Vishnu’s Dream

To Ka with the world is what temps us, leaving a wasteland for children yet to be born. To Ka with the Earth, and be rried by God is the task now. Vishnu rolls in his slumber with so much work to do and little wasted time. How old is forgetting? Citta is dyadic, and there are many equal-sized fishes in the pool. Happiness is an image, not a concept, and an image is felt, not known, like a dream, but this is reality, the lower rungs of one ladder, one of two. Vishnu’s nurse is an amorphous maroon glow watching him erect a shining lotus from the glittering chartreuse, to teal, to emerald, to turquoise surface. He is darkness within, and she is darkness throughout. The surface of his skin was crawling with unresolved wishes and confessions that dreams are made of. Yet, at closer examination, Vishnu’s spineless entrails are full of light. He cannot be impregnated. He is male, and Madrina gladly observes the unique lilly emerging from his forehead, heart and navel, a myriad of voices, one euphonious choir.

In space, there is a fear of being abandoned, and Vishnu abides in space. There is something at stake here, questions we bring into the night, mischief we engage in during the day. The opposite of entitlement is monasticism. The opposite of monasticism is just this. Fractals are stupid. Iconography is wise, to not design, the time to pause until he wakes. Asra just wants to watch, summer, fall, winter, spring. I pluck my chin and plan today’s offering. What could be appropriate? Not a picked flower, not veggies for the freezer, not anything store bought, smokes? Maybe this quote: “Through fire and water I come to Thee, not fire nor water shall I take from Thee.” – Kate Seredy. Look what the old woods threw up yesterday trying to find the lawyer’s name:

Cause this cosmic journey, future you, mysterious you, free you. Hurt me if need be; I do want to know you, though I am NOT a priest. Bud, my grand-father, was an ideal man, except my grandmother told me something very sobering after he died. Her Alzheimers only gave her access to the good old days, and the present moment, and she told me, “you are very beautiful.” Then she told me a horrible story, that my grandfather broke off their engagement, when she was working as a newspaper journalist for the Milford Cabinet, and went out to CA and got engaged to another woman! It sent a shock wave of jealousy through their entire marriage, although they were role models of happy matrimony to many many couples, very good examples of wedlock themselves. Why would my grandfather do this? Blackmail, just being kinky, insecure bullying? NaivetĂ© no, lust, possessiveness. As my telepathy grows, my heart smarts with scars of truth, and this post is a depressed regression back to school again. As already stated, friendship offers the balsam the heart craves to test thoughts.

Commitment to stop fighting is devotional practice, welcoming memories and letting all things be as they are. Bankers want weekends off, and sailors want to sail. Which way will Vishnu turn. She longs to hold him down, to eat his face, but she is pinned with his head in her formless lap. Patience is a virtue so it is said. While in India, I consulted an astrologer who didn’t read my chard. He made no big deal of it, only telling me that I am associated with Shiva and should fast on Mondays. For awhile I ate raw on Mondays, and then ignored the advice entirely until now when I eat only once a day, plus allowables. This morning my tongue is covered with plaque, from the gummy bears eaten while writing Resting, celebrating, mourning.

“I can be cruel. I don’t know why. Why can a bullet not stay up in a perfectly windy sky?” -Tori Amos

Ose, are you glad you left? Don’t you think you should train? Monks are needed, even married ones. Good to see you have no florescent colors in the garden there. Good you have your beloved chika. Good you wear that cowboy cloak over the golden-yellow one. Good to see the next generation, like I saw Vandana Shiva’s worm shepherd in the library yesterday, plus more Hindi lessons, “I have two books. This is my pen. Those are my pens. That is a big bag. Those are big bags.” Metta.

Ole to the Alpujarras. Ole to the setting. Ole, Dindi and amen to not communicating with future generations, except though Art. “Yet all the people of Damascus were still frightened by him and afraid of his mischief. When they saw Badr al-Din enter his shop, they retreated, dispersed, and when their ways. The cook looked at Badr al-Din and asked, “Young man, where do you come from?” Badr al-Din told him his whole story from beginning to end (but there is no point in repeating it here.) The cook said, “This is a strange story. Keep it to yourself until God sends you relief, and stay with me in this shop, for I am childless and I will adopt you as my son.” -Husain Haddaway

So many whistleblowers get married, are muted or sell out. The Eagles had it right. “We are all prisoners here by our own device.” She is going to snap at somebody. The elephant in the room is this computer.

Wake up call

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