In The Now

In a voice reminiscent of Raymond Carver‘s minimalist realism, Charles Bukowski‘s raw journals of life’s underbelly and Alan Ginsberg‘s poet-political essays, Nick Masesso Jr’s fictionalized, short stories, poetry and prose are funny, insightful and heartbreaking, describing often in non-linear dreamscape narrative with the liquid lyricism of a poet; the love, loss, joy and angst of the fascinating and often mystifying connections of men and women in the intimacy of their daily lives. His writing style is both Anti-Novel and Imagist; fragmenting and distorting the experiences of characters, forcing the reader to build a reality to the story from a disordered narrative, stressing economy of language; writing free, with precision of imagery and clear, sharp language and clarity of expression with precise visual images in musical phrase. – Gino Rossi

American Man

“Ain’t got nobody; that I can depend on”. – Santana – No One To Depend On

In the wake of Robin Williams demise a scene from Oliver Stone’s film Platoon came to mind. Charley Sheen’s character Chris, fresh from the world and struggling mightily to hack his way through the dense jungle of Vietnam with a machete, unaccustomed to the heat and stress, passes out. Willem Defoe’s character Sargent Elias revives him and advises with the line; “you’re humping too much gear troop”. Those words and their meaning show a metaphor for the life of American men; more so for men than women, since we are protectors; down to our ID. While women have no less than a half-dozen friends to phone and commiserate with when they are having a bad day; all my brothers and the angst shared, hurting real bad inside from existential loneliness specific to men, cover it up.

So brothers; be careful how much emotional baggage you upload; we don’t download it; we hold it in. At some point we reach our limit. Once we hump too much angst our falling out can easily find us sitting next to Robin Williams with a pen knife in our hands and a belt around our neck; or, like Phillip Seymour Hoffman; a needle in our arm; and who after all wants that? 

Some say we are selfish and think of ourselves first; never realizing that by using our inbred survival apparatus, keeping ourselves safe first; we stay strong in order to protect the pack. Like Sheen’s Chris, by carrying too much emotional baggage and falling out, we can no longer be of help to anyone else in the clan, and another warrior must stay behind to tend to us; further weakening the tribe. Like the surgeon too emotionally involved begins to succumb to his compassion and sees the humanity of the body under the sheet instead of the disease ravaging it; he soon falls apart.

Dogs and Lion go off alone when hurt to either heal and return to the pack or pride in their role of protector, provider and pro-creator. Dogs, so not to burden the master, die nobly; silent and alone; as does the Lion, who, once mortally wounded, draws a circle around himself with his own blood to attract the hyenas that will pick up the scent, come a cruising and tear him apart; an act of samurai seppuku, suicide; just like Robin Williams.

Men are forced out of the pride like young Lions as soon a their nut sacks drop to face the world alone. For men, masculine maturity is a lonely thing to own; for men maturity and despair go together. The isolation of masculinity is merged with much iconography, the cowboy, the astronaut, the gangster; almost ever hero in the past fifty years has been a figure of loneliness. Current pop culture is even more extreme; it celebrates not only the lonely man; it despises men in groups. Like every Judd Aptow film, men in group friendships are depicted as idiots. While American men struggle to overcome the mental cholesterol buildup of the psychic toxins of divorce; women simply switch the channel to Oprah. Men hold back releasing and sharing their pain; we are taught to hold our angst stoically, to keep it close, to keep us sharp; where we gotta be.

Niobe Way, professor of applied psychology at New York University and the author of 2011’s Deep Secrets; Boys, Friendships and the Crisis of Connection, has peered into the chasm under boys and young men and found emptiness to be at the heart of what is called the “boy crisis”. “We have all these boys with so much to give, so much love, so much for them to offer the world” she says. Becoming a man means leaving behind your family and your friends and striking out on your own, and therefore growing up means shedding connections. For Way, the transition from boyhood into manhood is a transition into isolation.

This critical disconnection has costs. Way’s research shows that the male suicide rates correlate precisely with the loss of friendships. At age nine the suicide rates are the same for boys and girls. Between ten and fourteen, boys are twice as likely to kill themselves. Between fifteen and nineteen they are four times as likely. From twenty to twenty-four; five times. Masculine maturity is a lonely thing to process; and this isolation runs contrary to male biology. Men, every bit as much as women, require connection for basic happiness. “men come into the world with this empathetic, rational need and they are treated as if they don’t have it”. Way says. In periods of vulnerability the male suicide rate spikes. During the most recent recession the suicide rate for men grew at four times the rate for women. Divorced men kill themselves nearly 2.5 times as often as married men while there is no difference in the rates between divorced and married women.

