The Warrior- Lucium

Lucium is a warrior from an ancient people called the Auren. The Auren do not delineate between the living and the dead, the natural world and themselves and joy from suffering, the gods and their ancestors. Every state is a phase of a journey, a seeking to find the true path, the Way.

I am not one to ask forgiveness for the truth when it must be spoken, but I will ask now for your pardon, as I am incapable of fully expressing the truth in my own heart, but I do believe that truth must be spoken.
Justice is a great mountain, wherefrom the seeker stands in relation, only able to ever see one side of it and any given time. It can only ever tell one side, and we must receive and mete it out in small pebbles of injustice.

Hidden Saga

We tend to forget whole sagas of ourselves. Either they get pushed away, or there is an ever so subtle change in focus and they drift, leaving behind some residue of opinion on the matter. Then one day, in a sudden, inescapable, and inconvenient moment...

Pulling up to the house of the sector Feast, it is early evening and the sunlight has faded just enough that the rich colors of this quaint Albuquerque neighborhood can challenge the tyranny of the dominant sunlight. Looking towards the door of the house, a small Indian lady with a warm smile is greeting people at the door. Planning to return the smile, I find her vaguely familiar, too vague and too familiar for comfort. Hmm, The moment has passed. I greeted her, but my thoughts were distant and my expression was probably blank. I walk in to a crowd full of people, some familiar, some vague...

Some people just give you an instant impression. As I look outside through the sliding glass door, I see what should be a normal middle aged man moving a chair and doing other normal things. But part of me knows that there is some issue with him, he seems to be avoiding the crowd. I can definetely relate to the social anxiety. There is something about his posture that...

Oh my God! Wait, could it be...(sigh) it is. And that was his mom. Oh my God, this can't be real. That has to be him.

I have been asked to read a prayer, but I am frozen. From the corner of my eye, I see him standing in the back as I start reading. Words evaporate out of the moment as I seem to be speaking them. Other prayers are said as a flood of emotions swirl, anger, sadness...I miss my mom. I want to give her comfort as her part of me faces this symbol of abandonment that is knocking down my doors. I am frozen. A long winded story is now being told about who the hell knows what...

The choices are clear, I can either avoid him by striking up a conversation with that person over there, or...okay lets do that.

Me: Hi, how are you

...(response)...

Me: I know I have met you before...

...(response)...

Hmm, that probably seemed a little over eager. Lets try him, we have known each other for a while, this might have potential.

.......

Or not. He Just turned away, okay, well I can't just stand in this living room and hide out. Screw it. I am going to face this thing head on.

Me: Hi Chris.

Chris: Uh, your Jason right?

Me: Yeah, how are you doing.

Wow, I am surprised by how warm my greeting was to him. I don't know if I really meant it or not.

Chris: I am doing well, wow, you've grown quite a bit.

Me: Are you, where are you living at? Do you live here in Albuquerque?

Chris: No I am living in Tuscon now, I just came to help my mom make her move up to Taos, She is the Indian lady outside.

I know that. she is the one who treated my mom like she was an inconvenience, an unworthy bride for her son. she was the one who tore you away from her...

Chris: We were here for the Gathering of Nations.

I remember once that she gave me a single marble for my 12th birthday present. I had hundreds of marbles already; one more was like a drop in the bucket. I remember that I had to put on a smiling face and feign excitement.

Me: Cool. Wow, Its nice seeing you guys here. What has it been, like 10 years?

Chris: Something like that, yeah.

Me: What are you up to these days?

I feel like we are two adults, with some mixed history, catching up on old times. This is definitely a change from the sorta fatherish sonish relationship before...
Okay, concentrate. He is saying something about working for a machining company, that he helped to grow it and then he trained people who became his replacements. I am not totally sure, just keep eye contact.

Me: Man, that's really messed up, so you help him develop the company, and then when you ask for more money, they replace you with the people you trained?

Why am I just repeating what I thought he just said? Maybe to let him know that I am paying close attention? I am starting to get nervous now.

Chris: Yeah man, but the experience was good. I want to get back to making jewelery full time. So what have you been up to?

Me: Well, um, I have been going to school for quite a while, I am actually getting ready to defend my thesis sometime in July."

