THE STORY OF JOHNNY WHOOPER SWAN We go to school trusting our parents. We meet a teacher there who stands up front with a big desk, and a pointer. She or he trains us in an authoritative manner. We attach mentally to a life long need for authority in order to live lives successfully. Right so far? In my case, at the age of 25 I was ready to enter the practice of law where I hoped for success and a happy life finally. Very shortly, very shortly, I became anxious. There was a foreboding. I was made more uncomfortable with each experience. Law work is nothing like what I was told it would be. The system is corrupt. But I still cling to my expectation that career success is necessary to my happiness as a man. Each day my grasp of what the fuck success amounts to after all becomes more clouded, murkier. I hear songs on the airwaves and at concerts which describe my life as the life of a fool. What am I becoming? I want to rip off my business suit to run naked in the street with my hair on fire! But I am too afraid. In strange, weird (weird comes from a word meaning wise), fragmented steps I go about a journey of my own believing myself to be the first man to have failed in such a total way which journey works so as to break up my career, end a marriage, and start an entirely new way of relating with my two children whom I love deeply. Almost magically I meet a woman who is a career counselor who asserts a beautiful message that I am made to be joyful in my work everyday and at all levels. This understanding sets me on a completely new course. It is no longer a world of systems to me but an undivided one of unlimited beauty. It reminds me of a painting. A true masterpiece. I am drawn from within to learn the truth about my identity and nobody else can teach me that. From this point onward I will use thinking capacity for mastering mechanical processes and follow my heart, which includes my whole nature, which includes your whole nature and that of every human being for all the rest. I’ll go by the name Johnny Whooper Swan who does not explain itself to anyone. By my fruits shall I be known. Watch me soar!

Sunday, March 4, 2018

DOOR

1 For a long time there were people who depended on God's way.

Then came a strange people who depended on a store.

2 These blind people carried powerful rifles and other things of war
assembled in factories and sold by the store.

The blind ones could see not that the store owned them
and all they once were proud to stand for
were lost to them as beggars who with shrunken soul
knew not life nor what it is for but had weapons of war and the things in a store and a plan which they misrepresented as part of a method they called strategy along with a slogan tell them what you have to tell even if it be untruth and tell nothing more. And never feel inwardly bound by what you have told before. And, sadly, the people of God's way kept not their wits about them that would have warned them to stay away and not trade with these ones who belonged to a store.

3 And no one saw that the art of the blind was also without vision and that it was an art that said as much and it continues to this day to be that same way filled with sorrow and pain and regret and they sing it and dance it and write of it and make films around it and worship most strongly through the things from the store which by now does not have to be a material place staffed by people at all but an imaginary store reached by clicking and robots bring the things from the lifeless store to my door.

4 This is a heartless, sterile way to live I tell you. I yearn to return to the way it was before. My heart tells me to sit with the yearning and let it build to a roar and when it forces a shout leap up and roar! And look for a yet unfound door. And, by Golly, remember where to find what you never lost from the road of before and this time hold tight as a human to the treasure of the heart like your ancestors of forgotten lore written in a forgotten language, a stone, a leaf, an unfound door.


Nobody Else Can Do It You For*




A hint: seek and read as if your life depends upon it Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman





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