Showing posts with label nowknows. Show all posts
Showing posts with label nowknows. Show all posts
2011-08-10
2011-08-05
the lost book of truth
0.1 there are no words for truth and only lies in words. yet these words are one way for pointing to truth, although truth is always unsaid.
1.1 mind is consciousness limiting itself in order to eat itself in order to create more of itself that appears a little less limited.
2.1 identifying with mind ensures suffering. first, it’s incomplete always looking for completeness; second, it’s divisive guaranteeing violence.
2.2 division creates separation creates association creates disassociation creates division in a never-ending vicious cycle.
2.3 mind will never stop the vicious cycle: it is what it is. there is no choice but to understand the vicious cycle for what it is; or suffer and cause suffering.
3.1 if identification with mind (a person) is a vicious cycle of incompleteness and violence, then what is love, and why can’t a person do that?
3.2 a person can’t love. one doesn’t love. one ~is~ love. a person isn’t love. a person is mind which distorts love into filtered false emotions.
3.3 as long as one identifies with mind, and thinks of oneself as a person, love will never be; no matter how much a person may believe (mind on mind) in love.
3.4 therefore a person cannot love the world to save it; all a person can 'do' is deconstruct itself, eliminating the false to reveal the true.
4.1 in truth, the person doesn’t deconstruct itself; love deconstructs the person; this love is called the satguru.
4.2 all the person can ‘do’ is let love deconstruct the person; this love is called understanding.
4.3 the knowledge of the understanding is love, is the satguru, is being, is consciousness, is is: i am.
5.1 consciousness, being, i-am can not be thought; as love is obviously not a thought; i-am is intuitively known, experienced, apperceived.
5.2 this felt intuitive apperception of i-am is one of nondual consciousness, experiencing the universe as oneself, not ten thousand, not two.
6.1 these first two steps form a natural yoga, deconstruction of the person (not thought) & apperception of not two (i-am) which leads to a third—reality.
6.2 this third step, reality, the absolute, is not something a person can think, nor does i-am attain; the truth comes to i-am.
7.1 these three steps are not three steps in truth; they are one: not thought—i-am—the truth (pure affectionate awareness).
7.2 awareness isn’t experienced nor does ‘it’ experience; to the dream of a waking state, it appears as the pure potential reality of deep sleep.
8.1 there may be other ways, but they haven't been seen here; and what has been seen here as other ways appear to be just tricks of mind.
9.1 As always, these are merely words used by consciousness to talk to itself, understanding reality is available only to itself—Jai Guru Deva Om
1.1 mind is consciousness limiting itself in order to eat itself in order to create more of itself that appears a little less limited.
2.1 identifying with mind ensures suffering. first, it’s incomplete always looking for completeness; second, it’s divisive guaranteeing violence.
2.2 division creates separation creates association creates disassociation creates division in a never-ending vicious cycle.
2.3 mind will never stop the vicious cycle: it is what it is. there is no choice but to understand the vicious cycle for what it is; or suffer and cause suffering.
3.1 if identification with mind (a person) is a vicious cycle of incompleteness and violence, then what is love, and why can’t a person do that?
3.2 a person can’t love. one doesn’t love. one ~is~ love. a person isn’t love. a person is mind which distorts love into filtered false emotions.
3.3 as long as one identifies with mind, and thinks of oneself as a person, love will never be; no matter how much a person may believe (mind on mind) in love.
3.4 therefore a person cannot love the world to save it; all a person can 'do' is deconstruct itself, eliminating the false to reveal the true.
4.1 in truth, the person doesn’t deconstruct itself; love deconstructs the person; this love is called the satguru.
4.2 all the person can ‘do’ is let love deconstruct the person; this love is called understanding.
4.3 the knowledge of the understanding is love, is the satguru, is being, is consciousness, is is: i am.
5.1 consciousness, being, i-am can not be thought; as love is obviously not a thought; i-am is intuitively known, experienced, apperceived.
5.2 this felt intuitive apperception of i-am is one of nondual consciousness, experiencing the universe as oneself, not ten thousand, not two.
6.1 these first two steps form a natural yoga, deconstruction of the person (not thought) & apperception of not two (i-am) which leads to a third—reality.
6.2 this third step, reality, the absolute, is not something a person can think, nor does i-am attain; the truth comes to i-am.
7.1 these three steps are not three steps in truth; they are one: not thought—i-am—the truth (pure affectionate awareness).
7.2 awareness isn’t experienced nor does ‘it’ experience; to the dream of a waking state, it appears as the pure potential reality of deep sleep.
8.1 there may be other ways, but they haven't been seen here; and what has been seen here as other ways appear to be just tricks of mind.
9.1 As always, these are merely words used by consciousness to talk to itself, understanding reality is available only to itself—Jai Guru Deva Om
2011-08-03
aumdadaGospel 21: it's the berries
I am walking barefoot down a dirt road on a mid-summer morning. There is no known destination. A small yellow butterfly appears to be following me, floating in its fractal patterns but always returning to the line I’m following. It finally rests on a branch of red ripe raspberries, their sun-warmed fragrance rising with the rising warmth of the sun-drenched day. I lean over and pick several of the juicy ones until I have a hand-full.
A chipmunk scurries across the road as I resume my walking and the butterfly its floating. I pick a berry from my mouth and place it on my tongue. The outside is warm but its bite is juicy cool. A breeze moves the high branches of an oak tree. Two crows fly by. I place another berry in my mouth. A flash of something moves through the woods. There’s a sound of a splash in a nearby brook. Another berry. A single cumulus cloud forms in a cobalt-blue sky, changing shapes as the wind softly fingers it edges, now a turtle, then a heron.
There’s still a few berries in my hand so I pop the rest in my mouth. The sun goes down. The sun comes up. Dinosaurs are turning into bluebirds. Oceans are turning into canyons. I’m standing at the edge of a sunburnt mesa, waiting for the total eclipse of the moon. A raven turns to talk to me. “You’re really making quite a day of it,” its vocals echoing off the rainbow cliffs as feathers shimmer with the blackness of absolute light. I stub my toe on a rock in the road and feel the stars of fourteen billion years. A coyote laughs in the distance, before the universe was born. So I am too.
A chipmunk scurries across the road as I resume my walking and the butterfly its floating. I pick a berry from my mouth and place it on my tongue. The outside is warm but its bite is juicy cool. A breeze moves the high branches of an oak tree. Two crows fly by. I place another berry in my mouth. A flash of something moves through the woods. There’s a sound of a splash in a nearby brook. Another berry. A single cumulus cloud forms in a cobalt-blue sky, changing shapes as the wind softly fingers it edges, now a turtle, then a heron.
There’s still a few berries in my hand so I pop the rest in my mouth. The sun goes down. The sun comes up. Dinosaurs are turning into bluebirds. Oceans are turning into canyons. I’m standing at the edge of a sunburnt mesa, waiting for the total eclipse of the moon. A raven turns to talk to me. “You’re really making quite a day of it,” its vocals echoing off the rainbow cliffs as feathers shimmer with the blackness of absolute light. I stub my toe on a rock in the road and feel the stars of fourteen billion years. A coyote laughs in the distance, before the universe was born. So I am too.
