ED on Here

The Wild Child

"I pass death with the dying and birth with the new-wash'd babe, and am not contained between my hat and my boots" –Walt Whitman

Consciousness tells it like it is. Whether consciousness listens is the story. There's no commandments but compassion is the last judgment.

And loving death is the only way to truly live. For death is the mother of all concepts. And bhakti is the perfect deconstructor.

Like lilacs last and the cherry blossom—mayday the docks are emptying the river of wild child as if.

For the Merrimack is offspring of the Winnipesaukee and Pemigewasset— the smile of the great spirit and beautiful water in a high place.

Always Dreaming

Memory is the mirror in which pure awareness manufactures self-awareness. It's as if Narcissus turns himself into a pond to see the seed of hydrogen in water. So the rings of space-time are like cross sections of a tree that always stands.

What if the princess falls in love with a public frog making mizu no oto every night? Evolution isn't what you think it is but so am I. And lilacs by the roadside is the beauty truth forgets.

Venus and Mars are out tonight but Mercury is the secret knowing. One sees the light by deconstructing shadows. So relax. The Tao doesn't take the worship of false idols personally.

deuces and one-eyed jacks

universal consciousness

identifying

with a part

of the universal

is personal

slash divisional—

war, insanity

and suffering.

whatever,

give me more!

because

the two of hearts is played,

the one-eyed jack appears—

who is the ace of spades?

Transcreating Christ: Do unto Oneself

Ask and you are given. 

Seek and one is finding. 

Knock and be opened.

For every asking is receiving 

and the seeking is the finding 

and the knocking is being opened as oneself.

Or is there a person among you, 

if your child asks for bread, 

will be giving instead a stone?

Or if asked for a fish, offer snake?

So do unto oneself as you would do for others.


Note: Obviously, I recognize that this is a somewhat radical transcreation of Matthew 7:7-12, but one I feel is not only necessary, but inevitable, if one sees 7:11 as some poor priestly interpretation of the wisdom in the previous lines, and so not included here ("If ye then, being evil, know how to give good gifts unto your children, how much more shall your Father which is in heaven give good things to them that ask him?"). Once this is seen, it is also seen that 7:12 is not some lone line sticking out as a sore thumb and translated as a golden rule, but instead is directly connected to 7:9-10 and the beautiful two lines before those. Nisargadatta Maharaj, the great Indian sage, says, “If you think that Buddha, Christ or Krishnamurti speak to the person, you are mistaken. They know well that the vyakti, the outer self, is but a shadow of the vyakta, the inner self, and they address and admonish the vyakta only.” Thus 7:12 is not some gilded rule of personal conduct but exactly that address to the inner self, oneself. Let Christ be Christ.

Transcreating Christ:Christ Consciousness is Non-volitionaland All-encompassing

How does Christ Consciousness come to be?

It's as if we humans cast seeds in the ground, 

and while we’re sleeping and rising night and day, 

the seed is springing up and growing in a way

we're not aware, for the earth is executing

without our doing a thing—first the blade, then the ear,

then the full grain within the ear. And when the crop is ripe,

one is sending for the sickle presently for the harvesting.

  

And to what shall we compare this Christ Consciousness? 

It’s like a mustard seed—

which when planted in the ground is the smallest

of all the seeds on earth. But once the seed is sown, 

it rises to become the greatest of all the greens,  

and puts forth its all-encompassing branches

where even the birds of the heavens take refuge.

.

Transcreating Christ:Parables of the Lamp and True Measure

Is a lamp placed within a measuring container

or underneath a full body recliner? 

Is it not set instead on a stand

in the heart of one's living room

where nothing is hidden except to be made aware

and nothing is secret but to be revealed?

 

The true measure with which one measures

is measured out to one and always more is given one,

for the one who has all, still more is further given.

But for the one who has nothing,

even that nothing one has

will surely pass away.

Transcreating Christ: The Parable of the Sower

In life the sower is always sowing

seeds of wisdom as natural as can be.

First seeds fall upon the highway of your world

and little birds of large appetite rumor it away.

Next seeds fall upon hard ground of human knowledge

where the soil is superficial but the grain appears to grow without delay,

yet since this earth has little depth of true intelligence,

the first clear dazzling light of day overwhelms the early growth,

and as these seedlings have no true roots, they wither.

Subsequently seeds descend among the weeds

where no compassion tends the soil

and thorns of great hostility chokes them all away.

Yet there comes a time seeds land among responsive ground

and bears its fruit to thirty times, one-hundred times,

ten-thousand times, this great awakening—

whoever has ears to hear, listen.

