Monks @ MindSay 
From Amnesty International. Let the monks of Tibet hear your voice.
And frankly, since my readers have asked so much, I am definately a pirate person. In the case of Vassal and Renegade Knights Association v. The Confederation of Ronin and Damacy Samurai, I am still up in the air... mainly because they decided to use me as a strength training device.
In Planned Monkhood v. The Mages Guild of District 502 v. Coalition of Psychics, I am a split vote, hoping for a decision stating that Psychic Monks create the best compromise for the American People.
Tell me your votes in these cases and I will tally them and select a winner for each case and an overall winner:
The Organization of Clan and Damacy Ninjas v. Pirates et al
Vassal and Renegade Knights Association v. The Confederation of Ronin and Damacy Samurai
In Planned Monkhood v. The Mages Guild of District 502 v. Coalition of Psychics
Yes, my grandma- my mom's mom- sent me these jokes. She can be a little twisted. I hope you all like them. :)
A man's car broke down as he was driving past a beautiful old
> monastery. He walked up the drive and knocked on the front door. A
> monk answered, listened to the man's story and graciously invited him
> to spend the night.
>
> The monks fed the man and led him to a tiny chamber in which to
sleep.
> The
> man thanked the monks and slept serenely until he was awakened by a
> strange and beautiful sound.
>
> The next morning, as the monks were repairing his car, he asked about
> the
> sound that had woke him.
>
> "We're sorry," the monks said. "We can't tell you about the sound.
> You're not a monk."
>
> The man was disappointed, but eager to be gone, so he thanked the
> monks for their kindness and went on his way. During quiet moments
> afterward,
> the man pondered the source of the alluring sound. Several years
later
> the man
> happened to be driving in the same area. He stopped at the monastery
> on a
> whim and asked admittance. He explained to the monks that he had so
> enjoyed
> his previous stay, he wondered if he might be permitted to spend
> another night under their peaceful roof. The monks agreed, and so the
> man stayed with them again.
>
> Late that night, he heard the strange beautiful sound. The following
> morning he begged the monks to explain the sound. The monks gave him
> the same answer
> as before.
>
> "We're sorry. We can't tell you about the sound. You're not a monk."
>
> By now the man's curiosity had turned to obsession. He decided to
give
> up
> everything and become a monk, for that was the only way he could
learn
> about
> the sound. He informed the monks of his decision and began the long
and
> arduous task of becoming a monk. Seventeen years later, the man was
> finally established as a true member of the order.
>
> When the celebration ended, he humbly went to the leader of the order
> and
> asked to be told the source of the sound.
>
> Silently, the old monk led the new monk to a huge wooden door. He
> opened the door with a golden key. That door swung open to reveal a
> second door of silver, then a third of gold and so on until they had
> passed through twelve doors, each more magnificent than the last. The
> new monk's face was awash with tears of joy as he finally beheld the
> wondrous source of the beautiful mysterious sound he had heard so
many
> years before..........
> >
> >
> >
> >
> >
> >
> >
> >
> >
> But, I can't tell you what it was. You're not a monk.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
One of the British national daily newspapers is asking readers "what
it
> means to be British?" Some of the emails are hilarious but this is
one
> from a chap in Switzerland ...
>
> "Being British is about driving in a German car to an Irish pub for a
> Belgian beer, then traveling home, grabbing an Indian curry or a
> Turkish
> kebab on the way, to sit on Swedish furniture and watch American
shows
> on a Japanese TV. And the most British thing of all? Suspicion of
> anything foreign ".
>
> "Quote of the Year"
>
> "You know the world is going crazy when the best rapper is a white
> guy,the best golfer is a black guy, the tallest guy in the NBA is
> Chinese, the Swiss hold the America's Cup, France is accusing the
U.S.
> of arrogance, Germany doesn't want to go to war, and the three most
> powerful men in America are named Bush, Dick, and Colon.
>
> Need I say more?"
My Order of Monks will live deep within the mountains of India, spending most of the day in meditation. When we aren't meditating upon the wonders of The Bowie, we are practicing every form of Martial Arts known to man (and some that aren't) in order to one day hope to become half as mighty as Chuck Norris.
