Hold my deep dark secrets, and let this be the place where I can dump some of the thoughts that aren't ready to be unveiled yet.
So, I'm slowly embracing the Puna vibes, but I'm also slightly holding back. I seem to find apprehension as an apparent quality of my universe, where I'm often telling myself that I'm just not prepared enough. I'm a noob. I'm on the fence. "I've never done this before!" therefore, I'm only allowed to observe and don't have the guts yet to liberate. Constantly, I proclaim my ineptitude due to sheltered experiences. But, the verb here is opening me wide, and I'm on the verge of a complete eruption. I can feel it brewing deep inside me. I just hope I'm not one of the many statistically visionaries that gets stuck on chasing a better ecstacy, never satisfied with just one kind of work. The ones that lose their minds from too many mind expansion parties, to truly decipher which one resonated to their purposeful soul. I want to be the one that finds the deep connection to the one that pulls the most on my heart strings. The one that sings to me. So here I am. I'm on the cliff and haven't taken the plunge.
I suppose, I'm reaching out until something grabs a hold. But alas, don't wait too long. I'm reminded once again, that as soon as I jump off the shore and reach for the rope my hand slips and instead of swinging across the lagoon, I fall hard... into the murky waters, scathed and blasted by protruding rocks hammered by erosion and oxygen. And, I stop and I listen. The earth tells me she is fragile and naive, as I am just the same. That it is important to take the plunge, but also be patient for the experience to be natural rather than forced. There is a difference between punctuality and hastiness as well as laziness and ineptitude. To stop and take a breath amidst the many paths to cross, it is easier to see how they all will end up at the same end. That I will ultimately end up in the water and that maybe taken the low road will be better than assuming that splashing in with a rope swing, maybe a feat to tackle when I'm certain that my focus is intentional to accomplishing that goal, and nothing else.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Goal Posts
Goals of Random Things to accomplish
1. Achieve a scorpion pincha myurasana and handstand
2. Quit smoking cigarettes
3. Fast one day a week
4. Read a book every month
5. Write in a journal at least once a week
6. Expand yoga knowledge
7. Hike Nepal
8. Learn in India
9. Learn 1st ashtanga series
WRITE A BOOK SOMEDAY
What are the skills required to achieve this?
- experience
- knowledge
- confidence in writing
- education??
- exposure to literary people
1. Achieve a scorpion pincha myurasana and handstand
2. Quit smoking cigarettes
3. Fast one day a week
4. Read a book every month
5. Write in a journal at least once a week
6. Expand yoga knowledge
7. Hike Nepal
8. Learn in India
9. Learn 1st ashtanga series
WRITE A BOOK SOMEDAY
What are the skills required to achieve this?
- experience
- knowledge
- confidence in writing
- education??
- exposure to literary people
Monday, June 14, 2010
Introduction
I have a non-addictive personality such as so that I never order the same cocktail twice, never allowed my pastimes for cigarettes get in the way of my healthy practices, can’t figure out whether I’m a coffee drinker (or not) and viscerally recognize my travels as each point towards growth, not luxury. And, even though some nights seem to feel more in the way of decadence, desire, and vice, it’s important to remember how everything can be moderated when lightly observed. ( I do wonder if it ever will come to a point that something in life will track me down breaking me down and out, and blow up my defense system leaving me irrevocably submissive to the lush lands and exotic men. ) But, for now, I am happy to say I lack promiscuity, in the proverbial sense.
