This Bodiless Creation Ecstasy Is Very Cunning.

There is no awakening. There is no enlightenment. There is what is. Labels of awakening and enlightenment are another playful game of life, looking wonderingly at itself in all that is. Whether one "awakens" before "physical death" is a concept that gives the apparently unfolding story and its outcomes deep meaning. Whatever it is that seems to happen, awakening or lila, samsara or enlightenment, bliss or sorrow, is just as it should be, and are all the mind's labels "after" the fact. A spiritual journey is fun, engaging, intense and interesting. Those stories of reincarnation and karma are particularly fascinating stories the ego tells itself to keep itself going. If reincarnation "is," who cares...the new personality doesn't remember the last one, past life regressions aside. The story can be as interesting, and as long - thousands of years - as you like; it can include such things as telepathy, remote viewing, alien control, chakra energy centres, transcendant bliss, and suicidal depression if ordinary day-to-day living just isn't doing it for you. The mind will do a lot to make sense of life, bring in the concept of karma, of heaven and hell, of the last second of life being a pinpoint of infinity, where the final decision is made...so many belief systems, so little "time".

All the answers to all the questions about life and death, birth and rebirth, samsara and awakening are "right", or "wrong". Conflicting answers can co-exist simultaneously, but the mind can't handle the co-existence of antithetical concepts, and so attempts to pigeonhole reality, to force it to make sense within narrow parameters. It is possible that the need for it to make sense can seemingly just fly away.

Some seekers have a very narrow definition of what "awakening" or "enlightenment" is. It is this. You are there. You are it already, your mind just can't believe it. It's not joy or bliss or tears or gratitude; it's this, whatever flavour and quality "this" seems to have. You deserve it, you are it, and in the unfolding story in relative reality, when the outcomes aren't the goal, it seems the goals become attainable. There is no goal. And in that concept, all goals become possible, because they are possible, especially in the absence of stultifying concepts.

If you seem to be going through a rough patch, and your mind is roving and spinning and trying to make sense of everything (a friend of mine calls it "washing machine mind"), don't worry. This isn't necessarily bad, although very uncomfortable. Perhaps it's an idea to relax, and hang in there - it's worth it. In the ever-changing, endless, timelees moment that is "this", all you have to do is nothing and everything changes anyway. It doesn't matter whether "you" "awaken" or not. The perfect expression is already you. If that expression is an ego that believes that it's separate from the rest of reality and is in pain because of this, that's a perfect expression as well. You are perfect. Whatever is happening is just as it must be. If you resist this, the resistance is perfect. Nothing is excluded. Here is the perfect playground for existence, right here, right now, always, even if it's negative, which balances out all that boring bliss stuff. If at all possible, try to enjoy it!


Bill Murray's character Phil asks a pertinent question at the beginning of this clip from Groundhog Day, one of the best films of all time and a fabulous analogy to seeking enlightenment. He is just beginning to sense what's important, at least to his character...after many failed attempts, he finally realises what his purpose is: live, and love, in a nutshell. Enjoy.

When I Waked, I Found this Label on my Bosom.

There are so many assumptions, so many givens, so many "truths" we hold as absolute without being truly conscious of it. There are as well beliefs we consciously take on board so as to busy ourselves constructing the one true way to live, the correct prescription for life, the right things to do. There is the subtle interplay of conditioning and experience, fears and hopes, aspirations and defeats that come together in a beautiful, intricate culmination of a thousand causes and conditions that always are this one and endless moment. Some of us believe in reason and science, in observable reality, a reality that is reasonably objectively agreed upon; some of us see angels and feel energies and hear colours that are no less real, but perhaps not as objectively identifiable. These things all are, and are not; there is immediate presence before any analysis, or labelling, or judgement.

The words we use to label what we observe are often multifariously defined. The labels we hold sacred can fall apart somewhat; a quantum physicist struggling to pin down the movements of the ever tinier parts of an atom finds the labels "to observe" and "to effect" surprisingly interchangeable. We are boxed in by our beliefs, but also free within them, and helpless to choose anything but what is chosen, even when the choice is to discard our belief systems. There is freedom within the strict parameters of a sonnet, or a brief haiku. Beliefs don't necessarily limit us. We are limitless despite any beliefs.

I love Wayne's World so much I want to marry it. Being a complete sucker for cinematic in-jokes, I feel a beggar at a feast when watching this surprisingly intelligent film. Not only do we get subtitle gags, but rooftop philosophy..."when you label me, you negate me" is worthy of a long-winded essay. I think it was Dick Van Patten! Enjoy...a LOT. (Apologies for the ad up front...I couldn't find another version except in German.)

Wayne Speaks Cantonese
Wayne's World at MOVIECLIPS.com

How Often Dost Thou with thy Case, thy Habit, Wrench Awe from Fools?

Sometimes, the expectations are met, and even then the ego feels a little cheated. The seeker will have a blinding flash of revelation and realise that this is it, that this reality lived is all the same thing, or that everything is one, or that there is actually nothingness, and what seems to be is illusion ("...albeit a persistent one" as Einstein observed). Whatever words or concepts attached to the revelation never capture it, or are a part of it, or are the current manifestation in this ever-changing endless moment. So, I was always here, this was always it, nothing has changed, notes the ego. Is this all there is then? Is this really all there is?

