A prophetic dream of the deepening suffering and schism that is to come (after George Orwell’s 1984)

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1%, 99%, destitution, greed, racism, suffering, take from the poor/give to the war, vast inequality

—mickey morgan, c.1991, Cincinnati

Lesson 6

Withdraw the mind from out there to in here.

Make everything that is in here become out there.

In the year 2065, when my son, a lance corporal in the U.S. Marine Corps is 84 years old—if he is still alive—and when I will have left this work of mickey to go on to greater responsibility, the United States will control the world. The Bible Belt will be the “axis mundi” and the only remaining resources of pure air, pure water and pure food will be piped in, as Mother Earth is sucked dry and left rotting outside a colossal tube of arched plexiglas spanning higher than Mt. Meru and enclosing the several former states. Light and air and green trees, running waters, abundant food, flowers and peace inside—dark gritty smog, ashes, rot, rubbish and skeletons picked clean, hungry ghosts emaciated, outside the bubble . . . all over the earth it is like this, except in that swathing white belt on the former North American continent.

White and worthy Christian children play in piles of warm sand, their clothes clean and ever new, colorful, novel, with pockets and nooks filled daily with bubblegum and surprises by mothers lounging poolside, or continuously sipping cocktails in swirling jacuzzis on wooden decks jutting out from huge mansions. Their men know their place better than any and stride fearlessly over massive grasses of golf courses. If they had been able to chain the sun and halt its democratic dance of day and night, these virile intellects would have done so long ago after cleverly imprisoning all other earthly resources indefinitely, though most old war chiefs continue to ponder this strategic necessity so as to bring the ancient ball of fire permanently into homeland service for the security of these deservingly-blessed and royal few.

Dark noses, dark faces, dark and dirty palms, dark sky, dark groans of hunger, lean to the plexiglas perimeter. Rotting flesh of death stinks the air to palpable dank. Flesh has long since been consumed by starving hoardes who, despite bleak prospects, continue to mate and propagate. Copulation remains the only small pleasure, yet soon they might be eating each other for whatever final drop of pleasure and relief from suffering that might bring. There is no telling who is black, white, brown, red or yellow outside the dome of the privileged blessed . . . all outside are sooty black with the ashes of death; all inside are creamy white in the blissful American tunnel of this good life.

And this is the making of her own mind. There is no stopping it. She withdraws her mind, relaxes back, and the whole scene becomes an “emanation of the wisdom of voidness and bliss.”• And so she feels blissful at the vision. Everything is happening just as it should. “By means of this development of wisdom, the entire earth and all space become filled with clouds of offering . . . ”• All the objects of her six senses become opportunities to experience bliss and emptiness. Visualizing the horror of earth’s certain demise in this way, she dreams of flying. Her mind falls back upon pillows of soft feathers. She exhales, and the sufferers disintegrate to pure light. The privileged become no less, all in a moment in her mind.

• • from The Lama Chöpa: Offerings to the Spiritual Master, the Method of the Profound Path, Inseparably in Bliss-Voidness, of Offering to the Guru and Assembly

magdala dipped in the black stream

by mickeypamo

[cut black]

He had brought her lines of dialogue, keen soliloquies and marvelous quotes. He told her the power of his known, lips pitched in green words. Caul-blasted and prescient, it ran a blade hunk-lump-blown into her. In dank-like prayer of Celtic prat he crayed, wrapping her when loose to mica-tight confession lone and long. She asked and it got her, gave her, took her.

He trenched at her, tilling her heels of their downward sane, veining each flit. She twisted and blenched a cable of cord. A crane of thought-blood tilted her to most bowls, laughing, laughing, sank herself down and ranged need-picks for herself. Built in the treetop spin, he favored air, down, down in a such-most, lifted her wound-wide. He was the doing, the doing. She named him a man, prayed a dream-plow.

It was all one way, his charge forward, ripping forest curves with ease and silence. And her taking, taking in. She wrapped loose then strong, slain pulse reeling him to the suck of legs, hollow belly down, down. He can’t watch but able to touch the dream place beneath the skullbelly. Large and torn, he sames the bones like milkweed pills and she swallows it. She swallows the sound of roundness and turns it up skybellied and orange. Rounding bell of earth rubbles to rich. She pulls and pulls and same-such call, calling, sails habit-full, chilling the old, danking the rocks of lungs. He came natal and brain and believed. She pleads never before and never again like bones of faring and home, yes, pillaged home. Rumpled lead and fixtures melting into each, she wept for the other, pontooned.

