Mind as Deer Leaping

(photograph "Deer Leaping" by George Shiras, National Geographic, July 1906)

Understand subjective delusions: the illusion of regression; equally false: the illusion of progress. The news that makes one happy is the news that makes another sad. Neither understands the news. My eyeballs feel slightly deflated, I doubt they are--- maybe they are. Or one is. Just a feeling, I guess. “I guess” is right, I mean, not correct but properly recognized (in the most general sense possible). There we have it, my borrowed philosophy. Basically “Fleeting.” Fleetingly told. Needs an "-ism.” And something 'bout love and compassion. O! Buddha.

Two Poems by Sassoon on Rememberance Day

Survivors

by Siegfried Sassoon

No doubt they'll soon get well; the shock and strain

Have caused their stammering, disconnected talk.

Of course they're "longing to go out again,"--

These boys with old, scared faces, learning to walk,

They'll soon forget their haunted nights; their cowed

Subjection to the ghosts of friends who died,--

Their dreams that drip with murder; and they'll be proud

Of glorious war that shatter'd all their pride ...

Men who went out to battle, grim and glad;

Children, with eyes that hate you, broken and mad.

(Craiglockart, October 1917.)

---

The Rear-guard

by Siegfried Sassoon

Groping along the tunnel, step by step,

He winked his prying torch with patching glare

From side to side, and sniffed the unwholesome air.

Tins, boxes, bottles, shapes too vague to know,

A mirror smashed, the mattress from a bed;

And he, exploring fifty feet below

The rosy gloom of battle overhead.

Tripping, he grabbed the wall; saw some one lie

Humped at his feet, half-hidden by a rug,

And stooped to give the sleeper's arm a tug.

"I'm looking for headquarters." No reply.

"God blast your neck!" (For days he'd had no sleep.)

"Get up and guide me through this stinking place."

Savage, he kicked a soft, unanswering heap,

And flashed his beam across the livid face

Terribly glaring up, whose eyes yet wore

Agony dying hard ten days before;

And fists of fingers clutched a blackening wound.

Alone he staggered on until he found

Dawn's ghost that filtered down a shafted stair

To the dazed, muttering creatures underground

Who hear the boom of shells in muffled sound.

At last, with sweat of horror in his hair,

He climbed through darkness to the twilight air,

Unloading hell behind him step by step.

(Hindenburg Line, April 1917.)

Poetry Of Departures

by Philip Larkin

Sometimes you hear, fifth-hand,

As epitaph:

He chucked up everything

And just cleared off,

And always the voice will sound

Certain you approve

This audacious, purifying,

Elemental move.

And they are right, I think.

We all hate home

And having to be there:

I detest my room,

It's specially-chosen junk,

The good books, the good bed,

And my life, in perfect order:

So to hear it said

He walked out on the whole crowd

Leaves me flushed and stirred,

Like Then she undid her dress

Or Take that you bastard;

Surely I can, if he did?

And that helps me to stay

Sober and industrious.

But I'd go today,

Yes, swagger the nut-strewn roads,

Crouch in the fo'c'sle

Stubbly with goodness, if

It weren't so artificial,

Such a deliberate step backwards

To create an object:

Books; china; a life

Reprehensibly perfect.

Leonard Cohen at The Isle of Wight Festival 1970

Story goes that the 'Isle of Wight Festival' was supposed to be an English music fest in 1970 for 100000 paying concert goers. Instead 600000 people attended, 500000 of'em crashers --- so, rather quickly, the scene turned chaotic. On the last night of the tumultuous festival, after Jimmie Hendrix performed and a part of the stage was burned down. A dowdy looking Cohen took the stage at 2:00am wearing an overcoat and some dirty jeans over his pj's. The video above is an excerpt from the concert.

Even though, I must admit, his voice and performance aren't really the strongest here and the transition from mayhem to peace isn't obvious, I like to imagine that the kindness of his artistry; the essential genius of Cohen, radiated outward towards the audience and doused their flames, drew them in, captured them entirely... Really Love this guy.

Night Shoot: Fog & No Fog

My actions...: Buddha

I am of the nature to grow old.

There is no way to escape growing old.

I am of the nature to have ill-health.

There is no way to escape having ill-health.

I am of the nature to die.

There is no way to escape death.

All that is dear to me and everyone I love

are of the nature to change.

There is no way to escape being separated from them.

My actions are my only true belongings.

I cannot escape the consequences of my actions.

My actions are the ground on which I stand.

- Buddha

tributary

tributary

sulphur leaked out from under his knee caps.

the insects busy chewing ligaments.