2011-08-02
the cicada sutra
there is one conditioned mind and 'we' are it.
pleasant dreamstates.
mind is the hard drive of consciousness.
there is one fact: i am. the rest are just varying degrees of thoughtful metaphor.
a rose is not a rose is god.
the natural state of a balloon is empty.
silly rabbit, emptiness is for no one.
world is what remains after mind has filtered out the goddess from itself so it can eat the rest in mindless satisfaction.
it is the cries of the goddess after every single bite reminding one the world is not what it appears to be.
from the sweet black w/hole of pure awareness, this overwhelming wave of consciousness impossibly breaks through.
being too smart for awareness.
the more one stands as awareness, the less there is to stand.
the simple natural immediate and thorough restorative wetness of awareness: ah!
after almost 14 billion years, light knows it is light, and a single cicada rattles space-time away.
pleasant dreamstates.
mind is the hard drive of consciousness.
there is one fact: i am. the rest are just varying degrees of thoughtful metaphor.
a rose is not a rose is god.
the natural state of a balloon is empty.
silly rabbit, emptiness is for no one.
world is what remains after mind has filtered out the goddess from itself so it can eat the rest in mindless satisfaction.
it is the cries of the goddess after every single bite reminding one the world is not what it appears to be.
from the sweet black w/hole of pure awareness, this overwhelming wave of consciousness impossibly breaks through.
being too smart for awareness.
the more one stands as awareness, the less there is to stand.
the simple natural immediate and thorough restorative wetness of awareness: ah!
after almost 14 billion years, light knows it is light, and a single cicada rattles space-time away.
aumdadaGospel 20: exit stage left
We dropped the mescaline at sunset and by nine o’clock I was driving a car full of lunacy through a swath of headlight-lit ever-changing quicksilver forms of strange particularity come alive for just a moment until others took their place for just a moment in a string of moments this dance of transformation was creating from out of the nothingness of night. In the back seat sat Joey and his two younger cousins. In the front seat was my cousin Paula. Joey’s cousins had never taken hallucinogens before and their reactions were loud and getting louder. Although Joey was attempting to lead them towards a quieter place of appreciation, he was losing the way himself and his laughter at their antics was beginning to outdistance their own clamor. Between the visionary chaos through the windshield and the cacophony of sounds within the car itself, I was beginning to lose the ability to follow the way of the road. So I turned to Paula and whispered loudly, “I think I need your help; I’m starting to freak out!”
This was a first for me. All previous trips had been enjoyable. There had been intense moments but never anxious ones. But although I had never had one, I knew enough to know a bad trip when having one. And I was having one, my eyes were telling Paula. “I know a place,” she said. “It’s near the Center. Some friends of George have an apartment there. Good people.” She emphasized the good. Her words were like a rope and I grabbed on to them. They led me to the state highway and down to Center Homestead where I stopped at her direction. Joey’s cousins were screaming something but I ignored them, as I also ignored the fact we hadn’t seen George all this summer and he wouldn’t be too happy about Joey invading his newfound secret territory.
I don’t remember any of the introductions or even the faces of the people I met. All I remember is the couch, the music, and the egg. For a timeless span of the album Brave New World played repeatedly, I disappeared into the supple folds of a blue couch. At first I felt relief like none ever experienced. Every anxious thought dissolved into the low-lit ambience until the only thing remaining was the wonder of music and a marvelous couch. It wasn’t as if I had disappeared completely but had simply become music and couch. I had always been music and couch. And music and couch were just this one thing. “God...” I finally spoke.
Paula must have heard me, because she suddenly appeared before me, and said previous to our leaving, I need to visit the egg room. I followed her away from the music and couch and she pointed to a door. I walked though it alone and found myself inside an egg. It was completely yellow. On the yellow floor there was a yellow bean bag chair. I sat. Paula closed the yellow door. A small yellow lamp glowed softly from a yellow wall. There is this interesting fact I now note: because everything was yellow, there was no yellow. And because there was no yellow, there was no room. There’s a crack called space-time through which the world appears and I had come back through it to see my original form.
This was a first for me. All previous trips had been enjoyable. There had been intense moments but never anxious ones. But although I had never had one, I knew enough to know a bad trip when having one. And I was having one, my eyes were telling Paula. “I know a place,” she said. “It’s near the Center. Some friends of George have an apartment there. Good people.” She emphasized the good. Her words were like a rope and I grabbed on to them. They led me to the state highway and down to Center Homestead where I stopped at her direction. Joey’s cousins were screaming something but I ignored them, as I also ignored the fact we hadn’t seen George all this summer and he wouldn’t be too happy about Joey invading his newfound secret territory.
I don’t remember any of the introductions or even the faces of the people I met. All I remember is the couch, the music, and the egg. For a timeless span of the album Brave New World played repeatedly, I disappeared into the supple folds of a blue couch. At first I felt relief like none ever experienced. Every anxious thought dissolved into the low-lit ambience until the only thing remaining was the wonder of music and a marvelous couch. It wasn’t as if I had disappeared completely but had simply become music and couch. I had always been music and couch. And music and couch were just this one thing. “God...” I finally spoke.
Paula must have heard me, because she suddenly appeared before me, and said previous to our leaving, I need to visit the egg room. I followed her away from the music and couch and she pointed to a door. I walked though it alone and found myself inside an egg. It was completely yellow. On the yellow floor there was a yellow bean bag chair. I sat. Paula closed the yellow door. A small yellow lamp glowed softly from a yellow wall. There is this interesting fact I now note: because everything was yellow, there was no yellow. And because there was no yellow, there was no room. There’s a crack called space-time through which the world appears and I had come back through it to see my original form.
2011-08-01
aumdadaGospel 19: the frogs of war
Children can be cruel and we were nothing if not children. It was a Tuesday morning and David and I were headed to our cousin Paula’s cottage to play some ping-pong, listen to some music on her porch, and maybe make a little noise. David had secretly scored some Black Cat firecrackers from a cousin who had visited during the weekend. So we walked along the road leading to the public beach detonating a few explosions on the way.
When we reached the shore, we were confronted with a resounding spectacle of frogs. There were hundreds of them, as if the wind-driven waves washing along the weedy section of the shoreline were turning into living creatures. They were hopping in a passionate celebration of existence. At first we looked in wonderment and felt their fervor in our blood. It was almost overpowering to the mind.
So it wasn’t long before the fact of frog and firecracker combined in our thoughts, emerging as some ghastly mutant creature. It wasn’t difficult at all to catch the first frog. And it wasn’t a stretch of the imagination to gently clasp its little emerald body while forcing a firecracker into its tiny mouth. Lighting the fuse was just a simple spark of action, and then we let it loose to hop along the golden sands like a funny cartoon character smoking a small cigar—until its head exploded in a mush of green and yellow guts.
Oh how we laughed—we laughed our heads off and it felt so good! And then we did it again. And again. And over and over again until the killing grounds disgusted even us. We left them there to rot in the growing sun and continued our morning walk to Paula’s and listen to some top forty radio, munch on some cookies, and drink some orange soda. When the noontime news came on and started droning on about some B-52 bombings beginning in Viet Nam, we turned it off. It was time for ping-pong.
When we reached the shore, we were confronted with a resounding spectacle of frogs. There were hundreds of them, as if the wind-driven waves washing along the weedy section of the shoreline were turning into living creatures. They were hopping in a passionate celebration of existence. At first we looked in wonderment and felt their fervor in our blood. It was almost overpowering to the mind.
So it wasn’t long before the fact of frog and firecracker combined in our thoughts, emerging as some ghastly mutant creature. It wasn’t difficult at all to catch the first frog. And it wasn’t a stretch of the imagination to gently clasp its little emerald body while forcing a firecracker into its tiny mouth. Lighting the fuse was just a simple spark of action, and then we let it loose to hop along the golden sands like a funny cartoon character smoking a small cigar—until its head exploded in a mush of green and yellow guts.
Oh how we laughed—we laughed our heads off and it felt so good! And then we did it again. And again. And over and over again until the killing grounds disgusted even us. We left them there to rot in the growing sun and continued our morning walk to Paula’s and listen to some top forty radio, munch on some cookies, and drink some orange soda. When the noontime news came on and started droning on about some B-52 bombings beginning in Viet Nam, we turned it off. It was time for ping-pong.
2011-07-30
The Secret Book of Apperception
Started reading Doors-of-Perception and realized Huxley’s mescaline experience is essentially the everyday without the buzz—when attentive.
Huxley describes experiencing objects as pure being and as being one with the being of his own being.
Huxley refers to objects & himself being one Not-Self, although in actuality, if he went further, he’d see his self is not a self at all.
