Tantra-Induced Delusional Syndrome ("TIDS")

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Re: Tantra-Induced Delusional Syndrome ("TIDS")

Postby American Dream » Sat Feb 08, 2014 1:09 am

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Re: Tantra-Induced Delusional Syndrome ("TIDS")

Postby American Dream » Sat Feb 08, 2014 6:36 pm

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Grace Haring
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Re: Tantra-Induced Delusional Syndrome ("TIDS")

Postby American Dream » Sun Feb 09, 2014 9:33 am

http://cbmilstein.wordpress.com/2014/02 ... might-say/

What Silence Might Say

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On the one hand, we need a certain amount of faith in life in order to keep moving through it with a modicum of hope. We need to have faith in something to propel us through a world that’s frequently harsh, unforgiving and unkind, and full of way too much inexplicable suffering. On the other hand, too often faith is simply “a matter of faith,” held as thoughtlessly accepted beliefs, whether found in organized religion or within activist circles. We hang on for dear life to principles that appear steadfast and safe as a replacement for the harder work of sitting with all the uncertainty of life, all the dilemmas it drops at our feet, time and again, and how to continually contemplate our responses.

So much of faith in anything hinges on the words we put to it, how we describe its shape and feel, its ethics and values, its practices. It can be a feeling, too, but even that only becomes legible through the words we use to portray those sensations. Faith can be a bible, or it can be works that get debated in relation to various circumstances; it can be laws, commandments, mystical signals, or an elastic framework; it can ask us to sign on the dotted line or be a promise that we revisit repetitively, based on changing contexts. Its words, its language, can stagnate, or we can delight in always building our vocabulary.

Faith has to have a vision, and that vista is captured in how we learn to speak of its contours. Whether inside our head or on the tips of our tongue, words form the landscape of our sense of possibility, our everyday utopias, our heavens on earth.

And so when we practice our faiths in this less-than-heavenly society, we put our stock in ways to make this world more closely match up to our ideals. For instance, one way we attempt to avoid hurt and right wrongs like patriarchy in political organizing efforts is to demand that people “step up, step back” in discussions, as if the sheer number of words that one speaks — or doesn’t — has a relation to wisdom, or the freedom and dignity, say, that we wish to articulate, instill, and enact. We who decry capitalism put our faith in ledger sheets of accountability: who has talked a lot, and who hasn’t; which voices attached to which bodies have spoken or not, and how frequently, or without interrupting. Such faith is the cold, hard cash of a bankrupt language of social transformation, in which we forget how to listen, how to dialogue, how to speak truth and beauty, how to bond through giving each other the benefit of the doubt and allowing ourselves to share our vulnerabilities, how to take responsibility for ourselves and how we impact those around us.

Contrast this to a teaching imparted through the faith of dharma, or at least a lesson learned for me this past week at a guided meditation, skeptically attended at the suggestion of my new and insightful therapist. She thought it might speak to questions of loss and suffering, and how we approach being present with those spaces, those absences, and recognizing what’s filling them in again. After the mediation, the teacher gave a talk on “wise words” and “wise actions,” and the intimate relation between the two, alongside some of their values, like truth and kindness. The counter, of course, is “unwise words” and “unwise actions,” or words and actions that pain others, that cause suffering, rather than strive to alleviate it for us and others. His discussion centered on the power of words. Like folks within activist worlds, because this was a punk sort of dharma, he spoke of paying attention when we’re in groups to who speaks or doesn’t, what voices are heard, what bodies feel comfortable intervening, and who interrupts. But he then offered this gem, this touchstone:

Are our words worth breaking the beauty of the silence?

The corollary, I might add, is that by bringing words into the world, we aspire to bring beauty into it, and that us struggling to give voice and then actions to that beauty has to involve intentionality, care, and wisdom — otherwise, why speak? Why shatter the beauty of the silence?

Such a gem calls into question the superiority of those who talk a lot, without regard for beauty; those who choose to use words and the actions that follow from them as forms of domination, as instruments of perpetuating suffering, not merely in small organizing projects, but as mechanisms writ much larger in structures like patriarchy, white supremacy, or statecraft. It also elevates the notion, for me at least, that the absences we imagine — the absence of heteronormativity, racism, or capitalism — are indeed those beautiful silences. They are quiet places that aren’t yet able to be heard in the here and now, even by us rebel-dreamers. When push comes to shove, when we try to give voice to it, we really have little language to describe the absences we fight so fiercely for, especially against all that roars deafeningly at us, beating us down with its weight and volume, shouting down possibility. What if we deliberately took the time to listen hard to the silence, to pick up whispers of potentiality, gentle and quiet clouds of hope, noiseless butterfly-wings of promise?

