Those hearts 
which keep us alive
cannot be grasped, although a surgeon’s or a killers hand may easily fit inside the chest cavity.


Those hearts which are alive and for living are a rhythmic labour of connectivity; a true pattern of partaking resonance which may never be copied.

True pattern cannot be replicated, it must yet be lived. It can only be lived. 
To live in a true pattern is an act of participation.
What is true about a true pattern is that it lives. 
As a living process of connectivity it continues wherever life persists. 
To copy such pattern one must first kill it.


The murderous heart of those who would operate via possession rather than live in a process of participation.

We all cling to such murderous hearts. They are the generators of illusion.

Such bloody chimera are disgorged as rotten overspill, the wreckage of the living
Such excretory hearts are not those which keep us alive. 
It prefers to destroy the telling re-telling which reconnects the possessed to their dynamic non-possession, rather than lose hold of any one illusion; such is the toxic heart of holding.

Those hearts which keep us alive cannot be copied.
Our non-reproducible hearts are such a consciousness which, once it examines itself, cannot determine the end of itself. 
The pattern of itself may only be navigated with an open hand. 
The telling re-telling is always a story of a relatedness, it cannot determine the end of itself.


The transport speaks.
The signal sent into restless circulation.

A privilege of being a pedestrian is to be continually set within story time.

Two vans drive by in livery proclaiming: Freedom.
Immediately behind follows a van whose bold letters proclaim: Sanctuary.
Quickly then, a fourth van pulls alongside and its signage says: Cinderella.

Ah, El of the cinders, phoenix divinity; my mind and heart arise in consonance:
You shall go to the ball.

The harmony of the night will ring out through the world; the star of love shall resonate and re-shape all forms.

We take another step and another. A sign by the junction proclaims:
Diversion
Ends.

How long does it take to reform the psyche?
In an instant.

How long is an instant sufficient to make itself known?

The psyche may be considered as a task.
Its task is to be unknowable.

This impossible psyche is adaptable and flowing even in its most rigid structures.

Form 
persisting and elusive, 
this is the presence of the task.
The task permeates and supports each moment of the person.

Each moment of the person is a tasking of personhood with the transport of the psyche.
Psyche as the moment in its glimmering mode, a vehicle and the track.

There is a traffic jam, and the expression on every driver’s face is readable unreadable, unwarranted, masks of a terrible testimony.

When the task fails it becomes visible psyche.
When the moment cannot be adapted, flooded, folded, run with and ran around, so does the psyche’s structure become obvious. We rage against its charlatanism.

The road is never more obvious as when nothing moves upon it and, throughout the snarl-up, all questions are refused. Know one knows why there is a hold-up. No one knows why they are even attempting to travel in this direction. 

Psychic entertainment will be deemed an illness.
Your fuming bile sets like concrete.





To give back

rending consciousness.
To give back
consciousness to consciousness
rendering life unto life

and really no one likes to do this. 

Really, we are very uncomfortable with most expressions of life. Experiences which call life; life must be ushered into another category. Even disguising life as consciousness is on occasion preferable to simply listening to breath, following the pulse, processing spit, excreta, and other such extremes of attention. 

The improbable liveliness of living, this is an extreme activity. It can be disguised behind perilous sports or transformed into a fitness regime. It can be sunk into jigsaw and card games, made monomania or hobby; even so, it remains difficult to like. We tend not to befriend living, and this not because of morbidity but precisely because death is an intimate and necessary aspect of life. Consciousness is easier. Consciousness can be risen, trained, focussed, farmed, warped or expanded and, as such, it is subject to treatment. Consciousness becomes a thing.

Become conscious of consciousness and it begins to belong in that separate slot, this other groove, the thing that runs along-side and helps to frame your identity. Indeed, identity without the sidekick consciousness might be deemed frivolous or fly-by.

Awareness partakes of all these games, and many others. If there is no awareness then there are barely any games.

Also there is a must. There is life, there must be. Life must be, despite our flight from it.

Our shapely and eloquent perceptual apparatus partakes of life-must-be and life in game and life in its ending. 

Life in its ending is beginning, elsewhere, of loquacious sensing and lush inward rushing patterns of being.

