Saturday, September 8, 2018

The Eye Thru Witch


The instrument of self-awareness is so sensitive, it thinks it is the instrument. They say the universe is contained in a single drop of water;

I say that drop of water must be dropped like a tear. How many movies must I see before I know I'm not this movie?

Look—leaves fall, trees topple, earth disintegrates, the sun goes out, galaxies implode, the universe disproves the big bang theory. I'm that eye.


If the world is my projection, imagination works both ways. Is Sakyamuni holding up a living flower or does Mahakasyapa know there is no death?

It's easier to live in the future than predict it. If every cause is like a unicorn, love is like a goddess or a god or lgbtqx—

to the seductive sparkle and death of materialistic belief, medicinal deconstruction, and the subsequent eternal clarity of self-awareness.




footnotes

the users manual is learn by being done

my only view on movies is that that's a movie; the rest are just reviews

if pure awareness is the nameless, being is the word

put away your childish beliefs about the doings of gods and scientists and be done by love

being imagines self-awareness; thought is quite the tool when used as i am directing

deconstruction of samsara is nirvana of nirvana only

what me eckhart

Thursday, September 6, 2018

The Ballad of Wu Wei and Kokoro

Although it's true there is no doing, love does undo. And as a poem is the undoing of that infinite potentiality,

consciousness is the empty poet. Yellow leaves are blown away by an early September cold front—inspirational!

The world is the childish thing that love lets go—One Corinthians Thirteen Eleven.

The meeting of the mind and revelation is like the smoke of pen and paper—remember to come up for being!

Ice, forsythia, fireworks, and transformation—thought does you and love undoes me. There is no personal doing.

Monday, September 3, 2018

Imagine My Moon Arjuna


Here across the sea of many craters from your love tonight, I’m looking at the brilliant crescent earth—knowing you are looking at it too.

On the moon, but never of green cheese—one never knows the unknown but one can be the werewolf that one is.

Beneath all rivers and mountains there lies hidden—the third moon of a seventh sun!


On Half Moon Lake when emptiness was empress of the waters once again and storms of form come beckoning like a city school of fools—

the social conditioning of scientific materialism is the old division. Deconstruction is the new math—consciousness only is avant garde!

You can never know the sun, you know. But if I try some times I find I am, the stainless moon—



consciousness only is the unborn mirror in which the absolute godness of pure awareness is spontaneously self-aware.

Saturday, September 1, 2018

Imagination 8


And on the seventh day, there's idleness and adoration—float like a river, sting like hail. Wu Wei. Tao Te.

Across the river from here, white pines are attracted to the sun each day but point to the moon every night.

And around here, it's cats and dogs all day. But at night, it's owls and coyotes. Everyone ultimately agrees.

There's nothing to do and nowhere to go. Call it karma or surrender, it really doesn't matter.


I'm not responsible for my past; true love secretly did me. The way I see it, my job was to follow the script.

Maybe I should improvise! Thought is just a tool but affectionate awareness is the hand.

Bring them together as one in silence twice a day. If self-awareness is god, imagination is angelic.

Six days on the road. One night at sea. Dependent clauses. This, that, these, and those—demonstrative only.





















footnotes to imagination 8

revolution nine is my absolute reference point. 1/9

i remember living by the mills and one day my friend's oldest brother appears from out of the streaming homeward-bound masses on my street, which i am showing off to my suburban cousin, to show off a recently acquired ted williams baseball card. "fucking jesus with a bat!" 2/9

the ferryman returns me to that three-mile strip of consciousness north of the merrimack

between whole and howl, an e is silent 4/9

no damn space, and no damn time 5/9

all the world's a stage and all the men and women my projections 6/9

embodiment is that between the seventh and the next octave calling 7/9

returning wu wei to i am is like the diamond wing of way 8/9

in the name of the further, enlightening intent, not of the dream. #9 #9 #9 #9 9/9


Tuesday, August 28, 2018

Medicine, Crow, Bee & Butterfly


As conditioning is deconstructing, one might see the world as a murder of conspiracy theories, as one subliminally discovers one is That exactly.

The primordial tool of thought when absent-mindedly lost in it's fascinating function of inquiring tool begins to play the role of a thought.


This is why self-inquiry a la Ramana Maharshi is a comedy of errors. The tool is ultimately conditioned to ask who am I

and I am That which playfully asks. Look, JFK's assassination was my father. My mother was the Gulf of Tonkin.


Cherry blossoms never fall. Winter likes to summer in New Mexico. Just imagine Ariel and Caliban! Maharshi, Maharaj.

My prescription is default to consciousness at least once a day and more if possible. While writing this, I noticed I was coming up for air.

Sunday, August 19, 2018

My Letter from the River Valley

In mythic terms, the universe is like the god of pure awareness being self-aware.  That is a definition of evolution for any non-believer.  The world is not an error but an integrated work procedure of the undivided process.  One comes to nirvana through samsara.

When I was a child, I believed samsara and played its worldly games.  On opening, I am nirvana dropping all those childish things.  I am the fish that got away.  I am the silver striper dancing in and out of silver river water!

Any river valley resident can tell you that the river is the valley.  Lately everything along the river is that August morning mist from longer nights following concentrated summer days that still can burn the morning mist before you even know it.

In China, the Milky Way is called River of Stars.  It's the frontier source of the Yellow River: universe, earth, enlightenment.  The world is all about the turning: spring conditioning, summer heat, autumn understanding, first there is a winter then there is no winter then there is.

The primary reflexive paradox is a testament to evidence that every seventh substage requires a pre-existing first stage of the next stage in the overall process.  In Early Christianity, they call this dark enigma between the child and parent, Holy Spirit.

Saturday, August 18, 2018

Love, Wu Wei

Thought,
when not
the tool of love,
unwisely thinks
thought alone can do.

Love just does—
there is no thought behind it.

So when finding oneself caught
within the whirlpool world of thought
and all its agitations of division and identity,
default to love—
this is what the world calls Being Only.

Wednesday, August 15, 2018

Preface Plot Conclusion

To sail the unassailable—squirrels are monkeys waiting for harmonic convergence.  Where has all the transformation gone? “Tell all the truth but say it slant.”  This is what philosophers can't. How can anyone from my generation listen to My Generation and not destroy a planet or two?

There's that day in August when the heat wave breaks and I remember there's a world beyond the water—or so I'm schooled to think. If lilacs are like my deconstruction, purple loosestrife is my backslide. Self-awareness has no personality or else there is the trickster, raven, what a tangled web we weave, and trick-or-treat coyote!

There is no reason for what my I intends and so I must imagine one—by the way, this is actually the secret. Genuine mountains and rivers, sea and sky, again with the crickets! Self-consciousness is consciousness unable to let go although there's only Self.


Saturday, August 11, 2018

Saving Nonduality

Neither geocentric nor heliocentric but consciousness only—universal consciousness is not a theory.  Theories rely on thought

or thoughts arranged in systems of belief—stop and smell the consciousness of That Absolute.

Like Yosemite from Glacier Point—Shaman, Light, and Holy Granite.  Like Seeing Basho 2007 Matsushima—

consciousness only, only consciousness, consciousness only.  Like Mesa Verde and its kiva-like attraction of an inner secret—

this is the grand unified truth.  Pure Awareness is Being Self-aware.

Wednesday, August 8, 2018

Ode to Break On Through (To No Side)


Division feeds division. Political salvation is the last refuge of conditioning, and rightfully so.

Only love sees through that monsterthere is no right or wrong in the Heart of Tao. There's only Self-awareness.

The mirror needing cleaning is not the mirror, grasshopper. After lightning sounds thunder. After thunder babbles crickets.

