home       books


I, for lack of a better term: a soul's soliloquy

A book excerpt from the spiritandflesh.com religion and spirituality online library.






a soul's soliloquy

by Jack Haas




"Each spark descended into this world- indeed a profound descent and a state of true exile- to be clothed in a body and vital soul ...so as to join and unite them with the Light."

Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liady


“Man as he now is has ceased to be the All. But when he ceases to be a separate individual, he raises himself again and permeates the universe.”



"Be- and at the same time know the condition of not-being, the infinite ground of your deep vibration, that you may fully fulfill it this single time."

Ranier Maria Rilke






“Separateness is the mystical event of oneness.”

Matt Haas



How to begin? What to say? Why to say it? To whom should I confess? To whom can I confide? Who will care? Who will listen? Who will understand?

Life never follows an intended course, for there is no course, there is only life: The sun shines, the trees twinkle, the trumpets play Taps at a hero's funeral. And yet no one is there to hear the music but mourners. It seems such a waste. Though it isn't. It just seems that way.

But let me explain, oh let me hopelessly explain why I cannot explain what I cannot help but try to explain. Bear with me, won’t you, as I suffer to forge the ominous building-blocks by which I might complete this structure.

It is like this: when the world you have loved, and lived, and laughed in, eventually crumbles helplessly about you- as it is certain to do with all of us sooner or later- and you stand shaken in the harmony of your song's last note, and the light's last flicker- it may happen that you will flinch for an anxious moment as if to right it all again, but if you're quick enough (and at times I was quick, and ruthless, and wild from the passion of my spiritual dismemberment, and wholly determined, if nothing more, to be myself, and only myself, through to the bloody bitter end) ...you let it go.

For it is in that moment- as the chastening reaches its cold zenith, and the degradation its dark nadir- when it all comes down, when you've lost everything you ever had- the hopes, promises, truths, pleasures, and words are all gone- and you're alone somewhere in the darkness, horribly alone- dead and yet living- and none of your life makes any sense, none of it, because all of your caring has only led to loss, and even your own earthly soul has not the eyes to see you truly, nor the heart to feel your lonely anguish, that is when, as I said, the best thing to do is ...to let it go.

I let it go. I let go. And that was the finish and start of me.

And yet, in the wash and fire of the spirit's healing, in the sacrificial disembowelment of the mind, in the fiery assumption of the grosser self, when you know you're done for, because the Word itself hovers hopelessly above the willess flesh- when the shit has hit the fan, so to speak- let me tell you from experience- you stay put.

I let it go, and I stayed put. I went still and cold in the limitless reaches of meaning and mystery, where the atom consumes the universe, and the self devours the whole.

It's a bloody crazy mess to relate, but things change instantly when you're finished with life and yet living. Let me tell you, the weirdest thing happened as I became emptied of the last vestige of recognition, purpose, or need- suddenly I ...I ceased without ending, and remained while still going on. I don't know how to say it better. It cannot be said. You see it's all, like I said- it’s crazy.

What happened is that I finally realized that everything in life is wrong, that it is intended to be wrong, that god is insane, that men are as devils, and that it will get far worse before it gets any better. And, given this unequivocal supposition, easy enough it is to recognize life as naught but a terrible joke.

But, then, after all ...a joke it is.

So with that matured understanding it occurred to me that it is up to each one of us to choose how we take the joke- whether we walk through our days with a foul and bitter scorn, or skip merrily through them with a hearty chuckle.

That is what I came upon. And what happened to me is ...I began to laugh.

For if truth be known, the last straw does not break the camel's back ...it gives it wings.

Oh to be sure, it happens to all of us eventually: you come innocently into life, laughing and playing and clowning about, the world pushes you forward, the days blend into years, everything appears to be reasonable, actual, and true, but then one rainy afternoon you stop suddenly in the tepid process of the day, you sit gently down for no reason, stare into the senselessness of it all while the tortured miracle of life blurs away before your trembling eyes, and you begin to weep and weep and weep from all the hidden fault and pain, and you wonder who the hell it is you really are, and you do not know, and it’s all gone, all of it, and the whole show has the numb, eternal ache of a phantom limb you never knew you had.

And then just as suddenly the implausible absurdity of it all cascades like benedictions down upon your fallen soul and an unknown smile is be born within which flips the madness over lifting you up agog and howling. That is what happens.

Indeed, until you have laughed yourself silly from loss, you have lost nothing, and neither have you laughed. For it is only then, through the perpetual gloom of becoming, when the impotent conciliations run turgid, and the swollen vein runs dry, that the folly may begin to delight itself, and that is when you begin to laugh, and laugh, and laugh, and not even know why you're laughing.

Existence goes as such, whether you desire it to be so or not; most people come into life without asking, and leave without knowing why. They laugh, strive, want, suffer, and cry. But for the cursed or blessed few, there are times, like I said, when somewhere in between it all, amongst the cacophony and the void- when the hold you had on life, or the hold life had on you, weakens as if from sublime intent- ...you begin to remember. And in that remembrance you forget without caring.

You come out of it. You come out wild and crazy, you come out hard and ambivalent, finished and yet hardly begun. You come out through the threshold of indifference, of care, of suffering, of life, of death, of meaning, of meaninglessness, of noise, and of silence. You come out from nowhere, out from a person you never were, to a person you no longer are. You run free at these moments when what always mattered finally ends, when life breaks stride with the current of its own disbelief. Out and out you come, all the while falling inward. Falling into the self beyond the self, into the centreless happening where nothing and everything occurs. You come out into it all, broken away from the tether of purpose, the chains of need, the bonds of striving, the shackles of the trapped and abandoned. You come out and the wind licks your wounds through the blood of your losses. There is no need to haunt the world ever again, nor find yourself simple comforts or worth. You belong to no one and nothing, not even yourself. Beyond salvation and damnation, nothing can stop nor hold you now. You are free. And it doesn't matter. And that is why you are free.

That is what happened to me. Everything vanished except ...the inexplicable; all I was left with was a formless, passionate, intimate ...faith. I have no better way to poorly describe it. All I was left with was the living mystery called life. And that is enough. Let me tell you- it’s all more than plenty forever and now.

And so, while you read what follows, understand that I have left the world behind, that I have crossed the line, so to speak, and am not coming back. That I refuse to come back. That I am finished tampering.

Know that I am somewhere far-off on the northern, wild coast, forgetting and forgotten, alone and not alone, sane and not sane, alive and not alive. Know that I am in agony from the impossible beauty of it all. And know that I am laughing.





Ah, but perhaps I am delving into the mercy and miracle far too early. Let me back up a ways. Return with me, won’t you, to the time before my true being began.

I can recall most of my old life well. Or perhaps not so well. No matter. After all, it was mostly a classic befuddlement, with all the hints of squirming and guise. I awoke (I called it waking), was conscious, but not lucid. I called it consciousness. For days and years I wailed and clung onto the hegomony of being. There were many disparate occasions of both furtive and calm, but hardly a moment of reason. What was it all about? I haven't a clue. It is all rather a fabulous blur; the bread smelled wonderful, the wine was nice, the flowers, the trees, and the children all gravy. I opened my eyes, looked about for a while, was filled with awe and dolor, and that is about all worth the telling. So sad and so beautiful. Mostly it seems that I often just sat staring vacuously or not off into space. So much useless staring. I don't know why. It was all very strange. Very, very strange indeed.

Nothing seemed to happen in life but a splash like of colors, dancing in front of my oblivious eye. The pleroma and the profane were yet but scribbled rubric, laid incongruously over the timeless palimpset of being.

It was like a pendulous oscillation which in its manifold turns drove me nearer to myself by the same distance it tore me apart. How else could I describe it? How else could it describe me?

Others called it life. I didn't know what to call it.

No one really knew what truly was up, and no one had the courage to dream.

It was all very strange. Very, very strange. I never knew a damn thing. No one ever does.


Coming into this world as I did- as we all do- like little god maggots growing in the shit and waiting for our wings that we might fly, I could never have imagined what was to happen. How could I? Who, after all, can know the unknowable? Who indeed?

It was all a vast, phantasmagoric festival of non-meaning. The Dream bloomed, charged and buoyant within me, as movements blended and engaged, made and unmade, ripped and mended into the fabric of our lives.

It was a harmony barely audible, through the bussle and clamor of the day, to which I danced with wild abandon upon this dead and spiritless earth. Like all others, I was trapped in this cosmic pandora, roaming hard and yet hobbled by the proximity of our woes; aflame and fluid in the directionless stream, I recognized pattern and intent, though I knew not what was intended; tangled in life's multiple cobwebs, like someone passed along the upstretched hands of an infinite crowd, I let myself be carried away by the directionless touch; touch was all that mattered, where I went was of no concern.

Like a worn vessel I listed into the seasonal winds to wherever the hell I was taken- swept into the infinite storm, the love, and the doldrums.


Oh yes, I still took part in everything. I went everywhere, thought every thought, loved every love, and suffered every pain, like all the rest, but none of it was mine- I did not belong and that is why I belonged. So you see where I was at then.

I was in the war, but I was no warrior, only an indifferent soldier gone AWOL in the glorious night; I was fugitive from both sides of the fight, caught in the soul's no-man's land, like a sacrifice the spoiled god's refused to take. There was no charge, no attack, no artillery from the rear, only incarceration, sublimation, obfuscation and decline, until the soul designed its own cage within the prison of time.

It was a strange concoction of merriment and writhing, in which the joy of life made the hurt that much more painful. The more I fled the thorns, the more I got pricked. The more I tried to grab the roses, the more I got pricked. The thicket grew around and through me. The more I ate, the more I breathed, the more I thought, hoped, attempted, or cursed, the more I got pricked. Oh, I fought hard against the crime of our earthly destinies.

In my ardor and peril, every moment was like furtively twisting about to see what had snuck up behind me, only to pinch my neck in the process, so that my eyes closed from the pain and ...I saw nothing; no rememberment, no joining, no glee. Only separation, amputation, and loss.

Come now, hold me tight. I am a man who bore false witness to himself, and then did not believe any of it; as if I never truly existed, and existence simply claimed that I existed.

