Words

The choir choirs most Sunday mornings
A song that sings a lament of another time.
Curious. Ominous. Wonder.
Awe sounding like it is singing about the awe of singing.

The sounds echo softly out from those stone walls
bouncing into my ear drums
banging this aging heart.
melting melancholy into words.

I think it could be Latin
Because I don’t understand a bloody word.
This chant. This hearing.
These shivers. This ache. I don’t understand a word.
Such relief, then, this loss of the need to understand a thing.

It's just a fucking choir, I can hear you say. Yeah. It is just a fucking choir.

Still I’ll always imagine that you turned back for a moment.
And in the reflection of that pane, I saw you look to see if I was looking to see.
I was looking baby. But our eyes only met as seeing.

Gone.
No Sunday. No choir. No church. No reflection. No you. No me.
Uncatchable this then, appearing as typing.
And still no one ever caught catching
Or will write about this here writing
And that is the song that cannot be sung.
This echo of love trying to catch an echo, as it echoes off into the sunset....
....as if it never was.
And it never was.

Still you are the love of my life.
Gone.

x

October 2020

What appears to be happening is reading this.

That sentence might appear to be a real sentence and it might feel like you just read it. It can be also sensed that all words have no realness. And that those words appearing to describe what is, cannot touch this inexplicable happening, this boundlessness nothingness, this empty edgy everythingness or this simple stunning happening that we have apparently called 'reading this'.

What appears to be happening is apparently then 'reading this'.

Beyond those words, a story might begin of perhaps of how you arrived to reading this and what you want out of reading this. Whatever story you have is unique and real to you. And this story led you to here.

To apparently reading this.

Perhaps you hope to stop seeking. Or to find liberation. Or to know unknowing. To attain enlightenment or be no-self. To arrive. To feel complete. To be at one. To get past the veil. To finally find what you are looking for.

And yet we never really know what it is, that we appear to be looking for.

If there was a communication here....... it would be saying that already you are swimming in what is, as what is, trying to figure out what, what is, is. That there isn't you and what is. Just what is. Not you and life. Just life. And whatever you do, and whatever you say, think feel, dream touch is what is. That you cannot escape what is and yet trying to escape or find what is, is what is......But there isn't a communication here. Nothing to add to the dusty trophy cabinet of knowings and beliefs.

You are apparently reading this. Reading this is apparently happening. Neither one of those are real. Neither one of those are unreal. Trying to define this is like trying to catch catching. For in unknowing, nothing is real or unreal.

This is the only love I can speak of. The love where even love dies. All ideas and dreams, goals and hopes collapse. All that is real and unreal just dissolve into what is as what is. The sense of you and others dissolve into what is as what is. The doubts, fears, longing, seeking dissolve into what is as what is. Nothing is denied. Just what is. No you and what is. Just what is.

And then not even, what is, is a real description for what is.

And what's left is....what appears to be happening. The story rebooting and collapsing in every breath. An unfolding. An impossible to describe happening appearing to be described. Every inch a rabbit hole. Every thought being that. Every feeling being fully that. Every sorrow, ache, joy, love, is this being fully that for no one. And what is it like?? It is like how it is. However that is.

Look baby. Look. Up there. No look. There... It's.. a bird...no sorry it's a plane........ No... It's a...it's...eh....... looking... Just looking darling. Already my darling it's over. Just plain old ordinary inexplicable looking.

What appears to be happening now is reading this. Apparently.

Wow.

Audio above is taken from two different meetings. The introductions. Sometimes I wonder what is it that is being attempted at being described. The same words appear. Really it's this. What is happening. The unknowability of what is. And the joy that this can't be described, known, held, contained, found, or bound by words. For this to be known, it would be entering the gates of hell. For the moment the knower gets to know the world it becomes stale. Been there, done that and wore the t-shirt. Who could imagine that the freshness is the unknowability. And yet this was always the case. This child like cluelessness. Still watch out for the hot sauce pan. Thankfully the knower or seeker or the me will never arrive at their own attempt to arrive. You will never touch your attempt to touch this. It's just happening. Seeking is just happening. Life is just happening. The danger with words is they suggest then that life can be known. This repeatedly points back to unknowing all the while words are being used. I have regular thoughts that I'll never write or speak again perhaps because of this paradox. Till suddenly here writing. Hahahah. Kinda funny really. Just words baby. Just thoughts.

