Gosh I don’t even know where to start. How we always have to find the problem even, or especially, when there is none. I don’t quite understand. I only understand that I do not understand. And while one can envision a sense of closure and enlightenment, I mean we’re asked to do more than simply lay, stand, or sit (maybe even levitate) in a blissful, satiated state. Passivity, we call it. The consumption of nothing but clear air and an unmistakably imperfect mind and nature, however we can be so forgiving as to awaken into a blank slate.
But for what? What is life? Well we know it is but we aren’t sure why. I suppose it’s not required of us to answer, but I think something in us strives to understand. And the hippos and songbirds do not ask such things. It’s like they know what to do and they stick to it. Why bother moving beyond? Well there’s not even a beyond to surpass. There’s simply going about the day. What we see as another person falling by the wayside is like that hippo moving day by day, serenely, immersing itself in the clear but somewhat murky waters below, resting, and leaping out and exercising not the freedom but action to impose its gaping maw to the bright, crystal rays of sunshine. Purpose? There is none but there still is something. Something we take for granted, or often do. It simply exists. Silence. “It.” The thing that is there and I believe we all very much understand. That which, by the plight, fear, and greed of the world sort of distracts us from. I find myself trying to find myself so many days, cycles, and maybe even lifetimes. Trying to get there. But there is no beyond, really. And I know that but part of me doesn’t buy it.
The boy in the dream was me, in the plane’s wooden cabin, lounging with Freud himself, or perhaps it was Weber. And we came to, and we looked out and saw below us grand waterfalls, fountains that did not fall off of high cliffs. And we saw clocks every which way, scattered and seemingly hung over the hard rocks like walls. And we could hear the sentimental ticking, and the sounds of water diving into itself, we could see the glimmering glitter wakes and the elegant foam in the sunlight. All in the airplane.
And how in my own waking life, I am the boy in the grassy park, who looks above so often, a witness to the steady, determined wings, the pale belly of the bird that glides through so quickly. And I know the boy in the dream is in there, trying to find me, and how I move around and the red blinking dots on his surreal pocket map, they tend to bounce around and frustrate him And I look up into the deep light blue sky. And I say to myself:
“That boy, he is going somewhere, but where? Where is he going?”
and I hear a voice, perhaps God’s, the other boy’s or just something else tell me:
“Forget about where he is going. Where is he now? He is moving. That is where he is, what he is. He moves, in flight, as motion through the planes of space and time, in his own plane of space and time. Going nowhere but so very THERE, you see?”
I just don’t know what to do with all of this. I just hope you can understand.
I. I AM. YOU CAN FIND ME. I AM AT AND BEYOND WHERE YOU ARE.