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