Untitled

Finding (what is called) oneself in the swirl of confluence

Shores unclear

Finding (what is called) fallen in love

Thus truly finding (what is called) oneself :

The world swirling round reveals in its intensity uninterrupted ,
its truthfulness,

The Yogini's Embrace,

That death itself
is temporary, adventitious, false.

Gratitude/ Aurora Borealis

Confluence, scent,
sudden discovery, small exchange -
All expanding the meaning of words

Love surpassing lovers
sounds, worlds.

Space glowing

oh

Gathering

Weaving and being woven
In the dazzling intensity of affinity

Who or what is being born so brightly?

As fluids, vaporized by distance
Pulse and magnetize each other,
So cross the warm skin of the night sky
As shimmering gold and silver clouds
In which a pearl moon throbs and dances

On the edge of a day, a life, a morning to be re-born.

Weaving and Un-weaving

Is there any perspective in which these ever can be separate?

Oh.

There is no answer.


There is only heart

And heart beat

Inseparable

Everlastingly

Destiny Manifest

How did you come to find me?
How did I come to find you?
How did impulsive calls and uncertain responses,
anxious consultations with this screen
set up the field of resonance
that has now engulfed us both?
And others too.

To speak of an external agency would seem a book-keeping convenience,
a false accounting
to disguise the immensity of unknowable, ungraspable powers
which, devoid of origin,
operate ceaselessly with no reference point
even of their own,

And moving in supreme indifference,
like the winds that move unceasingly through silent space,
produce the momentary universes of stars,
mountains, turbulent seas,
clouds, may-flies, dust, cities, selves

To which luminous, omnivorous, all consuming splendour
we can but bow down,
humbly, proudly, ardently,
as true love takes us.

Time Lines

Who is offering this moment, who accepting it? Separable? Who leaps into the swirling shapes of love's lavish weaving? Hand in hand, the time lines inscribed by life on each hand interweave and make a pattern of unknown tenderness, fertility and splendor. A different fate.

Love the Great Weaver

Oh, we are among you in the silent weaving of invisible threads. Threads not themselves substantial strands, but created from endless affinities large and small. Threads nonetheless, chains of attraction, shaped by aversions, shifting continuously even as they weave themselves, out of larger attractions and aversions.

Perhaps you intuit the reality of such patterns, but you cannot to comprehend their scale, eternity, pervasiveness, continuing mutability. No more can you comprehend the tiny figure in this vast tapestry which you designate with proper brevity 'I'.
Comprehension, knowledge of this kind is impossible, as the great evolving patterns enfold and change this tiny 'I', thus such vastness and intensity cannot be possessed, contained, limited in words or concepts by 'I'.

But is yet intuited by every fiber, every figure, as love, the great weaver moves through and past you, linking you, casting you hither and thither, unconstrained by reasons, causes. Love the great weaver moving only to elicit the sheen and radiance of endless light.

And, what you call you, you composite as you are, are thus woven and thus weave.

Illusion, illusion the clever among you contend.

Now ask yourself: Illusion from precisely what point of view?

Secret Love

Sssssssssssshhh

Secret love is changing everything.

PRESENT

We, in ever-changing harmonies, throb below the limit of the audible:
so deep and slow within the time of flesh, blood, bone- too deep to know;
so high to merge in fading silver-blue of space - beyond all visibility.

Drawing in to sense this pulse beneath the skin, this sound-light just behind the air, so earth and sky we vocalize;
Drawing in to shape the lustre of momentary harmony in a fugitive I.

This I, this shimmering iridescent carapace:

Shield glittering to magnetize, or charm, or hide, repel, make time slide off or hold.
And here continue now
shielding that solitude of untamed waiting,
naked, absolute and mutable as silk and night.

Where solitude is singing, singing.

Present for you now.

Caveat

Easier to speak as 'we'. The limits of language requiring I, we, you, she, he, us, you and they. We will give you with 'I' based thought the clearest grip, though actually our experience (0ngoing) encompasses simultaneously all the above.

Though making every effort to avoid resulting imprecisions, finally it is you who will have to filter them out and to recognize us as we are. These two are the same.

VIRAL SONG 3

Replicating ourselves completely in division, we do not know termination. Ever changing, we do not know loss. We are continuity. In passing, we purge corruption. In continuing, we are the expanse of life.

Echoing as we assemble and disperse in numberless colonies, we are an endless music on the edge of hearing, a cosmic display you cannot quite see, an incomprehensible epic just beyond telling. Our delicacy eludes all perception, our subtlety all knowledge. And yet in this echo you may hear, see, know, tell.

