Friday, January 2, 2015

Coffee or the Laceration of the Spirit

In the dark. The Internal Dark more dark than the external, at this moment, 10:42 PM in the pacific northwest right smack dab in the middle of December. However, I have chosen, to write on the computer which gives off an illumination. It lands on my face and other places but doesn’t enter further, well, maybe when I open my mouth to breath as I have a nose cold.

My internal darkness is not pocked with any light but neither is it peopled with a hopelessness that I have, mostly when younger, determined to be a necessary ingredient of darkness.

What is it that I feel in this swirling darkness?

It is neither fear, nor melancholy, though of the latter there is more than enough similarities.

Dostoevsky, in the Brother’s Karamazov, one of my favorite books,  speaks of a laceration of the Spirit. When I read that passage, in regards to a monk who experienced it, it sent chills down my spine. This chill that I have found rarely but regularly in my life. In moments of profundity that I did not know were-they were not attached to such moments that one would think like funerals or births. At those moments I felt as if I was a character rather than an actor in Reality. The moments that I have felt similar moments, that come to me in this moment, were odd, to me at least.

Most recently it was among many at a supermarket. I was walking alone among all these people. Then, because of some glint of light, or some other catalyst that I was not aware of, it dawned on me. All these people. All of them in different states of daze. I did not hate them.

There was not pity

There was not anger

A deep wound opened to me and the thought, “I can only know thee if thee becomes beloved to me” and then, “and then I must become non. The final acknowledgement of Truth is that it must all go. All of it. In some glorious disappearance. If the Other is Beloved then that which I have oppressed with discrimination, like my children, my wife, must go, it must go

They disappear not as a vision, not as a reality unto which they function, but as a separateness to this belovedness they must, for when the very world becomes my wife, my children, then there can be no Child or Wife apart from this.

This is an equation of the arising of all things, and the disintegration of all things, and it is of all things. It is the Truth.

There is, here, happiness or, Happiness, or, Bliss better said, Bliss-the great bliss of unseparated nature of which I have tasted the distant vanguards of in the arms of my wife, in the growing of my children, but they must be the cost of Truth. They must. We all know this. We all know this

Oh, they will not know. I am sure. Lest they are the Seraphim they seem and I find difficult to believe, perhaps they are? They are.

They will not know because my actions will be only that of a Father, who adores them, and thus they will not know. They will think it is their father that loves them as other fathers do. My wife will not know. She will not know because she will know me as the man that loves her only-through my actions. Functionally they know me as the singularity.

If I can do this.

I will be what is behind the singularity, the leap from the infinite to the Eternal. From the Word to the Unspoken.

If I promised to love thee-for all time do I do this-this is the only way. The only way. Till all things become beloved I have lied.

And my spirit is lacerated. It is wounded in this ecstasy. At the moment, as I saw a supermarket filled with my Beloved. The wound had two sides stretched across my Spirit-on the one side that which would be lost, destroyed, and on the other, the sorrow at those that will not Know this and yet can; Freedom must include the choice not to achieve it. Shackled to the mundane-Oh how the mind will base itself and wallow in a existential boredom

Who would be Blissful? It is not this that drives me anymore. If it was it would be the drive of the base, the pleasure seeker, and it could not achieve the Bliss.

I would see the Truth, at all costs.

And it costs so much and cuts so deep.

There among the can goods, the organic produce, walk the immutable ineffable and they will not know it.

There, at home, wait then immutable ineffable and they will not know that I have given them up for it.

My lacerated heart...or did I drink too much coffee today?

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