we are the river longing for the sea
love the movement
as soon as we emerge as imaginary selves
we feel alone
because we are
we long to touch
and we never can...
we are isolated universes
unique thought dreams
and can never know what it is like for another
longing is the current that seems to be the movement of life
you will disappear into the ocean soon enough
meanwhile we can somehow see and feel this broken hearted beauty
of all of humanity
when it is realized that we are the dream
it feels simultaneously like being suspended as this edgeless ocean
and the current of love rushing through itself
I could never have imagined that falling deeply in love with everyone was possible...
but
love and the world as I knew it had to die first
amazing that it is the love and desire that you are that kisses you from the inside and out, slays you... erases you ...and resurrects you...
roaring primordial seas sing this edgleless symphony of perception
vast measureless timeless spaceless... it cannot be caught
words are lassos of attention
snapshots of this unknown unknowable...
'I am' seems to ride the tail end of this tsunami of thought
erupting playfully the dream of this and that sings the ocean and waves and thought into being
endless water flowers opening
petals falling
words... fall... leaving an undeniable taste of aliveness
one drop in your tongue
savored into memories
dried petals in the book of time
liquid words slide off the pages
as they unravel
empty threads unwind into an unreadable storyline
seemingly recognized for just a brief moment
before they become illegible again
and there is no space no silence between the words
no interval betweent the notes
no words
no notes
without words
there is no primordial sea or god or source from which we spring
the dream dreams itself
just like this
if the sky falls we will either figure it out or we won't
there is always love
and death is certain
how can we know the preciousness of life
when we are it?
how can we love so deeply
when we are this love?
lightening seems to divide the sky
night divides the days....
the dream spell dreams itself
we are a call and answer love song
wind sliding through wind
without imaginary separation we are not
a river needs its banks to flow...
one side seems farther away from the other
'hello
I love you'
the river sings to itself
'welcome home
I've missed you'
it echoes
we are each other's echoes in our hearts
we do not exist without each other
nor does love...
love has no edges
nor do our hearts
we are love's resonance
there is no love outside of this dream of love
there is no outside...
roaring primordial seas sing this edgeless symphony of perception
vast measureless timeless spaceless... it cannot be caught
words are lassos of attention
snapshots of this unknown unknowable...
'I am' seems to ride the tail end of this tsunami of thought
erupting playfully the dream of this and that sings the ocean and waves and thought into being
endless water flowers opening
petals falling
words... fall... leaving an undeniable taste of aliveness
one drop in your tongue
savored into memories
dried petals in the book of time
liquid words slide off the pages
as they unravel
empty threads unwind into an unreadable storyline
seemingly recognized for just a brief moment
before they become illegible again
and there is no space no silence between the words
no interval between the notes
no words
no notes
without words
there is no primordial sea or god or source from which we spring
the dream dreams itself
just like this
the last belief to go was that this could be shared... which is the last bit of belief in 'other'.... and yet obviously songs flow... wind soars through wind... and I have seen others who sing of this for money... and well, i used to think it would be great to sell more books... as I need money tooo! lol but i followed that story and realized it would be horrible to be popular, our zooms would be crowded.. i wouldnt have time to talk with everyone who messages me... and my next books will all be e books .... so i dont have to pay someone to help me with the cover... and there is no need even have to break even... and i love that and i love you all .... deeply ...
your stories are my stories and we are such beautiful stories weaveing and unweaving the dream spell,,, we are the enchantment... of love
words are not real or unreal
real is a word
some words seem to slide beneath the letters and touch you into being
into love
we are love's resonance...
there is no love nor lover nor beloved without imaginary separation
it seems that some characters have slipped beneath the lines and sqiggles of words, but it is actually somehow the brains recognition that the flowing net of words is painting the known universe, and love and all things are mentally fabricated...
as there is no outside to this dream that dreams itself, this dream that dreams us.... the dream that we are
but to the dream dancer it feels like love... the feeling of utter spaceless space and the simultaneous 'real - unreal' worded world.
this love requires nothing,,, it feels like it saturates everything...
there are no things, not even love
this wondrous beautiful dream of aliveness... and somehow there is a knowing of this obvious aliveness... looking and feeling like anything at all....
so is love ...hate and jealousy and anger and sadness?
when all the words are just letters... an unknowing seems to swallow them...
there is no more grasping ...gasping for breath
as you are the inhaling and exhaling....
