A note before you go sloshing into my word soup – Do not base your self image on what you want others to think. That is the path to the false self. Base your self image on making others think. Why the hell not?
Critical thinking is for those who like being right – Versus this type of free writing, which is for self expression, and possibly other fantastic goals. That said – logic is great for troubleshooting the facets of material reality and meeting with a conclusion based on something constructed with a foundation of empirical data blessed by the scientific community. That being said, exploring the substance in this blog is my personal journey, and some of it may be awkward to handle for the logic sticklers. If I’m currently entertaining any hard fact/logic types – If you haven’t noticed, I am now advanced in a creative direction with my work. I don’t write that heartless junk anymore. If you need to think like a computer to feel validated – NO! Unless you belong to the Scientific Community…why? That said – There is a honesty in this that may prove to be a rare find in your future. Give it a look. And…maybe, you’ll find yourself flying from the inside. If it seems like egocentrism – before leaving – the last sentence will change your mind on that.
[Art note: I usually am not original with my images. This, I think is only one of two posted in my blog, here, that is my own work. This blog is about authenticity, so, the other image is my work, as well. This piece is a picture of a project made in a college design course (I took for fun). The actual image is huge and I love it. The assignment was to make a door reflecting our personality with clippings from magazines, and/or illustrations in books. I liked how this turned out. Much better in 3-D, by the way.]
The Spiral bound notes
And the Tool
The sun bleeds
To the sky look Mothers, of and by, Natural right.
And by mouth of Ein!..that Stein told of paths and said…
“Infant! Ride the light!”
Off, into the collective rise –
and by the electron field, the self authentic hawks soar.
Over the yesterday born,
in a time of lies.
Making small – the paths of might.
Those who’ve tried
To crush in white-knuckle grip.
Abysmal and into the dark
Dawn petrifying ignorance, afraid and tense.
Trifling, they surrender reason to absence.
the gardener strides
White the hawk – claws rippling by tear ripping into
A Tsunami‘s lead,
Roll the Socianic tide.
As, drops in succession, the other a cat’s foot.
The fear driven sights shake
Transparent and blind they tremble
In the Earth shattering quake.
Fear guides their reach for violence
Approaching zero degree freeze
Corroding their last neuron of sense
Failed to reach heights of sentience.
A Hawk on the fence.
Devouring, is its three tao gaze.
Timing calculated hesitance…
The mass had not before beholden, ice breathing fire.
Yet, awareness wielding.
Mouths draw open, bound by awe.
Never before had they known kind warmth of disciplined mean…
They see human gone with drifting inertias,
Birthing an alien.
Over he would scale…
Past, the present, and future walls of men
Bolting off his perch
Set, his strike.
They thought of gods, rivaling the speeds of light.
Arrogant, they hack that cough.
Cast the angry stones by rumor.
He only brandished his strength.
Showing them something more.
A gentle kind guiding to beauties,
Only spouting from forest floors
Logic taught by the brilliance
Of legendary minds.
Transcendence, was seen as one of the fragile constructs
Eyes seated in material rhymes
Growth stunted fields open in narrow slits
Failed their see – a square type box framed by attempt at control,
The plight of an envisioned and unrealistic Earth sits
The quantum hails from beyond times before super black holes
Reality is only known as fiction and prose.
Spreading desperate stones hoping…
That they hit, daze, confuse, and disarm
Illusions spun by reflected intending
Lies tell harm and cry for shields
Atomize and saturate by misuse of hands unstitching.
Matter held by a force osmosis of the mind,
Self knowledge lacking experience and nurture kindled heart.
Sagan eloquently elaborated on this
Third Law Dynamic balanced in freeze burning temperatures
As it approaches zero.
We look for gods and heroes.
Nietzsche’s Egyptian sun being,
Fiction weaving writers think in dream.
No altruistic giant shining in benevolence.
Seeing this kind of authoring
Hope cracked like cold glass in penance.