Gambling, sex, potato chips, Gucci, teddy bears, cocaine, head, cigarettes, love, shoes, alcohol… all compiled and categorized into a little treasure box I call, “UNEXPLORED TERRITORY.” On the flip side of materialism, I have encountered potential suitors, and recreational drug use practices that stirred a little devilish desire inside. Take for instance, this one guy started a fire between my legs every time I saw him, and I’ll never forget the first time he walked into the room and I looked into his eyes. I thought to myself, “Oh, fuck.” (literally and figuratively) After driving myself to his house every night afterwards, slipping into his bed past midnight, and leaving his room before daybreak, I found that my twilight adventures simulated scenarios of addiction. As if, I were sneaking into a dark alleyway for a heroine fix. Especially, the night I woke up to him pounding a skinny chickie with pink hair and a polka dotted bikini… right next to me, in the same bed as me. And thus, I am thwarted back to the beginning of my escapades and thrown back into the land of Curiosity. Because now, not only am I heartbroken but I am also deprived of some of the thrill I had been waiting to satiate. Not only did the fucker not invite me, but he gave my pleasure away to a stupid girl that he would never see again. As a result, I attempted smoking weed everyday thereafter, and couldn’t even spark a rise out of whatever part in my brain redirects particular present and/or absent addictions. I wanted to get off of whatever simulated intravenous high he had me on, and swap it for something more productive. I vowed not to be one of those girls that lets that burning desire take over her life, making decisions with her irrational sensations instead of her brain. Regardless, physical attention is addicting and any human being that tells you it’s not is lying to themselves.
I use the term “addiction” loosely, in the sense that I sought the ultimate undeniable passion. Addiction, in the terms of sin and vice, is kind of idiotic to me. To be addicted to materialistic pleasures seems incredibly flat. It’s not about the rush you get from betting $10,000, or snorting a line of cocaine and jumping off the roof. These are passé fits of addiction, that are wimpy and short lived. I’m talking about the burning feeling when you feel love all over and inside, and it feels strong and unconditional. It can be the idea of love or of embrace, of the high or the escape, of the rush or the run, of the ritual or the routine…whatever keeps you coming back for more. Writing about this makes it feel like it’s more obtainable, even though I know the addiction I have and what I’m seeking to fill has been an impossible journey for just about my whole life now.
Which brings me to the point of my journey. (Note: This is a different type of journey. Not one of new faces and new places, but rather a journey of vision, thoughts, and manifestations.) My traveling has been put on hold but that doesn’t mean my perspectives won’t time travel in and out of space providing the highest peaks of a literary rollercoaster ride ever written.
Gambling, sex, potato chips, Gucci, teddy bears, cocaine, head, cigarettes, love, shoes, alcohol… all compiled and categorized into a little treasure box I call, “UNEXPLORED TERRITORY.” On the flip side of materialism, I have encountered potential suitors, and recreational drug use practices that stirred a little devilish desire inside. Take for instance, this one guy started a fire between my legs every time I saw him, and I’ll never forget the first time he walked into the room and I looked into his eyes. I thought to myself, “Oh, fuck.” (literally and figuratively) After driving myself to his house every night afterwards, slipping into his bed past midnight, and leaving his room before daybreak, I found that my twilight adventures simulated scenarios of addiction. As if, I were sneaking into a dark alleyway for a heroine fix. Especially, the night I woke up to him pounding a skinny chickie with pink hair and a polka dotted bikini… right next to me, in the same bed as me. And thus, I am thwarted back to the beginning of my escapades and thrown back into the land of Curiosity. Because now, not only am I heartbroken but I am also deprived of some of the thrill I had been waiting to satiate. Not only did the fucker not invite me, but he gave my pleasure away to a stupid girl that he would never see again. As a result, I attempted smoking weed everyday thereafter, and couldn’t even spark a rise out of whatever part in my brain redirects particular present and/or absent addictions. I wanted to get off of whatever simulated intravenous high he had me on, and swap it for something more productive. I vowed not to be one of those girls that lets that burning desire take over her life, making decisions with her irrational sensations instead of her brain. Regardless, physical attention is addicting and any human being that tells you it’s not is lying to themselves.
I use the term “addiction” loosely, in the sense that I sought the ultimate undeniable passion. Addiction, in the terms of sin and vice, is kind of idiotic to me. To be addicted to materialistic pleasures seems incredibly flat. It’s not about the rush you get from betting $10,000, or snorting a line of cocaine and jumping off the roof. These are passé fits of addiction, that are wimpy and short lived. I’m talking about the burning feeling when you feel love all over and inside, and it feels strong and unconditional. It can be the idea of love or of embrace, of the high or the escape, of the rush or the run, of the ritual or the routine…whatever keeps you coming back for more. Writing about this makes it feel like it’s more obtainable, even though I know the addiction I have and what I’m seeking to fill has been an impossible journey for just about my whole life now.
