So what if it’s far enough away on the calendar to birth a baby? It is one, really… I’ve worked with the prolific and dedicated artists at The Phoenix Theatre Ensemble over many years. In fact, their predecessor, The Jean Cocteau Repertory, was the theatre where I worked my very first professional theatre gig in New York, as Anubis, the Egyptian God of the Dead in Jean Cocteau’s “The Infernal Machine,” how many ages ago??!! I mean look at that guy above! What was he, twelve?!!
Then, only just three or four winters ago, I was on stage with several of these same astonishing actors again at a beautiful black box space on the lower West Side called The Wild Project in their production of Tom Stoppard’s “Hapgood.”
They are thespians of integrity and intelligence, and intention, and vision who have known me throughout my entire professional career. They were there when it began. And so I am excited for their announcement today of their 2014-15 rep season, and honored that they have taken an interest in this new work of mine. So, April of 2015 will be “American Moor’s” New York City debut! It could not happen amongst a more nurturing company of artists. You’ll see, if you check out the links, that it’s a short run, (we will be running April 21-25, 2015 and May 5-10, 2015) and The Wild Project, while it could not be more perfect for this piece of theatre, is a small space. So I encourage everyone to put us on their calendar, and reserve their seats early!! You can save money on tickets if you order early. If you’re local to New York, you may want to buy a package so that you can experience all of the remarkable work that The Phoenix Theatre’s coming season has to offer you. Have a look here for ticket packages and discounts.
For single tickets, you can still purchase in advance at the online box office here.
I’m really extremely proud to be a point of focus in the life of this theatre company. And I’m proud of this evolving, and I think rather important work.
Please follow the updates, and join us next spring.by
In my pursuit of my life’s goals, (And where do they come from, by the way? Do we choose to aspire to one thing or another? No. They are in us, like DN-fucking-A.) I have searched for, and attempted to manifest resources to sustain my endeavors. Sometimes they have been there, and other times they have not. In neither case, however, have I ever starved, or been homeless. I have not subsisted for any length of time in destitution, though a sojourn on skid row might have helped since this is where some of the more obvious consciousness pimps say they first heard God speak to them. Oh, the drama! Jackleg preachers do this too. Me, I’ve always been alright; frustrated, yearning, angry, lonely, but alright. So have I always walked in abundance? Maybe.
I have always found something perverse in the idea or the act of petitioning The Universe for something specific, like say a million dollars, or, in the case of Religious Science, Earnest Holmes, Thomas Troward and the like, believing, as they espouse, that I already have it, when I most clearly never have. How much easier for me to believe that there was service to the greater good (And who knows what service really?) but service: a fulfillment of some unrevealed spiritual agenda in the acting out of my various endeavors, and it was exactly that which sustained me. I didn’t say “made me rich,” or even, “made me happy.” But I have somehow been sustained.
Along with understanding “abundance,” it behooves me to adopt similar perspectives on another human invention, “justice.” In fair weather mysticism, the relativity of right and wrong, and in fact, the negation of them as absolutes, is taken as a given (well… taken as a given on days when I’m not feeling wronged, or feeling that I am right about something). But the dialectic that leads us by a circuitous route to that truth and others gives me a headache on any day. I’m a fair weather mystic. I tend to avoid pain if at all possible. The human condition makes us each a little factory producing steaming piles of rationale to serve our human ends, or perceived ends. Very seldom are those ends, in the final analysis, anything surpassing staying alive and comfortable. On the level of Spirit, there is no concept, and so no vocabulary for “comfort,” or for that matter, “alive.” It is simply a function of our physical over our spiritual awareness that measures both abundance AND justice relative to ourselves. I am well. It is my job to know that. As a fair weather mystic, however, I feel no compunction to admit that I know it. It is more satisfying to whine regardless of my awareness.
