Seagull flies outside the window, and I mistake it for a helicopter.
Not as absurd as it sounds, if you include the context - which is that said window is 24 floors above street level and that we live in the shadow of coastal mountains, and the collective exhale of those mountains creates a bridal veil of mist between there and here.
Thoughts of physics and light refraction and cognitive processing flood me as I settle into the fact that it is a bird. From there, how I should best spend my time to really, REALLY see what is going on in the world around me; how it all starts here, with me, and if my perceptual slate is not clean, how can I know myself and how can I help others?
Pez up, brother.
And I do. It's a monster Pez, this, so big that it cuts off the oxygen going down, it cuts off the life force going down, it fades me to ...
outside experience, where I realize that the images of self imolation in the ingestion of this were just that - images that I was watching.
Get it?
Me here. images there. Separation. Realization of separation, release.
Back to the computer, several hours of productive and non-productive activities braided together into a pyschic rope that leads me to Otis and the world beyond and THAT world beyond is
Hold it, world beyond. On the commute now, and trip up on the verbiage.
Pez up, brother.
And after the spirtual gag reflex subsides, I see
language is frozen thought, thought was that the world is beyond.
Separation, realization of separation, separation dissolved, release
...released into space of relationship, where the duality is so pronounced it's like emotional branding...
eyes, contact, move away (pez up!); anxiety, tension, move away (pez up!), distraction (from what?, pez up), qualification, judgement, pez Up!
And finally, like meditation where realizing I am away actually brings me here, the duality wave peaks get closer and closer together till I can hop from one to another to another, then lie down on them and BE the essence that only appears to bridge - because there is nothing to bridge and sleep into dreamless sleep which, upon waking, turns into another concept that separates and boundaries itself from me. Or I from it.
Pez up.
Showing posts with label advaita. Show all posts
Showing posts with label advaita. Show all posts
Monday, March 23, 2009
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Mapmaker, Mapmaker, Make me a Map
Ephemeral distance here. Now I'm aware of it, now I'm not.
Black on white. Letters, words, sentences, paragraphs, pages, chapters book. Or abstracting and deconstructing top down, we have ideas, language, black and white.
Strange serendipity and juxtaposition last nite as I moved from black on white to stereo in color. Just about giving up on the book's concepts of realism vs idealism - concepts that only partly gel for me, then turning on the tube and seeing the reality of the ideas played out in a PBS piece about the US civil rights movement. Realism vs. Idealism. Idealism played out in Realism.
Strange pull back to the book and now I am dancing in the linguistic architecture of a fierce intellect. This is rich food, and I am not sure how much I can imbibe. And yet I'm pulled in.
It's a spider web map here; ideas branching off in relational branches that capillary the map being presented.
Straight ahead here, now a right, visibility down! Left turn, straight, double back to check the road-sign, pull over, close the eyes and ponder, thought semi! - driving along the the main thoroughfare now, I could and should draft it, or even better yet, hitch up, follow the intellect through the maze and I do but
only for so long
and the hitch breaks and I'm back to my pedantic pace but now
the space is back
I've pulled back from the black on white and tracered into my cortex is a bright and fading big picture of the map she is drawing, pulsing in patterns and connected passages and roads joining roads joining roads and there's a ladder extending from my frontal lobes out and down to the page again
and I'm back on the street level view and I'm not sure how much of the pull is healthy and how much is rubber-banded attention that keeps coming back to the idea landscapes here, ideas that I will never complete absorb, but of which I can till the top layers and use them for harvests later
and it's bright, AND fading, AND pulsing
and I layer her positions in my head over greater abstractions that underscore reality more than her vision can, because they are more at the root of it all
but I realize that the base supports the floors above it; the soil produces the flora and fauna which ultimately point bidirectionally, out and in, and ALL of this is a part of the glorious Kosmos, it's all Shiva and I'm glad,
Glad I just
can.
Black on white. Letters, words, sentences, paragraphs, pages, chapters book. Or abstracting and deconstructing top down, we have ideas, language, black and white.
Strange serendipity and juxtaposition last nite as I moved from black on white to stereo in color. Just about giving up on the book's concepts of realism vs idealism - concepts that only partly gel for me, then turning on the tube and seeing the reality of the ideas played out in a PBS piece about the US civil rights movement. Realism vs. Idealism. Idealism played out in Realism.
Strange pull back to the book and now I am dancing in the linguistic architecture of a fierce intellect. This is rich food, and I am not sure how much I can imbibe. And yet I'm pulled in.
It's a spider web map here; ideas branching off in relational branches that capillary the map being presented.
