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The few people who ken my ex-is-tense in this of all worlds know I'm retired and so assume I am must need something to do and offer to fill up all the ti-me it had intended toward writing with all the noise they wanna get rid of in their non-specific, non-idealized worlds. I blame my rudeness on being old. They expect that. It's the excuse they'll use when, if ever, they enter their own dotage.
It seems as if (after all this time of heartily avoiding it) I have be-co-me-d with a community of family and friends. People know where to find me. It's both a blessing and a curse. It's come to the point of me having to deal with what I say again tomorrow, whereas when I kept moving on my road-to-nowhere, I didn't have to act like it might matter tomorrow, and you gnow, it still don't. I am is still living a lie.
My friends and family seem ready enough to change they own damned ways enough (a little bit) for me to act like I got a right to be here with my own peculiar estimation of reasonable behavior. I esteem stuff with the best of 'em, if I say so myself. I did. I did say so my own damned Self.
It sticks with me. I've read lots of translations and versions of the story of what happened in the arena around Gautama when he finally gave it up and sat down beneath the Bo Tree. He Adam-antly refused to move until he was allowed to jump the broom with true enlightenment of the Buddha-hood.
I don't know if this one significant gesture is included in every version of the Bo Tree myth or no, but when I am became aware of the significance of this incident in it's own way, it became the central tenet of what lets the horse out of the barn through a carelessly unguarded gate.
At one significant point in the tale, all these abstract evil spirits that had gathered to stop Gautama from realizing his own individuality (or die from trying) and cause his effort to implode through sha-me. The way these wildly aberrant creatures are described indicates powerfully that they felt pretty sure of themselves. Why would they not be? Only one of ten billion zillion seekers ever got over on them to be-co-me that.
There's a great word for describing this malevolent amalgam of deviant dweebs that hovers around like ghouls in all beings of denial. In the Bhagavad Gita, the seeker Arjuna perceives them as kinsmen, and he has to kill his own kinsmen including his parents to become awakened. Fortunately for him, Krishna offers to drive his chariot for him while he kills them all with his mighty bow and straight arrows. Aaaiiiiyyeeeee!!
This gang of interfering interlopers are even closer to us, by proxy, than our kinsmen. "They" are us, and of "us", it is me. I am is the culprit and initiating instigator of all the foregoing action. Man is God's critic. This sitting has to be done literally when the seeker can't walk away from it anymore. Bottom of the barrel. Dry well.
These spirits force the situation, and it can only be dealt with and by one's first person singular in the here and now or the first person singular dies and has to get another body. In any case that's still me, even though there ain't but One of them at finger-pointing ti-me to reach for it's own ground of Being and save the day.
It's me acting as that One who has to do the equivalent signature gesture exposed by the story of Gautama under the Bo Tree in my opinion. When he is confronted by the ghouls and evil spirits of his own past, he merely pointed to the ground beside his crossed legs under the hood of the universal snake Ka and the shimmering branches of the ethereal Bo Tree, and stated, "I have a right to be here."
Much classier than having to murder all your kinsmen in a self-imposed, self-conflicting all-out war of retribution or walking all the way to Canaan living on magical mushrooms and illusory grasshoppers. Granted, it takes something to be able to hold your own ground in the face of such terror. It's never over, the only change is in me ("Thou shalt have no other). I am seems to be faced with embarrassing scenes from it's past on a daily, so-me-ti-me hourly continuum.
Consciousness always makes the tie-to-me (time) happen right-damned-now. It classically erupts into being when I am is hot on the heels of a bugbear that traditionally emerges from the shadows as I bend my will to enter the wormhole of the "eye of the needle".
All Fall Down.
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I do not attempt to tell the God's own truth here because I don't know what the truth is or hardly ever. I try to capture the drifting thoughts that randomly appear in my imagination for reasons I may not understand. I don't know if the content I capture with these words is true or false. The Comments settings are turned off to prevent me from having to defend what amounts to little more than fanciful, sometime crude speculation. Great moments in our lives never return.
