June 2nd 2015; observations
Regular and piercing as a needle on a bobbin, the icepick cry of a King Quail pulses and pricks my consciousness these late spring mornings, as I wash up –washed out—on the shores of the waking world
None of these missiles has penetrated, though, to pop the bubble of illusion or denial Mr. Gambol seems dispatched to dispatch in my psychic field. His sonic darts land in the aura somewhere, flaring in particulate awareness before dissolving like comets, one after the other, announcing the simultaneous Glory and Futility of all Life’s endeavors.
All is well and peaceful but for the belief that I do not have what is required to fund my life. I do not know it won’t come; I simply do not know how it would. If I think to employ anything to better my material life, I am oppressed by prohibition: No Money.
But so far, Breath is free, Presence boundless, Sunlight ample, and birdsong, as well, cascading through the atmosphere, insisting all is delightfully and perpetually perfect.
Would that these happy natives of Creation could breach the fortifications of a mind deluded with the disease of separation, this prison of personhood. I can feel where the belt is buckled, where the door is bolted inside my skull. Like the eye cannot see itself, however, my thoughts cannot reach and untie this knot, as a Kudzu vine’s new tendrils cannot untangle old growth from a tree nor become, instead, a honeysuckle.
Einstein said it in far fewer words; and he’s been paraphrased so many times, I am not sure what words he used, exactly:
One cannot solve a problem from the level of conscious in which it was created.
June 3, 6 a.m.
I sit down on the couch heavily, weary at day-break, shuttered in the dim, sitting to write, to channel the change of mind that comes if I skim its morning scum with my pen.
Too dim; something compels me to rise and open the shades, and there, waiting for me, hanging in a sky of dawn pastels is the full moon, resting toward her bed in the west, but not retiring until I meet her face, mirroring on her blankness, my innocence.
“I’m ancient,” she seems to quietly intone within my own bring. “I know better.”
She does not say “Hang on!” but on seeing her, I know I must. She has for me: an Eye in the sky with which to see this timeless beauty within.