Shiva's and Metta's Mother's Sutra

I will start mindmapping Atlantis tomorrow. That will be my first thing. Today we are going to be working on the Halloween event. Man I am very tired.  I think i'll be fine in a bit.  I am trying to build up an aethetic for Atlantis and I don't want it to be corny. Who are the Atlanteans? Why race are they? This seems weird but they can be any race as far as i'm concerned. I do not see them as any race. I am inspired by indoensia where it does not matter how dark or light you are in terms of your ethnicity - you are Indonesians, much more so than Singaporeans who decided to institute that stupid four races policy. In Indonesia everyone speaks Bahasa and they don't have a bumi policy either. So language, the way I understood it was non-political. This is what we speak if we are Indonesians. That is my template for Atlantis. In indonesia you had people who were fair or dark, Melansian, or Indian, Chinese, whatever - and you were Indonesian. That is my template for Atlanti...

2008 An attempt was made. An attempt made several times. The run up and the jump - almost, almost but not quite. The fear of failure which yanked back, like a chain around the neck of a dog, the sudden jerk, a noose sideways, to never quite strangle, but never quite let go - the binding of life. Attempts made over and over and over again, and never quite falling, but not taking off either. That was life. Life here. Sitting on the porch, watching the world go by. Watching the mother with the stroller and the old man, double bent, the boys passing in slouches, the dads on their phones, barely here, or even there. The frustration of never quite making it. The sensation that life was not meant to be like this, but then not knowing what it was meant to be like either. The feeling of never catching the wind in the sails, the sense of concrete filling your shoes. I feel sorry you know. I feel sorry for those people. The ones which thought that they had gotten away with it. Watching Netflix is...

It has been a strange old time. Very strange. Very old.  I feel the strange tug and pull of the mountains falling over me. I feel the strange happinesses break like a ripened pomegranate. The jewels that it holds, and the nothingness of the words with which to bring them alive. I am bereft and filled. Contentment is mine. I daren't go too near that inside part. The inside part is too soft. It cannot drawback for it is already on the inside and it cannot hide for it was hidden. I have never dared to go to the inside part, and so I will always fail.  I have never dared to imagine the sad and the wonderful and the truly pained. I have never dared that. It seemed too much. Too momentous. The truth of our life here is too much, too terrible. Hence, the inside part. The inside part which we can never go to. The inside part which breaks up and flies away. The inside part which brings me to the horrors of the never not knowing. It is a strange thing to be able to walk over a burning b...