Another Saturday Night Fantasia

Go further like Arjuna. Let further go always undefined. Like dreamtime hiking in the whites.

Attachment to love is the root of all addiction. The only knowledge is in knowing the unknown. Listen, karma is like DNA on steroids.

Self-inquiry is a risky business. Sleep just wants to sleep. But never underestimate a two-year-old entangled in a why.

Flunk like a monk. Shakespeare is for monkeys. As you shed beliefs, never gather new ones.

Self-inquiry is like climbing the original face but much more realistic. Self-awareness makes an appearance. Just like orange sunshine.

Innocent awareness. Red orange yellow green blue indigo and violet. There’s 16.8 million colors and counting.

Death assumes birth but never assume. Death is just another concept. I only know I am.

The Tao appears as caterpillar or the butterfly. Science is or isn’t. Chrysalis and further.

Act one’s truth. They say that lucid dreaming is for losers. But losing is conditioned dreaming.

Self-awareness is the only risk worth taking. And every risk is furthering self-awareness. But the risk is never remembered.

Everything leads to a precipice. To be or of the world. So let’s talk about the world.

First is this conditioning. Next is revolution like original transformation. Three is magic.

Despite it all, I am conditioned to be a slice of self-awareness.

Awareness is the one true god and self-awareness is the child of god. Amen.

Suddenly wind and rain.

A Slice of Late Winter Sunset

Alien trees of space-time—

Painted skies of consciousness—

Far beyond anything in memory—

Like the taste of wood and firewater—

Sunset over the native northern woodland beings—

Time is a slice of self-awareness.

Awareness aware of awareness is spontaneous and indivisible—

Still, we call this self-awareness—

Self-awareness is true mindfulness—

True mindfulness is deconstructing mind—

No mind is pure awareness—

Night sky, no mountain.

To a Star Child

The baby pure awareness of a little baby's eyes attending to

the filtered light within this great cross-section of eternal self-awareness.

For in-between awareness and this self-awareness

appears to be a space-time universe, o star child!

But you must close your eyes, my dearest one,

and be this mirror in which you see your self.

Don't let division keep you up at night. One is not divisible by zero.

All belief is absolutely unbelievable.

When I'm lost, I return to this I am—I'm always here.

There’s always seems to be a red rubber ball in these stories.

Monkey see. Monkey do. Monkey sees through monkey too.

Light is the only knowledge and the only knowledge is the emperor of ice cream.

A Passage from the Diary of This and That

Bogo. Cry baby cry. The fire in the black hole.

Sausalito and goats. Is it live or Memorex? Karma made me do it.

It takes no time to smile but yesterday to frown. It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood. Can you tell me how to get to Sesame Street?

Deeconstruct the movie and use the film to dream a more realistic one. Die and repeat. Further is like death by ten thousand cuts.

On the other hand, absolute dreaming is direct path with scenery. The first thing to know in being reborn is that perennial knowledge I was never born. And lucid dreaming never dies; it just fades away.

The body-mind is grown in consciousness. Let this be your meta-paradigm.

I am indeed.

In other words, I am indeed.

Self-awareness is this direct Eastern knowledge that I am that; in the west, it appears as an evolutionary and reflexive space-time universe.

Eye test. Read the big letter at the top.

Krishna and his blue man group.

We were talking about the fact that yesterday never knows; there is no did in my way.

Like hearing "white bird in a golden cage alone" New Year's Eve Boston 1971 with lonesome Sherry after quitting college that very same month.

Like a full moon many moons ago rising next door over Tanglewood "it's a marvelous night for a moondance."

Like Quicksilver Messenger Service during a very bad trip.

Buy one get one redux.

An echo of hitoribotchi no yoru.

It was my generation's job to deconstruct Eisenhower's military-industrial complex. Good god y'all. Then, whatever.

Those who can, do. Those who can't, teach. Those who am, be. You're welcome.

I was literally turned away at the border and had to learn to live with it. Imagine it.

Signed just another message in a bottle. Let me know if someone gets it. Thank you!

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The City on the Hill of Synchronicity

Synchronicity is always happening.

What isn't synchronicity is illusion.

Synchronicity is not of this continuum.

Synchronicity isn't seasonal but a rose is

synchronicity synchronicity synchronicity.

Winter is annual but each snowflake is perennial.

Synchronicity is neither one nor zero—

in such binary totality, it's more like three.

When synchronicity is happening, Let It Be.

Follow oneself joyously in the evolutionary

synchronicity of thou and three.

In other words, enlightening intent appears

as synchronicity in this space-time continuum.

Between love and wisdom, synchronicity.

Between the highest peak and deepest sea,

synchronicity.

Between non-duality, synchronicity.

But synchronicity is never in-between.

Something there is that doesn't love a wall is synchronicity.

Jesus, every single baby is the sign of synchronicity.

Being before the naming is synchronicity.

And deconstructing mega-paradigms is synchronicity,                        .

for the child is the mother of synchronicity.

Synchronicity is always happening somewhere in a dream near you.

When you're sleeping, synchronicity sings the blues.