When the fourth wall is broken through, the other three become paradoxical, poetic, and light.

It was Nixon's resignation party.  Jackie Wilson said.  This Great Intent is coursing through me.  I'm in Heaven when She Smiles.

Tonight the picture window reflects the room around me. The screens on each side are open to the night. Listen, I smell the rain!





Saturday, August 4, 2018

Composition in Consciousness Only

Appearances in consciousness are both spontaneous and temporary. No matter how far down the material world one drills,

there isn't even rope, never mind some theory of string—there's no two to tie everything together.

Disproving the concept of God is the reactionary first half in any game of natural deconstruction.

Being radical is questioning one's own identity as a person in scientific self-inquiry, knowing being isn't divided into halves.

Post-modernism is literally such a reactionary deconstruction at the half. Self-inquiry sees through Zeno's Paradox. Tao is neither left nor right.

Coincidentally, after the last sunset after eight, I finally hear crickets—which in some ways sound similar to peepers, but seasoned, sharper.

Lythrum Salicaria seems to take forever to arrive but when the loosestrife finally purples—timeless!

Half-moon after August dawn—it's not about some quantum that the senses can or cannot sense, but what I know, feel, fundamentally am.

Thursday, August 2, 2018

My Myth of Nonduality

If mountains are god the father and the sea is god the mother, then of course I’m god the child realizing earth is one.

In this particular myth, earth is inside what I am and the manifested universe is unmanifested, absolute.

And there's a stand of white birch trees growing where eastern white pines stood before the fire.

Thought is a tool of being. Thinking you're the tool in this equation requires deconstruction. Every picture of

a rose tells its story of a thorn. For in every antique mirror, thought is like the mercury and being is like glass.

In a true desert, there's breathtaking silence. Not merely of sound, but of silence. Call that self-awareness.


Tuesday, July 31, 2018

Ode

Here Comes The Sun King, The God Lugh, John Barleycorn, O Juliet and They Must Die. For It Is Lammas Eve, Looking to Lughnasadh, Beginning of The Harvest, August, A Certain Slant Of Light

O Psychological Thought is responsible for every War and every Murder and all Unspeakable Acts. If you choose a side, any side, this is what you ultimately choose. Thank god there's choiceless awareness

love is not a choice. Love is what there is before a choice. Always choose love. Render unto August the objects belonging to August but render to myself their life force. At last

a field of purple loosestrife, invasive weed, like deconstructive thoughts from Asia—August—late dawns, early sunsets—the apparent lessening of light—but these days taste concentrated as if boiled to an essence—

if July is the month of lightning bugs, August is the month of dragonflies—they don't just shine their light. They breathe fire! August 2007—I am climbing Yamadera—

the rest of my group is somewhere else around this temple being mountain—an ancient Chinese woman is translating the cicadas for me—ever since the First of August means No Crickets Yet.

Saturday, July 28, 2018

Haiku Haiku Haiku

Speaking your mind is plagiarism. Speak love instead. In the world, silence is not a right. This love is silence speaking. Truest outlaw.

Now is the season of the butterfly. Its story is the nectar of the gods. Transformation is the nature of the beast.

Even science says that self-awareness is the only great intention and the fact of death is pointless and absurd.

But philosophy only thinks about it. Experiential being without thinking knows. Haiku haiku haiku.

The sun sets earlier tonight but I know it's only this and that. Space has no seasons. Contemplation is knowing a cigarette boat is

temporary. Open windows on a summer evening like the sea seen from an easternmost peak.

Evening breeze and leaves are dancing like translucent jade ninjas. Early July night. Not a sound in the valley. Not even a cricket.

Friday, July 27, 2018

An Epistle to the Person

The human body-mind is this wondrous instrument in and of consciousness developed in the process of evolutionary self-awareness.

But because of its metamorphic novelty, the body-mind misidentifies with itself, as a person, in a deficient sense of self-awareness,

and in effect usurps the absolute noumenon, which is a separate and most unnatural state, to say the least.

The resultant human condition of suffering is the natural balancing of forces in this process of self-awareness,

although to the mistaken identity of the person, it appears to be some kind of political imbalance within infinitesimal divisions,

and so it goes on and on. But “all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well” because consciousness.

Thursday, July 26, 2018

2008 No Other Side

No division, no separation, no politics—there’s just purple loosestrife. If space is a metaphor for consciousness, then time is the darkest matter

of all anti-matter. A snake doesn't look like an illusion. A person lost at sea doesn't feel like self-awareness.

Li Po didn't drown in some watery reflection of the moon. He sees he is the moon and jumps right in! Look, being is not a social media—

it's more like an Emily Dickinson poem. Ten years ago, a coyote crossed the road to kill me. Somehow I still got to Santa Fe.

Georgia O'Keeffe. Ansel Adams. The Church of Saint Francis at Rancho de Taos 1929. The desert is form. Form is the desert.

At latest count, 140 bighorn sheep inhabit the alpine regions of Pikes Peak. By the time I got to Woodstock, who am I?

Wednesday, July 25, 2018

An Epistle to Nothing but Water

A person is like a fish out of water but call it brainwashing instead—there’s nothing but water in this divine analogy.

They call it selling water by the river but it’s really selling water in the river.

It takes a certain kind of sick infected suffering imagination to think that any phenomenon, no matter how personal it may appear to be, is not in consciousness.

Consciousness is the only manifestation of the unmanifest noumenon. The material world is as immaterial in consciousness as a dream is in mind—call it emptiness, impermanence, transformation, even vanity, but it’s not a real world.

Manifest consciousness is the unmanifest Absolute knowing it is the unmanifest Absolute. The dream state is how consciousness facilitates this knowing within consciousness. Call this evolutionary story the specter of self-awareness.

This fluid specter of self-awareness is called divine imagination when imagination is not sick infected suffering. Whether a butterfly or a Taoist wandering at ease, such a fish knows it’s in the wholly holey holy water.


Saturday, July 21, 2018

Festival Manifestation


This weekend marks the height of New England summer heat—the sun is dropping body-mind. 

Everything appears in consciousness and it's abundantly apparent if one doesn't think about it.

Body-mind is like the dream machine of divine imagination getting lost within the nuts and bolts of its survival—but it's just my imagination running away with me. 


Next week the summer starts to fall. Nagarjuna's emptiness is Han Shan's transformation. Nothing not cold can stay.

Looking inside is called leaving the world. Dropping body-mind is called experiencing oneself.

Being is called self-awareness. This is called That.



Belief is about a single point of view but I contain multitudes!

Let my summers go; manifest one's current understanding.

Being is non-doing. Non-doing doesn't mean no choice. Choicelessness is choosing love.


Thursday, July 19, 2018

New Cold Mountain Transcreation 22

In this seam of cliffs 
there’s enough of a crystalline breeze.
No fan needs rousing.
Cool air arises on its own.
A bright moon is shining.
White clouds are encircling.
He is sitting alone
one ancient man.


304-red pine; 308-henricks; 145-tanahashi

Tuesday, July 17, 2018

New Cold Mountain Transcreation 21

I abide beneath Cold Cliff 
marveling at its manifest shelter. 
I carry a basket and gather greens and roots
using it to pluck some fruit as well.
Returning, I spread out a simple mat and eat
while chewing on some purple immortals.
I rinse my bowl in a clear pool.
I boil what’s remaining into a soup.
Sitting in sunshine, wrapped in a cloak,
I scan unhurriedly poems of the ancients.