Words bind the wordless into a thing called wordless. And bind the suggestion that the unknowability of ‘this’, ‘what is’, ‘life’ or ‘energy’ can be known as a thing called ‘unknowing’. Life unfolds and the words that are appearing now to describe what is, is what is, as that. Without the individual's story about "what is" not a lot can be said. This then is life, everything, nothing, energy appearing as writing/reading/editing..supping on a morning coffee, hearing bird song, sleepy early morning thoughts. The message is that you are not doing the reading nor hearing the bird song. There is just the sound of birds..Utterly uncatchable. "Wow" or "Oh fuck" or insert here "_________"..you wont be able to do the reaction..still reactions appear to happen........

Tension in the crowd….

"And the winning prize is"...... drum roll… tension increases….

"Though you cannot claim it”.... huh says crowd...

"But everyone get's it”... Yeah roars the crowd..

“Except it’s not an it” — Huh roars the crowd

"big or small..ignorant or wise..quiet or loud...evil or loving".... Yeah roars the crowd.

“And you didn’t even need to enter the competition” — what!!.. rumbles the crowd.

drum roll....oooo.... crowd waits....oooooo...more drum roll...ooooooo....ahhhhhhh....ooooo..

“And the winning prize is” ooooo — Come on.. shouts crowd. Tell us.

"are you ready..AND THE WINNING PRIZE

"what is appearing to happen, however that is"

Silence descends…….everyone looking at each other.

"That's stupid" rumbles one of the crowd. "Yeah. That's stupid" Crowds gets louder.. "Ur an idiot" roars some at the front. “Fucking cheat” Crowd goes crazy…

The anger continued for a while, not sure how long and then somebody turned around and noticed the sun coming down. Some parents realized that they had forgot to collect their kids and rushed off. Two people arrived late when everyone was leaving. One man said he couldn’t stop laughing. Few guys went for drinks afterwards. Furious they were. They didn't get home till very late. Their wives were so annoyed. Two thieves had a field day robbing wallets. Another woman couldn’t hear a word because the battery in her hearing aid went. She tried asking what the prize was but nobody would answer. Sarah would have loved for her father to have been there and wished she could have paid attention more. He would have loved the way the trees formed an archway into the venue. Those autumn colours. The loss. Nobody will look at her like her Dad did, she thought. John couldn’t remember where the hell he had put his car. David really couldn’t get over how Anna lied about where she was the other night. And still she expected him to come along to these stupid things. Charlotte stayed until everyone left and picked up the rubbish left behind..She was annoyed by how everyone always leaves a mess..... And I remember seeing you in the distance. Your eyes. That face that gives nothing away. You will never know how beautiful you are and how much I love you.

No one's light.

And yet light.

No one's grass that grows or leaves that blow
from no one's wind.

No one's life.

Free. Free already. Just life.

And darling those thoughts are no one's.

Just happening.

x

Outside is the flowy sound of traffic. Some creeks in the attic wall. Probably the sun warming up the room. It was cold this morning. Voices of my family in the distance.

A magpie is busy in the view ahead. I don't know her name. And she doesn't know mine. She doesn't know that I am writing about her.

And she doesn't know what knowing is or that she is a she or indeed a magpie. Still it seems a nest is being built.

Spring is here. The tree branches have that shiny clean look, like skin fresh from a cold shower. Ready again. Standing tall.

Reaching towards the wintery spring sun drinking her warmth.

All the love in the whole universe won't touch loving. All the words in the world won't touch writing.

And nothing can touch touching.

It's as what's happening darling. Writing. Reading. Sharing as if to dream we are apart.

Just this. Nothing else. Ordinary whatever is. No really.

Including the thought "yeah but". You cannot escape your own attempt to escape.

For that would be what is.

Call it love, energy or carrot cake.

It's our eternal song going nowhere. The song of nothing full to the brim of everything.

Love ya baby.

Freedom doesn’t have a name
Is not an idea of freedom
And doesn't have an opposite called enslavement.
Freedom is also imprisonment.
Bound as whatever is.
Contained and ordered
Chaotic & wild.
Or namelessly as what is. Boundless.

