Differentiating

A teacher does not appear to you, with bloated pockets of fiery medium like an atmosphere.

They would be an “invasion.”

An afterthought, or a vacuum?

A sensation, but it's strange, in a way, everything, is a secret even.

The other side of the mountain is flooded with water we cannot drink.

Cupped in my hands.

Divine human, or everyday experience?

I have a little love who went to sea before we could really kindle our relationship. He writes to me and calls me when he can, but I feel as if he is slipping. Emails getting shorter, calls more somber. Makes me grounded in a way.

There is only so much to say when you’re staring at the ocean all day.

Land, sea, sky, blue and black; I chase another shade. Walk backwards into the ocean. You hold on to me, the part that stays.

In a world of interrelationship and history, the part that stays is, sort of, me.

The unity of text is not in its origin, it is in its destination.

But this destination can no longer be personal: the reader is a man without history, without biography, without psychology; he is only that someone who holds gathered into a single field all the paths of which the text is constituted.

His only power is to mix writings, to counter the ones with the others, in such a way as never to rest on any one of them: turn away from nothing just in case.

I make an idol: the source of all my good.

Fly away, take a plane, to a place, differentiating.

You are going on a wonderful new tour. At long last, you are going to play the north.

None of these my words. But to the earlier point, writing is a little door. Some fantasies, like big pieces of furniture, won’t come through.

We find the instinct boring … e.g. listening for sense rather than sound (being too message-oriented). We should be operating in two frames simultaneously (sense and sound).

It’s the destiny of “nature,” a “situation.”

A bloody mess. I hear it’s beautiful still. We drift in the river eating fresh grilled fish crusted with chunks of salt and lemon, and platters of rice and tomatoes, whipped off, plunged in. If only we could drink it. Targeted, you fold in half.

It takes as much energy to remain the same as it does to change. The Buddha said that out of all the things you could create, the smartest choice is a teacher. A teacher, who can appear to you in everything.

To teach that every single person is exactly who you would be if you were them.

Teacher (divine human, or everyday experience?).

From her head, a thread of blood unexpectedly red and rich,

But today, I’ll go up, I know it.

Words derived from Tiger Dingsun’s Paragraph, Bladee’s Noblest Strive, sotce’s recent q&a, Zenju Earthlyn Manuel’s The Shamanic Bones of Zen, @sariazout on X, Rachel Abrams’ A Heart Teacher, Roland Barthes’ The Death of the Author, Susan Sontag’s As Consciousness is Harnessed to Flesh, National Geographic’s The Nile, Jonathan Dorf’s Rumors of Polar Bears, Clarice Lispector’s The Hour of the Star, and Acibadem International’s The Solar Plexus: What It Actually Is, And Why a Blow There Winds You

I exploded into: I. This I that is all of you since I can’t stand being just me, I need others in order to get by, fool that I am, I all askew, anyway what can you do besides meditate to fall into that full void you can only reach through meditation.

𓆩♱𓆪 ,

Messenger of God