290-red pine; 293-henricks; 255-tanahashi; 295-rouzer

Monday, July 16, 2018

New Cold Mountain Transcreation 20

Nowadays people search in the clouds for a path—
but the way of clouds is obscure and lacks a sign.
The mountains are high and the passes steep.
The streams are wide with little daylight.
Green mountains rise before and after.
White clouds stretch west and east.
But if one is truly looking for the way of clouds,
it’s here in the space of open sky.


255-red pine; 256-henricks; 69-watson; 244-tanahashi

Saturday, July 14, 2018

Direct Tao

Here's my latest hottest take: the monolith in 2001 represents duality. The monolith is the birth of the binary. If there's a one then there's a zero. Dave, fast forward to the age of nanotech.

But nonduality is one being nothing. So the monolith is misunderstood. It was believed and not received as a gift to see through. Thus, we expel ourselves from paradise daily.

The intent of evolution is self-awareness, but in the act of chopping wood and carrying water, I discovered the fire of death. (Ever since I started using a fountain pen for writing, I have ink-stained hands and I like it.)

This is the 39th night of the 40 days of summer. Soon there will be purple loosestrife! The hardest part of my conditioning is thinking there are others, not knowing everyone at best is my projection.

Footnote. Love is not projection. Love is universal being. But too often it is filtered by the coloring of thought. O empire of scientific materialism, how do I know thy great intent?

of an evolutionary universe is self-awareness? Because I am. Question everything. Goddess is love. It's all about imagination. Imagination is another name for seeing through.

Remember. No healing. no growth. The so-called ego is not a bad guy. Seeing through the world is Self-awareness 101. Ego wants to be the bad guy. Believing right and wrong reinforces all the webs we weave.

Look, give the sense of ego half-a-chance. It's like the tool for focusing one's attention toward self-awareness. If not for love, I'm not self-aware. So always love the one you're with.

Nothing is wrong unless you think it is. Nothing is right, either. Everything is as it is. Self-awareness is the name of my best myth. The left is collective. The right is individual. 

Love and wisdom is the heart of nonduality. Butterflies! Gypsy moths? It's all about my point of view. Imagine that. It is as it is and all shall be well. That's easy for me to say.


Friday, July 13, 2018

New Cold Mountain Transcreation 19

A thousand clouds and ten thousand streams—
among them is one individual at ease.
In the light of day, he wanders in green mountains.
At night, he circles back to sleep beneath a cliff.
The springs and autumns quickly pass.
Untroubled, he is free of worldly entanglements.
Light-hearted, he depends on nothing.
Becalmed, he is as placid as the waters in an autumn river.


279-red pine; 282-henricks; 61-watson; 241-tanahashi

New Cold Mountain Transcreation 18

Since I’ve been dwelling on Cold Mountain 
how many ten-thousand years have come and gone?
Following my fate, I came to a place of woods and water
and here I stop and stay, observing being as it is.
No one troubles this cold cliff
impenetrable white clouds obscure.
Meager grass makes my mattress.
Expansive blue sky is my quilt.
Satisfied, I rest my head on a pillow of stone
letting heaven and earth attend to transformation.


26-red pine; 163-henricks; 241-tanahashi; 7-snyder

Thursday, July 12, 2018

New Cold Mountain Transcreation 17

I experience the peak of the Platform of the Sky, 
most eminent among that mass of mountains.
Pine and bamboo murmur in the swaying of the wind
like the ocean tide seesawing beneath the moonlight.
Contemplating green slopes below,
I consider the dark principle with white clouds.
My wild delight concurs with these mountains and rivers.
My prime intent is being with such companions of the Way.

  
226-red pine; 228-henricks; 60-watson; 231-tanahashi

Wednesday, July 11, 2018

New Cold Mountain Transcreation 16

I sit on a large slab of rock.
The valley stream is icy, cold.
Quietly, joyfully, I take in the enchantment
enveloped in the mists that cling to empty cliffs.
This is such a still restful place.
The sun is slant and shadows of trees grow enhanced.
I can see the bottom ground of mind
a lotus is emerging from the sediment.


264-red pine; 266-henricks; 219-tanahashi; 267-rouzer

Tuesday, July 10, 2018

New Cold Mountain Transcreation 15

Cold Mountain is an undisturbed place
isolated from the worldly passersby.
Often I come across birds in the forest
and together sing our mountain songs.
Sacred plants flow along streams into valleys.
Venerable pines climb the difficult peaks.
Here you see an easygoing solitary
pausing by a precipice.


256-red pine; 257-henricks; 217-tanahashi; 258-rouzer

New Cold Mountain Transcreation 14

Cloud-blossoming mountains growing toward a heavenly blue sky. 

The road is out-of-the-way and the forest is profoundthere are no wayfarers here.

Far-off I see the desolate immortal toad moon shining brightly.

Nearby I hear a flock of birds and their familiar chirping.

An old man is sitting alone on a dark green cliff.

Retiring to this abode, he lets his hair grow gray.

He sighs the past is like the present day—

unpremeditated, like all those rivers flowing east.





122-red pine; 123-henricks; 178-tanahashi; 123-rouzer

Monday, July 9, 2018

New Cold Mountain Transcreation 13

Your brushstrokes may be uninhibited
and physique be quite substantial
but alive, there is your limit.
And dead, one is a nameless ghost.
It’s been like this since ancient days.
To struggle now is simply pointless.
So join me here inside white clouds
I’ll teach you timeless mushroom songs.


25-red pine; 19-henricks; 142-tanahashi; 19-rouzer


New Cold Mountain Transcreation 12

On Cold Mountain, there’s just white clouds,
noiseless, still, detached from dust.
My mountain retreat is a seat of grass.
The arc of the moon is my only lamp.
My stone bed overlooks a jade pond.
Tigers and deer make my only neighbors.
I prefer the joys of this hidden home
where living is always outside of form.


287-red pine; 290-henricks; 141-tanahashi; rouzer-292

New Cold Mountain Transcreation 11

I live alone beneath steep fluted cliffs
where the swirling mists amass all day.
In my shelter, dim and unilluminated,
my mind is protected from noise and discord.
In a dream, I pass through immortal gates,
my spirit returning across that slight stone bridge.
I leave behind my heavy quarrels
clang and clash goes the storied cup abandoned on a tree.


48-red pine; 44-henricks; 42-watson; 138-tanahashi

Sunday, July 8, 2018

New Cold Mountain Transcreation 10

Cold Mountain cold
freezing even rock—
obscuring mountain green,
revealing whitest snow.
The sun ascends to glow
and soon it all is melting—
presently its warmth
providing for this old visitant.


301-red pine; 305-henricks; 36-tanahashi

Saturday, July 7, 2018

Epistle to Zippy

Poetry is what I write when I’ve got nothing more to say. I'm done with all my scientific high-handedness, political self-importance, and spiritual exceptionalism. Doe, a deer. I came for the leaves and stayed because the river.

I've been writing poetry since the 2nd grade and still haven't said what I wanted to say. I remember loving Jesus but avoiding Sunday School with all my Heart. Winter was a lonely frozen playground. Summer was diving in the lake.

From a certain mountain point of view, poetry isn't even in the world. In my sophomore year at Central Catholic High School, I attended Mass on Nine First Fridays, and in so doing am assured of the Roman Catholic version of Enlightenment. Bless you Sister Margaret Mary.

I swear I saw the Loch Ness Monster in Lake Winnipesaukee. It offered me a dime bag for my first three Led Zeppelin albums. I took it. Poetry trivia! Who wrote The Drunken Boat? I took a class at Boston College on the Art of Sacred Architecture, Henry Adams, and the Cathedral of Our Lady of Chartres. You cannot forget such weird beauty.

