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    The Psychedelic Journey to the Zafu Paid Member

    I was nineteen when I first dropped acid. A sophomore at UC Santa Cruz, I was living with my best friend, Kat, in a ramshackle beach cottage. We gave each other a long gaze, wished each other luck, and each swallowed a tiny piece of paper, blotted with a dot of LSD. Then we lay down in the tiny living room on the plush, blood-red carpet and waited for the acid to hit our systems. No one had advised us to vacuurn. As the LSD came on, Kat and I, immobilized, were captive to an onslaught of animated lint and cat fur. We closed our eyes in an effort to escape the writhing, multicolored environment, and the universe cracked open. I became complete peace, pure luminosity—no self, no form, no time. Free from identification with my body, I realized that death only exists in the imagination of humans. More »
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    Stopping the Wind Paid Member

    The Abenaki Indians tell a story about a curious young warrior, an ancestor from mythical times and something of a mischievous trickster, who sets out one day to stop the wind. He had been trying to paddle his canoe across the river but the wind kept blowing him back, making it impossible for him to get to the other side. He goes after the wind, determined to find its source, and heads into it, hiking over vast stretches of land. After a long search, he finds it high on a mountain in the Adirondacks, in the form of an old wind-eagle whom he calls Grandfather. He tricks Grandfather into falling into a crevice between two mountains and thereby takes all movement out of the world. The weather gets hot, the ponds dry up and fill with scum, the fish and animals die, and the people are miserable. Stopping the wind makes everyone very uncomfortable. More »
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    Be Here Angry Now Paid Member

    As practitioners, we sometimes feel as if we must behave as diplomats for Buddhism, always acting gentle and not getting angry. Do you think Buddhists have more trouble expressing their anger than non-Buddhists? More »
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    Awakening to Anger Paid Member

    Lojong is usually translated as “mind training,” but “mind refining” is also an accurate description. In the Mahayana tradition, mind training doesn’t try to “deal” with the problem of anger. The whole Mahayana bent is on dealing with the present. Anger is the fastest and probably the most powerful reaction to the fear of not existing, of having your sense of self bashed by the opposition you’re facing. Mind training is about learning and knowing that you don’t exist the way you think you do. Anger ceases to arise because there’s nothing to defend. In anger, you destroy your relationship with whatever is threatening. But if you can stay present with the whole experience, you can circumvent anger. More »
  • Tricycle Community 14 comments

    from FUCK, YOU CANCER and other poems Paid Member

    NOI CAN’T STAND IT ANYMOREI CAN’T STAND IT ANYMOREPure explosion of rageBig bangPrimordial furyAtoms of angerExplodingStreaming out from chestLungsStreaming photonsLightYou don’t turn the lightOff in the bathroomCritical voiceYou don’t don’t don’t don’t don’tNO! STOP!I CAN’T STANDITNO - the great NoThe primordialNoI don’t want to stayI want to goooooYou don’t touch meYou don’t love meNoI scream yell shout belLowNoI don’t love youNOGreat NoPrimordial NoI don’t love you NoCosmic NoLet the lightGoooooFury spew forthPhooooo TonsBoiling starsMoltenBig BangBlinding flash of lightOut of darkest deepest NoA universeA childIsTornNooooooooIs born More »
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    A Streetcar in Your Stomach Paid Member

    Anger was carefully modulated in my family. As a small child, my supreme act of rage was to hurl my father’s toothbrush to the bottom of the carpeted stairs. For a long time, looking back, I saw this as a rather pathetically impotent gesture. But now I can see the power in that small act: for it involved the displacement, the desecration of something quite intimate. There was also a curse that had come down to me from the Russian greatgrandmother I never met: “A streetcar shall grow in your stomach!” When I shouted this at my friends in the heat of anger, they laughed at me: “Astrika? What’s astrika?” Now I can see the power in that seemingly ridiculous curse. A streetcar in the stomach. It was a curse of barrenness, no doubt—but here, too, a radical displacement: the inner invaded by something foreign, hard, metallic. More »