The First Apocalypse of The Matrix

Crickets and an occasional bullfrog…

Thinking is creation judging. Inspiration is deconstruction stopping. Devotion is silence listening. Revelation is compassion speaking. Manifestation is 'the absolute unknown' intending.

After compassion speaks, le manifestation! And compassion speaking is silence listening—deconstruction stopping—creation judging—Unknown intending—compassion speaking—it is what it is. At the speed of intent.

Pleased to meet you, transformation is the name of my game. The transitive powers of the absolute unknown: if silence listening equals compassion speaking, then manifestation is in the mind. Attention! this is high-level bullshit. Silence is the best response to all communications.

This is all ye need to know: compassion is the crux of the absolute unknown. Karma is the stuff of dreams. Be not entranced by mind games; you are not the mind. Forty days is the change, plus five days of fiesta for the uncertainty principle. Adjust all space-time according to your current belief.

Zen is the art of blowing minds. A koan is zen porn. Mind is any thing believed. The empire is belief itself. There's no translating nonduality. Bodhisattva is another name for prophecy. The empire writes the history but the satguru knows now.

I am the matrix. You will never be experienced. Rest in creation, deconstruction, silence, compassion, or the absolute unknown. Don't overthink it but feel it as much as you can. Do your math for no one but your self. Do you wonder? I knows. Call whomever. Not identifying with the mind is beyond all gossip. Know your nodes.

Radio silence… Belief is the third rail of duality. Rest in transformation. The truth will make you gasp like a fish out of water. Knowing who you are is being what you love. Learn your metamorphosis table. Nonduality isn't black or white.

P. S. I love you. Compassion speaks. Bullshit talks. Know one or know zero—not your doing.

Utter Light

In the quantum shadow world,

the light is speaking.

Every word it says is love

but every word of it is thoroughly misunderstood

and out spill walls

and weapons of mass misunderstanding

and holy wars of passionate belief.

But still the light is speaking

in creation of an infant's breath,

a baby's smile, a child's astounding laugh

with not a touch of irony or deconstruction

hidden in its unadulterated joy.

The light is speaking through

these several billion years of subatomic rubble,

reverberating through a world of high relentless evolution,

parting seven seas of clever smoke

resulting in a rush of tears

to see my self

at last. It seems to take forever

but it's just this blinking

of that wordless eye.

Journaling in Late July

In my cave, this summer morning, the fan is oscillating with a secretive white noise. But the windows are wide open.

I choose the burgundy black pen and write exactly this most noteworthy experience.

Although I have been trained to see the world outside myself, I know it's not. Don't take it personal;

this consciousness is universal. Only the mind in all its sentient interpretation sees it otherwise.

That's not insignificant. It's only through enchantment of such objectivity the absolute subjective knows itself;

the light itself is never seen. Outside the picture window is a branch of leaves already turning yellow and it's only late July.

The birds are being busy somewhere else. Humidity is high. Later when the sun shines through the window, I emphatically will feel it.

This manifest experience is unconditioned love. And when the winter knows the summer,

when the cold white void feels the humid verdant holy heat, I shall recognize myself.

An Unlikely Allegory

There was a wave that dreamt it was the ocean. There was another wave that dreamt it was the sea.

Because not seeing eye to eye, they foamed about the mouth and sprayed invectives in the wind

ascending to grand heights of battlements and watchtowers. In the morning when the sun appeared

above the absolute Pacific, not a wave prevailed upon that silent level boundless main.

And so the message of this story isn't moral but mere fact, that separation in a universe by definition is improbable

and all this sound and fury underway is nothing but the law of probability in play.

Transpoliteration of Thomas, Logion Two

When searching,

going further,

there’s no stopping

until you fully abide

here.

Almost here,

you’re full of paranoia

and bottomless fear—

knowing the known is

not really known.

This fear gives way

to mind-blowing

wonder

seeing the known is

the unknown.

