VirusHead

I’ve been blogging as VirusHead for five years. Wow.

My first post:

11/21/2003 The Problem with Fundamentalists

A funny little collection of poetic tidbits. Wonderful and delicious.

If there is no self,
whose arthritis is this?
Be here now.
Be someplace else later.
Is that so complicated?

Drink tea and nourish life.
With the first sip, joy.
With the second, satisfaction.
With the third, peace.
With the fourth, a Danish.

Wherever you go, there you are.
Your luggage is another story.

Accept misfortune as a blessing.
Do not wish for perfect health
What would you talk about?

The journey of a thousand miles
begins with a single “oy.”

There is no escaping karma.
In a previous life, you never called,
you never wrote, you never visited.
And whose fault was that?

Zen is not easy.
It takes effort to attain nothingness.
And then what do you have?
Bupkes.

The Tao does not speak.
The Tao does not blame.
The Tao does not take sides.
The Tao has no expectations.
The Tao demands nothing of others.
The Tao is not Jewish.

Breathe in. Breathe out.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Forget this, and attaining Enlightenment
will be the least of your problems.

Let your mind be as a floating cloud.
Let your stillness be as the wooded glen.
And sit up straight. You’ll never meet the
Buddha with such rounded shoulders.

Be patient to achieve all things.
Be impatient and achieve all things faster.

To find the Buddha, look within.
Deep inside you are ten thousand flowers.
Each flower blossoms ten thousand times.
Each blossom has ten thousand petals.
You might want to see a specialist.

To practice Zen and the art of Jewish
motorcycle maintenance, do the following:
GET RID OF THE MOTORCYCLE.
What were you thinking?

Be aware of your body.
Be aware of your perceptions.
Keep in mind that not every physical
sensation is a symptom of a terminal illness.

The Buddha taught that one should practice loving
kindness to all sentient beings.
Still, would it kill you to find a nice sentient being
who happens to be Jewish?

Though only your skin, sinews, and bones remain,
though your blood and flesh dry up and wither away,
yet shall you meditate and not stir
until you have attained full Enlightenment.
But, first, a little nosh.

(Via Richard – thank you – and it looks as though these are from Zen Judaism: For You, A Little Enlightenment by David M. Bader)

“God Bless America”
by Harold Pinter, January 2003

Here they go again,
The Yanks in their armoured parade
Chanting their ballads of joy
As they gallop across the big world
Praising America’s God.

The gutters are clogged with the dead
The ones who couldn’t join in
The others refusing to sing
The ones who are losing their voice
The ones who’ve forgotten the tune.

The riders have whips which cut.
Your head rolls onto the sand
Your head is a pool in the dirt
Your head is a stain in the dust
Your eyes have gone out and your nose
Sniffs only the pong of the dead
And all the dead air is alive
With the smell of America’s God.

The Washington Post Style Invitational contest asked readers to submit “instructions” for something (anything), written in the style of a famous person. The winning entry was “The Hokey Pokey” as written by W. Shakespeare:

O proud left foot, that ventures quick within
Then soon upon a backward journey lithe.
Anon, once more the gesture, then begin:
Command sinistral pedestal to writhe.
Commence thou then the fervid Hokey-Poke,
A mad gyration, hips in wanton swirl.
To spin! A wilde release from Heaven’s yoke.
Blessed dervish! Surely canst go, girl.
The Hoke, the poke — banish now thy doubt;
Verily, I say, ’tis what it’s all about.

(thanks Corinne!)

I’m not the only one who enjoys it (despite the missing four lines which would have made it a true imitation). It has been blogged a lot. I found the original at the March 2003 contest page. The author is Jeff Brechlin, from Potomac Falls. He won a shotgun shell salt and pepper shaker for his effort. Congrats Jeff!

These other two entires weren’t circulated, but I liked them just as much.

Here is Paul Dudley’s impression of Robert Frost’s voicemail (or answering machine) message. I’m thinking about singing it, as a tango, to the next telemarketer that bothers me during dinner.

I’m not at home, or I’m asleep,
But do not fret, and do not weep.
Just leave a message at the beep,
Just leave a message at the beep.

