A Pillow Resting Its Weary Head

_ The past, a hellion; reeking havoc anew, casting doubt upon a once bright future. Where did we go wrong? 'Tis a child of the universe, born of parents long thought dead. From whence this whelp? How deep and dark the cave of memory... 'Two birds, fast-bound companions, clasp close the self-same tree; one bird eats the sweet fruit, the other watches.' Candlelight, the Sun... Who sees the shadows dance? Suffer the indulgence of imagination; suffer. Imagine within and without, loss and gain, birth and death, up and down. Imagine the reins of a horse, with a head in every direction, resting softly in your hands. God is everywhere. God is everywhere. Within and without - it is we who are ignorant. We may not see what we ignore but it holds fast. We are never out of the embrace.

_ '... Another unborn male leaves her with whom he has had his delight...'

_ We've drifted.

_ Or perhaps everything else has moved; broken free of its moorings.

_ No... Yes... yes, it is as you say. And now it's gone. Another another has replaced it. So strange... we have all been here before. I watched as my father lay dying. I wonder if he did the same, with either himself or his father. I will soon follow, putting to rest the rumor of death. Forever alive in the breath- defying silence.

_ Would you know silence?

_ I would, and I have. I have known silence in a manner that makes all else strange. But that only lasts for a minute - the strangeness only lasts for a  minute, for it soon is consumed in the all-pervading silent echo. A masquerade is what we live...' We cling to a shrub, yet a grove lay before us.'

_ You, too, call on the Upanishads.

_ The Upanishads exist forever as a certificate of live birth. I have known silence in a way that makes you strange; that makes you dissolve. It's as though you were never, ever here; and I can't forget you. Precise imaginations, created into a functioning image, disappearing by and by, and turning into forget me not's.

_ Is that so?

_ Yes. You have never fully been here. The better half of you is everywhere else. Our comings and goings are evocative of another lie - the lie of life and death. I am going to taste of death in the same manner I have tasted of life; in the same manner in which the bow of a ghost ship tastes of the sea as it forever plies forth; never resting, never moving. And I will bring back gifts from unseen lands and place them in unseen hands; and all will be an offering to a most jealous god. Cast aside fear and be absorbed. I don't know what else to say to you; you're undependable.

_ I will remain undependable as long as you remain afraid.

_ Yes. I understand. Things are happening so rapidly. Only the authentic matters. The straight and narrow is neither straight nor narrow. The infinitesimal and the infinite: One the quotient of division, one the product of multiplication; one through subtraction, one via addition: All is the same. Stand your own personal catastrophe against dreams unrealized. What's the diff?

_ The diff is the same.

_ Beautiful. Chai?

_ Thank you.

_ You, my friend, are welcome.

                                                                       ********

... Faith is born of intuition, of hearing silence; it is not belief.

... To sit in meditation and watch as you emerge from the jaws of death over and over and over. It's not what you think, it's what you don't.

photocredit

A Delicate Quiver (continued)

_ I'm uploading my entire existence into this new thing. It has no name, nor does it have boundaries; it is like thought just prior to a host thinker. A delicate quiver traversing the innermost sanctum of the heart; a vibration. I'll leave it at that.

_ Not if I have anything to say about it. I know astronauts who have been to the moon; and they have a firmer grip on things than you do.

_ That's because they're used to having things in their hands  - it's lonely out in space. I would like to see them build a fishing dock out in space so these astronauts of whom you speak are able to sit quietly and do a little fishing - it's very relaxing. Imagine just sitting on a rustic fishing dock in the middle of outer space. You wouldn't even care if you didn't get a nibble. Maybe catch a space porgie.

_ I used to catch porgies and lay them in the road in order to watch their eyeballs pop out when cars ran over them.

_ Were any of your astronaut friends with you when you were thusly engaged?

_ No. Howsaboy?

