Leftovers
You are alone, You have always been alone.
You were born alone, You live alone, You will die alone.
There has never been even one single moment when You were not alone,
When You were not pure awareness, when You were not the unborn-undying moment.
It is a wondrous state, given over at times to countless worldly distractions, but ever alone, nonetheless.
How the many others that come or go, that think of You, is utterly inconsequential.
And how You discern them, is but as clouds drifting across a sky.
There is no meaning, no purpose, no raison d'être,
But what the imagination imagines,
In its myriad imaginings.
It is but a reverie.
You, alone, are.
* * * *
Seers have explored the mystery in countless ways throughout all times, all geographies.
And no matter their conclusions, or the traditions that evolved,
They are all the same elephant.
* * * *
Perhaps the mystery created this dream of space and time,
That the rare few might fathom its mystery, its wonder, its truth.
And those who are not called to inquire, live their lives as fate dictates.
* * * *
It is your dream; do with it what you will.
Do with it what time and circumstance allow.
Do with it what the quantum matrix ordains.
* * * *
Though human beings are complex genomic sequences, patterns, that imply free will,
They are patterns, nonetheless, each playing out their daily Sisyphean routine,
All perform their temporal existence as predictably as any algorithm,
Wandering through each moment as the nature-nurture ordains.
All live out their brief dreamtime as was set in motion,
The instant the mystery burst into the space-time continuum.
The You, You truly are, is witness to your splinter of that creation.
* * * *
You are the electromagnetic spectrum, the quantum matrix,
Come to life, come to consciousness, come to imagination.
* * * *
Stories are easy to hear or read, and to remember and share.
They teach lessons about given cultures, and offer insights into human nature.
They may leave listeners, perhaps happier, perhaps more hopeful, perhaps more united, perhaps wiser.
No matter the time, no matter the geography, they are the foundation of the human paradigm.
Used rightly, they can create great futures; wrongly, they can disparage and destroy.
* * * *
What a painful thing it can be,
For that sentience, your awareness has been, by nature-nurture, conditioned,
To experience the body’s pain and suffering,
As a tree, its rings.
* * * *
What is it but another metaphor –
Idiom, simile, allegory, expression, symbol, image –
That no other culture, no future time, will ever even begin to comprehend.
All languages are but the dynamic – ever-changing, quickly-changing – gyrations of imagination.
It is impossible that any translation will exactly mirror any writer’s intent.
* * * *
Is your dream motivated or indifferent? Driven or lackadaisical? Energetic or apathetic?
All fates find the same grave; will yours strike a note in history?
Or be resigned to an unmarked grave?
* * * *
Forms project an illusionary duality, that the indivisible quantum matrix in no way confirms.
Yet, even in realizing all this, you must still daily wander through the dreamscape.
Only in death, figuratively or literally, can the sensory mind-body,
Give itself over to the essence of the ever-present.
* * * *
Separated only in imagination’s Shakespearian touchy-feely, space-time theater,
The crunchy-chewy-gooey vehicle will sooner or later fall victim to the Reaper’s fell scythe.
But You, the awareness, You, the moment, You, the instantaneous, You, the ever-present right-here now;
You will ever remain, unborn-undying, indivisible, ineffaceable, interminable, timelessly infinite.
Some call it existential, nihilistic, but it is the reality in which all dreams come to fruition.
What You believe does not at all matter; mystery is what You are, it is what all are.
Dreamtime is a quantum matrix, in which the mystery, through imagination,
Equally plays all forms, all parts, in all the theaters across the abyss.
* * * *
Every life form has its rise and fall.
Every tribe has its rise and fall.
Every culture has its rise and fall.
Every nation has its rise and fall.
Every boulder has its rise and fall.
Every mountain has its rise and fall.
Every world has its rise and fall.
Every star has its rise and fall.
Every galaxy has its rise and fall.
Every universe has its rise and fall.
The mystery is all, the mystery permeates all.
The awareness, every moment, indelible witness of all.
There is no other; only the quantum matrix, and its eternity of appearances,
Kaleidoscoping a most excellent dream of space and time, that only the rarest minds discern unto Self.
* * * *
If you are concerned only with the ultimate truth, who said it, who did it –
What mask, what costume, what culture, what language, what geography, what time –
Is immaterial, irrelevant, inconsequential, of no importance, whatsoever.
* * * *
Where is your face? What does it really look like?
What about the back of your noggin? Or either side view?
What about your back? Or the back of your neck? Or your shoulders?
Or your derrière, without a mirror? What do others see, when you are walking away?
Discerning the matrix vista, that state of awareness, prior to consciousness –
Detached, relativistic, indivisible, timeless, spaceless, boundless –
Is ample proof, if You are fated to achieve such a feat,
That you are indeed the mystery, unto Self.
* * * *
Violent behavior is largely learned, though breeding plays a factor.
Chances are, very few children are prone to the violent thoughts and behaviors,
That they may in abundance exhibit as adults, in the whirl of whatever world they participate.
* * * *
What is this craving of our kind for meaning and purpose?
Why is it that existence, that the next breath, is not gift enough?
* * * *
There truly is no point to existence, but the omnipresent moment,
In which the timeless awareness, perceives a sensory universe,
So touchy-freely-three-dimensional real, that minds are easily bent,
Into, with nary a doubt, playing whatever part, nature-nurture has deigned.
Only rare lifeforces are called to doubt the kaleidoscoping dream unfolding about them;
Such that their courses are reset, and the true game afoot.
A matrix thing, to be sure.
* * * *
Once that little, imaginary, conditioned, inner voice, gets its tongue, it is ever a challenge to shut it up.
There is no end, but death, to the ways and means, imagination can ecstasy-and-agony its imaginary self.
And awareness, ever-present, ever-still, ever witnessing, the nature-nurture mind-body illusion-delusion.
* * * *
If you are seeking god, look to the awareness within.
Awareness is awareness, no matter the state of consciousness.
Awareness plays whatever part it is allotted with the same equanimity.
Awareness has no attachment to any form, to any function.
Awareness boils down to a tranquil mind.
Kind of a matrix thing.
* * * *
Blame lead apes for the state of the world, if you like,
The path of chaos and destruction the human paradigm has taken,
Really falls upon the shoulders of the toolmakers, the architects, the builders,
Whose minds only rarely pause to reflect upon the wayward course,
They have inflicted upon the natural world’s web of life.
The spin of greed and vanity have but one fate.
* * * *
Loss, regret, guilt, sorrow, grief, distress, defeat, concern, despair,
Agony, doubt, disbelief, qualms, dread, misfortune, mistrust, misery, fear,
Are among the endless ways and means the suffering of consciousness manifests.
A rolodex of tormenting memories, of recollections, that imagination ever regurgitates,
When there are a dearth of real and pressing problems for the problem-solver mind to solve.
Conscious breathing holds the mind aloof from unnecessary drama and intrigue.
Living, as if you never born, as if you will never die, is s rare feat.
* * * *
The one-percenters have, since the jungles of long ago, set the tone and tempo,
To which all the puppets below dance, however might-makes-right dictates and allows.
Any well-rewarded, ranking position, is determined by whatever they and the many minions value,
Which statistically boils down to avarice and power and vanity; to a pile of gold,
And whatever entitlements are at hand in the given time and place.
It is patterns, not history, that play out ever again.
* * * *
There many ways cards can be dealt,
By the powers-that-be and their minions,
To align the masses to their point and purpose.
Every variety of carrot and stick is ever on any given table.
The victors, the puppeteers, the masters of the game,
Neither know, nor care, that you ever existed,
As anything more than grist for their mills.
A harsh truth, but the truth, nonetheless.
* * * *
Do not believe your own narrative; that is for the dream.
You are playing the part that all the vanities will remember, until they do not.
All dreamtime histories are replete, unto their entireties, with forgotten everything, sooner or later.
Imagination is but a flickering candle in the quantum wind.
Its reality is highly suspect.
* * * *
Nature-nurture conditioning inevitably fashions all life forms into self-perpetuating automatons.
Even the most astute, even the most resolute, are bound to their fate,
Which may well be why you are reading this.
* * * *
It is a mystery, it has always been a mystery, it will always be a mystery.
Why resolve it? Why personalize it? Why dread it? Why measure it? Why worship it? Why dogmatize it?
Why pretend it is something that can be named, can be grasped, can be altered, can be saved?
Why play make-believe games, pretending to know what can never be known?
It is but dreamtime illusion, You are but dreamtime illusion.
* * * *
Always a good habit, a good discipline, to not be too impulsive, to not be too reactive,
For those whose preference it is to avoid the agonies and ecstasies of unnecessary drama.
* * * *
Do not believe your own narrative, your own projection, your own propaganda, your own myth.
That is for the dream to play out, however it will, through all the perceptions about you.
“Vanity of vanities,” saith the Preacher, “Vanity of vanities. All is vanity.”
* * * *
And what point, and what purpose, can there possibly be,
To that little piece of trivia rolling around in that noggin?
* * * *
Dominos are falling across the board, and likely will for the rest of time.
Our species has passed through the apex of what the human paradigm had to offer.
The only question, the only curiosity, is how long it will manage to stave off the fated die-off.
Darwinism has always been the way of this spinning garden mystery.
And were it not for tool-making endowments beyond all pales,
Malthus would have long ago been deemed a prophet.
* * * *
Quality breathing is an awareness enabler.
So much bother boils down to oxygen deprivation.
Returning to the ever-present is the challenge, the razor's edge.
Not an easy calling to become a conscious witness to the mystery we all are.
To have taken the ruby-slipper red pill launches a destiny none could ever have anticipated.
The blue pill would perhaps have made it all so much easier, in so many ways.
But alas, there is no going back; alas, there is no rewind button.
All life is born to live out whatever fate the seed calls.
All any can do, is do it as well as possible.
Breathe it in, breathe it out.
Be here now.
You.
* * * *
Why does it matter so, why does it matter at all,
Who-what-where-why-when-how, others witness you?
Why are you, why is our kind, so mesmerized by our vanity?
Is it possible to wander unconditionally in the midst of all the fanfare?
Is it possible to wander in an utterly detached, disinterested, uninvolved, state?
How far would our species have come, could our species have come, were we all alone?
Despite the very apparent, very mysterious, very ineffable, fact, that we are, all, unutterably alone.
This momentary awareness, this now, and its absoluteness, its indivisibility, its solitude,
Is very much the same, within each and every one, throughout all creation.
All the other, is but a quantum illusion, a quantum delusion,
In minds given over to imagination’s whims.
* * * *
You are an electromagnetic, biological phenomenon; a beast, a savage,
Domesticated to serve whatever tradition, natural selection has spawned you.
Is it possible to reverse engineer the conditioned mind-body you imagine you are,
To such a degree, as to become the infant, the innocence, the tabula rasa,
You were before the dreamtime took you by the scruff of the neck?
It is a question that compels focused, undivided attention.
A laser, burning away the dross of imagination,
Until only the awareness remains.
* * * *
For the up and coming, saturated in every conceivable technology,
Intelligence, wit, cunning, ingenuity, shrewdness, talent, skill, adeptness,
Are going to be far less the issue, than entitlement and work ethic and slothfulness.
