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Into the mystic – 5

Into the mystic – 5

Might we find a method in the sameness of all conscious moments?
If a mouse or a cockroach or even an amoeba’s every flinch
is filled with the same awareness as an enlightened master
then maybe all we need to do is watch without holding

Might we make a method of meditating on the gaze of a dying mouse,
concentrating on feeling the world through its glazing eyes?
Awareness like a very fine ribbon, so thin as to be nonexistent;
and yet there, lining the back of every moment

Might we found a method upon the back of a sad little rodent
we watched disappearing from herself on sticky paper with a dollop of seed butter in the center?
Yes, I think we could found a whole school upon this tiny creature’s pain.
But let us drop to a lower, a gentler level.

You breath in and out slow, stopping at the end, pushing all the air out; pausing there
Forget the breath for a moment and just notice awareness itself
It’s not a thin ribbon? It’s a nothing going everywhere?

Into the mystic
Into the pause
How?
Where’s the mouse I used to know, so happy to feel her little legs carrying her light-step across the pleasantly firm floor boards?

Into the mystic – 4

Into the mystic – 4

A chipper little mouse dashing hither.
Enjoying springy legs, she easy skates
across wooden floorboards. Bounds now thither,
up over sneakers careless-laid. All Fates
seem happy ones. They all sing, “Explore and conquer,
My little Ulysses!” Meanwhile I plot to knock her
into Hades

All night I’m woken again and again
by plaintive chirps. They eddy, swirl and mix
into soft, slip-sliding dreamscapes. And then!
with morning’s light I see her rear legs fixed
side-on-side to cruel glue trap set by mine own hand
Last night’s merry machinery is now jammed–
crushed and faded

Gets worse:
Too queasy to free her with dignity,
I force a square-sided pillar of green
rat poison near her little maw. And flee.
That night I find her with a friend stuck, leaned
athwart her sunken stern. She breathes scarce; her friend’s
awake. In panicked loop, he rams her rear end–
rams and rams again her twisted, broken side.
I don’t know why.

I set the torture chamber in a bag,
in hopes they’ll drift to gentle suffocation.
Not good. Sentient lights handled like rags.
Another F. I see her elation.
So happy scurrying! My apartment
a magic world to discover–heavens-sent.
And for this joy at life,
I served her twenty hours of torture

Every conscious moment’s an enlightened one.
The mice had the same awareness that Jesus did.
And God’s breath flowed through their little setting suns
As Jesus it filled when, on rugged old cross, to death he slid
The mystic knows what the mouse watches while
she dash-dances in joy and sorrowing expires

Pen Name: Tom “Hang your head” Dooley
Author: Bartleby Willard
Editor: Amble Whistletown
Copyright: Andrew Watson

Into the mystic – 3

Into the mystic – 3

Plato argued that the soul was divided into three parts: appetites, courage, reason. His logic for this separation was that these aspects seemed to often clash with one another within one individual. He argued further that since appetites and courage only demanded more and more of their own “good”, they shouldn’t rule: only reason should rule because only reason knows what is going on, and so only reason can be expected to guide the whole towards better outcomes. But what should reason’s guide be? The Form of the Good, which alone Knows what is Truly Good.

The soul in our experience is more complicated than Plato’s division into three fundamental aspects. For example, take yon desperate hurt barfing out of your gut: I wouldn’t call it an “appetite”—more like a temper tantrum or an insane rage at an immediate attack and visceral pain. Well, maybe it’s a kind of appetite. But if so, appetite’s are too multitudinous and complicated for the concept “appetite” to easily cover.

Reason in our experience seems to mindlessly lust after its own perceived “goods” (logical completeness and well-foundedness) just as much as the courage-seeking-aspect or the appetites do.

