truth

The Bucket of the World

It’s not just a clarity of vision or hearing, or any of the senses, even though it can feel like those sense are sharpened because you have more attention for them. It’s not just a clarity of the mind, even though thought can become very easy and obvious, or even stop completely. You could call it a clarity of the heart, because there’s a feeling of emotional harmony, but that’s not all it is. It’s so hard to describe because it doesn’t lend itself to description. It isn’t anything you can locate, and the words available to describe it are loaded with so many other meanings which vary from person to person that it’s impossible to know if anyone else could hear what you say about it and understand. It doesn’t need to be the end-point of any search, because it’s always directly available and totally ordinary.

It doesn’t make you divine or special, because it’s so ordinary that (probably) everyone in the world experiences it most of the time without realizing that it’s anything worth noticing or enjoying.

You can only realize you’re ‘in’ it if you know there’s nothing else to search for.

It’s here. It’s you.

Maybe we only think we’re unhappy because that’s what we’re told. We all perpetuate this strange message of incompleteness to each other when really our deepest secret is that no matter what has ever happened to us, we are happy and at peace, in the most permanent and unreasonable way.

I forget it sometimes. Instead of a bright, spacious clarity, my world narrows to a tight, anxious focus, locked into time and fascination. But even in those moments I know it’s all OK. I know I will die, or that it will all end, or even if it doesn’t, that its ending is inherent in me, in my own consciousness.

This is all crazy, bright, unknowable.

I don’t know what I know. I can’t parcel it and write a book about it because such a thing would be of no use to anyone. It isn’t a thing. It’s nothing. I’ve realized nothing. This is just life, direct reality. I don’t know if I’ve understood anything at all.

We’re looking for something extraordinary, but they can’t last. The only thing that lasts, and the only thing that satisfies us, is the ordinary. You don’t have to make any effort to be ordinary. This world is real, crazy, bright and shining and immediate. Everything is right here, and we have never changed since the moment we were born. There’s nothing left. The bucket of the world has been emptied and all promises and dooms are null and void.

Anathema

so he woke through the night
head caught in some dream of beauty
her limbs orange against the dusty brick wall, eyes calm.
He spilled himself out on to the floor in love of her,
the image that promised herself to him, unconditionally.
He saw in her eyes a light from his childhood
that had caught him like a moth.
His hand smelled of salt and sweat. The morning was too near.

His soul was split in two halves like an avocado
served in a polite restaurant
the hard stone removed
the meat green and soft, not human at all -
an avocado,
unjustifiable

he lay in bed for hours feeding his store of dreams
great granary bins of the unreal, stories
he could live out for lifetimes
so much fascination, the boy the hero,
the familiar landscapes
a million voices calling him to push open the door
and enter the labyrinth of mirrors.
His God had told him
that he was a story being told.
He would have laughed if his heart had not spoken, as never before:
- TRUTH -

 - I am a chain on an angel
 - I am a party without invitations
 - I am a frenzy of reception
 - I am the maker of the need for freedom

There was no reason to do
or not to do
anything at all

there were only voices in an endless morning
drifting into the silence like distant railway sounds
under a crystal grey sky
fog wreathing the churches and the fields on the way out of the city
bodies stepping on and off the trains and exchanging faces at the stiles
conversations like the fluid steps of a waltz
fighting against the dissolution
of that slow dawn