Existence indeed. Of all the bizarre and stupid things that could be made.

I invented none of this. There it was, wham! Being occurred, and I staggered aimlessly about in the midst of it, imagining that I was me. I came to see the show and got pulled into the act.

There was no true being, no true me, only delusion; only not-being amongst being (oh relax, and allow me these irreconcilable lucidities).

I suffered immeasurably from a spiritual handicap, a metaphysical disability- I had become detrimentally intimate with the all-encompassing mystery of being; like a pretend man who forgot who he was pretending to be; a somethingness lurking about, blindly lost within its own interminable shadow. As if I was the executor of a vast estate, but not an heir; the stepbuilder of stairs I would never climb. Me, just a little ha-ha puppet, brought out to entertain the yawning king; a tortured joke suffered out from the exiled Muse.

Oh, I was everyone's nobody. 'In', and 'of', and yet not-in, and not-of. I was continually meandering aimlessly about inside a self that was no longer mine, in a world that was no longer Thine.

It was all too much like a dream of my youth: I returned to where I was certain that my home had been, but when I arrived ...it was no longer there; in the place where once I had found belonging, there now existed only not-belonging.

I was just a bottle without a message, floating absently about in the shoreless, infinite sea.

Who could breathe in life's thick, torpid densities? Where was the self that knew feeling? What of the manifest, in the glorious, unmanifest stream?

While everyone else had been carving out a niche for themselves in this life, I was filling mine in. While everyone else sought to be found, I inherently sought lostness; and by this I inexorably betrayed the continuity of the manifest, and fell in amongst the the chaotic, foreign beyond.

And for that the sun set, the moon rose, and the night became my homeland.

I, a refugee from being- I came to exist on the periphery of everything ...that is.

It was a fine, horrid enterprise that branched and widened, flooding out into my dreams.

In the vestiges of that engulfing miasma, dizzy in the peaceless calm, I flailed against life in a merriment of fears, and shivered around the lost fire.

I sang though I was mute, jumped though I was lame, and loved though my heart was hard as Hades'.

Cold in the stupor of reason, life bled listlessly from my soul.

Hardened in the chaos, I listened without hearing, touched without feeling, and changed without becoming myself.

Softened in the realm between victory and defeat, the Great Play consumed the player, but all that remained was the spent, broken shells of yesterday's home.

Exiled from the continuum, I performed intangible duties, healed secret ills, and reckoned with imperfect eyes.

Oh yes, here and there I grasped and held onto things, to thoughts, and to lies. Later or soon I was forced to let go.

When predicament ensconced the days, oblivion forsook them.

Resignation became my fountain and my thirst, while misery tangled about in the lyre.

Fear crept in through the fissures of my nothingness. Sadness purged it out. A hollow conduit of incompleteness was all that remained. Through this the Source oozed rapture and healing into my uncloseable wounds.

It was never enough. The distance itself was damnation. I was alone, absolutely alone, and only the pit of my troubled guts had the honest strength left to grieve it.

There you have it. Brace yourself hard into the inevitable, for there is no emancipation without the burn. There is no blockage, and no gain.

Still it was all a miracle, of that there is no dispute. How I saw it is all that can be said, not what it was I saw.

Aglow and wandering, free of context and meaning, writhing unkempt in the dark, terminal madness of becoming, it was the decadent insomnia of consciousness that held me gripped and staring. I was an Eye, casting about hither and yon, hunting frantically for a mirror to find itself within. To look, to see, to comprehend.

New Eden, old crime.





These are the words of an historical being only, they are no longer mine. I have proceeded out from that gnarled mess of dark, manifest complexity, back into the glow of the unmanifest One. But that is not really it either. Both sides are an insurmountable heap of confusion, and nothing more. Believe me. It's impossible to describe. Bloody impossible.

The names and places of our journey are as important as the individuals residing in them, and yet the context which I choose not to bring to this story would merely be a backdrop to the eternal drama underway. It is the Great Play of life, in which we may all choose a role, that really matters; whether it be as puppet, prop, actor, spectator, or muse. The characters are important only in so far as they lend flow and color to the story, they are nothing in themselves.

So consider me then, within and without context: a lost hero, or found fool, dressed in another's soiled rags, wildly drunk and yet perfectly sober, blindly jabbering out this vain prattle, rapt in a somber soliloquy amidst the epic journey through the mystic flesh, and whimsically determined to describe my most recent part in the endless Play.

There is no narrative to my story, as I said, only a voice liberated from the song; only a mute spirit in the chronic filibuster of the infinite soul.

In fact, I am not even speaking. Everything is inside. You are also there. I am the absence of thought. You are the ear which creates me.

You need me only because you need yourself- because I awoke before you in your dream, so as to then awaken you; because I am in you, and of you.

I need you because I am you. So you see where we are at then.


But allow me to backpeddle once again so as to fill in the yawning abysses of this artless unfable.

To begin with I had no idea worth dreaming, no thought worth thinking, no emotion for life. I had played in the world, loving its loves, fearing its fears, desiring its desires, and trying its trials.

None of it worked. It was all wrong. The path the world educated me to follow led quickly and only to hell.

Every moment of my old life was an improvisation. From the moment I first awakened I never saw the script. The director was nowhere to be found, and the rest of the cast was a bloodthirsty mob of petty, ostentatious insufficiencies. And only because of this- because I was bored and pissed off, and knew neither the plot, nor my part; it was only because of this that I eventually picked up a broom, walked into the reaches, and began to sweep dust out of the theatre.

And in that provincial domain of our feral aristocracy, where the duty and dreaming mingled into an insoluble one, nobody could have told me what I would find when I ceased living with expectation, with searching, with need. No one could show me how to get no where.

Rounding a corner in the hopeless race, I suddenly stopped and lied down in the middle of the run. I went through no finish, and received no reward. I simply stopped. I came to the end of my soul's desecration, and was born from the remains of what never was me.

Oh, perhaps I am going off a bit, lost in the verbose, dark incantations of our imperishable emptiness. Perhaps not. Bear with me though, won't you- bare with me? It will all come full circle soon enough. But not until then. Not a chance. First we must live full in the full darkness, or we shall never appreciate the light.


What, then, were the feverish hallmarks of my existential undoing? Who can say? Have I even the courage to speak? No, I have not the courage, I have only the need.

Coarse blasphemy and verbiage aside, I would not call my life a conversion, merely a version.

To begin with, there are truths I would not come to understand until after many confused and torturous years of hopeless digression, false intent, corruption, debauchery, idleness, unfaith, and agony.

For me it began as a wild and manic ride of booze and anguish, dope and euphoria, destiny and freedom, psychadelia, mushrooms, madness, faith, humility, and wonder. I would not come to the nothingness that is everything until all the blood had been letted from my putrid corpse, until I had mapped out all the blind alleys within myself, until the heavens murdered me without pity or concern, until I loved and cursed and followed God, and then was broken from the mold of the manifest, and inhaled back to the Source, like a creature caught in the throat of a Creator who had only begun to breathe.


Throughout those formative days of my so called separate existence, there were, if I may say so, many seemingly unexplainable preconceptions, synchronicities, exuberances, coincidences, messages, voices, wonderings, and dreams. Good god there were dreams. Night after night did I writhe upon the mythical membrane in between consciousness and sleep, where the greater and lesser archetypes spun webs of unspeakable drama throughout my defenseless becoming; obstinate realities occurred rhapsodically within me, but of these I can barely admit, even to myself; I had assumed it a privilege that I was being guided, but in fact perhaps it was done begrudgingly- because I was incapable of guiding myself.

Oh, like a thief too afraid to steal, I was given everything I needed, though inside myself I still plotted and squirmed.

Yea, like a bivalve of the spirit- relentless miracles through me went, though I remained intolerable. I was a horrid creature of grace.

Lord, oh Lord, forgive me my heartless ingratitude! Would that I but sing with praise on my lips to amend for the curses I grew on.

My soul? My soul indeed! My soul was but the justifications I had contrived for not having a soul. I was Abraham, recklessly pursuing Isaac- escaped, terrified and weeping- down the precipitous slopes of my own tortured necessity? There was no economy in my strides. There was no promise within me, not a single resolution. Why the crowds of passing daemons did not spit on me in disgust, I shall never know; a sinner amongst saints, dog-shit on a cut lawn, a booger on a bare wall, a cyst on supple flesh; every breath I took was another scar upon the earth. What ghastly errors I spawned onto life. A prisoner of guilt and judgement- a frail, recalcitrant, make-believe monstrosity, oh, I was the vilest of pretend things.

While my penance flamed into its full and ruthless glory, how deep indeed I was buried in ignorance, and darkness.

All this happens so secretly- intoxication with the Worm, I mean- but man alive it happens. Let me tell you, I did not rise piously out of the noxious mist, but inhaled its toxic qualities, in the spineless hyperventilation of agreeable illusions. Oh, I had breathed in heavily for such a time- those musty, hallucinogenic vapors of my own expulsion- that I lived in a vacuum, in the nauseous stench of my own halitotic excuses and demands. Which is to say- I did not exhale, I belched.

Like a runaway angel kidnapping the light, feeding the darkness with my own estrangement, and souring the love with my flight, I was all afoul. Like the wretched concubine of a syphilitic Love; I was royalty in the morning, a servant by noon, and a lost thief in love with the night. I stole from our own treasures, and poached fleeing trophies from the kingdom's sparse herd.

Though the magic was boundlessly making me, all I did was get in the way. Many benedictions I swallowed, but only calumnies were expelled; these same hands, thanklessly receiving the manna of heaven, returned it but shortly, as vomit.

Further, and further, down and down came the inescapable fall: I was nothing, existing nowhere, finding nothing, and helping no one, but only because there was naught to begin with, naught to maintain, and naught, in the end, to transform. I could do nothing, and no one could show me how not to do that.

What was life to me, after all, but a looting? It is now painfully obvious how choreographed all my visions were. I was merely held hostage by them; consumed by both the heights and depths, of the unknown and the known, I hovered in between, at a spot where I was equally destroyed by both; I had reached an equilibrium that was not peace, an inaction that was not serenity.

