Everything that we name is on what our observational windowpane is thickly made of. By this, and its dense opacity, we have a flat screen perspective as our depiction-reference means. The opacity of this surface glass view represents our rules as habits that we reference reality by that we need to penetrate and dissolve. We need to be able to look through this window more deeply without these fallback references. We need to loose it as false reality framing. If so, words that come to mind are not names but are as melodies that harmonize in images that mid-brain mind-sing. These songs that sing to us have informational vapor trails that allow for us an immersion-lingering. What our minds generally do with knowing is create a distancing philosophy as means. That is, to know of something is to almost unconsciously setup a proclaimed distance separate from it. In this way or by this means, we have a knowing and an affinity that creates all things as cellmates in our own likeness. But knowledge should be of livingness and not necessarily for knowing as referential in a separating way. Knowing of this kind is a style of under-dimensionalized living. Knowledge should be an essentially functional immersion like water is in the raindrops stage of its existence. Yet we spend most of our consciousness living with the rain and are not being of it. Beyond that metaphorically, we lack a deeper connection to the vapor stage in its residence in the clouds. And we certainly have no livingness into the spirit of the evaporative stage and thus little connectivity and liquidity to the ocean itself as the oneness of being. Within this metaphorical distinction, there really are no decisions, there is only melting into this immersion with everything. Beyond our method of conventional observation, everything is traveling through the shimmer of a standing wave of emptiness as stillness. We have not broken the code of stillness into its etheric presence around us and as us. Experience as we have it and live it, is a false skin of separation as means. Experience, in this light, is our orphaned existence of compressed consciousness. Experience then is our active consciousness as living the lower vibrational rates that are as close to flat-lining as our consciousness can get, namely, minimum amplitude, maximum slow wavelength, with a gross sense of register, and out of phase with everything as it exists, by our declaration as being around us. Time, by our extensive usage, is our metronome of this denial style. For time is our wardrobe way of measurement-account for the immediacies that we use by this insular observational method. We are dumb-foundedly not separate from anything and can’t make our inspirational wisdom dumb enough for us to understand beyond knowing, as the implications.
Friday, January 30, 2015
Thursday, January 29, 2015
Water has no way of naming itself.
But it is a constant influx
of current information
ever present in the moment.
are a tribe of captivated water,
thriving with air we breathe,
abounding on earth we walk upon,
and in definite need of the warmth of fire.
If we boil water,
in a pot of earth,
excited by fire,
we become precipitous air,
vaporously in the search for soul.
Searching the waters that have no name
but uniquely contain
the spirit of each of us . . .
Wednesday, January 28, 2015
If I hold what I think . . .
that does not embrace me.
If what I think, at that moment,
opens the floodgates within me,
then think has served me well.
My think should serve to embody me
from where I have had no knowledge before,
but when this occurs,
the light-up of my being
is everything I have ever wanted from think.
Even and foremost as a child,
this is what I wanted think to do.
So how, over time, think did began to serve
a different master within me.
I am ashamed to be in its likeness at times.
It has come to favor version over vision.
And I, as a child, wanted flight not story.
Think has become a prosthesis of mine.
No one seems to objectify me for it,
for they are themselves, much the same.
Are we all on a cruise so massive
that railings and shorelines don’t really exist?
I think I wanted the understanding of matrix
to mean maturity of think
not just meaning of itself.
Think that lights me up is from fire within me.
Why am I then so conscientious molten as life?
Who is it of me who steals from my think
to makeup this fabric that I then live into?
I don’t want a costume or a jumpsuit
or proper apparel for occasions of further submission.
I want to sleep in the garden and grow with the plants.
I want the choir from soil to compel me into life
like plants do for themselves.
Maybe I should be sorry to say,
but I want contentless thinking
to lead me to joyless joy.
I don’t always want think wrapped in meaning.
I want think before security of knowing is the rapture.
I want the think that is the risk of every breath anew.
I want the think that formulates me, not me it.
The drawnness lives in me and I am suspect
that it fights with think to give me a life.
Drawnness existed in me before I had words.
I feel like I am a life of post-its
and then more as replacements.
The psychology of me is only in traits.
I want the isness through me and conscious.
If I hold what I truly think . . .
that does essentially embrace me . . .
Tuesday, January 27, 2015
She gets on, dropping coins,
then chatters, down the aisle.
A daughter-voiced woman,
talks at her father through everyone.
They confirm her denials and look away.
Almost to the back of the bus
then her body next to me.
Already a rigidly quiet man
is burrowed in his privacy,
displaying obedience to his mother's memory.
He gives no evidence of the inner rage
that runs deep seated to my other side.
On this public bus, settled in three abreast,
who cares about us seated across our lives.
We now sway in unison,
indifferent to what can't be helped by transit.
To me, these two are courageous
and wear their wounds divinely.
My confession lacks.
"I still think parenting is a lousy concept,"
to say for myself.
On this bus, she chatters, his mandibles grind,
and I’m reverie.
Facing thought-frames juxtaposed
against the bus's stops and goes.
Images of childhood abuses get on and off.
Reenactments seem to be happening,
meeting my parents as me for them.
Is this a tradition, like the public bus,
I sadly must pass on?
The hydraulic brakes crack in my ears
setting off my father's wishes for my success
verbally whipping me dry.
"I am inadmissible in his future me."
Seated between these two,
I am easily impressioned into their child,
only he is my mother's wishes
and she, my dad's.
On the one side, he is my mom's no-says,
her private womanness unfit for her child's ears.
Sitting in his supposed silence touching me,
inwardly I listen to mother through him.
In his presence, I sit her on my lap as my child,
freeing her child, freeing me.
On the other side, she, as my father,
struggles with these circumstances
to project her anguish.
I am the child of innocent trespass,
I scream at her with all my heart,
"tell me dad, tell me . . . "
It sets me free.
I now inwardly give to her my reassuring hand.
Cupping father as my child through her presence,
freeing him to free me.
I feel us all,
wanting this bus to ride-out parenting's predicament,
to free up the blame, the misconceptions,
to say and unsay all that's done and passing.
Riding on the public bus,
looking into these others
for my child to set me free.