Where Everything is Music

Don’t worry about saving these songs!
And if one of our instruments breaks,
it doesn’t matter.

We have fallen into the place
where everything is music.

The strumming and the flute notes
rise into the atmosphere,
and even if the whole world’s harp
should burn up, there will still be
hidden instruments playing.

So the candle flickers and goes out.
We have a piece of flint, and a spark.

This singing art is sea foam.
The graceful movements come from a pearl
somewhere on the ocean floor.

Poems reach up like spindrift and the edge
of driftwood along the beach, wanting!

They derive from a slow and powerful root
that we can’t see.

Stop the words now.
Open the window in the center of your chest,
and let the spirits fly in and out.

by Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi
from The Essential Rumi
publisher: HarperSanFrancisco, 1995

This week’s Saturday Sermon comes courtesy of Bia Lowe from Killing the Buddha, who reminds to not only ask God to bless our meal, but also the meal we are. Dig in!

Bless me, O Lord, and these your gifts, your emissaries: bacillus, yeast, and virus, protozoa and metazoa—all who receive me as their gift. I thank you for this, our Holy Commensalism.

Blessed art thou, oh Mothers and Fathers among you, both ecto and endo. I thank you for your hungers and for this beautiful day. Thank you for not leaving me to waste and to rot, for paring away the dead and excessive, for cleansing away the discarded and decayed, for working amongst yourselves toward the kingdom of my immunity. Thank you for your hungers, for your impeccable work. That which does not destroy me, indeed makes me endure. Take of this, my body, feast and be sheltered.

Thank you oh my many phagocytes, my hungry warriors of the blood, keen-nosed Neutrophlis, mighty Eosinohil, and the sturdy T-cell. Thank you for your vigilance, your unflagging courage, for keeping our enemies at bay.

Thank you, oh legion of predacious microbes both aerobic and anaerobic, for sharing your feast with me, for living in balance within and upon me, never being greedy. As you will someday convert me to the soil, as you will someday ferry my cells across the dark waters, I celebrate each day of our mutual existence, and thank you for another day without constipation.

Entero, Staphylo, and Strepto. Oh my Coccuses, I celebrate you!

Bacillus and bacterium all: Lacto, Bifido, Propion, Cornye, and Fus, I celebrate you!

Citro & Enterobacter, Shigella, Klebsiella, Neisseria, I celebrate you!

Hemophilus, Proteus, Treponema and the mighty Diptheroids, I praise you!

Clostridium, Pityrosporum, Pseudomonas and Trichomonas, I praise you!

Ever ubiquitous Candida, and the esteemed E-coli, thank you time and again for your blessings. I celebrate you!

Thank you, tooth amoebae, that my gums are scrubbed by your cytoplasm. Thank you, Demodex Folliculorum, that my eyelashes are groomed by your mandibles. And lastly, oh abundant dust mite, thank you that my excess dander is raked by your forelegs, consumed by the diligence of your prodigious appetite.

Givers of life, thank you for choosing me to be the fruit of much hard work. We each hunger to live another second, to eat and to become food. May I join you someday to feast at another table. Until then, in the name of the compassionate and beneficent and omnivorous God, I offer my flesh with love and gratitude.

Amen

I sit naked on my bed,
My clothes eaten away
By the sins of my life.

I stand naked in my room,
Looking down at myself,
Ashamed at what I have done.

I walk naked on the street,
Showing the world my true self,
Not the lies I spread around.

I talk naked on the air,
Letting everyone know what I am,
Showing every fault to all.

I move naked up the stairs,
Towards my judgment day,
Praying for my soul.

The sins I have committed
Can never be hidden
From the one up above

Who sees all.
All the time.

John Morris is a student currently undergoing his GCSE’s in the UK.

Idolize the man-made heaven cutters.
Worship the fast-food franchises.
Dream of that perfect apartment.
Love thee sweet jealousy.

Fill yourself up on the adrenaline
of violence and lies against others.
Ignore respect for people
Take what they deserve.

