I am a rip in the sunset, weeping

 

you never existed, yet you will die



A broken heart your only tether 
To a song that sang you long ago



the dreamspell is shattered
infinity dissolves in your mouth
words are liquid mirrors
reflecting nothing

is this my heart howling
or is it yours?
it is love singing
and listening to her voice echo in our hearts
love is not the source to this song
there is no beginning or end to this magic
there is no magic
nor love

it is this very singing that paints this enchantment 
when it stops
just for a moment
you and your world disappear
love and her song disappear

outside of this dream spell you are not
there is no one spell bound
you are the magician's tale

why would you want to leave the dream
there is no outside
you cannot leave love
love cannot leave you



no one is born
Bodies are born
Selves are stories that emerge when the brain has learned enough words to create a dream world of separate things and an imaginary you




the belief that there is an unchanging thing... source or true self or ........fill in the blank.... is a tent pole holding up the sky.... 

what? there is no pole holding up the sky? 
isn't there any thing I can count on? not even love? 
nope, no things to count, no fingers to count with, no sky to fall, no heart to be full or empty of love... no words to say what can never be said, no thing to say, no one to say it.... 

Thinglessness is simply unbelievable, unimaginable, ... it cannot be, yet it is, and is not.... 

when people say there is nothing happening, it seems like the opposite of there being something happening... there is nothing nor something, nor is there not nothing, nor not something, .... 


‘what the hell is going on, then! someone has got to know!!! 
where is the answer!!! 
if you can't tell me I will find another book guru, teacher workshope satsang... ' 
...and they leave ...and so so many have flowed through these waters for a dance of hearts.... some stay for the poetry.... some seem to like the deliciousness of unknowing that these songs can induce, but it doesnt seem to stick, there is no where for words to stick when we are words.... and the song continues to sing itself.... 
just like this




love dreams itself and seems to dance us into her wings.... that never were nor were not... 
soaring as edgeless beauty through endless sky... 
dancing through ocean reflection of butterfly kisses
light pirouettes with light

and we seem to appear as the heart beat of memory fills in the line between sea and sky...  a horizon appears... the beginning and the end of the dream are the dream... 
we are bathed in the dream of sunset
hovering
light and shadow gather shapes and colors of lovers
holding hands
breathless in love and awe

we see that it is us
imaginary dancers in this dreamland ballet...
no one ever danced
or wore this beautiful sunset
or fell in love

and yet, I am here, as real and unreal as you and love, loving you
and I cannot imagine anything better




who decides what ignorance and misinformation is? the only reality 'you' can know is inside that thing you call your skull 

and we can never know what the color red looks like to another... we can never know what love is like even for our closest lover.... 

the apparent meaning is what we seem to agree upon... this shared dream of separation is painted by these words that have no meaning nor non meaning.... 

it is amazing that we seem to be able to communicate at all... as we are isolated galaxies of thought,,, and can never actually see another galaxy or another's light.... all light seems to appear in our mind.... 

here is the world.... your unique world... we are all unique stories, but painted with the same words




joy and sorrow merge and its realized there is no you separate from feeling... that feeling is a most wonderous story... 
feeling anything at all feels amazing....

no trying to capture or change this flow this story this unbelievable wondrous unowned life... this intimacy of aliveness... closer than close... no veil between an inside and outside... just an imaginary persona through which songs seem to pour... an edgeless heart that seems to have sides so echoes of love can resonate... into a heartbeat... this heartbeat... our hearts
beating
together

it is the sound of our aliveness
the song of this and that
light and shadow and
colors
blooming and wilting
emerging and dissolving
simultaneously
life arises all by itself and self erases
breathless
in love
with love



that girl that woman that wandered empty beaches looking for sand and
endless sky
and love
is gone

it feels like I am this love song that no one sings
there is no longing to find her footsteps
filled with tears and wind
swept melodies

people used to warn me about not looking in the mirror when I was tripping
but I loved the empty eyes...
I would stare and stare
utterly fascinated...
after the shift it is like that... there is no 'catch' of recognition, 'oh! I am that!'
it is all a flowing three dimensional wall paper made of nothing, less substantial than thought...

