The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas
Even when they walk away, the sacrifice still happens. Pretending it hasn't is a lie in the context of that sotry.
Here's to the starving children in Darfur. I cannot feed them, but I can eat my cheese recognizing that I am living in the "good" part of the wheel.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Friday, December 25, 2009
UG
You see, the search takes you away from yourself. It is in the opposite direction; it has absolutely no relation.
...
All that you do makes it impossible for what already is there to express itself.
...
So, there's nothing you can do. It's not in your hands.
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All that you do makes it impossible for what already is there to express itself.
...
So, there's nothing you can do. It's not in your hands.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Mark Twain's Mysterious Stranger
"And you are going away, and will not come back any more?"
"Yes," he said. "We have comraded long together, and it has been pleasant—pleasant for both; but I must go now, and we shall not see each other any more."
"In this life, Satan, but in another? We shall meet in another, surely?"
Then, all tranquilly and soberly, he made the strange answer, "There is no other."
A subtle influence blew upon my spirit from his, bringing with it a vague, dim, but blessed and hopeful feeling that the incredible words might be true— even must be true.
"Have you never suspected this, Theodor?"
''No. How could I? But if it can only be true—" "It is true."
A gust of thankfulness rose in my breast, but a doubt checked it before it could issue in words, and I said, "But—but—we have seen that future life— seen it in its actuality, and so—"
"It was a vision—it had no existence."
I could hardly breathe for the great hope that was struggling in me. "A vision?—a vi—"
"Life itself is only a vision, a dream."
It was electrical. By God! I had had that very thought a thousand times in my musings!
"Nothing exists; all is a dream. God—man—the world—the sun, the moon, the wilderness of stars—a dream, all a dream; they have no existence. Nothing exists save empty space—and you!"
"I!"
"And you are not you—you have no body, no blood, no bones, you are but a thought. I myself have no existence; I am but a dream—your dream, creature of your imagination. In a moment you will have realized this, then you will banish me from your visions and I shall dissolve into the nothingness out of which you made me. . . .
"I am perishing already—I am failing—I am passing away. In a little while you will be alone in shoreless space, to wander its limitless solitudes without friend or comrade forever—for you will remain a thought, the only existent thought, and by your nature inextinguishable, indestructible. But I, your poor servant, have revealed you to yourself and set you free. Dream other dreams, and better!
"Strange! that you should not have suspected years ago—centuries, ages, eons, ago!—for you have existed, companionless, through all the eternities. Strange, indeed, that you should not have suspected that your universe and its contents were only dreams, visions, fiction! Strange, because they are so frankly and hysterically insane—like all dreams: a God who could make good children as easily as bad, yet preferred to make bad ones; who could have made every one of them happy, yet never made a single happy one; who made them prize their bitter life, yet stingily cut it short; who gave his angels eternal happiness unearned, yet required his other children to earn it; who gave his angels painless lives, yet cursed his other children with biting miseries and maladies of mind and body; who mouths justice and invented hell—mouths mercy and invented hell —mouths Golden Rules, and forgiveness multiplied by seventy times seven, and invented hell; who mouths morals to other people and has none himself; who frowns upon crimes, yet commits them all; who created man without invitation, then tries to shuffle the responsibility for man's acts upon man, instead of honorably placing it where it belongs, upon himself; and finally, with altogether divine obtuseness, invites this poor, abused slave to worship him! . .
"You perceive, now, that these things are all impossible except in a dream. You perceive that they are pure and puerile insanities, the silly creations of an imagination that is not conscious of its freaks—in a word, that they are a dream, and you the maker of it. The dream-marks are all present; you should have recognized them earlier.
"It is true, that which I have revealed to you; there is no God, no universe, no human race, no earthly life, no heaven, no hell. It is all a dream—a grotesque and foolish dream. Nothing exists but you. And you are but a thought—a vagrant thought, a useless thought, a homeless thought, wandering forlorn among the empty eternities!"
He vanished, and left me appalled; for I knew, and realized, that all he had said was true.
"Yes," he said. "We have comraded long together, and it has been pleasant—pleasant for both; but I must go now, and we shall not see each other any more."
"In this life, Satan, but in another? We shall meet in another, surely?"
Then, all tranquilly and soberly, he made the strange answer, "There is no other."
A subtle influence blew upon my spirit from his, bringing with it a vague, dim, but blessed and hopeful feeling that the incredible words might be true— even must be true.
"Have you never suspected this, Theodor?"
''No. How could I? But if it can only be true—" "It is true."
