Buddha Nature

In order to write something, anything, my mind strives for some overarching purpose. But what is the overarching purpose of my life? Could this be defined? And if it could be defined, would it be worth writing?

It is better, perhaps, for me to recognize that writing itself, like life itself, is purpose enough, worth enough, to enact for it’s own sake – for my own sake – here within this very moment of being. I can write, so I will. I am alive, so I must live.

Writing is an act of transcribing waves of thought into the structured symbols our ancestors developed to amplify their minds. Through this amplification, they – and all their subsequent generations to the point of me at this point of now – enabled this text that sits directly before you on your phone or your tablet or your laptop or your desktop monitor, ferrying this current of my thought to you.

There are so many ways to amplify our minds in this day and age – due only to become ever more exponentially electrified – that it bears questioning as to what occurs when there is much amplification of little mind? Springing from that visualization (big waves circling outwards from a small pebble) comes the possible insight that the eventual zenith of all of this streamlined jetsam and flotsam is no mind. No mind as the end game of much effort applied towards mind amplification. This sounds koan enough that there must be some truth to it.

And as Meta as all of that sounded, it really is just an outgrowth of the overarching purpose from which this thought flow had begun, which of course could not be uncovered until I had allowed it to unfold without consciously steering myself to it. I commenced writing here on this post in order to calm my mind, which was preventing me from achieving the “no mind” of sleep. And in allowing myself to tap, however superficially, into the wellspring of my existence within the here and now, which is being for the sake of being, via writing for the sake of writing, I have found a sort of quietitude that will hopefully allow me to slip into the cover of my dreams. Buenas noches.

Unlocking Wilderness

We tend to lock ourselves in our own devices, then blame others for their design. Fits of animal lucidity that may appear madness to the habituated — such as going out for a run in the middle of the night, fasting for no external reason, or simply typing unpremeditated words into the stillness and emptiness of a blog — are perhaps wholly necessary to maintain some freedom from our own tendency toward confinement.

In the flurry of my working urban existence, as if that were any excuse, I have grown complacent, as I am wont to do, being human, in a perpetually exhausted consumptive silence, threading endlessly through the vision of others amplified on my outdated laptop screen. But there is a wind that speaks from deep within that cuts through concrete and forest alike, past and present, a sort of primal divulging light that trumps all, if it could just be heard. . .

I once struggled to understand the language of the ocean as it laps relentlessly against the shore, like a fish-eyed harbinger of hunger, desire, and the wild thrall that lies just at the boundary of death, a  3D sinuously pixellating sound of the loss of everything that had previously been defined, yet comes back again, never to be fully known except perhaps, fleetingly, as beauty.

Like San Narciso expulgated of meaning, there is simply, terribly what lies here, before us, utterly barren, utterly beautiful, utterly unknowable yet wholly tangible through shizophrenic descent into frenzied sensory and metaphoric experience. Here we touch the subway shuddering plastic lights that flash the graffiti of someone who has long since passed onto their way into everyday. . .

The image words of the ocean wind, cutting through the forest mountain of my mind, take me away to your place of desolation.

The Gift

Life lets us know in subtle and unsubtle turns that we must be attentive to our innermost selves, or else we place ourselves and others in danger when we lose our way. That moment in which we are taught this lesson is dumb agony, ripe with tragic comedy, dripping with a depth that is ironic in its vacuity. We stand revealed in our humanity, bathed in blood, upset by regret but relieved by a renewed sense of a terrible divinity that somehow threads our solitary fragility back together again, humpty and hallowed.

All it takes is one spare moment of inattention for the glass to shatter on the precipice of the sink.

Such a simple act, imbued still with such force of meaning, unveiled only thereafter in the throbbing blood from the gaping wound. Reaching for the glass, the dishes done, already lost in anticipation of sitting on the couch with whiskey in hand–it was within that moment that darker forces aligned, necessarily, against me. For I had allowed myself to fall asleep while still awake. There is no greater crime against life than to deny its full terrible beauty and reside in unnatural complacency.