The contempt for male friendship is a cultural failure on an epic scale. Without friendship life simply isn’t worth much. Friendship is essential not just for a personal sense of well-being but also for society in general. In Nicomachean Ethics, Aristotle prized it more than justice. “When men are friends, they have no need of justice, while when they are just they need friendship as well, and the truest form of justice is thought to be a friendly quality”.

For all the loss we’ve suffered from the absence of folk heroes from Belushi to Ledger to Hoffman and now Williams, just maybe, if boys who become men were not conditioned to exemplify the god damn Marlboro man, and not mocked for our friendships, and thus had friendships to turn to like women do; well you know the rest.

So, next time you think to criticize men for being selfish and putting themselves first; remember we have to keep ourselves emotionally safe; if we hump too much emotional gear we’ll fall out and be unable to protect the tribe. We’re not being cold, aloof, narcissistic or afraid of intimacy, nor do we lack empathy and compassion for your miseries and needs; we’re not being selfish. We put ourselves first and support our male protective shell as survival apparatus because men carry that aforementioned burden, that, and we know; we’re all we’ve got.


“I watched with glee while your kings and queens, fought for ten decades; for the gods they made. I shouted out, who killed the Kennedy’s, when after all; it was you and me.” – Rolling Stones – Sympathy for the Devil


Nubile girls at my gym, ready for marriage and lusting after marry me bodies, bounce rhythmically on treadmills while ponytails bob symmetrical figure eights; their gaze transfixed on home makeover reality shows, remodeling porn depicting fascinating renovations of imagined hope chest packaged dreams that they feel down deep in the canal of their craving; right down to the china, silverware and crystal.

The flat screen that resides over my StairMaster projects CNN. At the ready stands a flawless little creäture of desirous adoration; her scimitar curves accentuated by arms akimbo; eye candy with meticulously quaffed hair and Oil of Olay pure skin looking like she’s been polished each morning by a rotary buffer is narrating the day’s top meat grinder events with a smile as blasé as a weather gal describing a perfectly turned spring day in San Francisco.

She flash cuts to Beebe Netanyahu, a real yahoo and Führer of the new Nazi’s regurgitating the same moral equivalency cold cuts he normally slings with the drone of a lobotomized robot; laced over the podium like a tailor with a case of workbench back; his eyebrows drag his forehead down to meet his weak fey chin; he wears the expression of a mid-career lighthouse keeper; one who has seen a lot of shipwrecks and expects more. His performance is for the cameras; not the back rooms of atherosclerotic, hypocritical, cigar chewing, hopeless, larded adults; infracted vultures turning babies into scattered fragments from the explosive shells, bombs, missiles and bullets they reap profits from. Decayed, balding, cheese breath Netanyahu lays it on us like a great soggy lukewarm mother’s poultice.

The Germans had Hitler, the Russians, Stalin; we were graced with baby Bush the Shrub for a weary time. Some say he was a good president and I suppose if you rate him on his responsibility for body count, confirmed kills; they’d be right. The Palestinians, a people left more alone than any in memory have Hamas; living dead men, zombies after the apocalypse; modern-day Charles Mason’s stuck in the lust for blood oblivious of any grey tones. Each side’s argument seems to be saying “my enemy is so vicious he has forced me to lose my soul” and no matter how many babies we turn to goop; our cause is just.

How easy would be to let the beast out; the one unleashed by the Capo di tutti capi of demons; hate; that most dangerous of motivations that emanates from within out; always just there, beneath the surface of everyday normalcy; our own personal Mephistopheles; master of our negative light, Satan’s worker, agent of Lucifer; where promises of heaven turn into private hell when Beelzebub nudges those already in danger to be damned into that Faustian bargain where we wager our souls on the notion that we are right and have been wronged. He circles the earth in a dark cloud settling down occasionally in men’s hearts in places like Gaza, Cambodia and Rwanda.

How easy would it be to release humanity, to pull the trigger, pull the pin, loose the spear, open the bombay doors, let the fucking rice boil over in Chinatown; to spill blood that never washes off like there are gooks in the wire and let the ID feast on adrenaline and danger and let the taste of sweat and blood and heroism and righteous victory trump all other pleasures; where all compassion is lost in a Howitzer’s cloud. That’s what spare-ribbed Palestinian boys slinging rocks at jolly green giants with guns wishing they were hand grenades; cannon fodder ripe for turning into shrapnel; feel.