Believe in democracy,
Bow down to corruption,
Love thee temptation,
Lay awake riddled with sin.

My elegy of religion,
That no ones atheist
That the one who say no god,
Idolize the symbols of deceit.

A New York Worshiper;
Worshiping the streets.

John Morris is a sixteen-year-old student currently undergoing his GSCE’s in the UK. He lives in the county of Cambridgeshire and writes constantly. Read more of Morris’ writing at WritersCafe.org.

Once upon a time I was a little girl.
Very little.
Five.
It was a Sunday night.
We were at Church.
That’s were it usually happens.
At Church.
Even at a young age.

I don’t remember much.
The sermon, the people, the songs.
All I remember is when we went to pray…
To talk, I knew, with God.
Every head bowed to pray.
Like always.
It’s just what you do.
But I didn’t.
Not that night.

I paused.
I thought for a bit.
I turned my head up towards the ceiling, my eyes opened wide and searching.
My mother looked over and said a hasty “bow your head”.
I obeyed.
But still I thought…at five I puzzled…

Why do we look down?
Why do we close our eyes?
When I’m talking to God I want to look up, into his face.
I want to see if He’s looking and listening back.
How can you talk to someone if you don’t look them in the eye?
Does He like that when we turn our face away and close our eyes and murmur?

The prayer ended.
But still I thought.
Why don’t we let God see our face?

Are we afraid?

Caitlin R. is just a simple girl, with pen in hand, trying desperately to understand her world.

What is creation?……A failure

What is life?……A bore

What is man?……A fraud

What is woman?……A fraud and a bore

What is beauty?……A deception

What is love?……A disease

What is marriage?……A mistake

What is a wife?……A trial

What is a child?……A nuisance

What is the devil?……A fable

What is good?……Hypocrisy

What is evil?……Detection

What is wisdom?……Selfishness

What is happiness?……A delusion

What is friendship?……Humbug

What is generosity?……Imbecility

What is money?……everything

What is everything……nothing

Were we, perhaps, not happier
when we were monkeys? -Edward Ward in The Scrap Book (1899)

From the editor: Where do you want to be when you’re done with this life and go on to the next?
New lyrical Prose from Emily Wilson.

When I am Gone and Dead and Done

When I am gone and dead and done. Burn the body I once knew and loved and hated and broke. Spread the ashes before god, and the angels, and heaven. May all my particles reach that big place in the sky someday. When I am gone and dead and done. Think of this and know where my soul resides. When I am gone and dead and done. I’ll find the places where we first fell in love. I’ll find the first faces we knew. I’ll find the places where this adventure called life first began.

When I am gone and dead and done. They say when you are born the first person you ever fall in love with is your mother. A little after you’re yanked out of that squishy warm waterbed called a womb into some doctor’s cold hands. They spank the bottoms of your feet, clean you up, and you’re back. Back into the arms that cradled you when you were still inside her warm belly. Back and safe and loved. You open your eyes, big and black and you see her. She’s gone through 9 months of misery and several hours of hell. And there you are. Beautiful love.

When I am gone and dead and done. I’ll want to watch this love, this love transfer. Three babies are born every second and I’ll want to watch as many births as possible. I’ll move from hospital to hospital, broken down car to broken down car, flooded home to flooded home. Praying for nothing but love for those babies.

Emily Wilson is from Small Town, Virginia and gets bored easily. She’s hoping to get a novel published in 2010.

At six o’ clock both sides of Main Street were lined with vehicles. Unusual for a Sunday night during Winter Break. Sid and I were on our way to meet my girlfriend Emily at Swany’s Tavern to get a few beers and some onion rings before heading to the 242 Club. There was a hardcore band from Providence playing that night called Big Sausage. I had heard that they were banned from a club in Boston because the lead singer set his pubic hair on fire as part of the encore. Obviously we figured this would be a fun band to see. Besides, what else is there to do on a Sunday night in oh-so-exiting Burlington, Vermont.