When awake synchronicity is wow.

Synchronicity is not a scientific theory. It's a fact.

The immaculate synchronicity.

Synchronicity is sometimes named Tom Brady.

Dreaming nirvana begins with the smallest synchronicity called kensho.

Lucid dreaming is the greatest art of synchronicity.

As understanding approaches the speed of manifestation,

synchronicity will happen.

Synchronicity is never a lost art.

One play at a time is synchronicity.

Cherry blossoms, Fourth of July, Autumn leaves, absolution.

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Deconstruct belief

and make no new belief.

Being is the true faith.

All dreaming selects its causes

from the causeless

for its special effects.

Only lucid dreaming doesn't believe them.

The rough gods go moving

through the constellations

of our stories

while the moon turns

on and off as

love and wisdom.

stream of consciousness thru current conditions

Between pure awareness and self-awareness falls the shadow. This silhouette of dreams cast from my original face. And the gibbous is a necessary phase between the new moon and the full moon.

Everyone gets lost in the material for all intent and purposes. That between pure awareness and self-awareness is called the fall of man. And appearances in consciousness are closer than a mirror.

First word, best word, as if as if every word is my last word and testament. Whither goest thou, America, in thy shiny western scientific materialism of the night? Between pure awareness & self-awareness appears a universe to what’s between—but just spontaneous combustion to a dweller on the threshold.

He who dies with the most toys dies by the most toys—but she who dies before she dies never dies The seven degrees of separation between pure awareness and self-awareness: light, nuclear, atomic, molecular, vegetable, animal, enlightenment. And babies are born as light—to be conditioned otherwise—in order to be enlightened—to that nameless absolute self unborn.

O let this between awareness and self-awareness be! In a col between two peaks, there is a secret pond named paradise. The locals call it hell. And one time while hiking between Penobscot and Sargent mountains in Acadia on Mount Desert Island, I came upon a family swimming au naturel.

“Sargent Mountain Pond in Acadia likely Maine’s first lake: Acadia National Park, Maine — Ask someone to name the first lake to appear in Maine thousands of years ago and you’d likely get answers like Moosehead or Sebago. Few would guess the answer is very likely Sargent Mountain Pond.” O let this between awareness and self-awareness see! As death is this salt that slowly awakens the wisdom taste of oneself—love, forgiveness, and compassion is the pepper.

But swamps will grow in the places where the flow is interrupted. Such names are marshland, quagmire, muskeg, peat bog, mire, morass, slough, holm, or everglade. O let this between awareness and self-awareness three!

And the light descended into cobalt nightmares of material heartache. Meanwhile ten thousand kensho rises on the planet of enlightenment each day. O let this dreaming between that unknown awareness and this knowing self-awareness be!

Deconstructing thought police. The wind is crying holy Mary mother of god. Between pure awareness and self-awareness is that unknown being—and this is the only knowledge known to all.

So the river is like this sky-dancing teacher. And when it’s a tidal river, it’s like a waltz. Like nautical waters who calls one a river.

And every day is as different as a tidal river flowing to the open sea. And in variety is one. E pluribus unum for real Walt Whitman. Read my Moby Dick.

Just five syllables. After make it seven more. Ends in further five.

That pure awareness. Spontaneous self-awareness. Bubbles of belief.

The speed of light is the speed of self-awareness. Go as slow as it takes.

O drop body-mind. Consciousness is one and all. Experiential. Imagine not knowing who, what, when, where, or why. Between deep sleep and dreaming appears the question.

Who am I? Thus speaks deconstruction. But always remember. Being is silent.

It is said all energy arises within the gnawing of this being. i am i am i am.

open says me

Light Cicada Tempest

Yes, it's Candlemas or Imbolc as the pagans called it far before the Christians of the Empire claimed all light to be their private property.

Forgive them for it's not their fault—conditioning is every person's birthright but the rich are richer with that dark material unawareness.

Be grateful one perceives this Great Return of Light, that evolutionary point of self-awareness after 13 billion years of self-deception.

It occurs to one there is no space-time in the light and all material appearances thus disappear as relativity returns like day to deep sleep.

This is when the dream begins this lucid dreaming and the Buddhas see for Miles and Miles and Miles and paragate parasamgate bodhi svaha.

From Vulture Peak, ten thousand microchips reverberate in nanoseconds peak to peak or so to speak.

Dreaming as if self-awareness is divided into wisdom and compassion and the Lesser Gods like Venus and Mars and the Milky Way.

Dreaming lucidly this mythology being that unknown is Full Moon Samadhi.

New moon rises in the east. Full moon settles in the west. It's all for the best.

Basho speaks cicada. Shakespeare plays a tempest.

This is That which is Lost in Translation.

No one there is that loves a moonset.

Awareness. Being. Nirvana.

Being great the dream.            

Unknown knowing.                        .

Purple Waves

Frog pond

Pacific

ED on being unborn

ED on wisdom

ED on kensho

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Truth is not statistical,

my dearest one.

Nothing is not you.

Objectivity is

the hardest of delusions

known to humankind

unsigned to hitherto.

