The Book of Santa Yana Yada Yada

Behold the universe I am. From starting with the stars to interning with insects, what a piece of change it is. Awareness is the only constant.

Watching rain descend as mercury behind a picture window, I reflect upon myself. There's a certain Sunday samadhi in the air today.

Two cups of green iced tea was followed by a mug of coffee. That supplied the bang I needed.

Zhuangzi loves to tell a joke but Jesus loves himself some love. Addicted to caffeine and sugar, I prefer to write for prophecy. Or two.

What would nothing do?

Division is original beginning of the one unborn. When young, my peas were separated from my mashed potatoes.

While in high school, I subscribed to Time to contemplate the weekly covers of the latest war or neoteric politician.

College boy, I marched on Washington opposing Nixon's opposition to another people's opposition to… and so on goes the game of drones.

This world has always been about the lowest commonplace denomination. Stop the presses! Love is one way, deconstruction is the other.

She takes the high road and he takes the low road and I'll be home in no time.

Epistle to the Reflexive Eye

What isn't in consciousness?

Since time is in consciousness, consciousness knows all time. So if space-time is in consciousness, what is science really observing?

If self-inquiry is in consciousness, who is really observing consciousness? Thus the highest science is awareness absolutely aware of awareness.

Revelation appears to skip a step between mental observations. Revelation is the skip.

Read between the lines. The mirror does not reflect upon itself. Reflecting on my wondrous reflection—I am That.

Mind is the conditioning. Being is the healing. Awareness is awareness. Just be until you aren't being aware. Absolutely.

PS. The Absolute is aware of itself through the Big Being. Evolution is deconstruction of the material. Love is kryptonite. 

The Apocalypse of a Nameless Einstein

You are your own Einstein. The only wealth is being. The only job is teaching no one. We have forgotten how to conjugate the verb, to be. Start with I am.

If x is 10,000 seconds to be, how many is y dreaming. After all the questions are answered, there are no answers. The only thing you can't believe is your self.

Being is wordless but not unspeakable. The closest translation is unconditional love. It's not a question of immortality; it's the fact of no beginning.

I can never speak to one still talking. After awakening is the revelation. Every summer, it's me, yourself, and I sitting around the apocalypse, speaking.

Confusion is always in the turning. It's not about finding someone to love; just love before you think. Know love self-correcting is just karma. Think more different. Think mystical.

Science has yet to prove itself. Of the world, translated, is serious. In the world, translated, is love. The past is right before your eyes—now is right inside you.

Writing about nothing is comedy; dying is impossible. Between the socially-conditioned and the unconditional lives the recluse. There are two ways after one way but neither is memorable.

The shaman prescribes against a future. The shaman doesn’t recognize the past. Loose ends long for re-attachment. Enlightenment is post-psychological.

The plutonium rule is just to be. Self-inquiry is both our first and last rites. One, shine the light upon yourself. Two, translate truthfully. Three is nonduality of That. 

The Book of Gogo-an

The picture window blinded by the light, the air conditioner acting cool, the fan is turning its own head with every breath it takes.

The dog days of August have arrived and I’m just getting over this year’s summer solstice and its subsequent Bermuda.

Dark and stormy waves of consciousness reflect divided light until they’re stilled within their own inertia. After all, it is the light.

And after visiting the world, this hermit has returned to sit within his room to read the shortwave ideograms of Robert Lax

as if

Ryokan’s

own

calli

graphy

were

revel

ations

in a

cave.

The Merrimack is my Patmos and the village is an open mic. I rise to see the picture window blinded by the light.

Spoken Words on Wealth

Maybe the rich get richer because the poor don't know they're wealthy. In other words, you dream what you believe you are.

A saint is just a saint because the saint believes that all are saints. Although belief is just a lyrical red herring here.

There's more to do with love than threads the hook of words. The source may be unknown and its intent has manifest the grid

but love is this electric trip fantastic power building bones and moving blood to fill the mind with just enough imagination

to perceive itself reflected in a trembling aspen on a precipice revealing empty space and a hidden river valley.

It's not the thought I-am I am but something more experiential like this love that’s always moving one,

and if I follow it intently, I will see I am the source. There's a certain hydrologic logic to it all.

The light evaporates the sea where wind is guiding clouds upon the continent and rain is falling on the peaks

which tumble over mountainsides informing rivers of their depth and leading them as love returning to the sea.

Or maybe the rich get richer and the poor get poorer because they haven't understood the wealth they are. I am. Just That.

Apocryphon of Taxonomic Transitivity and Love

Like filling the quill to tell the world, we burst the bubble of a desert emptiness and then surrender to the wood. Yes, forgiveness is a nondual thing. It's a matter of love, and not the love of matter. Talk less. Speak more. Write lighter

You are literally the light of the big bang. Actually, in a more scientific way of conceptualizing, you're the thunder of the original lightning. Sing your yawp! The world is not your oyster. It's your mirror. You're not the mind but you reflect. Consciousness is intended by x to reflect its y.

You think you're the hills and valleys but more like that space of mist. The talk of mystery. The speech of love. Vanilla fudge, ultimate spinach, and the strawberry alarm clock. Pet sounds, rubber soul, and between the buttons. Transcendental beat meta-modernism. Also known as now.

Thinking doesn't like to be alone too long. Love knows no one is alone. I can't tell you but you can hear it through me. It doesn't require any final calculations or tellings of story, but it may use them. Think different. Think not. It’s difficult being myself when I'm not being. Genus thought, species belief.

My Domain is the Great Unknown. My Kingdom is Intent. My Phylum is this Consciousness. My Class is all of Space-time. My Order is just Matter. My Family is our Body-mind. My Genus is a Thought. My Species is Belief. My Satguru says Species is Domain. I am That.

Science is just another language requiring translation. Evolution happens suddenly or not at all. Transformation is the name of the game of life. Only the unknown knows the instructions; only the known feels them. The time between world wars is equal to higher technology minus greater bandwidth. Space is racing time. Higher consciousness is racing base belief.

Love. Begin with love. That I am love. That you are love. That we attempt to trust in love. But one of us assuredly may not. And the other faithfully follows losing faith. As sunset follows sun. As sunrise follows sunset. As absolute zero follows one.

Love is the sublime disbelief of the world. Love is why you’re where you are. The five stages of immortality are like the five stages of death where love has made the turn. In the world,  faith holds love together; in truth, love holds the world together.

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.