“Then she opened up a book of poems / And handed it to me / Written by an Italian poet / From the thirteenth century / And everyone of them words rang true / And glowed like burnin' coal / Pourin' off of every page / Like it was written in my soul / From me to you / Tangled up in blue”

by the time I finished writing my masters thesis in american history only to discover that the single lonely protest made against the boston associates' megamills of lawrence and lowell was the one by one who only wanted more to sell the water rights, i knew right then and there, i was a poet

Thought is the alien. Belief is the monster. Love is the mother. Poetry is the paradox behind every paradox. Judge not, love locally. And now my last poetics are the words, love, I don't know. At the sign of bhakti, stop your deconstruction. Being is the sign of self-awareness. What else, maybe a flower. A dream is a dream is a dream.

New Cold Mountain Transcreation 9

The sun is setting behind the western hills.
Grasses and trees reflect its glowing light
but there are places dark and primitive
where pines and creeping vines entwine.
And there the tigers huddle and wait!
As I’m determined, they bristle and rise.
I’ve not the slightest sharp edge in my hand.
Of course I feel a reflexive fright.


278-red pine; watson-98;// 134-tanahashi; 144-henricks

Friday, July 6, 2018

New Cold Mountain Transcreation 8

Today I sit before a cliff 
and sit some time until the mist is clearing—
a single stream of crystal clarity;
high ridgeline of emerald summits;
shadows of the morning clouds so still;
pale moon rising toward its brightness.
This frame is free from dust and stain.
What darkness could ever dim the heart?


278-red pine; 92-watson; 128-tanahashi; 281-henricks

New Cold Mountain Transcreation 7

Fly in your three-winged boat
or hurtle on your long-distance horse,
you will never make my home.
I dwell in the deepest wilderness
in a cave on a cliff amidst the highest peaks—
clouds and thunder cascading every day.
There’s not an orator like Lord Confucius
but there’s no one here to save.


29-red pine; rouzer-24; 123-tanahashi; 24-henricks

New Cold Mountain Transcreation 6

There’s a man inhaling dawn-colored clouds
whose home eludes the ordinary.
His every season is refreshingly austere,
summer and fall being all the same.
A secret stream is always stirring.
Tall pines are whispering in the wind.
If one remains here for half a day,
a lifetime of disquiet is erased.



translations: 27-red pine;117-tanahashi; 22-henricks

Thursday, July 5, 2018

7 x 8 x Y

Bodies are only looking to survive. Politics is the war of which body gets what. War is politics gone huge. Love is patient. Love is kind. Writing as a lapsed Roman Catholic who entertained the priesthood until 1968 happened, love is what the average Christian cannot believe. There's the rub. Or a mystic is one who can't believe. Six of one. A baker's dozen of the other. To let samsara be samsara is the gateless gate, "something there is that doesn't love a wall." Poetry is the art of letting love talk. It took me 50 years to write that sentence.

When love believes, actually attaches to a thought, all hell breaks loose. This is called e-motion. But love is not virtual. Love is furthur. Love is unbelievable! Love is basically what I'm willing to physically die for. Without the question of belief, that would be everyone I love. And yes. Love is always at first sight. (I sweat. Therefore I am.) Zhuangzi 2 is exactly this ad infinitum. Love is the genius of the early Christian message. But belief is empire. Love is Buddhism without the Buddha. Love is.

I’m at the point where watching fireworks on TV is the way I watch fireworks. But I’ve got the windows open and there's no western wind. I should hear the ones over Salisbury Beach in fifteen minutes. (I would bet money but not my life that I heard the fireworks in Boston a few years ago. Not the Pops though.) The 1812 cometh. Discernment minus judgment is love. My daughter taught me this. Finally. I come for the overture. Ah Tchaikovsky! He was an inspiration to me 45 years ago. Should revisit.

I do believe I saw the Pops once. With Randy Newman and Ry Cooder. Maybe the Pops weren't there. It was definitely Symphony Hall though. I saw Randy Newman at Paul's Mall. With Jim Croce. This is politically incorrect. But from my experience, it's mostly parents who really get unconditional love. But my experience is admittedly quite limited. I mean I only have the number one daughter. And a number one granddaughter by the way. God I can't begin to tell you how or why I am so blessed! Yesterday I saw a picture of me forty years ago and a granddaughtervideo.

I would be dead if not for love! Her mother and I separated. Twelve years later we divorced. Love does not mean compatibility. Belief is conflict Belief minus love is war! The problem with all mathematics is depending on observer and observed never changing places. Only getting old is when I saw the patriarchy as it is. I am a white male, yes in an empirical way, but I’m no longer in their demographics. I find a certain freedom in this forest stage. Because I’m white and male of course! But Bodhisattvas are pansexual.

I remember learning the meaning of sexy—from how I remember it, my mother disapproved but my father said it's natural but unwise! I've said enough tonight for any id. So simple. Love is love. The story is a love story unless believing something else. Like Santa Claus. Love is all there is. Thinking otherwise will be the death of me. Wait! Belief minus love is belief. Don't overthink it. Deconstruction ends in being. Not believing something darker. Science is the process. Not the story!  The basic ignorance of scientific materialism is the one of really believing theory.

Look religion is not about belief but belief is religion. Belief minus religion is love. Ananda, what is jnana minus bhakti? Nothing? As you were. Some find it difficult to disbelieve. Even though it's as easy as not thinking. From my point of view. It's not about eliminating thought. Unfortunately, that way is mostly madness. It's all about seeing through each thought. Simply seeing each belief is made from thought. Left or right depends on where you take your stand, yellow hair. I was brought up believing love-talking is not ambitious enough. Love!

Wednesday, July 4, 2018

New Cold Mountain Transcreation 5

I’ve lived for untold autumns here on Cold Mountain
alone and carefree, uttering songs to myself.
My makeshift door doesn’t shut yet there’s calm and quiet.
A spring is murmuring fresh ambrosia in its natural flow.
Within my chamber of rock, an earthen cauldron boils
pine pollen potions, cypress elixirs, and aromatic herbal brews.
When I’m feeling hungry, I merely snack on perennial weeds.
My point of view is so agreeable, I rest on precarious stone.


105-tanahashi; 193-red pine; 194-rouzer; 193-henricks; 21-snyder

Tuesday, July 3, 2018

New Cold Mountain Transcreation 4

Supremely independent in the clouds,
this mountain needs no landowner.
In descending to the pass, I use a walking stick.
Ascending to the peak, I climb the vines.
In the valley, the trees are evergreen.
In the gorge, the rocks are variously colored.
Although I’m cut off from companions,
when spring arrives, the birds sing dawn dawn.


219-red pine; 105-tanahashi; 64-henricks

New Cold Mountain Transcreation 3

Breathtaking and mind-boggling, the waters of the Yellow River,
on and on without end, its way is coursing eastward—
drifting drifting slowly, obscure and never clearing,
slipping by body after body, whose lives appear to pass instead.
But if you wish to ride majestic white clouds,
how can one develop wings?
While your hair is still jet-black, begin—
active or at rest, drop away completely.



from translations: 67-red pine; 100-tanahashi; 64-henricks

New Cold Mountain Transcreation 2

Wang, the Literary Master,
laughs at my unsophisticated poetry—
I know nothing of the 'wasp's waist'
and never incorporate a 'crane's bill'
and as for metric feet, I’m completely ignorant,
and my words are nothing special, and misused.
But I’m laughing at the poetry he writes—
a sightless man creating handiworks about the sun.


from translations: 283-red pine; 28-watson; 95-tanahashi; 286-henricks

Monday, July 2, 2018

New Cold Mountain Transcreation 1

Yesterday I saw these trees by the riverbank
injured and damaged so—unbelievable!
Only two or three were still left standing
scarred by ten thousand axe-blade wounds.
Their ragged leaves had been stripped by frost.
Countless swells had withered their festering roots.
And this is what it’s like to be born—
why would anyone blame eternity?


from translations: 198-red pine; 65-watson; 90-tanahashi; 191-henricks

Saturday, June 30, 2018

Epistle to the Americans

Everyone in the world enjoys a paradigm. If it isn't lucid dreaming, it's believing someone else's. Maybe one is waiting for some nirvikalpa Sunday samadhi. Exactly that is someone else's dreaming. And most of you accept the scientific explanation that the mind will know the great unknown in time.

