This is good

And cheaper than a therapist.
The feast was huge and so well served I give credit where credit is due. Bhakticaru Swami has good manners as so few have. Culture, most despise it as pretentious but I figure that, may be sour grapes. We haven't a clue on letting go of ourselves for the sake of another. It is so foriegn for a westerner to be concerned with anything but himself. Like the convenient gender convention there? As you please.

Westerners think sacrifice is for losers but they haven't the experiance of gain in loss. It is just loss and more loss with some hope of reclamation rather than transformation.
Surprise myself sometimes.
Where is Syrrell. What happened to the boy? I hope it ended well. Almost feel like I am part of the crime that was his fractured childhood. The neglect and near unwanted nature of that type of love.

Ironically and it is a big bloody irony, the mother goes on to write a book, "Unconditional [bloody if you ask me] Love" Hindsight is such a nice view. Invention is the mother and the mother invents. Says she only has 3 children. Which has she chosen to negate this time. Is truth pain or can it only be told in her fictions so as to avoid the accusing eye. Cryptic pointers to a past that bears on the future but doesn't really reflect the present. I choose that , not you. Tomorrow is yours but luckily that will never come.

Just morphing from one moment to the next, waiting waiting waiting but best of all I sometimes get to watch though I suffer in silent fear that I too may be watched. What will they think? How will they know I am real even if it doesn't look that way.

I dreamt that Krsna was standing in front of me. I wouldn't say indolant though I can't think of another word. Anyway I was crapping on in usual style trying to make some kind of an impression. Underestimaating him I suppose. Figured he didn't know me. That is the terror of the thing. Too dull to know myself. To dull to realise.

I do realise that I am plain bored with the body maintanance thing. Like the drive to work. God that can kill a person. Over and over and over till there is nothing left to know. Switch track before someone convinces me that a pill can fix it.

So back to the big boy. So I says, looky here GOD , I've got these here thoughts on you know this an that. Well he is about as impressed as any person might be with a basket of rotting fish. Why do i get the feeling that contemptible runs so deep.
But the eyes the eyes. Suck you in like a vacuum so that I got scared and figured it might be something dangerous though so seductive. Have a thing about the foriegn. Thanks to being one.

Why can't they get a bloody voltage regulator in this country.

So I will never know if it was God because I am too afraid and anyway how do you a bloody thing like that. That is an awful lot of bloody knowing. I think I want to be introduced by someone I trust. Why? cos I don't trust who or what God might be. S/he might be any bloody thing. Like the modern touch there. Always like to be inclusive.

It's the idea, but how does death of fear pose in the strength of the idea? Wouldn't fear itself devour the idea. Fear of death is not as heroic as you might imagine. More likely a result of a bit of a bad trott. Have a bit of fun and lets see how scared you are of death. What have ideas got to do with anything at all if they have a will of their own and float in and out as if unwanted guests. I figure being conscious is like becoming a psychic door keeper to the self. Unwanted and univited unembodied etheric energy is filtered, observed and syphoned off. That is pretty neophyt as far as consciousness goes but it beats being like a dog that goes with every new scent it encounters. what a spoil sport I am. Some call that living.

Next is discover personal detritus and divorce myself from it. Good one Dhami. Who was madder, you or me?
Then solitary life.....after divorce it always is. Maybe life really is poetry and metaphor. Maybe S/he keeps telling us all the while. Too retarded to see it under the nose. I told you scents are never observed unless there is a contrast. Bit like bad breath. How is it the owner never knows? Ahhh so that is the very simple trick of Maya. The bird does get crushed after all. Slight deviation there. It is not that hard a job when she has such undiscerning observers. A cloak here a wave there and hey presto, we're sold. But still the story is always being told in Mataphor. I am begginig to love that one. Maybe God lies in it or at least some kind of truth. Sorry for anyone out there who feels narrated and restricted by truth as a concept what to speak of experiance. No truth, no narration, no story. Gee how do you get out of bed each morning? If you don't have one doesn't mean I can't. Now that is real postmodern society. As the father said to his wife as she nags her stoned son at the dinner table, "leave the boy alone" Remember that add?
So who am I asking? nobody but invisibilty is relaxing and pretending inspires things I didn't really know were there.

Always too late and sleep is a gift. It is time to unwrap it and devour as best I can though my digestion fails a little.
I might fly one day through that ceiling. Not sure if i want to die in my sleep.

Best to do it by the Ganga to save anyone the trouble of disposing of the body. ooooh yuck. Nibbling on old dead woman for dinner. Now there is a bad birth.