I walked out the morning door and saw Narcissus papyraceus blooming in lost sunlight. I was not looking for mind, memories, shadows, or flowers. They came by themselves, and because I am lonely like you are, and because I love you, I wanted to call out to you, so they could appear by themselves wherever you are.
They will appear anyway, whether I call or not.
Of that you may rest assured.
Everything is good in this big space. The flowers are the pleasure of the eye, the pleasure of the art, and the pleasure of nameless pleasure. Nothing you or I can do will change a thing. Nothing needs doing because nothing needs changing. So, we can relax and enjoy everything -- the vibrating icons of the lost light of lonely love -- without longing for anything. Nothing starts and nothing finishes in the art that requires no creation.
The light is lost only because it is stateless and the love lonely because it requires no repetition. Ownerless light and love are not turned on and off, require neither source nor sustenance, and bring no tears or laughter. The very nature of things is already established. It requires nothing from us. Indeed, anything we could be said to "do" would become an obstacle to that which is otherwise immanent. Neither you nor I need pick up or put down anything, much less celebrate the nouns or mourn the adjectives.
Indistinguishable light and shadow flowers seem dependent on the wall.
Actually, they are liberated by the wall.
Earth, water, fire, air, and space seem to compose us, but how we regard them has no fixed place or description. If the seeming dependence of the light and shadow flowers is, in fact, their liberation then further examination seems unnecessary -- even dishonest -- like putting a microscope on a horse in order to ostentatiously "prove" a horse.
Even if hurts, I wanna have controlI want a perfect bodyI want a perfect soulI want you to notice, when I'm not aroundI wish I was specialYou're so fuckin' specialBut I'm a creepI'm a weirdoWhat the hell am I doing hereI don't belong here--"Creep"
Dualistic self-absorption disguised as compassion, meditation, devotion, or some sort of yoga is popular music. You hear it playing all the time, and you think it is edgy, but it is elevator music. Authentic music plays on the zephyrs. Ask yourself: who is the composer?
Better still: stop listening, and don't ask anything at all.
Stop trying to predict when the itinerant breeze will stir the boughs of the tall trees, or carry a far bird's desultory cry.
Lamas sit on cushions and sing old songs. Sometimes a tune gets stuck in your head, and you wind up listening to memory. You cannot hear music anymore. Sounds are scattered diamonds that require no settings to be pleasurable. You can stumble upon them in the dark -- now they are a rock in your shoe -- or you can see them glitter like the frost at dawn, but they do not fill what is empty.
Itinerant absence cannot fill what is already inherently absent.
Diamond sound does not fill nor does it occupy silence. What is seen does not fill nor does it occupy what is unseen. Listening and watching do not cause even a ripple in reality. Longing for an explanation of the magician's illusion -- or, trying to pin down the magician -- builds the theater and constructs the stage, but in no way does it lend any useful understanding of the show.
Simply accepting magic as magic is quite enough to bring forth magic.
The words that are counted as Dharma are valuable, but of themselves are incapable of causing the inexpressible to arise. The words that are counted as Dharma cannot, by their very nature, express the inexpressible by its very nature. There are no words segregated into "Dharma words," nor others segregated into "non-Dharma words." To contrive otherwise immediately makes you part of the creation conspiracy.
Conspiring to create that which requires no creation is like plotting to take treasure from an empty chest.
Tears and laughter of crazy lovers and bitter boxers, tangled up in each other, are attributed to karma. Karma is attributed to deeds. Deeds are attributed to intentions. Intentions are attributed to ideation, and ideation is said to have particular characteristics or qualities, i.e. positive or negative. All of this rises and falls in mind: in intellect's distinctions and decisions. Yet, in the absence of such distinctions and decisions, what then? Beyond the good and bad of the kiss and the bruise is a reality that cannot be improved by virtue nor harmed by vice. What is uncreated neither requires nor exhibits cause; therefore, to search for such causes, whether to emphasize or expiate, is to shutter a hard door on perfect freedom's face.
Had we not mutually refrained from making such decisions, we would have become intoxicated by the seduction of blamelessness, and fallen into a narcotic sleep where neither of us would have the slightest chance of escape. It was beneficial to be a lowdown sinner with you, and shine behind walls, because walls are all about the futility of doors.
There is no door where no entrance is required.
Thus it is nothing out of the ordinary happened this morning. I thought, idly, of birthdays come and gone, and how I wished to send a gift. So, I made a birthday of today and a party of this river, to send you light and shadow flowers.