I sit at the feet of a Master that doesn’t speak my language, or any. Nor has It any cognition of my subjective, earthly experience. It respects only consciousness, which means It respects Itself. I, being of It, or that part of me that is at all truly conscious, or Spirit, It respects as well, and that part of me respects It. Why else would I sit here? However, the other part of me, that which thrives only in the fair weather; thrives on food that feeds not only the body, but the ego, remains restless and looking to intellectualize a plan of action. The “I AM” wanders out seeking other theories to refute; for other fair weather mystics to show their asses. It wanders out knowing that it is not looking for enlightenment, or even truth. It is looking for itself, which is all that it can recognize.by
This “Oneness with God” idea is tricky even in the simplest of terms. Like sitting at The Master’s feet, one can’t really not do it. And yet what it generally comes down to is a measure of the magnitude of mishegas that stands in the way of an awareness that one is, in fact, doing it. And it is surely that measure of magnitude which regulates how much one is actually capable of taking away from the perpetual encounter that will induce, even by fits and starts, anything akin to enlightenment. Many, I dare say most, of the junior partners, if they care to put things in the language of the common man, employing the vocabulary of the body-bound, will tell you that that very lack of awareness is, in fact, madness; that we are all stone crazy in our dis-ease, while everything is, in actuality, simply perfect, or at least (“perfect” being a human invention to name a human perception) as it should be. As a mystic I can buy this. As a fair weather mystic, I’d like to send the monk back to his mountaintop with my sneaker firmly lodged in his butt crack and search on alone. And that very desire, of course, confirms my continued practice in aloneness and separation from God, Source, Spirit, in essence, my anti-oneness while at the same time seeking to be one with. Boy, am I fucked up! Read More →by
We could say a lot when we weren’t busy talking.
We could watch the truth of us like television if we wanted
To trust that much. It’s precious few
Who will undertake to keep safe another’s
Most might commit to being nominally responsible for some portion
Of its contents
Declared and described clearly in the language of wants,
Even while knowing that store of goods, truly assessed,
They can sort of sign on for something that is
Sort of defined,
In denial or
It’s changeable. And if it doesn’t work out,
No harm, no foul. Though it can be noisy and messy.
But a few,
Who trust in their own unspoken voice,
Knowing those meant to hear it will, can be
Somewhat more still, and
Can hear a lover’s heart speaking itself hoarse;
Telling its everything.
For them, there is no worry. Only the obvious. And
It has no words either.
As we age, and as, unwittingly, the wisdom we were born with dissipates and disappears in the inundation of fabricated data that the culture smothers us in which we collect calling it education, we begin to perceive ourselves to be wise. Suddenly, those whose ignorances don’t look particularly like our own appear to us as ignorant. Neither we, nor they are able to recognize that we both remain children, and wise beneath the piles of detritus that growing and interacting in a culture without aware and un-agenda’d elders has required us to operate through.
We are childish, not child-like. We have forgotten what it is to be child-like. We will be more wise, when we can become child-like; lose the sense of our own wisdom once again.by
…at least it is in the rarified form that it is sold to us. When I say the word, does it evoke images of sitting cross-legged on the floor with wrists resting upon your knees, palms turned up with thumbs gently pressing second fingers? I think there are probably only a few thousand people across the entire planet who can actually sit that way in comfort for any period of time. I might be dead wrong about that. I’m dead wrong about most truths, as you are, and every other one of the human species is. But I haven’t met very many who could… But more to the point, whether you’re forcing yourself to maintain uncomfortable postures while you try to achieve a state of nothingness or not, the court stenographer of your life that resides in your brain will begin reading back the transcript as soon as there is nothing more tangible to distract you. This is a process of the human mind. It will not go away. You’re stuck with it until you die. With persistence, you can for moments overcome it, and achieve the stillness where something that might slightly enlighten you lives, maybe… But a truly meditative state, where you have completely turned off all of your mental processes, and you are actually engaging in productive communion with your “inner voice,” or better still, the silence is rare, and highly unlikely. Read More →by