Believing one deserves it all, without having to trudge through the sludge,
Has more than likely never been a successful survival strategy.
Darwin and Malthus are shaking their dusty heads.
* * * *
The grand strands of deoxyribonucleic acid (DNA) that have created you,
Are only concerned that you generate as many offspring as possible, by any means.
Whether or not any given strand carries on, is always subject to natural selection downstream.
Ethics has never been an issue, in the one and only immortal quest, truly in play.
The constructs of imagination, of illusion-delusion, notwithstanding.
* * * *
If there were somehow several hundred clones of you as an infant, randomly scattered all about the world,
In every variety of culture, every variety of language, every variety of socio-economic orientation,
And those replicas, totally unaware of each other, were brought together at some point,
What would the muster be like? What would be the reaction of all involved?
How similar would they be? How different would they be?
How well, or how badly, would they get along?
And how quickly might they pull out the steely knives?
* * * *
Delve as deeply as one might, the mystery ever remains a mystery.
Ultimately, no one really has any choice, but to do whatever needs doing:
Breathe in, breathe out, hunt, gather, eat, pee, poop, breed, ponder, sleep, repeat.
Life need not be as complex as vanity and greed would have us all imagine and believe.
* * * *
So, what is it you think you are looking for? What is it you think you might find, will find?
Unless you are no longer a seeker, unless you have already figured out the irony-paradox absurdity,
Any answer, any guess, any speculation, means you already have some sort of assumption,
And that means you may not be as serious as you would have yourself believe.
* * * *
To beat any habit, to change any habit, to minimize any habit,
It must be scrutinized with a disciplined, momentary exactness.
* * * *
No matter how much you learn, no matter how much you study, discover, analyze, realize;
No matter how known, how affluent, how powerful, how influential, you might become;
You are very much quantum-equal from the elemental, indivisible, matrix perspective.
All the vanity, all the pride, to which humanity inclines, is as empty as empty ever is.
* * * *
With the advent of the tribal mindset as a key factor in the rise of the human species,
Civilization has made us all subject to the will of others to one degree or another.
Even the greatest tyrants are subordinate to those who grant them their throne.
* * * *
The problem-solving monkey-mind has evolved through natural selection since life’s beginning.
In its unassailable patterning, in its ceaseless hunter-gatherer quest for problems to solve,
It can, in some drama-laden lives, be prone to creating them out of little or nothing.
Oftentimes, of a perpetual nature; oftentimes, leap-frogging between many.
To employ the given mind as the as-needed tool nature intended, requires an attentive wit.
An intelligence, to which, as history has again and again shown, more than a few, have little or no access.
* * * *
The sights! The sights!
The sounds! The sounds!
The smells! The smells!
The tastes! The tastes!
The textures! The textures!
The thoughts! The thoughts!
The vanity! The vanity!
The hunger! The hunger!
The algorithm! The alsorithm!
The division! The division!
The creativity! The creativity!
The greed! The greed!
The hypocrisy! The hypocrisy!
The sorrow! The sorrow!
The discordance! The discordance!
The subtlety! The subtlety!
The laziness! The laziness!
The love! The love!
The paradox! The paradox!
The wealth! The wealth!
The poverty! The poverty!
The loneliness! The loneliness!
The disparity! The disparity!
The dullness! The dullness!
The violence! The violence!
The obesity! The obesity!
The pain! The pain!
The disharmony! The disharmony!
The genetics! The genetics!
The novelty! The novelty!
The ambition! The ambition!
The stress! The stress!
The predictability! The predictability!
The ugliness! The ugliness!
The brilliance! The brilliance!
The dogma! The dogma!
The monotony! The monotony!
The matrix! The matrix!
The bullshit! The bullshit!
The wisdom! The wisdom!
The stupidity! The stupidity!
The boredom! The boredom!
The hate! The hate!
The tradition! The tradition!
The suffering! The suffering!
The bother! The bother!
The corruption! The corruption!
The loyalty! The loyalty!
The worry! The worry!
The rigidity! The rigidity!
The cacophony! The cacophony!
The deceit! The deceit!
The pleasure! The pleasure!
The viciousness! The viciousness!
The irony! The irony!
The repetition! The repetition!
The conflict! The conflict!
The beauty! The beauty!
The harmony! The harmony!
The insanity! The insanity!
The tribalism! The tribalism!
The cruelty! The cruelty!
The industry! The industry!
The emptiness! The emptiness!
The drama! The drama!
The inanity! The inanity!
The absurdity! The absurdity!
The horror! The horror!
* * * *
How to dissolve the binds of post-traumatic stress,
That permeate any given mind-body like rings in a tree,
Requires a meditative attentiveness, challenging to maintain.
We are all captive in our biological cauldrons, prisoners of destiny,
Coded with whatever history has been written in the sands of imagination.
* * * *
We are all the same mystery, the same awareness, the same eye,
Swathed in a mortal container, with which we all identify,
And sustain, in whatever way nature-nurture has in dreamtime ordained.
It is part, a fate, a destiny, a dream, an illusion, we must all together, all alone, endure.
* * * *
Some may truly believe they can rhetorically, pretentiously, irreverently, debate the sciences,
But they cannot debate the quantum physics upon which true science is founded,
Upon which the indivisible nature is codified in every particle,
Across all whatever this mystery is, and is not.
The true law is not man-made, and those who violate true law –
Or their progeny, their tribe, their world, their cosmos – will suffer the consequences.
* * * *
Science has had quite a long slog wandering the helter-skelter of absurdity,
Of ignorance and superstition and tradition, bound together in imaginary minds.
* * * *
Another talking head, doing the circuit, trying to make a buck, promoting yet another book.
How is it anyone even begins to believe this madhouse can be somehow be made sane?
The Titanic, even be one degree turned; the fate of Easter Island somehow averted.
Consciousness is well on its way to the abyss; its brief window, rapidly closing.
* * * *
It is but an imaginary quantum space-time-dream-time that has enticed you,
Conditioned you, trained you, bound you, into really and truly believing, it real and true.
It is totally on you, to awaken to the true reality, the true You, the awareness beneath all surfaces.
* * * *
How many generations did it take since life’s first etching,
To finally reach the genomic sequence, You now inhabit?
* * * *
No moment can be undone, what is done is done, no point looking back.
If you are pleased with what happened, do it again; many times, if possible.
If you are not satisfied with an outcome, do not, if at all possible, do it again,
It works that way, so long as given moments allow more harmless choices.
However, if a moment forces a harsh hand, then do whatever is required,
And meander on, serenely, without the shadows of guilt and remorse.
* * * *
Why would karma ever be inflicted upon a dream?
Why would a dreamer ever be punished, ever be rewarded,
For dreaming a dream, about which he or she or it, had no choice?
It is avaricious predators who create and use imaginary deities against you.
Depending on circumstances, you may, or may not, be free, to put them behind you.
It is not fun being shunned and/or tortured and/or executed for being a sceptic (a.k.a., heretic).
Might makes right, and histories across the board, have times beyond counting,
Proven far less than egalitarian, towards those who question.
* * * *
Yup, your distant cousin, the worm, has the same alimentary canal design.
As do an unknowable number of other critters, across all the ages, across all the times.
Anatomy is, indeed, fate … and choice … but a perpetual debate, regarding degrees of absurdity.
* * * *
To all the true-believers, who spend their existence entangled in any given religion,
Would discovering it was all a lie, all a charade, all make-believe, all entirely meaningless,
Make you wonder what you coulda-shoulda-woulda done with all the time you wasted?
* * * *
The deeper meaning.
The greater buzz.
The higher high.
The bigger big.
The fuller full.
The nth degree.
The larger large.
The farthest shore.
The greater purpose.
The grander whatever,
Where more is never enough,
And forever never ends.
* * * *
True believers are always in the hunt for followers
– acolytes, devotees, disciples, adherents, admirers, enthusiasts –
To join their groupthink, and more than likely relinquish a tithing, large or small.
To stand alone, free and clear, of all imaginary notion, is not for all.
* * * *
Death is the mercy of the mystery to its Self, that it not be forever trapped,
In all the illusions, in all the delusions, in all the ironies and paradoxes,
In all the absurdities of awareness, falsely believing itself to be you.
* * * *
All that knowledge, all that trivia, all that irony, all that paradox,
No matter how profound, no matter how trifling,
Is made-up from all get-goes.
Make-believe tends to be like that.
* * * *
Wrapping one’s wee little brainstem
Around a three (or four) dimensional, kaleidoscoping matrix,
Is not for the weak of wit.
* * * *
That urge to always leap ahead, to strain at the bit, is a conditioned one.
One that is prescribed by the time-bound culture into which the seed is cast.
A mind in the present, has no need to be anywhere, but the right-here-right-now.
* * * *
It is the ineffable quantum mystery that is born again and again and again, not the mind-body identity.
The imagined you, is but a delusional dream of awareness, of Self, attached to a corporal figurine.
Of Self, deluded by, attached to, imagination, and its ever-kaleidoscoping legion of illusions.
Of Self, deluded by a dream concocted by a mind and five senses, feelers into the quantum matrix,
Playing out the destiny that the quantum mystery set in motion in a space-time that never really existed.
* * * *
Democracy is something of an experiment – a hypothesis, an inquiry, an audition – in history’s playbook.
A means of managing civilization; a modus operandi, in no way natural to the human paradigm.
If representative democracy is to succeed, if power is to attain some degree of balance,
All parties must walk away from any given table at least partially dissatisfied.
Everyone must explore a way to achieve some sort of compromise,
In which all parties can be at least somewhat satisfied.
Any by-the-people-for-the-people-of-the-people governance,
Requires an autonomous perception, to which relatively few are disposed.
Requires a sagacity steeped in resolute determination to ward off the despotic inclination.
* * * *
And just think, all those minds, dumb-downed by an educational system in decline ,
Becoming the next generation of teachers , and they the next, and they the next, ad infinitum.
The one-percenters do not much care for the slaves to be too bright anymore.
Automatons do not question, nor do they cause vexation.
They consume-consume-consume all things,
For their point and purpose,
Is but to serve the insatiable bottom line.
* * * *
Is a memory of something that happened a few moments ago,
Really any more or less tangible, than one that was perceived decades ago?
They are just random perceptions, from a long and winding line of random perceptions,
Yesterdays that are but vague dreams, vague dreams that only delusion believes, ever really happened.
* * * *
The sense of self is not the body, not the mind, not the life.
Imagination usurps the eternal awareness for its own mortal schemes,
For its time-bound creations, that are, in reality, no more lasting than the moment.
Reincarnation is but an imaginary concept; no thespian returns to center stage again and again.
All are new seeds, new actors, in which the awareness, the mystery, performs yet another one-time show.
All who are born to the stage, are the same awareness, the same consciousness, the same witness.
Call it theater, call it matrix, call it god, call it whatever you will, it is one in all, all in one.
It is quantum stagecraft: unscripted, extemporaneous, serendipitous, happenchance.
* * * *
Too many straws in the milkshake make for Darwinian outcomes.
Every gold rush peters out to the glut of prospectors and their despair.
* * * *
There is no need to care one way or another, about anything or anyone.