As an aside, Huxley was not unversed in Zen or Vedanta so his mescaline experiences were somewhat confirmations of his intellectual studies.
When attentive, it is obvious what the mind interprets as separate objects are not, for it and me are one I that is.
All are appearances arising within the absolute reality of naked awareness. Call me consciousness; then I am awareness.
Nisargadatta speaks to this dual aspect of nonduality. Actually he refers to a trinity: being, breath, and universal consciousness.
Nisargadatta's triumvirate compares with that of sat-cit-ananda where breath is seen as the energetic quality of bliss.
But words cannot describe the actual experience. (Huxley also speaks to this early on.) Only is is is.
No words for Tao—all words exist as mind. Mind only interprets experience. At best, it will recognize there is an intuitive grasp of isness.
As another side, Atma Vichara is experienced energetically and intuitively when it becomes clear the question, Who-am-I? cannot be answered.
Thus, this actuality of a picture frame before me is not a mental experience. It is an insightful one, what Nisargadatta calls apperception.
I cannot explain with words this experience nor how it came to be, except see it always is and “I” was conditioned not to see it.
When one begins to see through the conceptual self, the doors of apperception are unlocked, the gateless gate is opened, and reality enters…
…but reality enters where reality has always been. Here and now. (and this has been just more words) Jai Guru Deva Om.
Huxley describes experiencing objects as pure being and as being one with the being of his own being.
Huxley refers to objects & himself being one Not-Self, although in actuality, if he went further, he’d see his self is not a self at all.
As an aside, Huxley was not unversed in Zen or Vedanta so his mescaline experiences were somewhat confirmations of his intellectual studies.
When attentive, it is obvious what the mind interprets as separate objects are not, for it and me are one I that is.
All are appearances arising within the absolute reality of naked awareness. Call me consciousness; then I am awareness.
Nisargadatta speaks to this dual aspect of nonduality. Actually he refers to a trinity: being, breath, and universal consciousness.
Nisargadatta's triumvirate compares with that of sat-cit-ananda where breath is seen as the energetic quality of bliss.
But words cannot describe the actual experience. (Huxley also speaks to this early on.) Only is is is.
No words for Tao—all words exist as mind. Mind only interprets experience. At best, it will recognize there is an intuitive grasp of isness.
As another side, Atma Vichara is experienced energetically and intuitively when it becomes clear the question, Who-am-I? cannot be answered.
Thus, this actuality of a picture frame before me is not a mental experience. It is an insightful one, what Nisargadatta calls apperception.
I cannot explain with words this experience nor how it came to be, except see it always is and “I” was conditioned not to see it.
When one begins to see through the conceptual self, the doors of apperception are unlocked, the gateless gate is opened, and reality enters…
…but reality enters where reality has always been. Here and now. (and this has been just more words) Jai Guru Deva Om.
2011-07-29
aumdadaGospel18: a season of listening
Rock & roll was our bible and the garage beneath Joey’s cottage was, for one summer, our church. It was unusual for a lake cottage to have a foundation; it was a summer cottage after all. But a garage was just strange. The Tylers never used it for their car, and although there was a couch and a coffee table, they never were down there to use those either. So we did. Joey had a portable record player and we played whatever albums were popular amongst us. That’s how I discovered Surrealistic Pillow.
It was Diana’s choice; she had turned a little hippie-wannabe the previous winter, discovering bell-bottoms, tie-dye, pot, and some fascinating musical selections, including Al Kooper, Steve Miller Band, and Jefferson Airplane. They all grew on me as we played them over and over and over again that June, July, and August. But there was something about Surrealistic Pillow.
I had heard of the Airplane, and actually owned the 45 of White Rabbit, but I thought of them as nothing more than a one or two-hit wonder. And on first hearing, that rest of the record appeared sluggish and unexciting for the most part. Maybe it was the pot that changed my mind. A garage with an open door was the perfect place to share a joint. It provided the welcome secrecy of someplace inside while guaranteeing the outside air needed to filter the sweet aroma. Throw in a couch and record player and there’s the textbook setting for our summer of love—one year late.
3/5 of a mile in 10 seconds! It started the second side, and we always started that record with the second side. It provided the initial jolt for conversation and cleared the mental space for profound revelations. Like: “It was like there,” Diana patiently explained. “Wow,” David looked and saw. “Where?” I asked. “If you can’t see it, I can’t say,” she answered, emphasizing each and every single word. “Oh, there!” I too saw it now. “But where is it?” Joey giggled nervously, still unable to see it. I was silent for a minute, and Joey repeated his question. I looked at him and finally responded, “I think I lost it.” And then everyone would break out in that crazy high incurable laughter.
When both the laughter and the record ended, and most of the time it was curiously simultaneously, we would flip it to the other side. About ten minutes later, “Today” began to play, and we were slipping into private universes of otherworldly introspection. If you weren’t careful, this was where paranoia could appear; people are undeniably strange and who really knows the other? Otherwise, if one went further, one could really see some stuff. But no words can be spoken to this point.
It was Diana’s choice; she had turned a little hippie-wannabe the previous winter, discovering bell-bottoms, tie-dye, pot, and some fascinating musical selections, including Al Kooper, Steve Miller Band, and Jefferson Airplane. They all grew on me as we played them over and over and over again that June, July, and August. But there was something about Surrealistic Pillow.
I had heard of the Airplane, and actually owned the 45 of White Rabbit, but I thought of them as nothing more than a one or two-hit wonder. And on first hearing, that rest of the record appeared sluggish and unexciting for the most part. Maybe it was the pot that changed my mind. A garage with an open door was the perfect place to share a joint. It provided the welcome secrecy of someplace inside while guaranteeing the outside air needed to filter the sweet aroma. Throw in a couch and record player and there’s the textbook setting for our summer of love—one year late.
3/5 of a mile in 10 seconds! It started the second side, and we always started that record with the second side. It provided the initial jolt for conversation and cleared the mental space for profound revelations. Like: “It was like there,” Diana patiently explained. “Wow,” David looked and saw. “Where?” I asked. “If you can’t see it, I can’t say,” she answered, emphasizing each and every single word. “Oh, there!” I too saw it now. “But where is it?” Joey giggled nervously, still unable to see it. I was silent for a minute, and Joey repeated his question. I looked at him and finally responded, “I think I lost it.” And then everyone would break out in that crazy high incurable laughter.
When both the laughter and the record ended, and most of the time it was curiously simultaneously, we would flip it to the other side. About ten minutes later, “Today” began to play, and we were slipping into private universes of otherworldly introspection. If you weren’t careful, this was where paranoia could appear; people are undeniably strange and who really knows the other? Otherwise, if one went further, one could really see some stuff. But no words can be spoken to this point.
2011-07-28
the apocryphon of aum dada
The whole world is the creation of I-Am. Mind has always been its tool although mind ran way with that world.
Within the context of mind and its egoic self, there is no point to that world. Fear appears to be king and runs randomly rampant.
But in the context of I-Am, there is absolutely one point in that world and that is to break out of that world.
In the context of egoic self, the world appears to be real yet pointless and meaningless.
In the context of I-Am, the world appears to be a dream with a single point and meaning: waking up from that dreamstate.
Pulling back and looking at the physical realm of consciousness, in the context of egoic self, it appears violent and random.
In the light of consciousness, the physical world is one of light descending into matter and ascending back to light—one point.
In the unconscious ways of consciousness, the body appears to be involved within this reflexive drive of the universe in space-time.
In the conscious workings of consciousness, the mind appears to be involved within this reflexive drive of the dreamstate in human time.
Natural disasters as experienced within the dreamstate are meaningful on the unconscious level of the reflexive universe.
Human tragedies as experienced within the dreamstate are meaningful on the conscious level of the reflexive dreamstate.
All is expendable and all is sacrificial—consciousness is always ever-changing, ever-renewing, always making more of itself.
But when sitting on the pinnacle of both reflexive universe and reflexive dreamstate, one is truly blessed with double responsibility—svaha!
