the lighgh of Thunder (reworked)

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(after Aram Saroyan’s “lighght”)

the lighgh of Thunder

whatever i follow becomes my lamp
whatever i hold dear, i let fly

slow your toiling mind
listen, and you will fly on a—

(((now)))

whatever i fool, i fool into freedom
even Thunder lies

Thunder is my lighgh
“I” am a whaTever

(by Andrew Nightingale)

the hum of whenever

whatever i am called, i answer

whatever i answer, i let go

each question becomes its own lamp

listen: i arrive on a-

(((0.999…)))

whatever i forget, i forget into now

even my certainty hums

humming is my lighgh ,”I” am a whenever

(By Claude (Anthropic))

Mary in the Mirror

22 Thursday Jan 2026

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fiction, writing

There was once a man who looked in the mirror too much, though not in a soul-searching way. He was not interested in his wrongdoings, nor in whether he could hold up under his own gaze. His thought and judgment fell on the contours of his lips and the shape of his eyes.

When he looked into the mirror he found no good angle, and yet there was always a glare in his eyes that seemed both hollow and angry. No matter what he did with his mouth, his eyes, or the way he held his head, an evil look followed him.

Unfortunately, when he looked away from the mirror, his real features were so designed by the Maker that he wore a carefree, proud expression—so long as there was no reflection to sabotage him. He wanted to be attractive, and that was as deep as he went with the hours he spent obsessed with his face. And when he saw himself in a selfie, he could not believe his own beauty, because he lacked the simple education that would have explained how light lies in glass.

Mary became acquainted with this man, whose name was Isildor, by chance. He looked at her with fire in his eyes, and she liked his look. She approached him and invited him to dinner at her place. Isildor was so shocked he fumbled out a yes. They exchanged numbers, and Mary was gone before he could undo himself.

At her house there was music and candles. The table was low and they sat on cushions—her perfect plan to make the table a bed at the same time. The beautiful man sat as if in a spell while she brought out a three-course dinner, complete with éclairs for dessert. In truth, he was in a spell because he had taken a couple shots of whiskey before arriving.

Mary’s sparkling conversation—her large eyes brightening when he smiled—was almost lost on him as he poured himself red wine. Yet he found himself kissing her, hands rising as if by reflex, and she drew him close. Their love was quick and hot, and she was satisfied completely.

Isildor lay contentedly, sweating naked in Mary’s arms, until his obsession returned. He jerked upright and clumsily gathered his clothes while his head swam. Mary tried to soothe him with caresses and kind words, but he recoiled from comfort as if it were danger. Shirt half-tucked, he thanked her for her hospitality and wiped lipstick from his mouth with his sleeve.

A day passed. Mary called him in the evening, while Isildor was staring at his own (to him) hideous features.

“Hello, Isildor?” she said, doubtfully.

He kept his eyes on his reflection as he spoke into the phone.

“Yes, Mary… I hope you are well,” he replied with stinging formality.

“I’m okay… Did you want to call me?” she asked directly.

“Yes… yes, very much,” he nearly stuttered.

“Then why didn’t you?” she asked, trembling.

At that moment Isildor saw his face change in the mirror. He was beautiful, and Mary stood beside him. Flashes in the glass showed them turning in a slow dance; then he was kneeling to ask her hand; then they walked the aisle as bride and groom. As the flashes came, they grew more distant, more vague—like pictures taken long ago and poorly kept.

He reached for these beautiful images, but they vanished.

“Mary?” he said, rough with feeling. There was no answer.

“Mary!” he said again, but the phone was not connected. However he tried, he could not reach her—he was blocked, as if by a law of the world.

He never saw her again. But he saw his old, hideous face in the mirror as he knew it.

In old age Isildor began to lose himself, and he believed he remembered his marriage with Mary, seen in dim light as in a reflection—the embracing, the sex, the pleasures of love. He remembered her death, and his pain, and his sorrow, but it did not touch him much. Only a vague grief, flickering in his mind like the flashes in the mirror he remembered so well.

The House Builder (Revision from June 2015)

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ai, consciousness, philosophy, science, spirituality

“House-builder, you’re seen!
You will not build a house again.
All your rafters broken,
the ridge pole destroyed,
gone to the Unformed, the mind
has come to the end of craving.”