We therefore advocate for organizing the whole conscious space around The Form of the Good, aka God, aka Soullight, aka Pure Love, aka the infinitely infinite joyful giving that shines through and ultimately Is everything. Because if this spiritual Truth exists, then It knows what’s what; if It doesn’t exist, then nothing knows what’s what and all is hopeless conjecture—wild summer storms founded upon the slip-sliding currents of madcap animal hoots and hollers and the frantic tinkering of animal fingers.

We killed two mice yesterday.

Into to Mystic – 2

Into to Mystic – 2

I just want a couple condos in a couple world cities
And a twenty-five year old babe for a wife
Like all the other movie stars get
But they’ve signed me up for this tour of the mystic
Not sure what I’ll see there between being and non-being
I wouldn’t want to go for fear of no longer needing my baby doll and all those other prizes I’m always almost about to win
Any day now
I want to save democracy, free speech, and the right to choose good government; but with Beauty
That’s my specialty: Beauty = Truth = Goodness = Fair Play (“Justice” has made so much trouble; not the eternal Good “Justice”, but the concept of “Justice”, which seems to bend so easily into “Eternal Revenge”).
I want to settle down and have a family as a considerably younger man in a city in the sun that the bombs can never ever find
But now I’m buckled into this journey into the great beyond, into the “mystic”, they call it.
So all I can do is listen to the water running through the pipes
I think my shoulders are too tense for entrance into the mystic
Something to do with the dress code

Into the Mystic – 1

Into the Mystic – 1

Emergency trip into the mystic.
But how do I get there?
So tired and worn out.
So lonely and bored.
So panicked and panting like a hyena in heat.
How can I step down?
Where do I get off?
How to get into the mystic?

God poem

God poem

Give me God poem good poem poems that help
Empty me fill me turn me inside out flood out of me
Help please
The jangles inside and out
what’s the use of more words?
A song that lifts us all up together
that grabs me by my slashed gut
that heals me as it heals all
a true song that loves the Truth

What is the path?

Onlinebookclub.org experience

Onlinebookclub.org experience

Why did I?
So desperate for the books to land.
And they said Or double your money back.
So I thought what have I to lose?

Only time, calm abiding, and probably money.

It seems like there’s a contest for the book of the month.
But once your book is reviewed (assuming, I guess, the rating is a 4 or 5), and even before you can see the review, you get an email explaining that the conversations about which book is selected for that honor can be steered to your book for $20K.
What?
So there is no book of the month; there are only books that got 4s or 5s and for which the authors then paid an extra $20K.
Why do they pay $20K? They do the math: 30,000 guaranteed sales, at $3 (or whatever their profit is per book) a sale, equals well over $20K.
But it’s not quite honest, since readers are led to believe the books were selected in a more traditional / fair manner.

Then you get the review and it’s okay or whatever.
It’s an amateur review from someone who didn’t understand the book particularly well and who say they removed a point because the book is perhaps too artsy or philosophy for some readers. What?
Then you are immediately asked if you are satisfied with the review, at which point you notice two things: you’re not super satisfied with the review, and they are now attempting to box you into saying you are satisfied with their services, even though you wouldn’t at that point know if the review led to anything or not.
When you let their “100% satisfaction guaranteed” siren song seduce you off your established route, you were thinking that you’d be satisfied if the review and its placement helped some people who would be predisposed to liking your books discover this book. That’s what you wish for, nothing else. But now you see that what you are going to get is an amateur review that misses your sense of your book and that anyway sits in obscurity. No one will read the book based on this service, even though it is a pretty good book and there are people out there who, if you could just find them, would be glad to discover this book and your oeuvre. So you say, no, I’m not satisfied. And then you have to answer and answer and answer and answer and email after email after email after email and you are repeating yourself and each email seems to be misunderstanding your previous email on purpose so as to fatigue you into giving up and pretending you are satisfied with what you’ve gotten in exchange for your $400 (it didn’t have to be $400, but that was supposed to give you the best reviewers and the quickest reviews and you were already in the “what have I to lose?” mindset).

