Saturday, April 6, 2013

His Satori Seeks The Thingness of Nothingness

Where I once saw filth I see dirt of the earth,
Going back where it belongs;
Where I once had favorites I now have none,
For if change is the only permanent change there is then all there is and all that you catalog and categorize will change hence it’s a changeless endeavor.
Where I once exhibited this notion in my head in showrooms I now entertain whatever comes my way with adjustments minus judgment. For when judgment slides and creeps in the truth also sneaks and slips out.
Where I once wanted to be smart I now envy the fool. For he isn’t bothered by his foolishness as I am by my cleverness. Nor does that imply I’m wizening up and seeking wisdom, for wisdom cannot be sought, bought, traded, bargained, bartered, stolen, imitated or learnt; it can only be felt when all yer forms and fears of inner and outer being vanishes into nothing and nothingness. For even that nothingness vaporizes and disappears into somethingness.
When such is the miracle of life and living the way it should be why get bogged down and turn nasty that the magician performed the same old tricks. For when has a trick ever tricked ya?
Momentarily it could amuse ya,
Temporarily entertain ya,
Perhaps even surprise ya and then when the tricks get annoyingly repetitive yer back to the crossroads; junction confusion, but did ya not know that?
Remember, even the magician is bored of his tricks; he probably has the highest disdain for himself- which is why he is also looking for the same Thingness that You are,
He is,
She is,
They are,
We are and it does not carry the burden of a name;
Cos it cannot be tagged,
Lent or borrowed.
Cos it does not exist in our mentally retarded territorial leanings marked with piss and pricks; or the need to make conquests to gain that grand entitlement- the infectious Master of the Domain Syndrome.
Nor is it in the mall,
Or in cafés,
The opera,
The Olympics,
The grocer or the fast-food vendor,
Not even in the Four-Year-Itch known as the World Cup.
The irony of life makes the quest a paradox,
Nothing in Pandora’s Box,
Or Sudoku,
Comic Strips,
Neither is it concealed by sagacious sages or kept secret at public toilets.
The extremity of this paradoxical hyperbole will have you looking for yer nose all over the mountains, rivers, valleys, jungles, caves, lakes and forests; with a peek-a-boo into physics, astronomy, biology, chemistry, economics, mathematics, books and geography; unto atmospheric spheres and curved spaces.
The quest is often fatal, with causalities pregnant with wrong views, actions, speeches, intentions, livelihoods, efforts, mindfulness and concentration resulting in abortions; 

"Mine is a world of incomprehensible shad...
"Mine is a world of incomprehensible shadows". Severely retarded mentally and physically, she never spoke, was stunted and probably never walked. She was one of a quarter of the world’s children at risk of iodine deficiency, known to be the world’s leading cause of preventable mental retardation. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
And unnecessary suffrage of the vote you’d rather not ink, sign or thumb away; But the pivotal type-cast will design casting couches, playing on yer desires; hence further humiliation awaits for want of an ad, a movie and all that seems to glitter like gold. The temptation is a good signage telling ya to quit the rat-race, for when you get wrinkled, slouchy, humped and old, it will seem like an ugly addiction you could have done without.
There guilt arises but should it arise with strength and the purity of yer redemptive thoughts, recognition leads to freedom and freedom hangs out with peace and openness.
This thingness is nowhere yet it is everywhere hiding in plain sight watching you staring at it with mostly a frown; for even now there are Buddhas walking in our midst oblivious to our mind, cos we’re obviously oblivious when revelations take form and walk and talk and laugh at this display of evaporation and condensation.
It isn’t playing a game of hide and seek or 
Or shooting darts; see how a kid playing with a stick digging a hole in the ground in an open yard is all soiled lovingly and muddied with pure dirtiness the kid is least bothered about. Nor does this thingness engage in;
Cockfights and rocks, scissors and papers; for these are obstructions we’re engaged in unawares egged by that insatiable entity called My Pleasure-full Desires that;
Causes clauses,
Blurriness and other forms of artificial engagements such as the continuing emanations of bombarded images shaping yer world from within and aided from the without called Things;
The temptations,
Shopping window wares,
Bridges, Housing Projects and Consumption Incorporated enforced gigantic factories conceptualizing and then birthing babes of the senses for yer; 

Cover of October, 1963 issue (#82) of Mad Maga...

