Sunday, November 7, 2010
The 100 year-long MP3
I dreamed I was given a hundred year long song on an mp3. It felt liberating. I would not have to make any future jukebox selections in this lifetime, it was going to outlast me, it proved there had to be time for not only it to play out but to have been made. My ego couldn't fail to admit it - the world didn't begin and end with me, if lucky and depending on when I received the mp3, I could maybe hear 3/4 of it. And then of course, somewhere I knew someone was listening, to not only this 100 year-old mp3 but others. The truth about the universe seeped past my defenses in that moment, and the little tornado that thought itself alone was unwrapped back into the sky.
Each drug leaves its card, and steals something on its way out. They give their estimates, they do their magic tricks. After years they begin to repeat themselves. Some are like dogs all crazy that you hang onto their leash as they tear out the door and you just hope you're wearing water skis. Others are sullen and mopey and good for little except whatever it takes for you to not kick them out. If you cut them from your regimen, they mark up the floors with their switchblades so at least you know they were there. And others still are wise and enigmatic and if you didn't learn the last lesson before coming back, they scare you to death with threats and clockwork stabbing motions. All eventually wear out their welcome, for our ego is a restless and impatient host, forever singling out one or another of the guests as the sole reason the party's not going great.
Most people have no idea what's truly involved. Most people can't imagine sacrifices beyond relatives and possessions, and pets sacrificed on altars. It's the who who is sacrificed for involvement in enlightenment to be complete. You alone will be left to pat the final piece of earth around your grave. If you can imagine patting down your own grave, and imagine being the other mourner who finally walks away, then you are halfway to being on your way back home from death, but first, there is the blackness and no amount of running will speed the slow revolution of the black marble.
The process of moving, that is changing your address and packing up your shit and letting the post office know, is as close as many of us come to that level of total involvement. Not even our own death or a loved one's can be as drastic a step. But the more resistance and panic you have towards moving, the more sloth-like and attached you have become, obviously! You've grown into the wood and the walls and ages from now they'll bring in special spectrometers to look for your ghost. Show us a sign! Or begone.
The enlightened one leaves no ghost, no shadow, no footprints, no feet. His skeleton hangs in every science class, his skull is used for ancient ceremonies, his eyes are suns in distant lands. "His" eyes. That's not even right, for the possessive can no longer apply. His eyes are ours and, when we give ours up to the worms and the smoky sky, his are what we shall see through. But who can give up his own eyes? Imagine yourself wrapping up all your possessions for the movers. The movers come and take all your stuff and leave you with nothing, not even money, they take your shoes and throw you into a street that is empty. And if you can then whistle a tune as you walk away, thou art saved. Or homeless. There is no difference.