March 3, 2017
March and time blurs by. I haven’t yet found a way to engage with myself here.
The silence of this place in time and space opens silent doors in consciousness.
Everything is simple and nothing matters except for everything. There is everythingness in all things as all things are interdependent with all else. What else is there but now-here-ness nested in consciousness to flower and unfold surprises untold.
What is yet to come? A hawk in the sky catches the eye. Then eye catch the gaze of a gazelling dear, startled by something other than this human presence. Such presence in his hesitant patience to out wait the weight of a stress unseen to these eyes.
These eyes can be used to tell lies, misused to misconstrue and warp the light of perception to the plight of word-sound deception. How we revel in these misconceptions and concieve them as something passively received instead of makings of our own miscreations.
Oh the pleasure derived from bending the light with the sound of our own voice. We are bent on this, bent out of shape by repeating loops like old tape recordings reordering disordering translating the immense interms of the very small words and terminolgy we have as our own personal little anthology meme wired into our neurobiology hypnotizing us psychologically disguised as something logically. The me, the logician magician spinning spells of weaving words as webs of the absurd, how absurd, oh look there is a bird, bird bird, the word bird isn’t the bird. It is there, it is actual, with words we live in the abstractual, dying over symbols and sounds, we all become the ground from which we came.