Take the Blue Pill

Which Is An Odd But Potentially Useful Metaphor For Zazen

02/25/2006 9:50 AM - 10:39 AM

Imagine if you can, a second self, hovering just a fraction of a fraction of a fraction of an inch above behind you and a fraction of a fraction of a fraction of a fraction of a second behind you. He is not you. He is the Buda you. When you die, you will go to heaven or hell or paradise or purgatory or non-existence. He will not. He doesn’t exist. He never existed. He’s a figment of your imagination. When you die, he will never have been. He does not care. He merely observes. He merely notices. He has no fear or desire. Nether does he have joy or compassion.

For seconds, a very few, very brief seconds, you can be him. Don’t worry, he’s fake. He isn’t real. He’s a character that you put on. Something that you pretend to be. He has no worries and no loves. He isn’t real and he doesn’t mind it. Now - inside your skull is a tiny cockpit with a steering wheel, gas pedal and brake. You are driving it right now. The real you. The one that matters. The one that will die. The one that is reading this. But, if you can, climb out of the driver’s seat and let the fake drive, let the Buddha drive. Only for a few seconds. Now, mind you, he doesn’t care about anything, so he tends to drive badly, actually, he doesn’t really drive at all. The care tends to drift and then stop altogether. It’s best to be sitting for this. Somewhere where you won’t fall over. The thing is, the real you, the one that’s reading this gets bored really, really easy. There are ten thousand, ten thousand things to do, to see, to taste, to touch, to feel. The real you is an odd, funny little monkey, climbing endlessly, searching endlessly, desiring endlessly. That’s fine. That’s just the way things are in reality. The monkey you doesn’t really mind not being in control of the body, doesn’t really mind being in control of the mind. It just wants to enjoy pleasure and avoid pain. Real you, monkey you, is a fine chap, excellently adapted for his environment. Buddha you is not. Buddha you doesn’t give a damn about anything. To be fair, he doesn’t not-give-a damn either.

Real you, monkey you is curious. He wouldn’t mind seeing what happens when fake you takes over. Hell, he wouldn’t even mind trying to sit for a time doing nothing. Even doing nothing is doing. Besides, while it might not be experiencing pleasure, he isn’t experiencing pain. So, what the hell? He’ll give it a try. Thing is, it’s damn boring. If you slow down and have to stare at the back of your eyelids without falling asleep, those little glowy things can put on a damn fine show. But fake you is supposed to be driving and if fake you is driving, then you’re not supposed to care about the nifty light show. Whoop. Sorry. Let fake you take the wheel again. You can occupy yourself with your breath if you like. Count the inhalations and exhalations: 1-10. Whoa! There goes a siren down the street. Wonder what happened? Is somebody dying? Are they afraid? That’s an important question. What is it like to be afraid of dead and be that close to it? What does happen when we die? Will I… oh, fuck. One. Two. Three. Four. How much time do I have left of just sitting here? Am I sitting right? Can I breath fully? Maybe I should scoot my butt a little further forward… Fuck. What am I on now? Nine. Oh, nine. Nine, then. Okay. Ten. One. Two. Three. Should I start just counting my exhalations now? Am I at that stage? Maybe I should wait until I get to ten again to start that. Yah. That’s what I’ll do. Fuck. Eight. Nine. Ten. Don’t count it, don’t count it. Okay, started exhaling: one. Two. Three. Four. Five. IlikebigbuttsandIcannotlieyouotherbrotherscan’tdeny… fuck. Where the hell did that come from? Nope, nope, nope. Back to it. What am I on, now? Eight. Eiiiiiiiiiiiight. Niiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine. Teeeeeeeeeeeeen. Oooooooooooooone. Twooooooooooooooo. DINGDONG! Oh, crap. There’s the bell. It’s been twenty-five minutes already? Deep breath. Open eyes slowly. Finish to the ten count. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Mad Monkey Mind – back on top. All things considered, that was a pretty good sit.

