This maintenance thing can get you down. No wonder some have tried to make a philosophy of the fatuous aspects of existence. Placing a thousand pieces of rice stained different colours in order to then go on and destroy it. Well at that point letting go is like bungy jumping. I can simply not see the logic, especially if your eyes fall out of their sockets.
I dunno Arjuna,, you musta really liked Krsna cos I sure as hell woudn’t have done it and their lies my tribulation. It never really was going to work if I couldn’t figure on the unmitigated surrender required. Incremental measure is what it is all about. And a lot of softening support along the way. But what if?…. what if ?…. what if? No tall dude standing in front of me reminding me of the shape of things. What if I got it wrong? Shit. What if I don’t get another crack at it for a while? Don’t talk to me about faith. Enough. Life has shown me none of it can be trusted so how could I trust the big one. He can’t trust me so I expect it will be mutual.
I should buy that the love goes beyond or as my mother calls it ‘unconditional’. Well seen a lot of that lately, eh? So if everything here is a reflection of there, then maybe the mirror needs a bit of cleaning because I really do not see definable unconditional love.
Each breath I breathe is a gesture and I should count myself lucky as the droplet is hanging off the leaf and the morning wind will blow it off soon enough. Still doesn’t count as unconditional to me. You breathe on condition that you die, thus ensuring you do it again and again and again. Sounds like a deal with the devil and I suppose that is the inference, but why would someone who loved you let that happen? If there was so much love why is there so much loss? Not getting any of it and I know I sound like a whining materialist but it wasn’t my intention. Can’t deny the reality of present plight. It doesn’t ever go away I just get distracted and if spiritual life is all about distraction then I need to be worried.
The support we gave to Dhami was conditional, conditional on his guaranteed death; the great result of our supportive love. I am not with you here and don’t tell me it is because I am too attached. I have given up plenty; it is not about being detached. It is about finding some sense in the act. What is the trade off? And that is the twilight, neither here nor there. No material light and no spiritual.
Must post note on fridge, willing to make deal with God or Devil. Whoever wants to deal first, the better hand? Haven’t figured on what it is that is my hearts true desire. Revelation withheld sadistically is a cruel plight. Then again it may be that I am so retarded as to be entirely unable to grasp the obvious, the nectar.
Instead I remain as a statue sentinel to my children
as a dream that was and should be
as yet to be identified
any place close by.
I never did experience more than a handful of moments that represented freedom. Those moments vaporized and left a mark, possibly immortal but why so few in such a long life.
In the mean time I pick to pieces what is left after the act of tasting something that apparently remains on offer still. I have run out of shillings? What is the currency? I am ‘not knowing’ these things. I should study a saintly character that may be in the know instead of Foucault who died of Aids. Dying of Aids denotes a proclivity for acts that only mad domesticated animals partake of.
We had a wallaby that would harass the woman during Japa, our legs in fact.
And then you get aides for your trouble.
And you might get TB for walking bare foot but I know for some being bare foot is more beastly than enacting the more rigorous acts associated with animal life. Hey don’t mistake my meaning; all acts are inclusive of the randomness of meaning.
Always-stepping side ways trying to reconcile myself with the thought that is all a product my own aversion. I own the aversion so I can possibly buy the confrontation. Vacancy is assumed waiting, to be inhabited, but what if the place, the space has no interval for you just now. What if the train just left and you are standing in the rain. Hey it is mostly always warm here so standing in the rain is fine and the trains are not air conditioned so you wont get cold when you do enter the cabin.
Remember that scene where neo is stuck on that platform. Can’t remember how that scene resolved itself. A guy at SCU did a PHD on it. The matrix that is. I think I could do that but I suppose I can not as I can’t damn well write the essay. If I remain lucid for more than a sentence at a time I could cut and paste and then send it in…
Purpose and pulp. I wish Orwell were here to give his commentary. The farm yard is a bit ineffectual now. What would be the allegory or metaphor now? Lounge room; politics of a modern day urban lounge inhabited by nuclear family. Where does the power lie? With the remote I recall. How cryptic is that? What reveals the light.? OH God that is painfully reminiscent of the Jesus thing.
See what they have done to words or is it just the sate of my heart after having been neglected and then subjected and finally found on the rubbish heap that is the end. Alone because the stench of the rotting carcass of life is unforgivably reminding all, that they too will partake of this feast of foreboding.
Back to Metaphor, Ahhh the tv, what is that. Another dimension. It represents dimension.
Couch, slouching curvature of the spine. Crippling. The windows reveal a garden that needs weeding or curtains always drawn. How do you live like that Bhuvana?
And the note at the end of the essay suggested the story depicted a relationship that was in a state of illness. Was that not warning enough? It died its own merciful death.
When will the keys be there for me even when I cannot see them? Wow, blind and still typing. That would be cool. Couldn’t upgrade then, brainpower too small to adjust.
Must eat now knowing this serves me if not you.
This is better than adolescence.
Clouds rumbling and they remind me of Eungella. Free of something there. Maybe it was closer to being engulfed by loss and that has its consolations. Here I am engulfed by possession. Ironically I have nothing here but I am being possessed, though unwilling.
If the self belongs to you as nothing else does why do I not feel wealthy? Maybe familiarity has brought contempt as is suggested of the material. Contempt is synonymous with the material.
Why do I have to keep that bloomin floor clean. It is the repetition that kills you.
I packed grapes as a young un once. Jesus I nearly died of boredom. When I seee the asian girls rolling cigarettes in Baraka I can see living death. What A shit I am so privlidged and always whining.
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