Chuang Tzu Absolutely Loves Freud

The Zhuangzi woodwinds of the earth are practicing tonight.

Whatever sounds appearing in tonight’s Fantasia aren’t in any way my doing.

This, that, these, and those are not demonstratively dissimilar.

The sorcerer’s apprentice is following this low and powerful intent.

This is always that—but that is never this—although if truth be spoken—this is only that because that.

The wind cries holy Mary mother of that absolute unknown and blessed is one among the universe and blessed is the fruit of your imagination!

In the beginning is the butterfly and everything to come is shaped by special effects.

In the name of love the tongue of sky is kissing this holy country of nameless depths,

Martians and werewolves and lovers oh my!

Out of its angelic silence, the wind is whispering in a still great voice—the unknown is, the unknown is, the unknown is—and I am that.

At this age, I have to be told what to write although I only listen to my self.

Orange green and black or white the sky is blue the sun is red in violets growing royal flush i love you—love you—love love love!

If division, love. If one, three. Eastern white pines in a northwest gale.

Four. Love the unbelievable and the universe is yours!

Jesus Mary and Joseph, how many hurricanes and earthquakes or lifelong heartbreaks do i have to say the way is love stop—love death—love stop

Hokusai, Mount Fuji, and I

I just changed the wallpaper on my Zenfone, yes it's called a Zenfone,

to Hokusai's 'Great Wave' where Mount Fuji looks from a distance

with dispassionate and unobstructed views at men in long boats

about to be enveloped by the ivory claws of transformation.

I saw Mount Fuji once myself while traveling the commuter rail

from Tokyo to Narita International. It was on a long and gentle turn

when its iconic shape came into view. It lasted for what seems a minute,

like an enigmatic whisper, like a voice behind a wall inside a dream,

and when the train had found its new assuredly unswerving direction,

I knew beyond that sea of great uncertainty there's never anything but
sky.

untitled

Float like Mozart. Sting like Zhuangzi. One heart leads to another. Third time is a charm.

Old math. Two hearts are better than one. Full house trumps no mind. Jokers are wild.

Basho

In the library

With haiku

Mojave desert

Without a water bottle—

The traffic center!

After thinking I am is I am; on knowing I am is I-I.

Samsara and Indians

Dylan going electric might be the uber myth for 'my generation.' Belief surrenders to being. Judas!

Action precedes words. I am the way. If you meet Bob on the road, don't kill him. Just don't follow him any further.

To dream or not to dream is not the question. Mozart was yet another crack in the western wall that finally fell in 1968.

The current restoration dates to 1980. Deconstructing versus building: in any dream, it’s no contest.

To dream i am dreaming is like a mirror reflecting a mirror. I am between the mirrors.

Restoration always means death for the latest Indian. The big secret is Indians never die. Self-awareness is a good day to die.

Beethoven’s 19th Nervous Symphony

When a dream is over, it's like it never happened. I am, therefore That is. To exist is nothing. To know that I exist is everything.

The river flows, for being is conditioned to see a river flow, the wind blow, the grass grow, high and low, yes and no, allegro and adagio.

The sun is shining on the water and the breeze is blowing from the south southwest and all that’s missing is the red-winged blackbirds.

Self-awareness is such an explosive encounter, one must conceptualize that experience before handling.

First, untrain the mind to play off the conditioned beat. This is the true counterculture. Live as if there’s no time. Scan your own meter.

It’s not about freedom; it’s about intent. One doesn’t kill the id or ego, DNA or social conditioning; one surrenders to disbelief.

Deconstruction is to disbelief as surrender is to intent as who am I is to I am. Rivers and mountains and sea oh my!

Self-awareness is the being and the bliss and the knowledge. Truly without human form, amen.

Canoeing the Concord River with my 8-year old daughter—a great blue heron witnessed at the moment of taking flight—a coyote crosses I-40.

Living like there’s no tomorrow is still living as if there’s time.

On the final steps of the western slope, the boundless dawning of the sea.

Nothing to know is easy. Nothing to teach is hard.

The Daily Current

The river hasn’t iced completely over yet this year although there were some days when it appeared it had.

They say the ocean temps are warm this season what with the record high December temperatures experienced.

Today the Merrimack is flowing black as unadulterated coffee underneath an overcast late January sky.

Minor slabs of ice came floating leisurely upstream while the tide was coming in this afternoon.

