The difference between Islam and Gringolandia is not as complicated as blabbered via the telly or in piddle stream media or by way of an academic class of #MENA pundits pedaling the latest in rounds of dis-information, stupidity, and blatant back channeling.
During the last three years, I observed my friends in social media fall into a category no one on Earth is tracking. I am connecting to people who follow the faith of Islam. Until recently, my estimated reason for the why of these friendships is I simply report on #Egypt. Today, the LEDs went into a spin-cycle of color patterns any 1977 disco would have gladly installed to enhance Saturday night fever.
Friendships with the followers of Islam are certainly non-serendipitous – although I never say never because God’s humor is superior. Do to my daily digestive researching input and subsequent flittering output regarding Egypt I appeal to English speaking creatives of the land by the Nile. You can take the 60s freedom seeking revolutionary out of the fracas but the freedom freak revolutionary remains a prickly pinpoint on the small screen?
Yet, as time slugs along a buoyant doggedness layers an inspiring air to my Islam-based friendships. Viola! We, even with experiences swirling from diverse universes, are both sober and clean. We soberly – sometimes with funny one-liners – discuss issues and communicate. There is almost no mood altering substance drifting like Chinese killer smog over our connections.
An intrinsic poetic nature of learned Egyptians along with a genetic predisposition to be unfettered in emotion and opinion is to my cynical liking. It was setup by my brother marrying (circa 1977?) into a Lebanese brain trust with an intersecting Egyptian gene pool. In-between a Christian minority majority of five prayers per day is a societal dignity beyond western colonizing comprehension. While many review our western Protestant work ethic as planetary hip, it is in fact, funky rue.
Fetching a dimension of additional clarity, not all my Egyptian buddies are moderated practitioners and scholars of one of the trefoil Abrahamic faiths. A couple of my cyber buds are pot smoking seculars with one in particular a diabetic in alcoholic denial, or vice a versa. As I am a recovering addict and alcoholic closing in on 29 years of sobriety, I, of course, tenderly gravitate toward dysfunctional Egyptians.
An Egyptian man whose plaintive social media postings support his sanely insane trap in a circumstance making purgatory look good is one of my favored and valued sources. This politico refugee wrote his suicidal short story 14 years ago while looking down on the Nile from his high-rise ormolu apartment. He is a seer of what will be in Egypt. My dear friend collects Egypt’s sociological remnants and has done so for decades, yet the last few years he collects via his YouTube channel and Fedbook page. In his hard drives and memory is a lifestyle he fashioned as a self-made business guru and raging hedonist. The prior life is today dust in the White Desert while the later is not a cyber fantasy.
Although there is statistical improbability, my oracle political-slugging friend unwittingly started me on this journey of knowing the loving followers of Islam. I made a statement somewhere on the web about my buddy the prophet’s amazing alabaster LED art. He invariably sent me a blind chat via Fedbook, opening a door for our exploration of a deep diving alliance. He is in his bell chamber in South America. I am a Costa Rican jungle hermit, the widow on the jungle hill, with panoramic views, monkeys for neighbors, birds as teachers, and clouds for cover from Google mapping.
In my Egyptian friend’s wandering abyss and my predictable ignorance, our intensifying rapport is an ancient fortress for a smorgasbord of mutual understandings. Chat by chat we lay a stonework for me to know other astute creatives who are Egyptian. Because you are typical Americans you probably know no one who is from MENA or in MENA, or what MENA, the acronym stands for – I offer a whitey primer on Egyptians. Educated Egyptians are the utmost creative, talented, seductive, intellectual, craft-driven, worldly, scholarly, and super polite people on the planet. They are also beyond jealous of someone else’s camels, Arabian horses, ideas, tales, and emotions. They are centered in a worldview of desert poetry, whirling music, and roses sprinkled with jasmine and the blue lotus. The Nile and the ancients are their wellspring.
You bet cowgirl my mother’s Rosicrucian mystical leanings and a vague possibility I would become a curator of ancient art attract my hard drive to the Land of the Nile and its inhabitants. Yet, there is another layer to the siren calling. When I communicate with Egyptians, male or female – they get me, and I in return get them. Who knew?
