The sage is how Wisdom and Love tell each other jokes. My Guru said, “Write,” and so this walking rice bag sits down, opens computer, taps keys … but wisdom keeps interrupting, “You know better than this! I am that which cannot be found in form, no word can describe me.” But then Love jumps out from behind the nothingness bush and replies, “Don’t be so serious. I am all poetry and apparition – do it!”
Love takes the laptop, begins to type. Love’s first poem written with the ink of brilliance on the paper of openness was an epic poem, like a Norse Edda, a Homeric hymn it had a title—Appearance. This here is a little footnote.
Poems, stories, announcements strung together on the thread of memory make ornaments called lives, realms, beings, Buddhas. Wisdom unravels memory; past is gone, future never comes and that con man called The Now disappears like mist in morning sunlight. Words have gone to silence and ...
Love cascades out from nothingness, tumbles down as somethingness, swirls in eddies and pools of apparitional appearance. Appearing adorns wisdom, wisdom ascertains appearances as divine. The sage knows nothing has ever happened, nothing will ever happen, nothing is happening now.
Once, a long time ago when I still knew how to dream, I had a dream in which I knew I was dreaming. Seated at a table I carefully explained to my dream friends that this was a dream, that they were characters in a dream I was dreaming and when I awoke they would resolve into my waking state. At the table was a beautiful girl who giggled covering her mouth with her hand. When I asked her, ‘What’s so funny?’ She replied, “Yes, yes, it is a dream. It’s just not your dream. Sorry.”
Appearances are an emergent phenomena, divine hallucinations coming from no-where, made of no-thing, magical children born of openness and brilliance’s love play. These magical children of illusion—beings, Buddhas, galaxies, cars, antelope, elbows, toes, forests, subtle realms, heavens, hells, honey badgers, and wall street bankers … All of them made of openness and bright. They have never existed ... if they had then ... well, that would suck, quite frankly.
Wisdom unravels identity—only bright silence remains. There is no point in deceiving, I have never been born, never died.
And yet … and yet, some dream friends, with great sincerity and hope for the benefit of dream beings, repeat the request—write.
Out there, beyond the limitations of nothingness or somethingness, in the land called Magical Apparition, there is a field of wild flowers. Lets meet there and I will tell you some dream stories about a dream in which you and I become the best of dream friends. - t.k.