In the stillness, maybe we can hear other worlds beckoning, more beautiful than can yet be fully expressed in wise words and wise actions, much as we should try.
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Re: Tantra-Induced Delusional Syndrome ("TIDS")

Postby American Dream » Mon Feb 10, 2014 11:19 am

http://er-turfing.com/blog/2014/02/09/i ... -seraphim/

In The Field Of The Seraphim

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In The Field Of The Seraphim – Gwyllm 2014

Intro: In the early summer of 1966 I left home at the age of 14 and headed to downtown Denver for most of that summer. I worked at what was one of the few remaining Beat Coffee shops, “The Green Spider”, which was located at 17th and Pearl Streets, 2 or 3 doors down from “The Folklore Center” which was an instrument and music store that I spent an inordinate amount of time hanging out in. I discovered The Blues, not the derivative stuff coming out of Britain, but The Blues there, and layers upon layers of Folk Music and the emerging Psychedelic Music from The West Coast and elsewhere. Pretty heady stuff for a young guy, but I leapt into it with the assistance of Harry who owned The Folklore Center, and his chief sales assistant, Michael O’Sullivan. Michael turned me on to the first EP of Country Joe & The Fish, and the early Big Brother album amongst others. Michael had been in the Air Force but had bailed I think with an insanity plea, he had the longest hair I had ever seen, an he talked to me all the time about his times in San Francisco in the Haight Ashbury community. He was like someone who had had a vision, and he wanted to spread the good news. He talked about a band that he’d seen, and that it was the most amazing band ever. He talked about the vocalist, and the sound. ”It’s like no other band” he said, “The Jefferson Airplane, they are fantastic!” By the time early August came, I was considering heading to San Francisco to see what it was all about. I walked over to the Folklore Center one afternoon, and Michael met me at the door. “I’ve got something for you to listen too!” he exclaimed. And it was The Airplanes’ first album:



I was entranced. I mentioned it to my friend James, about this burning desire to go to the Bay Area to see The Jefferson Airplane. Now James was about 3 years older than yours truly, which seemed almost ancient. He had tales of riding freights to Chicago to see Blues Bands, and tales of riding across to California. He smoked rolled up cigarettes, usually garnering the tobacco from butts and the like. He was the epitome of boho cool to me. He knew the poets, and he was obviously more experienced than I! …..


Prt 1. Travelling The Rails

James & I made our plans, including a raid on an Air Raid Shelter in the basement of the apartment house across from The Green Spider for saltless crackers, candy etc. It was all very exciting, and in a week or so we caught a ride from friends up to to Cheyenne, right in the middle of “Frontier Days”. If there was ever a backward facing place in 1966, Wyoming was it. The one hip location in town was a Coffee Shop, with military recruitment posters as decor. Mind Boggling.

Having to kill time, we snuck into the Frontier Days Event for a while, and caught “Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs” (not bad, they gave us a knowing nod whilst they played), having missed those psychedelic crusaders, “The Doppler Effect” who were traveling through with a light show (first on the block kids!), and their assorted circle of freaks… We dodged drunk cowboys looking for fights half the night until we made our escape out to the rail yard around midnight…

We eventually caught the Highball to Ogden/Salt Lake, in a refrigerated car without the refrigeration on of course… we climbed down into the refrigeration unit from the top. It was a long trip, and though we had crackers and candy, we realized we had no water. Thirst started to build up… and the noise, dust and dirt was a straight assault on the senses. We rode for awhile on top of the car, stars wheeling as we laughed into the darkness.

It seemed an eternity, but we finally arrived into the Ogden/Salt Lake Rail Yards half way towards the next evening. we spent the next couple of hours dodging Rail Dicks armed with axe-handles looking for bums and freeloaders… (which we qualified for in spades at this point) We finally connected onto another train just as it was leaving for California, with pursuit close behind. We landed on a moving piggy-back car, that as it gained speed, gave no relief from the wind. By the time it was dark we were hurtling over the great Salt Lake at what seemed 80 miles an hour.