[blue fib]

Curled, lazed into safety of no, Yes, he said, I am scared. Wakening that hooded snake to crawl up her spine, to whisper at her neck, lying there, It’s ok, It’s ok. And this is the seed he left her, in her house. Then to disappear, vanish backward, tail first.

Ho God, press her back abrain of thought which fills pasted past again and again and a repetition of those, cracking like a box of groats: ordinary socks flung underfoot to try her.

Galloping pale to change, liveried loose, soldered and foot giggled. Sold.

 

[laundry baled]

Fled off the deck of bells and creased to find no one but herself dangering the rizzled rim of sainted air . . . the fears of rolling pitch amid cough dreams, that’s the angle post . . . no real danger . . . spilling in dreamsafe and soft of pitfalls, pillows, one with a good smell of familiars, sewn pieces that aren’t blank of airy her . . . but her call, her call, abray in the night.

Slighted edge of pins. Daze fell to and raised pain in fields of sad corn. Now, blithery mouthed, she worries deep hands will reach her, lift her sore and crusted to a plateau and leave her there, shelfed out of fire . . . O girl, O fled chair she dreamt of much and bet it left you time then this time, stone beam.

 

[emeralds chipped green]

What he did creviced the land of yesterday—a union half met by half. So down past lame but fixed to find, that is her resolve. The pop-flung girl she is swipes into hellpits of courage. She leads it in, fluid and seen, blues the edges and sifts into the middle—she saves the realm, pushes it, sits fat in it

—stone-lapped tears tearing fire in great sheets throw her on her back. Blazes of rarity sand, O sand, yes sanded up to toes and knees and rose in a heat of favor to her, yes, to magdala, fine girl, lost on demon chains, ache-aged and fine set in stone rings.

 

[hushed rocks]

A long wail, Welsh as the peal of a bell, clanged its memory round to blackened glass, infinitely snaked a shape of last things. Failed but dated and sore of fissure, only she magdala called down green rings to conal hollows:

“O sweet evangeline nomad, tramping and whoring backward in damp dead space, nail your fear to the dead and old. Kneel plans are lost. Deem care and sane to the river’s edge. Dip in emerald light. Dilate this cascade and drink it. She is.”

Still was, still was, she will bleach to needy lips and still she rolls final. Sand ran change to change and she was there, honed as a child, sleek, oiled and slipped the daylight to essences. Sun had become that and she was not missing for the first time. Henna nipples fan out winged and air-washed. Then night leaned in amber syrup and she shone.

She blessed his distance.

It burned red.

It was near.

Exploring our potential for peace and omniscience

Excellent insight . . .

Kadampa Life

We all need to be able to let go of our unhappiness. This, to put it mildly, is a Very Useful Skill – unless of course we don’t mind hanging onto misery for a few more years, a few more decades, a few more lifetimes…

Considering that we probably do mind that, quite a lot in fact, why would we hang on?

No one ever wants to suffer and everyone always wants to be happy. These are the two most basic wishes of all living beings. Do you ever wake up and want a truckload of suffering? … I didn’t think so. We always want to be happy and we hate suffering, that’s why we call it suffering. But still we relentlessly hold onto it. Why?

One reason is that we have to think thoughts without control – for example frustrated thoughts, lonely thoughts, worried thoughts, jealous thoughts, depressed thoughts. We…

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Dancing can be healing in profound ways

Dancing . . . One’s Inner Being Speaks Out

Everything Matters

Dancing is an integral part of my healing process. I’ve been doing ecstatic dance in my community for almost 2 years now. (off and on as my body/mind/spirit allows and prefers…healing is non-linear and practices need and in fact most often should not be practiced in a dogmatic fashion).

Ecstatic dance is awesome in the literal sense of the word and I consider it a body oriented mindfulness practice as well. I’ve also referred to it as self-directed body-work in conversations with friends. Sometimes my “dance” is about moving and stretching my body in some really odd ways to get at something that is tightly held in the body and needs release. Dancing can sometimes be me not moving at all (on the surface) while the music courses through my body and my cells and neurons DANCE.

I want to point out that dancing is our human inheritance and one can do…

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In the effort to loosen my tongue, I say . . .

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alcoholism, Bodhisattvas, Buddhas, deities, divorce, dysfunctional family, fake marijuana, Karma, Kuwait, liposuction, mild traumatic brain injury, nectar, Nepal, pedophilia, samsara, suicide, trauma, United States Marine Corps, warehousing in nursing homes, white privilege, yidams

So this is samsara!

