The roving gaze of the mariner who never attaches himself to what he sees, whose very glance is roving, floating, sailing on, who looks at every person and object with a sense of the enormous space around them, with a sense of the distance one can put between oneself and one’s desires, the sense of the enormousness of the world and of the tides and currents that carry us onward.
Anaïs Nin, “The All-Seeing”
Jantar Mantar observatory, Delhi

Jantar Mantar observatory, Delhi

you’re going to have to
save yourself.
Charles Bukowski, from Question And Answer
Seymour: An Introduction, 2014

Seymour: An Introduction, 2014

Birdman, 2014

Birdman, 2014

Whosoever is delighted in solitude, is either a wild beast or a god.
Plato, Protag..I 337, (via wordsnquotes)
Our real journey in life is interior; it is a matter of growth, deepening, and of an ever greater surrender to the creative action of love and grace in our hearts. Never was it more necessary for us to respond to that action.
Thomas Merton
A strange desire to write.
There hasn’t been much of this lately. In fact, there has been a slight emphasis to not write, to instead think (really think, as in give yourself a thought and stick with it for ten, twenty, thirty minutes…to not let go of it; to ask the same questions over and over and again hoping for new answers, hoping for some new understanding to arise up within you), to meditate and grow your own compassion, to sometimes cry at the mistakes you have made in your years, or to focus and absorb the things around you rather than turn inside yourself to the emotions and creations of fantasy in your head.
You’ve been convinced to go and find the Real, and the fantasy, the encouragement of supposition: Oh man, you’ve decided that has got to go. Oh man—is that right?
This actually all began with emotion.
Today, coming back from a day of simplicity and complexity at work—ease in too well-trained knowledge, ease in my impending departure—a friend offered up one of his favorite covers, that of Bon Iver’s,“Pretty Love”, and offered to play it for me while I drove. Music has always played perhaps a too sentimental role in my life, songs forever associated with places and times and emotions, and the moment notes filled the car I was over five years in the past, thinking of a girl that had left me, and spending a terrible, terrible night listening to this album and drinking wine until I couldn’t anymore, knowing that it was all over. That working toward love, inherent and obvious and crippling love to me, meant nothing without the other doing the same. That I was leaving soon. That her voice would leave with me.
There’s an intellectual side of me that analyzes all of this and tries to find the universal compassion that is inherent in it. There is now a part of me that rejects such emotion’s attachment to situations or others, and instead searches only in the power that the emotion itself has. One, studied in Tibetan Buddhism, might say that I am searching for the Rigpa. One might say I am simply still coping. You can pick which one you assign to me—it doesn’t matter what you choose. There is the principle and the others: I know what I know, and you know your own. The rest is simply dark waves hitting the beach with an incomprehensible forever.
There’s a beautiful myth in many cultures that has the hero sinking into the belly of the whale. Those of us in the Western culture think of Jonah, but Christianity doesn’t have a monopoly on the unconscious. Going lower, going deeper, whether in correspondence or in my own thoughts and writings, forced in the morning or organic in the evening, these are all moments of humanity that I am trying to understand. And, in many ways, I feel as though I am still there, even five years after the fact. I pray and I meditate. I change in countless ways to others around me. I notice myself changing and am pleased even as I remind myself to never expect applause. Changes are recognitions—changes are growth—there is only one growth toward which we can thoughtfully and lovingly change.
Deepening. More of the inwards of the world to explore. Music to settle my soul in the meantime.
Oh, how I love the world and my stupid, insignificant place in it.
It’s time to go home. And it’s time to realize that home doesn’t exist anywhere but within.

A strange desire to write.

There hasn’t been much of this lately. In fact, there has been a slight emphasis to not write, to instead think (really think, as in give yourself a thought and stick with it for ten, twenty, thirty minutes…to not let go of it; to ask the same questions over and over and again hoping for new answers, hoping for some new understanding to arise up within you), to meditate and grow your own compassion, to sometimes cry at the mistakes you have made in your years, or to focus and absorb the things around you rather than turn inside yourself to the emotions and creations of fantasy in your head.

You’ve been convinced to go and find the Real, and the fantasy, the encouragement of supposition: Oh man, you’ve decided that has got to go. Oh man—is that right?

This actually all began with emotion.

