Poor Old Master, his teachings where quickly despoiled.
Patience, Simplicity, Compassion
He taught wisdom the best way he could but so much of truth is not speakable; the eternally real is not something to be named.
He spoke much of the tao, but taoism today is as complex as any other fabricated religion.
What's with the intricate path of knowledge of facts and names and rules? All of that excess only makes fulfillment impossible. One day I will no longer join in on biting the inside of our cheeks in struggle. One day I'll be free from desire and I'll see the mystery. One day I'll be at peace and watch the beings in turmoil around me; waiting. I will immerse myself in the source, the source of where we all came from, and I will be serene.
But then again, again, do I really want to escape from what makes us more human, more flawed? Will I miss getting angry and dreadfully confused and distraught? Aren't I living to stuff all of this sadness and emotion in my travel back? Why should I snuff out the wonderful pains of life when I'm only going to be around for a little bit before returning to where I came from. I should welcome the sorrow and hate with the compassion
But then again, again, I should try for both.
Monday, April 7, 2008
Friday, April 4, 2008
Bret thoughts
Which do you prefer, a car or a motorcycle? I prefer the motorcycle because it is fast and dangerous. I have a car.
Of the oddities about us that are perceived by bursts of illusion, only the ones that habitually present themselves in the same fashion and likeness disappear. When they, the persistent illusions of oddity, disappear, what then does the person of unavoidable manifestation figure of the normal? It's so boring. So then the person burdened with illusion depends on a false sense of what's real. How does the person do this without destroying his or hers normal disposition; normal as in a relative definition? Very much impossible.
So give me that vision when mine's all gone.
(I wrote this not too long ago. It was on the clipboard so I figured that I'd paste it on the post.)
'A man stood weeping over the loss of his family. He could only think of the first passionate moments that he had with his now deceased wife. They were young and full of youthful games of flirtation. The times that they spent taking turns going back and forth between being unsure, to certain that they were right for each other. The moments of complete heart ache that she caused him in those earliest months; so much emotion flowed through him and he never new if she felt the same. If she did feel the passion that he did at that time, he never will know. As a youth he felt his heart go from so soft to stone, from solid to torn apart and then back again. She was his silver moon. Her silhouette is gone. In due time, she will not return as she always did when his heart callused. His pain was now almost familiar. He knew it so well when he needed her so much but did not want her around. Now his dreams were of her coming back to reward him for his patience. He spoke to nobody of her, and his children no longer existed. Instead, he pretended to have fun as he did in high school when she ignored him. After several months of pretending, his concern grew past hope and he began to think that she would never come back. He thought that maybe she had left him for another man. After a while, he decided that that was what must have happened, so he went through the house indignantly smashing all of her pictures to the ground in anticipation that he would throw them away later; the pictures of his kids were already long gone and forgotten. Days went by without him picking up the broken picture frames. In his many morbid drunken, drug addled stupors, his feet would catch a shard of glass and he would track his darkening bright red blood throughout his decaying dingy house. He never went to work nor would he open the door when somebody knocked to see if he was okay. He only spoke through calmly saying that he was sick and contagious and that he shouldn’t go out for a while. Slowly he began to exhaust his savings on drugs and alcohol and an occasional prostitute. One fateful day he woke up to an intense heat. He looked around, blurred from relentless and extended drug abuse, and saw a blazing fire coming from the other side of the living room. It had already spread across to the dining room and the office. He quickly stood up alert, as if sober, and looked to the back door in the kitchen were he could make his only escape. Instead, a vague memory, a tinder yet painful feeling in his heart resurfaced as a fond memory. Sadness and regret filled his heart. He stared into the fire that was making its way towards him. He looked to the stairs that was only feet from the growing fire. Once more, he stared into the fire. Suddenly, he bolted towards it, grabbing the stair rail and turning up onto the stairway. Burnt, he continued running upwards. He barged into a bedroom that for over a year was only a wall. On the inside he grabbed a picture and a toy of each of his three deceased children. He then ran into his old bed room and rummaged through the smashed picture frames and grabbed the one with him and his whole family on the beach; his wife with his youngest in her arms. He stopped when he picked it up to look at it. Tears had already soaked his cheeks. He grabbed a duffle bag for his items and ran back out. The fire was half way up the stairway. Weeping harder than he ever had before, he fell to his knees, and moaned and sobbed. He hugged the bag. He hugged what was left of his forgotten family; the people that not even two years ago meant more to him than he himself. They were his God. He almost gagged in his dismay. He stood up once more and rushed back into his children’s room and shut the door. He gingerly sat on his eldest son’s bed. He looked around and gathered a cache of memories. Every item in the room held more than he could handle. He wept and sobbed as flames flickered underneath the door. They licked at what was left of his children; other than his suppressed and damaged memories. Crying, he could hear the fire engine sirens entering his neighborhood. He gathered all of the photographs that he could find. He collected his favorite drawings of theirs. The door burst into flames and he huddled in the opposite side of the room, running through his mind his two only decisions. Fatefully, he grabbed a little desk chair and tossed it out the window. With