blog without a name

Whatever words I write, something seems to spin out from them. Just like the life of ‘me’ seems to have spun out from underneath its own nose, quietly in the dark, occasionally in sleep but mostly in dreams, sometime between dawn and dusk. Slowly, moment by moment, morphing into this fully fledged bag of neuroses you perceive here standing before you today.

Whatever words I write: poetry, shopping lists, life stories; every one is a reflection of this, could never not be. I am a translation of every word ever uttered, I am a composition of every thought ever caught up in the tangle of neurons I learned to call my mind. Yet, this revelation is no death of a grand illusion, it is an embracing of it.

Practice; I say writing – others may say meditation, contemplation or plain old common-or-garden obsession – takes us away and brings us right back to everything we ever believe ourselves to be - all this, including the belief that everything is nothing, aware, unaware, good, bad, unreal.

Life decisions; stepping out into the foggy morning light, staying in the warmth of our beds, moving to another country, returning to our homeland, grey or black socks, espresso or cappucino, go round and round and round and whatever happens, nothing has actually happened. The person we take ourselves to be is wholly caught up in a life it believes it lives. Yet, whatever we believe and whatever actions we take to reconfirm these beliefs; whatever we reject, mourn for, fight against, live in awe of, moulds us into exactly the form we believe ourselves to be. It cannot be any other way.

Yet formlessness has no concern for what it can or cannot never be, has no concern for beliefs, actions, inertia, has no concern for concern. Formlessness does the only thing it can do; elude itself. With or without these words, with or without this story, with or without this life, formlessness always prevails; seemingly unconcerned and untouched, yet always and never-endingly available.

Whatever words this ‘I’ believes in, whatever chaos, peace, bliss or terror it embroils itself in, existence exists – with or without a grand illusion, with or without a dream of the dreamer, with or without. And what I think I am not, indeed, what I believe existence actually exists of, can never be separated from that-which-is and it can never have a single regard into what-it-is, what-it-was or what-it-could-be. It has no momentum, no stillness, no anything that could be construed as anything whatsoever but it appears as something momentous, something miniscule and mostly something completely mundane: layer upon layer of meaning placed on that which cannot be inquired into, cannot be dissected, cannot be what it is not.

Enough of this, on to more important  things:

box of eggs,
Milk,
a small large lettuce,
coffee,
bag of potatoes,
enlightenment,
Biscuits,
smoked salmon,
lemons.