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24 June 99
A BIG PEACH OF YIN AND YANG
In a sense that each engenders the others' seed, the polarities are not fixed. In a sense that a curve is an arc of a hidden sphere, polarity is never fifty fifty, more like seventy thirty. In a sense that Light and Dark may manifest at any point of growth, some lives have wide lenses, a capacity for the tapestry; and some lives can only see at any point a fraction, fragmenting wholeness; and in frustration mode, must fumble, try to fix. With innocence the littlest point of light in all the dark is the peach. There are no localised opposites. You cannot fix the flow. The attempt to fix right now, the flow is a trapped nerve later on. I cannot fix life any more than I can fix a river. Problem solving, therefore is a mug's game on a seesaw plank. It spills.
(with gratitude to W.Liquorman)
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SATURN OPPOSITE SATURN 24 June 1999
Getting the wrong end of the stick he saw the snail's frail horn withdraw from intimate confrontation and felt an implacable hostility to him personally directed. A door appears shut to one who tries hard to batter it down. There is no door at all. It only shows what we try to get through. Softly, openly I know nothing of you, being your space. Let it be a muddle. Let it sink into itself. Let it be tenderly obvious and obscure.
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INDEPENDENCE DAY – A Modern Neo-Advaita Fable 24 June 1999
A brave and tall hero from from the battle propped up bars, until one day suddenly his bottle got taken away. Oh, Californian tragic tale! Un-propped, and unresisting heroism, into a pit of darkness one day fell his pendulum. Orgasmatic egoism poured out, both sides, when thwarted. The bottom of the bottle upturned fell down. The liquor unsupported is A Anonymous unlearned. A giant takes baby steps around this place like a beanstalk which has lost its stake. Within the boldly sprouting carapace is the Sage's empty lake. 'Tis vulnerable to be a has-been, even have Jack climb your leafy stalk looking for his cat that went to heaven. Cut down so far, 'tis strange to walk. And yet, the long careful construct to butcher the Californian hero - whodunnit, the evidence self destruct, was a thriller a minute, the plot had nothing to show. The Sage unlearned, found out his learned friends. His hanging glide, to sure destruction bound, crashed on the web world wide, and there remains out of depth, an inch or two above ground. His pillar now - "no others*" to uphold - is a wayward tender plant. Talking this non-resistant stuff, the bold stalk itself stalks ... the occupant. ______________ *Advaita-speak: "there are no others"
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MORSELS 26 June 1999
Rose petals turn now brown and brittle around the edge of the phenomenon.
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27 June 1999
FOR A MOMENT
On a rattling Bombay omnibus shunting from Chowpatty Beach to Peddar Road, where baking beggars squat, the passenger stops. It is clear (though still in place) that my NAME is a veil upon my nose, which I cannot remove, nor from IT, remove myself. Only the sun cooke smell of the bus and beggars can stop the world and in my absence for a moment, bus runs on. To be, and to be NOT the passenger is where my naming stopped; and the in and out of this occurring is a key to beauty.
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PONDERING PROJECTIONS : CLAY FEET 28 June 1999
It is a wonderful thing to discover my guru's clay feet walking along in life and to ponder projections of perfection that I place in my limited way, on his way of living. Those teaching truth, are supposed to appear like expectant mothers of conformity, but they don't. They are what they are. A controversial deformity such as eight mis-fittings in the womb, which poor old Ashravakra endured, cannot by one jot or tittle sway the herd.