In blissful no-mind,

here’s the sovereign revelation

I Am That—

the absolute

unknown.

If you are searching, you must not stop until you find.

When you find, however, you will become troubled.

Your confusion will give way to wonder.

 In wonder you will reign over all things.

~Thomas Logion Two, translated by Lynn Baumann

On Poison, Love, and Fire

don't drink another's poison

and don't pass it over the table

for someone else—

just common table manners.

love is the only antidote.

but you can’t give it.

and you can’t take it.

you only see you are the antidote.

mature duality is less venomous

than immature nonduality—

taste the ashes

before playing with fire.

A Child’s Garden of Light

Once upon a time there was a child of light, transported to two apparent lights not knowing they too were light.

For they had learned to think, and more, to think about themselves, and every thought was like a colored lens

filtering clear light into emotional complexions of those optics. But, of course, they still were light and loved the light

and taught the lamb of light that came to them to think like them, for that is what they thought was right,

and soon that guiltless light no more was pure unclouded lucid light but shaded in a singular and separate pattern,

divided and benighted—

until one sees the light.

Aum Shakespeare: "thou must now know farther”

from: The Tempest; Act I, Scene II

MIRANDA

…O, I have suffered

With those that I saw suffer: a brave vessel,

Who had, no doubt, some noble creature in her,

Dash'd all to pieces. O, the cry did knock

Against my very heart. Poor souls, they perish'd.

Had I been any god of power, I would

Have sunk the sea within the earth or ere

It should the good ship so have swallow'd and

The fraughting souls within her.

PROSPERO

Be collected:

No more amazement: tell your piteous heart

There's no harm done.

MIRANDA

O, woe the day!

PROSPERO

No harm.

I have done nothing but in care of thee,

Of thee, my dear one, thee, my daughter, who

Art ignorant of what thou art, nought knowing

Of whence I am, nor that I am more better

Than Prospero, master of a full poor cell,

And thy no greater father.

MIRANDA

More to know

Did never meddle with my thoughts.

PROSPERO

'Tis time

I should inform thee farther. Lend thy hand,

And pluck my magic garment from me. So:

(Lays down his mantle)           

Lie there, my art. Wipe thou thine eyes; have comfort.

The direful spectacle of the wreck, which touch'd

The very virtue of compassion in thee,

I have with such provision in mine art

So safely ordered that there is no soul--

No, not so much perdition as an hair

Betid to any creature in the vessel

Which thou heard'st cry, which thou saw'st sink. Sit down;

For thou must now know farther.

MIRANDA

You have often

Begun to tell me what I am, but stopp'd

And left me to a bootless inquisition,

Concluding 'Stay: not yet.'

PROSPERO

The hour's now come;

The very minute bids thee ope thine ear;

Obey and be attentive. Canst thou remember

A time before we came unto this cell?

The Waters of Bermuda

I had heard the talk about the waters of Bermuda and believed it. They were colored with the kiss of turquoise and clear like mountain springs.

But when the ship approached the eastern end, I saw the talk to be mere words and my belief a phantom of the operatic mind.

Oh sure, there is a turquoise hue in pools and places, but even turquoise isn't turquoise. It's just old French for Turkish,

and the colors range through Persian Blue, Black Spider Web, Dark Green Damale, and Yellow Ivory Tortoise,

as well as ten-thousand variations on that painter's theme. It's like the classic difference between religion and the truth,

thinking and experiential witnessing, rationale and love, the pointing finger and the bright full moon.

Here rise the waters of Bermuda, and yes, they are amazing.

Sea Legs

The ship was rolling in a Beaufort Scale of nine and I was in the bow when the center of our gravity went missing.

It took a week on land before I found it once again.

But meanwhile vertigo suggested that the world was in my mind and every movement I anticipated was met

by corresponding movement of some so-called object,

that there’s only this subjective space and gravity is magical illusion which without the waves are seen to be the sea

and all attachment is expelled like vomit.