When he turned to me just on the other side of the Boulder Bridge,
full in the face in response to my question
His eyes were saying something beyond his words
They danced in circles that challenged,
Really what are you up to
My dreaming twin
We danced in dreams for so long
His dark pupils danced whirlpools
that opened into a world beyond
drawing my heart into the depths of self
Does he know what he carries?
The ache in the back
In a dream my pelvis was made of wood framing
and a heavy door with many strange keyholes
What is in the back went to fast for me to see
If I unlocked this door I would be shaken to the roots
I'd have to walk away from all those who count on my
to manage daily affairs
It would be more than cutting into a pie filled with blackbirds
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Friday, December 18, 2009
In the cloud you're in
The woman in her cloud, where did her happiness go? Swallowed up, by what? Something troubled her. While before I felt she saw me, I realize now I'm no more than a shadow of a shadow in a dream she's dreaming. I'm often in clouds too, not seeing the cloud at all, perceiving instead only what I imagine to occur while the cloud envelops me, the cloud I can't see, an invisible smudge of mysterious origin.
When Buddhists talk about the emptiness of all things, I'm told this means that things do exist, just not as we think they do. But there seems to be quite a difference semantically between those two ideas. All I know for sure is that I most often miss the most important things, things that are more actual than the actual, that are the voice of the cloud disguised as something actually heard.
When Buddhists talk about the emptiness of all things, I'm told this means that things do exist, just not as we think they do. But there seems to be quite a difference semantically between those two ideas. All I know for sure is that I most often miss the most important things, things that are more actual than the actual, that are the voice of the cloud disguised as something actually heard.
Welcoming the Wild One
Satanism is religion for novices. The real wild one is God, the one who arranged the ultimate inescapable sacrifice while retreating into sheer darkness. Who, when a certain ripeness is indicated, lowers the lathe, or shakes us awake. We are all asked to let go of these warm, attractive cloaks and bags of tricks eventually, to open to the infinite. He breaks our hearts open.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Unsayable Envelope
The envelope of no-thought has decisive form lately, warm, dark, an elegant non-local cavity. I've wondered how this pristine void of sensual nothingness as intimate as a slip has stayed close lately, as if it were dreaming me more than I've been dreaming it. What if you could unzip a pocket of the peace of darkness in the air in the room in front of you and slide into supreme stillness without a shard of me or it, subject or object, confidence or worry, determination or will? How has this happened?
I felt my access to peace would end and in fact I've had a hard day, a bomb of nothing blew up out of nowhere and somehow I lost the therapeutic voice I'd found comforting. This business of talking every little thing through. A nasty comment and I seethed all day, my voice fled to a distant planet. Perhaps this explains the dream I woke up to, of being in a plane plunging to earth. The pilot spoke quietly and contemplatively while we rode the horrible vessel, my daughter and I silently curled together.
I have been trying to recover from a foul energy all day, I wonder what shadow has turned up? Of course I am most concerned with losing my treasure, that warm envelope of conscious unconsciousness, supreme silty stillness, the breath of my heart dusting the pulse of the unknowable. Essence growing richly from the root. I pictured myself in the dark basement room, folding laundry, unable to slip into the darkness, folding sheets. For company I had a candle, and each moment I traced the reality of unknowing with my heart, the flame flew towards me as a luminous butterfly, a new one born every moment my heart turned again to the unsayable opacity that gives organs of light to the word darkness.
I felt my access to peace would end and in fact I've had a hard day, a bomb of nothing blew up out of nowhere and somehow I lost the therapeutic voice I'd found comforting. This business of talking every little thing through. A nasty comment and I seethed all day, my voice fled to a distant planet. Perhaps this explains the dream I woke up to, of being in a plane plunging to earth. The pilot spoke quietly and contemplatively while we rode the horrible vessel, my daughter and I silently curled together.
I have been trying to recover from a foul energy all day, I wonder what shadow has turned up? Of course I am most concerned with losing my treasure, that warm envelope of conscious unconsciousness, supreme silty stillness, the breath of my heart dusting the pulse of the unknowable. Essence growing richly from the root. I pictured myself in the dark basement room, folding laundry, unable to slip into the darkness, folding sheets. For company I had a candle, and each moment I traced the reality of unknowing with my heart, the flame flew towards me as a luminous butterfly, a new one born every moment my heart turned again to the unsayable opacity that gives organs of light to the word darkness.
Monday, October 19, 2009
What do I know
What do I know about the world?
Only stories, truths or dramas,
what bears repeating.
Something I know now,
about entering the dark closet of the mind
silently
and letting the will speak as water
that seeks the lowest point.
Without words it falls, saying, there you are.
As entering a thermal pool
I put my body and heart in the hands
of the unnameable
and let striving dissolve
among the heat and ripples
and the softness of silt.
Only stories, truths or dramas,
what bears repeating.
Something I know now,
about entering the dark closet of the mind
silently
and letting the will speak as water
that seeks the lowest point.
Without words it falls, saying, there you are.
As entering a thermal pool
I put my body and heart in the hands
of the unnameable
and let striving dissolve
among the heat and ripples
and the softness of silt.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Broken Bow
In a dream I found myself sitting on the lap of a friendly, tall young man, and torquing around to the left to kiss him on the lips, I think a total of 5 times. These were heart kisses, kisses of appreciation, kisses that made full heart contact. Then I looked down to my left and saw my violin bow on the ground, broken and covered with a thin layer of moss in the area around the break. In the dream, I remember clearly enunciating the phrase, "My bow is broken."
Broken like a horse, I think, broken to my heart's desire, as when the horse and the rider are absorbed in the passion of covering the hills. I've wrestled with the bow, forced its horse tail hairs over the notes, skidded it willy nilly over the strings striking freakish sounds, holding on for dear life. I didn't play for about a month, my neck and my arm and wrist were hurting me, so I just didn't concern myself with violin, I was busy with other things. I've come back to it to find my right side has figured a few things out. For instance, when the bow hairs hit a note, it's like the bow, through my arm, is giving the string a kiss, you could say it sweets it, and I have strength for all these kisses. That is until last night when I fell down the stairs, and now my arm hurts again. But I dreamed I saw myself playing, and I saw the way my bow arm was moving effortlessly, and was surprised because it looked right. And I think I was wearing a hat like Sam Duffy.
Broken like a horse, I think, broken to my heart's desire, as when the horse and the rider are absorbed in the passion of covering the hills. I've wrestled with the bow, forced its horse tail hairs over the notes, skidded it willy nilly over the strings striking freakish sounds, holding on for dear life. I didn't play for about a month, my neck and my arm and wrist were hurting me, so I just didn't concern myself with violin, I was busy with other things. I've come back to it to find my right side has figured a few things out. For instance, when the bow hairs hit a note, it's like the bow, through my arm, is giving the string a kiss, you could say it sweets it, and I have strength for all these kisses. That is until last night when I fell down the stairs, and now my arm hurts again. But I dreamed I saw myself playing, and I saw the way my bow arm was moving effortlessly, and was surprised because it looked right. And I think I was wearing a hat like Sam Duffy.
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