Springing Forward With Catapulting Words.

Easter weekend. It feels nice to be alive. Bunnies on the brain; eggs in the attic of the mind. Let's go on an egg hunt! I am telling ghost stories in the attic. Ever heard about the resurrection of the ancient bunny known as fluffy-JC?

Here are some poetic fragments, new and old. They could easily develop into longer pieces, but sometimes it is better to keep things succinct and short. The potency of short idea-fragments sometimes ousts the essay or the short story or the poem. After all, Language started off in the phoneme vacuum, not in a spacious mansion of semantic clutter.

Everything has to be made in the image of the first principle lest it be subject to the caprice of impermanence. The root chord of harmonious delight must be struck so the noise can flutter away and bemoan the coming of perfection. Find a place for divine glass in your heart, fill it with purity.

We're idiosyncratic capsules of forces, and marrow, and time, and holy wine. The body, in all its geometric perfection, shines when touched by the manifold passions of the nude universe, the nude-verse. Ah! The lucidity inherent in thought bubbles rising to meet the empty sky. Ah! The summer smiling in the spring.

There is no separation between what is relative and what is absolute. Only an errant viewpoint rips asunder the relative and the absolute. Initially there is the absolute, the primeval hypostasis. The relative then follows with the co-arising or effluxing of the primal dualism: the masculine and the feminine, the shadow and the light. Via the process of self-realization each soul comes to realize itself as totally unique (relative) and totally eternal (absolute).

Space and form have an intimate relationship that is intimate to the point of being undetectable. Space, the passive element at play, gives rise to form. Form, the active element, is an augmentation of space. In this sense, form completes the primal yearning of space, and space liberates form when the form passes back into pure space. Death is nothing but a transition because of this. Death is nothing but the shedding of form for epic, intangible space.

When one has nothing to write about, one should simply write about the physical act of writing. The brain and the heart, working together as a functional couple, transmit ideas to my right hand. My right hand in turn transubstantiates the ideas into a text. In order for this to happen, the brain and the heart must also be present in the hand. The whole must be wedded to every part. In this way, everything acts as a conduit for something else, and everything is able to function for the whole.

Our usual habit of imposing laws upon the Cosmos-At-Large hurts and hinders us in the long run. The mind, the world, and everything in between are spontaneous manifestations of energy-systems that supercede the simple and facile scientific compartmentalizations we place on them.

Bunnies on the brain; eggs in the attic. Do you want to color them?