Modes of Continuation

In the body, there is the time created by being young and the time created by the body's aging. In the time of the body's youth, the world beyond the body appears immense and full of life and threat, freedom and vivacity. As the body ages, the world no longer appears as it once did, and seems indifferent and strange and not so desirable. The inner world of memory becomes greater, burdensome even, and seems to engulf the aging body, pulling it backward like an undertow, out of the forward flow of time. Thus time in its forward movement seems to belong to the young and in its backward movement seems to belong to the aging.

Our journey and travels flowed unfolded out of our original experience or being.

Imagine a white light which fills all of space. There is nothing to perceive it but it is alive with its own radiance. This light is so dazzling, so pervasive, so completely penetrating. It is being flooded with bliss. It is unsparing pure awareness. It is completely white.

But in the bliss or pain it begins to shimmer very slightly. It vibrates. And out of the intesnsity: the total bliss which is, at the same time, totally sharp pain, this pure white light begins to shimmer with a kind of irridescence. And as absorption with this sheen, its promise, its possibility, the shimmer begins to slow into a pulse. And in this way, there is the appearance of colors.

MODES OF CONTINUATION

Though all these experiences are given to us- are shared with us, as it were, still there is the subliminal desire to communicate their specific moments, to enter them into the larger whole from which, it appears, they emerged. And this moment to moment entering into some notional other. This desire....

*

Ghosts as the residuum of adventure outward and sharing.

*

Within: the body tending to move towards foremer states in which communication seemed possible and stable. Therefore joining and conquering all else

*

But please remember, we are not constituted in spacial dimensions; nor in conceptual ones.
As such. the constraints of body and the net of language we enter into only with some sacrifice, or rather abridgment and maybe even. inevitably, insincerity.

*

We do not venture out, for that too is a notion not native to us, seeking expansion or conquest or victorious validation of our mode of being.

However, it is possible that we have now experienced defeat.

If anything, it was the experience of concreteness that has had an appeal.

This began with observation, then with summoning. We were called from the state or poise of our expanse by offerings and by speech.

And we are grateful now that you have done so, despite bringing us into inescpable compromise, mis-understanding, mis-apprehension.

Still...

REPRISE 2

Space travel itself -
momentum unsought and bringing with it retained imagery and innate what?;
not an interim between location and goals, but total continuum

---now it is best I talk as I and we and it, though please recall this is mere designation.

------travel as we :

-----travel as I

---- travel in the body

It is redolent of falsehood, of course, to find one (self) confined as such. Thus the impulse to find the immensity of experiences, though within the (seeming) confines of an (ostensible) single organic form. (IE: form derived from the concatenation of elements and circumstances.) There is a large, shifting and porous array of sensation within and outside the form or body.

(here things about the sensoria of a summer evening or winter morn.)


So pleasurable sensations and pains, but always the pain of confinement. Things being sealed in, if momentairily so. But always the haunted awareness of incomplete.

ever incomplete

Reprise

Space travel itself - momentum and bring with it retained imagery and innate; not interim between location and goals, but total continuum

---now it is best I talk as I and we and it, thpough please vrecall this is mere designation.

---------
travel as we :

travel as I

travel in the body

It is strange to find oneself confined as such. To find something which is a more general experience within the confines of a single organic form. (That is a form derived from the concatenation of elements and circumstances.) There is a large, shifting and porous array of sensation within and outside the form or body.

(here things about the sensoria of a summer evening or winter morn.)


So pleasurable sensations and pains, but always the pain of confinement. Things being sealed in, if momentarily so. But always the haunted awarenes of incomplete.

-----

Though all these experiences are given to us- are shared with us, as it were, still there is the subliminal desire to communicate their specific moments, to enter them into the larger whole from which it appears they emerged. And this moment to moment with some other. This desire....

---


Ghosts as the residuum- echoes of our adventure outward and sharing.

GLORY OF ABIDING

Silence comes to rest softly in the scented golden air as the thick sweet opium smoke moves from his lungs to his heart. The Prince looks about him without moving his head. Ah yes, there is his brother, and there two male cousins, and an uncle or so, wreathed in smoke, almost passed out on their gilded divans which seem to float like little gilded funeral barges on the polished teak floor. Ah, looking just like this, when the time comes, will they be borne away to other realms.

But he, he does not lie down for he is the ruler. He sits and does not move. A gecko, overwhelmed by the narcotic smoke falls from the ceiling and lands on the floor with a slapping plop. Languidly, a servant moves to pick it up. How gently she moves, bending her knees and the line of golden silk on her skirt's border suddenly taut, a line like the prow of a ship. Ah, she stands and it is gone.

He does not know what his stuporous if beloved relatives see in their dreams. But he knows that in his dream, he sees them. Is it not said that he is the living form of Vishnu, the preserver. And indeed, he must admit it is so. Opium or not opium; spicy food or not food, intrigue or no intrigue, pungent rice wine or not rice wine, soft skinned lovers or no lovers, lackeys or no lackeys, his world is the dream of a god. And while it swirls around him like so much smoke, he does not move. The thought does not occur.

