Paradise

I can't tell anymore whether I am more or less moved to self-deception than others, but I try not to be. So it is with caution that I relate a fairly unremarkable experience that nonetheless held mystical overtones. I've become an avid swimmer. It clears my head, restores my health and, despite a certain amount of physical exertion, I actually enjoy it. I drive up the highway a short distance to the beach park at the south end of Maui's vast original resort complex, Ka'anapali, where there is an old cemetary between the road and he beach. It so happens that I don't like cemetaries, but this has turned out to be the perfect place to park and shower. I enjoy it so much that I have begun to go with the moment. I don't get in the water right away. There's no hurry. And there has been this strange feeling tugging at the borders of my mind for days now, evoking that same curious phrase that came to me before when I camped in the rocky bluffs further north. The iron hills. Being suggestive, I suppose, of something ancient and immovable. The magical offshore island. The glorious Lahaina mountains. Idyllic palms curved elegantly over the water. I lay back on the sand with my fins on, let the sun bake me, and sank into to such a profound peace that time stopped in paradise. So this was why those old tombstones cluttered the sandy ground. Other people had felt the same on this spot. They wanted to be buried here. Where there was no death.

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this was great

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Thanks, dear friend.


I have no discipline. My mind blows where it lists. My moods are bad. I am lying in the darkness reflecting on the hopeless domination of my subconscious mind. Something is moving across the far wall. My resident gecko. No, too big and too quick. It charges back and forth, then flutters around the room, and horror seizes me that it might be a cockroach, but no, it's one of those giant moths that come out only at night. The window is wide open and there is a bright light outside. If it wanted to get out, surely it could. It comes to rest inside the window right above my head where I can get a good look at it. I can scarcely believe the amazing intricacy of its wing patterns. Is it showing off to me? It flits around the room some more and leaves.

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Coming to say 'hello' before I dive back into the all absorbing roller coaster ride of NaNo writing… hello, dear friend… had to come and visit your paradise. Slows me down reading you. Great sensusous detail, also in the beach peace. You've got what I'm looking for.

I can scarcely believe the amazing intricacy of its wing patterns. Is it showing off to me?

Made me feel a little silly because for me the 'horror' began when you said giant moth. I find the sound of their flapping alarming. They are so there when they are around, impossible to ignore. I know they can't do anything to me, but when they get too close I get goose bumps.

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I never saw these moths until I came to Maui. At first I thought they were bats flying around my head in the darkness, and that really horrified me. Thanks for the visit, Gabriele. I'm in awe of you people who are creative writers. I can't do it. I've had this script in my head for ages. What would it be like? Aging rock star gone half deaf, has everything he ever wanted but is majorly pissed off that he can't enjoy music anymore, so he devotes his attention instead to the women he adores and finds them much more interesting?

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I'm in awe of you people who are creative writers. I can't do it.

Ahem!

Maybe you can't, but you do. What can I say?

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Paradise /2nd Post -

The shifting interpretation of what creature it is (as the I-character seeks the source of movement in the room) mirrors beautifully what the character says of himself

“My mind blows where it lists … reflecting on the hopeless domination of my subconscious mind”. 

This paragraph works well for me.

Deb

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Ramsses

I am going to do an unforgivable “catch up” here.  I have seen you “around” since I came to Zaadz but we never really crossed paths.  I've always loved your icon name.  

Anyway, it is my pleasure to put some literary comment, to these fascinating pieces of yours, as a way of introducing myself to you.  

Here I go -

Paradise /1st Post -

I am in awe of the efficiency of the writing, with the very first post on this thread.  So much information is conveyed so quickly.  

Immediately, an alert, that this will not be an ordinary tale.  

I learn the I-character has a health motivated behavior, why the character does it, what the character gets out of doing it.  The scene of that activity is unveiled - Hawaii, a beach, a cemetary.  

The writing defines a tug of war within the I-character - “I don't like cemetaries”, then, “I enjoy it so much” - then that alert again “there has been this strange feeling”.  I feel tugged.  Oh-h-h, I am experiencing some trepidation.  I can't stop reading.

I am feeling scattered all over by the various “places” and looking, looking for what “that same curious phrase” is.  I want to know, I'm hungrily reading, looking for the answer.

Connections, connections.  So many beautiful connections all over the place.  So many places this can go.  I want to read more …

Wow.

Deb

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Just reread your first post in this thread:

I lay back on the sand with my fins on, let the sun bake me, and sank into to such a profound peace that time stopped in paradise. So this was why those old tombstones cluttered the sandy ground. Other people had felt the same on this spot. They wanted to be buried here. Where there was no death.