Chris: what is your degree in?

Me: Well my focus has been in geographic information science, which is in the department of geography.

I have practiced how to present my studies to people. I used to just say geography, but people hearken back to their 5th grade days and assume that I spend sleepless nights memorizing capitals. That's pretty much what I thought until I found out about GIS.

Chris: What kinds of jobs are out there for that.

Another frequently asked question. My ego has learned to just assume that they are ignorant for not knowing that this is a fascinating and prospective field.

Chris: Is it mainly for the government?

Me: There's really a lot that can be done. Yeah, for the government but also the private sector. Um, I just interviewed with a company that does modeling for homeland security, they create probability scenarios, they essentially model all the different ways that certain key sites, like uh, you know military and also some political, are vulnerable to terrorist attacks.

Phew, that was convoluted, I am really starting to get nervous now, I know that he can see it too. I am wondering if he is proud of me. He looks a little bit nervous also. He is probably wondering what I am thinking about him, about this encounter. So far I haven't betrayed any hard feelings, I think.

Me: There are also a lot of jobs for environmental organizations, doing environment modeling, and compliance. Also with urban planning, disaster relief, stuff like that.

Chris: Wow, that's really cool. I always knew that you were smart.

Me: Yeah well..

Chris: Are you married?

Me: Yeah, that's my wife right over there. In the pink shirt talking to that lady.

Chris: Oh wow. That's really cool...well it looks like you have grown up to be a fine young man.

Me: Well, I don't know, we'll have to see about that.

A part of me hates when people make judgments about me after only a brief acquaintance or re-acquaintance, even when they are positive judgments. It is always based upon a superficial assessment of how I'm dressed maybe, the fact that I am married, the fact that I am getting a master's degree. These "stats" seem to suggest that I am a fine and wholesome young man, yet reality is always more mixed. I still have my issues, similar ones that I had before the "stats".

Nevertheless, a coating of ice is melting from my heart. He is truly happy to see me, and is truly impressed with how I have turned out. I can remember now what I loved so much about him. He was fun. He coached my Jr high basketball team, he collected sports cards, we went hiking, fishing, camping. He was often caring and mindful of what the family needed, he was industrious around the house, he was truly loving. Most of the time.

The last time I had seen him, he was barnstorming through the house, with that bandanna he wore when he was callous. His mom had wanted him to move back with her to Arizona; we were in Oregon. There had been fights, my mom had said some things that were harsh. Then out of the blue, when we were both gone, he had left. Only a note.

And that's how I had remembered him. Selfish, aggressive, somebody who had abandoned my mom. There had been no closure. Everything that I had loved about him had been inaccessible until now. A hidden saga of wonderful memories had been tainted and locked up. As I look at him now, I love him, and I know that he loves me, and I know that he knows that I love him.

Chris: And how is your mom?

I knew this would come up sooner or later.

Me: She's doing good. Yeah, she's going to school right now, studying electrical engineering.

Chris: Wow, that is a change...So is she still married to that guy, what's his name McGettigan?

Me: Yeah, it's going well, they are doing well.

Wow, that this is surreal. But nice, we are both smiling, just need to keep up the good feelings.

(time passes)

Me: This is my wife, Sjona.

Sjona: Hi, how are you doing.

Chris: Hi, I'm Chris.

Me: I knew him a long time back, we haven't seen each other for like 10 years.

Okay, I'll tell her who he is later

Chris: Yeah, I haven't seen this guy for a long time, I was actually married to his mom.

Sjona: Oh, ok. Wow that's cool that you guys have met up again.

Chris: You have found yourself a good catch. He was always really smart, and he had a lot of friends.

Well, actually, I didn't really have any friends most of the time we were both in Oregon. My weekends were spent alone, looking out the windows into the eternally gray Oregon skies. Oh well.

Chris: I remember that we would go riding our bikes along the beach. Do you remember that?

Me: Yeah yeah, that was fun.

I remember the beach, but I don't actually remember the bikes...

(time passes)

Me: I hope that your business idea works out. That would be really cool if you could go to Hawaii and do that.

Chris: Yeah, who knows, you know, I have a dream at least. Only God really knows what we are doing. I now know the reason I came here tonight, it was to see you again.

