He sat hunched over in an old rusted lawn chair whittling a foot length cut of deep cedar heart. The wood was the color of near raw meat and a pile of fine pink shavings lay gathering between two boots as weathered and cracked as the old man's face. I sat across from him. The evening was quiet save for the steely hiss of the blade in its easy passings, its tempo as slow and steady as time itself, sock-slides walking with the quiet footsteps of our own hours inevitable reduction.

Neither of us had spoke for some time. A dog barked somewhere beyond the treeline.

"There a point to that" I asked.

"Point to what?" He replied, still leaned in at his work.

"That there" and I nodded at the knife as though he'd bothered looking up.

He continued silently at his work and i sat studying the two fresh wounds on the top of his bare scalp. He'd aquired a habit, in his later years, of misjudging the heights of the most unforgiving of doorframes.

"You tell me" he said finally "There a point to anything?"

"Well I dont know" I replied, watching him there a minute, "but I can generally see the sense of a thing when its got some."

I could see a grin spread through his yellowed whiskers.

"Kindly a smart-ass ain't cha ole top"

He looked up then with the blade keeping at its rhythm as though the knife itself were the mover of old fleshly instruments.

"Suppose you can tame a stick of wood to curl up like'at?"

He gestured down at the pile at his feet. The shavings were so fine they wound themselves up in tight pink coils that sat shivering in the afternoons longshadows; the only evidence of a breeze too gentle for the crudeness of mans senses.

"No" I said, "but i caint say i recall when I'da needed to."

He shook his head and chuckled, and continued his work.

"What 'chu gonna do when you curl up that whole stick reckon?" I asked.

"Git another'un" he said, and spat dead center to the pile of shavings hard enough to scatter a few at the toe of my boots. "Or i might could make ya a pilla outta this here."

He stopped his whittling then and sat leaning with his forearms across his legs. Two scared and work thickened hands hung limp and clawlike over his knees. The old Barlow that dangled from his fingertips had endured enough sharpenings over the years that it was little more than a dark pitted sliver of itself.

"Who's the one sittin there aint doin nothin?" He said, and stared at me for a long while beneath a tangle of wirey grey eyebrows, and eyes as pale and faded as the milky winter sky that framed them.

I know, i know" he said "You think it matters what it is that a man does with his time. And you think thataway cause you caint see a thing as no more than the beginning and end of itself". He went back to his whittling then and I suddenly recalled those same eyes as a boy, so bright, so fierce in their blue they could have been carved and pressed from the ice of an ancient glacier.

I didnt say a word till we sat down for super. I just sat watching him. I watched and i searched my mind -

and nowhere in those imaginings could i find a single world where the old man did not exist.

Im going to tell you all that I know. Understand first that I only know and accept what is empirical and absolute, not as communicated by any person or institution of personhood, but as related to me by the particular environment in which I find myself. I am not going to communicate to you an idea, for an idea is no more than an orderly dream. I'm going to tell you what I know, and I only know the Truth as my senses relate that Truth to me; thus, I tell you only what my eyes see clearly.

My eyes are blue just as the sky is blue. My left pupil is at times a square, at times an hourglass, at times it is round like your own. These statements are facts, though facts are not always what they may seem. Neither my eyes nor the sky is ACTUALLY blue. Both are illusion caused by a phenomena known to physics as Rayleigh Scattering.

I assure you, despite the Blue, they sky over your head is darkness rising to infinity.

This is not poetry nor is it mystic vision. What I will tell you is All that i know and I know no more or less than this:

There is no God.

There are no gods collected as God.

There is no goddess.

There is no savior of the faith.

There is no faith.

There is no religion -

No science.

No philosophy.

There is no right way nor wrong way, in and of itself, of going about the business of your life

No good to perceive, nor is their evil -

for what we determine to be good is just as likely as not.

A little girl saves a butterfly from a stalking cat. "Good" we say to the child, as the very next flutter of the butterfly's wings sets into motion events causing a tsunami in Indonesia.

Such a scenario is absurd unless you're a meteorologist.

Cause and effect.

This is what theologians try to say when they speak of 'The Will of the God'.

There are only two varieties of human existence -

the known

and the unknown.

What is it to be known?

And just what is it that is doing this knowing?