As the drive of the reflexive universe is pure light, the drive of the reflexive dreamstate is pure love, Satguru, I-Am itself alone and one.
The love of the Satguru is a love that can’t be expressed in terms of egoic self; it is as to compare electric light with sunlight.
But the loving drive of the reflexive dreamstate is just as powerful and single-driven as the nuclear drive of the reflexive universe.
Light, love, call it sunlove, has descended into the dreamstate of egoic self and is now being pulled up into itself by itself—the Satguru.
Each and every dreamstate interaction can be viewed within this so-called serendipitous and meaningful framework of waking up.
Again, it should be remembered that sunlove can be tough love, not completely understood by mind—but the Satguru will always make more.
The closer the egoic self is to dissolving into the pure awareness of I-Am, the more this serendipity will be experienced and understood…
until the only purpose of the dream character is the purpose of the reflexive dreamstate itself—the Bodhisattva drive of the Satguru.
As always, these are merely words used by consciousness to talk to itself understanding reality is available only to itself—Jai Guru Deva Om
Within the context of mind and its egoic self, there is no point to that world. Fear appears to be king and runs randomly rampant.
But in the context of I-Am, there is absolutely one point in that world and that is to break out of that world.
In the context of egoic self, the world appears to be real yet pointless and meaningless.
In the context of I-Am, the world appears to be a dream with a single point and meaning: waking up from that dreamstate.
Pulling back and looking at the physical realm of consciousness, in the context of egoic self, it appears violent and random.
In the light of consciousness, the physical world is one of light descending into matter and ascending back to light—one point.
In the unconscious ways of consciousness, the body appears to be involved within this reflexive drive of the universe in space-time.
In the conscious workings of consciousness, the mind appears to be involved within this reflexive drive of the dreamstate in human time.
Natural disasters as experienced within the dreamstate are meaningful on the unconscious level of the reflexive universe.
Human tragedies as experienced within the dreamstate are meaningful on the conscious level of the reflexive dreamstate.
All is expendable and all is sacrificial—consciousness is always ever-changing, ever-renewing, always making more of itself.
But when sitting on the pinnacle of both reflexive universe and reflexive dreamstate, one is truly blessed with double responsibility—svaha!
As the drive of the reflexive universe is pure light, the drive of the reflexive dreamstate is pure love, Satguru, I-Am itself alone and one.
The love of the Satguru is a love that can’t be expressed in terms of egoic self; it is as to compare electric light with sunlight.
But the loving drive of the reflexive dreamstate is just as powerful and single-driven as the nuclear drive of the reflexive universe.
Light, love, call it sunlove, has descended into the dreamstate of egoic self and is now being pulled up into itself by itself—the Satguru.
Each and every dreamstate interaction can be viewed within this so-called serendipitous and meaningful framework of waking up.
Again, it should be remembered that sunlove can be tough love, not completely understood by mind—but the Satguru will always make more.
The closer the egoic self is to dissolving into the pure awareness of I-Am, the more this serendipity will be experienced and understood…
until the only purpose of the dream character is the purpose of the reflexive dreamstate itself—the Bodhisattva drive of the Satguru.
As always, these are merely words used by consciousness to talk to itself understanding reality is available only to itself—Jai Guru Deva Om
aumdadaGospel 17: new moon waters
Next door to my Uncle Charley’s cottage sat the Upton’s summer house. Benjamin Upton owned a wood mill in Bluefield, a small mill town about ten miles south of New Moon Lake. His business was, I had overhead my parents say, a lucrative one. Besides his mill, his fortunate sons and daughters, his white Cadillac Coupe de Ville, his large motor boat with dual inboard engines, his house in town built on a landscaped hill with nothing in view but his property of meadows and woods, and his summer house of varnished golden pine with French doors and louvre windows, he was a political leader of the town, and his wife was deeply involved with the First Baptist Church of Bluefield Parish.
One early July Saturday morning, I was sitting with my aunt and mother on the grassy promontory overlooking the beach and lake. David was inside finishing his Cheerios and I was waiting for him to join me for a morning swim. Suddenly a crowd of people dressed in Sunday best gathered on the Upton beach. A man in black appeared from out of the crowd and walked right into the water, shoes, pants, and all. He held a book in his hands and began reading what was obviously Bible scripture. A heavyset woman dressed in white emerged and joined him in the lake. It was Joanne Upton.
At first her dressed flowered in the shallow waters but then it sunk around her as they walked further and deeper. She was also wearing a large straw hat with a white ribbon securely tied to her chin. Exchanging some words with the minister at first, she held her hand out to someone in the crowd. A woman also dressed in white appeared and joined Mrs. Upton and the minister in the waist-deep water. The Reverend spoke some words and lightly touched the woman’s forehead. Joanne Upton held the small of the woman’s back and then dipped her beneath the surface. I saw the Holy Spirit above the effervescent expanse of outgoing ripples, and small white doves with wings of fire descending in our midst. Our minds dissolved into the depths of New Moon Lake and we were always swimming in the youth of ten thousand summers.
One early July Saturday morning, I was sitting with my aunt and mother on the grassy promontory overlooking the beach and lake. David was inside finishing his Cheerios and I was waiting for him to join me for a morning swim. Suddenly a crowd of people dressed in Sunday best gathered on the Upton beach. A man in black appeared from out of the crowd and walked right into the water, shoes, pants, and all. He held a book in his hands and began reading what was obviously Bible scripture. A heavyset woman dressed in white emerged and joined him in the lake. It was Joanne Upton.
At first her dressed flowered in the shallow waters but then it sunk around her as they walked further and deeper. She was also wearing a large straw hat with a white ribbon securely tied to her chin. Exchanging some words with the minister at first, she held her hand out to someone in the crowd. A woman also dressed in white appeared and joined Mrs. Upton and the minister in the waist-deep water. The Reverend spoke some words and lightly touched the woman’s forehead. Joanne Upton held the small of the woman’s back and then dipped her beneath the surface. I saw the Holy Spirit above the effervescent expanse of outgoing ripples, and small white doves with wings of fire descending in our midst. Our minds dissolved into the depths of New Moon Lake and we were always swimming in the youth of ten thousand summers.
2011-07-27
aumdadaGospel 16: a summer thriller
No season can be spent without trouble being bought, even in the days before sex and drugs and rock & roll. One day, David discovered a spool of party-favor paper, printed with blue balloons and teddy bears all over. It was the leftovers of a birthday party held in the cottage where the New York people lived. We knew them only by sight, exchanging hellos when walking along the shores of their beach while heading for the swamp at the north end of the cove, but nothing more than that. Our parents may have held deeper conversations but never shared any of them with us. The only way we knew they were from New York was the golden Empire State license plates on their automobiles.
Their driveway was almost at the beginning of the Gold Coast Road, which began at the state highway and followed the properties along the waterfront of the cove, past all our cottages, until it reached the county way. The New York people kept their trash cans near it at the end of their driveway, and the roll of paper was lying on the ground there. We had been walking down the road toward the highway when David spied it reflecting the late evening sun. At first, we tore some pieces off and waved them like streamers behind us. Then Joey had an infamous idea. “Follow me!” he shouted running off for the end of the way.
There was a large pine tree with wooden signs of the names of those who lived along the lake. It was at the corner where the dirt road met paved highway beneath a street lamp, and Joey was tying an end of the roll of paper around it when we caught up to him. His evil genius was apprehended by us almost immediately. David grabbed the spool at the finish of the knot. We waited with him as cars rolled past us, speeding north and south to destinations other than this summer country one. When the coast was clear, we bolted across, and David tied the further end of the long span of paper on another tree. We then ran across the highway again and waited from a secure place on the side of our dirt road.
Joey heard a car approaching from the north. “Here comes one!” he howled. There was a short stretch of straight highway in that direction before it passed our road. The paper glowed softly in the twilight, and then flashed as the headlights of the oncoming car picked up the traces of its length about four feet above the black pavement. Suddenly it appeared like a solid silver chain stretching across a mysterious thoroughfare. God knows what the driver thought. But brakes squealed! A white car came to a stop and a man almost flew out its door.
