You think it's obvious... a child must crawl, then it must take little steps, and then finally it can walk, and run, and jump.
You say "Why belabour it.? It's clear!" and, casting it out of your mind, you expect that you will be a saint tomorrow, a rich man tomorrow, and all your dreams will come true ... tomorrow.
You believe that you will jump before you crawl - some do. But everyone falls a few times before they get the hang of it. Would you put a baby on a bicycle and expect it to ride? So why curse yourself for not making your dreams come true in a day? They can and will come true when you're ready for them, but you have spent your life getting unprepared for them.
You have been told, and you have told yourself, that you are not worthy of having dreams, let alone fulfilling them. You have been told that it is wise to protect yourself, that hope leads to disappointment, that cynicism is equal to intelligence.
Now you must ask yourself why you exist, and why your dreams exist, and why you exist together, if not to create each other. Yes, your dreams will create you, and you will create your dreams.
Nothing is wasted! Put the will of nature to work for you. Quit denying it! You were made for love, for glory, for riches, for truth, for beauty, for goodness, for light. You owe nothing and require nothing. You need only stop yourself from saying 'no' when the gifts of the gods are presented to you. Accept them with gratitude and grace and you shall know heaven!
Tuesday, January 25, 2005
Saturday, January 22, 2005
Creativity: infinite illusion... etc.
Another notebook ramble from a couple of years ago...
Creativity is an illusion. Everything exists, everything grows from Source. Source contains - or rather is - everything that is, that will be, including the thoughts of what might be possible. "There's nothing you can do that can't be done," said the poet. Everything you can think of, everything you believe you are creating already exists as part of the Source which contains all forms, including you and your feeling of creativity. To say 'already' is even misleading because Source is greater than time - contains time, and exists before and after the idea of time, and the idea of existence also. One quickly runs out of words to describe That Which is Beyond Thought.
My thoughts about creativity usually focus around writing. I think of the pencil touching the paper. The tip of the pencil tapers into a finer and finer point. Where is the point where it touches, if one takes the old formula of dividing in half the distance between pencil and paper, and then in half again, and again and again? In that way, one will always be halfway there, though the fractions approach the infinite (a useful metaphor for dualistic thinking).
I digress.
Consider it like this: the pencil comes to the fine tip that touches the paper at one end, and at the other it is connected to my hand, my body, my brain, my spirit, my inspiration, up, up, up to the infinite Source of all. Infinite - do we know what that means? The Infinite does not exist in only one direction (Up? Down?). There can only be one Infinite: how could there be a border between one Infinity and another? An infinity divided by two is still infinite: the borders are meaningless. So the pencil comes to a fine point at one end, and expands to infinity on the other. The paper itself exists as part of that infinite; the events that brought it into being, the particles of which it is made are, if not infinite, innumerable. So the pencil is writing on itself, through the medium of consciousness, the human writer. The universe is turned to look on itself through us. We are the narrow part of the continuum that tapers down from the infinitely large 'around' us to the infinitely small 'within' us. Wherever and whatever we are, we are the centre point between two infinities: we are the point where the pencil touches the paper. When we look at each other the All is looking at itself. When you look at another person, you see the representative of the All, the Universe, the Highest Self, God. The Highest Self? Yes - your highest self, looking back at you. That is why, however you treat the Other, whether it's an embrace or knife in the throat, it's the way you treat yourself. There, in the Other, is everything that you are part of, looking back at you.
All eyes are mirrors. All images are reflections. "All in all is all we are."
Creativity is an illusion. Everything exists, everything grows from Source. Source contains - or rather is - everything that is, that will be, including the thoughts of what might be possible. "There's nothing you can do that can't be done," said the poet. Everything you can think of, everything you believe you are creating already exists as part of the Source which contains all forms, including you and your feeling of creativity. To say 'already' is even misleading because Source is greater than time - contains time, and exists before and after the idea of time, and the idea of existence also. One quickly runs out of words to describe That Which is Beyond Thought.
My thoughts about creativity usually focus around writing. I think of the pencil touching the paper. The tip of the pencil tapers into a finer and finer point. Where is the point where it touches, if one takes the old formula of dividing in half the distance between pencil and paper, and then in half again, and again and again? In that way, one will always be halfway there, though the fractions approach the infinite (a useful metaphor for dualistic thinking).
