Zombie

Reading a thread
a torn ribbon of mind and body
The sweat and stink of an idea happening
Now
I remember

Pulling the threads out of my mind and into electrical impulses

Bodies ruled by an overmind rot

I drank deeply, without reservation
It was blood!

"And the rain stained the brick a darker red"

His compact frame and bald head, light beard and limited facial expressions
left them fascinated by his speed, slow motion replays of each step
and how it seemed the final push could turn
inches into miles

A runner who defines his event, with each step a pause rotating around time
a being caught by wings on their hands and feet by the pulse of
a moment before impact to glide over
a memory of what is

Wings on the hands and feet and naval touching the ocean. Sleeping cliffs
in the distance with arches that lead to a history before
writing, to the first time honey was
transported to the peaks
where sunshine was all that was known
before the descent into night where claws grow from the touch
of greater grandparents and battle marred swords held by rotting leather

Dance of cutting motions, cuts that made our future and now further
through blood, flesh and the sharp stars of struggle
it all sounds easy now, the race to the end of time,
but it was a long and broken limp

skeletons invite you to hear them tell the truth
the victor invites you to focus on his point of concentration
He runs and each step is saved from landing
impossibly postponed, gliding low
each inch added to become a mile
each mile a tale we welcome but cannot hear
from the mouth with no lips

Each voice gasping as the racers low glide stretches
closer and closer to the end, paused impossibly
The moment suspended, wings on our hands and feet
Navels to the ocean
Fingers to the planets and stars.

I see no explanation

For shadow clouds to move so smooth
Over trees overloved by the sun, never a winter.
The shade of dreams passing over her constant mind
For goats and not sheep that climb a vertical cliff
Just to taste the salt of the earth

For ocean breath whispering her sighs
amidst screaming birds

Perfect is the enemy of the Good
But this...

This great Wanderer, lush and forbidding,
Is least hostile for guests

Her bones neatly in her flesh, brown skin, I am watching
Only Night can eclipse
This dark lady, full, naked and green, turning in the water

Who is she, and what color is her hair, hidden under blue hoody
What is the truth in that shape and shade of lying eyes

They are just a pattern that moths use
To make them look like she is watching

Salmon struggle against each other to breed

by clamoring upstream in a crowd.

And now the streams are shallow

you can only see fish

with almost no water, breathing one drop is success.

In an epic battle to preserve the species,

The stream becomes corpulent, uninspiring,

One fish just gives up

He is run over, what a bum!

He receives rest under the mud

Most of them compete:

a bottomless Abyss of fighting,

All while praising god or science for the opportunity.

No meaning, only a dry, formulaic victory

of pushing a broom out

into the future faces of the unborn

The horizon is not a straight line, it is a circle that is too big. Everyone has a perspective, none of these perspectives are circumspect enough to see the big circle between heaven and earth, without losing the individuality of an artist. The artist is a fool for art, the accountant is a fool for counting and shuffling imaginary numbers, and procrastinating with their pretense of work on any worthwhile application of mind. The priest is a fool for Jesus. The spiritual seeker is a fool for salvation.

The theory that there is no theory is not a theory. Theories are supposed to be worked into a semblance of consistency, but this "non-theory" is only disproven if you need to hear a theory, or expect one. The reason for a theory well-worked into hiding its falsehood is to make the creator feel as though he has created something to clutch to his chest, like a book to hold up and shield his heart. The books do not belong to anyone. They are all derivative of great minds that wrote no books.

Axioms are a popular rhetoric, just because they are not true, does not mean there is nothing. The Buddha had no philosophy, no theory, no book. He spoke to a student, or many students, and said what they needed to hear, because only the ignorant need to hear anything, need to know anything, need to think about anything, or say anything. The Buddha taught out of compassion, he spoke because it was a way of conveying something better than words. We may write zeros around all the things we think have a soul. There they are, not nothing, but not like a Being that the west sold its soul to grasp. There are no proper names. The heights of all the books are no higher than the creepers on the forest floor.

I wish I knew how to help you. Guilt is not something I feel at all. I feel fear at the consequences of my words, I feel anxiety about facing judgement. I feel shame when I speak too loud or too often, or remember the moments in my life where I should have done better. (all my moments)

Criticism leads to nothing, yet it helps people who ingest modern information. It is a reaction I have for people who need to hear something.

