Samsara and Indians

Dylan going electric might be the uber myth for 'my generation.' Belief surrenders to being. Judas!

Action precedes words. I am the way. If you meet Bob on the road, don't kill him. Just don't follow him any further.

To dream or not to dream is not the question. Mozart was yet another crack in the western wall that finally fell in 1968.

The current restoration dates to 1980. Deconstructing versus building: in any dream, it’s no contest.

To dream i am dreaming is like a mirror reflecting a mirror. I am between the mirrors.

Restoration always means death for the latest Indian. The big secret is Indians never die. Self-awareness is a good day to die.

Beethoven’s 19th Nervous Symphony

When a dream is over, it's like it never happened. I am, therefore That is. To exist is nothing. To know that I exist is everything.

The river flows, for being is conditioned to see a river flow, the wind blow, the grass grow, high and low, yes and no, allegro and adagio.

The sun is shining on the water and the breeze is blowing from the south southwest and all that’s missing is the red-winged blackbirds.

Self-awareness is such an explosive encounter, one must conceptualize that experience before handling.

First, untrain the mind to play off the conditioned beat. This is the true counterculture. Live as if there’s no time. Scan your own meter.

It’s not about freedom; it’s about intent. One doesn’t kill the id or ego, DNA or social conditioning; one surrenders to disbelief.

Deconstruction is to disbelief as surrender is to intent as who am I is to I am. Rivers and mountains and sea oh my!

Self-awareness is the being and the bliss and the knowledge. Truly without human form, amen.

Canoeing the Concord River with my 8-year old daughter—a great blue heron witnessed at the moment of taking flight—a coyote crosses I-40.

Living like there’s no tomorrow is still living as if there’s time.

On the final steps of the western slope, the boundless dawning of the sea.

Nothing to know is easy. Nothing to teach is hard.

The Daily Current

The river hasn’t iced completely over yet this year although there were some days when it appeared it had.

They say the ocean temps are warm this season what with the record high December temperatures experienced.

Today the Merrimack is flowing black as unadulterated coffee underneath an overcast late January sky.

Minor slabs of ice came floating leisurely upstream while the tide was coming in this afternoon.

I watched the seagulls closely cross the heart of river in the name of wings and wind and holy largemouth bass.

Then an eagle flew with straight determination past those eastern white pine trees on the far shore.

And now I’m at a loss of words illuminating everything transpiring on this open closer one.

Fingers Against the Glass

“I  put my fingers against the glass and bowed my head and cried.” ~Bob Dylan

The morning dew in summer doesn't. The fool and the artist are never two. The Big Bang is always shooting Moby blanks.

Call me who am I. And the colored girls go who am I when I’m not thinking who I am.

Enjoy, for this dream is never born. Every apocalypse is in my mind but still I honor all who suffer thus.

If eastern wisdom seems like western fantasy to you, is it? Science is a theory and I am a fact. What is your experience?

Don’t think about it. Conditioning is deeper than you think. Prophecy is personal. Revelation is experiential. Apocalypse is that.

Call it story or mystery, but I can’t explain that. Last night I purchased the complete symphonies of Mozart for ninety-nine cents. Explain that.

I am. You are. Explain that in ten thousand words. Self-awareness is my manifestation. Death is your social conditioning.

Always, the other is my mirror. Peace children, it's just one love away. Have compassion for the devil. Being is the saint.

The only hell is in thinking you're not the light. And so the light one is burns such thought away.

Revelation is the voice. Prophecy is the translation. For relaxing times, make it Suntory time.

Past is cause. Future is effect. Now is causeless. Basho never looked beyond the first two lines. The third rail is always the live one.

Synchronicity is more than just a coincidence. Three gods are better than none. Feel the love and respect an addiction.

After hiking a mountain, sit down. After sitting down, hike the next mountain. If the slope doesn’t kill you, the peak will.

Before self-awareness is self-awareness. A mirror looks into a mirror. In the end, only self-awareness is the practice for self-awareness

Ode to Light

O light of love this undivided being and intent of that unknown

the absolute unknown in sudden and spontaneous self-awareness

which descended into matter in a process all that jazz of space-time

quantum physics and atomic hydrogen molecular illusionary structure

like a solid and granitic rock of ages rock of crystal thunderstruck

by some organic movement of the light and by the light and for the light

and rising like a phoenix of the mind from single cell to vegetable

to animal to anthropoid Erectus and Neanderthal and something like

bicameral division resulting in conditioning of light the filtering of light

from love to raw emotion fear in many colors separation violence and war

until I meet the Satguru embodiment of light the water table light

the well of light the fountain of the light and see I am the rising

column of the light Arjuna light who uses tools of thought to deconstruct

conditioned thought and when the human form is finally shed

like snakeskin ego all remaining is the space of light the light of love

affectionate awareness self-awareness all there is and I am, I am, I am

That.

The Stagecraft of Conceptual Art

Objects, books, and wall-hangings—secret noises, running water, and a constant hammering of steel on wood—people populate the empty spaces.

A classic Hopi pot finely painted with a red and black migration pattern sitting on a narrow obsidian tower.

The Iliad, Mediations on the Tarot, Tao Te Ching, Great Fool Zen Master Ryokan, The Oxford Anthology of Bhakti Literature, Emily Dickenson.

A Mesoamerican rug with rows of emblematic corn woven on a shimmering turquoise field divided by fringed ribbons of pastel-colored stripes.

(“I'm back. I'm home. All the time, it was… We finally really did it. You Maniacs! You blew it up! Ah, damn you! God damn you all to hell!”)

Outside the Merrimack River is flowing from the White Mountains and Lake Winnipesaukee while inside the Powow River is flowing from a shower head.

Vertical two by fours are rising interrupted by eleven windows, three doors, and several other apertures, capped by a roof with a chimney running through it.

The mind is an energetic open space imbued with nothing but the stagecraft of conceptual art intending self-awareness. Aum, Amen, and Silence.

Dark Night of That Perfect

Firm belief is like a daylight boat

with leaks as wide as nighttime skies

and wild conspiracies are always born

because the boat is always sinking.

Such a world of constant

doubt is always quick to point

a finger at some other rather than

the mystery enveloping the moon.

Other than being, nothing is known,

and all alleged knowledge is

a theoretical house of cards

collapsing into being that unknown.

In the dark night of that perfect

clarity of space, coyotes howl,

who hears and no one listens.

Voice Lessons

The world is a dividing machine. Habitually, love goes in to the world and belief & discord comes out of the world.

To be love in the world, not belief of the world, is the prime directive of intent, training mind for the function in reflexive self-awareness—

impeccability in love’s expression from the mind and detachment from beliefs of the mind.

A single songbird is singing clear in the space of bare trees.

One and That

Love is the light

that grows this life

into being.

The world is a thought

which shadows sight.

Love and thought

mirrors

war and peace.

Still,
love is one and that is all.

The Median Way

Only the mind can assert existence 

or deny it.

Thus the mind 

is quacking—

neither bewitching nor nihilistic

but betwixt and between,

one rides

the median

of being

that unknown.