99 names: as-Salam: the Source of Peace

in the name of ALLAH, the Most Beneficient, the Most Merciful.

islam, the Great Surrender, is the process of submission to the Source of Peace. islam, translates to Surrendering to the Source of Peace. the Source of Peace is Al-LAH, the name of which translates to number One.

peace to You. peace to your mother and father and sisters and brothers and aunties and uncles, and cousins and friends, and lineage…we share the same one…

so peace to you from the Source that we manifest from, the one that is peace, that has always been Peace, salam, even when the Arabic word for it becomes reprogrammed to fit bombs and ak’s.

somehow the hollow-hearted white, black, brown, yellow soldiers who drop bombs on mosques, drop their pants and grope, intrude, inseminate women (women with so much modesty that shaking hands would lead to a blush), are rewarded with pins and stripes and celebrated as heroes…

somehow…prayers for them…you have my prayers…you did what you did though…recognize…do something about it…find your peace…prayers for returning to Source…Peace

…all praise is due for this path of Peace that anchors the day, the body, the year, human relations into the mathematics of the Quiet humility of sun moon stars aligned in orbit with the Source of Peace..

peace to my grandfather, the medicine man, who prayed, who never gave up on me…even when i was gone, so gone that bottles, blunts, yoga-talking, dancing metaphysics to supercat…

…the Source of Peace has always been there, the redwoods told me…

but there is no peace my boy dani used to say, as we walked from subway car to subway car, four deep, paper-bag bottles in our hands, bronx our audience, our shell-tops and long curls our shine...the police confirmed this when they waited for us at the next stop, pulling us out, taking our id’s and handing us fines…for being brown, dani said, for being poor…yeah, I used to say..it’s a set up…but who was setting who up? who put the bottle in my hand, the sparkly-white kicks on my feet?

…at some point i set myself up, became that chick that my boy juan told me about, bloody eyed, with scuffs covering his face like tats. the maya was that siren, Juan’s potential fling, the one who was so fine, she was butter-fly, as my dudes and i used to say. the one who he met recently at the time, and who hollered at him that night, told him to meet him on 36^th and 21^st, by the afghani chicken spot, under the glare of ravenswoods pj’s. the chick who was ghost when juan got there, but a bunch of dudes with fists faster than blur materialized like the hard of the timbs they kicked him in with.

…set myself up, was part of the guys around the bend that came with smiles and questions before putting my brother in a chokehold, before jumping us…i was with them, kicking my brother in, keeping cold steel on my homeboy dre's face. i was them, laughing at me asking for help from men in cars that paused to see a spectacle but not do anything about it.

…I was behind the setup the whole time…i was the one who pulled on my Ammu’s sari and pleaded for nikes and walkman's and baggy cargos...i was the one that checked in paystubs for eighths, ounces, and bar-talk…i was the one who dressed words with the same material that disguised my body…and when i was older, well into my adulthood, i was the one who made indigenous a brand-name and claimed henna and yoga like moschino bags, i was the one who attracted women who valued the surface-rebel, and of course…candy corn attracts cavities, fried chicken invites heart attacks, potheads attract potheads, the hollow finds the empty, hurt looks for Real in hurt, Real recognizes Real..real surrenders move in Quiet...

...been trying to find peace…been trying…every so often i’m there…every so often when i am so Quiet that all i am doing is doing…when asana is a covenant between me and the crescent moon, when food is the mud my ancestors became clay in, when i forgo an exchange of info with potential lovers, for a prayers for your path...when most people i come across give up or avoid or say very little to me other than Peace…the Quiet filters…

the Quiet gets blurred into silence, a sinking ship in the middle of the day when i forget Purpose, when Biggie creeps into my head, when i swagger like drunken rockstars in the frequency of a maya-cool, when bills and rent and alienation grip me by the throat, when i forget that the only Purpose as the son of the medicine man, my Abbu, tells me, is to worship, to worship so deeply that…Peace.