Not you and what is
Just what is.
No room for you.

Of what is, not much can be said. Or a thousand books can be filled
Trying to extract meaning from words
Is like looking at an apple through a window pane.

It will never get close to the chaos of jaws, and mouth and teeth and tongue ripping that shiny sphere apart, crushing it into sweet bitter water as it slides down your throat again and again and. Till there is just the apple butt.

"BUT I am here". You could read a bazillion how to books and you would never figure out how to come up with that "But" and yet that "But" is just happening. Just happening my love.

These are no one’s words
No one’s thoughts
No one’s grass
No one’s sky
No one’s leaves
No one’s light
What is belongs to no one. There is no one.

Just happening darling.

Any seeking is no one’s
And any recognition is no one’s
No one is saying there is no one.

Already though baby.
Sorry.
That’s the shit part and the most wonderful part really.
It’s already over.

Yes there is nothing to say.
But…
Yes includes that BUT…
Everything.

Butt but butt but
Butt...
but...
All of it.
Even the pip.

Love ya baby.

x

Words appearing.
Dancing using dancing to express dancing.
Sands falling using sands falling to express sands falling.
Water falling using water falling to express water falling
And words using words to express expressing.

This sings however it does as it does.
It’s this baby.
Whatever is appearing to happen
And this ‘whatever is appearing to happen’
is unfolding exactly as it does
An unfolding that is appearing as describing.
Not apart from.

And there is no unfolding.
Just words knitting what is into the most wondrous tapestry of endless story.
Words wording.

You cannot get to what is. And you cannot NOT get to what is.
That is all there is my darling.
And you cannot do what is or not do it.

There is no bridge to ‘what is’..
There is no you to fall away to get to 'what is.
No you already.
Just what is.

And yep there isn’t even ‘a’ what is.
just eh………

x

It’s always new. No reference or starting point.

Seems some words are familiar.
But the describing is always new.

How wonderful that a script does not need to be remembered or learned.

The writing of these words is as close to the description that I want to give. The writing of. Not what’s been written. Not the words.

And really then nothing is being said and all words collapse in their meaninglessness.

Let’s pretend though. Again. Cos you like that. Let’s try to catch catching.

This is not an historic experience that is referred to.

It’s not a memory. It’s memorying. Yes. It’s experiencing. Yes. And it’s not a thing that is present. It’s the presentness of what is.

This.

What is being talked about. Talking. What’s happening. This.

Inexplicable this.
Incomparable this.
Phenomenal this

And for clarity cos I know you love clarity..... it’s not a this.

Woohoo.

Inexplicable this appears as wanting to know and find this. Inexplicable this feels separate from this. Inexplicable this feels like it can return to this. And yet still it’s inexplicable this.

You are not doing the seeking. You won’t do the finding. Never lost baby. Never found.

It’s impossible though. Impossible. Impossible that the seeking is already it. Impossible for no one to recognise there is no one. It’s impossible and yet..look...look.. it’s..eh... looking baby.

This is like how it is. However that is, is.

If there was a you.
Perhaps there could be a you to fall away.
But already now.
It’s over.

No you seeking a no you. No you.

It’s that alone baby. We are that alone.

Your protestations to the contrary are the whole of everything fully being that.

No one.
No one BUT BUT BUTING.
No one seeking
No one nearly there

It’s that bad darling.

And no one will find out then that there is no one.

Darling. Darling.

There is no one.

Let’s paint the town red!!!

“This boundless happening”
Appears bound by words like
“This boundless happening”

Is life just happening?
Or are you doing it?

Breathing, hairs growing, blood cells flowing,
thinking, feeling, dreaming.
Wind, rain, stars, torture, pain, love
Anxiety. Frustration.
Sounds.
Just happening.

And the naming of them.
Just happening.
This “I aming"
Just happening.

This happening.
Calling it ‘life’ or ‘this’ or ‘just happening’
Does not make it such a thing.

This is unknowable.
Unknowable is also unknowable.
There is no truth including the words There is no truth.

There is no hanger baby for that sparkly new coat of yours.
The anchor won’t ever reach the ocean floor to keep that yacht of yours safe..
And you won’t ever find your own attempt to find.

