GOD

It’s all the same trip man!!!


One of the things that was lacking in any of my previous relationships was God. When I refer to God, I am referring to energy, not religion. When we consider that we all have our own belief about the cosmos, life, and death we tend to find we either find ourselves part of a large majority taking part in a human created religion or we find ourselves on a more spiritual path. Neither is incorrect or correct but mere paths. How often when we date do we consider how our partner matches with us spiritually? My guess, especially when it comes to dating in Los Angeles, rarely. Why not? Why do we not think about the presence of God, or the lack of God in our romantic lives? On the average each of us individually prays hundred of times each day, whether we know it or not.

Some examples are:

If that light would turn green.
I hope she/he likes.
I wish I were not as sick.
Jesus, the fucking Portuguese.
God let me have this one thing and I will be a better person.

It might not appear to be a prayer, but when we say these things to ourselves we are really calling on a higher force to intervene, calling on that energy. This is prayer. When confronted with death or taxes we especially take the time to call on God to save us, deliver us, or make us better. You can use the word energy, Buddha, Mohammed, Christ, Mickey Mouse for that matter in place of God; they can all mean the same thing according to what you believe. Even atheist pray, they just do it in the form of wishing.

So if we all at some level have prayer, and at some level we have spirituality then why is this not something we look to connect with in our relationships. I know from my past failed relationships, and I am thinking of everyone of them. The one thing that was missing was God. Coming to agreement between my partner and myself that we were blessed to have met one another. The agreement in what ways the universe, cosmos, or God works in our daily lives. As I have found in my meditation and journeys, I came to realize I am God, not a God, not the God, but just God. By saying it as such I connect myself to being, which was never absent of being connected with God. Even when we fail to notice God/Energy in our lives it is still there. I believe when we reconnect with God we are merely reconnecting with ourselves and every other living thing in this universe.

Recently I met a young energetic woman who for the first time, made me realize how important it is to have God/Goddess connection in a relationship. Not just about connecting you to the divine inside you, but as a couple connecting to that energy together, inside both of you. This made me think back on my past relationships that have worked and still do. They work because we both recognize there was God inside each of us. The first that comes to my mind is my father, the first man to show me unconditional love. I was able to allow him to be my father and teacher because we allowed God in each of us to reconnect. We reconnect because as we make this journey into this life or manifestation of life, we sometimes forget how connected we truly are to God/Goddess.

As complicated as it may sound to reconnect to God or Goddess, and I say Goddess now as there is no difference between the two words, it is all energy. I am God who worships Goddess. Yes, even God or Goddess worship, as we worship, God worships us because in the great words of Ram Das, “It’s all the same trip, man!” It is all the same. Reconnecting is merely recognizing inside each of us, there is God/Goddess.

It makes me believe in love at first sight even more so, because I am now starting to understand that love at first sight really does exist. It is not about giving your heart to someone on the first date, or first encounter. It is that moment when you encounter God/Goddess in someone and they the same in you. You both reconnect to that energy at the same time. This is powerful, as you see God/Goddess in the other and you reconnect to that energy which we are all part of. An infinite pool…

As my father/mentor/teacher/student/God has told me over and over, you will just know. You know by just being on that level of pure energy or pure God/Goddessness. Being you from the inside out.

The sleeper awakens at many strange times of the day; the key is to stay awake because sleeping on this level or existence you will surely miss this wonderful dream called life.

So we reconnect to know ourselves, to know that God/Goddess is love, and to give love to another being is to share God/Goddess or reconnect to your very self. We are droplets of the same energy that find each other in this world to realize they are part of a much larger lake of energy, the same energy, the same trip called Life.

Violated on all fronts

Violated on all fronts. I heard the smacking sound of the latex glove as it went on his hand; this was followed by a quick swoop sound in the bucket of lubrication that was kept in some freezer. They like for you to pucker from the cold as they take that index finger and…

Moments earlier I was intrigue at my first visit to the Urologist. Considering I am only months away from being thirty and being in a waiting room full of geriatric men. Well…what was I doing here? I thought. Could I be getting older than before? The idea that I too was starting to decay at a faster rate entered my mind. How could this be I contemplated. I remember just yesterday I was doing my first hit of MDMA, or the night I first has sex in the backseat of my car. Was it that long ago? Had I grown up too fast as I looked down at my arm to look at my ink. Jesus!!! I screamed, realizing the ink on my arm, my first sleeve, had been there for twelve years. My god, I was eighteen when I had my first professional ink done.