it is not even flowing... as there is no one or thing unchanging to observe it... there is no it or absence of an it....

it feels like love pouring through love... edgeless ocean of love
warm and wonderful and filled with tears 
no is is this waterland dream song
no one is not




wondering through the wintering garden
sheltered by clouds hanging in leafless trees
carpet of sparrows rushed into the tangling roses, as I searched under the fallen leaves
looking for summer

looking for love for peace for some thing I could hold
so time would not pull me 
so fear could not consume me
so the magic I sensed could be known
always

looking within and without, looking for forever and never
slayed by imaginary dragons breathing love's fire,
the searcher was lost
consmed by endless wonder
and the flowers on my dress begin to bloom as I fell into the scent of no tomorrow




why need a driver for a dream car?




What I’m talking about is not even unspeakable or a mystery or emptiness...
without thought there is not even anything
there is no before thought or outside of thought
this is the knowing feeling of no solidity of the utter emptiness of all thing-ness and the stark emptiness of emptiness
It’s not even a void 
it’s not even an it
Only through the thought stream made of shared learned words does all and everything seemingly arise...



river of love has no banks other than its own echo
we are our imaginary sides
there is no middle
there is no leaving this river as it paints you
and me
it paints itself
just like this

you know this aliveness of which I sing
just like you drink water and know that it is wet
this 'knowing' is not separate from you or the water or the wetness
as this river of life is not separate from you
plunging down deep dark canyons
sliding across wondrous meadows
meandering through ancient deserts
as you bathe in the reflections of days and nights
moons and suns
and long summer grasses peering over the banks

it is a wild ride and seems to look and feel like anything at all
including your desire to escape
to crawl out of the river and lay on the banks 
and wait for the final kiss
that will make you whole
the river will dissolve into the ocean soom enough
meanwhile there are others flowing with you
love and love lost
wars and arguements and making up
baked potatoes
and singing in the kitchen
life dancing through you as you
and it has always been just this uncapturable unknowning-ness
there is nothing to hold onto
no certainty
the river cannot hold or move itself
it is it's movement

how marvelous this desire that seems to move you
this longing is the river
it is all river
there is no river




and the words flowing through her head began to sound like a foreign language, and there was no need to deciper them... she loved the resonanse the echo that had no source...

ideas of true and false and meaning... and even the idea of ideas became like the sound of sparrows and finches flitting through the garden... all parameters of this and that and up and down and here and there dissolved... and the sun bloomed in a heart that was no longer hers.... that had never been hers... there was no one to have a heart...

and yet this felt like love somehow, this utter unknowing.... no one left to be bound or free felt like the most excellent freedom... it was if she had been viewing the world through a long tube and suddenly the tube dissolved... and the lines between herself and the universe disappeared... more intimate than intimate,,,

yet far far away a distant song poured through the dream of a dream of a dream of a dream.... washed through all and everything with a melody that had no sound other than all sounds... had no silence other than the hush that runs through itself... no words other than these words that seem to fly out of her fingertips....




we are echoes of echoes the wind cannot tatoo...

ocean calls and we are its answer
falling through the words there is only endless ocean
above
and below
there are no edges
no beginning nor end

moon pours into its own reflection
light blooms in our eyes
and our world appears 

life writes itself
there are no pages
no stage upon which life appears
yet lovers are dancing
war and hate and oceans of tears
golden finches at the feeders
rose petals
falling



emerging from the ocean of darkness she sat on the edge of nothing while her wings dried
the sun bloomed in her heart and her eyes painted the world with love




I know that this is frustrating to be told that there is nothing to get and by the way there is no one to get it or not.... 

no one who can do or not do anything or nothing.... 