We were starting to chill down, having sweated with the heat, and no water, with the wind buffeting us, our temperatures started to dip. I was miserable. James decided to open up the Truck Trailer so we could get some relief from the cold and wind… He was at the end of the car struggling with the trailer door when the wind caught him, and the door swung James off the car holding on for dear life to the door handle over the Salt Lake. I grabbed the door and pushed and pulled him back in. He had let out a mighty scream at first, but held on for dear life.

We crawled up into the car when we finally got it all under control.. Ah heaven! and then, we began to sneeze.. we both started to have the most amazing allergy attack.

The trailer had been used to haul fruit, and it was full of pollen, and mold. We finally crawled back out of the trailer and spent a very cold night huddled at the front of the car, buffeted by the wind.

Next morning we pulled into the railhead in Nevada at Sparks. Plenty of rail dicks, but we just huddled down, too exhausted to move. The train eventually started up again, and we headed into the Sierra Nevada. We started to become very excited, knowing that we were on the edge of California! We knew we would dead-head at Roseville above Sacramento, and we figured it was about 6-7 hours away. We started babbling about water, and bathing and getting into the bay area. We sucked on the candy, as our mouths were cracking most painfully.

Things were picking up. The higher we went the cooler it got. We were elated, and then up ahead, we saw a tunnel. Into it we went, and all of a sudden, we were choking on diesel fumes from the 4 engines ahead. I ended up wrapping my shirt around my face trying to filter out the smoke and carbon monoxide. There was nothing for it. Just hold on, keep your face down and try not to breath… for 8 miles!

Finally we burst out of the tunnel. We were covered in soot, my hair was caked with grease and stood straight back. James was rolling with laughter on the cars floor, until I pointed out he was just as filthy. We eventually came to the peak elevation, and then started winding down into the Sacramento Valley. Heaven. That fabulous light that defines California was cascading down.

We talked about the bands we would see, and the people we would meet up with. We finally got into Roseville, and as we slid off the piggy-back car, a jeep pulled up with rail-dicks. One was on the radio, and we heard him say, “we got two more” I just knew we were in for it. The one on the radio walked up, looked at us, and said, “come over here” He led us to the jeep, and pulled out a watermelon and gave it to us! He pointed out a potable water source, and told us how to get to the highway. He said, ” you look rough… take the bus next time!” We thanked them profusely, first for not arresting us, and for the kind gift. You never know when you might run into a Saint, I swear. I held my head under the water and it ran black. We drank and drank until we could drink no more. Water never, never tasted better. We had been 3 days without, across the great American desert. Luck must bless youth. I didn’t realize the danger we were in for quite awhile…. Speaking of danger, a day or so later a maintenance crew found a body in the tunnel be. Someone had slit his throat and threw him off a moving train. It could of possibly been the same train James & I were on. You just never know.

So we made it to the highway, stuck out our thumbs and got a ride immediately by a trucker on his way to the Bay Area. He dropped us off 4 blocks from where we were going to stay in Berkeley.

Prt 2 In Berkeley:


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Jabberwock-Coffee House

So we rest up in Berkeley… I connect with friends/acquaintances I had met in Denver who had been passing through from New York City. (They had given us the address of the commune we were staying at) Franz and Stephanie. Nice couple, he, a hair dresser from the Village, and Stephanie was a designer. They had hitched through Denver a month before I ventured west. They stayed with me in one of the many places I crashed that summer. (in their case, the Speed House – kinda explanatory!) We had some great times and good conversations.

Well we were in Berkeley, in a commune with very nice people. 4 blocks to the west of Telegraph or so. It has been a long time, I wouldn’t be able to find it now. Berkeley was buzzing in that summer. The Peace Movement, SDS, Telegraph of course, and Sproul Plaza. I wandered everywhere. Fog at night. Hungry, always hungry. How come a 14 year old is always so hungry? I couldn’t busk fast enough or panhandle fast enough for food. We ate the crackers, ate the candy, and every bowl of brown rice pushed in our faces at the commune. The main room in the house had a pool table. I really wasn’t very good at it, and felt a fool everytime I picked up a cue. It was fun though. Music was always playing. Bob Dylan – Sad Eyed Lady Of The Low Lands. I had listened to Dylan for a couple of years at that point, but I fell head over heels for Blond on Blond. Evenings drifting with cannabis smoke in the air, and Dylans’ voice floating through the rooms and the back yard.

It was a good time.