Writers need a readership, no matter if one, 323 on YouTube, 860 on Fedbook, or millions, who relate/identify to the writer via stories, read. Abstinence is not a handy cloaking device for most writers. While writing inside sobriety, wonders come forth. These attributes arrive as true to one’s self-assuredness, and clear headedness. There is an unsaid willingness to listen and follow (highly signatory) a story to its climatic, or not, conclusion. The basic requisite to creatively act with compassion, brutal honesty, quick intuitive analysis, and moderate humility is inborn not artificially instilled. Writing is of the same seed.
Channeling and scribing is not a joke. I mean I regularly yoke this joke yet it exactly describes my writing. I sit here at my MacBook laptop or Korean android with no pre-conception or wanting. What flows are essential to my well-being in hopes I suppose wispy aerial seeds land and take root somewhere near yours, dear reader.
Secrets are the foregone inclusion of Egypt. The ancient cultures left you and I with too many clues, and not enough. Our current vast array of tech tools, expanding brain and cyber networking, and an unending passion to uncover the past (to not repeat its human horrors?) pulls us along a faceted linkage of nether awakenings.
Egypt is a mystery, a place, a culture, and a geo-political state that also resides in millions of hearts who have never been there (maybe in former lives?), and if so, only as 30-day tourists. Droves of humanity trooping around and in pyramids, boating the Nile, standing in awe in chambers 6,000+ years old are pulsed by a feeling the Sphinx is essentially their personal icon.
Magical thinking is not necessarily a negative viewed from the Hubble telescope or waiting in line at a checkout desk in Lord and Taylor considering the meaning of life holding chic garments and an armful of votive candles. We are human. We are overwhelmed by wonders if for no other causation because our wonky spirit senses something grander than ego. A prerequisite experiencing an epiphany sober is an acceptance of the mythical unknown materializing in the here and now. For those who only find the rickety pathway to a new improved download to life by an upload via a sacred vine I laugh. Not out of righteousness or a need to play one-upmanship.
Religious experience, the doorways to perception, finding oneness, seeing God, being re-booted happens for the residents of Hotel California in hours and once addicted these minted betas keep taping the lever for one more hit. For those bathed by a religiosity where prayer, study, and memorizing translate into a honest-driven culture where nobody charges interest, where nature is God’s gift, where sacred texts are illuminated inside hearts while helping brothers and sisters extending into concentrated circles of right action – well, it is a not a distinction of decrees nor methodology.
Do not presuppose I am thumbing my homey Napa Valley girl culture and going camel wild for MENA. I am not covert converting to anything. I am merely standing in my regular too wordy cornfield. Here scanning a 360-view, I discovered a life-affirming stable of folks who are sober and clean with sweet hearts and astute brains that hail from the land of the Nile, not AA/NA groups. Who knew?
Those who contend Ibogaine cures heroin addiction and pot gets them off crack and Ayahuasca brings maturity enlightenment I offer this not as a lecture or a Ms. Know-it-all. Please take down your shields in this singular likely ineffective intervention. I took a lot of Owsley LSD, ate peyote milkshakes, and puffed up opium soaked hash as if every day was my last day getting high. I have a valid perspective of been there and done way too much of that in my flaky, five-act play with its somber prologue to find God. Consider this writing an echoing schematic from the top of the mountain 5,000 miles from the paisley undulating landscape of colors, shapes, forms, and bliss. I am calm from solemnity the path of peace set my course.
Prayer, maybe going to Mecca (Dunno, never been there), living a life very real, not mood-altered surviving on leftovers or a wished for encounter of the spirit life is a working stability thousands of years old. Taking magical natural drugs to instantly get there (read on) while skipping over the shaking out of life is aberration disguised as self-awareness. Druggie hallucinatory events may break open an emotive intellectual logjam yet what keeps a soul in balance is daily practice of being in a state of sober well-being. For me, such soul gravity is writing, communing with birds, expressing my inner caca, and meditation while under no induced drug. I have mediated my stage presence since the age of 18 years. After three years sober and clean (8/8/1988), it morphed into a 28/9 clear satiated consciousness. I take no credit. What defeats my spiritual Linus blanket is firing up the body/mind/spirit with bad combos of food stuffs, letting my brother get under my skin, not sleeping well, or succumbing to an incessant drive to get you dear reader to value working for freedom over posting kitty kat memes.
