Cambodia Rocks! A Message From Beyond

These few pages are from the new book in progress. As said in the previously posted Intro to it, it is a totally true story and may be the only book ever written by a corpse! You are seeing it as I write it! ***If you missed the Intro to this third book and would like to see it, just  go to the blog at the website, look right here at WordPress, or send an email request to jahbuddha13@hotmail.com ***The books Fearless Puppy On American Road and Reincarnation Through Common Sense by this same author, as well as sample chapters by, very entertaining tv/radio interviews with, and newspaper articles about him are available at http://www.fearlesspuppy.info   

OUT OF AMERICA/Welcome To Cambodia
I hadn’t had anything edible on an American airplane in forty years, so the spiced chicken and fish on the China Eastern Airlines flight from Honolulu to Shanghai was a very pleasant surprise. The flight was a smooth ride on a large Airbus with happy, pleasant flight attendants.
The puddle jumper flight from Shanghai to Cambodia offered less. Part of the problem was that the plane was small, rickety, turbulent, and the flight attendants were bitchy. Part of it was me. That first eleven hour link to Shanghai was an exciting adventure. On the four hour flight to Cambodia I felt more like a factory worker who had just put in a triple shift and needed sleep worse than oxygen. My best efforts couldn’t altogether calm the frayed nerves.
Having landed in Cambodia, life will be very much in the present tense from now on. So will the writing.
The first thing I notice is as surreal as any Disney cartoon. It’s 11 PM. It’s seventy-five degrees Fahrenheit on November twenty-third. The air is so steamy that palm leaves thirty feet in the sky give the appearance of dancing in clouds. As if in a Twilight Zone episode, it seems more like a hallucination seen through an airplane window.
The second thing I notice here is that people are smiling a lot more than they do in most other places I have been. Life in Southeast Asia is good in many ways.
The Tanei Boutique Villa Hotel looks like it was a French governor’s palace a hundred and fifty years ago. Beautiful marble floors, heavily sculpted wood work, and interior fountains and gardens are obviously worn down but still beautiful. There is a sizable swimming pool of aged tile and the first cold water jacuzzi I have ever seen. Right near it is a row of thirty foot tall palm trees. The one nearest the jacuzzi has a gorgeous purple and white orchid growing out of it. On the other side of the swimming pool is another row of a dozen palm trees. They grow right through a shade awning with lounge chairs under it.
Geckos are everywhere. None of them are selling insurance.
Right behind the pool is the restaurant where guests enjoy a buffet breakfast including scrambled and hard boiled eggs, vegetable combo, stir-fried noodles, potatoes, various sugared juice drinks, coffee, tea, and a few other choices.
Many European countries are represented by visitors here in the city of Siem Reap, as are Japan, China, Korea, and other Asian countries. There are Indians, a few Muslims, Abercrombie and Fitch Americans, various hippies, and many other internationals dodging the naked little Cambodian children that dance in the spray of garden hoses as their families tend shops. There are camera toting people of nearly all races and many national origins.
The Wi-Fi and most other things available here work somewhat, kind of, maybe, much of the time. No matter where in the world you are, nothing works all the time. This fact is a lot more pronounced in a third world nation. The Tanei does a good job considering they are working with the limited modern technological resources of the region. There’s a Catch 22 about countries like this, it being that your money goes a long way—but you can’t buy what they don’t have. Regardless, at twenty dollars a night, the Tanei doesn’t hear many complaints.
For me, the best part of the hotel is the smiling, friendly, amenable staff. I have recently spent a lot of time in hotels in America that provide shit accommodations and snarling staffs at expensive prices, and then expect the customers to be grateful for the screwing they are getting. The Tanei is a much welcomed change from that, even though “hot water” means it’s just a little bit less cold than the cold water, things like TVs and telephones don’t always work, and the Internet is questionable.
The food in the tourist district is delicious, but a lot of it is heavily fried, salted, or sugared. It would be a safe guess that they don’t use the health food store kind of oil when frying. Oddly enough, the food from the street vendors may be among the healthiest around—and the tastiest. Much of it is grilled right in front of the customer and uses no oil or apparent additives. There has to be a salad and other altogether healthy food in this country somewhere, but I have yet to find it—except for one bowl of vegetable noodle soup from a street shack restaurant that was magically medicinal!
The bread here is mostly industrial cafeteria white and looks like cardboard. It makes Wonder Bread seem like real food. The diet, as well as the rural poverty, lack of medical facilities and sanitation, and the hot wet weather that bacteria love are largely to blame for urban Cambodia’s small health risks to tourists and natives alike. It’s not as bad as it sounds at first. A little care, awareness, hydration, and moderation keeps most folks healthy.
Stepping out of the hotel brings one in to a whole different world. I will find a much quieter apartment very soon, but am now in an area close to Pub Street and the Night Market. This section of town is the Times Square of the city and is designed for tourists, but hosts everyone. It has small markets, massage emporiums, bars, travel agents and tour guides, clothing stores, and restaurants. Traffic is heavy. The dust and pollution causes many locals to wear surgical masks while walking in the street or riding on their vehicles. I have followed their lead.
The traffic is made up mostly of motorbikes and tuk-tuks. A tuk-tuk is a glorified motorbike taxi with a cart attached to the back capable of carrying four passengers. At least eight or ten tuk-tuk drivers will hit on you during a three block walk, offering rides, tours, girls, or weed. They can be aggressive, as can everyone trying to make a living around here. Massage girls, barkers in front of restaurants and tour places, and anyone selling anything will get up in your face about it.
I find ganja here on the first day. My twenty dollar bag from a tuk-tuk driver named Mister Khompat works pretty well for brown stuff. It is going to take some research to find anything green to smoke around here. Life will be okay until I find it. They have Happy Pizza here. The same decent-for-brown type weed as Mr. Khompat’s is a regular ingredient in Khmer (Cambodian) cooking. It is not a tripping type experience like my Green Mountain Green Monster Bud cookies in Vermont, but I certainly am relaxed and happy after doing half of an apple pie sized pizza. Just to give you an idea of what the prices are like around here, that buzz cost three dollars and the full fish dinner I had after it cost two and a half.