A flower dies
Keeping her seed that yields by emulation
Emotion peeled apart
She unearths his notion
Birthing all care
Empathy released as the world’s cure by potion
Bearing symbol laden tale of a nomanclature
Weathered and scarred
Catalytic, the dying star.
Blocked, barred…ripped and marred, by terror
A heart’s emergent held and bound in a barrier.
He seeks out and draws
From broken love…surviving on…
Loathing and apathy.
Tales he tells of strengthening.
That…and, not all was lost.
In the shattering hell brought by chaos.
No dogmatic circle, but a royal bloom named Gautama,
Within the valence stream and myriad paths of light
viral power – releasing each loved idea.
[Art Note: This is a picture taken of my favorite Buddha statue – Then, I did a simple manipulation with swirl effects.]
He searched and once found…an Eastern light shining down.
Mothered from India.
Legends traversed from several areas, this cross a man moved by love was saddled and bore
Asia crawls with vastly different stories of this man’s lore. Some cultures practice Buddhism as theism, deism, or both… (Not Buddha’s Intention, At ALL)
He told each word about lessons discovered in seeking
Unearthed, and born into wisdom riddled lines from within.
Enlightenment found after years of a
compassion inspired need for a cure to ease the suffering…
And, all that is sentience.
Buddha and his eight fold path…
Clutching the crippled up and breathing into them, the chi..
The Alien hawk-eyed son met love
First, through a universal
Archetypal mother. God was a shield she chose
Although she understood that no one knows…
I sought god, but he dissipated in my compassion for my mother’s life.
The story of Gautama was a path he knew based on the sight
Of his own eyes. Within, and without. Buddha spun reality like a basketball on his finger. He moved and it responded.
In my favorite story, Buddha (means “enlightened” one, for your information) was, in the beginning, a prince of a warrior class. He began his journey as a naive boy sheltered from the world until he was a young man.
He never even explored his family kingdom until he was a young man. A teen, I believe. He, at a much more introspective age than a toddler could account for, witnessed four accounts of suffering for the first time in his life. Long story short, he then sought answers and, through his compassion, began walking a path that would eventually wind toward his greatest teacher – The Buddha (himself ;)
He then saw Buddha and rose to fall in the throes of enlightenment.
A piece of mind does not come free, But by a freed self,
Pulled out from inner dungeons,
Entering as a child to spend time in focus
Trials filled with inner demons…some lurking around
The edges of sanity. Falling and rising inside self chaos.
Bringing back a message for city to farm.
Opening the eye. The sunrise within.
Becoming the center by knowing the storm.
Out of hard fought, and hard earned envisioning
Rising well within a immature ignorance
Emergent stuff that formed the path of a Master’s guiding…
Gautama lectured on the strongest of demon.
Reaching at you from self deception.
The peace comes from the battle and an evil extinct.
As with the Eastern Master, the light needs many lines to extract,
Display, and teach.
These lines differ by a few thousand years,
but the flame is moved by the same winds of intent.
He sat with his friends later scribed as followers.
The journey will be known by naming such truths.
Desire is the root of all suffering, the Eastern light shows.
These words will tell of ill adaptation. Happiness is fleeting,
Only claimed by a self lie. Experience shows that it must not be caged.
By the moons pull, oceans age. The ebb and flow, it will arise, then it will go.
Happiness is best known as if it were a seed – It must be planted, nurtured, and observed…
As it unfolds to grow. It is not a smile as told here.
Rather a self comprehension, warm, as the fire it grows.
If the path is traveled, only the patient desire is a prickling irritant,
Until it is consumed by awareness. A fire that roars as the years pass.
A mere spark of your own, at first.
Analogies are seen and omnipresent. As the enlightenment yields nature as discovery.
The universe is within – as without.
Centering the self is your natural place.
Calming thunder, roaring waters, and all things chaos…
Is holding it in the “mind” sculpting your own brand of order
By redirecting, balancing, and tuning the basis.
The raw force. You must be it, as, it is already you.
Excuse the laugh, I recall being new.
