A Little Day Night Sutra

1. On Two and an Epigraph

Compassion is loving one being that believes in two. In this fugue of being.

How do i know myself? Let's make a universe and count the ways. The loves are many but the way is one. I am.

The way is always present in a love, but love, like any act involving two, is tricky and may lead to an attachment, hate, or damned belief.

“Ask my heart about the pain of love and it will tell you / The half-drawn bow’s the assassin, not the arrow that pierces through.”  ~Ghalib

2. One Introduction

A person thinks one is divided from the one. Yes, it is as absurd as it sounds. Yet that is the world and why it is as it is.

The world can’t be cured. It’s only a symptom of the personal. One treatment is to stop taking things personally.

By definition, a person is broken—therapy therefore must be transpersonal—unconditional love, personal deconstruction, resting in awareness.

Politics is as destructive as any war. Religion is as addictive as any drug. Science is as misleading as any superstition.

What passes as knowledge in the world is an ability to manipulate the past most efficiently. True knowledge is being.

Form follows memory. Being follows emptiness. Form is emptiness and emptiness is form. But memory isn’t being. Is it?

Think with all one's heart. Love with all one being. Be with all that unknown. Do all that other stuff on your own time. For now, be.

3. Photos of Reality

mountain way

hiking

in the dense fog I

spot any further cairn spot on-

ly in the present

one

catch 11

the catch about taking

pictures

of the moment is

there is no

moment

when

taking pictures

flash

if the price of undertanding

the wordless

is

to give up each, every, and all your words,

would you?

anything less is believable.

4. Reconciliations

Experience is the great compromise between nothing and something. Creation is the great compromise between silence and noise.

Being is the great compromise between not knowing and disbelief. Between dreaming and and being is making a living.

The greatest love is between noun and verb. The greatest verb is between noun and object.

Every straight line deserves god.

5. Three Endings and an Epitaph

on koans

plural

of koan

is koan

the circle be

the buzz of energy

is being

and

any metaphor is like a bee

buzzing

satisfaction

can't get no

i without

i am

the epitaph

“I Am is the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Absolute Parent except through the Child of Being.” ~Jesus transcreated

Sea Change; A Divination

My first time on a cruise ship and the captain says we're in for wind and rain and waves and sets the Beaufort scale to eight.

We're staying in the bow and night is like a wicked rocking and the waves are banging on the forward deck and sleep is something hard and passing shallow.

In the morning such conditions haven't changed, although by noon we've settled in a leather chair up in the bar room called the Crow’s Nest

looking out at seas of twenty-foot high waves and white cap waves upon those waves and plowing bow splash reaching to the windows of our twelfth floor observation deck.

This ain't the Sixteenth-century though and I'm enjoying all the brave new worlds of nautical experience this tempest brings to play.

For I appear as well to be a similar chaotic dream of waves surrounded by unknown deep seas that I, at best, may call deep sleep and be.

A Pastoral of Leaves

The leaves begin to turn their colors from the green we think is natural, although another month reveals space is what they always are,

to reds and oranges and yellows. As a side note, notice none of them are blue. I am looking at their clear reflection in the high slack river.

In the middle of this mesmerizing symmetry there floats a bright red navigation buoy. Call it what we like.

The river of our universal being always sends a sign to pay attention to its underlying current.

The Map of the Gods

I

intending

to know

I Am

is sudden,

nondual and obvious,

although,

within the process

itself,

or mind,

it appears to be

all space-time.

A Map of Truth

Love 

is truth 

from the view of illusion.

Wisdom 

is illusion 

from the view of truth.

Truth 

is 

no view.

Prayer. 

Myth. 

Silence.

Signs of the Apocalypse

It's not so much that everything exists because of consciousness but nothing other is existing but this consciousness.

And so I dream at night to see straight through the dream of daytime. Psychological manipulation is the way the dream is manifested—

understanding and compassion is the way the dream is apprehended and unveiled. So-called external signs will further this direction by the way.

Undoubtedly, if science points to evolution, evolution points to self-awareness. Anyhow, that's all folks.

