Overlooking Awareness

One always tries to solve the x of me, but I am always undefined.
One day the me is sorrowful and tries to understand just why.
One day the me is happy and desires to know exactly how to stay that way.
After years of swinging to and fro, the me forgets stability of what it is,
entrapped within the back-and-forth, recapturing some pleasure or avoiding pain.
In time, this bipolarity appears to be the ordinary state of its existence.
Monkeys see and monkeys do. The jaguar has escaped from its own view.

Wisdom

Wisdom is always talking to itself.
It's the voice in the wilderness
that needs no audience—
knowing there is no other.

The known that knows
it is the unknown,
it's being is loving
and otherwise compassionate.

There's really nothing to it

There's a general misconception that in time no aspect of the universe will be unknown. That is to say 

that everything is knowable despite the boundless nature of this cosmic pie and what a microcosmic slice of it we taste. 

But that is not the half of it. First, experience is certainly subjective. Without the benefit of consciousness, there's nothing.

Furthermore, it's consciousness itself we sense or monitor. In fact, the deeper we investigate the closer we attain

the probability that what I see is what I want to see. It's kind of like the feedback loop of being.

Then there's that beyond the scope of consciousness. There's really nothing to it, literally.

Imagine what you're knowing in deep sleep. That is the great unknown, unthinkable, which only means it's what I am when I'm not thinking.

A Childlike Shaman Powwow

We were five or six years old when our Great Aunt Izzie came to visit. She was sitting in the rocking chair and I was playing with my cousin on the floor with Lincoln Logs and Tinkertoys. The world we were creating was a cross between a science-fiction matinee and Gunsmoke.

My mother took Aunt Izzie’s empty teacup and started walking to the kitchen when it happened. First, the sound was just a whispering. My mother turned around and dropped the teacup to the carpet, as if she knew too well the melody and where it came from.

It seemed like nothing much to me. The teacup crashing into shards appeared more curious. I wondered how we could include their fragmentary shapes into our formless burgeoning contraption. Everything is just a game for our amusement at that age.

But the noise was turning into whoops. Aunt Izzie’s hand was drumming on her lips. She was turning Indian before our very eyes. My mother ran into the bathroom fast as I remember ever seeing her in action, slammed the door, and left my cousin and myself to witness Izzie’s transformation.

She must have been past eighty then and always seemed to be collapsing as if her bones were just unable to support the weight of years. But now she straightened proudly with the posture of a warrior and started dancing slowly on the edge as if the space our toys created was a camp fire burning in a cold Algonquian night.

Her shouts were getting louder and they moved her body up and down like popcorn as she continued circling there around our world as if she were the light of all the prehistoric summers that existed here before their death had been invented by the forked tongue words of white men.

She stopped to look at each of us and shined. We nestled in a world of toys and listened Fort Apache style to every secret word she said. She spoke of black holes in another constellation. She showed us light emerging from its winter cave. She tapped into a maple tree and fed us with its lovely harmonies of sweet intoxication.

In a quiet burning voice, she speaks to me alone and tells me what I am and asks me to forget each sound she makes to heal my heart, predicting every year that follows from this moment is a slow remembrance of exactly what I know right now—and what a cosmic trip it is from our first pow to each succeeding wow.

Wolves are howling at their own reflections

The wolf is not a wolf but wired as a wolf, it sees itself to be a wolf and all the world around it is the not-wolf 

and it howls beneath the moon that you see is the moon that I see but there is no wolf and not-wolf but the one of sun

and every other is reflection of myself directly unrelated to a single other but this drive to understand all this I'm manifesting

so I see the wolf in me is not a wolf and know each bright reflection is my own unknowable unknown at long last known.

Arising from this cosmic swamp

From enlightening intent of That, the great unknown, to know itself, is light, the light of consciousness and nothing but the light, the love, the light,

the light is all in this immense ignition of this universe where light, to see itself, must first descend into the darkness of atomic worlds of molecule and muck

from which enlightening intent will call it slowly through the tides of evolution to, in space-time, you, to seek and see yourself, the light of love within,

the light it always was, the light it always is, the light of consciousness reflecting in the pure awareness of that great unknowable, for love is nothing known.

I Am Prophecies [with hyper-links to footnotes]

The Prophet Advances

Arising from this cosmic swamp of molecule and muck, I slowly get my bearings. Variety and change is here as far as I can see. It looks so large and sounds quite unbelievably ear-piercing.

An herbaceous worm is turning. Wolves are howling at their own reflections. Tigers burn with unsymmetrical jungle glow. And bankers circumvent the moon to make ten-thousand loans.

Flames are rising to the point of something great and overgrown. There's really nothing to it, not even skin or bone. No words can ever label or describe it, endlessly prophetic, all alone.