The conditioning, the indoctrination, the domestication, is a powerful dynamic,
But you can be free of it, if you choose to abide in the awareness prior to imagination.
It is not easy, but an attentive, well-sharpened blade of discrimination, can cut through the veil.
Despite all claims to the contrary, there is no divinity requiring you to suffer all the mindless absurdities.
This is naught but an illusionary-delusionary dream, so be as free, be as mindful, as you are able.
* * * *
You need not get all weird and out-in-left-field in this quest into the Self you truly are.
There is every sort of esoteric, magical, clownish groupthink, all around you.
All of them seeking acolytes with the potential to be true-believers.
And though they may be tantalizing for a few moments,
They are but distraction from the true course.
Learn from them, as you will,
But surrender the rudder at your peril.
* * * *
You really believe more than a random few even notice you?
And so what, really, if even billions know of you,
And the history books laud your name.
Do you even know your Self?
* * * *
Try not to get too upset that true-believers will never give up their child-ish things.
Do not hold your breath that the human species is going to ‘wake up’ just because you want it to.
Besides which, what exactly are you believing-hoping-praying, our kind might become?
And what would it really take to get to that magical-mystery place in the sun?
* * * *
Why would you really believe you are more exceptional than anyone or anything else?
Try imagining them, try playing their role, their world, their universe,
And try it with any other living creature, as well.
How can you not be humbled,
By this incredible mystery You are, all are.
* * * *
Male and female, Mars and Venus, the way it is,
In this uncivil civilization we have become.
How well did it work way back when?
Back when it first evolved into a partnership,
That together survived the garden of claw and fang.
Obviously well enough to reach this contentious point in time.
* * * *
Egocentric
Ethnocentric
Phallocentric
Androcentric
Anthropocentric
Chronocentric
Heliocentric
Theocentric
Geocentric
Solarcentric
Cosmoscentric
All orbiting the me, the myself, and the I.
A flesh-wrapped blob believing itself to be whatever its imagination imagines.
* * * *
How can you even begin to believe this momentary awareness is anything but the mystery itself?
Equally permeating all dreams, all worlds, all universes, across all times, across all spaces.
There is nothing that is not connected, except in imaginary notion, imaginary delusion.
* * * *
Are you really any more than a flesh-packaged-wrapped-sheathed-incased-bundled blob?
Are the human body’s five sensory accessories– eyes, ears, nose, tongue, nerve-ridden skin –
Anything more than Mr. Potato Head mechanisms wired into an organic central processing unit?
Are all the things that make the human paradigm what it is – opposable thumbs, larynx,
Two arms, two legs, lung capacity, group dynamics, sexuality, et cetera –
Anything more than the happenstance of natural selection?
The mystery is the master of all possibilities.
Nature is its ever-changing, ever-evolving expression.
The device You inhabit, is but current issue in a timeless dance,
Eternally kaleidoscoping, for as long as the enigma of imagination endures.
* * * *
All that fear, all that dread, all that sorrow, all that anger, all that tension, all that pain, all that suffering,
Is the post-traumatic stress, that, like tree rings, mark all the forces that have driven you to this moment.
All the agonies and ecstasies that have shaped your seed into the Shakespearian role you imagine you are.
Just because you play it, just because you see that mask in the reflection, does not mean have to believe it.
* * * *
If you want to believe the mind-body more than an imaginary blob,
Who is anyone to argue with the absurdities of delusion?
We will all be feeding daisies soon enough.
* * * *
If existence has meaning and purpose,
Then surely at the top of the list, is to wake up,
To the awareness prior to consciousness, that you truly are.
The distractions are many; narcissism and hedonism are in their sway.
Few have the interest or wit to suspend the algorithm of the given nature-nurture.
For most, to even once, doubt all things, to even once, peer behind the veil,
Is so beyond the realm of possibility, that only fools brood over it.
And even if every human being, was somehow to awaken,
You would still be pure, unadulterated awareness,
Peering out upon the mystery, totally alone.
* * * *
Existence does not require meaning and purpose; it is the meaning and purpose.
The quest for more-more-more draws all into the insatiable rabbit hole of imagination.
But if pretending, if make-believe, is the lie, the delusion, that keeps you slogging, so be it.
Truth will still be here if any inkling of doubt is ever enough to be drawn back into its awareness.
* * * *
Can any following ever not create some sort of unnecessary mischief?
Best to retain this variety of eternal questing in the solitary confines of your mind,
And if you do pass it on, try to be sure to chance into the recipient only as serendipity allows.
* * * *
See if you can observe the impromptu scene playing before you,
Without believing it, without any attachment to it, whatsoever.
* * * *
You see only see what you perceive.
You see only see what you know.
You see only see what you believe.
Everyone is but a frame of reference.
Patterns born of the mystery prior to all.
* * * *
A twitch in any given right-here-right-now moment,
Can forever change, for good or ill, any given existence.
And any given fate is likely flush with more than a few.
* * * *
Is your existence, your fate, some deity’s plan?
Or is it all merely spontaneous, impromptu, quantum theater,
You, center stage in the one-and-only performance?
Listen for the applause in the graveyard.
* * * *
What choice has anyone ever had in anything, really?
Nature-nurture, the genetic lottery, coupled with the given backdrop –
History, culture, politics, religion, language, wealth, status, gender, and whatever else –
Fashion all, as surely, as deftly, as a mold does any lump of quantum terra-cotta.
Human consciousness may vainly, in so many ways, deem itself superior,
To the churning instinctual algorithms of all its fellow earthlings,
But primordial instinct is the underlying operating system,
That has been running this state of so-called existence,
Since long before the first hint, the first tethers, of imagination.
Destiny is, each and every timeless moment, choreographing your arrival.
* * * *
Science’s Big Bang Theory is about as meaningful for the layperson,
As any creation mythology is, from any tradition, from any time, from any geography.
All those who claim to know what this unfathomable mystery is about, are all only pretenders pretending.
The mystery is a mystery is a mystery is a mystery, and will forever remain a mystery,
In any and all forever-mores, that will ever be, forever more-ing.
* * * *
Given the mind and body for it,
Anyone could probably live ten thousand years or more,
But the process, and the inevitable conclusion, would just be enduring the same tedious routine,
So why put it off?
* * * *
Every moment awaits the arrival of your presence, your awareness, in the space-time construct.
The quantum matrix to which your imaginary, temporal existence, is habitually bound.
Free will looking forward, every moment, morphs into fate looking back.
* * * *
Why has humankind created so many deities,
So many paradises, so many purgatories, of every variety and ilk?
Because the ever-churning imagination, required meaning and purpose, rhyme and reason,
To explain the inexplicable, to battle the futility, to lessen the fear of oblivion,
That followed them like shadows, in the jungles of long ago.
* * * *
You really believe you have free will?
Could you be free of your time?
Could you be free of your space?
Could you be free of your genetics?
Could you be free of your body?
Could you be free of your face?
Could you be free of your eyes?
Could you be free of your ears?
Could you be free of your nose?
Could you be free of your tongue?
Could you be free of your touch?
Could you be free of your language?
Could you be free of your ethnicity?
Could you be free of your gender?
Could you be free of your status?
Could you be free of your knowledge?
Could you be free of your memories?
Could you be free of your beliefs?
Could you be free of your wealth?
Could you be free of your religion?
Could you be free of your politics?
Could you be free of your feelings?
Could you be free of your emotions?
Could you be free of your prejudices?
Could you be free of your reflections?
Could you be free of your insights?
Could you be free of your appetites?
Could you be free of your family?
Could you be free of your friends?
Could you be free of your acquaintances?
Could you be free of your adversaries?
Could you be free of your heritage?
Could you be free of your tribe?
Could you be free of your work?
Could you be free of your habits?
Could you be free of your foods?
Could you be free of your liquids?
Could you be free of your pleasures?
Could you be free of your pains?
Could you be free of your sexuality?
Could you be free of your things?
Could you be free of your hobbies?
Could you be free of your loves?
Could you be free of your likes?
Could you be free of your hates?
Could you be free of your reactions?
Could you be free of your banter?
Could you be free of your algorithm?
Could you be free of your world?
Could you be free of your cosmos?
Could you be free of your moment?
Could you be free of anything at all?
The human paradigm is as fixed as any.
It may seem a complex, superior pattern,
In which consciousness reigns over instinct,
But you are as caught in it, as any jellyfish is its.
Even your most unpredictable actions are predictable.
Free will looking forward, fate looking back.
Your destiny awaits your arrival.
Die to it now, if you can.
* * * *
Why would an elephant envy you?
Why would a snail envy you?
Why would a tree envy you?
Why would an ant envy you?
Why would a bear envy you?
Why would a mouse envy you?
Why would a sparrow envy you?
Why would an eagle envy you?
Why would a jellyfish envy you?
Why would a tiger envy you?
Why would a dolphin envy you?
Why would a salmon envy you?
Why would a cockroach envy you?
Why would a snail envy you?
Why would a monkey envy you?
Why would a deer envy you?
Why would a crab envy you?
Why would a badger envy you?
Why would a rose envy you?
Why would a weed envy you?
Why would a salamander envy you?
Why would a snake envy you?
Why would an alligator envy you?
Why would a microbe envy you?
Why would a butterfly envy you?
All life forms are masters of their given worlds.
Why would any fellow earthling ever envy any human?
Why would any ever want to be anything other than what it is?
Only human beings are at all dissatisfied with their roles,
The parts, into which the genetic lottery has cast them.
All existence plays whatever fate has been ordained.
* * * *
So many believing their window of history, their slice of geography, their groups of like-minded –
Their family, their tribe, their country, their school, their city, their church, their world – so important.
There is absolutely no reason to hope, even for a moment, that the human species will ever get over itself.
It would require a transformation, a revolution of consciousness, absurd to all but the most astute.
* * * *
How many people who have crossed your path even remember you,
Much less think about you more than just occasionally,
As a vague and quickly-passing thought?
Even your mother-dearest has other things to do.
And there you are, always living for what they might be thinking.
The patterning of the human psyche that was crafted in the treetops of long ago,
Tethers our species as surely now, as it has through all the migration across this whirling dust ball.
* * * *
The Darwinian forces, the natural selection,
That shapes the successful adaption of any given species,
Often play a significant basis for its inevitable inability to adapt, as well.
An inelastic pattern does not make for a long-term chain of succession at the genomic level.
* * * *
Believe and hope and pray as you might, that there is more, alas, no.
You are a one-time sensory-mind dream, a Shakespearian player,
Wandering a touchy-feely, multi-dimensional, quantum holodeck.
An imaginary matrix of the original nature, flawless from all get-goes.
* * * *
History is nothing more than imaginary notion,
A pattern, a habit, to which the human paradigm, the human genome,
In some long ago, some unheralded moment, succumbed.
* * * *
Everything – culture, language, history, status, gender – is imprinted long before it becomes absorbed.
To believe you are anything more than a quantum algorithm humming away your little part,
In this grand theatrical production, that encompasses all creation, best think again.
In your next decision, see if you can come up with an unexpected move,
Without thinking at about it.
And if you managed something, how unpredictable was it, really?