No word can capture this freedom.
And yet this is freedom as words.
Binding freedom into a word called freedom.

It’s this. Nothing is denied.
Any recognition of this is also free
And appears to appear. No one doing anything. No one.

You do not know how to be a you or not to be a you.
You do not know how to seek or find.
Just happening.
Till suddenly ….neither seeking or finding.

You are as reading the words… ‘You are as reading the words’.
Just appearing though baby. Gone.

I remember when we melted into the sound of each other’s voice.
Just voice. Sounding. Sound. No word even.
Your eyes caught mine and we sank into seeing.
The stories stopped. All of them. Stopped dead.
Caput. Zero. And our eternal breath filled everything.
Breathing.

“I LOVE YOU”.
Just those words.
No one hearing them or no one writing them.
They are not been written by anyone for anyone.
And you are not reading them.
Just reading them.

Still, I LOVE YOU.

WOW.

This. What is. What is happening.
The phenomenality of something happening.
Does not have anyone doing it.
Just what is. Not 2. Already.

This. Is. Boundless. Timeless. And beyond words.
Presenting as everything that is appearing to happen.
Emptiness full as an apparent description.

This description requires no belief, education, practice or path.
Just describing appearing.
Not to anyone or for anyone.
It has no meaning or purpose.
It is it’s own appearance.

Like leaves leafing or grass grassing
Words wording appearing to describe describing.

The content is energetic
Whatever reaction to these words is just that.
No one is pulling the strings or doing reactions.
Just reactions.

There is no vagueness in these words.
They are not pointing to anything beyond their own appearance.
Call this oneness, noneness, wholeness or “...........“.
It’s simply Not anything. Nor an it.

This description is not intellectual or to do with understanding.
Seeking for this, is also this energy, appearing as that.

You cannot attain your own seeking. It’s what is.
You cannot attain your own absence. There is only absence.
Appearing however it does.

Empty & Full to the brim with what is.
However that is.

wow.

There is no one in the entire universe. It is totally empty. And yet full to the brim with whatever is. Nobody knows how to do flowers and yet flowers. No one growing the grass, the leaves or thinking the thoughts that they are thinking the thoughts. Nobody knows how to do the suffering and yet there is suffering. Nobody knows how to do joy and yet joy seemingly. Nobody knows how to do seeking and yet seeking happens. No one knows how to be someone. No one knows how to be no one. Nobody knows how to realize there is no one. There is no one. Nobody knows how to do life. And yet life appears to happen. Or at least that's what we call this.... The universe is totally empty and yet the look "The blue dunes of mars" apparently.

No one. Fucking hell. It's crazy kids. Hahahahha x

There is no one.

No one doing the sky. Growing the grass. Wagging the dog's tail.
Pumping the blood through those veins.
Feelings those feelings
Or thinking those thoughts.

Just happening.
Empty.
And full to be however it appears to be.
Including seeking for it.

This. What is. Is.
Whatever appears to be, seen, sought or thought.
Is what is.

There is no one

Run for the hills. Save yourself now. :)

Nothing happens

Not a thing that is nothing. Nothing baby.

and this wave of nothing that comes and takes you away doesn’t touch one hair on your head and yet you are utterly drowned swept away forever but left perfectly in place appearing exactly as whatever appears to be happening.

It's that nothing happens. If it was even the tiniest thing you'd want it back baby.

It's total love.

The invisible ferris wheel constantly turning Picking up no one. And dropping no one off. leaving you exactly as you are. whilst cradling every sorrow and every joy every thought, every feeling and every confusion. Nothing cradling everything. Including seeking for nothing.

There is no ferris wheel and you'll never have to get on it. You are already the sea appearing as looking for waves.

You are what is seeking what is. This. This baby. Seeking.

Not better or worse. WHAT IS. However that appears to be.

You won’t catch even a drop of nothing. NOTHING might catch you baby and then it's a free-fall ride on the invisible ferris wheel for no one. Hold on baby. You might even puke you'll be so disappointed. hahaha

And then all you might say is

Nothing happened Not a thing that is nothing. Nothing baby.

Our dear sweet nothing. x Woohoooo....

There is no self

No one growing the grass
Nothing making the leaves
No one thinking the thoughts

And no one will recognize that....