Straight ahead here, now a right, visibility down! Left turn, straight, double back to check the road-sign, pull over, close the eyes and ponder, thought semi! - driving along the the main thoroughfare now, I could and should draft it, or even better yet, hitch up, follow the intellect through the maze and I do but
only for so long
and the hitch breaks and I'm back to my pedantic pace but now
the space is back
I've pulled back from the black on white and tracered into my cortex is a bright and fading big picture of the map she is drawing, pulsing in patterns and connected passages and roads joining roads joining roads and there's a ladder extending from my frontal lobes out and down to the page again
and I'm back on the street level view and I'm not sure how much of the pull is healthy and how much is rubber-banded attention that keeps coming back to the idea landscapes here, ideas that I will never complete absorb, but of which I can till the top layers and use them for harvests later
and it's bright, AND fading, AND pulsing
and I layer her positions in my head over greater abstractions that underscore reality more than her vision can, because they are more at the root of it all
but I realize that the base supports the floors above it; the soil produces the flora and fauna which ultimately point bidirectionally, out and in, and ALL of this is a part of the glorious Kosmos, it's all Shiva and I'm glad,
Glad I just
can.
Monday, December 15, 2008
GrIndia
That would be a lexicographical representation of my journey from there to here. Greece to India. Or I guess more accurately from Here to seemingly there to Here.
My memory is shite compared to most people I know - long term memory anyway - short term I can zone in and make it happen. Still I do remember the first book of philosophy I picked up - don't remember the title exactly, maybe it's around here somewhere.
Tish.
Anyways, the large image I have of it - still rings in my head to this day, is the discussion of nothingness and somethingness. Outside inside. All and Not All.
And here, at 42, I'm waking up (it's so hard with language to describe waking up. All descriptions seem to involve division. Waking up - means FROM sleep - that's distance baby, separation, and what we're talking about here is undivided being) and it's tying the knot in a significant way from then to now. Thing is now, there's more of a sparkle to it; a clarity; a coming home; a truth.
There's different ways I can look at it, but it seems to cut through a lot of the chuff. I can still muse about life's purpose, the right meditation technique, the right life I should be living, the right things I should be doing. But, using the razor sword of inquiry, I can slice through all questions and representational musings and look for that which is. And by recognizing that Is-ness, realize that even my pre-awake stage was part of the Is-ness.
I stand before me today, arms raised in sacrifice, to the group in front of me. Many voiced choir - different timbres, postures, abilities; different approaches, beliefs, and attitudes. Many different personalities, awaiting the aha-up-motion of my baton to inhale and ...
start
Hi falsetto from the back left, purity so disengaged from the blemished; so focused and pure; silver needle piercing me front to back, lifting me in a mother's swoon then soaring off into the background. Basso profundo rumbling from the front; a wall of vibration that catches me in the abdomen and heart; dissolving waste and distance; branding Eros then rolling away in salted thunder. Middle voice, but from both sides trying to find center. Straining journey, finding moments of solace and ringing behind the eyes.
And then
The fugue begins. Chords spinning Celtic wonder; flirting with infinity; tightening and expanding; creating and dissolving tension; creating and dissolving distance; sine waves like lovers spooning in closer and releasing into each other; one voice now, one stream of terrible beauty; coring me through center; lifted backward spread eagle; agonizing beauty and tension , then utter release; beyond mind; sex; judgement and distance.
Is
experiencing the
conductor
and the choir
the many
and
the
1
My memory is shite compared to most people I know - long term memory anyway - short term I can zone in and make it happen. Still I do remember the first book of philosophy I picked up - don't remember the title exactly, maybe it's around here somewhere.
Tish.
Anyways, the large image I have of it - still rings in my head to this day, is the discussion of nothingness and somethingness. Outside inside. All and Not All.
And here, at 42, I'm waking up (it's so hard with language to describe waking up. All descriptions seem to involve division. Waking up - means FROM sleep - that's distance baby, separation, and what we're talking about here is undivided being) and it's tying the knot in a significant way from then to now. Thing is now, there's more of a sparkle to it; a clarity; a coming home; a truth.
There's different ways I can look at it, but it seems to cut through a lot of the chuff. I can still muse about life's purpose, the right meditation technique, the right life I should be living, the right things I should be doing. But, using the razor sword of inquiry, I can slice through all questions and representational musings and look for that which is. And by recognizing that Is-ness, realize that even my pre-awake stage was part of the Is-ness.
I stand before me today, arms raised in sacrifice, to the group in front of me. Many voiced choir - different timbres, postures, abilities; different approaches, beliefs, and attitudes. Many different personalities, awaiting the aha-up-motion of my baton to inhale and ...
start
Hi falsetto from the back left, purity so disengaged from the blemished; so focused and pure; silver needle piercing me front to back, lifting me in a mother's swoon then soaring off into the background. Basso profundo rumbling from the front; a wall of vibration that catches me in the abdomen and heart; dissolving waste and distance; branding Eros then rolling away in salted thunder. Middle voice, but from both sides trying to find center. Straining journey, finding moments of solace and ringing behind the eyes.
And then
The fugue begins. Chords spinning Celtic wonder; flirting with infinity; tightening and expanding; creating and dissolving tension; creating and dissolving distance; sine waves like lovers spooning in closer and releasing into each other; one voice now, one stream of terrible beauty; coring me through center; lifted backward spread eagle; agonizing beauty and tension , then utter release; beyond mind; sex; judgement and distance.
Is
experiencing the
conductor
and the choir
the many
and
the
1
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