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#1492 - Monday, July 14, 2003

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  • Jerry Katz
    The Nondual Highlights #1492 Monday, July 14, 2003 - Editor: Jerry Home on NDS: http://nonduality.com/hlhome.htm Home on Yahoo:
    Message 1 of 1 , Jul 16, 2003
      The Nondual Highlights
      Monday, July 14, 2003 - Editor: Jerry

      Hur Guler
      what if everything i believed was...
      what i wished it to be true.
      it's easier to see this with children or
      with the dualistic models.

      after all, there's no santa claus
      and no heaven as the ultimate resort
      for the after-life vacationers.
      paradise may have started as the zoroastrians'
      wish for the ultimate garden.

      with nonduality, the wishes become more subtle,
      harder to see when the me is silent in the background.

      all there is....is Consciousness,
      you are Consciousness.

      ok, so there's no me,
      then i wish there was an eternal Consciousness,
      and i wish IT was me.

      the world is unreal.

      ok, i wish the world was an illusion,
      against the changeless background of Consciousness,
      i am Consciousness,
      then i wish i'm Real and eternal.

      it's a little disturbing
      now i wonder, what good is this nonsense
      if it is no comfort to me?  
      Tim Gerchmez
      Eh... is this a serious question?

      If so, then I'd answer -- of no good to you whatever, and have a
      piece of apple pie or a bowl of chicken soup or something.
      Terry Sullivan
      Excerpt from James Thurber's, My Life and Hard Times
      "The mistaken exits and entrances of my thirties have moved me several
      times to some thought of spending the rest of my days wandering aimlessly
      aroung the South  Seas, like a character out of Conrad, silent and
      inscrutable.  but the necessity for frequent visits to my oculist and
      dentist has prevented this. You can't be running back from Singapore every
      few months to get your lenses changed and still retain the proper mood for
      wandering.  Furthermore my horn-rimmed glasses and my Ohio accent betray
      me, even when I sit on the terraces of little tropical cafes, wearing a
      pith helmet, staring straight ahead, and twitchind a muscle in my jaw.  I
      found this out when I tried wandering around the west Indies one summer. 
      Instead of being followed by the whispers of men and the glances of women,
      I was followed by bead salesmen and native women with postcards.  Nor did
      any dark girl, looking at all like Tondelayo in "White Cargo", come forward
      and offer to go to pieces with me.  They tried to sell me baskets.

        Under these circumstances it is impossible to be inscrutable and a
      wanderer who isn't inscrutable might just as well be back at Broad and High
      Streets in Columbus sitting in the Baltimore Dairy Lunch.  Nobody from
      Columbus has ever made a first rate wanderer in the Conradean tradition. 
      Some of them have been fairly good at dissapearing for a few days to turn
      up in a hotel in Louisville with a bad headache and no recollection of how
      they got there, but they always scurry back to their wives with some cock-
      and-bull story of having lost their memory or having gone away to attend
      the annual convention of the Fraternal Order of Eagles.

      There was, of course, even for Conrad's Lord Jim, no running away.  The
      cloud of his special discomfiture followed him like a pup, no matter what
      ships he took or what wilderness he entered.  In the pathways between
      office and home and home and the houses of settled people there are always,
      ready to snap at you, the little perils of routine living, but there is no
      escape in the unplanned tangent, the sudden turn.  In Martinique, when the
      ships whistle blew for the tourists to get back on the ship, I had a quick,
      wild, and lovely moment when I decided I wouldn't get back on the ship.  I
      did though. And I found that somebody had stolen the pants to my dinner

      Well, anyway, that was most of "a note at the end".  I'm sure that if I had
      taken this Gonzo business to seriously when I was younger, I might have
      come to a worse end than that that is ahead of me.  Of course, no one knows to what end  one will come, does one?

      Christopher Damitio <cdamitio@...>

      Thurber and Susan Smith

      First of all I think it's important to say that each
      of us has to exist in our own comfort zone and while I
      need to visit the eye doctor on occaision to get new
      lenses, I've found that oculists in China and Laos
      were every bit as competent and not nearly as
      expensive as those in Ohio or anywhere else in North
      America. I've been followed by basket saleswomen in
      tourist resorts and offered opium in hilltribe
      villages (I took both offers- the basket and the
      opium) , by staying in the tourist areas we make
      ourselves someone that is pegged...by leaving them we
      become someone that is mysterious and different. I'm
      not knocking anyone's decision to stay in one place if
      that is what makes them happy, but it's a big world
      and you never know just how big until you go out and
      try it...Personally I think if Thurber wanted to see
      the world he should have, regardless of his departure
      from his comfort zone. (Maybe he did, I've honestly
      never read him though the excerpt you posted was vivid
      imagery). I for one prefer Conrad...the novella Youth
      sums it up..."Pass the bottle...."

        As for Susan Smith...what a sad and pitiful
      woman...her actions were a result of what has been
      called the emotional plague in our society. It is a
      plague of the mind and repressed emotion and desire. I
      think Smith probably thought in some sick way that
      killing her children would free her to do all the
      things she had dreamed of as a child...the plague
      clouded her mind and caused her to do something that
      went against her very nature and instincts as a mother
      and human. The result is a sad woman with no freedom
      and no children looking for some sort of meaning from
      a dark and cold cell. This is what happens in this
      unnatural society where people are forced (they think)
      to be Walter Mitty's instead of being able to leave it
      all behind and become Robinson Crusoe's.

