The Passenger

See the passenger
Easily distinguished
Who thinks of lips all day
He takes directions from no one
Because he, himself, doesn’t even need to ask
He already knows the given
Always looking out the window
Riding and riding
Changing shadows with speed
Oversized and exaggerated creatures
The images around him gross and large
Within our place, see us
Images of muted dark- no blacked out color
Lips and directions
Nondirectional messages and assumptions
Give nonverbal signals and agreements
The passenger sees all, but cannot speak
Thinks lips all day
Miles are measured in songs-fog lifting off
The crops too slowly to see
Creating halos of light, too young to capture
Colorless shadows
Shadows with nothing to latch onto-
That are yet to be born, that only the passenger can see

Promised God-Man or Cult of the Mind

Like a drug store in late October stocking the shelves for Christmas, the followers of Ruchira Avatoar Adi Da Samraj had already begun lining the streets with flyers months in advance of his coming. The black and white papers looked unremarkable in and of themselves, but covered from top to bottom on every telephone pole far into the distance gave the impression of a white-washed city. Purged in bright white, a stark contrast from the newly paved black cement, the flyers flickered in the constant wind.

Upon closer impression I could see the dark photograph in the corner and bold print scattered about, which I read every morning on my way to work for literally months. At first I chuckled, as any sane person would. Then one day I dreamt about the end of my life, one of those dreams where you wake up right before it happens. There were dark, empty passages in my house where I wandered, freezing cold closets where I struggled to find my clothes. I was destined to look for them forever, as I could not go out naked. But the longer I looked the weaker I became, until I fell and woke up before I hit some sort of ground. After that the days were not normal; I shook when startled, sweated in cold rooms, and kept my eyes averted from everyone except the baggy, wisdom filled eyes of Ruchira Avatoar Adi Da Samrai, whom I passed hundreds of times daily.

The weeks that led up to his visit to my city began to cause me stress. Most ignored the flyers, or tore them down in mocking jest, causing a liter of white snowy paper all over the ground most days. Every morning, somehow, the streets were empty of flyers and crisp new papers replaced those that had been torn down. Those that attempted to pin advertisements and such on top of the white fliers had no success. All were vigorously removed by an invisible hand.

The words were no longer funny, and his obstinate followers began to convince me that this date, November 14, 2000, was something to think about. The Man-God would come to my city this day. While others mocked his cane, his fabricated name no white man could ever have been given at birth, I fell under his spell, even experiencing unconscious outbreaks in his defense at my co-workers.

“Avatar Adi Da Samraj is the Love-Blissful Divine Person, Appearing in the world in the form of a human being. He is the Promised God-Man, the Divine Liberator Who has been expected and prayed for throughout the ages. Avatar Adi Da Offers to everyone the Grace of a direct Spiritual relationship with Him-through the practice of the Way of Adidam.”

Every day on the way to work, and on weekends when I made excuses to wander the streets, I read one word from the flier on each telephone pole or other such fixture I passed, such as:
Avatar…

Adi…

Da…

Samrai…

is…

the…

Love-….

Blissful…

Etc.

So that as the weeks went by these words imprinted themselves on my mind, and reality began to slip from the crevasses, beginning with work and following me to my dreams. The clothes in the closet were finally found, but they were slippery and too large; as I tried to place my feet into the legs I continually missed and fell to the floor. Signs came to me as well, numbers up to seven that flew around my head in circles. I was impressed by the use of capitals too- it must be a sign of great importance, I thought.

As the date approached I became more nervous, but knew what I had to do. The cost to meet the God-Man was 25 dollars, a sum I did not hesitate to withdraw from my account and place in a glass jar, which the night of the event I smashed with a hammer in a display of dramatic anticipation. I would not need any physical possessions once I had been saved by the Religion of the Way of the Heart at the local YMCA.

I arrived at 6:45 (15 minutes early) in order to get a seat in the front row, but was surprised to see no line in front of the Zonta Room. Very well, I thought, I will not have to vie for the Divine Person’s attention. The man at the door absently took my cash, and in return provided me with an brilliantly white folded pamphlet and a stamp of a blue star on the inside of my right wrist. I rushed into the smallish room and took a seat in the front row, failing to notice the lack of people in the room, and settled into my seat with my pamphlet open. There, hunched over, I scoured the words, which were quite similar to the flier I had read multiple times a day. This time there were two pictures of Adi da Samraj; the one with the cane that I was very familiar with, and one of him with downcast eyes. The images struck me with such fear that I felt my familiar shudders returning.

My watch struck 7 pm sooner than expected. An average looking man approached the stage, thanked us for coming, walked to the sidelines and began fiddling with a computer. I stretched up in my seat to examine the other followers, but there were few, perhaps 5 or 6 in the whole room, most hunched over their pamphlets as I had been. Still I thought, no matter, I will have him to myself, as I eagerly awaited his presence. A descending white screen creaked, breaking the silence, and soon an image could be seen when the lights were turned off.

“A Multimedia Presentation About the Spiritual Work of Avatar Adi Da Samraj and the Religion of the Way of the Heart”

Again with the capitals. What did they mean? More importantly, what was this?

I picked up my pamphlet, which in my surprise I had dropped to the floor, open at my feet. I examined it closely, the quotes, the photographs, until in the right hand corner, in small print I found the title of the multimedia presentation that shone before me in tall lettering. It now became clear: the Man-God would not be appearing in person.

But why the effort? Why the hundreds, the thousands of fliers probing the public to attend his Appearance? I did not understand. Surely it was not the money. That I could not believe. But most importantly, how had I not seen this information as I read each word carefully from the flier for 90 days in a row? Later, as I walked home, I looked for the passage, and found it clear as day in the right hand corner. Many papers littered the ground, but I knew that tomorrow the fallen ones would not be replaced.

