| Everything Zen 12-11-01 Sitting out in the woods is fine for Zen Buddhists. They sit in the forest, waiting for trees to fall. Once the trees fall and make noise that the Buddhists do not hear, it leads to pondering. But what good are trees falling if no one is there to hear them? The Buddhists ultimately achieve nirvana, but have no one to share it with. Why does it take an extraordinary event like heavy wind, lightning, or human intervention to bring these trees back to the ground in which they were once born? The trees sit so high above spreading their branches out as feelers in the sky, searching for what? The Zen Buddhists sit on the ground below searching for the same. And when they find the answer, they cannot drop a leaf, or plant a seed to pass on their experience. They simply have to sit in the forest and exist, and the people on the outside are left to faith to answer whether the tree truly made a sound or not. stream of consciousness 1:48 am (or jean's worst nightmare) apple. jonathan apple, why do apples red instead of green m favorite color it is life everywhere stars and a black sky enormisity when i die i go and am a ball of light the tunnel never ends we just never see the darkness silver surfer breathing what would it be like to breath something other than oxygen chemistry pain love somehow all weirdly related maybe this is for a reason why is there reason in the world and patterns everywhere patterns and yet no creator or is there? i think not and yet there has to be something we are not the only thing and not the important thing i saw a movie once that was like this, only it was beyond me. i wonder when poet write do they [stop] e.e. cummings was he insane or did he just want people to have their minds turned upwards inside all around out and then when people came to him and asked why he did such things he would answer, "because." children. innocence, no going back. when i was younger the future seemed so simpler, and yet it still is simple at least goal wise (interruption) company. you get used to life without it and yet you yearn for it so badly. when i write you by the way i almost always mean me, except for when i write you and mean you as in society, or sometimes i will write you and mean you the reader. i wish i wish i wish.....wishing is futile right now because wishing only means that i am not out there trying to make my wishes come true. and i have to figure out which wishes i want to come true. and which wishes i have no control over and which wishes i want to being anew. this is not pretty nor is it easy. i am not sorry. these are my thoughts, i am sad now. i have emptied my head and now i am empty. 01-09-02 The Mountain God sat up on his mountain, pensive. To his right sat his trusty arrow, to his left the bracelet from his father. Those were the objects he chose to take with him at the beginning of time when he was banished to the box in which he now sat. The box was placed on a mountaintop where no man could reach. He was placed in the box as punishment for creating the Earth and Man. In fact on the seventh day, God did not rest as the Bible tells us. On the seventh day, God was put in a box and banished to the complete other side of the world from where human creation took place. When Greater God saw what God had done, it was the last straw. God�s teenage years were rebellious; he destroyed galaxies and opened up black holes with no regards for life. But Greater God never imagined that his son, God, would commit the ultimate faux pas: creating a species without the proper training or permission from the council members. And so Greater God knew what he had to do. Under the supervision of the courts, Greater God arranged for his only son to be banished to his created land with his futile creations. God would be able to send messages from the heavens, but he would not be able to use any of his powers in a careless way again. And so he sat. Watching the world from a video screen inside of his box, he saw all of the good and evil deeds that his subjects did. He cried and laughed with his subjects. But he could never go beyond the screen, and that brought a tear to his eye. Pretty soon he started crying on a nightly basis, and the box filled up with water. God realized if he cried any more, than he would drown himself. So he floated in his box on his ocean of sorrows. 01-29-02 Back from the Dead I stared at the pieces. The lay sideways on my desk and I was in disbelief. I wanted to run to every store and salvage myself, to be part of being, to hook myself up to the deluge of consumerism and let it fill me with it's diluted images and bloated ideals. But then I realized I could do this. After all it just was a bunch of pieces, coming from a place I do not know, and working together to connect my eyes to outside. Outside work is always first, you have to take off the cover and vary from black and white until the colors meld into an infinite grey. Once you rewire yourself however the insides do not always match your work. And so the lotto numbers that come up do not match and your 1 in billions chance has failed again. But despair does not set in just yet. Your mind works searching for every unexplored avenue to bring back the creature from the lagoon and make the world good again. Control. You remind yourself to have control. And the pieces fit together inside of your head. By playing the fiddle of chaos you find the sweet song of hope. And slowly the monstrosity comes together and it is whole. It works. But can I do it again? My method will last, the world will change, and I will learn not to mess with nature. Ode to Valentines Day As a plant grows out of the ground, it is exposed to the world around it. At first people look down upon it and gaze on its beauty and innocence. As it grows leaves and it�s first pedals start to bloom, the people notice this change and marvel at the process of a young flower becoming a beautiful rose. But along with the pedals and leaves come thorns, and an innocent person admiring this rose might get hurt. The person looks at their finger and sees blood, slowly trickling down their hand and wonders how such a thing so beautiful can hurt. When the rose is ripe, it is ruthlessly cut from its roots and either torn into parts for aesthetically pleasing items that last only a few days, or given as a sign of affection and left to sit in water until it�s beauty has wasted away. Next time you give a rose, do not be scared by the thorns, but remember that beauty and pain often go hand in hand. |