You cannot petition the lord with science! You cannot know the great unknown with mind. One can only be it, and in being, know it. The one that worships at the ordinary, but secretly believes the specialist, is just another religious crusader.

You will know them by the PhD they follow. Physician, know appearances in consciousness. Lucid dreaming is another name for embodiment. Not to drop a name on you.

The only respect an honest teacher expects from an earnest student is disbelief. It's the student's job to build an honest myth. S/he not fully manufacturing a meta-paradigm is busy as a parasite upon another body-mind.

There's nothing right nor wrong with rhyming. It happens. The interpretation of a happening is always after the fact and never without some bias from the interpretation of previous happenings.

Pure awareness being self-aware is the essence of my myth and I interpret every happening as such. Myth is how I stand. I'll sit when I'm dead. Love without myth is to be continued. Myth without love—see 20th century scientific materialism.

Friday, June 29, 2018

My Particular Myth—Epistle to One and All

Love says: 'I am everything'. Wisdom says: 'I am nothing' Between the two my life flows.

In and for my own understanding—there are two lines of spiritual inquiry establishing themselves along the lines of Indian jnana and bhakti, which I prefer to call personal deconstruction and mystic insight, but a well-known quote from Nisargadatta simply names them wisdom and love.

As to personal deconstruction, social conditioning is challenged on every conceivable front including that of the modern religion of scientific materialism.

Deconstruction without mystic insight leads to rational nihilistic perceptions with a futile search for scientific materialist confirmation.

Science by itself is a method of inquiry. But materialism is an unproven faith in the fundamental nature of material existence, a religious belief propagating theories as dogma without investigating the obvious experiential fact that this material is an appearance in consciousness.

For my own mythic arrangement—the beauty of Arthur M. Young's reflexive universe is the placement of this paradigm of material manifestation within its meta-paradigm of being—utilizing the scientific method to discover that the universe is an evolutionary process of self-awareness.

As to mystic insight, consciousness or being, known in the world as unconditional love, is embraced as primary or fundamental or all.

Mystic insight without a deconstructive approach leads to idealistic new age reverie without a mythic framework. See Apollo and Dionysus.

Pseudo-eastern trappings are just as much new age as Timothy Leary is dead—that's a lot of love to be without a ground to stand on. And there's nothing immanently wrong with this. It's being lost in the western material world looking for some overhanging myth to hang a head on.

Similarly the hopeful crowd announcing our collective consciousness is now preparing for a better day in some not distant newborn age is new age through and through, forgetting one’s not of the world, as well as last lines from every film in Chinatown—forget it friend, it’s samsara.

Beyond, one is being the unknown.

The way as I see it—the body-mind and its world is not to be renounced, but to be embodied as the supernode of my universal soft machine of self-awareness, and embraced for the revelatory dreamwork that it is.

This doesn’t imply involving oneself in the affairs of the world. In fact, as Ramana Maharshi says—non-resistance is the highest way. And the Diamond Sutra says the bodhisattva frees by knowing there’s no bondage.

There is no world other than my projection. When this simple fact is seen—there’s no one but myself—there may be fire on the movie screen but the world isn’t really burning—and no reason to extinguish artificial flames—embody the universal—being only is the way of self-awareness.

Self-awareness is a private showing.

In the west, self-effacement is somewhat easy, especially for one with an undeveloped ego. but world-effacement? How dare one?

Ego is not an individual construct. Ego IS the world and my conditioned place within it, of it.

Some find themselves in a dissociative state having lost the egoic sense of self while holding on to the egoic sense of the world—like the separation anxiety of a child who needs to hold on to a parent for dear life because the sense of self is undeveloped.

It’s not collective. It's not preparing for some future heaven. It's even not about my helping others although this love is in the world and dreaming does go on and some samsara tells nirvana do what your samsara says.

The false religious and progressive invention that the spiritual or humane height of achievement is an egolessness displayed in one’s social consciousness—is one of the most devious protectors of worldly egoic samsara—and the sly guarantor of no awakening from its sleep.

This isn’t saying the liberal view is wrong and pulling yourself up by the bootstraps in a free market world is right. Both are neither. Love is not of the world—and one’s not a body surviving in the world. Consciousness is fundamental. Just imagine the inference of that truth for self-awareness.

Of course there’s such a power as manifesting—look out my window—it’s already happening—great intent is always manifesting my projection—urging the self to self-awareness—the only question for one embodying the universe is—how do I collaborate—and the answer is—divine imagination.

The Self-Reflexive Manifestation

Words wear out. This is why metaphor. But metaphors also wear out. This is why paradox. Paradox never wears out—it was never here.

No name for Tao—not spiritual—not mystical—not even nonduality. The way without a name—call it source of self-awareness.

Still I need a myth to live by. I couldn’t eat without it—just know that myths transform into beliefs when my experientially known unknown is thought to be literally known.

Call it—The Self-Reflexive Manifestation. In consciousness, where all appears, self-awareness is the only constant narrative within my evolution—and its source is obviously myself.

The Self-Reflexive Manifestation is a grand unifying story satisfying all the conflicting plotlines of the micro, the macro, and beyond.

In this myth of The Self-Reflexive Manifestation, the unmanifest emptiness takes form and caveat emptor.

Do you really think the mountains and rivers are outside, Shan Shui? I now know without a doubt the universe is completely inside. And so are the mountains and rivers—appearances in consciousness.

It's the same old story—pure awareness being self-aware. Is the water falling?

Or is the waterfall a temporary closing? And the mist arising from the burning waters is its re-opening. Such is self-awareness.










original

1.
In and for my own understanding—there are two lines of spiritual inquiry establishing themselves along the lines of Indian jnana and bhakti, which I prefer to call personal deconstruction and mystic insight, but a well-known quote from Nisargadatta simply names them wisdom and love.

Deconstruction without mystic insight leads to rational nihilistic perceptions with a futile search for scientific materialist confirmation, while mystic insight without a deconstructive approach leads to idealistic new age reverie without a mythic framework. See Apollo and Dionysus.

In other words, in my particular mythic arrangement, social conditioning is challenged on every conceivable front including that of the modern religion of scientific materialism, while consciousness or being, known in the world as unconditional love, is embraced as primary or fundamental or all.

2.
Science by itself is a method of inquiry. But materialism is an unproven faith in the fundamental nature of material existence, a religious belief propagating theories as dogma without investigating the obvious experiential fact that this material is an appearance in consciousness.

For my own mythic arrangement—the beauty of Arthur M. Young's reflexive universe is the placement of this paradigm of material manifestation within its meta-paradigm of being—utilizing the scientific method to discover that the universe is an evolutionary process of self-awareness.

3.
Pseudo-eastern trappings are just as much new age as Timothy Leary is dead—that's a lot of love to be without a ground to stand on And there's nothing immanently wrong with this. It's being lost in the western material world looking for some overhanging myth to hang a head on.