the breath of life breathing
the dream of love dreaming
like this like this like this
love sings our names
and we answer
yes
if the sky falls we will either figure it out or we won't
there is always love
and death is certain
morning blooms
last leaves fall
naked trees hold the cold clear sky
grey cat drives the finches into the roses
tangles of stems and dried flowers
they will hang on until spring
maybe
thought appears to paint the dream spell
yet it is the painting also
liquid words slide through themselves
there is no canvass of space and time
appearing and disappearing simultaneously
without edges or time
or the lack of edges or time
we are the enchantment of the dream
no one is enchanted
and what can we say about all this
when there is no this
nor that
nor both
nor neither?
our words paint us
no one holds the paintbrush
there is no hand or heart outside of the painting
it is all encompassing
without any substance
or lack there of
trippling lightly through the dream that dreams me
no longer looking for an edge
or emptiness
is sublime
the hush of morning
never leaves
it subsumes the dream
it is the peace I longed for
the love I ached for
after the belief in the dream released itself I found
love is the longing itself
opalescent mirror of moon
reflections of liquid sky gather mouthfuls of images
into this flowing poem
where all words are made of love letters
bouquets falling apart as they are gathered
a taste of sweetness remembered
fills in the blanks where words cannot go
emptiness itself a word
the dream spins itself
and I am dizzy
intoxicated with the enchantment of unknowing
when or where or why or who....
time an echo of a remembered past
when there was a clear path ahead
when there was a feeling that something beautiful was missed
and hidden memories called my name
but the leaves fell and the path could not be found
and I was lost in the forest of dreams
paralyzed with the feeling of being trapped in fear
the line between me and fear dissolved
the utter nakedness of the trees
and this aliveness
pierced me deeply
that there was no where to go became obvious
that there was no one to go...
that there was no one to go home
no home...
no leaves or trees or forest or sky....
and the world bloomed into infinite petals of loveliness
love kissed me into her mouth
and breathed me into the universe
I am unabashedly in love with you
nakedly in love with loving
no you
no me
nor love
nor petals
falling
into
sky
feathered light soars across the canyon
erases the ancient logic of endless nights
and endless
days
unties the knot of endings
and beginnings
completely
what soared into my heart that morning
was never not here
but the longing for it
seemed to hide this knowing feeling of seamless beauty
soaring like sky through sky without end
windsongs written with wind
in wind
love dissolving in love's endless embrace
words burn themselves as they are spoken
life burns itself as it appears
we seem to exist only in this love song
this breath
this love this longing
this kiss this death is the beauty of who we are
how beautiful the dried roses hanging in the tangling vines
some hidden
some revealed
how lovely the blush in your cheeks
the sound of your voice leaves a kiss in my heart
we are life's intimacy
there is no separation between the wind and its song
no pause in the passion play
where we can step out of our characters
and read the script
what seems to appear is all we can know
the immediate recognition of it inseparable from it
and somehow there are tears
what precious beauty of all of us sharing our stories
these are our love songs to each other
as we appear in the singing
liquid fire of life burns itself
pours in you as you through you
you are this aliveness you feel
midnight on the plain of songs
moon sings light into sky
painted tides bloom and recede
wind pauses on the in-breath
empty beaches wait
night dream pours into morning
thought stretches its arms and holds you
and you hover in-between space and daylight
your mouth your heart, warm and round, seem to hold the words
but love's breath escapes
I am an echo chamber of thought
a fairy tale of wonder seeing her reflection in an edgeless sea
background and foreground merged in an ancient song
I have no lips or eyes without you
tossing words into a sea of song
some ricochet into my ears
and an outline of a dancer emerges
some come back to caress my lips
weeping, I find my eyes
and here I am
loving you
deeply
as love burns itself
we burn
love's ashes require wind to sing
how wondrous when meaning and non meaning become unintelligible
tides of words litter the beaches
painting the sand
and the wind
and the tides
and these
words
dissloving
into
letters strewn like stars across an endless sky
trails that can't be followed
questions that cannot be answered
stars pour into their reflection
through our reflections
we are the shimmering
sliding through the tides
we are the intoxication of starlight
falling in love with its own echo
without our eyes
there are no stars
no ears can hear this love song
echoing in the chambers of our hearts
without the prism of self
words cannot paint this heart
nor this overwhelming love
It is utterly obvious that there is no this nor that nor both nor neither
But it is not known how this is apparent
They tell me I speak in doublespeak and they don’t understand
I say this is not about understanding
They say
I don’t get it
And I say
That’s it!