All now plays

in a consciousness near you.

For Emily

I saw the best souls of creation sinking in the quicksand of a blathering world. Only one can prevent the separate fires of division. After everything is said and done, one can say it slantwise or be like a tree and Wu Wei.

Some will light my fire and test your metal. One will let it be. Arthur Miller writes The Crucible while Marilyn Monroe is starring in Niagara. Soon they shall be married. Melville publishes his novel, Moby Dick, in 1851, and Whitman, Leaves of Grass, in 1855. But Emily always was anonymous. Correction: Emily always is anonymous.

As deconstruction is the only necessary evil, being is the only scientific knowledge not a theory. No object and no number and no modifier equals what I am. For every Horseman of the Apocalypse, there's a horse's ass pointing toward eternity, said Emily with a voice as cold as I.

On being unborn:

Because I could not stop for Death –

He kindly stopped for me – 

The Carriage held but just Ourselves – 

And Immortality.

We slowly drove – He knew no haste

And I had put away

My labor and my leisure too,

For His Civility –

We passed the School, where Children strove

At Recess – in the Ring – 

We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain – 

We passed the Setting Sun –

Or rather – He passed us –

The Dews drew quivering and chill –

For only Gossamer, my Gown –

My Tippet – only Tulle –

We paused before a House that seemed

A Swelling of the Ground –

The Roof was scarcely visible –

The Cornice – in the Ground –

Since then – ‘tis Centuries – and yet

Feels shorter than the Day

I first surmised the Horses’ Heads

Were toward Eternity –

Children striving at recess. Ouch!

"The Dews drew quivering and chill." See Wu Wei.

If she needs me to be there, I'm there. If she needs me to be not there, I'm not there. Such is my unconditional love for Emily.

‘haiku of revelation’

dreaming up theories

mythology awareness

being an unknown

Science is the one American Idol. God is still the other.

What would will Shakespeare tweet if a Shakespeare could speak Basho?

I don't like it but I love it.

I love Emily.

She is a revelation.

Matsushima ya!

The Inner Groove

Self-awareness

like a nameless desert

underneath a rainless sky—

all the pretty

horrible mirages rising

in the heat of our conditioning—

taking everything

in this wasteland of a world

with a grain of salt as large as a southwest

salt flat, say that three times—

being

being

being

is the only record

of a truthful absolute.

Behold from This Green Earth

Only I am. Everyone else is

just a lovely secondary thought.

And the same goes for you as goes for me.

For Being is the primordial and

immaculate conception. All thoughts

to follow are purely unoriginal.

But in Acadia did

the mountains rise spontaneously

from the deep blue sleep of the cold Maine sea.

And a wedding party hikes the eastern slope of First Light Mountain—

Wapuwoc—or what aliens will christen as Green Mountain—

but empire is calling Cadillac.

Upon sacred Wapuwoc the sun of all

duality is waking up

in stormy threes and sevens.

This is written in the great bronze age of

the United States Geologic Survey

but just wait until awareness is aware of awareness.

Shrieve Me, Shrieve Me

Even being is a dream.

But the separate

person is a nightmare.

This universal dream of heaven isn’t

absolute

but hell wasn’t built in a day either.

And you simply can’t

spell self-awareness

without awareness.

A Rainbow in the Sky

From awareness to self-awareness

in what appears to be a universe

and what appears to be a universe

is simply in the eye of the bedazzled.

For if the parent is pure awareness

and the child is self-awareness,

then everything in-between is

the play of utter conception.

To accept the conception is

the first decree of awakened dreaming.

To accept the conception is

the first degree of being.

To accept the conception is

the seminal way to self-awareness.

And no bedazzlement comes

to the absolute except

through self-awareness.

For it is said, either

the child is father of

the man or let me die.

Thus the question ‘Who am I’

is answered by

the dream of being ‘I am I.’

Insinuations

This false

impression

of separation

is flattened

by one hard slap

from the universal

cosmic Zen master.

Intuition of the catholic.

Revelation of the absolute.

Let the ley lines enter and

insinuate their wisdom

through and through.

Bare trees rise

from white

ground.

Astronomical

energetic waves

are surging through

this central nervous system.

Countless snow flurries are falling

from a muted sky.

The Way of Dreaming

First there is the world.

Then there is a void.

Presently there is a dream.

In this universe of causelessness—

the spirit of intent selects your causes

—effecting a great awakening—

depending on intensity of sleep.

Causes are neither good nor bad

—but pushing and pulling—

along the intentional way.

And when a dream aligns with great intent

—synchronicity will walk the earth—

in enlightening lucidity of self-awareness.

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There are no words for heart.

And love is never having to say.

If there are no words for heart

and love is never having to say—

what is there to say?

Nothing but blue skies.

Like the northwest passage of global warming,

que sera sera.

Something there is that doesn't love a thought.

So much depends upon a dream.

I am. Who are you?

Come forth sweet hermit shaman poets and unite.

For in the land of one, there is no two.

There is nothing but I am.

One word at a time—

unbelievable compassionate interstellar presence.