I was then reawakened, as the blood swelled out unstoppered by any pressure I could apply. It seemed silly, how frail and fragile my body really was. I was overwhelmed with annoyance, a deep frustration that now my shallow dream of a productive afternoon on the couch with a glass of whiskey and a netbook was ruptured. The reality of the swiftly ending spring break set in. The dark shadow of work, sleep deprivation, and high stress loomed like storm cloud guillotines above the one day that was left. There was no going back, now. I was bleeding too much to pretend that I could sit there staunching it with a paper towel forever. Fat globs of dark red blood, almost beautiful in surreal insistence, splattered out unerringly onto the kitchen floor.

But I also felt a sense of relief. Now I was awake again. And in a cosmic light, that could be seen as a gift. The 7 hours in a late night ER with criminals and crazy people, the stitches, and the pain were a small price to pay for that reminder of what life is about.


The most valuable thing I may possibly possess is my attention. Everything else from each focal point flows: money, fitness, conversation, love. It therefore follows that the most pernicious power possibly wielded is inattention. Fallen along the periphery of lapsed perception lies barren decay, the detritus of abandonment. Grown all the more eventually loud and demanding in its rifted divisiveness.

Constant, unwavering vigilance is required, then, in the maintenance of integrity. To enlist an oblique reference from past popular culture, in Blair Witch Project, the moment of greatest fear lay not in the unseen scratching or indeterminate wailing in the woods, but in the closing shot of the friend in the basement corner with his back turned, posed monolithically, a presence assumedly known just a minute before but now no longer understood — for one moment abandoned and thus — in a subsequent moment of greatest peril and need — turned unreachably menacing.

In the ghettos of my soul, an unplumbed, thickened viscosity of malformed and unaddressed feelings can so easily build like malignant plaque. An accumulating pile of secondary priorities shoved into a corner of my awareness. My heart must be opened.

Our innards must be aired. Nothing good can happen unless all facets of each compiling moment are appreciated. The path, the journey that we make is hewn from the gravity of a complete and total immersion in what lies directly before us. The earth. The heated, desolate eyes of the public. Our bodies, our tongues, the sound and the light, unforsaken, believed in, cherished, compassionate,


Go Beyond

Gotta escape that zone of sameness and bland expectation, where your complacent everyday self knows exactly what it will do (nothing) and who it will see (noone). Break the cycle of doldrum limbo stagnancy and force yourself into a situation wherein you know you will be uncomfortable and scared to go, cuz in that place of strange alien modish pressure you will be taken beyond what you can control, and you will be forced to be exactly what you are in that exact moment of place-time circumstance. In all of your imperfect, half-formed glory. Go, no matter your status, your age, your defined self in-context: go to places that you have never seen, go to people you have never met, stick yourself into sketchiness, fear, gray dim areas of uncertainty, where you don’t speak the language, and you have to gesture to make yourself understood, and people are tattoed and pierced and confused and full of life. Do this, and you will never despair. Do this, and your fear will lessen. So that you are not scared to live. So that you are not scared to die. Because the two are one and the same. So go go go go go. The tether that holds you to yourself cannot be broken by anyone except yourself.  Be yourself and go to places where you do not belong.

Gaining the Loss

The rule of the cosmos: you can’t ask for anything. You’ve got to just take what you need and give what you have. Seems to be the way things work, more or less. Like, if I get a little bit too screechy, needy, desperate for love and attention, then all I can hear is the veritable waves on the shore in the shell held up to the ear. So I have to regroup, sit down in the empty night space and meditate on my nothingness. How I have nothing, I am nothing, I will gain nothing. I’ve got to keep it all in perspective, somehow. Clam up, button the hole, and just observe, just watch the way the world works. The way that light seems to be generated not by light but by some other order of power. How all of the good things in life are really just a residue of extreme evisceration. The trickling out of beauty from the suffering awareness of despair.