As if the angel had tripped while carrying me, and I was fumbled into unrecognizeable positions, tumbling about in her frantic hands, while she struggled to keep me off the moribund ground; I was not dropped, though neither was I caught gently in the air.

There was no such noble act of willful becoming for me, only a coasting down the hill without an engine, enjoying the ride to hell.

As the Fates merged upon the barren battleground that I called me, I could neither fully believe nor fully disbelieve existence. I lost both truth and untruth, having no foothold in myself, nor in the world; neither in the mundane, nor the spiritual.

These were the trials of my idiosyncratic becoming, of God and Satan making folly in my breast. The flesh wanted me as tenaciously as the spirit; the Mother and Father forces had different ideas of who I should be. I roamed between those invisible barriers, drunk on the shifting adherence, with protean existences competing as me.

Let me tell you, the yin and the yang, if there be such divisions, were stretched agonizingly apart to their furthest possible dimensions in me; mind in the lofty reaches, heart in the pit of hell, and I, ripped open by the insoluble feud in between them. That is why nothing worked. There were two halves, two distinct, separate halves, and those halves made a whole, but I was not whole.


Ah, but things turn when the tide shifts, and as my energy waxed and waned in the smoke and mirrors of the day, I still went forth, found myself again without idea, without purpose, without glee, and plunged ahead some distance further, into and beyond myself, in the ruthless absolution of sublime, divine intent.

Oh, there were tests and appeasements, but no peace, and no return, only a fire flaming hot inside of me, inexorably engulfing everything in its path. I was its path.

I stumbled, I crashed, through rack and ruin, beating blindly without reason. Seeking to find some sort of serenity, or to die within feet of the door. To live, all I wanted to do was live. To get it right, to not fuck up. Somehow.

I did not know then what life's reckless meaning beckoned. I recognize no impetus behind my manic actions but flight and boredom, though I know not why I was bored, nor what it was I fled.

I did not at first seek truth (as if there were such a thing), only a complacency to dispel such arduous yearnings. Every act was an escape from myself and the mind's implications. I was made stable by the force I exerted against what opposed me, and not because I could stand.

God and truth? These were merely my excuses for an inability to live. My dreams and terrors, apathy and awe, all of these I justified along the way. My words were vanity's ambitions, the nomenclature of sin; I was corrupt and absolutely unclean not because of the evil all about me in the world, but ...because of myself. Because I was not trying to come to god, I was trying to get away. Yea, running bolt and lightly through the days of torture and despair, I participated ineffectively, pondering all these supplicative maneuvers, because I was afraid to cease falsely knowing myself. I allowed myself every inadequacy, every sorrow, every confusion, because I was sanctified by the relevance of unfulfilled need. Need became a preface to finding what was needed. As long as I needed, it was almost as good as having.

Anything but to be still.

In fact, if there was to be no joy, I wanted to at to least contain a desperation; to anguish towards or away, it did not matter. I needed something much more than the nothingness I had been allotted; to be wholly crushed, beaten, and bent, to break under the immense strain of being. The weight had no magnitude, it was my weakness that was great.

I kept myself in perpetual limbo by striving only for those things which I was incapable of attaining, and in fact, towards which I was incapable of striving. I tried to walk away a thousand times, and I went as far as I could, but you can never get away. Wherever you run you always carry your cage.

And when eventually I fled to the only place left for me to flee- into myself- I found that I was still running away.

Oh, how I had bolted and run from myself, then towards myself, towards, and away, forward and backward, everywhere and none. I even imagined the piety and disdain with which I groped upon this earth.

And yet, though I was so unprepared for such gross and terrible initiations, I came to capitulation quick, but not easily. Separate and yet not separate, it was a tug-of-war between losses, where hell, and heaven, and earth met like a patch in the fabric of being, inside my weary, radiant core. I was Mary, whore of god; as if being torn in all directions by a band of lunatics, I was painfully going nowhere.

And then, instantly, everything shifted, and yet nothing really changed. It was as if the whole thing were planned out beforehand by some perverse, mad puppeteer, for when it got so hot, and I could not move from my seat, that is when- without prior knowledge or composure, as the flames lept up incorrigibly before me- the whole thing overturned, the nigredo flipped to albedo, the out became the in, and by God if I hadn't suddenly learned ...to move the fire.

I had simply capitulated without losing anything. I won without a victory. I had finally seen rewardlessness in all its guises. Which is to say, I lost gaining, found losing, and every panic and sorrow turned back into ...nothing.

I tell you, at that very moment I stopped. I absolutely stopped. There is no part of me which has moved since. It is as if I escaped without leaving, and left without escaping.

That is when my flight crashed, and, if you can stomach the paradox, that is also when I earned my wings.

I had returned. I don't know to where, but ...I had returned.

Strange that. Let me tell you. Very strange.









"But on the human plane that would have been destruction: living life instead of living one's own life is forbidden. It is a sin to go into divine matter. And that sin has an inexorable punishment: the person who dares go into that secret, in losing her individual life, disorganizes the human world."

Clarice Lispector




Allow me to continue this oblique dissemination.

When you have lived existence out completely in its manifold directions- when you have thought and fought, pondered and wondered, yearned and wept, hated and loved- all to their furthest extent, and yet you are still unbroken, still earnest enough, still alive and mad for life, still strong and fighting, still driven on and on like that wild hare fleeing the unforgiving hounds- the most unexpected shift eventually occurs; the self dissolves in the vision of its limitless dimensions, the mind loses meaning, the heart loses loss, and the whole swollen mess of life literally flips inside out, and upside down- as occasionally it seems wont to do- and everything changes at once, yet nothing has changed.

It happens despite everything else that is happening. The trick is that in order to finally remember, first you must forget.

That is- as truth faltered, as the lies melted from my self's fluidity, and the soul shed its worn out old mind, I was undone, absolutely disassembled. Let me tell you, I did not attain, I unattained. What else can be said? I came apart at the seams in the midst of life, and walked about in tatters, tripping over them until I was nude. Hallelujah!

To stand in the centre of it all- without a thought, direction, or meaning, but with love and anguish exploding equally from your naked guts- is to fall into the still point of living, and to live beyond the hollow of life.

It was the end of all my fidgeting, fleeing, and venial passions; I was ready to begin again, to start all over, to end what was not finishable- because I knew, with the hard honesty born from struggle and futility, that it was time to cut my losses, and that it would be a long while before I rose up again and randomly chose another blind direction. It did not matter at that point anyway, because there was by then no such me to stop me now. There was no such me; there was only the great complexity, and the not-me not navigating within it. But let me explain.

My return to wherever it was I returned, was very stark and absolutely innocent; I was, for most of my life, enveloped in a cocoon of blessed identitilessness, metamorphosizing obscurely away from the light.

But when the wings are finally full, and the spring has arrived from winter, the covering better break, or the butterfly won't fly, but die.

I flew.

Like a happenstance dismay of unknown wonders, those specious and soothing images upon which I had been weaned then broke apart in the apocalypse of unmeaning.

You see, in the end of this new beginning- when I, so to speak, let it go- I was by that point fully shut down in all my tremulous theories, and left to roam the mystery, blinder than blind in the darker than darkness; everything effortlessly fell apart, and then just as gracefully it all came back together in a hilarious ruse of existential desperation and delight.

That final capitulation, or decapitation, or crowning release came suddenly, as it were, (or perhaps it had taken lifetimes to build up to such a tepid crescendo), and went something like this: I had been out walking alone at night- as I was wont to do at the behest of my demons- thinking of this or that or nothing at all, I don't remember much, but, of course, as you will see- that is the crux of my story. All of the sudden, in the dimensionless gap between strides, as it were, without warning, perhaps because of the many preceding years of sedulous doubt, mania, and freedom, and because I had for one reason or another seen- or at least convinced myself I had- into life's lie and unmeaning, I ...I ruptured mentally; I could not believe it. It? Life? Me? I? Good god, the impossibility of it all! I did not understand a thing. Not a thing. Good and bad were gone forever. Whatever, and whyever, and whoever it is that we are? I did not know. Man, let me tell you, I flew up and fell. I fell, and broke, and was blown away in the breeze.

Indeed, it was only after the grosser movements of my confined imagination had been burned clean of redundancy, privilege, and need; after the mean calamities of our so called life usurped me from all courage and despair; after the whole mad show boiled up in ecstasy and failure; after I stumbled and bloomed, aghast and transparent in what could not be and is; it was then that I broke, redeemed and abolished, as if newly awoken or just fallen to sleep; it was then that I possessed intimacy with gratitude and awe, because I was life and living, and now was all too new forever. Nothing was solved in the maelstrom of my new immanent ubiquity, but, let me tell you, life became a miracle again.

The marvelous magnitude of being had suddenly swelled ferociously up and consumed me whole. Nothing was left which was able to obstruct it; no walls, no thought, no intention, no me. There was neither curse nor praise, but only a transparent, sober nothingness. I was the dumbest man alive. I was free.

Oh perhaps it was only a brief glimpse of the eternal above from the ephemeral below, but a glimpse it was (everything lasting is forgotten). I stared assiduously into the light, and then, forever afterward, because I had seen it, everywhere I looked I saw naught but the refulgent sun.

That moment when I saw right through life made me the craziest of all. It was from such a disastrous, ineffable vision- in which I was dismantled into unrecognized bits and then smashed irrevocably beyond myself- that I was subsequently patched back together, so as to return to the world, to life, and somehow manage to live it. And that is the hard and living hell of it, let me tell you. Life is now but this ungraspable remnant of seeing brightness which in its fleeting brilliance continually disappears as I continually try to look for it; like a glorious residue, hovering deceitfully on the periphery of vision, which I can neither fully see, nor describe, nor dispute IT is there.





Onward, we must keep on, with the insufferable rhythm of this solipsistic incantation.

I have often said that in the single instant of absolute wonder- when suddenly I forgot everything I had been told from day one- I lost my life completely. That is, I lost my life, yes, but not Life; I lost only the blind, heartless wombat I had been made into by others, and by my own spiritless cowardice and sloth.