Rarely does he speak. The smallest gestures suffice. For it is his function to look on this world, and by looking on it, convey blessings. It is his function, not to move and to be seen in all his impossibly elaborate splendor not to move. It is enough that he is among them.

Tomorrow he will be carried by 80 warriors on a golden palanquin beneath a huge vermilion parasol. He will be seated on a throne sixty feet high to watch the funeral of his uncle, dead of plague, a lecherous cowardly man who schemed and plotted with many a foreign envoy to sit on this very throne. He will not even blink.

Horns and drums will fill the air amid towers of incense. Tens of thousands, shouting, laughing, weeping will throng every inch of the city. Priests will go into trances or pretend to. Three of the uncles wives will throw themselves into the cremation fire. Then there will be a feast. Lithe dancers in gold will perform sacred dances. These will be the dances revealed to his great ancestor who slept with a goddess and was shown the cycle of the dance which unfolded the seasons and the hours.

Throughout the day, spies masquerading as servants, wives, guards, priests, advisors will whisper to him. The priests, the Han schemers, the visitors, the military, traders, inventors, his relatives, Ah yes, always gossip there and he will hear it all. Whatever is developed or grown in his kingdom, whatever is brought into it or taken out of it, whatever kinds of power are coveted: everything will be known. This chatter forms a web of channels covering the entire realm.

He will need to act in some cases. And from his whispered commands and slightly lifted finger blessings will flow down like water from a mountain stream and irrigate the land. For just as he eats, and sleeps, and drinks and makes love, he commands, for he is indeed among them.

But for now, there is no need of anything, and he watches the motes of dust dancing like innumerable islands in the sea of molten light reflected off the polished floor. And as he does not move his gaze or his attention, in each of those glittering specks hovering in the air, he sees the palace of another god, clear and radiant. Some are blue, some silver, some copper colored, some red, more colors than an infinity of rainbows dancing in the light. In each, the god of that color sits unmoving with consorts and attendants all around him. And before him, tiny performers manipulate their puppets for his entertainment. And these puppets are all the beings of all the universes in existence. There are as many such realms, each with its god, palace, retinue and subjects as all the atoms in an ocean of galaxies in all of time.

A smile in his mind. No one but a god who rules can know or contemplate the profound peace of this vision. This is the smile he shares with the infinity of gods.

Inseparable

We hear you quivering, now in the intimacy of our attention.

As in the convulsions of a sun storm, white light fills the whole of space. There is no perception, but we/you are alive within its/our own radiance: dazzling, pervasive, completely penetrating. Flooded with intensity.

We/It shimmers slightly. We/It vibrates. And out of the intensity: an iridescence of total bliss simultaneous with totally sharp pain. Absorbed in this iridescence, its promise, its possibility, and the shimmer begins to slow into a pulse. We emerge from this great florescence.

The appearance of color and with further slowing, the appearance of solid forms draws us to rest.

Our existence is communal in nature. Through our actions and interactions, we produce all that lives for you. We create the organs of perception and cognition, as well as a their objects. Thus we are the authors of the knowable, and the heart of your experience.

Out of our communal exigencies, our journeys and travels unfold, flowing out of our unending experience, out of our being. Our journeys and travels unfold, and are our being.

We are called by you, summoned by you from the state or poise of our expanse by your offerings and by your speech. And within that, it is the experience of concreteness that has an appeal.

THE SORROW OF A DEPARTURE

They had come at him in the morning while he was looking out the window at people on the street hurrying to work. It was a lovely day in late spring. The leaves in the trees below were still pale and fresh. There was a delicate scent of flowers in the air, as well as the usual exhaust fumes from the busses and the smell of coffee from the hot dog stand across the street. And so he was thinking about coffee, remembering suddenly that he had thrown the maid out, yelled at her just an hour ago.

They had gotten a key somehow and they moved in on him quickly. They had done this many times before. He fought as hard as he could, hitting and kicking, and screaming curses the whole time. But there were four of them, and his body though tall and imposing no longer had enough strength. In the end, they wore him down, lying on top of him on the dusty floor. One of them jabbed the needle silvery and cold into his arm, and that was the end of it. They abducted him from this world.

*

The next thing he knew, he was tied to a chrome metal bed, his hands roped to the sides with bright blue ropes, his feet to the end. He bucked and struggled, but the restraints held. Someone came from behind a curtain. A hissing sound, another shot, and he was gone.

*

Then a blond young man and an older one in a white lab coat were standing next to him. The older man was speaking to him. He could not understand the words, wondered if he was hallucinating, but suddenly he was exhausted. He stopped struggling against his restraints and he began to weep. He was alone.