his bag he climbed out and dropped down to the shrubbery below. On his way down, flames pouring from a downstairs window caught his shirt and he ignited. Rolling over into the yard he protected the bag, his family, over his searing body. A neighbor quickly came to his aid. Gasping and bewildered he told the neighbor about his bag and that it was all that he had left. He fainted skinless in his yard before his dying house. A day later he came to in his hospital. A cast around his leg and the rest of his body heavily bandaged gauze. He looked around not knowing anything. Not knowing who he was, where he was, or how he got there. He looked carefully at some flowers, a TV, white walls, a curtain, a tube coming from his arm, and a chair with a blue bag placed in it. He stared at the bag and remembered. Calmly he looked at it and feeling secure he fell asleep once more. He repeated this process three or four times a day for more than a week. As time passed, he gained a little more consciousness with each awakening; the nurses were able to explain to him his situation. His back was covered in third degree burns along with his arms and face, a minor fracture in his leg, a house burnt to the ground and a family that did not die in the fire but in car accident. Another week passed before he wept. Several months passed before he walked out of the hospital. Several more months passed before he walked out of the hospital. His detoxification was unnecessary as months on morphine and months weaning off morphine sugar coated his year long drug binge. He walked off with nothing but a new pair of clothes, his duffle bag, and a credit card full of money. He walked through the city, ignoring the drug dealers and the street whores. He came upon a man playing the accordion on the side walk with the case left open, sprinkled with spare change. He watched the accordion man play for a long time. The man never stopped playing and rarely repeated the same song. He went and sat on the side walk next to him. After a while the accordion man stopped and started packing up. As he did so, he walked up to the accordion man’s jacket a slipped three one-hundred dollar bills into it without the accordion man noticing. He walked off. Several days later, he secretly gave two-hundred and fifty dollars worth of groceries and supplies to a single mother with two children. He continued his selective charity until his entire savings was down to five-hundred dollars. With that he left the city and he left the towns. With his duffle bag and a back pack of food he entered the woods. There, he slept under the stars and tried not to picture his family, for he knew the more he thought about them the more their faces would change in his flawed memory. Instead he thought of nothing. He let his mind empty. He was exhausted, so he slept. He found a lake and a stream where he bathed and drank. He made a hut for when it rained and a fire to keep away the predators. He lived like that for years; as simple as can be. Some animals never live so simply. When his food supply ran out he began to starve, but was able to find just enough food to live on. His hunger made him feel better. His coldness in the winter made him feel better. His intense heat in the summer made him feel better. Not once was he lonely for a companion. Not once did he regret his life. Every morning, when he woke up, he would dig through his duffle bag and the emotion that he found in it filled him. One day, as he sat atop of a tree to catch a view of the forest he dozed off and fell backwards. The first branch caught the back of his neck pushing his body forward where his chest caught the next one. Now breathless, he continued to fall in the sitting position and landed on the third branch on the inside of his knees causing him to sing backwards and knock the back of his head on another branch. He fell, completely unconscious, like a rag doll, another fifteen feet, dislocating his shoulder on the last branch and landed face down onto the ground. There he stayed until night. He woke up with intense pain in his head and chest. As he tried to push himself up he wailed out in pain. He looked at his shoulder and shuddered. After several minutes of indecision, he came to grips with what he had to do. He prepared himself, and then ran sideways several feet towards the tree. When he collided with the tree, his shoulder popped back with a loud, low pitched click and a wave of shudders ran through his body as he fainted. The sun woke him up the next day. He sat up in just as much pain in his head and chest but his shoulder felt fine. Afraid to move, he carefully shifted himself up against the tree. There, his thoughts became anew. He realized that he almost died there in the woods where animals and bugs would eat his body. He suddenly felt foolish living there in the woods. He thought long and hard about his entire life. Once he reached the point in his life when he met his wife, a flash back of when he sat in the emergency waiting room waiting for her, thinking about the love he had for her came over him. Only this time he thought about the youthful playfulness that they once had with a healthy fondness, instead of with an impenetrable denial. He then ran through his mind the brief period of time that he spent in his life, alone, in his house, and how it really was a surreal eternity. It is still happening. It will always be happening. He thought about the fire and his children’s bedroom and the epiphany he had inside of it. He remembered the blur of a hospital that didn’t seem to last long enough. He remembered the people that may or may not have benefited from the money he gave them. Then, he went back to his wife and how he met her, and how from that single moment, despite his uncertainties, they were meant to be one. He remembered the birth of each child and the fulfillment of each one. He focused on the oneness with his wife and his fulfillment of his children, and for the first time he did not view their death as a waist of what he had gained but more of sign to show how purposeful his life and all life is. Beside the fact that the purpose of life is ultimately to live, he realized that the emotion that his children, only here for a few short years, had dug up out of him and the joyful ache that his wife inspired in him held so much more positive significance than the negative significance of painful emotion that followed their death, or the absence of both.'
