When He wasn't looking,The dull flower flourished.It took some time,She lived a life,Got fat,Forgot everything,And then remembered again.He turned his face away,Because the light was fluorescent,And the dark, grey. She became just another middled aged woman,In the torpid estate.He detested these creatures,Made from pebbles and sand.He only raised an eyebrow,When the diamonds came out of the land.But even the diamonds weren't shining,And the meditations were weakening.The eyes were turning into themselves, And water escaped through them.It was His fault,He took it away by giving too much.And they thirst too much,Accepting crumbs instead of waiting for bread.Inevitably, she has a trick,A wheel turning back to itself.She manifests a nuance,And, surprise, she is new again.The Master stirs and is won again,No props were used to sink the ship.Back into the water they fall,Into each other they exist.Immersed Kevin MacLeod (incompetech.com)Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 3.0 Licensehttp://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/
My father, Sergio, died in 2015 but not before leaving his wisdom for us, via an interview my brother-in-law did back in the early 2000s. From the 'Silent Generation' Sergio provides insight on what life was like post WWII. Spectacular ballrooms in Chicago, homemade tortillas made by his grandmother, listening to classical music with an uncle who helped raise him, there were no smart phones to keep a mind occupied. Credits: Recorded and interviewed by - Eric Hernandez Edited by - Liz Casanova Music: 'Maria Elena' performed by Juanita y Maria Mendoza (Internet Archives) https://archive.org/details/78_maria-... 'Las Campanas de San Raquel' performed by Xavier Cougar y su Orchestra (Internet Archives) https://archive.org/details/78_las-ca...
Raana’u doesn’t know. She doesn’t know that her cage is made of gold. In the mornings, she collects the berries that fall to the bottom. And then, parched from the sweetness and bitterness, she drinks from the little dish where the water drops, filling the void to let her live another day. Raana’u doesn’t know what it’s like to be alone. They arrive after breakfast. They float or crawl or glide to her cage. A snake named An sticks his tongue between the bars, to see if she is there. She is. “What do you have left?” he asks. Raana’u offers him berries and today, like every day, he snorts at the idea of a fantastic beast such as himself eating such a thing with little character. “But An,” she protests, “I have it figured out. This thing, this red bulbous thing contains the waters of life. A nucleus of the ingredients that burst inside you.” But An isn’t convinced. He is bored, actually, and longs to move on from this tragic conversation. Ah, but the little bird is a good bird. The sad situation of her existence is the only reason he hasn’t sampled her. But maybe one day. Maybe one day the little red bird and the snake will become one. An leaves, lacking a proper goodbye. And for a moment, the sun hides behind a cluster of trees. It’s at this same time every day that the forest stills in anticipation. This is the only time Raana’u is alone. But here it comes, that moment when the sun peeks beyond the cluster and hits her directly, the beam tentacles caressing the bars. And for a moment, the light springs back to the world. The little red bird is now the sun. Raana’u stills in her cage and sings a song that was before her time. And the other animals come from the trees, from the dirt and the sky to enjoy the song of Raana’u. “There you are!” Raana’u is startled. She looks for the owner of the voice that wakes her from her meditation. On a branch just above the cage, another creature such as herself is perched. But he’s not exactly like her. His glossy feathers are blue and cover a husky body. His eyes are black and have a hint of mischief. But not like An. More like the drops of water in Spring. “You startled me.” He flies down, closer to her. “I’ve been looking for you.” She feels exposed as she peers through the bars at this creature. “What is that?” she asks. And he knows exactly what she means. “I know. I feel it too. I was listening to your call. It’s for me, you know.” She sighs. “I suppose it is.” He flies down and lands on a branch close to her. “My name…” “I know your name,” she says. He looks at her with such sadness. “Why are you in there? Why don’t you come out.” She doesn’t understand the question. The silence sends him away. And she is left wondering if she dreamed him up. The evening arrives and her eyelids clamp shut. The morning drums and coaxes the sun to come out. One more time. Raana’u must live another day. The leaves gather the mist. The forest stirs with the vibrations of wings and birth and caution and hunger. They dance in harmony. They dance in violence. They dance to death.
My father, Sergio, died in 2015 but not before leaving his wisdom for us, via an interview my brother-in-law did back in the early 2000s. But my sister found a clip of that interview, and the message I heard was a gift from the other side. He said, 'no one is worth my hate. They are worth my love.' This got me thinking about these past 18 months, how the world has radically changed, and how people are taking this opportunity to grow. Is 'let's just get back to normal' good enough? This is what I question in this podcast. CREDITS: Music: Del Rio Bravo by Kevin MacLeod Link: https://incompetech.filmmusic.io/song/5706-del-rio-bravo License: https://filmmusic.io/extended-license Anamalie by Kevin MacLeod Link: https://incompetech.filmmusic.io/song/4980-anamalie License: https://filmmusic.io/extended-license
Dimethyltryptamine, also known as DMT, is a fascinating mystery. A chemical substance that has been known to make one see the universe, some even say, God. It is found in various plants and animals, including humans. Indigenous tribes around the world, use these plant medicines in ceremony, including Matses in Peru, with the brew called ayahuasca. In this episode, I interview author Dick Khan, and we talk about his experience with DMT, which is also the subject of his book, DMT & My Occult Mind. He documented his personal research with DMT, spending a year investigating by using himself as the test subject. Please enjoy this interview with Graham Hancock’s author of the month, Dick Khan.