Browsed by
Author: Bartleby

horse knows the way

horse knows the way

The saddle slides a bit from side to side.
Dismount and, yanking, tighten leather seat.
Then back up, sharp-toed soles into stirrups slide.
Grass long stiff, dusty dirt, smooth stones. The beat
of clip clop you don’t stop, dark mane jostling.
I thought I’d stay and farm, a married man.
But she thought no; so I go whistling.
She’s spared us both Me trying best I can
while, flailing, failing her and all our dreams.
Perhaps that’s what’s happening. The horse
is glad to stretch for greener lands, richer schemes.
I’m less enthused, yet go hoping this course
is best for all. My horse knows the way,
A]and I see we can no longer stay.
So goodbye river wide and valley deep.
And farewell woman I’d wished to keep.
I’m letting my horse trot us away.
That’s all I can say.

Except:
life is strange
we know little
and understand less
Yet Love abides
and sweeps us all along
upon
her soft white
cloud-fluff wings

Jostling Jack of Jericho
He rode all day though he didn’t know
real from imaginary
a little from very very
unlikely from for sure
tread lightly from don’t worry

Jostling Jack of Jericho
gets in Joshua’s way and down he goes
But Joshua never fit the battle of Jericho
T’was propaganda rattled off all for show
by some scribe in Judah long past the facts
whatever they’d been, back when facts were acts

Jostling Jack of Jericho
talks with God though he cannot know
what’s God and what’s just some bush
caught on fire and won’t you come push
us up higher?

Higher and higher until we’re ready to leap
into the sand or past to the grass green and deep
Higher and higher up to the sky
until we scream Yes though can’t say why,
having plucked certainty over accuracy
and annihilating expansion above poetry

Author: AW
Editor: BW
Copyright: AMW

The Project

The Project

It’s been a long time now, this project.

The Hurt, and the damage done, especially to love.

Pure Love, and that It isn’t one of these mean loves that only loves some people sometimes, that can abandon you and will if it gets a better offer; but instead is a Love that chooses everyone.

And that Pure Love is all there really is. Which is the ultimate revenge on those selfish little familial loves! They don’t even exist! And they shouldn’t anyway, because only Pure Love has the decency to love straight up, rather than using you to feel better about itself and where it stands in the (merely apparent!) flow of things.

Something Deeperism as the practice of centering oneself around Pure Love and flowing-off/interpreting it poetically (not intellectually and/or emotionally literally/exclusively/definitively, but with one’s thought-as-a-whole in an ever-widening and -deepening gist of what is ultimately wider and deeper than human thoughts and feelings). And here again we stick our noses up in disgust over those fools who would imagine they could either think/feel/act coherently without the Truth, or that their ideas and feelings about the Truth were somehow identical-enough with the Truth to justify all their strutting about!

It reminds one all too well of that moment, almost forty years ago, in the new school. Some chunky kid you were destined to semi-know for the next ten years. You heard him saying to his friend and confident, the all of you having just left the too-bright too-white restroom, that he (you believed he meant you) just doesn’t seem to like me (him). That’s right! Fatso! I don’t like you! You act up in class (second grade, to be precise)! You’re bad! Ha!

And finally, we have the wisdom meme, by virtue of which our (but, seriously, do Bartleby Willard and Amble Whistletown exist at all? Even in this illusionary place where the fools think their selfish hearts and push&pull-loves are somehow Real??) more perfect vision conquers the world.

No, that’s not fair. Since the wisdom meme is supposed to save us all, teach us all, enlighten us all. The wisdom meme is supposed to break Bartleby Willard, Amble Whistletown, and Andy Watson out of their narrow visions, out of the Hurt they can’t see beyond. The wisdom meme is supposed to make us all wise enough to feel/think/act well together. It is a hail mary. It is the hail mary that this project is.

What now? The curtain is pulled back. A very small old man in antiquated clothes has been seen pushing the buttons that make the apparition-like “Great and Powerful Oz!” proclaim his thunderous confidence. All lies! All lies! But no, because he’s a nice old man and he wishes he could help and he wants to find some way with what he only is to connect with others and to together move towards a newer world.