I love the way you put that, people wanting to be buried where there is no death.

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Yeah, what Ruth said, Ahem!  What are you, nuts?  Don't answer that.
So, yeah, the whole beach scene. Makes me miss Florida even though I'm sure your spot is much more beautiful.  I miss the ocean, I miss the ocean! (I am whining)
Okay I'll admit that I giggled when the thought of a giant cockroach scared you …ahem…the I-character - again, back to Florida.  Giant cockroaches a daily threat, not to mention the nastier little gross German roaches. My son is afraid of moths because of the Mothman Prophecies (sp? too lazy to check it) but I love moths.  This one sounded lovely and I wonder if it wasn't just showing off! 
I love your script idea - love it!  Who would you cast?  Jack Nicholson or is he too old?  It's not too late to join the whole Nano thing, you know.  Who cares if you finish on time, it might be fun for you to give it a try.  On the other hand, I don't want you to stop posting your little bits of beauty that so many of us have come to depend on for daily sustenance (okay, did I spell that wrong too - I used to could spell and could even talk real proper like!) (Idahoans are melting my brains apparently, maybe it's all the gases from the dairy's I'm surrounded by)
God, I can't shut up today.
Love YOU

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But Ruth, I may not be buried for some time. I need to make money.

I want to play the lead, Michelle. But how will I write it? Save me, girls. Save me.

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One word at a time.

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& one girl at a time.. (hmm. I think you can probably manage more than that).

As always Chris: the writing is stunning.

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You may be right. It may come to that. It remains to be seen how that would play out. I wouldn't be deceptive about it. The idea is certainly appealing. 

Thank you, Sandra. You make it worthwhile.

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There are always exceptions to the rule. Shelby is the exception. My theory that psychelics give you a vision of the angelic and the ethereal while they blast you out of your sex chakra doesn't apply to him at all. His use of LSD was more purely transcendental. I never got the full implications until a mutual friend spelled it out for me. He was off the charts. Finally it opened up such visions of horror he had to quit. He himself had told me about the evil figures he had awakened to, standing around his bed and looking down upon him greedily. The damage was already done. He had so taken the orbit of his consciousness into wildly uncharted territories there was no going back. Part of it remains there still. There is good Shelby and there is bad Shelby. We hit it off immediately, like tuning forks vibrating to same pitch. I brought him to Amma. Better than acid, he said about her. He has always been grateful to me. And she has been unfailingly true to him. Like me, Shelby can get blown out by Amma's energy. The horrifying spectacle of him in his demented state is a mirror image of my own. The security people brought him to her and demanded that she ban him from her programs. She refused.

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There is good Shelby and there is bad Shelby. We hit it off immediately, like tuning forks vibrating to same pitch.

I love this, and was half disappointed that you added the simile (although I like it for itself). The meaning, the self-characterization of the I, his identification with the good-Shelby ~ bad-Shelby, are to me just as clear without it.

The security people brought him to her and demanded that she ban him from her programs. She refused.

Ah, I think I love Amma…

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Paradise /3rd Post -

Though I'm not unfamiliar with different experiences so induced, the description in this excerpt was sufficiently scary to make a good “war against drugs” piece.  It reminds me of all those admonitions in grade school … very effectively written.

I like the introduction of the she character (Amma) and am yearning to read a vignette that describes what wild, horrible behavior by the I-character brought security in and want to know more about her.

Deb

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The idea is certainly appealing.

In my experience, she says, a sly glint in her eyes, it doesn't work. I mean all at once. I mean, of course, literally all at once. Most of the time is spent checking out who is actually with him, and how to manoeuvre oneself over there, in the, er, preferred position, so to speak.

Don't let me distract you.

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Too late, hon. I'll be back in a week. I'm off to see Amma. Don't go anywhere.

xoxox

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I've spent a full week with a saint, but I am a terrorist to the airport security officer. She quickly compares my photo to my face, tests my driver's licence, and then holds me with a long, lethal look. One comment from me and at the very least I will be missing my flight. She silently dares me to say anything at all. I control myself. Like a cobra that has hissed and spread its hood, she recoils without striking. Bless you, sweetheart. What concerns me is that when you do meet a terrorist, he'll look good to you.   

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one time I thought I saw you in an airport in california. you had long blonde hair and a long black raincoat. you looked mysterious. I don't think it was you though. I didn't think you were a terrorist.

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No, that was me, Jenni. I've been stalking you.