In Which Upfilling the Cage is Discussed And Milla Is Briefly Contemplated

02/24/2006 7:02 AM – 7:24 AM

There really is only one way to write a good sci-fi story, and that’s to write a good sci-fi story. When waking, small things linger from the dreamside and then fade away. What was that dream? I don’t remember, and now the emotion of it is gone. I asked myself, “where did we come from and where are we going?” I found that, today, I was content with not knowing.

How did that come about? I know that I can’t know, or, closer, I know that it’s possible for me to know but impossible for me to prove, even to myself. The sky went gray for a few minutes and snow fell sideway past the window. Now the gray-eyed morn’ smiles on the frowning night, checkering the eastern skys with streaks of light. I must upfill this osery cage of mine. That’s just how it goes. What do we fill it with, this basket? Can I choose? I had thought that that was part of zazen – focusing the mind on those things which good and pure and right. But zazen is just noticing what is. Somehow, we hope for more.

Where are we going? To work in a while. Earn money. With money, a man can live wherever he wants. Even in the woods. So. Earn money. How does one earn money? By working. But a man can work 60 hours a week and still only bring down little for moving to the woods. And I’d have to do that for, like, 10 years. Ten years, working sixty hours a week. That would suck. Unless it was writing or woodworking – something absorbing. Damn. I’m finding those catch-22’s again. I hate catch-22’s. I like bourbon. I like writing. I like reading. I like watching movies. I like Milla. Mmmm… Milla. It’s interesting when you find two aspects of your nature that are both very pleasant and in direct conflict. One second, I’m dreaming of my hermitage. The next, I’m dreaming of Milla. Being human is odd. So. What will I do, today? I’ll sit. I didn’t yesterday, there was a little fraying in the morning, but I was back to normal by late afternoon. Is this better mood strictly a result of better weather? The feeling of winter loosing its grip? Why would that matter? Ahh, this is it. This is how it goes. Hold on to working towards getting something better; enjoy this moment, wherever it is. And so it goes, and so it goes. The sky lightens, the clouds grow yellow and red and pink. So it goes.

In Which I Wonder About the Ghost and Then Forget It, Because the Water Was Warm

02/23/2006 9:34 AM - 10:00 AM

If one does learn to see past the surface to the sandy bottom, why swim? If one learns to be content in all things, then why strive to do anything? Why did the Bodhidarma come to the east? Perhaps it is in seeing our limits that we find that which should be done inside them. We do exist as two creatures – ghost and machine. But what is ghost and what machine?

In Zen, the mind too is part of the machine. Where then does the ghost reside? If the ghost does not see, hear, taste, smell, touch or think, what is it? Perhaps that is the falsehood of duality; perhaps there is no ghost, no machine. But where does that leave us? We are here looking, hearing, tasting, smelling, touching, thinking. If the revelation doesn’t do anything for us, then it’s a lousy revelation. But that has been my harping for years. What good is faith if it doesn’t give comfort? What good is comfort if it’s covering the eyes and ears and saying, “I believe, I believe, I believe”? Someday, something bigger may come along and rip off the covers. Then where will you be?

The ashtray is fuller, the sun is bright, the streets are wet. I’m listening to Finzi’s “Intimations of Immortality” and finding comfort in it. For now, I’ll let go of the questions. I will be and the being will be good. The intents of God are subtle in his creation, but good. Ask me where the fingerprints of God are and I can only smile and shrug. The whirls of galaxies are just there. They are proof of nothing. We push meaning unto them. I will learn these words. I will learn this heart, and somehow, God help me, I will find my way to the hermitage. Would that I could have this comfort all the time instead of just on a chance morning. I will walk to the place where I will walk. I hope that place is a cabin in the woods. I hope that I can plant a garden and harvest wood from the forest. I hope that quiet surrounds and laps against my legs like small waves in a small pond. God, I wish that I could feel God all the time. I wish that I knew the magic spell that bound him always to me. But I will take today. I will take now. I will take this. And if it goes, I will long for its return. But for today, I will swim in the water. The water is warm today. It’s just that the water is warm, today.