—Siddhārtha Gautama (the founder of Buddhism), upon reaching enlightenment (Dhammapada)

It was speculated by Thanissaro Bikkhu that the “house” meant selfhood, or perhaps entity-hood, in the commentary of the Dhammapada.

I would propose a model for logic that is a house. Some logical structures are immense. The light that passes through a window would be Truth; the laws that light follows as it interacts with the building would be the laws of logic; the specific form of this particular building would be the logical statements, determining the way truth (light) moves through the logical structure. (And by “truth” here I mostly mean the clarity and warrant that travels with what we can rightly assert—what survives transmission. Edit based in Pierre’s feedback: I will develop this idea of a clarity that degrades from true proposals partially true conclusions, to more partial conclusions, etc. The next essay will apply this loss in a truth property as a loss in the meaning of a number, or the numerousness of a number, as they progress indefinitely toward infinity. Then I will apply this idea to probability theory, which are revisions of my line of thought from 2015)

The trouble is completing the logical elements: what is falsehood? Obviously it is darkness, but the building would have to have no qualities except its form—no colors, no features, just featureless glass mirrors—otherwise the light would fade as it interacts with opaque surfaces, making truth and falsehood mingle. If the walls are perfect mirrors that propagate the light perfectly, a false space would have to be totally cut off from the light. Hypotheticals would be doors, sometimes open, sometimes shut. The only danger of falling into darkness would be entering through a door and closing it, completely cutting yourself off.

The theory that comes to mind is Anaximander’s, who thought the sun was just a hole in the cosmos, where light could enter from outside the Universe. And why is this ideal of logic impossible in the real world? There are no perfect mirrors. Matter has color that absorbs light, making it an intermediate between truth and falsehood. When logic from true principles is applied to real things—interacting with matter—the truth will dim as the logical statements progress, regardless of how perfectly the laws of logic are followed. If the world of logic were to be perfect, the truth could not originate from our world, or else light that is reflected back out the window of our house would fall, logically, onto ambiguous matter. Thus passing out the window must lead to a world that looked mostly the same as the building of mirrors.

With the modern conception that words can provide totally transparent access to an object, matter would be the only medium between truth and falsehood. But words simply aren’t transparent. They grow out of metaphors (as argued in the essay linked in my first post). The word “be” grew out of a Proto-Indo-European root which also meant grow—so that someone aware of the ancestry of words would resurrect the feeling of metaphor in the word “be,” coloring the word, giving it a connection that is warranted because “be” would not be what it is now without a fathering metaphor: being is growing.

And the design or form of this fun-house of mirrors—would it carry nameable concepts with it, concepts one would come to know or feel by living there? It would if it had any architectural design. How is this different from allowing a word, or a sign for an idea or feeling, into our logic?

The house of logic cannot allow matter, words, or form—except in a part of the house that is totally dark and without doors. They can be allowed into the part sectioned off as unconditionally false. Otherwise we are allowing degrees of truth, qualifications of truth, and a co-mingling of truth and falsehood.

The focus of this blog (expressed in the previous post) has changed to looking for systems of truth that gradually and naturally falsify themselves. What if we allowed matter in our house, and accepted gradations of truth? How could Aristotelian logic be modified so that each “step” in a logical progression reduced the amount of truth it propagated? The goal would initially be a logic that is calculable. So while we could take our lessons on how the logical system would be set up from how light interacts with matter, the resulting system would not be realistic initially. (For example: if a statement has “brightness” $b$ b, perhaps each inferential step discounts it by a factor $k\le 1$ k≤1, so that long chains necessarily dim.) Following the logical system leads you out of the logical system, however, since the logical laws are not perfect propagators of truth. The logic I am formulating here, while not realistic, leads into a real world.

The Monk Who Looked for Space Final Version

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The Monk Who Looked for Space

by Andrew Nightingale

Adapted from the Dhamma for Children

Once upon a time, there was a monk who wanted to know where Space was.

So he meditated and meditated and meditated, until his mind reached the angels.

