I seem to be up—it’s 2:30 in the morning and I’m a busy mulling.
The usual disclaimer ensues: Random musings and a bit of a caustic mood follows—blah, blah, blah. Take the disclaimer seriously, the caustic mood not so much, and watch out for sudden thought-turns. And furthermore, please note that I certainly don’t do this because I think I’m on the cutting edge of anything—I’m not. I’m no leader, I don’t want to lead—leading is mostly not a job for an “I,” it’s a “we” job. At best, I’m part of a conversation. And what I’m doing here is at least clearing up the internal dialogue. Talking—explanations—are their own kind of framing. As such, it is important to edit, to refine.
Just because we have a mouth, doesn’t mean we have a voice. If we want a voice, pay attention to a more nuanced reality.
The likelihood, short of lighting up the afterburners and breaking gravitational pulls, is that our reality—and conundrums—will continue. One question is whether the key and lock of each of us will be opened and kept by at least one “special” other. Another is whether the two can get past keys and locks. The second one is the toughest, the first where we get caught in cherished ideas and remembrances.
Labyrinths are often best viewed from above.
Outcomes can lead to postpartum depression unless another goal is drummed up.
Living for goals is a bit like living to pick up a ball we keep kicking in front of us.
Dreams may be what we think is being awake–as in who’s the Dreamer and who’s the Dreamed? How do we know which is which and how did the idea of which is which get itself planted?
Torturous as it can be, sometimes being aware without interpretations seems like a soul without a hole. But then how can that even be said, sans interpretation?
The sweetness of love is best served with play. The bitterness of love is best served with play.
Smile when we dance, when we write, when we sing, when we love, when we scowl, when we cry, when we despair, when we shout “fuck” at the conundrum. The Divine Weirdness is that we have awareness, not that it seems so fragmented—so Humpty-Dumptied.
A Mona Lisa smile, Divine Emptiness—a Divine Comedy indeed. And yet another being is, well—here (?) (there?), in the emptiness? Under the Bodhi Tree where the ten-thousand things beckon, can be a being who finally smiles at the wind of those ten-thousand things passing across what seems a screen, and at being caught—after all that—in the smile of that “knowing.”
Pretty funny. I wonder how fear of fragments got into play? Just how did ostracized become possible?
I think it was us. And I think we love it—it is home. But it’s a home that leaves us if we don’t maintain it, which is not much of a home if you think about it.
The dogs, both real and metaphor-ed, have gotten quiet—tired perhaps by all the exertion, all the boundary-polishing. Are they now dreaming? Or were they before they slept?
Whatever—I shall follow suit.