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On Madness

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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

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.

Revolution every Saturday

Timeless land, 
how we have betrayed you, yet
committed to our crime,
my rhyme omitted

The bell of our voices lost to the sound of trees
cut down,

Rings on, like new,
A human heritage of voices
join with every seeker, every Archimedes,

Every prophet, there is no difference.

Our sound, Sheltered by the thundering mountain, in the distance
The mists over the hills carry on, conspiring about the divine
To those forest-wandering madmen,
rejected for their crippling lack of everything
that is not song.

These songs so quiet
drowned in a whispering spring

73

(for Patrick Modolo)

the soul of nobody
The soul of that wasted nomad who troubles with harsh hungry silence 
and sharp gaze like a star's one-pointedness

cold and pitiless, A number of demons
Gather like qualities of an apple
This gathering, why, by what force,
without it there is nothing but ghosts

no truth-juice

only the cold hungry claw that cuts
the body of our thoughts
grasping, groping, lost in a green paradise
the will-to-perfection that destroys

And.. And...

And how the nouns are all Sun, Earth, Rain, and Air,
yet when blooming
where is the emptiness of a flower?

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In an alternate universe I lost my way

in sizzling neon lights. they leave ghosts in my eyes.
The soothing burn of whisky.

feminine silhouettes cast by burning "open" signs,     my mind dies little deaths.   
they walk in reckless trance.
A human lumbering, lurching towards another's flesh

The uglier I get, the more beautiful everyone else becomes.

Oh Death, the seductress!
She will feel the sting in a feather—
penned tattoo

of a thin moon.

Fight me; O Death
I belong to combat.


lust is a leprosy; we hold our wretched skin to the fire for some comfort in pain.
There is worse than pain, dear one.

caught in the mind's cobwebs
where pain becomes a helper

Come to me, lost soul,
For I am the absence of truth, and I will hold you.

The mind needs truth like the body needs medicine.

my tongue           a runway           for flies

Sorry, I don’t do policy

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Bill Murray in the movie “Broken Flowers” (2005) plays a lonely character who receives word that he has a son through one of his past lovers. He looks for him but never finds him. In the end (spoiler for this 20 year old film) he is sitting and enjoying company with a young man he doesn’t know. He realizes that this young man could be, or might as well be, his son. The young man asks for advice and Murray says “Well, the past is gone, I know that. The future, isn’t here yet, whatever it’s going to be. So, all there is, is, is this. The present.” The young man asks if Murray is Buddhist, and Murray says “No.”

It is like this with the truth. The Buddha does not claim the truths he taught. He said he found an old path to enlightenment, and just cleared the way for others to follow it more easily. But the task is not done. We must investigate the here and now (Dhamma), and try to communicate it with each other. We must use the common words we know, rewrite them, redefine them, until the path the Buddha took is clear again. The old words the Buddha offered don’t have the same effect; words change and move. Words are impermanent. Also, the reality we face is different now, less stable (I would venture to say). The days when the Earth could withstand all our hatred and pain are nearly over.

Unfortunately, some Buddhists mistake the teaching they find in the holy books to be the teaching of the Buddha, and worse, they believe this is Buddha’s teaching, while that is not Buddha’s teaching. The Buddha gave us work to do, the most important work: liberating our minds, our purest mind, from this world-moment-already-enveloped-in-flame. The desire to shock us awake and begin working again is desperately portrayed in the call of a Zen Master:

Zen Master Seung Sahn says that in this life we must all kill three things: First we must kill our parents. Second, we must kill the Buddha.” https://kwanumzen.org/teaching-library/1997/10/01/kill-the-buddha

The Dhamma is not the Word. Aj. Sumedho has a famous teaching “It is like this.” We don’t understand it with words and descriptions. We use “it is like this” because it is so unhelpful, so useless, that we are compelled to deal with reality as it is directly sensed. This moment I am writing is not the same moment you are reading this. but a poet can capture more depth in this moment, with a simplicity that is vastly improved from the minute steps of mathematics. A poetic text invites a sense of touch, a euphoria of touching and sharing the texture of words. one can understand a poem better with “Our poem is like this.” because by the time these leaves of thought are revisited by a future reader, “this” is no more. But Buddhism was about “this.” Now “this” has changed. My words have moved off-target. The mark has moved too. Everything is impermanent. Missing the mark is all we ever do. Our poem can share in this melancholy of the failure of words. Our poem begs to be excused and at the same time it is our most widely intimate shared moment.

I want to dedicate this message to Buddha, Dhamma (the teaching), and Sangha (the community of monks and followers).

The winning card

We find ourselves in a place only for running away. our minds, caught in a flood, leap for the shore, even as the body is pulled in. Who will raise the call, who will speak the dead shadows and make them live?

This is the prophecy

There is a low woman in the hospital who cleans the sick. She washes vagina’s for a living. And oh holy of holys, she does a better job than you could do yourself. The cleanliness, the godliness that she achieves in this life…

she will one day be a god in her own right. She will unfold from a flower and be ordained in the Temple of the Sky.

Her name will mean ‘friend.’  It is the last of the Buddha’s names.