_ Outrageously wonderful. I was awakened by a large nut, or perhaps it was a bolt, dropping on the floor of the ceiling above me. A delicate quiver; and then 'Bang!'... Suddenly, and without warning, I was awake. It was as though I sensed it all prior to its happeninng.

_ You did. You did?  The fourth Earl of Sandwich had serving bowls filled with porgie eyeballs strategically placed around the palace. They were a delicacy in his mind. Howsaboy?

_ Thank you very much. You take quite a chance asking a busy man that question. I admire your resolve; it's like a smile on the face of one unafraid to die. As a young boy I had an intense vision, the result of seeing George Harrison's picture for the first time - it was in Jan. of 1964. Eventually it led me to a teacher - her name was/is Gurani Anjali. She prompted us continually to realize the sacredness of life, the dignity of man and the existence of all of existence within our own existence. I now share this with you. I hope it answers your query.

_ It would... it could... but you've missed one thing.

_ What?

_ I call on the ghost of Sartre to elucidate that like an egg sans salt, or a kiss without a moustache, etc., etc., etc., you - we -  are missing something... You haven't asked me 'Howsaboy?'.

_ I, most likely, will not be asking you 'Howsaboy?' today or any other day from this day forward.

_ Fine.

_ I know how you are; I know how I am. I find it all very boring... 'and a librarian shall lead them...' Silence, you fool! Thirty days hath September; eight books comprise the month of June. I find myself wishing that I was fishing on a dock in the middle of outer space. Can we get there without all the distractions? Is there an express?

_ Fine as frog hair. Thank you for asking. Yes; and no. I, too, wish that things didn't make sense. I'll bring the worms. Chai?

_ An empty boat afloat somewhere in the uncharted regions of what we commonly refer to as outer space. Another boat bumps into it - it, too, is empty. No one gets angry.

_ That's not surprising. Who is unafraid of dying?

_ I feel that George Harrison was. He was ready to move on. He endured a very challenging circumstance and walked the talk. Then, with the timing born of right action, cancer appeared. Why is it that I feel cancer is a godsend?

_ You tell me.

_ To look in all directions; to feel the suffering implicit in endeavor. To look in all directions and recognize the quivering in your heart that allows for you to know that you are being called forth. To rejoice in the transcendent; to leave the small behind. True love. The essential nowhere, and no one, of what we refer to when we speak of love. It is a point through which we align ourselves with that which is beyond all measure. Sometimes it's quiet enough in your local library to indulge in this exercising of love's power; sometimes it's contained within the sound of a nut, or perhaps a bolt, falling on the floor of the ceiling above you. What's strange is that in sensing it sometimes and not others we tend to bemoan our fate rather than be inspired to shed our limitations. We are strange creatures.

_ No argument here. Chai?

_ Amidst the nowhere of the infinitude of space; amidst the clamor of an infinite array of empty boats banging willy-nilly off of each other in the vast uncharted ocean of space, which contains all sound and yet is forever silent; amidst the hullaballoo of me and you slurping chai whilst playing tennis with the alphabet; amidst people making sense of nonsense; amidst the illusion of choice, yes... yes, I'll have chai.

_ I once went fishing and forgot the poles. I seem to recall floating.

                                                                         *****

... Das boot! Halyards ringing against the mast. The sound puts some to sleep, others awaken; some seemingly never hear.

... To mistake the corrupt for the pure, the temporal for eternal, the painful for pleasurable and the idol for the true: this is ignorance. But one can ignore for only so long.