 

 

99 names: al Qudus ii - the Purest ii

the Oneness is Love. pure Love. but what does pure love mean? been thinking about this a lot. been wondering about this cause i've been in love, am in love...

what is moving in al Quddus in matters of love require? does it mean to just give it up to whoever, whenever, wherever. 

walking in al Quddus means to be real, to be honest, transparent, to walk, speak, think, move from Quddus.

pure means to Love, and give Love and admire and recognize the beauty of everyone, no matter how ugly their actions may be.

pure, is to operate from this place of purity, where Love is the default, but beware to avoid cofusion with the notion of passive, un-defined love.

let your Quddus in Love be as boundless as the sun and moons and planets, bounded by the orbit of Essence. pure Love is more than an emotion, it is a science that is lost on westerners (all over the world) grappling with lost souls and spirituality.

pure Love is guided by the mathematics of the ecosystems of oceanic galaxies. understanding the math is important to purity, to staying clear of contamination. you can choose not, you can shrug and do you, eat whatever, do whatever, bang with whoever. we have that choice.

al Quddus is truth, and truth misses me like haley's comets and saturn returns, and 1970's bangladesh.

if pure is truth, then i have a long journey ahead of me...because i am off kilter and have often been hypnotized by the pied pipers tunes of babylon, i been drawn to untruth that i've been trying to shake ever since...

been drawn to the combo of skin deep, of slim, long hair, vanilla and cardamom...

been drawn to women who are love, who chemically combust like fracked Pennsylvania, but don't love themselves, who look for lovers like the empty coke cans my homie and i would collect when we were seven, in exchange for ten nickels, 50 cents, to buy a snickers bar.  thing is, what's this saying about me? i've been wondering recently. 

an empty coke can, i've been looking to break through this aluminum, return to the soil of banyan and bodies buried in a traceless earth that only my father could guide me to. don't know where my deciest  grandfather, the medicine man, lies, which tree holds his spirit and bones. 

somehow, at some point, in my babylon-assimilation crip-walk, i became a tombstone, a funeral gathering for the dead, wounded spirits who seek company in the hollow.  

99 names: al Qudus v - the Most Pure v

auzubillahe minash shaitauner rajeem, bismillah hirahma niraheeem...

al Quddus. the pure, chaste, virgin from the place of bramcharya, from the place of Knowing the senses lie, that they are the weakness of adam biting the apple.

we are stronger than flesh and popeye's crisps.

i embody impure.

most times i am weak. most times i crawl into the 7 train, so far below the crowd, that i am as noticeable as the microbes that horizontally replicate. i stare through blemished windows and imagine reincarnation into a slick new york oracle from om magazine, teaching yoga classes and bagging chicks, like dude from a bikram class boasted about in the locker-room.

i imagine rebirth and get anxious, get hamlet - to sleep, perchance to dream and in that dream...escape the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune...

most times i am as pure as fake plastic trees lamented by radio heads. i am as pure as the packaging of yoga mats and t-shirts advertising natural, green, vegan-friendly.

most times i am wondering what i have to offer, and what happened to my 19 year old mother and my young revolutionary father.

pure is me finally realizing that i have issues that i need to deal with, that these issues are contaminants that keep me in an ostritch walk, with my head dragging through asphalt.

pure is knowing that i have very little control over the world, and that the point is not control, and that i could only love and receive love and be okay with being utterly in love and walking away from it because there is no convincing, because there is no changing anyone, because love is more than a
feeling and a hope, more than a dollar and a dream.

pure is to accept the truth in all without deluding into that truth, without in the process attempting to alter that truth to one that fits your ideal.

pure is to understand love is for all, but the sanctity of sacred sharing, of bodies and homes merged, is an act of al Quddus, and that this sacred union should be reserved only for divine intervention, only from a purely aligned truth.

pure is peace, true harmony, a shared space with spirit, far from the excitement of pat benatar's love is a battlefield, of h/bollywood/indie film definitions of love that involve the formula of chase and arguments and cheating and explosive, breath-taking chemistry in break ups to make ups.

pure is me being aligned with Truth enough to be strong from a place where Essence meets this body, to look for the barriers that keep me from loving others, and to love from a place of divine mathematics, from knowing the difference between the right numbers and wrong...

all praise is due. all praise is always due. all praise will always be due to al Qudus.

99 names: al Qudus iv - the Purest iv

during my meditation on pure today, after bowing down, i realized that skyscrapers and turntables, and backward hats on words are real to some, to many, to most, and has been to me for most of my life, even though Self knew better...

pure is to understand that there is no convincing, that we all have to come to our own conclusions on truth on our own, and that, that's okay.

you can love someone and not be in a relationship with them. you could even crush, have some butterflies, and watch them fly off like fairies in the middle of a dream on the hammock in the forest. 

crush and butterflies don't have to mean a relationship, don't have to mean two years later and still hoping that she'll change, that he'll pay more attention, that her words that contradict her actions will restitch into pashmina, that his rage, negligence, abuse shows how much he cares...

