Notes from a monk with a poem, sweeping the chapel of ideas, awaiting the broader dawn.

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When will we learn that we are already home?

When will we learn that we are already home?

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Horizon

[excerpt : thoughts in italics : a meditation on meditation]

                Do you see?  Peel back the shroud.  Truth will all ways shine.  Light of life.  Light of growth.  Light of hope.  Begin with the darkness.  Eternal.  Thoughtless.  Black.  No horizon.  No destination.  No tomorrow.  No stars.  Nothing is nothing.  Nothing is.

                Do you see?  You are the shroud.  Let it in.  Slow.  Let it erase you.  Let it ease.  Thyrsus.  Seventy years of the future’s passed.  Did you want to see the source of the Nile?  Did you want to build a tower?  No thing is no thing.  No thing is.  We are not.  And need not be.  Love.  Two hundred years of the future has passed.  Sewing fertility.  Memories are no thing.  Regress.  Progress.

                Begin with the darkness.  Thoughtless.  Emotion.  Is no thing.  I am.  Or I am not.  Skin.  Leaf-green intelligence.  Yen.  Are you teaching now?  Teaching of things.  To beings.  Who are.  Again I am the veil.  Blocking light.  Light that is darkness.  Darkness that is light.  Nothing is an illusion.

                Do you see?  Dreams flickering.  Ideas like chicks hatch in blood.  Nothing casts its shadow.

                No horizon.  Let it in.

                Purdah cracked her eyes to blinding white.  Momentarily it faded to become her living room.  A curtain hung thickly silent over the sliding-glass door, glowing red, refracting the calm afternoon.  Sentient air filled her, to release her.  I am the air.  I am the light I see.  For it is nothing beyond my eyes.  Slowly her eyelids dropped again.  I am the veil.  I am no thing.  I am a vessel.  I am the horizon.

                Do I see?  Without eyes.  Do I feel?  Without hands.  Do I think?  Without words?

                Do I know?

                Darkness.  One with light.  Pain is fleeting.  Pain is fleeting.  All things are.  Things.  Into me.  My breast rises, filled with the invisible, the intangible stuff of life—AIR—stuff of breath.  Molecules are fairy dust.  Atoms and electrons are leprechauns.  Words are not things.  Naming is not understanding.  Knowledge is acceptance.  Thyrsus.  Leaf-green intelligence.  Life is fleeting.  Love is not.  Air is air.  Nitrogen.  Oxygen.  And fairies.  My breast falls, releasing the divisible, the recycled stuff of life.  I am in.  I am out.  I am contradiction.

                Dreams of metaphor.  Meta for dreams.  Still holding me.  Strange.  Feel it. Coming.  Silence.

                No horizon.

 

                Sliding glass bumped.  Curtains split with light, and Thyrsus entered the room.  Sweat clung to him, gray curls licking his cheeks, and Purdah smelled him as quickly as she heard him.  A smile found her lips ready, as he pulled off his boots and padded softly to her.  “I’ll cook up some eggs.  Want one?”

                “Please,” she answered hungrily, her eyes still closed.  “Wash your hands.”  Your laughter is breath in my blood.  Fairy dust.  Air without laughter stagnates.

                Silly.

                Smile.

                Egg in the distance.  Sunrise.

 

                And that is it.  Everything.  Is.  Nothing.  In between.  Lay the horizon.  Leaf-green.

The Impossible Rise

Einstein and Stephen Hawking said that everything in the universe might be summed up in a single mathematical equation.  For centuries theorists have tried to divide and reduce the natural world, searching for the very essence of natural law.  Some claim that every law of physics is in truth fully described by the laws of Gravity and Electromagnetism.  The Unified Theory would reduce these two laws of physics to one.

. . .

Some, not all of whom are sane, believe these equations exist in a Thought Dimension, which our minds and spirits connect with continually.  Somehow these equations connect with every part of everything, invisibly influencing the behavior of matter.  All atoms seek each other.  We call it Gravity, sometimes, other times Love.  Across the vast impossible emptiness of space, matter calls to itself and this unheard song weaves a thread, pulling space together.  What does Gravity look like?  Possibly it’s best described by a sphere, by the shape it makes, a planet.  Does the sphere exist or is it an approximation, created in the Thought Dimension, which we attach to our impression?

. . . Could this Thought Dimension connect our minds to all parts of everything?  . . .


Does Love look like Gravity?  Across the impossible distance of you and I, my ideas travel to you in the humble vessel of words.  Do you feel them?  There is no presumption.  Some will.  Can you touch them?  With what then do you feel them?  Does Love create a sphere?  . . .

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