9.

The other day I saw a bird, who happened to be a Chaffinch, at the feeder. The voice said to me: All that is about that bird (& thus all that is really real about it) is what cannot be reproduced in it. What cannot be reproduced about that bird is what it is. The voice speaks very clearly & exactly but perhaps there is always some amount of translation going on. I amused myself by giving the voice a biology lesson. Yes: No, it is not biology, it is a simple statement of truth: what is, about the bird, cannot be reproduced.

This is a fact made of feeling that you are welcome to question & if you are in touch with the source of it it will answer you, it will go on responding. It is this state that is intended. It is non-intellectual while leaving all your critical faculties in tact. You don’t need to be convinced by what you can feel very well is the truth & what else is faith?

But it strikes me that it cannot be seen. It can be heard because it has to be listened to. It can be felt. But it is seen in & as the invisible & this is what makes things beautiful, this is what Beauty is.

What cannot be reproduced about me is not what marks me apart from my parents it is what makes me the same as them. Such sameness is difference absolved, difference in its purest form. It is the Absolute, right there in that little bird, right here in me & you.

God is a being speaking the truth, however silently or strangely they may seem to say it: there is no mistake in it. God is the being, the speaking, & the truth. It does seem to come from elsewhere — when it is me alone sometimes I am beside myself in another place speaking calm guidance into the ear of this journeying body, the one in the trip, in time, under the spell. It comes from Heaven & it is always here. What cannot be reproduced about the bird is the meaning of Eternity. That particular bird, which to us lives & dies, begins & ends, & is most likely not so different from any other particular bird — what is truly once & one time only about it: this is the Eternal.

It is heaven on earth, which is so Good it is scary, but such fears are very much preferable to anxiety. The awesome rock beneath all terror, covered in this moss of creeping dread that some call language, blooming with mushrooms of laughter, bursting corpse flowers of pure reason. All gone to seed. A wave of calmness rolls over the garden submerging it for a watery aeon of peace. Seaweed wavery peace, flitting trancefish singing bubblesongs in what the world may perceive as the depopulated goldfish bowl of your goneness…

Hear hear. & there there:

What taught you to tense
won’t teach you to soften