where does that leave you what does that leave you? 
simply where you have always been... neither here nor there looking for a there wondering if there is a here... 
waiting for a next but starting to glimpse that there is none... 

running around with a butterfly net trying to catch the sky... 

oh! but how beautiful the sky... and your arm reaching... and your tears falling watering the garden with reflections...

life has always done itself, you were never at the helm, you were never the thinker or feeler or do-er or desire-er... there has always only been this thought stream made of shared learned words... seeminly dividing the stream of perceptual input into light and shadow and
colors... 

and things like a you and a life and a world... and things like thought ...and feelings and actions... 

but you have never been able to find the beginning of a thought or moment or action just as it happens or an end to a thougtht or moment or event... have you...

could this indicate that there is no separate watcher or observer of thought or action or life itself.. 
you know that life has no outside to it... you cannot step outside of what seems to appear and observe it, can you? 
can you really manipulate life? is life really happening to you? 
what is this thing you call you? what is this thing you call life? 

can these things be known, really? you would have to be separate from them to know to touch to hold them... and life cannot be held, we cannot understand life. we can only describe it... 

and in this flowing description, we seem to appear... 
go ahead and tell me what you are, what life is, without thought?




petaled filagree of moon carpets the garden path
no actions are required
no steps are needed to participate in the dance of this obvious dance of aliveness that dances you dances me dances all and everything into this water ballet dream scape of long low light and shadows richocheting in the canyon of this and that, of magical reflections twirling with refelctions, of endless echoes that no one hears but seem to appear in the hearing the tasting the touching of this that can never be touched or tasted or felt... but is always and is always not this timeless magic hour this eternal golden this one and only flowing momentary descending into the sigh of no tomorrow

and just like that this obvious aliveness takes your breath away and it is your breath this very breath...
breathing itself
life kissing itself
in the knowing of knowing
our very humanness
is this dance

drinking water and knowing its wetness
no religion no philosophies are necessary
nothing need be learned
love is like that, isn't it
and beauty....
perhaps we love love and beauty so much
is that we dont know what they are
but we know them
love has no boundaries
no steps must be taken to reach it
or find it
you know that

can anything really be known outside of the description
words cast nets into a river
and can never capture its wetness
wetness a word... 
word a word...
love is a word
I love you



and I was lost in the echoes of infinity...
dissolved into nothingness
beyond confusion or understanding...

as tears began to flow
I found my eyes
and my tender softness
nothing wears this nakedness
this wetness
this life

halfway to nowhere is not even nowhere
light bathes in light
swirls through empty shadows
erases the notion of dark and light
and anyone dancing in this dream land ballet
that 
seems 
to 
dance
itself



how can i hug the world when I am not separate from it




love slides off the mirror
nothing is left behind
not your reflection
or mine

the mirror cannot hold the absence of love
it exists only as reflections
like me
like you
like love




butterfly winds fall through the sky the trees the garden
walls
swoon through all your ideas of wind
and stillness
and you

gravity seems to erase itself
as the sky swallows you
love falls... up
up falls.... down
and you are neither here nor there
as love gives you her sideways glance
and pulls you from your placeless place
into the dance 
that you never really left

it was merely the longing to escape
that tied you to the ground
there were never any scaffolds
holding up the sky
nothing to climb
nowhere to be
look down at your feet
they have always known how to dance
and love
has always known how to love


Self is the assumption of separation ...that there are separate things and events, so it is natural for you to assume that if there is this, there is that,,, but there is no this nor that nor both nor neither. there is no nothing nor is there not nothing... life is all of a piece, of itself so... this cannot be seen by the imaginary self but seems to be recognized by the story teller, the brain that uses shared learned words to paint this dream of separation which we are... this thought stream that when stopped, stops creating this worded world, this magicians tale, this hologram... without thought there are no things, nor the absence of things...



