LIFE

“It’s All A Movie… “

I will tell you why I don’t go to movies, but you will think I am insane. Or you will take it personally. Or you will assume there is an audience in the clouds, judging your every thought.

So, shut up and listen.

All of life is a Movie. And all is exquisite. It’s full of Good Actors, Bad Actors, Actors who are Bad at acting Good, and those who are Good at acting Bad. And the stage is amazing. It is never the same for two days, two hours, or two moments. The light is superb, dramatic, unpredictable. Weather comes and goes. Flowers bloom in cracks where no one would imagine; dying trees cling to stormy cliffs above heaving oceans unnamed.

Lives begin and end, love comes and goes; the Spirit, the Sacred, the Essence of Life, inhabits the eyes, the voice, the song… then, like a quiet deer in the woods: gone. Never to return. Never to play at another theater… for 8 consecutive weeks or two consecutive seconds.

This is NOT a movie, yet, this is the most incredible movie.

And you ask me to sit in a theater, and look at past light projected on a screen – light that only mimics life? You ask me to spend ten dollars and two hours of irretrievable time?

And you ask me to look at actors – uncertain of who they are themselves – trying desperately to play a character dreamed up by someone’s overactive imagination?

So, you ask me to meditate on layers of façade, meticulously placed to trick my perceptions, to manipulate my emotions, to dull my own sensitivity and creativity … so that, for a very short time, in my unbelievably boring life, I can lose myself in a non-existent “hero’s life” with exploding cars, talking animals, and cozy, suburban romance in a house I could never afford?

And, all this fantasy and expense, and overwrought lighting effects, to bring to life someone else’s arbitrary myth, where their value system, their emotions, their sexuality, their world view, are superimposed – obliterating my worthless, mundane, empty, boring one — all for ten dollars and two hours of my irrevocable time?

Hmmm.

Tonight, I watched the only sunset that will ever occur on the only Monday, April 26th 2010 that will ever occur, and saw soft seagulls crying and smelled fragile cedars breathing, and walked silent footsteps through a sacred old forest, smiling and greeting the sweet and amazing human beings who passed me by. I may never see them again, but I saw them tonight.

This is my “movie” and this is my life.

It is the sweetest production ever made, and it only shows once.

The acting, the cinematography, the plot, the lighting, the location, the props … are totally amazing.

And … it’s free.

(but very, very expensive …)

The Subtle

“The Subtle”.

This subject is not commonly addressed.
It is not commonly addressed, because it is not common Knowledge, it is known only by a few.

I talked with a friend the other day, about the depth of conversation. About the comfort-zone we achieve with another person in the context of dialogue.  One criteria we used was, how comfortable is a person “in their own skin”.   This quality speaks of a person’s relationship with Self.   The other parameter was a person’s relationship with Silence, how comfortable they are in entering Silence – again – in the context of dialogue.

So, talking and conversation occupy a whole range of human expression.

At one end of the scale, the “loud-mouth”, the one-way dialogue.  Or, the animated, self-centered “fluffy” conversation about the superficialities of life: often a nervous attempt to stave off the dreaded Tide Of Silence – as though Silence was a natural enemy, a cloaked vampire waiting at the door.

On the other end of the scale, people who somehow are at ease, both with Self and Other; people whose thoughtful pauses are conversations unto themselves.  People who convey entire manuscripts simply with a raised eyebrow, a soft smile, a deep resonance in their tone-of-voice.

These latter statements speak of people who are not only at peace with “Self”, but who also have a relationship with The Subtle – the invisible and humble counterpart of human existence that dwells in us all.  This counterpart has been described in many ways, has been burdened with many labels, name-tags and qualifiers over the ages.

We are not interested in adjectives.

We are interested in living in, celebrating and sharing the felt sense of this Inner Guest, this hidden counterpart.  We are interested in enjoying, manifesting, and realizing this felt sense, as a statement of a Life Lived.

When we share with other human beings, when we connect with others, we bring something of quality to the table. Something of the Taste of Silence.  The Fragrance of The Guest.  The celebration of the Subtle, in its Nameless Name, its Formless Form, and its enduring Beauty.

Of all human endeavors, this is one of the most worthy, the most honorable, the most sweet.

Text Messages

I can receive Text Messages
while lying in the Sun
They say, “When your Journey’s Over,
Where will you Run?”

People & Dogs in this park
they run in Circles,
the Children they Bark

Nobody’s new on this Friday afternoon;
this has been done for Millions of Years:
Children & Dogs, they run in the park.
They Look.  They Laugh.  They Bark.

They come Here, they Go Home.
They grow Older, they die Alone.

I can receive Text Messages
while lying in the Sun.
They say, “When you Grow Older,
Where will you Run?”

The Righteousness Of Mountains

The Righteousness of Mountains
Is that they talk only to the Sky
and they pose with God
for Naked Photographs
And they don’t listen
to your whimpering and complaining,
nor do they care that your
Pussy named “Santa” died after
17 years of spiritual vacation
pissing on your living-room floor.

The Righteousness of Mountains
is clearly expressed
by visiting Volcanoes and
Erratic Earthquakes who
Keep the Landlord of Time
on his toes as he harvests
yet another crop of wary
human souls.

The Righteousness of Mountains
outdoes your Suntan once again,
as you confide with Buddha
your uncertainties and pain
about your registered retirement
savings plan and the spiraling
stock market as people you love
die of cancer and your Kraft
Dinner burns on the stove.

The Righteousness of Mountains
echo in the dark
one hollow voice that will save
your soul as your grow older in paradise.
You lost your teeth climbing
your own rooftop, but the Grandeur
of the divine screams louder than
your dentist’s drill, as he removes
the final cavity of blindness
from your third eye.

Now Then Here You Are

now then
here you are
dressed in blues
silent as salad dressing
examining the dull notes
your mother left in your
dry cleaning

have you no other sanctuary
than your fallen dreams
your artistic crumbling future
your dead relatives
and dying friends

life is rising to call
not the dead from graves
but the living from their caves
and the lying from their sleep
and the lions from the sheep
and the thirsty camels
who fell asleep
at the empty oasis

now then
here you are
awake at the wheels
of a brand new car
listening glistening
like a bright falling star
the journey of dreams
gives way to the
pathway of life
to cut free from illusion
you need the gleam,
the Knowledge,
the Knife.

Lost Colors, Dying Leaves

The color of changing leaves
is a sign of the symphony we hear.
We arrange the colors of life carefully,
folded underwear in new-fallen snow,
patterns, networks, dominoes,
sand-castles

The color of changing leaves
is the voice that we hear;
that enters our nostril and leaves by our ear:
informs us of sanity between birth and death,
a place were we rest, celebrate, sip
surrender