          Today is the last day of living in a house for me
      for I don't know how long. I'm packing up my VW this
      morning. Doing one last load of laundry and hitting
      the road. The 20 copies of Rough Living: Tips and
      Tales of a Vagabond arrived Friday. I'm probably going
      to drive to Seattle today, visit bookstores tomorrow,
      hit a VW show in Shoreline after that (I think it's
      monday) Then North to Bellingham if I'm able to sell
      enough books to pay for gas. It feels great to be
      hitting the road again, freeing myself of monthly
      bills, and not having anything tying me to anywhere in
      particular. That to me is the essence of what I do.
      I'm hoping to get on the net on a regular basis. My
      blog will probably have most of the details at
      So if my participation is a little less than
      usual...now you know why.... I'm looking forward to
      meeting people I've met on line on the road....here's
      to ya..."pass the bottle"


      Vicki Woodyard
      Absent Mind
      My mind packed its bags today and told me that it was going
      away. I reminded it of that old routine...
      "I'm going away."
      "What?  Going away?"
      "Yes. Going away.  But before I go I have something to say to you."
      "I'm going away.....
      "My mind thumbed its nose at me and put a stick with a
      knotted-up bandanna on its shoulder and told me that it was
      really leaving this time. No ifs, ands or buts. It was going
      "Great, " I said. "Then I will be self-realized. No more mind,
      no more endarkenment. You can call me Mamaji."
      A curious expression flitted across my mind's surface. Was it
      "I do have one more question before I go," said my little ole
      vagabond mind. "If I leave you and you get enlightened because
      of it, won't that make me enlightened, too?"
      "Don't be silly," I said, opening my mail and pretending to be
      casual. "How can a bodiless mind be enlightened? You will
      leave no traces."
      My mind cleared its throat. Obviously it had no idea what to
      say next. I waited, knowing that the next thought was just
      around the corner. It was just a matter of time. I put the tea
      kettle on and sat down. I heard a blood -curdling scream. It
      was my mind. I had sat on it.
      I removed the stick and kerchief before I tenderly picked my
      mind up off the chair and told it to go take a nap. When it
      fell asleep, I started to make the weekly menu, but for some
      reason I was quite blank. I sat with paper in front of me and
      pen poised. Nothing came. I guess we'll have to eat out next

      Vicki Woodyard

      Being One
      Hello People, I discovered this portuguese poet in the university
      as I was doing a work, his poems are really interesting.
       What do I think of the world?
       Who knows what I think of it!
       If I weren't well then I'd think about it.
       What's my idea of matter?
       What's my opinion about causes and effects?
       What are my thoughts on God and the soul
       And the creation of the world?
       I don't know.  To think about such things would be to shut my eyes
       And not to think.  It would be to close the curtains
       Of my window (which, however, has no curtains).
       The mystery of things?  What mystery?
       The only mystery is that some people think about mystery.
       If you're in the sun and close your eyes,
       You begin not to know what the sun is,
       And you think about various warm things.
       But open your eyes and you see the sun,
       And you can no longer think about anything,
       Because the light of the sun is truer than the thoughts
       Of all philosophers and all poets.
       The light of the sun doesn't know what it does,
       And so it cannot err and is common and good.
       Metaphysics?  What metaphysics do those trees have?
       Only that of being green and lush and having branches
       Which bear fruit in their season, and we think nothing of it.
       We hardly even notice them.
       But what better metaphysics than theirs,
       Which consists in not knowing why they live
       And in not knowing that they don't know?
       "The inner makeup of things . . . "
       "The inner meaning of the Universe . . . "
       All of this is unreal and means absolutely nothing.
       It's incredible that anyone can think about such things.
       It's like thinking about reasons and objectives
       When morning is breaking, and on the trunks of the trees
       A faint glimmer of gold is dissolving the darkness.
       To think about the inner meaning of things
       Is superfluous, like thinking about health
       Or carrying a glass to a spring.
       The only inner meaning of things
       Is that they have no inner meaning at all.
       I don't believe in God because I've never seen him.
       If he wanted me to believe in him,
       Then surely he'd come and speak with me.
       He would enter by my door
       Saying, "Here I am!"
       (This may sound ridiculous to those who,
       Because they aren't used to looking at things,
       Can't understand a man who speaks of them
       In the way that looking at things teaches.)
       But if God is the flowers and trees
       And hills and sun and moon,
       Then I believe in him,
       I believe in him at every moment,
       And my life is all a prayer and a mass
       And a communion by way of my eyes and ears.
       But if God is the flowers and trees
       And hills and sun and moon,
       Then why should I call him God?
       I'll call him flowers and trees and hills and sun and moon.
       Because if to my eyes he made himself
       Sun and moon and flowers and trees and hills,
       If he appears to me as trees and hills
       And moon and sun and flowers,
       Then he wants me to know him
       As trees and hills and flowers and moon and sun.
       And so I obey him.
       (Do I know more about God than God knows about himself?)
       I obey him by living spontaneously
       As a man who opens his eyes and sees,
       And I call him moon and sun and flowers and trees and hills,
       And I love him without thinking of him,
       And I think him by seeing and hearing,
       And I am with him at every moment.
       Fernando Pessoa
       trans. by Richard Zenith 
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