Today, coming back from a day of simplicity and complexity at work—ease in too well-trained knowledge, ease in my impending departure—a friend offered up one of his favorite covers, that of Bon Iver’s,“Pretty Love”, and offered to play it for me while I drove. Music has always played perhaps a too sentimental role in my life, songs forever associated with places and times and emotions, and the moment notes filled the car I was over five years in the past, thinking of a girl that had left me, and spending a terrible, terrible night listening to this album and drinking wine until I couldn’t anymore, knowing that it was all over. That working toward love, inherent and obvious and crippling love to me, meant nothing without the other doing the same. That I was leaving soon. That her voice would leave with me.

There’s an intellectual side of me that analyzes all of this and tries to find the universal compassion that is inherent in it. There is now a part of me that rejects such emotion’s attachment to situations or others, and instead searches only in the power that the emotion itself has. One, studied in Tibetan Buddhism, might say that I am searching for the Rigpa. One might say I am simply still coping. You can pick which one you assign to me—it doesn’t matter what you choose. There is the principle and the others: I know what I know, and you know your own. The rest is simply dark waves hitting the beach with an incomprehensible forever.

There’s a beautiful myth in many cultures that has the hero sinking into the belly of the whale. Those of us in the Western culture think of Jonah, but Christianity doesn’t have a monopoly on the unconscious. Going lower, going deeper, whether in correspondence or in my own thoughts and writings, forced in the morning or organic in the evening, these are all moments of humanity that I am trying to understand. And, in many ways, I feel as though I am still there, even five years after the fact. I pray and I meditate. I change in countless ways to others around me. I notice myself changing and am pleased even as I remind myself to never expect applause. Changes are recognitions—changes are growth—there is only one growth toward which we can thoughtfully and lovingly change.

Deepening. More of the inwards of the world to explore. Music to settle my soul in the meantime.

Oh, how I love the world and my stupid, insignificant place in it.

It’s time to go home. And it’s time to realize that home doesn’t exist anywhere but within.

Everything in nature is lyrical in its ideal existence, tragic in its fate, and comic in its existence.
George Santayana (via apoetreflects)
…a little weariness’ll change a lot of things.
Jack Kerouac, The Dharma Bums

What was the self?

You wanted a life of causes, but it was all effects: you could never get before.

Finding meaning in the meaningless was no kind of meaning, but you were satisfied with meaningness.

Luck is a skill, as is beauty, intelligence—all things you’re born with. It can almost ruin you, the belief that you can choose.

I watch a baby in a restaurant play with a plastic Slinky.

The only way past is through.

Elisa Gabbert, from “The Self Unstable”

Let Us Stay

Let there be soft space in the outcome,
a possibility we might overgrow our borders,

become whole counties of light. Let us remember
this season, our chins tucked, our hard lean

into gray wind. Let the heart go rich with moss.
Let it have no footprints. Let the sun bleach

the bones of words you no longer need.
Let the birds sing in orange and red.

Let the underfoot miles go. Let everything you touch
name you. Let it be a long kiss. Let us stay

until Sirius skips his scorched heart like a stone
through the last spokes of darkness.

Nicole Terez Dutton

I see humanity as a family that as hardly met. I see the meeting of people, bodies, thoughts, emotions or actions as the start of most change. Each link created by a meeting is like a filament, which, if they were all visible, would make the world look as though it is covered with gossamer. Every individual is connected to others, loosely or closely, by a unique combination of filaments, which stretch across the frontiers of space and time. Every individual assembles past loyalties, present needs and vision of the future in a web of different contours, with the help of heterogeneous elements borrowed from other individuals; and this constant give-and-take has been the main stimulus of humanity’s energy. Once people see themselves as influencing on another, they cannot be merely victims: anyone, however modest, then becomes a person capable of making a difference, minute though it might be, to the shape of reality. New attitudes are not promulgated by law, but spread, almost like an infection, from one person to another.

The dispute about how to achieve a better life, whether it should be by individual effort or by collective action, has no point any more, because they are two sides of these ams coin. It is difficult to do anything without help or inspiration from outside oneself. Individual struggles have simultaneously been collective ones. All the rest movements of protest against contempt, segregation and exclusion involve an infinite number of personal acts by individuals, making a small change in the whole by what they learn from each other, and by the way they treat others. To feel isolated is to be unaware of the filaments which link one to the past and to parts of the globe on may never have seen.

Theodore Zeldin, An Intimate History of Humanity
And now we pause for an offering to the cat gods which rule the Internet.

And now we pause for an offering to the cat gods which rule the Internet.