A love then found in Gautama…hahahaa…
Was egotistical as, in the beginning – all that is seen
As him…is also you. You become aware when,
His fingers are, in the mind’s eye, seen
Curling around a mirror’s frame.
Crack, goes the shell of planted seed!
Gautama, a catalysintrinsic inferno. Change sought without,
Is a treasure endeared when honestly, the change is of self. If you seek?
These words tell of the mind being a diamond filter of reality.
Black and white, seem opposite, but zeroth law draws the balance as is seen.
Black is the blend of the entire color spectrum.
All colors contained in its identity. Twist the angle and black may show dark green.
That depends if it’s seen. Brown, blue, red, the entire field may fan out in ominous cover,
Secret – truth is only ever what you discover. Pictures are great, but when the diamond angles,
In each new direction, new shades emerge. New regions within may be known.
It may take a life in silence, or it may evolve as your presence.
Centering is what I understand to be my personal nirvana.
Finding silence in noise. Seeing white in black. Touching without feel.
A burning heart moves the feet. A path that was a primary construct now vivid, fiery…I like the term “real”
Inside, pacing in disdain. A wandering identity I designed to heal from a place of pain.
Catalyst was at first celebrated by a boy – immature and vain. Buddha showed how the self might deceive.
A false illusion that may be you, and the Master will belt out a hearty chuckle. If you don’t laugh with, then have fun, because the lack of being flexibly enjoyable, will become life’s bane.
Until…you make it happen.
This tale can fill a million words onto blank pages – or, goliath truths may appear in one word. It all swivels on the axis of perception. In these words, a brief flight is part among – this multifaceted ratchet of introspection. Define it – as is seen fit. The path here is lit by myriad of blending color. With each inner change, reality reacts though it. Yet, it does not control, and is not at the veritable helm. Reality does not conform like a magician’s conjure. As, words are not going to change another’s perspective, alone.
Make authors, panthers, mimes. Explore your subjectivity, and turn reality through it.
Raise your hand – make an objection. After time is seen as the first sculptor, remind yourself , that all this perceived cosmic jazz comes from you. Explaining this all is no simple task, too.
The path here was paved with these very words…assigned by me to open potential worlds for you.
The door moves for neither noble, thief, magician, or weaver divine. Now, hurredly, try your pull.
Opening the path is your first goal. Perhaps your last. Before surrendering you to either a curious cat, or one that claims to be valiantly honorable – Karma, as I see it, is tuned like clock work. It is a return of what is truly surrendered as an act of positive work, or relieving another’s suffering – big and small.
Practice. Patience. Welcome. Head down. Now…onto other exploits of inner space…
Imagine I sew wings onto the image of me as projected by “Catalyst” …no? Well, go find a region you can appreciate. *pushes the ‘catalyst’ out a nearby window.
A flight of the catalyst
Emerging eyes shape first by a liquid ripple
Hatch the butterfly effect
Perception brought the things
Of cloak garbed myth
Spilling words of catharsis
Ground watered by an army of stripping eyes
Defenses cracked, drained, and bled
Opening for viral hearts to seize root.
Love crippling the shrinking fears instead.
Tremor of the gardener’s quake.
The awakened rise for the take…
Adult and child spawning bonds in love
The potentialities blow the guarding fuse.
Hawk human alien reached down
And pulled through neural known habitat
Rising with an encompassing mirror…
Choked in tears…saying
Master, child, your blinding fears,
Else it cover us in dark sky,
Threatening to erase depths of blue…
This is me, and I am you.”
[End Notes: Reference to “Hawks” and a “White Hawk” is actually a tug at my middle name “Whitehawk.” References to “Catalyst” : Catalyst was my original pen name, or, moniker, used for writing on the net. References to “Cat” : Cat is short for Catalyst. A more endearing name closer friends called me.]
[Art Note: The is another original work of mine. Not the best by a mile, but one of my favorites. This piece is entitled “Whitehawk” – This is my own Ubermensche.]