Which brings me to the point of my journey. (Note: This is a different type of journey. Not one of new faces and new places, but rather a journey of vision, thoughts, and manifestations.) My traveling has been put on hold but that doesn’t mean my perspectives won’t time travel in and out of space providing the highest peaks of a literary rollercoaster ride ever written.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Metal Bee
It's only one post to date, so I suppose it's time to reconnect. I imagine at this point in my life most thoughts that will be noted here on the what I love to metaphorically weave into somewhat of a cohesive, recollection of events. And, the fact that my old zine was called The Buzz. This blog stands in its place and honor.
Starting with my favorite satirical blog posts I've written -to-date.
(disclaimer:) I enjoy metal music, even though my days usually consist of lighter things like sunshine, vegetarian patties, and books on zen.
But this was too great not to resurge.
How to Be Converted To MetalHead
The metal congregation meets every Saturday night for the Ceremonious Mayhem. During the night’s eve, there is a stench that spreads like a viral plague and is transmitted by the obscene consummation of PBR bottles and the sacred communion of smelly Metal dive bars. It is in the pit stains of Anthrax t-shirts, and in the pits of Hell. It has found its way towards mainstream life even though it has always been a sanctimonious experience for the metal-doers. It is called the Metal stench, and there is nothing anyone can do to stop the madness.
Missionaries stand on the sidewalks in all-black cloaks, holding signs that read, “The Stench is Coming.” They carry salvation in a goody bag, including a CD with infamous Sacred Sermons and a pocket sized vile of “Holy Stench Water.” And as this fatal stench starts to catch on in the suburbs and urban cities, the upsweep causes almost every living being in the US to be converted to a Metalhead. The South becomes an area known as the Metal Belt, identifying all inhabitants that follow the beliefs of Metal and all its metal-doers. Several dominations of Metal are created such as Metalians, Metalics, Metaliscopanians, Apocalypse of the Metal Day Sinners, Southern Metalist, etc.
The congregations write their doctrines and publish their bibles all legitimizing their actions by the one holy sermon of Dimebag Darrell. He is king of a kingdom in some dark place that is the most metal imaginable, and not always discussed by Metalheads. They hail Darrell as the metal messiah and hang a picture of his half naked spectacle in doorways and kitchens, dangling Darrell rosaries from their necks.
The metal commandments were written to be burned and the rules to be broken. Nonetheless, an excuse for mass torture and disapproval for the non-followers.
Metalhead Commandments
1. Thou shalt speaketh only of metal and metal related
happenings while dwelling in this domain of metal.
2. Thou shalt honor thine metal on Saturday.
3.Thou shalt not invite non-metal beings to this domain
of metal.
4. Thou shalt honor the Black Sabbath and keep it unholy.
5. Thou shalt not murder unless it is done in the name of metal.
6. Thou must recognize Ride The Lightning as the Metal Bible.
7. Thou must maketh a weekly sacrifice to the gods of metal.
Virgins are good, family pets will do when thou can findeth not a
virgin.
8. Thou shalt not spread false metal. "nu-metal" and "yo-metal"
are NOT metal and will not be tolerated within this metal domain.
9. Thou shalt share metal information freely with your metal
brothers and sisters. Thou shalt provide metal company to any
metal brother or sister who needeth someone to attendeth to
a metal show with.
10. Thou shalt spread the gospel of metal far and wide whenever
possible. Thus sayeth Dimebag Darrell of metal. Amen.
In order to become a true follower of the Metalhead tradition, you must witness a mosh pit unfold before your eyes. A whirling dervish of long hair, black wristbands, and handkerchiefs will be thrown into the air with a sharp stink rising above. With its steady pulse of teenage angst and rage beating you into a short lived, but desired, adolescent Hell. And then you will see the common practices: a typical Sacred Sermon, that is consistently the same every Saturday. The frontman will lean over the crowd, waving his black leather arm sleeves and metal chains reigning above their heads. His hair is down to his knees and hasn’t been brushed or washed in about 6 years. He whips it around in esoteric circles, requiring both the lead guitarist and the bass player to play on the opposite end corners of the stage to prevent from massive tangling. He speaks into the mic in a low, deep tone.