Also: the members of my order will be completely free from gender expectations, following the example of Our Lord Bowie (mayhereigntheheavensforalleternity). This means that if you are male, and want to wear a dress or make-up, go for it. You are not required to do so, but you have the opportunity. If females wish to wear pants and belch, more power to them.
I have two people confirming that they will come with me. Any other takers?
Kyrie eleison....
I remembered that long, flowing call today as the most non sequitur interjection amid screaming children, chattering bimbos, and elevator music. Stuck amid piles of strewn purses, trash, belts, bras, and more purses, and trying uselessly to pick them up only to be flung down again, and babies are not just crying but grating against your eardrum in a scream similar to that of a victim of a large knife, I basically wanted to shove a firebomb up the ass of anyone who asked me anything. A lot of the time at work I'm angrier than a bat out of hell...my innards raging at the utter mundaneness of picking things up off the floor while rednecks throw them down again and wonder where the cash registers are (try the front of the store, Buckwheat.) And then a girl came by and starting pushing my rail full of bras careening down the aisle and I literally wanted to tell her to bite the curb, bitch, and then stomp on her head, shattering her leering white teeth, those of a cheshire cat on her little black face. And mostly I was angry at myself, for not having written when I promised myself I would and why the fuck was I here hanging bras with little pink lacings on fucking cute hangers? And then between the buzz of automated voices and crowdchatter and questions it came like a silken ghost, Kyrie eleison...
I hadn't had much inspiration lately, and I thought I was never going to force myself to letters again. I realized, with the memory of this sweet entreaty of monk voices, that I never have written anything about my experience at the monastery in this journal.
It's interesting because the monastery retreat came with so many synchronicities. It was there, surrounded by the cherished phrases of the monk's chants, I started Ulysses, which started itself with the monkish Buck Mulligan and his latin interjections, the repetitions of Glory be to the Father and to the Son, and to the Holy
Spirit. As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be, world
without end, Amen, like my wheeling rhymes, they turn and return. And then, that call again which raised, too, in the mind of Bloom, sweet incantation: Kyrie eleison...Lord have mercy.
When you hear chants repeated, songs resung day in, day out, your heart absorbs them. Something about them never leaves you. Even if it's only for a couple of days that they are continually sung, they enter you. It's because of this that even at my farthest points from God, where my mind has totally forgotten and is at aphelion, that I can still be connected by the string of lyric floating from my subconcious. I have remembered it randomly walking down the street, getting on the bus. Milling about as repetitive as the chants themselves but it is a reminder that the repetition, like this one, must not all be meaningless. It is just another wheel, turning and turning.
And I realize I never wrote about the monastery because it was too overwhelming, too much at once. It was indescribable. Another synchronicity is that I wrote a poem about a wheel while I was there. Another synchronicity is that Michael had shown me a glimpse of God with his story and only days after, I was asked if I wanted to join some club members on a retreat to the Trappist monastery of Mepkin Abbey in Moncks Corner, South Carolina.
I never showed you pictures, or words. But the throw back of Kyrie Eleison, the call they sang today, yesterday, the day before, and will sing forever, for everyone, reminds me that I need to. I can't forget that. Not like every other day that seems so dreadfully the same as the others. But the monks were the happiest people I have ever seen, and their days are among the most repetitive on Earth. And that is another thing worth remembering. It is not the circles in which we walk, it is the center which we circle.
My center has always been love, and with Michael's help I realized that it was not the right love I was looking for. No person can ever fulfill me. And that's why what's playing now is Bob Dylan. It ain't me, babe. It ain't me you're looking for, babe.
So over the next few days I'll be giving you what I wrote in my journal during my stay. I doubt I'll be able to scratch the surface, but it is a wellspring of inspiration, and lately I thought I had lost my will.
It's funny how I'm reminded by God.
Now I'm going to go to bed. And as the monks would say each night after they sang their song to the candlelit Mary, "Give us a restful night and a peaceful death."