Cohabiting and collaborating with these spacious patterns, awareness in its “must” partakes of the giving away; it continually gives itself away. It is rendered unto fear. 

Fear is rendered unto life in the moment. 

The moment is a rent in the perceptual field. 

Rendering covers, flows over, and adorns the perceptual field. 

Consciousness is ornamentation. 

The ornamental can be found as irruptions of deathly life and as rosy living, these symbol lives forced into the not yet lived life. The ornamental simultaneously soothes a consciousness into mediated unawareness and renders it naked before its own symbolic fecundity.

We give back the ornament to the symbol. We give back the symbol to the awareness. We give back the awareness to its living root. We give back the root of our being to the greater self. We disappear. This disappeared appearance is given back. No loss of freedom there, but perhaps a decimation of identity; the fat of ego is ten times reduced, and should the entire process be repeated then the fat of ego may fully depart from fleshy participation.

Consciousness consciously rendering consciousness is as if a melody drawn from out its own song, the unease of living easily alive.

Everything reflects
I said
looking into the special example 
of gold leaf rolled onto the wall
and up into the ceiling
and on the statues one could find it
wrapped over the naked stone feet
and gold smeared down their arms
and gold rubbed over the heart.


But all matter reflects.
Everything reflects and the extension of this is that reflection is a special form of division.

All light is divided all ways. 

In this manner the spectrum of colours and the colours called wavelengths, the patterns and the electromagnetic forces; these perceptions are facilitated by division. 

Division is a special form of reflection. 

Perception is an analysis of reflection; division further divided.

All perceiving is a daily participation in the infinite.

By reflection the world is infinitely, minutely, and exquisitely constructed. The core of this construction is an infinitely divided light. This unending division is a reflection of a source pouring out which is yet greater than the infinitude of its own division.

Reflection is our manner of infinite and exquisite perception; the more our division of the divided the greater the entanglement in all that this perception was divided from. 

Our reflection is enmeshed with spectra. 

Consciousness knots together each reflection with each source and shape. We in perceiving are forever shaving off and reducing the source and the object, and yet these beginnings always remain and in their remaining there is an action. 

The action of being capably linked to division; the beginning of infinite reflection. The beginning for to be perceived must yet be already reflected. Each start point is also a division.

If reflection is division, light divided by light, then consciousness becomes multiplication. Consciousness is that reversal of reflection by which the infinitely divided perception becomes infinitely multiplied.

The shine of the scintillating is reflected (divided) consciousness. Divided consciousness seeing its own reflection is a light multiplied infinitely. 

How is it that the eternal becomes perceivable? 

Infinite division is sparkling in reflection, becoming the sovereign and rock-like shine of infinite multiplication. 

Such division returning to the multiple may be called consciousness. To call such an infinite process consciousness is in and of itself a reflection. Consciousness is a rock. The rock reflected is thus divided. Consciousness is divided and thus infinite division again initiates a reflection upon its own rock-like (yet evasive) centre. 

The initiation of division entangled with an initiation of light consciously multiplying light, and on occasion perceived as such, becomes a special form of reflection. It may be termed an aeroplane trap.

Garden airplane trap. Max Ernst. 1935

Premiss of the infinite is an eternal source. The nature of infinitude is reflection and consciousness moving in a single entangled relationship. This entanglement of division and multiplication precludes direct perception of the eternal. The precluding relationship, in its very infinity, nonetheless intimates an eternal up-welling of which all infinitude is able to abundantly and continually reflect. Such is the gold light we stare into.


We stare not into gold, nor particularly do we dwell open the fascination of light infinitely at play. Instead we are, on occasion, able to step into a non-reflecting moment called stillness, this is between division and multiplication but we cannot properly assign it to either reduction or increase. (Here we are able to scribble the form of an aeroplane trap.) As the blooms in this garden grow a word is also realised.


A word is sometimes said.

The said in this is neither but it is. It is the honey on which the eternal willing lays down, and in this first sweetness first consciousness is immediately sustained.


Not comprehending
this the needful balance to comprehension. Not compre
hend 
is at the end and

beginning.

We have allowed great combative ignorance to rise up.

To each other our self donated is a combustive and forever fireworking source.
In company we light each other and the illumination over there will here shine me to self.