There is a school in Santa Monica, California (Where else would it be?) that offers advanced degrees (advanced as far as they are concerned) in what they call Spiritual Psychology. I sat with them for the better part of the first year of a two year program, again because the part of me that was satisfied with sitting at the Master’s feet was not, and could not be, on speaking terms with the part of me that wasn’t. My brain and body needed something to refute. For some serious money, I got that in spades. This corporation of consciousness peddling sold class jewelry to augment its income to a student body many of whom were eager to buy both its brand of sensibility and symbology (yes, it’s a word, because I said so). I suspect that to those who bought from the table of trinkets at a purported school of advanced spiritual study, the rings and pendants and things where tokens to commemorate their having been to that particular mountaintop, and having communed with the two latter day gurus that abided their. And the gurus spoke their nostrums, codified and specific, from a raised platform to congregations of hundreds at a time, a great many of whom listened and fell in line with an almost cult-like obedience, regurgitating ideology in language verbatim. Such, I think, are the manifestations of the raw panic that we are in, we body-bound, searching for any port in a storm. I watched for the gurus to behave in ways contrary to what they perpetually espoused. They did. I knew they would. After all, they were me, as were the four hundred or so seekers hoping for access to a higher truth, and hoping that higher truth would bring them a better boyfriend, or a bigger income. Perhaps some found it. Some must have. But I had been hoping, in my need, that I would not find myself among them, that the peddlers speaking down from the dais at least, body-bound as they were, would actually be people more of Spirit than of flesh, and that when I watched and listened to them I would not see me. But there I was, stamped all over their insecurity, and inauthenticity, and even in perhaps their lack of awareness that what they were about was anything but perfect. Or was it my lack of awareness? Were they not perfect as it related to me and my spiritual advance? And was I not even a little bit enlightened if I realized just that much? Read More →by
This dumb shit is as old as the scribes and Pharisees. The truth is (and I give it to you for nothing, because it is worth nothing if I give it, but only worth something if you receive it, which might have something to do with why it is called “the received word,” and not “the delivered, dictated, or SOLD word”) most people who are possessed of any real knowledge are not looking to sell it to you. In fact, the very act of putting a price tag on truth nearly guarantees that the peddler has none to sell you, and very little if any true awareness of his/her own.
I had considered Transcendental Meditation for a brief while. It felt to me like something proactive to do, something besides just sit there. Nothing wrong with just sitting per se, one of my most favorite things. Most fair weather mystics will sit and search in more or less equal measure on the path to transcendence, which comes eventually whether they chose to do either, or neither, but only makes you feel like you’ve earned your enlightenment in any egoistic sense if you get up off your ass. The funny thing here is that if you need to feel as if you’ve earned your enlightenment, you are still more or less wholly ego-influenced, which means you haven’t been enlightened at all. Ya gotta laugh at this shit! Anyway, the sitting, as I expressed, particularly if you sit in anticipation of revelation, can, in the least case, strain patience, or, in more acute manifestations become boring to the point of madness where one gets up and runs screaming into the arms of the for-profit gurus simply to break up the monotony, which is more or less what I did on any number of occasions. Frightened by visions of having sat there forever and breathing my last unenlightened breath to the sound of The Master’s derisive laughter, I undertook to “learn” something. Read More →by
I’m nothing but a guru in training, so don’t sweat me on this stuff.
I am forever seated at the feet of The Master. It is a perpetual circumstance. Something like being mentally retarded and not possessing enough proper brain function to wonder, much less deduce why. My supplication at The Master’s feet is not, as many of the bookstore adepts would suggest, an awe-inspiring journey of wonder and discovery. In fact, the awe that it seems to inspire is most often a fascination with how endlessly uninspiring it all is. Read More →by
You will never buy a book written by a truly enlightened person. The closest you may come is a transcript of a talk he/she was giving to someone, or group of someones for free. You will sit, or walk about, and wander through this human experience alone making what use you might of The Master’s presence, or perhaps having no awareness of it at all. But each of ours is a singular experience, and you are “right” just by making a choice, even if your choice is divining how everyone else is “wrong.”
At that Santa Monica school, they were fond of asking, “Would you rather be right, or in the Love?” Since I sit at the feet of The Master, a captive audience of sorts, I figure I am always in the Love. Being that that’s taken care of, I’d like to be right. I am right. But I don’t plan on making a case of it, or changing anybody for it.