Tell me, tell us — beings real or otherwise — that it is not too late to seek a newer world.

Author: BW/AW
Editor: AW/BW (again, we imagine at some point some editing will happen here)
Copyright: AM Watson

ch 351

ch 351

Please talk to me, Susan.
Please tell me you want to know me.
Please tell me we can have a new beginning.

The Pure Love conjured up within, between, and through Susan and Esmeralda — heads bent, elbows on smooth-varnished round wooden table, hands clasped over enchanted lotus petal, knees scraping the rougher underside of this elf-sized (and thus undersized) dining hall table — glows with the energy of a hundred-millions suns.

Sound like an impossible amount of energy? Well, “the energy of a hundred-million suns” is not quite accurate. Pure Love is infinite, so it contains more energy than a hundred-million suns. But I don’t suppose Pure Love contains the same sort of energy that suns contain. What is the energy of Love? And why do we tend to picture that energy as a white light so powerful that it swamps all existence — as if Pure Love were the ocean and the rain and the wind, and all of existence (all the infinite universes popping in and out of existence, each dancing its dance in the however-many-billions-of-years it flashes in the pan) was a tiny little fishing trawler swamped by and sinking under water pouring in on all sides?

Pure Love must overwhelm Esmeralda and Susan. It must make of them vessels and vassals of the One Light that all hearts see play. What becomes of their childhoods, of walks in the sun and the rain, of Susan’s first songs and Esmeralda’s first calf? What is left when Love sweeps through?

And Sadducees came to him, who say that there is no resurrection. And they asked him a question, saying, “Teacher, Moses wrote for us that if a man’s brother dies and leaves a wife, but leaves no child, the man must take the widow and raise up offspring for his brother. There were seven brothers; the first took a wife, and when he died left no offspring. And the second took her, and died, leaving no offspring. And the third likewise. And the seven left no offspring. Last of all the woman also died. In the resurrection, when they rise again, whose wife will she be? For the seven had her as wife.”

Jesus said to them, “Is this not the reason you are wrong, because you know neither the Scriptures nor the power of God? For when they rise from the dead, they neither marry nor are given in marriage, but are like angels in heaven. And as for the dead being raised, have you not read in the book of Moses, in the passage about the bush, how God spoke to him, saying, ‘I am the God of Abraham, and the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob’? He is not God of the dead, but of the living. You are quite wrong.”

Is this an appropriate place to pause and consider the metaphysics of true love?

Well, then, just real quick.

Everybody knows (in the bone marrow of our hearts) that when we die; race, religion, ethnicity, gender, and all personality traits disappear and are lost forever — except of course hanging forever as a memory in the mind of God (and thus in a sense existing forever, since God’s memory is not of the past, but of the eternal present, where God’s perspective lies). Everybody knows that at death, everything except the Pure Love we have gathered and become is burned in the fire. And that it is good that way, otherwise the heavens would be full of ghosts held captive by mortal delusions. Think how awful that would be! To carry the fluff and stuff of this daydreamed adventure into Reality!?!? That would be madness. Luckily, it is not so.

And obviously, along with our shedding of our individual mortal minds/hearts/bodies, our relationships to one another must drastically alter. Hence Jesus’s point that there will be no marriage in heaven.

But what of the second part of his response:

” … And as for the dead being raised, have you not read in the book of Moses, in the passage about the bush, how God spoke to him, saying, ‘I am the God of Abraham, and the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob’? He is not God of the dead, but of the living. You are quite wrong.”

What is he saying there?

And what about true love when you fall in love forever and you will stay together in this world and the next and if one is reborn the other will be reborn to, so that the two can find one another again and join together again, over and over, always together for ever and ever?

Is that just a silly fantasy, akin to a child wishing he could be a soldier in a glorious battle, because he’s too young to understand what a hard fate that actually is — that whatever his individual outcome, the glorious battle will cause terrible suffering that quite possibly could’ve and should’ve been avoided with a little more care, planning, and understanding, and rather less glory?