The ego may then be lived along the lines of row, row, row your boat. Life is but a dream, and the dreamer is no more; there is just the dream, manifesting. The story can then unfold in a stream of arisings, unlived by a dominant persona, unvalued by a needy identity. Life is everything, everything is life, there is no judgement, nothing truly matters, yet everything does by virtue of its apparent existence. But is that all there is? Is all there is, all there is? The ego will never be satisfied and that is its job. Questing, striving, improving, giving up, sinking, triumphing, seeking, finding; it will never be done, life will never be settled - but life not seeming settled is fulfillment disguised. If the illusion of reality is recognised, this striving, straining, project-building, happiness-confirming, comfort-saving unfolding of the human story can, at last, be fully stepped into and lived. The ego may arise, but its validation is no longer the tale being told. So roll up your sleeves and dig into it - with the ego, or egoless, whatever it seems like - even if it all seems black and full of despair, it's a miracle there is anything to do or feel or think or be at all.


I wasn't able to dig up the specific, small clip I wanted from The Return of the Jedi. In its favour, this longer clip takes place before the nauseatingly cute Ewoks show up. The bit I wanted was a brilliant exchange between Han and Luke, full of irony, and in a series lambasted for weak character development, illustrative of the timbre of their relationship in a 30-second snippet of dialogue. Also in its favour is the first glimpse of Princess Leia in her Jabba-slave getup, the launch of a million boys' fantasies...those that were teenagers in the mid-80's especially. I can imagine Carrie Fisher looks at this, notes her perfect stomach, and thinks, "I looked fabulous and it's recorded for all time in an iconic film." It's also fun to laugh at the state-of-the-art puppets, and stop-motion monster; kids today have little patience for these effects, built by the boys in the backroom with latex. In fact, my children are even discerning about the quality of CGI; if it's not top-notch, they're likely to inquire "CGI much?" of the screen. Touchingly, the monster's keeper puts in the best small role performance of the Star Wars hexad as the sole mourner of the beast's demise. I wanted the exchange between Luke and Han because it captures the attitude arising for me, the character Suzanne, or whatever it's OK to call the ol' identity today. Have fun watching.

But You, O You, so Perfect and so Peerless, Are Created of Every Creature's Best!

Perhaps it is desirable to stop whatever quest or mission you are on and just enjoy the breath of life, the tingle of being. These complex tales of a life well lived or wasted are so compelling and ensnaring that the simple pleasure of consciousness is often overlooked. Whatever enticing form and quality, light and texture being seems to take, it is ever wondrous, ever fascinating, ever miraculous in its simple existence. Here you are; this is it; partake or deny, relish or resist it. This everlasting moment, always now, ever here, is its own sweet self before any thought judges it to be otherwise.

Always impossible to describe because it is simpler than description, usually elusive to the mind despite being all-pervasive; sometimes mistaken for a mirror of itself and often missed because its omnipresence defies observation, is simply what is. All the questing, longing, searching, missing, needing, emptiness, frustration, incompleteness and yearning for more are just crafty, mischievous stand-ins for This: the current guise, the fleeting quality. There is never ever anything that is not This.

Have fun trying to describe it; crawl into it, become it; you are it. What is aware of it, is it as well. Sink into despair and be it; rise into the helium of transformative joy. All is This; this is all. There is no need for anything to be other than it is, including the strong feeling that it should be otherwise.


This clip is the simply brilliant opening of the endlessly fun film, Pulp Fiction. Everything about it is fabulous; the casting of Amanda Plummer and Tim Roth; the dialogue, natural yet almost a parody of itself; the headlong progression from empirical discussion to sudden action; the juxtaposition of a sweet loving couple and a couple of ruthless bandits; Honey Bunny's vicious, unexpected transformation from timid and mousy to brutal and dangerous; and the technical brilliance of the segue from opening scene to titles, aided by the inspired choice of Misirlou, a Greek dance tune, by surf guitarist extraordinaire Dick Dale. Do more than enjoy it - be it!

As Ravenous Fishes, Do a Vessel Follow that Is New-trimm'd, but Benefit no Further than Vainly Longing.

There is no more point to going to a meeting of friends together, a satsang, or whatever we're calling it today than there is of anything else. It is all sound and fury, it all signifies nothing. Sometimes it's silence and comfort but nothing it still signifies. Perhaps presence with others is desirable, perhaps some mind-quelling understanding or brain-stilling space can be more easily discerned, but that then is the story of desirability or easy discernment or the usefulness of a still, unthinking mind. Some seekers of truth come away from such meetings concluding that no matter what the speaker says or does, it is pleasant to pass some hours and converse with like-minded friends and acquaintances. The contentedness of the speaker is somehow catching; the fact that whatever is, here, now, this very moment, seems to be more than enough for the speaker rubs off a little, and the seeker feels a little more satisfied with life. Is being satified with life the goal? Is there a goal?

Maybe there is some spontaneous brain-bending change of perception. Even if there is, when it is no longer, it is only a spark of memory. Whatever form this takes, it is the same essence. Boredom, hatred, love, hope, creation, murder; these are all the faces of the same nothingness that seemingly takes form. Feeling that endless longing for more, going to a meeting with a teacher, writing, blogging, reading, talking, grasping for the ever-elusive understanding of This: it is all This. Whatever is, is just what it is. It is as it is; it is as it must be.