there is no one asking and no one to be asked... and yet here we are apparently texting on computer screens oceans apart. 

what is imagation?... it is whatever your brain thinks it is...
it is obvious that all words are defined by other words... 

it seems like you are looking for the magic word... when I was growing up the magic word was 'please', but I do not think you want that... you are the longing for an answer, for some solidity, for something to hold on to.... you are the looking for knowing... for understanding... 

and yet... there are no things to gather into a place of rest or understanding and no one separate from the illusion of separate things and events to do so... 

you can feel that great maw of emptiness ... it pulls you calls you and you cannot run away no matter how long you hang onto the river there is nothing but water... 

I can feel you trying to run away from yourself... but you never can... you are an imaginary persona in a passion play... there is no escape, no door no key no magical place where you will arive.... there is no other or better or more or next... and you know this, that there has never been anything other than what seems to appear, and simultaneously dissolve... 

self arising and self erasing life seems to happen all by itself, there is no one or thing making it happen... 

is it happening or not? we can never know... as this is as real as it gets... there are no enlightened beings who have escaped the dream, there is simply no outside or inside... or middle... 

there are no awakened ones who know all the answers, no holy ones who feel more love than you... no one knows how anyone else feels... I cannot even know what love feels like for my closest lover...

you are utterly alone, an isolated galaxy spinning in an endless darknesss.... yet... you can see other galaxies... but you can never actually touch... and that is the great aloneness that we all share... this broken hearted beauty is our humaness... 
we can be alone, together.... 
it will be over soon enough... and while you are here.... there are sunrises and small birds and colors... everywhere... 

this worded world this magicians tale 'known' world of things and events and time... and death... this is the only world we can ever know. 

and yet, somehow, there is love...





I am a reflection in a movie running backwards and forwards at the same time
constantly crashing into and through itself
neither moving nor still

meaningless words slide through the alphabet and disappear
I am a liquid portrait of echoes 
exploding and imploding rainbows flow through me as me
slide through empty reflections
fall
gently
on the beach
run laughing into the waters
skim the surface of unknowing
dive deeply into endless sky
never finding or losing anything
or nothing
neither lost nor found
nor in between

we are love's music listening to herself
I am an imaginary point of view
a rip in the sunset
weeping




we are a closed loop of words
we are cloud castles and our world is clouds...
we can never get a glimpse of sky
yet sky... somehow
like love
seems to slide through the clouds
not seen nor un seen... but felt always... 
sky dances in sky, through sky... as sky....

what does that say about sky
what does that say about love
what does anything say except to tatoo the wind with meaningless sounds... 

what is wind
we say we know what wind is
you can feel it on your skin
see it dance in the long tall trees
watch whirls of leaves swirl and dance across the frozen ground
but what IS wind?
all you can say is just more words to try to capture the wind
this swirling thought dream that paints us and our world
has no edges, no beginning nor end... and no place to arrive
a liquid cat's cradle of words pouring through itself

no one knows more about wind than you
no one knows more about love than you
no one feels wind more than you
no one feels love more than you

there is no knowing what love is
no knowing what life is
no one separate from life to capture and hold life
or love

there is no wholeness or one-ness or unicity or diversity
its all unicity 
its all diversity
and not
there are no its outside of thought
there is no outside
or in
there is no knowing what is, or is not a what

words seem to capture a piece of sky
but there are no pieces of sky
its all sky
there is no sky

and the morning bloomed inside of her and somehow love recognized her face without knowing what love was
and no longer cared

and she seemed to live and love much like before
knowing there is no before
nor after
drifting in and as this sublime unknowing
singing songs to the sparrows
as they sang to each other in the tangling roses



what are poems but collections of words
what are words but snapshots of memory
what is memory outside of the word
is there anything outside of words?
or is outside a word?
words are words are words are words
words seem to paint a picture of a world
with time and space and light and shadow and
colors....

