CCXCVII
A cancer is a cancer no matter its motivation or means.
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Dress up, dress down, or wear nothing at all.
‘Tis all vanity if a fig leaf even comes to mind.
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You will be truly free, truly clear, truly still,
When you can surrender your Self
To the unconditioned heart.
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Every life form has its own genius.
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God, all and none.
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Tripping again.
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A slave to the ship.
Row well and live.
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Know enough to be able to both learn and unlearn more.
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Only as real as imagination allows.
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Got educated on something new today
That will likely be forgotten in a few daze,
If not by early tonight or late tomorrow.
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What is absurdly interesting is the ceaselessly vain notion
That we all should be, could be, of the same ilk.
Certainly not as we now orchestrate
This dreary little paradigm.
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What point offering advice that will never be taken?
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Be ye friend or foe, or neither of the above?
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Touch the still water and cleave no ripple.
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Another day … Whoosh … Pick out that grave marker, yet?
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Mother Nature rules.
Bitch.
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Everybody knows.
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For you, by you, in you.
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Your fear is all about still wanting something from this dream of dreams.
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C’est la vie, so it goes, oh well.
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Both king and servant to the world.
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Be the awareness and all will follow suit.
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Go with god, let the middleman find his own way.
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Anything goes, everything goes, nowhere all the timeless.
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What you call yours is at best a very temporary assumption.
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Greater prescience tends to catch on slowly.
Takes a lot more than a hundred monkeys.
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Grace, the slice of godness you truly are.
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Very much alone, very much together.
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Nothing lost, nothing gained.
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Own the nothingness.
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All this dying for nothing.
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If you are already dead, what is there to win or lose?
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Some fountains do not run dry.
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At this point in mind, any and all notions of reality
Are little more than dubious and fleeting and ironic.
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Measurement is not without consequence.
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Just relatively hairless monkeys with airs beyond counting.
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From any and every beginning to any and every conclusion,
It is not about anyone or anything but the real You
Prior to all creation, manifest or otherwise.
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If you were god, what would you do?
How would you use your power, your dominion
Over all creatures great and small?
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Who is leading, who is following, but the same witness playing all.
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Both a pleasurable and painful process,
All this slapdash field research
On Eden under siege.
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There is really nothing to judge; there is really nothing to justify.
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History has toyed with you.
Feel free to twiddle back.
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The subtlety, the subtlety.
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There is no place like home.
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If there is dogma, it ain’t true.
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As endlessly challenging as it is to discern,
You are not the container, nor are you the mind.
You are the flawless, absolute space of awareness,
Upon which, in which, all creation is founded.
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Those who believe Armageddon their fate, seem to be doing a first rate job creating it.
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Are you master of your fate, or merely a wandering fool?
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If they are all twisted up in their nets, feel free to leave the fishermen behind.
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Even an entire universe can never fill the void within.
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Another touchy-feely, streaming moment gleaned of eternity’s unfathomable shimmer.
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The point and purpose is null and void.
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Same Eden, just a recalibrated jungle.
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True wealth is prior to all dreams; the gold is prior to all creation.
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As arbitrary as arbitrary can be.
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It is ever stillness, unfolding tmelessly now, no matter the venue.
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A new generation of vanity underway.
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Define the terms all you please,
No word has quite the same meaning
Between two or more subjective universes.
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‘Tis the only thing left to do that needs doing.
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If you really believe this is more than an imaginary,
Touchy-feely, three-dimensional, kaleidoscoping dream of time and space,
You are really fooling your Self.
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The rutted road of any given life
Is no more than an ephemeral set of patterns
Fabricated upon a neuron trail.
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You are not the body; t is but a temporary vehicle,
Ultimately no more than food for worms,
Or kindling for a funeral pyre.
Dust waiting to happen.
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Discerning the eternal sovereignty is the point and purpose.
From that, right action will become a wellspring of its own volition.
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Arbitrary is as arbitrary does.
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The heart of awareness is grace.
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Of any desire to ever be born again, why would you do that to your Self?
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Existence is the dream that happens between ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
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It is all pretty silly, no argument there.
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To allow another, whether friend or foe,
To constrict your sovereignty in any way,
Is an absurdly tragic and lamentable state.