I digress.
Consider it like this: the pencil comes to the fine tip that touches the paper at one end, and at the other it is connected to my hand, my body, my brain, my spirit, my inspiration, up, up, up to the infinite Source of all. Infinite - do we know what that means? The Infinite does not exist in only one direction (Up? Down?). There can only be one Infinite: how could there be a border between one Infinity and another? An infinity divided by two is still infinite: the borders are meaningless. So the pencil comes to a fine point at one end, and expands to infinity on the other. The paper itself exists as part of that infinite; the events that brought it into being, the particles of which it is made are, if not infinite, innumerable. So the pencil is writing on itself, through the medium of consciousness, the human writer. The universe is turned to look on itself through us. We are the narrow part of the continuum that tapers down from the infinitely large 'around' us to the infinitely small 'within' us. Wherever and whatever we are, we are the centre point between two infinities: we are the point where the pencil touches the paper. When we look at each other the All is looking at itself. When you look at another person, you see the representative of the All, the Universe, the Highest Self, God. The Highest Self? Yes - your highest self, looking back at you. That is why, however you treat the Other, whether it's an embrace or knife in the throat, it's the way you treat yourself. There, in the Other, is everything that you are part of, looking back at you.
All eyes are mirrors. All images are reflections. "All in all is all we are."
Friday, January 21, 2005
Communicate or Die!
Yet another bit o' something from a couple of years ago, edited for your reading pleasure...
Part of the need to write comes from the finiteness of existence - words may not be immortal, but they may last longer than this too-fragile flesh. But what if I can't accurately communicate the ideas I want to express?
Putting together my various bits and pieces on my new computer, it felt really important that they not be lost (like the things lost when the previous computer was stolen). Before moving to Paris, I felt like I had made a kind of peace with death: if I die, well, I've lived a charmed life anyway. I've lived well, loved and been loved. And that's true. But when it comes to the loss of my little notes and poems, that Piscean "I'm-sure-I'm-a-genius-if-only-I-could-prove-it" part of me takes over. All these landscapes and ideas in my head - it seems such a waste that they should disappear when I go. Maybe it's just loneliness. And though I know that what goes on in my head is merely a game compared to what goes on outside, it is the game that is being played in this life.
Maybe all these little bits and pieces are my real work: little poems, fragments, ideas. They say what they must. Stories and novels are merely accepted forms in the culture, and in the publishing industry. They are the outside forms I bring into my world in the hope that I can make a living in the outside world by expressing my inner world.
It seems that communication is so difficult in this life that you almost can't allow yourself to worry about it. So if I try to relate my dreams and ideas, and people see something else than I wanted them to, I can't let it bother me. Still, it's sad. Why make the attempt? Well, because I'm obsessive and driven, and I'll do it even if it's the wrong thing. And also, somewhere between the expression and the reception, some third thing exists independantly - and in its independance it is beautiful.
Part of the need to write comes from the finiteness of existence - words may not be immortal, but they may last longer than this too-fragile flesh. But what if I can't accurately communicate the ideas I want to express?
Putting together my various bits and pieces on my new computer, it felt really important that they not be lost (like the things lost when the previous computer was stolen). Before moving to Paris, I felt like I had made a kind of peace with death: if I die, well, I've lived a charmed life anyway. I've lived well, loved and been loved. And that's true. But when it comes to the loss of my little notes and poems, that Piscean "I'm-sure-I'm-a-genius-if-only-I-could-prove-it" part of me takes over. All these landscapes and ideas in my head - it seems such a waste that they should disappear when I go. Maybe it's just loneliness. And though I know that what goes on in my head is merely a game compared to what goes on outside, it is the game that is being played in this life.
Maybe all these little bits and pieces are my real work: little poems, fragments, ideas. They say what they must. Stories and novels are merely accepted forms in the culture, and in the publishing industry. They are the outside forms I bring into my world in the hope that I can make a living in the outside world by expressing my inner world.
It seems that communication is so difficult in this life that you almost can't allow yourself to worry about it. So if I try to relate my dreams and ideas, and people see something else than I wanted them to, I can't let it bother me. Still, it's sad. Why make the attempt? Well, because I'm obsessive and driven, and I'll do it even if it's the wrong thing. And also, somewhere between the expression and the reception, some third thing exists independantly - and in its independance it is beautiful.
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