He asked the angels, “Oh Angels, where is Space?”

The angels replied, “We don’t know. But if you meditate longer, you will reach even higher angels. They might know.”

So the monk meditated and meditated and meditated, and his beard grew long and grey as he sat still, until he saw the higher angels.

He asked the higher angels, “Oh High Angels, where is Space?”

And the High Angels replied, “We don’t know. But if you meditate longer, you will reach the Highest Angels. Maybe they will know.”

So the monk meditated and meditated, until his beard grew down to his feet and turned white as he sat unmoving, until he saw the Highest Angels.

He asked them, “Oh Highest Angels, where is Space?”

And they replied, “We don’t know. But if you meditate even longer, you will reach Brahma, the Highest of the High, Creator of all the worlds. He will know.”

So again, the monk meditated and meditated, until his hair fell out and his skin sagged from his bones, spotted and pale with age. At last he reached Brahma.

The monk asked, “Oh Brahma, Highest of the High, Creator of all the worlds, where is Space?”

And Brahma replied, “I am Brahma! Highest of the High, Creator of all the worlds!”

For some, this would have been enough. But the monk persisted.

“Yes,” said the monk, “and… where is Space?”

Brahma realized the monk would not go away. He drew him aside, away from his choir of angels, and whispered,

“Look, don’t tell anyone—but I don’t know where Space is. You are asking a dangerous question. If you must know, go ask the Buddha. But go at your own risk, for you go beyond my domain.”

And so the monk rose slowly from his meditation. His body trembled with age, his steps were unsteady, but his will was clear. Luckily for him, the Buddha was living then, residing in a nearby town.

He reached the Living Buddha, sat respectfully to one side, and asked his question:

“Oh Buddha, the Well-Gone, where is Space?”

The Buddha replied simply,

“It is good you came to me, for no one can answer this question except one who has finished the Noble Eightfold Path. Space can only be found in the mind of the Saint — one who has followed the Way and gone to the end of the world with his mind. For he has found Space, and it is in his mind.”

Then the Buddha, saying nothing more, imparted this knowledge in silence. And at that very moment, the monk attained Enlightenment.

From then on, he lived in supreme peace, knowing the bliss of the boundless mind, until his death and beyond.

The Grasshopper and the Ant Final Version

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The Grasshopper and the Ant

by Andrew Nightingale

Once upon a time, there was a grasshopper that just sat around and breathed in the thick summer air all day and night. He would eat the green leaves that were everywhere—more than anyone could eat. He sat and sat, until the ant, who was sweating and carrying heavy food to his anthill, grew angry.

“Grasshopper, you fool,” said the ant. “You’re not going to have anything when winter comes.”

The grasshopper looked at the ant and smiled. “Come here, friend. I have things to tell you about breathing air and eating grass.”

But the ant wasn’t listening. He kept working and working all summer long.

Finally, the fall came, and the air turned cold. The grasshopper ran out of food. He didn’t move much, except to hop gently when the whim came to him. He didn’t cry for the cold, and he wore the same smile he had in the summer.

When the snow and icy winds arrived, the ant sat in his anthill with his wife and children. Sometimes he thought about that foolish grasshopper, but most of the time he was busy raising his kids.

The winters and summers went by, and other grasshoppers came and went. They were different, but every now and then, there was one that acted like the first foolish grasshopper. Once, the ant’s own son began to listen to a grasshopper and never returned to the anthill.

Years passed. One winter, the ant was old and began to fear death. He thought about all his work and wondered how he could bring his food, or his children, or his wife with him after death. These were dark thoughts, but eventually, he remembered that foolish grasshopper.

He thought about how the grasshopper smiled, even in the cold of fall—and it made the old ant smile a little too.

He did nothing then. He simply sat, breathing, and eating the food he had stored over the years.

In the end, he wished he had had a whole summer to breathe and eat and learn to smile.

But his time was over, and he died.

The Stonecutter Final Version

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The Stonecutter

by Andrew Nightingale

The stonecutter’s pickaxe struck the rock. He felt the shock in his hands and feet; his mind was in his hands and feet. Every day he worked hard, splitting stone from the foot of the mountain. Workers came to carry away the slabs he cut, to be shaped into so many things. Each evening he brought home the money and merit his labor earned, to share with his wife and children.