That which Knows is a Self embodying all selves and Knowing all creatures.

A Self moving all created selves from the beginning of all movement.

You might say this Self is Nature. You might say this Nature is anthropomorphic.

But both assertions would be misguided.

The Self that knows all selves is reflected in its individual manifestations, therefore, the smaller selves behave in a similar fashion -

they are, as is said,

'made in His image'.

All of humanity understands the fact of this Self in Existence.

From the beginning of our humanness we have understood it. The anthropologists refer to pervasive knowledge as being 'a cultural and historical universality'.

Think of a shadow trying to discern the object that cast itself. Not liking its place in this relationship, eventually the shadow came to believe that shadowness is object and object is shadowness. The only complexity in regards to the reality of Self is in the confusion of this inversion. Shadows speak in their own peculiar languages, but Object speaks in a Language of Pure Awareness. This is Self. Self is All-Awareness.

If i tell you that I am the God you will not except this as fact. But if you understand that God is you we shall recognize one another.

The choice is a simple one. It is not what actions we choose or what gods we should follow. It is not what we will make of our lives or how we should earn our livelihoods.

It is, rather, are we to be our selves or are we to be our Self?

Are we the beaters of our hearts or is our Heart Beaten?

Is life what we make of it or is Life Made for us to Be?

Is there knowledge outside Self or is Self Knowledge?

There is no age nor ending. Time is an expanding orb which burst forth from a pinhole in an Other-Side. Every moment in time is to move. And to Move is all-ways towards Expansion. If you believe yourself sitting still it is of no importance.

Do this and you will understand what I'm saying to you. Go outside and stand in the grass and look at your feet on the Earth. Seeing that your feet are where they are, know that the ground is spinning your body at a rate of 1000 miles per hour. Know too that your body is hurling itself around the Sun at a speed of 67,000 miles per hour. At the same time know that the entire galaxy is traveling your body outwards towards the unknown at a rate 1.3 million miles an hour.

You have never been still.

You are not feet on ground.

You are not earth spinning.

You are not sun hurtling.

You are not galaxy outwards through space.

You are not space.

You are not even you.

You are exactly only

Self in Place -

and I will Love you

Everywhere you are.

"There'll be Water in her Tracks"

Saith the Boy

"That's how you'll know

It's

Her"

"Self-Similarity - in mathematics, a self-similar object is exactly or approximately similar to a part of itself (i.e. the whole has the same shape as one or more of the parts). Many objects in the real world, such as coastlines, are statistically self-similar: parts of them show the same statistical properties at many scales."

Greater Mother (self)

Greater Father (self)

""""""""""

""""""""""""

Lesser mother (similar)

Lesser father (similar)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Self-Similarity = Self-Reflection

Conception:

fertilization is the injection of a coded Order

The Ovum is Life held apart.

To hold something apart is Kudesh, hebrew word we say as Sacred

Zygote spontaneously begins to divide itself into a an incomprehensible series of Reflections

The Ovum of Universe was held apart and at rest.

Kudesh Yom Sabbot = Sacred

Day of Rest

Amar = 'To Say' in Hebrew

'To say' is to inject Order into some-thing

Universe burst into A live action

Movement is the Action of Some Thing Alive

Moving life is understood by the science priests to be 'Self-Similarity'

To say something is similar to some thing is a passive recognition by an observer

An observer who identifies and then communicates is called

~ Teacher

Rabbi is Hebrew for

~teacher

A rabbi who includes him or her self in an institution of knowledge created by society may become indoctrinated

To indoctrinate fully is to become doctor

A rabbi who is a doctor is a priest

A priest who is a doctor of nature is a science priest

Priests sometimes manufacture movement in a thing that is not alive

Manufacture comes from the Latin, meaning, Manu, made by man, and Factum, meaning, after the fact

A living thing is a thing

'un' manufactured

that moves within itself

A thing that moves as a living thing is said to have A Nature

The nature of the full movement of nature is said to be a god.

The active movement of Self-similarity is said to be self-reflecting.