And I exist to know I am that towering unknown.

First Prophecy of I Am

Begin at what you think you are. A person is a treacherous idea. Secession from the universe is as outrageous as it sounds.

Not that it was your own idea. Bifurcating as a seed of consciousness, you were watered with particular definition.

For example, I was designated as a baby boomer boy from Roman Catholic second generation working class root parents of America.

Their personal beliefs, both conscious and subconscious, were the pruning shears that shaped this branch of being…

into something personal itself, with this fantastic concept of a separate entity—as if the branch believes it were a tree.

Not true; division is completely false but it's the world we sleep in, as we inevitably fight our way within its dream or nightmare.

But listen, there's a voice not of this world that's constantly intent on waking you. I am.

Corollary to the First Prophecy

It's not about belief. Because you think you're not a person doesn't mean you don't believe you're not a person.

The mind is such a maze of misdirection with its words.

This knowledge that you're not your thoughts allows you just to drop all thought. And there you are.

A space of energetic indescribable unknown.

Deconstruction of this dream state is accompanied by compassion—for it's held together by the love which moves awareness.

You’ll know your progress by its presence.

Continuing to take things personally is as good a sign as any that you deeply still believe you are a person. No problem though.

Just simply be aware of this.

And see it through by seeing through it. That awareness by itself will take you all the way to nowhere.

You are that pure awareness.

Second Prophecy of I Am

There is no two. That’s all the truth you need to know. One is this universe of being.

The mind of time and space exists within this consciousness. Just let its demarcations disappear and rest within this unremarkable now.

Feel the infinite expanse of presence. It's as if a great unknown comes to being. No qualifiers can delimit. No modifiers can refashion.

I am. To deny this simple fact is just assertion of its naked truth in silhouette.

To be or not to be is not a choice of being but ravings of a mind mistaking thought for this. I am—there's no coordinate to offer an alternative.

Beyond this being is that absolute unknown of neither being nor non-being—which comes to be to know I am that great unknown.

But words are never in themselves prophetic. One only knows in being.

Third Prophecy of I Am

The world is absolutely subjective, no matter how objective one is dreaming things to be. Accordingly, one can never die. Worlds do.

Absolute intent is always manifesting. Beyond our presence is the flash of revelation. Every aspect is its sign.

Divination comes to being. Intuition saturates the mind. Even thought itself will move the body in its action.

To see deep sleep as one's foundation is the closest that imagination ever comes. To dream inside the flash is like a psychedelic storm.

The eye is ever hidden to all states of consciousness behind a whirlwind of impermanence and dissolution.

Consequently you may never enter, but in total silence one is always being taken in.

Third Prophecy of I Am

The world is absolutely subjective, no matter how objective one is dreaming things to be. Accordingly, one can never die. Worlds do.

Absolute intent is always manifesting. Beyond our presence is the flash of revelation. Every aspect is its sign.

Divination comes to being. Intuition saturates the mind. Even thought itself will move the body in its action.

To see deep sleep as one's foundation is the closest that imagination ever comes. To dream inside the flash is like a psychedelic storm.

The eye is ever hidden to all states of consciousness behind a whirlwind of impermanence and dissolution. 

Consequently you may never enter, but in total silence one is always being taken in.

The Second Prophecy of I Am

There is no two. That’s all the truth you need to know. One is this universe of being.

The mind of time and space exists within this consciousness. Just let its demarcations disappear and rest within this unremarkable now.

Feel the infinite expanse of presence. It's as if a great unknown comes to being. No qualifiers can delimit. No modifiers can refashion.

I am. To deny this simple fact is just assertion of its naked truth in silhouette.

To be or not to be is not a choice of being but ravings of a mind mistaking thought for this. I am—there's no coordinate to offer an alternative. 

Beyond this being is that absolute unknown of neither being nor non-being—which comes to be to know I am that great unknown.

But words are never in themselves prophetic. One only knows in being.

Corollary to the First Prophecy

It's not about belief. Because you think you're not a person doesn't mean you don't believe you're not a person.

The mind is such a maze of misdirection with its words.

This knowledge that you're not your thoughts allows you just to drop all thought. And there you are.

A space of energetic indescribable unknown.

Deconstruction of this dream state is accompanied by compassion—for it's held together by the love which moves awareness.

You’ll know your progress by its presence.

Continuing to take things personally is as good a sign as any that you deeply still believe you are a person. No problem though.

Just simply be aware of this.

And see it through by seeing through it. That awareness by itself will take you all the way to nowhere.

You are that pure awareness.

The First Prophecy of I Am

Begin at what you think you are. A person is a treacherous idea. Secession from the universe is as outrageous as it sounds.