Are we would-be true-lovers not much better off dying into a wisdom wide and deep enough to love everyone infinitely, and thus equally?

I’m sorry I didn’t tell you in a nice and sane way that all I’ve wanted since first we met was to connect with you, know you, relate to you. I can’t even want my heart to recover from its brokenness. Because once my heart recovers, then you really are gone forever. Or so it seems. Though doubtless that is just more human folly, and not informed by metaphysical insight.

Still I can’t shake the possibility that humans do know one another in heaven and that there is still even some contact between the living and the dead. But I don’t know how that can be squared with dying into wisdom. Or is it that we die a million times before dying completely into wisdom, and reasonably good living/dying brings us into a sort of mini-heaven, where we rest and recuperate before signing up for another training day on earth, where one must be born partially blind to spiritual Reality, and where one can thus study Reality in a whole-being, nuanced way that heavenly bodies — being rather blissed-out on so much mental and emotional insight and joy — can’t??

If we are reborn over and over again, perhaps relationships are maintained and evolve over lifetimes as well — allowing for something like true love; even if in the end the best love is the widest and deepest one, and so we all must work at opening our hearts and minds until — in this life or some later one — we lose all individual relationships for a relationship with the One that, at our core and shining through our every moment, we all always were anyway.

I don’t know.

In any case, the Pure Love swamps Susan and Esmeralda, overrunning everything they used to think they were, and filling them to overflowing with the life overflowing that Knows that and in what way it is True to say, “We are all in this together”. For a moment, the two young women disappear into the Light. This Light streams always on both sides, and all mind/heart/matter is always but a thin film, living for real only to the degree it catches and reflects Light into/as life. But in a moment like this one, the Light exploding inside and out is so bright that one cannot help but lose oneself within It, and in that blessed disappearing act become one with the Light and with all Its works — which is both the formless creator and the flowing-together of everyone and everything that has been, is, or will be.

The Love advances. Anne catches to drift of Susan and Esmeralda, just as she finally gets herself around the magic stored within the SWK’s magic stores.

Momrath must flee. He’s lost a dragon battery to the termite’s fascination with Mench; and he’s also experiencing a shortage from the dragon battery now under Siel’s (admittedly weak and soon to fizzle out) mini magic dome. The magic patch which the athletic young Ellen has run, on light elven feet, up from the magic stores to the top of wall has shored up that wobble in the magic dome. And, worst of all, Momrath senses a flood of Pure Love heading his way; which, if It overtakes him, will change him, will make his current grand ambitions seem like the silly and petulant foot-stomping of a spoiled brat — and if that happens, how can he ever take over the world?!?!

Oh look! This is good! Between the two remaining batteries, Momrath has enough magical power to evacuate most of his monsters and troops (both the living and the dead ones) back with him! Thank God! Now we can have a meditation on what enlightened people do when faced with the question of whether or not to use violence to stop what they perceive as evil activities. Oh, but are we ready for such a contemplation? Well, no, but we’re not there yet, and if worst comes to worst, we can write our way out of the conundrum (like, for example, we could have there be a way to stop Momrath that involves only undermining his hold on the Magic Realm, and which requires no further warring).

Never mind. Forget I said that.

Where were we?

Ah yes:
I love you.
You’re a nice girl.
I’m sorry I didn’t just tell you how I feel.

Authors: Bartleby Willard & Amble Whistletown
Editors: Amble Whistletown & Bartleby Willard (as of Monday, April 24 at 9AM, there’s not actually been any editing done, since our editors have not read this yet; still, we imagine that at some point editing will happen, so we have prepared this announcement to catch that future reality in)
Copyright: Andy Watson, whatever that is