It’s perhaps why I let my demon out for regular walks in the garden. He is pulsing forth just now out my finger tips and on to this imaginary paper. So, every year on my birthday, just about here, I forgive every transgression my friends have laid on me over the past year; blow out the pipes, crack the neck and wipe the slate clean; start fresh. It lightens the burden I and all men carry and keeps the demon at bay. Where it not for my tradition, the worlds ongoing shit storm of hatred, the current featured attraction being the Israeli Palestinian cream de la cream of vendettas, could easily metastasize and visit itself in my heart. Hate and revenge is an insidious intoxicating virus.

No one cares any longer what your ends may be fellas; your means to your ends have left us bleeding from the eyes; making the gladiator games of the Coliseum seem like a little girls backyard tea party. To turn away or be anesthetized, that’s our choice; well, as Willy Shakes Mercutio screamed, while dying in Romeo and Juliet from Capulet and Montague madness feud, “a plague on both your houses”.

These two sides started this caged death match the year I was born; sixty-six years ago. Christ fellas, learn how to have an argument and move the fuck on. Package all that unlimited passion and send the word out for the Levant’s Gandhi, Christ, King or Mandela; and when he shows up; try not to shoot him down like we did Jack and Bobby and Martin. Here’s hoping you find your holy man peace maker. In the meantime pick a date and on that date once a year step back and forgive.

Murph The Surf

“We got a thousand points of light; for the homeless man. We got a kinder, gentler, Machine gun hand”. – Rockin’ In The Free World – Neil Young

Mid July; the yearly Rodeo hits town coinciding with a parade down Main Street that draws vacationers from the tri-state area like we’re giving away sweet salt water taffy. The humid air takes on the consistency of wild mountain honey; still the multitudes descend; filling this playground Mecca with joy seeking madcap tourists to the brim. Until the pressure becomes really intense they normally never make a move; but now, like lemmings, they apply the pressure on themselves, to be seen having that good time, as if addicted to their own adrenaline; performing the paint by numbers recreation provided for their delectation with zeal so pronounced you’d think they were being paid. Now, the day after the nights before, this tiny Wisconsin town, the latest stop on my personal carousel; exhales like a smoker. It breathes in the tourists on Friday and blows them out every Sunday night, emptying after the Bacchanalia; the rat scramble to exodus Eden ensues.

News reports show an unlucky few have left hair, teeth and eyeballs scattered on the concrete highway intersections that at other times of the year would be laughable to argue call for a traffic light in a two traffic light town. Burgers were burnt on grills, flags waved ubiquitously and Nobel’s horrific invention caused the color bombs to burst in air. Now squealing no more the hordes lately laid prostrate for patriot days scream; arm-ageddon-outta-here. In the rush to get back to the rush some leave their skin and bones behind with their money.

To avoid the syrupy display of Americana Murph and I head over to Big Dick’s Saloon and antiquarian for some billiards and a few cold ones in the private back room that always seems reserved for us since no one else is ever there. Big Dick’s note-worthy claim to fame, most prominently proclaimed on hand carved wood placards, is the fact that J.F.K. once took a squirt in the men’s room. At noon on a Thursday the bar is sprinkled with tattered people who look like they spend every weekend prowling the demolition derby circuit; the well-worn gaggle of female barflies must have been ordered up from central casting; interchangeable with any other gin mill in the world; they sport pock-marked downs syndrome faces with all life force extinguished, sucked out like from a vacuum cleaner hose, quaffing draft beer in dainty sips; mainlining misery at mid-morning on a weekday.

Murph the Surf, martial artist, motorcycle rider, country gentleman, father to giant offspring and my back woods Paul Bunyan brother in arms, having this place clocked for decades, became my consigliere when I arrived and sympathetically shepherded me down the right corridors when I showed up lost in this dull waste land wilderness. He is as imperturbable as a whale, as hard as Chinese arithmetic and all heart. During our weekly pool and bull shooting sessions in our pleasure bunker; our weekly quixotic Salon; he burns with the intellect of a poet scholar. Today he’s particularly enlightened; pontificating around the fascination of women and the differences between the sexes.