Balance is an odd set of scales for any human. What we put on one side of the weigh bridge compared to the other is never learned in years of being mood altered. It is daily understood with diligent installments of surrendering to sobriety be it through practiced faith, a 12-step fellowship, the miracle of grace, or some rockin’ combo. I know almost nothing and why I keep paddling my kayak toward the waterfall of knowledge draped by jasmine.
What is curious about the followers of Islam I meet is they see sobriety as not a goal. It is another part of the way, period, end of discussion. An acceptance of God’s will rather than one deployed by humankind and/or nadakind is a given. Extremists inside any faith are like every nut job on Earth – riddled with bullets in their hearts. These sad cases are desperate for an illusion trolling for justification. I edit these mistaken fallacies and stick with the winners. It is about people, places, and things – trigger points.
I offer friends who join ‘sacred’ druggie circles on a regular basis one challenge. Go one year without taking your preferred drug, or any others. If you cannot be absent from the lure and allure then you have taken not a room at Hotel California, you have booked a wing. Ring for room service and your next smoothie of drugged reality is delivered.
For those who see clearly I am sorry to report there is a whole she and he bang of drug dealers. Most of these black barred souls are not living in Mexico as drug lords rather they attend Envision (recent Costa Rica drugged Bacchus event) and other faked orgasms of living.
Breaks my heart into a cosmic field of energy yet it could be our species is doomed by its own dopey doing. Our species swept up by ever more consumption of drugs (be mind expansion, medical marijuana, or happy pills), accepted slave states, and where more is never enough in goods. The suffering we deliver each other in the name of the empire is the norm (Syria, Egypt, Gaza, Detroit, and so forth). In addition any operating drug culture is a lurid mistake the empire is so pleased with today. The rulers are making it legal, a tax collection, and prodigious.
When the day of reckoning arrives, and some portend it is peeking out from behind the sun (or maybe Jupiter), my hope is to stand up, not be forced to bow down. Petite in stature looking at life squarely with courage derived not from a drugged state, within or without govt. organized, I plead to accept our karma. My preferred insight, while holding hands with a cadre seeing the whole deal without stoned lens, is we move to the next plane. Anything else may be more of the matching crapola Americans and a certain flash of Euros are famous for – subsisting as elitist escape artists.
To those whose sobriety is fashioned from Islam or the 12 steps or some an unknown sober well-spring I cannot begin to thank you enough. To those hiding within an enabled enticement of drug inducements – grow the f**k up. A Kiddieland of repeatedly getting high is childish self-absorption our species can no longer endure. You are prey for the slave state because your non-reality perception is askew imitating a primitive’s worldview. Dropping out, stoned, secures the slave state and another 50 footballs of Amazonia jungle are eliminated (every second).
A conceptual howdy duty is a wondrous perspective if you are a native shaman in the Amazon. Yet, it is an absurd level of active denial if you are a Gringo of sacred circles. You wonder why round-eyed blood prodigies are drug addicts slipping into insanity? Karma is a bitch.
Stoner sheeple are more dangerous than smack addicts on Wall Street. Why? At least the jerks selling voracity are not claiming and selling the next trendy cure for humanity. The arbitrage greed-masters wield only as much power as we buy from them. Can you hear the drum roll?
To the kind-hearted followers of Islam who provide art designed perspectives and softly spoken critiques please pray for borderless western, eastern, northern, and southern enlightenment that is bloodless and drug-free.
If I have offended anyone taking drugs, and/or using ‘sacred drugs’ with this rant, then hallelujah buddies.
Tick tock. Tick Tock.