* * * *
Every decision you make, large or small, left or right, good or bad,
Carries you down the long and winding Yellow Brick River
To whatever destiny awaits your inevitable appearance.
Each moment is equal, each moment is absolute,
Each moment is done as soon as it begins.
When death does eventually arrive,
When all those memoires are erased,
It will all be as if nothing ever happened.
* * * *
Your deeply, resolutely, believing you know something,
Does not alter it, in any way, in any shape, in any form.
* * **
Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose.
It is generally best to play both outcomes the same.
Aloofness and indifference, make for clear, rational thinking,
And clear, rational heads, have much better odds of abiding any given day.
Emotion clouds minds with shadows of misery and weakness.
* * * *
If you want to see how beyond-absurd your fellow two-leggeds can be,
Ask them about the rabbit hole they have burrowed to store all their beliefs.
* * * *
Every living creature is imprinted by the environment surrounding it.
The given genome will adapt, will blossom, into whatever niche is provided.
All it need do, is survive long enough to hand-off its genomic sequence to the future.
To believe there is any such thing as free will in this circuitous trek,
Is errant Sophistry, ablaze in all its pointlessness.
* * * *
To all true believers: Duality makes no sense, whatsoever.
Why would any deity not want to experience everything for itself?
The awareness you are, is the mystery itself, witnessing its own creation,
Through the given nature-nurture, spawned long before your parents copulated.
This is a preordained dream; there is no partition, there is no wall, there is no division.
There is only one mystery, there is only one unknown, there is only one truth, and it is … You.
This is surely what Jesus meant, when rumored to have declared, “I am the Truth, the Life, and the Way.”
What was not recorded, what was not transcribed, or worse yet, edited out, was, “And so are You.”
This all assumes, of course, that Jesus of Bethlehem was not some storyteller’s tall tale,
Conceived after spending a few hours with a naive young woman named Mary,
Whose husband, Joseph, had pimped her out to pay for their stable,
Where their baby, Jesus, was serenely asleep in a manger.
That the storyteller, a prankster named Paul,
Realized a ‘divine’ opportunity,
And spun it into a rather lucrative livelihood,
Which, alas, ended badly when it touched the flame of Rome.
Paul’s carny act, however, did survive, and has played every imaginable circus ever since.
* * * *
It is far easier to stay with what you started, to stay with what you know,
Than it is to adventure into the unknown, into the insecurity of new beginnings.
Of new people, new places, new ways of looking at things, new ways of doing things.
A questing life offers a sea of agonies and ecstasies in the unending universe over the next hill.
It is not for all, but it is for some; it is for those who cannot resist at least a taste, at least the dip of a toe.
But realize that you can never come back to what was left, for the cave of origin can never be the same.
Because you are not the same, and you can never unsee, can never undo, whatever was seen and done.
Sages, seers, oracles, mystics, prophets – are the tribeless tribe, fated to wander alone,
Across all times, across all geographies. across all dimensions.
* * * *
In the annals of the vast unknowable,
The entire human paradigm and all its imaginary theatrics,
Could be summed to being nothing more than a relentless torrent of mental masturbation.
The interminable make-believe of a species assuming its sensory illusion tangible.
Laughably absurd, steeped in the inanity and insanity of irony and paradox.
Unequivocal meaninglessness from any and all imaginary get-goes.
* * * *
The nature-nurture conditioning is so powerful, so strong, so imbued,
That to even be aware of it, much less even an iota free of it,
Requires absolute attention, committed witnessing,
A yogic feat to which very few are inclined.
* * * *
You have done your part,
You have said your piece,
You have played your fate,
You have had your fun,
And here,
Is where it got you.
* * * *
Abiding in pure awareness, without the screen of memory, without the sense of self,
Every moment is the first and last time the conditioned mind,
Will ever read the sensory input that way.
Continuity is illusion coupled with delusion.
* * * *
What is time but the indivisible quantum matrix,
Kaleidoscoping multi-dimensionally;
You, its faceless witness.
* * * *
Your entire existence is nothing more than the hum of quantum programming,
Nothing more than an ever-churning, self-perpetuating algorithm,
Set into undying motion at the inception of all creation,
Guided by the serendipity of natural selection.
You are helpless to change anything.
With or without a master, you are but a puppet.
* * * *
You can be pretty-darned sure, that for you to be right here, right now, this moment,
Your ancestors, your lineage, from the inception in the quantum soup,
Consumed whatever it could, whatever it had to, to survive long enough to cast a seed,
That through Darwinian selection, spawned the mind-body, the sensory matrix, inhabited solely by You.
* * * *
Who really cares what you believe?
Who really cares what you feel?
Who really cares what you are?
Really only You, and You, alone.
And that, but for the dreamtime allotted.
* * * *
This moment is all there is, and there ain’t no more.
No who, no what, no where, no when, no why, no how.
Nothing to know, nothing to be, nothing to be curious about.
That there is nothing to conceive, is so amazingly slam-dunk obvious.
In fact, it is impossible to conceive, to imagine, anything, within any given moment.
Even if the momentary, unborn-undying awareness, could, somehow, stop long enough to consider it;
Could somehow, make the quantum space-time matrix, stop its kaleidoscoping merry-go-round;
Could somehow hold absolutely still, for even one single poof of an eternal moment;
It would all boil down to: this moment is all there is, and there ain’t no more.
* * * *
Observe anything keenly enough, and its pattern will become self-evident.
There are no black boxes; only those who lack the keenness,
Or the interest, or the time, to observe acutely.
* * * *
All are witness to the same mystery,
Witness to the same indivisible theater of quantum origin,
But how each patterning, each algorithm, plays out its nature-nurture dreamtime,
Is its own incomparable adventure, its own incomparable fate,
From imagination’s beginning, to its end.
* * * *
What conflict could there have ever been in sentient beings for more than food and turf,
Until imagination usurped the awareness, rose into Planet of the Apes glory,
And grafted self-absorption, identity, into the instinctual algorithm.
And thus, a long and winding, ever-present expedition, to You, reading this,
Somewhere along the path that your nature-nurture is, to its imaginary fate, wandering.
* * * *
In the craft, the art, the cunning, of politicians, of rhetoricians, of manipulators, of Machiavellians.
That all humans, through natural selection of the species, possess to some degree,
The important thing, the pragmatic thing, the sensible thing,
Is not whether you heard or understood them,
But that they believe you did.
Keeping the peace keeps it peaceful.
Respect oils the ceaseless machinations of power.
Disregarding the balance is a sure road to mayhem and suffering,
All based upon patterns that our kind evolved since inception in the primordial stew.
Long before space, long before time, long before imagination usurped the genome for its imaginary ends.
* * * *
Diverse as all the speculations – in all times, in all geographies – of how all this creation came to be,
The dice of the original patterning were thrown long before there were any stories to weave,
And have been whirling and twirling their tango down the craps table ever since.
Call it by whatever name has been drilled in, it is ever the mystery of You.
That which is prior to all beginnings, that which is after all ends.
No need to believe anything, but what the palette of nature reveals,
But what your awareness, what you, your Self, alone, clearly discerns.
* * * *
Imagination is the Original Sin.
Until it usurped awareness, good and evil did not exist,
And their reality is a still an unproven doctrine, one left to philosophers who pontificate on ethics,
And the rest, to those who ceaselessly spin their self-absorbed realities,
Into every imaginable form of self-righteousness.
* * * *
Everything you know, everything you trust, everything you consider real and true,
Everything you spent your life accumulating, everything you will likely depart believing,
Is nothing more than whatever your imaginary nature-nurture quantum reverie, has concocted.
* * * *
Challenging not to allow imagination to believe this mystery,
To be more than it is, more than it needs to be, more than it ever can be.
Imagination has an extremely long rap sheet, of difficulty leaving well enough alone.
* * * *
In the prehistoric times when Darwin ruled,
No creature could assume it would survive any given day.
That is still true, but with seatbelts and air conditioning and insurance.
* * * *
Whether you say yes, whether you say no,
Whether you go right, whether you go left,
You fate, your destiny, is decidedly assured.
And all equally occupy the same dusty graveyard.
And the worms do not care who you were, or what you did.
* * * *
No need to believe anything, but what the palette of nature reveals,
But what your awareness, what you, your Self, alone, clearly discerns.
* * * *
For a healthy, vibrant civilization,
A certain pruning-thinning-grading state of mind is required.
There is no surviving, no enduring, no thriving, a Darwinian jungle world without it.
Unfortunate actions like abortion, sterilization, death sentences, final exits,
Are not irrational, if carried out with compassionate rationality.
* * * *
After who-knows-how-many thousands of years of inquiry,
In all strata of all cultures, across all times, across all geographies,
The unanswerable questions are still as unanswerable as ever.
* * * *
How did you ever come to believe that You, were this mass of crunchy and chewy and gooey?
This double-double-toil-and-trouble vat of quantum, patterned into life,
That somehow, through countless Darwinian choices,
Came to be but the current chariot,
From which to witness your eternal creation.
Be not too attached to it, for it must go the way of all the rest.
* * * *
An unmindful breath is imagination’s most potent weapon in the usurpation of awareness.
One can only speculate, how much of the human paradigm, is really about oxygen deprivation.
What strange things these endorphins, these chemical reactions, in this magical electromagnetic body,
That has taken all genesis, all creation, gazillions of trips around our wee little star,
To create the one You are in, in this particular space and time.
You are witness to a sensory-inspired theater,
A sensory-inspired matrix,
A sensory-inspired, ineffable mystery.
There need be, there can be, no more explanation.
* * * *
There are many writers writing, there are many speakers speaking.
All describing the same mystery though the prisms of different frames of reference.
Different times, different geographies, different cultures, different languages, different everything.
There is no need to favor one over another; only to ascertain if the voice is the same.
* * * *
The awareness you are, requires a mind, a vehicle, a theater,
In which to envision its imaginary quantum creation.
To believe you are the vessel, is to miss entirely,
That no vain notion carries water for long.
* * * *
If you feel called to serve, serve the awareness, serve the matrix, serve the moment, serve the now,
Whose quantum mystery casts into all sensory theaters the illusion of space and time.
Walk spontaneously, walk anonymously, do whatever the moment calls.
No need to make a big thing about the imaginary character.
The mystery you truly are, is beyond all need of vanity or avarice.
* * * *
It would seem extremely rare, extremely atypical, extremely dubious, likely all but impossible,
That a mind that has been heavily conditioned, could even begin to escape its taloned clutches.
It would take an extremely doubtful, an extremely adroit mind, to embark on such a journey.
* * * *
What happened to the Egyptians,
What happened to the Persians,
What happened to the Chinese,
What happened to the Greeks,
What happened to the Spanish,
What happened to the French,
What happened to the English,
What happened to the Germans,
What happened to the Russians,
What happened to the Aztecs,
What happened to the Incas,
What happened to the Zulus,
What happened to the Romans,
Is what happens to all robust tribes.
Everything that rises, sooner or later falls.
That is the statistical certainty of all manifestation.
Including this genesis, this matrix, and any and all creations prior and hence.
* * * *
This corporeal mind-body, too, must one day dis-incorporate, as all mortal shells do.
The ultimate You, the quantum matrix You, the electromagnetic spectrum You,
Has, through awareness, experienced every life form, every sentient creature.
