Sadness, Myth, Foolishness, etc.

There is a sadness in peacefulness, but just a touch of it, like a gravity holding down bliss, keeping it in your heart.  I don't know why it is sadness and not some other feeling that hold this bliss, this joy such that it is within, or at least within reach.  But sadness is how it feels to me.  Maybe it it because I can feel the End -- near or far I know not; but that it is there, somewhere, my logic, until now, remains convinced.  This fragile construct of flesh and bone, mind and whatever else -- maybe it will never be destroyed in some sense, in the sense that it will only transform or trans-something such that it can find unity with another species of Being, a higher one, I would like to think, a greater one.  Maybe God or the Universe or even some such Being as no man has ever spied.  Whatever the case, this gentle sadness permitting my soles on these soils, my mass endurable by my own structure and force, is because I have since fallen in Love with all of this Life and Living and Madness and from this love has grown the myth of Eternal Togetherness and from belief in this, I, in the dreamy breeze of Hope, open my fictitious wings and so I must be a fool, and ever more foolish still for knowing I am a fool and being even proud of it and feeling, oddly enough all the more human for it.

I wrote this last night at work while just sitting there thinking about the peacefulness I was feeling and what the feeling of peace seemed to be made up of.  And then this morning I watched a video that a friend of mine posted. It was a TED talk by a guy named Sam Harris who talked about morality and getting scientific about the matter so as to sort of eradicate the world of its harmful myths.  As his bio reads, he is against religion in general because it invites excuses for undesirable human conduct.  While I agree with his to a degree, I can't help but be a romantic and think that myth is essential to the human experience.  The little entry I jotted down last night seems related to the whole idea.

Observation: Happy João Conditions

A happy João is a João who manages to make enough time for himself to cook fresh food, do some writing, exercise, and philosophize with Georgia, the canine expression of the universe, about effective pedogogical methodologies, the ancient art of animal husbandry and the possible connections between the two. I insist that animals can learn how to reason creatively, she insists on crying until I give her some petting-action or distract her with human food and I don't know if this means we agree to disagree or have struck an intellectual accord. But I know this much: so long as there is gas in the stove and a fresh filter in the water thingamajigger, so long as the rent is paid, food and cleaning supplies remain affordable and music remains makable, friends stay close and family within the reach by phone skype or deep meditation, I might begin to consider myself one of the richest men on planet Earth and forcably argue the position with about anyone. But not yet.

something about being alive

It is my honor, privilege and pleasure to walk among the most beautiful and fine
alignments of stardusts and dreamweaves that are Life's Forms, not Plato's,
which all aliens, if they be wise connoisseurs, should come to see:

the human and the tree, flower, snake and bee, one two and three, dance rhythms
our streets ...

there is simply not enough time to see, at least they would claim
that life is wrapped in the box Eternity to be opened, taken, and thrown away
eventually by our mortal decay and reckless folly partial to the perfumes of sin
lustfully slipping in to Rubik's own solution,
a bar called Blue Side on 42nd street
where you will laugh and fall on that slippery loose Love
leaning on a beam you just smashed into the soil
preparing a perimeter for a mistake you will never regret
not knowing that you, yourself, were more a dream
in unborn eyes, a flame in the eternal skies
upon which some quickly coming super-natural soul gazed,
having heard so much of sentient Life, Earth's immeasurably rare benevolence,
and how freaking cool it is to Fear Death
and not be 100 percent sure about anything
except that it will happen and you will pay
Caesar & Co for the all Karmic and Commercial goods and attractions
which, it should be added, result in an amnesia
leaving most scratching at the question in their brains,
"what is the purpose of all of this, anyway?"

It is a common question we prefer to ask than answer.

Here is another, almost never spoken thus:

by aging into a time and mind frame wouldn't we cease to be “we” if thawed out
when the Next Now comes a'rising?

Disbelief in the Self and its Endless Depths
render the divine messengers and prophets dust like everything else
as if said dust was not formed and placed with a care implying intentionality.
As if you yourself are not a prophet, nor is he or she,
nor can anyone be, not anymore.  That's just craziness!
Ay, compadre, I admire the polish of your doubts
and still wouldn't trade them for a single stone of my strewn cairns.

They beget distrust among, between and
then beat the drums of discordant hearts accumulating stress in the shoulders
as the weight of the absoluteness of His truth increases in proportion to the strength
of modern multi-cultural arguments against absoluteness in general;
verily: relativity and plurality of truths, or, if you prefer, the velocity of the Light is constant and the same no matter who or where you are, and, equally important, its white is potentially prismatic, especially at sunrise and sunset, which is as lovely from where I sit as from anywhere.

Whatever book you read, 'tis more a testimony than an argument, can't it be true?  That all behold and bother to testify seems a lovely little skeleton key, presently useless, it seems.  I wonder if there is a book shut away somewhere it might open.

Don't get so bummed learning that you are majority empty space, vacuum.
Don't come a'wantin to cut anyone down or dead on account of the emptiness you might feel, friend;
that emptiness is the space in which powers and forces fly and the wings of your angels,
by whatever name, soar with as much right and love as any others.

Heaven is built of seen and unseen deeds by real live beings.

Surely, the scent of blood will remind anyone of us of how animal we are
and the calm in dead eyes will arouse some intoxicant cocktail
of sympathy and thus goodness, rejoice and thus evil, filling that emptiness
with human feelings when what are needed are divine ones.

