A Beginning that Never Happened
Once upon a time, there was a wind creature who longed to shorten her wings. At each indivisible moment that birthed her existence she would cry, “What if I grow weary? I fear that these vast wings may one day grow into a burden.” This crying issued from her lungs at such a high pitch as to make it inaudible to all but a handful of the other creatures living in the realm. I was one such creature. As I gazed into the heavens to marvel at this wonderful wind creature, I grew to feel contemptuous for my own earthbound existence. Lighting struck, then the beginning never happened. Now, as I soar through the sky, I blithely chant the lyrics of the songbird. These lyrics resound with the wind in the sky beyond creatures. There are moments of lyric fluttering in the reflection of a vast ocean. Beyond fluttering, moments foment in the sea just below the flight path of wonderful wind creatures. One within one of such creatures is born to cry, “What if I grow weary?” Yet let us be grateful, for a time is happened upon only once.
The Benefit of Insanity
Now as we walk through the forest, you and I recall that we’ve known each other all along. I wonder whether or not we are going to kiss. I would like to, but the soft, sweet, rustling of the forest air seems too precious to risk breaking. You look sad for a moment. Everything within me wrenches apart, and outward contraction rebounds across itself in increasingly helpless frustration. Ripples in the sky tell me that the unhappening is happening. I look back at your face and the sadness seems gone. Still, the momentum of our walk through the forest leaves traces of my rebounded frustration. It happens. We kiss. Where did that come from? And how did we get so high up? Now, as moments of lyric we flutter in the reflection of a vast ocean, strolling through the forest of time.
I would thank you for our fresh new mind, but to do so would render me apart from it. Knowing myself as apart from that which is not myself, the universe actualizes its own unsurpassable totality. We could go deeper into the muck, mire, and splendor of a narrative. To balance our shared space in the ink of the narrative that is mine and yours is known as selflessness. But selflessness is just another red-herring. You never had a self which could be less of itself to begin with. The hope arises that such words do not push the other moons away. Concern is what we call it. The underside of experience is never not present and issues forth of its own accord without issuing forth.
The benefit of insanity is that we are always already right here. We never left. But there was no place to stay either. As most moons swim in the depths of experience, we are known as having gone off the deep end. What cannot be grasped is that there is no us and them by which depth could be measured. In the world called relativity, machines compute the function “agree to disagree.” The funnel of attention cannot support this position. An entity here, another over there, such are the sounds of maps. When a map is bright we clap with our one hand.
No one can say what everyone loves. It is unspeakable. As soon as I say “hello” I shut myself out to my friends who understand only “bonjour.” But what if it is not me who says hello? Sitting beneath the utterance of the sound which comes from my mouth, I cannot be divided. This would be the greatest tragedy. For only “I” could not be divided. “We” could be both divided and not divided. Such is the unbearable weight of uncertainty. If I truly love this weight, then why do I feel as though I shut my friends out? Perhaps those friends are not on this plane of oceanic nowness. Because there are no such things as alternate planes, this may be where they are residing. Reality tunnels crash at oblique angles. Crashing cannot occur on a plane, but only in the waves which exist within existence. To put it another way, our dialogue mutually creates the objective world. Speak too much and the domain which emanates from your bodily form is seen as too large. Territorial and oblivious, the gods trample a hundred thousand human villages without even taking notice.
Effulgent within the gods, demons, humans, and ghosts lies what is unread between the lions. However, to say this is to thingify it and thereby strip it of sanctity. The name that can be named is not the eternal name. Therefore, the jesters dance around the source like whirling dervishes. They are not bright and they are not dim. They are a clearer reflection of you than I could ever see. These thoughts fold in upon themselves as my projection body grasps at something to hold on to. Words make a bridge for children to cross over, but they should’ve stayed where they were. In the crossing we long for home. Before and after the journey we distinguish two shores as a pastime. In the middle is the magic of misery. It cannot be departed from. It cannot be entered into. It cannot truthfully be the subject of any proposition. Speaking of truth, everything that can be said is, therefore, of necessity, a lie.
