On food, Dating God opines:
Follow the links, guys. Keep following the links. Because it looks like food, I know that it really, really does, but I swear to you: it isn’t, it isn’t food at all, it is poison and it is making you sick in ways that we are just beginning to fathom. Big Agracorp is banking on the fact that it’ll be too much trouble for you, that you will keep going to the grocery store, that you will keep pretending that it’s okay, that the meat really is pink and healthy, not simply dyed to look that way, that cheap food is a bargain.
On gratitude, Andrew Cohen writes:
It all started in the first few moments after meeting him, when he surprised me by saying that I didn’t have to make any effort to be free. Suddenly, I saw directly into the deepest part of my own self. In my mind’s eye, I saw the image of a stream flowing naturally down a hillside, and I knew without any doubt whatsoever that I had never been unfree. In that instant, I saw through the entire illusion that the inner world I’d been living in for most of my thirty years was based on, and was somehow miraculously released.
Grey Drane has a good first impression of Whole Writing. Thanks, Grey! Good luck with all your efforts to make writing an integral part of your practice.
Oh my god, this is so cool! I think Joe Perez has just become my new hero! Not only is his Kronology totally cool (although I still have to read up on it a lot more), as is the way he applies it in the colors and codes in his blogs, but his concept of “Whole Writing” is exactly what I’ve been wanting to do in my own writing (although I haven’t been able to conceptualize it nearly as well as Joe has).
Dreaming Of Danzan Ravjaa. Thanks to For the Turnstiles for the link.
Anyway, this is going to sound strange coming from a Buddhist monk, but I’ve always had a fascination bordering on admiration with those fully committed to misanthropy, especially if they could express it with style. As such, in my younger days I was a big fan of the writer Charles Bukowski. For ten years my passport photo showed me in a Bukowski t-shirt. I wondered if I was destined to be that drunken bard, hunched over my half-smoked Pall Mall in bemused contempt of the human race, one ornery cat as my sole companion.
About Joe Perez