saying the word 
word
makes it seem like there are things called
words

and yet, this aliveness, this thing we call life cannot be captured with words like aliveness or life, it isn't really a thing you can throw a lasso around and take home

yet words flow 
tears flow
love flows
life pours through me as I am life
anything I say is just more candy sprinkles floating on a sea of ideas

what is life
what is beauty
what is love
perhaps life doesn't have to understood
certainly the beauty of love and beauty
is that they cannot be captured

things like truth are just more ideas
no one really knows anything
oh you can learn to fix a faucet
but nothing can stop the leak in your heart
this achy breaky heart
is everyone's heart
this love
is everyone's love
this beauty
is everyone

that there is no one is just another idea

I love songs that say nothing and leave nothing left to be said




songs slide through the mirror
paint trails acrosss endless sky
pull your heart into impossible places
leave it hanging in between never and forever
dissolving into this
very
hush
no longer looking for the beginning or end of rainbows
you are the song that sings itself

you feel your lips your tongue your heart mouthe the words

that dissolve into letters and spaces

meaningless lines and squiggles

seaweed strands on an empty beach

the song of this and that

left by the tides and

collected into the folds of moon when she returns

gathering love songs

into her wings of

reflected

light

in breath

out breath

just 

this 

breath

...and as memory unwraps the present

revealing the nakedness of sight and

listening

deeply 

to the moon's last sigh

all reason is stripped off the clothes of knowing

there is no paper underneath the photograph

we are the emerging lines and colors bursting into this three dimensional symphony

of what no one can say

is the river made of water?

or does it exist only in its movement

is there movement

when there is no before or after?

there simply are no separate things nor one big thing, nor separate events nor one big endless event to change or remain the same...

it's all in the words

there are no words

there is no 'stuff' of which the universe is made other than thought

and thought is well,

thought

I love you

what is love

what are you 

what am I 

nothing can be known

there are no things

nor are there non things

there is simply no thing called knowing 

and no one to know 

or not

nothing is required for this unknowing

no beliefs or thoughts need be unwapped

they are the beautiful flowing fabric of you

under your obvous beauty

there is not even nothing

what is beauty

what is nothing

what is a what

All is love There is no love

 

you and all things exist only in this dream of imaginary separation, which includes time and space... can you find an outside or edge to what seems to appear? is there an outside or beyond? is there an other, better, more or next? can you grab something and remove it from what is going on? where would it go? if there is no outside, is there an inside?

so perhaps you can agree there is no other better more or next as they have never been found... maybe you will try just to accept what is going on! but are you separate from this symphony of perception and its inseparable recognition? if you are not separate from this how can you accept or reject or surrender to it?

some will say just go with the flow... just allow thoughts and feelings to happen...
but is there someone separate from this flow of life... when no banks can be found?

all these suggestions merely promulgate the feeling that there is a someone separate from life, separate from this passion play...
yet I cannot suggest that you do or not do anything or nothing as I know that there is no you to do or not do these things, or to try to not try... the seeker is the seeking, the longing for certitude for understanding.. and there is none...

the belief in a special place a goal perpetuates the search for this thing called enlightenment... but you will never find it as it does not happen to the imaginary persona, how could it if part of the shift in perspective called enlightenment is recognizing that there is no self?

this really has nothing to do with you...
as the sun seems to rise all by itself and the sky is not held up with scaffolding and the clouds are not held up with ropes... life does indeed seem to happen all by itself, with no separate parts or separate moments or events...

reaching out... for another moment for another event for another person.... may happen but it can be also be known and felt that there are no others, no self to reach...
and yet, here I sit, reaching out to you
wanting to hold you
love you
and tell you that you are unutterably beautiful just as you think you are



are there roots of love
can they be cut?
are there edges to love
that can be released?
is it your heart blossoming
or is it you?
the blush of morning
petals falling
vibrant reds and dusty yellows
sighing

where are the chords of wind
playing across the open fields
tossing forgotten melodies into your heart

what is this resonance we feel when the wind echoes our heart songs?
what is this wondrous longing
this love
that has no center or edge
without it I am not
I am not any more real or false than yesterday's wind songs
and that beautiful ache in my chest




sky hands 
reach down
into your sky heart
kisses itself
in endless sky




how can a dreamt character see that she is not real
what dissolves the belief in this illusion
when it is all illusion?

