I am an empty hole facing the forms that are empty holes facing my form: one among the many of the One.
Sequences in space. Everybody is an empty shell, a droid of void with a personal vantage. They don’t need more fireworks, they need presence. They don’t need what they already have going, they need what they still believe they don’t already have themselves. Be not special, be open. Keep it sweet and simple.
When there is no more corners to hide in and nowhere else to turn to—No pleasure foods, no snacks, no girls, no flirts, no dalliance or kinky stuff, no distractions whatsoever, no mental onanism, no net, no flicks, no TV, no Tubes, no movies, no homies, no social, no messenger, no books, no meditation, no recreation, no studies, no grooming, no cooking, no shopping, no work, no chores, no duties to tend to, no errands to run, no crafts to hone, no training, no conditioning, no stretching, no foam-rolling, no walking, no writing, no hiking, no drifting—in front of confusion, in front of frustration, in front of idling, in front of melancholy—where there is nothing—no prospects for resolution, no chance of absolution—WHAT REMAINS?—no projects pursued, no agendas followed up on, no schemes schemed, no excuses mustered—disconnected, isolated, out of the loop, totally abandoned—What’s the point? What is there to see?—No toys, no joys. No highs, no lows. What remains? What’s there in front of the satiating carb highs and quelling cumshots, the voluptuous redheads and blondes, the distracting feeds on social, the productiveness, the hustle, the toil, the recoil into poise? What remains when you drop it all and take a deep breath instead? when instead of dulling your senses with stimulants and stimulations for another round you relax into your g(r)asping? When instead of compulsively (re)acting you choose the truth of the b(l)ooming moment? What remains?
What remains with the baby when you throw out all the bathwater?
THIS MOMENT is all that remains.
The room around you—
—the pen in your hand, the books on the shelf, the sounds from the street, the sounds in the room, the pressure in your gut—there is nothing left but this moment, fully, resplendent and replete—absolutely no limit; infinite. The sheer abundance of this moment that surmounts you. Connection, integration, total intimacy. Translucence.
What remains is simply the truth and the truth is the point of it.
What is the difference between a cloud and a loved one?
All there is is experience of things: IMAGES—of feelings, of ideas, of projected objects of mineral, vegetal and animal forms, of thoughts, of aural, olfactory textures, of judgements, of beliefs—that appear on a SCREEN (of consciousness). The SCREEN is one but the body is particular. The body is where you interface with the truth. Your particular body is the membrane that weighs things preferentially. Some things it is biased towards (like a type of facial features) while some things it shuns and seeks to avoid. The only difference between things is your experience of them. Put differently: the only difference between IMAGES is your emotions about them. That is the only difference between a cloud and your loved one. You won’t lament the shifting shape of a cloud because you don’t invest emotionally into it, and thus you don’t fixate on it and do not feel compelled to turn it into a fixed image in order to hold on to it. This is natural. A cloud is less relevant to you than a lover is. But make no mistake: you, the person you cherish and the cloud are all IMAGES in and of the same SCREEN. All is experience and the only difference between things in/of experience is your embodied, emotionally biased experience of them. All is one multiplicity of infinite appearance shifting shape. When a cloud ’’leaves’’ you you don’t take it personally, you don’t break down emotionally. When [the IMAGE of] a lover ’’leaves’’ you you collapse. But it’s merely a trick of the mind. How could anything be taken personally when there is no one there to begin with? You mistake yourself for the inner whirld that your particular body enacts. Your body is an interface that acts as a kind of a filter rendering the SCREEN. You are not your body: your body is part of you that appears on the SCREEN. You are the SCREEN itself. The body is merely the site where the SCREEN interfaces with itself. The body is particular: it has particular likes and dislikes, it’s emotionally biased. It’s all but IMAGES on the SCREEN mediated by the body. Embodied. All is experience. IMAGES on the SCREEN of consciousness. Memories are IMAGES. Feelings are IMAGES. Apprehension and dejection stem from IMAGES in the mind. Thought is ’’internalized movement,’’ it is an IMAGE. Time is the IMAGE of the moment. Persons are IMAGES much like ideas are IMAGES. IMAGES on the SCREEN. Some attract you, some repel you, it all depends on the particular preferences of your bodymind. The body is the site where the SCREEN gets to experience itself in a particular way. The body acts as a kind of a filter as it enacts a particular swirld of IMAGES. The body embodies the SCREEN for the SCREEN itself. The SCREEN meets itself through its embodied IMAGES.