The fruit is delicious. The high temperatures are consistently ninety degrees Fahrenheit with heavy humidity during the “cool season” of December through February, so plant growth is not a problem all year. There are the regular papayas and bananas and pineapples that one might expect to be growing in a climate like this. There are also fruits so exotic that they look manufactured to many Westerners. The dragonfruit is about the size of a grapefruit. It has red, jagged, multilayered skin that houses a white fruit containing thousands of tiny black dots that resemble poppy seeds. It looks spooky but tastes delicious.
Buddhist temples are everywhere. Many contain the area’s public primary and high schools. The grounds of the temple can cover anywhere from a square block to a square acre. Any temple grounds’ central feature is always the main temple itself. I go into several to see the artwork and icons, meditate, and feel the vibe. Interior artwork often includes paintings depicting episodes in the life of the historical Buddha. The stories are partly literal but mostly metaphorical. There are some museum quality images of Buddha’s birth, Buddha climbing down from a higher heaven to help in lower heavens and on Earth, and so on. There are many statues and images of the historical Buddha in each temple. These are designed to be a focal point, working as an inspiration for people to instill Buddha-like qualities within themselves. Buddha is widely known as having been an enlightened man, not a god. He was, among other things, the world’s greatest psychologist. Folks with their finger on the pulse of Buddhism don’t actually pray to him so much as aspire to become like him. The Buddha himself was famous for saying that no one should blindly believe anything he ever said, but should rather examine everything on their own to determine if it is gold or bullshit. (Likely not his exact wording.) This is not a religion like others where a God or Messiah is going to come save everyone. It starts with personal growth and saving oneself. A truly realized self always radiates such a quality out into the world, and simply by its presence does its part to save everyone. No coercion or conversion of another is necessary, or encouraged. It could be said that this is not a religion at all, but much more so a spiritual practice or a school of thought.
In a form of self programming, constant repetition of and focused meditation on phrases referring to positive qualities (love, compassion, strength, etc.) eventually instill these qualities in the person that practices focusing on them. Do enough of this meditation, and the neurons in your brain start wiring and firing on these ideal sentiments consistently. This is only one form of meditation. There are many.
Any person with eyes in their heart, or at least a little bit of sensitivity, that walks onto any temple grounds can immediately feel the difference in atmosphere from that of the outside world. This feeling may be best described by the animals. The many wandering dogs and cats on the downtown streets get little respect from, and scurry nervously around, most humans. But dogs and cats on temple grounds lie down or saunter around comfortably wherever they damn well please. They seem to be in a meditative state of their own and have no fear of humans. They usually pay little to no attention to human passers-by. Temple animals act like they own the place and in theory, as fellow living sentient beings, it is considered by all that to some extent they do own the place as much as anyone else does! Buddhism uses the term “sentient beings” often. What does it mean? The words “sem chen” mean “mind possessor.” So compassion for all sentient beings means compassion for anything with a mind. What does that mean? Good question! Many would argue that most plants know enough to turn towards the sun, and that qualifies them as having a consciousness or mind. Others think not.
Among the many other buildings besides the main temple are several incredible pieces of architecture. Many include ancient carved stone columns depicting deities of compassion. Sculpture is on everything from mausoleums for the dead through a vast assortment of spiritual structures. There are also ornate and boldly colored wooden buildings that are curved and carved into shapes that resemble waves rising and falling in an ocean. Many of the other buildings, especially the schools and monks quarters, are more ordinary concrete and wood structures.
The only thing things that appear in Siem Reap, Cambodia as frequently as temples are restaurants and massage parlors. Most parlors appear legit, with girls and massage tables right out front behind the glass doors and windows. I go into one that gives this appearance but am immediately taken into a back room. The five dollar half hour massage is just a precursor to an offer for a twenty dollar hand job. The woman sits on my back and grinds her fully clothed vagina into me while rubbing my neck and shoulders. Then she flips me over and massages the abdomen right into the pubic hair. All this is obviously not a therapeutic effort but rather an attempt to give me a hard on I can’t argue with. She asks if I want the more expensive jerk off. I can’t see paying her to do something done much better myself, and tell her so. I will try a different massage parlor next time. I’m sure some of them actually focus on the massage itself—or at least offer more varied services.
I don’t know if everyone has a favorite tuk-tuk driver, but I do. Sarath picked me up at the airport. He is about an inch or two below five feet tall and might weigh a hundred pounds soaking wet. Nonetheless he can sling my awkward fifty pound duffel bag on to the cab of his tuk-tuk as if it weighed nothing at all. He speaks English very well and seems to enjoy doing it. I have the hotel desk call him whenever I need a ride because Sarath always brings a smile, good personal stories, local information, and a fair price.
On today’s trip Sarath tells me about how his leg got crushed by a car and he can’t stand on it much. This is why he became a tuk-tuk driver. He also describes the Cambodian government. They seem to have many of the same problems that the American government has, including questionable elections. What I hear from the tourists of various nations about town is that the questionable elections thing seems to be an ever increasing international happening.
The hotel I am in is great, but in the middle of way too much traffic and pollution. Today’s tuk-tuk trip is about finding an apartment that is a little bit out of the main downtown area. Sarath, as always, is a great help. He knows a place. It turns out to be a very good place and I will move in there within a few days. Two hundred fifty dollars a month for a one bedroom with air conditioner, wi-Fi, TV, furnished, combination kitchen/living room, and hot water. The water and the gas for the stove cost extra. It also has a gorgeous swimming pool on the roof and an even more gorgeous view to accompany it. There is a small gym with a bit of weight lifting equipment near the pool. It seems to be an odd and eccentric tendency around here that luxuries often come before the basics. You may move into a place with a Beverly Hills looking swimming pool but no hot water in your room. You may have a bed that feels like concrete and has only a bottom sheet, walls and floors with tile stains everywhere, but a marble fountain in the lobby to rival The Ritz.
The apartment building is on a relatively quiet street facing a river that’s not very pretty, but a river nonetheless. The place is far enough out of town to be breathable, but close enough so that a two or three dollar tuk-tuk ride gets you right back into the middle of the action.