The version of himself, by anomalous intersection,

that carefully folded some clothes beside the trail, took off some ugly shoes,

looked behind one last time and turned off into loss, into the woods.

To be nearer the fallen, the previous,

the after,

returning to the living, the many.

Closer, hopefully, to the larger jaws. Full predators.

red grizzly and the peppery, puppy-dog breath in wolf.

The sound against sounds!

Then a brief reprieve,

no shudder, no flock joining the air.

Just the concern of many

eyes looking left then right, left then right.

And like a Swift, the return of normalcy.

The son of a deadman. The son of the dead.

Carefully, expecting pain, his foot sank into the folding forest floor,

the wonder of the cushion, the comfort, the deadwood as living down.

orange moss soothed the bottoms of his feet;

kindness of nature--- his last relief.

The largest rocks were held with lichen, with the texture of a puzzle.

The pines watched silently, the bark still sharp, sapping

at that moment

beyond the obvious clumsy subtraction---

AH! the recoil! the abruptick-ick-ick

and the momentum seemed to slow and be the most injurious.

Reflexive motion: the Rifle-butt scraped his poor shin.

It beat him by force back down to the earth.

Restrained, the Sky above never skipped, no,

with tranquility it hung everywhere, noticing

the hirsute core, the length of the limbs, the spidery legs, the arms of poplar

improbably, perfectly, crossing his trunk.

The moment didn't urgently approach,

it came with a (new) calm and by (old) sorrow both.

a slow collection of embers, just.

on the leaves, in the trees.

The autumn bed filtered the litres clear

until further along, down the hill,

the glacial stream, two feet wide and two feet still,

until almost 5:30, had a fresh tricklin'.

ritualized water flowed in.

seventeen minnows congregated amongst the new water,

somehow eager in the warm diffusion.

Art and Indulgence

(Nude, Edward Weston, 1936 --- surely one of the most beautiful
photographs I've ever seen --- denoting innocence and sensuality at once)

Perhaps the only acceptable indulgence is the indulge that is tempered by abstraction. When indulgences are expressed through specifics (willful ignorance, drink, lust, materialism, etc...) the avaricious nature only strengthens the concepts of self and separateness, which lie in these hollow victories that reinforce the ego; which in turn leads to degradation and shame.

Whereas Art, a form of abstract indulgence ---whether it's realism, expressionism, or literal 'abstract art'... it doesn't matter--- expresses and exposes that which never seems to define and promote separation but rather is initiates and fulfills a sort of personal connectivity to something larger than 'the self'. And when our concern is not with selfishness and self-aggrandizement (which innately comes at the expense of everything or anyone else), we can finally come to know and appreciate more virtuous concepts like sharing, sincerity, grace, compassion and connection.

True Art is indulgence expressing the essential quality of reality: it's abstract and paradoxical but summing it up would look something like this: we (plural) are one (singular).

On seeing the Dalai Lama Live

Me, I went to see the Dalai Lama in Calgary yesterday. J and I. I was extremely impressed. Much more so than I expected I would be. He had four bruises on his arms, maybe from the firm-gripped entourage ensuring that “his eminence” never takes a tumble. Anyway, he emanated three of the greatest attributes I can think of: sincerity, confidence and innocence.

A sweet and almost child-like humour also found it's way into his dialogue. He was telling the kids in front of him how some people think he's a “healer” but that the greatest proof he could offer to counter such a ridiculous claim is that he recently had his gall-bladder removed and well...the pain, so think about it--- only he said it much better than that. Apologies to all.. On a related note but semi-non-sequiturishly, I kinda wanted to hug him at this point, everyone was laughing and he looked very pleased, he put us all at ease early on--- a fabulous strategy, and I sorta felt like I was gonna cry. Can't be sure why. Something like Greatness.

So through yellow-tinted, rectangular shaped lenses he talked about smiling at people, really smiling at them, the necessity of seeing faces, looking into eyes, connection and recognition, regardless of personal history or status. He endearingly, almost shyly, related how sometimes he might see girls in nearby cars while being chauffeured about in different cities and their eyes would meet, he told how his first response, a smile, is sometimes greeted with a frown, the girls come to see his smile as a symbol of, as he playfully put it, his “desire to exploit them”, so uncomfortably he quickly smiles again at the humour in the situation and perhaps, a little red-faced, abruptly looks away, to deny any further misunderstanding.

Another surprise was just how rational he seemed to be; denying the existence of miracle-workers, evil, and the relative rarity of malice.