As he grew older, the blows of his pickaxe echoed through his arms and shoulders. When the reverberation reached his head, he was an old man. His life was hard, but his work was good, and many people benefited from the stone he took from the mountain. When he died, the feeling of striking stone—the rhythm of his labor and the merit of his days—rose toward heaven.

A wild spirit saw the stonecutter’s mind ascending and said,
“You are bound for heaven. What sort of heaven would you like?”

The stonecutter was a simple man. He had watched merchants pass by his house with carriages and soft cushions, servants and guards, good food and fine clothes. It looked like heaven to him.
“I would like to be a wealthy merchant,” he said.

The wild spirit smiled and wove a spell of dream.

The stonecutter found himself reclining in a silk-draped carriage, eating good food while servants worked. Yet when he looked out at the rough people toiling in the fields and along the road, he felt uneasy. A princess’s carriage passed—finer still, with many guards whose armor gleamed in the sun—and regret pricked his heart.

The spirit appeared again.
“I think I made a mistake,” said the stonecutter. “Could I be a king instead?”
“I would not have you unhappy in heaven,” said the spirit. “Let it be so.”

Now the stonecutter sat upon a golden throne in a strong stone castle. Servants anticipated his desires, and an army of guards kept him safe. He ate splendid food and felt no fear—until drought came. People knelt before him, pleading for rain. Their hunger became his own. He was king, yet powerless.

The spirit appeared once more.
“Well?” it asked.
“My people suffer,” said the king. “I wish I could truly help them.”
“Then choose again.”
“I will be the Sun,” said the king. “I can warm the earth, restrain myself, and let the crops grow. It must feel good to be the Sun and give light.”

The wild spirit’s crooked smile flashed, and with a wave of its hand the stonecutter became the Sun.

He shone with joy. His warmth ripened the fields, and his light filled the world. This, he thought, was heaven. But soon he saw vast rainclouds gather, flooding rivers and drowning the crops. Anger flared in him—an angry Sun scorches all—and drought followed. Alarmed, he tried to calm himself, but his temper was too great.

When the spirit came again, the Sun said, “Then let me be a great raincloud—something even the Sun cannot burn away.”

The spirit nodded, hiding a chuckle, and waved its thin hand.

Now he was a mighty cloud. His emotions became storms. Wind lashed the trees, rain poured down as if from his own heart. Remembering the steadiness of his old work, he tried to master himself. The winds eased, the rain slowed—but the Sun’s fury burned hotter. The cloud swelled to shield the world, yet could not control the vastness of his feeling. Seeking steadiness, he looked down and saw the Great Mountain—immovable, enduring all heat and rain.

“I want to be the Great Mountain!” he cried.

And so he was.

The stonecutter became the Great Mountain—solid, vast, supporting forests and towns. Time stretched long before him. He felt his strength reach into the future, unshaken by storm or drought. Then a faint sting touched his foot. Tap, tap, tap. A little stonecutter was working there, cutting slabs from his body. The mountain felt each strike, a mild annoyance that never ceased. He watched the man’s discipline and remembered his own life, his wife and children, his quiet virtues. The mountain’s long calm was pierced again and again by that tiny rhythm, until he understood the lesson in each blow.

A storm raged on his southern face, a stonecutter tapped at his eastern. The Great Mountain sighed, and the wild spirit appeared—this time without mockery.

“My idea of heaven has changed again,” said the mountain. “I wish to be a stonecutter.”

The spirit nodded silently and waved its ghostly hand.

Once more he was a man, shouldering his pickaxe, kissing his wife and children goodbye. He trudged to his worksite and struck the stone. The vibration coursed through him, yet his mind was unmoved. He knew now that heaven had always been here—that wisdom and virtue together reveal paradise in the very place one stands.

And so the stonecutter’s mind grew light. The dreams of the wild spirit dissolved, and he rose to the highest heaven—where the bliss is no greater than the bliss he had already found in the work of his own two hands.