“Christ.” I glanced over at Sid, who was drumming on the dashboard. “Why the hell can’t I find a parking spot?”

“There’s a concert at the Flynn Theatre. Three or four hippie jam bands I think.”

“Jesus Christ, the damn hippies took all the parking spots,” I said.

“Ross, just park at the bank. You won’t get towed on a Sunday,” Sid said.

“I could park at the bank, but I really don’t feel like walking six blocks to Swany’s. It’s raining, and it’s fucking cold out. Plus my spikes will be ruined. Hair glue doesn’t hold up too well in the rain.”

“You and your damn liberty spikes,” Sid said.

“Shit, I was in a good mood. Now I’m pissed,” I said. “And it’s all because of the fucking hippies and their preachy bumper-stickered Volkswagens.

“Why are you so hostile toward hippies Ross? They’re generally nice people, a bit smelly, but at least they’re friendly.”

“I hate them. How long have you know me? They are the one group of humans I can honestly say I hate without feeling one bit of remorse. I hate the original hippies from the 60′s and I hate the young, retro, poser hippies of today. I hated Jerry Garcia, the king of the hippies. I hate their music, I hate their fashion, I hate their politics and I hate their pointless causes. I especially hate the names hippies give their children, like Sunshine, Sky, Peace, and Moon Unit. Fucking losers.”

“Wow, if I didn’t know you any better I would say you are prejudiced,” Sid said with a smirk. “C’mon now Ross, smile on your brother. Everybody get together. Try to love one another.”

“I love people, jackass. I would never judge an individual based on his or her race, religion, national origin, sexual orientation, or gender. But hippies are not given this consideration. They are hippies by choice. And they have no purpose in this world except to be the object of my derision.”

“Wow Ross, derision. I’m impressed. Big words for a crusty street punk.”

Having no other options, I parked my trusty Chevy Nova at the bank lot. I took off my coat and my scarf and left them in the back seat. I could have used them for the six block trek, but I hate being confined to a lot of extra clothing and accessories in a hot, sweaty, people-packed punk club. And I never like to hang my stuff on the coat racks because you never know if it will be waiting for you when you leave. So I would make do with my thin black hoodie. Sid didn’t bother bringing a coat. He was wearing what he always wears: a plain white t-shirt and jeans rolled up well past his ankles.

It was unseasonably warm that evening, probably in the mid-40 degree range, but the cold drizzle made for incredibly uncomfortable walk. I could feel the raindrops hitting the tips of my red spikes and slowly creeping down to my otherwise bald scalp. I looked over at Sid and he had a huge grin on his face.

“I’m singin’ in the rain,” Sid sang. “Just singin’ in the rain.” He grabbed a freshly lit street-light post and danced around it like the bastard that he is. “What a glorious feeling. I’m happy again!”

He looked at me for a reaction. I couldn’t hold back my smile, which, in his mind, was a cue to continue.

“I’m laughing at clouds. Sing with me Ross buddy,” Sid sang in his best finger-snapping, toe-tapping lounge singer vibrato. He jumped off the sidewalk into a puddle on the street, making a dramatic splash, dousing his bare ankles, then looked towards the dark spitting clouds with arms outstretched. “I’m going to a punk show with a …smile on my face.”

I started walking again, leaving Sid to be admired by the passersby. He performed a final promenade around the light post and caught up to me.

“So tell me, my hippie-hating friend,” Sid began. “If a crunchy, stinky hippy found the cure for cancer or AIDS, would you change your views? Or, how about this one: If a hippy saved your life, say, if he pulled you out of a fire, would you begin to appreciate hippies?”

“If a hippie found the cure for AIDS, I would praise the deed but still condemn the hippie. If a hippie pulled me out of a fire I would thank him, and I might even hug the stinky bastard; however, this would be a tough call, and would be a function of just how close to death I was when the hippie saved me. Yet I would walk away hating him, probably even more now because I would be in eternal debt to a hippie. If I am ever stranded on a deserted island with a dead hippie and he’s the only source of food, I’d rather die of starvation than eat a dead hippie.”