Before I could effect a rescue of my prized cue stick Murph summoned forearms veined like surgical tubes and like a dancer tripping the light Balanchine fandango, turning cartwheels across the floor, balanced on the twinkle toes of a mountain goat dancing on a thin edge, crashed the ivory orb into the pack with the speed of an angry moonshiner with muscles straining as thick and sinewy as dock ropes, huge Mickey Rourke muscles that make his upper back fan out like manta ray wings. He slams the tip of my Balabushka into the ivory cue ball affecting a sledge-hammer break; pin-balling the spheres in causally connected harmonic waves; never slowing his rap … Women he says, being gatherers, were required to look closely at their work and so evolved into looking each other in the eyes when they converse. Further, he posits, men, 600,000 years ago, as we Pithecanthropus passed into the hand-axe culture, were genetically pre-disposed to look out and around, to survey our environs for the random saber-toothed tiger creeping up from behind or the manic charge of a wild-eyed mastodon, and so, conversely, men look away when we speak to each other.

Further, as the balls roll into the pockets… Men he says, dominate through physicality, and thus have mercy; where women do not. When it’s over for a woman, it’s over. You’re not getting an appeal. Yet we are similar in that both
have at least two faces, one mounted behind the other or in the case of deranged multiples, overlaid like an onion. The front one sculpted by what John Paul Sartre lamented; “hell is other people”, meaning the signal vibrations we send out as a result of being an ego encapsulated hominid are interpreted by others as our persona; who they think we are. They send those messages back to us and, in the infinite wisdom of human nature, the wish to assimilate and fit in; we receive the ping-pong message and unconsciously act out those wishes. Ergo hell is other people because they cause us to act the way they see us and thus prevent us from acting out our natural personas; being our true selves. The second face, the one we see when we look in the mirror and as we all know it’s the mirror that matters, is the one we use to try to bring about our own hopes while we struggle with the mean nature of a world that won’t sit still long enough to be seen clearly and allow us to make a connection.

I’m not actually getting much of this since by now, after a few trips to the bar, a few pulls on the whisky flask and a few hits on a Dobbin, I feel like I’ve imbibed a Vicodin the size of a hockey puck and that’s not altogether untrue. Murph has reached what Japanese Buddhists call Satori; sudden enlightenment and a state of consciousness attained by intuitive illumination representing the spiritual goal of Zen Buddhism; in my case it’s simply the relief from emotional pressure that narcotics provide. I’m so lit by the time the quarters have run out and no more mead can be poured in and no more weed quaffed I become no longer interested in the answers; my obsessive compulsion has turned me into a Sarah Palin no nothings; not just not knowing the answers but no longer even understanding the questions.

I head for the bar where the TV burns in the background showing proof of life for the 50,000 children of the Americas lost in the wilderness of North America. Some manic crowd of frothing white people are babbling incoherently, waving poorly made signs and shouting what seem to be epitaphs at a large multi-wheeled monstrosity of a bus. As I absorb the cacophony from these right-wing fear machine zealots, the lynch mob bully minority portrayed on CNN as the caterwauling xenophobic’s they are, spewing brown boy’s go home tirades upon helpless, exhausted, scared children; I fear the rest of the world will interpret the ululating jingoistic hostility chants of U.S.A, U.S.A to mean, in their case, the United States of Ass-hats; hyena headed mongrels with no prepubescent girls to terrorize at the gates of abortion clinics since they’ve all been shuttered; portraying Americans to the world as selfish, narcissistic, greedy, cheap and in a word bullies. Proof, I fear, we’re not far removed from that early morning on November 22, 1963 when Jack turned to Jackie and said; “we’re headed into nut country”.

Why we care more for animals than people I never understood. Awwww’ing like modern-day Francis of Assisi, we spent $6.2 billion on grooming and treats for our pets in 2012. If only these kids fleeing extreme poverty and violence had four legs instead of two and were hairier, cuddlier and cuter. Jordan, a country the size of Indiana has taken in 2,070,973 registered Palestine refugees in ten camps, provided 173 schools, with 116,953 pupils, two vocational and technical training centers, 24 primary health centers, eight community rehabilitation centers and 12 women’s program centers and Jordan has one of the lowest levels of water resource availability, per capita, in the world.