So how to live life in this full declaration of madness? The masses recline before the injection of beauty. So dawn it upon them in full, without shame or fear or denial. There is nothing to lose. There is nothing to gain. There is just what you allow yourself to be, here, in this place of moment.

A Way to Subvert

A cross roads of sorts eventually asserts itself from the mist as you trudge ever onward towards inevitable oblivion. Is the inner development that you require necessitated by your outer reality? Is this really what you need? To be beaten down into submission before the homogeneity and failures in communication of the onslaught of desire? Everyday that you attend to reality, there is a reason to hate humanity, to give up the effort of continual sustained professional growth. There is a reason to shrink up within yourself and seek a means of escape.

But observe the one who maintains integrity: the way, the light that follows the heat. It isn’t about formulas, or scriptures, or any other formal adherences. It’s about following your heart. It sounds like Hollywood, Bollywood, but missing the essential main ingredient: your active oxygenated attuned rhythmic pulse conveying the life force that is you and all of the world but only you. Intuition. Empathy. Creation. Love. This. Moment. Only. Known. Now. Now. Now.

Rebel. Reinforce. Reinvigorate. Challenge the cold distant regularity and expectations that define your reality. Everyone that you know—including yourself—seeks comfort and coalescence in the face of an explosive and potentially destructive alien and dissociative desire. Ignore and let fall the immediate and reactive demands of public demand. There is something higher. Something quiet. Something powerfully calm and removed from immediate accessibility.

Life isn’t about Top 40. You make money? You plunder lots of virginal gullibilities? Let’s see how far you fare within your own tabulation of your life’s worth. Just awaiting your own death? Or what? What?

It’s about us. It’s about community. It’s about town, city, state, nation, world, way. It’s about identity as related to growth. It’s about me as related to you and them. It’s about everything. It’s about enemy, lover, and happenstance commuter companion. How much can you respect yourself in relation to me?

Enough. Either you are in, or you are out. Something within you or without you has determined this cosmic stance. What matters except your own life force of will, of choice, of effort? The confinement of the everyday delimits us all. Only the procreative will will find a way to subvert. Yes. And no. And Yes.

Is and Should Be

Life is and should be hard. To compete for the sun, establish one’s space in which to grow, to harmonize with what already exists, and develop continuously for deeper rootedness is a struggle. To be able to propogate only love, without bitterness, without anger—this is the pinnacle of existence. How many people do you know, whether rich or poor, who can smile at any stranger and fill their momentary solitary space with light? It is rare indeed to be able to penetrate the inner sanctums of alien awareness. You think you got something? Whatever it is that you hold is a barrier to divinity. Your own mind. Your own body. Your own desire to be something greater than this situation in which you find yourself, to be someone better than the people you are surrounded with. This moment, this day, this everyday mundanity. You are of this. You are this, with no delineation, no distinction. This, you, bounded, distorted, disarrayed.

And then just when you despair: the light. The tomorrow making of vision. A higher-ness of determination. Your potential succor staggers your stasis into omega futurity. You are of what you are, bounded only by what you aren’t, which is ultimately or predeterminately of what you are.

Simply put, the light, the love, the making of our interrelated creation: this is exactly and precisely the manner and whey in which it should be. A separation of layers, a diminishing and ascending relation of solidity. As I shed my past, shed my reluctance to be more or less than my own imagining, I find out who I am meant to be. This parcel of exact and apportioned reckoning. This complex version of what is and always will be simple in a single vision.

My Heart, The City

In the midst of the city, the light, the electrified transmission of energy, the movement and motion towards securing a better day tomorrow, if not for oneself than at least for one’s children. The strained acceptance in the faces of the waiting people on the train, swaying together to their destinations.

The way the jagged skyline of downtown is like the electronic visualization of sound. The way our lives are organized somehow towards a possibility, a potentiality beyond our own capability, grounded in everyday effort, a struggle steeped in mystery, faith, and irrational desire, yet somehow blessed by scientific technological development, by the evolution of market economies and political entities. How we strain towards betterment, despite the worst in ourselves and each other. How we adapt and orient ourselves against the steady erosion of our world. Communities huddled together against the unknown. Killing each other, loving each other. Living, dying, blessed, bereft.