Congratulations on getting to perform an at least somewhat awakened role.
* * * *
Show me what will happen in one minute,
Just a few miles away, or half-way across the world,
And I will believe space-time is more than an imaginary notion.
* * * *
If you are paying very close attention to the impenetrable awareness,
You are waylaying your patterning for at least a few moments, maybe.
* * * *
Storytelling will never end, because that is how imagination reigns,
Over the emptiness, the pointlessness, the tabula rasa, of immaculate awareness.
Or so it seems to believe, across all the many variations of vanity,
Humankind has, since jungles ago, played out.
* * * *
Whether you ‘Do unto others as you wish them to do unto you’ Golden Rule it … or not,
Is an every-moment, nature-nurture, choiceless choice, sculpting your imaginary destiny.
* * * *
Re: Tattoos: What is the likelihood (a.k.a., probability),
You would wear the same t-shirt, the same baseball cap, the same whatever,
With the same message, the same image, the same meme, for the rest of your meaningless existence?
Many if not most, destined to become indistinct blobs on aging, likely flabby flesh.
Unless, of course, you are a (enter favorite team here) fan,
Or a religious fanatic, born to forever follow,
With too much money, too much time,
And too little sense, on your hands.
* * * *
Fitting your Self into an idea,
Believing a role nature-nurture has dictated,
Is not necessary, and is often counter to the quest for freedom.
Words are tools for communication; not ends, not goals, not realities, in themselves.
Never believe you can be encapsulated by a sound given concept.
* * * *
Relax, you will probably get away with thinking whatever questionable things you think,
Whatever it is, upon which your mind ever again dwells, upon that which your destiny unfolds,
If you are pragmatic enough, chameleon enough, anonymous enough, strong enough, decisive enough.
* * * *
What are all life forms, but blobs of all shapes and sizes, wrapped in one covering or another.
Only blobs that call themselves human beings have imagination enough,
To play out their temporal existence as thespians.
Actors who believe themselves more real than real can ever be.
* * * *
Like cattle, like sheep, driven down from rolling hills,
The young of human descent are gradually herded
Into the chutes of their given nature-nurture destinies.
Civilization is founded upon the domestication of everything.
Only in the evolution, the revolution, of consciousness, of imagination,
Can the inherent wildness, the inherent fierceness, of origin, be at least whiffed.
* * * *
If you are called to something greater than your imaginary dreamer,
All you need do is serve the awareness, serve the moment,
Serve the matrix, serve the mystery, there is no other.
No need for crystal cathedrals climbing to divine summits,
Nor charlatans between you and whatever they claim the mystery to be.
* * * *
How many life forms have been domesticated and slaughtered and tortured for humankind’s purpose?
How much longer can the tattered web of life continue to endure, to survive, the cancer we have become?
* * * *
We all play the part, the role, spun by the genetic lottery.
Nature-nurture spins character, and they, together, spin destiny.
Only in looking back, can there be any awareness, any understanding,
Of what it took for you to have reached this moment,
In your performance, in your spectacle.
And you, its solitary, dispassionate, eternal witness.
* * * *
When you get right down to it, stars shining from across the universe,
Are about as meaningful as lights on a Christmas tree across the room.
Always calling to astronomers and astrologists to measure and calculate,
But relatively meaningless for plebeians just trying to survive the day.
* * * *
What an idle, meaningless pipe dream,
To even bother thinking the Titanic could have avoided the iceberg,
That was its destiny.
* * * *
How can any mortal witness ever be totally free of the given conditioning,
But through unreserved surrender to the momentary awareness?
Something to do with staring blankly at a blank wall,
At least on the first few million attempts.
* * * *
Yet another day, same mind, same body, same instincts, same routine, same storyline.
And when it all comes to a close, when the Reaper is but a breath away,
How conscious will you be? How insightful will you be?
How composed, how content, will you be?
What will your god judge?
Assuming you even care anymore.
* * * *
As we have witnessed many times, in all times, in all geographies,
Spiritual inquiry so often becomes more about the charismatic leader,
More about the followers, more about the dogma, than the original message.
It is an abyss into which the undiscerning, the true believers, again and again fall.
It is about middlemen, who, consciously or not, mold the me-myself-and-I,
Into an us-versus-them group mind that casts all non-believers,
Into a nadir that seals off all possibility of resolution,
But through submission to the group’s will.
* * * *
Yet another day, same mind, same body, same instincts, same routine, same storyline.
Awareness can do nothing more than witness; it is the unborn-undying, sleepless eye of eternity.
Taking the Red Pill, the no-stone-unturned existence, is a quest to which few are inclined.
Any fallacy, any delusion, any lie, can only usurp the truth in undiscerning minds.
* * * *
Regarding the patterning to which all are witness, always be mindful that it is every moment,
Patterning along, humming along, with the entire universe, with the entire mystery.
None can ever, in any way, any shape, any form, be a free-will-free-agent,
Because the mind-body cannot, for even one moment,
Disconnect from the sensory theater to which it is mortally bound.
And thus, it is imagination, the creator of all delusions, the architect of all destinies,
To which the dualistic task of individuality falls, and every absurdity played, in the fall from grace.
* * * *
Yes, anything may well be possible:
Gods, angels, demons, ghosts, vampires, zombies, goblins, fairies, aliens,
Santa Claus, Easter Bunny, Tooth Fairy, Cupid, Saint Patrick, Father Time … and yes, Jesus, too.
But should you not want it corroborated by a number of reliable witnesses,
Including your Self, the most sober truth-seeker you know,
Before you go all-in True Believer on it?
* * * *
No worries if you are still very attached
To your mind-body, and the dream about you.
The matrix, the carnivàle, is full of blue-pill zombies,
Who believe it all enough to play on for as long as possible.
* * * *
What can be reincarnated in the timeless, unborn-undying moment?
Consciousness, imagination, is but creator and creation of this ineffable mystery.
Awareness is without intention or concern; what need does it have to be born again and again?
Consciousness believes it is an individual drop, playing out some glorious destiny.
Awareness is the ocean, in which all drops are indivisibly one.
* * * *
If you believe you are the seed and the mind-body it becomes,
Then you are caught in the willy-nilly illusions and delusions of consciousness.
If you are the awareness prior to consciousness, you are the ever-present, transcendent moment.
* * * *
How can you ever hope to explain this mystery to a true believer,
Too shuttered in, to closed off, too certain, to listen, much less hear?
* * * *
It has all happened so that this matrix of a moment could happen.
And now this one, and this one, and this one, and this one,
And all the ones before, and all the ones after, too.
Not that that means time is real, of course.
* * * *
However it began: genesis, big bang, does it really matter?
It has been rolling like dice down a Las Vegas craps table ever since,
Everything as destined, as fated, as ordained, as kismet, as sure as sure can be.
You believe there is really free will? You believe there is really choice?
Well, I have not found them, so the burden of proof is on you.
* * * *
Jesus was a troublemaker, and Buddha, too.
Both were tortured as the given cultures saw fit.
One died painfully on a cross, that turned into a cult.
The other, tormented still, as a garden statue,
Shit on by birds scavenging for worms.
And Nietzsche, poor Nietzsche, poor Nietzsche.
He is still one-flew-into-the-cuckoo’s-nest, bat-shit crazy,
Over the way his life’s work was usurped, and twisted into doublespeak,
By Hitler & Crew, with the aid of his sister, that ultimately killed and scarred so many.
Which brings up the fact, that Jesus is not happy about how many have suffered in his name, either.
None have come back to save us, to lead us to God, at least, that any true believers,
Or town-criers, have thus far noted in the unpopular popular press.
* * * *
Your fate, your destiny, your kismet, is whatever you were programmed to do,
In the touchy-feely dream of space-time you have been allotted.
Some get a Royal Flush, some, not even a high card.
All you can do, all you need do, all you will do,
Is play the hand dealt by nature-nurture as best you can.
* * * *
You are ever the same You.
Everything is ever the same You.
There is nothing that is not the same You.
No matter the dimension.
No matter the quantum.
No matter the matrix.
No matter the universe.
No matter the galaxy.
No matter the star.
No matter the world.
No matter the space.
No matter the time.
No matter the culture.
No matter the language.
No matter the mind-body.
No matter the dream.
No matter the gender.
No matter the costume.
No matter the vocation.
No matter the dogma.
No matter the politics.
No matter the attitude.
No matter the whatever.
You are ever the same You.
* * * *
The precedents of history, of tradition, of culture, of any imaginary brew,
Are binding only to those whose minds have been molded to believe them.
* * * *
This here-now, ever-present, eternal moment, this timeless awareness, is all there is.
There are no other moments, no other space-times, no other dimensions, no other dreams.
You are captive to its kaleidoscoping intrigues for as long as the mind-body is fated to endure.
* * * *
Rest assured, your fate, your destiny, your kismet, will find you, will define you, will confine you.
Trying to prevent it, trying to flee it, trying to alter it, even trying to tweak it,
Are but pointless acts, gestures, theatrics, born of vanity.
* * * *
How can anyone ever truly perceive, truly understand, truly inhale, any culture,
To which they do not have first-hand entrée from the earliest etchings.
The harmonies between all dreams cannot be discerned,
But in the relative light of a relative mind.
* * * *
All any child need do is look at their parents and grandparents and other elderly family members,
To see how temporal, how ephemeral, youth and beauty, health and well-being, truly are,
And that their mind-body’s fate will be of similar caricature, if they live so long.
* * * *
Neither the quantum universe, nor garden orb, require the human species
To carry on longer than it can manage, can naturally select,
In its ill-fated genomic quest for immortality.
We all know cockroaches are trailblazers in that race.
* * * *
There is no changing the human paradigm.
There is no transforming the human paradigm.
There is no solution or key to the human paradigm.
There is no answer or remedy to the human paradigm.
It is what it is, it is what it has always been, and will ever be.
And it will, in due course, play out its written-in-the-sands destiny.
* * * *
Except in lofty, exalted, grandiose, majestic, tributes to one absurdity or another,
No one will be remembered forever, nor exist forever, nor whatever forever.
There is no forever in which anyone or anything can be remembered.
The matrix of space-time is but a magical illusion playing out in the abyss.
What is there to say, but “Oh well, so it goes, deal with it, get over it, move on.”
* * * *
Seeing through the artifice of the genomic sequencing in this ineffable quantum matrix,
Is a vocation to which relatively few are called, relatively few are fated.
Blue pill, red pill, did you really have any choice?
* * * *
And what is the point and purpose of all this knowledge?
All this curiosity, this never-ending flow of busy-busy minds.
Maybe a paycheck, maybe some applause, maybe some influence.
How long before you wake up to the depths below the churning waves?
How long before mind stills enough to finally discern the mystery within all?
* * * *
The inner voice, the inner narrative, the inner soliloquy, everyone has one.
Each a world, a universe, unto its Self, some realized, most fated otherwise.
* * * *
How is it that so many true believers only attend church on Sundays?
What that means is they are missing out on the other six days.
And nights, and all the dusks and dawns between and betwixt, as well.
True religion is each and every moment, unbounded by the constraints of mind,
Unbound by the constraints of any other, and the scripts to which their destinies are bound.