I needed work, and things were tight. So, I found out that you could do day labor on farms in the valley. With one of the guys at the Commune, I went to Oakland at 4:00AM to catch a bus. The whole bus was full of Mexican migrant farm workers. We were the only 2 gringos’ aboard.

I swear, there is nothing harder than picking crops or clearing weeds from 6 in the morning to 6 at night on an empty stomach. I actually ended up in the hole owing the bus and the crew chief. The Mexicans were blazingly fast, and kind, very kind. Everytime one sped past me, he stuffed my basket with veg. I was humbled. They knew me from Adam, and yet they helped me as they could. I sit here typing, and I am smiling at the memories of them.

Finally (cutting to the chase) after much discussion about LSD, one of the commune members mentioned that I could partake if I wanted. Being the weekend, the whole house was geared up for this. I had sat and watched 2 or so earlier sessions, demuring. I was curious though, very curious. The fact was I had said to my friends from NY (“Of course I have!”) when I first met them. Of course, I also said I was 16 which we all know was not the truth….

So, the story goes like this…

around 6:00 in the evening, I am offered the Host. Supposedly it is something called “Sandoz” said with much gravity and smiling. I accept it, swallow and out the door we go, wandering up to Telegraph, where we eventually wander into the Jabberwock Cafe. We sit back, have a espresso, and Country Joe and the Fish wander on to the stage and start playing. The music is wonderful, and as it goes on, “it” becomes wider and wider. The Farfisa Organ takes on a calling sound, that I soon find irresistible, and soon I find myself crawling under the organ to sit and soak it all in, to the bemusement of the band and my friends. At the end of the set, we head out. I hear the music reverberating throughout my being.



The night is slowly coming on, and we head down the streets to the commune, and it seems like eternity…

I notice that there is an inner dialogue going on, and it is like nothing I have ever experienced. I am looking at myself, and “someone” is commenting on my actions and thoughts. It seems to be painful, and it unfolds deeper and deeper. I see motivations, and the “accidents” and paths chosen that have led me to this place. I am soon being stripped bare in a light that is to some point alien, but not unfamilar. I can see that my life is not a good one. I have started to cover up my being with coatings of un-truth. And each coating is re-enforced by each action regardless. I am smothering. I am uncomfortable, and I have to walk, and get away and…

“Oh, the ragman draws circles
Up and down the block.
I’d ask him what the matter was
But i know that he don’t talk.
And the ladies treat me kindly
And furnish me with tape,
But deep inside my heart
I know i can’t escape.
Oh, mama, can this really be the end,
To be stuck inside of mobile
With the memphis blues again.
Well, shakespeare, he’s in the alley
With his pointed shoes and his bells,
Speaking to some french girl,
Who says she knows me well.
And i would send a message
To find out if she’s talked,
But the post office has been stolen
And the mailbox is locked.
Oh, mama, can this really be the end,
To be stuck inside of mobile
With the memphis blues again.”

reverberates through my head. I wander out of my revelry, and find myself in the living room watching a pool game. I realize I know where every ball will go before it happens, because there are lines radiating out from each ball with the path it will take. They also leave the lines behind them, glowing and whispering…

“Mona tried to tell me
To stay away from the train line.
She said that all the railroad men
Just drink up your blood like wine.
An’ i said, “oh, i didn’t know that,
But then again, there’s only one i’ve met
An’ he just smoked my eyelids
An’ punched my cigarette.”
Oh, mama, can this really be the end,
To be stuck inside of mobile
With the memphis blues again.
Grandpa died last week
And now he’s buried in the rocks,
But everybody still talks about
How badly they were shocked.
But me, i expected it to happen,
I knew he’d lost control
When he built a fire on main street
And shot it full of holes.
Oh, mama, can this really be the end,
To be stuck inside of mobile
With the memphis blues again..”

I am totally enraptured by what is occuring. I am also afraid. I am of two minds. I am of many minds. I certainly am confused.
My friends from New York (Franz and Stephanie) sit down next to me on the couch. Gentle probing questions come. “How are you doing”? “What are you seeing”? “Do you have something you need to share”? So I pour my heart out, about seeing the Truth of my young self. I painfully confess my age. “Oh, we knew, we were waiting for you to tell us though” came the reply.

So we sit and talk about being truthful to your self, and learning to love the truth even when it hurts. On one hand this seems like a great idea, on the other hand, this is killing me. I feel the waves going back and forth inside.