In the heart of that action where I still live for the next few days, adjoining Pub Street, is the famous Angkor Night Market. No one seems to sleep around here! Tourists are bending the clock into manic shapes while trying to see every sight available within the week or two they have in Cambodia. The locals are up at the crack of dawn and heading to work, but won’t be denied their evening party. The Night Market and Pub Street is where everyone converges.
The main part of the Siem Reap Night Market contains several rows of stores. Each row houses around thirty stores separated by metal dividers under a single tin roof structure. Some of the items available in the stores are: clothing, fabric, watches, jewelry, preserved bug and bat skeletons, artwork, Buddhist icons and meditation beads, cigarettes, baskets and assorted crafts, stuffed and carved animals, and bottles of whiskey with a dead scorpion and cobra floating in each. I shit you not! The lady says, “It give energy.”
From the main pavilion, the market spills over into the outlying streets. Rows of restaurants, bars, clothing stores and massage parlors as well as food booths are everywhere. The two most interesting food booths are right next to each other. The first serves deep-fried snakes, scorpions, silk worms, cockroaches, grasshoppers, and other assorted tasty critters. The booth next to it sells fried ice cream. They call it that, but it is actually milk and fruit being continually blended together in a large baking pan with a refrigerator unit below it that must hold liquid nitrogen. After five to ten minutes of blending and flattening and rolling and flipping, the fruit and milk became one blended thin layer of frozen confection that is rolled up in sheets to be stuffed in a cup.
The Night Market nearly runs right into Pub Street. The combination creates a very big, lively, and loud entertainment district.
Sohk
I am suffering severe cramps all over my body. They are a result of hauling too many duffel bags around the world in ninety degree humid heat, badly aggravating a decades long history of skeletal/muscular problems. The change in diet probably has something to do with it too. A legit massage has become a major necessity. I walk into a place so out in the open that it seems sure to not be another hand job palace disguised as a massage therapist castle.
Sohk is the name of my massage lady. She is thirty-nine years old, very cute, and gave me the best hour-long foot rub I have had since the privilege of being reflexologized by the legendary Shelby Shue of Truth or Consequences, New Mexico. Sohk cannot speak any English, but the other two ladies in the establishment can. I call them both “sister,” which they like a lot, and we carry on a friendly conversation. Part of that conversation makes it clear to them, and they make it clear to Sohk, that I need my back and legs done after the feet. All the time I keep looking back at Sohk while talking to the sisters. You must’ve heard the expression, “she has a smile that would light up a room.” Sohk had it, kept it on her face the whole time, and I couldn’t look away from it. The sisters noticed.
“You like her. She likes you. Take her back to your room for the back and legs massage! She can be your girlfriend. You take care of her and she will take care of you. Massage you every day.”
They say something to Sohk in Cambodian that makes her giggle like a schoolgirl and give me a little pinch. I give her a smile and nod, and we’re off to my room.
I strip down into nothing but massage-able skin and lay on my stomach to begin the back rub. After about ten minutes of beautiful rub, the rising heat coming from behind me as well as within me can no longer be ignored. I roll over and start undressing Sohk, with her cooperation, as we kiss. Our lips separate to nibble at each others’ necks. My way has always been “ladies first, whenever possible.” I move on to caress and lick her torso until my tongue reaches between her legs. Imagine my surprise as she pushes me away! I’ve never known anyone to not like oral sex, at least not when it is being done to them. Maybe “ladies first” is an unusual concept in Asia? Testing that theory, I reposition myself for some oral sex from her. She nibbles reluctantly for a minute and then pulls away.
The romance is there, but the techniques are from two different planets. She tries to missionary position me into entry, but I am so taken aback by the whole situation that I lose my inspiration.
This is a completely novel and shocking experience to me. All evidence points to the fact that they just don’t do oral sex around here—whether it is with a soon to be serious lover who is really interested in the person they are with or just a passing massage parlor acquaintance making a living.
I continue to enjoy the rest of the massage, and Miss Sohk’s continuing playful, smiling company. We tickle each other and laugh. We continue to bring up good feelings for each other and the warmth remains between us. I may still go back for legit massages, but am certainly saddened by the stillbirth of what might have been a beautiful long term romance. I look at certain things as essential in a romantic relationship. Oral sex is just one of them. It seems so bizarre that in a country with comfortably relaxed, liberal sexual customs—and occupied for a century or two by the French, no less— that isn’t one of them!
I guess I’ll just have to keep knocking at that door until I find a woman who enjoys my walking through it.
There is another piece of knowledge about relationship essentials that has been reinforced in spades from this experience. It is about how important communication figures into any union. The next woman I attempt a relationship with will have to speak at least a bit of English or Spanish. I am going to start studying Cambodian. Certain things just need to be spoken about. What are your feelings about tomorrow’s plans, where would you like to go for dinner, and who the hell doesn’t like oral sex and why, all fall into that category. A mutual respect, a chemistry that can’t be denied, and a warm loving smile may be the backbone of intimate relationship, but communication is the muscle structure that holds that backbone upright and prevents it from collapsing into dust.
A bit more of a shocking revelation to me about my personal relationship essentials is that I may need to give and receive simple affectionate attention as much, if not more so, than complex sexual activity. I feel strangely satisfied for someone left unsatisfied. Mutual feelings of love and kindness stemming from honest affection are obviously responsible.
Affection, at times, seems even more important than food or water. Maybe it always is. Maybe it’s not just me. Maybe that’s true for everyone.
***NEXT—?THE RUINS OF ANGKOR WAT, THE LARGEST TEMPLE EVER CONSTRUCTED ON EARTH?, and ?THE DRAGON NEIGHBORHOOD?, and—?WELL, I DON’T KNOW YET, EITHER! ***If you missed the Intro to this third book that the above piece is from and would like to see it, just check a post back on WordPress, or see the Fearless Puppy website blog, or send an email request to jahbuddha13@hotmail.com This is a book in progress. You are seeing it here as I write it! And as it says in the Intro, it is a totally true story and may be the only book ever written by a corpse!***The books Fearless Puppy On American Road and Reincarnation Through Common Sense by this same author, as well as sample chapters by, very entertaining tv/radio interviews with, and newspaper articles about him are available at http://www.fearlesspuppy.info p.s. Titles being kicked around for this new book are Racing Death Around The Planet and Voices Of Reason From The End(s) Of The World

