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My nose is not always in an Elliot Coleman book, though perhaps it should be. I don’t stay up nights keeping the candles going on my alter to Joel Salatin, but perhaps this would make me a better farmer.

And of course, it is the same with navel gazing though, truth be told I do consider myself quite the professional at that. But still, I’m not always sitting full-lotus merging with dog barks (see previous post).

I like Dylan‘s example of never settling, always mixing things up and not getting worried about blazing another trail.

The idea with the blog I’m quitting was to write about books, film and art. But I got bored with it. So it stands as an attempt for the period, July – October 2014. Check it out:

Indiana Hill Country Review

It feels strangely good to throw in the towel and share with you that I’ve officially quit writing another blog that you didn’t know about. Ain’t failure grand?

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Is it important to talk about this?
I don’t know.
Maybe it is the only important thing.
Maybe it is not important at all.

Experience is just experience, after all.
Maybe the only value of experience is in letting go of it.

I realize that this concept (experience doesn’t matter) is an anathema to many people.
I realize that experience is the only thing for some.
It was (maybe) that way with me too, for a time.

Of course, who is to say if it is only because I had all those experiences that I now say experience doesn’t matter.

In truth, experiences do matter. In fact, they are the only thing that matters (see it didn’t take me long to contradict myself completely).

Only the grasping for them
And the holding on to them
Make them not important

But I’m getting myself in the weeds here…

So, anyway
Now I relay an experience.

I was laying in bed last night
And on my back.
I was breathing well, now that I think about it.
And I was letting all manner of thought arise, not trying to manipulate it at all.
It’s not that I was practicing ‘try not to manipulate your thoughts’
I just wasn’t
They were just arising and falling away

But, with each thought I was thinking
“What thinks this thought”
Or rather, I wasn’t thinking “what thinks this thought” at all
But reaching inside my mind,
Trying to go behind that
Behind that
Behind that
To the very source

And so there I was:
Still laying
Still thinking
Still breathing
Still listening
(But penetrating
And focusing on what perceives)

And,
Focusing on what perceives,
The dog barks.
And what perceives?
The dog barks again.
And what perceives?
(Now it was like waiting for the dog to bark again
– Because I was almost there -
Now it was like begging the dog to bark again
- Because I was almost there -
Now it was like causing the dog to bark again
- Because I was almost there – )

The dog barks again.
And it was nothing but the sound.

For half of a split second
For twice the length of a lightning flash
The listener, the dog
The sound
Were exactly the same thing.
It was like the sound came out of nowhere
Or everywhere

And that’s it.

So, these things happen.
They do.
And you let them go.
They don’t mean you are special.
They don’t mean you are enlightened.
They don’t mean anything.
They don’t need meaning.

But it is like Grace.
And you could live life in dedication
To those moments.
(But you could live your life in dedication
To any moment)

That’s the best I can describe it.

(I tried explaining this to my family
Standing next to the fire this A.M.
And my wife didn’t understand
- I told her I would try again, to explain later -
And my son said
It is just the ear that is listening
And I asked told him to put the ear by itself on the table and would it still listen then?
‘No, it is just the mind’ he said.
Perhaps he is right.
We only have this mind.
So what is the point of going beyond it?)

(p.s. I’ve decided it is probably best write Eumaeus Pointing at the Moon, here with the worms. What is the point of keeping things separate?)

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I have been reaching out
To my old friends
The artists

If not through words
Then through spirit

Begging for forgiveness
Offering forgiveness of my own
Grasping and
Not grasping
But orienting somehow
To really let go

Like wandering through the woods
Looking for a clearing
To see the stars

That clearing is
You
My artist friends
My lovers spurned
Your broken crutch
Is returned

Begging to be
Thrown in the fire
Freed from limitation

See
This is art
Tearing yourself apart
This is art
Ripping yourself open
This is art
Tearing yourself to shreds
Making yourself over and over
This is art

Oh, yes
I know art very well

With my eraser
Troubling
To rub out
Even the least of myself

(Even the beautiful
Images erased

Because

There is nothing
More beautiful
Than limitlessness)

medlar branches
Two bags of medlar
Hang in the hallway
Where heat from the wood fire
Is fanned on them
Past them
To bedroom, bathroom
And the far corners
Of our cracked and creaking house

One bag is full of perfection
The other bag is full of blemish
They hang there
Ripening
Each fruit
In its own skin

We eat blemish first
Making our way to perfection
But, lo and behold
When perfection is arrived
We find that it too
Has the likeness of a bunghole

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Last night I was with my old friend
My very old friend
And we drove through her town
Like Tim Leary and Ram Dass
Not knowing where to go at intersections
Not caring.

I’d gotten an email from her that was time-stamped 3:21 a.m.
3:21 a.m. is almost never a good thing
In fact, after considering it
I decided everything from 2:22 to 4:34
Is almost never a good thing.
So I knew we’d have something to talk about
And it wasn’t going to be food
Or politics.

So we find ourselves
Rolling, dangerously through intersections
In the kind of conversation
That puts driving while texting to shame.
“Well, do you believe in evil?” she asks
“No, you probably don’t” she answers herself
“I don’t know, maybe I do” I say
“Explain it to me” I say
“Do you mean like was Hitler born evil?” I ask
“He had these black labs or were they golden reterivers?” she asks
“Golden retrievers sounds right to me” I say
“And wasn’t he a Christian?” I ask
“He sure as hell wasn’t a Jew” she says

The world is a fucked up place
The world is a beautiful place

The hard part
Is having a rational mind
Trying to explain things
And solve problems
But love is not rational
Fear is not rational
And these things that love plays with
Security, possession, control
Are the same things that fear plays with

It is a weird place to be left
This world
Fucked up and beautiful

The fucked up part is that you are this body and rational mind
The beautiful part is that you are also Love
The beautiful part is that you are this body and rational mind
The fucked up part is that you are also Love

So we try to remember:
Love doesn’t protect
Love doesn’t possess
Love doesn’t control
Love can only be

What does that look like for you?

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