Is it time for breakfast or supper? She asked.

In the hospital the women suffer the first day of autumn with iv's, pain meds, Alzheimer's, and pneumonia. I stand by beds and talk with them. About blue jeeps, wild turkeys outside window, deceased husbands, good children, and the way things used to be.

It is Saturday evening. They are gracious.

One person at a time.

Just that

In prison today, zazen.

In true freedom.

Then, around the table, conversation.

To be -- or not -- to be. This is not the question.

All mythology, the man said, has its origin in the belief there is something behind this visible appearing world.

Behind, in a quasi spatial sense. And behind, in a quasi temporal historical sense.

An invisibility. An emptiness devoid of any separative distinctions or descriptions. Just as the Tao that can be spoken of is not the true Tao. And the God spoken of in the Jewish scriptures is a no-name God.

I bicycle to town on borrowed bike. Then row the harbor. I cycle home. 

Investigate everything. I suspect we find everything incredible. Then, don't believe anything, investigate it. And when you alight on something you feel you can hold on to -- drop it, let it go, investigate the release.

I will say this: the Open is the only non-place to be.

The question is: what is seen by the no-self non-dual whole-sight?

Only you...

Provide what is said next.

Goodnight, darling

The papyrus suggests Jesus had a wife.
The miracle of your mind isn’t that you can see the world as it is. It’s that you can see the world as it isn’t.” (Kathryn Schulz)Mozel Tov!

Emptiness is no views

What goes round is what is round.

See it; have no view.

It is seeing you.

Not a single body which is not me

Some realizations are a complete surprise.

“The whole universe in all ten quarters is the whole body of a mendicant monk.” (--from, Shōbōgenzō: On the Whole Universe in All Ten Directions  http://www.thezensite.com/ZenTeachings/Dogen_Teachings/Shobogenzo/058jippo.pdf

Some, more surprising than that.

EDITORIAL 

Death at Guantánamo Bay 

Published: September 15, 2012

Adnan Farhan Abdul Latif, a Yemeni citizen and one of the first detainees sent to Guantánamo Bay, Cuba, in January 2002, died there earlier this month. There is no official autopsy report yet, but in his decade in prison he had gone on hunger strikes and made several suicide attempts.
http://www.nytimes.com/2012/09/16/opinion/sunday/death-at-guantanamo-bay.html?_r=1&partner=rssnyt&emc=rss

I died this month in Guantanamo.

Do not send flowers.

Do not cry.

Rather, wonder why you, my friends, think you are still alive.

Look around. Learn from what you see.

As for me, I would prefer to look at what is...

 here...with no illusions.

“In the whole universe in all ten quarters, there is not one single person who is not the True Self.”  (Shobogenzo, Op cit.)

Let day-old coffee and fresh cream of wheat be your teachers

Morning appears as undifferentiated flow of September brook and slanted sunlight.

The death of expectation blends with an absence of belief in anything other than green silence with open mind.

Someone comes, sits in zendo, leaves. Tires roll over rutted stones onto Barnestown Road.

I abjure all but this unfolding extension of what is revealing itself.

I am

Passing

Away

Into

Breakfast.

I can't see DC from my porch

Somebody will calculate the upside to anti-American turmoil in the Arab speaking world. It will have to do with oil or votes or getting the stranger out of the White House. There's joy behind closed doors among the plotting class.

Flotsam from Bush and Bush years are raising glasses to the brilliance of their time in office. Money managers prime for Monday markets. Press releases are readied for distribution.

There is a corner that has been turned.

No one pretends any longer venality is not the operative motif. Stud and slut stand smiling at their front door saying goodnight to Johns and Jills sliding into limousines fresh from brandy and coffee laced with cynicism and smug retro-rancor.

Here in Maine it grows chilly.

Back hurts.

Delusion.

Hurts.