But my country, the greatest I’m continually told, won’t find room at the inn for our neighbors to the south. Sorry kids, instead of pausing for air our fury sniffing of those railroad track lines of your coke or taking the profit motive away from the drug cartels that have chased you away from home by legalizing it; we blew the bread that would have cost rearranging the sands of Arabia for the last ten years with the bombs supplied by Dick Cheney and friends. Besides, Israel is presently turning kids your age into bouillabaisse so we have to change the channel; sorry but the first rule of media is; if it bleeds; it leads.

Well, time surely to stagger across the street to the only gourmet restaurant within a hundred miles and intake some banana bread French toast made from scratch by the blessed and enlightened soul who open it after a stint in culinary school; Freud/Jung, Nature/nurture, crazed whack jobs in Technicolor, blood and guts; enough. Hey Murph; pass the maple surpel.


“And they don’t quite seem to understand; the way the hammer shapes the hand” – Casino Nation – Jackson Browne

Immigration Nation

Barbecues crackle from grease bubbles that drop and crystallize; looking like broken glass. The heat wafting above makes waves in the air like over a radiator. The aroma of fricasseed flesh wafts sour weenie smoke up and down the lacing of the shore.

Suddenly the world outside my writer’s window erupts into electric splinters as the patriotic bombs explode in the cloudless sky, showering the trees with a million tiny neon bulbs; the preparatory whistling sounds imitate a mortar attack. Swooping strands of light rising, rising, rising until they merge with the stars and make a bridge right up to the heavens; Boom! Boom! Boom!

Anything with a spine has fled; hunkered down and shivering in the forest while the fireworks light the sky in psychedelic color movie joy. While my typer and me seek only the transcendental the tourist’s scurry madcap in howls of manic laughter across the sacred lake. They seek a red, white and blue somatic experience; weekend warriors begging sensual unfolding after the tightly wound city work a day weeks fall away. They are here for hurry up fun and love-making that intensifies the sensations.

Two years in I guess I’ll have to cop to being a local. I suppose I’m in good company. Hunter Thompson and Ken Kesey moved to the woods; Papa Hemingway pulled over to the shoulder as well; he quit the whole damn program for the island of Cuba; you can’t get more removed from the noise than an island. I’m ensconced in my own Walden Pond like a modern-day Henry David Thoreau, the transcendentalist who begged a cabin from Emerson, a couple of miles from town, for his reflection upon simple living in natural surroundings. He said he wanted to sort out the wheat from the chaff and suck the marrow out of life; to escape the wages of fame, that industrial disease to creativity; that all-encompassing external experience that often excludes intimacy.

Meanwhile an ill wind blows foul and Gods flesh is crawling. If he could see and hear the antics of this cast of heretics in Marietta, Ca, American flag-waving protesters, lathered horses in the home stretch, forcing busloads of migrants to leave, on the fourth of July, a fear gripped gang of xenophobic’s descending on scared, hungry, tired children of the America’s; he’d never stop throwing up.

These are so-called Christians, sans the compassion and empathy, which is at the core of their cult teachings. They wave brightly colored over-sized American flags; symbols that ring like cymbals; “all foreigners go home”; accompanied by a hate filled chorus of U.S.A., U.S.A; a happy fourth welcome to North America for children of the Americas tougher than the violence and poverty they have escaped; asking only to be part of the American dream; dumbstruck with fear at the vicious reception at the barricades of heaven.

We have seen this film before; the placard carrier’s hands forced into clenched fists to pummel the weak. They pledge allegiance to what the flag use to mean. Now, its “English only” as the legislated official language rails the Nativist; telling us all how we “must” speak, how we “must” dress, then, next surely, how they “must” think. The thought police aren’t far behind. Hell, they’re here now, making everyone the same like some insidious virus. Where have we seen this kind of group think before? Sieg Heil. Shut up and sing. I pledge allegiance. My country right or wrong; I pledge allegiance; love it or leave it. I pledge allegiance; or the terrorists win.

A young man in Mexico, poor enough to live in a dirt floor hut, fiercely religious, speaks no English, crawls across an imaginary line in the desert in the dead of night; to OZ; to labor bent over in a strawberry field picking my food for sub-standard wages, no health care, no other kind of care, no safety codes, no rules that favor him. He pays taxes to an invisible hand every payday for which he receives nothing. He is reviled.

One day men with American flags festooned on their drab military style uniforms approach; they call out “Criminal”. He looks around to see who they speak of as their well fed white knuckles grip his arm. He is going home. Migrants in Mexico who risk the road to Xanadu are folk heroes to those they leave behind. They are urban mythologies. Those that hire them, the Patrons, rich and powerful when weighed against their brown Mexican sweat, are the beneficiaries.