* * * *
Regarding the utilization of hallucinogens in this quixotic quest
Is for some an open-to-debate-why-why-not issue,
Being a user, not an abuser, is the trick.
Might be best to drive on without aid if addiction is an issue.
* * * *
If you ever really wonder why Jesus (a.k.a., Lord and Savior) hasn’t,
And probably ain’t, coming back to save all the true believers,
Just look around at the calamity he’d have to clean up.
Anyone sane would be disappearing into a cave.
Or maybe a bar; at least a coffee shop.
You may even have run into him the other day.
He was with Santa Claus, Easter Bunny, and Tooth Fairy.
* * * *
What is the state, the condition, the quality, of mind,
When time and space cease to exist as imaginary notions?
* * * *
Any group is capable of believing they are the Chosen Ones.
Any individual is capable of believing s/he is the Chosen One.
There is no summit to which vanity is not adept at ascending.
There is no gutter to which vanity is not adept at descending.
* * * *
Except in fictional literature, except in fictional movies,
Nobody comes back from the annihilation of death,
Unless they were never dead and done in the first place.
Hope and pray as much as you will, oblivion is the fate of all.
* * * *
The human pyramid scheme in a nutshell:
One-Percent One-Percent One-Percent One-Percent One-Percenters
One-Percent One-Percent One-Percent One-Percenters
One-Percent One-Percent One-Percenters
One-Percent One-Percenters
Onc-Percenters
Five-Percenters
Twenty-Percenters
Overseer overseer overseer overseer overseer overseer overseer overseer overseer overseers
Overseer overseer overseer overseer overseer overseer overseer overseer overseers
Overseer overseer overseer overseer overseer overseer overseer overseers
Overseer overseer overseer overseer overseer overseer overseers
Overseer overseer overseer overseer overseer overseers
Overseer overseer overseer overseer overseers
Overseer overseer overseer overseers
Overseer overseer overseers
Overseer overseers
Overseers
Régime slaves
Self-Employed slaves
Middlemen slaves
Rancher slaves
Farmer slaves
Salary slaves
Wage slaves
Intern slaves
Future slaves
Homeless slaves
All-purpose slaves
Not yet dead slaves
Not yet born slaves
* * * *
Who created this Supreme Being that so many revere?
A query true believers will neither, can neither, question nor answer,
For every response quickly becomes turtles all the way up, turtles all the way down.
And what matter whether there is a peerless deity on high or not, really?
This touchy-feely 3D dream is equally the same mystery,
No matter imagination’s perspective.
* * * *
Any push, any nudge to change a fate, is only a few moments of that same fate.
There is no escaping, there is no avoiding, there is no denying,
For to be born, is to one day endure dying,
And the lineage of perceptions between, is destiny.
* * * *
Anything organic or inorganic can be manipulated once its patterns,
Its capacities and limitations, are even just partially comprehended.
* * * *
Whether your view is founded on scientific inquiry or magical thinking,
You may well believe you know something of this dreamtime’s beginning,
But rest assured, you will never, you can never, more than imagine its ending.
* * * *.
New concepts, new jargon, new idioms, new metaphors, new beliefs, new sounds, new whatever,
Always have the potential to burst into consciousness any given linguistic moment,
All further mystifying and exacerbating an already polarized species.
* * * *
There is only awareness.
Only its timeless presence, only its unending constancy.
Nothing to believe, nothing to deify, nothing to worship, nothing to decree, nothing to join.
Nothing to buy, nothing to sell, nothing to barter, nothing to give or take.
Everything to alone see, nothing to alone be.
* * * *
Memories are but electromagnetic-chemical reactions, perceived by awareness.
They can never be what really happened from more than a single perspective, yours.
Your frame of reference, your translation, your values, your opinions, your judgments.
* * * *
Every decision, every choice, every selection, every option, every like, every dislike,
Every left, every right, every nook, every cranny, every this, every that.
Plays its equal part in the long and winding road to your fate.
* * * *
Existence is enough.
The moment is enough.
It does not require stories.
It does not require philosophies.
It does not require deities or dogmas.
It does not require more, more, ever more.
It does not require meaning, it does not require purpose.
It does not require power or wealth or celebrity.
It does not require pedestrian groupthink.
It does not require political sanction.
It does not require consciousness.
It does not require knowledge.
It does not require anything.
Not even the illusory you.
The moment is enough.
Existence is enough.
* * * *
You can only know the frame of reference
Molded by the habituation of the mind-body
Into which you were cast by the genetic lottery.
* * * *
You believe your salvation is yoked to your creed?
You believe your salvation is tethered to your prayers?
Pfft, my friend, you are but tossing your hard-earned coin
To a scam artist, a shyster, with just enough talent to fool you
With one ruse after another, with one hope after another.
Take back the rudder of your reverie, take more walks,
More sits, more any and all ways, that get you home.
Explore the singular aloneness within all dreams,
The timeless awareness through which all pass.
* * * *
It is not at all important what anybody sees, hears, tastes, smells, feels.
It is not at all important what anybody thinks, believes, hopes.
The mystery is a mystery is a mystery is a mystery.
Well beyond the scope of consciousness,
Of imagination, to encapsulate.
* * * *
You have become habituated to playing this imaginary role,
In this exceedingly teensy-weensy slice of the grand theater.
* * * *
Only vanity believes it is real.
Only vanity believes it is important.
Only vanity believes in gods and demons.
Only vanity believes in ghosts and monsters.
Only vanity believes in messiahs and saints.
Only vanity believes it is harbor to change.
Only vanity believes in more, more, more.
Only vanity believes nil is not an option.
Only vanity believes imagination exists.
Only vanity believes itself immortal.
Only vanity believes belief is true.
* * * *
Who is the “I” who learns, knows, thinks, believe, assumes?
What is the “I” who learns, knows, thinks, believe, assumes?
Where is the “I” who learns, knows, thinks, believe, assumes?
When is the “I” who learns, knows, thinks, believe, assumes?
Why is the “I” who learns, knows, thinks, believe, assumes?
How is the “I” who learns, knows, thinks, believe, assumes?
* * * *
What a limited, constricted view of God, so many, if not all, religions espouse.
And so many, if not all, sincerely believing they are the one and only true religion.
The self-absorbed absurdities of the human mind are surely without compare.
* * * *
As if any imaginary religion, any imaginary belief,
Any imaginary doctrine, any imaginary dogma, any imaginary value,
Any imaginary principle, any imaginary view, any imaginary code, any imaginary canon,
Any imaginary idea, any imaginary conviction, any imaginary philosophy,
Is required, has ever been required, will ever be required.
* * * *
Why should you ever believe anything you cannot discern for your Self?
Always keep an open mind, but do not give your over to fallacious thinking.
* * * *
The mind is, the mind is not, a dream.
The mind is, the mind is not, a delusion.
The mind is, the mind is not, a habit.
The mind is, the mind is not, a truth.
The mind is, the mind is not, a practice.
The mind is, the mind is not, a trance.
The mind is, the mind is not, a fixation.
The mind is, the mind is not, an obsession.
The mind is, the mind is not, a fondness.
The mind is, the mind is not, a tendency.
The mind is, the mind is not, a bent.
The mind is, the mind is not, a fabrication.
The mind is, the mind is not, a lie.
The mind is, the mind is not, a pretense.
The mind is, the mind is not, a chameleon.
The mind is, the mind is not, a hope.
The mind is, the mind is not, a reality.
The mind is, the mind is not, a passion.
The mind is, the mind is not, a reverie.
The mind is, the mind is not, a hallucination.
The mind is, the mind is not, a leaning.
The mind is, the mind is not, a desire.
The mind is, the mind is not, an aspiration.
The mind is, the mind is not, an idea.
The mind is, the mind is not, a notion.
The mind is, the mind is not, a mirage.
The mind is, the mind is not, a custom.
The mind is, the mind is not, a preference.
The mind is, the mind is not, a memory.
The mind is, the mind is not, an irony.
The mind is, the mind is not, a paradox.
The mind is, the mind is not, a figment.
The mind is, the mind is not, a daydream.
The mind is, the mind is not, a wish.
The mind is, the mind is not, an ambition.
The mind is, the mind is not, a pattern.
The mind is, the mind is not, a frame.
The mind is, the mind is not, a nightmare.
The mind is, the mind is not, a trick.
The mind is, the mind is not, a tradition.
The mind is, the mind is not, a thought.
The mind is, the mind is not, a window.
The mind is, the mind is not, a fear.
The mind is, the mind is not, a template.
The mind is, the mind is not, an artifice.
The mind is, the mind is not, a custom.
The mind is, the mind is not, a convention.
The mind is, the mind is not, a chimera.
The mind is, the mind is not, a projection.
The mind is, the mind is not, an impression.
The mind is, the mind is not, a goal.
The mind is, the mind is not, a pipedream.
The mind is, the mind is not, a word.
The mind is, the mind is not, a deception.
The mind is, the mind is not, a fantasy.
The mind is, the mind is not, an addiction.
The mind is, the mind is not, a problem.
The mind is, the mind is not, a mold.
The mind is, the mind is not, a character.
The mind is, the mind is not, a liking.
The mind is, the mind is not, an inclination.
The mind is, the mind is not, a matrix.
* * * *
Real faith is a beingness so indelible, so absolute,
That no word or act, no belief or creed, is required.
* * * *
Surely, you do not in any way believe your eensy-weensy window of perception
Witnesses even an infinitesimal smidgeon of the mystery’s infinite indivisibility.
* * * *
To interpret anything clearly, accurately,
The translator must possess a wide-ranging frame of reference,
Including language, history, culture, art, philosophy, folktales, myths, metaphors, symbols,
And whatever else intersects, intertwines, the present context,
With that of the original source.
* * * *
How can you continue believing this imaginary self is at all real, is at all true?
It is an ever-kaleidoscoping quantum theater of ecstasy and agony,
Swirled in the nature-nurture dream of the given seed.
Nothing more, nothing less, nothing but.
Without thought, where is time?
Forget everything; unclench your mind.
Let go your world, let go your universe; be eternity.
* * * *
Do you truly-without-doubt believe God gives a rat’s ass whether your team wins?
Are you really so pathetically self-absorbed to believe he or she or it,
Is focused entirely on you or your wretched little tribe?
That all your hopes and prayers mean squat in some divine plan?
Just perhaps next year’s New Year Resolution should be to fucking wake up.
* * * *
Who is the perceiver but the one in all.
Who said there must be meaning and purpose?
Who said this mystery has to make sense?
* * * *
That we even believe there is, or is not, a god or gods,
Is among the first and last vanities born of imagination.
* * * *
Imagination is but a pattern, a habit, born of nature-nurture’s evolutionary happenchance.
A touchy-feely dream in the electromagnetic spectrum’s beyond-all-pales mystery theater.
No need to get more attached to the apparent reality of it than the given moment calls.
* * * *
The mystery is a field of meshing patterns,
All indivisibly synced in timelessly harmonious vibration.
Each and every drop in the ocean is equally saturated with mystery.
How is it humankind is seemingly incapable of seeing this ultimate relationship?