A Pastoral Told in Time

Seagulls are sitting on slack tide. A fish is jumping out of nowhere. The sky is deepest blue; the sun is radiantly unobservable.

Leaves are floating like a constellation. Another leaf is falling from the heavens. A single wisp of cloud is playing like a dolphin.

Pleasure boats secured to docks are currently approaching nowhere. A cormorant is diving in reflections of its sky.

A breeze is picking up and diamonds start to sparkle on the river. A pure white moth is fluttering in reverence nearby.

A Pastoral Told in Spirit

While contemplating boats upon the river being put away like little toy things at the end of summer play,

I see a falling leaf fall on my folded hands and feel its weather-beaten revelations.

Universal consciousness is like a tree and every insect-riddled sunburnt leaf is just another apparatus cast away in time

making way for its replacement, next spring's gold device continuing the amplifying of awareness in the ground of Buddha nature.

I Am is what I truly am; this body-mind is just another leaf that obsoletes with time, no need imagining some narrative device like death

to tell its story. Trees themselves are speaking truth and beauty in a shimmering October morning glory.

Letters to the Revelations

Without this being, what is love? Without the known, what is that great unknown?

You can try to build a better mousetrap or know you're not a mouse. But seeing through this something is not the same as seeing nothing.

The world has tried affirming its own unaffirmable and nihilism will deny the undeniable. Deconstruction is the dark beginning—

many will get lost within that wood. The world is what it's not but I am what it is.

Division is division only when it’s seen within division. Beyond division, division is intent for that unknown to know this one is that unknown.

Awareness in this consciousness is suddenly aware awareness is but what it is and this phenomenon is nothing.

Thus, the world is your reflection; think but nothing of it. This illusion, even though inherited, is utterly self-generating.

You are all the power and the glory, love. Be this universal. Speak that absolutely.

An Epistle to Death

The universe is called the universe because it’s one holistic entity but yet we cling to superstitious magical beliefs

of separate body parts that live untouched by universal interactions, are endowed with free volition, and are born, survive, and die—

like me—although, as me, I never actually experienced my birth and only know about my future death by some conceptual conjecture.

In truth, there’s only self-aware existence, name it God the Child, and that unknown unmanifest foundation, name it God the Parent,

and its Immaculate Intent to know itself, which seems to take a universe to execute, evolve, and do.

First Epistle to the Meaning of Life

Please listen, love. You’re in the middle of a process which when viewed within that process will appear absurd at best

and downright scary at its worst. So join me for a moment, step away from all the world, and let's consider myth and metaphysics.

Let's talk about this God the Father, call it God the Parent, Absolute Reality, instead.

Such a God would have to be that one without another. In other words, that absolute reality would be the pure subjective subject.

In our experience, there’s no perception of this state, except the one of deepest sleep.

The closest metaphor there is to this subjective subject is a mirror without reflection.

And the closest experiential terminology we have for such a state is pure awareness.

Now, let's take another view of God the Parent, Absolute Reality, Pure Awareness.

That god could never be a god and never know itself. The pure subjective subject thus intends to know itself, and this intention

sets in motion what we call the universe, an evolutionary process by which pure awareness is aware of pure awareness.

The process is reflexive, first creating something other than the pure subjective subject, then intending

this universal object of reflection to evolve as such awareness permeating being, seeing it’s no object but that pure awareness.

Let's call this being God the Child. Let's see that's what existence is. Let's know that all the world is just an object’s alienated view of this intention.

And with that understanding, let's return within the middle of this process and look again with open, clear, and natural eyes.

With my Daughter at the China Blossom

Enjoying such a lotus world

of lineage and love,

knowing there’s not anything

other than this spontaneity,

for the past is purely anecdotal

and the future nonexistent—

I open up my fortune cookie

and there’s open space within it.

Seventh Day Moon

Last evening i was suddenly contacted

by a crescent moon with mystic earthshine—

"peace-loving aliens tried to save america from nuclear war"

—earthlight on the dark side of the lunar landscape

saying awareness is native, belief is the only alien.