.....already there is no one.

Just the zaddabigaboombaaa of what is. However that is

and you don’t get
to get what is
cos
That’s all there is.

Wow.
look.
fishy.

To be lost in the dream of finding.

or for there to be nothing to say about anything. And still words seems to bubble up up up and out. not unlike a musician improvising these words are the sound of nothing being said. This is nothing being said. Dancing and delighting in their own rendition. Going places they have never gone before. and yet never departing from what they are.

If I say this is miraculous even if there is total frustration It's just frustration. And it's fucking miraclous. It's also nothing. Miraculous is not a judgement. Nor something attainable Or something special or something worth having. It's the sense of the unfathomable. And no you can't have it Baby..cos it's already as you wanting it. that's miraculous too. Keep on looking baby. Cos it's also the looking. And whatever you say is what you are saying.

This is not a website These are not words This has no meaning There is nothing on offer. This is nothing being offered. Here is nothing in a jug served. Drink. It will kill Your Thirst. And all that will be left is Thirst Just total in loveness with the colour of colour. Singing and dancing and playing and dreaming. Nothingining and everythingininigng. Fulling and emptying. It's the only song I seem to be able to sing now.

Fuck anyways. Thought I was gonna write a love song about you and me baby. This sentence is a description of nothing appearing to be described. Woohooo... Let's dance all night baby to the sound of sound.

This is ever fresh.

The ever freshness, is however this appears to be. It could feel stale and tired and old and that would be the ever freshness. Fancy that? Liberation, newness, freshness. These words might appear like things to acquire. Something to have. Something for me. This. What is. What appears to be happening. Cannot be had. Though is also the apparent attempt to have it. By saying it’s ever fresh makes it seem like something to have. So I’m sorry for that. I have thoughts about not saying a word till suddenly.... something that I appear to be writing is ‘ever fresh’. I’ll take it back if it’s a problem. Call it ‘ever coffee’. Cos it doesn’t feel like ever freshness. It feels like whatever feelings appear. Feelings slide into the soup of everything. And really no words are needed. Still my love I know you’d make something out of silence.

This recognition is the end of anything that can be recognised. The end of that sentence meaning anything. The relaxation into what is as what is. Just all falls away. Relief. All gone. And yet...coffee...woohoo. It’s right now pouring through as senses As whatever it is, however that is. And it’s not an it’s. Sorry baby. Incomparable everything. Unrecognisable nothing. That’s the killer really That it’s the seeking also. The nearly there. The had it and lost it. ALLLLLLLL of those. The very close. Who would prove to you darling that you were home. There is no other or you. Oooh ahhh Elastically perfectly as whatever is however that is. If you were doing the seeking my love you would surely be able to stop anytime you wanted.

The brakes don’t work. Just seems like they do. The only love really is to say that it’s already over. Already no one. No one seeking baby. So then no one left to find. Perhaps those words are the only true love. Love. Hard to believe that when loves dies that’s all that remains. Sorry did I say love. I meant to say coffee. Coffee is what remains.

Unrecognisable anything. Coffee. Love. love.

Love will do.

xxx

Increasingly I have nothing to say.
Limited ways to describe how nothing is gained.
I wonder sometimes am I describing the same thing.
And when I say thing I mean the phenomenon of something appearing to happen.

How crazy, amazing, quiet, loud, joyous, edgy scary it is.....
this inexplicable sense that somehow words are being written.
How the idea of before and after collapsed
In the most stunningly ordinary way.
How the loop or circle of a life just completed and then just is.
End of End. End of circles. Of life. Of control. Of well...
Every thing.

And somehow the impossibility that a recognition
of life happening in freefall appears with that.
This is not a free ticket. It's full on life.
The recognition is also freefalling.

The grass grows. The leaves leafing. The dog barks.
Human thinking, feeling, dreaming...
just happening.
Solar powered body of air, water and lordy knows what.
Just appearing to happen. And that is perhaps too many words.
When not a word catches catching.

How this freedom that I longed for was the very seeking of it.
Somehow.

It's the most useless thing.
It's without meaning.
It's nothing.
Who would gain?
What use would it be for a character playing out to somehow 'see' that.
That's the movie too. That's it's happening. The recognition is also another happening.
It's of zero use. Pointless.
And yet it seems to be incredible. And the urge to go ...hey...eh...look..is another happening... Looking...!!!