It’s the IMAGES—the bright images of bygone times, the lurid images of impending prospects—that capture, enthral and enslave your imagination. It’s your mind—the projector—that lucid hallucinator—that is your true tormentor. The IMAGES of the good life. The IMAGES of success and abundance. The IMAGES on social.
Meanwhile serene serendipity surmounts.
I’ve started the practice—the admittedly quaint practice I should say—of looking at people as if I was looking at flowers (partly as a countermeasure to the chronically clingy nature of my strategically aloof personality). Whenever a cute girl, for instance, turns me on and I feel a surge of an urge to pick (up) and possess or at the very least fixate on her from a safe distance I know that in a sense I enact the death of (the spirit in) both of us—as in: (neurotic) attachments retard relations (the dynamic unfolding of authentically relating to self & other): an image of ’her’ and an image of ’me in relation to her’ takes the place of the truth of the volatile moment. By making a mental note of this I manage to curb my fervid enthusiasm.
And gradually it’s starting to dawn on me for real what my spiritual savvy ego-mind has been telling me for a while now: that there really is nothing inside us. Nothing. We are truly empty—plain, hollow forms undulating, just like flowers or blades of grass in the fluctuating flesh of the air—we simply exist. In other words: there is no-one but ’only’ some body to us, we are no-one but some body. There is a subtle but all the more poignant sense of this creeping up on me now that just blows my mind—I wonder what happens when the recognition descends deeper into the heart and the gut: Nobody is special. There is no substance to (the idea of) anyone.
And yet, there is me and there is the emotional attachments plaguing me. There is me and there are the compromising (social, financial, health) conditions of me. There is me and his recognitions—A face grasping against the mystery of its abysmal depthlessness.
There are the faces around that we all are, faces, already fading, about to be forgotten faces, blooming, withering and vanishing sea waves of faces, my face and your face to be lost sooner or later we are to lose no matter how hard we try to save it on facebook, from humiliation and utter oblivion, always already fading from the face of the Earth, every single face you ever face faces to be replaced, by other faces, as our faces have replaced the faces flowering before us, under the sun, nothing special,
Do you see?
Do you see them now?
Do you feel the love you actually feel for all of them? The faces up the streets, in the shops, in the parks and on the trams. The faces at work and the faces at home. The faces from the past, opposite, behind and next to yours, the newborn faces. Out and about. Take a look. Variations on a theme. Beneath all these faces we all share the same essence. Underneath the myriad faces there is only one sameone there.
nothing stays, on the face of it
What remains, in the end, nothing else remains but awareness, of this moment, above and in front of all the toyful joys and the soulfull sorrows of the person who is losing everybody and everything, slowly and surely, all that it—as an I—has ever attained or missed and all that it has ever grown fond of and loved, sooner or later, falls away, and then the truth meets the truth… this heart is breaking and oozing gooey pain at the thought of my parents fading, at the thought of an ex and the countless unpursued prospects blending into the impersonal mass of the female flesh I’m so mesmerized by day by day: nothing remains that I could hold on to, nothing that I can grasp, nobody, noone, nothing to fixate on, nothing that fix(at)es, nothing that grounds me, nothing to write about really, all the writing blurs into noise, another iteration of the same old, same old, everything pixelates, with me in the middle of it all, alive, a heart, ready to burst, or stop, almost, for real, and it’s beating on, for it’s only the mind that is blown away by the overwhelm called truth
In a nut, I am the white noise in front of all the mental noise that’s masking it.