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.

Attention

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,

undivided.

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.