(I wrote this a few months ago but I figuered that it would be suitable on here)
So we're looking for Siberian sex toys, accepting the fact that evil is an entity and not really a part of us, our minds nuked from a maelstrom of knowledge and a labyrinth of doubt, and my brother, a proton, comes by and gives us an everything theory. I say:Dude you give us this shit with all the sex maniacs, schizophrenics, and astropsyicists running around in our embassy? They can't sell me an ideal just because I don't have one. I just leveled everything they taught me wrong! I'm transmigrating!We then stoped for a drink on the intersection of all dimensions. Pod zapret a stambuljanskij k Rudiku v Kismet...Sojuzivka is still the best.
-That's all I got out of school today.
(Just fucking drunk( what
Transmigration!
Frequencies of love. overcome, overthrow
With a want for panacea, I see the world of people in need of such a cure. Where's the remedy.
I need a lead to how to keep going on to the ultimate on. From the streets to the subconscious from subconscious to the God.
Quien en todo infierno vendra y le cerrara arriba usted arriba usted. It was five in the morning and the place was still getting dark somewhere outside the city, mamasita mamasita dónde están usted ahora. usted no es sano son usted...ahora?
Going to wake up just to get drunk again; yeah. Going to get sick when I bite my head. Well here I'll laugh. Talking about nothing like a black cloud raining out so much. But then there's that writing that spells disaster; written on my wall from my own skin. It is shinning.
(you sappy fucker)
I will I find joy in all I see.
If i could only go down that river. To love the wild, to forget the name Bret LeBeau. What should I say? That it's just a dream, because I am awake now.
Free
Love... shall we deny it when it visits us... shall we not take what we are given?
Who are you?
There is only this. all else is unreal.
Who are you? What do you dream of?
we are like grass
True
Mother, why can I not feel as I should...must? Once false, I must not be again. Take out the thorn.
All is perfect. Let me be lost.
Why does the earth have colors?
Mother, now I remember where you live.
'So if you know I will survive, thank you for everything you've done. alcohol.'
Of the oddities about us that are perceived by bursts of illusion, only the ones that habitually present themselves in the same fashion and likeness disappear. When they, the persistent illusions of oddity, disappear, what then does the person of unavoidable manifestation figure of the normal? It's so boring. So then the person burdened with illusion depends on a false sense of what's real. How does the person do this without destroying his or hers normal disposition; normal as in a relative definition? Very much impossible.
So give me that vision when mine's all gone.
(I wrote this not too long ago. It was on the clipboard so I figured that I'd paste it on the post.)