Ah, now I get it.

Karma is slashing me to bits to be cooked in a cauldron, purified with an Om Ah Hum, set fire with a Ram, and boiled into pure nectar.

I watch all the Buddhas and Bodhisattvas and yidams and deities sip the nectar of my formerly-corrupted-now-purified body.

I am only an Eye. And an Ear. A Nose. A tongue. Skin everywhere that tingles to touch. And not even that.

Just a mist of seeing, plagued so high up by the sight of a bleeding tangled earth, fouled and corrupted by physical and emotional filth.

And I have only a little comb to try to untangle the rat’s nest of hair below me, hair that ravages the eyes of earthbound ones so they itch and burn and see only endless knots of suffering and hatred and greed and fear.

And out of their fear, they grab and grab and hold and lock out their children in the cold.

Ask me.

Ask Sarah.

White privileged families wallow in the guilt of their neglect of their own kin . . . warehouse them in nursing homes, control those traumatized ones lest they reveal the dirty secrets of their traumatization.

Ok. I won’t say pedophilia

or alcoholism

or liposuction

or fake marijuana

or childhood blows to the head causing mild traumatic brain injury,

or a brother turning his back on an ailing sister,

or a son stepping on his mother’s head after the horror of his father’s suicide,

or the pretense of an alcoholic perpetual fiance (never wife) enabling the father’s suicide, this perpetual fiance never having spoken to him for a week before he broke under the stress of fear for his Marine Corps son’s life in Kuwait.

After all the Hooooraaahs, that expressive Turkish word! . . . Kill! . . that’s what the Turks say . . . Semper Fi to Killing! And be proud of it! (Off with their heads if they’re not)

or a Marine nephew chomping at the bit between slugs of beer to get back and kill all the bad people cause he’s good at it (PTSD is only a state of mind after all).

I’m tired of saying it all.

Here, words have failed.

Not in and of themselves.

But to those who fling them out their mouths in delusion,

and so harm all around them.

All I can do anymore is get out of their way.

The Art of Ani Nyima Zangmo of Dongyu Gatsal Ling Nunnery in Southern India

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Dongyu Gatsal Ling Nunnery, Jetsunma Tenzin Palmo, Losar, Tibetan art, Tibetan New Year

I post this for all to see. Ani Nyima Zangmo sent me these cards for at least 2 years of Tibetan New Year celebrations . . . and, shamefully, I never responded. I hope this reaches here so she knows how much her expressions mean to me.

Dongyu Gatsal Ling was founded by Ven. Jetsunma Tenzin Palmo, an English woman who spent 12 years in a cave by herself. She has vowed to become enlightened in a female body, and is devoted to empowering other neglected nuns by focusing heavily on education. See their site at http://www.tenzinpalmo.com/ and consider supporting. Ven. Jetsunma Tenzin Palmo’s books are on Amazon.

Report Takes Deeper Look At Dam Impact To Poudre River

More dams for Mama Ear+h’s Veins . . .

An Interview with Master Dance Teacher David Howard

David Howard’s Words

Harkness Ballet

A candid interview with Master Ballet Teacher David Howard, British born ballet teacher who has worked closely with Gelsey Kirkland, Nataliya Makarova, Mikhall Baryshnikov, Rudolph Nureyev and many more. This interview was conducted while David was teaching at City Ballet of San Diego for this year’s Summer Intensive Class

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Hansa Priya #5: Holy Mother of God . . . the Way Home

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astral planes, demon, divine mind, Mary Magdalene, Mother Mary

“The Unfolding” by Nicholas Baz, 2013

Hello,
As I have written before, and you all know, we are in amazing times and incredible times are ahead as we are coming closer to the Light. When we slough off the darkness, the time and the negativity, naturally we are able to see the Source from which we came. And we need a mediator for us as we approach the Light while in human form.

When we make our journey back to God we change everything in us and around us as a result of frequency adjustments and as I mentioned before our song or our inner music becomes softer and sweeter. It becomes still and quiet. Our music releases hope out to the ethers and mind-waves. And our hope creates a jump in everyone’s hearts. It is like a getting a “tune-up”. This requires trust in soul and respect for creation.