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Any given personality
Is no more than a survival strategy
Fashioned to cope with the post-traumatic stress,
That the winds of nature and nurture
Inflict upon the mind-body.
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Yet another game that just does not spark any interest anymore.
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Putting the world out of your misery while there’s still time.
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You will enjoy life or not, until it dries up on you.
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If life cannot touch you, why would death?
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More to remember, more to forget.
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Even there is ultimately no goal, it seems to be the goal for many.
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What’s left to know, really?
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Where is the suffering?
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Sometimes personal, sometime impersonal, sometimes a blend of both.
Take what fits, take what suits you, and play it, smoke it, however you will.
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Things keep on rolling,
No matter who plays who,
What, when, why, where, or how.
The matrix is ever untouched, unmoved,
By any movement, whether within or without.
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Yet another day in the life and times.
A little more pleasure, a little more suffering.
A little more breathing in, a little more breathing out.
Something to do, something to undo, in the many moments
Between whatever slumber the mortal dream of the mind-body allows.
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No, that is not freedom.
Choosing what you prefer for breakfast,
Whether you want your eggs sunny side up or scrambled,
Is not the first and last freedom being espoused in this rambling soliloquy.
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Once you have scaled to the zenith of truth,
There is really no going back down,
So why cling to any ladder?
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What will the future do when everything history has conceived no longer makes muster?
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The human world is harsh enough without those who have no call
To be boorish and deceitful and unkind joining in the tumult, too.
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In this ever-flowing moment, you are that which is god,
The dogmatic memory of which, is the fall from grace.
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Oneness is always prior to allness.
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Awareness is awareness.
The witness, the eye of godness.
Neither you nor me, neither yours nor mine.
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What is materialism but organized dust collection?
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In the topsy-turvy of all things vainly absurd,
One topsys, the other turvys; one turvys, the other topsys.
One man’s confusion is another’s order; one’s order, another’s confusion.
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How could That which is immortal and meaningless and insignificant,
Ever even more than momentarily imagine its true Self
Mortal and meaningful and significant?
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The current fad will inevitably make an appearance
In a variety of yard sales and flea markets,
As it makes its squalid, sure journey
To being just another thin layer
In one landfill or another.
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It really does not mean diddly-squat to anyone but you, and you alone.
And even that indifferent state of awareness is of a relatively short duration.
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With neither beginning nor end, where can you possibly be?
The momentary figment of imagination is neither here nor there.
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It is less about where you begin, than where you end.
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Desire is a many-headed hydra.
A discerning mind is the only way
The monster can ever be mastered.
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Light requires an eye to be witnessed,
So, which came first, the photon or the iris?
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It is much less challenging to lead or follow,
Than to stand alone, free of all encumbrances.
Belief, faith, require much less effort than doubt.
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Trying to save the world of humankind from themselves
And all their absurd inanities yet again, are we?
Very gallant and egalitarian of you, indeed,
To be so concerned about a dream,
Real as it may at any given time seem.
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Enlightenment is merely
A mind that has gone irrational,
Finally discerning the riddle of existence.
But even more challenging is achieving liberation
Within the clarity of eternal awareness
In the momentary nowness
Of the day-to-day.
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Now, right now, this very right now, no matter what might be going on,
Is all you have, all you have ever had, all you will ever have.
And it is here and gone as quickly as you have it.
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A rose by any other name
Would smell as sweet,
As would one without
Any sound attached.
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Watch this body you claim so heartily to be, as you would a weed, an insect, or a rock.
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An unlocked heart is unconditional.
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It is doubt that catapults the word-weary into the mystical sovereignty of awareness.
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Nothing may be new under the sun,
But it was once new for me, as it was for you,
As it will ever be for all time’s witnesses freshly minted.
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Give up knowing, embrace the stillness before time.
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Introspection, eternally pointless.
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Time to move on to what I Am is about.
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So infinite as to be both impossible and plausible.
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What is wrong with a little compassion toward those who really need and deserve it?
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We battle over nothing, really.
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Nothing means nothing.
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So much not to care about.
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Hate is a curious undertaking.
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No harm in admitting what you don't know, which is a heck of a lot, really.
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Before pride, all so-called sins wander to and fro as they please.
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The Return to Wonder
Field Notes from the Unknown
© Michael J. Holshouser 2009
World Rights Reserved