Each morning as I looked in the mirror I had started to notice the white hairs on my head. Thinking how cute it was. Was it stress or wisdom that put them there? My youthful look was starting to feel the ages of time, the crows feet slowly starting to set in, more light sensitivity in my hazel eyes, and now I found myself realizing I was getting older as the doctor ask me to pull down my pants so he could fondle my private area. “No daddy no! I was thankful he was not some deprived Portuguese bastard who was seeking revenge on some poor half naked Italian for the outcome of the Copa Mundial (World Cup). I could feel the doctor squinting his eyes at me, or was it because he was Asian? The statement that nothing appears to be too abnormal was a relief as the doc was still in shock from the size of the ring I bore threw the head of my royal member. Too abnormal? I find that my normality is everyone else’s abnormality, but the doc didn’t need to know that.

I began to pull up my pants when I heard, Wait! Now I need you to bend over. Was this a question or a demand? I looked around the exam room searching for some flowers and candy, wanting to make sure this doc was a true gentleman. Nothing! As I felt that frost bitten index finger enter my tight…He ignored the sign that said, Exit Only and when straight for the prostate, which I had intended to be enjoyable. I was rudely mistaken. As fast as he went in he pulled out, the method most men prefer.

The next few hours I wondered around Hollywood waiting for the sensation from the cold to come back into my…. Violated on all fronts! No dinner, no kisses or candy, not even the gentle spooning I so desire after intimacy. No the doc was a professional, no games here. Professionals don’t kiss, God Damnit! Remembering a few Vegas ranches I had herded cattle before, however only good times for those who violate us poor innocent souls on all fronts. Final Diagnosis? Acute pain in my ass.

The Return of Q

The Return of the Q;

The piece was “BallCourt”. Inspired by the ancient Aztec ballcourt game and the modern Chicano handball courts of today, which are located in East LA. This mixing of the past and the present is a clear reminder that our antique customs and traditions are still very much alive in the things we do today. Rarely in the past would the Aztec or Mayan ballplayers want to lose a game, as it was an honor to win and be sacrificed for the continuation of the world and still today the winners sacrifice blood and sweat and the losers sacrifice only their pride. The shape of the courts have changes, the rubber balls have shrunken in size, however the spirit remains. Do these Chicanos, these Vatos Locos de la Calle know that they carry this tradition in their sangre, blood? Do they hear the sounds the caracole announcing the game or the black obsidian blades being sharpened? Or is it the sounds of gunshots and police sirens that have replaced those sensations?

The event was launching the Internet version of the Los Angeles Journal, a local publication that focuses on the arts, media, sports, and breaking news. Freedom of speech and the press run high in the blood of everyone who works for this Zine. Sleek, talented with sexy sophistication on the faces of those I spoke with as I watched each person look at Ballcourt. As they were looking and wanting to touch the texture and color on the small yet very powerful 16x20 inch piece, I could not help but feel alive in ways I had not felt in almost two years. Comments either negative or positive were welcome although it was all positive and the only thing that ever offends is “It is very interesting” in which case I always respond, “What is interesting about it?” The idea is to make you thing outside your suburban mindset. Scratching my ass at four am is interesting, looking at art should invoke hatred, love, or every other emotion in-between or just simple honesty, such as “I don’t like it, I don’t care for it, or I just don’t fucking get it!!!”

My rant has to end, three years of wicked sin, and a year and a half of being emotionally whipped, which we don’t talk about, but I am feeling much better. The last six months were nothing but a blur as I traveled from East LA to London and back while making stops along the way to secure the future of my loin, My Arte.

I stood there in the gallery and wondered some. Looking at each individual, as they sat, walked, chatted and mingled. The highlight was listening to the violinist play as I had my back towards him starring at my piece, my one 16x20 return to the scene. Chekhov I believe he was playing, and the sound of that sweet stringed woman tickled my ears and the art in front of me, my eyes. Only an hour later would I be looking at the same piece hearing a live punk band, Lokomotive, play and again my ears and eyes were elated.

Feeling the need for fresh air I walk outside to the sidewalk where I felt the need to talk with the man who inspired my return to writing. A sidekick and a partner in crime, thank god he is not Portuguese and even if he were I would still call him my brother. It had been sometime and I needed to share this day with friends. Which later was shared with Mommy and Daddy, the two people who take care of me on these adventures but more than often its Mommy that ends up taking care of Azulito and Little Ricky on our drunken tours of Vegas or Hollywood, goddamn the tangents.