 

Corpse Writing New Book!

YOU NEVER HAVE OR WILL READ ANYTHING ELSE LIKE IT
I was going to die a few months ago, but decided it might be more fun to hang around an extra year or two and write a third book. I guarantee it will be different from anything else you have ever read. In an unusual move, I give y’all on social media the pre-publication version of the introduction to Voices of Reason From The Ends Of The World. I will keep posting a piece of this book now and then as it is being written, until the book is finished or The Reaper says I am.
INTRODUCTION
My name is Tenzin Kharma Trinley. In English that means “The Activity of the Buddha Teaching.” There are only two reasons that I haven’t killed you or several people just like you yet—Sergeant Pepper and LSD.
I grew up as the lone Jewish maniac in a Sicilian Mafia neighborhood. At 14 years old I became the only person to ever take Killer Tortorelli’s best punch and not go down, as well as the only person to ever back down a half dozen mafia kids at knifepoint. This earned me enough respect to survive the rest of my childhood, and the nickname “The Crazy Jew.” The neighborhood folks looked at me as a sort of reincarnation of Benjamin “Bugsy” Siegel, the legendary Jewish gangster famous for violent insanity, altruism, and an idea that has since become Las Vegas.
I was surely on the road to becoming a contract killer at about the time puberty kicked into high gear. Non-Sicilians on the fringe of the mob never did well in the long run—not in Brooklyn in the early 1960s. Even the organization’s best friends, if not full Sicilian by parentage, could count on eventually being used as a fall guy to take the rap for a Sicilian “family” member. I was saved from this and many other deadly fates by a hallucinogenic drug and a collection of 13 songs.
My diet-pill-and-tranquilizer-addled parents listened for years to their unstable child whine about getting a dog. They finally gave in with the promise that in two weeks we would drive from Brooklyn to the Long Island Bide-A-Wee animal shelter and adopt a canine. I had big plans for the animal. Its name would be Assassin. I immediately built a dummy of old clothes stuffed with newspapers. The plan was to teach the animal how to attack and kill humans. I impatiently waited and planned for the day when Assassin’s training could begin.
As my plans were taking shape, fate kicked the shit out of them. I guess it would be more accurate to say that fate knocked me into a whole new world where plans like mine simply could not exist. Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band album was released and I started doing LSD during that two weeks of waiting to adopt what would have been Assassin.
The dog was adopted and named Sgt. Pepper. She became the gentlest, kindest dog in the neighborhood. She was also a big hit with all the neighbors because in the 1960s, my German Shepherd/Boxer mix was the only female sergeant in existence. She was especially popular with the old folks, who laughed until they near wet themselves at the concept of a female sergeant. Everybody loved her. The dummy was eventually used for a (nearly) harmless Halloween prank and then destroyed. I spent the rest of my life as a wannabe do-gooder instead of a short-lived hitman.
Now, over five decades later, I have almost completely dissolved the personality of that deranged teenager. It took a lot of cross country travel without ever driving a car, study without classrooms, and do-gooder efforts and charity projects for others while often remaining homeless myself. It also took a consistent faith in no describable thing and a consistent determination to go any place. There was no cell phone full of friends’ numbers and no bank account for backup. This was not always a rewarding modus operandi. Evolution was not a smooth path for me. Mistakes were made. There were several slips, falls, and blatant fuck-ups. There still are some. But they are now a lot fewer and milder than they used to be. The whole process is described in the books Fearless Puppy on American Road and Reincarnation Through Common Sense. You can also find out something about it in the About Author/Media section’s TV/radio interviews and newspaper articles at www.fearlesspuppy.info
The best explanation of how I turned myself from a semi-crazed animal into a more or less decent human being is contained within this old Cherokee legend.
A boy asked his grandmother, “Why are some people so good and some people so bad?” The 80-year-old Cherokee woman answered, “There are two wolves that live inside every person. One is good and one is evil. These two wolves are constantly fighting with each other for possession of the person’s spirit. They may find occasional places to compromise out of necessity, but essentially they are always at war with each other.” The grandson responded, “Which wolf wins, Grandmother?” Grandmother smiled and gently stroked the boy’s face. She powered her gaze right through her grandson’s eyes and into his heart as she answered, “Whichever one you feed, my love. Whichever one you feed.”
I am 68 years old. Many folks tell me that I am the happiest person they ever met. I have had a nightmare childhood, several chronic disabling problems, and a couple of terminal illnesses—so the doctors tell me. But at least three of the doctors who told me I’d be dead by now have died themselves. Many others have just been flat-out wrong with other diagnoses, prescriptions, and predictions. It just goes to show you that a formal education isn’t everything these days. Back when medicine was a profession instead of an industry, I may have believed those doctors. I may have been more polite and died out of respect for them.
As a young man I was brought to a hospital supposedly dead of an overdose. They gave me a shot of adrenaline in the heart. It didn’t work. One doctor pronounced me dead. Another said no. He gave me another shot. That one worked. It taught me just how wrong some doctors can be, and just how right some others are.
But nearly 50 years later, now that half of our American doctors have shown a diseased integrity that only used car salesman and high-level politicians were previously famous for, I usually tell them to go fuck themselves and take care of any problem myself. I recently made a mistake and did a long-term medication given me by a Naturopath who didn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground. It resulted in what looked to be a fatal aggravation to an already problematic liver. Two doctors said I had liver cancer. The “specialist” said I had six months to live. That was in October of 2018. Do the math.
After half a year or more of heavy meditation, highly focused breathing, Rick Simpson oil, apricot seeds (laetrile/B17), Chaga mushrooms, steam rooms and hot tubs, high potency Milk Thistle, lots of vitamins, herbs, raw juices, and of course dietary adjustments and lifestyle changes, I’m still here and having fun. Those vampire pimps for the pharmaceutical industry didn’t put this smile on my face. I’m not going to let them take it off. I thank Holy Space for these natural remedies.
I have many friends that are nurses. I am very grateful for them too.
Doctors deal with diseases. Nurses deal with people. They can sometimes help to fix what a doctor screws up.
All that being said, and conquered diseases notwithstanding, I still must admit to being an old man. If you have read Fearless Puppy on American Road and Reincarnation Through Common Sense, you know that my aging bones have a lot of hard miles on them. Logic dictates that I be put out to pasture to enjoy the better memories. But if you have read those books, you know that’s not going to happen.
I’m going to make a voyage completely around the world. Everyone tells me that no one my age, and especially no one with a rapidly disintegrating skeletal structure as well as a diagnosed terminal illness, should make such a journey. But we all have to die sooner or later, and I have a mission to accomplish before I do.
Most of my friends who have been abroad lately tell me that there is no place else on Earth as morally bankrupt, lacking integrity, crumbling apart from the inside, and as intimidating and repulsive to its neighbors as America. There is plenty of evidence to support their claims, but I still don’t like to believe them. I have to go see for myself. If it is true that no place sucks quite as badly as America does, I want to find out why. What are other places doing that we would benefit from doing ourselves? And more importantly, why are we not doing those things? What things are the other places doing that don’t work for them? Why aren’t they fixing their own messes? What are the ways people keep smiling, laughing, and loving life while fighting to repair a world that is mentally as well as physically ill, often disgusting, and may well have a more severely terminal illness than I do? How do folks keep the fun happening in the midst of all the tragedy?
I’ll report back to you from each location, for your entertainment. But if you find anything within the fun stories that seems even more important than entertainment, feel free to use it.
Don’t worry if people look at you like you’re crazy while you do that. Remember that the only people who ever change the world are the ones crazy enough to think they can.
Being “crazy,” in our culture, often means that you just have a different way of seeing things. That can be a very good thing just as easily as it can be a very bad thing. Sure, Hitler and Idi Amin were crazy. But Mother Teresa, the Dalai Lama, and Copernicus were also said to be crazy, by many people who intended the word as an insult. Those critics didn’t realize just how helpful so-called crazy can be if managed with a loving intelligence.
The medicines helped, but the real reason I am not dead yet is the fact that I am a little crazy. That statement itself may seem crazy to you. Maybe I can explain better with this little story from the brilliant Indian mystic, Sadhguru.
“On a certain day, one cow asked another ‘So what is your opinion about the Mad Cow Disease?’ The other cow responded, ‘I don’t give a hoot! I am a helicopter’!”
The ancient Chinese mystic Lao Tse put it this way. “There is no fear of tiger’s tooth, no danger from rhino’s horn. There is no place for death to enter.”
Understand? If not, no problem. I’m pretty sure it will make perfect sense to you by the time you finish this book.