In some ways I'd love that there was something to give.
Just a thought.
I don't like giving disappointment as gifts.
A hug would be better.
But disappointment is the gift.
This gift in a way that keeps on giving. It's the most loving disappointment I can imagine.

You are already home in homelessness my darling. It's not life. it's appearing as.
This simplicity. This ordinary extraordinay. This this. Incomparable life. However it is.
that's already the case. Already over.

The enormity of life without a story.
Life is safer with our stories. This ain't safe.
Even the word life makes this appear like that that it is knowable.
I suppose I would love to be able to say that this ordinary freedom
of life as it is beyond compare.
But it is not for the faint hearted in a way.
You get whatever is happening. And you don't get to get it.
Just happening. Not even..... sdfbjksbfbksjbfkjbsfd might be better.
Including....

Today I'm hungover. La di dah. xx

P.S... eh I didnt really live up to the title....hahaha.. sure look...no idea what I am at...

Comment

Saw someone posting that suffering is self imposed.

Reply

If you happen to be seeking and you read that (Suffering is self imposed) you may believe that you are responsible then for 'your' suffering or that you are doing something wrong and not like others who haven't imposed said suffering and are free from suffering. You might believe that you can stand back from it, not get involved in it, distance yourself from it etc etc etc.

The only words that come out here are to that are. There is no one. You are not doing the suffering. You are not doing anything wrong or right. It's happening. Appears to be happening. There is no you doing anything. Already. No you that will realise this. Just what is. However that is. That is the only love and it sure as shit ain't my love. It's the love. Already the suffering is what is. What is freedom like. Like how it is. However that is. Till Suddenly. Boom. Suffering. Just as it is. Suffering without any story about imposition or self. Nothing is denied.

I long to write about this the most.
Lost utterly in this love that is the longing
to write about this.
Not about anything.
The writing .

Maybe that’s what is meant by
It’s the pointing not what is being pointed at.
But I loved the moon too much.
And the finger, the hand, the pointing and the attempt to say....
....that... It's all of those baby.

To write words that captures the very writing of them.
a painting that captures the painting of that painting
a song about singing about that song.
it would appear that is what I am writing about
Appears.

The wonder of writing appearing to happen.
and the inescapable intimacy of that.
It's not about anything.
It's a hug hugging a hug. Hugggingginging. An inloveness inlovingness with itself however it does.

No you cant see yourself darling but the attempt is you also. It's our intimacy.

I am a child again
ranting and raving.
It would appear that what I am writing about is something.
But it's just writing
This is a dull statement for the brain
Cos the brain has an explanation for writing
Appears to know this as writing.
Appears.

And still and all I prefer to have a coffee and dream
Imagine falling in love again and again
Dreaming of yachts and champagne and cigarettes
Wearing sun glasses with hidden eyes gorgeing upon delicate fingers and neck lines and lips and eyes and breasts and hair.
Drinking red warm wine. Picking on salty things.
Listening out for the coconut man. Long gone home.
His echo echoing.
The evening sun coming down. Blinding. Softly.
And my relentless appetite for appetite.
The merry go round of dreaming.

I am like my dog. Need a run about or I’ll go cuckoo. The lazy dog owner that I am.

Even with this freedom
There is constraint.
But that constraint is also this freedom.
And that's the killer.
But it’s all you ever wanted my
Love.

And I do not know what this empty vessel will do till he is, despite all thoughts to the contrary.
I am so joyously happy to be a soulless, godless, hopeless pile of everything that appears to happen.

No I don't look like it...hahahhaa.

It’s the freedom that well could only be described as ‘how it appears to be’
till suddenly.

What is this world. This crazy appearing to happen.
This unfolding like no other. This incomparable unrecognisable appearance.
This insane mad house of lurid deeds.

This. This world. This earth. This matrix. This. Whatever it is.
This that has no name that can touch this.

With all the sounds it makes. With all the feelings it creates.
With all the power it gives and takes.
With all the sorrow and all the joy.
With all the imagery and movement.
Birth and death and horror and wonder.