If I live til tomorrow it'll be a long time...

Dali, Dream Caused by the Flight of a Bee around a Pomegranate a Second Before Awakening

Our life is twofold; Sleep hath its own world,
A boundary between the things misnamed
Death and existence: Sleep hath its own world,
And a wide realm of wild reality,
And dreams in their development have breath,
And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy;
They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts,
They take a weight from off waking toils,
They do divide our being; they become
A portion of ourselves as of our time,
And look like heralds of eternity;
They pass like spirits of the past -they speak
Like sibyls of the future; they have power -
The tyranny of pleasure and of pain;
They make us what we were not -what they will,
And shake us with the vision that's gone by,
The dread of vanished shadows -Are they so?
Is not the past all shadow? -What are they?
Creations of the mind? -The mind can make
Substances, and people planets of its own
With beings brighter than have been, and give
A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh.
I would recall a vision which I dreamed
Perchance in sleep -for in itself a thought,
A slumbering thought, is capable of years,
And curdles a long life into one hour.

George Gordon, Lord Byron, "The Dream."

My Former Life

Things I Like, Lately

Kim's Mart: I love this place. Cheap noodles. Cheap cabbage. Cheap delicious Pocky delights. I've been going here about once a week, spending 15 bucks, and eating lunch with my finds for 5 days in a row.


Zinfandel Wine: I felt pretty sophisticated when I finally figured out my wine of choice. Now I know what to get when I go to the grocery store or wherever.


"You Don't Love Me Yet" by Jonathan Lethem: Relatable and real. This is my first Lethem read but I've only heard good things. The only turnoff is very detailed sexual descriptions of a very sloppy fat man.


Alela Diane: I've been listening to To Be Still like crazy.


True Blood: Four episodes in and I've already been embarrassed by a lot of SEX SEX SEX scenes. It's intense. But also a really good show (I know I'm late on the band wagon though).


A Clockwork Orange Soundtrack, on Vinyl: So creepy. I like to listen to it when I'm closing the store, in the dark.


Frye Erin Lace Boot: I must have these for Fall. Only $228! Ha.



Dansaren (The Dancer) (1994): Ballet documentary focusing on Katje Bjorner of the Royal Swedish Ballet. Incredible footage. Sometimes I miss ballet so much, so if I can't take class regularly, the next best thing is watching movies. Well, I suppose going to the ballet would be better, but that's not very convenient now either.

Untitled Story du Jour

(via They Don't Call Them Lovers In High School, Leeland)


They had never been to this part of town before.

Sometimes they each felt trapped in a different decade, but it never seemed to match up between the three of them. The surroundings built up around them screamed 1956 to one boy, the luminous signs of shut down diners advertizing oversized milkshakes and old-fashioned trans fat. Another saw 1977 in the scraggly beards and beaded bracelets of the kids crossing over the train tracks, just as they had decided to do that day. And one simply saw the present, in all its ambiguous glory.

“Are you sure we should be doing this?” The youngest, Philip, asked the twins. The twins had been his best friends for only a short time; a boy that never held on to what he wanted for long, Philip desperately sought their approval and good graces, in order to remain in this little cohort as long as possible. The twins hardly took notice of him, however.

The eldest twin (by two minutes) hopped over the deeply inlet tracks easily, his perfectly spaced bangs wisped across his face, inhibiting his vision slightly. Philip followed, allowing his hair to fall over his eyes as well, but tripped over the first metal rail and was sent flying to his face, catching himself at the last minute on his weak arms. The younger twin leaped over Philip’s prostrate figure, ignoring his attempt to laugh it off. The two continued hopping over the ten feet of criss-crossing tracks, not looking down at the pattern of rails, but over towards the horizon. One caught his eyes on the oversized abandoned buildings erected in the 70’s, while one was attracted to the novelty 50’s Ford advertizing a dry cleaning service in dull white paint on its side. When they arrived on the other side of town, they at last turned around to face their younger friend, who was just rising to his knees.

“You guys just go ahead. I’ll catch up later,” Philip shouted across at them, his legs separated by the tracks, placing him in a wide, awkward stance.

“Ok, Phil!” they shouted in unison back, giving each other looks, like "I told you so" or a slight raising of the eyebrows that had that "I'm better than you connotation" as they quickly turned and trotted away, glad to not have the younger boy holding them back any longer.

Philip stood at a crossroads. He could trick himself into gaining the courage to cross over and join the twins, but he could already taste the embarrassment in his mouth. And, more prominently, he could hear his mother’s words burning his ears off….”If I ever hear of you going over to the East side, and you get shot in the leg, I’m not going to help you.” That was one of the more dramatic warnings. Usually it was a passive aggressive attack, like newspaper clippings of stories of kids going over the tracks to buy marijuana and never coming back.

He couldn’t go back the way he came though. Still hovering in his wide-legged stance, he twisted his body around to glance behind him; just beyond a patchy field of grass lay the outskirts of the West side of town, with its unwelcoming new architecture springing up in between older, decrepit buildings from another time. He saw clean windows, and modestly built, tasteful offices, unlike the monstrous square brick buildings that towered over the wide empty streets of the East side. Bustling car and foot traffic wafted toward him from the West side, calling him back to his after school program he had opted out of that day, with the help of the twins’ conniving plan.

Finally he brought his legs back together and stood squarely facing the East side of town. He looked left, then right and in both directions there grew dry, patchy bushes and dead, wild grass as far as the eye could see. He arbitrarily chose a side, one not being better or worse than the other, and put one foot in front of the other. He walked steadily, just inside the train tracks.

I love making fliers