Imagination 8

And on the seventh day, there's idleness and adoration—float like a river, sting like hail. Wu Wei. Tao Te.

Across the river from here, white pines are attracted to the sun each day but point to the moon every night.

And around here, it's cats and dogs all day. But at night, it's owls and coyotes. Everyone ultimately agrees.

There's nothing to do and nowhere to go. Call it karma or surrender, it really doesn't matter.


I'm not responsible for my past; true love secretly did me. The way I see it, my job was to follow the script.

Maybe I should improvise! Thought is just a tool but affectionate awareness is the hand.

Bring them together as one in silence twice a day. If self-awareness is god, imagination is angelic.

Six days on the road. One night at sea. Dependent clauses. This, that, these, and those—demonstrative only.

footnotes to imagination 8

revolution nine is my absolute reference point. 1/9

i remember living by the mills and one day my friend's oldest brother appears from out of the streaming homeward-bound masses on my street, which i am showing off to my suburban cousin, to show off a recently acquired ted williams baseball card. "fucking jesus with a bat!" 2/9

the ferryman returns me to that three-mile strip of consciousness north of the merrimack

between whole and howl, an e is silent 4/9

no damn space, and no damn time 5/9

all the world's a stage and all the men and women my projections 6/9

embodiment is that between the seventh and the next octave calling 7/9

returning wu wei to i am is like the diamond wing of way 8/9

in the name of the further, enlightening intent, not of the dream. #9 #9 #9 #9 9/9

Medicine, Crow, Bee & Butterfly

As conditioning is deconstructing, one might see the world as a murder of conspiracy theories, as one subliminally discovers one is That exactly.

The primordial tool of thought when absent-mindedly lost in it's fascinating function of inquiring tool begins to play the role of a thought.


This is why self-inquiry a la Ramana Maharshi is a comedy of errors. The tool is ultimately conditioned to ask who am I

and I am That which playfully asks. Look, JFK's assassination was my father. My mother was the Gulf of Tonkin.


Cherry blossoms never fall. Winter likes to summer in New Mexico. Just imagine Ariel and Caliban! Maharshi, Maharaj.

My prescription is default to consciousness at least once a day and more if possible. While writing this, I noticed I was coming up for air.

My Letter from the River Valley

In mythic terms, the universe is like the god of pure awareness being self-aware.  That is a definition of evolution for any non-believer.  The world is not an error but an integrated work procedure of the undivided process.  One comes to nirvana through samsara.

When I was a child, I believed samsara and played its worldly games.  On opening, I am nirvana dropping all those childish things.  I am the fish that got away.  I am the silver striper dancing in and out of silver river water!

Any river valley resident can tell you that the river is the valley.  Lately everything along the river is that August morning mist from longer nights following concentrated summer days that still can burn the morning mist before you even know it.

In China, the Milky Way is called River of Stars.  It's the frontier source of the Yellow River: universe, earth, enlightenment.  The world is all about the turning: spring conditioning, summer heat, autumn understanding, first there is a winter then there is no winter then there is.

The primary reflexive paradox is a testament to evidence that every seventh substage requires a pre-existing first stage of the next stage in the overall process.  In Early Christianity, they call this dark enigma between the child and parent, Holy Spirit.

Love, Wu Wei

Thought,
when not
the tool of love,
unwisely thinks
thought alone can do.

Love just does—
there is no thought behind it.

So when finding oneself caught
within the whirlpool world of thought
and all its agitations of division and identity,
default to love—
this is what the world calls Being Only.

Preface Plot Conclusion

To sail the unassailable—squirrels are monkeys waiting for harmonic convergence.  Where has all the transformation gone? “Tell all the truth but say it slant.”  This is what philosophers can't. How can anyone from my generation listen to My Generation and not destroy a planet or two?

There's that day in August when the heat wave breaks and I remember there's a world beyond the water—or so I'm schooled to think. If lilacs are like my deconstruction, purple loosestrife is my backslide. Self-awareness has no personality or else there is the trickster, raven, what a tangled web we weave, and trick-or-treat coyote!