Universe Alive is a constant series of Self-Reflections

A Reflection is the imperfect replication of an Image into the body of another

To engrave an image is to halt its movement

A thing that is living is made of six basic elements

A thing that is not living is made of six basic elements

Life moves until exhausted of energy

Energy is the frequency of movements in a specific life for a finite amount of time

Life is not death as long as six elements are moving

Death is not Life as long as six elements are not moving

Time is the movement of matter in space

Consciousness is to be aware of movement

What is not conscious is said to not contain awareness of movement

The reversal of awareness of movement is said to be 'un' conscious.

What lies beneath the awareness of movement is said to be 'sub' conscious

To sleep removes awareness of movement and places awareness beneath consciousness

An arc is a structure built of wood in order to float on the surface of a large body of water

A large body of water is beneath an arc if that water is present

The self of consciousness is a structure built of language in order to float on that which lies beneath it

Consciousness was created by the self-reflection of the Nature of nature called the God OR NOT

To Be:

""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

( €Cont¥ ).

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter I: The Quick of it (as in-to)

a) context (as in-to) Orientation

b) story (as in-to) Book

c) fiction (as in-to) Fact

*******

Day One:

Let There Be A-Part From Darkness.

-no my, a combining form of Greek origin meaning "distribution," "arrangement," "management,": astronomy; economy; taxonomy. [ < Gk -nomia law . See NOMO-]

non-, a prefix meaning "not," freely used as an English formative, usually with a simple negative force as implying mere negation or absence of something (rather than the opposite or reverse of it, as often expressed by un-): non-adherence; noninterference; nonpayment; nonprofessional.

non•fiction (non fik'shen), n. 1. the branch of literature comprising works of narrative prose dealing with or offering opinions or conjectures upon facts and reality, including biography, history, and the essay (opposed to fiction and distinguished from poetry and drama).

*from (as written in);

Webster's

Encyclopedic

Unabridged

Dictionary

of the English Language

Deluxe Edition

In any 'beginning' we will always find ourselves preceding from an unknown number of previous beginnings. In the beginning, therefore, there was no 'beginning', as such. For in the opening of ones eyes there is only the simple fact of Night proceeding Day in a stretch of blank foreverness hovering over and above the Face of the Deep.

A Book too is no more than a man's eyes just as a man's eyes are only just a book. A man opens a book to read a world because any world resides precisely in a man's eyes.

All books then open exactly as did his own, never to a beginning but always to a pale-rimmed middle, which, if it be so prudent, might then find itself bowed in some vague posture of self-discernment.

There was, in fact, but a single Actual Beginning, and this One-Actual wrote itself as such that its origins should remain largely incomprehensible to those who find themselves preceding from it.

But proceed we must, as it is the nature of all past to all ways lead to future.

You find yourself staring out the window of a passenger car positioned at the mid-section of a very long train, say, a mile or so in length -

a whistle is heard, you feel a sudden lurch forward, and suddenly the landscape begins its slow crawl from the front of your window frame to the back.

In this case you are quite aware that you're a passenger on a train. You understand that the world isn't moving past your window at all, it only appears as such due to your body being transported by the train and opposite the direction of the illusion. Similarly, you are neither shocked to find yourself being moved by an engine you cannot see, nor is it strange when you consider that the movement is due to the starting of the engine and the engagement of its axils, two events, both of which occurred a) in your past, b) beyond your direct line of sight, and, c) prior any movement of your car.

Time is a train you cannot see.

You are the passenger who cannot know.

Thus, shall we follow accordingly:

And in the absence of all beginnings, hovering over and above the face of The Great Deep, and in the time of a Becoming, Light awoke from an age old Sleep.

The True book will only find itself in the Natural World, awakened from nothingness and bound for no where other than a series of event horizons which may never hope to witness the immensity of themselves.

Here now we take a step into his journey just as did he, in the precise recognition of exactly what that step is not - a threshold opened to an orientation of linearity.

But let us enumerate, if only for traditions sake, we say to ourselves,

"And on the first day..."

Nothing True is set gently in.

You were born, not nestled into love and warmth, but from such softenings were you banished. You were born just as all Words are born, from love and tenderness and into shock and awe - from a climate of dependency into one of sufficiency, that is to say, sufficient as such that you have survived from at least that day until this one.

So this is a telling of a story's Undoing and all stories are Undone in order that they may enter into their own Becoming. Furthermore,

as this is not the First Story, and all stories must come equipped with the Histories of their predecessors, it cannot, therefore, contain those elements of form and structure which you, The Reader, might be so accustomed.

