NO (FIXED) PATH NO (FIXED) SELF

Conscious awakespletives ...

On Error Isle every wrong is right.

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Clueless bodymind stumbles along deep inside clue.

Frown almost oblivious to grin.

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That small, dense pain is the air-pocket.

Avoid it and suffocate.

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This is the whole ball of wax

the word
the tome
the oeuvre
the tablet
the wafer...

“This”: where the No dies of exposure.

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If I wait for conditions to be such so I can chill, conditions will never be such.

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I abandon this mind and don’t.

I’m gone. It’s gone. Vacated.

I’m looting it.

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This view is beside every point.

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The wordless teaching comes from the belly in waves of mad unhindered neutrinos — unhindered by mind.

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Periscope dips below/rises above waterline.

Imagination: below. Awakeness: above.

My species will not fully emerge.

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In the backseat: imaginings.

Keep your eyes on the road!

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Your boot-print “No” is stamped into my chest.

I cough and it falls out.

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There is the vast uncontained container, and there is the small internal spigot.

This tight spigot keeps internals from reuniting with externals.

There is a fear of personal gore.

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Ice is water. Ones are zeros.

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If you’re going to put a mark on the board, any mark, you’ve got to see that it’s divisible into parts, those parts are divisible into parts, and those parts...

If you insist that parts ultimately disappear, then they must be composed of disappearance.

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Remainder-divided-by-two:

Insatiable.

Would consume itself.

Can’t.

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Going on inside: creative fission (cracking open, spilling) and destructive fusion (pressurized, accumulating).

Destroyer, creator of worlds, respectively.

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Seeing and confessing fear-greed in action is spontaneous renunciation, secretly socially transgressive, aerating the species.

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Rest here, now. You don’t deserve it.

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The chemical compound I am will react.

Between reactions, I’m a fucking saint.

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Inward pain-making: I don’t need to think about it, I just need to see it.

Thinking about it is inward pain-making.

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When I say “gut-feeling” I’m not talking about a hunch. I’m talking about this acute feeling, now, in the gut, of which hunches are mere echoes or winds.

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Peace or pleasure?

Which one gives me a hangover?

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Hold your breath and dive into mentation.

Too long: oxygen deprivation — hallucinations, death.

Then you’re some other diver’s nightmare.

Surface!

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Peace is on the surface. Test this. Go deep.

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The big private AHA! — is nothing. Really something are the tiny public ones that poke each point in spacetime.

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While engaging in arguments and agreements, I lose. That is the rule of engagement.

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Awareness of the sameness of objects and emptiness doesn’t propel mind onto objectifying tangents, it forgives them.

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The obvious unmissability of life combined with the impossibility of thingness expose this inerrancy, this freedom to err.

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The belly of despair is thought-drenched, sodden. This belly is in the head.

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“I must either be the creator of thoughts, or their recipient.”

When?!

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The real purpose of listening to the anti-Dharma?

To be shocked out of reverie.

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We are prey to our own predation, until we see it.

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The substantializing compulsion is a cognitive-emotional cramp-spasm with neonatal roots.

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What I’m trying to say is, thoughts do not presently exist.

(I know what you’re thinking but you’re wrong. It’s “manic” to assert and reassert the contrary.)

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My tally clicker zeroes out every time I click it.

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When the mirror becomes a window my eyes have already jumped.

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Suffering comes from the unconscious attempt to substantialize. Awareness of this attempt insubstantializes suffering.

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Infinity is a twisted circle.

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Negation is negated, demoting mentation.

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Inward-turning mind is outbound, too.

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I count my curses for they are blessings.

“The worse the better.”

Amen.

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I could die here, now, in this state of ordinary flummox.

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The dynamic of the vital punchline is release.

Art should kick you back into the street.

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Dharma catch-and-release is found in the bellows of the torso.

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“Please let me be myself?”

(No one who waits for permission is allowed.)

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The stuckness-illusion floats in a realm of no actual points of contact.

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What’s broken through/leapt over is the presumption.

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The presumption has no basis in fact so it filibusters.

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False self is not an entity but an activity called “attaching.”

True self is the omnipresent absence of attachables.

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Why discriminate against spiritual dropouts? Are we untouchable? Subhuman? You should see our failure as proof of your lofty “non-duality,” your classless, heaven-on-earth ideal. We bring it home!

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If objects are events, how many live events are eventing now?

All.

How many events comprise a single event?

All’s equivalent.

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There’s “a crack in everything / That’s how the light...”

flows out.

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Epiphany is instant dogma. Please don’t share.

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Species-mind is feargreed, a crowded dream.

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Insight becomes thought becomes attachment becomes insight...

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Take one of your pixels. Note its two relative immensities (macro, micro). Note that all of its boundaries are links. Note the speed of its (de)composition. Note the absence of fixedness.

The purpose of this exercise is to lose weight and work up an appetite.

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If I could only say it, I could save the world.

Try again, in plain language.

Ok:

There are no wrong turns in paradise.

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Discussing with a friend how ill-equipped or unequipped we are to know the essence...

He said, “That is our only virtue.”

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Stasis is pain, then death. Better to unleash your antics.

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“Simply stay in yourself. You will find it nowhere else.” (Longchenpa)

When you learn through experience that you can and will return to wholeness, you stop clinging to the fear of being crazed into pieces.

It will happen. So what.

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Completeness is the basic torso.

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As a matter of convenience, your own heart is the gate.

Would you be so kind as to open it?

Knowing it’s shut is the key.

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“We’ve traced the call. It’s coming from inside the house.”

The good news is, the external menace is dead.

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I depart heaven to return to hell because it’s the gate to heaven.

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I’m trying to get cured of the poison. But this trying-to-get-cured poisons.

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Conceptual grasping is an attempt to depart the Buddha’s wisdom.

It fails.

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The pain of separation is separation itself.

When the pain is relinquished so is separation.

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The unconscious attempt to form an exoskeleton is ongoing.

Accretions of greed and self-protection are busy constructing that very self.

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Head-voice isn’t primary, it’s echo.

It is caused to claim that it is cause.

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We are people of great depth. Pity.

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I want to abolish my doubt. I want to achieve a permanent state of certainty. But doubt is fertilized by abolishment efforts.

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No Dharma-continuation, no Dharma-portability.

(My bed of nails is portable.)

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Doomed woodpecker with a taste for steel.

Snake gobbling its tail.

Mind trying to profit.

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Where find the breakthrough?

In the broken-through.

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What’s next for me/mine?

A rude awakening.

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I went from blind rage to blind drunk to unconscious. All my thought-tangents are like that.

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Primal fear highlights the primal outflow that voids fear.

Tangled like hemp snakes.

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The problem-person lives within the unimpeded no-problem state.

This state is not the person’s; it is not privately owned.

The person holds title to the artificial boundary between itself and the no-problem state.

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It’s like trying to tell someone to “look outward” when their eyes are already doing that!

Vision spools forward at warp speed, the thought-net in its wake.

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Blindness as refusal to see? Just see the refusal.

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No, the personality is not helped. It is helped by not being helped. That which helps would not be truly helpful if it helped.

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Death is unreal and significant to the living, real and irrelevant to the dead.

To those who are alive, absence is an idea; to everyone else, it’s everything.

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This mind rejects what it “has” in a tantrum of awareness.

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