And of course, where would my sense of performative irony be without the inclusion of some fake Emily Dickinson (snort)?

Have a little giggle, and pray that the lady of Amherst isn’t hanging around in any conscious form to know about things like being channelled by Jim Roy Wilson (Washington) for this consumer message:

A gauzy Skein of Propylene –
That sways with slightest Breath –
This bag holds smocks — and Bread and Milk
But — in its folds — lies Death.
It sways and puffs — this Thistledown,
Balloonlike in its joy –
Each tiny mouth a perfect fit —
This bag is not a toy.

Try it to the tune of “The Yellow Rose of Texas”… or “I’d Like to Teach the World to Sing” (the latter itself stolen for the old Coke commercial).

Just posted this for my friend and fellow ex-JW Richard. He is blind, so I post his blog entries for him. He has written a number of books that I found helpful, and he has devoted himself to a life in love’s service. He’s a mystic and has all sorts of interesting opinions on a wide range of topics. I really enjoy helping him out in the little ways that I can.

When I saw this little nugget, I had to post it here as well. For those of you who got short-changed in American Literature class, it’s a version of Edgar Allen Poe’s most well-known poem, “The Raven.” The Raven has become a Jehovahs’ Witness at the door of a former member. I can relate.

On upon a morning, dreary,
as I pondered weak and weary
over many a quaint and curious volume
of forgotten doctrine and Watchtower law.

all was quiet, no one talking,
and suddenly there came a knocking,
as if a giant clock tick-tocking,
knocking on my own front door,
only this, and nothing more.

Ah, distinctly I remember,
that Saturday in mid-September,
When I was visited by a member
of that group I was part of no more,
only this, and nothing more.

“They’ve found me,” I said in quiet terror
Why are they here, is it an error?
Surely they don’t want to have me
in their busy group once more!
only this and nothing more

I heard the knock, but I resisted,
and that annoyng knock persisted,
the Witness on my porch insisted,
that I answer my front door,
only this and nothing more.

Alas, the door I opened wide,
and saw him standing there outside
in a suit with necktie nicely tied
“Hello, Sir”, he said, smiling wide
and I hoped that he’d say nothing more.

“I’m here”, he said, “to fill a need,
With magazines and books to read,
to show you how you can survive
the coming Armageddon war”
he set his book bag on the floor.

“It’s obvious the world ain’t working
the devil, he is surely smirking,
over all the evil he’s inspired,
but God has a remedy in store.”
I sighed, I’d heard it all before.

“by a book and have a study
learn from me, I’ll be your buddy
and in time perhaps you’ll join us,
saving souls from door to door.”
boring already, and still more.

“The time is short for God to act,
it’s coming soon, and that’s a fact.
so sell your home and quit your job,
and leave your friends. We’ll find you more”
He smiled, but said nothing more.

I listened and I stood politely,
but inside felt anger burning brightly.
did he not know his message had
ruined many lives before?
With promises, and nothing more.

As I watched the man I wondered,
should I tell how often Brooklyn’s blundered,
Does he know his message that “Time is short”
has been preached for a hundred years or more?
the dates have changed, but nothing more.

Should I tell him of the rules that changed,
of doctrines gone or rearranged
by men who claim to speak for God
in those magazines, now at my door?
selling promises, and nothing more.

Does he know the heavy price he’ll pay,
if he ever thinks in his own way?
or breaks any of so many rules,
and each year they just add more.

Should I tell of my own family, taken,
their affections now forsaken,
’cause long ago I did awaken
to the lies that I’d believed before,
and had preached gladly, door to door.

Should I tell him of my father, dying,
old and feeble, but still trying
to make it to the paradise
that was always just “a few years more”?

In truth I knew not what to say,
so I asked the man, “Please go away”
don’t bother me with your books
I know I’ve read them all before.
the door closed and I said nothing more.

Should I have told him that the truth I’ve found
is not in books so brightly bound
and not from a place or learned man,
and the world is not in Satan’s hand?

Perhaps I should have warned him so
but this day was so long ago,
I said nothing as he left my door
and I saw this Witness, nevermore.

“Terry Allan Poe” (Terry Johnson)