the dream of enlightenment
is the end of the belief in the dream
of enlightenment

there was never a girl tip toeing along a timeline from birth to death
terrified to fall off
terrified to reach the end...
terrified
and longing to lose herself in love

cloud castles shattered by reflections of sky
seeing through the charade of windmills
slicing the sky with its sweeping blades
was there only endless sky?
was there anything solid and unchanging?
any thing real?
any reality at all?
anything to hold on to
any hand to hold... 

light saber of unknowing pierced my heart
never and forever collided
and not even nothing was left
nor anyone to know it

somehow out of the ashes of the known world
wind swirled its empty dress
and a dancer appeared

I am the fantasy of a girl who fell into sky
and found a placeless place between heaven and earth
soaring through endless blue and walking on earth
walking through love as love
in love with the dream of you and me
and we



reflection in the mirror has no one to catch
tears lose their wetness
heart sobs
broken open for a decade
(when was it not...)

river of love has no direction
flows through this canyon of echoes 
dissolving graffiti no one painted
treasure maps fall into broken lines
going no where
coming from no where
meaningless patterns enchant the lone traveller
she has no goal but knows the ocean awaits...

she dances with her reflection on the towering canyon walls
and waits for the music of a heart resonating with hers
how big is the night
after all 
here is a lullaby of crickets
and a moon


night is its own echo
ripples of silence pour through my heart
my heart is an empty song
listening to itself
singing of beauty
singing of love
singing of nothing
really

echoes of silence
echoes of song
echoes of moonlight in the garden pond
caress the plum leaves floating
still red
still my heart breaks
for nothing
for everything
for no one
for everyone
this is love beyond all ideas of love
feeling deeply without edges
borderless we fall into each other's hearts
into this
very
kiss



I am this pirouette of thought
a spiral without beginning or end
there is no stage upon which it arises
nor emptiness in which it dissolves

we are this dance of words
stories spinning around each other
no essential essence nor fluidity....
a magician's tale pouring through its own enchantment

the thought stream has stopped demanding answers
as to where or when or how or why this dream of echoes
this mirage of reflections seems real enough...
surreal, real, un-real... there are no lines between here and there
there is no here
no there
no in between
no everything
no nothing

doves fly up from the frozen ground
startled by the neighbor's cat
amazing how words paint my world
and me
I am spell bound
words form my imaginary lines...

inlines
outlines
stretch and dissolve in this dream of awakening
yet they never were...

many say there is nothing happening
is there a thing called nothing
are there events called happening
or non happening?

all we can ever know is this marvelous dance of separate things and events
this sensuous aliveness...
is it happening
or not?
is there a dancer outside of this dance who can know it
or not?
are there separate things outside of thought
what is knowing?
what is what
when is when
why is why....

all these songs paint the dream
there is nothing in between the words
or underneath them
words are thought
thought is thought
what is thought?
can you find it?
can you find a place outside of thought...
or is outside a thought

grey cat runs up the old ladder we have beside our fence
doves return
my fingers slide over the keyboard
and this splendid enchantment continues to sing itself



we are all dying...
yet it seems only some recognize this...
death gives life its sparkle
life has no meaning nor non meaning... no purpose nor non purpose...
I never share this with my friends!
nor do I share that there is no hope...  for most personas life wihout hope ...without that imaginary next, would be devistating... 

but as you are dying... and we all are, arent we?, it can be seen that there really is no next... there never was an other or better or worse ....or more or less.... life is indeed super complete in itself... including this full passion play of emotion... life pouring into and through itself in an inside out spiraling...