Rarely is contentedness with life more apparent than when watching the genius of Peter Sellars and Blake Edwards. Fond memories arise of watching Pink Panther films on TV as a child, usually Saturday afternoon with the family. This Clouseau vs. Cato vignette is my favourite, from The Pink Panther Strikes Again. The comic use of slo-mo vocals, combined with brilliant editing (thank you Alan Jones), and perfectly timed physical comedy make this battle stand out. Finally, a nod to Burt Kwouk, just made an OBE for Services to Drama and second banana extraordinaire. Enjoy.


La panthère rose : Clouseau vs Cato
Uploaded by david1705ts14. - Classic TV and last night's shows, online.

I Did Steer Toward This Remedy, Whereupon We Are Now Present Here Together.

What is it that would make everything OK? What is it that is wrong? How can a change in the way things are become anything but - seemingly created over and over - the way things are? Consciousness detects reality, and reality can be interpreted infinitely. Conversely, consciousness is reality, and needs no interpretation...although there is no stopping the interpreting. Grief, discomfort, pain and fear, the feelings that are judged bad for the survival of the body and the continuation of the mind, need not be anything but what they are: twingling nerve endings that require no remedy. "What is" may seem to suck, but suckiness isn't necessarily to be avoided.

All these currents and eddies in the dreams and stories of unfolding life are as of nothing at all. Each revelatory solution to the problem of existence begets another quandary...yet the problems needing solved are also what is; there is nothing wrong with what is. However important or urgent the circumstances of life are, these circumstances are as of nothing at all. There truly is no one that needs things to be anything other than what they are . Those thoughts and feelings of emptiness and unfulfillment just the noise and flurry of the moment. Creation manifests nearly infinitely, and infinity needs each and every perfect existent manifestation to be its perfect self.

The clip today is a tender scene from The Birdcage, which has so many genius moments it warrants watching over and over. I would have loved to post the sequence where Armand (Robin Williams) desperately tries to detain Albert (Nathan Lane) from going back to their apartment, which is having a "straight" makeover to please the conservative parents of Armand's son Val's fiance (Calista Flockhart in a pre-Ally McBeal role). However, this scene, where Armand finally reveals the depth of his feelings for Albert, is remarkable for both its intensity and restraint. The unfolding story can be really, really lovely.

He Shall Spurn Fate, Scorn Death, and Bear His Hopes 'bove Wisdom, Grace and Fear.

There is often a human longing for immortality. Such longing largely explains the cult of celebrity personality we endure: these people are guaranteed a little more of a legacy than most, the extension of the power of the personality over a bit more time, even after death. Our self-awareness married with the instinct to survive concocts a brew of grand imagination: reincarnation, heaven and hell and purgatory, all potential ways for the personality to survive forever. We attend a funeral and lament our own demise, as the story of our lives will inevitably end with death. At the funeral, we think: how much will this person be missed? Am I thinking of this person, or am I thinking of whether or not I will be remembered? How important is it that I am?

Non-duality books, blogs and speakers seem to promise, to the personality, identity, ego or however you care to label it, a guarantee of immortality. This is already eternity and infinity, they say. What you are, truly, is timeless. This is comforting. The ego laps it up eagerly. But the point of awareness that we are, in which all that seems to be appears to rise and fall in, is not a complex personality or a life story filled with highs and lows, joys and sorrows. What we are is simpler than that; but the story that seems to unfold is the great, uncelebrated gift. A gift from itself, to itself, full of sound and fury as the Bard says, and signifying nothing; yet signifying a great deal, by virtue of its mere existence. When it no longer matters whether the personality will continue to exist for a considerable amount of time, when time is only a handy reference, then the personality, perhaps, has the freedom to fully blossom in this illusory, wonderful play of life. Perhaps the point of it all has been just this. Perhaps no point is the biggest point of all.

Now, let's celebrate the enduring immortality of two 2010 celebrity deaths: Peter Graves and Leslie Nielsen. Both coincidentally prematurely white-haired, known for their early serious work, and came to comedy late in life. Below are examples of each actor's early work, and a scene from Airplane! where they exercise their comedy chops. May they both live forever.

Light Seeking Light doth Light of Light Beguile.

Perhaps we'd like to call all of existence "absolute love" because that is a promise of comfort to the fragile, timorous ego. Yet what is, simply is, before we label it with any reassuring or despairing concept. Those thoughts, whatever they are, just come; and after, so it seems, we give them credence. We believe this or that about reality, and those belief systems are all the causes and conditions of a life, memory, upbringing and the Universe itself, coming together, seemingly over and over, in this ever-present endless moment. There is nothing wrong with belief. There is nothing wrong with "wrong" belief, or falsehood, or truth; these are arbitrary labels, subject to all the causes and conditions mentioned; reality will be interpreted as a matter of survival. There is no escaping the truth of mere existence. It is, whether it is obviously apprehended or not. It is, in everything, in every appearance, every act, each thought, all feelings; it is every frantic manifestation of reality, ever transforming, never changing. It is, whatever it is labeled, by billions of label-makers. Truth is here. Truth is this. Truth is existence.