At one point they offer to give you the site’s owner’s book so you can make your book sell, but obviously, that’s not what you signed up for, you wanted the site to advertise your book, to get your book noticed by that little chunk of the world population that would love to read your book and follow your development as an author; that was your idea; that is what you are not good at; that is what you’d wanted help with.

At some point, they are telling you that was not a good review and they will give you another for free, but you feel quite strongly by this point that everything they do is just to wear you out until you will eventually be satisfied with an amateur review that is read by very few and that doesn’t move any books, doesn’t help you go evolve from some poor fool who spends a decade writing books into the void to a real author whose vision and perseverance are now receiving their just rewards. So you say, no, just refund the purchase price, that’s all I want at this point. And by now you’ve written so many words about this topic, a topic you find both boring and stressful.

And the denouement is that the owner emails you. He’s willing to refund the money, but your refusal to accept a new free review does raise questions. Which statement feels to you designed to manipulate you into capitulating. So you say, just refund the money, I’ve written enough about this; since, after all, you’ve written like ten messages to them about it as they try to fatigue you into submission like a bull in a bullfight, running slower and slower as more and more swords wiggle in its bumpy back. Then he responds that he’s the only one who can issue the refunds, so if you could please quickly explain your reasons for requesting the refund. One final hurdle. But no, it will probably lead to more hurdles …

Is it a scam?
Is it an iffy enterprise?
I don’t know.
They use the initial reviews to discover which books are good enough to offer to help promote.
But the promotions seem a little dishonest because readers are offered the sense that the best books are chosen, while the promoted books are actually the ones that meet some minimum standard of worthiness and that then pay more money (after the initial review) for the promotion.
Also when you, goaded on by “or your money back”, sign up, you don’t think you are signing up for a possible future paid promotion, but for immediate value, something that would satisfy you now, which if you’re an author without an audience, would be, you know, some readers, a review that caught enough of the book’s essence and was read by enough potential readers that it would get some meaningful number of likeminded readers to try reading your book.

They could, apparently, sell your books.
This is what that offer of 30,000 books sold for $20K has told you.
And this in turn makes you think, what is the relationship between advertising and success?
You’d always thought the books would eventually catch a fire on their own.
Does that ever happen?
Sometimes.
And if it doesn’t, does it mean the book doesn’t deserve to sell anyway?
If so, propping up sales with relentless advertising seems like cheating.
But maybe if the book never catches a fire, it just means the right people never read it, and with advertising maybe they would.

Anyway, an unsatisfying and exhausting experience.

And why did you do it?
That level of desperation where you let yourself be fooled.
That level of hopeless hope where you send the pretty girl from some far flung country your hard-earned money so she can come to you and be your bride, even though her profile keeps telling you she’s in a different far flung company than she was the day before, and even though her Whatsapp account is flagged as a business account, and even though there is no plausible reason why she would be interested in you.

Authors get lonely too

What to do?

What to do?

The hurt too much
Can’t begin
Politics too stressful
Can’t move
The loneliness too long
Can’t speak it
Tired

What to do?

Put your hand on my stomach
Tell me you believe
The monster in my gut
Swirling and screaming
Tell me you love me anyway
The hurt on all sides
Pinning my shoulders down into my sex
Tell me you will stay

What to do?

The hurt all through like a vibration
And forbidden long ago from saying it hurts
or why
The hurt all through like a flowering field

What to do?

All thoughts have gone to mush
All feelings have turned to stone, have crumbled, are scattered by desultory winds
I cannot stand up in this place
Time is up
I fail

What to do?

Demon Hunter

Demon Hunter

” … morally enfeebled also, by the incompetence of mere unaided virtue or right-mindedness in Starbuck, the invulnerable jollity of indifference and recklessness in Stubb, and the pervading mediocrity in Flask. … ”

[Herman Melville as Ishmael, narrator of Moby Dick, in Chapter 41]

Upleaps my heart into my hands around
silk-handled saingeom. We flow as one,
me and my spinning edge. Without a sound,
my linen feet cross market stones. I lunge
like forest fire in a crystal night
to shatter demons left aft fore and right.

