I've known about that for quite some time now. Dunes used to look not like mountains with a bit of life on them, but fields of tall grassy brush. There would even be small trees near the ocean. That is, beaches in New England. I can't really speak for other beaches because I haven't studied those.
Come back to talk to me inbetween my gardening, reading, and painting. I have no where interesting to be. Let us talk about exploring.
I personally (without the kind of cliched expression about to happen) enjoy walking to the edges of the shores of a beach, from end to end, where they don’t like people to be. There’s usually a lot of brush, not something typical of beaches. Surprising to me, from the mouth of a stranger I met “on the road,” they dump sand on the beach to attract more attention to the sort of idolized nature of the whole thing. So, in a way, the beach is one of the most unnatural places in terms of location, contrary to what I may have believed as a child.
Tutu by Miles Davis from Tutu (1986, Warner Bros.) album
Miles Davis (trumpet); Marcus Miller (various instruments, bass, programming); George Duke (various instruments); Michael Urbaniak (electric violin); Adam Holzman (synthesizer, programming); Bernard Wright (synthesizer); Omar Hakim (drums, percussion); Steve Reid, Paulinho Da Costa (percussion); Jason Miles (programming)
……I was learning more from hanging out, so I just got bored with school after a while. Plus, they were so fucking white-oriented and so racist. Shit, I could learn more in one session at Minton’s than it would take me two years to learn at Juilliard. At Juilliard, after it was all over, all I was going to know was a bunch of white styles; nothing new. And I was just getting mad and embarrassed with their prejudice and shit.
I remember one day being in a music history class and a white woman was the teacher. She was up in front of the class saying that the reason black people played the blues was because they were poor and had to pick cotton. So they were sad and that’s where the blues came from, their sadness. My hand went up in a flash and I stood up and said, “I’m from East St. Louis and my father is rich, he’s a dentist, and I play the blues. My father didn’t never pick no cotton and I didn’t wake up this morning sad and start playing the blues. There’s more to it than that.” Well, the bitch turned green and didn’t say nothing after that. Man, she was teaching that shit from out of a book written by someone who didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about. That’ the kind of shit that was happening at Juilliard and after a while I got tired of it……
p.59 from Miles, the autobiography/Miles Davis with Quincy Troupe.
The majority of today’s mainstream music is soul-less shit. There are a few artists that have remained true, write their own music, don’t auto-tune the shit out of their voice, still perform live without lip synching and write about stuff that actually matters…but it’s unfortunately a small group of musicians. That music I have respect for, the other crap I couldn’t care less about and it pains me to see my generation swoon over all these talentless people. Ugh, sorry it just really pisses me off. It’s no longer about being a musician because it’s what you love, or having an important message…the music industry is a corrupt world that cares about nothing other than money. Shows like American Idol are killing real music in my opinion. I have tried to watch some of the auditions and I have actually heard the judges comment that they ‘don’t look the part’, IT SHOULDN’T MATTER WHAT THEY LOOK LIKE! But our world is too fucking shallow. The mainstream world makes me nauseous .
I will probably lose followers because of this :P
I think there are a lot more artists out there now than there have ever been writing their own music, but due to commercialization, we hear about the auto-tuning and the like much more often than other live acts. Jazz is alive and well, and a hell of a lot more interesting than it has ever been. Progressive rock is making its ties into the indie community, so the standard is higher for these musicians than it has ever really been.
This occurred to me in the car while driving home, perhaps right before the crash. When the glass sitting on the dashboard hit me in the head, and maybe the blow to the head did it, I realized the importance of perception to the ego.
What we see as meaningless is a projection. A projection, in dream’s terms, are reflections of our subconscious. (See Inception by Christopher Nolan.)
In Buddhist terms, the subconscious is the direct reflections of inner ego, or the protected ego. This ego is precious on the conceptual stage because it houses memory and thought, sometimes reactions/reflexes. But, the ego is still the culprit for these crimes.
The glass that hit me sat in my two-bedroom apartment, complete with kitty litter and old microwave burrito wrappers on the floor of the bathroom (from a long night, no less). When I first looked into the glass, peering into what refer to as the soul, it was evident that I had never felt the glass before like this. I had a connection with the glass the way we have a connection with animals we call “pets.” But the glass did not hug or reach out for attention the way an animal does and can. The glass sat, devoid of life. In fact, the glass was cold to the touch. It was at this precise moment that the glass was revealed. Under the curtain of falsehood, the pretense of conviction, the glass had been waiting as a projection of my perception. The now meaningless glass had been decidedly meaningless.
Where does enlightenment come from and how we can attain it? It is in realizing that the glass and our perceptions are no different, but simple attachments to our own (perhaps resentments) worldly convictions and ideas. The memories housed in this level of glasses, in this nothingness, is actually meaningful because it too houses an idea. That idea is the poison in some ways which drives the spirit out and the ego in.
Which is the reason you might hit a driver after a car accident and end up in court. If I defeated the ego, I might not be here now.
Last words can never be first. Secondly, it was meant as a symbol of wanting control during sex. If we were to all let loose there would not be any structure during such an act. Thirdly, landmarks and monuments are certainly good places to partake in love making if there be no one to see.
Famous first last words of a true poet. In an ideal world, we could work our way around fifty states, making love to the various statues and landmarks that give us indication of our location. Then, in time, with the buzz of bliss on our chaffed genitals, we would lose our sense of direction with the vivisection of souls in whatever pieces they might lay in. Thus, our bodies might be shattered by the whole affair (no pun intended), but our minds (the spiritual metaphor, if you will) will be full, pregnant if need be with possibilities.