Corpse Writes New Book!

                                 YOU NEVER HAVE OR WILL READ ANYTHING ELSE LIKE IT
I was going to die a few months ago, but decided it might be more fun to hang around an extra year or two and write a third book. I guarantee it will be different from anything else you have ever read. In an unusual move, I am giving y’all on social media the prepublication version of the Introduction to Voices of Reason from the Ends of the World. I will keep posting a piece of this book now and then as it is being written, until the book is finished or The Reaper says I am.
INTRODUCTION
My name is Tenzin Kharma Trinley. In English that means “The Activity of the Buddha Teaching.” There are only two reasons that I haven’t killed you or several people just like you yet—Sergeant Pepper and LSD.
I grew up as the lone Jewish maniac in a Sicilian Mafia neighborhood. At 14 years old I became the only person to ever take Killer Tortorelli’s best punch and not go down, as well as the only person to ever back down a half-dozen Mafia kids at knifepoint. This earned me enough respect to survive the rest of my childhood, and the nickname “The Crazy Jew.” The neighborhood folks looked at me as a sort of reincarnation of Benjamin “Bugsy” Siegel, the legendary Jewish gangster famous for violent insanity, altruism, and an idea that has since become Las Vegas.
I was surely on the road to becoming a contract killer at about the time puberty kicked into high gear. Non-Sicilians on the fringe of the mob never did well in the long run—not in Brooklyn in the early 1960s. Even the organization’s best friend, if not full Sicilian by parentage, could count on eventually being used as a fall guy to take the rap for a Sicilian “family” member. I was saved from this and many other deadly fates by a hallucinogenic drug and a collection of 13 songs.
My diet-pill-and-tranquilizer-addled parents listened for years to their unstable child whine about getting a dog. They finally gave in with the promise that in two weeks we would drive from Brooklyn to the Long Island Bide-A-Wee animal shelter and adopt a canine. I had big plans for the animal. Its name would be Assassin. I immediately built a dummy of old clothes stuffed with newspapers. The plan was to teach the animal how to attack and kill humans. I impatiently waited and planned for the day when Assassin’s training could begin.
As my plans were taking shape, fate kicked the shit out of them. I guess it would be more accurate to say that fate knocked me into a whole new world where plans like mine simply could not exist. Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band album was released and I started doing LSD during that two weeks of waiting to adopt what would have been Assassin.
The dog was adopted and named Sgt. Pepper. She became the gentlest, kindest dog in the neighborhood. She was also a big hit with all the neighbors because in the 1960s, my German shepherd/boxer mix was the only female sergeant in existence. She was especially popular with the old folks, who laughed until they near wet themselves at the concept of a female sergeant. Everybody loved her. The dummy was eventually used for a (nearly) harmless Halloween prank and then destroyed. I spent the rest of my life as a wannabe do-gooder instead of a short-lived hitman.
Now, over five decades later, I have almost completely dissolved the personality of that deranged teenager. It took a lot of cross-country travel without ever driving a car, study without classrooms, and do-gooder efforts and charity projects for others while often remaining homeless myself. It also took a consistent faith in no describable thing and a consistent determination to go any place. There was no cell phone full of friends’ numbers and no bank account for backup. This was not always a rewarding modus operandi. Evolution was not a smooth path for me. Mistakes were made. There were several slips, falls, and blatant fuck-ups. There still are some. But they are now a lot fewer and milder than they used to be. The whole process is described in the books Fearless Puppy on American Road and Reincarnation Through Common Sense. You can also find out something about it in the About Author/Media section’s TV/radio interviews and newspaper articles at www.fearlesspuppy.info
The best explanation of how I turned myself from a semi-crazed animal into a more or less decent human being is contained within this old Cherokee legend.
A boy asked his grandmother, “Why are some people so good and some people so bad?” The 80-year-old Cherokee woman answered, “There are two wolves that live inside every person. One is good and one is evil. These two wolves are constantly fighting with each other for possession of the person’s spirit. They may find occasional places to compromise out of necessity, but essentially they are always at war with each other.” The grandson responded, “Which wolf wins, Grandmother?” Grandmother smiled and gently stroked the boy’s face. She powered her gaze right through her grandson’s eyes and into his heart as she answered, “Whichever one you feed, my love. Whichever one you feed.”
I am 68 years old. Many folks tell me that I am the happiest person they ever met. I have had a nightmarish childhood, several chronic disabling problems, and a couple of terminal illnesses—so the doctors tell me. But at least three of the doctors who told me I’d be dead by now have died themselves. Many others have just been flat-out wrong with other diagnoses, prescriptions, and predictions. It just goes to show you that a formal education isn’t everything these days. Back when medicine was a profession instead of an industry, I may have believed those doctors. I may have been more polite and died out of respect for them.
As a young man I was brought to a hospital supposedly dead of an overdose. They gave me a shot of adrenaline in the heart. It didn’t work. One doctor pronounced me dead. Another said no. He gave me another shot. That one worked. It taught me just how wrong some doctors can be, and just how right some others are.
But nearly 50 years later, now that half of our American doctors have shown a diseased integrity that only used-car salesman and high-level politicians were previously famous for, I usually tell them to go fuck themselves and take care of any problem myself. I recently made a mistake and took a long-term medication given me by a naturopath who didn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground. It resulted in what looked to be a fatal aggravation to an already problematic liver. Two doctors said I had liver cancer. The “specialist” said I had six months to live. That was in October of 2018. Do the math.
After half a year or more of heavy meditation, highly focused breathing, Rick Simpson oil, apricot seeds (laetrile/B17), Chaga mushrooms, steam rooms and hot tubs, high potency Milk Thistle, lots of vitamins, herbs, raw juices, and of course dietary adjustments and lifestyle changes, I’m still here and having fun. Those vampire pimps for the pharmaceutical industry didn’t put this smile on my face. I’m not going to let them take it off. I thank Holy Space for these natural remedies.
I have many friends that are nurses. I am very grateful for them too.
Doctors deal with diseases. Nurses deal with people. They can sometimes help to fix what a doctor screws up.
All that being said, and conquered diseases notwithstanding, I still must admit to being an old man. If you have read Fearless Puppy on American Road and Reincarnation Through Common Sense, you know that my aging bones have a lot of hard miles on them. Logic dictates that I be put out to pasture to enjoy the better memories. But if you have read those books, you know that’s not going to happen.
I’m going to make a voyage completely around the world. Everyone tells me that no one my age, and especially no one with a rapidly disintegrating skeletal structure as well as a diagnosed terminal illness, should make such a journey. But we all have to die sooner or later, and I have a mission to accomplish before I do.
Most of my friends who have been abroad lately tell me that there is no place else on Earth as morally bankrupt, lacking integrity, crumbling apart from the inside, and as intimidating and repulsive to its neighbors as America. There is plenty of evidence to support their claims, but I still don’t like to believe them. I have to go see for myself. If it is true that no place sucks quite as badly as America does, I want to find out why. What are other places doing that we would benefit from doing ourselves? And more importantly, why are we not doing those things? What things are the other places doing that don’t work for them? Why aren’t they fixing their own messes? What are the ways people keep smiling, laughing, and loving life while fighting to repair a world that is mentally as well as physically ill, often disgusting, and may well have a more severely terminal illness than I do? How do folks keep the fun happening in the midst of all the tragedy?
I’ll report back to you from each location, for your entertainment. But if you find anything within the fun stories that seems even more important than entertainment, feel free to use it.
Don’t worry if people look at you like you’re crazy while you do that. Remember that the only people who ever change the world are the ones crazy enough to think they can.
Being “crazy,” in our culture, often means that you just have a different way of seeing things. That can be a very good thing just as easily as it can be a very bad thing. Sure, Hitler and Idi Amin were crazy. But Mother Teresa, the Dalai Lama, and Copernicus were also said to be crazy, by many people who intended the word as an insult. Those critics didn’t realize just how helpful so-called crazy can be if managed with a loving intelligence.
The medicines helped, but the real reason I am not dead yet is the fact that I am a little crazy. That statement itself may seem crazy to you. Maybe I can explain better with this little story from the brilliant Indian mystic, Sadhguru.
“On a certain day, one cow asked another ‘So what is your opinion about the Mad Cow Disease?’ The other cow responded, ‘I don’t give a hoot! I am a helicopter’!”
The ancient Chinese mystic Lao Tse put it this way. “There is no fear of tiger’s tooth, no danger from rhino’s horn. There is no place for death to enter.”
Understand? If not, no problem. I’m pretty sure it will make perfect sense to you by the time you finish this book.