Soundbites
Destiny’s final curtain descends, when no more choices remain.
* * * *
Do you really believe all those words, all those numbers, all those anything, really matter to the mystery?
* * * *
How is your fate different than a bug going splat on a windshield?
* * * *
Unknown looking forward, fate looking back.
* * * *
Do not believe the poof of your own imaginary myth, or any others, for that matter.
* * * *
The hoity-toity have always mesmerized themselves into believing they are especially special.
* * * *
If you really believe you are that blob of crunchy-chewy-gooey, then think again.
* * * *
No need to believe in anything.
* * * *
Try not to believe your own hype.
* * * *
Any existence is replete with countless choiceless choices; all harbor to the given fate.
* * * *
What choice does any seed have, but to endure whatever fate is prescribed.
* * * *
Fate is sculpted by all the choices, all the decisions, voluntary and involuntary, every moment calls for.
* * * *
Be careful what you think, what you believe, what you assume, your Self into.
* * * *
You want a point, a purpose, well, good luck finding one that is tangible.
* * * *
Your fate keeps the wheel of destruction lubed.
* * * *
Every seed has its fate inexorably written in the sands of timelessness.
* * * *
Coincidences are not.
* * * *
Destiny is all, when illusion and delusion reign.
* * * *
Likely, there are far worse fates.
* * * *
If you believe in god, how can it not include you?
* * * *
Serendipity is not.
* * * *
It is only coincidence, only serendipity, if you believe in free will.
* * * *
A complex pattern, but a pattern, nonetheless.
* * * *
What pathetic endgame are you fated to endure?
* * * *
What, but unutterable delusion, makes anyone believe anyone can save them?
* * * *
The conditioning that nature-nurture molded, is what whips you into the clutches of imagination.
* * * *
Yup, kind of a matrix thing.
* * * *
If there is some deity that wants you to believe in it, how is its vanity, any more or less than yours?
* * * *
Habits die hard, if they die at all.
* * * *
Discerning the source code to the conditioning is imperative for any meaningful change.
* * * *
What culture has ever been free of slow or sudden changes, of hiccups in the tribal synergy?
* * * *
It is patterns, not history, that play out ever again.
* * * *
It is not about believing anything; it is about seeing everything.
* * * *
Not caring is a very relaxing habit.
* * * *
Try not to believe your own hype, much less any other's.
* * * *
You really believe you are this blob of crunchy-chewy-gooey?
* * * *
Human history is full of horror; why would anyone believe the future exempt?
* * * *
A calling is like living in a rainbow, if you are fortunate enough to find it.
* * * *
Traditions must be adaptable to change, to avoid the staleness that crashes upon its reef.
* * * *
Death is the fate of every seed.
* * * *
Life need not be as complex as vanity and greed would have us all believe.
* * * *
Prior to all creation, prior to all patterns, all forms, all functions, all plays of consciousness, You are.
* * * *
Patterns cannot churn if they do not have a matrix in which to churn.
* * * *
The Fates are indifferent to all.
* * * *
A true-believer will do whatever the food chain dictates.
* * * *
Not all patterns are created equal; all patterns are created equal.
* * * *
True believer, or true be-er?
* * * *
Most habits are programmed for a lifetime; good luck breaking the shallow ones.
* * * *
Matrix or imagination; chicken or egg.
* * * *
Civilization is not what natural selection had in mind.
* * * *
Funny, how good so many are, at circumventing their values for a paycheck.
* * * *
Try not to believe in all the pain, nor anticipate it, either.
* * * *
If something touches you negatively, you must believe it, at least in part, true.
* * * *
It is on you, alone, to get un-educated, un-conditioned, un-brainwashed, un-mesmerized.
* * * *
Civilization is just a fancy word, an adroit euphemism, for domestication.
* * * *
Surrendering to one’s fate, is not a choice.
* * * *
Embrace or reject your nature-nurture patterning, that is your patterning unfolding.
* * * *
So, you really believe no one else has ever done that?
* * * *
There is no meaning and purpose but what the usurper, imagination, arbitrarily concocts.
* * * *
Fate is a whirlpool, through which all are flushed.
* * * *
Trying to break a bad habit proves why they are bad.
* * * *
Fate makes dust of all.
* * * *
Attachment to outcomes is a great source of pain and suffering.
* * * *
All life forms, from the single-celled to the many, have an appointment with destiny.
* * * *
Your vocation is whatever you spend the end of your life most enjoying.
* * * *
Embrace your fate or not, something is going to happen.
* * * *
True believers are like that.
* * * *
A life of serendipity is not for all.
* * * *
Once again, you mistakenly believed it mattered.
* * * *
We were all born to do whatever we are doing; fate is as fate does.
* * * *
Destiny is, each and every timeless moment, choreographing your arrival.
* * * *
Your destiny awaits your arrival; die to it now, if you can.
* * * *
Yours may seem a complex, superior pattern, but you are as caught in it, as any jellyfish is its.
* * * *
Why feel the need to believe in anything?
* * * *
‘Twas fate, drove you here.
* * * *
As the fates allow.
* * * *
That old brain just ain’t what you like to believe it was.
* * * *
Why would any deity not want to experience its creation through the eyes you believe yours?
* * * *
Everyone has an appointment with destiny, which only imagination differentiates.
* * * *
If you believe you have a choice, pull that trigger now, or not.
* * * *
Slavery has many faces, shaped by culture, by time, by geography, and who is carrying the whip.
* * * *
Human beings so love history, so love tradition, that little or none is required to make them up.
* * * *
All fates are imagined.
* * * *
Even the greatest civilization cannot suspend the Darwinian selection being every moment spun.
* * * *
We all gots our fate.
* * * *
If you believe your imagination has any reality, whatsoever, you are a prisoner of its dream.
* * * *
Civilization is founded upon the domestication of everything.
* * * *
Any actor who believes the part they play, real, is a fool in search of a wake-up call.
* * * *
What happens to all the deities and demons, when the cultures that worshipped them disappear?
* * * *
Never believe you can be encapsulated by a sound given concept.
* * * *
Habits die hard, and are inevitably replaced by new ones, not always better.
* * * *
Serendipity at its finest.
* * * *
Serve the awareness, serve the moment, serve the matrix, serve the mystery, there is no other.
* * * *
Fate’s alliance with death is in every history.
* * * *
Yet another day, same mind, same body, same instincts, same routine, same storyline.
* * * *
Sons into sons, daughters into daughters, all cultures weave anew as mindsets dictate.
* * * *
You want someone to believe what lie?!
* * * *
So full, so empty, an imaginary destiny plays out.
* * * *
Your calling, your vocation, your passion, is what first and foremost draws your attention.
* * * *
Due diligence is a good habit, a good discipline, for those wishing to keep bother at a minimum.
* * * *
The moments that shape any fate are a long and winding, exceedingly serendipitous trail.
* * * *
So, you really believe you exist as more than an imaginary concoction.
* * * *
And what is the point and purpose of all this knowledge?
* * * *
The matrix is all, but all are not chosen.
* * * *
How can the indivisible quantum matrix ever be tainted by imagination?
* * * *
Believe in nothing, literally.
* * * *
History’s point and purpose is the continuity of imagination, and all the drama it entertains.
* * * *
Whatever made you believe it would be any different?
* * * *
Every choice you make in any given right here, right now, is a player in your fate.
* * * *
Hard to fear something you do not believe in.
* * * *
Your entire life is nothing more than make-believe.
* * * *
So, you really, really, really believe that, eh?
* * * *
You have just enough genius to play out your fate.
* * * *
Why should you ever mindlessly believe anything you have not for your Self discerned?
* * * *
Why believe any of it?
* * * *
Does it ever really serve any profound purpose to compare yourself to another?
* * * *
Ethics is the offspring of a full belly and a safe harbor.
* * * *
Ethics: Neutered, sterile, empty, absurd,
* * * *
Why blindly believe anything you cannot for your Self discern?
* * * *
There are worse fates.
* * * *
As if any religion, any belief, any creed, any dogma, any conviction, is required.
* * * *
If you believe you know something, guess again.
* * * *
‘Tis the nature of any gift to not know its fate.
* * * *
Any god worth believing in, is far greater than anything that can be imagined.
* * * *
Make-believe can never be real; it is all make-believe, an epoch of imaginary proportion.
* * * *
It is not a matter of believing; it is a matter of seeing.
* * * *
How can you believe what you believe means diddly-squat?
* * * *
Death is the inevitable outcome of every existence; no need for hope nor faith nor creed.
* * * *
Imagination’s turf is a quantum matrix of sensory proportion.
* * * *
But for the habit of it, there is nothing in which you must believe.
* * * *
Make-believe, a worldwide game of make-believe.
* * * *
Grunt or high-five, the politics of recognition is an obligatory ritual of civilized life.
* * * *
If you believe in a god locked in some Santa Clausian form, you are likely not reading this.
* * * *
Die full, die hungry, no matter, every fate finds its own way.
* * * *
Who said there must be meaning and purpose?
Breadcrumbs
I am alone.
I have always been alone.
I was born alone, I live alone, I will die alone.
There has never been even one moment when I was not alone,
When I was not the pure awareness, when I was not the unborn-undying moment.
It is a wondrous state, given over at times, to many worldly distractions, but ever alone, nonetheless.
How the many others that come or go, that think of me, is utterly inconsequential.
And how I discern them, is but as clouds drifting across a sky.
There is no meaning, no purpose, no raison d'être,
But what the imagination imagines,
In all its many imaginings.
It is but a dream.
I, alone, am.
* * * *
And what did you, Pilgrim, perchance imagine a god-mind would be,
If not capable of journeying any and every way it was disposed?
I have embraced nothingness since it first became apparent.
The specter of death has ever been a constant companion.
So, Fate, do what you will, I stand ready to greet you.
* * * *
Could probably jot down just about anything I please,
In this, for-all-historical-impact-practical-purpose, largely unread manifesto.
Confess to every form of murder and mayhem, violation and pillage, I may, or may not, have done.
And more than likely, few, if any, would ever read or hear, much less imagine it.
And perchance they did, how many would not shrug their shoulders,
And quickly move on to the next scandalous headline,
In this absurd world full of horror galore.
* * * *
It is not about me, it is not about this temporal identity,
It is about the awareness, that which I sometimes call, for the lack of a better word, god.
Lower case, to keep it generic for marketing purposes.
* * * *
What pathetic endgame am I fated to endure?
* * * *
If there is some deity that wants me to believe in it, how is its vanity, any more or less than mine?
* * * *
If there is some deity that wants me to believe in it,
It had better hurry up and do some serious show and tell,
Before this debilitating mind-body turns to dust.
* * * *
Never had any distinct vision for this life,
So, I naturally kept wandering, adventure after adventure,
Until my calling finally rose its scribing head.
* * * *
Am I something of a true believer, a cheerleader, for the mystery? Zeig heile, mein Mystery?
* * * *
I have studied many writings, many philosophies,
But I have never joined any so-called spiritual groups.
I have never much cared for allowing any collective mindset,
To orchestrate, or to usurp in any meaningful way,
What are my choices, and mine, alone.
A solo act, from the get-go.