I need you

I need you

I need you I look for you I call for you
Where are you when will you talk to me
I heard that the mongol hordes killed all
who did not submit. I heard they executed
five percent of the world’s population
Then I heard it was more like ten percent
But then again there were a lot less people in the world then
and they did some good things too
I heard that people are naturally evil
and that’s why they swagger and leer about
I heard they’ll rape and pillage you if they can
That’s what they say, the bodies, babes, bastards
I hear that what we have here and now is a miracle
This beautiful lull in the all-pervading violence
Just a mass-shooting a week to let out a little spleen
here and there
What a deal!
Please talk to me please tell me
it’s not too late
to seek a newer world, a better one, one where kindness thrives
Please tell me we’ll walk together the road to freedom
Please tell me
the age of the conquerors is leaving us
and now we’ll floating waltz on apolitical serve-the-community bureaucracy and situational 30-minutes-to-safe-and-sound comedies
Tell me war is slipping away like a victim of dementia, forgetting what it thought it was while subtly realizing life goes on without it.
Tell me we can and will gently, and without having to close the coffee shops and their eclectic and stretch-you-but-not-too-much playlists, do what’s best for everyone.
Tell me you’ll be my girl and we’ll be safe and thrive in a world more interested in joyful shared creation than the way a gutted man’s wife and farm belong to the one jerking the blade up, through the entrails, to the lung cavity.
Some kids we kill and some we keep, depending on age, gender, whim.
Tell me you’ll be my girl and it’ll be nice for us —
sharing a life both fun and wholesome
Talk to me, if you would please
I want to hear what’s on your mind in your heart beneath your smile shining so bright

Author: AW
Editor: BW
Copyright: AMW

Memo on the crime

Memo on the crime

That part of you goes all the way down
And it spreads all the way through
And it is private and thus difficult to talk out
And it is something you share with almost no one and thus hard to work out
For all these reasons, it is really cruel and wrong to hurt someone here, in this way.
They cannot escape it, and often they live their whole lives without being able to address it, so it turns gangrene and what should be beautiful and sweet and cuddly is dark and broken and shameful and so lonely, so uncuddled, so lonely all the way down and all through.

Author: BW
Editor: AW
Copyright: AMW

where is my girl

where is my girl

Where is my girl in this world
Where is my friend without end
Where is the smile that piles
iself upon itself like a python
coiling, gathering, smoothly flickering
with his or her long elegant pink forked tongue?

I need you in the nighttime and all day too
I ask for you where my heart sinks down all through
the mushy entrails where I my guts order my fate
Would you come along please before it is too late
for me to unwind this mistake
unwind myself to become myself
And live here and clear wide awake
And shiver no more on stone shelves
a thousand miles beneath
the garden and its sunshine smile?

Ch. 277 – Dragon Island & Arizona

Ch. 277 – Dragon Island & Arizona

277.
The many dragons are still on Dragon Island, where you and I have only dreamed. No, I’ve never been. Never seen the craggy-columned basalt ring surrounding the flat-topped sparkling-granite Speaker’s Stone. Nor gazed upon the soft meadows dissolving into a hundred amorphous islands as the long arm of the Vorgas Fjord wanders into the oldest governing body/convention (the Alþingi), in the oldest place of government (the Þingvellir). Does a fjord make itself known? Does a fjord have its say? Does a fjord influence the politics of its day and of days gone by? Well, if ever a fjord performed such un-fjord-like wonders, that fjord would be the Vorgas Fjord.

I will tell you, and it becomes anyways apparent in cracks and fractures and cracks and crevices and nooks and nicks and nooks and crannies, that the Magic Realm had already at the time of our telling a long and healthy tradition of that most perfect of philosophical / metaphysical positions: a Something Deeperist faith in Pure Love. So why, you might wonder, were follies the likes of the now mopily and even a little ruefully sidelined Blaise Pirouette and the desperately advancing Momrath Bellingworth — or, I guess, Bellingworth Momrath as we originally had it and I suppose must continue keeping it — even possible?

But don’t you see? Haven’t you known ever since we met? A human can spend fifteen years obsessing over Something Deeperism and Pure Love and still lack adequate wisdom. So why can’t a collection of interrelated civilizations who’ve spent a couple thousand years musing upon and even formalizing and codifying Something Deeperism and Pure Love contain a number of reckless fools, careeningly indifferent to the Truth of Something Deeperism and Pure Love? Are not the infinite strands within a single mind an easier organizational project than the ten million infinite strands between ten million minds?

