Endlessly the world comes to an end. Try to stay awake for the duration.

(Once as a child I heard the story of a child,
only one word long and a year or so wide. That's not enough, not nearly enough. And yet, by the end of it the child had seen the faces of its own sons and daughters form and dissolve. There were eight of them altogether, 
like tiny stitches or scars on the cornea. That should be enough - eight of them, seen throughout body and mind. I wrote a letter to the author of the story, explaining how it's not enough. He wrote me back to say, "Mind your own business". His name was Isshu Miura, from Japan. I don't think he understood me. Today, for the first time, I read of this man. And, as it turns out, his reply was spoken in New York, on September 15th, 1959, to someone who was not me. The story 
has several untold parts, that sit useless like whalebones in the desert. These are my favorites. Such is the nature of my joy.)

These buried bones unearthed shall sing.

(The bones of my teacher,  freed and fully realized, make no sense whatsoever. That is why they sing so loudly, so piercingly clear. A bird - this morning. A bird.

I give you all this waste. A story, like a thread unravelled, runs through the universe. Everything given freely, without purpose or design. All you have to do is take off your shoes, and wiggle your toes in the warm sand that nobody wrote.)

Zendo of trees and wannabees

And Lord Buddha, standing in a field of uncut lilies - quite beyond time and space - 
cried out onto the multitude: 'You stupid fucks! You stupid, stupid fucks!'

We sit.
Think about that before you sign up for an introduction or a trial membership.
We sit until we sprout leaves and lose them again.
That's the kind of vow you must be prepared to make.
It has nothing to do with the seasons,
with autumn or spring. Nothing
do to with days and nights. No time in it.
All of time is in you as you sit down to lose yourself.
You will not lose yourself or time.
All will be there, in place, until it is taken from you.
It has nothing to do with you - eveything.
You will be bored.
You will hate yourself and time and be desperate for a way out.
There is no way out.
There are leaves sprouting and falling.
There are trees.
There are no tree-wannabees.
Even non-trees are trees.
And leaves are the body of change.
You will sit and observe the leaves, and think: these are not me.
They are you.
You are not you, you know?
Time is not of the essence.
It has no arms or hands, and only one small head - much like a pin - for angels to dance on.
When you're ready to leave - which will be when you don't want to leave anymore -
you'll dance on the head of time, and you won't feel like you're missing out, like you're forfeiting the whole world,
cause you won't wanna be nothing or anything, but just sit with leaves;
a tree.
What does a tree have to do with anything?
Or everything, or nothing?
It's for you not to figure out.
That's what we do here, and you will too, if you first come barking around.

Waking up is a blessing

Woke up
this morning
tucked inside

reality or life
and without

a mind

realized
the dream
was ending
on the other
side of night.

Öresund

Notes from/on the writing of a story

working on a story

by the window the ocean
on the other side

a man looking for insight
in a faraway land. online
booking. room temple japan
tourism of spiritual growth
old priest has found a means to supplement his income

the winds rolling in from the ocean strong
the hut whining and groaning

a man looking for insight
a special transmission outside the sutras
the old priest's endless tea ceremony
and speech

the winds rolling straight through
the hunger of the crows

old master so-and-so
flipping through books
read this young man
go on. nothing

there

to find

walking to the store in storm winds. leaning in
some of the snow keeps you warm some cold and close to home

a cat
strolling through the rock garden
sitting down at the entry
way to the ancient temple hall
a man says

you put on different pants before we go,
with deeper pockets that will hold the ocean

the cat replies a mystery of sorts
i am not strudel
strudel is my name
and they are friends
and they teach each other all they need to know

a special transmission outside the sutras

last night the water froze
in my dream i threw my right slipper onto the roof

can you teach me that which is useless

i can teach you the most important thing of all

then of what use are you to me

no use

thank you

[deep bow]

Instructions to the cook.

Between Heaven and Hell, 1989 by Jacek Yerka

As you leave this world for good
turn off the stove, but leave the fire burning.
Throw all bread to the crows,
and all cheese and milk across the roof;
west to east or north to south,
or indeed any way that strikes you as meaningful
 and worthwhile.

Let them see you do it. Keep no secrets.
There will be others to do what you do,
to attend to the feeding of the multitudes,
and they need to see how it is done,
what folly there is in the doing of it,
before they put their aprons on, willingly,
in a ceremony as old as the apple of the core.

Part of Magpie Tales.