This is a pinecone

This is a pinecone.

I narrowed it down too much already.

All the love as always,

The Entourage

who is...

Who is ...

Detached from time and space.

Detached from the implications of time and space.

Detached from the interpretations of the implications of time and space.

Detached from the physical translation of the interpretations of the implications of time and space.

Being the witness to the own, bi-directional automatism of situational activism.

Good or bad, fear or love.

Nothing, but a choice having been born by the realization of “space” between the you and time and space? What is this gap called, where choice becomes a choice?

And... “who” wants to know that?

All our love,

The Entourage

Vulnerability

Sometimes, it is so hard to remember, how it felt to be a child. Actually, most of the times I inquire into my experiences before the age of twelve, I can not reconstruct more than five or six “solid” memories at once. One for instance, in which I am carrying my little stuffed cat Toulouse in a frog backpack around on a mountain hike, while my grandma is telling me a story of my granduncle, who cut himself playing unmindfully with his swiss army knife. I never forgot that story, especially not when, a few years later, after another of my “early youth anger attacks”, I found myself with a swiss army knife sticking out of my right wrist, blood pouring all around me. I thought of Toulouse, my little stuffed cat. Or maybe not.

What is the essence of being a child? Innocence? Emotionality? Honesty or the lack of shame? And why can't I connect with these virtues on that very basic level anymore? Is it my loss of simplicity through the active and passive, ongoing construction of complexity around my person and life, which messes up my brain in such fundamental ways that I have to call myself senile when I comes to remembering my general mood in the summer of 1994?

When I tell people about this phenomenon, they either have exactly the same problem or not at all. My grandmother knows “everything” about her childhood and early youth. At times, when I haven't had the insight to communicate this loss of mine, I stuck to make a win of it. I told everyone that I erased my memory on purpose to become more vacant and free within. What a nonsense!

Maybe it is this, vulnerability – or better – the ability to be vulnerable, which differentiates a child's ego from the grown up's one. The ability to allow oneself to be as real as one is. E.g. me: I do not remember and that is, how it is.

As I child, one never had the chance to construct such a cautious and ashamed personality as many people carry around in their adulthood, because a child doesn't even know, if the immediate impact of its random or controlled action is good or bad, until the results start showing up – in favor or misfortune of the child's own sensory apparatus and its interpretation, which often times is overwritten with: novelty.

Vulnerability,

when I talk about my feet

when I can't be sure that I am lovable as I am

when I want to watch somebody, but looking is regarded as staring and I feel strange

when I can't be sure that I will always be able to support all my loved ones

when I think about my dreams of the ultimate truth and feeling like a douche even naming this blog "Vulnerability".

But then... I don't and I have love for myself. I do not have to be right or wrong.

All the love,

THE EONTOURAGE

Chop it down!

The guy with the axe is deciding – right now! - to get down to business. No longer will he be standing the sight of his own, undefined Self. Slowly, he Is starting to swing his instrument of spiritual revolution. One chop, two chops. Ten egos later, his soul is feeling lighter. The blisters on his hands are showing him that he had been involved in something... strong. Now, the construct of his superego is looking more to his liking - the axe has done its work. Friends are coming by and are giving the affirmation needed. Piety in his heart, the man is sitting down to rest. A smile is crossing his face, while the monumental statue of his newly designed, replica self is towering behind his back. Validation, beauty and potency. A bird suddenly decides to rest atop the statue's head. Its vivid songs are stirring up the comfortably settled air around the Self's boundaries (as far as the imagination can “see”). Nothing more than a tiny twitch around the man's right eye, no verb - not needed. The bird is starting to move form right to left, enchanted by its own beautiful music. The grip around the man's axe is getting noticeably tighter. Protection the the Self...

The bird is flying off and leaves a dump on the statue's head whilst doing so. The man's axe is cutting through the air, the bird and comes to a abrupt hold - ten centimeters deep and just above the right eyebrow of his own created false self. The bird's blood is flowing down the shaft of the spiritual revolution- the man is in tears ... again.

The guy with the axe is deciding – right now! - to get down to business. No longer ...

The best of luck in all the adventures,

YOUR ENTOURAGE

Sudra

I am the guy, who plays that weird instrument, when you walk buy in the market on your afternoon shopping trip. My father taught me how to play it and now he died. I try and stick to my family tradition, but not many people stop to hand me a rupee or two. It doesn't make me sad to live with the minimum, it makes me sad to see you living below the minimum. No time for music, no time for a smile or a light conversation. I understand you though. It is your holiday. Your life must be hard. Repeating brain numbing chores in front of a computer, being intimidated by the broad range of choices you actually have to make your life more meaningful. Every now and then, somebody asks me – not what I want – but how I am. Actually, I am good. I have a brother, who is working, too. Therefore, the two of us manage to support his wife and her four children. We live in a tent outside the city. Nothing belongs to us, but the land is ours by heart. We are Sudra. Our caste “serves” the society. We are not known to become holy men or rich man. We are known to accept our living conditions and therefore built the backbone of the indian spirit, if you like so. Once one stops to chase happiness and learns to accept misery into one's life, light and shadow start fading into one. Being content, not merely indifferent. But why would I say, I got more than you? Maybe, you solved the riddle, too. I don't know myself enough to judge somebody else's heart. Have compassion for my life. It is challenging. When I ask you, maybe now you will give, but more importantly: Have compassion for yourself. It's your struggle and I got mine.

All our love,

THE ENTOURAGE

Babu the stone carver

Babu was a taught in a line of great yoga teachers and is pursuing the craft of stone carving in recent times. In his "free time" he teaches young gypsy kids how to work on the stones, he digs up himself. Babu has a family himself, but in 10 years time, he says, he will set out to the Himalaya for the realization of his samadhi ( realization of self). Luckly, his wife thinks in the same terms and will follow the example. 

In the Hindu religion, life is divided into four stages. In the first stage, one learns and is supported by the society. The second stage, focusses on the own contribution to society, eventually to merge with the third stage, in which one withdraws slowly from the more active participation in every day business. After the children enter stage two, finally, the forth stage can come into perspective. Self realization through complete disconnection from society. Even though one's caste also contributes to the various possible turnings of the individual life, a sadhu baba (holy man) or devi (holy woman) is a casteless being (not to be misconceived as a "untouchable") and not bound to any social rules or conventions.

All the best and the whole amount of love,

The Entourage

Twinkle

Twinkle, twinkle

Sometimes one of the two or more available options seems to be a little lighter, brighter, a bit more inviting. Moments of choice like these might actually change one's life. Forevermore!

A path to the left, a path to the right; both lead up a steep hill and nevertheless which one will be taken, in the end the two of them will demand commitment and courage. The mind kicks in and starts evaluating. Which one to take? Which physical landmarks can be used as references for the process of immediate decision making? Everything outwardly hearable, tastable, touchable... will be taken into consideration. Stress hormones are flooding the body, vision focuses, unfocuses... the heart is beating, but... has it been listened to? The heart. Pumping blood, but being out of the prisoner's reach of control, the heart remains more mysterious than the multiple dimensions of the universe or the dark abysses of Mother Ocean. Listen to your heart. A well known saying. Who can truely say that there is much more to be heard than an almost distant “thumb... thumb... thumb”. I can, and finally for good. After weeks of trying to listen for noises, the heart is finally talking. It's pointing out to lighter, brighter, a bit more inviting spots... It makes decision making less important as the doing becomes more of an observing being. The void is twinkling. Maybe for good.

All the love from the Entourage!