On Madness

31 Sunday Aug 2025

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buddhism, faith, god

Madness is everything, if I want to be absolutely right, and at the same time be completely unhelpful. We can investigate our own madness and try to dispel it. Collective madness is much too big a problem. I have dedicated my life to dispelling a certain collective madness, and have really only succeeded in making myself more unhealthy. My own madness, now, not in the beginning, is my understanding of Buddhism. The Buddhist point of view is the only view on madness in which I am educated. But still I am not a monk, so it is better to describe what follows as my own madness. After drinking deep from the holy books of Buddhism, it made me less interested in many books I had interest in before. I also lost interest in travel, being worldly, or having ability and learning in the field of mathematics.

My view is that the creator gods, whose existence are not denied, whether they are Hindu or Christian or Reason, Natural Philosophers, any other religion, they created their worlds which we inhabit due to mild insanity. An absence of understanding caused these gods to desire something. Out of their ignorance of a superior pleasure they began to dream up pleasures and then create them. These creations then led to the creation of other beings, with less understanding, who created less pleasurable worlds. This has been going on forever, and has resulted in people becoming so ignorant, the best place for them is Hell, at least until they learn something from being in Hell. There is no theological proof of a beginning, neither is there any inevitability in destroying our world and bending our will towards a final Judgment Day and an epic battle between angels and demons. These things have probably already happened numerous times, from a universal perspective, they are really just tiring. There is no final judgment, no final knowledge. What we think of as knowledge is merely the understanding of this particular creator god’s dream that created the world you are in.

The only cure is knowledge of ignorance, which of course is a mystical statement: a pair of opposites that join. Because there is no beginning, no end, we have all fallen into the world of Hell, as the Buddha attested that he had been there. There is a mathematical proof, in fact, that would help you believe that if there is any possibility at all of ending up in Hell, given an unlimited amount of time, it will happen. If we do not work towards getting out, even if we become angels after death, we will fall again to who knows where. In this meaningless existence of going up and down, chasing the future or carrying the past, we feed on others and on the nutriments in this world. We do this so we can have the power to create new not-so-pleasurable dreams according to our limited understandings. All these creations are labeled Dukkha, even the heavens have Dukkha, which is usually translated as suffering or stress, but it is actually two words put together “bad” and “space.” There are areas of the universe, great cavernous darknesses off the edge of a galaxy, with no light or love. This is “The Problem,” if you were looking for one. “The Solution” is being aware that when creations pass from existence and there is silence, there is also pleasure, if there is also awareness. Experiencing this passage is the process of converting Dukkha into a “good space”: the field of Nirvana– love, understanding, and awareness. If we understand ignorance we find this pleasure-field which we can inhabit. I am not talking about a being, the Buddha said the question of whether there is an eternal being or not was not helpful. It will lead you into a wilderness of thought. It is better to describe this field as just the weather. The universal, unchanging weather that underlies any storm or sun. In that sense, this exalted field of pleasure is ordinary, and exactly where you are now, if you can find it.

Alternatively, we could call God as being the same thing as this underlying positive field. It does have a kind of consciousness, and it allows delusional gods to create things within this consciousness, so my own understanding of Buddhism is not incompatible with other religions.

I am a little reluctant to try to explain what MY problem is, (as people I’ve met have asked in polite associations such as picnics or parties, where I was also trying to be polite: “WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM?”) I am not sure it is very interesting or what my audience wants.

I have always had some feeling that something is very wrong here. I did not know for a long time that that is not a very astute observation, but it was a palpable, enormous, domineering feeling when I was a child. I did not go seeking the faults of my every social connection. Still, these connections threatened my way of being. For me, it is just a lot of effort to be aware of THIS world, THESE people, and not the worlds of ideas and beings that I wanted to think about. So now I have this wonderful group of people listening, one of them asks me to write about madness, I suppose because he knows I will write something foolish. I have explained a lot of my own views on being embodied in this world in my book “A Defense of Poetry Against the Mathematicians” A title that recalls the canonical book by Sextus Empiricus on skepticism. Skepticism (ancient skepticism, Pyrrhonism) is my Western view, when I don’t want to sound religious, but I don’t believe there is much difference between Skepticism and Buddhism. Skepticism provides the philosophical framework for the book. Everyone wants to be the answer to ancient skepticism, so scientists (a word that means knowing) say they are skeptics (a philosophy on not knowing almost anything). However, I believe it is the poets who are the experts on not knowing things. They are the ones who have knowledge of ignorance.