Sid Laughed. “So, let me get this straight Ross. What you’re trying to say is that you hate hippies?”

“The hippie ideal is supposed to be rooted in non-conformity to and rebellion against the status quo.” I tend to get preachy on this subject. “Yet the mere act of growing long and unkempt hair, donning retro-60′s hippie clothes, and listening to the Grateful Dead or Phish or any of the other god awful crunchy jam bands is conformity to a tired, boring, and utterly stupid culture much worse than the status quo.”

“Speaking of conformity to a stupid culture,” Sid said. “Your spikes are looking pretty pathetic right about now.”

“Yeah, fuck it.” I brushed my hand across what was left of my spikes, crunching them down to my scalp. “I’m gonna run back to the car to get my beanie.”

“Good idea, your hair is starting to look like dreads. Almost, god forbid, hippie-esque! I’ll meet you at Swany’s bro.”

“All right man.” I lit a cigarette. “Tell Emily I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Sid flashed me the peace sign. I flipped him the bird.

I retrieved the beanie from my glove box, pulled it over my head to conceal the sticky mess, and started jogging back toward Swany’s. I was actually in a good mood again for some reason. I couldn’t wait to see my sweet Emily. I wondered if her spikes were lucky enough to survive the rain. I wondered what she was wearing. She surely wouldn’t be wearing her leather mini and fishnets in this weather. God, there’s nothing sexier than a hot punk chick

I picked up the pace of my jog and playfully splashed my shit kickers into every puddle that approached. I even found myself humming “Singin’ in the Rain”. Thanks a lot Sid.

Up ahead, about a block before my destination, there was a tightly packed crowd on the sidewalk, stretching the entire block. Ah yes, the hippies were waiting in front of the Flynn Theatre. I was hoping to pass right through the herd without being sucked into the swirling cesspool of patchouli stench, henna tattoos, dreadlocked heads, hacky sacks, hemp necklaces, pot smoke, and body odor. And there they were in all their glory, waiting peacefully for the doors to open. Many sitting on the cold, wet pavement, smiling at the beauty of the world.

I started walking through the throng—looking straight ahead, one foot in front of the other, stepping over outstretched limbs—when I felt someone tug at my pant leg.

“What the…”

“Hey I’m dying for a cigarette,” the childlike voice said. “You think I could bum one?”

I looked down and saw her sitting on the sidewalk with her back against the outer wall of the Flynn. Her big green eyes looked into mine with such sincerity that I couldn’t refuse her request. I shifted my gaze to my hoodie pocket and pulled out a fresh cigarette. She reached up for it, brushing my hand with her small fingers, and I instinctively took a drag from mine.

“Thank you so very much. I’ve been dying for one all afternoon,” she said. The rain started coming down more steadily. My heart was beating to the rhythm.

“I have these jello shots here that I’m selling for two dollars each,” she said with a smile. “But I’ll give you one for free.”

I took the clear plastic cup and slurped the sweet, orange, jiggling libation. The aftertaste was of bitter, bottom-shelf vodka. I looked down towards the sidewalk, and found her staring up at me with those eyes. She was wearing a sleeveless patchwork dress that clung to her skin from the rain. I’m sure her ass must have been soaked.

“Are you going to the show?” she smiled up at me. “I can’t wait. You can party with us if you want.”

“Oh no, no, no, not me,” I defended myself. “I’m going to see a punk band at 242. You should come. I heard the singer lights his pubes on fire. Anyways, I’m getting wet. I have to get going. Thanks for the booze.”

“Well, have fun,” she smiled and waved goodbye.

Walking away I glanced back. She took one more drag and stomped out the cigarette with her shoe. I did the same.

Finally, I arrived at Swany’s. There was Emily, beautiful Emily, waiting for me at the bar with Sid. She was wearing her ‘Fuck Everything’ top and plaid bondage pants. Her spikes looked phenomenal. She was wearing black lipstick so I gave her a kiss on her cheek. I sat down in front of the PBR that was waiting for me.