Massages cos we’re reliving a memory in a dream within a dream where awakened reality can irritate and anger ya;
Bother ya,
Infuriate ya,
Enrage ya,
Anger ya to hatred cos we’re the walking dead and what’s dead stays dead;
It doth not come back alive for it dies;
Passes on,

Reincarnates, coming back to life with;
Laughter and inherited intuition from the manifold lifetimes you've had and missed.
The dead cannot be animated cos there’s no battery in there and the charger’s long gone and broken;
But we’re again looking at the right picture with the wrong view,
And with no insight, foresight or even that backed-up hindsight we stand still completely and utterly out of focus;
Cos we’re still sleeping and slumbering and dreaming and hoping and wishing and desiring what cannot be got by following the traffic lights;
Luxury resorts,
Self-help books,
Movie stars,
Rock stars,
Nostalgia and melancholiness of the thought that heralds a Golden-Hued Life of Plenty where you are a philanthropist helping kids bitten by mozzies and flies and fleas and lice;
For we’re still playing a game of shadows at high noon,
Still hunting and skinning identities for reasons concerning bravado on a bellyful of food and ignorance;
A name,
Universal fame,
Money and monies;
With sugar-coated honeyed fantasies keeping skimpily-dressed bunnies from practicing too much Playboyness or Play Station; 

Mad Magazine - Febrero 2008

Or Nintendo,
Grand Prix races, gladiatorial raptures hacking blood and bones; anything that isn’t of this world.
Then we wonder why the polar ice caps are melting, sea levels rising, pollution increasing, population exploding, countries warring, people dying for want of food in slums and roadside streets and others at the customized-death-bed hospitalized for violation of what the physical body can and cannot handle in terms of exotic culinary consumed against the personal doctor’s orders, hence the emergence of rare diseases smacking of wealth whet in vulgarity;
Miserliness with malice toward yer fellow-being, innocent pigeons, stunk-alley-rats and plain old cockroaches just out on a jog in yer mansion floors getting the casual treatment;
Where we murder them first and then kill them later,
Stuff we’ve dubbed Pulp Fiction,
They are a nuisance… the rascals.
Then you announce jolly good riddance to the roach and the bird; wherein you triumphantly scream and beam as yer non-focus shifts yet again and yer guests arrive and you open yer cherished subjects: war and peace. You want peace cos there’s a war and you stop the war only to find out peace is the gateway to war and so you live with that knowledge and move the focus to yer fabulous thing:
It’s now the environment-
Mangroves and everglades,
The Himalayas,
Global warming,
Native tribes,
The Bengal Tiger,
Polar Bears,
Giant Pandas, 

The Takin nobody knows and the yaks and buffaloes everyone knows grazing in Steppes and Prairies.

The ocean and the fish in it compromises yer awkward concerns for you keep shares in oil companies, arms manufacturers, money launderers et al to keep yer garage filled with all the antiquated automobiles you can buy cash down but cannot drive every day.
Yet you scream social justice from the rooftops, the rafters, terraces, porches and verandas onto social-networking statuses fingering-

And fraternity- Bringing freedom to folks devoid of choices handing out feel-good-cookies,
Gum bars,
Lollipops and other paraphernalia mass produced to keep the population busy chowing;
Slurping and burping with a satisfied smirk as dessert arrives and Buddhism becomes the talk of the tabled occupants who now light cigars to go with the brandy as rescue operations are set in motion earnestly to do what’s right for the human race and Planet Earth, even onto the Solar System and the Milky Way.
Hence you begin practicing charity the way Jesus taught which also balances yer individual and collective karma but in yer heart the gut sends a message of self-empowerment and the next day you buy a statue of the Buddha, Christ, Vishnu et al with Apostles and Prophets; leaving them where its most visible to yer eye-contact: in the den of Cuban Smokes and brandy brashes upon a oak-shelf that’s about five hundred years old with the books slotted in, a family heirloom of ten generations.
The proud shelf’s piles showcase hardbound classics; from Chaucer, Shakespeare, Dostoevsky to Shelly, Yeats, Keats, Coleridge, Kerouac to Ginsberg, VV Gogh, Michelangelo, Picasso and Rembrandt et al. There are the classicists, renaissance rebels, romantics and et al.
And yet again displayed is the complete Britannica Encyclopedia collection, with others of note shelved in to bridge the gap between yer burgeoning emptiness hollowing and burrowing in yer gut;
Yer heart,
Yer liver,
And the head and then the mind and the managed body of relative-consciousness; the end is nearing, you know cos you can almost hear it like a lisping whisper now come and now gone but forever present nestled in some nook of the head.
The poor who starve feel the same in a comparative way for their wants are as immediate and urgent. And life-threatening for they die of hunger; hence they will try and fulfill that wish succeeding which they’ll open a little business-
That expands,
Jackpots and makes money and now they are getting ready to acquire all that you’re fed up of and sick with familiarity;

