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1) Firebrand eyes and a vacuum mind- Tall tales from the belly of a beast by Ernst Coobellow Printer Friendly

I think of anger, or any emotion, feeling, thought, etc.. as I do food or anything else that is ingested, digested, and excreted. It comes in as you willfully take it with your senses, or by happenstance like foul smelling air. It is digested like food. The nutrients -or beneficial things- are taken out- sometimes unconciously just like digestion, sometimes only with the help of attention and will; often they are simply neglected. The waste, the shit, the unnecessary, or the things which are only harmful and toxic if kept inside like worry, nervousness, fear, pessimism, anger, or etc.. may be passed out of you. Really, I find that everything passes in and out- or is everpresent and only what passes is that that comes across the consciousness.

When I think of meditation, I think that the consciousness becomes still when it is no longer involved in the work of this passing in and out of ideas, thoughts, dreams, feelings, and conceptions of the "outside world" as opposed to the "inside world". I think that when this stops all that is left is a stillness, an emptiness that can only be described as a pocket that is open for the universe to sit in. I think this is no different from any other moment, or any different from anyone else's experience when they say "the world stops" or "I felt a great peace" or "I felt at one with...". Only the preoccupation with other things is absent.

I think it has been said by every tongue with a peculiar twist.

It is when we stop being preoccupied with life and open to the immensity, the beauty, the interconnection of it all.

When we stop thinking of life and things as being separated from one another, when we cease ot think that there is an I who is separate or different from Him or the ALL,

Or another person that is separate from me,

When all the different visions and forms that the eye sees and the brain chops up and organizes into little boxes that are labeled real and not real, right and wrong, dog and cat, tree and flower, lover and enemy, stranger and friend, American and European, mine and yours, good and evil, kindness and hatred, dirty and clean, life and death, all for the sake logic,

When my death is as great and lamentable of a phenomenon as a leaf feathering to the ground from a tree,

When my life is the growing season for this paticular composite of skin and bones

my steps are waves

my eyes are the caps of praying knees

my bosom, a feather bed

my breath, only each one of the four winds

my fornication is the bee's rape of flowers and I am sticky-sweet with pollen and unregretful of my nature

my words are dormant seeds

my hopes are one drop in a desert rain that one lizard catches on one flickering, ephermal tongue before it is swallowed whole by an omni-scaled snake that awaits the inevitable yellow vulture's beak

the tears that rivulet down my cheeks

are real and burning with the common miracles exploding in and animating my flesh

I wail with a newborn's lungs and naivete

and groan with an old man's grizzled joints,

I have a dry rasp throat that sputters muddled glory

I have spasmodic eyelids, and shudder vision,

and my bones are loadstoned for

a wholiness that i can't comprehend but for

the small bits

the splintery shards

and the endless veins of song.

and yet I am none of these things

If I am any one.


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