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Transactions. Is that what this whole big thing called life comes down to? Is it really the case, Joe wondered aloud, directing his gaze deep into the reflection of his own eyes in his grimy bathroom mirror.If nothing happens does that mean that nothing is really happening? I reject that, his bleary eyes said back to him, coming to life through the haze of this morning’s glossy redness. The world is what the world is, irrespective of our little agreements to transact.

And yes, it does seem that the question has merit. For it is as true in intellectual discourse, emotional exchange and romantic endeavor as it is in commerce that so much of our intereactions with others come down to negotians. Little verbal and non-verbal conversations that ultimately lead to a transaction or an agreement not to transact. But if there is a certain eternal, non-physical reality, call it truth or created wisdom of truth, then that something exists in the same measure — measurelessness to be more accurate — before during and after transaction.

Says Joe back to himself in the mirror: “it is in the moments of transactions that conduital windows are sprung open through which wisdom of truth gains potential for revalation in this time bound material plain. Transactions are only of this limited world, but their occurance here is our version of change. And in that moment of transition, the opprotunity for the revalation of truth in this world is born. There is a momentary opening, a possibility for dedensification.

But Joe’s search was for something larger, some truth beyond that both governs our transactional experience and transcends it. He always maintained that he could sense the presence of that certain something beyond anything. That nothingness that is more something than all the somethings combined. And yet he could never defend adequately what it meant to “sense” something. Intuition is immeasurable and ultimately undocumentable. Modern psychology is adept at swallowing it into its own world of rationale or irrationale thought. Modern neuroscience posesses equal facility and stealing intuition’s thunder, claiming micro-interactions among brain chemicals and electrical processes as the true and physical seat of all that is mental, emotional or spiritual. And yet, belief in that non rationale, non empirical perceptor we variously call intuition, vibe or spirit remains strong as ever. It is the great in-between. The truth greater than all other truths. The easiest to debunk but the hardest to derail. It is as inborn as any human impulse. It trumps cogito ergo sum a thousand times over. It may indeed be nothing more than an amorphous amalgom of experience and reason but then again it may truly be a thing unto itself. Never mind that parsing, for it is certainly ours and here to stay. Be it illusion or ultimate truth, it cannot be brushed aside with accuracy or even utility. It is the essence of all perception.

And Joe certainly didn’t see it as an amalgom of anything. He knew it to be the grogging apprehension tool by which humans could know truth and transform themselves into channels for the wisdom of truth. He knew with certainty that somewhere in the hazy shade of

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this has been the greatest and weirdest journey I ever could have imagined. I’m still a whack job, but I’m living MY life now, not some autopilot bullshit death mission.

thanks my brother. we’re all special. the deal is to get real inside and try to let it out, past all the ego-insecurity shit. and fuck man, to get some godamn sleep!


Poem for a Palindromic Bro

A December 21st Poem

for My Dear Brother Eddie

My brother’s fifty-two.
So here’s a little rhyme.
His birthday’s ten days past.
But today’s even more sublime.

For if there’s any little thing.
To give his aging engines charge.
It’s a palindrome of numbers.
On calendar writ large.

Now what’s a vice prez wannabe…
…have to do with Ed? you ask.
No, no! Not that Palin,silly.
He’s in Cleveland, not Alask.

No, we’re talking about a word.
Line, sentence, number or verse.
That means the very self same thing.
Read forward or in reverse.

From earliest memory ’till present.
My big brother’s shown me the path.
To seeing funny patterns in things.
And playing games with math.

I remember when he showed me at 8.
That numbers sometimes lie.
Hey, Eddie himself would be a palindrome.
But for that pesky little “i”.

And so in 09′s final days.
With his birthday past by 10.
And my own recent birthay.
A multiple of ee-lev-EN.

I give this gift of poem.
To my beloved mother’s son.
I wish him a happy birthday.
But even more, a happy twelve twenty-one!!!

© All material Copyright 2009 by Foxx Falcon

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Ad in back of…

Tabloid. Newsletter with insights. One subscriber. Letter to editor. Falls in love over correspondence. Turns out to be his unsupportive step sister, and she knew and loved him all along.
Sent on the Now Network™ from my Sprint® BlackBerry

© All material Copyright 2009 by Foxx Falcon

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Mediums in a Misty Midst

At the culmination of arduous legs on parched journeys in search of the not-so-famed Oracle of Dromedary, our very own Martin, upon finally gazing into the ize of said wise man, could think of only one question to put forth. “Hey,” he staccato blurted, bringing forth his inner Tommy Chong. “Is the plural of medium media or mediums? I mean like, I know the plural of medium as in materials — y’know — that’s media, but how about a channel for the spirt, like you man? Like, is that mediums? I mean those?”

“Man is but a tube of paint,” came the silky smooth if pseudo cryptic response. “And each day the heavenly creator squeezes what is required from him, until all that remains of us is a stained and crinkled old container, ready for recycling.”

“Yeah, man.”

“And thou shalt treat that container with reverence, especially in its later years, for it bears the fingerprints of the Divine.”

“Whoa. Divine, man!,” Martin beamed, then forgot to resist a comment on pop culture then and now. “And you’re not just talking about that fat dude dressed up as a lady. Travolta sucked in that remake by the way. Not really, I just wanted to say that. Huh, huh,” Martin bubbled off.

All smiled blissfully.