Pausing from time to time, mid-sentence, he would blurt out a Tibetan word to a translator on his right, and wait eagerly as his translator satisfied his duty and the Dalai Lama would repeat, usually in a mangled, yet charismatic sort of way, the offered english version, and quickly move on. He talked about the differing levels of ignorance and how these levels, in their varying degrees cause dependent degrees of bad karma and dukkha, usually translated as “suffering.” Whether known or unknown (the more ignorant you are, apparently the less likely you are to suffer, 'ignorance is bliss' kind of thing, but eventually your karmic signature will catch up to you and unfortunately, those around you. As one Buddhist truism states: “Human actions vectored in ignorant desire tend to yield only more of the same. Conversely, however, actions vectored towards progression yield their kin.”)

Moving his hand over his heart with his clenching and unclenching fist he passionately spoke about motive as being a very important distinguishing feature of 'acceptable violence' or 'unacceptable violence'. He gave the example of 'acceptable violence' being the standard parental kind, where spanking a child might seem harsh but if it's done out of love and concern it should rather be seen in a loving light (obviously, within reason--- although, the be clear, he never said within reason, but one can only assume he meant within reason, uh?) The more impressive example he gave highlighted how motive is also crucial in recognizing that that which seems loving can sometimes be just the opposite; a sort of unseen violence or wronging, if you will. He told how unscrupulous people will often act exclusively in their own best interests, perhaps even purposely fooling others with smarm, effluent praise, their empty charms, all the while the compliments and seemingly beneficent behaviours are actually negatively charged (aka: bad karma) by the motivation's impurity and self-seeking nature.

He talked about feeling the same towards every human he meets; how at the same level, the first level of being: Human, we are nearly identical, and how this sameness will, through pertinacious compassion, result in mutual care and respect for one another. With intensity he talked of later levels too, levels devoted to distinguishing labels, whether they're based on race, education level, wealth, political beliefs, etc... as being hindrances if we see these contrasting features before our shared, common humanity. Our shrinking world with it's ever increasing interconnectedness is one in which our progress and very survival depends on recognizing the sameness of us all and how the level of compassion and concern that we usually reserve for ourselves or for our close inner-circle needs to be expanded to include all of humanity. Reiterating the basic Buddhist belief that we need to be “as concerned that no one go hungry as that our own family be fed... as concerned that the standard of living for the entire world rise as that our own salary be raised.”

Anyway, I feel like this is becoming one of those fucking grade 7 essays I've been poppin' our with too much regularity these days.

I guess the gist is this: the man was enchanting. He was wise, wise, wise. And I feel very fortunate to have been in the presence of one such as he--- about as Holy a man can get, I mean, well, as Holy as my rationality will allow. Bless him--- I'll allow that too, sans-sneeze.

One became right from the crimson

One became right from the crimson,
past the poison: love's engine,
alive from the river,
apart from connection.

One became wanton from the amber,
such style and such fevers,
sunk from erections,
unloved and unmetered.

Association of Truth-winners

If you find no one to support you on the
spiritual path, walk alone.
If you see a wise person
who steers you away from the wrong path,
follow him.
The company of the wise is joyful, like reunion
with one's family.
Therefore, live among the wise,
who are understanding, patient, responsible and noble.
Keep their company like the moon moving among the stars.
-Buddha

The most profound truth.

Death of Socrates, Jacques-Louis David, 1787

"The unexamined life is not worth living."-Socrates

A most profound and obvious truth, no doubt, yet many, in their ignorance--- their 'willful ignorance,' no less--- fail to recognize it. That so many can live their lives so loosely, without meaningful contemplation is really disappointing. Worse still, because of it, I feel ostracized--- I simply cannot relate to those who live a life of short-sighted hedonism.

(TED Video) Dan Gilbert: Why are we happy?

I found the conclusion to be especially compelling. Good advice for those contemplative enough to consider it.

Willmore Wilderness Park, w/Owen, Aug.09

splendid trip.

Dream

Often any reference of you when I sleep is horrible, tortuous,--- but just once you were made faithful, if only momentarily. Against the white wall your splendour infused my dream. An assured beauty unique to you; so pure and pretty. Urging me forward, naked with sweat, in the webbing of your fingers, thinly painted between your breasts. You spoke to me with your eyes, the shape of your body, the grace of your movement; Your meaning was heroic: Confession and Love. Slowly, you held your hand out to me and I touched your fingers to my face. I truly felt your love again. But then, as in reality, after your confession of love, you kept walking slowly into the darkness, away from me, in search of something 'better', with no explanation beyond the distance you forced between us. And I awoke, moved again by both your love and hate.

"And even in our sleep..."