Ah, now the ocean stretches itself out with a tinge of negativity. Lies are bad and truth is good. The words that we leave resounding in the open space impart the ocean’s hue. I have a bad taste in my mouth. It is the taste of my mouth. I have some good advice for you. It is that advice stems from compassion, so I am the one who is good. This is the tragic and all pervasive lie of advice.
Good parents effortlessly corral their children in the unfathomably small moments of perfect existence. Perfect existence is to exist. If you gave advice in the past, therefore, the clan of Christ will tell you about forgiveness. But the clan doesn’t exist. It is only your imagination projected onto the screen of a dozen transparent puddles. As a member of the Clan of Kings, I cannot say this either. Ah, a moment has passed and I am forgiven.
If speech issues forth quickly enough to describe my happy place with me in it, then we snap and say “uplifting.” When speech issues forth slowly enough to paint my sad place, we turn away and say “be quiet” with our glossy eyes. Becoming a man, the walls of my mind-tunnel reflect the shadow of a desire to establish order. Who’s order? Do not project. Then this is order, or no order, or these two human beings require space in The Illusion: Act II. The mystery is defiled when masked by the vestments of confusion. Yet defilement is confusion masked within itself two times over.
As this word-sword clacks in the cavern of loneliness, its flavor is one of isolation. Were such a sword drawn in the presence of other caverns of loneliness, its shape would mold itself to their liking. We call this context. Contextless and alone, I am not alone or bound by context. In company, such binding is the warmest of blankets on a cold winter night.
Self-acceptance is besides the point, because you already know what that means. The longer you bask in this moment the richer it becomes. I was a rich man once, back over on the other side of the bridge of childhood. This rich man once is not absent from me now. Spilling unto the page, existence asserts its own existence. Embedded within embedded meanings there is indeed enough room for praise and blame. Praise and blame are just praise and blame. It is not even worthwhile to say “do not be averse to one and attracted to the other.” This would be the lie of advice.
The hope occurs that this substance grows richer for moons on the other side. This is what is beneath the underside of experience. In a hair’s breath of consciousness, my self asserts itself in the direction of creating a narrative. But this narrative is the tunnel you are passing through now, all along. Without intention the desired result has been attained. Once attained, intention brings down the fiery rains of desire. See, the dichotomy is inescapable. This position asserts itself instead of remaining aslant. For nothing lasts forever, not even death. Slightly longer lasting than forever is the tunnel in which these walls are painted. It rebirths itself in the paint of arising. I thought I could escape the tunnel with carefully placed feet, but now it seems that the placing of my feet carefully is the tunnel beyond all escaping.
Beyond and within skirt the bridge of childhood and sculpt its boundaries like a potter. The momentum of the largest tunnel of time is god. Beyond that bridge is God: our bountiful nothingness and voidless bounty. These echoes reverberate to clarify the county. It is clarified within the perception of bats. Sound illuminates the walls and the walls are illuminated by sound. In this case, sight is without sight in a soundful existence. In silence, bats which are blind manipulate their tunnels to perceive a different avenue. See these avenues all at once and God once again becomes we. Ah, there once more is the hue of the ocean. Inescapable.
If I wish to speak I must use words. If this is true than I must be none other than the speaking. If this is true than there are no words to be used, as they themselves are the speech of being. The ocean walls of this tunnel are less laden with the objectivity of associations. Overflowing with associations is your own name, until it is no longer yours. In a playhouse such as this, all effects and causes are self-contained. That is why we leave no trace. This world is not ours to trace upon. Therefore the profoundest of speech is spoken without words. Beyond this profundity are words which by saying nothing, say all.