“But mistake not any of the tubes for that ultimate, Heavenly paintng which G_d uses our inner essence to create.”

“Well wait a sec. I don’t know about that dude. I’ve seen some funky ass works of art made from what most people would think are leftovers. Did you ever see that house on South Street in Philly, man? Or that ‘Throne of the Third Heaven’ guy down in DC? Like, I don’t know man. Couldn’t the tubes themselves be part of a creation without you ever noticing it. I mean, like, some wider aspect of a bigger ‘It’? Like I don’t want to offend you man, but maybe you need to open up a little more.”

The oracle bowed.

© All material Copyright 2009 by Foxx Falcon

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Ert — all frazzled up. Compare to inert

Continent — able to control your arse. Compare to incontinent

Ept — capable. Compare to inept

Ane — sensible, significant. Compare to inane

© All material Copyright 2009 by Foxx Falcon

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It’s not about the memories

Today I was cleaning up a flood in my basement — about the 6th in this recent chain of rainy days. Among the things that had to get thrown out were some old drawings I did for an art class when I was in college. Those drawings, carefully hidden in a dusty portfolio for more than 20 years, hold a critical secret — a lesson about human potential. Thank God for the destructive rain that shook my core enough for me to wake up to a powerful fact I seem to have forgotten to utilize.

What I realized this morning is that I have been missing the point of my own lesson for a very, very long time.

You see, the reason I took that art class in college was that for years I had been deathly afraid of any form of art. I had long accepted “I can’t draw” and “I have no artistic talent” as immutable truths. Having recently gotten into recovery through a 12-step fellowship, I had embarked on a spiritual journey that opened me up to a world of possibility — a new mentality of questioning old assumptions and trying new things.

Why couldn’t I draw? I had met a friend named Dawn who was taking this entry level art class as part of a generral studies requirement. One day over lunch Dawn showed me a few things and I quickly discovered that I wasn’t quite as hopeless as I thought. It was an exciting, freeing, mind opening experience to be able to recreate that cartoon cat — or whatever it was — from a poster on the wall of the cafeteria. The very next semester I signed up for Intro to Drawing, a course that turned out to be a wild emotional ride for me.

The first day brought excruciating frustration and ultimately tears, anger and — finally — surrender. The first assignment was meant to see where each of us was holding in terms of basic skills. We sat with our desks in a big circle around a bunch of still life junk — chairs, flower pots, giant blocks…. As the girl next to me, a skinny, sexy Bohemian blonde who I had seen roaming the halls on the arm of an ape-ish thrash rocker type whose har was died black and nearly as long as her perfect legs. Sorry, I got lost in that digression. Always was a sucker for the skinny, skanky type. Very distracting, even twenty something years later. Anyway, she was drawing away, recreating the scene on the floor in front of us, and all I could do was keep drawing and erasing the same line over and over. Eventually, I just had to leave the room. I went wandering the halls pounding on lockers and wondering if I should have ever even tried this when I felt my eyes starting to fill up. I cried the tears of the three year old who angrily pushed a crown all over his drawing, frustrated that he couldn’t seem to get it just the way he had intended. The memories of that moment were hazy but the emotions were in vivid releaf, guiding so many of my choices at the subconcious level, part of the fabric of incorrect assumptions that we develop through early experience and then abide by faithfully, unalterably, until freedom final crashes its way into our lives.

During the course of the next 16 weeks, with the help of a teacher who was touched by my sincere desire to face my old fears and a willfullness that I have absolutely no explanation for, I slowly but surely developed the skills that enabled me to have a dusty old collection of drawings that led my kids this morning to say “wow, you’re a great artist” as I laid the damp remains to see what could be salvaged and to take one final look at the rest. Those tears, that resolution, and those humble efforts combined to bring out somethign in me that I never knew I had. That ability was carefully protected from actualization because of my self image and inexperience. It took surrender, hope, desire, honesty, willingess and effort on my part. And it also took a supportive, receptive and challenging guide to help me through. With those ingredients, the impossible became possible and then became actual.

It was an amazing act of courage for that young man to drop his guard of fatal coolness long enough to show his weakness and vulnerability. That was the first step in the process. The lesson learned was that nothing is truly impossible.

For taking that class and hanging in there when it got tough, I am a hero. But I do need to own my errors as well. First, I felt crushed when I saw this morning that my precious drawings were basically ruined. I had become so attached to the physical manifestation of my efforts, that I forgot to appreciate what those drawings represent. “I could never do this today,” I heard myself say. Oh boy had I missed the point!!!! Of course I could draw today — better than ever if I wanted to. The secret is tapping into that desire and opening up to that guidance. It’s not about the drawings — they are memories of a divine discovery. The Divinity itself is every bit as much present today as it was back then. Treasuring the pictures is an attachment to the physical world that blinded me from the actual beauty that was manifest in the pictures.

Secondly, to the extent that those pictures should be valued, it should be as an inspiration for continued growth and challenge of perceived limitations. Those pictures prove that what my brain tells me I can and can’t do is not objective truth — and it’s not necessarily true at all. Those pictures belonged on the walls, not in dead storage. And not because they would have made my house prettier, but because they might have served as an occasional reminder to me that what I think of as limits may be nothing but old stories that have become so engrained in my psyche that they stop me from going for my goals — or even from having the audacity to have goals anymore.

It’s time to wake up.

© All material Copyright 2009 by Foxx Falcon

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