By then we were laughing uncontrollably. “Roadblock!” Joey screamed. “Identify yourselves!” I roared. “Hands-up!” David barked out an almost scripted order. The man looked over at us as something registered in his eyes. He hollered out something and another man got out of the passenger side. They exchanged words and then came running at us. “They’re after us!” Joey screamed out the obvious. “Run!” I echoed. “Follow me!” David cried and went running up the dirt way.
It was nearly dark now but the surface of the road reflected the remaining light that lit the cobalt sky and it glowed before us with high adventure. David turned off at the driveway of the New York people, threading his way in-between several cars towards the shadows of the right side of the cottage. We heard angry voices behind us as we followed him into the darkness and out the other end of beach, free shore, open lake and clear sky.
The New York people were all inside. We ran for the freedom of the water and waited. The two men must have given up the chase, or were knocking on the door of the cottage waiting to ask New York people whatever two irate men who left their car in the middle of a state highway at twilight in late July would ask such strangers from New York. We knew we’d never find out and we laughed about it amongst ourselves as we headed for the safety of our swamp.
Their driveway was almost at the beginning of the Gold Coast Road, which began at the state highway and followed the properties along the waterfront of the cove, past all our cottages, until it reached the county way. The New York people kept their trash cans near it at the end of their driveway, and the roll of paper was lying on the ground there. We had been walking down the road toward the highway when David spied it reflecting the late evening sun. At first, we tore some pieces off and waved them like streamers behind us. Then Joey had an infamous idea. “Follow me!” he shouted running off for the end of the way.
There was a large pine tree with wooden signs of the names of those who lived along the lake. It was at the corner where the dirt road met paved highway beneath a street lamp, and Joey was tying an end of the roll of paper around it when we caught up to him. His evil genius was apprehended by us almost immediately. David grabbed the spool at the finish of the knot. We waited with him as cars rolled past us, speeding north and south to destinations other than this summer country one. When the coast was clear, we bolted across, and David tied the further end of the long span of paper on another tree. We then ran across the highway again and waited from a secure place on the side of our dirt road.
Joey heard a car approaching from the north. “Here comes one!” he howled. There was a short stretch of straight highway in that direction before it passed our road. The paper glowed softly in the twilight, and then flashed as the headlights of the oncoming car picked up the traces of its length about four feet above the black pavement. Suddenly it appeared like a solid silver chain stretching across a mysterious thoroughfare. God knows what the driver thought. But brakes squealed! A white car came to a stop and a man almost flew out its door.
By then we were laughing uncontrollably. “Roadblock!” Joey screamed. “Identify yourselves!” I roared. “Hands-up!” David barked out an almost scripted order. The man looked over at us as something registered in his eyes. He hollered out something and another man got out of the passenger side. They exchanged words and then came running at us. “They’re after us!” Joey screamed out the obvious. “Run!” I echoed. “Follow me!” David cried and went running up the dirt way.
It was nearly dark now but the surface of the road reflected the remaining light that lit the cobalt sky and it glowed before us with high adventure. David turned off at the driveway of the New York people, threading his way in-between several cars towards the shadows of the right side of the cottage. We heard angry voices behind us as we followed him into the darkness and out the other end of beach, free shore, open lake and clear sky.
The New York people were all inside. We ran for the freedom of the water and waited. The two men must have given up the chase, or were knocking on the door of the cottage waiting to ask New York people whatever two irate men who left their car in the middle of a state highway at twilight in late July would ask such strangers from New York. We knew we’d never find out and we laughed about it amongst ourselves as we headed for the safety of our swamp.
2011-07-26
aumdadaGospel 15: oberon, what the puck?
I had a dream. It was summer 1968 and King and Kennedy had both been assassinated that spring. My parents were watching the Democratic National Convention on TV, and Senator Ribicoff was speaking out about the violence outside the hall on the streets of Chicago. Mayor Daley rose and had to be restrained from bolting for the podium and biting off the head of the respected Gentleman from Connecticut. “You lousy motherfucker! Go home!” he screamed and called in the riot police instead. They trooped down the corridors pounding any delegate not pledged to Hubert H. Humphrey into bloody submission. It’s true; Dan Rather took this picture.
Clean Gene eyed the bloodshed from the balcony. There was no time to find a phone booth. He ripped off his white shirt and thin black tie, revealing an eye in a pyramid imprinted on a red, white and blue spandex undershirt. “For truth, justice and the American way,” he cried, swooping down into the action on the floor, where Ed Muskie met him with a piece of green kryptonite. It’s true; Norman Mailer wrote this book.
Lyndon Baines Johnson rubbed his forehead asking over and over again what monsters had he let loose. Abbie Hoffman came in through a side door and answered with a left hook. Bobby Seale raised his fist and punched a gaping hole through the convention hall ceiling. The stars poured in. George McGovern looked up and saw the black hole of 1972. Richard Nixon was smiling like a Cheshire cat licking up the Milky Way. Jerry Rubin took the next bus for Wall Street. It’s true; Mia Farrow acted in this movie.
I woke up. The house was quiet. The night light in the kitchen gave out a shadowy glow. Everything was a lie. Walking past the refrigerator, I grabbed a can of Coke, and went into the living room. Embers still glowed in the fireplace; it was a cool August night and I watched their final performance. There was a long road before me, with dead man’s curves and disappearing straight-aways. There were long stretches of falling asleep at the wheel. There was an accident or two. But there was something there is that keeps one going.
Clean Gene eyed the bloodshed from the balcony. There was no time to find a phone booth. He ripped off his white shirt and thin black tie, revealing an eye in a pyramid imprinted on a red, white and blue spandex undershirt. “For truth, justice and the American way,” he cried, swooping down into the action on the floor, where Ed Muskie met him with a piece of green kryptonite. It’s true; Norman Mailer wrote this book.
Lyndon Baines Johnson rubbed his forehead asking over and over again what monsters had he let loose. Abbie Hoffman came in through a side door and answered with a left hook. Bobby Seale raised his fist and punched a gaping hole through the convention hall ceiling. The stars poured in. George McGovern looked up and saw the black hole of 1972. Richard Nixon was smiling like a Cheshire cat licking up the Milky Way. Jerry Rubin took the next bus for Wall Street. It’s true; Mia Farrow acted in this movie.
I woke up. The house was quiet. The night light in the kitchen gave out a shadowy glow. Everything was a lie. Walking past the refrigerator, I grabbed a can of Coke, and went into the living room. Embers still glowed in the fireplace; it was a cool August night and I watched their final performance. There was a long road before me, with dead man’s curves and disappearing straight-aways. There were long stretches of falling asleep at the wheel. There was an accident or two. But there was something there is that keeps one going.
2011-07-25
aumdadaGospel14: an early ending
The end of summer is not the beginning of the fall. It’s the return of books, pencils and paper, and back to school. That was always the Wednesday after Labor Day, so we would most often leave the lake on the Tuesday in-between, although most everyone else left the afternoon of the holiday. All the docks and rafts and boats would be pulled in to the shore, leaving the lake in its wilderness condition of nothing but a smooth blank mirror.
The Francis family summered on the lot next to my Uncle Charley’s. Actually it was the lot one over from his; there was an empty lot of trees between the two, right across the picture window of our cottage (today there’s a large all-season house sitting there). My father would sit at the table in front of the window and stare through those trees almost every evening he was there, ruminating on the life spans of the congregating moths at the light shining from the table-lamp.
There were nine children in the Francis family, although there were only eight on this particular summer. The oldest had been killed in Viet Nam the previous spring. They had been slow to arrive that summer, but they finally did almost en masse for the Fourth of July, and kept more to themselves than usual, breaking camp early the Sunday of Labor Day weekend.