There is no reason for what my I intends and so I must imagine one—by the way, this is actually the secret. Genuine mountains and rivers, sea and sky, again with the crickets! Self-consciousness is consciousness unable to let go although there's only Self.
 

Saving Nonduality

Neither geocentric nor heliocentric but consciousness only—universal consciousness is not a theory.  Theories rely on thought

or thoughts arranged in systems of belief—stop and smell the consciousness of That Absolute.

Like Yosemite from Glacier Point—Shaman, Light, and Holy Granite.  Like Seeing Basho 2007 Matsushima—

consciousness only, only consciousness, consciousness only.  Like Mesa Verde and its kiva-like attraction of an inner secret—

this is the grand unified truth.  Pure Awareness is Being Self-aware.

Ode to Break On Through (To No Side)

Division feeds division. Political salvation is the last refuge of conditioning, and rightfully so.

Only love sees through that monster—there is no right or wrong in the Heart of Tao. There's only Self-awareness.

The mirror needing cleaning is not the mirror, grasshopper. After lightning sounds thunder. After thunder babbles crickets.

When the fourth wall is broken through, the other three become paradoxical, poetic, and light.

It was Nixon's resignation party.  Jackie Wilson said.  This Great Intent is coursing through me.  I'm in Heaven when She Smiles.

Tonight the picture window reflects the room around me. The screens on each side are open to the night. Listen, I smell the rain!

Composition in Consciousness Only

Appearances in consciousness are both spontaneous and temporary. No matter how far down the material world one drills,

there isn't even rope, never mind some theory of string—there's no two to tie everything together.

Disproving the concept of God is the reactionary first half in any game of natural deconstruction.

Being radical is questioning one's own identity as a person in scientific self-inquiry, knowing being isn't divided into halves.

Post-modernism is literally such a reactionary deconstruction at the half. Self-inquiry sees through Zeno's Paradox. Tao is neither left nor right.

Coincidentally, after the last sunset after eight, I finally hear crickets—which in some ways sound similar to peepers, but seasoned, sharper.

Lythrum Salicaria seems to take forever to arrive but when the loosestrife finally purples—timeless!

Half-moon after August dawn—it's not about some quantum that the senses can or cannot sense, but what I know, feel, fundamentally am.

My Myth of Nonduality

If mountains are god the father and the sea is god the mother, then of course I’m god the child realizing earth is one.

In this particular myth, earth is inside what I am and the manifested universe is unmanifested, absolute.

And there's a stand of white birch trees growing where eastern white pines stood before the fire.

Thought is a tool of being. Thinking you're the tool in this equation requires deconstruction. Every picture of

a rose tells its story of a thorn. For in every antique mirror, thought is like the mercury and being is like glass.

In a true desert, there's breathtaking silence. Not merely of sound, but of silence. Call that self-awareness.

Ode

Here Comes The Sun King, The God Lugh, John Barleycorn, O Juliet and They Must Die. For It Is Lammas Eve, Looking to Lughnasadh, Beginning of The Harvest, August, A Certain Slant Of Light

O Psychological Thought is responsible for every War and every Murder and all Unspeakable Acts. If you choose a side, any side, this is what you ultimately choose. Thank god there's choiceless awareness

love is not a choice. Love is what there is before a choice. Always choose love. Render unto August the objects belonging to August but render to myself their life force. At last

a field of purple loosestrife, invasive weed, like deconstructive thoughts from Asia—August—late dawns, early sunsets—the apparent lessening of light—but these days taste concentrated as if boiled to an essence—

if July is the month of lightning bugs, August is the month of dragonflies—they don't just shine their light. They breathe fire! August 2007—I am climbing Yamadera—

the rest of my group is somewhere else around this temple being mountain—an ancient Chinese woman is translating the cicadas for me—ever since the First of August means No Crickets Yet.