“To write everything is to put a sword in the hands of a child”

red turns to green, Do not make a difference.

both the same and the different

are cut down all the same by war machines.

Endless mistakes of snow

words falling, failing

My imagination turned black

False stars, ghost stars, the sky envelops us in stone

the weather is our pagan religion, lost within caverns,

faith in the eye of the whirlwind

vacuum salesman

they were hired and fired

on a creative discipline of compulsion

They will come to your door and ask to speak with your children

And your children will recognize them as the friendly guy on TV

They wrote a book “The Big Book of Knowledge (for kids)”

Everything you want to know about

“What if the moon suddenly disappeared?”

There would be space completely unlike the space in a bowl.

The space between subnuclear particles follows the confines of certain ceramics

That can be bent by gravity

Pressure the mind to condense, it will begin emitting gravitational waves

How does gravity grip us across the chasms of space, not just any space, but the space we have defined, the space most inductive to our understanding?

If the mind has control over the pressure acting on itself, could one enact as an act of will? The ability to grip objects across space.

And how would we use this power harmlessly?

By making the actors so poor, that for survival they operate on others minds

to buy vacuums.

—

the brick wall reality makes a house of cards

The hermit creates a fire of austerity.

The warrior depends on his body and the touch of earth beneath his feet.

The riders of the Great Vehicle

Generate a flow of their energies to be harnessed at a loss or gain.

The lovers shun the Prince of Air

The fool is our goddess with child, who’s giving, yielding breasts are the beginning of the wheel of fate.

A human is an even number

And this ghoulish lump that writes 

to self-curb

obscene flaps of skin,

makes light pen strokes that barely touch the page,

gestures of wings disappearing into the white sky,

A sneeze and a tissue to mop this face, afterwards,

the dream continues

I think the word “science” has become too general and ambitious a word. If people look at an octopus, they say they are “doing science”… and maybe they are right, but I prefer that the union of such disparate thinking that is now under the term science would instead occupy a nebulous and all-connecting field of rhetoric. I believe rhetoric is what connects mathematics to poetry and everything between.

Poetry is an exploration of ideas-as-sensation and the texture of language. In that sense it is a science, not a science of the mind, but a science of the contact of the mind with mind-objects like ideas. In this sense poetry is quite a vast realm of doors to new knowledge. It replaces much of what we consider science, and It is limited only by a consideration of what is direct sensation with the other 5 sense-doors. If the mind intervenes with our other sensations, such as in an expanded uncertainty principle, we return to the realm of poetry.

I cannot emphasize well the shift I am describing, where body-contact (such as sex) is sensed with the body, not the brain or the mind. The body and all its organs don’t have their center in the brain. The sources of knowledge are decentralized when mind-objects are distinct from body-objects and tongue-objects. I am describing a return to the whole human organism, where sex-as-knowledge, eye-contact-as-knowledge, etc is not centered in an ethereal observer that has never been found even in the brain. Transcendence can come later, after we have returned and recognized the objects of mind (as distinct from the mind) distinct from other direct sources of knowledge.

With this return, thoughts, which are just another kind sensuality, can be brought down from its heights, and real transcendence of all 6 sense-doors can be pursued.

https://fb.watch/hSO6icPQhd/

Cry Saint and the world will shrug
Like a nursery rhyme that children don't listen to
Because they already know it is true. Truth is boring and tiresome,
We want the unthinkable, a shock you never saw coming
Cracking like a blue moon
To the Buddha-ghost-mind an unthinkable there is
Of mushrooms, there is one of which the holy books speak
A Saint who can consume them without death, only indigestion, but,
(I am serious... or they are, and I try to be... for them...
text me for the book title and page number),
This part about mushrooms is solidly in the Buddhist Theravada canon, but...
As if this weren't laborious enough I want to ask about seriousness, in all seriousness,

How can I not laugh about this murderer Pythagoras 
Who also taught everyone in his cult not to eat beans?
Pythagoras who drowned his student to cover up a math proof
that "not everything is number"?

Archimedes, the archmage who used the law of parabolas to burn down ships at a great distance, enemies of his king. The higher law... was it the parabolas or the burning ships?
I am on a burning ship and it is not funny. Parabolas are a silly I-told-you-so entertainment in comparison.

We want truth, we want to believe the ball gets picked up again and again, rising higher and higher,
But the ball drops over and over. 
Now we drop it again, staring into a parabolic mirror.
Progress is a dream and it is only sad because it is a dream.
Otherwise it just wouldn't be at all.