pure is to love from the math of truth.

and the truth is, loving yourself.

i realized that i have to love myself to be pure.

and as drawn as i am to spirit talk and those on the path, i could only love from a place of love, from loving myself, and only love those who love themselves, that like them, i have to be  strong enough to distinguish between love and moments of High. 

to be pure, in the path of surrender is synonymous with cleanliness.

before bowing down on the rug of mountain, feet rooted in soil, the surrender must wash in a science, the outside, must find a quiet place free of noise and chaos, a place where there is a peace of body and mind.

before the surrenderer can place his/her hands in beggar position, palms up head down, to beg the Essence for Guidance, there has to be a cleanse from head to toe, from inside to deeper inside, proximal to distal.

go inside. when your heart beats too rapidly, go inside and learn to tell the difference between a feeling and truth.

shhhh. only Quiet will get you to Pure.

Quddus is the womb of the soul.

99 names: al Qudus iii - the Purest iii

in my meditation on pure, earlier today, during maghrib, as the pure love rays of a precise sun sank into shadows in the firmament, definitions arose like jesus touched bodies, like the soul of shyams in the prayers of rumi. 

pure is to love, from the place of One, where the individual soul meets the endless ocean in fana. love and give love like the arithmetic of trees.

the trees grow to be unassimilable to the chemistry of big macs and decibel breaking hurt of wounded rockstars and the bravado of hip hop heads plastered in gold, or beads, and the overall outward show of material.

the purity of trees is on the equations on their leaves, on the spirals in their trunks that align with planetary spheres.

thought about how everyone is beautiful. thought about how beauty manifests in even frequencies that are off, and since most of us reside in the frequency of off, there has to be beauty to look for, to find, in all.

with this thought of love all, of purity, i thought of how like the leaf on the tree, i could love, and yet maintain the algorithim of boundaries. that like the truth of 3w,6b,P(W1+B2) = the leaf, i could give love and admire, and express pure compassion without being in a relationship with everyone, with even the few i come across who rock my world for a second, unless the truth is aligned. 

pure is to recognize and love the beauty of all without chasing after coke bottles, or the hands that will hold them. pure is to love yourself enough to know what love is and what is seeking to make redwoods out of plastic. you could make a sari a mini-skirt, but it's no longer a sari, even if you call it that. 

pure is to love myself, i realized, enough to stay at bay of those who are so hurt that hurt feels like love, and storylines of fly-by-night-lovers woven into sheharazad tales to maintain a thousand nights of hope, to refute the wisdom of friends as they don't know her/him like i do...

...no other animal will know intimacy with the coyote like the rabbit.

pure is to love and be compassionate to the women in our lives who hurt, who inadvertently search for those who hurt to reconcile their own own hurt with.

pure is to love yourself enough to stay clear, to thank you, another lifetime when you have worked through your millenia of carcinogenic karma, to love from a distance, to maintain the equation of leaves, to steer clear of persuasion on what is love and what is abuse.

pure is to take time to heal and be pure for your family, friends, sacred reflection, so you don't recycle the karma of disguised masculinity that seeks to hurt, control, abuse power...

there is no rescuing anyone, and hurt is as strong an emotion as love, and taints thoughts and dreams, and colors hopes. pure is able to see past the emotion, ground in the spirit and draw the lines that keep you from being contaminated on what feels...

...the good lasts a minute, the hurt lasts a lifetime, keeps us in a ferocious cycle. get out of the cycle. escape!!! but do it Quietly. Quietness is the surest sign. 

99 names: al Qudus: the Most Pure

pure is the word of the Essence, impeccable like the full moon and the dawn sky, like the blanket of stars painted in twinkle on the fabric of midnight. 

i know pure the way i know light, cause of darkness, cause of what is impure, cause of the revelation i had this week, during prayer (grappled with it in part ii, iii, iv, v of al Quddus).

the dictionary defines pure as free from anything inferior, or contaminating, like pure himalayan water free of plastic bottles and industrial sewage; pure gold found as dust particles in angolan caves, like a pure science. pure is defined as an absolute, utterly, like the rustle of leaves in the forest without highway rumble, honks and engines, of any kind.

pure is to be free of discordance, which would mean to be in tune, in pure Harmony with the One. how do our actions, our engagement with the world reflect this Harmony?

pure is to be independent of the senses, of contaminating experiences that we rack in seeking experience, in seeking to consume the ecstasy of newness.  absolute; utter; sheer: to sing for pure joy.

pure is the word of ALLAH.

the word of ALLAH is in the language of pure - Quiet. true surrenderers, yogis, know this.

real yogi’s move in Quiet. killers move in silence. silence is shattering, carries the weight of murder, mayhem, hurt, guilt. the word of Air Land Liquid Atmosphere Heat never lies, is as pure as swiss snow, and as dark as cocaine on the noses of wall street moguls and hip hop rock stars. 