Salvation is just another spoke on the wheel of fortune. I work from my heart, to say the things people need to hear. That work is certainly damning, but Hell is only another spoke on this wheel. Condemn me, I am already condemned. When the great spiral of time curves up again, you will find me again as an angel. You cannot get rid of me, only I can do that. I am trying, and the world will be better when I am gone.

Dear Pierre, you ask if the aphorism should be better represented in question form.

In answer, I quote Archimedes:

“Give me an immovable fulcrum and a lever long enough, and I shall move the Earth.”

The “lever long enough” would be a very long definition or aphorism and the fulcrum would be the point at the end. The long sentence would include (along with every other definition about the Earth) the longest word in the dictionary, a 45-letter word about a lung disease preventing someone from breathing. (Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis)

Interestingly, the more still and stable the fulcrum, the more power we have to create movement.

This is exactly the elementary relationship between a statement, period or point, and a question or question mark. An elementary use of a period is for a statement about earthy things, as in objects touchable, visible, smell-able, taste-able, etc., but the statement has been expanded into non-elementary use for almost everything. There are very few questions recognized as unable to be transmuted into statements. All questions are transmutable to statements (and vice versa) in a mystical sense. ( difficult is a definition of the question, see my paper “Many Roads from the Axiom of Completeness”) The elementary question is to suggest possibility and inspire wonder, but less lofty are to suggest uses, ways, means, and to compel specific actions or beliefs in others.

An example of how statements can compel is a published exchange between the Dalai llama with a group of scientists trying to persuade the Dalai Llama, or at least the audience, to the side of science. The Dalai Llama asked how life originally sprung from the primal molten Earth, and a scientist answered with a long string of statements that went on and on, somewhere lost in that string of statements life sprung, but the mystery and wonder of it was disguised by a pretense of hard work that produces heavy, relentless, knowing statements.

Another example of transmuting an unanswerable question into a string of statements is the mathematical proof of the impossibility of squaring the circle. We have, essentially, a question of means and we write mathematical statements to circumscribe this question as completely as we can. Once we have closed all entrances to this mysterious question “How do I make a square of a circle?” we may be persuaded of its singular openness with “One cannot square the circle.” This is not at all the truth, it can be done with mathematical imperfection, imprecision, vague pragmatic attempts. With one of these attempts, the mathematician will argue that it is not done. Only mathematicians decide when work is really finished, and the “…” ensures that we never are finished.

In the same way that we can transmute perfect stillness to the most irresistible movement, we can transmute all questions into statements, and that is exactly what is attempted by Aristotle with his Law of the Excluded Middle. The Law assumes that in any question of “this or not this?”, the reality is not a question but an answer of either “this.” or “not this.” (the elementary this, about an earthy thing). The question is unreal, it is purposefully split in two, like a doctor producing a schizophrenic.

Here I am going over ground that I have run so often, it feels like a hamster wheel. This is the feeling teachers get from teaching the same specific subject every year, which was my profession before illness.

We ask how to make the most stable truths, the aphorisms, into forms of movement. Generally, the movement of the aphorism is from an example, or a smaller sentence, that indicates or is inscribed in a generality about many sentences. This movement from the inscription to a generality is traditionally called induction. Bachelard conflates the word induction for the general action for his subject in “Air and Dreams.” And induction is conflated in many other ways in philosophical literature. I add to these conflations the symbol “…” used for mathematical induction, which has been the replacement for persistent questions, (such as what is the smallest particle). Here, the question is replaced with an imagination of answers beyond the horizon, deferred to future investigation. An imaginary continuousness of answers, not answers directly experienced here and now.

The most general movement is the movement of time, such as with a still rock, or water that flows in a way that appears still (Aj. Sumedho). This general movement inscribes another kind of movement: the movement from one time-stream to another. This is allowed with discontinuities in mindfulness, in vagueness, expanding on the general, on grasping beyond the horizon by inquiring about possibility. How to make the leap between time-streams well-leaped? What axioms and global constants/concepts do we wish to leap to? This is the next kind of airplane we must construct. If this airplane ends up as something commercialized, like our form of utilizing electricity and commercial airplanes, we will still find this last and most free kind of movement contained in another cage owned by our masters of capital.

