Move Along, Nothing To See Here

A flatness persists. It doesn’t strangle. It just sits and watches. No place to be. No hurry to get there. I feel it laugh at my struggle. A quiet laugh, feet up on a railing as it rocks back on its chair. It laughs while it picks its teeth. The sun is out. A hot sun directly over head. There’s not much around. Not much shade, either. It’s dry. Rippled lines of heat hug the horizon off in the distance. A single road seems to rise to meet the distortion and melts there where it meets. Music plays in the background, music like High Plains Drifter. Ominous sounding but I feel nothing foreboding. Just this funny music. My mind wanders aimlessly. In the center of a great sense of wonder, no concern for any particular anything. Open to whatever comes next. What’s the next scene?

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A flatness grips the moment again. An unfocused gaze off into an undefined distance tethers my soul. A quiet sitting still as the immensity of it wafts to and fro. I am that immensity but there is nothing to prove. This knowing is not for doing. It’s just for being. This can’t be shared the way this western mind sometimes imagines. Every artist knows that. Art goes where linearity can’t. What is the purpose of art? It’s there to light the way. Can art build a bridge? Not by itself but it can help the bridge builder see the way. Can it be neatly packaged and offered up like so many bars of chocolate? Only when its meaning is forgotten for a moment and all that remains is a gathering of colors. It doesn’t matter it will find its way back. Nothing’s broken, nothing needs fixing. All is well. It always is.

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I sit amidst a dream. There is only the dream and nothing else. Any thing I can conceive of, anything at all, is the dream and only, ever the dream. I am the dream. You are the dream. The dream can only happen one way: perfectly. There is nothing outside the dream to “see” it any differently. There is nothing that is somehow not the dream. It can’t be broken. It can’t be fixed. No matter what anyone appears to be doing it’s perfect. No matter what a person appears to do with their life it’s perfect. I may recoil at a choice I perceive another make but that is only something I’ve learned from someone else. Within the dream is surplus and shortage. The idea of either is the dream. Within the dream is the crushing blight of pollution, urban sprawl and the price to be paid in natural beauty for the ever expanding modern society. Within the same dream is Yosemite and Yellowstone and all such places. The dream is the saint and the sinner. Neither exists apart from the dream, before the dream or after the dream. Every idea about each is the dream.

One is left with a sense of wonder. How can it be otherwise? This entire setting I perceive as my life is this incredible unfolding of the dreamer dreaming this dream. I’m the dreamer but I don’t “know” it. I think it but I don’t know it. I’ve forgotten. Or I’ve fooled myself into thinking I’ve forgotten and I’ve forgotten that I fooled myself. So I see as this little character but in fact I’m this whole dream and the glimpses of intuition and visceral waves that wash over and through me are the breadcrumbs I’ve left for myself. This is a wondrous ride and I’m both rider and builder. Everything and everyone here is part of my ride. The whole ride is exactly as it should be. Not one thing is out of place and not one thing is by chance. Strangely, at least for the moment, that doesn’t mean things have meaning or purpose. Nothing is by chance but conversely everything doesn’t have a meaning or point to some greater understanding. I can’t help but be who I am. The conclusions I’m to draw and the discoveries and epiphanies I’ll experience I can’t miss. Truly this is a ride at the park. Put my hands in the air and smile from ear to ear.

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