Being is never lost, so can never be sought. Seeking is a bundle of thoughts, feelings and interpretations happening here and now. The feeling of emptiness can be the flavour of all, just now. It does not matter what the bundle seems to be. It does not matter what how the story of one life, all of humanity or the Universe seems to be unfolding. These labels are fleeting, ambiguous, ever-changing and unimportant. What matters is existence itself, whatever its apparent form. And mere, absolute existence mattering or not is yet another arbitrary label, as are the words and concepts contained in this brief essay. Read, or do not. Interpret, or ignore. Take comfort, or tremble at the void; there is no choice about what happens or what is thought and felt; there never "was"; there never "will be". Even the most conscious, responsible choices are choiceless. All the Universe comes together for these apparently well-thought-out decisions. When the last sacred belief is no more, when the last unbreakable tenet is discarded, when everything is gone, then everything is possible, and everything can be reveled in, by the reveling itself. And whether this happens or not is also unimportant. It only matters to the nebulous, ghost-like identity.

If seeking enlightenment no longer holds persuasion, take it as a "good" sign.


Even the Grinch must exist, and a fine thing too, even if he didn't have his own spiritual awakening at the top of Mount Crumpet. The best part of our family Christmas celebrations involves watching How the Grinch Stole Christmas - the original Chuck Jones/Theodor Seuss Geisel collaboration, not Jim Carrey's somewhat overblown full-length cinema version - and waiting for the smile that accompanies his wonderful, awful idea. I remember reading an Atlantic article in the 70's calling Mr. Jones the great lost actor of his generation, as he drew his own emoting visage in the faces of characters from Sylvester the Cat to Jerry the cat to Bugs Bunny himself. And, of course, the Grinch. I can't find that article online but here's a fine article on Charles M. Jones' life and work. Merry Christmas.

Dr. Seuss' How the Grinch Stole Christmas. A Wonderful, Awful Idea. @ Yahoo! Video

Since I Could Distinguish Betwixt a Benefit and an Injury, I Never Found Man that Knew How to Love Himself.

It seems a lot of people are very fond of the ego, identity, or whatever we want to call it today. They like the limitation. They are fond of the story of their life, their loved ones, their trials and tribulations and challenges. The struggle is appealing. The sense of "something is missing" lends an apparently meaningful search to their existence. They grieve when loved ones die, and wonder at how this body before them could at one moment be alive and animated, and in the next moment that same lump of flesh could be as lifeless as a stone. They savour the mystery. They despair of the point of it all. They are mesmerised by the story in time. They take comfort in such words as these, picking and choosing, taking from the message that our true nature is immortal that "our true nature" means the bundle of causes and conditions that make up the identity. The identity dies. It can die apparently "before" the body does. All those things that seem so important in the story can at once become meaningless, and this fills the identity with despair. Pointlessness is seen, and despised.

But what is often missed is that all those causes and conditions, whatever they are, however the mind interprets them, whatever the heart feels about them, that make up this moment, whatever its quality and flavour, is the face of immortality. Immortality is now, and life and its apparent accompanying story is not reliant on any particular outcomes. Whatever seems to be, is. Whatever seems to be, can be relished. The loved ones and the valued projects are not abandoned, or perhaps they are. The seeming unfolding and the form it takes is not what is important; simply that it is, is what matters. Every bit of the mirror is a miracle. Grief is a gift, from existence to existence. Duality is a gift, the illusion of reality is to be enjoyed. And if it is not, that is a gift too. None of it need be understood.

When ideologies and personal comfort do not matter, the story of war is most unlikely. If ambition and power do not matter, the tale of greed ceases. When the welfare of yourself and your family doesn't matter, the story of enslavement and jealousy and envy is at an end. If your identity doesn't matter, the end of the story can be anything. When nothing matters, everything is possible. Yet none of this is guaranteed. Whatever unfolds, unfolds, including the story of living too much in thought, resistant of pain, afraid of privation, and needing the phantom self to be validated. There is nothing wrong with anything that is. The ego can take comfort in this, or despair; it matters not; both are the face of limitlessness. And who knows, the story might actually seem to go a lot "better".

Two clips today. The first is from the superb Hotel Rwanda, the scene where Joaquin Phoenix, playing a photographer, tells the owner of the hotel just what happens when the west is confronted with news of tragedy in the safety of their living rooms. The second is from Beyond Rangoon, set in Burma shortly after the military refused to honour Aung San Suu Kyi's election as leader. The actress playing Aung San Suu Kyi (a New Yorker named Adelle Lutz, and David Byrne's wife) shows that man's inhumanity to man is not necessarily the norm. The heroes are the soldiers. We need both humanity and inhumanity each for the other to exist, however unpalatable that may seem. Sit back and let it all unfold.

Then Was I as a Tree, Whose Boughs Did Bend with Fruit.

The Mastery of the Fruit

The bright green dimpled limes oft dream
of mustard yellow smooth unpitted peel,
a guileless sharp ordeal, suspecting not
the unheralded drop
from the tree plop
as life drains away.

Outrageous, if it's judged by immortality;
unfair if it is measured for survival.
The mastery of the fruit
at being fruitful, fruitless,
fruity sweet tingly tart
and simply its gaudy self -
green genius.

Is it sad to dream awhile ill-placed
to bring those zesty dreams to their fruition?
Dimpled rot, fruit flies clot,
mold takes lime and wishes fuzzy
verdant cloak a spiky red.
Her spore-child clings to the eldest
oak in a distant place:

Cyclic grace.

-Suzanne Foxton 2010

This clip seems to have nothing to do with fruit being itself, but so what? It was a pleasure to recently sit down with the kids and watch Singing in the Rain in installments. The scene usually extracted is Gene Kelly in the title song, being pummelled by a rain machine filled with a stinking mixture of milk and water while having a temperature of 103 degrees Fahrenheit (Gene, not the rain). However, the children and I were most impressed with Donald O'Connor's show stopping performance of Make 'Em Laugh. Even nearly 60 years after it was filmed, and in an age of wondrous CGI and intricately produced song-and-dance numbers, this number still has the power to WOW us. This was the only decent quality version I could find that could be embedded, so please forgive glitchiness; it's a big file. Prepare to be awed!

