Exposure
When the ink stops flowing the notion left installed
Is that life, the collective exposure
Is perfectly malleable and lithe.
The still point about which exposure swirls is the inflourescence of my thinking.
The only thing I know, on sole account of which my exposure is attacked by
Is that life, the collective exposure
Is perfectly malleable and lithe.
The still point about which exposure swirls is the inflourescence of my thinking.
The only thing I know, on sole account of which my exposure is attacked by
Something and not by nothing.
That I can call the universe any name I choose
This is my freedom
This is my power.
The occurring wealth of phenomena that attacks my senses
Instills awareness and fuels thought.
I am convinced that things are happening before and about me.
Nothing is unfamiliar or novel-tables, colours, voices, shadows, ink
Everything I see I own.
I Know what befalls this occurrence
How it rises, falls, brightens, pales, quickens, slows, alarms
Soothes, panics and is settled.
I know my material ambit-clothes, soap, coffee, food, hills, people, sunshine.
Yes, it is mine.
I am able to feel acquainted with the occurrence
Since life, its stage, is all about me.
Life is what my being perceives.
If thought is the subject of the occurrence
Life is the object (I am nowhere to be found and yet am everywhere).
That I can call the universe any name I choose
This is my freedom
This is my power.
The occurring wealth of phenomena that attacks my senses
Instills awareness and fuels thought.
I am convinced that things are happening before and about me.
Nothing is unfamiliar or novel-tables, colours, voices, shadows, ink
Everything I see I own.
I Know what befalls this occurrence
How it rises, falls, brightens, pales, quickens, slows, alarms
Soothes, panics and is settled.
I know my material ambit-clothes, soap, coffee, food, hills, people, sunshine.
Yes, it is mine.
I am able to feel acquainted with the occurrence
Since life, its stage, is all about me.
Life is what my being perceives.
If thought is the subject of the occurrence
Life is the object (I am nowhere to be found and yet am everywhere).
As you can see I am continuing in my posting of old writings vein. I dont have much to say lately, except to be bleak and downcast, which is burdensome for you and humiliating for me. So I'll continue posting old 1990-1992 writings. Actually, however juvenile they may seem, I do still feel attached to them. The above seems to be a somewhat dissociated meditation on the nature of consciousness and self-awareness- in its relationship to the external world. It was written briefly before I had my 3 week run in with the religious cult. I do remember how my mind was then awash with phantoms. The earlier piece about the clanging iron gate was also written at this time.
A friend told me last week I write too long-windedly and should be more pithy. He says nobody is interested in wading through oceans of my words becasue I'm not that interesting, etc. Whilst others have said I should ignore him and write what I like, because its my blog.
