Thursday, 27 February 2014

it's the beauty of what you recognize !


  1. This comment has been removed by the author.

    1. This comment has been removed by the author.

    2. clear as mud ! :o()............. : o)(

    3. would you delete this crap please, its polluting my blog !

      what's with you ?

      use your own words, not what comes through a sewer !

    4. you seem afraid to use your own reasoning process, perhaps because it leads to very strange places by the views/lights of normative reality !

      infinity says your wife, friends and family don't exist and "crowd mind/minds" are perverted and stupid ! :o(

    5. Are you a messenger of Infinity?

    6. zakaj, why are you into proxies?

      it's the capacity within yourself that matters ! :o)(

  2. What do you think of this story I wrote, Andrew?

    “The Truth in Hypocrisy”

    The end has come. Riots in the streets, children to feed. Stray cats and dogs abound. Lifelessness in the man’s eyes overcome by fear. In the middle of it all, looking around. Not even the poetry of the Greats can soothe the confusion of what was lost.

    Find myself outside the Zendo.

    Forgetting whether “I” have ever done Zazen or not, simply walking around the center just taking in the trees with melancholy. The voice in my head chatters in despair of what has come. Does my age, accumulated experience, or thoughts matter at this point? Trying to hear a poem to console me but only a morbid silence. Give up with the thinking and judgments of good and bad. The end of defining myself, of measuring myself, to the fiction that is no one.

    Without thought, automatically walk into the Zendo… Is it right to say “again” or whether I was ever here but now? Suddenly hearing the drones zoom above, knowing this may be the end, no one to speak to. Who am I to find myself here? People say they would do Zazen even to the last breath, but the echoes of my trembling joints are my only companions in here.

    Mind gone blank for a second, and a reformation of everything that was or will be.

    Legs crossed with nothing to say or think – sitting. There is no wall in front of ‘me’, there is no ‘me’ in relation to the wall, but everything paradoxically felt to have a “say”. There is no death but only a flowering End.

    Explosion of erect spine dismantled.

    A poem resounds signifying the end of Becoming:

    “From here to there,
    You sought -
    and fought -
    Amongst the background of issuing stillness.

    Lingering in the cascade of life,
    the facade of such stillness [0]
    unbounds to reveal itself []

    As a hand that lets go of the wilted flower.

    Glistening petals flying to the bright moon.”


    Poem by Emily Dickinson

    1. "As a hand that lets go of the wilted flower.

      Glistening petals flying to the bright moon"

      good lines !

  3. Here's also something I wrote about Zerkalo directed by Andrei Tarkovsky:

    let's say you're lying on bed and your memory resurfaces and you dream of all your loved ones, your regrets, and etc. You also get many people and their roles confused (since retrieval of memory is not perfect). You start getting sad and feeling remorseful, beating yourself over many events that have happened in your life ("he said this! she said that!", "why couldn't you have..."), and etc. Your dreams start overtaking you, but at the end you simultaneously accept and nullify yourself when you let go of the bird in your hand, and it flies to the wide expansive field. * summary of The Mirror's Ending

  4. you are reading viewing quality stuff like Emily Dickinson and "the mirror" and it's pulling you ahead !

    that's a good bit of writing !

    i'm going with view now that it's reading this quality stuff say compared with pap shit like suzuki and watts that is really the sole divider of those who make progress and those who don't and as far as I can see those who read quality are in the .00001% area ! :o()