Me: Yeah, same here. It's funny, I wasn't actually wanting to come tonight, I, well I knew that I needed to come.

(phone numbers are exchanged. We hug and then we leave)

As I think about him now, I can finally understand that we are both human and we have both made mistakes. Many of my fondest memories involve him. He is like my brother. It didn't work out between him and my mom...

And that's okay.

I knew you

I cynically say that I knew you,
As if I believed that I could capture the radiance of what will come,
And hold it against the darkness.

"I know you", I joked,
On that long lackadaisical afternoon our bodies glistening,
baking in the lustrious, overexposed innocence.

We stood before the child whose lackadaisical eyes blurred us into one
His belly swollen, as if to make room for the coffin bearing a world never to come.
We sipped lattes and nibbled on reduced fat coffee cake.
You said, "I didn't know", but you did.

You look away, bobbing your head to Bob Dylan and the Dixie Chicks, with a skip in your step as if to say, "happiness is a delicate matter. One must be smart and lucky to obtain it. The only inevitablilty is that it will be lost".

"I have known you", I agreed. Nodding my head and watching your blissful departure from the corner of my eye.

"Yes, once", you say crushing your paper coffee cup, the black liquid slopping over your wrist and forearm. It burns.

Dishes in the Eye of the Storm

Cutting through the tomato and hamburger infusion of grease and gristle. Hands scrubbing not fast enough, but content, slopping around the sink full of brown-water mystery chunk. It's disgusting, that is true. But I am happy.

I remember the first times, I would cry and whine as my mom insisted with the horrible yellow gloves locked and loaded. It all seemed so cruel, so unnatural then, when so many things were on TV or alive in my closet ready colonize the floor. Sometimes my step-dad would offer to help after about 20 minutes of melodrama. Clever as I was, I would suggest that the best way to get done would be to hide some of the dirty cups and dinnerware among the mess of junk and appliances that always seemed to accumulate in every corner of the house."No, we're going to do it all, it's no big deal", he would say with a hint of disgust at my worthlessness. He never seemed to fully realize that I was a kid, and therefore he would hold me to the standard of an adult. I hadn't realized that he wasn't a kid. It made no sense why he wasn't interested in fooling my mom to get out of work. It turns out he was the kid however. Pouting around the house, going out to the truck to smoke a cigarette, cursing at the suggestion of my mom to take out the trash, donning the bandanna when he wanted to be an independent badass. Leaving my mom...as she had left the man before him, for him.

What is it that makes me so uncomfortable with dishwashers? My younger self is still steaming with jealousy, and is incredulous that I take such a miracle machine for granted. I often feel compelled to use it because it saves time, but I look forward to the situation in which it can't be used, like in the case of big greasy pans which cannot be processed so efficiently. I know it's going to be nasty, and it is. But to actually get it clean again, after such a feast that should rightly require a sacrifice or two, the process is deemed worthy to be an analogy for the soul.

A very different situation, with a very different response, and no more than a day might have separated the two. When my dad asked for a glass of water, I jumped up and got it, no questions asked. Likewise, when he asked me to wash the dishes, the same action applied. It wasn't so bad though, dishes didn't pile up in his house. In fact, nothing piled up. Two forks, two knives, two plates, a pan, maybe two bowls, that's about all that would need to be cleaned. It was not something that required a willful forgetfulness of the precious time I was missing (and when there is a clear bedtime, you better believe time is precious!). It was over and done, and I felt like a king, not a crybaby. Oh, there were never those horrible yellow gloves.

Proper function guarded suction
release release release!
Be this, become that!
Know something, no nothing!
You write for inspiring the human conditioner
Who are you? Is there hope? Answer me!

I write for filth and pride
I lie I lie I lie to make up what I cannot be!
every look, every touch, every fucking guarded word

Let me go!
Release release release
Fuck you restraint, fuck you restraint fuck you restraint!
Perfection walks on wisps of dreams constructed to explain away
filth and pride filth and pride filth and pride
let me go let me go let me go

Drummer strike strike strike, drop the stick and really strike!
I can't I lied I lied I lied
I can't release release release

They keep lying and I keep on letting them
distract distract distract
Let his cum, this shame, this lie lie lie
Let me die die die

How unrefined and too direct, how simple and unwise,
how troubled the cries of me who lies

A Heart is Beating in the Dark Chilled Night...

