silence is a word, a hope, a candle lighting the window of home. Silence is everything –the renewing sleep of Earth, the purifying dream of Water, the purifying rage of Fire, the soaring and spiraling flight of Air. It is all things dissolved into no-thing – Silence is with you always…..the Presence of I AM - Elaine Maria Upton

" Thou hast conquered, O pale Galilean; the world has grown grey from thy breath; We have drunken of things Lethean, and fed on the fullness of death. Laurel is green for a season, and love is sweet for a day; But love grows bitter with treason, and laurel outlives not May. Sleep, shall we sleep after all? for the world is not sweet in the end; For the old faiths loosen and fall, the new years ruin and rend. Fate is a sea without shore, and the soul is a rock that abides; But her ears are vexed with the roar and her face with the foam of the tides. O lips that the live blood faints in, the leavings of racks and rods! O ghastly glories of saints, dead limbs of gibbeted Gods! Though all men abase them before you in spirit, and all knees bend, I kneel not neither adore you, but standing, look to the end. All delicate days and pleasant, all spirits and sorrows are cast Far out with the foam of the present that sweeps to the surf of the past: Where beyond the extreme sea-wall, and between the remote sea-gates, Waste water washes, and tall ships founder, and deep death waits: Where, mighty with deepening sides, clad about with the seas as with wings, And impelled of invisible tides, and fulfilled of unspeakable things, White-eyed and poisonous-finned, shark-toothed and serpentine-curled, Rolls, under the whitening wind of the future, the wave of the world. The depths stand naked in sunder behind it, the storms flee away; In the hollow before it the thunder is taken and snared as a prey; In its sides is the north-wind bound; and its salt is of all men's tears; With light of ruin, and sound of changes, and pulse of years: With travail of day after day, and with trouble of hour upon hour; And bitter as blood is the spray; and the crests are as fangs that devour: And its vapour and storm of its steam as the sighing of spirits to be; And its noise as the noise in a dream; and its depth as the roots of the sea: And the height of its heads as the height of the utmost stars of the air: And the ends of the earth at the might thereof tremble, and time is made bare. Will ye bridle the deep sea with reins, will ye chasten the high sea with rods? Will ye take her to chain her with chains, who is older than all ye Gods? All ye as a wind shall go by, as a fire shall ye pass and be past; Ye are Gods, and behold, ye shall die, and the waves be upon you at last. In the darkness of time, in the deeps of the years, in the changes of things, Ye shall sleep as a slain man sleeps, and the world shall forget you for kings." - extract from 'Hymn to Proserpine' by Swinburne.