During Which I Listened to "25"

02/22/2006 9:30 AM – 9:55 AM

We still cannot predict the roll of the die, but we can make an excellent pair of loaded dice. This is our state. The cold and the sunlight, tracks in the front yard, and, yes, of course I still long for this to be a quiet country morning, but here I am and here is where I shall be content. It is an odd balancing act.

The wind rattles the windows from time to time; it is not a storming wind. We are here and we are alive (as far as we can tell and it is telling enough to feel comfortable guessing at it), we can learn not to clench our teeth and curl our fists at it. We can learn to see the Platonic Ideal even in this not-quite-it. It is it, because it is where we are. We value, might as well value it as high as you honestly can. So it is a good day. Good day to die, good day to live – doesn’t really matter, both happen on the same day all the time. What is it that one wants? Happiness, satisfaction, contentment. I have no opinion on the lady walking down the sidewalk.

The ashtray is filling. The little piece of tape on the top of my pouch of Drum is fluttering in the breeze that sneaks in through the cracks in my bedroom window. This is what life is. Practicing compassion is an act of faith in the position that others exist and feel existence as fully as I do. Faith is not a burning in the heart, though faith –like good chili- may make the heart burn. Faith is behaving as if one believes that the statement is true. In kindness we exist better in our own skins, holding the morrow inside. Blood becoming. Action is character. Character is not necessarily displayed in action. Necessaries and contingents. The cold is itself. The Christmas lights that hang in the trees sparkle because of wind and sunlight. Two men talk. A boy spits while crossing the street. Somewhere, hidden in all of this, is the intent of God. So be it. We will arise and walk. We will sit and smoke. Sometimes, we will just sit. Someday, the cabin. And so it goes and so it goes.

In Which the Wind Goes "Whoosh" and the Snow Goes "Shh-tik, shh-tik"

02/21/2006 7:28 AM – 7:55 AM

The base state of existence is silent. Is it good, evil, neutral? It doesn’t say. Good, evil, neutral all imply a choice. Existence makes no choices. It drifts along the tracks laid down at Plank’s Time. We are the value-givers, the appraisers.

What we seek in zazen is that bottom state. Silence. Why do good? And what is good? What would it be like to fall in love again? Breathe in. Breathe out. I exist as a value-giver. Without a guide, you must determine what is good and what is evil and what is neutral. How can be in the trenches and determine what value is good? Appraisers without a guide except for the small pamphlet of personal experience. You only get one shot. You can only live in one life. There is only this. One long mistake. One long masterpiece. No difference. Whatever we choose, we choose it right now. Now. Now.

What says the wind? What says the snow? I think it’s a sort of “whoosh” sound. But the snow is a sort of “shh-tik, shh-tik.” Ask existence its value and it says, “whoosh” and “shh-tik, shh-tik.” What should I do? Whoosh. Shh-tik, shh-tik. And that’s the way it is. I sink down into the silence below the wind and snow. Neither naiveté nor irony, you try to choose the middle way. What do I know about existence? A few things that I remember. A few things that I am experiencing right now. Now. Now. What do they tell me I should do? Whoosh. And shh-tik, shh-tik. Am I predestined or free-willed? Whoosh. Shh-tik, shh-tik. I will sit. I will listen to the silence beneath the rumbling static of quanta. What will it tell me? Whoosh. Shh-tik, shh-tick. I will get up and shower and make my lunch. I will tell myself a story. I will tell myself a parable. I will tell myself a lie. I will tell myself “whoosh” and “shh-tik, shh-tik.” How much further can we go into it? Where is it? Where is it? Whoosh. Shh-tik. Shh-tik.

The One Where I Wonder About the Validity of Dreaming of Living in the Woods That Has A Picture of Me Dressed Up Where I Look Kind of Bald

02/20/2006 11:58 AM – 12:19 PM

When last we met, our fair hero was engaged in a battle to the bitter end. We wake up and walk. What is the difference between distraction and learning? Is there one thing better than another for the one that’s here on the ground? Where are we going? What is this little bit? Annoyance with the sun for shining to brightly while the wind blows cold.