 

***Not Religious

***Not Religious

October 31, 2017

I am an ordained Lama of the Celtic Buddhist lineage, a multi-decade student of many great Tibetan Buddhist teachers, a student of Brahmin/Hindu, Taoist, Wiccan, Animist and other traditions, a daily practitioner of sitting and moving meditations, with earlier roots in Judeo-Christian mysticism. I have recently faced enough folks remarking about what a “religious” person I am that it warrants a response. My response is, “Sorry. That’s just not true and pretty close to nonsense.” It is a very understandable mistake, my friends. I appreciate that you mean it as a compliment and I love you for the very kind intention. But who I am has somewhere between very little and nothing at all to do with the standard definitions of “religious.” I very highly recommend that you see the Why Celtic Buddhism Is Not A Religion section on the CB Homepage at http://www.celticbuddhism.org for clarification. I don’t disparage anyone who is religious (as long as they don’t use their religion as an excuse to kill, subjugate, demean or otherwise hurt anyone!) but for myself, it is not a label that fits. Be well, amigos. Much love, Ten (Lama Tenzin Roisin Dubh) p.s. Buy and read one or both of the two books at this Fearless Puppy website, http://www.fearlesspuppy.info or at Amazon. I say this for your benefit, not mine.

Reincarnation

“When a good deed is done, goodness spontaneously arises; when an evil deed is done, evil spontaneously arises. There is no need to wait for any further results. If there will be any rebirth after death, that rebirth only occurs through the kamma one has done in this very life and the results of which have already occurred here.” Buddhadasa Bhikku, Kamma in Buddhism, 2004, Parliament of the World’s Religions. http://www.fearlesspuppy.info

How To Love A Sociopath And Why It Is So Important To Do So

                       How To Love A Sociopath And Why It Is So Important To Do So

Congratulations! You have opened something that is not about the American presidential campaign!

Some of us may have an extra drink occasionally or smoke more than a sensible amount of weed now and then. Others may fudge a number here or there on our taxes. We’ve all literally and figuratively farted in public at least once in our lives—but few humans are as universally toxic as upper level politicians. By now we know that both candidates are a perverse distortion of democracy. Neither they nor any other bad actor on the political stage will be mentioned again here.

This article is about us real people.

Several folks have asked me the same very interesting question. It is possible that someone has asked you this same question, too! Here’s a short paragraph of backstory.

I have some friends (Democrat and Republican) that are politically conservative. Well, they like to think of themselves as Conservatives. As is true for most Americans I know who describe themselves as serious Conservatives regardless of party affiliation, these friends could more accurately be called Regressives. In mind-bending contrast to the personal kindness and generosity they often show to friends and family, these folks seem to turn a blind eye to the cruelty and consequences of our national actions. They don’t really want to conserve anything so much as they want to regress into ways of life that have, at least in part, been rightfully done away with already. These folks hate (i.e. are scared of) certain religions and races en masse. They love everyone in a uniform regardless of the actions performed by the people wearing those uniforms. They defend police brutality and military aggression as long as these actions are disguised as quasi-holy freedom-and-security crusades. These are the people who believe they don’t need to go through all the uncomfortable work of checking their attitudes or the facts because Fox News has already done that for them. My few conservative/regressive friends also, and in spite of all the evidence to the contrary, seem to have strong ties to the Middle Ages regarding an inherited, habitual belief in a God who is always on their side during any conflict. They have never heard Ann LaMott’s quote “If your God hates the same people you do, you have created God in your image.” (Italics are mine.)

Here is the question that my more progressive friends ask me. “Whether Christian, Muslim, Buddhist, American, Saudi Arabian, Chinese, or otherwise—how can you hang out with sociopathic psychopatriots? What common ground could you possibly have with these people? Their attitudes aren’t much different than the attitudes of witch burners a few centuries ago.”

I have a few answers. Here they are.

The common ground I have with my conservative friends is the same common ground I have with you. We are all human beings. As humans, we are each equally desirous and deserving of happiness. We all want to be and have a right to be free from unnecessary suffering. This unified mind, this unanimous human direction of desiring happiness and bare minimal suffering is where each of us lives. Our realization of and respect for this common ground we share with all living things is humanity’s one and only possibility for attaining global sanity. That is why the Gandhis, Bernies, and Dalai Lamas keep trying to remind us of it. We all forget this basic fact too often. Honoring this common ground means making a serious effort to be as kind to every other person as one is to one’s self. The system also requires that one treat one’s self as a best friend. “Every other person” includes, of course, people of all political inclinations (as well as all races, nationalities, sexes, etcetera).