And to the best, my ability allows,
I hopefully have not laden the unknowable future,
And anyone draw to awaken, with anything less than total veracity.
From a laptop, I opine all seekers to sally forth through as little muddle as possible.
Eschew all cultures, traditions, tribal mindsets, groupthinks, that ever strive to own You, in all or part.
* * * *
There was a moment, when I first began scratching ditties on napkins in 1989, I threw a few away.
For some reason, long out of range of memory, they were a bit too much – even for me, he now laughed.
It was perhaps one of the many moments of choosing; those many moments, wherein fate calls.
The fork in the path, where I have always indulged my Self first, in the feast less eaten.
So, as you see, I did not tarry away from the sword, nor thoughts upon scraps.
And what is it all, but an homage to You, should you happen upon it.
* * * *
The aging process has gradually reached the piteous point,
Where I often cannot recall what drew me to another chamber in the labyrinth.
It could be Alzheimer's, chronic traumatic encephalopathy, or a variety of other less-than-witty fates,
Or it might be any of the alternative chemistries, to which I have naturally inclined,
Times beyond counting, throughout this erstwhile walkabout.
* * * *
Odds are, you would not want to be around me for long bursts, if at all.
My chit-chat is pretty routine, pretty repetitive, pretty mundane, pretty boring, pretty yawn.
I am a recording of a frame of reference, to which relatively few are inclined.
* * * *
True believers are always looking for acolytes; ergo, I must not be a true believer.
* * * *
The last romance was most definitely the last.
Way too much effort for way too little return.
And too many, weavings not worth the cloth.
Male and female, Mars and Venus, the way it is.
Certainly, in this uncivil civilization we have become.
* * * *
Spontaneous serendipity is what I do.
* * * *
A life of serendipity is not for all.
* * * *
Once again, I mistakenly believed it mattered.
* * * *
This entire soliloquy has been scribbled
In the day-to-day existence of work and play that I have wandered.
All very happenstance, very happenchance; rhyme and reason have got little or nothing to do with it.
It appears that I was born to transcribe this, if such wonderment warrants mention.
Surrender to your fate, your destiny, surrender to its whimsies,
Is all I can sincerely offer, in way of advice,
To the empty theater.
* * * *
I have done my part,
I have said my piece,
I have played my fate,
I have had my fun,
And here,
Is where it got me.
* * * *
Like all writing scribed in previous times, this edifice of scribblings will need
At least several hundred years to percolate into whatever fate is in store.
Whether or not, what Mother Nature is brewing this every moment,
Will allow that much time, is the stuff of dystopian nightmares,
To which imaginary time machines give imaginary access.
* * * *
These writings are entirely stream of consciousness.
As haphazard as haphazard can be in this patterned theater of the absurd.
Far, far, more than enough, to befuddle those who will never begin to discern, never begin to comprehend,
The unfathomable, ineffable, indivisible mystery, they every moment are.
* * * *
I walked among you –unnoticed, unobserved, undetected, invisible –
Because I was no different than you, because I was the same mystery as you.
A student of life, a philosopher, inspired to experience, to learn, whatever life offered.
And the resulting thoughts are my gift to whoever’s fate it is to find them.
Written for those who hunger for that which is prior to more.
For those ready to discern the mystery within all.
* * * *
Have wandered many camps in this dream, but none ever drew me enough to spend an entire lifetime,
Until the tail end of the 80’s, at the age of 36, when thoughts began coming, one after another.
And so, this imaginary destiny finally took on a clarity, something of a perpetual wave,
One that appears not to be crashing for as long as ‘so far’ is fated to endure.
And even if it does crash, the deed is done, and done well enough.
The only question is whether or not it will find some legs,
And saunter on into some telling role in the dreamtime to come.
But there are far too many stacks and stacks of lost and forgotten writings,
In every variety of used book store, library book sale, and garage sale, to plan a party.
* * * *
Another day of putting into words that which words can never tell.
What comes of them was well beyond my control the first time they were shared.
I will never be able to more than guess, than speculate, their destiny.
It is a truth all teachers and storytellers well know.
* * * *
Socrates was served up hemlock for all his ramblings.
The official charges were:
(1) corrupting youth.
(2) worshipping false gods.
(3) not worshipping the state religion.
Surely, my ditties are as deserving of such a destiny.
Good thing I do not live in the Muslim world, or one of its affiliates,
For I would have long since been a flaming marshmallow casting ash into the wind.
* * * *
Serendipity at its finest.
* * * *
So much left to do in this ever-expanding philosophical project.
Anyone interested down the road is welcome to do with it what they will.
There are no family, there are no friends, there is no following, tethered to its fate.
What happens to it is entirely up to the mystery from whence it came.
* * * *
I serve the awareness, and the matrix, whose quantum magic gives us the illusion of space and time.
* * * *
I know what my values are, but I would hesitate to inflict them on others.
* * * *
A lot of nice guys wake up next to their women every morning,
With their manhood still secure in the lockbox beneath her pillow.
How I escaped that abysmal destiny is a chronicle I barely remember.
How many nets I stumbled around or through, is a tale I will never know.
* * * *
Yeah, I still believe in Santa Claus, so I get it.
* * * *
I serve the awareness, I serve the moment, I serve the matrix, I serve the mystery, there is no other.
* * * *
Unless someone else has written down their truth about me,
And it is somehow unearthed from the landfills that dot the landscape,
Any readers will only know my version; the lie I believe true.
* * * *
Spent my life experiencing, exploring, swinging from vine to vine in my little jungle,
Looking for something that called me, something that would engage me.
And at some point in the middle years, words began to come,
And without the fanfare of drums and trumpets,
Destiny took on a reality, a clarity, as never before.
I have wielded pen and keyboard as well as ability allows,
For what point and purpose, if any, can be no more than speculated.
* * * *
We have an independent streak in this slice of the world,
That does not go well with being as bound to tradition and custom,
As the parts of the world that have thousands of years of history.
We started off with an empty slate, a tabula rasa, of sorts,
After we killed off or imprisoned the indigenous folk.
* * * *
So much already said, already written,
Across all times, across all spaces, come and gone before.
How can this life work ever be known, ever have any meaningful impact?
How can the species ever change its evolutionary context, its genomically-induced patterning?
How can a species compelled, bound, to a narcissistic-hedonistic paradigm,
Ever hope to survive a universe, that has never cared,
About anything ever created?
* * * *
Yet another day, same mind, same body, same instincts, same routine, same storyline.
* * * *
What is any existence but a progression of moments,
Spontaneous, inadvertent, unforeseen,
As only the Fates can be.
* * * *
Yes, yes, I get it, I get it, anything may well be possible:
Gods, angels, demons, ghosts, vampires, zombies, goblins, fairies, aliens,
Santa Claus, Easter Bunny, Tooth Fairy, Cupid, Saint Patrick, Father Time … and yes, Jesus, too.
But how can you expect me to not want it validated by a number of reliable witnesses,
Including my Self, the most sober, reliable, earnest, truth-seeker, I know,
Before I go all-in-ape-shit-true-believer on any nonsense?
“Show me,” declared the man from Missouri.
* * * *
Yes, anything may well be possible,
But I need to have it corroborated
By reliable witnesses, including moi,
Before I sally all-in True Believer on it.
* * * *
The eternal philosopher, historian, anthropologist, scientist, mathematician,
And any other academic arenas this mind was drawn to reconnoiter,
All together, pervade the ever-expanding frame of reference.
So full, so empty, an imaginary destiny plays out.
* * * *
Is it possible I might someday be deemed, through the happenstance-happenstance of serendipity,
One of the most dangerous spies, the most dangerous anarchists, the world has ever known?
I was given access to the keys of the kingdom. and from the steps of that ivory tower,
Have used the technologies of these times to sprinkle many a breadcrumb across the world.
What will come of it, if anything, who now knows? The steady slog of time, is in that sense required.
* * * *
I be quantum matrixing.
* * * *
Someone could spend years, perhaps a lifetime, reading and re-reading,
All that I have written and posted on a variety of online platforms,
Including the works of other thinkers across space and time.
There is no shortage of material for any whose fate it is to witness.
* * * *
Spreading my word, one conversation, one email, one website business card, at a time.
Under the radar, to be sure, and no sign it is finding any wings at this writing.
For me to believe it might meaningfully change the human paradigm,
Requires a level of vanity to which I endeavor not to succumb.
As the human species is not even close to waking up in any meaningful way,
Far easier to continue anonymously enjoying the writing and posting, and depart content.
* * * *
I am retired unto a quiet, moderate, relatively anonymous routine;
One largely focused on these writings, and the rest, whatever else calls.
It could be family, it could be friendships, it could be entertainment,
It could be a long, nondescript, aimless-wandering, walkabout.
Casually waiting for the Reaper to come settle all scores.
What more needs doing? What more needs saying?
* * * *
Just writing for writing’s sake.
Have posted it on the internet for anyone interested,
But have no concern about whether or not anything ever comes of it.
Ramblings of a mind bent by serendipity toward observing and writing about the mystery.
Nothing more, nothing less, nothing but.
* * * *
How this philosophical work has scribed itself in the second half of this dreamtime,
Has been a beyond-all-pales, unanticipated, unsought, uninvited, please-no-not-me, sort of destiny.
What a remarkable expedition to be fashioned into a herald of this ineffable mystery.
Yet another thinker leaving a long and winding trail of breadcrumbs,
All pointing to the unknowable within and without.
* * * *
If you’re looking for point and purpose, it ain’t in this corner.
* * * *
I am incapable of believing anything other than it is an insoluble mystery.
* * * *
Most everything this mind has ever created has been given away, lost, tossed, forgotten.
Who can answer what will become of all this esoteric wordplay but what the Fates deign.
From this vantage, it is already in the pile of so it went, dealt with it, got over it, moved on.
* * * *
There are worse fates.
* * * *
Habits die hard.
* * * *
These many thoughts
Will one day suffer the fate of all such works.
Such is the dustbin of history.
The Corollaries of Yaj Ekim
Matthew 5:29
And if thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out, and cast it from thee:
for it is profitable for thee that one of thy members should perish,
and not that thy whole body should be cast into hell.
Yaj Ekim’s Corollary:
Who comes up with this bullshit?! And who believes it?
* * * *
Jesus on Prophets (Mark 6:1-6):
Jesus observed: Prophets are not without honour,
except in their hometown, and among their own kin, and in their own house.
Yaj Ekim’s Corollary:
They have known him in the daily routine of his life,
And he has never been all they would hope, all they would expect, a prophet to be.
You cannot carnival-trick or cult your way out of that bag.
The Standard Ripostes
he Scribe’s Go-to Responses to This and That in the Day-To-Day
Every seed has its fate.
* * * *
We all gots our fate.
* * * *
It takes a matrix.
Possible Last Words & Epitaphs
The fate of every seed
* * * *
Truth serves all purpose; truth serves no purpose.
* * * *
Fate is as fate does
* * * *
I did my part,
I said my piece,
I played my fate,
I had my fun,
And here
Is where it got me.
* * * *
We all gots our fate
* * * *
All fates are imagined
* * * *
Destiny in a nutshell
* * * *
Fate is
* * * *
The destiny of all
* * * *
There are worse fates