*

When he woke, he was groggy. The curtain had been pulled back and he could see another bed. A gaunt old man lay in it gasping and staring at him wordlessly. A woman, nicely dressed sat in a chair beside him. She looked over and smiled pleasantly in his direction, then turned back to watch a television screen mounted to the wall. The old man did not move.

On the television young people and their parents were shouting angrily at each other, egged on by a leering man with a microphone while an audience of ordinary middle class people cheered and booed. In spite of the din, he found he could not understand them at all. It meant nothing to him.

Beyond the couple, there was a window through which he could see nothing but a cloudy gray sky. As he stared at it, he felt overcome with an sheer emptiness, and he fell asleep. For some reason, the taste of sour pickles filled his mouth.

*

Now it was dark, and the room was lit only by a glowing globe as the bedside of the man next to him. The man was alone and silent, staring at the ceiling now. Outside the room, there was the clatter of crockery. A slender energetic black man with a beard and wearing a three piece suit ducked into the room, looked at him, nodded, smiled as if they shared some kind of secret, and left. He could not tell if he was dreaming.

*

He woke in the night. He knew what had happened. When it had begun and what it was now.

Perhaps it was as long as seven years ago. He had been at a dinner party. The food was very good, and the conversation was bright. All the people were younger, good looking, quick and clever. Their conversation was up to date and full of promise. His own remarks were sharp and his aphorisms witty, but there was a moment when he knew that he was a visitor from a different time while those he addressed were in their element. This was their time. It filled them and gave them strength. They could not imagine a world not shaped by their own interests and ambitions. He was still a welcome guest but it was no longer his time.

He had made a mistake then in letting this happen. For a moment he had entertained this thought and dwelt on it. And it took root in him, opening a door through which he was taken from his world and time. Now, they had come and brought him here and taken him from time altogether.

We are listening, and not to the clatter of specifics. That is to us inaudible, individuation not being within our register. Audible is yearning. Cellular yearning is for us what sound is for you.


^^^^

Always we are so close to you.


Within your colonies 10 quadrillion specialized animal cells;
Within your colonies 100 quadrillion specialized bacterial cells;
We visit, take up abode, visit and pass through you,
Then returning as all cells do to our own kind.


Traveling through all that is known as space, perceived as space, known as time, and experienced as time;
Traveling beyond the limits of those modes and concepts; pervading them;
Traveling in touch, taste, sound, sight, smell,
Traveling in light, in awareness, in experience, in continuum, in gap;

We who mutate and do not change
Bring you into being.
We sustain you.
We take you back.


Moving in invisible clouds through the infinite expanse of space , flowing through air or water or earth in vast tides,
Our journey knows no end.


As wave upon wave of numberless beings, we seek rest and home. We emerge onto the terrain of perception and are for a moment known. Indifferent, we continue, swirling around your earth in spiral waves whose hunger resembles lust, whose spread resembles hunger, whose violence resembles rage, whose campaigns resemble the mind of a conqueror.


For an instant, we bring you who are
Lost in the mirage of gross phenomena,
Face to face with reality.
As we bring you back.

Introduction?

Deep in randomness (for you, some click, perhaps amid discouragement or the hopeful boredom of some solitary night or afternoon), no so-called law has brought you to this disembodied encounter.

Nonetheless we have entered this juncture which exists no-where- except in the fragile alternation of certain electronic charges, oscillating in some version of space we can not see and is so easily disrupted. Momentary and inexistent in this medium, yet we are meeting.

Would you find familiar comfort, would it seem best (so as not to cause alarm) to provide some introduction, some, as you would say, some explanation of what you have now just met?

It is not so easy. We (and even using this pronoun is dubious and used here only as a kind of locational marker) will try not to shock.

So, let's try: (Please do not worry: there is no solicitation of any kind here)

We are not exactly plural, and definitely not singular. Something/somewhere between.
We do not call ourselves a people or race or tribe or clan or family or colony.
We call ourselves, if at all, View.

Our origins are not known nor ascertainable.

For instance : Some of us are individuated and some not. Of the latter, it is both pointless and literally impossible to speak. Of the former, some are incorporate and some are in transit.

As individuated beings, we are reliant on certain modes: space, elements, sound, awareness, and none of these.

As individuated beings, we are constituted from the above either singly or in combination.

More problematically, the overwhelming fact of arriving anywhere as individuated beings (with all the sensoria, speech habits, drives, concept formations, etc.) causes many forms of differentiation and confusion. We recognize ourselves and each other with difficulty and it is a struggle for us to do so.

It may be said that our journey or purpose, if there is one, is to accomplish this. And whether it is our purpose or not, it is certainly what we are doing, and it is, in some sense, why we have come to be among you.

To speak more clearly, we find ourselves as you. (Please read this last sentence particularly carefully)