The few so-called conservative folks I know are so sweet and kind to the individual humans and animals they personally know, that I can love them for that alone. If that type of compassion spread itself around a little more, this would be a much better world. These regressive friends provide many learning experiences and a constant source of amazement for me, but they also show me how similar we all are. The contrast between the callous disregard they have for so many people who are just as human as the few people they regard so deeply is a schism that happens to some degree in each of us. An exaggerated ego attachment and sense of possession regarding things and people we consider “our own” is too often the defining characteristic of what many people call love. It is often mistaken for being love itself! Noticing this reminds me of how much work needs to be done within each of us, as well as the work that needs to be done in national and global arenas. “The only devils in this world live in our hearts, and it is there that all our battles should be fought.” Gandhi

My view of the “we’re all in this together” thing has to take on more depth and an increased, if ironical, sense of conviction after talking for a while with a regressive person. I am forced to realize that many otherwise wonderful or potentially wonderful people were badly programmed, brainwashed, and damaged—shaped since birth by a lot of inherited bullshit. This bullshit ranges from being as relatively harmless as the Santa Claus and Tooth Fairy myths all the way to the fatal notions that a God living in the sky wants us to kill people or that Nature is here to be dominated by humans. Each specific piece of this bullshit has been consistently reinforced throughout many generations, as well as during each individual’s lifetime, by the nearly constant and highly hypnotic volume of general misinformation fed to us by our culture.

People who once seemed “inherently evil” to me now seem to have the injured glow of abused children about them. You don’t throw sick children away. You help them to get as well as they can, as well as they will allow themselves to be. A lot of these regressive folks have never been hungry, homeless, brutalized, or had a bomb dropped on them for no reason. They have no first-hand concept of what those things feel like. But it goes deeper than that. Not only have they no base-station cognizance, much less experience, for the broader type of compassion to emanate from—they don’t want one. I can’t really blame them! No one wants to feel bad. Many people choose to remain willfully ignorant of the suffering of others—even if it means swallowing some bullshit explanation of that suffering in order to whitewash sympathetic pain and guilt from their minds. Many folks would rather see the wool that has been pulled over their eyes than see the less pleasant truth that would appear without it.

Denial of the painful moral inconveniences that are part of human reality has, to a sad and destructive extent, become the prime directive for many of us. To deny existence of our dilemmas may be convenient in the short run, but it kills any chance of finding solutions for those problems in the long run. It is much more comfortable to wear an inexpensive shirt if you block out or stay ignorant of the fact that it was produced by slave labor. It is easier to enjoy your gasoline-abundant road trips if you convince your self (or allow media-made popular consensus to convince you) that dropping bombs on innocent civilians in oil pimping countries is an effort to liberate victims of dictatorship. That blurry amendment to reality is a lot more palatable than facing the fact that many needless murders of innocent civilians help bring your gasoline to you. These types of moral malfunctions might be resolved with a little thought, effort, and compassionate tactical adjustment—but if they are not given appropriate attention, they can grow into cultural cancers that painfully eat a society and crap it into history’s sewer system.

There is also a deluded but very understandable logic to the regressive person’s tendency to deny problems and instead blame the victim. It is, for example, much easier to scapegoat poor people than it is to face the massive and amorphous job of solving poverty. The logic-of-convenience that allows scapegoating has no truth to it. But, much like everything else we choose to delude ourselves with, it makes perfect sense once you’ve bought the lie.

Nonetheless, and in spite of their tendency to replace objective reality with subjective beliefs, there is a human being and possibly a fine one under the seemingly sociopathic veneer of many a Conservative/Regressive. How can a person who thinks in terms of us/them be helped to see The Big We? Can we communicate the realization that both Yankee and Red Sox fans, strangers, friends, and enemies all equally deserve to enjoy happiness and a release from unnecessary suffering? What can we say that will make a person understand that happiness is doubly important because almost no one kills while they are smiling? How do we get folks to drop a little blind believing in exchange for some open-eyed thinking? How can we help our fellow humans to progress past fear, inherited ignorance, and cultural hypnosis? Maybe we can’t. But if we can, kindness and honesty presented in a respectful and non-combative form are the answers. Hatred and fear cannot survive long-term doses of truth and love.

These doses may be most potent during the immediate moment when we are actually being honest and loving with each other, but the more profound and lasting effect of all this truth and kindness requires time to solidify in the hearts and minds of our regressive friends—and it requires patience and consistency on our parts. No one ever actually changes anyone else’s mind for them. Every person is their own therapist, makes their own decisions, and has the last word about the directions their mind and life will take. But we can certainly open new avenues of thought and point to potential doorways for each other.

The presentation of these new ideas and doorways will rarely rate any attention from a listener unless that presentation is done without condescension or defensiveness.

On the other and much less productive side of this coin, any loss of patience or lack of respect for those we are talking with, any angry/frustrated arguing and screaming, only feeds the fire. Ignorance thrives on battlegrounds. Evidence against regressive thought needs to be presented strongly, confidently, and politely with a genuine concern for the person you are speaking with—without any anger, condescension, or scorn toward them. This kinder approach can eventually dissolve any ignorance.

Other valuable tools are also available. There is plenty of evidence we can site from popular sources that will impress our deluded brethren. It would be easy to show them where many respected public figures that they put stock in, from Jesus and Mohammed to Magic Johnson and Kris Kristofferson, have spoken out against bigotry, war, corruption, and the like. The right historical quote can relate strongly to present-day situations and might make a big impact on folks who are clinging to no-longer-relevant or downright delusional attitudes. Humor helps too. “If you’re going to tell people the truth, you better make it funny or they’ll kill you” Oscar Wilde.

Any quote that helps to make sanity’s point and keeps the people we are speaking with comfortably engaged is a quote worth using. “Regardless of the source, any phrase of proven truth that serves a noble purpose should speak its truth and serve its purpose.” OK, I just made that shit up—but in our age of search engines you can find a quote to fit any occasion, if you aren’t too stoned to go look for it.