The Remorse of Orestes (1862)
by William Adolphe Bourguereau

"And even in our sleep pain that cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart, and in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom to us by the awful grace of God."
- Aeschylus

---
(disclaimer: written in anger, sorrow, jealousy and frustration after one of the worst night's of my life...still, I stand by what is said, even if the spirit in which it is said is uglier than I should allow--- venter's venting venting... no one reads this shit anyway...bah!)
Truly, I feel haunted by the estrangement of my former love. Grim moments when I am jilted awake from my slumber; tormented by, dare I say, an almost psychic-connection made real through my years of loyalty (twinning). And in those dark hours when I try to sleep peacefully after an honest day of reflection and right effort; after exerting myself during the waking hours to maintain my mindful existence--at night I am repeatedly victimized. I am left helpless--- accosted in my dreams in repeated rejection, but there has been two such times where I might be so compelled as to reason that the actual dread that stirred me from nightmares of her engaging in loveless carnality--- what on my end manifests itself as physical pain and suffering, really is, in actual fact, something that solely occurs in unison with the empty, physical ecstasy she now partakes of so easily, with such undear confidence, blindness and nonchalance. Still, I'll take it. I take it all. It's 'positive' in the sense that I am always receiving information, I absorb each blow and each disappointing message. For each stab my heart receives it helps me realize the power I have, the integrity I retain by my own emotional might in feeling grief; my understanding of true beauty, of tragedy and respectfully appreciating loss. I mourn because I can, because I am capable of mourning, I see it as a virtue. The inability to mourn, well, I see it as beyond shameful, but it's an ugly truth I'm getting used to. Such discourteous rejection paired and so mercilessly synchronized with the aforementioned "sex/stab" unison is but one more tool I plan to utilize. And so again, the truth, by 'psychic-connection' or 'dreadful anecdote', painstakingly removes the saintly beauty I created about her; that same self-sabotaging illusion that so wildly deceived me, well, she is weakening, indeed 'by the awful grace of God.'

Be Not Sad: James Joyce

Be Not Sad
by James Joyce

Be not sad because all men
Prefer a lying clamour before you:
Sweetheart, be at peace again -- -
Can they dishonour you?

They are sadder than all tears;
Their lives ascend as a continual sigh.
Proudly answer to their tears:
As they deny, deny.

The Stranger by Leonard Cohen

The Stranger
by Leonard Cohen

It's true that all the men you knew were dealers
who said they were through with dealing
Every time you gave them shelter
I know that kind of man
It's hard to hold the hand of anyone
who is reaching for the sky just to surrender
who is reaching for the sky just to surrender.

And then sweeping up the jokers that he left behind
you find he did not leave you very much not even laughter
Like any dealer he was watching for the card
that is so high and wild
he'll never need to deal another
He was just some Joseph looking for a manger
He was just some Joseph looking for a manger.

And then leaning on your window sill
he'll say one day you caused his will
to weaken with your love and warmth and shelter
And then taking from his wallet
an old schedule of trains, he'll say
I told you when I came I was a stranger
I told you when I came I was a stranger.

But now another stranger seems
to want you to ignore his dreams
as though they were the burden of some other
O you've seen that man before
his golden arm dispatching cards
but now it's rusted from the elbows to the finger
And he wants to trade the game he plays for shelter
Yes he wants to trade the game he knows for shelter.

Ah you hate to watch another tired man
lay down his hand
like he was giving up the holy game of poker
And while he talks his dreams to sleep
you notice there's a highway
that is curling up like smoke above his shoulder
and suddenly you feel a littlt older

You tell him to come in sit down
but something makes you turn around
The door is open you can't close your shelter
You try the handle of the road
It opens do not be afraid
It's you my love, you who are the stranger
It's you my love, you who are the stranger.

Well, I've been waiting, I was sure
we'd meet between the trains we're waiting for
I think it's time to board another
Please understand, I never had a secret chart
to get me to the heart of this
or any other matter
When he talks like this
you don't know what he's after
When he speaks like this,
you don't know what he's after.

Let's meet tomorrow if you choose
upon the shore, beneath the bridge
that they are building on some endless river
Then he leaves the platform
for the sleeping car that's warm
You realize, he's only advertising one more shelter
And it comes to you, he never was a stranger
And you say ok the bridge or someplace later.

And leaning on your window sill ...
I told you when I came I was a stranger.

"An insincere and...": Buddha

"An insincere and evil friend is more to be feared than a wild beast; a wild beast may wound your body, but an evil friend will wound your mind." - Buddha

Pembina (late post)