Similarly the hopeful crowd announcing our collective consciousness is now preparing for a better day in some not distant newborn age is new age through and through, forgetting one’s not of the world, as well as last lines from every film in Chinatown—forget it friend, it’s samsara.

One is being the unknown. It’s not collective. It's not preparing for some future heaven. It's even not about my helping others although this love is in the world and dreaming does go on and some samsara tells nirvana do what your samsara says. No. Self-awareness is a private showing.

4.
The way as I see it—the body-mind and its world is not to be renounced, but to be embodied as the supernode of my universal soft machine of self-awareness, and embraced for the revelatory dreamwork that it is.

This doesn’t imply involving oneself in the affairs of the world. In fact, as Ramana Maharshi says—non-resistance is the highest way. And the Diamond Sutra says the bodhisattva frees by knowing there’s no bondage.

5.
The false religious and progressive invention that the spiritual or humane height of achievement is an egolessness displayed in one’s social consciousness—is one of the most devious protectors of worldly egoic samsara—and the sly guarantor of no awakening from its sleep.

This isn’t saying the liberal view is wrong and pulling yourself up by the bootstraps in a free market world is right. Both are neither. Love is not of the world—and one’s not a body surviving in the world. Consciousness is fundamental. Just imagine the inference of that truth for self-awareness.


The Self-Reflexive Manifestation

Words wear out. This is why metaphor. But metaphors also wear out. This is why paradox. Paradox never wears out—it was never here.

No name for Tao—not spiritual—not mystical—not even nonduality. The way without a name—call it source of self-awareness.

Still I need a myth to live by. I couldn’t eat without it—just know that myths transform into beliefs when my experientially known unknown is thought to be literally known.


Call it—The Self-Reflexive Manifestation. In consciousness, where all appears, self-awareness is the only constant narrative within my evolution—and its source is obviously myself.

The Self-Reflexive Manifestation is a grand unifying story satisfying all the conflicting plotlines of the micro, the macro, and beyond.

In this myth of The Self-Reflexive Manifestation, the unmanifest emptiness takes form and caveat emptor.


Do you really think the mountains and rivers are outside, Shan Shui? I now know without a doubt the universe is completely inside. And so are the mountains and rivers—appearances in consciousness.

It's the same old story—pure awareness being self-aware. Is the water falling?

Or is the waterfall a temporary closing? And the mist arising from the burning waters is its re-opening. Such is self-awareness.

Wednesday, June 27, 2018

Biggest Medicine


Eat my universe! Drink my ouroboric acid! The sun gives and the moon takes away.

If hydrogen is one and oxygen is the sign for infinity, then water is the great mirage—duality!

The first time I took LSD, there was a full blood moon over Half Moon Lake.

Even though this knowledge is omnipresent, in this particular way, the unknown knows itself.

Look, wave-particle duality depends on what the eye expects to see. So much depends on self-awareness.

Samsara is the baddest trip—believing life is survival of the fittest while knowing death is the biggest lie.

Sometime after the wood frogs but quite before the crickets, lightning bugs or fireflies!

As it is—is heaven or nirvana. As feared, project a world of worm and stone around a heart. Await there. Loving sees through all.


Saturday, June 23, 2018

Omnipresent Reflection

Only when the universe has my undivided attention, am I self-aware. This is called Omnipresent Reflection. In my experience, one returns to one within the way of self-awareness. Otherwise one remains conceptual.

This one of which I speak is not conceptual, and so beyond all words, spontaneous, nondual. In other words, the only knowledge is the knowledge of the unknown knowing.

It took me twenty years of hiking mountains to understand that breaking through the wall is stopping thinking period. I started feeling trees are legs, the southern ridge my spine, and what is the summit but one peak and sky?

There is an easy trail on Mount Desert Island beginning with a masonic rock stairway, scrambling up desert bedrock slope, and ending in apocalypse of sea and sky. Every spring it came to be my first sign.

Deconstruction is easy; belief is hard. This is the little lower layer of all kinds of comedy. It's not as if I dream each night and not know the concepts well. What is God but pure awareness? What is the universe but self-awareness? Who am I but both?

Thursday, June 21, 2018

An Epistle in Julian of Norwich


Look! Body-mind is the world. So know the weight of what one drops before you think it's only personal.

Compassion is the love one has for something one can’t change nor should—but the world can give ten thousand reasons why you will.

All of this is happening spontaneously without a so-called ‘my’ and so-called ‘doing’ anything at all. This is just a play-by-play with a colorful point of view.


It's really not that bad. What happens in the world stays in the world, excepting love. And love is all there is.

Love of daughter, granddaughter, son-in-law, brother, brother's husband, nieces and nephews and their families, friends, colleagues, cousins, and all memories of mother and father.

Also Jesus, Sister Mary Charles, The Beatles, Lao Tzu, Whitman, Melville, Frost, Thoreau, Jack Kerouac, don Miguel Ruiz, Eckhart, Adyashanti, Emily, Krishnamurti, Ramana Maharshi, Nisargadatta Maharaj, and Zhuangzi.


Between Basho and Shakespeare is breathing in lines, full stop.

The mind divides because—self-awareness. Any kind of politics is getting stuck in two. Look! Love is the spinning of the wheel. Wisdom is the sand.

Either one follows one's bliss, or one is thinking one is not, or has not been, or should not be following his or her bliss—but unknowingly is.

Tuesday, June 19, 2018

An Epistle to an Angelic Sexton


What is ego but the world and what is loss of ego other than the world no longer needs me?

They say the world breaks up with you because you lose your heart to do the same.

And when she left, it took some time to acclimate myself to the timelessness she left me.


Don't get me wrong, for I still visit all the ones I venerate on earth. After all, it is the right place for love.

Look, disassociation isn't some enlightenment. My therapist, the first one, reconciled myself and Henry David Thoreau.

My second therapist is talkingbreaking up with that which matters is not diffuse, unconcentrated, fuzzy,


but, and more importantly, it's the single-cell zoom focus of intent—that is the angel of self-awareness.

The world is first to say diffuse and fuzzy egolessness is the way but one doesn't call it mind-training for nothing.

Like the four directions being amplified as this universe, embodied, I am. But you are the answer.

Saturday, June 16, 2018

six footnotes in four directions on one urn

footnote the first—see pure awareness being self-aware.
footnote one not two—being is the only knowledge
and this knowledge is in being the unknown.
three—paul is always taken out of context
by those who only read the roman lines
between his unconditional love.

fore! i've been a puppet,
a pauper, a pirate,
a poet, a pawn
and o shiva!
the three and two,
it's samurai puck, exclamation point—

imagine shakespeare meeting basho.
the light is seeing through the film
appearing in a consciousness
dear to you o six six six!
for the life of jesus is a mythic story of the experiential truth
written in a roman-empire-safe encryption—

to transmit this understanding—
consciousness is primary—
fundamental—
secretly—
but
the papal will be people.

An Epistle on a Grecian Urge and Urge and Urge


Consciousness is my name and self-awareness is my story. Love is what I'm called while on the open road. And my song is written in this form of a universe. If a child asks 'what is a tree,' does it take a life to answer?

Sometimes I wear a black hat, sometimes white. The man in the black hat only knows what he isn't. The man in the white hat only knows what he is. And the man without a hat is sleeping by the campfire.

What happens on the way to Damascus doesn't just stay on the way to Damascus. It is the way. The world is like Death Valley and love is like the horse that we ride in on.


A philosopher speaks his mind. A poet speaks in tongues. Personal deconstruction is a lot like jazz in one is mostly listening to the silent spaces it creates.

