It Is Only Me All The Time

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This new diet is changing my body. For better or for worse is hard to tell. I don't really understand how what's happening became as it is or what it has truly accomplished. I am is approaching one month of not eating meat except for one serving of curried shrimp on the 26th. I'm still eating junky crap I probably shouldn't eat. Presently, I'm just not eating meat.

I am is eating the crap he should eat as well as wot he shouldn't eat. The excessively expensive Omega juicer he bought makes that fairly easy. While I was reading a little about raw food diets it ran across the idea of squeezing the juice of an apple into some of the less tasty vegetables that are otherwise full of beneficial foodstuffs.

I bought one bag of reddish apples that didn't have to be all that pretty to appeal to me. I was gonna cut 'em up and stick them into the emasculating juicer anyway. I was real pleased with the result. I juiced some carrots and the last stalk of broccoli I'll ever use, then sliced one of the reddish apples and fed it to the juicer deliberately to find out if it would make drinking the carotine-ladened juice a more pleasant experience. Hmm.. very tasty. It worked as advertised.

The old "an apple a day" adage from my youth won't get outta my day-dreaming, so I bought another bag of apples to use in my juicer of the Granny Smith variety. I never have liked eating these apples so much because I've always had tender teeth that are prone to decay.

In the past, this particular variety of apples were too firm to really sink my mistreated and abused teeth into. I had to be too careful during the chewing of them to relax and enjoy how they tasted. My new chewing machine made short work of that, and for the first time I've learned to appreciate the spicy tang of Granny Smith apples.

Recently I wrote about a doubt being entertained about whether I am is allergic to carrot juice. My sinuses got stuffy and for while I found it difficult to breath easily, and these days as I drop in and out of meditation so easily that can be a real drag, man.

I love using that beatnik expression "a real drag, man". The beat movement was sorta on it's last legs by the ti-me I became aware of it by reading On The Road during my first stint in the Navy. Soon after I read the book and found the author's experiences extremely interesting, the Navy ship I was assigned to pulled into the Treasure Island shipyard just north of San Francisco, and I got to look around for the evidence in North Beach I was led to believe would be there. It wasn't, so I hooked up with a rich girl from Nob Hill and cut notches in my gun.

The exciting thing about Kerouac's descriptions:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/On_the_Road

was that while reading his novels I became aware that I could live a nomadic life style in North America. I already had a small bejinning. Making the Grand Tour of Europe was finally passe. In all my life I've never lusted in my heart to go to Europe or any of the "old countries". Every European I ever traveled in the States with proved something I suspected all along. These cultures are too steeped in tradition and paying old debts to be interesting to me.

If the "real truth" were actually available to me (even only me), entertaining the thoughts Jack Kerouac portrayed probably had more to do with my choosing to be-co-me a wanderer than any religious or philosophical motivation. Later, as I became an old man and finally stopped being able to jump and run at the slightest provocation (real or imaginary), I associated the lifestyle I led with spirit quests such as those taken by shamed men who had learned that only some God could eradicate they pain.

Weep and moan,
weep and moan,
and cry for one's own pity,
to live this live in such a way
is just a little shitty.
It clings like putty
to the soul and
pules for understanding,
but no one hears
with glued-up ears
the pleas of
silent
ranting...

I wrote this poem in deep and abiding despair a few months after I left my first wife for the second time. Within a month I had committed myself to the State Haspital. It's the same kind of rhetoric the Nigerian guy posted on the internet before he volunteered to blow himself up as a passenger in a jetliner. I got the help he didn't.

I guess I'm kind of arrogant about getting that help that I became aware I desperately needed. I played it a little too close to the edge of the abyss I literally jumped off of later on... even after I did my insanity bit. My self-perceived arrogance is due to my suspicions that I am is arranged every aspect of the whole deal.

I prayed as a child to understand the ways of the world. As an adult I preyed for understanding by living a nomadic lifestyle on purpose. I didn't know what to prey or pray for. I flew by the seat of my pants. Strange strangers-in-passing were my only mentors. One of them told me in a lucid moment he/it created momentarily to say, "What if you already have what you're looking for? Who/what has to get out of yo' way for you to understand understanding?"

It was me that wuz "standing in the need of prayer". Not my parent's child... who would do anything to feel loved and not be abandoned... because he was taught to. What a drag, man. I couldn't believe that to understand the way of the world I had to abandon everything I'd been taught to value?

It's not really true that I didn't have any transitional mentors. Martin Luther King, Jr. was a huge influence in my life, not necessarily because of anything he said to me (I never met the man in person or considered myself a follower, in the past), but because of what he lead the black community to do.

His bootstrap program to free his people of racial prejudice forced me to realize I was trained from birth to be one of his oppressors. This was what doing what myself as a child was taught to think the way of the world is like. The way Martin Luther King wanted me to observe in myself was the same way that my unmade conscience used my inner voice to demand that I observe in myself, and my piteous parent's child looked down that lonesome road and deeply keened that it didn't stand a chance against such odds.

Finally! At last! So-me understanding I could live with. I knew what to do now, but still didn't have a clue about how to logistically make the practical arrangements. I did not want to make those arrangements. I felt like Arjuna being told by Krishna that he had to kill his own kinsmen if he expected Him to drive the chariot.

Again, to me, this is all about be-co-me-ing. To be-with-me. To "Be with me...". In order to join in with another other one has to devalue who-they-think-they-are in order to let go of the conscience-driven persona. In order to stand under the me as represented by and within the other.

Maybe it's a leap of faith that the One me is over there in the Other, and it's the sa-me Me I-am-is convinced it takes for true. Perhaps that's the only "real" understanding one needs to take for the God's own truth. Nay-me-ly, that there is only One me, and each of us ideates ourselves out wot it IS. What else need one say than, "It is." What "is" actually ain't. It (whatever it is that is It) is wot it ain't, and it ain't wot it is.

The One me is like the pearl of great price. If you gaze upon it from outside it's non-ex-is-tent emanations you can read anything that can be labeled into it. If you enter the bridal chamber, however, you no longer looking at It from the outside in nor is it possible to ex-IS as legion, because within it's inner sanctum (sa-me)... It is only me all the ti-me.

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