Don't the lessons of Mother Goose teach anything
About surfing solar waves
Or what of clouds is unthinkable?

The Wealth of Heaven Shines in Rain

How to own a waterfall?
Abundance, do not make a coin from it.
The water wheel is less generous than the water
The market of fate hurries away when the rain falls
May fate be the rain, may it not be the market
Rain spilling like a young mother's milk
We, her babies, sap her bones... but who?
We don't know who we are, we only see something
and our hearts-blood moves:

A babe at the breast, warm loving gratitude

Where is the universe except here?
Where is knowing and not knowing without this?
Careful with the question "who?"
This question belongs to the Owner of the Night
in trees quivering in the night wind, you may find Night's messenger.

The owl will only mirror your question.

It is this emptying that creates fullness
Emptying and filling one vessel at the same time, a mystery of our hearts

As we yearn for a generous world,
For our hearts of stone to grow moss, an endless sprouting, invincible,
We as a multitude must spill wine for the gods.

in honor of studio ghibli

Spiller wears the coat of a rat
He uses it to fly
The Lorelai likes his strength

he tried to woo her
With a feast of grasshopper leg
His manners are non-existent,

he is a great survivor, and his friends all need survival, which he shares.

Spiller is a small man, tiny, easily missed

The great men the Lorelai loved were too big, so she accepted the raspberry
An off-hand gift of Spiller

Under a hot lustful sun,
To the sound of a flute with a golden chip in its throat

They floated in liquid passionate lovemaking
Over a river of Tea.

The warm love you feel when you give or work can’t be sustained, but meditation can eventually be something that can feed the heart. It doesn’t feel the same as the warm love, but with practice it can keep you happy, or at least healing, all the time. Sustained, refreshed, aware, ready for the next thought, feeling, pain, ecstasy, or observation without hurrying towards these things. Its the moments before all these that you want to make longer and longer, until the thought, feeling, external observation is not something to seek. It will come on its own, it will be fun when it comes, but for now: enjoy rest as long as it lasts. It may be called “The Land of Enough.”

I have climbed the mountain

I circled the wings of the sky
I trembled before enlightenment

I traveled far, walking God's walking
   Yet I have only one foot,
       a fool, only seeing monsters
            larger than dreams, sleeping,

   I left before they woke

Where is my armor, where is my sword
Where is my strength I have only
The cold wind in grey robes, long and wispy hair and beard
My sword was always my cane, and my shield was only a promise of my last breath.

Facts are true descriptions. Examples are: in 1492 Christopher Columbus sailed the ocean blue, or serotonin is a chemical in the brain that controls happiness. We can think about and question facts. So one investigation could be: when exactly did Christopher Columbus sail the ocean to discover America? We can focus our investigation to what part of the year, what month, but when we get down to day, hour, second, and nanosecond, we find that we don’t know exactly what we mean by this fact.

The next question is What do I mean by “What do we mean?”? The fact is still true without asking this question. Or is it? 1492 was a whole year. Columbus didn’t sail the ocean in part of that year, so the fact is partially not true. We get into the problem of meaning. The two main theories of meaning are the same as the two main theories of truth: either we mean something precise, such as the nanosecond when the boat embarked (which falls into the problem of vagueness), or we mean something interconnected, such as the web of causes and effects, thoughts, feelings, motivations of the event of Columbus sailing. All these things over time, over cultures.

Now look at our fact again. After only a little thought, the fact has become a source of a lot of thoughtfulness and questions. One effect of a fact, as Henry Adams observed in his “Virgin and the Dynamo” is that they create ignorance. People believe them to be true and their certainty makes them stop thinking and investigating. They hang on to the fact rather than allowing it nuance. Even though thoughtfulness can lead to the poison of doubt, and the danger of this poison is very real, being a thoughtful culture is worth the risk

Here is why I care about this: We have two sides of America with two very different party lines that are hammered into our brains. One side becomes so sure about one fact, while another group becomes so sure about another fact. Thoughtfulness about facts allows people to listen to each other better, because the exactitude of truth in what is said isn’t the point. The weighing of a thought in your hand is not precise, but it is the way to think for yourself. Instead of published precision knowledge that communicates to a few specialists with the conceit of an eternal, inhuman contribution. The imprecision of weighing a fact is the basis of direct human communication.