All this text is property of the original author Elvin Meadows
Elvincious say, contemplate thees.
Are there ever really no doubts? In some moments, yes, those during�
which all that is not tied immaculately and knowingly to the decks is�
stripped off into the abyss; during the passing of that tide which deliberately�
leaves one either invincible or witless, with only the steep and endless (for�
all human intents and purposes) face of a cliff in between. The infinite,�
fluid, unreachable bedrock of all circumstance forgives all, but its�
service forgives nothing. perceive and ye shall find!
BJ:
A pleasing splash of sparks from the detachment of the Source--not too�
relatively green with desire, not too burned out on its own dreams of�
self.�
Glad to note it in this moment with the world.
Any act of exploring is exploring the self. This known, playing the�
guitar, I am exploring and being explored. I am kissing and being kissed.�
It's like a snake-charmer, experimenting with the notess to see what makes�
the serpent rise, gnomes playing with gunpowder. Brain cells like fractals�
like leaves. My body compartments release the sweet juices of the memories.�
My fingers, weighted, dig in the ether. These notes, staring back at me�
like someone else--ha ha! a lie.
I
1. [arabic #s refer to chronological thought order] ...And thus I say�
to you, not as a prude in the dime-store child-sized comstume of a�
preacher, but as an old, dying, regretful slave-trader to his long-neglected son:�
"Be gentle with the women of your mind."
2. I see you, stung and bleeding with the nettles in your garden, the�
seeds of which were sold to you at the Moment of appearance physically With�
on the scene by a man dumped at your fresh, trembling excited, open doorstep�
against his deepest will by the same raging river (which sweeps away�
permanently in early life either all one's naivete or the whole�
undeveloped illusion of one oneself) that forces his tortured and hapless soul into�
ceaseless slavery in the service of that very same river's own�
perpetuation, without any substantiated hope of gratification or liberation for�
millions of lives to come. The whole cloudy future, as though underneath an�
intact orange peel inside the mind, but always seen as "out there," "on the�
horizon." [thinking backwards like a fishe's gills are aligned against�
the flow of water for maximum oxygen yeild--in this way, in terms of Holy�
"Human" eggdom (aura), any (merely) added increase in size begets a�
(whatever measure is one step {one dimension} above that of the�
exponential, or parabolic) increase in complexity. This is what is meant by step�
three, "superior man" (a la I Ching), nagual. Now the text has assumed a�
road, a chariot--forward momentum, however gum-chewingly, is now pursued or�
even perused.
3. It would take an army of angels to turn back the cliff-line angle�
of determination exhibited by this nearly purposeless rapid [back to 1.]
And now, ladies and...
"Ha!" the proud and necessary egoist; "Run THAT through your�
paper-shredder [to further the extent of the giant bod of the compacted trash of�
incorporated information that you take with you like a Scarab Beetle�
with its ball of shit]! It will never go through [the paper-shredder in�
question being far too puny to handle a stack of words as thick as that; the�
sands of thought being as yet far too coarse and unrefined to fall through a�
document as finely and intricately porous as the one just completed by the forcs�
associated with the ego that claims its authorship]. Of course, [it�
continues inevitably, inexorably, with the masked and impossibly subtle�
but nonetheless, and ultimately, irresistible tide of the will of the�
infinite foundation of circumstance] there are those who would look at a stack�
of white papers and not attempt to slot them into their particular�
cerebral paper-shredder, only because they are so accustumbed to being able only�
to shred, say, toilet paper, though doubtlessly one of their ancestors�
shredded the same kind of paper with the same kind of shredder that one of my�
ancestors used... then the change originated in the sperm and egg!�
Furhter; the very DNA! Further; the... But this will never end. It is the�
Infinite Series. Therefore, any cross section, any level of "completion," is as�
good as any other. So there was never any need to bring the issue past the�
ancestry thing, or even simpler yet, somehow... Thus no need, even,�
for the raw intellect with which I whip my poor enslaved sould even at this�
very moment the writing of these words: smart people are not superior to�
simple-minded people. And, also, the other, as of yet unadressed (as�
though anything can ever be fully addressed by the intellect) fork of the�
ancestry thought: Thus, things change seamlessly, only appearing divided into�
separation after forgetting; after the breaking of the ORIGINAL train�
of thoght (which, again, only appears divided! So there is no escaping�
the Infinite Series... But, hey, one segment is as good as the next! But�
these, again,are each infinite seris in and of themselves, which�
finally leaves me,
I
All
Just HERE
On the Inside, looking out
And not the other way around
At all, anymore.
When one has crossed over
All becomes poetry.
II
Notes, red, from Santana's crying, unidentified beast, harmonized,�
uplifting the Cause as proud cushions, but somehow inronically made humble by�
their creator's act of forgetting (in his middle-aged, fatherly way) about�
them, leaving what MUST have been their intended (their loinly spurred)�
purpose to rot alone, yet uncomplaining due to its being left, subtly, still�
uncreated by this very act of forgetting. Thus, the infinite foundation of all�
circumstance drops us into existence, with all causes of disunity or�
imperfection still uncreated. This is because the creator is noble,�
unattached, offering seeds only, not guarantees, which are necessarily�
impossible and can only guarantee the strife of their pretentious�
bestowers--this is maya; nearly incomprehensible in its obviousness and�
thoroughly out of the reach of the mind of the so-called United States.�
[writing is linear--a major pain in the ass while under the illusionary�
impression that rules must be followed--an belief guiltily assumed in a�
moment of sheer blind naked folly a long time ago at the goading of the�
hugest illusion of all, which infects--indeed, defines-- most of the�
human race and is totally in cahoots with itself all the time]{the�
paralleling of thoughts where the text appears to diverge into a totally alien subject�
proves BODY again, as well as tangible circumstance (>NOW<)--that is,�
any apparent (any that are any and all that is all are all apparent) gap or�
separation can be bridged, is already bridged, in the infallible�
present} In this way, though it seems to the son that the father is staring�
blankly from one thing to the next, having guiltily lost all passion, the elder�
is, in truth, keeping his gaze stoicly, patiently fixed as the entire�
illusionary world streams by, having purchased with his youthful�
passion only more energy, but ripped nonetheless into the humanly unsalvageable�
folly of the generational dominoes--but redeemed nonetheless of this,�
if he be worth the tick of his own watch, by the humanly unhonorable promise�
that shone from his eyes and in his suddenly immense chest and his gritted�
teeth at the moment of his child's delivery, this new life's defining arrival�
into the care of the supposed relative veteran: "I will not separate."
III
"'I will give to you.' What else needs to be said?" Wondered the boy.
"I love you," gurgled the perfection, not particularly, it seemed, in�
answer
IV
I am instructed in all by the gleam of Jimi Hendrix' front teeth as his�
mouth hangs open, eyes long since having given up striving at the mean�
corners of brutish physicality all around them; asleep in their�
sockets, needed and so only lollygagged around clumsily for an added cod (since�
this is what creates style). In the glint and his gravity, I return to�
Oneness. Returning to Oneness, I can bring back as many words as you can fit�
into your eyes and more, and I choose these: It is in every way INTRINSIC�
that I, you, we do not perpetuate any separation of mind and body, even by�
reading this--for birth itself only serves the purpose of returning�
home having read. Also, putting something at ease is the most devastatingly�
glorious act one can ever commit. All is forgiven, this command�
outlasts all other thought, and so must necessarily be the last one before there�
is no more thought.
V
Writing! HA! That which declines commentary is master. Stoically, I�
watched as my last pacifier crumbled into the dust from which it was�
made.�
The music now rises from what were swamps.
More!!!