What is there between our true selves and our true selves at source?

There is nothing between our true selves and out true selves at source. 

Nothing is not to be comprehended. The void of this gap that is no gap cannot submit to the seizure of apprehension.

We have insisted on a great combative ignorance, it shields us from our own resource. 

Shadow may seem overwhelming

although the light grows
greater in darkness. 

Such dark incomprehension
is no concept

and yet therein we discover conception.

What else is there before the singularity of resource? The singularity of returning and the single sure light
which without flicker is your life.

Even here amongst this brawling bawling shadow, refulgent is the radiance and single is the source thereof.

Allegorical is other speaking. 
All light can ever do is other speaking. 

SINGular the song, set as a gemstone inside a dynamic.
The radiance is allegorically bedecked in jewels because, here, it only has our life to speak through.

Where the light is its own resource there is no sound, no silence, and no radiance. The dark is fully light not comprehending. As the battling unconsciousness suspends itself and fails, exhausted (for ignorance is exhausting), so it begins to speak allegorically, it begins to beautify itself with gold and all manner of art. 

This is a shining presence, it is said, and once light is spoken of then there is sudden contour, shape, depth, and height.



Sounding built meaning

and sounding is limited, so meaning is multiple. It, the sense of it, is rarely contained.

Sounding is unlimited, and thus meaning is meagre. It, the sense of it, can rarely be attained.

Cannot be contained soundings. Silent leaking containers.

We are greater than the limited. We are greatly reduced.



Listen of the soundings. Listen especially and en-spatially to the nesting knottedness of bird song. Do you have a garden? Then you are witness to empires falling and rising, to loves and passions, to a feudal fury, and the most tender, appropriate compromise. These tragic and triumphant soundings are whistled in through an open window.

Articulated meaning is a single sentence with no discernible limit. The sense of this is nesting throughout out a purling empire, knotting together the planet’s mantle, knitted from the rattle and hum of your silence: consciousness.

The nest of the conscious, always peeping over the wattle and daub, a persistence of articulating. This is why the body is jointed, several shifts through the sieve of meaning. The sounding of this that means, the pierced film of another.


Consciousness is that which balances atop of limited sounds and in the combination of gravity and noise there is this flimsy base of our perception, the flesh. It is the flesh which discovers dance.

The grave drawing down of noise and the suave surrender to lift, such a dance is consciousness and it is oblivion.

Oblivion greater than limited meaning, oblate to the soundings, becomes music.

Becoming music, greater than the limited, mentation scoring its travail across body; body becomes the notation of thought and thought’s vanishing. The invisible and the not noticed and the forgotten also has its flesh, and this tenure of being also has its dance.

The compass of articulated meaning, resonate soundings even unto the music of the spheres. The music of the spheres is also the trembling of black holes and impossible beginnings; such is our compass. It indicates directions other than North South East and West.


The pointing brilliance

on and off from the river’s flow, star stabs, patterns appearing and rearranging.
The pointing brilliance arrows into this eye yet seems to see something far beyond me.

Patterns akin to the light through trees on the distant hill. Flash of wing, a form rearranging and appearing and vanishing. Eyes akin to the wing. Senses fleetingly sure, quick fictioning of purpose, this flash and ripple of light suggesting a search.

Surrender to the searching for a ferment of finding; what could possibly be? Walk the hive, honey the brew. A humming to pull me along the river bank. A purpose on wing, drone rising through water falling, a wisp of grassing friction flicking through.

My pockets are holes. Footprints trail after my stillness. Each hole steps into sand and strategy and memory. The complexity of our smallness pierced by moving reflections. The fleeting persistence of beauty.

Is this light a perception of fundamental relation? This vibration which holds the gurgle of river, the tremor of watery skin; this vibration which lifts the impossible rotation of wing, the song nectar, the jewellery of powders.

What made this vibration, this shaking point of entry? Where is the reaction which gestates electricity? I hold out against the brilliance, calling down my ability for blindness. A stumbling moment is made, footprints smear a quick twisting motion over rock. There is an incline, a waterfall, and pressing through trousers the nettles are rosette scalpels. Light buried in these plants is a pointing brilliance and, lanced by shadow, I am a pierced specimen.