To prevent massive brain hemorrhage upon your first visit, it’s important to understand the nature of the sermons, how to find unity with the holiest Metal on earth without the Metalians severing your limbs or teeth. Consequently, this is how that may occur:
About three-fourths through the set, the entire crowd will be drenched with the Metal Stench, long hair rung with sweat, long loud chants for the Messiah of Metal, and one single Weezer- lookalike dude will end up shouting to the stage, “Play Freebird!.” Unaware of the magnitude of blasphemy this holds against the Stenchness of Metal, he carries on bringing forth dark stares and groans. Whatever the original intent for his outburst, the action is quickly regretted as the frontman spots him in the crowd, and then auspiciously whips out numb chucks with spinning daggers on the end. He dismembers Buddy Holly’s fingertips, inhibiting the poor poser-kid to never hold up his patronizing metal horns again. Metal resumes its ritual with the smallest regard for the violent mishap.
It’s every man for themselves in the pit, and a blow to the head (or to the fingers for that matter) should never be looked at as a sadistic action but rather as a cathartic release that you happened to become the target of (In this case, the frontman can now declare his numb chucks are consequently of the upmost brutality of Metal.16:02 minutes and the band shreds on. The most brutal Metalheads squat down to swing their hair with a rhythmic intensity as the singer clutches the microphone and curls around the stand guttering grotesque lyrics, to a point beyond understanding. You realize the song is just about to hit maximum brutality as the keyboardist makes his way to platform above you with his portable keytar, and the floor punchers begin using your head as their punch padding. You pull back from the skunky array, positioning yourself directly behind the tallest, grisliest, Satan-hailing Norwegian of all time and you actually find yourself praying the band’s 18 minute cover of War Pigs will end in half the time. This is all in the process and induction to the Metalheads community.
The song finally ends, the lights go up, and everyone’s mysteriousness is exposed by the house lights. The more defeated you feel leaving the congregation at the end of the night, the more you will be inclined to return and reconcile your metal curiosity. You have found yourself part of the metal crowd, raising horns to the metal gods, paying homage to the metal sepulcher. The congregation on the floor halted the madness. They threw up their metal horns and sang in metal praise for more metal! And you will be back next week to prove to yourself, that you can survive and are yet to be just another Metalhead.
-Erica Belfiore
Starting with my favorite satirical blog posts I've written -to-date.
(disclaimer:) I enjoy metal music, even though my days usually consist of lighter things like sunshine, vegetarian patties, and books on zen.
But this was too great not to resurge.
How to Be Converted To MetalHead
The metal congregation meets every Saturday night for the Ceremonious Mayhem. During the night’s eve, there is a stench that spreads like a viral plague and is transmitted by the obscene consummation of PBR bottles and the sacred communion of smelly Metal dive bars. It is in the pit stains of Anthrax t-shirts, and in the pits of Hell. It has found its way towards mainstream life even though it has always been a sanctimonious experience for the metal-doers. It is called the Metal stench, and there is nothing anyone can do to stop the madness.
Missionaries stand on the sidewalks in all-black cloaks, holding signs that read, “The Stench is Coming.” They carry salvation in a goody bag, including a CD with infamous Sacred Sermons and a pocket sized vile of “Holy Stench Water.” And as this fatal stench starts to catch on in the suburbs and urban cities, the upsweep causes almost every living being in the US to be converted to a Metalhead. The South becomes an area known as the Metal Belt, identifying all inhabitants that follow the beliefs of Metal and all its metal-doers. Several dominations of Metal are created such as Metalians, Metalics, Metaliscopanians, Apocalypse of the Metal Day Sinners, Southern Metalist, etc.
The congregations write their doctrines and publish their bibles all legitimizing their actions by the one holy sermon of Dimebag Darrell. He is king of a kingdom in some dark place that is the most metal imaginable, and not always discussed by Metalheads. They hail Darrell as the metal messiah and hang a picture of his half naked spectacle in doorways and kitchens, dangling Darrell rosaries from their necks.