By Monday late afternoon, everyone else had disappeared but Paula and myself. We walked down to the Francis waterfront and sat on the blue raft now pulled on to the shore. The matching blue docks were stacked behind it. Wooden shutters had been nailed to the windows of the blue cottage. The beach was clean of toys and blue Adirondack chairs. We stared out at the lake and discussed the events of that summer. Jane and I had finally become a thing after two years of flirting with the possibility, but had broken it off after less than two passionate months. Paula had started up something with George and wondered what it was and where in the world it was going.
“He seems serious about us,” she was saying, “but he doesn’t want to have anything to do with anyone else. It’s kind of intense.” She was now matching his intensity with her own natural obsessive nature.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “I don’t think I even saw him the entire month of August.” Even after Jane and I had broken it off, we had returned to flirting again with the possibility, so the last couple of weeks of the month had been back and forth ones of dueling obsessions, away, looking for another, and near, longing for the same old same. I really didn’t have a chance to miss George at all.
“I know,” she replied. “We weren’t separated at all this last month. I hardly saw any of you guys either.” I said nothing more but it had occurred to me as well the George and Joey rift had finally cracked us apart.
We continued to look out at the water. Ah, the summer was over. “It’s never going to be the same,” the lake reflected my own sad silent voice back to me.
The Francis family summered on the lot next to my Uncle Charley’s. Actually it was the lot one over from his; there was an empty lot of trees between the two, right across the picture window of our cottage (today there’s a large all-season house sitting there). My father would sit at the table in front of the window and stare through those trees almost every evening he was there, ruminating on the life spans of the congregating moths at the light shining from the table-lamp.
There were nine children in the Francis family, although there were only eight on this particular summer. The oldest had been killed in Viet Nam the previous spring. They had been slow to arrive that summer, but they finally did almost en masse for the Fourth of July, and kept more to themselves than usual, breaking camp early the Sunday of Labor Day weekend.
By Monday late afternoon, everyone else had disappeared but Paula and myself. We walked down to the Francis waterfront and sat on the blue raft now pulled on to the shore. The matching blue docks were stacked behind it. Wooden shutters had been nailed to the windows of the blue cottage. The beach was clean of toys and blue Adirondack chairs. We stared out at the lake and discussed the events of that summer. Jane and I had finally become a thing after two years of flirting with the possibility, but had broken it off after less than two passionate months. Paula had started up something with George and wondered what it was and where in the world it was going.
“He seems serious about us,” she was saying, “but he doesn’t want to have anything to do with anyone else. It’s kind of intense.” She was now matching his intensity with her own natural obsessive nature.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “I don’t think I even saw him the entire month of August.” Even after Jane and I had broken it off, we had returned to flirting again with the possibility, so the last couple of weeks of the month had been back and forth ones of dueling obsessions, away, looking for another, and near, longing for the same old same. I really didn’t have a chance to miss George at all.
“I know,” she replied. “We weren’t separated at all this last month. I hardly saw any of you guys either.” I said nothing more but it had occurred to me as well the George and Joey rift had finally cracked us apart.
We continued to look out at the water. Ah, the summer was over. “It’s never going to be the same,” the lake reflected my own sad silent voice back to me.
2011-07-23
and the lord said sutra
and the lord said beware those who come carrying gifts of scripture for they would imprison you in their words.
and the lord said an ass will pass through the eye of a needle before a single word turns real.
and the lord said reality is what you are and not within the knowledge of all words.
and the lord said one and one is two but two is just a product of the one.
and the lord said those who love through lies are only lying to themselves about their love.
and the lord said it's gonna be a scorchah out today so be sure to drink plenty of liquids and stay cool.
and the lord said no words are truer spoken.
and the lord said it's funny how a person always wants to accentuate the positive without accepting the negative that fatedly accompanies it.
and the lord said i made the grass green & the scythe that lays it low & the emerald grasshoppers flying to their sanctuary, but you made me.
and the lord said isn't it something else that it's not even nothing.
and the lord said consciousness is the sinner and ego is the sin or something to that effect.
and the lord said love consciousness; slap ego.
and the lord said remember in these sublime matters, consciousness is always talking to consciousness.
and the lord said an ass will pass through the eye of a needle before a single word turns real.
and the lord said reality is what you are and not within the knowledge of all words.
and the lord said one and one is two but two is just a product of the one.
and the lord said those who love through lies are only lying to themselves about their love.
and the lord said it's gonna be a scorchah out today so be sure to drink plenty of liquids and stay cool.
and the lord said no words are truer spoken.
and the lord said it's funny how a person always wants to accentuate the positive without accepting the negative that fatedly accompanies it.
and the lord said i made the grass green & the scythe that lays it low & the emerald grasshoppers flying to their sanctuary, but you made me.
and the lord said isn't it something else that it's not even nothing.
and the lord said consciousness is the sinner and ego is the sin or something to that effect.
and the lord said love consciousness; slap ego.
and the lord said remember in these sublime matters, consciousness is always talking to consciousness.
aumdadaGospel13: strange love, strange world
Jane and Diana lived just off the point that watched over the cove which formed our developing world each summer. Their cottages neighbored each other on the waterfront facing the open vast expanse of empty lake. A small dirt road ran past their driveways. It left the county road, which bridged the outlet of the lake, at the hillside property of George’s parents and ran along the opposite shore of the cove, past the yawning grounds surrounding the point, continuing on past Jane, past Diana, and towards the entrances of other greater forbidding lakeside properties.
In the day, the road was always in the shadow of trees. At night, it would become exceptionally murky. It was the darkest I had ever experienced, and I appreciated the puddles of moonlight splashing the surrounding atmosphere with shadows of sight on those nights we journeyed upon it. One early evening, David and I walked over to visit with Jane and Diana to watch the movie, Dr. Strangelove, on TV. This was before the advent of pre-recorded video and so the event was considered something awesome and auspicious.
We had waited all week to see it, looking forward to Peter Sellers and his triumvirate of exceptionally diverging roles. So we watched it attentively, laughing at almost every line, and especially the rich pantomime of Strangelove’s uncontrollable extremity—we never even noticed the time passing. After the world had finally ended, and the necessary small talk had come to a close, we said our goodbyes. David and I walked through the light of the driveway to the darkness of the road. It wasn’t long before we realized the stark truth: there was a new moon over New Moon Lake.
I literally could not see my hand before my face. Needless to say, I couldn’t see David at all. It was only the sound of our voices which kept us together. Of course we had no flashlight, and the road was a rambling more-than-a-quarter-mile course running in-between roadsides of brush, bush, tree-stumps, trees, and the occasional stick with sign indicating a driveway leading to an undetectable cottage far below. We bumped many of those things that night.
It was slow going. Step-by-step, we searched out the road like two blind men. I was still a little high from the joint we had smoked outside before the movie. Not that Dr. Strangelove required anything to make it strange, but we thought it might be a good idea to match the consciousness of its particular brand of sanity with something similar ourselves. And now that consciousness was walking in the blackness of a world gone dark. There was nothing there but me, and I was just this bodiless entity stumbling in the emptiness of night. I was free to re-invent the world in any way I saw fit. In fact, there was nothing else I could do.
In the day, the road was always in the shadow of trees. At night, it would become exceptionally murky. It was the darkest I had ever experienced, and I appreciated the puddles of moonlight splashing the surrounding atmosphere with shadows of sight on those nights we journeyed upon it. One early evening, David and I walked over to visit with Jane and Diana to watch the movie, Dr. Strangelove, on TV. This was before the advent of pre-recorded video and so the event was considered something awesome and auspicious.
We had waited all week to see it, looking forward to Peter Sellers and his triumvirate of exceptionally diverging roles. So we watched it attentively, laughing at almost every line, and especially the rich pantomime of Strangelove’s uncontrollable extremity—we never even noticed the time passing. After the world had finally ended, and the necessary small talk had come to a close, we said our goodbyes. David and I walked through the light of the driveway to the darkness of the road. It wasn’t long before we realized the stark truth: there was a new moon over New Moon Lake.
