Wednesday, July 29, 2015

Journaling in Late July

In my cave, this summer morning, the fan is oscillating with a secretive white noise. But the windows are wide open.

I choose the burgundy black pen and write exactly this most noteworthy experience.

Although I have been trained to see the world outside myself, I know it's not. Don't take it personal;

this consciousness is universal. Only the mind in all its sentient interpretation sees it otherwise.

That's not insignificant. It's only through enchantment of such objectivity the absolute subjective knows itself;

the light itself is never seen. Outside the picture window is a branch of leaves already turning yellow and it's only late July.

The birds are being busy somewhere else. Humidity is high. Later when the sun shines through the window, I emphatically will feel it.

This manifest experience is unconditioned love. And when the winter knows the summer,

when the cold white void feels the humid verdant holy heat, I shall recognize myself.

Tuesday, July 28, 2015

An Unlikely Allegory

There was a wave that dreamt it was the ocean. There was another wave that dreamt it was the sea.

Because not seeing eye to eye, they foamed about the mouth and sprayed invectives in the wind

ascending to grand heights of battlements and watchtowers. In the morning when the sun appeared

above the absolute Pacific, not a wave prevailed upon that silent level boundless main.

And so the message of this story isn't moral but mere fact, that separation in a universe by definition is improbable

and all this sound and fury underway is nothing but the law of probability in play.

Saturday, July 25, 2015

Transpoliteration of Thomas, Logion Two

When searching,
going further,
there’s no stopping
until you fully abide

Almost here,
you’re full of paranoia
and bottomless fear—
knowing the known is
not really known.

This fear gives way
to mind-blowing
seeing the known is
the unknown.

In blissful no-mind,
here’s the sovereign revelation
I Am That—
the absolute

If you are searching, you must not stop until you find.
When you find, however, you will become troubled.
Your confusion will give way to wonder.
 In wonder you will reign over all things.
~Thomas Logion Two, translated by Lynn Baumann

Tuesday, July 21, 2015

On Poison, Love, and Fire

don't drink another's poison
and don't pass it over the table
for someone else—
just common table manners.

love is the only antidote.
but you can’t give it.
and you can’t take it.
you only see you are the antidote.

mature duality is less venomous
than immature nonduality—
taste the ashes
before playing with fire.

Monday, July 20, 2015

A Child’s Garden of Light

Once upon a time there was a child of light, transported to two apparent lights not knowing they too were light.

For they had learned to think, and more, to think about themselves, and every thought was like a colored lens

filtering clear light into emotional complexions of those optics. But, of course, they still were light and loved the light

and taught the lamb of light that came to them to think like them, for that is what they thought was right,

and soon that guiltless light no more was pure unclouded lucid light but shaded in a singular and separate pattern,

divided and benighted—

until one sees the light.

Sunday, July 19, 2015

Aum Shakespeare: "thou must now know farther”

from: The Tempest; Act I, Scene II

…O, I have suffered
With those that I saw suffer: a brave vessel,
Who had, no doubt, some noble creature in her,
Dash'd all to pieces. O, the cry did knock
Against my very heart. Poor souls, they perish'd.
Had I been any god of power, I would
Have sunk the sea within the earth or ere
It should the good ship so have swallow'd and
The fraughting souls within her.

Be collected:
No more amazement: tell your piteous heart
There's no harm done.

O, woe the day!

No harm.
I have done nothing but in care of thee,
Of thee, my dear one, thee, my daughter, who
Art ignorant of what thou art, nought knowing
Of whence I am, nor that I am more better
Than Prospero, master of a full poor cell,
And thy no greater father.

More to know
Did never meddle with my thoughts.

'Tis time
I should inform thee farther. Lend thy hand,
And pluck my magic garment from me. So:
(Lays down his mantle)           
Lie there, my art. Wipe thou thine eyes; have comfort.
The direful spectacle of the wreck, which touch'd
The very virtue of compassion in thee,
I have with such provision in mine art
So safely ordered that there is no soul--
No, not so much perdition as an hair
Betid to any creature in the vessel
Which thou heard'st cry, which thou saw'st sink. Sit down;
For thou must now know farther.

You have often
Begun to tell me what I am, but stopp'd
And left me to a bootless inquisition,
Concluding 'Stay: not yet.'

The hour's now come;
The very minute bids thee ope thine ear;
Obey and be attentive. Canst thou remember
A time before we came unto this cell?

Saturday, July 18, 2015

The Waters of Bermuda

I had heard the talk about the waters of Bermuda and believed it. They were colored with the kiss of turquoise and clear like mountain springs.

But when the ship approached the eastern end, I saw the talk to be mere words and my belief a phantom of the operatic mind.

Oh sure, there is a turquoise hue in pools and places, but even turquoise isn't turquoise. It's just old French for Turkish,

and the colors range through Persian Blue, Black Spider Web, Dark Green Damale, and Yellow Ivory Tortoise,

as well as ten-thousand variations on that painter's theme. It's like the classic difference between religion and the truth,

thinking and experiential witnessing, rationale and love, the pointing finger and the bright full moon.

Here rise the waters of Bermuda, and yes, they are amazing.

Tuesday, July 14, 2015

Sea Legs

The ship was rolling in a Beaufort Scale of nine and I was in the bow when the center of our gravity went missing.

It took a week on land before I found it once again.

But meanwhile vertigo suggested that the world was in my mind and every movement I anticipated was met

by corresponding movement of some so-called object,

that there’s only this subjective space and gravity is magical illusion which without the waves are seen to be the sea

and all attachment is expelled like vomit.

Saturday, July 11, 2015

Bermuda Illuminations

Between two massive igneous formations rests a turquoise cove with ocean waters warmed to a Bermuda summer glow.

Ten thousand years of blue incessant waves have undercut the old caldera stone to thunder crashing with each coral tidal lightning show.

I'm in the water with my thirty-something year old daughter and we're snorkeling and looking at the unknown world

beneath the surface of the sea. It's paradise revisited for me.

That's when I saw the angel fish, or what I like to call an angel fish, although a little later on I'm told it's just an everyday Bermuda sea chub.

You see they change their colors like a mood ring, silver being their default, and black their warlike tint.

But white is their harmonious and peaceable embodiment.

Amazing, like an underwater Prospero, I am conjuring a show that never happens, although I know this spontaneity is looking

through this looking glass and seeing far into the past when my Miranda came to being helping with my seeing,

like this angel fish of my imagination, focusing a world of waves into a sea of self-awareness.

Bermuda is the truth and even someone sixty-something is illuminated in its timeless youth.

Monday, July 6, 2015

Clifton of St. George

There’s a black man in Bermuda who asks each tourist he encounters this specific question:

how old should someone be before allowing them to drink?

There’s a tourist in Bermuda who answers if they’re old enough to die.

There’s a black man in Bermuda who's asked if he remembers being born and answers he recalls that original swimming.

There's a tourist in Bermuda who knows the only knowledge is I am, yet in the deeper water asks his ginger beer and black Bermuda rum:

but who am I?