Closed borders did not make America. Borders open to young men and women everywhere did. Is it a crime to cross that line; to feed hungry children or wives or mothers or only to hope to improve one’s life? Shame on the heretics of the American dream and legacy; an American is not defined by which side of a line he is on.

In Martin Scorsese’s historical epic film “Gangs of New York”, the war in the streets of Hell’s Kitchen for cultural dominance was fought between the Nativist, “born right” (in America) and the foreign hoards (immigrants). The present day debate on the “illegal”, an unfortunate term, smells like the stench that reeked in the five corners section of New York City at the dawn of America.

Take to the streets. Strike! Tear down the fences. Build bridges instead.

“Inscription on the Statue of Liberty”
Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses, yearning to breath free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore,
Send these, the homeless, tempest tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door.



Excerpted from: The Politics of Ecstasy by Timothy Leary, P.H.D.

“The aw-full truth –  just say Know”- Timothy Leary

So where do we find the scientific answer to the emotional question? Can you really bear to know?

Emotions are the lowest form of consciousness. Emotional actions are the most contracted, narrowing, dangerous form of behavior. The romantic poetry and fiction of the last 200 years has quite blinded us to the fact that emotions are an active and harmful form of stupor. Any peasant can tell you that. Beware of emotions. Any child can tell you that. Watch out for the emotional person. He is a lurching lunatic.

Emotions are caused by biochemical secretions in the body to serve during the state of acute emergency. An emotional person is a blind, crazed maniac. Emotions are addictive and narcotic and stupefacient. Do not trust anyone who comes on emotional.

What are the emotions? In a book entitled Diagnosis of Personality written when I was a psychologist, I presented clarifications of emotions and detailed descriptions of their moderate and extreme manifestations. Emotions are all based on fear. Like an alcoholic or a junkie, the frightened person reaches for his favorite escape into action; commanding, competing, punishing, aggressing, rebelling, complaining, abasing, submitting, placating, agreeing, fawning, flattering, giving.

The emotional person can not think; he cannot perform any effective game action (except in acts of physical aggression and strength). The emotional person is turned off sensually. His body is a churning robot; he has lost all connection with cellular wisdom or atomic revelation. The person in an emotional state is an inflexible robot gone berserk.

What psychologists call love is emotional greed and self-enhancing gluttony based on fear.

The Psychedelic Correlate

The only state in which we can learn, harmonize, grow, merge, join and/or understand is the absence of emotion. This is called bliss or ecstasy, attained through centering the emotions. Moods such as sorrow and joy accompany emotions. Like a junkie who has just scored or an alcoholic with a bottle in hand, the emotional person feels good when he has scored emotionally, i.e., beaten someone up or been beaten up; won a competitive victory; gorged himself on person grabbing.

Conscious love is not an emotion; it is serene merging with your-self, with other people, with other forms of energy. Love cannot exist in an emotional state. Only the person who has been psychotic or had a deep psychedelic trip can understand what emotions do to the human being. The great kick of the mystic experience, the exultant, ecstatic hit, is the sudden relief from emotional pressure.

Did you imagine that there could be emotions in heaven? Emotions are closely tied to ego games. Check your emotions at the door to paradise.

Why, then, are emotions built into the human repertoire if they are so painful, demanding and blinding? There is a basic survival purpose. Emotions are the emergency alarms. The organism at the point of death terror goes into a paroxysm of frantic activity. Like a fish flipping blindly out of water. Like a crazed cornered animal.

There are rare times when emotions are appropriate and relevant. The reflex biochemical spurt. Flight or Fight.  There are times when emotional bluffs, like the hair-raising on a dog’s neck, are appropriate. But the sensible animal avoids situations which elicit fear and the accompanying emotion. Your wise animal prefers to relax or to play – using his senses, tuned into his delicious body-organ music, closing his eyes to drift back in cellular memory. Dogs and cats are high all the time – except when bad luck demands emotional measures.

The emotional human being is an evolutionary drug addict continuously and recklessly shooting himself up with adrenaline and other dark ferments. The way to turn off the emotions is to turn on the senses, turn on to your body, turn on to your cellular reincarnation circus, turn on to the electric glow within and engage only in turn-on ego games.


Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 219 other followers