no one appears alone in this dance
Yet we are utterly alone
It’s obvious here that there is no time nor timelessness
That there are no separate moments or events
calling life a seamless flow... the idea of flowing is made up
That there are no separate things or events to be permanent or changing
this is life simultaneously suspended as the hush.... and living fully human fully alive
what I feel cannot be found
when it’s all fluid there is no looker, no looking....
no prize at the end of the rainbow
liquid colors bloom in this waterfall of sensuous aliveness
words seem to form my lips my heart....
this empty street
this midnight
this bouquet of word slips through my fingers and onto the page
without a listener
there is simply no singer
your voice is a wave of echoes that flows through my heart
as we sing we dissolve into a love song that has no words
'like this', she said
'just like this'
love burns even itself
everyone knows deep down that there is no past nor future nor now... that life seems to appear and disappear simultaneously... but this is too terrifying to recognize... as what would that say about the apparent solidity of you?
thought seems to capture bits of this apparent flowing... which isn't even a 'flowing' without thought....
self is the assumption of solidity, of a watcher of life... of a thinker of thoughts... of an unchanging feeler of feelings...
yet no one can be found outside of thought... and this imaginary self requires a seemingly consistent backdrop of time and space....
but there is no empty canvas upon which life is painted... no hand holds the paintbrush of thought... there is no thing called a paintbrush without thought... no thing called thought
without thought
so what is this, you may ask?
is there a this?
is there a that?
where is the line between that and this
where is the line between you and these words
your eyes your skin your mind?
there is something we call life is obvious
but is it a thing if it cannot be captured
can you draw a line around it?
can you get outside of it
is there an outside?
is there an inside?
all we can know is this edgeless seamless symphony of perception which seems just as real in the night time dream as in the day time dream... same light same feel same taste same passion...
attention seems to rove and rest... rove and rest...
thought throws lassos into the sky....
never capturing even a bit of sky
its all sky...
all we can know, all we can say is this fleeting description....
doves land on the feeders and the sparrows fly off
coffee maker burbles and gurgles...
all words seemingly create things... and every thing has an imaginary line around it separating these things from each other and separate from you... an assumed observer of these things, these feelings... this life...
but there are no things and no background of time and space upon which life appears without thought, without these very shared learned words
if this is even seen for a second, and this vast unknowing is felt, the brain quickly scrambles to fill in the cracks in the wall of belief... often with religion and philosophy... more ideas to 'explain' this void this emptiness we all feel... as this emptiness is actually the case... any ideas serve as a barrier to not recognize the obvious
yet sometimes the integrity of the house of cards collapses, and somehow the passion play seems no more real or unreal than a movie... life no longer feels like it is happening to a you, and it no longer feels like there is a doer a thinker a feeler...
yet, you are still here somehow just like you always were
a phantom in a magic show
a dancer in the most lush sensuous dreamscape you could never have wished for...
it feels certain that there is no solidity
nor certainty
and none is wished for
no here nor there nor both nor neither
yes I am here, as real as you and tomorrow and love
and enlightenment...
knowing I am a dreamt character and that love is made up is not the end of the dream, nor the end of love... it is the dream, and seemingly the beginning of this dream of love...
dreaming itself
just like this
it never feels like there is a thinker or feeler
or director of thought or feeling
This is intimately immediate
Without pause...
suspended as utter emptiness and dancing down the street
Wind blowing through me
I am the wind dancing
I am a character in a movie but there is no script and the story is unknown
There is no one playing the part
Simultaneously it feels like watching the movie...
real and unreal and surreal...
The only reality I can ever know is this dream of separation
That I am
That no one is...
realer than real
Feeling deeply
These un named un owned emotions...
Closer than close
My breath
Your breath
Without any separation
Without feeling like I’m on a timeline between birth and death
And yet death is certain
true and false...
meaning and non meaning...
All this and that is mentally fabricated
Not by the self
Self is one of the many wonderful things
Like wonder...
there are no things to be changing or unchanging
No place to land
No one to land
No place
No space
Emptiness without emptiness..,
The whole shaboogie is a dream.., we assume there is a physical world although we can never actually know it because to deny it would be the ultimate ego trip...
