Transcreating Christ: The Parable of the Sower

In life the sower is always sowing

seeds of wisdom as natural as can be.

First seeds fall upon the highway of your world

and little birds of large appetite rumor it away.

Next seeds fall upon hard ground of human knowledge

where the soil is superficial but the grain appears to grow without delay,

yet since this earth has little depth of true intelligence,

the first clear dazzling light of day overwhelms the early growth,

and as these seedlings have no true roots, they wither.

Subsequently seeds descend among the weeds

where no compassion tends the soil

and thorns of great hostility chokes them all away.

Yet there comes a time seeds land among responsive ground

and bears its fruit to thirty times, one-hundred times,

ten-thousand times, this great awakening—

whoever has ears to hear, listen.

1704222310 or denial is the river

Once upon a time, she thought she was a person, and every now and then forgets she's not. She used to wonder why her god condemned the world to suffering violence and war. Now she knows there's other definitions for division.

She can't deny her being although she only uses such possessive pronouns in a manner of speaking about that which appears to matter. In order to be self-aware, one must first be unaware, and her earthly guardians, lovingly or otherwise, ensured she was.

Every now and then, she felt as if there was no then, as if a river were to suddenly appear within an Arizona desert. Then she read about her consciousness and knew she was that consciousness and consciousness is pure awareness being self-aware and that is that.

The grass is green. The sky is blue. The sun is yellow. I am being red. Every leaf is testament to that unknown and absolutely sweet Marie the wind is crying.

Not only is beauty truth and truth is beauty but red-winged blackbirds, cherry blossoms, orioles, and absolutely self-awareness. Nothing is as it appears to be said Alice in some laundromat at Second Street and Vine.

Twenty years of schooling and I never made the first shift, says Alice to Bob Dylan. There is nothing you can do about it said Alice to the caterpillar busy deconstructing its construction on the way to self-awareness.

Or is it just a butterfly she sees one day within a dream up high upon the blue ridge. Another day, another singular satori. One day a daughter comes from her own body and she begins to know the absolute significance of division in understanding non-duality.

Mind-training is just another name for deconstruction, a most earnest postmodernism. Deny the thought of being all you want but denial is the river.

1704211049 or revelation is bound to be

Being is open free universal and spontaneous but the world has taught me natural transformation is disastrous to my person. Earthquakes, floods, volcanoes and tornadoes. Lions, tigers, bears and other primal fears. It's all happening out of nowhere! This translation of the revelation is more neo-traditional than postmodern or reactionary.

Hiroshima and Nagasaki are nothing more than cherry blossoms. April is the crying of a child. August is a lion's roar. There is no difference. All you know is life. Every thought methinks is death. But I am the white whale. Or the walrus.

Transformation is to Tao as being is to pure awareness as an earthquake is to shut your mouth and dig it. Love is following the way of love and not some other way that looks like love. In division is beginning and the end. But the calculus of truth is unborn and resurrected.

Awareness hits you. There is no me but I am. Satori whiskey tango. What's wrong with nowhere? What's so good about our time together? Self-awareness self-awareness self-awareness.

And the magic of imagination seeing its foundation of conditioning is completely magical as it is. Imagine indoor plumbing on Mount Olympus! Belief is that nothing to fear we fear. Never mind the big bollocks. If you ask, who am I, I shall answer.

I was raised on Mad Magazine. I came of age with gonzo. Gonzo is to beat as seeing is to waking up. Electrical revelation is bound to be the very next thing.

Understand the change. Be awareness.

1704201500 or Tao alone informs one

uttered to you is the secret knowing of the absolute; it is just you, the secret knowing, actually speaking ~Kena Upanishad (tr-sr)

You can think about being but one can only be awareness.

The god you name is not the god one is.

The Tao that can be named is not the Tao that is.

Thinking about being is not knowing being; being is the only knowing.

That being doesn't know awareness but being is awareness

is the deepest knowing—call this self-awareness.

Listen. That Tao alone is truth, Tao alone informs one.

1704192335 or on bicycle eve

The mind is of Consciousness dividing Consciousness and Consciousness is even in the mind. But Consciousness is never of the mind.

The witness doesn't witness objects but divides oneself conceptually seeing separation like a mirror in perceiving that which can't be seen.

Please avoid the rabbit holes.

Hitting the wall hiking in the Whites, I begin to be druidic in a way, intuiting the trees to be the mountain that's no mountain that I am.

On the other hand, now I see my living room to be the stuff of rockbound waves and sky-wide ridges I am dreaming as a living room.

On Bicycle Eve, Consciousness is singing DNA to the XY of Zhuangzi real and pure.

Nothing is not me. Something else was never said.

Sometimes one has to flashback in order to go further, but going further isn't in the flashback.

Consciousness only needs to be altered when you're thinking you're not consciousness.

In the name of ten thousand summers of love upon this absolutely truthful altar bejeweled with the deconstructed flowers of beautiful beautiful consciousness…

1704171313 or raven isn't mad

You can't run from silence forever.

Belief can make the earth go flat.

The raven isn't mad—

it never wears a hat.

Time stands still for no dream.

Beyond the turtle and the rabbit is the way.

There is no finish line. There was no starter's gun.

Listen—nothing gold can say.

1704152244 or not of any interest

Deconstruct memory.

Be the absolution.

May your sleep be truly deep

and dreams no longer all that interesting.

Spring is not of interest

but only love—

Waiting for

Sakura

1704152152 or never sell your soul

Forsythia in Spartan Spring is singing her fertility like Venus all alone in the morning sky with Mercury.

Goldfinches gather by the feeder as if gathered at the river the beautiful truthful river.

Now the daffodils are amorously yellow while factually amaryllis.

April isn't being cruel when she reminds you of yourself.

Consciousness is the Altar where I worship God Myself.

Profound revelations alert:

Pancho is Lefty! As Jesus is Judas. As in never sell your soul! Always rent.

Winnipesaukee On This Bus

Love is emptiness without the thought of nothing.

Love is the universe without me.

Love is modern energy without romantic or postmodern fantasy.

Love is unreal and free, extemporaneous and incorporated.

Prophecies go unwritten. The sea no longer sounds.

New theories are the same as old beliefs. But love is never-ending.

Consider this. The only fact is being. Death is just a thought.

I am what I am. And I am what I'm not.

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.