photocredit

Integrate Dis

_ No strolling about today, eh, grey seal? No strollin’ about, laddie, mi laddie... although there could be break in the clouds; after all, things have been known to change... to die, for lack of a better word. All things must pass... indeed... And sure they will - you, me... he, she, his, hers, theirs, ours, mine... this and that - all bound for the boundless ocean of nevermore. ’Holding this entire universe in but a fragment of my being, I remain unchanged and transcendent.’ Or some such words to that effect close out the tenth chapter of the Bhagavad Gita... Yes, sir, and yes, ma’am. And with the whole world in his hands he’s not much different than me and you, except for knowing; except for realization. What? The cat got your tongue?
Silent today?... So you’re silent today... alright, okay... I guess that means anything goes... to float within the accommodating confines of limitless silence; to float within the boundless bubble of nevermore. Wrap your heart and mind around and within it, my very good friend, and live in heroic fashion, letting nothing stop you from serving your Lord... Have you heard? Or does being silent preclude hearing, too? You and a lot of other people like you are treading on some very thin ice, my friend. You're playing fast and loose with something that would benefit mightily from a decidedly lighter hand. Handle with care, chief - like the singer sings the song... Don't blame me; I call it as I see it. Anyway, the buzz around the water cooler is that they want to take our death away from us, just like they hijacked our birth. They want to further complicate what, at its inception, is a rather simple affair - living... the art of living, if one would be so kind. No more is it a noble calling to just be; everybody’s a story. Why? Why were we supplied with a story? Shhhh... I know, you can’t speak - I, too, have walked that road. Long legs and broad, strong feet are a help when riding the chariot silently into the flaming fire of evermore - it, too, is a bubble... O yeah... It could be the same... could be the same. But no one is speaking. It could all be the same. No, don’t start with the eyes. If you’re silent, you’re silent... if you're silent, you're silent - a courageous act. A courageous act in that it provides direct access to an inevitability. And all inevitabilities reduce down to only one - there is only one inevitability... AND IT IS NOT DEATH! No, it is not death, for the one inevitability partakes of no story, yet it holds them all within a single fragment of its being and remains unchanged and transcendent. How do you say ‘it’ in the vernacular of one who is silent? Make it a double... a double ‘it’... I don’t think anyone would take umbrage if I were to suddenly jump up from my place at the table and start to berate you loudly. I have paid every dollar ever printed in order to acquire this New York accent - I’ve had it surgically implanted into my bag of tricks -  and, trust me when I tell you, kingfisher, it lends itself well to berating. NuhYawwk!... And what will the people think? And what will all the nice people think? I’ll tell you what they’ll think: They’ll think whatever it is I think they’ll think; and I shall act accordingly. Some may require hugging, some a kiss and others a knuckle sandwich. It’ll be good fun - a laugh. Can you hee-hee-hee when silent? Hee-hee-hee without the hee-hee-hee? Pity if you can’t, however; a cause of grief, to not laugh... In my case it would be a very brief grief, mind you, for I’m on to other things. Take heart though, old bean, for none of this has anything to do with you. What say we belly-up to the bar and see if we can coax the barista into making us a couple of chai? What say we change the subject to change without notice, huh? Don’t think of quilts, instead silently contemplate the thread that holds them together. Or just sit there and enjoy the whole world; it rests silently in your hands. You do have hands, don't you? Don't answer that question... do not answer the question... I want to think that right now you are sitting in silence holding in your cupped hands he who holds the whole world in his hands; and I would further like to think that you are doing so gently.
My, oh my, but isn't that the lady whom I witnessed speaking to her dog as if it were a person? Isn't she the one whom I mentioned as having a conversation with a canine of unknown origin? She spoke at length; it was silent - I couldn't see its undercarriage, so 'it' will have to do. Do you know 'it'?... HOW DARE YOU INSULT ME!... JUST WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE!?... Look at that... not a single person has jumped up in your defense. I could probably kill you and stroll on out of here. I could berate you in a righteously indignant fit of pique and it would be business as usual in this little tea garden. Gossamer threads of nothing weave the fabric a to b to c to d; and you feel there is something to it? Maybe you don't... maybe it was someone else, in another life. Yes, yes, I woke up dreaming... I met a... Thank you, thank you, you're so kind. True art, my very good friend, speaks the same language as you - SILENCE! You're silent today. You could be a granite countertop; you could be a rainbow five seconds before anyone sees it - you are that special. My fifth wife, when I would ask her how she spent her day, always replied " I don't know." God how I loved her! I was away when she succumbed to the charms of the forty-first wink. I had been vacationing in the Punjab for eight months and wasn't due home for another eighteen. Word reached me during sundowners; I fell silent.... Are all silences the same? AFTER ALL I'VE DONE FOR YOU?! YOU SIT HERE LIKE A BUMP ON A LOG AND REFUSE TO PICK UP THE TAB?! I'VE NEVER BEEN SO INSULTED IN MY LIFE!... I'm telling you, I think I could dismember you and no one would bat an eye... I wonder what would happen if I were silent?... Greased lightning through somber skies.... CHAI, PLEASE! AND GIVE THIS BUM THE CHECK. If you don't have money on you don't worry. I have a fin stuck between the toes of my loafers. Sure... we're all thieves. I enjoyed an imaginary indiscretion with a woman who doesn't even know my name; in fact, I'm not sure she even exists...

