It's all paradox.
He got it, _really got it_ , on a Tuesday afternoon walking from the store to his car, which, as grace would have it, was several blocks away.
The last moment he would know zipped up experience, twinkled, and winked out of existence. This was life, of course, not death. Time wasn't there anymore (of course it never had been); judgements ceased to exist (judgement meant difference, difference meant distance, distance meant space and time, and none of that was here). True to Genpo Roshi's analogy, the mind kept on churning out thoughts like the stomach secreted acid. But now, well NOW. He was here. Is here. Presence. Watching the thoughts come and go.
As he made the walk back, everything was at once the same and startling new. He was at the place where enlightenment and non-enlightenment were inseparable, because there was no difference; sensations rained then showered; crimson purples and lilac epiphanies all a glorious dance in now-here (so close to no-here) and tears streamed and arced and exploded in floral brilliance and the sky turned and the ground sang all of the mantras were ever becoming one because they were one and
The door closed behind him and contraction set in, so quickly it made his head spin. Which was confusing, because that presupposed movement, and up until the time he had entered the car, that whole pesky movement - distance thing was a part of the past oh SHIT! Time was clearly back, the language showed it now there was past again and he desperately wanted the experience back.
Time out, chachi.
Yes?
Step out of the prose for a moment.
Ok, what's up?
Well, you've gone seriously south here. And before you start, I'm your creator so I can talk about time and space if I want.
Fine.
So what's with wanting an experience? That's separation AND desire which is more separation and on top of that you are wanting to 'get' a state but you know - or at least you KNEW just a few minutes ago (when there wasn't time) that all of that dissolved in awareness, you simply were, there was nothing to get.
Right, and I get that.
Intellectually, right?
Right.
Almost more than intellectually, I can remember what it felt like, I just don't get why it disappeared when I got back in the car.
I can help with that.
And help I did, easy enough at this layer, simply reach into the monitor, pull the protagonist out via the scruff of his neck ala kitty momma and BANG he's outside the car and back into the backless.
How's it feel?
A kaleidoscope. No need to want wildness or drugs or booze or experience or feeling better or worse or anything. Everything wrapped in time and separation has fused, zipped, and twinkled out. It's all good. How else could it be?
Nice to see you back, but here's the thing - how do you handle getting back on the bus. Or in your case, back in the car?
Well, to start with, in and out are...
Don't worry about Lucknow disease, I'm god here, I get it.
Cool (smile). There's nothing to do when I'm back IN the car. I see how I was contracted, but that's gone, dissolved, i AM what watches that whole game now.
Cool (pluck, into car)
And the whole thing starts over again. A little attenuated this time, but the same presenting symptoms.
(Pluck out of car)
(Pluck into car)
You know, I think that this is basically making him carsick (literally) but it's sure given me a picture of very, very personal Samsara.
You mean the wheel that I need to hop off on?
Why yes, little protagonist, that.
You mean this one? (Pan up, notice many spired wheel over protagonists head, with whole galaxies and ghosts realms and heavens and hells all storming in a funnel cloud over his head and...
now this is strange.
Is it?
I've reached in before, but never had anything come back out of the monitor before
Any last words?
And with that, I see with Meister's eye that is god's eye looking back at me
Protagonist and I touch hands on either side of the monitor and there is silence as we both merge back into that which was there all along.
You mind if I wrap up now?
Don't mind if you / I do.
namaste.
Showing posts with label time. Show all posts
Showing posts with label time. Show all posts
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Context
A dream of flying.
Silver body crescented in the moonlight, dimpling the night sky like water. Concentric circles ensconcing planets and stars; I smile and tremble and
Look for direction, and there is relation of here, of me to dimples, dimples to planets, planets to stars; but there is no relation between, and that's what is perplexing.
So I slow and sit, back lit up by comets and dowsed in the infinity of space. Hands around knees, skin blue and white and silver in an exquisite pastel that could never be recreated because it only exists second to second and time
..time needs 'between' too, doesn't it. So there is a feeling of relation, of a slight pull that would suggest time, but I can't have time without space, can't have space without distance, can't have distance if I don't have between.
Which is their problem too. Zoom down or in or just din, into that corner downtown. Keep it upper right. Now that room upstairs, second story, end of the hall. Keep it lower left. Got it?
You can feel the pull yah? Which suggests a between but we don't know what it is yet, just a hint, a wisp, a suggestion that there is a connection, a between.
Corner downtown, you can see her gathering her stuff together for the night. Tarp over the shopping cart, two empty coffee cups with some spare change and some candle wax, cart rattling with empty cans; slightly muffled by the one piece of security she has in the world - her sleeping bag. She's down-alley now, off the corner and a little out of the wind, but the rain is starting and it's time to pull out the plastic tarp and settle in for the night and that's exactly what she does when an available space-beside-a-bin comes up.