1704222310 or denial is the river

Once upon a time, she thought she was a person, and every now and then forgets she's not. She used to wonder why her god condemned the world to suffering violence and war. Now she knows there's other definitions for division.

She can't deny her being although she only uses such possessive pronouns in a manner of speaking about that which appears to matter. In order to be self-aware, one must first be unaware, and her earthly guardians, lovingly or otherwise, ensured she was.

Every now and then, she felt as if there was no then, as if a river were to suddenly appear within an Arizona desert. Then she read about her consciousness and knew she was that consciousness and consciousness is pure awareness being self-aware and that is that.

The grass is green. The sky is blue. The sun is yellow. I am being red. Every leaf is testament to that unknown and absolutely sweet Marie the wind is crying.

Not only is beauty truth and truth is beauty but red-winged blackbirds, cherry blossoms, orioles, and absolutely self-awareness. Nothing is as it appears to be said Alice in some laundromat at Second Street and Vine.

Twenty years of schooling and I never made the first shift, says Alice to Bob Dylan. There is nothing you can do about it said Alice to the caterpillar busy deconstructing its construction on the way to self-awareness.

Or is it just a butterfly she sees one day within a dream up high upon the blue ridge. Another day, another singular satori. One day a daughter comes from her own body and she begins to know the absolute significance of division in understanding non-duality.

Mind-training is just another name for deconstruction, a most earnest postmodernism. Deny the thought of being all you want but denial is the river.

1704211049 or revelation is bound to be

Being is open free universal and spontaneous but the world has taught me natural transformation is disastrous to my person. Earthquakes, floods, volcanoes and tornadoes. Lions, tigers, bears and other primal fears. It's all happening out of nowhere! This translation of the revelation is more neo-traditional than postmodern or reactionary.

Hiroshima and Nagasaki are nothing more than cherry blossoms. April is the crying of a child. August is a lion's roar. There is no difference. All you know is life. Every thought methinks is death. But I am the white whale. Or the walrus.

Transformation is to Tao as being is to pure awareness as an earthquake is to shut your mouth and dig it. Love is following the way of love and not some other way that looks like love. In division is beginning and the end. But the calculus of truth is unborn and resurrected.

Awareness hits you. There is no me but I am. Satori whiskey tango. What's wrong with nowhere? What's so good about our time together? Self-awareness self-awareness self-awareness.

And the magic of imagination seeing its foundation of conditioning is completely magical as it is. Imagine indoor plumbing on Mount Olympus! Belief is that nothing to fear we fear. Never mind the big bollocks. If you ask, who am I, I shall answer.

I was raised on Mad Magazine. I came of age with gonzo. Gonzo is to beat as seeing is to waking up. Electrical revelation is bound to be the very next thing.

Understand the change. Be awareness.

1704201500 or Tao alone informs one

uttered to you is the secret knowing of the absolute; it is just you, the secret knowing, actually speaking ~Kena Upanishad (tr-sr)

You can think about being but one can only be awareness.

The god you name is not the god one is.

The Tao that can be named is not the Tao that is.

Thinking about being is not knowing being; being is the only knowing.

That being doesn't know awareness but being is awareness

is the deepest knowing—call this self-awareness.

Listen. That Tao alone is truth, Tao alone informs one.

1704192335 or on bicycle eve

The mind is of Consciousness dividing Consciousness and Consciousness is even in the mind. But Consciousness is never of the mind.

The witness doesn't witness objects but divides oneself conceptually seeing separation like a mirror in perceiving that which can't be seen.

Please avoid the rabbit holes.

Hitting the wall hiking in the Whites, I begin to be druidic in a way, intuiting the trees to be the mountain that's no mountain that I am.

On the other hand, now I see my living room to be the stuff of rockbound waves and sky-wide ridges I am dreaming as a living room.

On Bicycle Eve, Consciousness is singing DNA to the XY of Zhuangzi real and pure.

Nothing is not me. Something else was never said.

Sometimes one has to flashback in order to go further, but going further isn't in the flashback.

Consciousness only needs to be altered when you're thinking you're not consciousness.

In the name of ten thousand summers of love upon this absolutely truthful altar bejeweled with the deconstructed flowers of beautiful beautiful consciousness…

1704171313 or raven isn't mad

You can't run from silence forever.

Belief can make the earth go flat.

The raven isn't mad—

it never wears a hat.

Time stands still for no dream.

Beyond the turtle and the rabbit is the way.

There is no finish line. There was no starter's gun.

Listen—nothing gold can say.

1704152244 or not of any interest

Deconstruct memory.

Be the absolution.

May your sleep be truly deep

and dreams no longer all that interesting.