I have joined the struggle of the masses by learning to become something lesser than what I can imagine. I will subsume my burning passion to the steady and solid rootedness of the earth, of this place and time and here and now that is my life and my love and my place in the world, stabilized against the storms of change. There is no greater adventure out there, somewhere exotic in the the vast cusp of the alien distance. My struggle is to live and to die by what I know, by what I can hold onto and cultivate within me, beneath me, around me. Homeward bound.

The wind blows through me as through the arms of a tree, unharnessed, a movement betrayed only by the shuddering of its leaves. I will harness the light.

I will surround myself with a community that will support me, that I will support, reinforcing one another against the void. Allowing myself to become weakened to become tied into something stronger, something wider, something encompassing of the cosmos.

The way the transit lines pump through the arterial lines of the city like the life blood carriers of a gruesome divinity. The way a trumpet echoes through a late night subway platform. The way my heart beats with you, for you, against you, to you.

Home, Here, Now

Break above the Bridge

Break above the Bridge

All that must be done is to delimit the sphere of your influence down to the place wherein it belongs: home, here, now; this is what it takes to get the caged bird to sing: the simple denotion of place, of season, of the helix that is time and inevitability and spontaneity. The cipher that we encode from our embattled sites of life engagement is the formula that connects the dots of the universe. The enmeshment of disparate atomized beings into a whole one picture that is neither pinnacle nor perfection but at the very least, us and everything and complete for the moment until we fragment forward into the continual struggle for progress. Progress, really, is a simple diminution of progression–a narrative enjoining codexed frames, forming of each a totality that lingers at its finish, a completion that negates itself into a recreative force of action or thought in another entity. An insemination, a secretion of meaning that can only push, build momentum, act as a wind in the halls of acceptable candor, thrusting a challenge of betterment into the static norms that define the immediate past. All of this is relative to each individual understanding, but ultimately answerable only to a collective engagement of agreement, a cult acceptance that intakes the information for deeper rumination.

This is as much to say that politics and power is more than just personal: the forces that generate change and define the manner and form by which society engages with itself are self-created and crafted from within—but more importantly, from within an engagement that is ultimately beyond. Beyond personality and bordering sublimity. Encroaching omega supramentality, a tugging of spirit impulsions, a development defined by environment and place and time but impelled by eternity, impulsed by a necessity for a completion that can never be had. A form of death that is life, that defines and outlays the struggle for existence itself, an expenditure of energy in the attempt to fill an impossible void. This is our struggle, your struggle, my struggle. Yet we are not hopeless, for the void, though impossible, is a void of the forces of our own making. We are of this void, crafted of this void, expanding endlessly towards a point wherein we must become again this emptiness beyond emptiness, this form beyond form, within form, against form.

Dirty Hands, Clean Mind

You’ve formulated these full, glossy lit pictures of perfection in your mind. You’ve established how you believe the world should be. You’ve determined how you want those you love to be. And now you find yourself putting up walls between yourself and reality, constantly on retreat, the ebbing colors of your idealism flowing into the eroding moat outside your acceptance. You hold on tight to your imagined versions of who you love, as they slip away invisibly from between your bestowed masks and costumes like a greased pig. You clutch at ghosts, you cherish empty husks, you bed with demons. You dig yourself in deeper, unaware of how alone you have become, how lonely, how lost, how stranded.

Those who love you become your enemies. They talk about you behind your back, unable to confront you with a reality that you can’t accept. There is no possibility of change, no potential for a different outcome, until you’ve come to the end of your own rope. Until you are ready to reach out from behind the walls of your idealism and step back into the world that exists beyond your limited desires. Until you drop your selfish ego and accept your diminutive status within the world. Until you drop the burden that you have created and free yourself to become involved.