What am I in this.
This character woven into this.
Glued into it. With nails and webs and heart.
This.

With all its fury. With all it's woes.
This theatre of dreams and nightmares.
This rising rage
This weaving wrath.
This furious ocean..

Someone tell me what it is...

It's exactly what it appears to be.
The sound of the lament appearing to be written.
You my sweetness, however you appear to be.
Dancing in-between the sound of your own finger tips
Till suddenly....

"Nuala did you just call me for dinner or am I hearing things again?"

"Yess..lovely......Chilli. I am just finishing writing. I'll be down in five."

This. Whatever appears to be happening.
This immediacy.
Cuts through all ideas of being alive or having a life.
And yet.

Whatever reaction, feeling, emotion, thought, sound, sensation, smell, sight or taste seems to fill this immediacy.
Fills the eternal broken shard of being to the brim. For no one.

This is apparently being alive.
This knife edge experiencing
Full of everything.
Somehow tip toeing the tightrope of emptiness.

It can appear like a description of this happening.
Is happening.
Like describing the sea from the sea shore
Except there is only the sea.
No shore & no-one describing.
Nothing removed from the sea.
and in the end my love. No sea.
Just this.

A story-less life that is too immediate for any description but yet includes the description with the words 'storyless life'
Perhaps that’s as close as these words will get.

In loveness with what is
that has no room for a me to love what is..
Too already what is happening. Too late.
Already though. Already no one.

This cannot be shared, shown or held. Because what is looked for is looking. What is searched for is searching. What is longed for is longing. This. Exactly as it is. Whatever is happening is what is sought.

The worst joke ever. :) That it was the seeking you were seeking.

Ding Dong.
Answer the door baby.
It’s all that is and is not and it won’t go away.

The urge to want to catch ‘this’. Just for a moment. To bag it. Own it. Bring it home and eat it.

And yet the hunger darling....It never goes. Does it?

That insatiable sense of this never being enough always lingering. The background hum of that looped orchestral tune. 'what is happening is not what it should be.'

This sense of you that is apart, the spook in the wheel of everything, trying to bring it all to a grinding halt.

So as to finally stop. To arrive.

Then, there is a suggestion, that there is no you, now nor ever, doing that that feeling of apartness. No you seeking.

Only that sense arising. And Falling. In everything. For no one. More empty than yesterday’s dream for tomorrow and full to the brim of all that appears to be happening.

This 'you' that seeks to be at 'one' with 'everything' is everything being that. Already. You are not. Already this is nowhere. Already absent from our dance.

Already over my love. Every tiny inch.

No.. every inch. No I know. I know.

But it's all over.

Every movement. Every breath. Every sound.
Every longing
Every strut. Every BUT
Every tear. Every thought.
Every word spoken. And every one not.
All of it. Every tiny bit of ease & dis ease.
Every ache, sorrow, pain and joy.
Is this being this.

It's this. Whatever is

And that this is bullshit?

Yes. Because it is. Every word.

and on and on and on, we dance together.
the eternal dance.
Of never being able to dance apart.
and on and on and on, we dance apart.
the eternal dance.
Of never being able to dance together.

The dance of you and I.

Gotta say I am utterly bored of prescriptive advise. It’s the absolute opposite of love. It’s entrapment. ‘I’ can show ‘you’ the way. Can you please show everyone who is going to go beyond the words.. This. Is. Everything. Already. Total vulnerability. Total rawness. Total openness. It’s not an attainment, a shift or anything at all. It’s this. It’s fully alive. Not apart from the thoughts. The thoughts. Plus the feelings. The air. The leaves. The seeing. The heart beating. It’s full on what’s happening. The lock stock and two smoking separate barrels. And you cant get there. Cos already you are what is. It’s the words, the confusion, the inspiration, the boredom, the insights, the excitement, the desolation. Already you are home. Already safe in total safelessness. Already. This. This. Whatever is is what is sought. It’s you. However it is. and you can’t accept it. Or hold it or capture it. And if trying to capture is what’s happening, that is what is. No you doing anything. Already. Including the sense that you definitely are. x

I guess groups give the impression that there is something in common and shared.