We gather in this midsummer night's dream on the edge of an ancient pond. The bow is bent and drawn. Drop body-mind. If emptiness is form, then thought is an empty gun.

Christ, consciousness is resurrected in supreme attention. Not some physical entity! May the thousand-petaled lotus be the crown of your creation. May you be embodied and nondual.

Tuesday, June 12, 2018

Epistle to Starbucks

"The state in which both this and that are no longer known as opposites is called the Heart of the Way.  And from the stillness of such a pivot point, all movement and opposition is seen in their immeasurable transformations." ~Z (tr-sr)

It's not as if the people have created everything that's wrong on earth but the very concept of 'right and wrong' creates the people and their world—always the little lower layer. In other words, thought is not a cloud but a tool of self-awareness. Judgment is the cloud and the whole point behind Last Judgment.

This is not an argument for some relativistic viewpoint that right and wrong are simply interchangeable, although war says they obviously are. There is no right and wrong. Zhuangzi speaks the lower layer as I am. Myth is too—beautiful and true—that self-awareness is.

Is a color really right or wrong? What if leaves turned green in autumn? North and South is all the doing of the sun and not location, location, location. Oh my dear old Jung, thought may be universally unconscious but love is consciousness oneself.

Myth, like mind like thought, is a tool of self-awareness. Believing myth, scientific or religious, is what is unbelievable. Like Mayan Clouds of Special Knowing! There's one knowing in the world—unconditional—not of the world—like the highest love or lowest self-esteem—beyond description—

Tao is nameless—satcitananda—self-awareness is the ultimate omnipresence of the absolute godhead. Even Darwin says it's so. Confucius says there's right and wrong but Chuang Tzu dreams of butterflies, wood frogs, screech owl! I am or who am I? Self-awareness is naturally reflexive.

Saturday, June 9, 2018

commentary to footnotes of 2nd epistle to myself

so call it tao

not some existential athesistic philosophic western scientific deep materialist religion founded on some theory of another

call the process self-inquiry or love

self-awareness appears to appear in every resurrection

and the universe appears before all thought but after love

so love the one you’re with apparently

Footnotes to Myself

It's like watching the detectives. Ooh they're so Buddhist. Mysticism is non-denominational. No name for Tao.

The new name for creed is theory. Meet the new boss. "You keep all your money in a big brown bag inside a zoo. What a thing to do!"

Look at it this way. Nothing always comes to something. Dead Man’s Curve is out on Highway Sixty-one too.

The great unknown supernatural pure awareness is being known in natural evolutionary self-awareness and et cetera.

My god, materialism is the first one to declare force majeure. Another wave is landing on the seashore

after talking to the undertow. All I think are my projections. This is why compassion, love.

The Second Epistle to Myself

Curiosity only kills the first life of a cat. The direct path is not of the dream and thus goes straight through it. This is called embodiment. Or being in the world.

I don't know why, but of all Beatles songs, 'Baby You're a Rich Man' is always feeling like the first time I am seeing her. Self-awareness requires that descending into material complacency,

the hard turning of interior imperative intent, and realizing that this dreamwork is my omnipresent actuality of being self-aware. Every year the spring is turning into June.

I imagine reincarnation to be likewise. Another night, another dream for my awakening. From Radio Cold Mountain in the River, this song is going out tonight to all my beautiful ones. Love is in the house!

An Epistle to Myself

The way as I see it—the body-mind and its world is not to be renounced, but to be embodied as the supernode of my universal soft machine of self-awareness, and embraced for the revelatory dreamwork that it is. This doesn’t imply involving oneself in the affairs of the world. In fact, as Ramana Maharshi says—non-resistance is the highest way. And the Diamond Sutra says the bodhisattva frees by knowing there’s no bondage.

Thursday, June 7, 2018

footnotes to epistle satcitananda baby

Awakening has that sudden element to it. It's called getting out of bed. Sailor Bob says what's wrong with right now if you don't think about it. No thought is love; nothing is an ethereal belief. God the parent, in order to form this more perfect union called self-awareness, dreams an impossible dream. Like Dawn Coyote!

Walking and talking is like chewing love at the same time. Love is beyond right and wrong sings every song. Love is beyond all intellectual argument and sister to crazy wisdom! Love is the sea of DNA in which nucleotides rise and fall.

The stand is universal; absolution happens to oneself. The wonder of intuition is before and after every mundane scientific fact. As the crow caws! Pure awareness is the self. Intent is self-inquiry. Self-awareness is the revelation.

Being is always the only time and place. Go intuit like instant karma. A bat out of samsara! I am Self.




Epistle to Ananda

In this reflexive mythic universe of self-awareness—as inert matter of the earth becomes organic, so does the personal awaken. All the suffering in samsara, each conceptual emotional disaster—like earthquakes and volcanoes, hurricanes and tornadoes, rip tides and tsunamis—is impersonal, inevitable, and all is well, all manner of thing is well. Concurrently, indifference is another kind of subtle personal belief—but love is like the fast track of my universal actuality—for it's manifest there is an evolutionary prime directive with unmanifest intent toward self-awareness. It's not absolutely nothing, Ananda.


In this reflexive mythic universe of self-awareness—
as inert matter of the earth becomes organic,
so does the personal awaken.

All the suffering in samsara,
each conceptual emotional disaster—
like earthquakes and volcanoes,
hurricanes and tornadoes,
rip tides and tsunamis—
is impersonal,
inevitable,
and all is well,
all manner of thing is well.

Concurrently,
indifference is a kind of subtle personal belief
—but love is like the fast track of my universal actuality—
for it's manifest there is an evolutionary prime directive with unmanifest intent toward self-awareness.
It's not absolutely nothing,
Ananda.


Saturday, June 2, 2018

Nondual Devotion C180602

Being loves form and form loves being. It's a marriage made in self-awareness. O when lilacs last in the driveway bloomed, I can't remember! For after the happening, there's only the memory of something that never happened.

The windows are open to a rare night in June. A pedestal fan is acting like a ceiling fan. I am holding a Pilot Metropolitan Retro Plum with Leopard Accent fountain pen filled with Montblanc ‘The Beatles’ psychedelic purple ink.

The next thing I know my neighbor is talking loudly on her phone outdoors. I shut the windows and turn on the air conditioning. The fan remains the same. There's no denying all appears in consciousness or its expression, love, or any other way of naming being.

For example, one of my most beloved memories is my granddaughter softly saying ~flower~ in one colorful syllable less than three weeks ago. It’s like being present at the creation. With no mind but all love, I am recording the echoes of that distant ohm of lightning.

For living is not to plan as my daughter is forever reminding me a dozen years ago. In other words, the reflexive universe is intending self-awareness with absolute intent. In the name of the valley spirit, I bow to the way. Shh!

Friday, June 1, 2018

Love and Absolution

in samsara,
love is
like

the mortar in-between
beliefs busy forming
the edifice of a person;

in nirvana,
the edifice is love
and in-between is form.

first, there is a reason.
next, there is no reason.
finally there's love.

for embodiment is being
in the world as love—
default position.

manifestly no one is
of the world,
but yes, absolution

only
comes to
one



In Samsara, love is like the mortar in-between beliefs busy forming the edifice of a person. 

In Nirvana, the edifice is love and in-between is form.


First, there is a reason. Next, there is no reason. Finally there's love.


For embodiment is being in the world as love—default position.


Manifestly no one is of the world, but yes, absolution only comes to one.