While waiting for the spring, one must find enjoyment it the cold, salted streets of late winter. When did I start dreaming of the cabin again? Should I? I suppose I must. That is who I am now. Has all this time just been to prove to me that I should be where I want to be? What would I do when I got to the cabin? Sleep. Wake early. Write. Make things with wood. Eat. Walk a long, long time in the woods. Even on too cold, too bright days like today. It is only to sleep, to reset and start again. You’ve got to learn to be in the cabin long before you get to the cabin. You’ve got to learn peace in the city before you can fall into peace in the woods. If it’s there, you can find a way. The dream does not need be futile. Work towards even as you find contentment in not having what you dream.

After a few weeks of transition, one gets used to the not working. After a few weeks, one can get used to the working. The body moves. It must. The body strives. It must. The desire that must be fought is the desire for the unnecessary. No, not fought. That is the old way. The desire must be faced, analyzed and forgotten. This is the way of the living. Is the desire for the cabin an unnecessary desire? A bird can learn to be happy in a cage, but that doesn’t mean it shouldn’t take the chance to fly back to the trees when it gets the chance. The elephant, when left chained to a strong post, will, after a time, not fight when the breakable rope is substituted for the chain. There is learning to be content with what is solid-state now, but striving always for that better that is possible. Perhaps that is what fantasy’s use is. It is wrongly used to distract. It is for play and learning the larger game from the rules. There are dreams of the possible and dreams of the impossible. Strive for the possible dreams when the return again and again. One learns who one is in them. Yes. There are some things worth fighting for. Even the long slow fight of war, counting each step with wounds. Ha. What matter wounds? So on to it. On to the dreaming of the possible. But no chickening out on the hard work of it. Reality exists without your permission, but you can still carve an aspect of the fucking thing into something pleasing. Boogedy-bee.

The One Where I Felt Pretty Good and Typed Before I Sat

02/18/2006 10:32 AM – 10:52 AM

Trying something new, typing before zazen. Zazen has this way of making everything seem the same “silence.” There is just as much to see on a blank page as there is on a written page. Which is excellent, unless you want to type something that is a story with plot and intricacies. So. Let’s see how this goes. No lyricisms perhaps. Perhaps so.

If I had a roshi, this would be a good question to ask. But Buddha didn’t have a roshi, just a tree and time to sit. Do I want to achieve enlightenment? I got into this for the purpose of ending personal suffering. I got into this for the practice of focusing. What is it that I’m questioning about my zazen? The Buddha left is family and kingdom to go off into the woods of the aesthetics to learn a way past suffering. There are no woods for aesthetics anymore. Perhaps it’s better this way. One must carry the burden of the weight of existing and solve the dilemma of the suffering inherent in the weight he carries. Still, I’m looking forward to a good sit today. Two hours from now.

So. There it is. Here we are. I’m just typing. Looking around, not seeing the Buddha nature of everything. Or maybe I am. I’m not depressed or in terror of death today. It’s a beautiful day out on Elmwood strip. Woke up to heavy, woodland snow falling. The snow stopped about an hour ago and the sun came out. The snow lying over everything hasn’t yet worn down to dirt. Sunday morning winter scene. Even if it is a Saturday. I’m listening to a Django Reinhardt CD that I got out of the library. He’s as good as Woody Allen said. There is something beautiful about those old recording, their fuzzy uncrisp playback. Recording it to digital almost emphasizes it. Somehow the fuzziness makes it seem more real. But this is just this and that. I’m alright and looking forward to hammering on a plot for a couple of hours. Somehow, writing fiction must be able to mesh with hard zazen. Somehow, fantasy improves us. Daydreams make us better. I don’t quite get how this works with the Zen dictum to embrace reality. I suppose fantasy is a part of the reality of being human. But part of zazen is loosing ties to the illusions of humanity. It’s coming down to the rocks and bones of being a creature of six senses. Somehow, it all works. This’ll do for today. Maybe I’ll do work now. Boogady-boogy.

