Religion and Spirituality

I was interviewed on Moshville Radio yesterday (you can hear the show on their Mixcloud archive) and we (Moshville and GOS) made the announcement that our Satan Not Hatin' campaign will be launching a monthly two hour radio show co-hosted by myself and my friend and colleague from the campaign DoomMetalJacket of Satanistiska samfundet (GOS Sweden).

Young women play at dusk as the breeze fills the road with fragrance. With golden butterflies sewn on their skirts, jeweled duck hairpins adorn them. Even their maids wear fine red silk, and their eunuchs dress in purple brocade. But look! Those who lose the way become frightened when their hair turns white.

"Liberation is always born out of struggle."

"Compassion is what makes the heart shake with the suffering of others . . . The active expression of empathy is what I call “conscientious compassion,” the heartfelt commitment to reduce the suffering of others, contribute to their well-being, and strive to create a world conducive to human flourishing." lionsroar.com/to-rescue-a-worl

I do not have a teacher but I have a monk who agreed to help me through my Buddhist path. I've told him I practice impermanence and metta, I told him a little bit how I practice impermanence and he had nothing to say but I think he didn't understand me because he said "when you sit on impermanence" but I basically don't sit on impermanence I do it everyday in this type of way "the rain is falling but it is impermanent it won't last forever, I am feeling anger this is impermanent, I feel happy this impermanent" and I go like that through the day. I do sit for metta though. I wanted to practice on death next because of my ptsd and bipolar the monk told me I can't do samatha and vipassana, it brings back memories that aren't healed yet.

A cuckoo atop a flower chirps in a lovely voice. A beautiful woman whose face is like a jewel looks toward it and strums her harp. Playing like this is not enough. We long for love when we are young, but flowers and birds both fly away. I shed tears facing the autumn wind.

So basically the title, my family is not emotionally open and often cold toward me showing love to them. They never answer to I love yous. I am really into showing love to people I love. I know they love me but they don't show it. I feel always rejected when I show a little love and getting nothing back though I know I shouldn't expect anything back and plus I understand they are emotion-shy so not take it to heart. But in some way it disturbs my Buddhist learning because I don't know if I could handle people not showing compassion if I show them compassion. What's your take on it?

My article just came out:

Last spring, when birds were warbling, I thought of my brothers, young and old. Now, in autumn, as chrysanthemums decline, I think of my own birth. Deep green rivers make me weep, the dust of battles covers the land. What a pity! Within a hundred years the capital city of Xian was destroyed.

Listening to another gem on Hoopla "Flowers in the Dark"hoopladigital.com/title/155666

Raising girls brings up many fears. Those already born should be trained well. Push at their heads to make them attentive, whip their backs to keep their mouths shut. If they can’t operate a shuttle and loom, how can they use brooms and dustpans? Old woman Zhang tells her donkey foal, “When you grow up, don’t be like your mother.”

Wandering, I arrive at Above the Sky Pavilion, where I climb the hundred-foot tower in vain. Even if we nurture life, our lives are short, how will making myself study turn me into a lord? It’s useless to follow the advice of immature people. Why should I be ashamed of my white hair? Not yet as straight as an arrow, I won’t be bent like a hook.

My 12 year old niece was with me in the car tonight. Snowing outside and she yells “Jesus is cumming!!!” 🤦‍♀️🤣🤷‍♀️ kinda proud of her.  That’s a good one 😁

In the village where I live, people flatter me as incomparable. Yesterday, I went to the city and was glared at by dogs. People either hated my narrow pants or said my jacket was too long. While the sparrow hawk’s eyes are crossed, sparrows dance with confidence.

Your writing and judgment are not at all poor, so I wonder why you didn’t pass the official exam. The examiners may have been twisted or perverse to rinse off your dirt, seeking sores and scars. This must be your destiny. Try again this winter. Even if a blind person shoots at a sparrow’s eye, an accidental hit is not impossible!

When Dong was young, he used to visit the imperial palace in a jacket made of yellow duckling feathers, so he resembled a painting. He always rode on a horse with white hooves that kicked up the red dust. Onlookers packed the roadside, wondering whose child he could be.

As a youth, I carried scriptures and a hoe, while living with my brother’s family. But others made accusations and even my own wife turned her back. So I left the dusty world to live idly, reading books. Who can offer a bucketful of water to rescue this fish from its cart track puddle?