But that is a story
Stories are a story
It’s a conceptual world
All
The
Way
Down
I love that I am these beliefs and preferences... without its banks there is no river
flowing
suspended as edgeless ocean... no waves no water no ocean... is nothing to write home about... we dont exist there.. there is no field beyond right and wrong... there is
not
even
nothing
sea bird brings the dawn
it stretches long and low over the ocean to where darkness
hovers
memory
just beyond your grasp
waits
on the other side of the horizon
winged embrace of earth and sky
feathers
fall
into this very caress
all and everything coalesce into this symphony of wonder
you can hear it
you know this song by heart
feeling your mouth your lips your heart dance
in this reverberation
this chorus
of many voices
many hearts
one voice
one heart
no voices
no hearts....
where is the emptiness you longed for?
why did you want to disappear?
who would know if you were gone?
....and she wandered by the ocean intoxicated with endless echoes of sky...
and what is space without space?
emptiness without emptiness... ?
where is a where
what is a what
when exactly is
when?
what are these words that paint our world of things of this and that...
where did they come from
where do they go?
aren't coming and going words?
can you find an edge to what seems to appear?
can you grab something and take it out of all this?
where would it go?
can you add something to all of this?
where would it come from?
is there ever anything other than what seems to appear?
utterly naturally and spontaneously life does itself...
there really is no other better more or next...
yet belief in them may occur...
and that belief is happening just as all of life does
of itself so...
Words seem like paltry pointers
Smoke signals across the canyon at dusk
But we can watch the sunset
Alone
Together
And sing songs about the magnificence of love
And the beauty of not being able to capture it
where is the sky in sky?
where is wind's empty breath?
what is this love that burns itself?
who drowns in the flame of love?
death wears an empty dress
there is nothing inside your nakedness
longing to escape
how fragrant the morning of wild roses
leaves and dried blossoms hanging
Without any warning
Without any effort or non effort
Ocean of love exploded in my chest
And I was forever drowned in her seamless embrace
You can not leave or return to this edgeless Sea
There is no sea
Nor you
Nor love
as soon as we emerge as imaginary selves
we feel alone
because we are
we long to touch
and we never can...
we are isolated universes
unique thought dreams
and can never know what it is like for another
longing is the current that seems to be the movement of life
you will disappear into the ocean soon enough
meanwhile we can somehow see and feel this broken hearted beauty
of all of humanity
when it is realized that we are the dream
it feels simultaneously like being suspended as this edgeless ocean
and the current of love rushing through itself
I could never have imagined that falling deeply in love with everyone was possible...
but
love and the world as I knew it had to die first
amazing that it is the love and desire that you are that kisses you from the inside and out, slays you... erases you ...and resurrects you...
roaring primordial seas sing this edgleless symphony of perception
vast measureless timeless spaceless... it cannot be caught
words are lassos of attention
snapshots of this unknown unknowable...
'I am' seems to ride the tail end of this tsunami of thought
erupting playfully the dream of this and that sings the ocean and waves and thought into being
endless water flowers opening
petals falling
words... fall... leaving an undeniable taste of aliveness
one drop in your tongue
savored into memories
dried petals in the book of time
liquid words slide off the pages
as they unravel
empty threads unwind into an unreadable storyline
seemingly recognized for just a brief moment
before they become illegible again
and there is no space no silence between the words
no interval betweent the notes
no words
no notes
without words
there is no primordial sea or god or source from which we spring
the dream dreams itself
just like this
if the sky falls we will either figure it out or we won't
there is always love
and death is certain
how can we know the preciousness of life
when we are it?
how can we love so deeply
when we are this love?
lightening seems to divide the sky
night divides the days....
the dream spell dreams itself
we are a call and answer love song
wind sliding through wind
without imaginary separation we are not
a river needs its banks to flow...
one side seems farther away from the other
'hello
I love you'
the river sings to itself
'welcome home
I've missed you'
it echoes
we are each other's echoes in our hearts
we do not exist without each other
nor does love...
love has no edges
nor do our hearts
we are love's resonance
there is no love outside of this dream of love
there is no outside...
roaring primordial seas sing this edgeless symphony of perception
vast measureless timeless spaceless... it cannot be caught
words are lassos of attention
snapshots of this unknown unknowable...