ALLAH's word occupies paradigm, as it is truth, the Great Balance. truth leads to truth, more roads, more highways, more vehicles, more asthma, more lung cancer. the word of the Essence is as impeccable as migraines, and aids, and obesity. 

the truth of the Oneness is a mathematic, and the algebraics, no matter how compounded the polynomials, always adds up to a pure truth. this is the promise of the One - for every action, a reaction, for every cause, an effect – karma.

the wrath of tsunamis and floods, is karma - using the ocean and sky as dumping grounds reveals consequence.

move with love that is Love, from a place of pure, from a place of sanctity, from the algebra of Air Land Liquid Atmosphere Heat. 

remedies: sudden lower back pain

my brother was in disbelief:

you pulled your back in a yoga class? but you're always doing yoga. isn't yoga supposed to counter that kind of thing? 

good question. yeah, he's right, if you're engaged in yogum, more than just the asana class.

so, the whole 9 yards of yogum will get you to be aligned like oaks and pines in the hudson valley. but sitting around hour after hour behind a computer or in the trains and buses, and at friends houses is countering everything you work on during asana practice.

that and proper alignment. getting into an asana involves a great deal of humility, of listening to body, of aligning with the mathematics of the sun, moon, and planets. when off course, you're a comet off the galactic symphony, you are in the frequency of rick ross and meek mills and kid cuddi and ford and porseh, and mitsubishi and g.e. and boeing....you are in a deep pain. 

my pain was along my right thoraco lumbar fascia (this is the area superficially covering the lumbar region around the spine), latismus dorsi, external oblique, and continued to shoot down my gluteus medius and litobial tract. 

so here's the way i got out of this potentially month long out-for-the-count:

1. fought shaitan. satan whispered shivasanas, and i almost laid down for the rest of class. sometimes this is necessary. sometimes, you need a moment to rest. you just have to listen to body, really listen, and not the voice of giving up. 

2. went into restorative back asanas, including: child's pose, cobra, upward and downward dog. 

3. pressed into pressure points while in child's pose, forward fold, and camel. 

4. continued through asana practice that served the healing of my back. 30 minutes.

5. took a steaming shower, did a forward fold and pressed and slid into points of lower back and nerves that fall into my legs. 

6. oiled entire body, with greater application in area of pain.

7. shivasana on yoga mat. 

8. had a friend press and slide down the pressure points, along my external iliac vein and artery and the great saphonous vein, while I was in child's pose. 

9. continued to participate in normal activity. 

10. continued pressure and heat treatment later that day, before going to bed.

11. slept on floor. 

12. did pressure point treatment using roller next day.

13. prayer, mindful movement, posture, positive thinking and people.

remedies: tooth headache

my left gum, by my molars, has been jolted for months, leading to a climbing throb up my maxilla, zygomatic and temporal  bone. been having this associated headache like a who-smacked-me-with- brass-knuckles-on-the side-of-my-head.

sure, I need to go to the dentist. dentists are mad expensive. the expenses are madder than hatters having tea time every 15 seconds with a mouse, a falcon, an 11 year old blonde girl, and an uninvited queen whose looking for heads to chop...

here's what worked: 

1. blazing-bangladesh-summer-red-hot-shower till your face is in a volcanic cloud. 

2. gargle 3 times with steamy salt water (lots of salt). gargle for 33 seconds each. 

3. swish 3 times with the same. swish for 45 seconds each.

repeat the above every 20 minutes for first hour. 

then repeat once an hour for 3 hours. 

then repeat only after each meal, and before going to bed. 

avoid eating any solids during this time frame; have only peppermint, eucalyptus, thyme, taragon, oregano, or rosemary teas.

avoid foods with sugar, including most fruits. 

avoid all dried fruits and sticky foods.

remedies: bloating

balloons in my stomach like helium bags filled with sand and dynamite. what to do...?

gas trapped and without a quick way to get rid of it, i returned home after a whole day of being out and about - work, supermarket, cafe... 

soon as I got home, was tempted to eat again, not necessarily cause i was hungry, but out of habit, out of neglecting the stagnancy that left me heavy...even rationalized eating spicy foods to run it out...

thought about it. a pause...and this is the first step - pause….  here are the rest of the steps, all of them, the recipe to cure bloating: 

1. be in a place that feels like home, that, even if temporary, is a place you feel you may sleep and shower and feel some peace at. this step is essential for the body to release the toxicity of being in the movement of a fast paced city, and ingesting heaps of acidic air throughout the day...home is essential for a restful soul, of a body at ease and prepared for next steps....