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DYING IN THE BAVARIAN ALPS 1 July 1999
When the guru in the rosy cloud is gone real peaks appear, rain fresh. There is a huge four-dimensional ripe peach of yin and yang. The scroll unwinds, mile upon mile paints an Alpine amphitheatre: everything that was, and is to be, is here. When I step back a way to see, both past and future glaciate as now upon that mountain. The face in bright cumulo-nimbus shredding paper thin, transforms; rabbit in a pink and golden meadow burrows home. Over every rock of living and loving I climbed since infancy, was splashed the difficult obscuration of that face in the cloud commanding. Rocks re-emerge rain washed, bright from the passing of inappropriate projections of the Beloved sacred muse. I think the underlying nature of the change is more profound than anything I can say, because the Guru was "I want" and this I see, is fading. Life is - with no figurehead to limit it - un-personed, a fruity wonder. Life is the being of mountains, valleys and rivers. My name however tired, does not get in the way. My name is a visiting card in the thunderstorm soaked right through and dying. Dying. Dying. Dying. My feet that stumble in the flood downhill with tumbling clouds of rain, have trodden grape, and in earth's blood are drenched with ebony stain and dying. Dying. Dying. My bones are melting to the ground, to worms, metatarsal grace of feet and limbs the dainty step, and every one of us in this manner is dead, unveiled skeletally the same, and bare mountain veins above the vale review indestructible being and dying. Dying. Dying. This alone is sure; that I and you and the stranger over the road all, all are bones, and wrapped around with one bright cloth of sky, our dying, the wine drunk, the end of our tiny lives, of time; and birds and bare bones of mountains over the vale review indestructible being.
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THE WEATHER 1 July 1999
My depression, tiredness jails. Yet, my GOLD isn't wanting "something else", isn't judging it "not good", but as if I newly arrived in the body with no preconceptions how this should feel. The world-earth is heavy or light-foot with various weathers.
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SORROWING 1 July 1999
There is no escape from my recurring sadness. It is the same pole, I suppose, as my joy. As Self is traditionally said to be joy without cause can it be, that uncaused in like manner is sorrow? There is no definable reason for my state tonight apart from her own tendency to groan. I carry tendencies to judge and criticise and cut my cloth. Hallo. I love you un-personed, this state of being. I love you because I AM and discover you. You are eye in the dark; because I do not know why. A baby might grizzle so ... grey driftwood on a soaring beach of crying gulls, wood saturated with salt and bleached with sun.
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AND SHARING SORROWING 1 July 1999
The world is a legion of untapped sorrows. The air in this room vibrates the Armageddon homeless in war zones, and the stricken. The air is thick with the universal kind. Thus a sad film on the water grows. The raft attaches to itself, like a sail, some I-thoughts of more local kind. My friend Mrs B would dance and sing and weep her sadness. She knows and has it too: the humanness. Some of the Master's messengers don't actually say anything wrong but they don't get it right either. It is kids' stuff, far out bliss, in-speak.
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CATS PLAY 2 July 1999
My problems are an entertainment for the beloved. Cat's paws: mouse play. The cat is loving the mouse it gently, deftly kills.
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ONLY FOR THE TIME OF MEANING 3 July 1999
I am struck, this afternoon by an imponderable - life following no formality yet precise, recognises no penal codes nor morality, for these are manufactured flotsam needful for their time of meaning. Human values require some guilt to bring to order; but God is more often opposed to the social capital. Comes then no label but an act from God willing the pregnant void. A secret glimpse through ordinary things into the limitless stops my voice.
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ABOUT JOHN 4 July 1999
He tells the truth. He gives no teaching but a way of being. His acupunctural point upon the meridian discharges Being turning tables in the anteroom. His razor edge softly opens a named and aching contour from the nameless peace be still. This is a perilous yet fluid position of the Master. Ever increasing numbers gather, adore, and project upon him the moving hunk. Because he isn't there, I'm not either. In the deep and inner sense, settle for less, he says, not more.
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HOME
Masters upset standard notions. They tend to break the world; break up concepts and ideals that form around them. The Rose of many teachers, many messengers, over-blooms its petals. There is no place for me to be but home. Home has no script. The teaching flits around and through it like birds. Home is a magic mountain being revealed by melting clouds.
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My adventure invites fellow travellers. I am a poet, an artist and a seer. I welcome conversation among the PHILO SOFIA, the lovers of wisdom.
This blog is a vehicle to promote my published work – The Sacred India Tarot (with Rohit Arya, Yogi Impressions Books) and The Dreamer in the Dream – a collection of short stories (0 Books) – along with many other creations in house.
I write, illustrate, design and print my books. Watch this space.
* Advaita-speak — “there are no others”
janeadamsart 
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