When You Do Dance, I Wish You a Wave o' the Sea, That You Might Ever Do Nothing but That.

There is a lot of thought put into the quality of life, the actions, the motives, the intentions; there is profound judgment put upon those actions, and many hierarchies spring into existence; lists and names, desirable traits and defects of character, formulas for living and commandments for behaviour. It is all understandable. Perhaps it stems from the story of survival, and useful fear, and the need for protection. Maybe this fear of death so many of us desire to conquer is a necessary tool for survival. These stories of heaven and hell, afterlife, rebirth, karma and purdah are simply the mind's natural response to the need to survive.

Existence itself just exists, and does not judge. All states are equal, all objects equivalent. All motives are accepted, all actions simply are. Good and bad may be, light and dark, object and subject, killer and victim; but for there to be appearance, there must always be opposing forces, and they are what they are, as we have all noted, over many apparent ages; the manifestation changes constantly, but the pattern changes little. Existence cares not for the outcome of the story; all outcomes are identical. We have become caught up in the story and its outcome. Existence is here and now. The story, and this identity we protect and need to survive, is icing on the cake, fun and painful, satisfying and distressing, but entirely unimportant.

It doesn't matter which dance is performed. All the dances that exist, exist, and they all must be. There is simply dancing. All types are necessary. It is all dancing, this life, and some dancers appear to be more proficient than others. Some dancers are highly skilled, and some seem to have a natural rhythm. Some dances are ugly and warlike, others beautiful and airy. The dance happens now, and it is always now, and we are always dancing.


Maybe you've caught the dance theme of this blog entry....in keeping with that, and entirely opposing (it's necessary after all) the themes of oneness, witness Fred and Ginger in the pinnacle of this particular, innocuous human achievement: the pas de deux. And remember - whatever Fred had to do, Ginger had to do backwards, wearing heels!
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Well, Jove, Not I, Is the Doer of This, and He Is to Be Thanked.

It is not necessary for life to be anything other than what it is. There is no need to feel a different way, to act a different way, or to think a different way...including thinking that you need to act, feel and think a different way. There is no way that what is happening, or seems to be happening, could be anything other than what it is. The identity, so apparently entrenched and subtle in its persistence, is a phantom...albeit a tenacious one. This phantom is useful for survival, and all the actions and feelings and thoughts that appear are some spin on the need to survive. They are all understandable, and inevitably some will be judged to be misguided. But before the mind, operator of time, latches on what is and judges it, it simply is.

What is accepts all; it is all. It accepts outrage at what is; that, too, is what is. Life is life. There is no other. The fact that anything exists at all is the miracle. However the story plays out, that is the story; and the story, although there seems to be objective truth, and actions and feelings and thoughts and interpretations can be compared to some objective standard, there is very little absolute truth in this vast and fascinating appearance. There is the truth of its existence; this is the simplest truth, and the only one. Enlightenment is this. It is what is. There is no way to get to what is except here, and now.


I recently watched To Kill a Mockingbird with my family, and despite the judgmental protests from the children ("It's not in black and white, is it?"), we were all soon captivated. Atticus Finch is perhaps the most appealing hero in modern literature. His integrity is something that seems to beckon to us all. However, in this clip the star is Sheriff Heck Tate. Boo Radley, town recluse, has just rescued Atticus' children from attack; in the struggle, Boo kills the attacker. Atticus tries to rescue the situation by suggesting that his son, Jem, be blamed for the stabbing, which would obviously be self-defense, committed by a child, and not liable to result in any punishment. Sherriff Tate has a better idea. The clip is worth watching just for the way actor Frank Overton, as the Sheriff, says "it's a sin". See the film, but beforehand, read the book. As stories go, there are few better.

That Life is Better Life, Past Fearing Death, Than That Which Lives to Fear.

Every single thing that seems to happen is the product of everything, and is everything. It could not be different, or better. There is a beautiful all-encompassing neutrality and acceptance that is the nature and the quality of all, that allows all, that beholds all, and that is all. There is great distraction with labeling and judging; so many believe that the world is going to hell; that our apparent separation from each other and our fearful tactics borne of the need to survive will kill us. But take a step back from your assumptions. What if this tiny species on this little planet did not exist? Would the Universe take note? It is only in the throes of very understandable survival needs that we fear and panic at our demise. Yet there is nothing that can die, as there is nothing that is born. It is everything, and nothing, gazing at itself because it can; nothingness whipped up into an energetic swirl of somethingness, that energy seeming to be mass, and all of it composed of nothing at all.

There is nothing wrong with fear and panic, or dedication to tweaking the Story of Mankind into a more benign plot line. To those that despair of the story, who dwell upon war and abuse, who wish that things were other than they are - they simply are, and could be no other. Oneness cares not what is the relative nature of its apparent manifestation; the mere fact of seeming existence is miracle enough. And there must be dark for there to be light.