Yet in that grey, hazy dawn of my autonomous disenlightenment, nothing was altered, nothing subsided, nothing was better. I was still bound fruitlessly into this surrogate quintessence- into the lie, the Great Lie, the one that says- you are this, and life is that, and thus binds us fast into the wrong idea of ourselves.

Indeed as quickly as I was lifted up, I melted back into the sordid old thing, helpless to remain aloft. I called it aloft, though I was still on the ground, and calling it ground, and thundering blindly about, sometimes on all fours, as if that might shorten the fall. But even then, in those lower reelings, where I was cast about in cataleptic fits of exhaustion, attempting relentlessly to escape myself, I was cleansed of the mire so completely, that all I had to do was sink, and sink, and sink, further and further into the filth, and the flesh- and then I was able to fly.

Ah, to fly- to erupt without any movement, to rise without going high. I flew inside myself, through the infinite space of unmeaning. Through the lift and the glide of just being.

For when eventually I learned to see equally in all directions, I came to exist in the non-existent space, which is immense and yet without any distance or view; it was all forever old, and all forever new.

An infinite bridge across a finite chasm. A flame within an inferno. A drop inside the storm.

I was in the storm. And I was helpless.

That is when, as I intoned earlier, I stopped, and began, and the start and the finish all blended; what ended had never even begun- it was an instant, forever cataclysmic euphoria. As the ether ignited in hellish ecstasy at my fallen condition, I opened up like a mollusc in a fire, and the scorching flames consumed me.

And then what the hell, if you can buy this, but in the next step of my dismantling and rebuilding, everything else sped up and catapulted through the living stasis of my soul. It was an exhilarating, innocent capitulation wrought down upon me by a force I have not yet named; I gave ground in the hollow of my wonder and man if everything didn't perish and grow through that infinite hole. The unworldly, horrible stillness in which I then basked seemed impossibly to produce the song of everything else. How is that possible I haven't a clue. Not one.

I can only presume that the whole shmeer about becoming what you are, or what you could be- but as yet you never have been- eventually comes right back to where it started- to you. But when it gets there- and let me tell you it gets there, with all the fire and brimstone of your day- there's no 'you' left to receive it. You are IT.

For, back when I found myself suddenly in the middle of life's mayhem, and the only thing that I was certain of- which is to say, myself- had vanished beyond all recognition- when I, so to speak, let it go- and yet nothing was gone either, that is when life took me forcefully by the arm, wrenched me from the moorings, and led me back into myself, and myself was, in the end, no different than the magical happening which we so often dismiss as what lies, not within us, but ...what lies without.

Yea indeed, like a dizzy logotrope, spinning wildly about, grasped by that halcyon light which follows the passionate arc- to turn towards the colossal mystery of being, to follow the real but invisible movements, to want truth inside of you more than you even want yourself there, is to appear mad and sane in the world of reason. To move with a heaven-tethered eye, never bending from its sight, is to be nothing and everything which is; it is to look through a different window, and still live inside the house.

You see, the microcosm is not altered when the macrocosm wakes up, the division simply vanishes, and so the non-existent gap no longer exists.

Then it is, let me tell you, that you begin to dance with no shadows.




When I started to dance it was like finding a map without a territory. Like coming upon an unknown wildland inside of me.

In a millisecond of absolute forgetfulness everything altered and yet it all remained completely the same. One moment I was me, walking along somewhere, somehow, as somebody, and then, just like as if there was a mutiny within me, a massive exodus from my Egypt walked out into my own Israel. Which is to say, I awoke in the sleep I was dreaming.

I came to, gaping and wide. Clenching my forehead, I went to my knees. I was smiling and weeping (and who has not done that?) But man it was different. It was as if I smiled without smiling, wept without weeping, and gasped without taking a breath. No, perhaps it wasn't like that. But still I realized for the first time in my life (and here is where it gets crazy again) ...that I knew nothing, nothing of anything, of the world, of myself, of our meaning. I was in the mystery, and I was the Mystery. Finally I had forgotten everything. Everything. Nothing but a blank, brilliant slate remained. Even that nebulous, impossible word 'God'- even that- I forgot what it means, and, more importantly ...what it does not mean.

What is god? What is not god? Suddenly these became the same question, with only one answer. God. Do you understand what that implies? No, of course you don't. Neither do I. I cannot explain the vanishing dichotomy any further.

But then, let me continue, after that stupefying event- after His, or Hers, or My own unknowable being sprang forth in awful mystic bewilderment before me- I could not help but ponder whether I- like the worn-out and disheveled seers of old, wandering aimlessly about, ruined by their half-baked visions- whether I would also fall helplessly away from all meaning and life, and would I also go on, and on, and on, as drunk as the ether ...and sober as the sun.

Euphoria, you see, is indeed a ghastly blessing; I expired from the inspirations by which I was engulfed, I was dispersed by the ecstasies which described me, was exploded against the firmament, and then was torn asunder, shredded magnanimously into digestible bits, and swallowed back into the fulcrum of torturous, graced bewilderments. I lived then intoxicated by a thousand realms at once, respirating in the thin abysses.

Oh, there are indeed limitless depths of disbelief which I have swum through breathlessly; the rare, exhilarating moments when I remember I do not understand. Mind is now a lung through which I inhale impossibilities. My endurance is infinite. Never have I come up gasping.

Whatever divorces me from the intimacy of my own strangeness, from the incontestable wonder of what is; whatever binds me into knowing; whatever rescinds the mind's colossal absences- of incomprehension comprehending itself; whatever thieves those alien, incorruptible distances; whatever a-muses me... that is what I abhor.

I live now in the impunity of not-knowing (ergo in the redemption of awe). Now every moment in which I do not stare incapably off into space, aghast with disbelief- every moment in which I am not honest enough to seize up, inexorably baffled, every moment that my being does not turn incorrigibly towards the splendor of the unreachable, immanent mecca that is and is not mind- is a golden moment lost.

If only I could last forever in these ephemeral cataclysms, in these lost velocities and spent configurations. I am composed of problematic ecstasies, of masochistic ebullience. I inhabit perfectly only those disastrous tranquilities, expatiating along the harrowing, vertiginous ridge of lostness, thriving fecund only in dimensions which exhaust me.

You see, as the context of our borderless spirits dissolved within and before me- in the wordless proximity to being- I, frought with indecision and panic, had gazed and intruded into the manner of it all. Into the welcoming abyss.

Which is to say, after it all came together, or perhaps fell apart, in that one irrevocable, passionate invasion- I was emancipated of all thought; when it was over I lay embalmed in a viscous mix of incapacity and exaltation.

I was baptized in disbelief.

Understand that if I speak of these visions, they are not of sight, but of sudden, lucid confusions, when the mind implodes and explodes, dissipates and expands; when the mind, whatever it is, forgets what it thought it was, does not question what it is, and lives intimately within, and as, that mystery which, in the reflective, drunken aftermath of such experience, it will forever disputably call mind.

It was not enlightenment that I underwent, but its opposite; a pure, absolute, intelligent ignorance. I was new again- like an innocent child- or so it seemed then, in my delirium and rapture. For in fact I was not new either, for now I was not completely ignorant- I still had the memory of what I now knew I was not.

Like a fledgling alien- spawned from the bird which lays its eggs in another species' nest, and then flies off, never to be known by its offspring- suddenly I knew it was all wrong- that we were not what we thought we were, nor what we might claimed to have been.

Who are we? Why are we? What are we? I tell you I do not know. I only know that we are not what we think we are, thus we are what we are not. Hallelujah indeed!

I now had one dead-end marked off on the map of the infinite labyrinth of being. That was something.

Oh, where were you then in that long night, to take my hand completely? To be this dumb-founded by being, is to be completely alone. No one understands like I understand, because I ...Eye do not understand.

Hold onto me now, lest I vanish in the clouds of newness, blessed in their lifeless birth. Hold onto me as I dwindle in the solvent never ending. As I fall away from knowing, and melt as the unknown.

Are there others habitually compelled by the mysteriousness of being as much as me? Are there others abandoned on this earth as impossibly as this? It is all too sad and beautiful.

It was only after I walked amongst the scorching flames of hell, and was charred clean through, that I came out bright and flying.

Oh, burn me fine and white in Thine arduous hastenings, Lord. Mend me in the fire.

Are there others who have lost their mind as grace-fully as me?





After my hallowed disrememberance, it was like the stupor of Noah after the flood; the world was swept pure, and clean of taint. Every last speck of the man I was, or had been, was no longer; every idea of truth, every reason, want and torture- everything had been a lie. I was that lie, and I was done for. But that's what death is anyways- you begin again. What's gone is gone, and though it might have been real, and hopeful, it ain't that way no more. In jocular, euphoric, barnyard ululations, I whinnied, hooted, and clucked my way towards the heavens.

No more of the banter, sniggle, and hogwash. I did not stoically rise out but, coddled and upright in the soothing burn of being, melted away like a wax figure into the glorious, unmanifest One.

For me it was the end of life; I lost and found everything in the cataclysm of lucid ignorance. I woke up, yes, but I woke up in darkness, like one who wakes in the night, in a foreign place, who then stumbles about not knowing where he is, what he is doing there, not even who he is that is there.

As if caught in a blessed vacuum of disbelief, I fell helplessly into the infinite mystery where even God did not know himself.

I had resonated entropy into the tangling forms, tearing all life's hardened images from my virginal eyes, and finally I forgot the knowledge by which I had been ex-communicated in this life. And when I staggered back onto my feet and found my new footing in the ether, that was the first step I ever took forward.

Finally I somehow belonged to the world, and the world belonged to me. I understood it no better, but now I did not need to understand- because Eye existed. I was glad not to understand it. Now my non-understanding was not a barrier, it was freedom itself.

The infinity which Eye witnessed as the last remnant of memory and recognition dissipated from my dissipating consciousness delivered me into unimaginability after unimaginability; I was given to a showering of 'never beforeness' colliding all about and around.