2. avoid eating anything else. even if you are craving it. watch your body, observe whether the craving is really your body's, or your minds. 

3. take a steamy shower. if you have access to a steam room, that will work. 

4. make a ginger/peppermint tea. in the absence of this, boil water and squeeze a quarter of a lemon into it. drink it hot. drink it standing in samasthiti. pray before taking it in.

5. lay on your back with your knees folded and feet on the ground. 

6. take yogic breaths - deep inhalations/exhalations. the exhalations should be longer than the inhalations. 

7. get up to use the bathroom when you need to. otherwise remain in the position, and/or return to this position to retire to for a couple hours, or the night, if it's the end of the day. 

99 names: al-Malik ii, the King of Kings ii

He is Allah , other than whom there is no deity, the Sovereign, the Pure, the Perfection, the Bestower of Faith, the Overseer, the Exalted in Might, the Compeller, the Superior. Exalted is Allah above whatever they associate with Him.  -surah 59:23 the exile.

the definition of Al Malik - the King of Kings - requires us to reexamine the word for God that surrenderers use - ALLAH. 

ALLAH, although used synonymously with the term God - used in western thought on religion - is a distinct term, and a bit more precise for the purposes of the path of Surrender. 

ALLAH translates to the One. ALLAH is an odd number that is indivisible. the name ALLAH, refers to the One-ness, and Al-Malik requires us to understand this in placing ALLAH as above any king, whom man may recognize in material form. 

understanding Al-Malik is understanding that ALLAH is the Sum total, the Source of All, Divine/Ancient Mathematic, older than Time.

Al-Malik bends material linearisms on time and space, by leaving every meditation of prophets, of astral-achieving yogis, and scientists deep in worship of elements and equations, to deduce Oneness.

ALLAH equals the number One. 

i was stirred by this most recent contemplation, in sitting with Al-Malik. 

the very name i referred to in prayer was/is a numeral, a number, a mathematic...scientifically proven by the implausibility of laboratorial science to reconstruct sun moon planets...proven by the passing of jesus and mohammed, shakespeare and robin williams, gandhi and king, my great-grandfather's india and native america, by friends i no longer know and pictures of me i barely recognize. 

through it all, the bowing down at dawn and dusk remain constant. Al Malik remains constant. 

99 names: al-Malik - King of Kings

Al-Malik, the Shahanshah, the King of Kings, the One. 

Al-Malik, contrasts the kings of maya.

the king has no clothes.

obama's peace prize and civil rights talk disguises drone technology, that annihilate ancient peoples, that frack the earth and drill the ocean floor, leaving dolphin cousins choked and comatose on the shores of peru, mexico, mississippi; dolphins murdered and piled like gunned down iraqi bodies on the sands of sumeria. yes, please bring our troops home so they could stop raping, pillaging, plundering... prayers for them, prayers...

the saud's dessert robes in the semblance of the guru muhammad (s.a.w), pretends modesty so crass that the house of Adam, the nucleus of the surrenderer, lies in the shadows of new towering hotels built by petrodollars obtained from raping our Mother (earth). 

Al-Malik, the King of Kings, lies in stark contrast to the babylon kings, excused sometimes because of colors. babylon kings are white, black, brown, yellow, red, are multicultural in their babylon, in arrogance. 

Al-Malik is the quicksand citibanks sink in, the tsunamis that drown the arrogance of rapid development in india/bangladesh, thailand, china.

Al-Malik contrasts heroes.

the King of King exposes the illusion of celebrities/celebrity-ism, as false deities, when time and space makes ike too weak to strike a chord or tina, madonna's prized body sag, jay's swagger, into a hunch back.

Al-Malik dissolves the illusion of seemingly regal-wear that we homage in the culture of cool - ny and oakland fitteds, pouted lips and vogueing street poses - from the elite of madison ave to the illusively rebel of nostrand ave - ostentating diamonds, gold, beamers, drug money. 

those we give value to as kings have as much value as dead presidents on the stripped bodies of abducted and throat-slit trees. 

babylon kings wear kufis, and dreds, and buddhist robes, and african kintes and yogi shawls...

