Den of Iquites

Submitted by Bill St. Clair on Wed, 15 Dec 2021 05:09:56 GMT  <== Philosophy ==> 

Im writing a Medium blog, Den of Iquites using Ulysses to author, and it knows how to post to Medium. Its photos of places I visit, with stories and stuff straight from my subconscious about the nature of reality. Iquites is the opposite of Iniquities, but with the Greek spelling of EEZ, to make it look like a philosopher.

The name came from the name Im giving to the dance-like-a-monkey-in-bills-back-yard that I plan to host on Saturday afternoons from two to four, as soon as it gets warm enough. But theres a Den of Iquites story about that. If youre interested, go find it.

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My Prayer to Jesus

Submitted by Bill St. Clair on Mon, 26 Aug 2019 22:34:43 GMT  <== Philosophy ==> 

On Taylor Swift's new album, Lover, there is a song entitled, "Soon You'll Get Better". It features The Dixie Chicks.

In the song I heard, "... so, Jesus, now I pray to you..."

That line got me thinking about my prayer to Jesus today. I can find only one prayer, "Thy will be done."

Standing here, palms open to the sky, tears streaming, "Please, Jesus. I'm here. This body can move things. I can love people. Use me, as thou whilst."

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Classic Larken Rose Rant

Submitted by Bill St. Clair on Thu, 04 May 2017 00:25:23 GMT  <== Philosophy ==> 

A Sweet Lesson on Patience

Submitted by Bill St. Clair on Tue, 01 May 2012 23:49:17 GMT  <== Philosophy ==> 

[From Google+]

A NYC Taxi driver wrote:

I arrived at the address and honked the horn. After waiting a few minutes I honked again. Since this was going to be my last ride of my shift I thought about just driving away, but instead I put the car in park and walked up to the door and knocked.. 'Just a minute', answered a frail, elderly voice. I could hear something being dragged across the floor.

After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman in her 90's stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a 1940's movie.

By her side was a small nylon suitcase. The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years. All the furniture was covered with sheets.

There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensils on the counters. In the corner was a cardboard
box filled with photos and glassware.

'Would you carry my bag out to the car?' she said. I took the suitcase to the cab, then returned to assist the woman.

She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb.

She kept thanking me for my kindness. 'It's nothing', I told her.. 'I just try to treat my passengers the way I would want my mother to be treated.'

'Oh, you're such a good boy, she said. When we got in the cab, she gave me an address and then asked, 'Could you drive
through downtown?'

'It's not the shortest way,' I answered quickly..

'Oh, I don't mind,' she said. 'I'm in no hurry. I'm on my way to a hospice.

I looked in the rear-view mirror. Her eyes were glistening. 'I don't have any family left,' she continued in a soft voice..'The doctor says I don't have very long.' I quietly reached over and shut off the meter.

'What route would you like me to take?' I asked.

For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the building where she had once worked as an elevator operator.

We drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were newlyweds She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl.

Sometimes she'd ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing.

As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, 'I'm tired.Let's go now'.
We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a low building, like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passed under a portico.

Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were solicitous and intent, watching her every move.
They must have been expecting her.

I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door. The woman was already seated in a wheelchair.

'How much do I owe you?' She asked, reaching into her purse.

'Nothing,' I said

'You have to make a living,' she answered.

'There are other passengers,' I responded.

Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug.She held onto me tightly.

'You gave an old woman a little moment of joy,' she said. 'Thank you.'

I squeezed her hand, and then walked into the dim morning light.. Behind me, a door shut.It was the sound of the closing of a life..

I didn't pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly lost in thought. For the rest of that day,I could hardly talk.What if that woman had gotten an angry driver,or one who was impatient to end his shift? What if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven away?

On a quick review, I don't think that I have done anything more important in my life.

We're conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments.

But great moments often catch us unaware-beautifully wrapped in what others may consider a small one.

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The Gift of Life

Submitted by Bill St. Clair on Mon, 26 Dec 2011 07:31:13 GMT  <== Personal ==>   <== Philosophy ==> 

Every cell of your body
is singing in ecstasy.
Be that song.

Feel it.
Every cell.
Perfect harmony.

Be that song.

Be here now.

[received at 2:20am on 26 December, 2011]

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The Aristocracy of Action

Submitted by Bill St. Clair on Thu, 18 Mar 2010 00:40:41 GMT  <== Philosophy ==> is hosting a new essay in the veign of A Declaration of Separation. We can talk and theorize forever, and nothing will change. We can beg and plead and run candidates and vote forever, and nothing will change. If we want a new world, a world where individual liberty is central, we have to build it. Mirrored here.

Read carefully - if you do not act, nothing will be. If you do not implement your dreams, if you do not work for your goals, they will never come true. And even if they would - you would have no say in them, you would not own them. You would just be a free rider - and we despise free riders.

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Talking to God...

Submitted by Bill St. Clair on Sun, 14 Feb 2010 12:46:02 GMT  <== Philosophy ==> 

The Ragged Trousered Philosopher met god the other day. On a train. And had an interesting conversation. I won't excerpt it. Just read.

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The Library of the Pleiades

Submitted by Bill St. Clair on Fri, 16 Jan 2009 19:12:56 GMT  <== Philosophy ==> 

The Library of the Pleiades is a very interesting place. I haven't tried spidering it, but it appears to be huge. Start with the Mission Statement and have fun.

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Happy 2007!

Submitted by Bill St. Clair on Mon, 01 Jan 2007 13:30:21 GMT  <== Philosophy ==> 

I've been practicing since 1983 a form of Raja Yoga, meditation on divine light in the heart supported by Pranahuti, yogic transmission that comes through "preceptors". I meditated for an hour and a half a day for eight years. Then I got married, helped raise a baby boy, then a baby girl, and my individual practice dropped off to almost nothing. I still go to weekly satsang, meditation with a group and a preceptor, most weeks.

Last night in bed I received transmission followed by a message. It's a message that I still don't entirely believe, consciously, but it was powerful enough that I wrote it down, and put the short essay on a web site, all by its lonesome. If you're curious, click the link below. This is the last you'll hear from me about it here. I dislike religious nuts.

It may take a while for the new domain to get to your local name server. If the address above doesn't work, try .

Happy New Year! May light and love illuminate you and those you care about.

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That neurotic beast, the writer (aka starting a new book project)

Submitted by Bill St. Clair on Mon, 04 Sep 2006 00:38:51 GMT  <== Philosophy ==> 

Claire Wolfe - a glimpse into the soul of a writer as the muse appears for a new work. [claire]

Every time I start a new project I understand all over again why Hemingway and Fitzgerald drank and why all those famous intellectual women authors ended up with their heads in gas ovens or their whole selves plodding dramatically into rivers with rocks in their pockets.

I'm not putting myself in their league, mind you. Not creatively. But I can match them for writerly angst, dithering, frustration, self-loathing, and absolutely cosmic levels of self-pity. I swear, if it weren't for partnerships and deadlines, I'd never get a useful word down on paper. I can't imagine the courage and fortitude of a writer who comes home from a full-time job and spends three hours in the middle of every night for 10 years working on a novel he doesn't know if any one will ever buy.

Such people must be stronger than Schwarzenegger in his prime.

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