'I am' seems to ride the tail end of this tsunami of thought
erupting playfully the dream of this and that sings the ocean and waves and thought into being
endless water flowers opening
petals falling
words... fall... leaving an undeniable taste of aliveness
one drop in your tongue
savored into memories
dried petals in the book of time
liquid words slide off the pages
as they unravel
empty threads unwind into an unreadable storyline
seemingly recognized for just a brief moment
before they become illegible again
and there is no space no silence between the words
no interval between the notes
no words
no notes
without words
there is no primordial sea or god or source from which we spring
the dream dreams itself
just like this
the last belief to go was that this could be shared... which is the last bit of belief in 'other'.... and yet obviously songs flow... wind soars through wind... and I have seen others who sing of this for money... and well, i used to think it would be great to sell more books... as I need money tooo! lol but i followed that story and realized it would be horrible to be popular, our zooms would be crowded.. i wouldnt have time to talk with everyone who messages me... and my next books will all be e books .... so i dont have to pay someone to help me with the cover... and there is no need even have to break even... and i love that and i love you all .... deeply ...
your stories are my stories and we are such beautiful stories weaveing and unweaving the dream spell,,, we are the enchantment... of love
words are not real or unreal
real is a word
some words seem to slide beneath the letters and touch you into being
into love
we are love's resonance...
there is no love nor lover nor beloved without imaginary separation
it seems that some characters have slipped beneath the lines and sqiggles of words, but it is actually somehow the brains recognition that the flowing net of words is painting the known universe, and love and all things are mentally fabricated...
as there is no outside to this dream that dreams itself, this dream that dreams us.... the dream that we are
but to the dream dancer it feels like love... the feeling of utter spaceless space and the simultaneous 'real - unreal' worded world.
this love requires nothing,,, it feels like it saturates everything...
there are no things, not even love
this wondrous beautiful dream of aliveness... and somehow there is a knowing of this obvious aliveness... looking and feeling like anything at all....
so is love ...hate and jealousy and anger and sadness?
when all the words are just letters... an unknowing seems to swallow them...
there is no more grasping ...gasping for breath
as you are the inhaling and exhaling....
the breath of life breathing
the dream of love dreaming
like this like this like this
love sings our names
and we answer
yes
if the sky falls we will either figure it out or we won't
there is always love
and death is certain
morning blooms
last leaves fall
naked trees hold the cold clear sky
grey cat drives the finches into the roses
tangles of stems and dried flowers
they will hang on until spring
maybe
thought appears to paint the dream spell
yet it is the painting also
liquid words slide through themselves
there is no canvass of space and time
appearing and disappearing simultaneously
without edges or time
or the lack of edges or time
we are the enchantment of the dream
no one is enchanted
and what can we say about all this
when there is no this
nor that
nor both
nor neither?
our words paint us
no one holds the paintbrush
there is no hand or heart outside of the painting
it is all encompassing
without any substance
or lack there of
trippling lightly through the dream that dreams me
no longer looking for an edge
or emptiness
is sublime
the hush of morning
never leaves
it subsumes the dream
it is the peace I longed for
the love I ached for
after the belief in the dream released itself I found
love is the longing itself
opalescent mirror of moon
reflections of liquid sky gather mouthfuls of images
into this flowing poem
where all words are made of love letters
bouquets falling apart as they are gathered
a taste of sweetness remembered
fills in the blanks where words cannot go
emptiness itself a word
the dream spins itself
and I am dizzy
intoxicated with the enchantment of unknowing
when or where or why or who....
time an echo of a remembered past
when there was a clear path ahead
when there was a feeling that something beautiful was missed
and hidden memories called my name
but the leaves fell and the path could not be found
and I was lost in the forest of dreams
paralyzed with the feeling of being trapped in fear
the line between me and fear dissolved
the utter nakedness of the trees
and this aliveness
pierced me deeply
that there was no where to go became obvious
that there was no one to go...
that there was no one to go home
no home...
no leaves or trees or forest or sky....
