to play on a stringed instrument,
with an endless fabric of strings.
some for tuning,
some for plucking.
melody not telling which.
wearing the sound as the moment.
humming sneaks into sing along.
pluck versus strum.
the other hand holding,
for emotional placement.
they are the expression of the being,
while the instrument of self
is expressing.
no audience,
no stage,
just the amphitheater of self,
resounding to the vex of being . . .
every noun is indirectly,
an affirmation of self,
as separate from what it is claiming.
objectification is the remiss
in isolation from the all,
as if oneness, unclaimed.
languaging is that lament
of mindfulness by this separation.
the tonality of spokenness
is always seeking harmonic accord,
yet conversation exchanged
is a subtle battleground
of unconscious discord.
inwardly speaking to one-self
is an odds-on attempt
at rebalancing mental and emotional.
from the mental side,
this is an attempt at kindredness
yet from within,
longing to be vigilant of the heart.
in this light,
mindfulness as languaged experience
is, as a narrative,
an exaggeration
of our mutual ongoing existence . . .
I made recognition step back.
yes, step back,
from being the first responder.
and instead,
had wonderment put to the task.
recognition is a flatliner,
as it names everything, noun-dead.
wonderment is the surprising in the moment.
wonderment is featuring
the immerse and the captivate,
the trickle-down of curiosity,
the in-depth of inwardness,
having at, a creative integrative liveliness.
yes, recognition gives me a warm blanket
but of ongoing almost pseudo-indifference,
as a sensory of wallpapered-ness,
of an ever-achieving method
for ongoing sensory environment.
a sense of connecting the dots
towards a very knowing passage,
on an extended parade route,
filling the sensories of my day.
wonderment looses my sense of balance,
alters the cadence of my viewing method,
and changes the sequencing
of the breathing to my life.
recognition is the perusal usage
of a still camera to living.
wonderment brings out the quality of play
as a measurement-loss of time passage.
recognition gives a tedium for passive caring.
wonderment asks out of need.
what inquiry of want
and how do I be here for that?
recognition becomes a drive by
of incessancy and a repetition of cares.
wonderment is always in an initial class
of paint-carving query,
done in the first person,
as itself, as the ongoing-art,
speaks for itself.
recognition becomes a book,
with no back cover.
birth was the front,
and death will be the back.
recognition underscores the measures for life
and calmly contributes to the livingness.
yet, they both, recognition and wonderment,
simultaneously live
in the same neighborhood
of the consciousness of me . . .
questioning the hypothesis,
before the hypothesis is in the form
of questioning.
doubting the effectiveness of doubt,
before doubt implores its effectiveness.
so how does 'how' work,
when the nature of the rigor of how
is in question?
what mindfulness is there
beyond the mindful rhetoric,
used to represent a languaged approach?
if I am not at the use of words,
then where within
does the consternation of immediacy arise from?
if I am before a languaged approach,
before I am mindfully aware,
then who of me is that there,
without logic or words?
am I a sensibility
that can't account for itself by reason
or even by the evidence of experience?
am I a presence of no expression,
an awareness preoccupied
with pronouncement as after effect?
recognition then means,
I am late to my own beingness.
I am an experience junkie
that can't get inwardly back to home.
I am ever the exhaust-results of my being,
accounting for, as just remembrance,
yet living beyond my means
of being essentially consciousness,
as if expressively mindful.
there is,
and I am of that,
but woefully lacking in essence.
sure I am,
but not isness aware.
I am of the audience of self-consciousness
and can't cross over this barrier into being.
I am a billboard existence.
my experience is all flashcards
of the immediate past.
think and thought are producing reverie.
I am a tourist of being
but never purely the home-source.
I am not from here,
but easily pass, as if so.
occasionally I meet someone,
who I sense is from home.
but they are as baffled as I,
when it comes to present pronouncement.
then, we are mutually baffled
by the confines
of not knowing of ourselves
in a deeper way,
than we can currently mutually sense.
we linger and we long,
and nothing can be said that deeply applies.
eventually, we are many of ourselves,
as if at the bus-stop of the moment.
waiting on what can't be lucidly declared,
as if kept in dimensions of ineptness,
somehow fully justified.
we are all experience addicted,
in some forms of obsessed, habituated,
absorbed, under the influence,
and/or sincerely wedded to.
remembrance is a form of burnout.
futurizing is exacerbating,
as a conscious presence.
self is a bullhorn of numbness proclaiming,
yet compelled is a timeless state.
yearning has invisible wings.
drawnness has no gravity restraints.
disrobing,
until essence has no need,
to know of itself,
to be . . .
in a spaceless space,
before the nature of time,
before understanding renders us as audience,
there was an is
without audience potential.
being was not a cognitive rendering,
to be, before existence realized.
if time, it was not referential.
if space occupancy,
it was not evidential.
be had the integrity of isness,
yet experience had no sensory evidence.
now did not possess recognitionals.
timeless essence,
without conger or account,
just the outpour of now
in non-dimensional means.
yet means had no display format,
no presence in time or sensory ways.
cognition had yet to be conceived.
even cognition had no syntax for inception.
to be, without any experience wardrobe.
mindfulness of now is a chase after,
as if conceptual is
a mediumship of registry or account.
there was no thought
or the invention of thought.
isness had no stance of acknowledgment.
so image if you,
as a oneness of you,
had no output,
as if can act out.
and no needs of intake,
as if fullness
before sensory provides.
you have emotion
in the way that river has flow,
the way wind is jubilantly anonymous,
the way of existence between thoughts.
or the unnamable soul
that everyone claims as theres,
as the grain of self
on the beach of ocean's recognition.
yet before liquidity had a means of identity.
our reality is graffiti,
written on the surface of time bound graffiti,
written on the mediumship of comprehension,
scented upon our sense of spirit,
as if a fragrance without source,
distinction without means,
essence beyond being time bound or distinct.
for us to throw words,
while we dissolve the bastard of cognitive means.
as if sacred has no audience
and there is no turning ours backs
on or from,
the un-recognizable-ness of being . . .
