The Effervescent Tablet

An effervescent tablet dropped in a glass of water,
slowly dissolves, losing its entire form
but by no means its essence – actually in this way alone
fulfilling its potential to soothe or to heal or to enrich.

That effervescent tablet, being mortal one way or the other,
spreads its influence and leaves its indellible impression
on a mass much greater than its form, and beyond that as well.
For not only is the water changed, perhaps nonvisibly but certainly;

more relevantly the drinker of that water is affected –
albeit very much according to the strength of that tablet's solution,
taking into account the drinker's own degree of receptivity
toward the body's balancing and stabilization.

Let us say the ingredient in this effervescent tablet is a lifetime
of devotion, work, study, service, activated only by losing its separate form.
And the tablet being the personality, its effervescent potential
being the active instruction to love, to nourish, and to remember God.

The water contained in that glass is Berlin, is Germany.
The drinker would be all those with whom this person comes in contact,
directly or indirectly, numbering more than will ever be known.
The illness, the upsetment, the indigestion: is the taboo placed on Germans.

The taboo on recognizing when they are made victims, the taboo on questioning
the onus of permanent and collective guilt, the taboo on rejecting the iron-clad
perpatrator-role and demanding recognition of its own sovereignty. The taboo
on taking positions running against the current – namely the current Admin-Regime,

or the multi-cultural insanity àla Helper-Syndrome, the degenderization-insanity,
the Islamisation-insanity, the bland materialistic-relativism and its atheism,
the selling out on values which define a culture. All these and Stockholm-Syndrome.
No single effervescent tablet can cure this or put an end to it – only cyanide can do that.

It takes many effervescent tablets to spread that potential sanity and health.
However, it starts with one – and that one can only answer to its own work and effect.
The slow, steady death by blunt blows of totalitarian political correctness is the sickness.

I am that efferscent tablet.

No Choice, Just Free Will

The Lover of God has no choice,

only free will. For God is love,

and s/he is alone in love with That, in repose,

while all other living forms receive this love.

Whether s/he succors a child or swats a pest,

sweats under pressure or demonstrates poise,

presses house pet or house patient to his or her breast,

s/he hears but one tone, and speaks with one voice:

no choice has s/he, but only free will –

driving to work or fooling about, whispering, singing,

shopping, napping or shouting, even in agitation still,

mounting the barricades in decibles ringing!

Alone never lonely, in times of fear fearless,

lending courage and encouragement: quality of heart

sets the tone sets the pace, even when stern a gentle face

showing life, two ears for hearing, one mouth to impart

this most intimate love, and the secret of it,

hidden in the glance, a gesture, a word, an action,

revealed in a touch, brimming with health, listening with vigor

for the call to serve an awakening, responding when it comes,

breaking rules of rhyme but never reason, inspired only

with the drawing of one breath: open perspectives, no conclusions,

only truth – no trips or sales pitch, no friend of delusions.

All is sacred, nothing special, in-joy-meant shared with all wholly

in order that the Lover of God be enriched, and so this world,

for having no choice, but only free will: to see that all is holy –

in light, in darkness, Love in action, destiny revealed.

Give With Your Eyes

Give with your eyes and veil not thy face!

Reach down into the depth of you, find what is real.

You are divine learning to be Human, search there

in the heart of you, the warmth so rich, go into

that expansive sun, give yourself into it.

Give with your eyes.

Then, when you meet another, any other, really any –

immersed now in the sovereign firmness of inner Firmament,

healed free of the sickness of self-doubt, of conceit, of envy,

of self-pity, of pessimism, of dulled boredom, of thoughtlessness,

of shame and of guilt, of hopes and of fears:

look at that other – and give with your eyes.

There is no sentimental-sympathy of helper-syndrome here,

helpers have issues, they do not give with their eyes, they take.

Dis-ease is what comes with dividing and conquering others.

You however, regard your entire body-form as whole, a unity –

thus you are in health, and where it hurts you embrace and include

into the fold, and you do so without a story, you give with your eyes.

Bathing in the rolling stream you visit within you,

and drinking from the well of everlasting Life as you breathe,

letting the joy of Being take hold of your limbs walking bold and loose,

feeling your moods, being glad, being angry, growing in empathy,

being yourself trusting yourself, learning faith, neither coming nor going:

just give with your eyes.

In one steady gaze, neither invasive nor intrusive,

neither coy nor shy, without games or power issues,

looking with discrimination without actually judging,

willingly seeing if there's something that wants seeing,

and letting the love which has been born in you and by you

come forth: give with your eyes, give with your eyes!

 

 

 

Conversation Over A One-sided Smoke

• Why do you always smoke that pipe?

• I once tried cigarettes, it didn't agree with me, it wasn't my...idiom.
• And you can't stop smoking the pipe?
• Certainly, in fact there's nothing like a good, pricey cigar. Except a good clean pipe tobacco.
• Why don't you quit, though?
• I started when I was 17, see...
• ...and so you're hooked. That's...40 years of your life!
• 40 years and many more to come. It's not 'hooked' if you in-joy it.
• Sure it is, you're addicted, you couldn't stop if you wanted to.
• I wouldn't know, never wanted to.
• I dare you to quit.
• Don't dare!...I don't. But I have taken long hiatuses – or hiati...ever been to Haiti?
• Make good cigars there?
• Wouldn't know, never been. I have taken long breaks from smoking, never with the 'intention' of quitting however – or rather, of no-longer-smoking, I don't much like the word 'quitting' or 'giving up' – it sounds like capitulation to all the ex-smokers.
• You're ruining your health. You're a ticking time bomb for heart failure or lung disease. Have you ever once thought of just quitting, just hanging it up?
• Thank you. I won't mention your health, though I wish you much of it of course, but yes – for one tiny little moment - I'll tell you what happened when I was about...say, 53. I had just gotten off the 120 bus at Paracelsus-Bad, where Roedernallee crosses Lindauer Allee. It was winter, I had my winter jacket on and my pipe had slipped out of my pocket onto the seat. As I reached for it and found it missing I realized what had happened, hammered on the bus window before the driver took off. But he had just edged from the curb and they can't stop once they've done that. He did understand what I was hammering about but pulled out anyway, what could he do, he had rules to follow. And I had no pipe.
  

  
  

  
• So? Dja go after 'im?
• Without having done much in the way of 'exercise' at that particular time of my life, and wearing this jacket laden with gloves and other stuff, I stopped and considered for one long quarter of a second: what if it's really a sign, a message from the universe to let it go and never smoke again. I really gave that a thought.
• And? Made sense?
  

  

   
• Hell no, I took after the bus and chased it to the next stop. He got there about a quarter of a minute before me, and actually waited for me when he saw me tearing the sidewalk up in my big jacket. He couldn't legitimately wait all too long, but he did it and I think if he had had a stopwatch he'd have been timing this. As I got to the door of the bus, which he'd held open, I saw my pipe in the driver's hand, extended to me, and his smile was classic.
• Did he say anything?
• Yeah, 'Good work' and a nod. Not out of breath but excited and relieved, I thanked him of course. He drove on and I walked back with pipe lit, picking up my fallen gloves along the way. But of course, I was 53 after all.
• So that makes it 'alright'...?
• No, it means I was less in condition than now.
• At 57?....Hright.
• Well, if it were today I'd have been waiting for him at the next stop.
• You're addicted.
• My name's not Ted. And you're being a dick-head.