I'm on a wet beach, half-wrestling. It's new dark and the lights aren't bright behind this big white log that acts as maybe shelter, but no division.
— Everything written symbols can say has already passed by. They are like tracks left by animals. That is why the masters of meditation refuse to accept that writings are final. The aim is to reach true being by means of those tracks, those letters, those signs — but reality itself is not a sign, and it leaves no tracks. It doesn't come by way of letters or words. We can go toward it, by following those words and letters back to what they came from. But so long as we are preoccupied with symbols, theories and opinions, we will fail to reach the principle.
I'm half-asleep, almost dreaming, on a bus bench (small wonder), immediately in front of the Burrard St. Skytrain station. That person who asked me for a light 45 minutes ago is now sleeping on the sidewalk; a match light's throw away, and less than five bucks below.
— But when we give up the symbols and opinions, aren't we left in the utter nothingness of being?
I'm on a couch, leg-breaking anxious, towering above it all in some strange (not new) way. He is standing, now rising higher than that for emphasis. She is cowering, tripping over her small words; now three feet high in the kitchen. Afraid. I'm out the door and soon not sober-staggering then in the car, down some road.
— Yes
It is 5AM in dark Vancouver and if it is surrender, no one is waving that flag (yet). I'm layed low by grief (not certain) and some sadness; not worried so much as cautious. Measuring every step.