Standing on Santa Monica Blvd. in front of the gallery talking to family was bliss as I knew my artwork was hanging for the first time in the City of Hollywood only to be shocked, yes I shocked as when having a dirty old man, and I mean dirty dirty old man, pull up in his Range Rover in front of me and offer me two crisp Ben Franklins to jerk off. I felt dirty even looking at the poor bastard as this was something not even my perverse mind would have thought of happening. It could have been my middle finger or the fresh bottled water I threw at him, hitting his left temple that made him drive away at speeds the autobahn has not seen, I am sure the poor soul got ticketed just blocks away, however by the end of the day I would not have changed a thing. Especially the red head with the hour glass figure, or the .. umm, well the French Market, but this is all to sudden to write about. What time was it?

It was the time I realized the event was sound, the people polite and concerned, and the artwork diverse and powerful. The return was, well…

The day was the return to my root, my hands reaching into the dirt, into the earth, into that mother of ours. It was my fingers grabbing hold of my being and massaging it back to life, and giving it light and love. The day was the return to god, to source, to that energy I call my own, it was the return to the Blue Q.

Isobel and Her Broken Heart

Once upon a time there was a precious young girl, Isobel, who loved with all her heart and had an imagination that could dream of just about anything. She would dance around in the yard and smell the beautiful roses. She was a young and vibrant child. She was so full of life and love.

Till one day; she wanted to share the love in heart and the beauty of the roses she smelt with the woman she loved the most, her mother. She gently picked a the right rose that she thought her mom would love from the bush being sure not to damage any of the other beautiful roses. Into the house she ran and up the stairs with such to delight, only to stop at the top with fear as she saw the anger in her mother’s sight. Her mother grabbed the rose that Isobel had picked and tossed it in the trash yelling, screaming and beating the Isobel till she bleed and could cry no more. The mother blamed the young girl for ruining the entire rose bush because of the one flower she picked. She said to young Isobel, that all the roses were now ugly and would wither away. The mother was so upset at her daughter for picking the flower she never stopped to realize the flower was for her, a simple and pure gesture of love. Young Isobel soon became fearful of any rose she saw; even the smell of them would make her sad and tearful.

This event is not only set Isobel on a downward spiral but is an analogy for everything else in her life that was painful.

With every magical thing she tried to do it was either shot down or taken away from her, and as a result it made her immovable. She, at a very young age started to mature and build her wall of protection around her. Unfortunately this wall of protection also became her sour venom. She would learn to make any man fall in love only to abandon him so he would feel and understand her completely the pain she carried in her broken heart.

Ironically as much as she tried to close herself off to the world and hid the true her, the actions in the end makes it more than clear who she really is.

A hurtful little girl who is too afraid to let go of her pain, and consequently she hurts those in her path. Calling herself a survivor with a victim mentality, the abused has become the abuser. Instead of roses she takes the hearts that are offered to her and tosses them in the trash, only to blame the men who do so, as it is their fault for offering in the first place.

The lesson here is to never give your heart to anyone; it is yours to be shared. Giving your heart to anyone you place the expectation they will love you the way you want to be loved, but in reality this only gives them control and plenty of opportunity to make your expectations become disappointments.

Learn to share your heart, but with wisdom and not expectation.

For what its worth:

For what its worth, which to some is more valuable yet might be nothing at all to others.

I know when I tell my mom I love her, it is priceless, however if I were to tell an ex-girlfriend, or an enemy it would mean nothing even if the intent in saying it has the meaning of being as priceless as telling my mother.

For some the value of words can only have as much collateral as the actions that either precede or follow those words.

For some there exist a love that is so unconditional and true that just knowing what they feel for you is enough. No words or actions you may do, say, or break will change the way they feel for you. Their love for you just is and always will be. There is no value, because value is not needed and the only wish in their love is the very best for you.

Imagine a love that needs no words, no actions, it just is. Can we call that god? If we are made in the image of god, we are godlike, because we are god. As Dr. Wayne Dyer says, “I am a Devine creation. All creation has purpose. I am here to be like God.” And being like god is purpose.

If god is divine, then the source of divinity god is. And if created to be like the image of god, we too are divine and a source of divinity.

How we access this divinity, or as some might say reconnect to the source. Because when we access divinity we are reconnecting with god.

You can feel free to replace the word god with Buddha, Mohammed, Jesus, Confucius, Don Juan Matis, Tonanztin, Jehovah, or even the word Energy. It its the same thing. As Ram Dass would say “It’s the same trip, man.”

Examples:
If Jesus is divine, then the source of divinity Jesus is. And if created to be like the image of Jesus, we too are divine and a source of divinity.