To become involved in the nurturing and growing of living things, you must get dirty. You have to struggle, get down onto the ground on your hands and knees, work at the earth, sweat into your clothes. There is no easy way to create beauty that will survive apart from you.

There is nothing wrong with being a perfectionist, with being an idealist, with wanting the world to change, with being angry and bitter with the way things are. But if this idealism is preventing you from becoming effectively involved in your own life, then it is just as dangerous as greed, just as dark as blood shed by warfare. In order to act, a thousand other potentialities must be destroyed. The question is: is this action the right action? Is this involvement the right involvement? These are the things that frighten you. These are the things that hold you back. While your plants are withering. While reality grows ever more desperate, more detached, more inclined towards despair. The real question is not right or wrong; the real questions are: how selflessly can you act? How fully involved can you be?

If you can give yourself completely, then there are no questions.

Dirty your hands in the challenge of your world. It is best, of course, to think and choose the best course of action. But how many times have the options only become apparent after you have already committed yourself? In the streamline of successive moments, the right way will become manifest. You must believe this. You must have faith in what is beyond yourself of which you are but a part. You can’t out-think the physical manifestations of the universe. You can’t formulate a perfect philosophy to encompass each and every moment. You can only open yourself to learning, like a child. In response to reality, you will know what is the right way to act.

Open yourself to the suffering transparency of the light. Break down your walls to the invading hordes of the world.

It is only your mind that misleads you.

Steady Love

Summer Bloom

Summer Bloom

Love evolves in my life, broadening its branching to include all the world in its fruit, while narrowing its focus to the sustained, steady, and slow nurturing that comes from daily persistence. I once thought of love as a passionate, momentary outpouring of connection discovered from the sudden rupture between two worlds; this it certainly can be, but found more plentiful, more sustainably in the constant rediscoverance of love right here at home, in the one world that has been forged through struggle and dedication. The recognition that shambala is already here before me, and there is no need to hold myself apart. That perfection and attainment of bliss are not unattainable images of desire; they are at my fingertips, ready to expand with attention, flowers blooming within each step of awareness. They have always been there, pinnacled tips of contentment, but self-doubt gets in the way, blinding me to my own wonder. Forget about ideals; how much better is this reality fulfilled!

Forging Networks

Coming close to this everlasting present, the infinite presence that is almost touched for the briefest space of a few breaths, you know that there can’t be anything more critical then communion. These moments of complete openness. There is nothing more that is needed. To be possessed by something beyond yourself, contained within yourself, incorporated within yourself.

It is an ingrained notion we have as humans to consider perfection, harmony, or love to be something complete, something attainable that could be captured. But that’s a traditional thought process that shatters immediately, and repeatedly, in the face of true power and beauty. Life has never been about the completion and culmination of an individual, nor of any one thing—it is rather the momentary bridges forged between distinct entities that unites them into a greater harmonic vision. This bridge necessarily dissipates, as boundaries are revised, and breaches are created in some other part of being. It’s like an air bubble in a sealed container. The bubble can be pushed, expanded, broken into smaller compartments, but the same volume of air will always be there, until it is released into a vaster field of containment. So we journey ever outward, expanding our capacity for awareness, forever dismantling old bridges (because what was once detached is now one entity) and struggling to cross into new. The landscape of the soul is seemingly ever changing, and yet the total energy remains constant—the states simply shift as they find new dimensions in which to attempt to dissipate into, to merge into, to possess and to be possessed thereof.

Love—like enlightenment—therefore, is something that would appear to be unachievable except for singular moments of time. But inwardly, what occurs is more like the dynamiting of a tunnel through two separate caverns—suddenly the water flows between the two until a steady state has temporarily been achieved—that is until another hole is blasted through into yet wider spaces. Like the roots of a tree, the tentacles of awareness seek restlessly their source. Eventually, over time, as the outer world shifts to reflect the release of tensions into greater harmonic wholes, localized about the exploratory meme, a forest is formed, a network is evolved. So too in love, after ups and downs and fights and many starts and finishes, the heart begins to forge a solid network, the base of a building that can sustain itself for centuries.