Let them tell you to put away your concepts. It is good for them. Their self-acceptance is nourished by the lie of advice. I will be here with you forever. There is no other way. I know that you are only here partially, however. I can see in your eyes the reflection of the text below and above your spotlight of attention. This is what came before and what is left to be done. No. Do not indulge this. If you are here in this sentence with me, then you are here in this sentence with me and nowhere else. Feel the contraction of pulling away while simultaneously clinging. This is the bridge. To see it is not childlike. To be it is a fractal-diamond: a tesseract with shiny edges, the surface of which can only be apprehended in the dimensions above this one. Grasp this well and you become the tesseract. You are a being of radiant perfection beyond the oblique crashing tunnels of a billion oceans. Though there is no true nature, we use the word truer to chop wood and carry water. If we did not chop wood and carry water, who could there be to speak? It is not that speaking is a necessity. Rather, we are necessarily speaking when sharing in this way. Maybe even God is a word. Maybe enlightenment is a poison, and happiness a thorn in my side.
You cannot see the struggle that hovers above each successive pressing of these keys. A thousand human lifetimes may have passed between the appearance of the “b” in between and the “i” in in. It is unknowable. For all there is are the walls of this tunnel manifesting in text. Therefore I am not even here to speak to you through the page. I said I would be here with you forever. The rains of my desire offer this picture. But it must be understood that to be with you forever is to occupy the spotlight in the field of your particular moon. There, you are created again, and correspondingly, so am I.
The benefit of insanity is that you and I are here always. By seeing what came before and what is yet to come as the boundaries of the tunnel of attention which is our ethereal self, countless dimensions are ignored and the tesseract of God dissolves into an ocean of incomprehensible vastness. Non-comprehension is now, therefore, the shadow of virtue. Not knowing this, praise and blame become inescapable. We are the bridge. Children run across our backs like so many wild rabbits. Turn your head to watch them go towards one shore, now the other. Then the other, and the other. The dizziness may melt the shores and bridges. At this moment we become the bridge of perfection, ourselves being children who prance atop its sturdy surface.
Calling the surface which supports our human activity a surface, brings it into the the tunnel of attention. No longer can it be taken for granted, and as such, the fear of future loss disenchants us out of our childlike bridge of perfection. In this moment we are back on the bridge. At the other shore, fear and disenchantment tell us where we are. Knowing where we are transcends all the possible hues of the ocean.
As tunnels tunnel along, and our narrative winds itself back into the identity of the minute particles of nowness, the ocean appears as a kaleidoscope of constantly shifting colors. Once more, your perception of these colors thrusts me into the edges of the tesseract. Therefore, as a human bound within the arrow points of speech and hue, negation issues forth to wipe away the dirt from the community mirror. But as you know, such suchness cannot fool thee. The dirt which I speak of is beyond praise and blame.
A Tenuous Pattern
This pattern erupts as words ring in the head and forcibly rhyme with dead. Living and dying things have life but giving and trying rhyme with strife. Life as a word appears on this page. Day and night, as a pattern, appear on the stage that is the outside doors. The inside doors is also a stage. The inside-doors that is my mind is the idea of inside and outside doors which are themselves, right here inside the doors of my mind. So too is this true with nature. The beautiful forest that I long to return to is none other than a compartment in the right here. The beautiful forest is me. And yet the idea of a beautiful forest, and me who is there or has been there in the past, renders me a me with tension. Less tension occurs when the inside outside doors are just inside outside doors and the forest is just a birthmark.
Buzzing shapes the walls and the insides. The structure of the buzzing shapes the matter of the buzzing, and the matter of the buzzing gives the energy of fire a wick on which to burn. Technically speaking, we are probably in the wick section of this metaphor. If our thoughts were more wispy, or perhaps completely gone for the time being, we might say that we were in the lower blue flame part of the metaphor. The bright orange tip of the flame is the venerated ancient sage of the distant past. Just beyond the visible edge of the fire is a radiant unspeakable energy. Most creatures that have been fortunate enough to develop the capacity to read have met this effulgence in an aspect of themselves that they refer to as the past. The rest is history. Your history. Moving forward there is no moving forward. That was left in the past. What was left in the past was right and wrong, moving and staying still, past and future, better and worse, anxiety and pleasure, depression and joy, confession and sin, purity and contamination, love and hate, man and woman, birth and death, and leaving things in the past.