I watched the seagulls closely cross the heart of river in the name of wings and wind and holy largemouth bass.

Then an eagle flew with straight determination past those eastern white pine trees on the far shore.

And now I’m at a loss of words illuminating everything transpiring on this open closer one.

Fingers Against the Glass

“I  put my fingers against the glass and bowed my head and cried.” ~Bob Dylan

The morning dew in summer doesn't. The fool and the artist are never two. The Big Bang is always shooting Moby blanks.

Call me who am I. And the colored girls go who am I when I’m not thinking who I am.

Enjoy, for this dream is never born. Every apocalypse is in my mind but still I honor all who suffer thus.

If eastern wisdom seems like western fantasy to you, is it? Science is a theory and I am a fact. What is your experience?

Don’t think about it. Conditioning is deeper than you think. Prophecy is personal. Revelation is experiential. Apocalypse is that.

Call it story or mystery, but I can’t explain that. Last night I purchased the complete symphonies of Mozart for ninety-nine cents. Explain that.

I am. You are. Explain that in ten thousand words. Self-awareness is my manifestation. Death is your social conditioning.

Always, the other is my mirror. Peace children, it's just one love away. Have compassion for the devil. Being is the saint.

The only hell is in thinking you're not the light. And so the light one is burns such thought away.

Revelation is the voice. Prophecy is the translation. For relaxing times, make it Suntory time.

Past is cause. Future is effect. Now is causeless. Basho never looked beyond the first two lines. The third rail is always the live one.

Synchronicity is more than just a coincidence. Three gods are better than none. Feel the love and respect an addiction.

After hiking a mountain, sit down. After sitting down, hike the next mountain. If the slope doesn’t kill you, the peak will.

Before self-awareness is self-awareness. A mirror looks into a mirror. In the end, only self-awareness is the practice for self-awareness

Ode to Light

O light of love this undivided being and intent of that unknown

the absolute unknown in sudden and spontaneous self-awareness

which descended into matter in a process all that jazz of space-time

quantum physics and atomic hydrogen molecular illusionary structure

like a solid and granitic rock of ages rock of crystal thunderstruck

by some organic movement of the light and by the light and for the light

and rising like a phoenix of the mind from single cell to vegetable

to animal to anthropoid Erectus and Neanderthal and something like

bicameral division resulting in conditioning of light the filtering of light

from love to raw emotion fear in many colors separation violence and war

until I meet the Satguru embodiment of light the water table light

the well of light the fountain of the light and see I am the rising

column of the light Arjuna light who uses tools of thought to deconstruct

conditioned thought and when the human form is finally shed

like snakeskin ego all remaining is the space of light the light of love

affectionate awareness self-awareness all there is and I am, I am, I am

That.

The Stagecraft of Conceptual Art

Objects, books, and wall-hangings—secret noises, running water, and a constant hammering of steel on wood—people populate the empty spaces.

A classic Hopi pot finely painted with a red and black migration pattern sitting on a narrow obsidian tower.

The Iliad, Mediations on the Tarot, Tao Te Ching, Great Fool Zen Master Ryokan, The Oxford Anthology of Bhakti Literature, Emily Dickenson.

A Mesoamerican rug with rows of emblematic corn woven on a shimmering turquoise field divided by fringed ribbons of pastel-colored stripes.

(“I'm back. I'm home. All the time, it was… We finally really did it. You Maniacs! You blew it up! Ah, damn you! God damn you all to hell!”)

Outside the Merrimack River is flowing from the White Mountains and Lake Winnipesaukee while inside the Powow River is flowing from a shower head.

Vertical two by fours are rising interrupted by eleven windows, three doors, and several other apertures, capped by a roof with a chimney running through it.

The mind is an energetic open space imbued with nothing but the stagecraft of conceptual art intending self-awareness. Aum, Amen, and Silence.

Dark Night of That Perfect

Firm belief is like a daylight boat

with leaks as wide as nighttime skies

and wild conspiracies are always born

because the boat is always sinking.

Such a world of constant

doubt is always quick to point

a finger at some other rather than

the mystery enveloping the moon.

Other than being, nothing is known,

and all alleged knowledge is

a theoretical house of cards

collapsing into being that unknown.

In the dark night of that perfect

clarity of space, coyotes howl,

who hears and no one listens.