Oh, there are no samples nor tastes of infinity, there are only unswallowable gulps of life, drowning me in swollen breaths of intobated non-suffocation. Me?, and this?, and all of it, and good god how to come to terms?!

How could it be? How could all of this be? And yet ...and yet it was. I was it- the Mystery incarnate within itself; intimate and detached, part and yet parcel of the whole crazy show, as it were.

I dwell more comfortably now in the perplexity, in the genuine obviousness of non-discrimination.

I have found what cannot be confirmed; I have discovered lostness, a conclusionless conclusion.

Discharged from these pendulous invalidations, I have unseen, have disproved all things, and have found not-finding.

I became free because I learned how to forget, how to unknow, how to see everything as if I had never seen it before, and so I broke through the knowledge by which I was tethered to this world so as to rise off of this earth for a greater moment than it has settled upon me.

I did not, at the outset, realize that the world became astounding only when I ceased to understand it, but now I gravitate more easily, in fact unavoidably, towards gratitude ...by not knowing what I am.

Oh, I have only just begun to find the configurations necessary for my life, in order that I can properly not understand it. It is in the simplest of affirmations, in the least of concepts that I lose my new non-self, that I lose unfathomableness. I am torn to pieces by the small meanings comprising things and their apparent configurations; I decompose under platitudes.

I seek to not understand, but to live in the magical grace of the day. I do not writhe ecstatically from conventional euphorias; only when I forget what everybody else says life is, or is supposed to be, does it all become the crazy miracle it always has been and cannot help but be. I am amazed that myself and everything ‘is’. And I am amazed that others are not so amazed; I am astonished by the lack of astonishment.

I no longer yearn for fathomable happenings. This world is as good a place as any to confront implausibility. God and truth, I know nothing of them. I know merely a bewildering, spectacular, authenticity that I can but poorly describe as ‘unfathomableness’- a confounding, wordless, somethingness; I believe only in the outlandishness of being; I am convincingly, absolutely, absorbed by the wonderment of being.

Every moment in which I live, my life becomes more and more mythical to me; I come to realize that I am not what I am; I am less and so much more; I contain everything that was, is, and will be; every event, every fantasy, every reality. I am, and I cannot believe it.

Everyday, reality becomes increasingly less real, and this unreality becomes increasingly more real; the unreality of reality feels more real. Reality is so unreal it must be real; I believe it because it is impossible to believe it; absurdity is the most certain validation of our questionable existence.

It is not logical to see the world logically. The reality of reality is its unrealness; reality is nothing more than the unrealness that it is; a fantasy that is real. Reality occurs as this unreality of the real- as simply the most absurd concoction of improbabilities that a reasoning mind can hope to withstand. It is far beyond anything imaginable; whatever it is- it is; only reality could have come up with this unreality.

Ah, to be the complexity that man is, and yet to not be complex enough to understand that very complexity; existence pondering existence; mystery mystified by mystery. ...It amazes me that I ‘am’, and yet still I must learn of being- that I do not, by the very act of being, know of it already.

Have I then come into this life only so as to applaud the miraculous implausibility of all that is, by ecstatically not understanding it? Am I here to humbly exalt the glorious mystery of being, and nothing more? Is there anything more?


Prometheus may have stolen the fire, but I made off with the bomb. I severed the bonds by which I was uselessly tethered to this earth. I slayed the last of a dying species by debunking plausibility, and disproving without proving.

I uprooted the Tree of Knowledge, and then burned the fruit with the limbs for a pyre.

Indeed it is time to purge the cloaca of our fetid concepts; time to cauterize our septic meanderings; time to euthanize obsolete symbologies.

Let me tell you, after all I have seen, and all I have unseen, I now preen conception from my mind like a baboon picking squirming gnats from its own knotted fur; I gnaw upon the mind's maggots.

I simply want to erase everything and to start anew; to smash the blackboards, and throw away the chalk. Life indeed is a more genuine mystery than it is a common fact.

I am no coward of the mind, I will not cognitively submit to agreeable notions. I unknow the world ...defiantly.

A genocide of cerebrations; I massacred ontologies and pillaged their existential remains, ruthlessly exterminated ideas, hacking my way through the barricades of false emancipations.

There is no heroism, only a war that never ceases, and soldiers that never die.

You see, mine was a distorted illumination; like the blinding light of the sun, bouncing off the lightless, light-giving moon, did I rise up in the night of our being, and shine forth despite my perpetual darkness.

I, now become eye- Eye took man's whole being away with a single malicious observance. I shredded all the papers, and there shall be no cut and paste class.

Allow me these hollow victories.

Oh, give me your greatest edifice, man, that I may with innocence knock it mercilessly to the ground.

I did not come to take part, but to take apart. Nobody can tell me what life is, not after basking in the brilliant glow of unfathomable wonder.

Mine is a ruinous decomprehension. I devoured facts, and excreted mystery.

Sacrificing to get rid of, not with intent to gain, I did not cauterize, I severed. I unrecognized being in a fanatical moment of destructive non-interpretation.

An animal of mind, I am ferocious in wild honesty. I am savage because I am free. The blood of meaning is on my hands.


Ah, but let me reiterate. You see, in fact I was always free. I never really understood. That was my freedom. Pain would always exist- that I could not longer deny. But let me tell you of the release which took me nowhere. From the torture of our vainly lost ignorance. Yes, by our lost ignorance.

I wanted only to be stupid again. I wanted to forget, to start again, to break apart and be done. And you know what- I forgot.

I forgot me. Me? Yes, that faulty proximity, I forgot even that. In the hollow reaches of no thought, where the form is released from the will of the Law ...I stopped. Everything else continued. Only I stopped. I did not become, I unbecame.

It happened when I had seemingly failed at life completely, when I had walked away from everything with nothing left but myself, and even that self was crumbling out from beneath me. That is when, in the silent, wordless wonder of it all, I became ...the one who was looking for me. Which is to say, I became the Eye of no I.

In the intimacy of all our absences, where the self assumes no borders and form shatters without breaking ...I remembered how to forget.

In fact, I am the man who was the one forever trying to help me cross the river. Such is the task of destiny; It found itself.

I stopped looking for something, and Eye started looking at it all. Eye listened to I. I saw through Eye. Now I am not, and am, so at least Eye have that.

Oh, it is so hard to describe, but somehow, unpredictably, in those vagrant, directionless wanderings, I found something's nothingness; I stumbled unwittingly upon an indisputable recognition. I did not know what it was. I simply accepted that it was Me.

Let me tell you, it is a long way back. And it is a long way forward. And both are the same direction. And the only way to get there is to go, and and go, and go, and keep going, and never to think of arrival.

Yea indeed, meandering guidelessly through the tunnels of decomprehension, I had found not-finding, and lost all sense of the ground. I was debacled of the known. For it was then- as if the mind had condemned itself all along- without thought or guidance, that ignorance became my honored counsel. It was then that I disremembered myself, and eye ...Eye remembered myself.

In fact it was as if I was I, and only I, and nothing but I all along, whatever it is I be.

In the absence of all image I fell joyfully away from thought to thoughtless beauty, in the mindless upswell of the heart's conquest.

Like a man awoken in an unknown flower garden, in an unknown world, for an unknown reason, I could do naught but inhale the intoxicating perfumes of this crazy life's beauty and love. Good god did I breathe. That's all I did. That's all I could do. Nothing more was needed. To rise and go forth away from the swollen rapture was to spit in the face of beauty, and to weep for the flying dove.

I tell you, I did not move. Not a whisper. It was exhilarating.

My life was like an old and beaten radio that looked worn and useless on the outside, but man when you put the earphones in and turned it up, damn if it didn't play good tunes.

I was wild and I was listening. Listening to the song of the wildness running free and right through me. I was hearing the old music that no longer flowed with the discordant ways we were dancing together. I was dancing to the old tune of the new heart, the heart buried and bound by the mind for so long that to finally unleash it was to explode in ecstasy and anguish; to stand in the morgue of life, and swirl and be taken by a fiddler no one else could hear.

I could hear the fiddler. I was opened, murdered, lifted, cleansed, moved, and dancing.

And I was still.





Thus it was, that in the last battle of the ghastly war of attrition my soul led against all lies, there was nothing left but an eye, torn out at the roots by its own intransigent sight. It all vanished fleetingly together; the maxim and response, the holler and the echo. I saw nothing but my own vision, and through that I saw not even me.

It was like a far-off land of which I had spoken often but never seen, and when I finally shut my mouth ...I was there.

I did not actually surrender to this or that, or what have you, I simply gave up; there was no more running about everywhere, only a dry leaf crumbling in the infinite wind.

I was finished, so to speak, but not in the vogue of any metaphysical euphemism for attainment, but because I was through with the struggle, the strain, and the whole damned mess of it; because I was surely in the magician's chambers, and had in fact been there all along. I could do nothing except the only thing there was to do when there is nothing left to do- I became still.

Nothing more could have been done; as if being chased up a closed canyon by a mightier force, there was nowhere else I could run; I was corralled by the extraordinary shepherding of being; I had come to a spot where I had to surrender.

When eventually I was stopped, it was forced, by a power much greater than my own. I did not know whether it was for, or against me. Perhaps it does not matter, for the Law is the Law, and when you're going so fast that you might lose control- the Law stops you. Whether for right or wrong, light or darkness, good or bad, I have no clue, it was way beyond my scope and talents. Either way ...I was stopped.

I had no more fight left with the world, with god, or myself. There was no victory, and no defeat- the war just sort of ended when both sides ran out of bullets. None had the courage to tangle face to face in the hard reality of the flesh. We all just turned away together and walked on home.

You see, only after the spirit has entered the flesh, can the flesh escape to the spirit. Only when you let God in, can you go out- out like a flame being engulfed by the fire; you rise up only when you can finally breathe under water (so there's nothing all that liberating about the ascent, in the end).

Which is to say, that if there is to be a final 'giving over', a reckoning, a redemption, it will occur only after it has long since been necessary- when the individual has carved him or herself down to a mere filament of any specific recognition- when there is nothing left to be redeemed.