A gust of thankfulness rose in my breast, but a doubt checked it before it could issue in words, and I said, "But—but—we have seen that future life— seen it in its actuality, and so—"
"It was a vision—it had no existence."
I could hardly breathe for the great hope that was struggling in me. "A vision?—a vi—"
"Life itself is only a vision, a dream."
It was electrical. By God! I had had that very thought a thousand times in my musings!
"Nothing exists; all is a dream. God—man—the world—the sun, the moon, the wilderness of stars—a dream, all a dream; they have no existence. Nothing exists save empty space—and you!"
"I!"
"And you are not you—you have no body, no blood, no bones, you are but a thought. I myself have no existence; I am but a dream—your dream, creature of your imagination. In a moment you will have realized this, then you will banish me from your visions and I shall dissolve into the nothingness out of which you made me. . . .
"I am perishing already—I am failing—I am passing away. In a little while you will be alone in shoreless space, to wander its limitless solitudes without friend or comrade forever—for you will remain a thought, the only existent thought, and by your nature inextinguishable, indestructible. But I, your poor servant, have revealed you to yourself and set you free. Dream other dreams, and better!
"Strange! that you should not have suspected years ago—centuries, ages, eons, ago!—for you have existed, companionless, through all the eternities. Strange, indeed, that you should not have suspected that your universe and its contents were only dreams, visions, fiction! Strange, because they are so frankly and hysterically insane—like all dreams: a God who could make good children as easily as bad, yet preferred to make bad ones; who could have made every one of them happy, yet never made a single happy one; who made them prize their bitter life, yet stingily cut it short; who gave his angels eternal happiness unearned, yet required his other children to earn it; who gave his angels painless lives, yet cursed his other children with biting miseries and maladies of mind and body; who mouths justice and invented hell—mouths mercy and invented hell —mouths Golden Rules, and forgiveness multiplied by seventy times seven, and invented hell; who mouths morals to other people and has none himself; who frowns upon crimes, yet commits them all; who created man without invitation, then tries to shuffle the responsibility for man's acts upon man, instead of honorably placing it where it belongs, upon himself; and finally, with altogether divine obtuseness, invites this poor, abused slave to worship him! . .
"You perceive, now, that these things are all impossible except in a dream. You perceive that they are pure and puerile insanities, the silly creations of an imagination that is not conscious of its freaks—in a word, that they are a dream, and you the maker of it. The dream-marks are all present; you should have recognized them earlier.
"It is true, that which I have revealed to you; there is no God, no universe, no human race, no earthly life, no heaven, no hell. It is all a dream—a grotesque and foolish dream. Nothing exists but you. And you are but a thought—a vagrant thought, a useless thought, a homeless thought, wandering forlorn among the empty eternities!"
He vanished, and left me appalled; for I knew, and realized, that all he had said was true.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
A Hat Full of Sky
There isn't a way things should be. There's just what happens and what we do.
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What's a mind but another world of dreaming?
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Is there any "me" at all, or do my thoughts just DREAM of me?
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What's a mind but another world of dreaming?
-----------------------------
Is there any "me" at all, or do my thoughts just DREAM of me?
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Yes!
Decidedly about more than Americanized, make-my-ass-look-good yoga. :-)
And there is good stuff in the Extras.
Sunday, December 06, 2009
Thursday, December 03, 2009
Just sayin'
Do you notice that every, single non-duality/advaita/waking up blog references Jed?
I think it's a cult.
I think it's a cult.
Wednesday, December 02, 2009
The Dark Tower
Referencing Leonard Cohen's song "A Crack in Everything". He says "that's how the light gets in." Various books seem to have cracks in them. And I don't necessarily think that the writers are on the Advaita bandwagon. I suspect that it's kind of that "hero with a thousand faces" thing. The waves of the Ocean of Singularity move across the entire ocean, not just on a solitary beach.
I hate reading books that tell me what to think or how to be. But I do get a kick out of it when someone sneaks something in on me.
Stephen King's Dark Tower series is seriously cracked.
Today, one of the characters got hit in the face with the knowledge that he is a character in another book. And it is tearing him up. "It's not a story. It's not a story, it's my life!"
Ha!
I hate reading books that tell me what to think or how to be. But I do get a kick out of it when someone sneaks something in on me.
Stephen King's Dark Tower series is seriously cracked.
Today, one of the characters got hit in the face with the knowledge that he is a character in another book. And it is tearing him up. "It's not a story. It's not a story, it's my life!"
Ha!
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