The One With Zazen and Snowflakes

02/17/2006 9:19 AM – 9:48 AM

What is zazen? Everything is zazen, only zazen is zazen. There are no contradictions only stubbornness of perspective. Zazen is the simplest and hardest game ever conceived. Sit and think only of this one moment. This one. This one. This one. In its entirety, this moment. What do you see, what do you hear, what do you touch, what do you smell, what do you taste, what are you thinking? Now think only of one thing, for as long as you can. Think of your breath. How does it feel, passing through your nose, touching the back of your throat, expanding your belly and your chest?

Think of only this one thing. Think only of this moment. Think of nothing. Think of everything. Think of the ones reading. Think of the ones not reading. Think of the typing. Think of the sensations of finger striking keys. Think of going and slowing and speeding. Don’t try to make sense of it. It’s only a game of utter gameness.

Why start? Why stop? Why time at all? Why a single progression? Why can’t we see the minds of others as we can see the skin of their faces? Where? Nothing. Stop. Breathe. One. Two. Three. Count them. Only you exist. All things exist and you are so small as to be completely neglectable. This is the being meditation. What is proof? What validates the assertion that existence exists? No thought. No proof. No care. Only this. There is a story to tell. The story meditation. What is the pale? No connection. The scattering of quanta, emerging from nothing to collide with other quanta that are emerging from nothing before they drop back to nothing. Nevertheless.

Here you are. Watch the snow fall. Don’t give a fuck if you can’t figure it out. It’s enough to be. Play with things. The finger that was cut off was cut off because it was raised as an imitation, but both are just fingers, pointing to the moon. Look. Look. There is the snow swirling as it did on that Thanksgiving in the old farmhouse in Addison. There is true existence. Bleak and cold, slightly afraid, and yet contented with a belly full of turkey and the possibility of discovering something that the grown-ups didn’t want us to discover. Watch the snow blow by the window. Move your legs to let the blood flow. There’s only this. The flicker. The flash. The click-clack whir of the movie projector. Sit and watch the show. What is going through the snowflakes mind as it crashes into the window and, clinging, melts? When you discover the mind of the mindless thing, you’ve found the state without fear. I’m awake now. I awake and moving. I'm clenching my jaw and fighting the super-villains. I’m the fucking hero. I’m the king of existence. I’m fucking snowflake, fearlessly crashing into the window, giving up its individuality. How long before we melt? Only this and then it’s gone. Grab the moment then let the fucker go. Now there is love. Now there is me. Baby, now there’s you.

On Embracing Our Dual Nature

02/15/2006 5:11AM-5:32AM

There is something in a wall that does not love a wall. There is a corollary that I’m looking for, something that gives reason for action, something difficult/easy, something Zen. Perhaps this: you cannot deny the presence of the moment. It is a solid state. The past is gone, the future is unfixed, there is only this, this, this. But there is that which cannot be denied, the past was, the future will be, this is gone, gone, gone.

Why compassion? Why compassion even for self? If the solid world, ruled by Newton and Einstein is illusory, why care about it? Why take notice of it? Why did I have to get up off my ass and look for a second job in order to feel better? Why is it simplicity and not nothing? Why the middle way? Because the body and spirit are one. Though one lessens one’s dependence on the desires of the flesh, the flesh remains. The flesh is good; it is the searching to satisfy the desires of the flesh that are endless. Desires are good it is being ruled by them that leads to suffering.

Being lost in the moment when inhalation turns to exhalation is to be lost in a true thing. All of existence is a collection of such moments. To deny the past or the future is to lie. I dreamed that the Blond loved me last night. Compassion, not passion. There was something perfect in that. The sheet has come down, the voice has said, “take and eat.” All is made righteous. All is made holy. This very fuck is holy. Do not dwell on sin, that is the old way. The old way didn’t work. The curtain is torn; the holy has embraced creation once again. I believe, Lord, help my unbelief. Pick it up and start again. Sin is squandering this chance for perceiving the rejoicing of this very moment. Sin is non- compassionate response to the joy of the moment. Perhaps that is the moment. Perhaps that is the truth. Doesn’t matter. Neglecting the mind leads to bad zazen. Neglecting the zazen leads to impotence in the face of naked joy. Nice rack. It’s all holy. Pick it up and move on again.

The Fantasy of $700

We are moist machines – emotional minerals that move about.