Let me tell you, when all your walls eventually come tumbling down, there better be nothing left in the house worth defending, or then the fight will be real, and deathly, or worse.

You will peel layer after layer of chaff from the germ, until in the last shuck from the core, you will see that nothing at all is left there. You are chaff. You are finished.

No matter, when all your denials and self deceits are over, and god wakes up with disbelief inside of you, you will not even be around to greet god.

You see, the surrender of which I speak is wholly epistemological (if you can fathom, or unfathom, what I mean by that).

That night, in the wreckless failures of one of my more strategically placed self-deceptions, I unintentionally saw no more truth but finally saw the false completely, and so fell away abruptly into the spot which never moves. I was empty.

It was only when I learned to forget everything, to become stupid, to see life and myself as if I had never seen it before, without understanding a damn thing (for the thing is damnation to no-thing), that life began to blossom as the unknowable, magical miracle that it is.

In every one of us there is an angel dying. And yet all that is neede is a shift, an inversion, a conversion. For at the furthest reaches of the ignorance which ensconces us, lie the antipodes of sorrow and ecstasy. We have dwelled in the former, dark end too long. Now we need only fight your way to the lost extreme, for these opposites are not actually opposed, but are the same thing, viewed only from different directions.

Thus, when the walls and chains you are bound in finally show themselves plainly as webs of your own ignorant devising- that these arise from neither the Good, nor Evil, but from your own confusion- that is when you stop struggling to break free, chuckle a bit at the lesson, genuflect for a moment or two, gape wildly with wonder at it all, and float calmly away without caring.

Yea indeed, as the raging forms glistened in the ecstasy of what may, I stood again before myself.

I came through suffering to gratitude, exalting what had deranged me, because I began to understand what was happening- somehow I had gotten back on track, I don't know how, but somehow I was returning to the source of gratitude, to mystery, to God, to godness ...to Me.





The only trick is to think for yourself, to be yourself, to forgive yourself, to love yourself, and to forget yourself. To connect all the disparate layers of our being through the quicksilver of the self.

Of the self. Of. To be of.

To return to God in the midst of things. To rise, to eat, to work, to love, to play and to pray, to sorrow and cry. In the God-flesh of our becoming, to deny nothing, to renounce nothing. To accept. To be of. To be.

There is no way home but to become home. There is no way back but to go forward. There is no way out but to go in. That is what we are here for. That is how the soul sheds its skin.


I myself did not come into this consciousness in a resplendent attempt to extricate, nor emancipate, nor guide, I simply merged back into the Dream ...I did not wake from it.

Which is to say- as the vortex of being mounted, and the angels gathered to fly, I lept off into the whirlwind and ...I became the wind.

I did not weave this integral, complex fabric of being, nor did I unstitch it, I merely blended into patternlessness, became contiguous in the realm of all happenings, and then moved freely amongst its fibres. It was so bloody easy- I simply melted into the sublime.

Yea indeed, discordant frequencies converge in the chaos, and a wholly new harmonious sound can be heard.

In the end it is not so much about giving up the ghost, but of giving yourself up, and becoming a ghost.

Like the ash from a cigarette which holds its form after the burn, but has no form, and is dispersed away in the slightest of breezes, I was not swept into the sea, but merely washed away like a stain of blood upon the earth.

I dissolved into the tide.

Be it salvation or destruction, of that I am not sure, in the end it seems there is no valuable difference. In fact, there was little holy or unholy about my destined unglueing; only a poisonous solvent, dissolving away my hard soul. I melted into a solution of forgetfulness, or such as I might have called it at the time.

I completely lost myself, I don't know where I went.

The well of cosmic absence into which I inexorably fell exists only for those who have lost themselves and dissolved into the One.

The One, the singular Dream, the dream you are dreaming, but you know it not, and so it can never be finished.

What really happened is that I, who had always been me, and was bound and determined to stay and defend myself at all costs ...I became nobody. And when that happens let me tell you- you're in for one hell of a ride.










“We sit together,

the mountain and I,

until only the mountain remains.”

Li Po




Allow me to continue spinning the yarn of this interminable diatribe. Return with me won’t you, to the absence of ourselves.

Life is the flower and the bee; you are merely the pollen-sac, filled and emptied, emptied and filled; you are the unpleasant absence without which neither flower, nor fruit, nor bee, would be.

But even that emptiness is not your own; a pit can exist merely because the earth was needed elsewhere. So, in this becoming which never completes itself, if the pain is as real as the absence, then perhaps the self which we call ourselves is simply a metaphysical prosthesis by which we might limp less torturously forward, or back. Perhaps the separate soul is a phantom limb.

When finally you become nobody, you become a hole through which the universe can enter and become whole.

It matters little whether the cup is half full or half empty, you drink it. The point of interiorization becomes the point of exteriorization, so they are the same.

When you become the flesh completely, only then will the flesh become free.

Oh, I dug myself all the way towards the centre of life's tune, found nothing, then dug beyond to the other side. The other side, yes, but not 'other', since by then there was no centre, only a tunnel ...no me. Which is to say, I disappeared in the act of trying to find myself.

Ah, to perish, to truly perish, to die while being lives on; to deplete oneself of all intent, understanding, and fear; to eviscerate the soul, to shed oneself, and to not be what remains in the ruins.

How strange indeed it is to journey back to the heart of being, and return with no word to tell. All to no conclusion. All to no avail.

A window, that's all I truly am, and not even that; I did not, as I had romantically hoped, see through myself to the great beyond- IT saw through me.

Perhaps it was the remembrance of my nobodiness which dispersed me first into the ether, or perhaps it was the fit of catatonic wonder unleashed mercilessly upon my waxen hide, or perhaps it was the swelling force of gratitude which then hauled me willessly by the breastbone upward, or maybe it was the last surrender- when all of it collapsed in a blinding moment of apocalyptic rapture. It was one of these, I'm sure of it. Either and every way, the little drop exploded in the storm, and then there was no more lightning, thunder, nor rain, only the great sea of something free.

Yea, in the slack, motionless movement, between the ebb and flow, where inside and out exchange themselves- there it is that you and I shall not-exist while existing. When the estuary is clear, then shall the source be one.

Just go ahead and try it. Everything will remain, just remove yourself. Keep everything else. For if truth be known, you are not moving through life, life is moving through you. Reverse the flow through that cylinder, and suddenly the light ...comes out of you. It's your space, all of it.

Like a door which swings both ways so heaven and earth can visit each other; you are the nothing which allows the all; after all, a dynamic medium which attempts to sustain a static quality, is not wholly dynamic; when you are the wind you are nobody always changing. All else is stasis, hardening, and an end which we call death.

Out of the original binary comes the absence called the third, the slack tide, the non-breath between breaths, the hole between the external and internal which creates the whole, the living non-division between us.

It is, and is not, and enhances what it depends on by ...not being. It is the bond between opposites, without which they would be opposed, and not then married.

Unseparated in this way, you shall become the common ground of all. Then indeed you shall love instead of hating. Oh, in the ardor, losses, and agony of the day- you shall love instead of hating.

To love. To stand firm and angry in that loving. To hold and smile and drift away. To take them with you.

To love. To rise.

To take them with you.





When finally you encounter the Great Soul, you will not hesitate to call it I. You are the source of all things. All of it. Like the root-stock of a great underground rhizome, when you stick your head finally out of the ether, whoever is around you ...is you.

Everything is consciousness. There is no inside looking out, there is only attention; where the self falls into the great vat of nothingness, and yet Being remains complete. It is a stillness without walls, as life blows through you, and you are a gust.

You look out onto the world as if you are in a house looking out through a window, and indeed there is a window, but ...there is no house. There is only one wall, and no roof, and everything flows over and around that wall, so there is neither inside nor out. In fact, there is not even one wall, only a window, and there isn't even that, only a place which moves in the wind, and is the wind, blowing and being blown, with nothing to block or prevent it, and nothing which might enclose it, or hold it, or make it say 'I'.

You are neither the projector nor the screen, not even the spectator watching. Poor you. You are nothing.

Oh, let me tell you- when God's great and ghastly eyes are finally inside of you, then shall you be still. As still as death. Get it?

In that austere event- when the self is only 'I', or even less than that, perhaps as nothing- it is then that I become the all, and more than the all, and continually more and more than that.

For there is only one soul, and not two, and our love is its love, our hate is its hate, and our life is it living. It is us- we are it. So there is nothing left to do.

When you become the All, everyone and everything pertains to you: every thought, every dream, every love, sorrow, truth, lie, life, and death. You are not separate. You are everything.

Stretched out and through that spiral void, you will not again disappear like a ghost, or worse- a real thing, ever haunting our lost world's home.

When you have paid back all you owe to creation- that alone is when you have the right to disappear. The privilege. The honor. To vanish. To fly.

It must have something to do with karma or its absence, if I understand the word correctly, and to be sure I do not. For the word is the word, and the thing is the thing, and the mind is the lie in between them.


Find your true nature, and the world will fall through you, back into the Great Love. Then into everyone's eyes in which you look, you will see only your own.

Oh, when you bear true-witness- when you witness truth- it's as if you don't even exist, for in that holy unbias, the untrue you will not be ...you. God will look through you onto what god has made and ...even god will not understand it.

Then it is that you shall unknow in the midst of knowing, and know in the midst of the unknown. You will be nobody, and everybody, and your finitude shall be infinite.

For if the 'I' is not just your I, but is in fact every I, and that I is your eye, but not your I, then and there it is that god looks through you onto the earth, and you are both god and not-god, eye and not-eye, I and not-I. It's all so bloody strange. Very, very strange.

It is the same for me as it is for you- I am nothing, and eye am everything. Thus it is the outlandish paradox- that we are not ourselves but ...we are each other.

And in that holy, common, non-existent space between our two unseparate worlds we shall dwell without dwelling, rest without stopping, and move without going on.

The further you look, the more you see, until you cease to be a player, and become the cosmic Play. When you become everything you are no longer trapped in the world, you are the world; yea indeed you must dance in both realms, or you shall dance in none. As you liberate yourself, you liberate everyone, for you are everyone. How could it be otherwise?