“Sorry I’m late my love,” I said. “I had a hard time getting through the crowd in front of the Flynn Theatre.”

“Oh, you mean the hippie show? I can smell them all the way from here,” she said.

Todd Hebert is the founder of Not About Religion. He is neither a hippy, nor a punk.

The day I gave up on religion
I saw the Lord clearly.

Most thought I had lost my faith
when I closed the Holy Books and I left “His House”.
But they did not see where I headed to,
nor did they know from where I came.

I never did buy the Books for full price
nor thought that any were worth MSRP,
but they did help me grow
and they entertained me.

I took serenity from Taoism,
it’s a bit of who I am
took humility from Jesus
and the mono from Islam

(these values but a token)

As I closed the last Book
my soul was most open to
the natural laws of nonexistant writ…
not a myth, not a myth,
I felt the Lord love me forthwith.

I believe in One God.
(whose Form(s) I could not limit)
And only in God.
Of this I have Faith,
of the rest I’m in doubt.
Perhaps I may be be wrong
But it’s about as close as I can get
to complete honesty with my Lord.

I love life because God loves me.
I don’t believe I’d be thrown
into a hay stack to find a microscopic needle
of a “truth”, and be punished if I’m not so lucky.

I’ve read the Books; words all “sent down by God”.
This they say, but at the end of an honest day
Paper will be paper, and ink ink.
Stories will be stories, and messages messages
limits will be limits and brinks brinks,

histories histories, presages presages.

Only God is God.

here lie no flaws, here lie no paradox.

I closed the dusty Books
The day I gave up on Religion,
they died with evanescence…

the dust that blew in the air
became the Lord’s presence.

From the author: I wrote this piece after reading The Tao of Pooh. It helped me shed my layers of blind faith and complex religious beliefs. Honesty and Simplicity: the result. Much like Socrates, all I know is that I know “nothing”. I just live to be the best I can be; encouraging others to do the same.

An ancient and abandoned church. From the outside it is an old, rotting, wooden building from an age long gone where men built their own houses and their own churches. But inside light comes through the windows and the holes and lights up the dust so if, by chance, a passerby looked in he might think the air was thick with fairies and magic. The silence inside is broken only by the hum crickets and the babble of a nearby stream. Then three children enter the church and, suddenly, the spell is broken.

“I don’t believe it. I just don’t,” said Jonathan. He wasn’t the brightest of our group; all of us but him had already moved passed the denial stage.

“Oh, come on you idiot. He used us. Just get over it,” said Sid. He was, perhaps, the brightest of us. But he was angry all the time, and it was almost like he was angry at the whole world. For what, I have no idea.

“Like you’ve gotten over it? We only just found out, give him some time Sid,” I said.

“Why? ‘Respect others’ that was something he taught us, right? Everything he taught us is meaningless, just a cover. I don’t have to listen to it anymore.”

“It wasn’t meaningless. He was the only one who ever taught me anything worth learning,” said Jonathan. I looked away.

“Oh really? Did he teach you how to stab someone in the back too?” said Sid.

“No!” Jonathan shot back. “He taught me compassion, he taught me that everyone has a reason, that not everyone is selfish, he taught me the world is a bigger place.”

Sid scoffed, “Not everyone is selfish? Yes they are. Just because people have reasons doesn’t mean they’re not selfish. The only true reason anyone does anything is because they want something. I want to get up in the morning, so I do. I want money, so I go to work. I want companionship, so I have a wife. I want to live, so I live. I want to die, so I die. It’s all just self-serving bullshit! No one really cares about anything.”

“Don’t say that…” said Jonathan. Poor Jonathan, he just couldn’t keep up with Sid.

“Even if that’s true,” I said, “Isn’t that something he taught us as well? To think for ourselves, to come to our own conclusions, to find to our own answers?”