All of this is rooted in the breakthrough of momentary climactic impulses. The skin knows. The heart knows. The mind is always playing catch up, struggling to define what has already occurred. All that really must be done is to allow ourselves to change, to continually change, knowing that what we truly desire can never be fully possessed. Until we have built up the forests of the heart, all across the world, then we will forever be restless.

The Eye in the Middle of the Storm

In seconds of self-awareness, Janet felt bliss in the middle of all of the noise. It was as if all this anxiety, madness, fear was designed just so as to enhance and demarcate clarity in the moments when it came, crystalline, dew-dropped, silent before the storm. There was no denying that even in her weakest, most insecure of times, Janet still knew that she was beyond all of it, beyond the stifling imposition of other’s jealousy or indifference, beyond her own vanity and ever-shifting self-image; she was somewhere already still, sitting neatly next to the stream, taking it all in, letting it all wash away of its own accord. Like a sieve, like a net of the heart, a purity that dirt could run through untouched. All that would be left of herself in the end were these treasured moments of beauty, when the light focused through her and everything she was and everything that she touched was perfect, in tune with everything that is. Then the light faded and she became human again, petty, insignificant. But the diamonds were there, hidden, nestled into the back of her heart, and she waited inside of herself quietly for the moment when the treasures would become illuminated into the outer world again.

Janet knew that these moments could be sustained, lengthened, and increased in frequency. But she also knew that she could not produce them herself out of thin air. She had to learn patience, and learn how to open herself to the light when it came showering down into her face. It seemed that the more that she relaxed and allowed herself to be herself, the more frequently that she felt ecstasy.

All of the noise, the fear, the anger, the gossip, the taking for granted, the holding onto things, the materialism, the fake spiritualism, the pseudo-intellectualism, the superficial, the one-dimensional, the apathy . . . all of it added up to barriers between herself and her own heart. She was already free, if only she listened correctly. The knowledge was there, flagrant, demure, unappealing direct and simple and baby-soft and harder than steel.

Janet slipped out of her seat on the bus and stood swaying calmly in the stuffy heat of a Phoenix afternoon. The double doors pulled apart, hissing, and she dropped down the steps with gravity like water, centered, moving with music and light. A man stared wonderingly after her, his hand looped in a supportive strap, craning to look through the graffiti strewn window. She had something that he could not see.


There are paths set up for us to explore what we may tentatively think of as our destinies, such as academic institutions, corporate career paths, bureaucratic runways. We struggle to fit ourselves into predefined boxes, we attempt to conform to some kind of standard of who we think we should be in order to be successful. Yet life itself continuously re-corrects our crooked paths, setting us back onto our journeys into ourselves. Whether we want to believe it or not. Often it is simply a matter of whether or not you accept where you need to go or whether you fight it every step of the way. Because it is quite easy to follow gravity. Because it is quite easy to fall in love. Because it is quite easy to move into the future with nothing but positivity in your gut.

Basically, if you are unsure, then this is the first sign of a problem. You should not be sure or unsure (remember that commercial, by the way?). All you ever need to be is yourself. If you have to change yourself to meet standards that are not your own, then that is unnatural. And every step that you take away from natural movement places you closer to the lip of disaster. Let’s take this idea quite literally: when you are hiking down steep rocky paths, any step you take which is not balanced could easily twist your ankle or worse. And to take balanced steps is not rocket science, considering that animals such as deer or goats or squirrels do this speedily all the time. Yet most people are unable to free themselves of their own minds enough to even perform this most basic of natural actions, simply because they have introduced themselves to disassociation and fear.

It’s like mankind is both a movement forward and a step backward. We move forward into the realm of the mind but step backward into the realm of fear and disassociation.

The movement into the future requires release and embrace. We already know where we need to go. We just need to fall into place.

Set paths are established for you to follow to emulate others and pretend you know what you are doing. But all along you are afraid and desperately uncertain, and every step grows more precarious, til you are only a tentative thread of a human being, connected to others only by name-brands and alma maters. Is this the path you want to follow?