While we have reached the heights: the power in the vagaries of clouds to generate light in the form of a shocking idea, we must remember that this is only enjoyable as long as we have the heart for it. And love is the fundamental reality, cutting through all time streams. To leap well, and be Well-Gone, is to leap between time streams to this fundamental: the molten iron from which the worlds are forged both hot and cold: Ultimate Truth: this door between all worlds that leads to unbinding:

Peace and friendships,

Andrew

Defeating a great warrior, better than you, the sweet victory running over your mind like a riveting train wreck, how you jumped free. Your decisions of movement and weight, the directions, feints, the deceit that your soul cried out to go on living, and the warrior believed, how you didn’t have to look to know you had won. The exquisite death cry signaling your own survival. To live another day, one must forget that victory, else, that great warrior really defeated you. Then the real battle starts: the battle against your own mind, your own victory.

Transient elves occurring in rings,

During narrow bipolar events (NBEs),
Leave signatures and radio signals.

Three negative NBEs, producing a tropical storm,
Indicate the dominant-lightning-leader:
the first simultaneous discovery
Of elves seen as delayed optical 
Emissions, near-ultraviolet, confirming the appearance 
Of bipolar elves and their method of observing.
We see them from the ground 
in China, and from spacing

On the hypothesis of corona discharges.
Overshooting thunderbirds,
Triggering lightning and blue jets,
With the associated weak negative NBEs that rapidly inhabit ionospheres,
Elves excite sufficient current for new clouds and rain.

https://www.researchgate.net/publication/359152073_Ionospheric_elves_powered_by_corona_discharges_in_overshooting_thunderclouds

Where is tomorrow now?
"Tomorrow's flowers are very weak today", says the rain

We do one little thing for tomorrow,
without remembering our ancestors
who stole from us the joy of washing clothes by hand.

think this a small matter?

Some people work all day at a conveyor belt making small motions with their hands.
These people are very useful, and when they are done, they have an energy called merit.
They have blissful sleep, and blissful waking.

No matter how small her movement on the conveyor belt,

how little left, this laundry
Is my laundry, Get out of my way and let me do it,

The proud poet, looking down on this small act of laundry,
Has an air of "knowing what it means."

Both towers of intellect will fall because we need laundry.

People will not find ease easy,
There is no "how" for ease.

Only a refrain
A mantra that yields merit

A refrain for truth
A refrain for harmlessness
A refrain for great sex
A refrain for

Where is tomorrow now?
"Tomorrow's water is very weak today", says the rain

Tomorrow is a space we open today:
A space we can close,

This tired subject cannot Will itself into perfect vacuousness:
when space is positively empty.

Oh spacious, generous mind: Refrain, only
only a refrain

A refrain for truth
A refrain for harmlessness
A refrain for great sex
A refrain for

Oh spacious, generous mind, where is tomorrow now?
"Tomorrow is very weak today"

The demon wolf is not evil
who claims royalty can make a deal
he will take my hand and save my friend
because the wolf is my friend

"The wolf is only a dream"
I know
looking in fall stream water
cold, clear, still flowing there are dead and black leaves
Divine these leaves and find the secrets of the universe.
divining leaves, you need clear, still water

so cold

The commanding heart, passionate and insane
Oh to have her heart shine on me again

My clean-cut head, no leaves, I walk on bare feet in the snow

There is a living man who is the Sun
He shows how words are flat, and that all the words and all the things they tell my eyes to see, behind them oh,

oh to have that man's heart shine on me again

This dream of a demon wolf
so close to my heart
to have this dream you need clear, still stream

----French---

Le loup démoniaque n’est pas mauvais
qui prétend que la royauté peut faire un marché
il prendra ma main et sauvera mon ami
parce que le loup est mon ami

« Le loup n’est qu’un rêve
Je sais
en regardant l’eau d’un ruisseau d’automne
froide, claire, qui coule encore, il y a des feuilles mortes et noires.
Divinez ces feuilles et trouvez les secrets de l’univers.
Pour diviniser les feuilles, il faut de l’eau claire et tranquille

si froide

Le cœur qui commande, passionné et fou
Oh, pour que son cœur brille à nouveau sur moi

Ma tête bien coupée, pas de feuilles, je marche pieds nus dans la neige

Il y a un homme vivant qui est le Soleil
Il montre que les mots sont plats, et que tous les mots et toutes les choses qu’ils disent à mes yeux de voir, derrière eux oh,

oh pour que le coeur de cet homme brille à nouveau sur moi

Ce rêve d’un loup démoniaque
si proche de mon coeur
pour faire ce rêve, il faut de l’eau froide, claire, qui coule encore