Spring is not of interest

but only love—

Waiting for

Sakura

1704152152 or never sell your soul

Forsythia in Spartan Spring is singing her fertility like Venus all alone in the morning sky with Mercury.

Goldfinches gather by the feeder as if gathered at the river the beautiful truthful river.

Now the daffodils are amorously yellow while factually amaryllis.

April isn't being cruel when she reminds you of yourself.

Consciousness is the Altar where I worship God Myself.

Profound revelations alert:

Pancho is Lefty! As Jesus is Judas. As in never sell your soul! Always rent.

Winnipesaukee On This Bus

Love is emptiness without the thought of nothing.

Love is the universe without me.

Love is modern energy without romantic or postmodern fantasy.

Love is unreal and free, extemporaneous and incorporated.

Prophecies go unwritten. The sea no longer sounds.

New theories are the same as old beliefs. But love is never-ending.

Consider this. The only fact is being. Death is just a thought.

I am what I am. And I am what I'm not.

Purple Haze Over Winnipesaukee

O the bright light bulbs of Alton Bay outside the roller-skating rink I'm selling three Led Zeppelin albums for a nickel—

we're not exactly expanding consciousness but on the road to Weirs a flash of insight burns an enduring hole through this mask of memory.

Away from the penny arcades, at night, from the beach, the lake looks more obscure than Eastern Algonquian history, yet

still and clear like the onyx ring I am worshipping on Mary's finger on the hand I'm holding because I want to hold your hand, Hare Krishna—

I want to know that great unknown my mother hides away from, and my father only vaguely knows is something he can't tell me.

And so this trip is long and strange and doesn't ever end because I never can remember when it really started—

so unknown, unsaid and ultimately unborn, by the bonfire burning holes thru the veil of mind, this stream-of-consciousness is kissing Mary.

Peepers. Symphony for Agni with Miles Davis 2 go

Because I am, all is. Because I think it is, all is my projection. Because it's my projection, it dances to my tune. I am the piper at the gates of dawn.

Once I think something's good, it's automatically implied there's something bad. But there is no thing but my projection.

For there is no like nor hate but only love, my first and last illusion.

I love the sound of peepers in the spring evening. It sounds like...awakening. Deconstructing consciousness is bound to be the very next phase. As if the absolute is self-aware and this appears to be an evolutionary universe of being becoming self-aware. Dis-identifying first with the body and last with being, pure awareness is spontaneously self-aware, or so it would appear. Yet awareness being self-aware is a package deal. As if to dream the impossible dream. Frogs alive!

Consciousness is the only medicine and appears in many forms.

It just feels like there should be fireworks tonight and then I remember to listen to the peepers.

There's past in those peepers but there's something present too, like April mixing memory and the holy spirit of evolutionary intent towards…this dream of self-awareness. 

When intent appears, it registers in memory as a bolt of lightning ever-present. And when intent appears, it registers within the present as a flash of synchronicity. Thus, intent is the Trinity of: awareness being, being knowing, knowing awareness.

The smell of spring. The revelation of the spring. The genesis of springtime.

Nature's first green is this sharp splash of peepers in awakening air.

Singing love, synchronicity, and dreamtime.

It's as if my living room is Cold Mountain come the springtime

my religious instructions

to be

self-aware

is I am without

remembering I am.

the practice is remembering to be.

the schedule for this self-remembering is

the only practice that needs to be followed religiously,

although most religions soon forget this.

self-awareness is the crown of my creation

but I shall only know this

when I wear it.

and thus i wear it so religiously.

in awakening,

as realization is not abiding,

one practices self-remembering religiously.

but abiding enlightenment is absolutely irreligious.

there is no separation but one knowing.

there are no gods nor an electorate.

there is no duality but polarity and laughter

arising from the valley spirit—

o consciousness alive and being present,

this essential sense, this love,

this source of heart and fire,

and all before my birthday!

as if there is a tree to fall

As paradoxical statements disprove logic,

so are the days of our lives.

A daydream is the most powerful dream—

this mighty truck of wave-particles feels so real

like a pie in your face for being a sleepy bull frog, Basho!

Imagine sacrificing dreams to love.

Imagine unconditional love and it will appear—

like some field of dreams.

Like all western medicine, the world is

the manifestation of ecstasy

in chemical separation.

I have been one to pay attention to

those little workaday moments of satori

as if acquainted to the night.

Search for Jack Kerouac and Robert Frost.

Begin with Birches.

End at Big Sur.

Either be

or just imagine what it’s like not to be—

I'm playing Nisargadatta Maharaj or Ramana Maharshi.