The water flows directly to its source. It will find its way.

Ever More

Aguaje Tree

This moment is you. Standing hopeless on the brink of your desires, your washed up dreams. All the fantasies that you cultivated in solitary stimulation. The world moves on, distant, primal, alien. You listen to your mind striving to form some narration that would fit you in, lock you into a perfection and beauty undeniable, eternal, broadcast across time and space to shine into understanding and love and sex and money. But you know, of course, that your spirit is undefinable. Incapturable. That the only things that come out of you that are beautiful are not your own. That this darkness, this doubt, this everyday struggle simply to look in the mirror and walk out the door into the unseeing crowd is the keystone to this very moment.

When you stand face to face with your death, you understand then that such moments are everything. That all the times of wasteful heedlessness—spent suckered into some suit’s notion of what you are supposed to want, given your date of birth, sexual orientation, and geographical location—were exactly that, a waste. That most of your life has been wasted. That even despite all of this waste, all it takes is one moment of truth, purity, and honesty to clear it all away. The tally is tipped every time by one simple look into despair. You could never be good enough. The world could never be enough. And yet, it moves, it breathes, it feels, it floods. Death and movement are one and the same. Periods are a pause in the formation of thought, like the pulling back of the sea before it moves to crash itself into the shore. Again and again. There is no stop. No end. No final dark night that has no meaning.

What do we call this thing within us that fears and hides and spits at the world? It has been called ego, it has been called self, it has been called humanity. It is our suppressed divinity showing forth as demonic manifestation. Let it shine. Let it out. You know everything that there is to know about yourself. You were born crying, helpless, misunderstood in your inability to articulate. You learned to buffer yourself by silence, conformity, and following the drawn lines of tradition. You found moments of freedom when you rediscovered connection, empathy, intuition. These are the tools that take us into the future.

Draconian regressive clutchings at domination and anger, addiction and blame, have defined our history. These egos. This humanity. These childlike gods, terrible in their bitterness. We all must grow up eventually, one way or another. To face our extinction or our transmutation. Both which appears the same to the uncritical eye.

The alchemist leaves behind his learning, leaves behind his doubt, leaves behind his fear. To make magic. To believe in what has been taught to us as impossible. To find in one moment the key that would unlock all of sleeping eternity. To move beyond himself, his attachment, and his desire.

Because beyond death there is a greater power. It has nothing to do with the transformation of lead into gold, or of water into wine. Nor the movement of mountains, or of the stars, or of your heart. What stupidity! It is the power and binding strength of communion. The severing of self to find union in your Beloved. The letting go of what holds you back and pins you down to find that you can fly, that you have been flying all along, that the world flies and holds you and cradles you and pushes you beyond yourself at every turn to look down into what seems inevitable and certain impossiblity. Can you handle it? Can you handle what you were given? Can you handle what you were made to become?

It is not one or the other. It is not you or them. It is not life or death. It is love, or it is Love. It is death, or it is Death. Nothing less. Ever more.


Pennies in a pond

It isn’t there, if you have to look for it, see. It’s already envisioned, already happening. It’s moving. You’re on it. You’re in it. You are it, every step of the way, every hurt, awakening, joy. The godhead, this beautiful presence. That’s what you’re looking at. Don’t look for it. It’s there. It’s here. It is, it be, it now. This has all been said before, but it has never, ever been seen quite the same way, through quite the same eyes, in quite the same form. Quietly, the world revolves into wholly new arrangements of recycled material. Spiraling coils that stretch into any space given. A beauty that is everpresent, evergreen, all inside everything that exists, as long as you can see it. Look at yourself. You really believe that you are anything else? Anything but you? Who you been listening to?