Thus must you be birthed again, into the lights and masked instrument of contextual ambiguity, with no course for which to plot in your mind. Here is where you will learn (just as he is presently learning) that a ball suspended freely in space is neither right side up or up side down and

directionality is a peculiar illusion of the line.

***

Mid-afternoon sounds at the bar, most any bar, he liked, but Tuesday's at Springwater's, those were mid-afternoon the most.

To him it sounded there then like huge waters in the steady ebb and flow of unconcerned intimacy.

The cling and clack of glasses stacked or hung for the ready. The wind-chimed bowling pins of last night empty bottles tossed carelessly in trash cans. The sacramental tink of the full. Conversations that clearly shouldn't be heard are heard clearly nonetheless. Primitive languages somehow resurrect in these hours, slung low and quick like the Old Nashville of his youth. Greetings arriving in "Hidees" or "What say"'s with loud and friendly smacks on sweat soaked shirt backs. The sounds of American 'multi-tasking' and auto-piloted action where drink orders are taken like car talk, utterly absent the vocal stress of policy's assigned smile - no arm wrestled mental grunts from the obligatory eye contact - no televised chatter of announcers announcing their statistical analysis of human kinetic intelligence - no hiss and roar from a pixelated crowd as goals are scored in sports imported from less temperate climates - no CMA ordained sounds splintering forth from the speaker sides of the old juke-box in the corner, where still to this day rests a flat nosed 9mm lead projectile lost within its less vital components.

She sits Now where he was then, but not before a door opened in this room.

On certain occasions a burst of Sun-Light is exactly the orange blast from a sudden trombone.

When such occasions arise a woman's figure beneath her dress is exactly an X-Ray.

"Yas Sirrree",

say the eyes of man.

It is not true that nothing being an accident is all things deliberate, for a coincidence is deliberate only if either or.

Should then one even speak of synchronisticy at all? If, given that all things are synchronized,

only the clock knows the contradiction lies outside of itself.

"A Tapestry",

whispers Einstein In Awe.

"We have so manufactured clocks of ourselves".

"Fuck it"

he thought saying

"Here's yer pen back partner"

Buddy picked up the pen from his Profession, as all bars have exactly two sides. Only then did he collect the 2 worn bills and 3 coins lying stacked neatly on the counter.

Five years later, Buddy, would find himself looking up the word 'Irony' in a foot thick copy of

Webster's Encyclopedic Unabridged Dictionary

of the English Language

Deluxe Edition

(he'd long suspected the kids of certain Linguistic abuses).

"Definition of irony

plural ironies

• 1
:  a pretense of ignorance and of willingness to learn from another assumed in order to make the other's false conceptions conspicuous by adroitquestioning —called also Socratic irony



• 2
a :  the use of words to express something other than and especially the opposite of the literal meaning
b :  a usually humorous or sardonic literary style or form characterized by irony
c :  an ironic expression or utterance



• 3
a (1) :  incongruity between the actual result of a sequence of events and the normal or expected result (2) :  an event or result marked by such incongruity
b :  incongruity between a situation developed in a drama and the accompanying words or actions that is understood by the audience but not by the characters in the play —called also dramatic irony, tragic."

A crumpled napkin with blurred writing in blue ink sat soaking up the condensation of a nearly full bottle of warm beer. The bottle was brown with thumbnail scratches parting a metallic paper label which read, in part:

"#ab*st Bl@e Ribb~n"

She picked up the napkin using only her thumb and index fingers and about to toss it further down the bar from her, when, seeing the writing, straightened it smooth on the bar without any thought of tactile economy.

Twenty minutes earlier three napkins beneath his beer one was only just damp. The pen he asked for was slick and greasy. The bartender slid it from behind his ear, obliging his request with an annoyed toss across the bar.

"Always stealin my goddamn pens man"

The pen fell to the floor. He must remove himself completely from the stool in order to pick it up, which he then wrote:

a) sequence is a matter of orientation

b) orientation is a matter of

subject

c) subject is a matter of thought

d) thought is a matter of Language

"Gimme another'un Buddy"

Buddy took a beer out of the cooler, opened it (though it twisted) with a flick from the ancient bottle opener hanging around his neck. His tee shirt was stained where the opener was rusted. Army dog tags must share their chains sometimes, but only after the property is returned from service.