If being raised fundamentalist charismatic has taught me nothing else, it is that one has the ability to create an internal emotional state that has no actual external cause. I did actually feel the “presence of God” in those Praise and Worship services, not because God was actually present (technically, I believed that God was always “present,” still do, if in a different way), but because I endowed the service with emotional potency. I can recreate that feeling of “the presence” at any time now, if I can focus my mind on it, without attributing that feeling to anything other than the wish to feel it. The praise and worship service is just an “icon,” if we use the Orthodox Church’s metaphor, a “single-point” if we use a Buddhist metaphor. Perhaps we are graced with an encounter of some mystical state outside of the realm of external senses; perhaps we tap into some internal mystical state that anyone can reach with the right amount of desire and focus. We can’t really know. A small electrical shock to the right part of the brain can be indistinguishable from an experience of falling from a tall building, and that’s only playing with the mechanics of the machine. Who knows what a powerful, if undetected, ghost is capable of? I have spent too much of my life in fantasy. Not the good kind, where one learns, but the other kind that merely distracts. I have endowed all of my fantasies with a potency that is quite beyond the grasp of mere reality. The She, God, the Cottage, Life without the Burden of Another Man’s Watch – all of these, possible or impossible, are just emotional fantasies to sink into when the drabness of mere reality overwhelms. I overslept today. I was supposed to wake up at 6, shower and find a job. I need to raise at least $700 dollars by the end of April. Will it be possible? Yes. Will it be easy? No. And so I sit here typing, knowing full well that what I am doing is something that should be done, but should have been done around 6 hours ago. The problem arises from knowing that what I crave is not material but emotional. I don’t really want my own place. I don’t even really want my cottage, my she, my god. I want the emotional experience that my fantasy of these things give me, and if I can find that with a little desire and focusing of the mind, why bother with the hard work of attaining the mere fact when it will be a shabby bit of rubbish compared to the fantasy of it? Why? Because no one wants joy to be a fraud. According to St. Anselm, God is “something greater than which cannot be thought.” But if I have emotion that wells up from focusing on the greatest thought, what need do I have of God? The problem arises from the fact that I am not able to concede that God is nothing more than the emotion that arises from contemplating “something greater than which cannot be thought.” Why? That is the second part of Anselm’s proof: “that which exists is greater than that which does not exist.” That, of course, is my problem with the ontological argument. Why is that which exists greater than that which does not exist? In my experience, that which does not exist is often greater than that which does exist. But. But I always hope that that which does not exist will someday prove to exist. We can’t help it. For some reason, we value that which does exist greater than we value that which does not exist. Would I gain that emotional high from contemplating my Cottage, my She, my God, if I thought it impossible for them to exist? No. I wouldn’t. The fantasy has no power if we don’t think that it is, in some way, possible. Unfortunately, my fantasy of personal damnation has just as much data as my fantasy of universal salvation – none, and both have great emotional potency. Honestly though, in reality, I’ve chosen this moment to worry about it to avoid worrying about $700. If I had the $700 in hand at the moment, I’d be playing Super Mario 64. Maybe there’s hope for me yet. I’m collecting data from the “sixth” sense – the mind. Fuck it. Into Your hands I commit my immortal soul. My ass is going out to find a job. Existence exists without permission. On this plane of existence, God helps those who help themselves. Fantasy is for those with enough savings in the bank to sit around and worry.

On Man's Epistemic Ontology

02/13/2006 8:08 AM-8:31 AM

When either reaction is viable, choose to enjoy it. Either reaction is always viable. Practice noticing. What meaning is inherent to life? Is there one? There are two layers that must be dealt with (dualism rises again). There is that meaning that God intends and that meaning that we discover (or invent). Is there any guarantee that these two coincide? No. We cannot know God’s thoughts, even in Scripture. We pull the meaning from Scripture as surely as we do from experience. All I’m saying is, when you can, pull a better meaning from the data of this limited telescope.

