mooji, my secret pleasure, my present need

"try and believe it's so simple. even the disbelieving mind cannot stop you. you watch the disbelieving mind and it says, 'it cannot be so simple.'"  the mind, that sumbitch trickster.

like never before, i need my mooji, because i appreciate lazy enlightenment.  i'm not a practitioner, an adept, and yet, in my lazy secret times, i get my mooji on.

besides, i tried reading psalms, as in all of them, and was rewarded with diarrhea.  the good news of the psalms episode, so doggone bourgeois, was that my heart rate slowed to a loving pace when i sang the praise psalms, and my heart showed no attraction to the i-am-good-king-david-bless-me-with-long-life-but-my-enemies-please-smite-and-their-little-babies-too -- selah -- psalms.  even the priests for equality translations cannot rinse the clotted blood off those lusty tunes.

(i am not sure that replacing male pronouns and re-imagining the texts by an assumptive removal of its "barriers" is actually a service to the texts or to the reader, anyway.  in fact, i am sure that it is not.)

i used to piss off my pastor when i read the psalter, because i never edited out the offensive warring revenge sections.  i mean, really, come on -- they are there. deal with it.

more in the mood to listen than to speak, chant, or sing, i figured my heart rate might also respond to mooji's dulcet tones and occasional giggles.  also, i like his nose, and his general chubbiness. i like his good-natured ribbing of the man featured in this episode, a man who is deathly afraid of death, and clearly is actively dying.

i mean, that's what this guy is about. his "i am" is in an analytical "alas" from which he is not going to recover. if you can't see it, well, go get a hearing test, then an eye exam.  if we could check the obits about six weeks from the date of filming, we'd find this guy's write-up.  i like mooji's clear frustration when dying dude comes back for his follow-up, mentions "knowledge," and is rewarded with a "shut up and listen." ha!  then mooji disses dying guy's mantra idea.  that's a bad, bad mooji, fat hands a-wavin'!

he clearly enough told the man to zip himself and his "i am" up in his sleeping bag for a good week, and he comes out with mantras and, sniff, KNOWLEDGE. poor disintegrating man, poor mooji.  but thank god he didn't die in that sleeping bag.  that would not have been good. he'd have putrefied and ruined the retreat for the other campers.

confession, not good for my soul, particularly, is excellent for you, because i gotta warn you that the musical interludes in these retreat videos are cheesy, and performed by self-absorbed, shiny-faced white women of the western world, of the indeterminate age such flat and uninspired guitar diddling requires. so fast-forward through the inspirational toneless tunes.  i mean, she can't work up enough tension in her fingers to really fret those frets into producing one truly resonant chord.

tepid.  i hate tepid.

oops. as i said earlier: like never before, i need my mooji, because i appreciate lazy enlightenment.  i'm not a practitioner, an adept, and yet, in my lazy secret times, i get my mooji on. 

it's my sin, my guilty pleasure, the massage i cannot have for these knotted, twitching muscles but can for this ridiculous enemy, my raucous mind.

i used to run away to the monastery to get my mooji on, and to see dear brother william, the perpetually punished brother, who had to scrub the cathedral floor with a toothbrush for serving me apple juice and fig newtons in place of a denied communion.  i loved that reprobate monk. but though they've installed an elevator and i'm not allowed inside the cloister, i still like the nosebleed section of the church, especially during the night-watch, in the time before vigils.

my brother walks his first pass of what i imagine as one of those tree-lined lanes late this afternoon -- wait, do you share my image, know it?  i think of van gogh's les Alyscamps, a matched painting pair he made in that region in, or near, arles, there where there is a roman necropolis lined with trees, poplars, and studded with stone sarcophagi, little stone stèles, little petrified poplar mockings.

beware petrified poplar mockers! ar!  ar!  ar!

i imagine grader boob stooped and shaking like the very confused pilgrim who comes before mooji in this video, "Stay in the I Am."  the lazy guru, unfazed by this sweaty, panicked man who looks and acts as if death has him pencilled in for tomorrow, at ten. or, my mind manages to squeak, "no --  between four and five-thirty, with check-in time for pre-op at one, so really the first parameter is correctly one, one pm, or thirteen-hundred, though he'd best allow time for parking, unless he's gonna use the valet service, which i think would probably be the best bet.  yes, yes, that is for sure:  valet parking tomorrow is de rigueur, totally the blushing best of mindfulness."

and i know, having passed through our reproduction of the hall of mirrors in the palace of versailles earlier today, that it's not grader boob sitting there emitting the acrid pheromones of fear, but me, the sister-unit. i am exactly that screwed up, reflective, reflexive.

"you have to stop, and catch up with your words, so that you can really see what you are saying."

opposite its 17 windows are 17 mirrors of the same size.

"maybe you can just ex-hale these things away."

this growing fear:

"a changing over of power from person to presence, 
and things seem a bit jumbled up for a bit... 
my being is detoxing..."

yes.  yes.  that would be it.

here's mooji!

Uploaded to YouTube by Awakening to Truth, the channel dedicated to "the satsang dialogues of Mooji, combined with music and images."
Published on Dec 5, 2012