Rather than chasing the shadows of thought that dance to the pipes of that never ending eruption of existing, i have taken vows of devotion to that fixed light. I learn to see through change, becoming, anticipation, particularity, multiplicity, regret. These are the trees. These are the modes and methods by which lack gains a false substance. They are the lures which forge finitudes existence in the ever ready and steaming iron press of being. And their existance depends on their being acted; when action stops, nothing is different.
I have been trying to see this light amidst the chaotic swirl and magic. And it’s there! I’m sure it’s there. Or should I say… I’m sure I’m here. You see, I am trying to see that whole in myself; to know myself as the very self of all. This means that I must stop and take note, be quite and cautious. It means that I must encourage my eyes to hold vigil to my thoughts, and caste nets of suspicion, weeding and pruning the catch down to its finest level.
And i must participate! only... it must be in a different way. There seems to be something to do, but there is only doing to be seen through. Indeed, in the very act of unweaving the complex of existence, unwittingly is bred and midwifed its progeny. Such is the style and flair of duality. So, this is not a spiritual journey. It is, in essence, not even a journey. It is an anti-movement; it is not another call to action. No change, no difference, no achievement. It is only 'seeing-through', and seeing through 'seeing through', all the while trying to abide in that perfect patience.
But, nevertheless, to journey is necessary. Not for the vistas, or peaks climbed, nor the wisdom bestowed, but to stir the eye of consciousness. An ‘as-if’ journey to an ‘as-if’ destination; or a beginningless journey toward no end. But this requires that one cleanses one’s eyes, and begs one pay witness to that great forgery, the skin encapsulation of experience. And this has, and indeed requires, its indigenous treatments; for transcendence without communion is flawed.
The problem, though, is getting caught up in the ideas: deconstruction is always also an erection. The displacement of false idols is its own politics, and revolution always the beginning of a new oppression. And this is of a piece with the very fabric and sense of change. Unless it is recognized that Ideas are points of departure and not ends in themselves, only a hapless fumbling in their awesome tidal forces is what’s left to the feckless human speck.
This is what makes sense to me. These are the paths that I apparently tread.
Absorbing the shifting mass of ideas and attempting an assent to a god’s eye view of things are no longer priorities. I sit quietly; I see a therapist; I watch dogs play. I learn Sanskrit so that I might see through all this with ancient tongue. I don’t drink, nor smoke, nor chew gum anymore, for what it’s worth. These are just more throats cut in homage to my gods.
Of course, what’s real doesn’t just yield itself submissively to sudden advances. What shines forth easily, what gives itself up with little fight, are the maladies and errencies, the mistakes and blind spots. But it is a wrong to think that to work through and make fix these things is any goal, as if freedom follows the removal of the final malignant flap of determinism. No. There is content, but this content requests no cure. One has to see the shaman through the doctoring.
I’ve seen my projections and disassociations, how things divide for protection. I’ve seen how I control, clutch and grasp with infected hand. I’ve seen myself as a little boy, a white-locked man, a villain, and a hero. I’ve seen brute anxiety, bravery, immaturity, and wisdom. I’ve been the unempeachable victim, and I’ve been the guilty traitor. All at the same time. I’ve found that I am troubled and complex, and this troubled complex is basic to my entity. I see how much pain, anger, loss... dissatisfaction, are modes of being, freshly pieced together through each movement, each thought. There is no way out from there... from there. I could not have seen this.....
And I see that this is not to be fallen into. The work there is infinite. Just as
In the end, it is all but phantom and cloud, and the only thing that counts is firm roots and the polished steel of a poised and cutting intellect. It all amounts to so much watering and buffing, and tending to kindle in the hopes that the fiery grace of revelation will betray its source. For there is no fire to be made in the sun; there is only a basking in its full and voluptuous fact. But let it be known, one must balance on a razors edge, for an inevitable stumbling-unto-death lying mouth open borders every edge.
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