The Mystic Within

 The mystic within will never die,
 if there is anything at all,
after my passing time,
it will be the mystic in me which survives.

People abhor his image,
so I keep him as cloaked as I can,
he coughs and grumbles,
sometimes stirring up,
but he knows as well as I,

that his words,
even if spoken,
most times,
only go,
un-sensed,
un-felt,
misheard,
or completely unheard.

And Yet,
 if there is anything at all,
after my passing time,
It will be the mystic in me which survives.
The mystic within will never die,

Thoughts Behold You.

 All the different movements of religion, science, philosophy, their "movements" and "schools" through time, the supposed "advancement" from one age to the next.

The way we learn it in school, we start with the Egyptians or Greeks, they set the foundation, and then history is a conversation/battle between what was believed, what is currently believed, what should be believed, and what will be believed.

The "history of scientific thought" is the best example of this. We think of it like a natural evolution or progression, people pushing for changes, but it isn't like this at all, the people don't push, the ideas themselves do.

History only shows what thoughts and types of thought possessed those people at that time.
We are currently possessed by all sorts of ideas and metaphysical "truths" which we have unconsciously and consciously absorbed through our culture and circumstance. We do not have thoughts, thoughts have us. If we can see this, we can reduce their grip. We can be like the lion tamer, with hoop and whip. Choosing which thoughts to let leap, thoughts which are better kept back, and thoughts/beliefs that need to be purged and released.

Our biological perceptual apparatus is so sensitive and suggestible, that as one enters the ring and begins to orchestrate the lions of thought, organizing, and releasing, that one's very perceptions of the world, and one's series of feelings change almost immediately.

The world opens up.

Each Object A Process

Do not let talking heads reduce any object, event, phenomena, subject of study, or school of thought to just one cause, or as having just one identity.

Nothing in the world is just one thing.

Our conception of objects, although very useful, is not accurate. There are not particular static object at rest in the world.

Although still not accurate, it would be MORE accurate to say that objects are events.
Each object a process.

The problem is that we are also events. Events relating to other events, nested within events- with even more multitudes of events nested within us. While all that I've said so far is true, it is ALSO true that  there is just the one process. People usually have a natural predisposition to parse the world as through the lens of multitudes, or units.

"Our" way of viewing, organizing, and describing that one process is limited and formed based upon our location and relation to the rest of the process. We are the process, but due to our positions and configuration it seems most likely that we are very much "down stream" from the origin or source of this process. It is quite possible that the full extent of this process (that which we are and are within) is so beyond our intellectual framework that we are somehow both sources and outputs, oscillating or simultaneously, it is not clear. Fractal mathematics and quantum physics open the possibility that all things are both sources and receivers.

Phenomenologically one can experience these seemingly contradictory states, either oscillating between one and the other, or both at the same time. It is not just an intellectual seeing, but an entire state change of feeling.. Yoga, breathwork, substances, ritual, and highly novel or stressful situations can all elicit these experiences.

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Intimately knowing, But not showing.

 Desires, Ego, Fantasy, these things are not bad in and of themselves. The reason many spiritual practices suggest their limitation or destruction is for two reasons. 1) it is impossible to fully destroy 2) Attachment to these things limits our ability to see clearly.

If you are absorbed in what you want, pursuing your goal, you could even be succeeding and feeling good about it too, but the problem is, you do not see the world clearly. You see all only in relation to that goal. Not only are you blind to large swaths of life, but that obsession alters your perceptions in such a way that you are more easily manipulated and led astray.

You must be in contact with your desires, with your ego, with your fantasies. To know them intimately and yet not let them sway you in the moment while you are living your life.

Knowing them and not letting them act through you.

Pay attention,
to others,
to yourself,

notice when situations arise which seem to be a gift from the universe to satiate your desires.
Participate but do not take actions toward those goals.
Notice,
Take note,
Watch how the world unfolds.

Life, the playground where planets play.

 Each person,
A planet unto themselves.
Each live for but a single day.
The duration of a day is different,
but the phases are the same:

Some have early sunrises,
some have early sunsets,
Some know only clouds,
and others still only stars.

The durations are different,
as well as the view,
remember this the next time,
you think you have the truth.

Sightings

Everyday I break a new string,
It seems like sorrow is the only thing I ever see.
Rationalizing the sorrow used to work,
or so I thought.
Unfortunately it seems to be the same with
transmuting it all into music and art.

Is it a load that must carried?
Is it some genetic deformity?
Is it just the emotional weather of our time?

For months I have awoken with swollen eyes,
sometimes it is so bad,
that they will not open,
and will just sting and tear.

Many mornings I awake mid-sentence,
calling a name to which I've had to say goodbye.

I swear I've heard him, meowing from the threshold between waking life and dreams..
Even though I know he's gone,
when I awake and find his name in my mouth,
I do not stop from shame,
but instead call out again,
and let him know I love him,
and I miss him.
Every stupid fucking day.

and I know the sorrow is not his fault,
I guess it was just the thing that broke the wall.
A stupid fucking cat,
that was never even mine.

I had never held something dead before.
When they brought him back from the vet,
they put him in a fucking plastic bad,
like worthless trash.

I ripped the fucking bag to shreds, I cursed this plastic planet, and held him close to my breast.
I dug his grave deep.
He was warm,
Id have given my own life right there and then if it meant he would just open his eyes.
But he never did.


I go out to visit his effigy in the yard from time to time.
I curse the weeds which seek to eat the effigy and erase his memory.
I curse the fucking weeds which only choke and take advantage of other living things.

But on this morning,
waking to eyes stinging swollen shut
with my mouth full of his name.

I hear his sickly breath.
It was hard for him to breathe at the end,
and I'll never forget the sound,
and even though I know he's dead,
that I put him in the ground,
I hear his stuttered struggling breath.
Even as my eyes are still unwilling to open,
stinging and swollen,
I haphazardly arise and extend my ears while focusing on the sound.
... it is coming from his effigy.

I go outside and it is even louder now,
but the quality of the sound is different,
it is similar but not the same.
And there upon the branch above his effigy,
was the Owl which shared my grandfathers last thanksgiving meal with him and I.
Silently watching, perhaps he too was unknowingly saying goodbye.

I stood in awe at this Owl mimicking the breath of Bubs.
He just stared at me, his big endless black eyes.
He cooed, making that similar sound a few more times, before flying off out of sight.

It didn't bring relief.
Normally it would have,
it SHOULD have,
but all I feel is grief.

God even these words,
are just an absurd unconscious attempt,
to mend the heart and the head.

On second thought,
maybe they do bring relief.