The cap became suddenly only a sound - then less and less of itself.

"Hell ya'ain't hardly touched thatun"

Buddy said, while not going away.

"Hate warm beer Bud"

Buddy leaned in close to him whispering as though in secret,

"Thasss why ye drank it when it's cold son"

Fact:

Buddy never smelled like alcohol.

Q: What is thought without Words?

A: Pictures

Q: What is thought without Pictures?

A: Feelings

Q: What are feelings?

A: Qualia

Q: That's not an answer

(The struggle of the Hemispheres to find the balance of themselves)

R: Compensation gives way to dominance, is the rule.

A man is from nowhere but his language.

Now, say a man is from Chinese while waiting on a bus -

And say that bus is going to that mans past -

Which way will that bus be traveling - in front of him or behind?

A: In front - the past of a man from Chinese is always in front of him.

Only an English has a backwards past.

Where is always the past of ones mind? Always in front as in front is where one sees.

Concrete or Abstract-

The source of dilemma is only found in Orientation.

Orientation is Context.

Cased hard darkaway -

cells divide

in

God-Thought -

for an eternity we spent

knowing nothing

but a cramped need

to expand

Until -

A Universe hissed

Alive!

on a match-head,

Bows a pale curl to the underworld,

"It's ok"

I whispered,

"We always start out in hell"

Unstated, i -

would say to you

that words are,

in and of

themselves, dead -

like stone markers

pointing to

an Intuition Living

behind the stone.

Unstated, i -

would also say to you

that your desires are,

in and of

themselves, like words -

try and have the Courage

(now and then) to

peek behind

the stone.

If it's True

that we have all lost a Love -

then by and by

we'll surely see

we too

are pointing stones

where is God

behind,

Standing Like A Tree

I'm sorry for not writing sooner,

I have no excuse,

Other than the pride I've always

taken in refusing

to confirm

any of mans declarations

as a matter of my own humility.

You'll Forgive me

I'm sure.

You

Holy Immigrant,

How many times

Have you suffered this thankless journey -

Should we, by now,

even from here,

at the furthest shore of Paradise, should we not see

Your Path worn all too clear?

Do the birds not mourn,

that strange scar

now struck

across the very scalp of Eden?

Deeper Greens there

Given way to pale earth,

humbled by Your Precious Footfall.

And there -

where the Garden now

parts forever,

having pushed aside your Perfect Blooms

from 10,000 promising departures.

Or here,

where You've stepped wide

The Potters

Dirt

lest a single tear

renew that shameful clay -

How many times have You

set

that sweet scent at your back,

As the Sacred Wilds

Sway the angel songs

praying your swift return,

begging you,

please,

please

let a lost cause be lost.

Yet time and again

you set off

through the badlands where

salt wives still stare

backwards

towards

some ghostly city -

And on

past the bloody stone

that fell

from Cain's trembling hand -

The jagged hilltop

where you advised an Egyptian

Renegade

on proper social etiquette.

Finally,

to our stoney edge -

Where. Again.

You call,

perhaps this time as an orphan child

with blood in her hair,

fine dust still clinging

that once made bricks

and home

Or maybe an old man,

bent

and naked,

shivering in the cold and

glow of our lamps.

But you have never,

not once

found us waiting,

always walled in by our bricks

and our lies -

fat and pleased,

well contented with your absence.

How high,

these gates of ours we've built-

anchored deep

in our piety -

the shameful locks of iron and pride,

impenetrable, even by you.

Now, as always,

this wall -

standing too high

to overcome its shadow.

And look,

Look how our fear spreads

Just as far

as our hatred will grow -

Now cast

like a sea of nothing

from one

blank horizon

to the next.

Yet you somehow

always journey forward

Always towards

Hope.

With Promise at your back

like a southern wind

Maybe this time

YOU say,

They'll remember.

But we never do - Just the gifts

you've placed

before our haughty watchman.

And Knowing Yourself

unwelcome,

what more could You do?

a few small tokens -

signs

of your Love

The flesh of

Your Flesh -

blood

of Your Blood -

too humble, I suppose,

to remind us,

once

you even left us

Our very creation