This expresses some of the background ethics, world view and attitudes which orientate practice in a particular tradition. A long read and perhaps only for the dedicated but worth it anyway. Advice from previous great masters Root guru, precious and most kind, Lord of the mandala, sole unfailing lasting refuge, With your compassion, take hold of me! I work only for this life, not keeping death in mind, Wasting this free, well-favored human birth. Human life, lasting an instant, like a dream - It might be happy, it might be sad. Not wishing for joy, not avoiding sadness, May I truly practice the sublime teachings. This human life, like a butterlamp set out in the wind - It might last a long time or it might not. Not letting ego's hold tighten further, May I truly practice the sublime teachings. A life of luxury, like a bewitching apparition - It might come to pass or it might not. With the ways of the eight worldly dharmas cast away like chaff, May I truly practice the sublime teachings. All these underlings, like a bunch of birds in a tree - They might surround me, they might not. Not letting others lead me around by the nose, May I truly practice the sublime teachings. This illusory body, like a rotting 100-year-old house - It might last, it might fall into dust. Not caught up in efforts to get food, clothes, or medicines, May I truly practice the sublime teachings. This dharma behavior, like a child's game - It might go on, it might stop. Undeceived by things that don't really matter, May I truly practice the sublime teachings. All these gods and spirits, like a mirror's reflections - They might give help, they might do harm. Not seeing my own deluded visions to be enemies, May I truly practice the sublime teachings. All this confused chatter, traceless as an echo - It might be interesting, it might not. With the Three Jewels and my own mind bearing witness, May I truly practice the sublime teachings. Things that may prove useless in time of real need, like a deer's antlers, - I might know them, I might not. Not placing my confidence merely in the arts and sciences, May I truly practice the sublime teachings. These gifts and money given by the faithful, like deadly poison - I might receive them, I might not. Not spending my life trying to accumulate evil earnings, May I truly practice the sublime teachings. This lofty station, like dogshit wrapped in satin - I might have it, I might not. Knowing my own rottenness at first hand, May I truly practice the sublime teachings. Friends and family, like travelers who come together for a fair - They might be vicious, they might be loving. Cutting attachment's tough cord from the heart, May I truly practice the sublime teachings. All these possessions, like the wealth found in a dream - I might own them, I might not. Not using tact and flattery to turn others' heads, May I truly practice the sublime teachings. This rank in the hierarchy, Like a tiny bird perched on a branch - It might be high, it might be low. Without making myself miserable wishing for a better position, May I truly practice the sublime teachings. Practicing the spells of black magic, like deadly weapons - I might be able to cast them, I might not. Not buying the knife that cuts my own throat, May I truly practice the sublime teachings. Doing prayers, like a parrot saying 'om mani padme hum' - I might do them, I might not. Without boasting about whatever I do, May I truly practice the sublime teachings. The way one teaches the dharma, like flowing water - I might be expert, I might not. Without thinking that mere eloquence is dharma, May I truly practice the sublime teachings. Intellect that makes quick discriminations, like a rooting pig - It might be sharp, it might be dull. Not allowing the barbs of pointless anger and attachment to arise, May I truly practice the sublime teachings. Meditation experiences, like well-water in summer - They may increase, they may lessen. Without chasing after rainbows as children do, May I truly practice the sublime teachings. This pure perception, like rain on a mountaintop - It might arise, it might not. Without taking deluded experience to be real, May I truly practice the sublime teachings. These freedoms and favourable conditions, like a wish-fullfilling gem - If they are lacking, there is no way to accomplish the holy dharma. Not throwing away what is already in my own hand, May I truly practice the sublime teachings. The glorious guru, like a lamp that lights the way to liberation - If I cannot meet him, there is no way to realize the true nature. Not jumping off a cliff when I know the path to go on, May I truly practice the sublime teachings. The holy dharma, like a medicine to cure disease - If I don't hear it, there is no way to know what should be done and not done. Not swallowing poison when I can tell benefit from harm, May I truly practice the sublime teachings. The changing cycle of joy and sorrow, like the changing seasons - If this isn't seen, there is no way to achieve renunciation. As a time of suffering will surely come around to me, May I truly practice the sublime teachings. Samsara, like a stone fallen deep into water - If I don't get out now, I won't get out later. Pulling myself out by the rope of the compassionate Three Jewels, May I truly practice the sublime teachings. Liberation's good qualities, like an island of jewels - If they aren't known, there is no way to begin to make efforts. Having seen the advantage of permanent victory, May I truly practice the sublime teachings. The life stories of the great masters, like the essence of amrita - If they aren't known, there is no way for confidence to arise. Not choosing self-destruction when I can tell victory from defeat, May I truly practice the sublime teachings. Bodhicitta, like a fertile field - Unless it is cultivated, there is no way to achieve enlightenment. Not staying idle when there is a great aim to be accomplished, May I truly practice the sublime teachings. My own mind, like a monkey's nonsense - Without keeping guard, there is no way to avoid conflicting emotions. Not acting without restraint, like a lunatic, May I truly practice the sublime teachings. Ego, like a shadow one is born with - Until it's abandoned, there is no way to reach a place of real joy. When the enemy is in my clutches, why treat him as friend? May I truly practice the sublime teachings. The five poisons, like hot embers among ashes - Until they're destroyed, one can't remain at rest in the natural state. Not raising baby vipers in my pockets, May I truly practice the sublime teachings. This mindstream, like the tough hide of a butter-bag - If it's not tamed and softened, one can't mix mind with dharma. Without spoiling the child that is born of itself, May I truly practice the sublime teachings. These ingrained bad habits, karmic patterns, like the strong currents of a river - If they aren't cut, one can't avoid acting contrary to the dharma. Without selling weapons to my enemies, May I truly practice the sublime teachings. These distractions, like never-ending waves - If they aren't given up, there is no way to become stable. When I can do as I like, why practice samsara? May I truly practice the sublime teachings. The lama's blessings, like spring warming up soil and water - If they don't enter into me, there is no way to be introduced to the nature of mind. When there is a short-cut, why take the long way around? May I truly practice the sublime teachings. This retreat in the wilderness, like summer in a lush place where herbs grow - If I don't remain here, there is no way for good qualities to be born. When high up in the mountains, don't wander back into black towns. May I truly practice the sublime teachings. Desire for pleasure, like a bad-luck spirit entering the house - If I'm not free of it, I'll never stop working toward suffering. Not making offerings to voracious ghosts as my personal gods, May I truly practice the sublime teachings. Mindfulness, like the lock on a castle gate - If it is lacking, one can't stop the movements of illusion. When the thief is surely coming, why forget to bar the door? May I truly practice the sublime teachings. The true nature, unchanging, like the sky - Until it's realized, one can't completely resolve doubts as to the view. Not letting myself be chained by theories, May I truly practice the sublime teachings. Awareness, like a flawless piece of crystal - Until it's seen, intentional meditation cannot dissolve. When there's an inseparable companion, why go off looking for another? May I truly practice the sublime teachings. The face of ordinary mind, like an old friend - If it's not seen, all that one does is misleading. Without groping in the darkness of my own closed eyes, May I truly practice the sublime teachings. In short, without giving up This life's preoccupations, there's no way to accomplish the sacred teachings after death. Having decided to show myself great kindness, May all that I do be toward the dharma. May I not have wrong views toward the guru who has given instruction in accord with the dharma. May I not lose faith in the yidam when misfortunes occur. May I not put off practice when circumstances are hard. May there be no obstacles to attaining siddhi. All these activities are pointless, like making a grand tour of a wasteland. All this trying just makes my mindstream more rigid. All this thinking only adds confusion onto confusion. All that passes for dharma to ordinary people only makes for further binding. So much activity - nothing comes of it. So much thinking - no point to it. So much wanting - no time for it. Having given this up, May I be able to practice according to instructions. If I must do something, may Buddha's teaching bear it witness. If I must do something, mix mindstream and dharma. If I must accomplish something, read the life stories of past masters. What's the use of other things? Spoiled brat! Take a low seat and become rich with contentment. Try hard to get free of the eight worldly concerns. May the guru's blessings enter into me, May my realization become equal to the sky. Grant your blessings so that I may reach Kuntuzangpo's throne. Written by Jigdral Yeshe Dorje for his own prayers, Condensing the essential meaning from the vajra words of advice from previous great masters. This was offered with prayers for the continued blessing of H.H. Dudjom Rinpoche, Jigdral Yeshe Dorje, and for the long life of his emanation, for the sake of all beings.Translated by Bhakha Tulku Rinpoche and Constance Wilkinson. Sarva Mangalam

on my dream yoga, in rajayoga kings rise in deep sleep reside

on my dream yoga technicolored apertures a bunch of sore grapes...