'A man stood weeping over the loss of his family. He could only think of the first passionate moments that he had with his now deceased wife. They were young and full of youthful games of flirtation. The times that they spent taking turns going back and forth between being unsure, to certain that they were right for each other. The moments of complete heart ache that she caused him in those earliest months; so much emotion flowed through him and he never new if she felt the same. If she did feel the passion that he did at that time, he never will know. As a youth he felt his heart go from so soft to stone, from solid to torn apart and then back again. She was his silver moon. Her silhouette is gone. In due time, she will not return as she always did when his heart callused. His pain was now almost familiar. He knew it so well when he needed her so much but did not want her around. Now his dreams were of her coming back to reward him for his patience. He spoke to nobody of her, and his children no longer existed. Instead, he pretended to have fun as he did in high school when she ignored him. After several months of pretending, his concern grew past hope and he began to think that she would never come back. He thought that maybe she had left him for another man. After a while, he decided that that was what must have happened, so he went through the house indignantly smashing all of her pictures to the ground in anticipation that he would throw them away later; the pictures of his kids were already long gone and forgotten. Days went by without him picking up the broken picture frames. In his many morbid drunken, drug addled stupors, his feet would catch a shard of glass and he would track his darkening bright red blood throughout his decaying dingy house. He never went to work nor would he open the door when somebody knocked to see if he was okay. He only spoke through calmly saying that he was sick and contagious and that he shouldn’t go out for a while. Slowly he began to exhaust his savings on drugs and alcohol and an occasional prostitute. One fateful day he woke up to an intense heat. He looked around, blurred from relentless and extended drug abuse, and saw a blazing fire coming from the other side of the living room. It had already spread across to the dining room and the office. He quickly stood up alert, as if sober, and looked to the back door in the kitchen were he could make his only escape. Instead, a vague memory, a tinder yet painful feeling in his heart resurfaced as a fond memory. Sadness and regret filled his heart. He stared into the fire that was making its way towards him. He looked to the stairs that was only feet from the growing fire. Once more, he stared into the fire. Suddenly, he bolted towards it, grabbing the stair rail and turning up onto the stairway. Burnt, he continued running upwards. He barged into a bedroom that for over a year was only a wall. On the inside he grabbed a picture and a toy of each of his three deceased children. He then ran into his old bed room and rummaged through the smashed picture frames and grabbed the one with him and his whole family on the beach; his wife with his youngest in her arms. He stopped when he picked it up to look at it. Tears had already soaked his cheeks. He grabbed a duffle bag for his items and ran back out. The fire was half way up the stairway. Weeping harder than he ever had before, he fell to his knees, and moaned and sobbed. He hugged the bag. He hugged what was left of his forgotten family; the people that not even two years ago meant more to him than he himself. They were his God. He almost gagged in his dismay. He stood up once more and rushed back into his children’s room and shut the door. He gingerly sat on his eldest son’s bed. He looked around and gathered a cache of memories. Every item in the room held more than he could handle. He wept and sobbed as flames flickered underneath the door. They licked at what was left of his children; other than his suppressed and damaged memories. Crying, he could hear the fire engine sirens entering his neighborhood. He gathered all of the photographs that he could find. He collected his favorite drawings of theirs. The door burst into flames and he huddled in the opposite side of the room, running through his mind his two only decisions. Fatefully, he grabbed a little desk chair and tossed it out the window. With his bag he climbed out and dropped down to the shrubbery below. On his way down, flames pouring from a downstairs window caught his shirt and he ignited. Rolling over into the yard he protected the bag, his family, over his searing body. A neighbor quickly came to his aid. Gasping and bewildered he told the neighbor about his bag and that it was all that he had left. He fainted skinless in his yard before his dying house. A day later he came to in his hospital. A cast around his leg and the rest of his body heavily bandaged gauze. He looked around not knowing anything. Not knowing who he was, where he was, or how he got there. He looked carefully at some flowers, a TV, white walls, a curtain, a tube coming from his arm, and a chair with a blue bag placed in it. He stared at the bag and remembered. Calmly he looked at it and feeling secure he fell asleep once more. He repeated this process three or four times a day for more than a week. As time passed, he gained a little more consciousness with each awakening; the nurses were able to explain to him his situation. His back was covered in third degree burns along with his arms and face, a minor fracture in his leg, a house burnt to the ground and a family that did not die in the fire but in car accident. Another week passed before he wept. Several months passed before he walked out of the hospital. Several more months passed before he walked out of the hospital. His detoxification was unnecessary as months on morphine and months weaning off morphine sugar coated his year long drug binge. He walked off with nothing but a new pair of clothes, his duffle bag, and a credit card full of money. He walked through the city, ignoring the drug dealers and the street whores. He came upon a man playing the accordion on the side walk with the case left open, sprinkled with spare change. He watched the accordion man play for a long time. The man never stopped playing and rarely repeated the same song. He went and sat on the side walk next to him. After a while the accordion man stopped and started packing up. As he did so, he walked up to the accordion man’s jacket a slipped three one-hundred dollar bills into it without the