Upstairs room, hot words under hot tears being written so hard on the journal paper that she breaks through the top page and bleeds into the pages below. Pain so pure, pulled by the writers spindle across the pages, hundreds and hundreds of words which, in retrospect are really only two ... fuck you fuck you fuck you. Feelings don't need to be validated, but let's be clear ... even the vitriol here is reasonable.
So what is the between ? Upper right, lower left. Their ages repel rather than pull together betweens; their lifestations and paths are not comparable, until we mine the undercurrent that put HER on the corner and HER in her own corner, rocking herself, nails digging so hard into her hand that she's drawing tiny beads of blood.
The between is the unspeakable that was foisted on both of them when they were too young and innocent to prevent it.
The between is IT; and now it's clear that IT is both the act as well as the label for what he is. His cannot be actions of a person; too amoral and destructive and without conscience for that.
Unless I look for IT's context; which I don't have the appetite to do.
Much better to stretch out from my dimple in the stars and continue my skipping along the surface of the Kosmos, and leave
context
for another day.
Silver body crescented in the moonlight, dimpling the night sky like water. Concentric circles ensconcing planets and stars; I smile and tremble and
Look for direction, and there is relation of here, of me to dimples, dimples to planets, planets to stars; but there is no relation between, and that's what is perplexing.
So I slow and sit, back lit up by comets and dowsed in the infinity of space. Hands around knees, skin blue and white and silver in an exquisite pastel that could never be recreated because it only exists second to second and time
..time needs 'between' too, doesn't it. So there is a feeling of relation, of a slight pull that would suggest time, but I can't have time without space, can't have space without distance, can't have distance if I don't have between.
Which is their problem too. Zoom down or in or just din, into that corner downtown. Keep it upper right. Now that room upstairs, second story, end of the hall. Keep it lower left. Got it?
You can feel the pull yah? Which suggests a between but we don't know what it is yet, just a hint, a wisp, a suggestion that there is a connection, a between.
Corner downtown, you can see her gathering her stuff together for the night. Tarp over the shopping cart, two empty coffee cups with some spare change and some candle wax, cart rattling with empty cans; slightly muffled by the one piece of security she has in the world - her sleeping bag. She's down-alley now, off the corner and a little out of the wind, but the rain is starting and it's time to pull out the plastic tarp and settle in for the night and that's exactly what she does when an available space-beside-a-bin comes up.
Upstairs room, hot words under hot tears being written so hard on the journal paper that she breaks through the top page and bleeds into the pages below. Pain so pure, pulled by the writers spindle across the pages, hundreds and hundreds of words which, in retrospect are really only two ... fuck you fuck you fuck you. Feelings don't need to be validated, but let's be clear ... even the vitriol here is reasonable.
So what is the between ? Upper right, lower left. Their ages repel rather than pull together betweens; their lifestations and paths are not comparable, until we mine the undercurrent that put HER on the corner and HER in her own corner, rocking herself, nails digging so hard into her hand that she's drawing tiny beads of blood.
The between is the unspeakable that was foisted on both of them when they were too young and innocent to prevent it.
The between is IT; and now it's clear that IT is both the act as well as the label for what he is. His cannot be actions of a person; too amoral and destructive and without conscience for that.
Unless I look for IT's context; which I don't have the appetite to do.
Much better to stretch out from my dimple in the stars and continue my skipping along the surface of the Kosmos, and leave
context
for another day.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Would you like cream or sugar with your dialectic tension?
...which would infer coffee.
....which is a flacid but adequate segue to bring us to today's subject matter: the dialectic springboard that time and somnolence can offer me. Huge, actually. You see:
I understand the dialectic tension as a force that can refine. Thesis, antithesis, synthesis. uh-huh. I have an idea or a proposition. I challenge it, let's say through dialogue, inner or outer, and if succesfull, like the oyster taking in an irritant and spitting out beauty, I come out with something new. Refined. I have moved forward.
The words, like many that present themselves to me, are tied to diaphanous images. I see an engine, a progressive machine that takes thoughts in, and through the tension of progress, produces something new but related at the other end.
Time and sleepiness both offer this for me, although right now their tension feels like it's just pushing my face up against a window; pressure steady, with no give yet. This would be the input of the dialectic engine.
I have seen into the kernel of time and sleepiness, but only in a limited fashion ~ usually the painful half of the whole. Which is ok, the pain is one of the drivers of dialectic tension. Time Shadechaser? How can Time be painful?
The clearest picture I have is of being on a ladder, painting. Summer job, look at my watch, 9:05 am. And the feeling associated with it is just...helpless, trapped, time. oh my god i don't like painting how long will this go on I've got to work for the whole day and oh FUCK it's only been 2 minutes how am I going to get through the next eight hours I'm bored what should I do...