                                                                      ******

Marwa Blues

photocredit

Norman's Home

_ Err, ah...squelch... This is the, err, ah, ghost of Ted Kennedy, the former, err, ah, lion of the Senate, coming to you live from the, err, ah, grave... squelch.

_ This is...squelch... the guy polishing avocados near the front entrance of your local grocery superstore... squelch... who upon hearing someone say "Hi" has realized that he is, in fact, alive, and that he should greet the customer...squelch... "Good morning"...squelch... It's all part of the job description.

_ Ted's one fathom down, in Norman's home, and has finally shed those extra pounds.

_ Norman's home?

_ Yeah... Norman the worm. Opening Day of baseball season brings back memories I've never had of Ted and all the, err, ah, Kennedy's.

_ Businessmen, buzzcuts, brown shoes upon which the break in the trousers rest, bacteria and boredom... Upon this mountain, upon this pile of sand, underneath which Norman carries on, I stand and ask you a simple question: Should the dispenser of our just rewards move on, vanishing from our minds and memory, would you continue in the life you live?

_ Dissatisfaction is the ignored, though never forgotten, child of desire; it is the animal behind us chasing us down, yet we think we are the one pursuing a tasty comestible.  Without a reward there would be no point to carrying on; although, I suppose, without a 'reward' there would be no sense of dissatisfaction. Let's pull out the green card and say I don't know.

_ Tea sans ice; practice and dispassion; the forever high tide of anger. A day so cloudy you can't see the clouds. How are we to practice if, through dispassion, the thought of reward is gone? Haven't we been taught that action results in consequence, be it reward or ridicule? We haven't been taught dispassion.  We are children in, and of, time; and dispassion negates time... Hmm...

_ Hmm? That's a fighting word where I come from.

_ I guess there is no more waiting; I guess that means that I'm done reading magazines. Is it possible to remove oneself from the stilted equation of this resulting in that?... One needn't have the world's largest crystal ball to ascertain that there is only bondage in reward; yet how are we to dismantle the anger that arises when responsible, considered action, instead of bringing reward, confronts certain death?.. Or is anger to be understood in the context of being the result of a prior action's resultant dissatisfaction?  Can we be done with it all?

_ All tough questions considering that we've been sold on reward from our first step. And now you say there is none?

_ Nothing lasting.

_ I'm okay with the temporary nature if things.

_ That's because you haven't funneled down into the Cathedral of The Cramped Opening, a place wherein everything and everyone gets left behind; and when the door shuts behind you, it shuts for good.

_ Bullshit artist. Play your word games on someone else. Buy me a chai or suffer the consequences of the back of my hand coming in contact with your skull.

_ Extra steam?

_ Yes... I think I deserve a little extra steam.

                                                                       ******

... Somewhere the piano note at the close of "A Day in the Life" resounds still; frozen, as it were.

... Anger... I've learned well; I've perfectly assimilated an imperfect knowing.

photocredit