Even the scribe sighs as he dreams of eternal words above
his very own name,

thus he reclaims not, he protests so quietly as the whispering slices of his pen, carving, as he imagines, in Time, a deep tattoo on the breast of a Victory Goddess, not a wound, never a wound ...

but no two men perceive the very same, nor believe from the same heart,
though origin's shared.

Space-time is a trick of the eye, even the eye of the mind, so meditate on your Peace
my brother, my sister, Mother Earth holds you gently against Her and Her gentleness is a manner of
speaking so grow not so accustomed as to be numb to Her touch, deaf to Her ballad of love and faith and you can do it so here we go,

her language is so greater than our own
but even the simple mechanics of our carnal ears
can pick up on her acoustic falling waters, water on high, sun torn sky wearing a bolt of
lightning like a badge of my childhood courage

watching her through the window bathe the trees, yawn with such pleasure as to own
chew and render sublime the object of my attention, arousing my affection for both Life
and Dream, pardoning my foolishness like a dog who knows only forgiveness, return,

and shameless unconditional love.

Morning Meditations

Man is multi-dimensional:
Breakfast:
Belly Food
Brain Food
Soul Food

Nourish All Selves.

Word Play (Island):
My I (s) Land, I's Land,
island, surroundings
all exist in and of themselves
each also possesses a Nature.

I assume that the Nature of each
is in fact One Nature;
forgive my boldness, Skeptic.

True Story:
I wrote a poem yesterday traveling
in more than one place at once,
if you'll believe it --
forgive my fictions;
and if you know better don't call them lies
or untrue.  There is a difference between the three.

The Poem:

You will grow
to the heights
of your depths

and there will be Nothingness:

which is, incidentally, the only home
for your Infinite Being.

In other words, you can't stuff Infinity
into something else unless there is aboslutely
nothing there.

Learn to be the Light and the Shadow;
and the expanse inbetween is for you to grow
into a child with Love of All.

Know where you walk:
In the darkness, be Light of appropriate brightness,
in the Light, be the imitating, observant shadow
and study those lights around you.

Meditations on Education

Study the acquisition of Peace
as often as the acquisition of money
for Peace is the Truer path to Power.

Study the Physics and Architecture of Love
and house the whole of Humanity
in an edifice that will outlast
any man-made wonder of the world.

Infinity's Best Disguise

This is as much an argument as it is a poem. It is an argument against the Empiricists (if I may call them this. I don't know how they self-identify or even accept being categorized) who claim that due to humans' size in relation to the Whole Universe we are too insignificant for God to bother with us. This poem responds specifically to Tim Minchin's nine-minute poem, "Storm", and ideas presented by Brazilian philosopher Mario Sergio Cortella.

Infinity's best disguise
is a finite thing.

It is hidden on a beach
in a single grain
and on that grain
some thing much smaller
perhaps living. A bacteria or
fungus or something.

And the beach is lit
by a glowing thing
whose name has changed
with the ages,
Amen.

And the beach is
made of stars
scattered throughout
the Universe, and they
stick to the feet and ankles
of those who like to sit
and listen to the waves
or run in the ionized breath
of the sea.

I started with a metaphor, of course.
We are those living things
so insignificant because we are so small
and therefore much closer to Nothing
than to the Divine, isn't that right?

In the Great Scientific Portrait,
in the Context of Infinite Space-time,
it is so ignorant and backwards to assert
that God would bother with us
or even that there is a God
or whatever He is called.

Isn't that what the statistics say?

But wouldn't the language of Numbers
fail when attempting to speak of
what cannot be quantified? Of what is,
by defnition, unquantifiable?

We are arrogant dreamers
to think we might actually have a significant place
or a Father to listen to our prayers, or a Mother
who holds us close to her bossom to feed,
who carried us to these cosmic shores
and knew we would grow to be good.

If we were important to the Universe
we would be bigger, is that it?
We would be more, is that it?

I wonder about the thinkers who say this.
Where do they keep their secrets?
How would they protect their most precious things?
and, furthermore, what about said precious things
makes them precious at all?

Perhaps their Numbers can put a value
on Life or Love or their children. 
I would like to see that number.
Or maybe neither Life nor Love
really exist if numbers can't add them up.
Or maybe they're just chemicals
just like God is just ideas.

Infinity's best disguise,
is a finite thing.
Humble, and small,
it would have to be a fool
to think,

I
I am special, somehow.
I am loved and the Universe knows me,
watches me, wants me. I am the Universe
gazing upon itself, or,
I am the Universe's secret (and perhaps only)
admirer, and I think She knows it.

Goodnight

Whatever you do,
do not stroke my hair
lean near my ear
and whisper your affection for me
while I lay dying;
do not wait until I am gone
to acknowledge I was here.

Do not hug my corpse
like you never want me to go
or kiss me
as if your very kisses
might wake me to life again ...

don't do it later, don't do it then,
do it now --

again and again.
Then, when we are gone we have no regrets:

Passion was ours!
That eternal fire of myth,
we were there, dancing, weren't we, love?

Yes.  No love went to waste.
There is nothing that remains that might sour.

No tears -- not for me!

I was much too blessed,
much too free, much to loved
that my life should inspire pity,
where ever you surmise I am.

If you cry it is not for my loss of life
but for your own loss of love.

Cry far away from my grave,
someplace quiet.

I would like to take a walk, anyway,
transform into a breeze or some meaningful light --
an apparition if your sanity can bare it --
and see you see me

maybe then you will know,
for eternity I have and always will kiss you goodnight.