Close my eyes and go to sleep...

A heart is beating in the dark chilled night, rhythmically, frantically, and without permission. It is alone, and in this moment there is life. Amazing, what are the odds?

From a birds eye view, pan out into a speck, the scariest hilarity that I can think of is a brief pondering of an infinite universe. To scary to maintain, to epic to handle and categorize, but yet there is life, what are the odds?

In every body, a heart is beating in the dark chilled night, rhythmically, frantically, and without permission. They are alone, and there is life in this moment, and these moments cannot be captured. Amazing, what are the odds?

We are alone. But we have each other to be alone with. If only we are brave enough to impale ourselves onto the spears of our intimacy fears. To finally confront, and to keep confronting those parts of ourselves that insist, scratch, scream, tear, bite, ravage, spit, sputter, spittle, spatter, spite, anger, agitate, and lobby for the advancement of the cause: a stoic self perception of being distant and autonomous. This is incredibly difficult and the odds are remote.

Broken into my waking...

To find a warm body and two hearts beating in the dark chilled night, rhythmically, frantically, and without permission. We are alone and there is life, and we are in love in this moment. And in this moment we have captured each other. Amazing, what are the odds?

Commentary on a admittidly cryptic piece

Brenden's comment on my last post "unless you find and angle or two" made me realize that it was perhaps written in an overly cryptic manner, reflecting a context that was sensible only to myself. While I am not interested in re-writing it, (it is written to my liking) I feel a commentary is necessary that enumerates the ideas which I think are universal


The main theme of this post is the often cyclical journey of spirituality. We can only hope that we spiral upwards.

How can is act decisively in eyes that stare form other angles?

Is refers to what is, the steady flow of day to day life. In my mind, it carries an aura of mediocrity, of existing in a comfortable bubble. Day by day, week by week. There are no decisive steps, no grasping of true conviction. Therefore, is can be swept away in a myriad of different thought processes, stare through eyes from other angles.

Why does is always assume there is time to spare?

A continuation of mediocrity. It is easy to assume that we have all the time in the world. With every passing day, we lay our heads to rest; always assuming there will be many more tomorrows to make up for what we didn't do today.

There is no more time, there is no more spare.

Kind of a wakeup call. True spirituality doesn't live in the future, it is right now, or never.

Despair is, is it not? Unless there is time, In which case is can continue watching on the sly.

If judged with urgency, we realize with despair that Is is the world of unreality, the precious hours that slipped through our fingers. At this point we can either confront it (next part), or we can ignore and forget it-believing the misguided notion that there is time to spare. The relative world will filter back in almost unnoticed, on the sly.

Is, the pretense past. Or is the pretense past? In any case (and at this point is can only hope) the scraping is enveloping the desolate heart; appealing to, or emoting into that rugged gatekeeper of childhood; morphology of dreamscape.

This refers to the next stage (at least for me) of despair, after I have realized the Pretense of Is (maybe, Is is tricky, hence the statement and the question). It becomes a very intense, tumultuous, emotional time for me. The scraping of the desolate heart. It reminds me of mortality, and rotting flesh, which to me is all tied up in the landscape from which I came and to which I will return. It is tied up in memories of my childhood, which takes on a mythical aura. The landscape of my childhood has morphed into a dreamscape.

Unexpected, unassumed, and unheralded. That waffling film is being grasped. Being, with the orthodox vantage, sees is clinging, but whatever. That's and was.

Being in this case refers to a spiritual state in which all directions are merged into the eternal present. When there are no longer any angles, only the oneness of God. The waffling film refers to that thin veil that blinds our eyes, and it is being grasped, crumpled into our fists. There is still a scent of Is, which is clinging, but it is insignificant.

Being...absolute clarity, unflinching vision, pure spirit, nowhere and no chance to run. Unless you find an angle or two. Is, is it not?

The world of Being is very hard to withstand. It requires constant and continual vigilance and self-sacrifice. It is easy, even when you are maintaining that state, to fall off your guard. To let songs slip into your head that seem perfectly rational, and little comfortable, and are very interesting angles that can take root and be justified with time. Is, is it not?