The metal commandments were written to be burned and the rules to be broken. Nonetheless, an excuse for mass torture and disapproval for the non-followers.
Metalhead Commandments
1. Thou shalt speaketh only of metal and metal related
happenings while dwelling in this domain of metal.
2. Thou shalt honor thine metal on Saturday.
3.Thou shalt not invite non-metal beings to this domain
of metal.
4. Thou shalt honor the Black Sabbath and keep it unholy.
5. Thou shalt not murder unless it is done in the name of metal.
6. Thou must recognize Ride The Lightning as the Metal Bible.
7. Thou must maketh a weekly sacrifice to the gods of metal.
Virgins are good, family pets will do when thou can findeth not a
virgin.
8. Thou shalt not spread false metal. "nu-metal" and "yo-metal"
are NOT metal and will not be tolerated within this metal domain.
9. Thou shalt share metal information freely with your metal
brothers and sisters. Thou shalt provide metal company to any
metal brother or sister who needeth someone to attendeth to
a metal show with.
10. Thou shalt spread the gospel of metal far and wide whenever
possible. Thus sayeth Dimebag Darrell of metal. Amen.
In order to become a true follower of the Metalhead tradition, you must witness a mosh pit unfold before your eyes. A whirling dervish of long hair, black wristbands, and handkerchiefs will be thrown into the air with a sharp stink rising above. With its steady pulse of teenage angst and rage beating you into a short lived, but desired, adolescent Hell. And then you will see the common practices: a typical Sacred Sermon, that is consistently the same every Saturday. The frontman will lean over the crowd, waving his black leather arm sleeves and metal chains reigning above their heads. His hair is down to his knees and hasn’t been brushed or washed in about 6 years. He whips it around in esoteric circles, requiring both the lead guitarist and the bass player to play on the opposite end corners of the stage to prevent from massive tangling. He speaks into the mic in a low, deep tone.
To prevent massive brain hemorrhage upon your first visit, it’s important to understand the nature of the sermons, how to find unity with the holiest Metal on earth without the Metalians severing your limbs or teeth. Consequently, this is how that may occur:
About three-fourths through the set, the entire crowd will be drenched with the Metal Stench, long hair rung with sweat, long loud chants for the Messiah of Metal, and one single Weezer- lookalike dude will end up shouting to the stage, “Play Freebird!.” Unaware of the magnitude of blasphemy this holds against the Stenchness of Metal, he carries on bringing forth dark stares and groans. Whatever the original intent for his outburst, the action is quickly regretted as the frontman spots him in the crowd, and then auspiciously whips out numb chucks with spinning daggers on the end. He dismembers Buddy Holly’s fingertips, inhibiting the poor poser-kid to never hold up his patronizing metal horns again. Metal resumes its ritual with the smallest regard for the violent mishap.
It’s every man for themselves in the pit, and a blow to the head (or to the fingers for that matter) should never be looked at as a sadistic action but rather as a cathartic release that you happened to become the target of (In this case, the frontman can now declare his numb chucks are consequently of the upmost brutality of Metal.16:02 minutes and the band shreds on. The most brutal Metalheads squat down to swing their hair with a rhythmic intensity as the singer clutches the microphone and curls around the stand guttering grotesque lyrics, to a point beyond understanding. You realize the song is just about to hit maximum brutality as the keyboardist makes his way to platform above you with his portable keytar, and the floor punchers begin using your head as their punch padding. You pull back from the skunky array, positioning yourself directly behind the tallest, grisliest, Satan-hailing Norwegian of all time and you actually find yourself praying the band’s 18 minute cover of War Pigs will end in half the time. This is all in the process and induction to the Metalheads community.
The song finally ends, the lights go up, and everyone’s mysteriousness is exposed by the house lights. The more defeated you feel leaving the congregation at the end of the night, the more you will be inclined to return and reconcile your metal curiosity. You have found yourself part of the metal crowd, raising horns to the metal gods, paying homage to the metal sepulcher. The congregation on the floor halted the madness. They threw up their metal horns and sang in metal praise for more metal! And you will be back next week to prove to yourself, that you can survive and are yet to be just another Metalhead.
-Erica Belfiore
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