I sometimes wonder what God might think when he looks at me through my dogs' eyes. It seems to me that he enjoys me with one eye and waits, with the other, for a run by the river.
What earthly good does knowing do? When I think I am good at knowing, and there are times I do, it turns me into nothing but a talking book. Of what use has knowing been to me? I am nothing but cacophony, written and re-written in the echoes and re-echoes of those who talked before. Knowing has not served me well at all.
(PS Been doing a lot of reading recently – I need a detox)
And what of enlightenment? I asked. What do you make of that?
It’s a name bestowed on an ideal, future-self, by those who long for it.
So there’s no such thing? I asked. No one is ever enlightened?
I didn’t say that, he answered. There are some. Here and there. Maybe.
And how do we know them? Who can we believe? I asked.
The world seemed full of people claiming to be enlightened. Most of them had something to sell.
That’s simple, he smiled. By looking in the mirror and reading Proverbs 26:12. Let me know what you see.
That was all he said, so later, I fished out my bible, and did exactly that.
Do you see a man wise in his own eyes?
There is more hope for a fool than for him.
A voice came clearly: Listen! Tell me what it is, if you can, that knowing that knows that you are mad. Listen! And then tell me what you will choose to be: the knowing or the madman? And I heard the voice say to his friend: Watch! Tell me, which one you think he will choose? At least a madman is something to be. Watch! And then tell me, if you can, whether he will prefer that to the nakedness of knowing.
Here, at the very edge
of words, and the worlds
they weave, my old mind
is finally laid to rest.
Here, I no longer know
who it is that lives and
moves and has its being.
Here, my heart harvests
honey and feeds it to me,
until something like the
taste of Reverence happens.
How does one say the same thing about Nothing, again and again? Lay the first course of bricks from a corner-dream-stone, and on a strong foundation of fresh air? Paint seven pictures of the night in seventy times seven misty colours, and watch the morning sun consume them all? Put a story-capstone on an ever changing tide of nameless feelings labelled into thoughts, then fence a portion of that sea and call it Me? My plans point at me and laugh from the rubble they have left behind, and watch the smoke rise and dance from the end of my cigar.
This rising tide of silence murmurs life into my fault lines. She always finds her own way home in me, to flood the cellars. Here she takes her seat – she has always been the abbess of my abyss. She greets those hungry ghosts as long-lost friends as they fade into her waters. She is all that’s left of my ruins – she is the foundations and the pillars of this world.
Find a spot and sit in it. Repeat. Ask yourself who or what it is that doesn't want to be there and will always find better things to do. Repeat. Find a spot and sit in it.
How is it that when I dream I am the father, the source and the creator of worlds? Aren't I the one who also seems to love and fear in those same landscapes? As I sit the thought arises out of nowhere - a place I know but can not find. I am being dream-spun by the father, the source and the creator of these worlds.
I make and drink sloe gin
and walk my dogs, but only
when it's dry; when it rains
they turn back in and I watch
them wrestle on the furniture.
On hot weekends I think about
the beach and disappoint myself;
I'm not what I would like to be in
garden centres, retail parks, or
the musty darkness of a matinee.
Most days I avoid my friends;
I can’t say why. I sit a lot and think
too much. When words do come,
I'm hardly ever writing, at my desk,
by the window with the view.
I roll my own and smoke, a lot.
It’s something simple I can do
while I remind myself, again,
that I am slowly burning up inside;
It’s the proof that I am cooking.