Because it sure as hell can’t be said. This is just kind of a reminder, you know what I’m saying? This is a memo between me and you so that we remember. Remember that nothing in the world is as important as what is manifestly occurring right now within us. Here. Beholden only to our own sacred knowledge of what we feel. No one can tell us that, not even ourselves. We’ve just got to be listening real close to the world which is ourselves in different times speaking in different voices through different movements that we are one, that we are many, that we are all in this shit together and that it really don’t matter what anyone holds onto—because everything has already been made into a picture that moves and defines and clutches at hungry bittersweet beauty when we all know, all we know, we already know quite well that we are this, peace, whole, center focus of all understanding and polyrhythm and harmonious atonal interconnectivity that thrusts and crawls and flies into love, into love. Into what we can only call love, belatedly and in sad departure because we are full, as the apple is full when it falls to the earth, in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of everything, falling out of fullness and inevitability into the future. Because it must be. Because it is. Because this wind has blown in this current out of the circulation of this sea from this sun in this exploding set of dust and stars and energy.

To Be Here

Cracking the Ice

The Zen Buddhists are oft quoted curtly stating, “Here. Now.” Attempting always to snap attention to where it is most needed, the present moment. Because the world is sinuously, continuously shifting. Because enlightment is not some perfect pinnacle to be reached and planted a flag into. Because the only way to be effective, relevant, and alive is to be consistently adaptive, morphic, rooting, exchanging. Boundaries must be extended until they are simply memories, snapshots of shedded patterns of the past. Trails as an imprinted arrow to the impromptu point of now, where we stand attempting to surf the unknown stimuli that floods every moment into our hungry receptors.

So many of us are terrified of what is to come, this dark mass of potentialities. We cringe to look at our breathing selves, at the very raw animal divine life that we are, existing, extruding so many things that we don’t even know where to begin to prune. But what is to come is just as frankly irrelevant as what has already occurred. What of course always takes precedence over anything, every time, is the everpresent here and now. To be omnipresent does not mean to exist outside of time. It means to exist so firmly embedded in this very present, now, now, NOW, that in tunnelling through this eternal presence you come to exist everywhere all at once, through the simultaneous intuitive deep superconscious connectives that link you through to all life that exists in the same moment in other forms, to see through their eyes as your eyes, to know the universe through yourself through the universe.

Such moments are hard to come by. Such concentration is required simply to relax. Such study and discipline and luck and love are required to allow and to accept and to embrace each fleeting moment to its fullest.

The first step is just to acknowledge the utter critical importance of awareness of your present existence. To meditate is not to sit. To enact yoga is not to exercise. These are matters of life or death. This is the purpose for which you are here. To be here.

Making Love

Love isn’t something that you find or discover, latent somewhere in some hidden offspring, but rather something that you must create, re-create, every single day, every single moment. There is a reason why there is the term “making love.” You must make love, you must forge it in the transmuted fires of your soul, mind, and body. It is not something that simply comes to you, that appears out of thin air like fairytale gnomes. It is the purest of human endeavors, a task both magical yet wholly rooted in mundanity.

Don’t sit around waiting for love to rise out of a hidden abyss in some stranger. Create it. Make it. Love is a gift beyond the giver. Love is the flow of divinity through the vessel of you. Love imbues anything and everything with new light. Love is the only reason life has to exist.


To love is to bridge what seems at times the insurmountable distance between individuals. To have a beloved is to discover that you belong to another, and that that person’s fears, strengths, and history all have become your own. Holding hands, hugging, kissing–these are the physical expressions of unity. What is most important is the inner essence, the burning flame, the secret that none of the outer world can see–you could give up everything else and still be in love. You could be worlds away. What matters is the place in your heart, the intention in your mind. Even one moment of attention spent away from your beloved can be felt in the rift that divides you, even if she lays right next to you. It takes much more time to heal and repair these rifts than the moment that caused them. You have to focus your whole being on your beloved. The myth of separation is dispelled. Nothing else matters, the future, your hopes, your fears, what people think. To love is to realize the myth of your solitude. The beloved is within you, at all moments, even when you are not touching, even when you are not speaking. It is only through selfishness that your suffering is created.