I literally could not see my hand before my face. Needless to say, I couldn’t see David at all. It was only the sound of our voices which kept us together. Of course we had no flashlight, and the road was a rambling more-than-a-quarter-mile course running in-between roadsides of brush, bush, tree-stumps, trees, and the occasional stick with sign indicating a driveway leading to an undetectable cottage far below. We bumped many of those things that night.
It was slow going. Step-by-step, we searched out the road like two blind men. I was still a little high from the joint we had smoked outside before the movie. Not that Dr. Strangelove required anything to make it strange, but we thought it might be a good idea to match the consciousness of its particular brand of sanity with something similar ourselves. And now that consciousness was walking in the blackness of a world gone dark. There was nothing there but me, and I was just this bodiless entity stumbling in the emptiness of night. I was free to re-invent the world in any way I saw fit. In fact, there was nothing else I could do.
2011-07-22
the w/hole sutra
pointing to the point of nonconceptual existence
like a point of pointless black w/hole being
from which the whole conceptual shebang begins.
from this pointless point the world is seen as inside out
with nothing propping up these tents of flesh and bone
but breathing its belief.
the pointless point is like the pinhole point of light
projecting out an incredible world of bright imagination
that imagines it's imagining.
there are no choices in the matter;
one rests in the pointless point of the mother w/hole
or cries out some conditional version of violence.
being is the opening to the w/hole.
the w/hole erupts from time to time in acts of thoughtless love.
every night, you fall back in your w/hole;
so, in the morning, just rise into it.
om. that is the w/hole. this is the w/hole.
from w/hole, the w/hole is manifest:
the w/hole is gathered from the w/hole…
and the w/hole remains.
like a point of pointless black w/hole being
from which the whole conceptual shebang begins.
from this pointless point the world is seen as inside out
with nothing propping up these tents of flesh and bone
but breathing its belief.
the pointless point is like the pinhole point of light
projecting out an incredible world of bright imagination
that imagines it's imagining.
there are no choices in the matter;
one rests in the pointless point of the mother w/hole
or cries out some conditional version of violence.
being is the opening to the w/hole.
the w/hole erupts from time to time in acts of thoughtless love.
every night, you fall back in your w/hole;
so, in the morning, just rise into it.
om. that is the w/hole. this is the w/hole.
from w/hole, the w/hole is manifest:
the w/hole is gathered from the w/hole…
and the w/hole remains.
aumdadaGospel 12: this and thou
There was a general store a mile north on the state highway where most of our needs during the week were satisfied. Often we would walk that mile just for something to do. By early afternoon, all the attractions of the lake and shore had dimmed, so we would pull on socks and sneakers, ask our parents if they needed any supplies, and even if they didn’t, walk that mile up the highway, looking forward to some snack or drink or whatever worldly itch which required rubbing or scratching.
The general store itself was small but contained a spectrum of provisions from worms to steak, and a cornucopia of packages and cans in-between. There was a soda machine outside, and a rack of candy, cakes, and chips standing by the counter inside. There was also a small newspaper stand with comic books and copies of Mad Magazine. For my purposes, these three regions provided everything I needed—a can of Coke, a bag of chips, and the latest Spiderman. No thou! Or no thou, that is, until Jane appeared in my life.
The summers could be divided into ‘before Jane’ and ‘after Jane.’ And ‘after Jane’ evolved into a crowd of beautiful faces, each one becoming the flavor of the day, week, or month. But Jane was the first, and not in some sexual way, because that was not to be, and not in some kind of childlike crush, because there had been plenty of those before, but in a manner much more mysterious and human. It felt like a dream when I was with Jane.
That dream turned into a summer night on a beach with a bonfire rising to the stars. A circle of friends glowed in the flickering light. Around the flames, a spark of something illicit but delightful was being passed from person to person. Jane was sitting with me on a blanket and we were talking about nothing much, just listening instead to our voices slowly intertwining. That was something enough. The night grew colder, the stars larger, and the bonfire smaller. At first, we found our arms around each other. Then we discovered we were kissing. Before we knew it, we were lying on the blanket in a remarkable embrace, lost within that timeless unbounded expanse of utterly nothing but thou.
The general store itself was small but contained a spectrum of provisions from worms to steak, and a cornucopia of packages and cans in-between. There was a soda machine outside, and a rack of candy, cakes, and chips standing by the counter inside. There was also a small newspaper stand with comic books and copies of Mad Magazine. For my purposes, these three regions provided everything I needed—a can of Coke, a bag of chips, and the latest Spiderman. No thou! Or no thou, that is, until Jane appeared in my life.
The summers could be divided into ‘before Jane’ and ‘after Jane.’ And ‘after Jane’ evolved into a crowd of beautiful faces, each one becoming the flavor of the day, week, or month. But Jane was the first, and not in some sexual way, because that was not to be, and not in some kind of childlike crush, because there had been plenty of those before, but in a manner much more mysterious and human. It felt like a dream when I was with Jane.
That dream turned into a summer night on a beach with a bonfire rising to the stars. A circle of friends glowed in the flickering light. Around the flames, a spark of something illicit but delightful was being passed from person to person. Jane was sitting with me on a blanket and we were talking about nothing much, just listening instead to our voices slowly intertwining. That was something enough. The night grew colder, the stars larger, and the bonfire smaller. At first, we found our arms around each other. Then we discovered we were kissing. Before we knew it, we were lying on the blanket in a remarkable embrace, lost within that timeless unbounded expanse of utterly nothing but thou.
2011-07-21
the dangerous sutra
this watermelon is making me not thirsty.
pointing is a dangerous pastime.
truth knows no one.
mind is best used to unmind.
truth can only be intuitively known.
disidentify, disidentify, disidentify.
all one can do is be what one is: i am that i am.
being may only know itself, but reality will know being.
when being is lost in misidentification, there is nothing there for reality to know.
but pointing is a dangerous pastime.
there are not enough dead buddhas on the road.
there are many crosses but not enough dead christs either.
even jefferson knew his greatest failure was the us government; he wanted dead usa's every 20 years.
only from the fire does the phoenix rise.
still, green wood doesn't burn; the ripening a religion may give could be necessary. but 20 years on the day shift will suffice as well.
the most dangerous religion is that of one; thus, in the end, the person must go.
but the death of the person is really the beginning.
so this is where some like Nisargadatta begin their teaching.
but pointing is a dangerous pastime.
the ego, person, dream character, name your naming poison, wants something out of spirituality: peace, love, joy, union, oneness, you names it.
but the ego gets nothing.
reality gets it all, and that's the truth.
if you don't want the truth, then find an appropriate religion.
if the end of suffering yourself is not joy enough, then don't go looking for the truth.
true spirituality is not a positive process; it's about the end of suffering your self; it is a via negativa.
but there are many via positivas out there, some that even believe themselves negativa. if such is one's druthers.
but pointing is a dangerous pastime.
truth is a spear of watermelon.
pointing is a dangerous pastime.
truth knows no one.
mind is best used to unmind.
truth can only be intuitively known.
disidentify, disidentify, disidentify.
all one can do is be what one is: i am that i am.
being may only know itself, but reality will know being.
when being is lost in misidentification, there is nothing there for reality to know.
but pointing is a dangerous pastime.
there are not enough dead buddhas on the road.
there are many crosses but not enough dead christs either.
even jefferson knew his greatest failure was the us government; he wanted dead usa's every 20 years.
only from the fire does the phoenix rise.
still, green wood doesn't burn; the ripening a religion may give could be necessary. but 20 years on the day shift will suffice as well.
the most dangerous religion is that of one; thus, in the end, the person must go.
but the death of the person is really the beginning.
so this is where some like Nisargadatta begin their teaching.
but pointing is a dangerous pastime.
the ego, person, dream character, name your naming poison, wants something out of spirituality: peace, love, joy, union, oneness, you names it.
but the ego gets nothing.
reality gets it all, and that's the truth.
if you don't want the truth, then find an appropriate religion.
if the end of suffering yourself is not joy enough, then don't go looking for the truth.
true spirituality is not a positive process; it's about the end of suffering your self; it is a via negativa.
but there are many via positivas out there, some that even believe themselves negativa. if such is one's druthers.
but pointing is a dangerous pastime.
truth is a spear of watermelon.
aumdadaGospel 11: elaborating manifestation
Three sisters summered in the woods on New Moon Lake. One was my mother, Gloria. Our cottage stood on a non-waterfront lot across the road from her younger sister, Daphne. Down the road and deeper in the cove lived the third sister, Lillian, the ping pong connoisseur. My cousin David was Daphne’s youngest of three sons. Her husband, my Uncle Charley, worked all day long from the cardinal song of dawn to that batty time of lingering dusk, despite the fact this was his weekend getaway. But he had survived the terrors of Bataan and work was welcome therapy.
