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.

The Apocalypse of Unknowing the Known

We are a suddenness away from the end of evolution.

We've become something in order to see we're not this.

One never knows the unknowable. So one unknows the known...to know the unknown.

I, the unknowable, in order to know myself, intend the knowable, and through the evolutionary unknowing of this known, know my unknown  self

Ultimately, detachment means unknowing the known, and not some mere renunciation of some thing or action. Not egoic. Heroic!

But not non-existent, nor non-intelligent, nor non-energetic. Satcitananda!

If it's not silence, it's revelation

Revelation filtered in descending order: apocalypse, prophecy, poetry, sometimes a great notion.

After the flash of this apocalypse is the next manifestation whether you unknow it or not.

Like thunder appearing after lightning, your world is a manifestation of spontaneous understanding, i.e. revelation. See through it. Next!

The true hero is neither warrior nor suicide; but one that unknows it all and lives to tell one all about it, aka Bodhisattva.

Neither Ahab nor Bartleby but Ishmael.

The fear and loathing of paranoia is like hearing thunder without realizing there is lightning, like thinking without being.

Like methinks and not i am.

Be aware of the maze of unknowing.

As long as you're still here, there's always further.

And if I'm anywhere in speaking distance, I'm still here.

Evolution is the current story of I-am; always remember one is unknowing.

Belief Story

When I was in the middle of this life, those early thirties in the years encircling 1984, I tried to re-believe in God. I'm talking of a personal relationship with that almighty and omnipresent creator god, a superstar of biblical proportions.

One night while sitting upstairs writing, praying, I felt a drumming in my ears and took it as a sign that God was telling me of his existence. If he existed, then, of course, it was my undertaking here on earth to worship him.

And so I did. And studied fundamentalist compendiums about the Father and the Son and saw salvation in the fact of my belief alone. Beyond a shadow of a doubt, I knew such faith was king. 

One night I had a dream. And in that dream, this God of newfound faith was visiting me and asked me if his deep and mind-encompassing voice was really God. It really shook me.

It further asked did I believe because I wanted to believe in something which would answer all my existential doubt or was this voice beyond belief. The words were like electric shock and led me to a nervous breakdown doubting everything I took for granted. 

Little did I know that such a deconstruction of my social conditioning is the actual beginning of the way to truth and in the subsequent confusion float the momentary cinders of destruction

flying in a disappearing face before the clarity of being that original unknown—this energy, intelligence and experienced existence without a thought of any personal belief or clouding images of god or world or me.

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.