And it is the song of humility.  Our Divine Mind is our heavenly Mother who guides us and protects us as we are adjusting and making our journey home. She dances with our souls and she teaches us strength and endurance because the road is arduous and perilous. Our Holy Mother can give us support and divine mercy when we aren’t able or capable of giving it to ourselves or others. And she sees the suffering in the hearts of everything and everyone. She then intercedes and dissolves it with her mind of God and her un-ceasing compassion and un-waivering mercy.  All for the will of God.

The Mother of God safely brings us back to Jesus through energy shifts and changes. She rules the mind of God and our bodies and she knows everything about us and ” what we are thinking”.
She will teach you everything you need to know about yourself and everything you see with your senses. And she will correct you when you are wrong in the most kind and beautiful way.  And she is wet, because she gives and gives relentlessly. She is the soma. She is the ocean of compassion. She is the golden door to God and she wants us to hear her support. Give her your pain and fear as she will intercede for you. She commands all the angels on your behalf and she will deliver you from evil and the wicked temptations of the lower earthly realms and astral planes because she knows every demon that ever existed and where they came from. And they respect her because her mercy changes what it sees.

Mary is the way back safely and her plan is to give us what she is. She makes saints out of her children because she knows the way to God and gently instructs. (Although at times she can be fierce to protect her children and what is true). She will give us just what we need to succeed. Because she is married to God, she will do what is necessary to bring us back to Him. Her time is now and she is beckoning her chosen ones to support those who need her love and wisdom. She is waiting to be summoned. And her devotion is much needed for our earth. I feel very strongly that her time is near and it is in us for the greater benefit of the planet and it’s evolution.

Our weather patterns depend upon our calls to Mary.

Our thought processes depend upon our calls to Mary.

Our earth and the health of its creations depend upon our calls to Mary.

Our bodies and mental health depend upon our calls to Mary.

The un-born souls depend upon our calls to Mary.

The wicked and the demonized depend upon our calls to Mary.

Her mind is energy and strength and she knows everything inside and out. Her rose is eternal and her scent divine. Her music is peace and ecstasy. Her dance is safe. And she hand delivers us back to God.

Thank you so much for reading this message.  Love and peace always,
Wendy-hope

Hansa Priya’s Oracles #4

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Arc of the New Covenant, Archangel Michael, Bible, Book of Revelation, Chakras, duality, etheric plances, Flower, Garden of Eden, God the Father, Jesus Christ, Light, Metatron, non-duality, Sanat Kumara, trumpet

The Garden of Eden- True Celestial

Hello, It’s happening again and another wave of energy is wafting through my ears. So I want to release it and not hold onto it so I am giving it back to all.  For awhile now, Spirit has been whispering in my ear about “the Garden of Eden”. When I came to this host, I realized that I could hear sound. It is a culmination of the mind and heart, together in frequency. The flower was always the symbol that was given to me in reference to the sound; the music of the heart. The flower is our energy and our life. When we have many flowers together, we have a garden and a garland and this becomes our energy field. The garden grows under light and water.(Spirit and Energy). -God the Father and the Mother his bride. The wheels of light (the chakras) are the mind together with energy that give out time. ( stored time). They also have a different ability in that they reach to the heavens when they are freed of their memory controls. This flower looks like a “trumpet”, (a symbol I see) that is also referred to in the Bible, in the book of Revelation. (when the flowers are turned up).  The flowers when free turn their wheels up to the light and they produce sound that is music in the etheric planes. So hence we become recognizable by our sound. So to release time and memory controls we have to learn God’s way and his formula and this is not a path for the weak or un-prepared. The garden becomes a place of rest when the energy cleans and opens to Love. It is a space that changes the mind. This garden is our celestial home. It is the Arc of the New Covenant and it is an understanding of Light. For us to live in this body with God as our mind, we need to change our mind. It can’t change of its own will. (The ego doesn’t allow it in a dual plane of existence).  It has to be opened first.  Jesus said this many times. “Nobody comes to God except through Me.” This comes from Spirit only and has nothing to do with mental realms, time and intellect. Because God is teaching me this, I know it is a part of our bigger plan. As I hear it, I understand that we all know the way back to the heavenly garden. And with our swords of Truth, I can’t imagine us being tempted again”. And I hear God say “let us pray”. We must pray to God continuously. He wants us more than you could ever dream of. He is out to get us! Thank you for allowing me to give. Wishing everyone a beautiful garden of Life. Love and blessings, Hansa Priya (Wendy-Hope) (With my teachers Jesus Christ, Sanat Kumara and Archangel Michael and Metatron)