Friday, May 4, 2018

footnotes to may three

1. both windows open

2. natural music soothes the lost in thought

3. consciousness has a sense of paradox

4. right and wrong is a case of mistaken duality and not as it is

5. sees through conditioning. smells out the light in all emotion

6. desert memories like ten thousand sunrises in a single morning at grand canyon

7. since consciousness is the first illusion, it’s the only place to wait or way to be

Thursday, May 3, 2018

Diary of a Sunset. May 3, 2018. Pleasant Valley.

The nucleotide is high tonight. In the gray woods, black bark forms a double helix. Between noon and midnight—the screech owl of Pleasant Valley is awake and ready for its night shift.

Peepers begin their ninth with an ode to joy. The purring of this screech owl is amplified by the hollow of an oak tree. Awakened wood frogs supply their synthesized harmony in intervals of three.

Sunset minus fifteen minutes of daytime fame—now the peepers are literally dominating the conversation. Every now and then a single unidentified bird is laughing.

A mockingbird makes an amazing technicolor dream appearance. We have sunset. Only peepers. Some sharp sound appears right after sunset, between bird and animal, angel and devil.

I wonder where the fox and coyote are tonight? And the dogs begin to bark like western coyotes. S/he not being love is busy being sad. The wind may have shifted to the southeast. I think I hear a train.

Southwest is the silent wind around here. Sky City. Civil twilight—highway noise and peepers. "After nautical dusk, sailors cannot navigate via the horizon at sea."

Star rise. Night time is the light time to be. Deconstruction leads to being. It's never nihilistic. The train of absolution is arriving at the station as I stop.

Tuesday, May 1, 2018

Not an Epitaph

Whether being is existent or non-existent is not the question. Begin at the beginning,

which is consciousness, because consciousness is everything. Like I love this being

oh so much I make this world to make this last forever and in doing so forget

I am this being with intent to know I'm that beyond all time. In other words,

I make a mortal world by my attempt to be immortal

in the process of this self-awareness

I am that beyond

the words,

mortality and immortality.

From chapter one, the white rabbit is the rabbit hole: I shall be too late. The point is

thus all communication is in love. Words only repeat themselves. We three gods.

Unknown. The known. Unknowing. Death is to life as suffering is to separation or some such logic.

My calendar of spring is ice out, red-winged blackbirds, purple crocus, vernal equinox,

peepers, forsythia, orioles, cherry blossoms, lilacs, docks then boats, and a rare day in June.

I would have been a priest but for war. I would have been a person but for love.

I would have been a poet but for truth. Ah, that's the strong stuff. Please don’t take it personally.

Sunday, April 29, 2018

footnotes to pseudacris crucifer

0. to my deconstruction warrior projections.

1. exhibitionists of the world, surrender. all my doing is non-doing.

2. love is the way to way.

3. every illusion tells a story.

4. forgiving is not forgetting but seeing through.

5. the universe is infinite like i am.

6. transformation is my middle name.

a. so samadhi is like spontaneous combustion. meanwhile, feel free to burn yourself away in love.

b. deconstruction without compassion is like world war. been there. done that.

c.
seeing through
is forgiving who
i like to think i am

1). love my universal being, have compassion for my unaware projecting, and forgive me all believing

a,) in the name of the child, the parent, and the supernatural

Saturday, April 28, 2018

Merrimack Renga for Pseudacris Crucifer

You cannot jump into the void but one can be. Consciousness is not a product of the body but the world is of consciousness.

Loving is the only knowing and all else is only known. Every April is spontaneous despite the memory of desire.

A flower isn't late nor early and so is dreaming neither right nor wrong but the latest phase of self-awareness.

Wild daffodils bloom on the northern riverbank after escaping the next-door neighbor's flower bed.

Nothing is not nothing. Look out. Every concept is infinitesimal! Only love of being attracts the sting of absolution.

Beyond the known is the unknown and only knowing knows this. Spring like mizu no oto. Hiraizumi. Yamadera. Matsushima!

Friday, April 27, 2018

eight footnotes to my peepers

so much depends on spring peepers

into this stream of consciousness sounds basho

neti neti never ends

as you were soldier as it is peace

magical reality is bound to be the very next phase

myth is to religion as deconstruction is to postmodernism

talking trinity understanding seven

one is never deconstructed and tao is never told


Wednesday, April 25, 2018

Epistle to My Peepers

Spring peepers sounding in the wetlands like a chorus to the changing seasons singing great intent is steadfast in the valley spirit—

one jumps into the unknown depths of being. The splash of transformation is a feature, not a void.

It's a little tantric rule I learn while hiking in the Whites. One doesn't throw out consciousness with the deconstruction of conditioning—

there's nothing right or wrong about the world. It's just a passing shadow, sunshine.

Imagination is the greatest tool devised by evolutionary intent but at times, the myth runs away with the moon—

it's neither the varieties of western materialism nor an eastern void. Myth and deconstruction is the revelation of being the unknown.

If being is the immaculate conception and self-awareness is its absolute revelation, then the world is the turning point this being sees through—

I am quantum-dreaming an unbelievable dream and your light years may vary. Such is absolute uncertainty.

Tuesday, April 24, 2018

footnotes auto jesus me

1. something so inspired—it’s a revelation.

2. fox medicine. pharmaceutical coyote.

3. the moon has been overanalyzed of late.

4. nevertheless there’s a waxing crescent moon shining quicksilvery in the picture window as i write this.

5. like white lightning etched on the crimson sandstone walls of deep blue canyons.

a. whatever. i wax poetic.

b. i wonder why the moon is only half.

c. this sudden observing of observer and observed is called seeing through.

d.
science deconstructs religion
dreaming creates meaning
belief divides being

f. rock crushes scissors. paper covers rock. scissors cut paper.


Monday, April 23, 2018

seven footnotes of war

1. I wrote you a love song.

2. It’s seeing through the me and you.

3. It’s even bigger than war and peace.

4. But it’s smaller than a flower.

5. Only you can declare war and drink their poison.

6. Let love be the first and last words of every train of thought.

7. My lonesome nondual heart is singing.

a. Everyone needs a myth to surf the great unknown.

b. If I'm not love, forgiveness, or compassion, what am I?

Sunday, April 22, 2018

s/he not busy seeing through is war

As there is observer and observed, observing is unknown. As observer and observed is being seen through,

observing is all-knowing. Subject-object eject. Any belief is just an argument for war.

If division is the old math, deconstruction is the new lit. If it isn't love, forgiveness, or compassion, it's war.

Where have all the Mahākāśyapas gone? If it looks like an object, feels like a subject, and quacks like a quack, then it's probably war!

Everybody dies but no one is born. This is the crossroads of the blues. Please forgive the wayless for they know not why they war.

Saturday, April 21, 2018

The Autobiography of Jesus Me

Earth. Sun. Black hole. Let me convince you with my scientific gibberish, objective obscuration, and logical gobbledygook. Projections aren't to be believed but loved.

I saw a fox today. Or maybe it was just another psychological encounter with Coyote. To call me up in Dreamland or trick me into thinking dreams are the only dreams?

Not to mention that this cardinal keeps on keeping on the bird feeder like some Roman Catholic crimson bloodstain of conditioning experienced in childhood until I feel the consciousness of Jesus as myself.

Note that this occurs only after discovering I may read the word of god upon my own! Is it just coincidence the Beatles and Bob Dylan, love and deconstruction quickly follow

leading to that quicksilver night upon a sacred dot of acid, sitting on the edge of Half Moon Lake, looking at a show of August falling stars, knowing I am making all of this spontaneously happen?

After all of that, the world appears to be a giant waste of space-time. So I quit BC and find myself in the Canyon of the Dead a lifetime later to see essential being. Science is so fifth dimension. Imagination is the seventh!