From death.com to the Salon

April 30, 2003

In the year 2000, in the year of my journey into discontent and

dissatisfaction with all the years of intense Kriya meditation and

waiting for some thing to occur, it occurred to the Friend to send me

a computer. I joined my first , quite by what appeared, as

accident. Hmm. I had heard of a site that would give you a specific

age at which you would die if you typed in all the pertinent details

of behavior and experience. It was called death.com. But when I typed

that in, I didn’t find myself in front of my hoped-for probability of

departure. I found myself at a site called Near-death.com. and they

mentioned something called "." It was news to me that any

such thing even existed. So I joined nde at . Neat-o.

People talking about God and death and the going price for lightening

strikes to the heart. I was just embarking on hearing the barkless

dog’s bite when to my delight, I found Harsha’s satsang and the

NondualitySalon.

So I sat down and began reading what everyone was talking about. Talk

about a kid who thought she could swim and then suddenly finding

herself in the midst of olympic athletes! I was bowled over at the

clarity and the comic caustic-ness, the clear cosmic hum coming from

some, like Wimji and Gregsan and Dan the man, and the cause I

promoted, (me) having no ground to camp on, caught on quick, via ego,

that I better sit tight and keep a lid on it. So I did. I hid in my

head and watched and wondered how they all did it, how they all

delightedly dialogued and dittoed and dickered and delighted in the

Tao of there being no doer.

Somewhere along the way I decided to test the waters. It was

inevitable because I was just a wave and the only way back home to

the Heart-Sea was to wander fearlessly into the waters of inquiry and

surrender as to the why and wherefore I wanted and seemed to need to

protect an image of myself "being in the know." You know, like in my

school days when I was tormented terribly by the slings and arrows of

unkindness and indifference and elitism because I was different, I had

arthritis and I walked with a limp, and like Jong had said, it was as

if I were Jacob, walking with a limp after having just tasted fire.

I know now that it was all just a case of mistaken identity. I

believed I was a victim and they believed they were victims and we

all victimized one another in our erroneous belief in doership and

identification to the parts we played as the Play made mincemeat out

of our hearts and hauled our heads around like a sack of wheat

heading for the millstone. How to keep the heart intact and the head

full and haloed, that was my art and my gift, to protect the only

thing that had ever been a true and loyal friend to me – this Darling

ego, this Wonderful friend, with me ‘til the end of time, telling me

stories of rejection and recoil, toil and trouble, glory-bubbles

being burst in the worst way by way of displaying all the wayward

wanderers who haunted my now with the past chant of "Be careful. The

‘others’ will hurt you, abuse you, judge you, reject you, and they

will not love you, they cannot love you like I love you…". Their idea

of a fine repast? To paste up, post up on persona poles across

cyber-space, every single experience and being who I had dreamed had

harmed me, had humiliated me, had horrified me, had had a hand in

hacking my heart to pieces with leaving me, not liking me, not

adoring me and those war-mongers of wu wasted in wanting

unconditional love, these were the wraith-like wringers of fingers

feeling for safety and fearing falling with every step and stumble

along the way. As Rumi said, "Where can I be safe?" In giving up all

trying. In seeking outcomes and goals. Recognizing that I was

tormenting myself from a million faces traced with my own fearful

finger in time and space as the ghosts I needed to face most to give

the old heave-ho to the old ideas and imaginings born in the past

that had me spell-bound, dream-clown drowned and going ‘round and

‘round the old mulberry bush (hi Sandeep!) and then letting that ship

of fools sink in the drinking of the draught of – There is no doer."

I didn’t get it until I got it. I was given a lift in the gifts given

from the Judis and the Genes, from the James’ and the Johns, from the

Jills and from the Glos, from the ones who know and from the ones who

don’t. Bottom line…I don’t know jack shit. I don’t owe jack shit. I

now sometimes know jack’s shit and I know that I stowed jack’s shit

in the bit where I bought into my own myth and self-importance.

Teehee. Take it down to

me…identity…indignity…insecurity…infirmity…insanity of I, I, I

…inscrutably and indisputably the best itch that ever scratched it’s

own ass! Give it up to the friends laying on hands at Harsha’s and

the Salon and demanding that all hands be held open Heart-wide as a

sign that there is no need to harbor fear. Benediction of the

Bhava-bringers is bringing this house down and all my clever clowns

are running out with their heads on fire. Desire for outcomes is

overcome in the coming out of the closet of clinging to myths and

tales of an independent doership and is dipping its tendency-foot in

the flaming bathwater of little flickers of fana flowering into blaze

and burn. I been learnt, Pa.

We now pause this program for your local emergency broadcast warning:

All characters in this drama are entirely fictional. And resemblance

to anyone alive or dead is purely coincidental in nature.

LoveAlways,

Mazie Protect your PC - Click here for McAfee.com VirusScan Online

April 30, 2003

Dear Mazie:

Very, very cool.

Love

Bobby G.

+, "Mazie Lane" <sraddha54@h...>

wrote:In the year 2000, in the year of my journey into discontent and