When I think back on my young days, I used to hunt at the imperial field. Not wanting to be a national envoy, and saying that being an immortal wasn’t good enough, I’d gallop astride my white horse, shouting at rabbits and letting my green hawk fly. Without realizing it, I took a great plunge. Could anyone see my white hair now and feel pity?

The wife is too lazy to weave at the loom, the husband too slothful to plow for rice. He enjoys hunting with his arrows and bow, while she shuffles around, strumming her lute. When freezing to the bone, get covered up fast, to have a full belly, eat some food first. Who would care about you now if you suffer and wail to the heavens?

In spring, a woman dresses up to stroll with other women down a southern road. She enjoys the flowers, but dreads day’s turn into night, and shelters behind a tree, afraid of the blowing wind. A young man from nearby approaches on a white horse with a golden bridle. Why do they dally together so long? At home, her husband knows.

Girls call to each other while gathering lotus blossoms— what a lovely pure river village! They play and play, not noticing the dusk, or the crazy winds that often come up. Rising waves lift the ducklings, large ducks sway in the eddies. Paddling idly here in a boat, this vast gentle feeling may never end.

In Luoyang there are many women who display their charms on a spring day. They pick roadside blossoms so each can ornament her topknot. Their flowery hairdos entice those around, though others look down on them and glare. Why seek out troublesome lovers? Go home to see your husbands.

On a legendary horse, with a coral whip, he dashes down the Luoyang road. Such a proud, handsome boy doesn’t believe in aging and decline, though his hair is sure to turn white. How long can his rosy cheeks remain? Just look north to the mountain of tombs— that is the Island of the Immortals.

In the third month, when silk worms are small, women come to pick flowers in a field. Then they play with butterflies by the fence and toss toads into the pond. One gathers plums in her soft sleeves, another digs up bamboo shoots with a golden hairpin. If I was forced to compare them, this village is better than my home.

People are a country’s foundation, just like a tree depends on the ground. If the soil is deep, it supports the spreading branches. If the soil is poor, the tree will decline. Do not expose its roots, or the branches will wither and the fruit will fall. To get fish by destroying a dam benefits you just one time.

A country person lives in a thatched-roof hut. In front of his gate, a horse or cart is rarely seen. Birds gather in the dark forest, the broad streams teem with fish. He takes his child to collect nuts and berries, and together, he and his wife plow the hilly field. Inside their hut, what do they possess? Only books on a single shelf.

I am a woman who lives in Handan. I sing in low and high pitches. Happily, in this place where you peacefully hide, this music has been played for ages. Already drunk, don’t say a word about leaving, the sun is not yet in the middle of the sky. In my house, you sleep beneath a quilt embroidered with silver.

Much has been inherited from their parents, rice and vegetable fields—there’s no need to envy others. The wife rocks the loom, cr-ack cr-ack. The children make baby sounds, gaa gaa. They clap their hands at dancing flowers, or prop up their chins to listen to bird songs. Who will come around to appreciate this? Woodcutters often pass right by.

In a jeweled hall with hanging pearl screens, there’s a lovely and graceful young woman. Looking more beautiful than a goddess, her blossoming figure is like a young peach. Her house in the east merges with spring mist, but in her western house, autumn winds rise. In thirty years, she too will become like the remains of sugar cane.

A handsome young man on a horse swings his whip and points to the pleasure quarter, saying, “I will never die.” He has not yet taken a journey. As the four seasons change, he enjoys flowers, but one day they all will wither and yellow. He can’t taste the finest cream and honey until the day he dies.

Question, Does anything exist outside the 5 Skandas? Do the 5 skandas operate on some sort of background or just exist off each other?

A city woman with delicate eyebrows and a white agate-studded sash teases a parrot surrounded by flowers. When she plays her lute beneath the moon, the melody resounds for three months. Countless people admire her short dance, but none of this can last. A lotus cannot withstand the winter cold.

A parrot who lived in the western country was captured by a net in Wu and brought here. A beautiful woman plays with it from morning to night, going in and out of the courtyard of the women’s quarters. She keeps it in a royal golden cage, with a bar to the door that injured its wing. Unlike a swan or a crane, it can’t drift with the wind or soar away into the clouds.

Once I moved to Cold Mountain, everything was at rest. No more useless, mixed-up thinking. In idleness, I write my poems on stone walls, accepting whatever happens like an untied boat.

My mind is like an autumn moon glowing purely in a clear blue abyss. Nothing compares to it. What could I possibly say?