Category: Non-Duality

hey, terrified younger ian

you can do it. i’m proof

-current us

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Speak to us of Houses

Then a mason came forth and said, Speak to us of Houses. And the Prophet answered and said:

Build of your imaginings a bower in the wilderness ere you build a house within the city walls. For even as you have home-comings in your twilight, so has the wanderer in you, the ever distant and alone.

Your house is your larger body.

It grows in the sun and sleeps in the stillness of the night; and it is not dreamless. Does not your house dream? and dreaming, leave the city for grove or hill-top? Would that I could gather your houses into my hand, and like a sower scatter them in forest and meadow. Would the valleys were your streets, and the green paths your alleys, that you might seek one another through vineyards, and come with the fragrance of the earth in your garments.

But these things are not yet to be.

In their fear your forefathers gathered you too near together. And that fear shall endure a little longer. A little longer shall your city walls separate your hearths from your fields. And tell me, people of Orphalese, what have you in these houses? And what is it you guard with fastened doors? Have you peace, the quiet urge that reveals your power? Have you remembrances, the glimmering arches that span the summits of the mind? Have you beauty, that leads the heart from things fashioned of wood and stone to the holy mountain? Tell me, have you these in your houses? Or have you only comfort, and the lust for comfort, that stealthy thing that enters the house as a guest, and then becomes a host, and then a master?

Ay, and it becomes a tamer, and with hook and scourge makes puppets of your larger desires. Though its hands are silken, its heart is of iron. It lulls you to sleep only to stand by your bed and jeer at the dignity of the flesh. It makes mock of your sound senses, and lays them in thistledown like fragile vessels. Verily the lust for comfort murders the passion of the soul, and then walks grinning in the funeral.

But you, children of space, you restless in rest, you shall not be trapped nor tamed. Your house shall not be an anchor but a mast. It shall not be a glistening film that covers a wound, but an eyelid that guards the eye. You shall not fold your wings that you may pass through doors, nor bend your heads that they strike not against a ceiling, nor fear to breathe lest walls should crack and fall down. You shall not dwell in tombs made by the dead for the living. And though of magnificence and splendour, your house shall not hold your secret nor shelter your longing. For that which is boundless in you abides in the mansion of the sky, whose door is the morning mist, and whose windows are the songs and the silences of night.

Sometimes

you wonder who’s watching all these feelings

trillions of eyes glued and scrap-booked

sometimes you wonder if you’re the cup

or the spinning water, or the tea leaves.

you want to grab suffering by its weary shoulders, by its bus transfer, by its untied boots, by its exit wound, by its cinder-block cell. you want to grab the bloodied lovers, the shattered families, the eons of regret, and to tell them they are ok. sometimes you wonder if you could ever be that creative. you heard once that a dry-erase marker can erase a permanent marker. it should be impossible. but sharpie can be undone under one little condition: you have to draw over it first. sometimes you wonder if the world is the sharpie and if you’re supposed to be the dry erase marker and then you feel bad about yourself.

sometimes you wonder who’s spinning that dust in the air

floating freckling waiting to settle

sometimes you wonder if you’re the dust

or the air, or the nap.

 

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