and the world bloomed into infinite petals of loveliness
love kissed me into her mouth
and breathed me into the universe
I am unabashedly in love with you
nakedly in love with loving
no you
no me
nor love
nor petals
falling
into
sky
feathered light soars across the canyon
erases the ancient logic of endless nights
and endless
days
unties the knot of endings
and beginnings
completely
what soared into my heart that morning
was never not here
but the longing for it
seemed to hide this knowing feeling of seamless beauty
soaring like sky through sky without end
windsongs written with wind
in wind
love dissolving in love's endless embrace
words burn themselves as they are spoken
life burns itself as it appears
we seem to exist only in this love song
this breath
this love this longing
this kiss this death is the beauty of who we are
how beautiful the dried roses hanging in the tangling vines
some hidden
some revealed
how lovely the blush in your cheeks
the sound of your voice leaves a kiss in my heart
we are life's intimacy
there is no separation between the wind and its song
no pause in the passion play
where we can step out of our characters
and read the script
what seems to appear is all we can know
the immediate recognition of it inseparable from it
and somehow there are tears
what precious beauty of all of us sharing our stories
these are our love songs to each other
as we appear in the singing
liquid fire of life burns itself
pours in you as you through you
you are this aliveness you feel
midnight on the plain of songs
moon sings light into sky
painted tides bloom and recede
wind pauses on the in-breath
empty beaches wait
night dream pours into morning
thought stretches its arms and holds you
and you hover in-between space and daylight
your mouth your heart, warm and round, seem to hold the words
but love's breath escapes
I am an echo chamber of thought
a fairy tale of wonder seeing her reflection in an edgeless sea
background and foreground merged in an ancient song
I have no lips or eyes without you
tossing words into a sea of song
some ricochet into my ears
and an outline of a dancer emerges
some come back to caress my lips
weeping, I find my eyes
and here I am
loving you
deeply
as love burns itself
we burn
love's ashes require wind to sing
how wondrous when meaning and non meaning become unintelligible
tides of words litter the beaches
painting the sand
and the wind
and the tides
and these
words
dissloving
into
letters strewn like stars across an endless sky
trails that can't be followed
questions that cannot be answered
stars pour into their reflection
through our reflections
we are the shimmering
sliding through the tides
we are the intoxication of starlight
falling in love with its own echo
without our eyes
there are no stars
no ears can hear this love song
echoing in the chambers of our hearts
without the prism of self
words cannot paint this heart
nor this overwhelming love
It is utterly obvious that there is no this nor that nor both nor neither
But it is not known how this is apparent
They tell me I speak in doublespeak and they don’t understand
I say this is not about understanding
They say
I don’t get it
And I say
That’s it!
no one appears alone in this dance
Yet we are utterly alone
It’s obvious here that there is no time nor timelessness
That there are no separate moments or events
calling life a seamless flow... the idea of flowing is made up
That there are no separate things or events to be permanent or changing
this is life simultaneously suspended as the hush.... and living fully human fully alive
what I feel cannot be found
when it’s all fluid there is no looker, no looking....
no prize at the end of the rainbow
liquid colors bloom in this waterfall of sensuous aliveness
words seem to form my lips my heart....
this empty street
this midnight
this bouquet of word slips through my fingers and onto the page
without a listener
there is simply no singer
your voice is a wave of echoes that flows through my heart
as we sing we dissolve into a love song that has no words
'like this', she said
'just like this'
love burns even itself
everyone knows deep down that there is no past nor future nor now... that life seems to appear and disappear simultaneously... but this is too terrifying to recognize... as what would that say about the apparent solidity of you?
thought seems to capture bits of this apparent flowing... which isn't even a 'flowing' without thought....
self is the assumption of solidity, of a watcher of life... of a thinker of thoughts... of an unchanging feeler of feelings...
yet no one can be found outside of thought... and this imaginary self requires a seemingly consistent backdrop of time and space....
but there is no empty canvas upon which life is painted... no hand holds the paintbrush of thought... there is no thing called a paintbrush without thought... no thing called thought
without thought
so what is this, you may ask?
is there a this?
is there a that?
where is the line between that and this
where is the line between you and these words
your eyes your skin your mind?
there is something we call life is obvious
but is it a thing if it cannot be captured
can you draw a line around it?
can you get outside of it
is there an outside?
is there an inside?
all we can know is this edgeless seamless symphony of perception which seems just as real in the night time dream as in the day time dream... same light same feel same taste same passion...
attention seems to rove and rest... rove and rest...
thought throws lassos into the sky....
never capturing even a bit of sky
its all sky...
all we can know, all we can say is this fleeting description....
doves land on the feeders and the sparrows fly off
coffee maker burbles and gurgles...
all words seemingly create things... and every thing has an imaginary line around it separating these things from each other and separate from you... an assumed observer of these things, these feelings... this life...