“Our own answers? Haven’t you been listening? There are no answers, not to anything. Right and wrong are opinions; people can justify anything if they try hard enough. Since there can never be an answer, why even look? It’s all pointless.”

“You might be right, but I can’t just give up on the world. Even if all my answers are personal and selfish, I’m still going to keep asking,” I said.

“Why? What possible reason is there?” Sid replied.

“Because,” I said, “I believe, no, I know that there are answers out there.”

Sid laughed, “You, ha…ha, you can’t possibly be talking about God…can you?”

“Not God, no. Or, maybe God, I’m not sure,” I really wasn’t. “I just know there is an answer.”

“Yeah,” said Jonathan. “You’re right, I know it.”

Sid laughed scornfully at us again, “Who even cares? ‘The answer’ doesn’t exist, and even if it did, who even wants to know? When you know the secrets of the world, then what? Nothing. The sooner you realize it, the better.”

“Realize what? That everything is pointless? Walk around like you’re condemning everything because, by its nature, it’s pointless?” I said.

“That would be a start. At least get rid of all the crap ‘he’ taught us.”

“Would you stop saying that!” said Jonathan.

“Get rid of all he taught us? But, Sid, he taught us how to think.” I said.

“So what? Thanks for that, but he stabbed us in the back, and the two of you still treat him like some kind of God! I hate him,” spat Sid.

“I…I know that he tricked us and used us,” said Jonathan. “But he taught us too, and he never promised to be perfect. He never promised us anything. All of our expectations were things we created. If he was on a pedestal as a God, then we put him there. I’m going to forgive him and I think you both should too.”

I looked at Jonathan, stunned. But Sid just scoffed yet again,

“Why should I? Forgiveness is just word people made up to make themselves feel better about the ‘bad’ things they’ve done. If I do something bad, I can be forgiven and the bad thing will go away? Like it could actually erase the past. Forgiveness doesn’t change anything,” said Sid

Then I got it. “You stupid idiot,” I said to Sid, “Forgiveness isn’t just for the guilty. If you forgive someone for the all bad things they did to you, it means you don’t have to carry those bad things anymore.”

Jonathan smiled at me. It seemed I had gotten it right.

“I’m going to forgive him too. I think you should also, Sid. At least you won’t have to carry that weight anymore if you do,” I said.

Sid seemed to be breaking down. His whole body shivered violently as if he were freezing. He choked and swallowed, and then a single tear fell from his eye and rolled down his cheek. As it fell from his cheek and into the air I thought it looked like gold in the sunlight. Among the thousands of tinny dust particles in the sun it looked like a golden king.

How had we met “him?” By chance. One day, while playing carelessly in the woods, we came across this old church. And inside was a man, a man with a broken arm in a makeshift splint. He had asked weakly for food and water. So we had gotten him some. As he ate, he had started to speak to us. Such things he said, we had never before heard or thought. We came again and again and he talked and talked and we learned from him and he taught us. He taught us about love and loss, about life and death, about reality and dreams. And through this we learned to think. Then he started asking for things other than food. A little money, some jewelry, a watch, a knife; by then we trusted him completely. Then one day, he was gone. After that, exactly one week after he had left, we saw him again.

We had been in a convenience store and he had been robbing it. Jonathan had recognized him even with his mask.

“Hey, what, what are you doing?” he asked terrified. He looked at Jonathan, then at all of us.

“I’m sorry,” he’d said. And in his eyes I had seen real pain, but at the time, that pain had not been enough for me.

“I…I can forgive him,” Sid said wiping his eyes. He smiled, “If it’s what you assholes really want.”

I smiled back at him. Jonathan was smiling too. After that, we got up one by one and filed out of the old church and into the brilliant day that awaited us outside. Behind us the sun came in still, oblivious to the three of us and our troubles. In the sun the fairies danced, and on the floor lay the tear king, still shining weakly and throwing out presumed light across the floor.

Thomas Storey lives in South Lake Tahoe, California, where he was raised, with his family and a goldfish. In his free time, he attends the local community college and studies English among other things.