He had built the cottage from scratch, using massive unfinished pine logs centered around an immense central fireplace created from enormous field stones. He had also landscaped all the grounds, including a grassy promontory, supported by lofty stone foundations, resting beneath the shade of eastern pine trees overlooking the lake, his dock, the rowboat he had built, and a raft he had also built complete with platform diving board. That’s where the three cousins played today.
Paula was sitting on the side of the raft, her legs kicking up a splash of waves in the revitalizing water. She was Lillian’s daughter. In the more mundane seasons of autumn, winter, and spring, her family lived in the apartment above that of David’s family, in a house both families owned. Our grandmother lived on the third floor, and by then, my family lived less than a quarter-mile down the road on the same street, Oak.
David was on the diving board. Actually he was on the railings of the platform that held the diving board, maybe ten feet above the deep blue water. I was treading water underneath the diving board, studying carefully the process David had perfected, which involved climbing carefully to one railing, then steadying both legs on both railings before lifting one foot off while pushing off with the other sideways, simultaneously raising both hands and clasping them together in a prayer-like salutation to the lowering late afternoon sun and then diving into the empty space of the world, before disappearing into its sparkling reflections.
He had built the cottage from scratch, using massive unfinished pine logs centered around an immense central fireplace created from enormous field stones. He had also landscaped all the grounds, including a grassy promontory, supported by lofty stone foundations, resting beneath the shade of eastern pine trees overlooking the lake, his dock, the rowboat he had built, and a raft he had also built complete with platform diving board. That’s where the three cousins played today.
Paula was sitting on the side of the raft, her legs kicking up a splash of waves in the revitalizing water. She was Lillian’s daughter. In the more mundane seasons of autumn, winter, and spring, her family lived in the apartment above that of David’s family, in a house both families owned. Our grandmother lived on the third floor, and by then, my family lived less than a quarter-mile down the road on the same street, Oak.
David was on the diving board. Actually he was on the railings of the platform that held the diving board, maybe ten feet above the deep blue water. I was treading water underneath the diving board, studying carefully the process David had perfected, which involved climbing carefully to one railing, then steadying both legs on both railings before lifting one foot off while pushing off with the other sideways, simultaneously raising both hands and clasping them together in a prayer-like salutation to the lowering late afternoon sun and then diving into the empty space of the world, before disappearing into its sparkling reflections.
2011-07-20
Aum Dada Gospel 10: the unfinished mountain
From what the previous owner of these properties named the Golden Coast of New Moon Lake, one can see the prominence of Prospect Mountain rising almost directly above the far opposite shores of Hollywood Beach. The locals call it Blueberry Hill, though, and so we do too. As a young child, I saw it as something distant, vague, and unapproachable. But the older I got, the smaller it seemed to become, until one day it was so decided we should climb to its cobalt summit. There were seven of us: George, Paula, me, Jane, David, Diana, and Joey. It was a lucid summer day and that’s about all the plot one needs in the summer for seven souls on a gigantic quest.
The way to the mountain begins as a dirt hill-country road climbing its eastern shoulder. No dwellings line either side. Ramshackle stone walls fence in young rambunctious forests. Some old white pines appear here and there. The seven of us talk continually, sometimes splitting into smaller groups, sometimes forming a single unit. If there’s anything resembling a couple at this point in the story, it’s David and Diana, but they’re still at the flirting stages of a developing relationship, so there’s no real confidentialities being exchanged, except for an occasional push and shove—no holding hands or arm in arms.
This is the first summer the seven of us could be considered a gang, and even that is beginning to appear diffuse and impermanent. George really doesn’t get along with Joey. One is mostly an unassuming country boy and the other is almost a city loudmouth, the opposite ends of the spectrum for this group. The rest of us fall somewhere in the more central bandwidth of the town. So while the conversation appears to blend among the seven of us, it really gets no larger than six, with either George or Joey not participating at the group level.
A gap appears in the stone wall bordering the west side of the road and George hollers, “This is the road up the mountain, gang. My uncle’s blueberry trucks have worn it nice for hiking.” So we turn and begin the steeper ascent through rocky fields of low blueberry shrubs. Some of us pick a few berries after George first stoops down to pick a handful and rises with an uplifted fist, crying out: “What Kent doesn’t know doesn’t hurt him!” Joey replies with something more acidic, “I don’t know if we should trust that silence. He’ll probably own you in a year or so; he owns everything else around here.”
Willingly ignoring that remark, George walks briskly ahead leaving the six of us to follow in his disappearing wake. The hill gets steeper. We grow quieter. Joey is starting to fall behind, his stocky overweight stature beginning to feel the strength of gravity. George looks back. He can’t help himself: “Hey, if you wait until Monday, my uncle Kent can give you a ride up, Joe.” Joey raises his arm in defiance and throws him the bird. George snickers, “Yeah, good idea, Joe. Save your breath. You’re going to need it.” And continues to climb like a man with a plan. The remaining five of us are trying to keep up on the one hand, and delay on the other, but the line is stretching thin.
The way to the mountain begins as a dirt hill-country road climbing its eastern shoulder. No dwellings line either side. Ramshackle stone walls fence in young rambunctious forests. Some old white pines appear here and there. The seven of us talk continually, sometimes splitting into smaller groups, sometimes forming a single unit. If there’s anything resembling a couple at this point in the story, it’s David and Diana, but they’re still at the flirting stages of a developing relationship, so there’s no real confidentialities being exchanged, except for an occasional push and shove—no holding hands or arm in arms.
This is the first summer the seven of us could be considered a gang, and even that is beginning to appear diffuse and impermanent. George really doesn’t get along with Joey. One is mostly an unassuming country boy and the other is almost a city loudmouth, the opposite ends of the spectrum for this group. The rest of us fall somewhere in the more central bandwidth of the town. So while the conversation appears to blend among the seven of us, it really gets no larger than six, with either George or Joey not participating at the group level.
A gap appears in the stone wall bordering the west side of the road and George hollers, “This is the road up the mountain, gang. My uncle’s blueberry trucks have worn it nice for hiking.” So we turn and begin the steeper ascent through rocky fields of low blueberry shrubs. Some of us pick a few berries after George first stoops down to pick a handful and rises with an uplifted fist, crying out: “What Kent doesn’t know doesn’t hurt him!” Joey replies with something more acidic, “I don’t know if we should trust that silence. He’ll probably own you in a year or so; he owns everything else around here.”
Willingly ignoring that remark, George walks briskly ahead leaving the six of us to follow in his disappearing wake. The hill gets steeper. We grow quieter. Joey is starting to fall behind, his stocky overweight stature beginning to feel the strength of gravity. George looks back. He can’t help himself: “Hey, if you wait until Monday, my uncle Kent can give you a ride up, Joe.” Joey raises his arm in defiance and throws him the bird. George snickers, “Yeah, good idea, Joe. Save your breath. You’re going to need it.” And continues to climb like a man with a plan. The remaining five of us are trying to keep up on the one hand, and delay on the other, but the line is stretching thin.
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