“Now the senator came down here
Showing ev’ryone his gun,
Handing out free tickets
To the wedding of his son.
An’ me, i nearly got busted
An’ wouldn’t it be my luck
To get caught without a ticket
And be discovered beneath a truck.
Oh, mama, can this really be the end,
To be stuck inside of mobile
With the memphis blues again.
Now the preacher looked so baffled
When i asked him why he dressed
With twenty pounds of headlines
Stapled to his chest.
But he cursed me when i proved it to him,
Then i whispered, “not even you can hide.
You see, you’re just like me,
I hope you’re satisfied.”
Oh, mama, can this really be the end,
To be stuck inside of mobile
With the memphis blues again.”

The night wears on. I am standing in a hallway, staring at a light bulb above me. I walk then outside into the garden. It is heavy with presence and beauty. I sit beneath a eucalyptus tree. I feel odd. I feel cleansed. I feel like myself. I go deeper and deeper. People wander out to check on me. I realize that they care. This seems to be first in my life.

The night breathes in and out of me. I examine the story of my life further. I see that there is a path, and I have to find it. My mind boggles at the whole idea. Confusion is like a river and it carries us all along. I see the world as a river. I see time stretching out behind and before me. I am skewered in the now.

“Now the rainman gave me two cures,
Then he said, “jump right in.”
The one was texas medicine,
The other was just railroad gin.
An’ like a fool i mixed them
An’ it strangled up my mind,
An’ now people just get uglier
An’ i have no sense of time.
Oh, mama, can this really be the end,
To be stuck inside of mobile
With the memphis blues again.
When ruthie says come see her
In her honky-tonk lagoon,
Where i can watch her waltz for free
‘neath her panamanian moon.
An’ i say, “aw come on now,
You must know about my debutante.”
An’ she says, “your debutante just knows what you need
But i know what you want.”
Oh, mama, can this really be the end,
To be stuck inside of mobile
With the memphis blues again.”

The hours keep rolling past. People sit, and talk. For the first time, I feel no separation between them and myself. I find a place like peace. Everything looks like a giant fish eye lense photo. Everything is like a giant calliope! It is a celebration! Everyone knows the great secret! The world swirls ever so fast.
I hear an echoing laugh going on and on and on. I realize it is coming out of me.

Faces look like plastic. I find myself staring in a mirror. I loathe what I see, I see something else, what am I doing in the Bathroom? I find myself in the hall staring at light bulb again. My head truly hurts with all that is inside. Will this ever end?
I have to get outside, I have to walk!

“Now the bricks lay on grand street
Where the neon madmen climb.
They all fall there so perfectly,
It all seems so well timed.
An’ here i sit so patiently
Waiting to find out what price
You have to pay to get out of
Going through all these things twice.
Oh, mama, can this really be the end,
To be stuck inside of mobile
With the memphis blues again.”


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Berkeley Sunrise

The sun is rising, and we are walking in the morning mist, up into the hills. I watch the sun come up. Everything is suffused with beauty. I hear the world waking up. I think I must be a madman. This passes. I feel happy. I want to do this again. No, it was much to painful. We walk down the hill back to the commune and I finally fall asleep out in the yard in the chair.

My life would never be the same again.

Things that I did not do on that visit to California:
I did not make it to San Francisco.
I did not see the Jefferson Airplane.
I missed the Beatles last show
I missed the last Acid Test

Somewhere along the line James disappeared. Perhaps to Big Sur, or down to L.A. One minute he was there, and the next, gone.

I realize in writing all this out, that my date for my first LSD experience was in August. August 30th to be exact. I went and researched play dates of Country Joe and the Fish. They played the Jabberwock at the end of August. I also realize that as I wandered down Telegraph that I was there when the Beatles Revolver Album came out. (August 15th to be exact for the US release) Yellow Submarine made much more sense on August 31st. The window display at a record store changed when I was there from the Byrds’ Fifth Dimension to The Revolver Album. I have a mind for trivia.

I still get Bob Dylan fixations all these years later. I still like watching pool balls. I know longer know where they are going though. And that is alright.

On this trip, I did not see colours, or visions. What I saw was my young life, and how it was unfolding. LSD saved my life, or at least my spirit. I am sure that it is not that different than many others experienced that month in Berkeley. I got to meet my shadow, and a new possible self. LSD is a powerful tool. Use it wisely.

If LSD can begin to turn someones life around in one go, then it must be a blessing. I have spent much time pondering that night and morning. It is the dividing line in my life, then and now. Still in the now. The watershed so to speak.