it is as if a character in a story died,,,, long long ago... and yet, there seems to be someone here although no one nor here can be found... all the other actors in this passion play seem to assume that I am here, and that they are, but it is like an echo of a life, more direct more intimate than the taste of taste, as well as something far far away... loooking through both ends of the binoculars at the same time....
like an unsung melody drifting across the desert telling tales of mountains and rivers and tall tall pines, and a raven
perched
on a rocky crag, wind ruffling his feathers, as the same wind ploughs down the canyon and into the desert where foreign languages are spoken in this surreal mirage....
and there is simply utter enjoyment of the sun and the palms and the drifting winds
and love which seems to appear in this dream of a dream
super saturating everything and nothing... love seems to be the essence of the dream of knowing this is a dream
its all love, yet there is no love at all



there are those who say there is not enough love in the world... who measures it who decides what love is... its all sky in sky.... measureless substance-less... words seem to appear and cloud castles... form.... dissolve.... what is sky without sky....
what is a what... nothing can be said yet everything seeems to arise is the saying.... here is some of this,,, there is some of that... where is the line between this and that,,,, only two letters separate the words, our brains seem to create these lines.... notice distinctions, separate reds from oranges... how is it that the brain no longer seems to believe in these imaginary lines, i do not know and do not long to know,,, it appears that this happens or not.... just like life awakening happens all by itself... like love and cloud castles and endless sky




people seem dismayed that I study and practice diet and lifestyle intervention. that I have interests other than theirs... they do not seem so angry that I crochet... or cook, or feed birds in the garden. it does not fit their template of what an enlightened person should be... they feel I should be disinterested in worldly affairs... 

there is no one who becomes enlightened, there are no enlighened people... there is not even nothing... yet the dream of no longer believing the dream, or the dream of enlightenment, is not the end of the dream.... 

knowing there are no clouds and endless sky is not the end of clouds... knowing love is made up is not the end of love..... there is tremendous caring but without hope,

and when my clients tell me their pain is gone, there is a heart rush.... and when people ask me what they can do to get rid of their pain there is a heart rush... and when I see you there is a heart rush....



would you say that the stars know where to shine their light, or that rocks know where to fall.... would you say that the sky allows clouds... and that the rain knows when it hits my window... or would you say that life is all of a piece... of itself so... no actual separation can be found outside of this thought stream made of learned shared words... there is no do-er, only a story of avalanches crushing houses,,,, what made the snow fall... no source can be found....

no things can be found outside of the story... without this imaginary separation ... there is no awarenes of awareness... no awareness of this aliveness... no knowing that you are...

without thought there is no separation, no things to be separate, no things or non things... the universe that swirls inside your synapses can never be known or touched by the galaxy of memory that swirls me into my unique universe.... 

it is only these shared learned words that seem to create the universe we share... only in this worded world can we meet, only in this virtual reality can we discuss reality, and beauty and fall in love



This dream does not arise from no-thingness; it does not arise from emptiness. it is emptiness itself, and it cannot be captured or held.



all words are defined by other words... thought weaves the web of words, the yarn, the story, the magicians tale, the enchantment of you and me and we

there is no untangling the web of thought as web and thought are thought...
the illusion has no other... it seems to conjure itself...

unknowable is a word
wordless is a word
unutterable is a word
they do not point to any things...
but seem to leave the mind
hanging
how I used to love the word infinity when I was a kid.... I would say it over and over and fall in love with the unmeasurable vastness of unknowing.... like floating in an edgeless sea of dreams.... warmth of utter wonder washing through me.... 

and I am this wonder and there is no knowing what wonder is or I am... 
no things can be found, as there is no hand, no heart separate from the illusion of separation to hold them... 