Al-Malik is known through the path of a Love so deep, that no maya can govern tastes in clothing, or food, or attractions in the surrenderer.

Al-Malik is known when time is not when the alarm rings for a job/appointment, but marked by moon and sun and planetary movements; when relations remove from accumulating/consuming friends, intimacies and popularity;  and instead the chosen few of your tribe are always new, are always an opportunity to grow deeper, are a meditation for life, like maghrib prayer at dusk day after day, year after year, like trataka, meditating/gazing at fire, until you can see the sun. 

Al-Malik. 

can you see the light in those around you? 

after, over 30 years of intermittent bowing down, fasting, i can see slivers of light, and only sometimes. i'm slow,  have a great deal of blockages, mountains of ego/fear to work through. 

some people see light right away, notice Al-Malik. yet and still, even if you see, it takes time to build a deeper awareness. 

the majesty of Al Malik is seen in the billion year old mountains of kilimanjaro and himalaya. every day, the mountain and sun prostrate to one another, without boredom, without skipping a beat. 

Al-Malik is known through the billion year meditation with another, until you see the sun, until you can stare without a blink. 

99 names: ar-Rahim: the All Beneficient

in the name of ALLAH...

looked up beneficient. dictionary.com, websters, google, all define the word as one who is generous, who does good works, or who causes good to happen. 

ar-Rahim is the attribute of giving, of faciltating the shine of others, to grow them closer to their true Light. 

ar-Rahim, the Most Benefieient, suggests Quiet, requires the Quiet giving of air from trees, of the endles well of water from rivers...

ar-Rahim works in Quiet, in providing us sunlight, water, soil, air - resources for us to sustain ourselves from, resources that make everything we have possible. all praise is due...

as an attribute for the aspirant of surrender (islam). towards becoming One with the One, ar-Rahim happens through doing works of good, causing good to happen without a mic or a stage. 

ar-Rahim opens a shadow path for those who stand back stage and make the guitar weep in worship of Surrender, while musicians in the limelight of salivating audiences, tap into higher frequencies only to reinforce emotion, to grow us further in our attachments to the illusion. 

ar-Rahim is backstage like my brother - 1-who-Knows. 

my brother is ar-Rahim in his action, got it from my pops whose been motivating the bangli/indian community to do about arsenic in water,  acid in the sky and on the faces of young women attacked by dhaka-goondas. my pops, who has been walking up and down subway stairs from astoria to midtown to borough hall to crown hieghts to harlem, in the grind for a more harmious union, since the days of the double RR train, since when fares and pizza were .75 cents and the summer of sam found him focused on path to write articles exposing famine, genocide, politricknology. 

i see ar-Rahim in my pops, even as i struggled with cool, and imagery and judged his out-ness. my pops wears his pants high, like urkel, like he'd been hit with one too many floods. his hands are usually at his side or in prayer position, holding a book on climate change, subhash chandra bose. when i am past cool, and have a quiet moment, my pops takes me to ar-Rahim, reminds me the lessons of the guru muhammad - what you give with your right hand, your left hand should not know about. 

my brother like my pops, moves in Quiet. when we see each other at our family apartment, his face looks as serene as it does from when i remember him as a shorty, pretty, empathetic, quiet.  he says little and draws me in to talking about me until i spill my guts out like i was talking to jesus. 

ah-Rahim is for the doers, the fearless warriors who from the discipline of warrior code - yama/niyama -yogum - Quranic prescriptions for the Surrenderer - align in Love through structures of scientific methodology. 

ar Rahim, is doing for Love for the sake of Love from the place of Love, and with the discipline of staying clear of spotlights and stages and interviews and groupies and excess income, that this path of the stage lends itself to. 

ar Rahim is in my tribe - smack who feeds dozens in his circle, without any of them knowing; kenny, who doesn't know how not to be giving even when his bank statements read in the negative; chino, who comes fom brooklyn to meet me in queens, stops by my parents crib to give my mom flowers and my pops a ride anywhere; my brother, 1-who-knows, whose works i only learn of from the stories of others who have tears in their eyes when they speak of him; of suzan, who even after seizures striking her down, continues to give unconditionally with every morsel of rice she has.  

ar Rahim is an aspiration. there are plenty of examples of being generous throug acts of kindness, love, giving without ulterior motive, without a concern for recognition. all praise is due...