Meaningfulness of meaningfulnesses, all is meaningful. Go to the way of the corpse – consider her ways and be wise – having no mind, she sleeps without tossing and turning. Having mind, go thou and do likewise. Slow down to the speed of contentment. Rejoice in all things, having no knowledge of what, if anything, lies beyond the house of the dead. Does the tree worry? No, it has no sin and no mind. And yet Christ died that all creation might be redeemed. Why did St. Francis preach to the birds if the birds are free of sin? Because he was nuts. God grant me that hard science.

Why climb the mountains if the joy can be found in falling into the valley stream? Why not? It’s something to do. And this I have found: what does a man require to be happy? – To have a sedative in the evening and coffee in the morning, and work during the day that keeps his mind from the fear of damnation. Focus on a single point and don’t let it go for as long as you can. Then walk and see the meaning in the arch of your foot. Again and again and again. When the sadness comes, be thankful until the thought passes. When a man fears death, he has found his epistemic ontology. When a man rejoices in his fear, he has no master. Walk me now to the shallow streams where the crayfish scuttle under rocks and hide for games with glass jars and water hoses. We walk from here to here. If we can, we walk from joy to joy. Do not worry if you drop it. It won’t break for long. Then pick it up and keep walking. I am not my own. I am mine. The thin lifeline is enough. Our scanty knowledge will do. If Christ is Christ, God planned it thus and has a reason for the darkness beyond the house of the dead. If Christ is not Christ, what has it cost me to pretend otherwise? Perhaps Allah will send me to that place in hell reserved for the unbelieving children of the book. So be it then. If God will not grant man peace, then man must grant it to himself. Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me a sinner. The pilgrim says this with each step and finds himself in paradise already. So be it. So be it. So be it.

Got?

On Achieving Perfectamundo

02/10/2006 9:43 AM-10:20 AM

There’s that light in the clouds. Unseen, but there, reflecting back onto it self. Where were we? The trees, a single branch requires years of study. We have years, and if we don’t we can pretend. There is this. This is just fingers pressing down on small pieces of plastic.

When slowed down, it all becomes meaningful. The substance of the argument is this: the data is just data. We can attach any meaning to it that we choose. The idea of the splitapart is true, but we cannot find our soulmate anywhere else but in our soul. The gods of Olympus threw in one final trick: after they had cut us in half, they told us that we would find our full self only when we found our She. They lied. The true She is in the bottom of our soul. What is your wife? She is your lover and your friend. She will not make you whole. Neither will Jesus. Nor science. Nor philosophy. Nor art. You are whole. You are the serpent that eats its tale to make its head. You must find the impossible path. You found it a long time ago.

Walk with me, Girl of My Dreams. I’m only a figment of your mind. There is only this. This. This. This. The fullness of the thing can only be tasted if you chew each bite ten thousand times. This is only a reminder of existing. This is only typing. Existence holds the meaning that we imbue it with. We breathe the breath into our lungs. Count them: one, two, three… This is you. Fret over nothing. There’s nothing to fret over. Slow down to the level of bliss. Heaven is unattainable if you bring hell with you. Who knows if you can bring heaven to hell. But this is not hell. This is not death. And if it is, what do you care? Stop. Just stop. Settle down. Slow to the speed of water in the frozen river. You are here. You create your enjoyment of existence. Slow down and taste the splitapart in the reflection of clouds on snow. There is no sadness unless you imbue the experience with sadness. Perfectamundo can be found in the Other Man’s Watch as well as it is in the cottage by the water. But, laughing, move as close to the cottage as you wish. Move from the calm. Stretch out with you ears and eyes until you can think your own thoughts. You exist within the confines of an invisible box. Eat the walls until nothing remains but this very moment. The experience of being in love is available without the experience of being in love. Break my arms around the one I love. You cannot love her without being able to love her without knowing who she is. She cannot love you without your experiencing the love she does not feel for you. There is only this. Just this. This. This. This. Surprise. The pure skeptic was wrong/right, the ground will hold you if you stand on your own two feet.

Milla

Just mu

02/09/2006 9:11 AM-9:37 AM

Odd experience yesterday. I walked into the library to start my shift. A man had collapsed at the exit. They called the paramedics and I realized that I was watching a man with a close view of his own death. The fear came and I thought the worst thought. As this man goes, so go I. I will die and I cannot know what comes after. There is a chance of hell.