but there are no things and no background of time and space upon which life appears without thought, without these very shared learned words
if this is even seen for a second, and this vast unknowing is felt, the brain quickly scrambles to fill in the cracks in the wall of belief... often with religion and philosophy... more ideas to 'explain' this void this emptiness we all feel... as this emptiness is actually the case... any ideas serve as a barrier to not recognize the obvious
yet sometimes the integrity of the house of cards collapses, and somehow the passion play seems no more real or unreal than a movie... life no longer feels like it is happening to a you, and it no longer feels like there is a doer a thinker a feeler...
yet, you are still here somehow just like you always were
a phantom in a magic show
a dancer in the most lush sensuous dreamscape you could never have wished for...
it feels certain that there is no solidity
nor certainty
and none is wished for
no here nor there nor both nor neither
yes I am here, as real as you and tomorrow and love
and enlightenment...
knowing I am a dreamt character and that love is made up is not the end of the dream, nor the end of love... it is the dream, and seemingly the beginning of this dream of love...
dreaming itself
just like this
it never feels like there is a thinker or feeler
or director of thought or feeling
This is intimately immediate
Without pause...
suspended as utter emptiness and dancing down the street
Wind blowing through me
I am the wind dancing
I am a character in a movie but there is no script and the story is unknown
There is no one playing the part
Simultaneously it feels like watching the movie...
real and unreal and surreal...
The only reality I can ever know is this dream of separation
That I am
That no one is...
realer than real
Feeling deeply
These un named un owned emotions...
Closer than close
My breath
Your breath
Without any separation
Without feeling like I’m on a timeline between birth and death
And yet death is certain
true and false...
meaning and non meaning...
All this and that is mentally fabricated
Not by the self
Self is one of the many wonderful things
Like wonder...
there are no things to be changing or unchanging
No place to land
No one to land
No place
No space
Emptiness without emptiness..,
The whole shaboogie is a dream.., we assume there is a physical world although we can never actually know it because to deny it would be the ultimate ego trip...
But that is a story
Stories are a story
It’s a conceptual world
All
The
Way
Down
I love that I am these beliefs and preferences... without its banks there is no river
flowing
suspended as edgeless ocean... no waves no water no ocean... is nothing to write home about... we dont exist there.. there is no field beyond right and wrong... there is
not
even
nothing
sea bird brings the dawn
it stretches long and low over the ocean to where darkness
hovers
memory
just beyond your grasp
waits
on the other side of the horizon
winged embrace of earth and sky
feathers
fall
into this very caress
all and everything coalesce into this symphony of wonder
you can hear it
you know this song by heart
feeling your mouth your lips your heart dance
in this reverberation
this chorus
of many voices
many hearts
one voice
one heart
no voices
no hearts....
where is the emptiness you longed for?
why did you want to disappear?
who would know if you were gone?
....and she wandered by the ocean intoxicated with endless echoes of sky...
and what is space without space?
emptiness without emptiness... ?
where is a where
what is a what
when exactly is
when?
what are these words that paint our world of things of this and that...
where did they come from
where do they go?
aren't coming and going words?
can you find an edge to what seems to appear?
can you grab something and take it out of all this?
where would it go?
can you add something to all of this?
where would it come from?
is there ever anything other than what seems to appear?
utterly naturally and spontaneously life does itself...
there really is no other better more or next...
yet belief in them may occur...
and that belief is happening just as all of life does
of itself so...
Words seem like paltry pointers
Smoke signals across the canyon at dusk
But we can watch the sunset
Alone
Together
And sing songs about the magnificence of love
And the beauty of not being able to capture it
where is the sky in sky?
where is wind's empty breath?
what is this love that burns itself?
who drowns in the flame of love?
death wears an empty dress
there is nothing inside your nakedness
longing to escape
how fragrant the morning of wild roses
leaves and dried blossoms hanging
Without any warning
Without any effort or non effort
Ocean of love exploded in my chest
And I was forever drowned in her seamless embrace
You can not leave or return to this edgeless Sea
There is no sea
Nor you
Nor love
morning tapped at the window
she realized tonight had blossomed into today
tomorrow, an ever receding horizon, vanished as she peered into the mirrors she had set out the evening before to capture the moon
beauty
missed
left an ungraspable fragrance in her heart
a longing that sings her into this passion play
morning slides over her
through her
no one can be found
outside of love
elusive this life this love when you try to hold it
how wide the banks of a river you can never cross
as you are an imaginary side
echoes flow and cannot hear themselves
'listen' they sing
'to the song of listening'
serpentine day dream wanders the heavens
time is a name
names have no time
trying to capture wind
with wind
hush of evening sings