Thus- and here is where the misery falls right into your lap- for there to be love on this loveless earth, YOU must be love. How could it be any other way? Everything is your relationship to life, to yourself, to god; the Way, is the way things are. Can you not see the manifest waking up to greet you? You- a ship in the sea of relation.

When you rise up from the profane, through the mythological, to the divine- from the linear contextual, to the symbolic contextual, to the acontextual- you will gather and disperse your fragments in a wholly unpredictable way, and you will contract and expand until your nothingness becomes the all.


What happened to me is that I simply entered into that space where I did not matter to myself anymore. Only reality mattered; I was merely a conduit to it's arrival. A vacancy for the real.

Now wherever I go, and whatever I do, if I go there and do it completely, I am the same as the nameless, free thing.

Nothing is a struggle if I give myself away totally, in every move, to everything; it's the sacrifice of attention, directed to the other, that brings the cosmic marriage nearer.

What goes in is what comes out- 'I' is the meeting point. I am neither inside nor out, but am the spaceless infinity between them; neither ego nor other, and yet both.

Thus there is no division; neither inside nor out exists when they exist as One; duality unseparates itself, and incompleteness reconciles the opposites into completeness, because whether IT comes out of you, or goes in, you are still included. You are none of it, and you are all of it (tangle with that truth a while, hero).

Yea, in the gap between the receiver of what goes in, and the producer of what goes out lies the infinite nothingness in which ...I AM.


You must simply dissolve, and that is where you shall live without living, see without seeing, and die without falling dead.

In the empty moment of your eternal non-being, everything moves through your stillness- even you. But in the end it doesn't matter much, for, either way, nothing is ever solved. That is why, as I said, it doesn't matter much. Strange that. Very bloody strange.

At a certain point in the evolution of Being, each fragment of the whole, each individual, will come to recognize themselves as the centre of all experience; that I am not outside of you, I am inside of you; that you are not inside you, you are inside me; that there is neither inside nor outside.

It is not possible to say "I am nothing", nor is it possible to say "I am everything", it is only possible to say "I am nothing, and I am everything". The truth exists in the paradoxical union of supposed opposites, neither of which would be true on their own.


When you've stripped yourself of yourself, then shall you be whole. When you return to infinity (and indeed we all shall return there) you will simply have returned to 'I', to God, to the one you are and do not believe it.

Then you must be many different things, for many different people.

You become like a boat by which others might cross the perilous sea. You are the ark and the covenant.

The archetypes and mythos will swirl about the limitless vortex of your uncaged non-being. And in that living absence you shall not be contained, but ...you shall contain.

To become such a window to the infinite is to be nothing and to be all; it is to weep when others come weeping, to laugh when they are laughing, and to dance, and dance, and dance when they come to you dancing. You're inhuman and so bloody human that you die everyday from sorrow, and rise everyday from joy. You are no longer separate. And you are no longer you.

Our selves exist only in relation, whether it be with the earth, with others, or with God. To realize this is to lose yourself in relation, and more than that- to become relation. It is a bond in all directions, and you belong to everything, and more than that- you are everything. The boundaries of separation weaken and dissolve, and only the integral bonds of relation remain which produce the cosmic dance.

Oh, for heaven's sake don't leave the music of the spheres on in the background- open up, give your whole soul to it, or the tune will not get inside and move you. And when it seeps in and grabs you- grabs you like a wave in waterless ocean- then dance like hell, and never stop dancing. Go limp in the rhythm and feeling. Touch the earth beneath you. Kick off your shoes and forget. Hold your curses, and pocket your blame. Cause Spirit, you're only here to dance





My sin was the belief that I was separate.

Like the sclerotic conduit of unholy tears, I had been unwittingly plugging the divine flow from carving its natural unseparate path, simply because I was trying to exist in the comfort of division; I was attempting to disappear behind any exposure, to cloak myself under the guise of autonomously existing; I sought to become a separate, calloused growth around my absence; to become something, anything, so that the soft, unprotected nothingness inside might have, around it- like a turtle's shell- the security of somewhere always to hide.

You see, Eye had simply been claiming to possess what was not mine- me. But I gave myself back, or stole myself away, it seems hardly to matter. There was no force to serve nor oppose. I was the force.

The chasm was not crossed- that spasmodic cleft of my dull surprise- because I was on the correct side all along.

Oh, how beautiful it is to live. Why I raged with such futility against it all, I shall never know. I suppose I simply could not endure the silence ...of the Self.

Hard indeed it is to stop, to end, to fall away from it all, and to let the greater life live through you.


Throughout the earlier dementia of my unbecoming, I had lost sight of the hard won reunion, and hid behind the shield of trivial whims, as life fell not loosely about me, but clung fast in wanton, false division. I had betrayed my sacred non-understanding by embracing a profane understanding. But now I have only the mystified acknowledgement of a stupendous, debilitating obviousness; awe is the only response I have left for our being.

I finally caught up to myself, and then ...I existed no longer.

I was already dead, the only thing left for me was to die.

Which is to say, I descended and then rose again, resurrecting myself out of the death of what I know I was not, into what I know not; no, I do not know what it was that I was, nor what it is that I am- that is the cornerstone of my absorption.

Eye did not, after all, contaminate my being in the vortex of plausibility. I did not embrace the rhetorical overtures of conception. I did not accept life's eternal distractions. My task was to continually not-know what others claim to know; to weigh the anchors of the mind.

Fragile, but intact, I despised, then loved, then forgot.

I dissipated into myself occurring, into whatever I thought I was, and whatever I thought it meant.

Becoming calm and unrepentant, I finally forgave myself, shook my angry fist at the sky, and then forgave god completely.

I synchronized with destiny, and the great enigma accomplished itself.

I have no truths, only the rejection of all untruths. I did not find a conclusion, only a beginning; I disappeared into mystery, emerging out of the absence of myself.

I could not deplete into nothingness only, but had to learn how to not exist while existing; to do so I consumed myself greedily, voraciously seeking peace until I realized it could not be found, then life became peaceful, and I was emancipated into the dynamic, non-occurring uselessness called play. Fear dissolved into wantless laughter, and all the bagatelles in between.

In the end my only duty was to be myself. I had only to find out what that was- to recover my true nature- and then bask in the glow of the One.

And when that happened, joyless bliss wafted through me like a breeze no one can buy. Benedictions arose in the glory of sight unseeing. It was the beat of a mutant pulse moving onward.

Was I not the psychic Virgin, ripe for the rape of an amorous God? Yes indeed, communion descended upon me in cold shivers, and the like.

Oh, how I howled like a wild banshee in love with the light: There is One event, there is only One event occurring!

Everything is equally miraculous, why should I supplicate, praise, or guffaw at one thing or another? There is only One event occurring.

Suddenly it was life, and only life, that walked through me upon the shore of it's own infinite being, in search of nothing, and with no idea of what it was.

The wind, and land, and light became alive, for they were life, and so was Eye, and only life can see life.

Oh yes, yes, and yes again, finding the enraptured, ignorance of all that is, I live now, blind and nourished, like a newborn pup, insatiably sucking at the turgid tit of ...whatever!

It's now as if I'm some sort of ooze moving through myself, only I don't know what is me, and what is not me. It all blends in together.

Like the lamb, rescued and returned to not-being, not-knowing, and not-doing, Eye move now within the medium of another being.

It is no wonder I struggled so frantically for most of my life- Eye had not yet been born, I was still in the womb; 'idea' was an unbreakable, amniotic wall which I was pressed up against continually; I was squashed into concept, and into conception.

Curse the profane umbilical froth which bound me into reason. All along something extremely important had been missing from my life, and that something was ...me.

I had been defined by the false parameters which surrounded me. And when they finally snapped, and Eye emerged, the world was still the same, and so was I, except ...now I was absolutely in it.

Nothing became of what I could have been, nothing stopped when Eye stayed.

Nothing changes when you find out who you are, except that now you're ...you.

Oh me, wretched in deliverance, so many damned years already upon this earth, and I have just now truly landed in being.

What a life. What an insufferable, magnificent life. A dream, within a dream, within a dream.

Ah, to dance, to drink, to kiss the wind...


For it is life's hand which even now moves this pen, not mine. Where then the dichotomy found in the singular play? The pen moves. The Mover moves the pen. Who is the witness? What is the spectacle?

I am but a reed in the flute of the infinite heart. I am a song of the generous voice which sings. I am a dream of the Dreamer.

Oh, Divine orgy, profane delight. Fiddler, I am your fiddle.





At the base of my past, feverish existence lied the eternal task of resurrecting the vast expanse of wonder, for it was there where I was fully sobered- there, in the wild euphorias of my tempestuous incarceration.

If I could only bestow upon everyone, for but a split second, the absolute intoxication of our mysterious lives (and, let me tell you, our lives are bloody well mysterious), and leave them then to accept or reject the experience as they will, then perhaps I might leave this plane of melancholy in peace. Perhaps not.

If only people were more stupefied by the spectacular implausibility of their own incomprehensible occurrence, then we should be easily rid of this mundane travesty.

I imagine that no one wonders at 'being' as much as I, and I despair at how little I wonder.

Oh, just once Lord, let me make drooling morons out of well-appointed fools; better it is to lead a person into a larger prison, than to leave them bound because you cannot release them.

I want to tell you what it means to live life without the strangulating entanglements of the mind. I want to explain the thrilling and perilous ride into the dark and ever-new, always changing unknown, without direction, without guidance, without fear, towards the mystery collapsed in upon itself, until it remembers itself incomprehensible, and hallows itself as the mystery I.

My life congealed into the symbiosis of heaven and earth; as the firmament fell and the ground swelled to meet it, the two waters converged into one. I was at the confluence: the earth fled through me to the spirit, the love shone through me to the stone. And human souls, given open ground to fulfill the essence of their mythical qualities, were transformed through the factory of my hollow nothingness, because I, who had become nobody, right in the howling hurricane of limitless somebodies ...I could take them on, let the world of their sorrow waft through my defenseless void, and then release their souls back out again.