With this thought, came the accompanying emotions: terror and anger. They stayed with me even after they carried the man away in a stretcher. They lingered and suffused me. I hated life. But I was terrified of death. Better to never have been born. Koholeth speaking again, in my voice. After an hour or so of this, I remembered my zazen. I remembered my own sutra: emotions float through, like thoughts. Look at them, acknowledge them, greet them, but then go on your way again. “Enough,” I said, like the lover of Kira Knightly in ‘Love Actually,’ “enough.” Emotions are facts to be acknowledged and then released. To hold onto any emotion past its time is to let it rot. Whether that emotion be pleasant or painful.

So there it is. What they told us in kindergarten was true, but you have to find your own way to say it or it makes no sense – just another stupid and cruel admonishment in the long line of stupid and cruel admonishments that they handed out like medals at the Special Olympics. Vanity of vanities, all is vanity. You’re here, right now. Emotions flit through like sensations of bumps on a wall as you drag your fingers across them. To be pointlessly pessimistic is just as shallow as being pointlessly optimistic. Find the limits of knowing and then discover all you can about the inside of the box. There are some walls that simply won’t move. Pick up you BB gun and go out into the fog, hunting for the divine in sleeping ironwood and invisible birds. All is transient here. Even transcendence. We consist of moist mathematical equations. The lines are still there, just smaller. Complexity is merely a large number of simplicities, all piled together. I remembered the thing that came after the first time I found the worst thought, before I fell asleep. Zazen is death that you come back from. Zazen is not peace, though it can be a conduit to it. Zazen is stillness. Zazen is ma. Zazen is mu. Zazen is the words that continue after you stop reading. Enlightenment is enlightenment in the laundry basket. I came as a rat. I came as whore. I came as the child I was before. Just pick it up, greet it, put it down, and go on your way.

Person and/or Thing of the Year

Blame the trees

02/08/2006 9:50 AM-10:12 AM

How far away am I? A thousand billion miles. The beauty of cynicism is its absolute lack of emotional depth. Am I skeered yet? Yes, but not in any honest way. The end of science is followed by what? What’s the new paradigm, the new standard of truth? Same old shit. That’ll do. We learn more and discover that we still can’t see what’s outside the box. The obvious answers will do.

At the heart of deep depth is shallowness. Stop and then go deeper. The pressure builds until you find once again – the pop stars were right. The crooners were right all along. Stop at being that first level of shallow – you won’t cut yourself as much. Smack ‘em up? No. Let ‘em be. Completely. They have nothing to do with you. We’re still learning to connect. The big lies of politics and sociology are nothing compared to the little lies of true science. The frog consists of molecules. The molecules consist of particles. The particles consist of probabilities. The probabilities consist of frogs. Remember that the useful illusion is better than the useless Truth.

That’s a nice hat you’ve got. I’d like one. Where did you get it? Of course I won’t wear it at any party that you’re attending. The ball of twine is wrapped around a knot of symbols. It’s symbols all the way down. There is nothing to be signified. Ha and go bullshit. Here and go bragh. Ass and titties. Titties and ass. Ass, ass, titties, titties. Titties and ass. We are who were when we were zygotes but with more data. The mechanistic interpretation is the most useful until you get to the questions of ethics. I would have punched the son of a bitch. Get me out of this goddamn city. It’s full of lies. I mean people. That was a slip. Give ‘em the slip and say, “sorry, I didn’t realize that this was your wife’s.” And by ‘wife’s’ I mean ‘your’s.’ Won’t be sticking my pen in that inkwell again without a good story to write. Once upon a time, it was exactly like this. The End. When you sell the beans to buy the cow, you get duped by a simpleton. Haha. The universe is like that. Fuck it. It’s just another way to eat. When we looked down, we saw the abyss. The abyss is just the anus of the Demiurge. You should see what his maw looks like. Excellent orthodontic work. You gotta wonder who his specialist was. Hmm, it looks like the end of man is a butt. That’s gotta stink. Stupid trees.

Futura