I confess that I am a big Trekkie (I far prefer this to "Trekker", which sounds vaguely like an abdominal disease). It's difficult to find any clips that distill the Star Trek philosophy, although I remember a scene in First Contact shortly after Lily comes on board the Enterprise, and Jean-Luc tells her about the 23rd century: how there's no money, no nationalistic wars, people work to improve themselves etc. I suppose it's clear that the philosophy is what attracted me to Star Trek (it sure wasn't the sets or effects or acting). Amongst a thousand bleak post-apocalyptic plots, Star Trek shines as a positive (but still challenging) possibility for mankind. We need more of this, I think; more energy devoted to "we're gonna be just fine". The more we relax, and accept, the better the story seems to go. Or so the plot can be interpreted! Failing a Star Trek clip, here's one from American Beauty. It's not all wars and narrow belief systems and fearful contraction, ya know!

Reason Thus With Life: If I Do Lose Thee, I Do Lose a Thing That None But Fools Would Keep.

Before it is analysed, it is. Before it is labeled and categorised and put into the stream of a story, it is. Before thinking, before feeling, before perception - it is. Undeniably, thoughts weave what is into time, and a story; there is judgment, and the assignment of relative merit: health is more desirable than disease; help is more natural than indifference; and love is the underlying quality of it all - for instance. Yet it is unnecessary to map a course of action. That is done, whether consciously or not. Paradoxically, if the outcome is unimportant, the outcome can often seem to be healthier, more natural, and more loving.

If effort seems urgent, make it. If confusion is the case, be confused. If despair takes hold, or seems to, simply wait - in this endless moment, eternity, what seems to be is in constant flux. If an urge to enquire into who or what is feeling and thinking and perceiving all of this comes up, explore it. If anger causes destruction, know that it could not have unfolded in any other way. What is, is what is; whatever it is, whatever judgment thought puts on it, is unimportant. Peel back every layer; take another, and another step back; question each and every belief, each and every revelation, each and every conclusion; there is no solid truth. There is simply what is. The story that seems to unfold may be anything, absolutely anything at all. Whatever it is that values one outcome or another is an interesting phenomenon - it is not what you are.

This clip is from one of my favourites - Kramer Vs. Kramer. I could wax lyrical about the merits of Meryl Streep, but she knows how good she is and keeps it in perspective. The scene is useful for revealing what we feel when the best possible outcome is achieved; it's no wonder that so many stories are about the pursuit of positive outcomes! The look Joanna gives Ted in the lift after he tells her she looks terrific is an acting masterclass in subtlety: it promises so much, Kramer vs. Kramer II could have been made on the back of it. This is also a shamelessly self-indulgent clip I'm sharing today, on my 46th birthday (or so it seems)...enjoy!

I'll Show You Those in Troubles Reign, Losing a Mite, a Mountain Gain.

It's so easy to get caught up in the story, for outcomes to determine identity, and for causes and conditions to define the apparent substance of our persona. Consciousness likes this; consciousness delights in it. Remember that whatever conditioning seems to be present and whatever it is that is perceived, it is a phantom, just a thought, mere unreconstituted energy appearing as what is. Any conceptualising of it is simply the story of it. What is, is what is; this, just as it is, is what you've been looking for all your life. You never lost it; you never were what you thought you were; you are it.

The goals, the grief, the happiness, the bliss, the murderous intentions - they are not what you are. It may seem a wrench to contemplate the death of the persona as what you ultimately are, but persona still comes up. All the apparent causes and conditions still come up, or seem to. If the story of what you are and how that story turns out is not the thing that "what you are" depends upon, the story can, at last, just be enjoyed, relished, resisted, everything. You are not enjoying it, that personality you seem to think you are - the lattice of thought and the myriad feelings you think you are, even the thought that thinks it is what you are - is not enjoying it. It is enjoyed, by itself. Relishment relishes itself, and life simply lives.

There is a quality to being. It seems that quality of existence at its most essential is the specialness and singularity we associate with our selves. Our selves, our persona, our likes and dislikes, prejudices and inclinations, body shape and health, belief systems and emotional baggage are the ever-changing extras we take to be who we are. But that essential quality - that feeling of "I am me" that we have all the time, that we feel when we look into the mirror in the morning, that me-ness, that specialness, that abiding sense of being here now is what all sentient beings feel. We are one, we are united, we are the same thing. We are what life empties into. We are the unchanging what-it-is that sees itself, for the sake of seeing it. We are all there is. Even the discontent is what-it-is. Even the idea that this is not enough is it. It is undeniably always here, and always now.

This clip embodies the perfect illustration of how iffy perception of the "real world" is: the amazing, achingly funny Father Ted tries to explain perspective to Dougal.

In This Harsh World Draw Thy Breath in Pain, To Tell My Story.

It doesn't matter what the story is, or seems to be. It doesn't matter how to-the-point it is. It doesn't matter if the story is about a long, well-disciplined and arduous journey, full of self-revelation, full of rising consciousness from one plane to the next highest, and higher still; for all states are one, all revelations just the energy of thought, emotion and body, and all disciplines equal, whether they seem available to the clever and energetic few or not. It doesn't matter if the story is one of a great seeing all at once, a spontaneous energetic shift of perception, the knife cutting all the fibers of the rope instantaneously rather than one hard-won fiber at a time.