I want to thank the gentle souls who guided me that night, and protected me as my soul came forth. Many thanks to Franz for his probing questions and gentle guidance, and Stephanies’ caring and constant cups of tea. I never saw them again after I left Berkeley. I don’t know where they are, but my gratitude goes out to them still all these years on.
~~
Looking Back: I realize years later that this first experience exposed me to what I would call the observer self for the first time. Before I studied the works of Gurdjieff, or read the works of Jung, I came face to face with the observer, and my life was never the same. One of the difficulties afterwards, and for years after was finding the language for these experiences. As I grow older, the language has emerged, and resolution along with deeper understanding.

Bright Blessings,
Gwyllm
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Re: Tantra-Induced Delusional Syndrome ("TIDS")

Postby American Dream » Mon Feb 10, 2014 5:25 pm

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Re: Tantra-Induced Delusional Syndrome ("TIDS")

Postby American Dream » Mon Feb 10, 2014 10:24 pm

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Re: Tantra-Induced Delusional Syndrome ("TIDS")

Postby American Dream » Mon Feb 10, 2014 10:40 pm

http://www.designboom.com/art/the-buddh ... 1-20-2014/

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the buddhist bug project travels through cambodia


seeking to map a new spiritual and social landscape, the buddhist bug project (bbug) by cambodian artist anida yoeu ali creates a surreal existence amongst ordinary people and everyday environments. the saffron-colored creature is an autobiographical exploration of the artist’s reaction to a sense of displaced identity, as she was raised a khmer muslim but maintains an innate fascination with the buddhist religion. referencing both sacred systems, the nomadic, other-worldly creature is lined with bright orange exterior skin — the color of buddhist monk robes — and wears a head piece based on the islamic hijab. together with photographer masahiro sugano, her creative partner from studio revolt, yoeu ali has brought the bbug to cambodia where she created a series of site-specific performances, inserting the coiled character into both urban and rural landscapes.

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Re: Tantra-Induced Delusional Syndrome ("TIDS")

Postby American Dream » Tue Feb 11, 2014 9:37 am

http://www.buddhistpeacefellowship.org/ ... odhi-tree/

Where is Your Bodhi Tree?

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When Siddhartha sat under the Bodhi Tree, he was protesting the conundrum of sickness, old age and death. Having been protected his whole life from such things, they appeared as options or solvable problems, not unavoidable outcomes. As an activist sits in silence in front of the riot police, he sat down refusing to move until the answer was delivered.

This cornerstone protest was a dazzling success. Siddhartha crossed the endless river of internal chatter to see that we are all one. He rose to know, to teach, to demonstrate Interconnectedness. He saw that we are birthing, aging, dying, rejuvenating all the time in one massive infinite movement. In this profound knowing, he stood to live fully awake. He taught those who were unable to sit in singular seeking. He taught all those who applied, one way or another. But, as with all great teachers, not five minutes after they are gone, entropy sets in.

He had told them clearly to destroy all images of him and we can all see how that turned out. He told them to “Be a Light unto Yourself.” Yet they huddled in consensus and built emboldened hierarchies. They insisted on sects and lineage. They separated, dressed in different colors and sparred for importance. They were human beings who had not yet seen the truth of Interconnectedness. They chose the simple natural action – to build fences, defend ideas and cluster in like-mindedness.

Spring, 2004, Professor Kimberle Crenshaw sat under her own Bodhi Tree. She surveyed the ghettos, the tribes, the gangs. She saw that people are actually composites and to separate by race, politics, economics is, not just an illusion, but counterproductive to humanity’s wellbeing. She called it, Intersectionality. Equality demands by its very definition, that it must apply to all, in all ways.

Summer, 2009, the U.S. Congressional Committee interviewed Judge Sonia Sotomayor for a seat on the Supreme Court. They asked her, would she make judgments as a woman or as a Latina? From her own state of knowing, she told them they could not be separated.

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February 1, 2014, I was fortunate to take the principles of Engaged Buddhism to The National Gay & Lesbian Task Force’s Creating Change, the largest LGBTQ+ national conference in the U.S. I gave out Rubik’s cubes with all the colors separated and asked them to consider how much better it looks when all colors show on every side.