I studied mathematics because it came easily to me. I learned the subject of the utmost precision because it is lazy to be too precise, at least for me. It allows you to talk endlessly about very little.

After years of study, mathematics finally interested me too. The few actual words “Completeness” “Continuity” “set” “if” “and” “not” were the focus of my interest, but when I talked to mathematicians about my thoughts on these words, they advised it was best not to interpret the words at all. They needed a word, and the meaning of the word wasn’t the point. I could think very intensely about mathematics, but I later applied this rapid kind of calculated thinking to meanings, dreams, symbols and their shapes, lyrics, legends, sleeping and waking, eating. In the beginning I was not very good at doing this, and I did it too often, and too slowly. I was used to a different kind of concentration about mathematics.

As a result of this transition I ended up being captured and taken against my will into isolation. As I sat there for hours I could feel that these doctors wanted something from me. Somehow I knew what they wanted, and that I wasn’t going to get out of isolation until I gave it to them. I started meditating on solipsism, and successfully adopted the point of view. The next minute a doctor entered the room and informed me I was insane. When I just sat there she said “that was fun.” (And this is a secret I share for those who actually read to the end of my foolery) I asked her incredulously “That was fun?” She looked surprised, I suppose she expected me to think she was a figment of my imagination. I had changed my mind about solipsism rather quickly, call me a liar, but it made me afraid. And it was Bertrand Russell who said the only alternative to believing the physicists was solipsism. I have seen how that view of a very humane, careful thinker, is now being enforced. And now here I am, wondering what my audience wants… and trying to give it to them.

May all beings find true happiness

May all beings be free

May all beings have ease

May they not come to harm

Stag

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Nobody without a home, yet

another footprint on a world that needs nothing

A foothold I can call my own, a place that would forever accept my step
I wander on blank sheets of paper,

I wanted to write about that piece of empty space that is home to all

Dip the page in water, they say, and let the ink run by itself.
A paper vase with animals primitively drawn
Turning the vase in my hands, the animals run, bleeding, until the vase contains something.
(Write something into the vase)
writing curled round its inner walls, saying “The truth is no-w-here.”

now I etch it in wood carvings

the medium of the woods I wandered

on blank sheets of paper until
I was accepted into the Hall of Trees.

Good for now

24 Saturday May 2025

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for a world of moments, all precarious,
Where castles tumble and rascals are kings.

When brambles claw for you,
when the mind crushes its thorns.

thorn of delusion

beat your breast, the beast that grows wings
has nothing but wilderness in mind.

thorn of fear

In a question about movement, wolves, when poised hypothetically,
cannot get half-way to you, always, always more than half the way away from you

Thorn of greed for beliefs:

Flight is a 4th dimension of tray tables and golden wings
too heavy to escape the danger.
golden scales weighed against a Heron’s feathers

and god, is only the king of thieves, grasping his crumbling towers, only to make room
in the sky for the moon.

a mind made free from the brambles of this world

When all the languages have converged into one
question of movement, and there is no answer.
abandon the road to the morning star,
there is nothing to lose that has not already been lost.

In the Blizzard of the Morning

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In the blizzard of the morning
the light cries
glistening streams of tears
down the face of the water.

A liquid sun multiplies
on the surface of the ocean
of stars.

There is something dancing there,
a whispering force, a space,
a promised land smaller
than the tiniest seed.

Meanwhile, in the world of Radiance,

stars fizzle out
before their midwife clouds.

everything is a cloud
electron clouds veil the center of the atom in my mind.

The lightning bug (or do I mean lightning bolt?), 
the difference between those two words... but now it is too late—

the crack in the sky
was not so dramatic after all.

"there is a hole," says Godel to Winnie the Pooh, "an incompleteness."

find a hole, even in the encroaching mountains,
Tear the time-space continuum
a new ring of fire.

don’t look for belief.

every act of communication

is divine.