Not that it was your own idea. Bifurcating as a seed of consciousness, you were watered with particular definition.

For example, I was designated as a baby boomer boy from Roman Catholic second generation working class root parents of America.

Their personal beliefs, both conscious and subconscious, were the pruning shears that shaped this branch of being…

into something personal itself, with this fantastic concept of a separate entity—as if the branch believes it were a tree.

Not true; division is completely false but it's the world we sleep in, as we inevitably fight our way within its dream or nightmare.

But listen, there's a voice not of this world that's constantly intent on waking you. I am.

The Prophet Advances

Arising from this cosmic swamp of molecule and muck, I slowly get my bearings. Variety and change is here as far as I can see. It looks so large and sounds quite unbelievably ear-piercing.

An herbaceous worm is turning. Wolves are howling at their own reflections. Tigers burn with unsymmetrical jungle glow. And bankers circumvent the moon to make ten-thousand loans.

Flames are rising to the point of something great and overgrown. There's really nothing to it, not even skin or bone. No words can ever label or describe it, endlessly prophetic, all alone.

And I exist to know I am that towering unknown.

Catch Ten Thousand

The world is like some critical disease convincing one the only cure is in the world. 

And so we get our jobs to get our health insurance to preserve ourselves from all the stresses and derangements of the job. There's no way out it would appear. 

It's the perfect catch; the world’s duality will always lead to twenty-two. And greater too. 

There's more than seven billion pieces one can analyze. There's more than seven billion separations needing mending. There's only one analysis achievable. The world is wholly broken. 

To fix, there's no practice needed, no pursuit is necessary, and no teacher is required but that affectionate intent one follows all the time already. 

Worldly cures are only ways to stay within that unwell world. One is attempting to escape when no escape is needed. 

The world is broken; one is not.

The Intentional Flash

Before the big bang of thunder is

the intentional flash of the absolute.

That flash is colored with the velvet of

deep sleep and totally makes your day.

Every individual experience is your creation

far beyond the day of memory

but as nearest as the night of our intention.

The Myth of Material

It's not material.

But imagine consciousness the son of god while dreaming. You think your dreams are lifelike! 

Dreams of gods are day and night. The sun and moon are just some characters on stage chiseled from the stuff of nothing.

As we have sculpted our own personalities from thought, universal consciousness has shaped the universe within and of itself.

Yet we have bought the story like some superstitious peasant that this consciousness arises from the chemistry of brain. 

That lie is driving one insane!

Accepting February

The words aren't here today. The trees are bare and snow is blanketing the ground with blankness so conclusive that I’m drawing blanks instead of letters. 

Soon the jet stream will be introducing yet another arctic blast. So if the snow isn’t smothering this breath within my heart, the cold will simply kill it. Will it?

Is the heart subjective to objective stimulation or the lack of it, or is this mutable material within the one embrace of universal heart?

I guess acceptance of the month of February is the point of any Valentine. 

The shortest month may feel as if it's longest with its cold that ruthlessly continues and its snow that blinds the eye from seeing any sign of spring.

But loving it is seeing that the winter is the shadow of the summer and I'm neither yin nor yang but each has sprang from my intent that’s always calling all—

to which all again must fall.

The Word of Light

In the matter of a lamp, does potentiality of power identify with something other than itself? Is it the physical construction of the lantern? Is it the light it generates?

The teacher says you’re not the body-mind; you’re not this being either. You’re that unknown ground of pure awareness—self-aware within the being of this body.

All of this is manifested by intent of self-awareness.

I tell myself: don’t lose yourself within the physical construction of intent; don’t vanish in the heat of being generated for this self-awareness.

I'm not the lamp. I’m not the light; that I exist—unknowable although nothing other than myself exists for knowing—is what my light is saying. See?

Snow Mind

The universe is in and of this consciousness. There’s nothing you can say or do that isn’t.

Despite appearances, the world does not go on without you. Each view is similar in its conditioning but different in its apprehension.

What is snow to me is not to you.

Within the deepest realm of sleep, this universe does not exist, and on awakening its memory loads. Again, this presence walks within the past.

The deeper science delves into the subatomic world the less subjective it appears. There's a certain feedback that results when one dissects oneself.

Affectionate Intent

Forgive them for we know not what we do;

conditioned first by parents who were first conditioned by their parents in a line of long conditioning that leads to some original conditioning so long ago,

we are like a stone enshrouded in the moss of thought and tangle of belief which set in motion rolls upon its unintended way collecting other thought and rough belief,

and like a pinball vector in some other automatic and involuntary way until we stumble on the way of great intent itself,

which strips us from each thought and disentangles all belief until now naked, empty and unborn, it moves us—

as love always is.