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.

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!

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.

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

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.

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.

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

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!

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

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.

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.

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?

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.

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!

footnotes to fetpv

christian fundamentalism as a certain kind of direct path.
if you see it, don't believe it.
i'll never know anything more than self-awareness.

i’m on both sides of great intent.
on the other hand, imagine imagine.
know negative. think positive.

zhuangzi, like tao, is not so much about relativity as balance.
as being is conceptual, the world is my myth.
talk softly but carry a great notion.

virtual reality of virtual realities. all is virtual.
and self-awareness is the only virtue.
it’s my party and i’ll i if i want to.

First Epistle to Pleasant Valley. Spring 2018.

As if the dream state is an evolutionary stage in absolute self-awareness and not some great mistake.

If consciousness is primarily conceptual, and the only known is consciousness, then to know the great unknown is

obviously conceptual. Thus imagination isn't wrong but the myth imagined may be wrongful.


I see the first forsythia, spaced-out yellow flowers projecting the inside knowledge of the sun. Lucid dreaming is embodying the universal.

I hear an oriole the other day but call it the golden-throated. It's song is loud and crystal-clear. Obviously one being.

And then there is the early crocus appearing purple in a patch of green. For self-awareness is an evolutionary metamorphosis—


my magical reality. Something happens out of nowhere like a wild imagination.

Oh my secondary characters, my beautiful projections, listen to my story of awareness being self-aware, now playing.

As every eastern poem loves to end in cherry blossoms, body calls for food, and mind, myth. Who holds the flowering imagination?

ps1 footnotes (after consciousness, the deluge)

Pure awareness is reflected in this consciousness. Postneoadvaita koan—in binary terms, the manifest is three.

Cynthia forsythia on the roadside with the sun! Empires fall. Knowledge rises like a phoenix.

Tripping on deoxyribonucleic acid over the square root of metaparadigm. In middle America, it’s either Emily or the white whale.

Evolution depends on my suspension of belief. Dreaming is the background music for this consciousness.

Dreaming that enlightenment is in the mind is what enlightenment is. This is the latest science. Don’t overthink it. This is penultimate.

In the name of the revelation of divine imagination in the manifestation of self-awarenesss. Inheal, exheal.

Postneoadvaita Sonnet 1

Material reflects. Being projects.
Choose one or three but not two.
The moon allows the wolves to howl until they get the point.
Black is the new wisdom. White is the new love.
The world is DNA divided by conditioning.
Go figure. It’s either ten thousand somethings or one big nothing.
Everything is as it is, no matter what I may believe.
My lucid dream is what I love but minus all belief.
Being is true knowledge, the immaculate conception.
Consciousness is intentional transformation. Do the math.
Her sweet transmission is to love as her almighty engine is to words.
What if this were line twelve of a spontaneously self-aware sonnet?
That there is no thirteenth floor is just the way of magical reality.
Dreaming is the time for love and disbelieving is the space.

footnotes to 2009

remember correctly baizhang!

every closing moment of this deconstruction is like the opening of silence.

as the mind deconstructs itself, there is being. and only being is known by the great unknown.

this is basic magic. one must know oneself as the only known before the great unknown shall know oneself.