Then something happens, 
And claps you so hard cos you just realized you could be the second guy to write The CEO Who Sold His Soul to the Devil to Buddy the Son of God, Jesus Christ!
So you sell most of yer cash-cow stuff- the expendables you donate to an unknown charity and bidding yer buddies goodbye in yer collective watering-hole you pack up road essentials such as credit cards, shaving gear, clothing ensemble, electronic gadgetry, mobile phones, spiritual books, medication against diseases you dislike and other assorted accessories.
And now you hit the airport,
Travel first class for where’s the harm?
Grow five-a-clock evening stubble and actually let yer shampooed hair grow and be;
Now you’re on a journey,
You walk about,
Hike around,
Befriend the locals,
Learn some native custom,
And discover soon enough the saying “You Always Pint for What’s Not”-
It rings in yer head,
Till you've had enough of the natives and the dirty area they call My Town. You move on to another hippy place. You find it great.
There’s an authentic Italian restaurant run by a runaway Sicilian who’s here hiding from authorities on account of a murder committed in that Sicilian fashion for traditional vendetta. His name is Wherezmymarutti Yu’Assolo I’m Angelo.
But no-one knows and cares.
Sipping a Bottle of Hit Beer, the Sicilian confesses one confessional eve as the two drink up and talk about life and philosophy;
Tao Te Ching,
Lao Tzu-
And others of the same cloth and ilk- it gets you going so you go seek a spiritual master;
You’re serene,
A holy apprentice,
Agreeable and happy as a Jsmiley looking dolphin doing acrobatics for the pleasure of sailors and fishermen stranded at sea without any water.
But there it comes again! That awful emptiness canopies yer whole being-
Yer aura,
Yer halo,
Yer chi,
Eve yer Yankees hat and still you cannot believe you’re experiencing this forlorn loneliness for you almost touched Satori just a few clicks back nor can ya bear the shame of such a repetitive pattern that’s bothered you yer whole life of six decadent decades.
And then you spot a caterpillar gnawing a fresh leaf on a plant,
Ants building castles made of fine grains of sand,
Dogs wagging and barking hounded-messages,
Cats purring,
People moving, talking, smiling, frowning, crying, laughing,
Cows grazing,
Birds chirping,
Eagles flying,
Clouds shifting,
Stars illuminating,
Evening monastic meditation bell ringing,
It tongs, vibrates and resonates,
It still reels in yer ears,
There’s a sudden calm,
Out of the blue you feel light,
There’s almost no gravity,
Hence ye feel no gravitas,
Yer head’s empty-
It’s the happiest emptiness you ever felt- like yer kilograms of lifetimes of burdened luggage had been taken off and removed-
Yer mental monkey goes quiet,
Yer inner baggage is gone,

For the first time in yer life you feel yer body and all its elongated parts:
Hair, head, forehead, eyes, nose, chin, neck, chest, shoulder, hands, fingers, thumbs, elbows, palms, stomach, hips, thighs, knees, ankles, feet, toes and foot palms.
It’s nicely weird but you are naturally quiet,
Silent soakings,
Inside yer head a voice whispers “Now That You Are Reincarnated; Welcome Back and Ignore the Watching Clocker Keeping Time 

Nobody Controls!” Tasting that Satori, he does the S.O.S- planning a trip to Japan!

Ps: YourLustForLifeStartsRightNow!


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