Groups can also give the impression of consensus of opinion and also then its partner feeling out of the consensus. This. Does not need a consensus. Does not need approval or a group to gather and a vote for everyone to say yes we all agree this is it. This is ordinary this. There is nothing to agree upon. What is. Is what is. And what’s not. This. However this is.

Whilst the words appear the same some of the time, I have no idea what’s going on behind the words. Honestly not a word is true. Not a word is real. Nothing is real. That’s the killer. And the freedom.

Just hey look eh...eh.. this.

And yet watch out for the bus, that rash or the dog poo.

It also seems that certain voices resonate more. A little tickle perhaps or a awh yeah..lovely expression. But just that. Not that I agree. I have no idea how it is for apparent others. I hear voices and words somehow happening saying that they feel seperate or voices saying look it’s this. And there will be a reaction to either somehow sensing that whatever reaction happens appears and disappears.

This is not a free ticket. I can’t tell you how often I apparently screw up. Hahaha. Yeah. Probably annoying my wife sitting on the couch writing this and not making the dinner. Hahaha.

The word tree is not a tree anymore. It’s look oh...it’s.. a..oh yeah it’s a tree. But look...

My own hands seem to give as much a wow reaction as writing this or my wife sneezing beside me. It’s a gentle wow. And it’s not really a wow. Ah but it is. Isn’t. Is and isn’t. Holy fxxk maybe. Neither. Both. Woohoo.

This. Vulnerable. Wide openness. Cluelessnessing. Fully alive. This is incomparable. So call it anything you want. Unconditional potato. Unconditional cloud. Unconditional love.

Already home darling. Never left. The possibility of departure was the dream. Always cradled. Always held. This. x

It’s not that I regret anything I say
It’s just that it seems definitive has disappeared
And I can feel both sides
And i could care for one today
And another tomorrow
And neither really

Nothing matters
I mean everything matters
Nah nothing does
Ah everything does..

Even dog poo?
I mean except dog poo
Ah that’s ok too.

Nothing matters darling.
I mean everything matters darling.

Even the taxman Frank?

eh...sorry...I take it all back.
I hate the taxman.

No education, pointing, path, learning, intention, attention will get you to what is.

Unknowing Darling. Remember. Forget.
Where confusion is the same as clarity.

‘What is’
May be the miracle
That is unknowable.

The lack of any explanation
For ‘What is’
Can perhaps,
be the utter freedom
that is longed for.

Though it’s already the case.
In every doubt, belief or insight.
This edgy wow.
This groundless alive....

Ordinary inexplicable having a cup of coffee
Is as knife edge as a cliff's edge.

Already darling, here we always are
Floating in the forever after.
Together for never.
Remembering that remembering is a dream.
Not knowing what knowing is.
Bound as Boundless.
Home as homeless.

Till suddenly. This.
Not 'a this'
just is.
and is not.

Ordinary scratching an arm filled with thoughts.
inexplicable.
holy moly quacamole.

x

No advise. No words of wisdom. No pointers. Here. No certainty. No safety. No help. Here.

We are lost at sea darling.

No land. No boats. No lifebuoy rings. Here.

Nothing. Here.

Not even the sea. Here.

No here.

Wanna swim?

I just got up out of bed there The clothes dryer was on. It was too loud. Drives me Fucking nuts. But That this Happening Happens. Blows my brains More. I mean totally. Blown. It’s not ordinary It’s extraordinary And yet it’s the worst story ever I just turned off the stupid dryer And climbed back into bed.

That something is happening Appears to have a recognition In our dream. And that’s As Smooth as The wind and the rain. And your thoughts. And the Crunch of an apple

Look.

Look thoughts about how ordinary this stupid story is.

Who would want to wake up? No one baby. Already.

Hey: Look. Hands typing. Can’t believe You would read a word of this.

Ordinary this baby. Wait till The next bit.

Yesterday I stared at a fox for 20 seconds We both knew that I was the only one calling the other a name. He left. Think he was hungry. Apparently foxes Are clever. I just liked How he stood there and stared.

Woooo. Looks it’s a sky. Can’t believe it’s blue again. I wish cigarettes didn't cause cancer but I hate hospitals more. Maybe just a few now and again. They are lovely with conversation and beer.

You know it’s only us don’t you baby. Just us Darling. It’s Our fornever after

Us and that Fucking Taxman