Or

If Energy is divine, then the source of divinity Energy is. And if created to be like the image of Energy, we too are divine and a source of divinity.

The focus is how we connect and sometimes have to reconnect to source, and how we stay connected to our source.

If we remember that our words and actions have the potential to be divine, to have that much more meaning, then perhaps we can be mindful of the things we say and do. Even when god speaks to us either in spirit, signs or divine intervention we either choose to listen or not depending on how much we value the words or actions of god.

In recognizing our own divinity we reconnect with a direct line to god, to our source of inspiration and love. By doing so our words and actions perhaps have value, the importance is not whether or not others see the value, but if we ourselves recognize this being unique godlike creatures. Then we will understand there is no need to place value on our words or actions. They alone are transcendent.

On Feminine Irony:

I remember the first and last time an ex-girlfriend accused me of cheating. I felt sad that she would ask me in the first place, but a sense of responsibility and a lack of self worth. I thought to myself, “What did I do to make this women think this way of me?” Although the answers at the time were obvious (A He Said She Said thing), I knew in my heart I had not cheated on her, even though she could of convinced a jury otherwise. I would have been sentenced on her passionate testimony alone, and I would have been alone in my cell the only one knowing the truth.

(tangent)
I have always been a flirtatious man, appropriate and sometimes inappropriately. That is my nature, it is a characteristic and in my opinion has nothing to do with loyalty or fidelity.

So I was taken by surprise recently when a woman I had been dating asked me if I had a girlfriend. On the first or second date I could have seen this as an appropriate question, however after having been dating for a period of time I was shocked. I immediately asked her why, and she replied that I had not tried to fuck her.

This was amusing; simply put I was accused of cheating when I wasn’t and accused (more liked asked) if I had a girlfriend when in fact I did not.

On relationships:

There seems to be some strange force at work in this universe that is constantly giving us signs of what we need to do, and if for some reason we do not listen to them, then we can only blame ourselves for our own stupidity.

On the Madonna Syndrome:

I realized there is a fine line men sometimes have to walk. As men, we will fuck anything that moves and when in relationships that we are truly committed to, if not careful we can suffer the Madonna syndrome. Meaning we hold a woman on such a level we are very slow if not stopping all together when approaching the topic or act of sexual intimacy. The thought of sexual intimacy with someone we love so much can appear to be sinful. Men can sometimes make the mistake of placing their girlfriends or wives on the same pedestal they hold their mothers and sisters to. Even if men have had terrible relationships with their mothers they can still place their lovers on a pedestal based on his fantasy or thoughts of what his relationship should have been like with his mother.

Madonna syndrome: Where your partner becomes not a lover but a symbol of pureness and divinity. The side effects of treating a woman this way can result in a terrible intimate life and a loss of respect on behalf of the woman towards her partner.

Moderation in everything! Men should remember even though they love their women, not all the time does a terrible sex life represent someone who is infected with the Madonna Syndrome. Women too, have concerns that sometimes we will never know about. Women can fall in love with the man, and not the sex, or a woman could be physically frigid, but emotionally sexual.
Remember there is a time and place for the diversity of sexual acts that can take place, but you can never go wrong with fucking your girlfriend or wife hard, I mean truly fucking pounding her, pulling her hair, gently biting her nipples, rubbing her clit (remember not to hard), while giving her tender sweet kisses that tell her you love her with all your heart.

Puppy dog tails and pretty things...

Puppy dog tails and pretty things. NO really...I love chocolate, moves, art, poetry, books ( l love collecting books en espanol favor). Oh and I love to be pampered, massages, gifts, and wet kisses. Oh I love to do the same. My computer, Iam a nerd.

Fresh off the bus, no I crossed the Rio Grande.. Ok so I drove to Los Angeles. I not into clubbing or crowded places but I enjoy a good meal, a good movie, art opening, cafe, beach, I mean I am casual and I want to explore those places for chill.

Conquest and capitalism, and a few other poetry books because I love to write myself. Not many people are into poetry, but I love it. Just love it. I am currently reading Loteria Chicana by Jose Antonio Burciaga. I love any book by Carl Segean, Contact, love it. Anything related to Chicano Studies, Travel, or the arts as well.

I believe that work should never be that, work. By blood I am an Artist, Poet and Philosopher, so support that desire I work coordinating HIV prevention programs and education so that being part of the community which inspires my artwork.

Call me Pocho, Weto, or Ginny but do not call me Hispanic, nor hispun nic, or Latino. Soy Chicano and Italian both of my bloods rich and beautiful and are celebrated equally.