27 September 2009

Chapter 232 - The Stillness Before Time (Compendium)

CCXXXII

Mother Earth is just another marble,
Another spinning particle of dust
In the vastness of your imagination.

* * * *
Intuition is the voice of godness within.
You are That to which all mystics
Across the field have pointed.
It is a club with only one member.
A club to which you nominate your Self.

* * * *
Read all about it.

* * * *
The narrative of the human drama is more than a little absurd.
What outcome the two-leggeds are mindlessly pursuing
Is surely not one bent on long-term survival.
Even general well-being seems
To be a non-issue.

* * * *
Ironic that we will likely do ourselves in,
That cockroaches and rats
Will still be here
Long after our dust has settled.
Very Darwinian in a convoluted sort of way.

* * * *
What so-called high society
Often really teaches the mindless little folk
Is a for-all-practical-purposes-never-ending number of ways
To feel embarrassed about nothing at all important.

* * * *
Given the way this aphoristic menagerie
Has been written, transcribed, and (maybe) edited
They may be sort of connected . . . or not.
You’ll just never really know.

* * * *
A very wander-madly-about-
Sort-of-Billy-Pilgrim-lost-in-time process,
If y’all knowz what I meanz.

* * * *
Fascinating.

* * * *
Too bright for words.

* * * *
It wasn’t meant to be real, you know.

* * * *
How painful the linear mode.

* * * *
Any given situation is relative.
The bad one day may not be the next.
What is good this day may not be tomorrow.
Beautiful may well become ugly, and ugly, beautiful.
Right may become wrong, and wrong, right.
Anything can be turned on its head
By the Ministry of Time.

* * * *
Nationalism is synergistic vanity.

* * * *
We are all evolving equally at whatever rate time allows.
No use getting worked up over what cannot be changed.

* * * *
It is no wonder so many are so angry.
No one with any sense of sovereignty
Will easily tolerate a harshly reigned bit.

* * * *
We each simmer into our own
Imagined concoction of madness.

* * * *
Discern the unmitigated equality
That weaves through all things.

* * * *
Another’s vanity will never become
As narcissistically enticing as your own.

* * * *
The quest for god
Easily becomes a prison
Inspired by its meager projection.

* * * *
Tried so hard to be reverent,
But couldn’t stop laughing.
Really sorry, well, sort of . . .
Especially about getting caught.

* * * *
We live, we die for so many imaginary glories.
But death discerns no pride greater than another,
And wipes away all forms with nary a trace of regret.

* * * *
All this is really just gibberish.
Trust me, it is practically useless.
You are no doubt better off not knowing
You’ve been given a life sentence
With a cellmate called Mind.
Of course, the a.k.a.
Might be Bubba.

* * * *
Memo to Self Re: Waking Up.
Keep writing, keep talking.
Someone whose time it is will hear,
Whether it be this piece of silliness or another.
And they, too, will someday blossom into what all truly are.

* * * *
Contentment is woven
With quality in every strand.

* * * *
Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.
Just say “No thanks” and walk on.

* * * *
Does it always have to make sense?
Why? How?

* * * *
What a useless occupation words such as these are.
As useless as the space at the center of the wheel.

* * * *
The joyful madman
Is the one remembers to forget.
If he is crying, he has forgotten to remember.

* * * *
It’s the last few minutes in the fourth quarter.
The clock is counting the game down.
A half-hearted field goal won’t do it.
A total team effort, a touchdown, is required.
Can we muster whatever it will take to go for the goal?
Or will we squabble and struggle until the board lights up in zeros?

* * * *
Rough times ahead, Harry.

* * * *
Flowers are merely weeds more favored.

* * * *
It takes a special stomach to be a politician.

* * * *
Ramblings of nothing.

* * * *
Through existence,
Meaninglessness
Finds every purpose.

* * * *
Pursue Jesus, Buddha or any other,
But realize the cross and bodhi tree
Are both free of their imaginary kings.

* * * *
It could be anything, anywhere, anytime.

* * * *
Another mysteriously magical day a-whooshing by.
Welcome to Foreverland.

* * * *
Just because you are conscious and mortally immortal
Doesn’t mean you can behave irresponsibly
And get away with it forever.

* * * *
Just because it is imagined
Does not make it real.

* * * *
A book for all seasons,
All rhymes, all reasons.

* * * *
How can That which was never born ever die?

* * * *
You are That which is greater
Than any god envisioned by mind.

* * * *
A koan if ever there was one.