Gently presenting alternative information to a partially clouded, somewhat fossilized mind may take months, years, or even generations. It can seem just as frustrating as the proverbial process of shoveling shit against the tide—but there is no better choice of action. Trying to explain the intricacies of global warming or the kharmic disadvantages of killing civilians to someone holding onto their materialized literal beliefs can leave us feeling like we might as well try to kick water uphill. Concretized misinterpretations of things that were written long ago as symbolic references can provide a severe test of any one’s patience. It can be mind-warping to attempt to speak sensibly with folks who have a firm belief in a white-skinned God that: is always on their side, loves America more than any other country, created Earth in six 24-hour days, asked penguins to toodle halfway up the globe in order to catch Noah’s boat ride, and through an adulterous affair with a virgin had a boy child named Jesus who liked to ride around on dinosaurs. But speaking sensibly to the folks who are making the least sense desperately needs to be done—and it needs to be done with a smile! It is very important to remember that every revolution is really an evolution. Anything that seems to occur spontaneously has actually been on a very long trail of grind-it-out activity leading up to that event.

I’m driven to drink (admittedly a short trip) while trying to explain things as basic as the fact that killing people for profit is wrong. The world is very painfully facing the obvious truth of that right now, yet there are still so many folks who believe that killing people solves more problems than killing the greed in people.

Changes (outside of self) don’t happen as or when we want them to. You can’t take a cake out of the oven before it is done. Logical realities will only ripen and surface in the regressive mind when they are ready to do so—the same as they do in your mind or mine. That is when the change happens and things can improve. But unless we keep our brains, hearts, compassion, patience, convictions, honesty, internal strength, loving kindness, respect, determination, and structural integrity to the grindstone on a very regular basis, improvements will never follow. The pissed-off dismay took a long time growing strong enough to spread through the American and French psyches in the 1700s before the colonists dumped tea into Boston Harbor or Marie Antoinette had her date with the guillotine. That type of violence is no longer an option—but boldly stating the case for universal decency, as Jefferson and Rousseau did for decades before their revolutions ripened, will never go out of style. Neither will Gandhi’s ideas about non-cooperation with evil.

We are now in a time and situation where triggering off gunshots or oiling up guillotines won’t work. The “fight fire with fire” mentality is actually what we need to eliminate. Its previous results are what we are trying to repair. Fighting fire with fire doesn’t work. It has never worked. It produces bigger fires sparked by more advanced arsonists. Ask any Fireman. You fight fire with water, or smother it by using sand or chemicals. The flame loses its source of oxygen and suffocates out of existence. Sanity and honesty presented with patience and kindness can suck the oxygen out of fear and ignorance, and then repair damage from traumatic experience and misinformation.

I have heard folks defend police who shot a man although both of his weaponless arms were already pinned to the ground. I have heard people defend the needless murder of innocent foreign civilians and the death of our own misled American soldiers. I have heard folks say so very many things to rationalize their own fears, selfishness, and human frailty—that people with a different imaginary friend than they have are damned to hell, that Native Americans/Blackfolks/Tibetans/Jews/Indians/etc. are uncivilized and savage people who needed to be abused for their own good, that hungry and homeless people all deserve their plight, that obscenely irresponsible and blatantly greedy industrialization haven’t brutally damaged our environment, that foods containing more petroleum and toxins than nutrition are good for you, and so much more. It is easy for me to think, as the bumper stickers say, “If Jesus was here, he’d slap the shit out of you” and “Your god must have had a sharp stick up his almighty ass when he created you.” It is very easy to get angry at all the injustice and ignorance that allows so much painful and unnecessary suffering to continue. If I’m sick or have a bad day, the thought can briefly run across my mind that, “If someone would just bury this idiot in the hills, at least there would be one less idiot.” But I very quickly remember that: 1—becoming an asshole myself won’t help.2—truth, intelligence, patience, and real compassion are the only things that will help. 3—right now, the only things that matter are the things that will help.

Using kinder, more helpful, nobler qualities is our only chance to reach the folks who (although they may be quite wonderful to the individuals they know personally) are political and religious sociopaths due to inherited ignorance, hypnotic fears, and the ever-continuing programmed reinforcement of this ignorance and these fears by our culture.

Using kinder, nobler, and more helpful qualities is also my one and only chance of keeping myself in tow! The kindness I need to muster in order to be a decent human, to speak with folks that I strongly disagree with in a calm and respectful way, reminds me that life is about cooperation. It is a joint venture that must attempt to benefit all and hurt none. Ideas like these are valuable tools that keep me from getting frustrated to the point where I may start doing more harm than good. They protect me from becoming an angry jackass and lashing out at others—or myself. I hope I remember to use these tools more often. I hope you do too.

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Never Give Up!

This bit was written to benefit discouraged people. I know you are probably not one of the discouraged, but I’ll bet you know someone who is. If so, please post this on to them. Be well. Thank you!
The Dalai Lama and so many others throughout history have said, “Never Give Up!” There can be no more important action over the next few months than to continue strongly supporting the only candidate for president that has more love for the people than for the profit. Work vigorously. With every vote Bernie gets, it pushes Hillary a little further left. Miracles happen! Although not likely, it is still possible that enough folks to push Bernie past the corruption will wake up late. On amore (mis-spacing intentional) practical level, we have to make a statement to the rest of the world, and to history. What’s happening now echoes elements of the Kurt Vonnegut Jr. book Player Piano. In it, a character decides to proceed with the revolution in spite of impossible odds, “For the record.” That is to say, so people in the future can see that tyranny is always worth opposing regardless of results, that it has been done, and that it can be done. Who knows?! Maybe our actions today will inspire a new generation to finalize our current process on behalf of justice and compassion! For the benefit of these 3 points I will never give up. 1–Every vote for Bernie pushes Hillary left. Our voices continue to be heard, even if our volume has been stolen by corruption. 2–History needs this to be done as diligently and energetically as possible, “For the record.” 3—The forces against us are self-centered while lacking a centered self. They are not going to steal who I am. I know who the best man for the job is, I know what the zeitgeist of the thinking/feeling/conscious folks in my country is, and I know that I will give no compromise or quarter to the nonsense that Dharma deficient, morally bankrupt, selfish-to-the-point-of-mental-illness political powers foster in America and throughout the world—or to the corporate, industrial, and banking despots who foster wars, corruption, and are the central nervous system of the current personal-profit-uber-alles attitude that operates at the expense of great suffering for many. Everyone lives, and then they die. This planet’s dirt, and the political and systemic miscreants that wallow in it, will eventually end up with my dead body in one of their cemeteries–but for every single day until that happens, they will never have my compliance, obedience, or surrender. p.s. The Dalai Lama video attached was made well before this primary election season. Bernie Sanders is not mentioned in it. I just thought it oddly kismetic that I ran across it while writing this. Considering how similar these two men are in their positive intentions and efforts, my blurb and this video seemed like they were supposed to go together. If you are in tune with the writing, you’ll also like what’s at the Fearless Puppy website and in the two books featured there. Be well. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0ZKhEbYVWsE
http://www.fearlesspuppy.org