June 2, 2012

raki or rakee  (rɑːˈkiː, ˈrækɪ, rɑːˈkiː, ˈrækɪ) 

A strong spirit distilled in Turkey, from grain, usually flavored with aniseed or other aromatics.  A strong spirit.

Serefe! “clink, clink, clink” and we raised our glasses.

I drank a strong spirit and it melded itself to my spirit. It demanded my cooperation. I was OK with that. We started to fly.

Life. Human condition, bodies. Electrons and dreams of endless courses through, in and out, before and after time and space. I think so I am.

It goes down cool. Expands inside my stomach, through the network of blood vessels, expands into my mind. Aaahhh.

And the words started to flow. Each of the three of us, a slight smile to our lips, eyes alight, we listened and spoke in turns, absorbing each other’s spaces, tasting the words like tasting dark chocolate melting on the tongue. We were all equal. I had not had a moment like this in a long, long time it seemed. I was profoundly thankful for it.




To feel the threads of the yet to be known fabric of life being woven in Real Time. Right now, forever.

Real Time” : I love the concept of real time. When I think about it… it actually means no time… no delays, no considerations. It just is.

In the art of recording it’s about capturing something ethereal like a performance through piles of gear and software and hardware all doing their various duties; amplifying, compressing, writing wave files on a screen simultaneously without hesitation. In real time. No delayed transmission or rendering. It just takes place as it happens. There is an element of sorcery, of magic.  Purity.

Can one live in “real time” like the birds, the wildlife?

Did Rumi, live in “real time” when they walked the earth?

To trust one’s fate until death comes to claim you in Real Time, no insurance, no clauses on a contract to address future possibilities of maybes.

The nature of the material world. With Quantum physics, every notion of knowing what is around us is shattered. What if all is an illusion, what if indeed it is the willing creation of an agreed upon reality. What if we are that powerful?


A man wakes up.  Remembers.  Eats.  Works, gets entertained, sleeps. His head tells him he is doing right, his heart longs for something else. Imaginary fences are built around him so not to deviate. Guilt, fear, reason, religion keep him in line.

What is it that I should do? One gets hungry, tired. One gets lonely and scared. Or is that just a choice too? Are the birds worried? Could you sing like this if you were scared?

One must…” and suddenly all the tenets of good living become a prison.

My life is a long dark tunnel from which I will emerge when I die.”

Oh the pain in that phrase. The utter desolation. The loneliness. Separation.


Give me one more drink of Raki, take me to the mountains and let me look at the infinite horizon, let me feel the nearness of the stars, the depth of the night. Let me see an eagle soar above. Let me feel the rain beat down on me mercilessly. Let me sweat, let me be cold and shiver uncontrollably. Let me live fully, let me be inside, through, across the world, let me be part of the electrodynamic fabric. The non-material, the unexpected and un-expectable, the known and knowable.

Let me be the electron again. And please don’t let me fall again for what the body tells me is truth, need, reality. They are traps.

One more sip. Warmth. Fed. I spoke, interjected, joked, I plunged into my friend’s minds, curious and hungry. I was sky bound, surfing at high velocity. I felt my laughter rolling out of my throat, and jump into the air around us and being absorbed by it like a thirsty desert dweller would drink water and want more, more, more.

Raki and the smell of anise. At the first sip my mind is taken in an embrace by the strong spirit that it is.

Come with me, do not worry, ride down the river or the winds if you wish.” the spirit told me.

And I said : “ Take my worries. Soothe my aches. Make me plow the fields of my soul so new wheat will grow and feed my hunger for freedom, for understanding, for oneness.


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