And so on. Trapped in a miserable situation, not wanting to be there, wanting so much to be somewhere anywhere else but trapped TRAPPED as the clock marches interminably forward. Sleepiness hovers around - sometimes as a precursor to the trapped clock checking, sometimes as an escape route from the unpleasant feeling.
And of the two somnolence is, well, maybe not worse, but more dreadful. I contract, there is a heaviness around the eyes...I need escape...I need, I HAVE to have a nap.
Now I have progressed enough o'er the years to have a bit of insight and space around time and sleepiness, but my face is still up against the window. Maybe being rolled down a bit with non-dual inquiry with hsfh, but still a low dead pressure system hanging over my head.
When I am sleepy now, where does the Witness go? It is clearly there but clouded. But how can awareness be occluded?
When I am locked in and dreading time, I can have enough insight to step back as awareness and just watch the different sensations, but this process itself is timebound, and experience, and as such ultimately doomed to be sucked down into the Time hole itself.
So how do I deal with somnolenc-occluded awareness? And how do I remain aware outside of experience so that timelessness does not collapse into Time?
....which is a flacid but adequate segue to bring us to today's subject matter: the dialectic springboard that time and somnolence can offer me. Huge, actually. You see:
I understand the dialectic tension as a force that can refine. Thesis, antithesis, synthesis. uh-huh. I have an idea or a proposition. I challenge it, let's say through dialogue, inner or outer, and if succesfull, like the oyster taking in an irritant and spitting out beauty, I come out with something new. Refined. I have moved forward.
The words, like many that present themselves to me, are tied to diaphanous images. I see an engine, a progressive machine that takes thoughts in, and through the tension of progress, produces something new but related at the other end.
Time and sleepiness both offer this for me, although right now their tension feels like it's just pushing my face up against a window; pressure steady, with no give yet. This would be the input of the dialectic engine.
I have seen into the kernel of time and sleepiness, but only in a limited fashion ~ usually the painful half of the whole. Which is ok, the pain is one of the drivers of dialectic tension. Time Shadechaser? How can Time be painful?
The clearest picture I have is of being on a ladder, painting. Summer job, look at my watch, 9:05 am. And the feeling associated with it is just...helpless, trapped, time. oh my god i don't like painting how long will this go on I've got to work for the whole day and oh FUCK it's only been 2 minutes how am I going to get through the next eight hours I'm bored what should I do...
And so on. Trapped in a miserable situation, not wanting to be there, wanting so much to be somewhere anywhere else but trapped TRAPPED as the clock marches interminably forward. Sleepiness hovers around - sometimes as a precursor to the trapped clock checking, sometimes as an escape route from the unpleasant feeling.
And of the two somnolence is, well, maybe not worse, but more dreadful. I contract, there is a heaviness around the eyes...I need escape...I need, I HAVE to have a nap.
Now I have progressed enough o'er the years to have a bit of insight and space around time and sleepiness, but my face is still up against the window. Maybe being rolled down a bit with non-dual inquiry with hsfh, but still a low dead pressure system hanging over my head.
When I am sleepy now, where does the Witness go? It is clearly there but clouded. But how can awareness be occluded?
When I am locked in and dreading time, I can have enough insight to step back as awareness and just watch the different sensations, but this process itself is timebound, and experience, and as such ultimately doomed to be sucked down into the Time hole itself.
So how do I deal with somnolenc-occluded awareness? And how do I remain aware outside of experience so that timelessness does not collapse into Time?
Sunday, November 2, 2008
What Can I Offer
I get inklings, but to be honest often it's a hazy toothy serpent winding it's way through my life.
Picked it up from a number of places that a good attribute of something that you were born to do is the fact that it turns into a timeless activity when you do it.
Now, time has often been a painful thing for me - that's grist for another post, so without too much upfront analysis the pickup would seem to be fair.
And where do I get that? Is there anything that truly turns into a timeless endeavour when I'm doing it?
Well, yeah kinda. Songwriting. Seconds, minutes, hours, half days literally vanish. No tiredness, a direct plug into the noosphere. Creativity is unbridled in this activity. I don't have to try, a few notes on the keyboard, the vision is there, and the lyrics roll out.
Interesting.
Picked it up from a number of places that a good attribute of something that you were born to do is the fact that it turns into a timeless activity when you do it.
Now, time has often been a painful thing for me - that's grist for another post, so without too much upfront analysis the pickup would seem to be fair.
And where do I get that? Is there anything that truly turns into a timeless endeavour when I'm doing it?
Well, yeah kinda. Songwriting. Seconds, minutes, hours, half days literally vanish. No tiredness, a direct plug into the noosphere. Creativity is unbridled in this activity. I don't have to try, a few notes on the keyboard, the vision is there, and the lyrics roll out.
Interesting.
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