without even the gold-painted husk that once I held as mine own,
realms of rapture become felt now as recalcitrant glimpses,
waves upon a distant shore lost to the horizon,
somewhere barely reached by time,
that false prophet
emerged in its
retainer, after the slow merging
of sensory murals splayed with seductive colours
and expansive promises, was a return to conscious transparency,
as it was before I was born, transforming this life into its detachment.
there remains an equanimous stillness wherein the seeming continues to grow,
germane to freedom and to the musings of peace, but openly restful within,
without worry nor even care to stop and reconsider
the mind’s former stratagems of self-sabotage;
the wonder without has met the
the self-recognizing presence,
naturally works its way out of the planted shell
of inquiry and eventually cascades itself outwards to reform
the entirety of the self-experience, until there remains nought to pursue,
other than what, in this very moment, could best reflect the beauty of timelessness.
the waking state mind is like a narrow film of seemingly concentrated objectivity, i.e. through these human minds we typically only have a thin view of the goings on here, our attention firmly attracted to the seeming density of objects. however, this objective denseness is only an assumption – through the investigation of the substance of what is here, this denseness dissolves into subtler and subtler fields, the mind becoming more and more transparent to the reality from which objects arise. in other words, through relaxation into the ‘space’ of consciousness all aspects of our perceiving, the seeming density of perceivable mentations becomes looser and less fixed, and even the waking state can become invisibly permeable to deeper realms of Mind-at-Large. these deeper realms are shared perhaps by a collective space acting behind the scenes, a realm wherein objects are only half-formed and have not yet broken through the veil of the viewable transcript of what is known in waking. creative inspiration and deep, vivid dreams are two examples of the arisings of information from a deeper realm of mind.
it is sometimes called the collective unconscious, not because it’s ultimately unconscious, but because we typically don’t have access to it in the waking state – it’s more like the ‘collectively unattended’. it is possible that our actions and thoughts and perhaps all our endeavours are informed by deeper realms of Mind to which we have no perceivable access, but when distinct material arises from this deeper well-spring it comes with the stamp of primordial, perhaps archetypal creativity. so it’s not that you can ‘see’ the collective unconscious, as per the limits of the waking state, but that what streams into this waking state can be ideas not bound to the rigid patterning of our typical mentations. the human mind has its limits of attention – but the objects arising within this attention can be informed by deeper realms as we relax into presence and openness.
this my ritual of defrosting the body, absorbing bittersweet warmth into its cool carapace. slowly, slowly, the felt sense that I am apart from the rest resolves itself into the dew of unity’s palate. some days, bubbles of joy break through the froth almost immediately, and there is a waking dance under the lip of my mug. others, quieter days, I am reminded of how the body longs eternal for its release into the open vista, and there is a gentle surrender – a dipping ever downwards into the mystic night of the endless merge – slipping deeper into the thick silvery black of the molten brew.
some of them –
made of oak or pine,
our watchful neighbours,
titans of the forest or on streetlines.
tell, have you ever really looked at a tree:
watched how it grows and yet stands still
what I wouldn’t give to become treelike
a tree has nothing to apologize for!
it insists only on its being itself
on growing into its full stead
without asserting dominant
nor hiding from the day
it is a simple thing
as far as I know
but it’s strong
Is it possible that this very consciousness that is perceiving in this moment is completely free? Free from the feelings – pleasant or unpleasant – of a body, its up and downs, pains and enjoyments, moods and emotions, even the raw sensations that pulse along throughout the states. Free from the thoughts – the buzz of the mind, the projected self-image, the internal dialogue, even thoughts about the truth. And free from the world – not limited to these five human senses but ‘sensing’ itself in a dimension not quite known to man but rather, man being known through it. Is it possible that we are simply playing this game of being people – and yet we have made these bodies out of our own substance and the world they play in too, while all along we watch happily as the person lives it out, set within. Is it possible that the substance of our being is completely intimate with all seeming things, that nothing arises that is not chosen by It? This Being, this Consciousness, has not for one moment parted itself from its home. It has always been, resting in itself, contemplating itself, loving itself, being itself. This knowing, with which you know yourself and out of which all appearances are made is Freedom…
room and board has already been paid
the town is empty but the guesthouse is full
we stay up all night sometimes
dancing to the beat
of the infinite drummer
we don’t worship
we don’t get stuck in dead words
there’s not a lot of room here to get maudlin
and any shame is left on the road by the overpass
to avoid overcrowding, we’ve set up a lottery
but there’s only one name on the ballot
no way to get around that
The world within often draws me towards itself – to leave the cares of moving life behind and to rejoin the eternal. There, I find a jewel that I cannot give away. I might well share it if I could. I would make of it an offering, but it’s stuck in my lungs and hands and all the rest. All I can do is Be it. In the moment, it’s just this sweet sense of Being, and these words, a gesture of gratitude with my attempt at a little stamp of light.
Maybe I’ll spend the morning with the geese that hang out near here, fearless creatures they are. They stroll along busy streets causing a mess and don’t care much about the drivers who gets chuffed along the way. Sometimes I think: I am but a bird singing my song for the simple joy of singing it, not (necessarily) to attract a mate, however, just because it’s my thing. That’s a nice image, but today, I think I’d like to be a goose walking in front of traffic, for the simple joy of charting my own course, not (necessarily) to stump anyone or cause a rift, but just because I’m alive. Let’s not get too romantic about it.
There is more here than just the endless inner world, or at least, I’ll give myself, as bird-feed, the illusion that there is, and touch hands to face under the breaking light of day.
there is a collapse
of walls held round the heart
and then the reflected light of the body
graces itself to love again:
a slow walk under the cool moon.
it’s not a big moment
it’s not a big event
it’s not an enlightenment
god, to only let go of that word,
we’ve all done our work!
let’s remember what we share
it’s a slow, gentle, patient falling away:
snow drifting onto parched earth
and melting in, deep, through
muscular tissues and fascia
into the cells and marrows
of memories laid down
time before time.
there’s also a sharpening to this,
a grinding away of ignorance’s block
it doesn’t all feel like snowflakes –
but this part comes with that satisfying feeling of
pulling apart pieces of old dead flesh
making way for the light to cascade through
light that is living
that’s beyond care
light just for light
it’s animal and beatific
it’s pure and it’s rude
it’s a divine melting
and a burning crash
This isn’t really for angels.
I mean, I don’t know any.
life is red and black and blue and white
and everything else for that matter
it’s a symphony
it’s all transparent
This wonder lives
in the eye of the I,
as brief expanses of light
echo within galaxies lost to time
that soar through the night sky,
When waking life is seen to be the waking dream
then Life, never parted from beauty,
is known once again in the heart of Awareness
and all of this enfolds itself inside once more,
and there’s no more gap.
the empty cup is full
but the dizzy dancer doesn’t settle for terms.
it’s all too much sometimes
too much to take in
so there’s a melting into the words of a song
and then the song melts itself into the motion of silence
and then it springs backwards into fireworks over the bay
and motion snores
and everything between is singing for us to remember
because there is nothing to fear:
not a belief, not a thought, not a dream nor a nightmare
the one in charge is good
we have a good captain on deck
I only know because one time I glimpsed the sunrise after a dark night,
a night when everything collapsed,
and now I know.
or, maybe, now I know I don’t know much but
what I’m trying to say is:
The sun doesn’t stop rising,
And we are all children of the sun.