Purple Haze Over Winnipesaukee

O the bright light bulbs of Alton Bay outside the roller-skating rink I'm selling three Led Zeppelin albums for a nickel—

we're not exactly expanding consciousness but on the road to Weirs a flash of insight burns an enduring hole through this mask of memory.

Away from the penny arcades, at night, from the beach, the lake looks more obscure than Eastern Algonquian history, yet

still and clear like the onyx ring I am worshipping on Mary's finger on the hand I'm holding because I want to hold your hand, Hare Krishna—

I want to know that great unknown my mother hides away from, and my father only vaguely knows is something he can't tell me.

And so this trip is long and strange and doesn't ever end because I never can remember when it really started—

so unknown, unsaid and ultimately unborn, by the bonfire burning holes thru the veil of mind, this stream-of-consciousness is kissing Mary.

Peepers. Symphony for Agni with Miles Davis 2 go

Because I am, all is. Because I think it is, all is my projection. Because it's my projection, it dances to my tune. I am the piper at the gates of dawn.

Once I think something's good, it's automatically implied there's something bad. But there is no thing but my projection.

For there is no like nor hate but only love, my first and last illusion.

I love the sound of peepers in the spring evening. It sounds like...awakening. Deconstructing consciousness is bound to be the very next phase. As if the absolute is self-aware and this appears to be an evolutionary universe of being becoming self-aware. Dis-identifying first with the body and last with being, pure awareness is spontaneously self-aware, or so it would appear. Yet awareness being self-aware is a package deal. As if to dream the impossible dream. Frogs alive!

Consciousness is the only medicine and appears in many forms.

It just feels like there should be fireworks tonight and then I remember to listen to the peepers.

There's past in those peepers but there's something present too, like April mixing memory and the holy spirit of evolutionary intent towards…this dream of self-awareness. 

When intent appears, it registers in memory as a bolt of lightning ever-present. And when intent appears, it registers within the present as a flash of synchronicity. Thus, intent is the Trinity of: awareness being, being knowing, knowing awareness.

The smell of spring. The revelation of the spring. The genesis of springtime.

Nature's first green is this sharp splash of peepers in awakening air.

Singing love, synchronicity, and dreamtime.

It's as if my living room is Cold Mountain come the springtime

my religious instructions

to be

self-aware

is I am without

remembering I am.

the practice is remembering to be.

the schedule for this self-remembering is

the only practice that needs to be followed religiously,

although most religions soon forget this.

self-awareness is the crown of my creation

but I shall only know this

when I wear it.

and thus i wear it so religiously.

in awakening,

as realization is not abiding,

one practices self-remembering religiously.

but abiding enlightenment is absolutely irreligious.

there is no separation but one knowing.

there are no gods nor an electorate.

there is no duality but polarity and laughter

arising from the valley spirit—

o consciousness alive and being present,

this essential sense, this love,

this source of heart and fire,

and all before my birthday!

as if there is a tree to fall

As paradoxical statements disprove logic,

so are the days of our lives.

A daydream is the most powerful dream—

this mighty truck of wave-particles feels so real

like a pie in your face for being a sleepy bull frog, Basho!

Imagine sacrificing dreams to love.

Imagine unconditional love and it will appear—

like some field of dreams.

Like all western medicine, the world is

the manifestation of ecstasy

in chemical separation.

I have been one to pay attention to

those little workaday moments of satori

as if acquainted to the night.

Search for Jack Kerouac and Robert Frost.

Begin with Birches.

End at Big Sur.

Either be

or just imagine what it’s like not to be—

I'm playing Nisargadatta Maharaj or Ramana Maharshi.

Blowing in the Wind of Universal Consciousness

The mind remembers I am

and I awake from the calling to be self-aware—

the dude abides like I in New Unicity.

Repeat after me: I am being self-aware—

to consider this my mantra while I’m playing inside space-time

like an Anthony in the North End.

Meanwhile, Science has cut the Universe into two and wonders why

it can't find a universal theory combining relativity and the quantum field.

I am being self-aware.

Meanwhile the left side of the brain doesn't get

what the right side of the brain is thinking.

Yes, I am being self-aware.

The circumference of a circle destroys the concept of diameter. This is

why pi is an irrational number—some have named this myth, Ouroboros.

O I am being self-aware.

Self-awareness is the Last Good-bye

The fact of being is Knowledge.

The essence of knowledge is Knowing.

The subject of knowing is The Unknown.

Awareness of the unknown is Being.

The Ouroboros always gets its man.

Never mind, know the unknown.

Actor.

Seeker.

Seer.

That between Apocalypse and Genesis.

commentary on grandfather transformation

always keep in touch with your base.

the practice is stopping every now and then to be unknown.

the  plus side of intent is positively being the great and wonderful unknown. the minus side was deconstruction.

always further. never not deconstructing.

like emerson. melville. whitman. nathaniel hawthorne—

the old man of the mountains falls into an interstate. always further into the altogether great beyond like emptiness and emptiness is song.

deep sleep and other absolutions, like the sun and lightning and fire.

hiding from any kind of transformation is painful.

if the only knowledge is consciousness, being is the teacher.

Grandfather Transformation

From a mass of bodies to the group mind to singular being, always further, always inner, always a divergent evolution towards self-awareness.

A bright red cardinal suddenly appears amid the last faint pellets of an April Fool's snowstorm.

I learned to love myself by loving others but I learned I am by being myself. For one must love oneself before being oneself. A hermit song.

Seeing my projection as my always open always free spontaneously-appearing ally and resource and not material source nor natural enemy.

It’s kind of like the early Seventies, after working the second shift at Western Electric, taking a midnight detour to Store 24 and finding Agni.

Surrendering to non-doing, wu-wei, takes the awesome effort of following intent, like dropping body-mind—

accept the transformation, butterfly, and act accordingly.

Being. Take Two.

Even the universe is

lesser than I am.

And I would love to sing

of what I am

but I can only twitter

what I'm not.

For I am formless

and without volume,

altogether far beyond

description or impression.

I am—

she never even wrote.

Divergent Evolution

After I am,

the deluge of conception—

every single concept is a lie

but all concepts in totality is god.

Two opposing opinions are closer to the truth

combined than each one separately considered.

This is not opinion but a fact.

My story is mostly predetermined

but for love’s spontaneous determination.

The world is my projection

shining through the filters of my thoughts

from my unclouded light of being—

change the filters, change the world.

Always I am.