sparrows and doves cover the frozen ground as the feeders are empty
I can feel their softness and warmth through the window...
where my reflection lingers
melting into this morning song




it is sublimely bittersweet that we exist only as each others echoes
parantheses of lovliness forming and dissolvong their own curved hands

winged transparancy of memory soars through itself
there is no void nor fullness
no one to be free or bound
doves
float
to the frozen ground
sometimes a feather
and the wonder of it all



self is desire... the movement of 'our' lives...  the brain seems to, with objectification, create a world of things and events and a self in the center of the swirling... it is a beautiful and very useful part of evolution... the fludity of memory creates the fludity of imagininings of an future... with imaginary separation these imaginings paint pictures of possibilies... of manipulating the physical world to create conditions more favorable for survival...

this story requires a constant telling as without thought, all things and events and you simply disappear... the 'blank spot' must be filled in all the time or belief in the story may falter.... and somehow it is the brain that believes in the story or not...   I do not know how that is the case, but somehow the feeling of solidity or realness of this thought stream that the brain produces is felt or not... 

the recognition that all things including the self are its own mental fabrication may happen, but it does not appear to help with the survival of the species and seems to be very rare.



A broken heart your only tether 
To a song that sang you long ago




echoes within echoes
there is no source to sound
or silence
time a beautiful illusion
space an enchantment where all and everything seem to swim

it is all a dream
there is no dream
this is a magical tale of dreamt dancers believing they are the dreamers
the thinkers
the feelers
the do-ers
the dancers
falling in love
losing love
living
dying

and you may seek a way out of the dream... out of this messy humanness, all those feelings and thoughts and happenings you do not like
of course, that means all the things you do like will have to go
like love...
all you have ever loved are just as imaginary as you

can you find this past where you were loved or lost love
can you find this imaginary future when you will find enlightenment or love or ....fill in the blank....
can you find this ever elusive thing called a now?

this illusion of separate people and things and space and time cannot be transcended... this worded world this thought dream of echoes of echoes... has no edges, can you find an outside to all this? how about an inside...
all and everything is included yet there are no things...

and what do these words mean? what is a what? what is meaning, other than a feeling of something being true or solid... can you find any solidity, any permanance?
you know deep down that there is none... yet you long for it, cling to this belief that there is a thing called truth... yet you have never found it...
you just know there is a next
although you have never ever found one
you are the looking for these imaginary things
yet you know they are imaginary...

somewhere you know this emptiness, this utter complete devistating emptiness
you have been running from it your entire life
has it really been chasing you or is it you?

you long for a place of comfort... well enlightnement will not give you that
it will not give you anything
not even love
it will strip away everything you believed all you thought you were
the good and the bad
and everything you thought you were not
it will dismantle your entire construct of what the world is like
and what it is not
even gravity...
space
time
love...
it is the end of your world and a you to have one

and yet
why do sages sing about this love
this amazement...
it seems like after this evisceration of all and everything
there are new eyes
simultaneously seeing the world of things
and knowing they are not
it feels like love has subsumed the world of things
it is felt deeply
somehow
that we are each other
although we are both utterly imaginary

it feels like life is a love song
whatever it looks and feels like
this love song simply sings itself
knowing I am dreamt
and there is no dreamer
is beautiful beyond belief and imagination
beyond truth and fiction
beyond any ideas of beyond

love beyond any ideas of love





all is love
there is no love
some people think I mean there is an unchanging substance in which all and everything arise... that is why I tried not using that word for many years, but I could not find anything better....
it is like falling in love with love as love...
but there is no one falling...
wind sliding through wind
sky written with sky
is love its absence?

all is illusion
nothing is illusion
there is no illusion
nor anything called all
or nothing...
the dream is the dream
there is no dream
there is no absence of dream

wind soars down the canyon
beauty rips my heart into songs
the flute is made of breath
no one breathes
there is no air
no space
nor lack of space

flock of doves at the feeder
some float to the frozen ground
I can feel their softness and warmth
my hands feel their roundness
one left a feather on the window
and flew away