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<giggles>  watch out Jenni!  he probably read your you know what scene

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I hadn't, but I checked it out. My roommate in San Ramon told me about having to listen to the monkeys screaming all night in Nicaragua. It isn't hard to figure out what they're saying. MANGOES! MANGOES! MANGOES! It's a euphemism. You figure it out, darling. I have lovely mangoes too.

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listening in… enjoying. Glad you made it home.

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Hi, Sandra! And back with my yearly lung infection. This time it's the flu. “Could it be swine flu?” I asked the doctor. “Possibly.” I'm a rock. Nothing can kill me. Yesterday I could not get out of bed. Today I'm better. Profound realizations have come to me about the parrot. I have compelling reasons for believing he is a boy. First, he likes to wrestle with me. With Loreli he's all gaga. Isn't that just like a guy? Some witch will lead him down the path to destruction and he'll follow like a lamb. Contrary to Ingrid's warning, he did not dump me when Loreli returned. We're solid. This is all the more remarkable when I reflect on how pissed off he must have been by my protestations of eternal love. No wonder he hated me with a passion. The mystery is that he came around at all. Forgiving. That's what it is. Nobility of heart.

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I cannot write about my experience with Amma. It is too huge. No sooner do I return from the subzero nights of San Ramon to the most exotic climate in the world than I am felled by the dreaded swine flu. Come Thanksgiving, I am scrolling down my contact list for someone to talk to. Roland. God. How does the time pass so quickly? My dear friend Roland, the jarhead Christian minister, with whom I used to work at another gallery. Roland, who found Christ in his forthright confession to women that his only wish was to have sex with them. No answer. He is out saving souls. Hours later he calls me back. Due diligence. He had not recognized my number. He is astonished and delighted. I firmly resist our usual descent into joking rivalry, and he immediately honors the new parameters. His mother passed away last spring. I am conscious that his mother is with him still. No need to offer my condolences. But how am I? I am about to discover that he is a more highly trained and dedicated counselor than I had ever imagined. If the full force of Christian love can come as a knockout punch, he gives it to me. I am in awe of such magnificence. It asks nothing in return.

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As often as not, conversations with my mother leave me enraged and disgusted. I'm told that in therapy the naked evil will ultimately reveal itself, and the vigilant therapist must not miss the occasion to strike it dead. I didn't kill the evil but I got a good kick at it. A motherly reference to Shelby's wife. Shelby doesn't have a wife. He's divorced, with a daughter. I describe how his girlfriend, in an exact replay of last spring in Seattle, did everything in her power to pull him from Amma's programs. My wicked toad of a mother takes sudden offence at this. She's not offended by his girlfriend. She's offended by me. “What did you say?” she demands, dangerously. I repeat myself verbatim, with the same hiss in my voice as hers, and for good measure I comment that while there has been talk about marriage, I hope he's not stupid enough to do that. My mother doesn't like this at all. She wants a moratorium. You got it. Don't call me. I won't be calling you.

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Ram Dass tells his story from start to finish. I hear every word. If he is tempted to glance at me when he asserts that we will all be returning in new incarnations, all I discern is a mischievous glint. I'll make that decision for myself, thank you. In the meantime, I'm happy to pay my respects to the man who first had the courage to speak out about the sacramental properties of psychedelics, then met the real thing in India, in his guru Neem Karoli Baba, and introduced it to the drug culture. Being with Ram Dass is like being with a respected elder. Being with Amma is like being plunged into the bottom of the ocean and finding that you are still able to breathe. It's not the same ocean anymore. Everything has changed. Where are you? I could have had darshan seven times in San Ramon. I went once. Amma said one word to me. She repeated it to make sure I got it.

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Hello lovely, just read all your posts I had missed during NaNo madness, in one sitting. What a delight you are. I applaude you for your restraint at the airport, delight in the description of out-there Shelby, good soul, hope your lung heals well and soon (some extra love and healing vibes on their way to you!) and of course am DYING to know what Amma said to you… never mind, I know you'd have mentioned it if you wanted to.

I always feel a little guilty towards you when it comes to Amma because I never went to see her when I had the chance. I'm just not drawn at all to go and see anybody most of the time. Not even Amma. Not even for you. (I know, I know, don't even say it! ;)
 

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Hi, beautiful. I told my roommate in San Ramon what Amma said to me, and wished I hadn't. Not that he betrayed my trust, but that he didn't understand. It's always better not to share such information. What means everything to me means nothing to others.
I understand that it was not appropriate for you to go see Amma. As I recall, you would have had to travel to another city. What if the experience had done nothing for you? All that cost and trouble for nothing. I didn't get it when I first saw her, and would not have, if she had not given me that experience in darshan.