There’s Nobody Born Every Minute

Which came first, the hermit or the cracking of the world's illusion? Never mind, it doesn't matter.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss it though. But in the inhalation following such a mournful sigh arrives this further insight:

no longer does it hold undying interest. The world is just a sideshow thought to be the main attraction, but it's not—I am.

Listen, the wind is whispering through mid-September branches that the sun is going nowhere.

An Epistle to a Dream

Every person is a psychological dysfunction of this universal being. Whether the person is a functioning component of society is all that matters to the world. It doesn't want to cure

because it doesn't know the cure. It's all about alarm clocks, peak efficiency, and credit scores. The fact that personal existence is absurd is not a product sold at stores or sermonized on Sundays.

And the further fact that love is proof the personal is not sustainable is usually kept within the family unit if it's kept at all. Possessions are another thing.

Self-inquiry seems to be an esoteric practice even though it would appear to be the question being asked by every two-year-old. Why is just another way of asking who am I.

To answer I am that which is aware of this absurdity of personal existence may not be most appropriate to tell a two-year-old, or sixty-two-year-old for that matter, but loving wisely is.

Yet on another theme, the leaves are turning yellow on the butternuts.

The Gospel of the Great Blue Heron

Self-awareness is an evolutionary height the mind is turning the matter of all being toward.

The universe is functioning with all its processes and heart to make this happen.

Everything in space and time is how reality appears when viewed within the great divide—

although reality is not divided. Inside the process of an absolutist subjectivity aware

of absolute existence is the paradox of relative objective functioning, in which the crucial turn

appears to be to that which turns, volitional, although it's absolutely not. And with that said,

the blue September river sparkles with an afternoon abundance while a great blue heron turns into an eagle.

A Reflexive Triptych

*

The world is where the mind is turning back to what it is. Recluses are Arjunas too.

I want to say more in less. Or less in something. Unthinking, consciousness gets to know a mind and thinks that's all there is.

A metaphor is the dream language of all communication between deep sleep and sleep-walking. Neither traditional, nondualist, or free.

**

Awareness is the primal absolute—intent to know myself—being is the universal name for big bang—mind suffering the turning—

Silence is the mind reflecting—realizing is seeing I am the mirror—self-awareness is the primal absolute.

Billions of so-called years happening in no time. That's my story and I'm wearing it. Pure awareness and self-awareness are not two.

***

Running is meditation for type A. And vice versa. My heroes have always been type zero.

Being is more than enough practice. Thinking is a way too hard. The reflection of a room inside the picture window.

Basho walking through quicksilver woods. Ninja kanji hanging in the silence. Ryokan studies the branch of a cherry tree outside his window.

The Letter of Intent

One false in the equation means all is false. Receive and surrender. Now trumps memory. Beauty is happening.

Statistics are merely how one divides things. What's more important than the divided knowing it's holistic? More pieces?

I am the mirror. The world is just reflection. Identity plus action equals intent. Transformation is love.

Personal deconstruction is the ultimate revolution. Either one deconstructs oneself or one dies trying.

The razor's edge is nothing but seeing nothing while not believing in nothing. Beyond all marketing, I am.

Right now, one is being doing the best one knows how being is done. Please continue. Love, Intent.

Duty Calling Back to Sun

Our first September heat wave since nineteen eighty-two but I’m conditioned to want cooler weather

ever since this Wednesday indicated back-to-school. Of course, my calendar is empty on this day as most

and weather isn't necessarily a factor in my schedule. No school, no work, or no vacation interrupt my planned existence.

For America, I'm not exactly wealthy, but today I feel I have it made in the shade—while most are busy struggling

in the sun of their survival. How could I not stop to see the sun that shines from these eyes is the same sun

shining through that picture window. Yes, I owe such self-awareness to our social contract.

Between the Two

On Labor Day the lake is suddenly abandoned but my father likes to leave on early Tuesday crack of dawn instead.

Monday evening I walk the shore and sit on docks and rafts now stacked on land and look out on an empty lake.

It feels like winter melting summer into nothing but a blank reflection of a vacant sky.

On this cusp, I rise. Between the love of summer and void of winter stands I.