Thanks for the letter three years ago about the speed reading (remedial bullshit) you sent me. It goes nicely with the President and Dean’s list letters, as well as the four Honor Societies that sent me letters.
If I can’t read that “fast,” at least I can read correctly enough for the GPA I have.
Many of you have heard me say it and many have said it themselves. “Namaste” is a customary greeting in India. It is an intimate way of greeting another person without actually touching them. But it has a deep esoteric meaning.
As it was explained to me by another tantric yogi, namaste means “I recognize the divinity within you and allow you to manifest it.” In this light, when we say namaste to others we are acknowledging the indwelling supreme reality of existence that precedes and is a part of everything. Your light touches their light and it all just shines as light. And because of this, you accept them unconditionally. God is god.
The mudra (hand position) for namaste is palms together and fingers loosely steepled. You hold it chest level for an equal being (granted all beings are equal). You hold it at head level near the third eye for a guru or great realized soul. And finally you hold it above your head for a deity. When and how to namaste is a personal endeavor, nothing difficult but nothing that can be taught. You just do it.
Sometimes I will namaste a tree, a homeless man, a friend, or a stone. It is important to continually recognize the boundless nature of the divine being both in you and others, together.
Just place identifiers, napkin rings for the liking of throats.
Spk n spt
Let the roof of your mouth feel the clck
What requirement is it to have these vowels AEIOU Sometimes the spread-eagle tree known as “WHY” take precedence over an entire language?
Vowels aren’t even that pretty. Loops of letters, all curved except for that pervasive and egotistical
I, me, not you, myself, am a letter. The “I” of this conversation is a vowel that defines an entire entity: “I don’t like that.” “I love you?” What’s to say that “I,” the letter, the vowel, the GOD, isn’t in control?
FRGT TH VWLS
Our nature is percussive. Like B’s, we bzz. Like snare drum rolls, we bzz. Like the rolls of R’s, we bzz.
Yet we let five letters— one promiscuous straggler— take ctrl.
Four horsemen, Ourselves the devil, and the wishbone.
“Indian musicians do not verbalize their theory. They play the notes and learn the melodic ornamentations in complex phrases until these become their alter ego. Ustad Hafiz Ali Khan has dismissed scornfully the idea of considering oneself a musician after a few years in music school: “There can be no degrees for learning and no time limits,” he says. “One may achieve something in between 12 and 20 years. Once I was asked to teach a few students for 3 or 4 months. The attitude implied in that was wrong. What could they possibly acquire in that short period? It is a great slight to the art of music. I refuse to undertake such instruction. Three years is the least for a fundamental grounding. After that it is an endless course. All one’s life one learns. There must be intense relationship between teacher and disciple- but the spirit of dedication is now gone.”—The Music of India- Holroyde
A person should be buried only half a meter, or two feet, below the surface. Then a tree should be planted there. He should be buried in a coffin that decays so that when you plant a tree on top the tree will take something out of his substance and change it into tree-substance. When you visit the grave you don’t visit a dead man, you visit a living being who was just transformed into a tree. You say, “This is my grandfather, the tree is growing well, fantastic.” You can develop a beautiful forest that will be more beautiful than a normal forest because the trees will have their roots in graves. It will be a park, a place for pleasure, a place to live, even a place to hunt.
No recognition. Start as a ripple that will eventually become a tremor in the community. The minds of everyone thinking twice about the colorful instances of the here and now. Change something: blow up a mountain. In the rubble, you’d see the face and remember the name.
“American Haikus (Excerpt)” by Jack Karouac 
An Exploration of Music and Poetry, Day 8: The Beats
By the 1950s, jazz had taken on different societal roles than the Harlem bands of the late ’20s and ’30s. Bebop and cool jazz explored completely different aesthetics, but each offered a more intellectual aural experience than earlier jazz dance bands. Moreover, the advent of the LP liberated these sound experiments from the short time constraints of previous commercial records (best exemplified by Norman Granz’s Jam Sessions). After some 40 years, jazz had grown from humble origins to a respected high art. It should not come as a surprise that artists from other “high-brow” fields, including poetry, took an interest in modern jazz.
Which brings us to the beat writers. As we will see in the coming week, the beats took a strong interest in both popular and underground music. In a single month in 1958, jack Kerouac recorded two albums of jazz and poetry. The second paired him with his friends saxophonists Al Cohn and Zoot Sims. In an ingenious match, their cool jazz licks danced around Kerouac haikus on track one of Blues and Haikus.
“Above all, a Haiku must be very simple and free of all poetic trickery and make a little picture and yet be as airy and graceful as a Vivaldi Pastorella.”
-Jack Kerouac in his introduction to “American Haiku”
Replace “Haiku” with “cool jazz” and the meaning still applies. Both forms drove to be economic yet expressive. In “American Haikus” each syllable and each note overflows with nuance and implication. Besides reacting to Kerouac’s phrases and tempos, the music separates each of his poetic vignettes, allowing the listener to flesh out each scene in his or her own imagination.
A note on the poetry: Unlike a number of other poets who tried English language haiku, Kerouac was particularly perceptive to maintaining the Japanese use of kigo, or season words. In the example above you’ll notice that most contain a word or phrase that projects a season (“snow,” “football field”) or a time of day (“moon”) or both.
A reminder on originality: That a few beats performed poetry with jazz is not as revolutionary as some have made it out to be. Though unique and creative, they were not the first. Even early in his career Langston Hughes sometimes recited poems backed by jazz music.