According to all of the books and DVD’s all the new-thoughters are selling on quantum theory for dummies, we can power-of-positive-think ourselves right into anything we want. So why then should any of them need to slang books and DVD’s? Well, the argument goes, for those mystics feeling argumentative, “This is a mode to disseminate this information, which is as intrinsic to the creative vision as anything that I have prayed up for myself. What serves all serves me, and visa versa.” I’ll buy that. Though, You-too-can-have-anything-you-desire schemes for the masses are probably a bad bet. The masses never really want world peace, generally speaking. They want a boat. I know I do. There is no cumulative consciousness towards transcendence because there are very few individual ones. Bodies prevent that mostly, which is probably why The Master feeds us this stuff through an eyedropper over multiple lifetimes.
And why a lifetime at all; a body-bound lifetime of reactions and erroneous ideas? A Course in Miracles says we made it all up. It says it about ten million times embedded in page after page of obtuse prose, supposedly the channeled voice of Christ, or the Christ Consciousness. And why not? I read the book. It had to be too hard to write that shit for some fair weather mystic like me to have done it. But anyway, it says we created this illusion of separation from God that we cling to; that our self-imposed sense of separation is as good as actually being separate… The good news is it’s only a sense, and as soon as we chose to stop sensing it we will no longer be separate, but since we sense it, we’re pretty much fucked, because the sense that we’re sensing was being sensed before we were born, so that this is now the cumulative reality, rather than the still and unthreatening Oneness with Spirit that we might have if we weren’t so busy not having it. No one’s fault. Just the unfortunate situation wherein we discover ourselves to have created ourselves with no clue as to how we did it, or how to undo it. See how silly this stuff gets from the get-go? It posits that we are, in fact, One with The Divine, but are too crazy to be aware of it, which is not to say that it will necessarily be any easier to be aware of our oneness once we stop being crazy. In fact, the chances of stopping being crazy are quite slim, and so it might be better to get cozy with the idea that, no matter how One you are, you’re never gonna much experience it in it’s nirvanaesque beatitude. I would suggest that the relative truth of that, if you follow the breadcrumbs, would also make me way too crazy, or practical, to spend the next five or six years trying to digest the impossible and repetitively obscure scribblings in that way too big book when the upshot is that we remain forever at The Master’s feet, probably by design. Didn’t I say that? I said that, didn’t I?by
It’s an Aquarius Full Moon tonight.
Somebody told me that’s what it was, and I saw it, hanging
Bold and unapologizing in the sky, when I let out the dog to do his last of the evening thing.
Being an Aquarius, I suspected that
Ought to have meant something to me. In fact,
I was sure it did. I Googled it and found a lot about it having to do with compassion and
Service and selflessness, yadadayadadayadada. But
For all that,
All I could think of was that
We looked up at it the other night, you and I, and decided that
It wasn’t quite there yet. And that
Later I reached across the cab of the truck and took your hand. Or was it before?
It was like a boy. And
You held my hand, simply, but
As if maybe you know a little something
Of boys, and how they’ll
Sometimes reach across the cabs of trucks on warm nights when
The moon is nearly full,
Putting every one of their fears, frustrations, and doubts into the hope that
There’s just a little love over there. And how they’ll wanna
Weep when they find it; wanna
Hide in it, that
Hand they’re holding, but
They’ve been acting like men too long. Tonight,
It’s an Aquarius Full Moon. I wondered
If you saw it. Then
I wondered where you were.
There is a breed of mystic, the pure ascetic, the 24/7 sadhu that walks through the world with nothing, and, in essence, attempting to be nothing, egoless, an empty vessel. And one of the many things that he, in his life-long practice, has emptied from his vessel of being is fear. The pure ascetic is unconcerned, not that nothing could harm him, but rather what could it matter in the least if something did… However, while this is an attractive state of mind, I think he may also be incapable of appreciating, for instance, the beauty in the work of his own hands. I doubt he would derive any pleasure from the sexual admiration of another seeking his company. For such things as these require some ego.
For each wrung below him on the spiritual ladder I suspect we must take upon us some concern. Worry… I am a fair weather mystic. I want to know with certainty that all is well, and provided for, including me, if not me primarily. But I will not step into nothing to see. It requires too much of me. I am not that disciplined. My bliss remains preconceived. It is of something that I already recognize. To hold and defend those preconceptions is of the ego; of my ability to say what is. I needn’t defend them. In fact, I know they are the height of bullshit. Yet I have them. To have them is probably of ego too, but could it be of less ego? Could I be slightly enlightened to know that all I act from is human, because I AM?
