Who Believes in Atheists?

Atheism is a sad religion. To believe there isn't any god but still believing in the universe it made is sorry stuff indeed.

It's like to want a cake without a cook, and not to see you cooked up both the cake and yes, the cook, and all of it is nothing but imagination

and what's more: there isn't even any you. The me and universe it made is just the means that I intended to—to know my unknown essence.

In the end, it's not so much a god that's unbelievable, but the person in itself, professing atheism when there isn't any atheist at all.

But then again, just who am I?

The Primordial Prophecy of I Ching

Careful formulation of your first and foremost question and the asking of it clearly and directly is the answer.

Whose face is that I see? What color is the sky? Which one is best for me? In truth, just who am I? 

Any mindful, lucid, open question is in fact an inquiry pertaining only to oneself. Even asking "who am I" reveals I am the Absolute Unknown.

In other words, much like the great reflexive universe of evolutionary and enlightening Intent, I always know, I always am, the answer—

it's the question, or the universe, that I am formulating which is the most material event that will, in space and time, reveal it.

The Evolutionary Sādhanā of the Light

It is the Great Intent of That Unknown to know itself. This is labeled evolution by the scientific-minded or enlightenment by those of no-mind.

The point of all of this, my world, our universe, is knowing I am That, that I, the Great Unknown, must first forget myself within the known,

this vast molecular morass of my intentional star stuff, and slowly learn by doing, rise by suffering, create my own vast laboratory for an ultimate unknowing,

where I see that all of this is false except my nameless and ungraspable existence, and in knowing only this, That Great Unknown now knows itself,

and like the final scene in some finale of a situation comedy, turns off the lights—but until then, I follow my enlightening intent, my evolutionary energy, my bliss, my love, my That.

Carl Jung on Facebook

There are no natural laws but just statistical truths and every one is subject to exception. Carl Jung said that. The hero knows it's zero and plays one anyways. I said that. 

All of this is just a story that we tell while on the road to nowhere. Nothing must be something to discern itself. An irony is something physical suddenly realizing all is immaterial. I just said that on Facebook.

We're all just avatars the absolute unknown must use to see itself, but in the process it believes the avatar is me and I forget I'm not an avatar. The paradox goes on forever if we only think about it.

One will climb the height of consciousness to gain that lack of oxygen within the Everest of awareness and. Be. Still.

The Red Winged Perfection of Understanding

Spring happened in the Stop & Shop parking lot; after putting all the groceries away inside the trunk, I opened up the driver's door

and sat inside and slipped the key into ignition and as I was just about to close the door, I heard their trill, and realized it had been there

but I was busy being me and didn't hear the wonder of rebirth, the renaissance of northeast marshes, Michelangelo of bird call,

Zen of emptiness is form and form is wavelength of an ice-out on the Merrimack as red-winged blackbirds have returned from Tennessee

and self-awareness is arising from material phenomena in consciousness through evolutionary Intent like chevrons on their wings becoming red

as April will arrive in all its yang of spring, spring, spring beyond, spring altogether all beyond, O what a great awakening!

The Oracle of the Underground

Lost in thought, one advances toward the oracle. No red wings flutter in this land of winter. Swamps of passion sleep beneath the ice.

Volition is denial of the natural watercourse of love. Ten thousand concepts sparkle in the frozen wasteland of the mind. Which forgery should one select?

The prophet from the south realm answers none. Forget the dollars of the senses. Division is a fabrication of an elementary schooling. Concentrate on one.

The voice of orioles is immaterial but gold. A charm is plummeting into an unfathomable well. The splash is always in the spring of heart.

The Enlightenment of Julius Caesar

The Ides of March arrive tomorrow. Don't be late. Nine days from now and forty-two years ago, my father died. In eleven days, my mother would be ninety-seven. And pi was just an hour ago.

Time is permeated with the absolute unknown and the Merrimack is still embraced by ice although in any minute water from the Whites will free itself when everything is seen as universal, causeless, empty, and impermanent.

But let me suffer as a person for this moment just to tell you I love watching situation comedies like 30 Rock and New Girl. Like napalm in the morning, they remind me of loving deconstruction.

Science really doesn't do it for me. "That I am" to "I am That" is all the evolutionary arc from Big Bang to Enlightenment you need to know. The rest is there for you to breathe. Et tu, ego?

That Space of Clarity

A bird just flew into the picture window. Is that the inspiration for the words I was waiting on while looking out at bare trees in the bright March sun?

Imagine its surprise when it crashed into hard clarity. It was a flash of revelation surrounded by the spraying feathers of confusion.

It registered within its birdbrain though. Correcting course without much hesitation, it flew away in opposite direction.

That's the way of nature, like the mountain stream that slams the boulder and in reversal forms the temporary whitewater.

What's missing from this picture is that bird and stream will both continue in their way around the objects of obstruction in a slightly rearranged intensity.

Although, in longer view of things, the boulder will be worn away and this building with its window razed and trucked away.

The only fact remaining is that space of clarity.

Noise Will Be Noise

And then there was lightning before there was then.

To be followed by thunder which then came to be.

Being aspires to know why it's being.

Nothing in thunder can answer—it's nothing.

Sound and the fury of this thunderous world is only the sound and the fury.

Appearances only, it's only appearances.

Noise is but noise.

Lightning is lightning.

Silence, silence.

Superstar

I dream that I am something, superstar of screen and space. On Earth, I walk the stage with dinosaurs and woolly mammoths. Comets write my name in lights.

I played a monkey once. Reviews were raving all about me in the darkest caves of France. I swam the English Channel and continue swimming seven oceans every single day.

Trees talk to me because I am a tree, oak-strong and aspen gold. I wear a beard and stroke it like the Milky Way. My womb gives birth to constellations which I name from heart.

Rivers are my bridges from the mountains to the sea. Bodies are my bridges from the sky to bone.

Love is just a bridge from eye of you to eye of me. Dreaming is the bridge from X to I, unknown.

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.

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 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.