Existence is existence, no matter what its face or quality. That which is, is, no matter what it seems to be. The story, whatever it is, however it is interpreted, is the same as every other story; all apparent beings are equal; and all space and the effluvia that populates it are a seamless whole. Beliefs, beauty, appearances, evil, the universe, and all infinite parallel universes are as nonexistent as a mathematical point, yet occupy all infinite imagined space; it is here, and not; it is now, and never. Identity and ego are endlessly diverting window dressings. Taking the story seriously is icing on the cake. The apparent universe and its inhabitants, the universe and its unlimited possibilities, and the mysteries of the composition of matter are simply not important, although miraculous and manifested for the mere hell and heaven of it all.

Perhaps it all seems very important. Perhaps the goals of life lived are the focus. Perhaps cultivating compassion and tolerance, or rooting out evil and suffering seems to be the most important thing. But no matter how truthful the latest truth seems to be, and no matter how clear the meaning of existence has become, it is and has become that way to something that judges these things. There is just truth, and existence, unjudged. It is that way whether you want it or not, and whether you have apprehended it or not. The wanting, the truth, the being and the comprehension are not what you seek. What you seek is much simpler and pared down than that. It is this, all around you, you, here, now, just as it is.


Brainstorm is perhaps my favourite movie - certainly my favourite for watching unbelievably late at night, in some very reduced state of mind. It has a fantastic premise - experiences are recorded direct from people's brains, and when played back, you can have the same experience that person recorded. It is terribly revealing of some of our assumptions about life and death, personal experience and perception. The leading researcher of this project (played with chain-smoking relish by Louise Fletcher) has a fatal heart attack near the recording device and has the presence of mind to stick the recorder on her head, managing to record her death experience. This clip is that tape - and the end is fascinating; is there really a heaven? Are those images just her dying brain's last electrical sputterings? The ego involved so heavily in the story, and so fearful of its own demise, needs a little hope now and then; here it is, provided by the imagination of Bruce Joel Rubin (who also gave us Ghost). It's freaky! Enjoy.

I Will Find Where Truth Is Hid, Though it Were Hid Indeed Within the Centre.

Anger arises...or hatred...or loving feelings. These emotions may seem connected to a story, to owning the story...but it's possible to feel something and just not poke it with a "why" stick. No one feels it; it's not so far removed; the anger simply is. This goes for every apparent emotion, feeling, intuition, thought, sensation. There it is. It is.

Sometimes the story unfolds, and the identity seems the most important thing. Who we are, our point of view, our role, our very being and existence as manifested by a body and a mind and thoughts and feelings and actions, seems the most important thing - perhaps the only thing. It can seem important to get to know one's own persona, the truth of it, the bare essential bones of it, uninterfered with by the comforting stories we tell ourselves about ourselves. It gets confusing. Surely those stories we tell ourselves about ourselves are an important part of our conditioning, part of the self-hypnosis that effects our essential reality? Surely it's impossible to disentangle all the stories, impressions, transference and projecting? Know yourself, some preach. Your persona is not important, preach others. Disenchanted with this conflicting advice, we try to develop our intuition, so as to know the right action to take, the right thing to do, the right way to feel, the right things to think, the right way to perceive reality - the TRUTH. We seek the unadorned truth of existence. We seek to strip away all filters of perception. We seek the fundamental answer to the fundamental question. The question: Why? Why me, why this, why anything? The answer: because it is.

The mind is a tricky, wondrous thing; perhaps it isn't the only thing, perhaps it isn't the be-all and end-all. Perhaps figuring things out isn't possible; in duality, the essential quality of manifested reality, co-existing mutually exclusive concepts are the norm. The mind can't fathom such chaos. But perhaps, if we stop trying, the truth is revealed. Maybe the truth is simply that it all exists, in an apparent motley jumble, full of hope and tragedy, comedy and despair, having and wanting, just as it does, in exactly the way it must. This could be labeled acceptance; but there doesn't even need to be something so far removed. What if there is no one that needs to accept? What if the identity, with its judgments and labeling, is simply an illusory, albeit it interesting, extra added bonus? Here we are, struggling or not, living life, coping, dying, praying, succeeding, trying to ease the burden of others, or retracted into a temporary perceived enclave of relative safety. We have been doing it right all along.


This clip is one from Lumet's The Verdict, my favourite performance by Paul Newman. As I stated above, here we are, living life, coping, dying...yet I find it hard to believe that Mr. Newman has died. He is my absolute favourite - and here's the conditioning behind it: he reminds me of my grandpa, who is 90 and looks after himself, bowls, fishes, keeps house, has all his marbles...despite having already died, at least conceptually, I find the hope arising that I've inherited his genes! The scene is the character Frank Gavin's summation, after a sticky trial taking a hospital to task for covering up a bad anaesthesia decision. Gavin was a washed-up alcoholic ambulance chaser before this case, and finds himself reborn in fighting for the comatose patient's family. A tour-de-force, and it almost makes me want to have such a concrete philosophy of life. We all seek truth. Enjoy.

If All the Year Were Playing Holidays, to Sport Would Be as Tedious as to Work.

There is nothing to take a holiday from, nowhere to go on vacation. There is nothing to run from, nowhere to hide, no one that needs to escape from anything. The fullness of now is always here; the wholeness of here is this endless moment, ever present. Whatever you're doing, that is what is meant to be done; the key is: you're not doing it.

If it seems that you need to disentangle your ego, strip back your conditioning, dismantle some of the more obvious lies that the ego tells itself about itself and everything it apprehends, well then, that is what it seems. By all means, pursue this. Why not? An urge is an urge, and it isn't your urge, however much it feels that it is.