Though we are complex, integrated beings, we have constructed ideas and myths that separate us. The preference for sameness is our ultimate oppressor. True equality means the full integration of age, class, race, religion, sexual orientation and gender identity. No one is equal until everyone is equal. It is time to expand from, “my rights,” to “our rights.” It is time to move from, “I am somebody,” to “We are somebody.” It is time to demonstrate the fundamental realization of Interconnectedness.

Zoe Nicholson
Founder of The Lantern Initiative
http://thelanterninitiative.org
http://zoenicholson.com


ImageZoe Nicholson has been standing in front of a room and in the public square with one message, WAKE UP. And with each day, each event, each year, waking up to something new has led to a dynamic life that unfolded sharply, quickly, deeply. Marching against the Vietnam War in 1968; organizing opposition to the California Briggs Initiative, working in the American Women’s Movement, fasting for the ERA; NOW liaison for the National Equality March. In the middle of these decades of activism, Zoe formally studied Buddhism for 12 years and was initiated as a Buddhist monk and teacher, January 24, 1989. Leaving the ashram and silent meditation, she continued her passionate practice as an Engaged Buddhist.

Along the way, Zoe has advised fasters and those risking arrest, always steadfast in embracing non-violent direct action. She is inspired by Alice Paul, Grace Lee Boggs, the 13 Grandmothers and His Holiness the Dalia Lama. Speaking to one or 10,000, from Texas A&M to Purdue about life as prayerful practice, her spirit is always available, her meditation is activism. Using social justice, equality activism and servant-leadership, Zoe continues her lifelong call to Occupy Self, Occupy Service, Occupy Compassion.
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Re: Tantra-Induced Delusional Syndrome ("TIDS")

Postby American Dream » Tue Feb 11, 2014 12:28 pm

Image
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Re: Tantra-Induced Delusional Syndrome ("TIDS")

Postby American Dream » Wed Feb 12, 2014 11:54 pm

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Re: Tantra-Induced Delusional Syndrome ("TIDS")

Postby American Dream » Thu Feb 13, 2014 11:48 am

We live on an island surrounded by a sea of ignorance. As our island of knowledge grows, so does the shore of our ignorance.
--John Wheeler
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Re: Tantra-Induced Delusional Syndrome ("TIDS")

Postby American Dream » Fri Feb 14, 2014 9:35 am

Image

Begum Maharani Self Love Portrait Multi-Face Gemini Series by Khushboo Gulati

Self-defining
Self Reliant
trying to trust my processes & my struggles
Mental collisions & crisis factioned with physical brokenness
disturbing a balance & imagined hxstories
Learning to listen to myself, my body’s needs, putting my energy in the right places
Keepin the eye on intricate journeys
Affirmation of self love
Affirm that I hold power & strength
Affirm that I don’t need anyone’s words to validate myself
Affirm that internalized filth is not my fault & I can & must deconstruct it
Affirm that main shakti shali huun

more art art art & stories by yo kalisherni



http://kalisherni.tumblr.com/post/41177 ... multi-face
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Re: Tantra-Induced Delusional Syndrome ("TIDS")

Postby American Dream » Sat Feb 15, 2014 2:15 pm

Further Problems With Pleasure

Friends, I’m going to leave Facebook to become a vegan and/or
astronaut. Flying high above my own sorcery, the police will never
helicopter mom me! He spent the eighties
in Miami stealing cars but he was only the middle man so there’s
something pathetic about that, no? Now he’s in Alabama sitting in a tree swing
hunting deer so it makes me hate him. Once he got
arrested for stealing a sandwich from 7-11. I want to know
what he’s thinking and then I don’t. Throw me in jail where I can write
some poetry. The problem with pleasure
is that you need to force it to be more measurable. A house a palace
a mansion a police car imagine the possibilities. When someone
refers to “the poor” I turn into a trailer and Hurricane
Rita blows me away. Friends, I’m going to leave
Facebook to become a vegan.


Eight by Sandra Simonds | Brooklyn Rail
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Re: Tantra-Induced Delusional Syndrome ("TIDS")

Postby American Dream » Sun Feb 16, 2014 4:06 pm

Image

Revolutionary Letter #1 by Diane DiPrima

http://guerrillamamamedicine.tumblr.com ... etter-1-by
American Dream
 
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Re: Tantra-Induced Delusional Syndrome ("TIDS")

Postby American Dream » Tue Feb 18, 2014 11:02 am

Image


artwork by queer desi artist: Chitra Ganesh

http://khushberkeley.tumblr.com/
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