Resistance, the material allowing or disallowing of free passage to smaller materials. The smaller materials also resist, they are also passed through. Each element is a way through for another element, smaller and smaller until elements bequeath particles and on until particles are caught in the act of birthing principles. 

Principles also offer up resistance. The vibration of some unknown quality squeezing within possibilities generates a pointing brilliance called light and against this refulgence we squash shut our eyes. We fall into the embrace of a shadow and, now, glazed by honey sounds, we are one purpose sealed to one exploration. 

The search is a glittering string dragged swiftly through the night. A dream opens its eyes on a hill, above the waterfall, below the sun.



Wells, rills, shares,

borns, streamlets, ponds and the great tidal river.

Those balanced dynamics renown of old; they balance because they are the same. Opposites balance not in opposition but in similitude.

If all that contrasts also persists, the persisting rests upon that which has arisen.

All arisen rests on a single source, and resting and source and arising all well up from before substance.

Substance differentiates. This is why we substantially pleasure in it. Difference invigorates substance.

The “before this” arises. It arises neither as pleasure or substance and nor does it concern difference.

All comes as the same. The pleasure and other modulations arrive after the coming. 

Expansion and differentiation are means of balance.

As the same recognizes the same, so this gesture reaches out in ever greater arcs of othering from the source. 

Othering from the source, all similitude is maintained. And to be similar is a mere cover for absolute sameness.

The same was in the beginning.

In the same beginning all life. All life is expansion, unfolding, balance, dynamic, 

and all life is ending, rotting, and surrendering; and in surrendering bright life to dank sameness, so is the different becoming born.

The light was the life. The light shone on life to show life to its living. 

The life lived generated light which was able to see its being in the living.

What is your true name, your secret name? 
It is the everday, a name surely recognized, and yet it is that name said until spent. Your true name is the utter spending and emptying of an everyday name. 

Your secret

poured out.

Wells, rills, shares, borns, 
streamlets, ponds 

and the great tidal river.




The mastery of chance

that the array of happenstance (a deflated pink flamingo) will show itself as it shows itself and this self will be instantly recognizable.

A light fog, almost mist now, is hanging as a cloud over the junction. This complicated knot of roads is surrounded by tall buildings, some of the towers are still being built. Reflected from a fa├žade, sun is shot through the glass sides of a stairwell and this creates a series of golden strips in the fog.

A set of gold stripes hover in the air above me as I wait for a gap in the traffic.

There is a vocabulary of patterns. The mastery of chance is in perceiving pattern and then patterning patterns. There is no mastery, only endless collaboration.

To cooperate, one awaits for shared characteristics.
Meeting and agreeing patterns in order to expand into a never before seen pattern

as a lock recognizes key
so do new vistas open

and yet the door has never before seen this manner of turning.

Chance is an associate of shock because our brusque and amazed encounters describe those moments

moments
when an array of characteristics that are logged, identified, and presumed stable, suddenly expand.

To muster toward chance is an acknowledgement of a primordial lack. Without that lack there can be no complete. 

The complete mastery of chance, thus, an energy to share characteristics as if an organic pattern; despite the radical newness of the patterns, there is agreement.

This new passage is not directly related to the fresh characteristics which make lack and key so agreeable to one another.



But tell me again… What process? 

I’m sure there is one.

One process in many. Many processes aligned.

As one from many can be discerned in galaxies forming clusters and super-clusters, and super-clusters arc around in an alignment illustrating “attraction.”

The pull of process.

But tell me again, what process; for me, here, now, how and where have I processed? Is this question but a scabrous quest for some blotched confirmation?

Thought only arrives at the end of ideas.

Ideas exhausted and withered to vacuity; now may the thinking narrative begin.

Beginning but as thoughts; therefore thoughts be shriven in the white emptiness of mind.

So too, mind. Of course the white emptiness of mind reveals itself as an idea.

The revealed idea seeking a thought and thus processing toward its own exposure.

To the outside of the outsideness of things. To be exposed to the outside.

And the outside is itself, thus

it ceases.

It ceases as you enter.

You enter, you gather; together we take the outside in.

Come in.

But now, if there is any speaking left,

so it speaks.