I am a fair weather mystic. I know that doing what I do and seeing what I see is not all that I could do or could see, and yet I know as well that it is me (there’s that ego!) and being me, a perfect imperfection, that it is no less a perfect contribution into this earthly everything than the sadhu’s nothing.
Try to get this. There will be a quiz.by
I got an email today from a man in Colorado. He was writing to tell me that he and his son had somehow just discovered Andromeda, and that they had both been moved by the actions and intentions of the character, Tyr. It’s always touching to get such attention so long after the fact. It compelled me to throw these writings up here one more time. There are still other places you can see them, but they have endured, for some, like the character, and I thought they should have a permanent home.
These “journal entries” from the perspective of the character, Tyr, were written as an exercise meant to hopefully provide dimension to a character who was far more complex in my mind than he was for the exigencies of production. It’s far easier to produce content about facile characters, but they are equally that much less interesting or fun to play. I cannot speak for the viewership, but my sense was that such characters are never particularly interesting to watch either… I had endeavored, in The Ancestors’ Breath, to explore the depth of the character’s actions and intentions as informed by his back story; his heritage, his changing life circumstance, and a whole lot of stuff that I just simply made up regarding how I assumed such a species (genetically engineered super-human) would most realistically behave. They were a help to me, creating psychology and sensibility where, for the sake of the camera, there were only general ideas.
For the fans of the character, I suppose that these writings amounted to little more than fan fiction from the horse’s mouth. And that’s fine… Who better, in fact, to write it?
For those interested in perhaps a slightly more insightful, less fictional take there is an interview here for an online magazine called Rebublibot. It’s the last interview that I did on the subject of Andromeda, acting, and Sci-fi. It’s actually quite comprehensive.
For any others, those who remain, or those who are newly interested, here, in eight separate posts, are all eight entries to The Ancestor’s Breath: Reflections and Reminiscences of Barbarossa’s Son.
“You are the center of the wheel”, my father would speak into my ear as he rocked me to sleep in his arms on the nights that from among his wives my mother called him to come to her. “All things revolve about you. You are the only god; your strength the greatest strength; your arm the fellest arm.” These words he whispered even as his massive biceps pressed me about the ribs restraining my breath, and my head rested no differently than some fragile paper thing, unarguably crushable in the gulf of his huge hand. “No value is greater than yours; no glory greater save that which will spring from you.” I was nearly eleven with the physical stature of any average sixteen-year-old human boy when the blitzkrieg of the Drago-Kazov betrayal brought an abrupt end to this practice and changed the nature of all that I knew and would know. Were it not for his death at their hands, I have no doubt that Barbarossa would have continue to enact the ritual, despite my daily increasing size and weight, for yet some time to come. Read More →by
In our meandering through life we are sometimes lucky enough to stumble upon another who seems to hear us when we speak, and we are drawn, almost entranced at times to listen when they speak to us. And so, we engage the discussion, sometimes most fervently, because at last it feels as though more of what we say is being heard, and more of what is being said to us we can truly, clearly, immediately understand.
After months of our conversations; nights upon days upon nights of discourse – long, heated, tearful, impassioned discussions, not the dissertations of armchair adepts, parable laden, obtuse and riddling, but an unconditional airing of truths as I had never heard them – I asked Mr. Jones to tell me the meaning of life, to which he promptly retorted, “How the fuck would I know!” It was then that I first realized that he was truly enlightened.
Immediately upon the realization, I asked to follow him, to which he responded, “Follow me? I don’t go anywhere.”
Realizing this was true, I asked if he would at least write down all that he knew so that I could read it, and spread his wisdom where ever I went. He said, “The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return.”
I said, “Wait a minute! I know that song! You didn’t write that…”
“Oh, alright then,” he said. You take dictation?… Gimme a beer and a turkey sandwich, and let’s get goin’.”
These then are some of the things he told me… Read More →by