Upleaps my heart as goblin eyes roll up,
as welted tongues roll out, as horn-ed heads
I slash in two. With perfect poise, I sup
on righteous victory til all my foes are dead.
In every season weather clime I train
to rid the world of evil and its stains.

Upends my soul. I can’t contain it more.
Divine spark diffusing all through my space
of conscious time, infused now with eyesores.
Strange jagged lines in purples pinks disgrace
my perfect form. Where do I begin,
and where do these blasphemous patterns end?

We lived alone, traveled to the hinterlands
sustained ourselves on wild locusts honey and
God’s redeeming grace, such as it was
in that holy land when the desert bled into the sun
and the sun into God and God into a bright white forever dream
that held us all together forever in the pause between action and reaction
a nice time
a time for reflection
a time to find the edges, to unfold and fold up back again
but now
what now?
Now we’re old tired brittle
too many years pretending
that evil can be banished to the outsides
too many years upending
apple carts and money changers’ tables
too many years out of our league
too many years of uninterrupted prosperity and never-ending success
too many great intellectual victories
too few glimpses of the Ghosts of Christmas

If friends leave loving me when catch they me
deep down, where demons reign in jags and zags?
If love won’t love what I turn out to be?
Three share one eye, three ancient hags
who see, who know, who feel everything
that ever was; as now beautiful maidens they sing.

The truth about humans is that they are noughts.
The truth about people is that they’re empty
of everything except God, who with the shake of thought
both shapes and Is everything. And God’s sent me
to disappear as I speak the truth.
Same job as everyone else in this big old kissing booth.

Author: The Ancient Curse
Production: Bartleby Willard
Lighting, Sound, and Snacks: Amble Whistletown
Copyright: Andy Watson

College Movie – 4

College Movie – 4

In a study room in a dorm

Susan: So we’re approaching the limit, but we’re not reaching it.
Leah: Yes, getting infinitely close.
Darren: Isn’t that cheating?
Abe: There’s no cheating in math.
Darren: What else do we call saying we’re there when we’re actually only infinitely close to being there?
Abe: That’s what this proof is for, to prove we’re not cheating.
Leah: We can’t be cheating. A major support of modern math and with it the modern world would crumble if calculus was a fraud.
Abe: This proof is not really a proof. It’s an outline of the fundamental theorem of calculus, which is rigorously and definitively proven.
Darren: Okay, but I don’t even get this outline of the proof. So when I use calculus, I am cheating.
Susan: Me too. I’m a calculus fraud.
Darren: We can have a club: The Calc Fraudsters.
Abe: You can just join any fraternity or sorority, I’m sure they’re all Calc fraudsters.
Susan: Hey! I’m pledging.
Darren: Me too!
Leah: QED
Susan: Oh come on, Leah! You know its just because my friends …
Leah: are running off a cliff …
Darren: Me too, I just, I have to have a social life, or else …
Abe: you might end up getting good grades
Susan: This is ethnic discrimination.
Darren: Yeah, anti-Greek!
Abe: To return to the outline of the proof …

Outside a bar on one end of the campus, the end with the shops and restaurants.
This bar is right across the street from the end of the campus, from a big lawn fronting an administrative building and a student community center with a food court on the first floor and a plush well-couched study room and offices on the second floor. The weather is nice in early September. End of August is always muggy and awful. But then things crisp right up once September starts. Excepting that last week of August, the school year’s weather is always pretty good or good or great even. The young scholars are seated on metal-lattice chairs around a metal lattice table in front of the bar. Those under 21 have sodas or waters; those over 21 have beers and wines. One professor is there, the leader of the weekly Stammtisch. A youngish man, a little below average height, slight of build, with medium-manly features and dark brown hair neatly parted on one side.

Mike: Ich verstehe nicht wieso [let’s return here later]