The dragons are, on the whole, pretty mellow, pretty gentle, pretty wise, passing sweet. A thousand years of safety, security, health, adequate wealth, study, reflection, meditation and a cultural consensus around and spiritual practices yearning after Something Deeperism and Pure Love are generally good for a body. Still, no dragon is his or her own idea — let alone the ideals of their books of law and love, and it is difficult to not succumb to some spiritual laziness when everything’s so safe and pleasant and easy for so long and wide and great. That is to say, not even the dragons are as wise as you and I mean to be when we feel the cool spring air and bright morning light on our face and in our lungs, when we look out onto the canyon so deep and redrock where we’ve come with our parents, cousins, and grandparents: a little day trip, a couple hours caravan in three big bug-faced vans; an infinite stretch of wonder wrapped up in companionship and dotted with chicken salad with green onions and celery chopped up fine and also pickle relish in there with the mayonnaise and complimenting the Pringles; yes, I believe it all adds up, I believe it all gels in the blue sky over the rocky desert abyss.

Author: B Willard
Editor: A Whistletown
Copyright: AM Watson

wisdom meme

wisdom meme

I love you.

By accident I caught a glimpse
of your smile
as it shone out your heart and into the wider world where we —
hollowed-out corpses for a moment animated by the Light of Godbreath —
congregate.

Life is like that.
Dead bodies stitched together by the miracle
just long enough to stroll together
through the park in spring.

God is giggling.
We call this giggle creation.

Turn us, God, inside out.
Let us, we pray, become the Light that shines inside and outside —
that there no longer be a space between inner and outer Light:
turn us inside out; explode the Light into and out of
this shell of mind/heart/body,
this corpse of a clickity-clack dancing, hard-shelled beetle

Help us to hear
ourselves,
one another,
and the gentle joy
misting through everything,
empty of anything like “inside” and “outside” of “me”

How do we all together accept the gentle careful relentless loving kindness,
without which none of what we feel, think, say or do means anything to any of us,
and with which
everything we feel, think, say, and do
is
a way forward
for us all
alone and all together
now and forever
?

How do we giggle along with God?

Author/Editor: BW/AW
Copyright: AM Watson

Goodbye

Goodbye

It takes a while to stop a rig running down the hill
It hurts a while being gutted by a curving fish knife
so that your innards plop out onto the bright clean white-tan square-cornered concrete
with little flecks of smashed glass glinting the summer sun every which way

I’m really sorry, though I can’t quite remember anymore what for
I feel sleepy like a small child unable to keep his eyes open
on a grungy old matted light green carpet in front of a giant wooden TV like we had as the 70s gave way to the 80s
Why didn’t anyone put him to bed?
And now one side of his faces smooshes into the rug — his open mouth drools on the dusty carpet with its squished-down swirling (like a battered toupee)
And so asleep he mindlessly breaths and drinks in that icky old rug
Someone should’ve put him to bed long ago!

Goodbye
I meant the nice parts
Or at least I wanted to
more than I ever wanted to do anything
which I think counts as love
for humans mortals creatures

I’m sorry but mostly just sad
to say goodbye like this

I had wanted to know you
I will go now
I will pick up the sleeping child
and put him in his cozy bed (though admittedly not shaped and decorated like a race car, as is one of his friend’s)
And then go back to the living room and turn off the giant wooden box with built-in side speakers
Then I’ll go over to the kitchen, in linoleum, yellow swirling vaguely flower patterns, all the plastic countertops held in place with grooved metal edges. I will turn on the overhead light. I will not turn on the little black and white TV (all in black and white plastic; a small screen, but still a pretty big butt). I will sit at the kitchen table where we have grilled cheese sandwiches with Campbells tomato soup while watching Charlie Chan on the little black and white TV. I will sit there and write a little note that says I’m sorry it came out wrong, that I didn’t just tell you that I always wished to really get to know you, and then stop! and let you decide how to respond, and that now I’ll be off and I wish you the best and goodbye for now

I love you
I don’t know why
I don’t know if I could be who you need
It would’ve been best just to tell you the first part; the other two parts are understood anyway