Awakening: ceasing to forget, in carving out a thing, all that’s ignored.
Even the most insignificant is a revelation.
What is revealed?
That nothing at all is hidden or to be attained.
It’s rush hour and crowded with the rest of us there’s a man on the subway holding on for balance. He is dressed like a medieval king, with a crown on his head. It’s New York City and so no one pays him any particular attention.
Except for the woman swaying next to him. As the train squeals and careens around a curve, she suddenly asks loudly, “Do you really think you’re a king?”
“Of course not,” the king yells, lifting up the black briefcase dangling from his left hand so that she can see it.
Swaying nearby, a man dressed impeccably in a charcoal grey suit stares at his own black briefcase,
What does it mean to be something and not something else?
Is a black cat a cat?
Is a dead cat a cat?
Is a cat land, water and light?
Like the roots of a great, gently swaying tree working upon rock crushes and crumbles it, the roots of this void you of fixed existence:
emptiness of stone; emptiness of being.
Memory and the narrative constructed of it are inherently selective and unreliable -
this occasion inheres