* * * *
Yes, a couple notebooks
Were misplaced along the way,
And many thoughts were never set down.
Perhaps several hundred pages
Lost to the play of time.
Oh well.

* * * *
When you can do the laundry
With as much contentment
As that which you most cherish,
You will be in the province called grace.

* * * *
There is only one conclusion,
And it is never-ending.

* * * *
The only thing to become
Is to be what your really are,
Not what you think it to be.

* * * *
Dumpsters, landfills and compost piles
Make for great unmarked gravesites.

* * * *
Paying attention
To one’s hair or nails,
Or a football game or soap opera,
Is not quite the same as
Paying attention
To one’s Soul.

* * * *
‘Tis to be remembered
And forgotten
Ever again and again.

* * * *
Death is like that.

* * * *
Truth is a state of reality,
Not a state of mind.

* * * *
The menagerie of imagination
Is without conclusion.

* * * *
The only time is now.
What past should be allowed
To haunt its brief passing.

* * * *
How arbitrary any law.

* * * *
And despite all vain assertions to the contrary,
This universal epic is, without doubt,
Relative from tip to toe.

* * * *
Another dusty mirage.

* * * *
A universe of distractions will entice you
As long as you succumb to the senses.

* * * *
It’s too late, oh, it’s too late,
Though we really did try to make it.

* * * *
Whether you like it or not,
Reality is always the same.
Only the mind changes.

* * * *
If some god created all that is
Then how can he/she/it
Only be good?

* * * *
The vanity game will play over and over
For whatever time humanity is allocated
In this imaginary dreaming of godness.

* * * *
All are eventually forgotten,
Some sooner than others.
No glory can withstand
The gravity of reality.

* * * *
Much easier to kill something
Greater or smaller
Than it is something equal.

* * * *
Die well.

* * * *
The only difference
Between black and white
Is the gray of words.

If all this seems a bit arrogant,
Sorry, oh well, deal with it.

* * * *
Know that godness comes in all forms.

* * * *
Consciousness is the beast.
Again and again it is snared by realization,
But ever again it thinks itself free
To wander the wildlands
Of imagination’s
Unrelenting delusion.

* * * *
Any group that has no vision for its continuity
Sets in motion an inevitable decline,
Perhaps even annihilation.

* * * *
Between the lines of any given history
Are many lingering uncertainties,
About what really happened.

* * * *
His story, her story, its story . . .
All just stories, nevertheless.

* * * *
Yadda-yap.

* * * *
Take pause,
The many judgments
You cast upon so many others
May more likely be applied to yourself.

* * * *
Exploring through thought
What thought is, and is not.

* * * *
Uninhibited freedom is the natural state.
It is the constraints of space-time
That cloak oneness with the fear of death
And the countless other accidents of manifest origin.

* * * *
Pain often casts one into an unsought fate.

* * * *
Alone, not lonely.

* * * *
To where are we so madly rushing?

* * * *
You are the purpose and meaning, you ninny.
Right in front of your blinking nose,
And you can’t even see it.

* * * *
It is not what you think.
It is what it is,
And there is nothing
You can ever do to change it.

* * * *
The irony is that you must,
In the eyes of the day-to-day world,
Go mad to regain your sanity.

* * * *
Myriad universes are born of subjective perception.
That I Am, which is absolutely impersonal,
Is inevitably taken personally
By those unable
To discern beyond the veil.

* * * *
All seams are imagined.

* * * *
For there to be true peace,
All craving and fear must cease.

* * * *
A mask by any other name
Would be the same.

* * * *
We are all sharing this vast dreaming.
Do what you can, give back what you will.
Acquiring more than is needed or can be used,
And contributing back nothing but me, myself and I
Is a one-way, dead-end road to desolation.

* * * *
He came, he saw, he died.
A lone ranger if ever there was one.
Chameleon witness, truth-seeker, philosopher,
Visionary, receiver, mystic, seer, prophet,
Shape-changer, madman, jester,
A stranger of many hats.
Come and gone
Before the end of time.

* * * *
Who but one impaled
By the windmill of consciousness
Would have been given the paradoxical wit
To communicate the divine irony of manifest creation.
An errant scribe whose inclusive inner vision
Discerns all arrayed, and beyond.

* * * *
Somewhat skilled at wordplay,
But certainly not as linguistically adept
As many less inclined to contemplate in this fashion.
So please forgive the many errors in grammar, spelling, et cetera,
And immerse your dreaming in the grist of intention.

* * * *
Best wishes.
Ciao for now.


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The Stillness Before Time (Compendium)
© Michael J. Holshouser 2009
World Rights Reserved