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An aquaintance sends me a news clip about 250,000 cows being ritually slaughtered by Hindus in Nepal. It's supposed to goad me. I knew him when we were SRF members in Encintas. We coincidentally moved to Maui at the same time, both disillusioned with SRF.  He doesn't believe in anything anymore. No, he believes in the Beatles. And still meditates. He has since moved to Sedona. I had not thought that I would hear from him again. I was very rude to him the last time he sent me something negative about Amma. I am rude to him again. He takes exception to this and demands to know why. Against my better judgment I try to explain to him that I to do not have time for such nonsense. His response? You must meditate more, my child. I'll never open an e-mail from him again.

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The last line made me laugh. Says it all, really. I probably wouldn't either. Anybody who'd call me my child who isn't either my 120 year old Granddad or a certified saint (or a mental case, which would make it kind of funny and charming) would seem pretty pompous and indeed a waste of time. Maybe he'll get over it.
 
 

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It nearly pushed me over the edge. It's a quotation from Autobiography of a Yogi. His brother is a mental case. It was hellish yesterday. I'm done here. I'll be moving to Vancouver Island as soon as I can.

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Hey, I've just found an very cool place to to a herbal medicine internship by Comox, hopefully for 13 weeks starting next September…we can visit and hang out….I'd love that… love Jane

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Utterly amazing.

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The show's not over until the fat lady sings. Where is this line from? I've thought about it for years. The show is your life. The fat lady is God.  I've been wanting to help things along a bit. I thought about blowing my brains out last night. I dreamed about wandering through some kind of mining excavations high up in the mountains. There was a small petrified suit of armor stuck to the ground. Other people were lost up there too. It was eerie.

I just want to die. I don't want to dream.

Harold Bloom claims that the early books of the Bible were unquestionably written by a very sophisticated and ironic lady in the court of King Solomon. I can't see her being fat. Fat is when it's over.

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Dear Chris, you make me want to laugh and cry.

I just want to die. I don't want to dream. How often have I thought that?

The fat lady is God. When I got over thinking he was father-like (which was a nightmare in itself), I thought perhaps he was a feminist (again, scary) or (better) that very sophisticated and ironic lady bible writer of Bloom's. But no, turns out he's just the fat lady signaling the end of the show. I prefer the fat lady theory, god-wise, especially if it includes the singing of beautiful arias lulling me into dreamless sleep.

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Oh Chris, the things you write.  You're so intense and yet so funny and it all jumbles up together with such eloquence that sometimes I don't know what to think.  I suppose that's part of what keeps us all coming back for more?
That whole fat lady thing?  I always tell my kids that it ain't over until the fat lady sings and then ask if anyone heard me singing?  ;0)
xo

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God is your secret adoration? God is your unique truth? I like to think of the fat lady belting out my favorite Hindu music. I love you both.

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Ramsses,

OK, I'm loving reading this stuff about Amma.  Yeah, I realize now I have heard of her and the effect she has on many.  Don't know a thing about her at all, Ram Dass, I've spent some time with (no, not in person) but I do get him completely.  Having explored around more than a bit in my younger days.

I've been commenting on what I thought was creative writing only to fall into utter disassociative appleplexy and will now fall silent for that purpose.

But it has been a good read … worth writing about.

And oh yeah, I understand that there are mysteries for the one who hears it only.  Oh yeah.  The best are like that.

Deb

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Ramsses,

One last PS.  Just read about the Fat Lady Singing, and so I've finished this to current.  Have heard that saying for years, of course.  God.  Don't know, I sense Intelligence, it's deep.  I don't know where or what it is.

Can't say much more, except I've spent the afternoon drifting down a stream of dreamy consciousness - yours in me, as I read. 

Deb

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I tell myself that if my writing achieves nothing else, at least someone may have been introduced to something far greater. I'm not a fan of Paulo Coelho, but I do think he's a great writer. I started reading his biography yesterday despite my ambivalence. I found the author's opening account of Coelho's brief fury in arriving at the Budapest airport without a welcome very revealing. He's an international celebrity. He achieved his dream. What else is he? I will be interested to read more about the role drugs played in his spiritual quest. Amma certainly does not advocate their use. Whatever else they may do for you, they also compromise your discrimination. If you linger too long in Lotus Land, disregard the world at your peril. It could cost you your life. It very nearly cost me mine.