I had stood my ground in the face of our demons; their power was infinite, and I was nothing; I wept but did not crumble, I feared but did not run, I suffered but did not anguish. I lost, but they did not win. In fact, my strategic humbling ended the interminable battle; "Lay down in their midst!", that is the directive which I heard.

In the end I became silent only by trying to listen to god, not by trying to be silent.

Sacrifice, yes, it was all sacrifice. I lost everything, all of it, none was left but a whimper and squeak. It came to pass, by erasing hope away, by not striving, but letting being be, that I again ...was free.

It was a stiller stillness than death. I had been the phantom haunting me all along. Thus it was easy to exorcise my demons, because there was no gravity, no victim, no me. I simply disappeared and took them with me, the whole bloody farce of it.

I slipped and stayed those agonizing resonances. I was the string never struck, the chord never plucked, the silence giving rise to the harmony. I was not even an ingredient, only a catalyst, spent in the reaction, and then left aside all alone.

In the end we must all contain the whole world; we must take everyone in, give them shelter, devour them like food, digest their unique occurrence, and assimilate them into ourselves. We must become everyone if we are to ever become ourselves. The walls of individuality must die, the shell of the scared chick must crack, and the little bird must screech, totter, fall, and fly, if ever it is to soar away one day, mate in another lost land with another infinity, build a nest, and bear another world of its own.


Oh, let the heavens have their madness back. I remain in the flesh, but there's none of me who lives here now. At the assumption of all my ghosts, I was cleansed from all but the veneer of appearance. All my hiding places were gone.

It was an imperfect perfection in the beast; by seeking to remove myself from the necessity of idea, by seeking to find a discontinuity, an event not recognizable, nor represented by anything. I sought a dissociated unfathomableness. And in that intimacy of removedness I found that I loved the world, all of it and everyone, because then I needed nothing from it, not even life. I loved the world because finally I was in it, of it, and ecstatically confounded by it. If only for an instant, I found... no ...I became love.

It is as if the whole seminal ruse about incompleteness and 'others' was simply my own trepidation at being all of it. For the crazy thing is this- God is the one who is cowardly within us. And we are that shy puppeteer, hiding furtively behind his own creation. And, lo! we are his dumb, recalcitrant puppets as well. And when both of them finally cease, they are the same as IT, though not the same either. IT is everything: Eye, and you, and I, are none of what these are alone, because they are not alone, but only One and not another.

You see, there is something else left to relate: at that moment, when I let it all go, and I mean all of it, because I was no longer around to obstruct creation, suddenly ...I was creation. Which is to say, without prior warning or expectation, but to be sure- suddenly I was God waking up, laughing uncontrollably at how I did not know how I produced the world at every moment, but I knew that I alone was doing it. I repeat: Suddenly you were god waking up...

When I held onto nothing, let myself fall away from care and effort, eased into the hopeless surrender of my own impotence, that is when the self I was pursuing fell helplessly back into me from the vacuum of my ambitionless void. Everything became mine because I had nothing. It's a hapless lot of incalculable madness, this happening. As the moon swallows the sun in an orgy of torpid union, and the lion lies down with the lamb, when we let it go it all comes back to us, because it was ours to begin with and we only had to stop chasing it in order to be caught.

The limitless patience of my awaiting ecstasy had been the goad and leash from which I sprang forth only to be hauled back again with ignoble regularity; thus I was forced out into life, to take it in, enjoy it, despise it, correct it, and destroy it, and then I was pulled painfully back again, withdrawn so as not to be petted nor fed. As if to enter the banquet, to drool a bit, and then be pushed quickly out the other side, in a never ending chain of these futile engagements- as if this is to live and to not live, to die and to not die, to always be given and never to have. It is to learn how to be without being, to enter the jail without being taken prisoner, to fight without ever dying, to fly without growing wings.

I was caught, I was held, released, caught again, held again, released again, on and on, over and over, until finally when I was released again...I did not flee. The prisoner and the warden changed places. The war turned into a banquet. Good and Evil fused into one. And God lept up for joy inside of me.

The primitive understandings which had so embalmed me all my terrible and fabulous life instantly vaporized away, and the Creator's eyes ...looked through me. The pulsing, primal, fluid medium flowed out of me, I did not know what I was making, nor how I was doing it, but to be sure it was me. Then I knew what it meant to 'fall into being', to divide the Creator from the Creation, to trap the self on the other side.

Everything ends and begins in stillness. All of life emerges from, and dwells there. God does not see you, or me, or any others; God does not see many, God sees One. When the edge collapses the centre grows. The hairy beast sprouts feathers, the feathers become flames, and the fire turns the chaff into manna.

It is a manic dawn which breaks in and rolls over upon you. It is a glee and tremor which catapults you away to the here which is nowhere. No more repentance. No more concern. No more assurance. No more to learn. 'Now' has taken over and devoured you. And you have devoured now. Like the famed uroborous, the head of time eating the tail of space, engulfing itself to nility, and from that zero all infinities are born.

From the communal despair of the masses, to the ecstatic loneliness of the lone had I run, and, in the horrid, gentle eyes of God, I ran to myself, and myself was all others, and all of the sudden ...the many were One.

Yea, in this final, flagrant summation- from the stillness which does not accomplish- Eye welcomed myself without genius, Eye remembered myself without guise.

In the choiceless calm of uncertainty, I stopped without stopping, and forged on without moving and inch.

Now Eye am nobody. Now Eye know nothing.

Once again, I have lost everything. And thus I return from the fight, as always- forever broken, forever new.


It was so easy in the end. There was nothing the world could offer me, it could only divide me further from the Source, from Truth, from Love. I won because I had nothing further to lose, because everything was already lost.

In the midst of being I forgot being, in the midst of life I forgot life, in the midst of myself I forgot... me.

And so, through the delirium and sin of our earthly predicament, I fell, rose up, walked on, forgot and ...was innocent again.

As the specious forms dwindled in the new light of the day, Eye stood again before myself.


I ended where I began; I began where I ended.

Goodbye, farewell, I've gone for good to the other place. I've returned to the eternal land called Wonder. Freed from all karmic debts, and broken through the sad misery of it all, that little man vanished and returned to the nothing he had been all along- as far as Eye can see, anyway.

In the fallen throes of the august conundrums, the ebb and flood of ennui and ecstasy merged wantonly at the centre of my absent circumference, and I spun helplessly about until I was lost in the heart of the vacuum; I vaporized behind the sight I was seeing.

I did not succumb to the fabric surrounding our great mystery ...I succumbed to the Mystery itself; I soaked right in to the whole damned mess of it, and then I was no longer.

Oh, there is only One event, and that event ...I AM. Yea, in the ubiquitous realm, void, or feeling ...I AM! In the coy equanimity of no gain, growth, loss, nor identity ...I AM! In the infinite space between the heart and mind, consciousness and will, spirit and soul ...I AM.

Before the mirrorless mirror of my existent non-existence ...EYE AM!

Yes, yes, I know- this is hardly a cherished denouement. Yet there, in the tempests of unreason, there in the desertion of all hope, there, in the ethereal dance of emancipation and loss, with neither volition, idea, nor law ...I finished, but not at the finish; I walked on without walking; I ended, and Eye did not end.











It's the end of time, Spirit, where are you going to run? Me, I'm not leaving. I'm staying. And I'm staying as ...ME.

Yea, in the final quittance of all my guise, I went under. Eternal and there I remain.

I sank from identity into the sublime; from impression I turned into expression, and from the flesh I returned to the Word.

Now I am nobody. Now I know nothing.

Which is to say- Eye am no body, Eye know no 'thing'.

Now I am everywhere, and I am always.

Like a gimbled spirit in the hardened happening, I do not move while moving in the movement.

In the Unknowable Void of our eternal, magical beings- I AM.

I am what is. I the Creator. I the Sustainer. I the Destroyer. I the Cause. I the Effect. I the Beginning. I the End. I the Dreamer. I the Dream. I the Immaculate. I the Delusion. I the Purity. I the Filth. I the Word. I the Flesh. I the Revelation.

I, of the manifest. I, of the unmanifest. I, of the change and unchanging. I, of the abstract and contextual. I, of the feeling and indifference. I, of the player and witness. I of the earth. I of the sky. I of the You. I of the I. I of the Eye. Eye of the I.

I, divested from the thought structures of mankind, enterred into the pristine bridal chamber where naked beingness and naked non-beingness dis-recognized their differences and unified into One.

Eye am the all and the everything. I am life. The seen, and the scene. All of it. The whole damned, marvelous mess. All of it. And we are the same being. There is no division. None.

Find me. Hold me. Release me.


There is no Way, there is no distance, no movement, no arrival, departure, longing, or fulfillment. Nothing need be done here; nothing to save, alter, deny, invent, desire, or understand. Nothing to seek, nothing to abandon. In the inevitable communion of our approaching new innocence, we shall reap not, and neither shall we sow.

There is no self but self. One being, we are all One being.

When you say I, I am that I you are. We are the eternal moment of the Creator creating.

You are I, and I am you, and the belief in a division is a tortured place called Hell.

Only you and the world complete me, for truly I tell you- I did not know myself until I let myself be you. It all comes down to that- I am you, and you are me.

As the lighthouse which you sailed past on your way out to sea, eternally Eye remain to guide you back home.

You're in my arms now, and I'm not letting go.

You will never be alone again. Never.


How many times has my heart wrestled wildly to escape its coarse confines and meet you in the distance. Many times, and always.

How distant and yet how near we are now.

To be now. How distant. How near.

Here, where we find surcease in the causelessness of our keep, and the images no longer control us; here we bask before the lost and changing glory of it all.


Breath in and be emptied. Exhale and be filled. Swim in the sameness between us.

Weep and I shall suffer, laugh and I shall smile.

Sing out, and I will hear you.

Reach out and I will feel you.

Look out, and Eye will see.


I am at Home because I AM Home.

Come Home.


Oh, Spirit in the manifest, ether in the stone,

I am the Life in all things.

And I am laughing.


Find me. Hold me. Complete me.






by Jack Haas




more excerpts


home       books