If the lines of reality blur, and wakefulness seems dreamlike, and the illusory nature of what the senses deliver seems, at last, to be evident - question it. Question what it is you thought that this was supposed to be like. Ponder on expectations fulfilled. Whatever question is asked, whatever musings arise, isn't your question; they aren't your musings.

Decide what the parameters of Absolute Truth are, and be suspicious of them. Meditate in stillness, experience a "glimpse" of blissful nothingness, and suspect your definition of bliss. Whatever concepts are settled upon, whatever definitions resonate - they aren't your concepts; they do not resonate with you. The more solid, the more sure the reality, the more elusive it is. The fuller the revelation, the more cumbersome its demise.

So if the sureness of reality is strictly defined, be cautious of its promise. There is no promise, for promise entails time; and there is no time. This is all there is, all we have, and there is no we to have it. What is, is.


Recently I saw Toy Story 3D with my kids, and this is the last scene; it's quite powerful, especially if you've been with Woody and the gang from the beginning. There were several adults openly weeping in the small audience we were in, and I won't say the children and I were immune! What a treat, to have such a story, resonating with all our other stories of belonging and rejection, vigorous life and untimely death, the power of imagination, the quality of life itself and what comprises it. If you haven't seen it yet, I'd wait to view this clip. And grab a tissue.

But, For Mine Own Part, it Was Greek to Me.

There is a lot of confusion around what is, despite its simplicity. The speculation about what may be, in time, and the memory of what has been, in time, coloured by the conditioning of the being that is speculating and remembering, seems to cause great consternation. Is there a story, or isn't there? And what is its importance? Are there great energies pulling all of mankind in the direction of evil or harmony? Is mankind (and all that is surveyed, and the awareness that this surveyance happens in) the energy itself? What is truth, and what is its relevance? Is clear seeing of what is, unfettered by conditioning, speculation, or memory, the awesome goal of all humanity? Or is this seeming unfolding just as it must be, with no changes needed, including the need to change the urge to change it? Is this play of life something to be embraced or detached from, and who is it that does the embracing and detaching? And are these concepts, in any form, useful in any way, to anyone - including the idea of usefulness?

There are billions - perhaps more - of stories apparently unfolding, both in imagination and in "real life", both symbolically and naturally. (A trillion here, a trillion there, and pretty soon you're talking about some real numbers.) You are all the stories, without having to know the details of the unfolding; they can be imagined. Upon the still crucible of you - of what is you, most you, fundamentally you, your existence - turns the whole universe, and everything that enquiry and imagination can fathom; all infinite parallel universes, all concepts of nothingness and bliss, all feelings of alienation and belonging, all answers and all questions; on that still point, your being, the Dreidel of existence, spins all creation and negation. It is all, contains all, and simply is. That is what you are. You are everything. Now.


Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistlestop Cafe was a delightful surprise from Fanny Flagg, the writer, who seemed to be mainly a pone-talkin' panelist on MatchGame in the 70's and 80's. The family watched this together at the villa in Crete and, despite the warmth, beauty and calorific food all around, the film was one of the highlights of our holiday. Kathy Bates, again, takes what is given to her and does her absolute best; her performances are so assured that they seem to be equally parody and homage, whether it be in Misery or The Water Boy (she must have needed some money to take on the latter film!). Even the most "enlightened" amongst us can enjoy a bit of earthy retribution. Towanda!

We Dare Not Move the Question of Our Place, Or Know Not What We Are.

This is what you've been looking for, but you don't believe it. Just life, as it is, whether it is judged or not. However, judgment may appear to disperse if seeking appears to drop away. This life, this being, just now, is what is sought, for it is always now; whether focused on internal matters (or appearing to do so) or immediately aware of what the senses seem to display. Lost in thought, trapped in projection, subject to a miasma of a thousand conditioned responses is what is, or what seems to be, "sometimes". This, as well, can be unjudged, by no one, by what it is - itself. Great effort may be expended to strip away the conditioning. This, too, is what is. Help may be sought from many sources; wisdom (a judgment) learned, great and worthy (more judgment) disciplines perfected; this, too, is what is. Overwhelming disaffection may arise; violent responses may appear to be what happens; dismay, discomfort, disease; fear. This is what is, no matter how anathema to sweet (another judgment) and all-embracing love; for sweet and all-embracing love embraces all. Great change may seem to ensue; this is what is. A stillness, a calmness, peace may be the goal, or the destination reached; this is what is. All is what is, no matter its apparent form or quality. If it is, it is. And all that seems to be, to feel, to see, to hear, to think, to suffer, to love is what is: here, now, just as it is. It is that simple. It is simpler than that. There is nothing to be done except what is done, whatever that seems to be. It can be relished; although appreciation is yet another judgment, and by far the "easier" way.

This clip is self-indulgent (another mass of judgment in the term "self-indulgent"). I am a sucker for good steadicam work - and this is one of the best examples. Steadicam removes the last barrier between the viewer and the picture and seems to put you right there in the action - a good analogy for seeking vs. being. (And I love how James Cameron used steadicam harnesses and rigs for the big guns in Aliens that Vasquez and Drake carried, implying they were too heavy and unwieldy without such support - more movie magic.) There are fascinating production stories behind this scene along the lines of tight schedules and incredible organisational difficulties - and just think of the pressure on each and every major player and extra to be in exactly the right place at the right time! Kudos to the director, Joe Wright. The film is Atonement. The scene is the evacuation of Dunkirk in WWII. Please relish.