accordion man noticing. He walked off. Several days later, he secretly gave two-hundred and fifty dollars worth of groceries and supplies to a single mother with two children. He continued his selective charity until his entire savings was down to five-hundred dollars. With that he left the city and he left the towns. With his duffle bag and a back pack of food he entered the woods. There, he slept under the stars and tried not to picture his family, for he knew the more he thought about them the more their faces would change in his flawed memory. Instead he thought of nothing. He let his mind empty. He was exhausted, so he slept. He found a lake and a stream where he bathed and drank. He made a hut for when it rained and a fire to keep away the predators. He lived like that for years; as simple as can be. Some animals never live so simply. When his food supply ran out he began to starve, but was able to find just enough food to live on. His hunger made him feel better. His coldness in the winter made him feel better. His intense heat in the summer made him feel better. Not once was he lonely for a companion. Not once did he regret his life. Every morning, when he woke up, he would dig through his duffle bag and the emotion that he found in it filled him. One day, as he sat atop of a tree to catch a view of the forest he dozed off and fell backwards. The first branch caught the back of his neck pushing his body forward where his chest caught the next one. Now breathless, he continued to fall in the sitting position and landed on the third branch on the inside of his knees causing him to sing backwards and knock the back of his head on another branch. He fell, completely unconscious, like a rag doll, another fifteen feet, dislocating his shoulder on the last branch and landed face down onto the ground. There he stayed until night. He woke up with intense pain in his head and chest. As he tried to push himself up he wailed out in pain. He looked at his shoulder and shuddered. After several minutes of indecision, he came to grips with what he had to do. He prepared himself, and then ran sideways several feet towards the tree. When he collided with the tree, his shoulder popped back with a loud, low pitched click and a wave of shudders ran through his body as he fainted. The sun woke him up the next day. He sat up in just as much pain in his head and chest but his shoulder felt fine. Afraid to move, he carefully shifted himself up against the tree. There, his thoughts became anew. He realized that he almost died there in the woods where animals and bugs would eat his body. He suddenly felt foolish living there in the woods. He thought long and hard about his entire life. Once he reached the point in his life when he met his wife, a flash back of when he sat in the emergency waiting room waiting for her, thinking about the love he had for her came over him. Only this time he thought about the youthful playfulness that they once had with a healthy fondness, instead of with an impenetrable denial. He then ran through his mind the brief period of time that he spent in his life, alone, in his house, and how it really was a surreal eternity. It is still happening. It will always be happening. He thought about the fire and his children’s bedroom and the epiphany he had inside of it. He remembered the blur of a hospital that didn’t seem to last long enough. He remembered the people that may or may not have benefited from the money he gave them. Then, he went back to his wife and how he met her, and how from that single moment, despite his uncertainties, they were meant to be one. He remembered the birth of each child and the fulfillment of each one. He focused on the oneness with his wife and his fulfillment of his children, and for the first time he did not view their death as a waist of what he had gained but more of sign to show how purposeful his life and all life is. Beside the fact that the purpose of life is ultimately to live, he realized that the emotion that his children, only here for a few short years, had dug up out of him and the joyful ache that his wife inspired in him held so much more positive significance than the negative significance of painful emotion that followed their death, or the absence of both.'
(I wrote this a few months ago but I figuered that it would be suitable on here)
So we're looking for Siberian sex toys, accepting the fact that evil is an entity and not really a part of us, our minds nuked from a maelstrom of knowledge and a labyrinth of doubt, and my brother, a proton, comes by and gives us an everything theory. I say:Dude you give us this shit with all the sex maniacs, schizophrenics, and astropsyicists running around in our embassy? They can't sell me an ideal just because I don't have one. I just leveled everything they taught me wrong! I'm transmigrating!We then stoped for a drink on the intersection of all dimensions. Pod zapret a stambuljanskij k Rudiku v Kismet...Sojuzivka is still the best.
-That's all I got out of school today.
(Just fucking drunk( what
Transmigration!
Frequencies of love. overcome, overthrow
With a want for panacea, I see the world of people in need of such a cure. Where's the remedy.
I need a lead to how to keep going on to the ultimate on. From the streets to the subconscious from subconscious to the God.
Quien en todo infierno vendra y le cerrara arriba usted arriba usted. It was five in the morning and the place was still getting dark somewhere outside the city, mamasita mamasita dónde están usted ahora. usted no es sano son usted...ahora?
Going to wake up just to get drunk again; yeah. Going to get sick when I bite my head. Well here I'll laugh. Talking about nothing like a black cloud raining out so much. But then there's that writing that spells disaster; written on my wall from my own skin. It is shinning.
(you sappy fucker)
I will I find joy in all I see.
If i could only go down that river. To love the wild, to forget the name Bret LeBeau. What should I say? That it's just a dream, because I am awake now.
Free
Love... shall we deny it when it visits us... shall we not take what we are given?
Who are you?
There is only this. all else is unreal.
Who are you? What do you dream of?
we are like grass
True
Mother, why can I not feel as I should...must? Once false, I must not be again. Take out the thorn.
All is perfect. Let me be lost.
Why does the earth have colors?
Mother, now I remember where you live.
'So if you know I will survive, thank you for everything you've done. alcohol.'
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